The wagon and the team dictated how far that the group could travel in one day. They had to follow the main trails; at best no more than a rough track made by scraping out the rocks and tree stumps with ox teams. Most of the trails that they would use had to be navigable for wagons rather than a horseback. The one advantage that the squad had was that Fitz and the Captain already knew where they were going. Fitz had in mind where the first night’s bivouac would be, and it was almost dark by the time that they had reached it.
On a sharp curve of the river was a protected meadow bordered on three sides by a summer dead-fall where hundreds of trees had been blown down by a capricious wind. No one on horseback could ride through it and even on foot, it was a tangled mess to navigate. Most men wouldn’t try it, the odds of breaking a leg were high, and it would be near impossible to climb through the blow-down without being heard. Water closed off the last side and any attempt to cross had to be right in full view of the camp.
Lacey helped Fitzsimmons unhitch and feed the team while the four Army took care of their own mounts, set up tents and started a small cooking fire. None of them commented on the Captain’s willingness to help or that he did not order them to see to his comfort.
The corporal went to work on coffee, the scent of it wafting through the trees and bringing sniffs of appreciation from the men. He fried bacon and biscuits as one of the sergeants promised to bring back a half dozen fish before the coffee was finished. He did not disappoint, he returned with six large cutthroat trout, speckled beauties that they enjoyed in silence.
In a comfortable circle, they ate in shifts with two men always on guard walking the perimeter. The others talked about Army posts each had been in and which postings had the worst officers. Each man was careful not to name them or to complain too loudly as Lacey was one, but he told them that he was as good a civilian as Fitzsimmons.
“Why are you resigning your commission, sir?” LeFevre asked.
“Family troubles. I lost my wife to hostiles and I wanted a change in scenery,” Lacey admitted. “Now, my boy is missing. Taken by Johannsen. He’s heading to St. Louie.”
“Johannsen,” LeFevre spat. “That’s a lying cheating son of a bitch. Why, he’s been accused of sodomy –” LeFevre's eyes widened in horror. “Cap’n, if you need any help finding your son, I’m willing to help.”
The others agreed, Johannsen was infamous up and down the East Coast and along the trail.
“He thinks he can trade my son for the wagon’s cargo,” Lacey added. “He either doesn’t know or care that it isn’t mine to give.”
“Army payroll? In gold and not scrip?” the Sergeant asked. Lacey nodded.
“We cached it back on the trail. Once we find it, we’ll dig it up and return to the Fort. Once that’s done, so am I. I’ll head out to St. Louis on Johannsen’s trail.”
All of them heard the team nicker and they turned as two braves walked into camp right under the noses of the armed guards. The Sergeant took his hand off his pistol and grunted in annoyance.
“Damn you, Tall Man. I told you to sing out before you sneak into a man’s camp. You’re lucky we didn’t shoot your red ass.”
The Indian grinned, his teeth white and even in his wide mouth. “I did, Big Rump. Did you not hear the night hawk sing, LeFevre?”
He bent at the knees toward the fire, keeping his eyes away from the flames to save his night vision. “Captain,” he greeted. “I picked up sign of the man you seek. He and his party are heading for the Big Water. West toward St. Louis.”
“Did you see my son?”
Tall Man hesitated. “There was a small person tied on a horse, but I could not see who or what it was. They guarded this person and did not let them go free when they stopped to eat or make water. Johannsen kept the reins of the horse and ponied this person. I could not see their face, they were wrapped in buffalo robes.”
“Riding on a saddle?” Lacey questioned. Tall Man nodded. “How far did their legs come down on the fenders? To the irons?”
“In the stirrups,” Tall Man said slowly.
Lacey said, “Crispin’s legs are too short yet to reach the irons. He lets them dangle.”
“Then, it is not your son.”
“No.”
“We will find him, Captain. This I swear.”
Lacey nodded and turned away, taking the next watch with Fitzsimmons. When their two-hour shift was over, both men slipped into their blankets underneath the wagon. Both kept their weapons close to hand. The sound of soft snores broke the quiet of the night along with the murmurs of those quietly watching for trouble.
They hadn’t expected any trouble – they knew that Johannsen was almost to St. Louis. He knew that Lacey would come to get his son rather than trying to attack the group protecting the gold. What Lacey did not know was that Crispin wasn’t with Johannsen anymore or that the thief was also looking for the boy. Chasing rumors centered around the Indian squaw that they had stolen off two French fur trappers. Both men were dead; but not before they had told a tale of an Indian boy with blue eyes in the company of two brothers. French fur traders. Supposedly heading for Chase’s Corners, a small outpost on the Chase River.
