Saved by the Bullet

by Preston Shires

  While reading, I could distinctly hear Monsieur Carr whistling in the garden.

  I stepped out onto the porch and asked, “What’s the joy?”

  He stopped hoeing and propped his chin upon the top of the hoe handle and said in his charming French accent, which I’ll attempt to imitate here, just to give you a sense as to what it was like to talk to him in English, “Deed you not read zee good news in zee newspaper? Someone attempted to assassinate zee emperor. It gives one, how you say, espoir.”

  “Hope?”

  “Yes.”

  “I doubt murder solves a problem.”

  “Ah, Mademoiselle, when one murders a murderer, he murders no one. Otherwise, we would have no guillotine. Besides, murder of this particular man, this Bonaparte, does solve a problem, because it makes other things possible. Like a republic.”

  “Which reminds me, John, could you cut me off a head of lettuce for tonight?”

  “Oui, Mademoiselle.”

  I stepped back inside and rolled his words over in my mind: How a murder can solve a problem by making other things possible. What was George Lincoln trying to make possible? It had to be tied to that bounty. Was he trying to get land for himself?

  * * *

  When I awoke Friday morning, July third, the first thing I thought of was Monsieur Carr’s words. Emerging from the bedroom, I found Prudence making breakfast, and she pointed at the table for me to sit down. As she served me, she ran through all the things I needed to get done today in preparation for the Fourth of July celebration.

  My first order of business, according to my quartermaster, was to go down to Davis’s market and purchase ingredients for pies. There were other items that could be got at Mr. Whitt’s drug store, but she could see to that. I also needed to make arrangements for transportation with Coleman’s livery station, as the fete was to be held in Nemaha City. We couldn’t be carrying pies in our reticules, she remarked.

  I told her how her insightfulness, and her aptitude for making decisions, made of her a useful friend. She blushed at the compliment. I followed this up by asking her when she might be obliged to be back in Ohio. On this particular item, however, she uncharacteristically became fuzzy and noncommittal. I did remind her that my father would like a report as soon as possible, but this didn’t prompt her toward any quick resolution. Apparently, I had so much need of her, she just couldn’t fathom leaving me without assistance.

  Well, I concluded to myself, a day of shopping would be better than a day at home with my insightful friend. I was right. In the early afternoon, I took my leisure, stopping even at Finney’s confectionary on Second Street to have a soday and ice cream. Sitting in this sensual heaven, that, from what I can tell, compared evenly with the Mohammadan Paradise, minus the maidens, I meditated on the fate of the Friend family. So sad, I thought, to have no relations. I mean, consider Aunt Adeline, lost among the recesses of the Great American Desert, but we’re looking for her. If something were to happen to me, why I could imagine Jerome running to the rescue, even if, after finding me, he were to pull some sort of prank on me. And if I were to die in as horrible a circumstance as Mrs. Friend, well the whole family would make the effort to put my relics to rest. But the Friend family. No one.

  If there’s no one, it’s a set up for a perfect murder. Like in that song Oft in the Stilly Night: “When I remember all the friends, I’ve seen around me fall; I feel like one, who treads alone.” That’s what made the tune so eerie to me in that alleyway: The Friend family treaded alone.

  “Ready for the Fourth?” came a voice from behind the counter.

  “The Fourth?”

  “Yes,” smiled Mr. Finney. “You do remember you’re to entertain us with your thoughts.”

  “Oh, my! You’re perfectly right.” I paid my bill and made my way over to the office.

  Along the way, not far from Finney’s, I noticed two young men sharing a bottle and propping themselves up against the wall of the bank, each with one foot on the ground and one heel against the wall. Some boys, at that awkward age between childhood and manhood, were soliciting them, either begging for a swig or a plug of tobacco.

  The men paid them no attention, because they unfortunately spotted me in the street. Their confused tongue and inappropriate vocabulary, which were meant no doubt to compliment me in some way, betrayed the nature of their drink.

  One of them called out, “Hey, lil bal...gal. Hot day ain’t it. Ya look firstly...thirsty. Come on o’er here.’”

