Preacher (16 page)

“I'm real honored,” Art said, pinning the epaulet onto his left shoulder. As he turned away from Delacroix, he was surprised to see the remaining men from the original twenty-eight who had left St. Louis together.

“Attention!” one of the men shouted, and all stood, then saluted, as Art walked by.

Awkwardly, Art returned the salute, then pulling himself up, walked by the standing men, heading for the house that had been put into service as General Jackson's headquarters.

* * *

“Thank you for coming to see me, Lieutenant,” General Jackson said. He stared at Art for a long moment, a frown crossing his face.

“Damn, boy, how old are you?”

“I'm fifteen, General.”

“You are fifteen and a lieutenant? That's not even . . .” He'd started to say legal, then stopped. “To hell with the regulations. I'm told that your men elected you to that position, and if they want you there, who am I to deny it? Besides, I know for a fact that Major Harding set quite a store by you. That's why he named you in his will.”

“His will?” Art asked, surprised by the general's comment.

“I had all the officers make out a will and submit it to me before the battle,” General Jackson said. “Were you related to Harding?”

“No, sir.”

“But you knew him?”

“Yes, sir. We were friends from long before.”

Was it long before? Art wondered. In terms of time, it had been only a year and a half ago since Harding had come to his rescue at Eby's cave. Only eighteen months, yet it seemed half a lifetime ago.

“Then maybe you will understand the rather strange wording of his will,” General Jackson said. “He talks about something he calls the creature.”

Art laughed. “Yes, sir, I know about the creature.”

General Jackson stroked his chin, then looked over at one of the nearby staff officers.

“Colonel May, would you stand by, please, for the reading of the will?” General Jackson asked one of his staff officers. “Then I'll want you to witness it.”

“Yes, sir,” the colonel replied.

Taking a pair of spectacles from a box, then putting them on, carefully hooking them around each ear, General Jackson unfolded a document and began reading.

“To all who sees these presents, greetings. I, Peter Hamilton Harding, currently a major in General Jackson's Army of Tennessee Volunteers, and being of sound mind and body, but ever cognizant of the possibility of a premature appointment with my maker as the result of battle, do hereby make this last will and testament.

“First, I decree that any just debt owed by me shall be paid by any monies in my possession or due me.”

General Jackson lifted his eyes from the reading and glanced up toward Art. “That has been taken care of,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

Jackson continued reading.

“Second, all monies as may remain after the settlement of all just debt should be given to any church of the Protestant faith, said church to be selected by the regimental chaplain.”

Again, Jackson looked up. “That too has been accomplished.”

Reading again, Jackson continued. “And finally, I give profound regrets to my friend, Art, that I will be unable to see the creature with him. But to aid him in his own quest, I leave and bequeath my Hawken rifle and my pistol.

“Signed by Peter Hamilton Harding and witnessed by Pierre Mouchette Delacroix.”

Jackson looked over at Colonel May. “Would you witness this, please, Colonel?”

Colonel May leaned over the table and affixed his signature to the place indicated by General Jackson.

“Lieutenant, you will find the rifle and pistol on a table in that room,” Jackson said, pointing toward a door. “Take them and do honor to them, for they belonged to an honorable man.”

“Yes, sir,” Art said, feeling nearly as much pride now as sorrow.

If Art had wanted to go west to see the creature before, that desire was redoubled now. He felt a strong determination to carry out the plans he and Major Harding had made. It was no longer a drift without purpose. He felt as if he were on a mission.

It was March 22, 1815. For the first time in several days it was warm enough, and dry enough, for Art to strip out of his coat and slicker. The sun was out and he was enjoying its warmth, not only the rays as they fell on him, but also the convection heat that radiated back from the horse.

Art had spent twenty dollars for the horse, ten for the saddle, and five for his sack of possibles. He had about ten dollars remaining, and he planned to use the last of his money in St. Louis, buying everything he might need for the trip west.

He had considered going west from New Orleans, but that would have taken him through Mexico. He had fought for the United States, so like Harding, he wanted the land he saw to be American land. The best way to do that would be to follow the trail west, as established by Lewis and Clark. That meant following the Missouri River, and to do that, he would have to leave from St. Louis.

Suddenly, and with no warning, the ground gave way beneath his horse's hooves. The horse whinnied in surprise and pain, then fell to its right front knee. Art leaped from the saddle, both to avoid being thrown, and to keep from inflicting any further injury to his mount.

It wasn't until Art hit the ground himself that he saw the problem. Recent rains had cut a channel between streams. Because the grass was high, the channel couldn't be seen, and when the horse had put its hoof down on the edge of the channel, the dirt wall had given way.

The horse stood up, but when it tried to put its weight on its right foreleg, it balked, pulling it up again sharply. Kneeling by the horse, Art picked up the leg for a closer examination.

He didn't have to search for the injury. It was a compound fracture, and the bloody stump of a bone was sticking through the skin.

“Oh,” Art said, shaking his head and rubbing the wound gently. Even the softest caress brought pain, and the horse tried to pull its leg away. “Oh, Lord, I know that hurts.”