All the Army men were awake and up before dawn. One set to stirring the fire’s coals to burning and making fresh coffee. Tall Man contributed to their breakfast with strips of dried meat he called jerky. They ate bacon and hardtack along with biscuits and leftover fish. Fitzsimmons fed the team and took them to water. He watched fat trout skitter around the work horses’ legs and marveled at how easy it would be to hook one.
He harnessed the team with the Captain’s help as the Army men looked to their own mounts. Fifteen minutes later, they were back on the trail and heading out.
The sky was beautiful as the sun rose, painting it in colors that words could not describe even though many had tried. They merely enjoyed it as they rode through forests that had barely yielded to man. Thick stands of hardwoods, chestnut trees, elms and pines that in the future would no longer be the same forests as they were in the early part of the country’s beginnings. Some of the pines were so thick around that cutting one down could provide enough lumber to build an entire house. Deer were so plentiful that they spooked herds of over a hundred head at a time along with coveys of pheasant and partridge. A man would have to be a helpless idiot to starve with such bounty around him. Yet, there were dangers and predators, too. Wolves roamed the forest along with mountain lion, black and brown bear. Unfriendly Indians who would part your hair with an ax. Highwaymen and road agents who’d rob you for a pocket watch. So, it behooved you to ride warily, trusting only your rifle and handgun. At least, as long as you kept your powder dry.
The team, both large and well-built geldings, pulled evenly, their big hooves stirring up clouds of dust on the makeshift roads. They covered about six miles an hour at a walk, twelve if they trotted but there were few places smooth enough for that. Most of the trail had potholes and ruts large enough to sink a boat, boulders that iron wheels clattered over and made the cart lurch from side-to-side. The average speed worked out to little more than three miles an hour. Twenty to twenty-five a day was a good haul.
They didn’t stop for lunch but ate on the run, drinking out of canteens. Even after pushing through noon and past dark, it took two days to reach the area where Fitz and Lacey had cached the gold. No one had disturbed it much to Lacey’s relief. The Indians who had found it had not dug it up or left it exposed to others coming down the same way. There was sign of a big lion that had prowled around the site but hadn’t gone into the caves where they had buried the gold.
The remains of the burned wagon pointed them in the right direction. Of the mules remains, there was nothing left, not even the heavy bones of skull or thigh. Predators had cleaned up everything.
Lacey did not want to camp at the cache site, nor load that night. He decided to wait until morning before trying to carry heavy bags of gold coins in the dark. They set up a dry camp near the caves but far enough away that they would not lead anyone to it.
Tall Man remained awake through the night keeping watch for anything or anyone that might be after the horses, or what they assumed was a wagon full of goods.
In the morning after a meager breakfast, they dug up the canvas bags and loaded them into the wagon, covering them with canvas tarps. Atop that, they placed all the iron that remained from the burned wagon, disguising the real cargo.
The draft horses pulled much harder, leaning into their collars with the weight of the gold. Anyone watching them strain so hard would wonder why such a slight load as the iron pieces would make the team strain. Luckily, there wouldn’t be anyone around to see them until they reached the outskirts of town.
W
hen night fell in the old building, I was hidden in the library, in the back stacks where no one seemed to go. The last book checked out from the dozen or so that I had pulled from the stacks had been from twenty years earlier. I found a pile of blankets stored in a coat closet along with coats that had been there almost as long. Maybe longer. They were made of real fur – raccoon and Persian Lamb. I grabbed the lamb one, it was big enough to cover me from head to toe and would be warm no matter how chilly the brick building would drop in temperature.
As for light, the switches I found didn’t turn any on and I found a flashlight with old batteries and a brace of candles with matches in the big old library desk near the front doors. I brought all the stuff to the back stacks and in a corner between shelving units, I found an overlooked space on the last shelf. But I was afraid that I’d be found if they searched the room for me. I looked up. Twelve feet over my head, the heavy mahogany shelves went from floor-to-ceiling with nothing on the top shelf.
