Preacher (13 page)

“Well, laddie, sure'n you can't have it both ways now,” James said. He took the club from the bartender and gave it back to Art. “You'll be for givin' up the job, or for fightin' me. Now, which is it to be?”

“I . . . I reckon I'm going to have to fight you,” Art said.

A wide smile spread across James's face. “Tell me, lad, would you have any family in these parts?”

“Family?” Art asked, surprised by the question.

“Aye. I'm goin' to hurt you, boy. I'm goin' to hurt you real bad, and we're going to need to know who to notify after I break you in two.”

Some of the others laughed, and James turned his head toward them to acknowledge their laughter. That was the opening Art was looking for, and he did something that was totally unexpected.

Using the section of hoe handle, Art jammed the end of it hard, just below the center of James's rib cage. That well-aimed blow to the solar plexus knocked all the wind out of James. He doubled over in pain, trying, without success, to gasp for breath.

Doubled over as he was, James's head was about even with Art's waist. This gave Art the perfect leverage for a smashing blow, and raising up on his toes, he used both hands to bring the club down hard. Everyone in the tavern heard the pop of the club as it hit the back of James's head. James fell facedown, then lay on the floor, not unconscious, but still gasping for breath and now totally disoriented.

Calmly, Art went back to his supper while several others bent down to check on James. Finally, they got James over on his back, and gradually he recovered his breath. Then, groggily, he got up and staggered over to a chair, where he sat for a while, leaning forward as if trying to recover his senses.

During this time the tavern was strangely quiet, as everyone looked toward James to see what he would do, then toward Art to see how he would react. To the abject shock of everyone present, Art showed no reaction at all. He continued to eat as calmly as if absolutely nothing had happened.

After several minutes, James got up, ran his hand over the bump on the back of his head, and looked over at the table toward Art.

“Hell,” James said. “Sure'n I never wanted the goddamned job in the first place.” He turned and left the tavern.

“Let's hear it for the boy!” someone shouted, and the room rang with “Huzzah!”

* * *

Over the next several weeks, Art worked hard and saved his money, using only what was necessary to buy food and some clothes. He even got a haircut so that he bore little resemblance to the half-wild boy who had wandered in to St. Louis fresh from the Shawnee village.

From newspaper stories he read, Art learned that the Shawnee had attacked Cape Girardeau. Though frightening, the attack had actually had little effect, because the entire population of Cape Girardeau was able to take shelter in a blockhouse that had been constructed down by the riverfront just for that purpose. In frustration, the Indians had burned some of the buildings of the town.

The newspaper article said that it was believed that the attack was due to the result of an alliance between the Shawnee and the British. It was pointed out, however, that since Tecumseh's death, there had been little activity from the Shawnee.

It appeared that Commerce was not attacked, and for a moment Art wondered why. Then he remembered that Major Loxley had given specific instructions not to launch the attack until he was present. And since he was killed, he'd never shown up to lead it.

As Art caught up with the news that had occurred since he left home, he learned that the war with England was not going very well for America. The invasion of Canada had failed, Washington, had been captured, the White House burned, and President Madison forced to flee for his life. It was said that he even spent one night in a chicken coop.

Art didn't know much about presidents and such. His father had told him that a president was sort of like a king, except he was elected by the people. Art didn't really know anything about kings either, but he was pretty sure that no king had ever spent a night in a chicken coop.

Much of the problem, according to the newspaper, was in the government's inability to recruit soldiers. Unless their own homes were directly threatened, nobody wanted to fight. It was difficult to get men from Ohio to fight in a battle that threatened only New York, and equally difficult to get New Yorkers to defend Virginia. As a result, the British could mass their troops in any one location and, despite the fact that they were fighting on America's soil, nearly always have the numerical advantage.

One evening, after Art got off work, he was contemplating his situation as he walked toward the room he had rented. His back hurt, his hands were calloused, and every muscle in his body ached. He was growing weary of the work. It wasn't that the work was too hard, or that he thought himself too good to do that kind of labor. It was just that he had left home to seek adventure, and he could hardly call loading and unloading freight wagons a fulfillment of that quest.

Then, as he passed the high-board fence that surrounded an empty lot, he noticed that a new bill of advertising had been posted with the other flyers that cluttered the wall. He paused to read it:

The more Art thought about that offer, the better it sounded. The fifteen-dollar bonus would just about double the amount of money he had. And if his food and lodging were to be furnished, then there would be little need to spend any of his salary.

