Authors: Jason Manning
"I would have to say that the son has learned
the art of brutality from the father," remarked Delgado.
"Ah, so you
do
know Brent. Yes, he is a dangerous man to cross."
"You don't care for him."
"I have never pretended to."
"Yet your father suggests that he may marry your sister."
"Sarah has better sense."
Delgado thought that Jeremy sounded more hopeful than convinced.
"She used to be infatuated with Brent," continued Jeremy. "Young, foolish girls sometimes like to flirt with danger. If her letters are any indication, though, she has grown up in her absence. Now she flirts with dangerous ideas."
"What kind of ideas are you talking about?"
"Those New England reformers have bent her ear, I'm afraid. She pounces with complete abandon on every new fad. Women's suffrage, temperance, even abolitionism. Now the latter certainly wouldn't sit well with Brent Horan."
"I saw him buy a slave girl, an octoroon, on the levee. And I don't think she was destined for the fields, either."
"If she was pretty enough, I'm sure not." Jeremy rode in silence for a moment, brows knit, deep in thought. Then he flashed a sly grin at Delgado. "Of course, it's entirely likely my sister will find you even more irresistible than she did Brent Horan. You strike me as a decent sort. A man who knows the meaning of honor. Which is more than I can say for Brent."
"I thought he and his kind put great store in honor."
"That's not honor you're talking about. That's
pride, and vanity. Honor means doing the right thing regardless of the consequences."
"I doubt if Brent Horan would define honor any differently."
"By 'right thing' I mean abiding by the laws of God and man. But you're correct, Del. Brent is very jealous of what he calls his honor. You see, he is a violent man, a man ruled by his passions. He uses the defense of his honor as his excuse to vent that violence upon others. Folks think he is a gentleman because of it. The irony is that he has no real honor."
They rode on as Delgado mulled this over. He could hear, deep in the woods, the baying of hounds, but paid little attention to the sound—until it was accompanied by the blast of a shotgun, surprisingly close to the road. He peered into the verdant gloom of the forest, trying to locate the source of the sound. Around a bend in the lane they came upon a horse tied to a tree, its saddle empty. As they curbed their own mounts, a lanky hound emerged from the forest, barked at them, tail wagging slowly. Several more hounds appeared, milling about, tongues lolling; clearly they had just had a long, hard run.
A moment later, a bearded, rough-looking individual appeared. Another man, a Negro, was draped over his shoulder. Delgado knew immediately that the black man was dead, and he looked at the shotgun in the bearded one's grasp.
With a cold, indifferent glance at Delgado and Jeremy, the bearded man heaved the corpse across the saddle of his horse, demonstrating his herculean strength by the ease with which he effected the transfer. Here, thought Delgado, was a man
who could be extremely dangerous even when completely unarmed.
"Mr. Talbott," said Jeremy, cool dislike evident in his tone of voice. "Hard at work, I see. Del, allow me to introduce John Talbott. He is employed by Daniel Horan as overseer and, as you can see, slavehunter, as well. One of Horan's runaways, Mr. Talbott?"
"That's right," was Talbott's gruff, barely civil reply. "If it's any of your business." He obviously did not think it was.
"He didn't get very far, did he?" asked Jeremy.
"They never do," said Talbott as he proceeded to lash the corpse down with a length of rope.
"Talbott always gets his man," Jeremy told Delgado. "Usually brings them back in this condition."
"That must cost Horan dearly," observed Delgado. The dead man had been young and muscular, a prime field hand.
"Mistuh Horan don't mind," said Talbott. "Serves as a warnin' to them other darkies."
One of the hounds was snarling as it mauled one of the dead Negro's dangling arms. Cursing, Talbott kicked the dog in the ribs. The dog slunk away, baring bloody fangs.
"Come on, Jeremy," said Delgado, disgusted. He turned the bay with a sharp pull on the reins.
As they rode back the way they had come, Delgado looked over his shoulder once. Talbott was leading the corpse-burdened horse in the other direction, surrounded by his dogs. Delgado felt sick to his stomach.
"My God," he said. "I've seen enough of your peculiar institution to last me a lifetime, Jeremy."
Jeremy nodded. "It is a brutal business."
"You don't approve. You couldn't possibly."
Wearing a troubled frown, Jeremy did not reply.
"Why don't you do something?" persisted Delgado.
"Such as?"