Art had only owned the horse for a few months, but it had been both his beast of burden and his sole companion for the long ride. Feeling a lump in his throat and a stinging in his eyes, Art wrapped his arms around the horse's neck, embracing him. The horse looked at him with huge, brown eyes, begging the one who fed him, rubbed him down, talked to him, and cared for him, to do something to take away the hurt.

Art knew there was only one thing he could do. The stinging in his eyes gave way to tears as he loaded his pistol.

“I'm sorry, horse,” he said. “There's no other way.”

The horse continued to stare at him, not even looking away when Art raised his pistol and put the end of the barrel less than two inches away from the white blaze that shot down between the horse's eyes.

Art pulled the trigger. He felt something wet hit his face as the short, flat boom echoed back from the trees. The horse fell over on his side, bounced slightly, then was still.

Art ran his hand across his face, then held it out to look at it. He saw blood and brain-matter. Shutting his eyes, he turned away from the horse and walked several paces before he stopped, his gun down by his side, a small plume of smoke drifting up from the end of the barrel.

Art took several deep breaths, then turned back to the job at hand. There was no way to salvage the saddle. Right now, it was as worthless to him as the dead horse. But he took the saddle blanket and pouches, then snaked the rifle out of its sheath. Stuffing his possibles bag down into one of the pouches, he hitched up his trousers and started walking north.

* * *

He reached New Madrid four days after his horse went down. Coming into a town that soon after losing his horse was a pleasant surprise to him. It was even better that the town was New Madrid, because that gave him a sense of where he was. There was another surprise waiting for him at New Madrid. Tied up to the bank was the steamboat
Delta Maid.

The
Delta Maid
was one of a growing number of steamboats on the Mississippi. The
New Orleans
had inaugurated steamboat traffic on the river, commencing operation in 1811. The
Delta Maid
was one of the more recent additions to the Mississippi steamboat fleet, entering service early in 1814.

Art knew the boat, because when he was in St. Louis, loading and unloading freight wagons, he sometimes took a load to, or brought a load from, the
Delta Maid.
As a result, he knew several of the deckhands, and even the captain of the boat. He wandered down to the river's edge, then began looking out at the boat to see if he could recognize anyone. He was seen first.

“Art, how are you, boy? What are you doing in New Madrid? Last time I seen you, you was in St. Louis.”

The man who hailed him was the boat's engineer, John Dewey. Dewey was near the stern of the boat, standing in the shadows of one of the huge boilers.

“Hello, Mr. Dewey,” Art replied. “Yes, sir, I was in St. Louis, but I went down to New Orleans to join up with General Jackson.”

“Was you there when the battle was fought?” Dewey asked. He stepped up to the boat railing and dumped the ashes from the bowl of his pipe.

“Yes, sir, I was.”

“Well, good for you, boy. That was a heroic thing our soldier boys done down there. Taught them Brits a lesson they ain't likely to forget for a while.”

“Mr. Dewey, you think there might be a job on the boat for me?”

“Well, now, you aimin' to be a river man, are you?” Dewey asked.

“Well, sir, I'd like to be a river man for a while anyway. My horse went down on me some way back, and I'm looking for a way to go to St. Louis.”

“I could use a good man in the engine room,” Dewey said. “Come on aboard, I'll talk to the captain for you.”

“Thanks,” Art said.

* * *

Captain Timmons was nearly a head shorter than Art. He was bald, but with a full, gray beard that reached all the way down to the beginning of a prominent belly. He wore a dark blue jacket with brass buttons and more trim across the front than Art had seen on any of the generals in the recent battle.

“Yes, I remember you, lad,” Timmons said. “From what I observed of you, you were a good worker. A good worker indeed. So, 'tis a river man you want to be, eh? Well, I can't blame you. 'Tis quite a thing, being in command of this much power.”

“Yes, sir,” Art said.

“If you've a mind to, I'll take you on as an apprentice. A smart boy like you could be a riverboat pilot in no time.”

“I appreciate the offer, Captain,” Art said. “But if it's all the same, I'd rather work in the engine room.”

“Here, now,” Timmons said with a scowl on his face. “The engine room, is it? You'd rather break your back and cover your face with soot than be captain of the boat? What kind of ambition is that?”

“Perhaps the lad is looking to learn the business from the bottom up, Cap'n,” Dewey suggested, with a glance that told Art to go along with him. “Sure'n there's nothin' wrong with knowing the boat from stem to stern.”

Captain Timmon's scowl changed to a smile. “Aye, a good point, Mr. Dewey. A good point indeed. Very well, lad, if it's a fireman's job you seek, 'tis a fireman's job you'll have. Report aboard first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you,” Art said.

* * *

Art stood on the boardwalk in front of the Blue Star, recalling the last time he had been here. That was nearly three years ago. He smiled. What a babe in the woods he had been then.

Hitching up his trousers, he went inside. It hadn't changed. It was still well appointed with finished furniture and gilt-edged mirrors, but somehow, it didn't make quite as big an impression on him now as it had before.

