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14
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- a - j - a -
Nothing had prepared Andy for the shock of seeing the death pallor of his friend's, his beloved guardian's, face.
He'd barely caught a glimpse of Jess when Dan and Slim had carried him in from the wagon. The doctor had been there already and had shut the bedroom door firmly in Andy's face. Confronted with a great deal of adult activity from which he was summarily excluded, Andy had followed both his natural instinct and his Sherman standards - he went out and tended to the horses. And if he paid special attention to a weary bay horse who had made so many strenuous and vital journeys, Traveller had certainly earned the tender attention which Andy would like to have lavished on Jess.
When things had calmed down a little, Jonesy had described Jess's condition and what was happening, but despite what Andy had been told, it was utterly different to see the reality. Jess had always been so alive! Under his dark brows, his bright blue eyes were invariably sparkling with fun and mischief, at least when he was with Andy. There was something strong too in the very skin of him, his dark tan arguing a life spent facing the worst which nature could throw at him. And you could shoot holes in him and he'd come right back as if it was nothing at all. He'd never back down and he'd never give in.
There was nothing in his face now except withdrawal and a deep pain which was beyond Andy's understanding. If Jess's life-blood had been draining visibly away, it could not have left him more pale, more still. Even his unruly hair seemed tamed and flattened. His breathing was irregular and shallow. His skin, when Andy laid a hand on it, burned with a relentless fire.
But Jonesy had ceded his place as the carer without any protest, recognizing the strength that Andy's loving support could give. Andy drew a deep breath and picked up the sponge from the bowl beside the bed. It was up to him to keep hope alive.
"You ain't gonna die, Jess! I ain't gonna let you, pard'ner!"
- a - j - a -
The hope of an immediate answer for Jess had died, so there was nothing left for it now but to return to the place where all this had begun. If Slim could not trace Catherine's present whereabouts, he must try to find clues to the tragedy in St. Louis, which she had given as her residence. Of course, that might not be true. But she had acquaintances there, people who knew her, though he hesitated to say friends. Someone, he hoped desperately, might have an inkling of where she had gone when she left St. Louis society earlier in the year. But in his heart of hearts he knew she would have kept her destination secret, for he was very sure that Catherine's pride would not allow it to be known that she was carrying an illegitimate child!
Wearily, Slim boarded the train for St. Louis. At least, once he got there, he could rely on help from Lieutenant Warwick, Jess's wartime commander, and his covert organisation, the Ranulfiar. Despite his own ambivalent feelings, Slim knew none of Jess's old troop would desert him now, given what they had been prepared to do for Slim himself, whom they did not even know. This was a small comfort in a sea of uncertainty. He slept badly as before, but woke with the germ of an idea.
He had been thinking how someone might feel if they were driven into a traumatic and inescapable situation. Who would they turn to? Where would they go? And it came to him that, in dire circumstances, you turn to the people who have known you from a child: he did just such a thing himself, in his faith and confidence in Mort Cory. So perforce you might have to return to your roots, to the place you knew as a child and have left far behind as an adult. It seemed to him that he needed to find out much more about his cousin's background. But the only person who could give him such information was his uncle – and his uncle was in jail!
Slim alighted in St. Louis eagerly, full of determination to pursue his task with every means at his disposal and with all the ingenuity, experience and influence which he and his allies could muster. He was once again thwarted and disappointed.
At the Metropolitan Hotel there was no contact, no message.
When he called at the Frobishers' mansion, it was to find it shut up, arguing that they were out of town.
Thrown completely on his own resources, Slim did not give up hope. Rather his resolve hardened and his promise to Jess burned like a blazing torch in his mind. It was destined to take him into dark places. It seemed likely his uncle would be the only available source of information and that Slim's search would lead him to a prison, but first he intended to gate-crash polite society.
Actually he did not have to do anything so drastic. Simple participation in a game of cards at the hotel renewed his acquaintance with some of the men he had met as Catherine's fiancée. There was plenty of curiosity about his present relationship with her, since she had lost no time in resuming her status in society as a single woman. There was precious little information. Young men, Slim reflected ruefully, tended to be interested in Catherine's obvious attractions, rather than any specific news about her. Nonetheless, they were instrumental in reintroducing him into a number of houses and gatherings where he knew Catherine had been a frequent guest.
At these, he heard plenty of idle gossip but none of any substance. The women were willing enough to chatter all day, especially to the charming and handsome man who had previously been the property of only one woman and a proprietary one at that. He listened to many wild and often spiteful rumors about Catherine's behavior once she was not longer the mistress of her uncle's house. It was the general opinion that she had rapidly become the mistress of one of the city's most successful businessmen and bankers: none other than the O'Connell who owned the house in Denver. Despite the social circles opening for Slim, the information from them just seemed to lead him once more in a closed circle from which he could not break free. He was also heartily tired of fending off the romantic ambitions, flirtatious attitudes and occasionally less subtle offers of his confidants.
