Authors: Jason Manning
"He was killed?"
"No. But it was a near thing. As for this"—Falconer indicated the arm in the sling—"the bullet missed the bone. I'll be free of this damned contraption in a few days. My wife insists I follow the doctor's orders to the letter. I've worn it this long only out of deference to her wishes."
Delgado was intrigued. This man, this legend of the frontier, who had lived a wild and untrammeled existence in the most remote reaches of the high country, and who had answered to no man, seemed to have fallen prey to an affliction common to the male of the species—he had taken a wife and surrendered his sovereignty by so doing.
"Come along," said Falconer, taking up one of the heavy valises with which Delgado had been struggling, and he did so with such ease that one might have thought the bag filled with goose down. "I have a surrey yonder."
They began to cross the levee, Delgado following closely in Falconer's wake as the bigger man
resolutely blazed a trail through the polyglot crowd. Between the levee and the row of warehouses was a narrow lane, and here stood the conveyance of which Falconer had spoken. A single horse stood patiently in the shafts. The two padded seats were covered by a calash folding top of leather, with an isinglass light in the rear. Falconer tossed one valise onto the backseat and turned to relieve Delgado of the other one—but Delgado wasn't paying attention. He was staring at eight Negroes marching single file down the lane toward them. They were bound together by a length of rope to which their leather collars were attached. A brutish-looking man, a Collier pistol in his broad belt and a cudgel in his hand, was walking alongside, keeping a wary eye on the slaves. Behind him came a smaller man in a black broadcloth frock coat and a straight-brimmed hat.
"They're being sold down the river," said Falconer.
"That has an ominous sound to it."
Falconer nodded. "Bodes ill for them, that's certain. In some way each one of them has drawn his master's wrath. Made trouble. So they'll end up in Louisiana, or maybe even Cuba, where they're likely to be poorly treated."
"There is a woman among them. A white woman."
At the end of the line walked a dark-haired beauty with skin as pale as Delgado's own.
"She's got Negro blood in her, or she wouldn't be there," replied Falconer. "Octoroon, maybe. With her looks she might wind up in a New Orleans brothel. Or, if she's real lucky, the mistress of a young Creole blade."
Falconer's delivery of these facts was meticu
lously devoid of emotion, and Delgado studied the frontiersman's features for any indication of his true feelings. But Falconer was as stoic as a statue.
"I don't think I care for the 'peculiar institution,' " decided Delgado.
"What is there to like about it?"
"Hold there!"
Delgado's stomach muscles knotted. He recognized that voice as belonging to Brent Horan. But Horan, coming down the backside of the levee, was paying no attention to him, but rather was hurrying to intercept the slave dealer and his merchandise.
2
"Sir," said Horan, addressing the man clad in black, "have these niggers been sold?"
"Why, no indeed, sir," replied the dealer. "They are bound for points down the river. I intend to auction them off in New Orleans."
"I am interested, then, in buying the wench." Horan was staring at the octoroon. In fact, he could not seem to take his eyes off her. For her part she kept her eyes cast down. Just as well, mused Delgado. The naked lust on Horan's face was revolting.
"Well, I . . ." The dealer looked about him with a nervous air. "This is not really the ideal place to carry out such a transaction, sir."
"How much?"
"Beg pardon?"
"How much for the girl?"
"I . . . I would expect to get at least a thousand
dollars in New Orleans. Perhaps as much as fifteen hundred . . ."
Horan stepped closer to the octoroon and began to lift her calico skirt. Aghast, the dealer clutched at his arm.
"Sir! This is a public place."
"Just want to see what I'm buying. She has a finely turned ankle, doesn't she?"
"There are ladies about. We must consider their tender sensibilities."
Upon hearing this, Delgado scoffed. The slave dealer was one to be concerned about the feelings of others!
"I'll give you fifteen hundred for her," decided Horan.
"Fifteen? Well, I . . ." Things were moving far too fast for the dealer.
"Very well then. Two thousand dollars."
"Two thousand!" Avarice gleamed in the dealer's eye.
"Do you know who I am?"
"I do not enjoy the privilege of your acquaintance, sir, but yes, I know who you are. Of course."
