Текст книги "The Black Jacks"

Автор книги: Jason Manning

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His tone of voice gave Leah pause. She knew the signs. Her husband's hold on his temper was slipping, and his temper, when unleashed, was a terrible thing to behold. Mortal dread chilled her to the bone. John Henry was acting even colder than usual. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Her conscience tormented her. Perhaps he had heard about. . .

Sudden, irrational anger seized her, and she threw caution—what little she possessed—to the wind. "Perhaps there isn't anything that can be done about Roman," she conceded. "But you can get rid of Jeb, and I insist that you do so."

McAllen's eyes narrowed. Jeb was Grand Cane's overseer. He was also a slave. Black overseers were rare but not unheard of, and McAllen trusted Jeb implicitly.

"And why do you insist?" he asked.

"Because he is insolent," she snapped back.

"You mean because he doesn't like you."

"Whether a nigger likes me or not is of no concern to me! But I do expect him to show me the respect which is my due."

McAllen drew a long breath, trying to calm himself. "First it was Joshua. Now Roman and Jeb. I would not send Joshua away, and I will not get rid of the others, either. Jeb is honest and hardworking. The other hands trust and respect him. Besides, I cannot afford to pay a white man to be overseer here. I do not have a thousand dollars a year to spare."

"I think George Taylor would come back for less than a thousand."

"Taylor?" McAllen's laugh had a harsh ring, and Leah didn't like the sound of it at all. "Yes, you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Why, John Henry, what do you mean?"

"You know very well what I mean. Don't make me say it."

Leah's cheeks lost their color. "No. Don't say it."

"George Taylor will never again be employed at Grand Cane, I can assure you. He was too distracted to do his job properly. If you see him again—and I am fairly certain that you will—you may tell him that if he is entertaining any hopes of returning, he should give them up. In fact, he would do well to make sure his shadow does not fall upon my property."

Leah stormed past him and reached the door just as Roman emerged from the house with a glass of Old Nash in hand. In a fit of spite, Leah struck the glass from the old man's grasp. Then she fled into the house. Roman stooped to retrieve the glass, but McAllen beat him to it.

"I's sorry, Marse John. I done spilt your drink."

McAllen shook his head. He knew it wasn't the spilled whiskey that old Roman was really sorry about. No, Roman felt sorry for him because he was married to a spiteful, deceitful vixen.

"Well," said McAllen, with a rueful smile. "Home sweet home."

"Yes, suh. I'll get you another drink."

"Don't bother. I need to go talk to Jeb."

It was well after dark before he returned to the main house, having spent more than an hour with the Grand Cane overseer discussing what needed to be done on the plantation in the next few weeks. He went to his study and had a couple of stiff drinks and sat brooding by the fire that crackled in the blackened hearth. When the grandfather clock in the downstairs hall struck midnight, Roman slipped in to find him asleep in the chair. The old man removed McAllen's boots, and McAllen stirred but did not awaken—the long journey and the Kentucky bourbon prevailed. Stirring up the fire, Roman covered McAllen with a quilt he had thought to bring with him. Then he stood there for a moment, gazing with rheumy eyes at the man he loved as he would his own son.

"You be fine, Marse John," he whispered. "Yes, you be fine. De one de Lord made jis for you, she be right nearby. Only you'll walk a mighty long road 'fore you find her. Yes, suh, a mighty long road. But you'll find her, God willin'. Den ever'thing be fine. Jis fine."

With a mournful shake of his head, Roman silently left the study.

Chapter Four

The next morning, at the crack of dawn, and before Leah had risen, John Henry McAllen rode the gray hunter, Escatawpa, down the river road to the town of Grand Cane. As usual, the Seminole, Joshua, was his silent shadow. McAllen had grown accustomed to finding Joshua there every time he turned around and, on more than one occasion, while in pursuit of Comanche raiders, he'd been glad to have the Seminole youth along. Joshua's entire existence revolved around one thing: keeping McAllen out of harm's way. It was a case of quid pro quo—McAllen had saved Joshua's life, and now Joshua was committed to repaying the favor ten times over. McAllen had not proposed such an obligation, and he could not release the Seminole from it, either. He had no way of knowing whether Joshua would ever consider the debt paid in full.

