Northfield (6 page)

IF AT FIRST YOU DON’T SUCCEED,
TRY, TRY AGAIN

“How you feel?” Jesse asked later, as close to an apology as he would ever come. I pressed his handkerchief against my nose till the bleeding stopped. A little rouge would hide the bruises, and I could lie away the split lip.

“I have been hurt worse. This is nothing.”

A light tapping sounded on the door again, and Jesse leaped for his arsenal, but Frank’s voice called out: “Mister Huddleson?”

“Yeah?”

“That little row from this room earlier has cast a pall on the evening’s entertainment. Mister King and I are taking our leave, and you might find it prudent to leave via the back stairwell. The gentlemen in the parlor are anxious to see Miss Ellsworth, and their numbers grow at an alarming rate. If she does not show her face soon…well, one of your cases might just drop in on you, sir.”

“Directly,” Jesse said caustically. He filled a glass and gently placed it in my hand.

The brandy burned like blazes. While I drank, he slowly withdrew an envelope from his coat pocket and placed it on my bed. It was addressed to a Mrs. David Howard, in care of General Joseph Orville Shelby of Page City, Missouri. His wife, I suspected, living a lie, living under an assumed name, with mail delivered through a second party, an old Confederate war hero like Jo Shelby, someone Jesse could trust. Sometimes I think whores have it rough, but, really, ours is an easy life. I felt for Mrs. Jesse James then, and Mrs. Frank James, though I try hard not to feel for anyone, even myself.

“If you hear of my death, would you mail that for me, Mollie? Only though if I’m dead, certain sure.”

“Sure, Jesse, but you’ll never die.”

“Oh, I shall die like a dog, or eat the hatchet.” He placed five gold pieces on the letter, kissed my whore’s forehead, and left.

The next afternoon, after learning for sure that Mr. W.C. Huddleson of Baltimore, Maryland had checked out of the Nicollet House, and left no forwarding address, I located a policeman on Hennepin Avenue. Knowing the boys the way I do, I figured they would continue to split up into groups of two or three, scouting for the perfect target, then joining forces, and when those forces joined—well, I did not care to think of that.

I told the policeman that some strangers had been playing cards in a public house, armed like bandits, and arousing suspicion.

“I wouldn’t concern yourself,” the copper told me.

“Do you know who I am?”

“I am familiar with the goings on along North Second.”

“Well, I do not want to be implicated for not speaking up if these banditti try something here or in Saint Paul.”

“Like I said, don’t worry yourself.”

So much for a whore’s duty, I thought. No one would believe me. Maybe I should have expected that attitude, probably did, deep down, but I figured this would clear my conscience, or at least my name, because I knew Jesse James well enough to know he did not go anywhere without, as he would put it, dropping into some case. The man was a thief, and always would be one. A thief and a killer, temperamental, cold, unpredictable, frightening. As I walked away, the copper called out my name.

“Did these suspicious men give their names?”

Well, I just saw Jesse again, the time he charged out with that stocking of money in St. Louis, and him straddling me, beating me to learn me my place, though I think it had more to do with his own guilt, and him laughing about Hattie Floyd’s death.

“I never asked their names,” I said.

C
HAPTER
S
IX
C
OLONEL
T
HOMAS
V
OUGHT

I had just stepped onto the shadiest part of the porch to enjoy an after-dinner pipe when I spied two riders riding slowly down Buck Street. Watching them, wondering if they would stop or ride on, I admired their horseflesh, hoping they would ask for accommodations, for not only did their horses interest me, but so did these strangers. Their hats were broad, black, their faces full of character, and they had an easy way of sitting in the saddle, slouched but alert. I dare say they rode with the cocksure attitude of a cavalier, and though I had detested horse soldiers during the War for the Suppression of the Rebellion, I enjoyed stimulating conversation.

Which is why I am a hosteler.