"Well, I don't know . . . "
"If there is no cure," said Jeremy grimly, "one can only endure."
He kicked the sorrel hunter into a gallop, and Delgado quickened the bay's pace, and was glad when they emerged from the gloomy old woods into the sunshine of the clearings.
Chapter Three
"I will always cherish this acquaintance."
1
D
elgado spent much of his free time exploring St. Louis. Gateway to the frontier, the city pulsated with life, and proved fascinating to a young man with Delgado's highly developed curiosity. But he was present at the Bledsoe house on the morning of Sarah's arrival, as any good guest would be—and he was forever glad of it.
She had come by coach from Philadelphia to Cincinnati and taken passage aboard an Ohio River packet at the city they called the Queen of the River. Twenty years earlier the Falls of the Ohio, located near the town of Louisville, had posed in certain seasons an insurmountable obstacle to riverine traffic, but a canal had been recently excavated around the falls on the Kentucky side. This was the route that Delgado would have taken to reach St. Louis from New York City, had he not opted for a succession of coastal steamers in order that he might experience the unique ambience of legendary New Orleans.
Since his arrival in St. Louis, Delgado had been chafing at the bit to embark for Santa Fe and Taos, but when he saw Sarah Bledsoe, that sense of urgency immediately melted away. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her eyes were limpid pools of hazel, her lips as shapely
and red as the blossom of a rose. A heart-shaped face was framed by chestnut brown curls. Her figure was petite, but well-rounded. She wore a gray serge traveling outfit consisting of a long skirt and a short jacket over a pale yellow muslin blouse, pleated and tight. Her hat was adorned with a wide yellow silk band and peacock feathers. She wore pale gray kid gloves on her delicate hands and high laced black shoes on her tiny feet.
Jeremy had gone to wait for her boat at the levee. He had invited Delgado to accompany him, but Delgado had declined, not wishing to impose upon the reunion of long-separated siblings. Now he stood unobtrusively to one side as Sarah greeted her father, who had just returned to the house from a day of business. If anything, Sarah's reunion with Clarisse was the most touching of all. The two women embraced and wept with joy. Only when Sarah had composed herself did Jacob Bledsoe introduce his daughter to his guest.
"Sarah, may I introduce Mr. Delgado McKinn. Del, my daughter, Sarah."
Delgado took the proffered hand and, with a very supple, continental bow, brushed her glove-encased fingers with his lips.
"Miss Bledsoe," he said almost reverently, "I will always cherish this acquaintance."
She smiled, both flattered and amused by his suave gallantry. "Mr. McKinn, I am thoroughly delighted to meet you." Her hand lingered in his, and her smile lingered, too, as she gazed at him, and Delgado felt a blush of warmth in his cheeks. In the magic of that moment he forget all about going home.
"You must be exhausted, my dear," said a solicitous Jacob. "Perhaps you would like to retire to
your room. I hope you don't mind, but I have invited a few close friends to dinner this evening in honor of your safe return."
"Of course I don't mind, Father." To Delgado's chagrin, Sarah finally took her hand away. "Come with me, Clarisse. I have so much to tell you!"
Delgado spent the rest of the day loitering about the house, idle and restless, no longer the least bit interested in the sights of St. Louis, waiting only for the next opportunity to gaze at Sarah. He had to bide his time until dinner, because she did not come downstairs until all the guests had arrived.
These included Dr. John J. Lowry, the banker, president of the Bank of Missouri, and Montgomery Blair, the mayor of St. Louis, son of the famous Francis P. Blair, editor of the
Washington Globe
and erstwhile member of Andy Jackson's "Kitchen Cabinet." Also present was Joshua Pilcher, who had to come to St. Louis during the War of 1812 and made his fortune in merchandising, and was now Superintendent of Indian Affairs in Missouri. To Delgado's pleased surprise, Sterling, his whist partner aboard the
Sultana
, and editor of the
Enquirer
, had accepted Jacob Bledsoe's invitation. Falconer showed up, too. He looked uncomfortable in a brown frock coat and, compared to the sartorial perfection of Lowry and Pilcher and Blair, appeared rather rustic. His wife could not attend, occupied as she was with the care of a very sick friend. Pilcher and Lowry were accompanied by their wives.