  I quickened my pace.

  “Come on, Miss, it’s a flormal invitation.”

  I stopped, turned around, and obliged them, at least the part about presenting myself to them. “Listen,” I said, with but a pace between us, and in a tone usually reserved for Teddy, “you’re a disgrace to yourselves and the town. Nevertheless, I’ll give you an invitation in return: Be at church on Sunday at 11 AM.”

  The taller of the two, who hadn’t spoken up to this moment, made a good observation. “Ain’t seen no church steeple in this town. We take communion at the saloon.”

  “The church meeting is held in the same structure as the school, though I doubt you’d recognize a schoolhouse either.”

  The shorter one made an attempt to straighten himself up to his friend’s height. “I’ll take up your offer, Miss, and meet you at the altar.”

  The boys giggled and his friend guffawed.

  “If it were a pagan temple, I might think you serious, although,” I added, glancing at their bottle, “I don’t think you’ll have anything left for your libations.”

  He looked at me confusedly, as if I’d been the one drinking.

  “Good day, sirs,” I said as I left their presence.

  They recovered soon enough and called after me, interspersing their banter with the occasional whistle. I could feel my cheeks redden to the color of my hair. I believe I had an untoward thought in regards to Stewart at that moment, for not having given me a pistol.

  When I reached my office, I seated myself at my desk and fumed. I was energized and ready to draft a speech. Oh, I thought, it must be something to motivate us to improve our condition, to drive us forward and upward to become enlightened architects of civilization. The thoughts flowed through my pen and onto the paper. Lifting my final rendition from the table, I stood and then paced the room, reading it aloud to the chair facing me. Hearing no criticism, I was well satisfied with my work. I put the speech in the bottom of my basket and hurried out to execute Prudence’s errands.

  I spent the late afternoon and evening with Prudence cooking up pies, but as she noted when I got the count wrong in measures of this or that, my mind was elsewhere. For one thing, I was irritated that Miss Straightlace kept me bound to the kitchen. I would have liked to have taken the ferry to Rock Port and enjoyed the ball at the Forest City Hotel, but I just didn’t want to purloin, peruse, and purge another of her letters to my father, an essay about how I had abandoned my duty to the community for a frolicking night of fiddle and dance. For another thing, the Friend murders weighed heavily on my mind. Maybe Mrs. Friend did have a relation, I thought. It might be deciphered through that letter somehow. Then an idea fell upon me: Why would Mr. Muir want the letter if there were no name in it? Nothing to help him track down the bounty? He wouldn’t. There had to be something helpful in that letter, and I had to get my hands on it.

  CHAPTER 15

  On the morning of July fourth, a string of pedestrians, mounted folk, farm wagons, and carriages stretched a thin line along the trail blazed through our rolling hills toward Nemaha City. The heat of summer had not yet risen and the string of patriots was knotted, here and there, by small groups of friends and neighbors enjoying the leisurely promenade and pleasant conversation. I was so glad that Prudence and I, with Jonathan as chauffeur, had rented one of Coleman’s buggies for the pies.

  When at last we reached the top of our final ascent, we could see waving down below, atop a pole of no less than one-hundred feet in height, our sple
ndid banner. What pride we felt as pioneers to fulfill the divine mandate by overspreading this wilderness with farm and town, with school and church. And yet, how also humbled were we that God would choose us for such a glorious task.

  Once in Nemaha City, a nascent village with but a handful of entrepreneurs, we attended to the rites and rituals to solemnize this sacred day. At eleven a.m., the procession marched its way from the south end of Kansas Avenue and Park to Nebraska Avenue and First Street.

  We assembled in Mr. Hiatt’s hotel, where the choir sang and a prayer was said, and all this as a preamble to the reading of our dear Declaration of Independence by Mr. Kirk, a lawyer. Following this, a grand oration was given by Mr. Frederick Holmes, originally a Connecticut man, who spoke of the great changes that had visited Nebraska over these past three years when the Territory first opened its gates to us.