That was the practical side of Art's consideration, but it was not what finally tipped the scales in favor of enlisting. That decision came about because Art was ready to move on. Joining the army to fight in a war seemed like a natural next step in his search for adventure.

* * *

Art didn't give notice of his intent to quit his job until the night before he did so. He felt guilty about leaving Tony without an assistant, but James had come around several times over the last few weeks, sober and contrite, and anxious to help. Indeed, James had even done some part-time work, and Mr. Gordon had told him that he would consider rehiring him if another opportunity presented itself.

Art's leaving provided that opportunity. As a result, James and Tony invited Art to have a beer with them that night, as a means of saying good-bye. Tony lifted his mug of beer in a toast.

“You were a good coworker Art. I will miss you.”

“Thank you,” Art said.

“And if anyone would be for askin', I will tell them I learned a good lesson from you,” James said, lifting his own mug.

“Oh?” Art replied. “And what lesson would that be?”

“Just because someone is a wee little shit, that don't mean he can't pack a punch like the kick of a mule. You can bet that James O'Leary will never again give the other man a chance to take a first punch,” he said. He rubbed the back of his head.

Art and the others laughed and drank, far into the night.

The next morning dawned cold and threatening. Art gathered the few belongings he had and threw them in a rucksack. For just a moment he looked around at the little room where he had been living, saying good-bye to it for one last time.

On his belt Art wore the knife that he had brought to St. Louis, the one that given him by Keytano. In his pocket he had fourteen dollars and thirty-five cents. On his feet were a pair of real leather boots. He put on a recently purchased wool-lined coat as a guard against the weather, then stepped out into the cold, dreary day.

A little over eighteen months ago, a young, naive, practically helpless young boy had slipped out of his parents' home with nothing to his name but three biscuits and an apple. Since that fateful morning he had been forced to kill a man, had been robbed, beaten, and left for dead, and had nearly starved in the woods. He had lived with a band of Indians who were the sworn enemies of Americans, then arrived empty-handed in a large and hostile city.

Despite all that, he now had clothes on his back, boots on his feet, and money in his pocket, all the result of his own enterprise. He was only fourteen years old, but in any way of measuring, he would be considered a man of means.

There were nearly forty people gathered at LaClede's Landing when Art arrived. A little surprised at the number, Art looked around at the other men who had gathered in response to the recruitment poster. This gathering appeared to represent men from all stations of St. Louis life. There were businessmen in suits, and laborers in rags. There were frontiersmen, backwoodsmen, farmers, and men of color, both Indian and black. There were people of all ages, from very old to quite young. Some of those gathered here were even younger than Art.

A table and a chair were set up at the head of the group. Someone was sitting in the chair, but from this angle, Art couldn't see him very well. He could see a second man, though, for he was standing. This man was wearing a military uniform of blue and buff.

“All right, you men, gather round,” the man in uniform called out. There was a shuffling of feet as those who had gathered hastened to do his bidding.

“I am Sergeant Delacroix,” the man in uniform explained. “But as far as you are concerned, I am God. You will, at all times, obey me and anyone else who is put in authority over you. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” the men said as one.

“Now I want you all to form a line right in front of this table, then come sign your name on the paper. As soon as you sign, you will be soldiers in the United States Army.”

“When do we get our fifteen dollars?” one of the men asked.

“What's your name?” Delacroix asked.

“Mitchell. Lou Mitchell.”

“Well, Mitchell, you'll receive your money soon as you get on the boat.”

“I got me a wife'll be needin' that money, mister. It ain't gonna do her no good, that money bein' on the boat with me.”

“It's sergeant, not mister,” Delacroix corrected. “And as far as your wife is concerned, she can come down to the boat to see you off'n you can give her the money then.”

Mitchell seemed satisfied with the answer and he nodded affirmatively. Delacroix looked out over the others. “Any more questions?”

There were none.

“Then line up here at the table and commence signing, those of you who are going to sign. Anybody who ain't goin' to sign may as well leave now.”

A few men left, but most of them formed a line. As they waited, they laughed and spoke excitedly to each other. Not wanting to push his way in front of anyone else, Art moved patiently to the end of the line along with several of the very young boys.

