I spent too much of my time going from the windows to the door, looking for the man that I was afraid of. The room we had been given in the hotel had four large windows that looked out on the street and opened onto a balcony. I was too scared to open them and go outside, I stayed hidden near the door, so I could run through if I thought he was coming for me.
When the door swung open without warning, I shrieked and nearly fell over in fright. Mr. Harris bolted into the room, grabbing at me. I fought him with fists and teeth until I realized who he was.
“Mike! Are you all right? What’s the matter?”
I heaved for breath, so scared that I had forgotten to breathe and because I’d not taken a breath, I couldn’t speak. In between gasps, I stammered out a story I thought might explain my reactions, but I could see that he did not believe me. He did the one thing that I had never expected of him. Kneeling at my side, he extended his arms and wrapped them around me in a bear hug. At first, I resisted, remaining stiff but the warmth of his body and the comfort he offered me broke down my resistance. I bawled in his arms, blubbering out what I had remembered, my fears and worries over what I could not control.
“Your name is Crispin? That should help with the notices I put in the Dispatch. It’s not a common name and Irish. That goes along with your knowledge of Gaelic. Cris, you know I won’t let anything happen to you? And I know my way around bad men. I am a Sheriff. It’s not the first time I’ve encountered outlaws. Do you remember his name? What he looks like? The color of his horse?”
I shook my head and rubbed my swollen eyes. Yawned as the emotional turmoil from my outburst took me into exhaustion. All at once, I could barely keep my eyes open.
“I was going to take you out to Ruth’s Steak House,” he said. “But I think eating in the hotel would be better. They have this thing called room service. Food and drinks are brought right to our room. Sound good?”
I nodded and mumbled something as I tucked my arm around his neck, laying my head on his chest. I could feel the reassuring thump of his heart as he stood up, carrying me with him.
Carefully he walked over to the bed and placed me on the coverlet. I yawned again, my entire body limp. I made quiet grumbles as I burrowed and got comfortable, nonsense words as I fought sleep. It was no use, my eyes closed, and I didn’t hear him leave the room or come back.
Nightmares woke me. I had dreams of that man attacking me while I was peeing. I could almost see the faces of my father and his friend. When they turned to face me, all I saw were skulls with no hair. They had been scalped and their faces removed.
Mr. Harris shook me awake and told me that I was having a bad dream. He poured me a glass of water with a sip of whiskey in it, saying that it would help me sleep. It tasted awful, burned my throat and nose as it went down. After I swallowed most of the mug, I began to feel warm and floaty.
Wrapped in the bed quilt, he tucked me next to his body on his bed and I slept without nightmares. Or I didn’t remember any.
*****
Lacey and Fitzsimmons had loaded their horses onto the barge heading upstream rather than riding any further up along the banks of the big river. Late that afternoon, Fort Merrick came into view, a wooden palisade of rough legs protecting a scant few log buildings. The entire encampment housed no more than twenty soldiers and was a strange place to drop off the amount of gold that they were carrying. Poorly manned and severely unprotected, it was a rude and unimpressive outpost.
The gates to the Fort were closed and only when Lacey dismounted and shoved his orders through the gap did the soldier on guard unbar the gate and allow them entry. The parade grounds were bare, scraped dirt. An Officer’s barracks and enlisted shared the same row as the mess hall, stables and outhouses. There was no sign of a powder house, Lacey wondered where it was located. And hoped that they had one. They followed the private to the barracks, dismounted and tied the horses up. Fitz stayed with the mule.
“Your commanding Officer, Private?” Lacey asked, stepping onto the warped boards of the porch.
“Captain Marcus Rennady, sir.”
Lacey nodded and knocked sharply. The door flew open to reveal a man in his twenties, blonde haired with blue eyes that were red-rimmed and intoxicated. He wore a sullen expression, his breath reeked of sour mash and he held onto the jamb for balance.
“Who the hell are you?” he slurred.
“Captain Faille Lacey, sir. My orders.” Lacey saluted crisply and handed over the packet with his orders and the dispatches. Rennady fumbled with awkward fingers, nearly dropping the leather case.