The blue norther had blown through, and the day was sunny and pleasant. The ride was an enjoyable one, too. This was pretty country—gently rolling grassland interspersed with clumps of oaks and hackberries and cedars as well as thickets of wild plum, called "islands" in the local vernacular. Along the river grew cypress and live oak, often festooned with Spanish moss. The trees were alive with chirruping of birds, and male prairie chickens hidden in the tall grass inflated their orange air sacs and made booming sounds to attract the hens. Turtles and alligators sunned themselves on sand spits and old logs in the river. Armadillos and javelinas rustled unseen through the thickets. Mississippi kites darted through the air in a relentless search for a rodent meal.

Normally, McAllen would have seen all these things, and more. He had made a habit of paying close attention to his environment. A man hunting Seminole braves in the bogs and thickets of Florida learned to do that—or he perished. But today McAllen was lost in thought. He couldn't free himself from gloomy reflection concerning Leah, Grand Cane, and his future. He loved his home, and yet he could not bear to live there any longer. Now, that was a fine state of affairs!

The town of Grand Cane had sprung into existence three miles downriver from McAllen's plantation. The six leagues of land which a grateful Texas had bestowed upon McAllen had been more acreage than he could ever use, and he had offered every Black Jack who rode with him a full section—640 acres—if he chose to stay. All but a few had opted to remain in Texas with their captain. Some had gone to Mississippi and brought their families back.

McAllen was glad the men had not scattered to the four winds. They had fought together against Seminoles and Santa Anna's Mexicans and Comanche raiders, and the bond between them was strong. They had come to rely on one another. They were brothers in arms, and friends for life. Other people had moved into the area—in the early days, before the first good sugarcane crop, McAllen had made ends meet by selling off some of his land to those homesteaders. But the outsiders, while made to feel welcome, would always remain just that—outsiders. None of them lived anywhere near the settlement of Grand Cane. In war and peace the Black Jacks formed an exclusive brotherhood.

Of the twenty-eight men who had followed McAllen to Texas, twenty-one lived nearby, either in the town of Grand Cane or on farms in the immediate vicinity. There was Artemus Tice, the eldest of the Black Jacks, a doctor by trade, a man who loved books and quiet reflection, but who could fight right along with the best of them. Will Parton had become a preacher—McAllen and the other Black Jacks had built him a church two years ago—but that didn't mean he wouldn't grab a gun and light out after those "heathen" Comanches when called upon. George Scayne had opened a store in Grand Cane, and A. G. Deckard, who had lost an arm in the Everglades, ran the local tavern. Nathan Ainsworth was a carpenter who could make everything from cradles to coffins, while Cedric Cole ran the ferry and did a brisk business. Yancey Torrance was Grand Cane's blacksmith. His wife was the local schoolmarm, and his son Braxton was the best rifle shot in Brazoria County.

While McAllen considered every Black Jack his friend, these were the men closest to him, and it was at Yancey's house, just off the river on the outskirts of town, that he stopped.

Yancey and his son were working in the smitty when McAllen rode up, and Yancey walked out to meet his captain wearing a grease-smeared leather apron and a toothy smile. Yancey Torrance was a big bear of a man. His barrel chest, salt-and-pepper beard, and dark eyes twinkling with merriment gave him a Falstaffian look. But while Yancey could seem the gentlest of giants, McAllen knew he had a warrior's heart. Yancey loved a good fight, and McAllen had seen him kill a man with his bare hands.

"John Henry!" roared Yancey, delighted. "When did you get back?"

"Late yesterday." Dismounting, McAllen handed Escatawpa's reins to Joshua.