“You boys,” Sergeant Delacroix called to them, making a shooing motion toward the younger bunch. “There ain't no need in you boys a'hangin' aroun' here. The U.S. Army ain't about to waste no time with babies.”

Grumbling, the young boys left, but Art stayed. He no longer considered himself a young boy. Besides, he was fairly sure that the sergeant wasn't referring to him, and even if he was, he believed that if he pressed the issue, he might get away with it.

Evidently, the sergeant had other ideas.

“That means you too, boy,” Sergeant Delacroix said to Art. “I got no time to be givin' you sugar titties to suck on. Get on, now, like I said. This here is for full-growed men only.”

“Hold it there, Sergeant Delacroix,” someone called. There was a haunting familiarity to the voice. “If this lad wants to join up with us, I'll be glad to have him.”

“But, Cap'n, he's just a pup.”

“He's more than a pup. How are you doing, Art? I haven't seen you in a while.”

Art had begun smiling from the moment he heard the voice. The man who had been sitting at the table now stood. This was the captain, and Art was surprised to see that it was none other than Pete Harding, the boatman Art had come down the Ohio with.

“Mr. Harding,” Art said happily, sticking his hand out. “It's good to see you again.”

“That's
Captain
Harding to you, boy,” Sergeant Delacroix corrected, putting emphasis on the word “Captain.”

“Captain Harding,” Art said.

“So you want to join up with us, do you?” Harding asked.

“Yes, sir, I sure do.”

“Well, we'll be happy to have you,” Harding said. “Sergeant, I want you to sign this young fella up. And don't be fooled by his age. I know him to be a good man.”

“Very well, Cap'n, if you say so,” Sergeant Delacroix replied begrudgingly. “What's your name, boy?”

“Gregory,” Art said. “Art Gregory.”

“Say, Mr. Delacroix,” one of the others said, speaking to the sergeant.

“It's
Sergeant
Delacroix,” Delacroix explained again. “If you recruits don't learn the ways of the Army, I'll make you wish you had.”

“All right, Sergeant, then,” the recruit said. “Oncet we sign up with you, where at is it we're a'goin'?”

“You'll be given two hours to get your affairs in order. Then you'll report back to the riverfront, where you'll be issued your equipment.”

“And be give our money?” Mitchell asked, repeating his earlier concern.

Sergeant Delacroix sighed. “Yes, Mitchell, and be given your money. After that, we'll load you all onto a boat. Once we are loaded, we'll start downriver, putting in at all the ports until we find the English,” Harding said.

“What do we do whenever we find them English?” someone asked.

“We fight 'em,” Sergeant Delacroix answered resolutely.

“Fight 'em? You mean, with guns and sech?”

“The United States is at war with England,” Sergeant Delacroix explained patiently. “We ain't goin' to be askin' 'em to no fancy dress balls.”

“What about fightin' the heathens?” another asked. “I got me a brother lives down in Cape Girardeau. The Indians attacked them last month. I'd kind'a like to get back at 'em.”

“I can answer that question, Sergeant,” Captain Harding said. Then, addressing the others, he began to speak.

“Men, our country, our very way of life, is in danger. If we lose to the British, we are going to have to cede most of our country back to them. Right here, where you are standing, will more'n likely become British. They've come right out and said so. In addition, the British are making all kinds of promises to the Indians, telling them they will be able to get all their land back if they turn against us. And the Indians that are Britain's biggest allies are the Shawnee. So, to answer your question, if we encounter the Shawnee, we will fight them as well.”

“We're going to fight the Shawnee?” Art asked.

“Yes, we are. That is, if we run across them,” Harding said. “But we aren't going to go looking for them. Our primary concern is the British.”

“Your primary concern might be the British, Cap'n, but like I said, I aim to kill me a couple of them Shawnees if I can,” the man who had posed the first question replied. “Fact is, if I see any of 'em while we're a floatin' down the river, I aim to shoot'em outright.”

“And you would be?” Harding asked.

“Edward David Monroe.”

“Listen to me, Private Monroe,” Harding said resolutely. “There will be no shooting of Indians, or anyone else, unless and until Sergeant Delacroix or I give the word. Is that clearly understood?”

“What about . . .”

“I said, is that clearly understood?” Harding repeated more forcefully than before.

“Well, yes, I reckon it is.”