“What’s it say?” He waved the papers under Lacey’s nose. Behind him, he heard a cough announcing the arrival of another. Lacey turned his back on the drunk Officer and saw a Sergeant who was the exact opposite of the Captain, yet the two were clearly related.
“Sir?” the Sergeant asked.
“Captain Lacey. From the Capital with a shipment for Fort Merrick in Springfield.” He plucked the orders from the drunk and handed them to the enlisted man.
“I’m Sergeant Rennady,” he said and read the dispatches. His eyes widened, and he stared at the mule. “Best bring the horses to the stables, Captain Lacey. Captain Rennady is…indisposed. Private.” He locked eyes with the younger man who gently pushed the Captain back into the barracks.
“Sir,” the Private saluted and closed the door.
“Brother?” Lacey asked.
“First cousins. He went to West Point, can’t handle the frontier. You brought the…cargo from D.C.?”
“Was supposed to drop it off at Laramie City but the Officer there told me to continue on to St. Louis. They sent us here. Sort of a small outpost for this much payroll,” Lacey said offhandedly.
“We haven’t been paid in ten months,” Rennady said. “Last two shipments were hijacked by outlaws.”
“You know which band did it?” Lacey asked.
“No and we haven’t recovered any of the stolen monies. Captain wanted some of it to purchase those new repeating rifles. Ten thousand dollars would get us a nice start on rebuilding our firearms. Enough to outfit twenty-five soldiers.”
They arrived at the stables, the largest building inside the Fort. Someone had the bright idea to dig into the soil so that most of the stalls were below ground, hay stored overhead. This made the stables the most protected place inside the Fort.
The Sergeant led them to the back wall where there were three empty tie stalls. Fitz tied up his gelding first and then went to work unhitching the mule. He dropped the heavy bag on the ground while Lacey unsaddled his horse. He picked up the bag and handed it over to the Sergeant who packed it into a buried safe near the feed room.
“You have a powder house?” Lacey questioned. “I didn’t see one.”
“Blew up two weeks ago,” the non-com said and shrugged. “New recruit. Struck a cigarillo while on duty. Killed himself, three other men, all seasoned soldiers. Left us with all the green recruits and no powder house. We saved some of the weapons and shells. That’s stored near the latrines. Come on, I’ll show you where you can eat and sleep. You staying on for a few days or posting elsewhere? We can use an Officer of your experience.”
Lacey shook his head. “My commission ended the minute I gave you the bag. My son had been taken by outlaws for ransom. I’m headed back to find him.”
“That’s tough. You know who?”
“Jimmy Johannsen. He’s after the gold. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t the one responsible for hitting your other shipments.”
Rennady whistled. “He’s a cold-blooded bastard. Wanted for armed robbery, rape and murder. Deserter, too. They say he’s good with a gun.”
Lacey gave him a cold grin. “So am I.”
“When are you leaving?”
“In the morning,” Lacey said. “Johannsen told us he’d be waiting for us in St. Louis.”
The Sergeant nodded. The men went in to eat and after gallons of strong coffee, they went to the barracks and slept.
The men stationed at Fort Merrick were all drunk, celebrating their recent payday. After ten months with no spending money and no time off, they had finally been paid. The first thing all of them did was head for the city of St. Louis ready to blow it on liquor, women and gambling. Those left behind were a skeleton crew of only four men.
One of those watching the flow of ready gold coins in the Top Hat Saloon was one of Johannsen’s men. He ran back and informed the outlaw that the Fort was a plum ready to be plucked as they had been paid and most of the enlisted men were in town. Without waiting another day, Johannsen gathered his crew and rode for Fort Merrick knowing that it was guarded by only a few men.
Once they arrived, Johannsen tortured the Captain until he gave up the location of the buried gold and then he killed the Officer with an ax through the man’s forehead. They had already killed the Sergeant, the only soldier that had managed to fire back, killing four of Johannsen’s men before he was in turn, shot and mutilated.
They burned the Fort to the ground after taking anything of value that they might pawn or sell. Rifles, ammunition, horses, mules, wagons and liquor. They rode off, the building burning behind them, a brighter glow on the horizon than the lights of St. Louis. They returned to the city where they would sell their stolen goods.