After a couple of days of intensive but polite interrogation, he had eaten more refreshments, taken more drinks, attended more gatherings, sung more songs and played more cards than he ever wanted to in his life again. He came to the conclusion that he had met the majority of those in Catherine's immediate circle. From it, she seemed to have vanished without a trace. No-one was in the slightest concerned. Reluctantly he decided he must attempt to talk with his uncle.
Such a meeting could not be pleasant one. Nathaniel Sherman had callously had his nephew brutally tortured in an attempt to gain Slim's family land. Slim had nothing but evil memories of how his uncle's pleasant face and civilized manner hid a malevolent mind full of selfishness, greed and pitiless inhumanity in obtaining his criminal ends. The man was under punishment for it now and could not bear any good will towards the nephew whose stubborn adherence to his heritage had driven Nathaniel to such extreme measures. But Slim himself had had no part in Nathaniel's trial nor did the torture form part of the convicting evidence. There remained a faint chance that they might have a meaningful conversation. After all, Catherine had been an important part of Nathaniel's status in St. Louis and Slim had been madly in love with her.
The St. Louis jail had originally been located in Fort San Carlos, but the old structure had long since been pulled down. Slim was unsure where Nathaniel would have been imprisoned and accordingly made his way to the Marshalls' Office. He was cordially welcomed by one of the Marshalls who had been instrumental in bringing Nathaniel to justice after Warwick's investigations and the Ranulfiar raid on the Sherman mansion had revealed the extent of his criminal activities. In truth, the Marshall was somewhat surprised to see Slim in St. Louis again, given the parlous state of health in which he had left it.
"Good to see you looking fit and well again, Mr. Sherman. What can I do for you?"
Slim's request caused even more surprise, which the Marshall tried tactfully to conceal. He had no need, however, to look up any details in order to give the young man his answer.
"That's easy. All prisoners are sent to the Missouri State Penitentiary in Jefferson City."
Jefferson City! Slim suppressed a groan with admirable self-control. He asked, hoping fervently he was wrong: "That's on the railway, west of here, isn't it?"
"Yeah, about a hundred and thirty miles," the Marshall assured him cheerfully.
Slim drew a deep breath. "I'd better get going!"
"Let me –"
But Slim had slapped on his hat and disappeared through the door before the surprised Marshall could even complete his offer: "Let me send a telegram and find out if you can see him." He hastened to the door, but Slim had already disappeared into the bustling crowd. Sending a subordinate to try to locate him at the railway station was a complete failure too. The Marshall scratched his worried head and debated whether to send the telegram any way, but there was little he could do to improve the situation. He did not have any influence over or personal contact with the Prison Governor. He just hoped Slim's strange request would have a positive outcome, as the young man was so visibly troubled.
Unsponsored and without any allies, Slim was definitely in trouble on his quest and found it very difficult to obtain admittance to the Penitentiary or any attention from anyone when he finally gained entry. Eventually, after a long and uncomfortable wait, he was ushered briskly into the Governor's presence, with the muttered advice that he should not waste the great man's time unnecessarily. There was no need for the warning. He had achieved his objective, only to discover that his uncle had been transferred.
"But perhaps you would be good enough to tell me where?" Slim was, by this time, as near to despair as his nature would allow him. However his response was governed by his innate courtesy, not to mention a sensible understanding that an outburst of frustration, no matter how justified, was not going to help his case.
The Governor considered him shrewdly. He approved of what he saw and could hardly believe that this obviously honest and law-abiding young man was any relation to the notorious and unpleasant prisoner he claimed as his uncle. After due consideration, he said formally: "We have chronic over-crowding here. The old fort at Defiance has been reopened and reinforced. A number of the prisoners have been sent there. Your uncle is among them."
"Defiance?" It seemed a good place for one who was probably going to obstruct Slim's every effort.
The Governor debated whether to describe the place any further, given the rumors of brutality, violence and corruption continuing in this isolated prison which, ironically, it had been set up to solve. He decided against it. He simply said: "Defiance is some thirty miles west of St. Louis. The prison is located at Darst's Bottom on Femme Osage Creek."
"It would be!" Slim muttered. He couldn't help himself. Then he recalled his manners, thanked the Governor politely and made his way back to the railway station. He was beginning to feel as if he should take out shares in the train company! Once again he found himself travelling through the night to St. Louis.
- # - # - # -
The ride to Defiance on a hired horse was rough and challenging, particularly as Slim did not realize he would have to cross the Missouri river itself. It took him a long time to find a boat to take him over, but it was that or swim for it, and, even if he made it safely, arriving soaking wet was not going to enhance his chances of being taken seriously.
Slim had started before dawn, but it was still well after noon before he came in sight of the old fort on the creek. The stone buildings loomed over the river, keeping a defensive watch as they had been built to do. There were four main blocks, linked by a strong, new palisade of wood and stone, which enclosed a central open space. There might once have been gun emplacements on the outer walls of the blockhouses, but if so, these were now trained inwards. Despite recent renovations, the fabric of the buildings was battered and stained. Old stone seemed to erode the new, as if the experiences of its past threw a long shadow over the present light. And the turrets and walkways which guarded the place literally overshadowed the building. It did not look to Slim like a place which invited visitors.