"Then you know that any bank in St. Louis will honor my draft." Horan brandished a wallet. "I do not have quite enough cash on me. But I will write a note, payable upon receipt. In return, you will write out a proper bill of sale."
The dealer was beginning to have second thoughts. "Mr. Horan, this one is a troublemaker. Her former master virtually gave her away, which should instruct you as to her—"
Horan waved all that away with a dismissive gesture. "Then you will realize a particularly handsome profit, sir. How is she called?"
"Her name is Naomi."
"Naomi. If you cause me any trouble, girl, you will regret it. I will flay every inch of skin off your back. What a shame that would be, too, for you have very smooth and seductive skin." He stroked her cheek with two fingers. Naomi flinched, but did not move.
"I can't let this happen," muttered Delgado to no one in particular. He started forward.
Suddenly Falconer blocked his path. "Son, it's generally been my rule to let others make their own mistakes. But I'm obliged in this instance by my liking for you and my friendship with your father to interfere."
"Stand aside," said Delgado rashly.
"Let me ask you this, Del. Do you have the funds to buy the woman?"
The question was like a dash of cold water, and Delgado faltered in his resolve.
"Under the circumstances," continued Falconer, seeing that he was making headway, and desiring to press his advantage, "I doubt anyone here would honor a draft on a Santa Fe bank. And, say you made your purchase. How would you explain to your father that you had become a slaveholder?"
"I would set her free straightaway," replied Delgado.
Falconer glanced over his shoulder. Horan and the slave dealer stood less than a hundred feet from them, and Delgado, in his impulsive fervor, was speaking loudly, with no thought to the consequences of being overheard. But Horan and the dealer were engaged in their own conversation and seemed not to hear.
"I admire your motives," said Falconer softly,
"but not your means. Your father's commerce in this city would likely suffer if you go through with this deed, no matter how noble. This issue of slavery is tearing at the guts of this republic, Del. Feelings run high. The smallest spark can set off an explosion."
"I've had a taste of it already," said Delgado. "That fellow, Horan, came close to hanging an abolitionist on board the
Sultana
this morning."
"Came close? Knowing what I do of Brent Horan, I am surprised he didn't see it through."
Practicing discretion, Delgado decided not to tell Hugh Falconer just how Horan had been dissuaded from committing cold-blooded murder.
"I hate to think of her at Horan's mercy," he said, turning back to the subject at hand. But the rash impulse had run its course and subsided. He knew Falconer was talking perfect sense. Keen regret left a bitter taste in his mouth. He was powerless to help the slave girl.
Falconer put a big, scarred hand on Delgado's shoulder. "It's likely you'd be doing her no service by setting her free. With her looks, manumission papers would not save her, unless you were willing to take her north yourself and hand her over to someone like William Lloyd Garrison or the Tappan brothers, who could protect her from the slave catchers."
Sickened, Delgado climbed into the surrey. Falconer got in beside him, took up the reins, and with a flick of the leathers put the horse into motion, without resorting to the whip, which remained in its stock.
As they passed by on the lane, Brent Horan seemed to notice them for the first time. Recognizing Delgado, his expression turned ugly. Perfectly
miserable, Delgado saw that the octoroon called Naomi was watching him, too, as though in some extrasensory way she knew what was in his heart, and he only prayed that he was imagining the hopelessness in her eyes as she watched her salvation pass by.
3
The Bledsoe house stood at the corner of the Rue St. Eglise and Laurel Avenue, a spectacular house set in the midst of immaculately groomed grounds, and built in the popular Greek Revival style. Fluted Doric columns flanked the door, which, with pilasters on either side, supported a broad, flat entablature. A full three stories above ground, the structure lacked the pitched roof and dormer window arrangement common of the Federal style. The simplicity of its form gave the residence added dignity. The exterior was composed of superbly cut and fitted native limestone. The iron perimeter fence, set in limestone columns crowned with whitewashed lintels, was adorned with the fashionable anthemiom, a stylized honeysuckle motif.