  “We can’t help but reflect--be astonished, and half inclined to doubt the reality,” Mr. Holmes declaimed in a clear crisp tone. “Where but so recently glided the ‘swift canoe’ of the red man, now daily—yea, almost hourly—plows the rushing steamers, loaded to the guards with supplies for the thousands who have driven the copper colored inhabitant, the deer and wolf, from their long cherished retreats, and instead opened farms, villages and cities. The whoop and howl have given place to the song of the plough boy, the mechanic’s clatter and the busy hum of machinery.” He continued on in this vein until he finished with a thankful word for the benignity of Providence for presiding over our efforts.

  Upon his conclusion, the master of the ceremonies called me forth from the crowd, and I mounted the makeshift stage forged of cottonwood planks to deliver my own oration. The crowd cheered exuberantly, as if I were Daniel Boone about to reveal the path to the Cumberland Gap. I saw not a few bottles of dubious content shifting from lip to lip. So happy they were in their liberty to turn a profit out of sod and build log-hewn castles to reign over their domains.

  Retrieving my speech from my basket, I began to read aloud as I had been taught at Oberlin College with a voice piercing the atmosphere and an emotion that gave soul to each word:

  “With each passing month,” I called out, “we of Brownville,” my fellow Brownvillians let out a cheer at this, “as you of Nemaha City,” which comment was followed by a cheer from our hosts, “increase the number of private residences and shops.” Both groups now cheered in unison, and I think a few unveiled their flasks and lifted them to toast our accomplishments. “But man owes a duty,” I pointed out, “to society as well as to himself.” Having said this, I noticed a mild sobering effect upon my supporters. I carried on nonetheless: “There is a society to be built up here. How is it to be done?

  “We must have churches and schools. To be sure, we do have preaching occasionally, but half the people do not know when nor where it is, and thus many are deprived of hearing the word of God dispensed. Nor will it be otherwise until there is some regular place of meeting.” Having made this clear, I noticed a few in the front had lowered their flasks and now held them behind their backs.

  “A school house too, is very much needed. There are children enough to fill two rooms and employ teachers.” And looking down upon Messieurs Whitt and Martin, I added, without forgetting myself, “Three teachers! We need them. Our youthful population is running wild. Little girls are seen romping through the streets and climbing the bluffs; while the boys are ‘down town’ contracting indolent habits, learning to smoke, swear and drink; and in short unfitting themselves for ever becoming good and influential men.” Now I observed mothers looking about for children and motioning them with sweeping hands to come close to them and behave.

  “But we cannot blame boys for swearing and drinking, when men furnish them with every day examples of it on our streets.” I looked hard at Fred, who stood wavering before me with his flask. Seeing no other option, he conceded the argument and nodded in agreement with me.

  “A lady cannot walk out in broad day-light,” I continued, “without being shocked and insulted with the language and oaths of drunken men. Nor can we sit in our own door yards of an evening without having our ears constantly saluted with oaths.” A few men, very few, nodded in approval; but these were jerky, half-hearted nods, executed for the benefit of their nearby better halves.

  I noticed the remainder of the superior sex refrained from making eye contact with me, and silence pervaded, with only the distant flapping of our approving flag flying high outside. I took breath anew: “If men will make brutes of themselves by drinking, can there not be some place provided where they may be locked up, and not be permitted to pollute our streets with their foul presence?” Now, no one would look me in the eye, because any public construction would demand a tax on the part of all.

  I sensed I had put a damper on our festivities. This hadn’t been my intention. I had imagined everyone cheering me on, and Mr. Furnas and the elders of Brownville voicing their approval and circulating a sheet of paper, a petition to sign so the county’s subjects might dedicate themselves to the cause. But I heard nothing, not even the rustle of a piece of paper.

  What could I do? I was committed and obliged to finish what I had begun. So, I raised my voice and bullied through my final lines:

  “Or, what would be better still, can there not be a law instituted to prevent the selling of so much liquor in our place? In my opinion, he who tempts men to the alluring cup, Mr. Davis, is as bad as the one who partakes of it.