"Did you see the Old Chief?" Like McAllen, Yancey and the other Black Jacks revered Sam Houston.

"I did. He's sending me to San Antonio on an errand. There could be trouble. Can you spare a week or two?"

Yancey did not hesitate. "Sure. Brax can take care of things here." He cocked his head to one side. "Could this trouble have anything to do with the meeting at the Council House?"

"It does, in part."

"And the other part, could it be that old slang-whanger, Singletary?"

"So you know about that," said McAllen with a sigh.

"Aye, that I do," said Yancey solemnly, his Irish brogue becoming more pronounced, as it did when strong emotions surged within him. "What are your plans, then?"

"I had planned to go to Austin and skin him alive. But I'm not sure anymore."

"I'll crack his skull open like a ripe pecan, if you say the word, Captain." Yancey laid a brawny hand on McAllen's shoulder. "But there'd be no pleasure in it for me. I'm not one to punish another for telling the truth."

McAllen nodded. Brutal honesty was Yancey's trademark, and McAllen respected him for it. While others who were aware of his domestic difficulties might waltz around the truth, Yancey Torrance never flinched from telling it the way he saw it.

"You look like something the cat's dragged in," said Yancey. "You need a shave and a hot meal and a dunk in the river with a bar of lye soap. That'll make a new man out of you." He did not have to ask to know how McAllen's homecoming had fared. "When do you aim to leave?"

"I'm on my way. Planned to stop off in Austin first."

"Tomorrow morning's soon enough. You'll be our guest. Mary's off to the schoolhouse, but Emily can cook something up for you right quick."

McAllen glanced at Yancey's cabin, a good stout structure built of square-cut cypresswood and river stone, up under the tall trees along the banks of the Brazos. A willowy, barefoot girl with long, unbound auburn hair, wearing a plain homespun dress, stood on the porch smiling shyly at him. Emily was Yancey's niece. Her parents had perished in a flood back in Mississippi, and Yancey had taken her in, and loved her as his own daughter. She was a quiet, unremarkable girl, pretty in a plain way.

"That's fine," said McAllen. It felt good to be welcome somewhere. "Tomorrow is soon enough."

After cooking breakfast for their guest, Emily Torrance was thrilled when Uncle Yancey told her to go inform Dr. Artemus Tice of Captain McAllen's arrival. She ran down Grand Cane's solitary dusty street to the dogtrot cabin which served as the physician's office and residence. Tice was sitting in a barrel chair with his feet propped on the corner of a cluttered desk in the office, Chomel's Pathology open in his lap.

"Captain McAllen is here, Dr. Tice!" she exclaimed breathlessly.

Tice peered at her over the pince-nez perched on the tip of his nose. He was a small, slender man of fifty. His appearance was rather seedy; as usual, his brown broadcloth suit of clothes looked like they had been slept in for a week. They always reeked of smoke and chemicals. His gray hair was in a perpetual state of disarray. Even his friends considered him brusque and a bit eccentric. But for Emily Torrance he always had a smile and a kind word. A childless widower, Tice treated her like the daughter he would never have.

"Is he, now? Well, I thought it was the Second Coming. You really didn't have to tell me, child. I would have known by the sparkle in your eye."

Emily blushed. "He is staying the night, and leaving for Austin in the morning."

"Austin?" Tice tossed the big, well-used book onto his desk and rose, removed his spectacles, folded them carefully, and slipped them into a coat pocket. "We had better go find out what's brewing in Austin, then. Now, where the dickens is my corncob pipe?" He began a methodical search of his desk.

Emily was horrified. Tice was rather absentminded, and she knew from experience that a search for his pipe could take a half hour. "Oh, do please hurry, Dr. Tice."

"Patience, child, patience. John Henry will be here all day. Isn't that so?"