Lacey and Fitzsimmons waited at their hotel, after searching the city for Johannsen or his crew. They frequented the saloons and dives knowing that those were the places where Johannsen would gravitate. Doing so blatant a search brought them to the attention of hangers-on of the thief so when the head of the gang returned after the raid on the Fort, he was informed that two men were asking about him. He was given a description of both men and knew who they were.
He had his second-in-command, a half-breed named Flat Iron, find out where the two men were staying. It only took a few hours to locate Lacey and the manservant’s whereabouts.
He sent another of his crew to tell Lacey where to meet him and discuss the ransom of the boy. It was a countdown to the intersection of three major players, Lacey, Johannsen and Sheriff Harris.
*****
Mr. Harris finally convinced me to leave the room and brought me to the St. Louis police station. It was a large building built of Missouri limestone with a brick jail behind it and the Courthouse next door on the square. I stared in awe at the imposing white shiny dome, tall columns and fifty-two steps up to the rotunda. It was the tallest building I had ever seen.
“You’re in the safest place in the city, Crispin,” he told me. He was dressed in one of his new suits, broadcloth with a starched shirt and pointed collar. On his head, he wore a fancy bowler and he smelled of rum and bayberry. He was freshly shaved, and his hair gleamed in the sun.
We walked down the street, my hand in his as we headed for the small restaurant on the corner. The street was alive with noise and action. Horses and carriages went rolling by, smart Clydesdales pulling enormous wagons loaded with oak barrels of beer. Smart hackneys pulling ladies carts and boys running pell-mell through the streets being yelled at by worried mothers. There were businesses everywhere and more going up around us. The smell of fresh lumber, the sound of hammers and saw competed with the odor of the river, horse manure and burning coal. I heard the whistle of a train and saw the smoke from its stack down the street from us.
We stepped off into the street, the sidewalks in most places were nothing more than rough sawn planks laid in the mud. There was mud everywhere, a clay that stuck to the bottoms of your shoes, accumulated, and made walking precarious. Like high heels.
Mr. Harris turned at the corner and we entered a small eatery where black men in white coats served the diners. Mr. Harris picked a table in the back where he sat so that he could watch the doors. He never sat with his back exposed and I did not have to ask why. I knew why. He had his gun tucked into his waistband as if he didn’t trust his surroundings.
He ordered steak and eggs for both of us and coffee. It came quickly, and he ate leisurely, but I wolfed mine down because I wanted to be back in the room or riding back to the ferry, so I could go home. To safety. I had no real home and safety was an illusion that I desperately wanted to believe in.
Once he finished, Mr. Harris paid for our meal and we left the dining place to walk down the street and along the riverfront. The builders had cleared everything for miles leaving a wet muddy bank with treacherous footing. If you fell in, the current took you swiftly down river before anyone could save you. The riverboat Captain had told me that the river flowed at over six miles an hour, an incredible speed for the Big Muddy. Most people drowned because many didn’t know how to swim.
“Where are we going, Sheriff?” I asked, and he told me to call him Mr. Harris. He didn’t want anyone to know that he was a lawman. I held onto his hand tightly as rough looking men shouldered past us. They smelled awful, were hairy and dirty with most carrying either cudgels or guns. Mr. Harris opened his coat so that the butt of his was showing.
“The offices of the Dispatch. I want to see if anyone has come in to ask about the ad.”
“Oh. But it’s only been a few days since you told them.”
“Yes, but people come from all over the east to St. Louis and word of mouth is stronger than the written word. The first thing people do when they arrive is learn the latest news and gossip. They buy a paper to learn what is going on, they’re desperate for news. Hundreds have probably read about you already, Cris.”
That made me more afraid, but I kept it to myself, so he wouldn’t think I was a fraidy cat.
It was a goodly walk to the brick building in the middle of downtown where the newspaper offices were located. Six stories high and loaded with windows, it was the tallest building I'd ever seen.