The biggest of the two—or so he seemed to me, though perhaps the way he carried himself influenced this perception—gave the other one a nudge, and both reined up but made no move to guide their horses toward my porch. They merely studied the building.

“I like a shady porch,” the big man said to no one in particular.

“As do I,” I added with proprietary pride. I gestured to the trees along the front of the building. A line of young ash trees grew right next to the boardwalk and porch. Others sprouted as if from the porch itself. “My wife told me, when I bought this establishment, that I should chop down these trees, that they were too close to the hotel, but I said I would not kill a tree.”

When the big man sniggered, I realized the absurdity of my statement, which the stranger latched onto like a snapping turtle. “That’s a mite interesting,” he said, and I could only shake my head at my folly, waiting for his verbal, though humorous, challenge. “Wooden porch. Wooden columns. Wooden sign. Wooden doors. Wooden windowsills. Wooden rafters. Two whole stories of wooden sides.” He glanced upward and, although he could not see the roof from his position, chanced a guess. “Wooden shingles, too. Yet no trees got killed.”

“It’s a house made of cards,” I said. “Simply painted to resemble wood.”

The big man’s bluish gray eyes twinkled, accented by a well-groomed mustache and goatee and that fine black hat. Broad-shouldered, with a ruddy complexion, he had to pack, by my guess, more than 200 pounds on a solid, six-foot frame.

“I’ve been pining for a real hotel,” the second man said, which surprised me. I could find wisdom and humor in the first man’s features, but never would have expected wit from his companion. His hair was blacker than a raven at midnight, his face so bronze, I would have thought him a savage Indian were it not for the thick mustache and Van Dyke. An intimidating man, his face a scowl even while enjoying this play on words, almost six feet in height, but seemingly thinner, less solid than the rider with the goatee. In fact, I did not notice their similarity in height until they had dismounted a few minutes later.

“Since the Big Woods.” The first one nodded. “The lumberjack we met told us that…”—he pointed at the wooden sign, red and blue lettering on the curved plank hanging from the wooden columns like an archway—“the Flanders Hotel had the hardest beds this side of the timberline.”

“Not so,” replied I, keeping my face a mask, enjoying this repartee.

“Not so.” His head bobbed and he asked the second one. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know. He said that rather woodenly”

My rejoinder: “Would your rather I bark out my answer?”

“No,” said the first man, “but perhaps we should branch out in a different direction. How is the food in this hotel?”

“I suggest you try our cherries. Or maybe walnuts.”

“Are you leaving anything out?” the second one came back.

“Merely the maple syrup.”

“Well,” the first one said, turning to his companion, “my head is burning like pitch pine. You.…”

“You never could see the forest for the trees, Capt’n,” the second one fired back, excited to have come up with something to keep this silly exchange going.

“That’s my cross to bear. Want to stay?”

“Oh, wouldn’t I!”

They swung from their horses, and the first one, now grinning widely, shook my hand and announced: “We’re running the white flag up the pole and quitting this game.”

With a curt nod, I told him: “It was becoming a bore.”

He shook his head, and bellowed, then asked seriously: “Are you Mister Flanders?”

“Thomas Vought,” I said. “I bought Joe Flanders out three years ago.”

I whistled for the stable boy to take their mounts away, and led the two men to the register, wondering how they would sign their names, for if they tried some tree or wood allusion, I would be suspicious of them, branding them highwaymen or, worse, men who didn’t know when to end a joke. I can read a signature upside down.

The big man was J.C. King. The dark-faced one, Jack Ladd, which seemed to amuse him, but, at the time, I thought he was merely reliving one of his plays on words.

In seriousness, the man I would know as J.C. King said they had come to Madelia in search of farms to purchase.

“You don’t look like farmers,” I said, and they didn’t, not with those big black hats, black coats, linen dusters, and the heavy golden watches, big chains, large fobs. Farmers are frugal, with rough, calloused hands.

Mr. King removed his hat, revealing thinning hair—auburn, a few shades brighter than his facial hair. “Ten years ago, I didn’t look like I’d be bald, but take a gander at me now.”