  “Surely there are enough responsible men here who must see the expediency of taking hold of this matter at once! Are you with us, O women and men of Brownville and Nemaha City!”

  There was a moment of silence. Then, out of the rear of the crowd I heard a singular clapping accompanied by a lone but strident voice, “Amen! Amen!”

  I had the support of Miss Straightlace.

  * * *

  As Prudence’s enthusiasm subsided, a man came up to the stage and stood beside me. He whispered something to me, as the silence permitted him this means of communication, but he didn’t whisper in my ear, rather it was out the side of his mouth whilst he surveyed the crowd. He said, “I checked, and I saw neither tar nor feathers in this town, which is a good sign.”

  “Thank you, Cameron,” I answered, in a voice nearly as low as his own.

  “But just in case of an oversight, and, considering I’ve just heard someone took a pot shot at you down in Saint Jo, would you permit me to have a word with your supporters here?”

  “Be my guest, I’d hate to be tarred and feathered alone.”

  “Ladies and Gentlemen! I think what Miss Furlough is suggesting, and I must admit I can only see the virtue in it, is that she wishes all you fine looking gentlemen to go easy on the spirits today so that you might benefit from your temperance tonight. Why look around you. Fred! What do you see?”

  Fred looked up in amazement at our speaker, his head snapping back and his eyes squinting forward as if he’d sat upon a locust thorn.

  “Go ahead, Fred, look around. What do you see?”

  Fred made an effort to focus by putting himself nose to nose with Mr. Brown. And after a decisive swig from his flask, announced, “Why I believe I see Mr. Furnas.”

  A good deal of laughter ensued before Cameron could comment. “You see what we’re driving at here don’t you? Why, when I look around, I see the prettiest belles west and east of the Missouri. Why look at Miss Prudence in that fetching yellow dress. And how rosy her cheeks are becoming. Why I bet Fred here, if he could see that far, would want to land a kiss on one of ‘em, or both. But it’s all around us gentlemen. I tell you with the utmost sincerity that I didn’t see as pretty a lot of patriotic ladies even at the inaugural ball in the City of Washington itself.

  “Men of the frontier, stay the hand that would poison your lips with liquor, so that tonight you might dance straight and surefooted and enjoy the charm and dignity of our lady folk. Because I’m telling you, Miss Adeline Furlough has lined up a fiddler and a band that will b
e the envy of Paris!”

  With only Miss Straighlace abstaining, a round of applause went up in my honor, transforming me from naysayer of the day into queen of festivities.

  “The inaugural ball? You attended the inaugural ball?” I questioned Cameron as we ceded the stage.

  “Well, let me put it this way, I saw neither prettier nor uglier at the inaugural ball.”

  “I thought as much.”

  “Yes, you do think a lot, and a lot of good thinking went into that powerful speech of yours. It almost inspired me to become a temperance man myself.”

  “That’s progress.”

  “Oh, I’m not one to tip the bottle, but more for practical reasons than religious. It rattles the brain, and I can’t afford that presently because I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and thinking with you in mind.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “And you won’t. But I note that Fred can’t read and Mr. Furnas can.”

  “That’s probably why Fred doesn’t edit the newspaper.”

  “Exactly my point. You see you can write things concerning societal reform and print them in the paper without the least bit of worry about Fred and his esteemed colleagues because they won’t read a lick of it. On the other hand, Mr. Furnas and his peers, men who hold the plow handles directing our valuable society forward, they can read and understand, and put into action your words of wisdom that the Freds of this world cannot comprehend and appreciate.”

  “Then I’ll just have to teach them to read.”

  “I’d rather you dance with me after dinner.”

  And so we did dance, out on the green with some two-thousand others in attendance, the whole county and beyond, it seemed.

  * * *

  The dance was as much a success as could be imagined, though less memorable than the one I hosted earlier. There were plenty of sore feet but not a black eye in the bunch. The fiddler, however, tired after a time, and the dance necessarily came to a close.