Nonetheless, he rode determinedly up to the main gate and hammered on the wicket door set in it.
There was no response.
Slim hammered again.
It was like knocking for entrance on the stone of a tomb. The place could not have been less responsive if it and everyone within it were dead.
He was just considering yelling or firing his gun, when there was finally some intimation of life inside the fortification. He heard footsteps approaching. The hatch in the small door snapped back.
"What the hell d'y want?"
It was not an encouraging first contact.
Slim was under no illusions that he could gain access to such an establishment without at least some official status. He was not prepared to lie outright, even for Jess, but he needed some convincing authorized reason why he should be admitted to the prison. Summoning every ounce of his integrity and natural command, Slim announced firmly: "I've come from the State Penitentiary on the instructions of the Governor. Admit me now!"
There was a long, grudging pause. Just when he had began to fear total failure of his bluff, bolts were drawn back with a noise which suggested they had not been oiled since the fort was originally constructed. The door opened and a burly guard looked out cautiously.
"Don't try anythin' funny. Y' bein' covered from the blockhouse. Tie y' horse over there." A dilapidated hitching rail was indicated with a jerk of the man's disheveled head. "Leave y' guns with 'im!"
Slim had a good look around as he hitched the horse. There didn't seem to be anyone or any other buildings in the immediate vicinity, but it was distinctly risky to leave his equipment unguarded. He took a chance.
"I'll put my guns down inside. You can cover me, as well as the others." He could see the glint of gunmetal on the walkways above and did not doubt the man's word that his every move was being watched carefully. He kept absolutely still, with his right hand well away from his gun and his rifle pointing to the ground.
There was another even longer and more grudging pause. Slim could feel himself being scrutinized from head to toe. Despite a beating heart and considerable misgivings, he endeavored to look calm, efficient and sufficiently authoritative to command obedience, rather than intimidate. The guards were noticeably jumpy and being threatening towards them seemed likely to be counterproductive.
"Come in!" The man had reached a decision.
Slim still moved cautiously, despite an almost overwhelming urge to rush through the door before the doorkeeper changed his mind.
"Put y' guns and rifle there." The guard pointed to a bench against the wall just inside the wicket.
"I hold you responsible!" Slim gave him a hard look.
The man nodded in acceptance, adding with a coarse laugh: "The boss ain't gonna wanna see y' armed t' the teeth, any more than he does the prisoners!"
The atmosphere inside the prison hit Slim in the face the second he stepped inside the gates. Not only was the air troubled by a continuous, rumbling murmur of many voices, occasionally pierced with harsh yells and screams, but it was rife with the stench of confined humanity. Even though they were in a narrow corridor under the walkway there was no escaping it.
The guard grinned again at the sickened expression on his visitor's face.
"This way!"
They began to penetrate further into the dark recesses of the place. Slim wondered what the man in charge of it was like and what he would make of Slim's unofficial entry into the prison. He could only pray that he would meet with some understanding of the urgency of his quest.
- # - # - # -
"No visitors!" The hard-bitten, cynical Prison Governor regarded the tall young man before him with a mixture of amused contempt and considerable irritation. "No-one in their right mind wants to come in here. Have you any idea what it is like in this prison?"
"I need to find Nathaniel Sherman!" the young man persisted. "It's a matter of the uttermost urgency!" He was getting tired of having to say this.
"The only urgency in here is how to keep the prisoners under control!" the Governor informed him. "And letting them have social visits is not going to help!"
"But it's a matter of life –" Slim began to protest, but was summarily cut short.
"If you value your own life, young man, you won't try to gain access to a penitentiary like this again." The Prison Governor's tone hardened implacably, as was only to be expected, given the problems and conditions with which he had to deal every day: in truth his own position and authority were hard enough to maintain, without showing signs of sentimental weakness in allowing family visits. The prisoners were, to all intents and purposes, in charge of the inner workings of the prison, but keeping them totally isolated from the outer world prevented them receiving funds for bribes or using pressure or influence to engineer their escape. His motley crew of guards were far from honest and would take any advantage they could over the inmates, but none of the prisoners had enough to offer to make it worth the guards' while to breach security. In fact the safety of the prison personnel depended up a rigid policy of control and isolation.
The Governor glared at his unwanted and unauthorized visitor.
"I don't know how you got here or why you came here, but I have two pieces of advice for you: go home and forget this place exists!"
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Notes:
The prison fort is an amalgamation of two historical buildings: Daniel Morgan Boone's Fort, (1812 - 1815), Matso (a settlers' fort built by the son of the famous pioneer, with two or three blockhouses), located in Darst's Bottom on Femme Osage Creek. And St. Charles Blockhouse, (1793), St. Charles: A stone blockhouse located in the town's "common fields" to protect horses and livestock from Indian raids. This structure was dismantled and relocated to the Historic Daniel Boone Home and Boonesfield Village in nearby Defiance.