“Come in, mister, come in,” the man behind the bar called. “Pick yourself out a seat. Just come in on the Delta
Maid
, did you?”

“No, sir, but I'll be leaving on the
Delta Maid
,” Art said. “How have things been with you, Mr. Bellefontaine?”

Bellefontaine looked surprised at being addressed by name. “Have we ever met, boy?”

“Yes, sir, we have. But I'm a bit older and a mite taller now than I was then. I was in here sometime back with Major . . .” The rank came automatically and he stopped in mid-sentence, then corrected himself. “With Mr. Harding. Pete Harding.”

“Glory be, yes, I do remember you, boy. Just a minute. Lily!” he shouted. “Lily, get down here.”

A woman appeared on the upstairs landing. She walked up to the railing and leaned over to look down. “What is it?” she asked.

“Look who has showed up,” Bellefontaine said.

Lily looked at Art, but it was obvious she didn't recognize him.

“Who is it?”

“You remember the boy who come in here with Harding that time? The boy that disappeared?”

Lily smiled broadly. “Oh, Lord, honey, was that you?” she asked, coming quickly down the stairs.

“Yes, ma'am, I reckon it was,” Art replied.

Lily opened her arms wide, then pulled him to her. He could feel the softness of her full breasts under her embrace.

“Well, for crying out loud,” she said. “Sit you down and tell me all about yourself. What happened to you that night? And where have you been since then. Lord, honey, you are growing into a handsome man, did you know that?”

Art blushed, and Lily laughed. “Now, ain't that cute. You're still innocent enough to blush. Damn if I'm not about half inclined to take that innocence away from you.”

Art cleared his throat nervously, and Lily laughed again.

“Don't worry about it, honey. I don't do it for free, no matter how handsome the fella is. And 1 figure that, at this point in your life, you got better things to do. Now tell me about Pete. Where is that scoundrel, and when is he going to come see me again?”

The smile left Art's face. “I'm sorry to have to tell you this,” he said. “But Pete's dead.”

“Dead?” Lily gasped. Art was surprised to see her eyes fill with tears. “But when? How?”

Art told her the story of the Battle of New Orleans, playing down any role he'd had in it, telling it only from the perspective of having been an eyewitness.

Others, seeing Lily crying, came over to find out what was going on, so Art's telling was broadened to include them. He was surprised to see how many people knew and genuinely liked Pate Harding. But then, he didn't know why he should have been surprised. Harding was a very good man who had made a positive impression upon nearly everyone he'd ever met.

“Oh, uh, Mr. Bellefontaine, I owe you for a supper,” he said.

“What?”

“That night I was here, I recall ordering my supper. I don't remember anything else until I woke up in a wagon, headed north. I figure you went ahead and fixed my supper anyway, and when I didn't come back, that meant you lost it. So, by rights, I should be paying for it.”

Bellefontaine chuckled. “Truth to tell, I wound up getting paid twice for that supper,” he said. “When you didn't show up for it, someone else bought it. Then, the next day, Harding paid for it. That was when he was out looking for you.”

“Oh, honey, he turned this town upside down looking for you,” Lily said. “I never saw anyone set so much store in another so fast. He was some worried about you, I'll tell you that.”

“I wish there had been some way I could have let him know what happened to me,” Art said. He laughed. “But to this day, I don't know myself.”

“It's pretty obvious what happened to you,” Bellefontaine said. “It's happened before. Someone knocked you in the head, then took your money.”

“Yes, that's true. When I woke up in the wagon the next morning, I had a knot on my head and no money in my pocket.”

“Uh-huh,” Bellefontaine said. “And if truth be known, the fella that picked you up is more'n likely the one who hit you in the first place.”

Art thought about Younger. Until this moment he hadn't considered the fact that Younger might have been responsible. As it turned out, Younger was so evil in every other way that the possibility had never dawned on Art. Now, as he considered it, he was almost positive that Younger was to blame.

“I'll be damned,” Art said. “I do believe you are right.”

“Well, it's not good to dwell on such things,” Bellefontaine said. “Answer me this, boy. When's the last time you had a really good meal? I mean fried chicken, 'taters, beans, biscuits, maybe even a piece of pie.”

Art smiled. “It's been a long time,” he said. “It's been a really long time.”

“Well, it ain't goin't be a very long wait till you do, 'cause I aim to whip you up just such a meal.”

“I thank you, Mr. Bellefontaine, but I . . .,” Art started to tell Bellefontaine that he needed to save the money he had left in order to outfit himself for his trek west, but before he could speak, Bellefontaine interrupted him.

“I ain't goin' to be takin' no for an answer, boy,” he said. “You see, this here ain't goin' to cost you one penny. It's all on the house.”

“That's very nice of you,” Art said. “But why would you do that?”

“Well, we could say it's because you was a friend of Pete Harding. And any friend of Pete Harding is a friend of mine,” Bellefontaine said. “And that would be true. But we could also say it's because you fought down at New Orleans and I reckon that, because of what you done, this here territory is still part of America. 1 figure all you boys that fought down there is owed somethin'.”

“Thank you,” Art said.