At ease again, I informed Mr. King and Mr. Ladd that I would find much delight in showing them around Madelia, telling them of the farms that I knew might be for sale. After handshakes, I offered both a long nine cigar, which they took with relish.

Thus, we exited the hotel, turned down Buck Street, and walked along, enjoying the sunny day.

“First things first,” Mr. King said. “I ain’t willing to pay more’n one dollar an acre.”

“No need to haggle with me, sir,” I answered, “for I am not selling.”

Presently I introduced them to Doc Cooley and the good physician joined our troupe, selling Madelia and the surrounding farms as if he were a land agent.

“Lot of sloughs, lot of water, lot of woods,” Mr. King said, addressing Doc Cooley. “What concerns me most is getting my crops to market. Tell me about the land around here…to the north, and to the west.”

They had asked me the same question moments earlier, and I could not help but notice how their interest seemed much more intense when hearing descriptions of Watowan County. Naturally Mr. King’s reasoning made sense, and were I buying a farm in a strange area, I would not take one man’s word on paradise. I would seek opinions from everyone.

We told them about the Army Road, which ran southwest across the ford of the Watowan River. They asked about the river, the ford, and Doc told them we might have a bridge put up sometime; at least, that notion kept resurrecting itself in town meetings. We told them about the two other fords, the ferry, the hard-working nature of every resident for miles. We told them about Lake Hanska, and they asked more about bridges, so I told them about the bridge over in Linden Township, up in Brown County. We told them about Linden Lake, and again Mr. King expressed his concern about getting crops and cattle to market, about not wanting to get bogged down or flooded out. We told them a lot about Madelia, although naturally we never once mentioned St. James, the town southwest of Madelia, hell-bent on stealing our county seat.

They asked about a bank, and Doc told them that the Yates brothers gave credit at their store. They asked about a hardware store or gunsmith, and again Doc referred them to the Yates’ mercantile, although saying he rarely carried anything other than a shotgun and, as far as we knew, had never been asked to repair a firearm. “Shotgun’s fine,” Mr. Ladd said, winding his big gold watch. “Just saw some prairie hens riding into town.”

“That’s about all we ever hunt,” I informed them.

They asked about the law, and we said that James Glispin was a good Irishman, though we never had much trouble. They asked about the woods, again, and the sloughs, and the roads and terrain, and which farmers might be most interested in selling.

Then Mr. King asked: “Is that croquet?”

Which stopped me. I stood there blinking, confused, then Mr. King pointed to the vacant lot, and sure enough, the ladies—including Hester, my lovely wife—did have a game of croquet going, girlishly laughing as they’d try to send those balls through the wickets. Their efforts were as lamentable as mine on a baseball field.

We introduced our visitors to Hester, Mrs. Corley Miss Ivers, Inez Murphy, and Horace Thompson’s niece. Hester asked Mr. King if he would care to join them in the game. Mrs. Corley asked Mr. Ladd to join in as well, but the Indian-looking man shook his head and said he’d watch, but Mr. King said he would be delighted to join the contest. Now that, I tell you, was a sight, watching this towering man handle the curved stick, enjoying himself or maybe enjoying the admiration or adulation of those ladies. By jacks, he asked the ladies a bit about the country around Madelia, too.

“Landlord,” Mr. King told me, “this has been a most enjoyable day.”

We were sitting on the porch after supper, enjoying cigars and my pipe once more, listening to the ash trees rustling in the evening wind.

Mr. Ladd spoke. “Got a nice town here.”

“That’s why I settled here.”

Withdrawing his cigar, Mr. King exhaled and pointed the burning end of his long nine in my direction. “We’ve practically talked ourselves out about Watowan County and the farms for sale. Never learned a thing about you.” With a wink, he added: “And I reckon a tenant should know something about his landlord.”

