Chapter Twenty-nine
Missouri, May 1856
On a warm day in late spring, a paddlewheel steamer pulls up to the Kansas Landing, double-stacked, three-decked, gold and white, pretty as a wedding cake. The passengers hang over the rails, four hundred men and not a single woman except a lady missionary from Providence, Rhode Island, who got on by accident in St. Louis and has regretted it ever since.
As the boat docks, the men wave their hats, church bells ring, and a brass band strikes up “Cheer Boys Cheer.” Six years from now that song will be the anthem of a group of Confederate guerillas, but on this warm spring afternoon, it merely provides a stirring musical background as the gangplank is rolled out and four hundred men from Alabama, Georgia, and South Carolina march onto Missouri soil in military formation carrying banners that read: KANSAS THE OUTPOST! SOUTHERN RIGHTS! and SUPREMECY OF THE WHITE RACE!
The man who organized this massive emigration of pro-slavers is Major Jefferson Buford of Eufaula, Alabama, but the man who paid for much of it is Deacon Presgrove, or to be more precise, Carrie, since Deacon used her money. By right of having made the second largest contribution, Deacon walks just behind Buford, leading the procession.
When Carrie lived with him, Deacon dressed in elegant suits—silk cravat tied just so, gold watch chain draped over his stomach, gray kid gloves on his hands, silk top hat on his head; but all that has changed. Today he wears a broad-brimmed western hat, a red flannel shirt, and homespun trousers tucked into cowhide boots. His belt, tooled with Mexican silver, is almost as wide as the palm of his hand. He bristles with pistols and a knife so long the scabbard impedes his progress, but he bears this inconvenience with a smile.
White teeth, glowing green eyes, flushed face: Deacon is happy, triumphant, ready to make a name for himself. His father has convinced him to stop wasting time in Mrs. Springer’s parlor. He has promised Deacon that if he goes to the Kansas Territory with Buford, the deeds he performs there will win him a fame that will carry him to the Senate—not the Senate that presently meets in Washington City, but a new Senate composed of Southern states that will soon meet in Charleston or Richmond, or perhaps even Louisville.
“Go to Kansas, kill some of those abolitionist bastards, and find your wife,” Bennett said. “You can’t afford to have her running loose if you plan to enter politics. A cuckold is a fool and an object of ridicule. I don’t care to open Leslie’s Illustrated and see a cartoon featuring my son in horns.”
Good advice, but easier to give than take. Deacon is just wondering if Henry Clark has had any luck locating Carrie, when he looks into the waiting throng and finds his answer. A pair of cold blue eyes is staring straight at him. Henry Clark smiles. Pursing his lips, he blows Deacon a kiss. For a moment Deacon feels like a small bird that has suddenly encountered an affectionate cobra.
He’s found her, Deacon thinks, or else he wouldn’t be here waiting for me. He looks away and pretends to examine the bluff up ahead. The joy goes out of the day, and he feels as if something heavy has settled on his chest. The truth is, he doesn’t want Carrie back. He has her money; the rest is just trouble piled on trouble. Still there is his reputation to consider and the child of course. If his stepmother hadn’t started babbling about the little brat on her death-bed, he might have never known Carrie was breeding when she decamped. Deacon wonders if he is presently the father of a boy or a girl. Father, as in owner. He hopes this one hasn’t died like the last one. He’ll be able to make Carrie do anything he wants once he gets hold of her child.
Marry me, Carrie my dear, he thinks. And we’ll make some little hostages together. He grins at his own wit. Then he remembers those cold blue eyes. When he looks into the waiting crowd, they are still fixed on him.
If Clark has found Carrie, it’s going to cost a bundle to pry her whereabouts out of him. Deacon would rather keep the money; he really would. But there are a dozen men standing around Clark, each more evil-looking than the next: big, unshaven men with dirty kerchiefs around their necks and rifles slung over their backs. Clark’s band. Or maybe they’re Mangas Coloradas’s band, or the Beast of Revelation’s, or Jesus Christ’s. Deacon can’t tell by looking who Clark is this afternoon, but even a fool can see it would be a bad idea to try to cheat him out of what he’s been promised. Those ruffians in the kerchiefs would probably be happy to kill a man for sport.
Deacon imagines himself stuck to a barn door with Bowie knives. He wonders if they would scalp him first, what parts of him they would cut off. Damn, he thinks.
He looks at the muddy path that leads up the bluff to the newly constructed pro-slaver hotel. The sun is ridiculously hot, the crowd has begun to cheer in a way that implies terminal drunkenness, the entire landing smells of manure, and he is bound to ruin his new boots before he gets to the top. He wishes his long underwear did not itch, wishes he were in bed romping with Lily, wishes Henry Clark would stop staring at him with those lunatic eyes.