Mr. Harris walked inside and went down a long hallway; the noise was terrific. So loud that I could barely hear myself talk. He said it was the presses making the paper that made such a racket. We passed a lot of small offices where men were typing on clattering machines. Every so often they dinged, and they hit the top as the slide thing went back and forth. I was fascinated and stood there as some of them looked up. He called me, and I went by, but the men never stopped their flashing fingers.
At the end of the hall was another office, this one much larger. The door was closed, and a man’s name was painted on it in bold black letters. Under the ‘Jonas Baker’ was ‘Editor’.
Mr. Harris knocked, and I heard someone shout to come in. So, we did. There was a short, heavily muscled man standing at a huge wooden desk reading a set of printed sheets. He had dark hair shot with silver, a heavy mustachios and sideburns that reached his collar. His sleeves were rolled up and his fingers were stained black. His eyes were a sharp, penetrating brown. He looked at the Sheriff but raked me with that intent, deliberate gaze.
“Sheriff. The sketch looks just like him. We’ve had several men and a few…women come in already to ask about the reward. None have given sufficient proof that they know of or have seen him. None had the correct name or age. Money grabbers, most likely. Scam and con-men. Did have one shady yahoo come in and ask if it was about a half-breed kid and if we knew where he was. Said his pa was looking for him.”
I squeezed the Sheriff’s hand. He asked, “do you have a description of this fellow?”
“About thirty. Blonde with watery blue eyes. Scar across his chin. Missing an earlobe. Wearing dungarees, vest, tweed shirt and a cap. He was dirty, more than trail dirt and didn’t look too flush. Wore twin guns on his hip. Big mustachios but no sideburns. Didn’t give me a name. I asked around but none of my snitches knew him.”
The Sheriff looked at me. The man didn’t sound like anyone that I’d seen before and nothing like the big man who’d taken me in the woods. I’d seen a lot of dirty, rough men, especially on the riverboat.
“He didn’t leave a name?”
“No. He said if we had any information, he’d be waiting at St. Charles landing if anyone knew anything.”
“Cris?”
“I told the bad man I was a half-breed. The French brothers called me that, too. But the bad man knew my Da and I were Irish. I don’t think he could be one of them. He might be one of the fur traders trying to track me down, slaves are worth a lot of money. The LaSalle’s would try to get me back, especially if I was here and on my own. But I don’t think either of them could read.”
“I put the fear of God into them, Crispin. Besides, they were headed back North to Quebec for the fur season. Alright, Mr. Baker. We’ll be at the Driscoll if you get any legitimate leads. Ready, Cris?”
I nodded. We left the office and walked back through the printing press room, so I could watch the men working the presses. Past the reporters at their desks and back out onto the muddy street.
It was getting dark and there were few lights other than those carried by people. Lanterns which lit no more than a few feet around the carrier. Mr. Harris hesitated, unsure of our route back or how to reach our hotel. We had wandered away from the river and were in a maze of dark streets and out-of-the-way alleys. I thought we were lost but was afraid to say so to the Sheriff.
Finally, he stopped in an alley between two brick buildings and listened. In the distance, I heard a tinny piano playing and voices singing, arguing and yelling. We headed toward it and found a saloon. It was lit up and drunk men staggered into and out of the half doors. Inside, women in scant clothing sang, danced, served beer and sat on mens laps. There was a lot of squealing and not just by the ladies. The smell of beer and whiskey almost drowned out the sour smell of sweaty bodies and lack of hygiene. There was a pungent smell of bayberry and perfume. My eyes watered even from the doorway. Mr. Harris told me to step back and when I did, I saw a pile of oak barrels stacked at the rear of the building. Whiskey and beer casks that I had seen earlier that morning on a wagon coming from the Busch Brewery.
“I think we should go that way, Mr. Harris,” I whispered and pointed to the casks. He hesitated and then followed me through the silent back streets until we came to the rear of the hotel. When he asked me how I had managed to find our way back, I shrugged and said I had just followed the heavy tracks made by the wagon.
“How did you know you had the right wagon?”
“The lead horse’s shoe on the right hind was split.” He stared at me and scooped me up in his arms, carrying me inside and up to our room. I think I fell asleep before he laid me down on the covers.