Emily brushed a tendril of auburn hair out of her eyes. She had always felt able to confide in Tice. He was the only person she could really talk to. He was a good listener and never belittled her, and kept the secrets she shared with him in absolute confidence. With Tice she could freely speak her mind and expect sound advice when she needed it, which was more than she could say for Uncle Yancey and Aunt Mary. She loved Yancey and his wife, but Yancey never seemed to really understand her, and Mary was always too preoccupied with other things to pay much attention.

"It just isn't fair," she said, "that Captain McAllen doesn't feel welcome under his own roof."

Tice knew Emily so well that he could read between the lines of what she said, and now he suspended his search for the corncob pipe and turned to gaze at her with mild surprise etched upon his kindly features. "Well, I'll be. I never realized."

"Realized what?" asked Emily, tentatively.

"I always knew you liked John Henry. But you can put me in a barrel and call me a cracker if you're not actually in love with him. You are, aren't you, child? Fess up."

"I'm only seventeen years old," she replied, disingenuously. "What would I know about love?"

Tice chuckled and wagged a finger at her. "It's disrespectful to play games with an old codger like me."

"You're not old. Just absentminded. Your pipe is probably in your pocket."

Tice patted himself down. "You're absolutely right. Well, fetch my hat and cane and we'll be off."

They left the cabin and started down the street, side by side, Tice securing a battered old stovepipe hat on his head and swinging a teak walking stick sporting a staghorn handle. The doctor's old one-eyed dog, Caesar, came loping along from somewhere and followed in its master's wake to the edge of town. Here it stopped and with one baleful howl returned in dejection to the cabin.

Not until they reached the outskirts of Grand Cane did Emily get a chance to ask Tice the question that had been on her mind ever since John Henry McAllen's arrival—this, because Tice had been calling out greetings to one and all since stepping off his porch. Since the Torrance cabin was just a holler down the road, she slowed her pace, forcing Tice to adjust his stride accordingly.

"Dr. Tice, do you think Captain McAllen loves his wife?"

Tice knew the girl's mind and her moods, and he was expecting something in this vein. "No, I don't believe he does," he replied, after a thoughtful silence.

"Then why does he stay with her?" Emily realized she was overstepping her bounds, but Artemus Tice had never failed to respond candidly to any of her questions before.

"That's hard to say, child. John Henry is not an easy man to know. I've been acquainted with him for going on twelve years now, and still I cannot honestly say I know his mind. I can say that he does not like to admit failure. That is an admirable trait, in most instances."

Emily sighed, dissatisfied. "Well, it just simply isn't right. Captain McAllen has done so much for everyone around here. He deserves to be happy."

"And you think you could make him happy?"

Emily blushed again and looked at her dusty toes. "What does it matter? Even if he wasn't married, he wouldn't give me a second thought. I'm so plain and he's . . . he's so handsome."

Tice suppressed a smile. "Is he? Hmm. I'll take your word on that. But you are a very pretty young lady, Emily. I don't consider you plain at all."

"You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"Oh, no, I'm not. I mean every word." Tice stopped. The Torrance cabin was a stone's throw away. "Listen to me, child. You mustn't let on to John Henry about your true feelings for him. The Romans used to say that a man is the architect of his own fate. That's always been the case with John Henry, at least since I've known him. But this situation he finds himself in now has gone beyond his control. Right now he is confused. If you care for him you will not add to his confusion. In the long run, such conundrums have a way of working out for the best. So you must bide your time, dear Emily. I realize that is not an easy prescription for a young person like you."

"I don't ever count on tomorrow. Tomorrow may never come."

Tice nodded sympathetically. He could well understand why Emily, who had lost her parents in the blink of an eye, would feel that way. "Still," he said, "you must promise me."

"I promise." She sighed, crestfallen.

"That's my girl. Now, come along."