It was an easy climb, the room had those sliding ladders and even though it didn’t go as far as my corner, I could use it to reach the top shelf and crab-walk over to the corner. It took a couple of trips up and down before I had everything that I needed for my bed to sleep in comfort. A pile of blankets made a soft mattress and the lamb’s wool coat was better than a down comforter. The only problem I could see was if I had to go pee. Where to go was the main concern. I didn’t feel right about peeing anywhere in the library, mom had taught me to respect the world of books almost more than anything else in my life. I stifled a sob as I thought that I would never go to the library with mom again.
I flicked the flashlight on; it had just enough juice left to show me the ceiling but lost its illumination as I held it toward the floor. I shut it off, reserving the little bit of battery left for emergencies. I knew better than to hit it, that didn’t make the batteries last any longer no matter how hard you hit it or how many times. Just like hitting the TV didn’t make the picture come in any clearer.
With the musty coat tucked up under my chin, I was deliciously warm and drifted off to sleep reminding my subconscious not to roll over.
It didn’t seem as if I had been asleep all that long when I heard voices. Adult voices. I sat up quietly and listened as the voices came closer, a powerful flashlight preceding the group. The Head Master, Mr. Hooper and five other people shined their flashes down the book stacks and shelf rows but not beyond eye level.
I knew Hooper and Adam but the others I hadn’t seen before. One of the three was dressed in dark blue, a uniform – the school security guard. It said so on his sleeve. The other two could be teachers or older students. The sight of the pair made my stomach flutter. They looked mean and oozed menace.
“I doubt we’d find him hiding in the library,” Mr. Hooper said. “I did not find in my assessment of the child a burning desire to become literate. I suspect he might be afraid of the dark, as well. Still, we must check everywhere. If we can’t find him before morning, we’ll have to notify the police and I really don’t want to bring them out here.” He raised his voice. “Chris Lacey. Christopher. Are you in here?”
He hadn’t even taken the time to learn my name. It wasn’t Chris with a ‘Ch’ nor was Cris short for Christopher. Or Christian. My birth name was Cris because Mom liked the short sound of it, she had almost named me Crispin, but I wasn’t Irish. Nor did either side of our family tree have any Irish in it.
“Mr. Childs, did you say anything to the boy that might have caused him to bolt?” Hooper turned to one of the adults. I had thought he was a teacher, not my new roommate. He had dark hair, deep black eyes, a chiseled chin with 5 o’clock shadow. A look in his eyes that I’d seen before, just like the one in Mr. Calibrisi’s.
“I never saw him,” Childs said. I nearly laughed. His voice was high and squeaky. “His stuff was on the spare bed but no kid.”
The other man with him bore a striking resemblance to Childs. Same hair, same dark eyes that sucked you in. They had the same broad shape, like trolls in the old Grimm’s Faerie tales. Brothers or cousins, maybe yet when he spoke, his voice was deep and growly.
“I heard he was hanging out with the Sandford brat,” Childs lookalike said.
“Sandford. Perhaps we ought to wake young Fitz up and ask him some pointed questions. Adam, have you checked in the cloak room?” Hooper asked as he shined the light away from my hiding place. I reflected on my actions, whether I had left anything out that shouldn’t be there.
“Nothing’s missing, or disturbed, Mr. Hooper,” Adam’s thin voice called from farther away. “No lights on and no footprints in the dust.”
“Yes, it’s a shame the boys don’t need to use the library anymore, now that they have Google and Wikipedia,” Hooper said tartly. “Lock the door behind you, Adam. We’ll go visit Mr. Sandford. See how he misses your brotherly attention. I’m sure Mr. Lacey will turn up when he gets hungry enough. Or frightened.”
Their footsteps echoed on the polished wood floor. The next thing I heard was the heavy clunk as the doors closed and were locked. I didn’t climb down to check, nor did I think about warning Fitz that they were coming. I didn’t know where he slept or how to get to him, all I could do was hope he had enough wits to hide himself when he heard I was missing. I went back to sleep. A troubled sleep where I woke with every strange noise I couldn’t name.
In the morning, I slid down from my perch using the shelves as my ladder before I waited in the corner to check out the inside of the room. No one was there but me and when I went to the main doors, I found them locked. From the outside. I couldn’t get out.