Last but by no means least on the guest list was Thomas Hart Benton, U.S. Senator from Missouri. "Old Bullion" was one of the giants currently straddling the stage of American politics, an accomplished orator who could hold his own
against the likes of such notables as Henry Clay and Daniel Webster, a man of remarkable powers as well as seething passions, a highly influential gentleman who saw himself as the leading spokesman for the West. "Calhoun represents the interests of the Southern slaveholder and nullifier," he said at one point during dinner. "Webster stands for the commercial interests of the Northeast—a great talent gone to waste. I speak for the hardy pioneer, the free man who breathes deep into his lungs the unfettered air of the frontier. Henry Clay? That strutting gamecock represents only himself and his overweening ambition."
Benton's wife of many years, Elizabeth, was a semi-invalid, a victim of epilepsy, and could not attend. In her stead was Jessie, Benton's pretty, brown-haired, effervescent daughter of twenty-two years, who had married a young Army officer named John Charles Frémont. At the time she had been only seventeen, and the Bentons had strongly disapproved of one so young marrying one so low on the ladder of Army advancement, but these days Benton was proud of his son-in-law, who at present was in California, one of the leaders of the attempt to wrest that valuable province away from the Republic of Mexico.
The meal was a feast fit for kings. But Delgado discovered that he lacked any kind of appetite. All he wanted to do was stare, enraptured, at Sarah Bledsoe, who by happy chance sat directly across the long mahogany dining room table from him. She was so radiantly beautiful that the setting—the polished red oak floor, the velveteen draperies on the windows, the burgundy damask on the walls, the ornately framed oils, the gleaming brass wall sconces, the snowy white linen table cloths,
the gold-rimmed china, the sparkling crystal, the Rogers silverware—all of it paled to nothingness by comparison. She wore a rose organdie dress with a long pink sash, and it was quite becoming in contrast to her honey-and-cream complexion and her chestnut hair that flared with fiery scintillas as it captured the candlelight.
Delgado's problem was that, bracketed between Jeremy and Jacob Bledsoe, the latter in his customary place at the head of the table, he had to be extremely circumspect in his staring, and he tried his best to be, for that reason and because it was not gentlemanly to allow one's eyes to rest so boldly and so long upon a young lady. Of course, she caught him red-handed early on, and though she smiled tolerantly, he looked quickly away, mortified, and tried to exercise his will and avoid looking at her for the remainder of the meal, only to find that he was not in command of his own will, after all. She was waiting with a sweet and slightly sultry smile when he finally gave up and glanced her way again, and Delgado realized, elated, that his inordinate interest was not, apparently, the least bit offensive to her. Throughout the dinner they exchanged surreptitious smiles. Delgado was thrilled, and pleased that no one at the table seemed to notice all this eye contact. He paid absolutely no attention to the lively conversation taking place around him—until he heard his name spoken. To his horror he realized that Jacob Bledsoe had asked him a question.
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"I am concerned that the subject of our discussion might be offensive to you, Del."
Delgado glanced around the table and nervously saw that all eyes were on him. He had no
idea to what subject Bledsoe was referring. So, in a flash of inspiration, he hedged magnificently.
"Why should it be?" It was, he decided, infinitely better than admitting he had been rudely ignoring the talk.
"You are, sir," said Thomas Hart Benton, "are you not, a citizen of the Republic of Mexico?"
"I suppose I am, technically."
"Do you not support your country in the present conflict?" asked Pilcher bluntly.
"Really, Joshua," scolded Bledsoe. "Perhaps we should talk about something else entirely."
"No," said Delgado, his pride pricked. He had no desire to be mollycoddled. "Mr. Pilcher, my home, Taos, is isolated by hundreds of miles of desert waste from the rest of the republic. The tumult of war and politics rarely touches us there. And besides, while I support the Constitution of 1824 and all it represents, Mexico has suffered under the heel of a succession of tyrants, the worst of which is Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna."
"Here, here," said Dr. Lowry, in full accord with Delgado's last sentiment.
"My father is a Scot," continued Delgado, "who is only concerned with politics as they may affect his commerce. My mother is an Arredondo, a
peninsular
. This means she was born in Spain, of a distinguished family of pure Spanish blood, who happens to reside in Mexico. During the revolution her father and her brother were killed by the
mestizos
. Needless to say, you will not find her supportive of the republic. She has no respect for Santa Anna, for he is a
criollo
, a creole, of Spanish blood but born in Mexico; she feels he has betrayed his own kind."