Upon arrival at the cabin they learned that McAllen had gone down to the river to bathe. Yancey gave Emily the task of cleaning the captain's travel-worn clothes. Braxton, Yancey's brawny twenty-year-old son, went down to the river to tell McAllen that Dr. Tice had arrived. A few minutes later McAllen came in. He was wearing Brax's extra homespun shirt and stroud trousers. With a smile he complimented Emily on her breakfast, claiming it was the best he'd had in a coon's age. She was rendered tongue-tied, and for some time after she felt as though she were floating a foot off the ground.

As the men settled down to talk, Emily took McAllen's clothes out to the back porch where the basin and washboard were located. A moment later Braxton came out on his way to the smitty. It was the long way around, but he wanted to see her. As usual, his eyes lingered on her.

"Hey, Emily," he said with a crooked grin. "You want to go with me down to the swimming hole later?"

"No!" she exclaimed. "You'd be in a heap of trouble if your pa heard you ask me that."

Braxton snorted. He was not so easily scared off. "They'll be in there jawin' until sundown. He won't even notice we're gone. Come on, Em. You know you want to."

"I most certainly do not."

Brax scowled. "What is it with you? Is it that Captain McAllen, maybe? I seen how you look at him. I bet you'd go down to the river with him anytime he wanted you to. Day or night."

Emily's temper flared. "You'd better get along, Braxton Torrance."

Brax backed down then, and the crooked smile reappeared. "Don't get riled, cousin. It was just a thought." He ambled away in the direction of the smitty.

As she worked, Emily could hear Uncle Yancey, Dr. Tice, and Captain McAllen talking. She gathered that a man named Jonah Singletary had written something insulting about McAllen's wife in his newspaper. Both Uncle Yancey and Dr. Tice tried to talk McAllen out of doing anything unpleasant to Singletary. Eventually they switched to the topic of the Comanche Indians, which broadened to include the Texas Rangers, Mirabeau B. Lamar, and the proposed peace talks at the Council House. Tice remarked that Mirabeau Lamar was one of those people whom God produces in his less resolute moments.

Later that day, McAllen and Tice strolled into Grand Cane so that the captain could visit with some of the other Black Jacks. They did not return until the purple shades of twilight had enfolded the earth. Mary Torrance was home from the schoolhouse by then, and Emily helped her prepare dinner. After dinner, Uncle Yancey sat on the porch with McAllen and they shared a jug of corn liquor. That night the mere fact that John Henry McAllen was sleeping under the same roof was sufficient to keep Emily awake until the early hours of morning. She dreamed of standing on the gallery of the main house at Grand Cane plantation, watching McAllen ride up the lane on his high-stepping gray hunter, while off in the distance a slave played a mournful fiddle while another sang in a rich baritone. Swing low, sweet chariot, comin' for to carry me home . . . And then McAllen was jumping out of the saddle and running to sweep her up in his strong arms and . . . Emily woke feeling like she had a fever.

The next morning she put on her calico "Sunday" dress, but everyone was too busy to even notice. Without being seen, she picked a wildflower and put it in the pocket of McAllen's coat, which she presented to him with the rest of his clothes, lovingly washed and folded. "You'll make some lucky man a splendid wife, Emily," he said. For some reason the intended compliment upset her.

After breakfast, Dr. Tice rode down the lane from town on his old piebald mare, and before long McAllen was gone, with Uncle Yancey and Tice and the half-breed named Joshua, bound for Austin. Emily was on pins and needles all morning for fear that McAllen would discover the flower before departing, and knowing that if Dr. Tice saw it he would realize she had broken her promise. But the flower remained undiscovered, and as she watched them ride away, Emily wondered with a flutter in her heart what John Henry McAllen would think when he found it.

Uncle Yancey was singing off-key in his gruff voice—according to Mary it was an old homecoming song that, oddly enough, her husband always sang when he was going off to fight:

"Home ag'in, home ag'in!

Now we'll all drink ol' Tennessee gin.

Ol' Zip Coon, Turkey in the Straw,

I'd ruther go to hell than go to war!"