There weren’t any windows in the library but there were more doors. Most opened into closets or storage rooms. Some were locked, and I couldn’t find any keys that worked. One door opened, and it didn’t go to a closet or a room. It led to a staircase going up. No lights and no light switch at the bottom of the stairs. I’d tried all the doors again, even pounded on the main doors to the library. Pounded with my feet. No one heard me, not my determined shouting or my feet thudding hard enough to shake the door. So, that led me back to the one door that I could open and looked like it would take me out of the locked library.
I went back for the flashlight, candles and matches. Standing at the bottom of that dark, scary stairwell, I talked to booster my courage.
“Mom, if you can hear me, be by my side. Forever and always. I know I can do this because you told me that I can do anything if I just try and believe.”
I flicked the light and the feeble beam showed me stair treads that went way up into the darkness, far beyond the light’s ability to show me. There was a handrail and part of the way up, I saw one of those pull string lights. Wasn’t sure if it would work if I had the courage to get that far. There was an inch of dust on the steps and more drifting lazily in the beam of light. Nothing had climbed that staircase in a long time.
I was only ten-years-old, no eleven now but I knew most stairs had treads of twelve or less. Usually no more than that and then turned on a landing before going up higher. These steps didn’t look like that; they disappeared from my view in the darkness after I had counted fourteen.
I put my foot on the first step. Expecting it to creak but it was rock solid. So were the rest up to where I could reach the string and pull. I tucked the flashlight into my shirt pocket and gave the string a tentative pull. Far above me a light flickered on and the door below me slammed shut. I shrieked in fear. Raced back down and tried to open it. There was no handle, no seam where door met the sill or jamb. When I kicked it, the only thing that happened was I nearly broke my foot. I banged and shouted. No one came. No one heard me.
My footprints were the only ones in the dust, no one else had climbed those stairs in…decades.
I was scared. Thirsty. Hungry. I had to pee and was afraid I’d wet my pants. I couldn’t stay there. So reluctantly, I climbed back to where I had been and slowly made my way up the silent staircase.
There were no doors off it, no windows and no landings. I couldn’t imagine why this staircase was hidden off the library or where it might lead me.
I counted as I climbed. Didn’t stop counting until I reached the 49th step and the end of the stairway. I stood just below a landing that opened onto a narrow hallway and stood there, the flashlight long sputtered out. The candles shook because I was so scared.
The floor was bare wood, no nicely finished planks; these had large cracks between them, knotholes and rough surfaces. I could see the sub-flooring beneath and there was no sign of any insulation. I could feel the cold even through my boots.
The hallway was long and part of it sloped as if it was under the eaves of the roof. As I passed what was the halfway point, I saw feeble light break through the gloom. A window, so caked with dirt and grease that I could barely clean off a spot to see out. When I had cleared one, I saw the back part of the school – a broad expanse of lawn sloping down to the woods. I saw tennis courts, baseball diamonds and an Olympic track. I saw a bevy of policemen wandering across the grass and swallowed. Mr. Hooper was going to be so pissed at me.
I thought about banging on the window, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be found or if they could hear me. I watched until they were out of sight before I left the window and continued walking.
The candle’s light went no farther than ten feet at a time, so I was almost on the door before I saw it. A big door. Heavy, made of rough planks held together with iron bands. An old-fashioned lock with a big skeleton key stuck in it.
It turned easily enough with one hand and slowly, I pushed the heavy door in. My light fell on a long, low room, an attic, filled with trunks, suitcases and wardrobes. Hundreds of them. In one corner, I saw old-fashioned school desks – the kind with the flip tops. The chairs were piled next to them in a kind of narrow walk-through. Some of the desk tops had names and dates carved into them.
Martin Kelly. 1926. Peter Strong. 1836. Elizabeth Reed. 1912. Micah Reed. 1900. All the way from 1830 and up to 1957. Curses, too and the obligatory ‘Johnny loves Sarah forever’.
I set the candle down on one of the desks and made sure that the melting wax stuck the bottom to the table top, so it wouldn’t fall over and set the place on fire while I was stuck up there. I picked a trunk that interested me, covered in leather and bound with thin strips of metal. When it opened, a thick cloud of dust puffed in my face. I coughed and fanned it away, watching as the motes drifted in the candle’s light.
Atop old clothes made brittle by time and wear sat a leather-bound journal. It was heavy and when I opened the cover, I saw that the pages were made of expensive vellum. On the face page in faded ink were the words ‘My Journal’. Below that, in beautiful penmanship was the name ‘Crispin Lacey’. I turned the page and started reading.