“That is yes,
sir,
Private,” Sergeant Delacroix said. “Any time you speak to an officer, you will say 'sir.' ”

“Yes, sir,” Monroe said sullenly. It was clear that he didn't particularly approve of the policy of not shooting Indians, nor did he appreciate being chastised. It was equally clear that he knew there was nothing he could do about it.

* * *

It was even colder later that afternoon when twenty-two men, the total number who actually signed the recruitment papers, returned to the riverfront. Some of the men had family members with them, including Private Mitchell, the one who had been so concerned about the fifteen-dollar bonus. Once the money was passed out, Mitchell took it over to his wife, a rather mousy-looking woman, and handed it to her. He embraced her, then turned and walked quickly toward the gangplank that led onto the boat. Art noticed the tears coming down Mrs. Mitchell's face, and he looked away, not wanting to intrude on the privacy of her sadness.

Art and the other men followed Captain Harding and Sergeant Delacroix onto the boat. Longer and wider than the average flatboat, it was more like a barge, but like a flatboat, depended upon the river current for its propulsion and long steering oars for its direction.

Although there was a small cabin amidships, it was only large enough for Captain Harding and Sergeant Delacroix. Both Harding and Delacroix had their blankets thrown down inside, away from the elements. Art and the other men would be out on the deck, exposed to the weather for the entire river passage.

Upon reporting for debarkation, each man had been issued a blanket. Except for Sergeant Delacroix and Captain Harding, the men wore clothes of homespun cotton or wool. Art continued to wear buckskins, believing that the leather did a better job of blocking out the wind than the cotton, or even the wool from which the homespun clothing was made.

Wrapping up in the issued blanket, Art found a place on the deck where he could sit with his back against the rail. That kept the wind off, and with the blanket and his wool-lined jerkin, did a passable job of keeping him warm.

The men had also been issued rifles, and as they drifted south, Sergeant Delacroix gave them their orientation on the weapon. Hefting one in his hand, he began a speech that sounded as if he had given it many times before.

“Men, this here is a government-issue, U.S. Military 1803 half-stocked, short-barreled, flintlock rifle. It fires a fifty-two-caliber lead ball weighing just over one ounce. That ball is propelled by black powder, which you will keep dry at all times. For that purpose, you have also been given a powder horn.” Delacroix held up one of the powder horns to show what he was talking about. “Attached to the powder horn is a small measuring cup. One level cup of powder supplies the charge for the ball. The rifle is fired in the following manner.”

Sergeant Delacroix poured a measuring cup of powder down the barrel of the rifle he was holding, then used a ramrod to drive down a wad of paper to hold the powder in place. Once the powder was in place, he dropped a ball into the end of the barrel and, again using the ramrod, drove the ball down.

“Once the ball is loaded, a small amount of powder is placed in the firing pan. Make certain that the flint is in position to cause a spark”—he checked the flint—“then draw back the hammer, raise the rifle to your shoulder, and . . .”

He completed his sentence by pulling the trigger. There was a flash, pop, and puff of smoke at the base of the barrel, followed immediately by the booming report of the charge itself. A flash of fire and a large cloud of smoke billowed out from the end of the barrel. The rifle's recoil caused Sergeant Delacroix to rock back. As a result of the burnt powder, a dark smudge now garnished his cheek. He smiled at his men as he continued his lesson.

“At a range of one hundred yards, this rifle has enough power to drive the ball one inch deep into a white oak plank. I can assure you, speaking from my own experience, it is quite powerful enough to stop any enemy.”

The U.S. Military 1803 was Art's very first rifle, and though technically it belonged to the Army, it was in his hands, and that was the same thing as his owning it.

After his discourse on the rifle, Sergeant Delacroix began holding drills on board the boat as they drifted south on the current. He taught them how to stand at attention, come to present arms, right shoulder arms, port arms, and order arms.

The verbal instructions and arms drill given, Sergeant Delacroix then allowed the men to load and fire their weapons, choosing as targets trees along the bank as the boat continued its passage south.

Art learned very quickly that he was a natural at shooting. At first, Sergeant Delacroix picked only the larger trees as targets for the men, but he kept picking smaller trees and smaller still until, finally, he was pointing at saplings that were little bigger around than the thickness of a man's wrist. And yet, with every shot Art took, bits of exploding bark would mark the strike of the ball.

“You are a pretty good shot, Private,” Sergeant Delacroix said begrudgingly. “Nearly as good as I am.” Delacroix made no offer to demonstrate his own prowess.