What could I tell him? I was forty-three years old, a New Yorker by birth. I had left the East before I had seen twenty years, tried farming and raising stock in Wisconsin, at Bryce Prairie, which is where I had met, courted, and married Hester. She was a Bryce Prairie Green. Then came the rebellion, and I had marched off with the 14
^th
Wisconsin. After the war, restlessness gained control of my heart, so in ’66 Hester and I moved to Madelia. I tried farming, tried raising cattle, even tried a stagecoach business, but nothing took root until the railroad reached Madelia, and I bought the hotel from Joe Flanders.

“You said end of the hostilities…you really think the war has ended?” Mr. King asked.

I had paid scant attention to my words. So, with a shrug, I said: “Lee and the other secessionists surrendered. Ten years have passed. I’d say the war is over.”

“Secessionists.” Mr. Ladd spat. “War was about a lot more than that.”

“I take it you both fought on the side of the Confederacy,” I said with no malice to my voice, mere curiosity.

“We’re from Kentucky.” Mr. King said this too quickly, though I did not really detect anything suspicious about our conversation, indeed the entire day, until a few weeks later. “Border state. Saw men in blue and gray, and, as you said, Lee surrendered. A man’s past and his past allegiances are his own private matters.”

Which could have ended the discussion, but Mr. Ladd asked: “See the elephant?”

My head bobbed ever slightly, and I wished I were describing Lake Hanska or that German farm down the Army Road or the country west of town. We had mustered in at Fond du Lac on a bitterly cold day in ’62, reporting to Savannah, Tennessee, with Grant’s army. See the elephant? Our first blood came at Pittsburg Landing. But twenty-nine, never had I imagined such slaughter, heard such savagery, taken part in such barbarity. Mayhap, I’ve often thought, I would have forgotten the carnage of battle, except after the Rebels retreated, the 14
^th
had remained behind as provost guard. Other regiments moved on, in pursuit of the enemy or to lick its own wounds, leaving the unspeakable horrors behind, but we, or at least I, saw reminders of the terrible battle every damned day.

See the elephant? Corinth followed, in many ways as ghastly as Pittsburg Landing. Afterward, the misery, monotony, brutality of Vicksburg and the capture of Natchez. The bungling disaster of the Red River Expedition in ’64. Tupelo, then Nashville. Down to Mobile and Spanish Fort. Finally Atlanta, now with Leggett’s Division, Savannah and into the Carolinas. I rode in the Grand Review as a colonel, but found little glory in our triumph.

See the elephant? I had seen too much. I thought of my experiences in the war that I have described above, but, in my answer to the strangers, I merely said I had seen several battles with the 14
^th
Wisconsin.

“I figured you as some peace lover,” Mr. Ladd said. “I mean, man who won’t kill a tree ain’t likely got the gumption to send another fellow to hell.”

“If I believed in hell, I would answer that I sent many men there. Men I killed wearing butternut and gray. Men wearing blue whom I ordered to their deaths.”

“You were an officer?” Mr. King inquired.

“A colonel.”

He whistled. “They stuck the rank of captain on me, though it didn’t mean much to me, or the boys.” He still did not name his allegiance, but I knew he had fought for the South.

“War is terrible,” Mr. King added. “I wonder why God tolerates us foolish men.”

When I said nothing, Mr. King leaned forward, using the cigar as a pointer once again. “You say you don’t believe in hell. You’re not a religious man, sir?”

“I find fallacies throughout the Bible.”

“How so?” Eyes full of interest, he leaned back to study my answer.

“Jesus preaches peace, but the Old Testament is filled with more slaughter than I even saw at Pitts-burg Landing or Corinth, or even the misery marching with Sherman. There is no consistency to this book.”

“Sure there is,” Mr. King said. “When Jesus preaches, he is using the teachings from the Old Testament.”

“‘He teacheth my hands to war,’ it says in Samuel,” I retorted. “The Old Testament is full of war.…”

“That’s why folks love reading it!” Mr. Ladd interjected.