Inside, the high basement housed a huge kitchen and the servants' quarters. A formal dining room, study, and two parlors occupied the first floor, while bedrooms were found on the two upper floors. The first-floor rooms that met Delgado's admiring gaze had wall-to-wall carpeting and twelve-foot ceilings augmented by boldly detailed cornices and centerpieces. More fluted columns flanked the double doors of dark paneled wood, which gave access to each room off the
wide central hall. In the rear of the house an open gallery, three stories high, accommodated the stairwell. In the same area was a windowed porch, commonly called a tearoom, filled with potted plants. As soon as he stepped inside this American palace, as stately as any private residence he had seen in New York City, Delgado felt far removed from the wild and woolly frontier that lingered, not a mile away, on the outskirts of St. Louis.
Delgado and Falconer were admitted by a Negress wearing a white apron over her calico dress. She smiled pleasantly and escorted them to the front parlor, exiting soundlessly to find the master of the house and announce that his guests had arrived.
"Is she a paid servant or a slave?" Delgado asked Falconer as soon as the parlor doors had closed behind her.
"I guess you'd call her a slave," replied Falconer. "But in truth, Clarisse is much more than that. She's got Creole blood in her veins and speaks French better than she does English. She's well-mannered and highly educated. She was the showpiece on a Louisiana sugarcane plantation before Jacob bought her. That was shortly after Jacob's wife died, giving birth to his daughter, Sarah. Jacob needed someone to care for his two children. Clarisse has done a handsome job of that. She's more like a member of the family. But she's still a slave."
"Good Lord," said Delgado, slumping, slack and weary, onto a velvet sofa. "I didn't know Jacob Bledsoe was a slaveholder. I see now why you advised me against buying and freeing the octoroon. I thought he was a Northerner . . ."
"Doesn't necessarily mean he's against slavery.
There are quite a few Southerners who don't like the business at all. Jacob's not really for it or against it, far as I can tell. He just wishes the problem would go away. Bad for business, you see."
"How, I wonder, does he feel about the war with Mexico?"
Even as Delgado posed the question, the parlor doors swept open and their host entered the room. "The war with Mexico?" echoed Jacob Bledsoe, striding forward with beaming face and outstretched hand. "Regrettable, but unavoidable. Welcome, young man! Welcome! My word, but Angus is right. You are your mother's spitting image, and you cut a fine figure, son. How is she? How is your father?"
"Quite well, sir." Standing, Delgado found his hand pressed vigorously by the effusive Jacob Bledsoe. "I bring their warmest regards."
"Of course you do! Of course you do! Hugh, thanks for fetching him at the levee. Stay and have a drink."
"Don't mind if I do. Thank you, Jacob."
"Good, good." Bledsoe strode to a sideboard strewn with decanters and glasses. "Gentlemen, name your poison."
Falconer opted for good Kentucky bourbon. Having acquired a taste for port during his years in England, Delgado indulged it. Bledsoe poured himself a dollop of an expensive claret. As the St. Louis merchant performed the honors, Delgado had a moment to study his host.
Bledsoe was a short, stocky man. The thinness of hair on the top of his head was compensated for by a magnificent set of muttonchop whiskers. His nose and chin were pugnacious, but that was offset by the merry twinkle in his eye. Here was
a man who enjoyed life. A self-made man pleased with his accomplishments. Bledsoe was living proof that money could make one happy. Delgado's father had portrayed Bledsoe as a hard-nosed Yankee trader.
It would be overstating the facts to say that Angus and Jacob Bledsoe were friends, but their business association of twenty years had been a mutually profitable one, and both trusted the other's integrity. Angus sold all the goods Bledsoe transported down the Santa Fe Trail: largely textiles—broadcloth, muslin, taffeta, calico, and velveteen, with buttons, razors, thread, writing paper, knitting pins, and scissors thrown in. In exchange, Bledsoe enjoyed exclusive rights to the wool, furs, silver, and gold that Angus shipped back up the trail, gladly paying the export duty levied by the Mexican government on all specie taken into the United States.
Once they were all seated, drinks in hand, Bledsoe asked Delgado about his journey, and Delgado obliged with a blow-by-blow account of his adventures since departing the hallowed halls of Oxford.
"I think I should have sailed directly to Tampico, however," he concluded. "These excursions of mine have been pleasant, but costly for my father. Still, it was he who insisted I visit the United States and, specifically, to come see you, sir."