American Blood (3 page)

"I see. Santa Fe, you said?"

"Yes. They are calling Kearny's command the Army of the West. Have you not been keeping up with news of the war?"

Delgado flinched. "I have made it a point not to."

"May I speak bluntly?"

"By all means."

"You struck me at first as something of a ne'er-do-well. Someone who would not bother himself with the intricacies of current affairs, who would instead interest himself solely in the sporting life. Not unlike our young friend, Horan. But, upon further reflection, I've changed my mind about
you, McKinn. This war with Mexico
is
of grave concern to you, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Delgado, deciding on the spur of the moment that he could confide in Sterling. "Taos is my home. My father is a trader. His name is Angus McKinn. He is Scottish-born, a Highlander, but thirty years ago he established himself in Taos and became a Mexican citizen in '24. The new Republic of Mexico required all foreign-born residents to convert to Catholicism and swear allegiance to the republic and its constitution. My father was quite happy to do both."

"Even forsake his religion? I assume he was a Protestant."

"Even that. He had fallen in love with my mother, the daughter of a Spanish grandee. In order to marry her, he had to convert. She could not have become his bride otherwise. At any rate, after the Texas expedition to seize Santa Fe, my father decided to send me off to England. He wanted the best possible education for me, and that meant Oxford."

"We have a few good institutions in this country," said Sterling. "Yale, for instance, and Brown, to name but two."

Delgado smiled. "My father had an ulterior motive. To place me as far away as possible from the war he knew was coming."

"I see. That explains England. But your return is a little premature, my friend. War broke out only two months ago. Mexican soldiers crossed the Rio Grande and killed some of our brave soldiers. American blood shed on American soil, as President Polk described it to Congress. Of course," added Sterling with a wry smile, "Northern Whigs take issue with the 'American soil' part
of that equation. As you must know, there is still some debate regarding which country holds legitimate title to the territory that lies between the Rio Grande and the Nueces River."

"War or no," said Delgado flatly, "I must get home."

Sterling leaned forward. "I may be presuming a friendship where none exists," he said, "but I ask you this solely out of concern for your welfare, which I value if only because your skill at whist provided me with the opportunity to best that pompous Brent Horan. Where does your allegiance lie, sir?"

"With my father," was Delgado's prompt answer. "To no one and nothing else."

"And your father's allegiance?"

"He is a businessman."

"He swore an oath to the flag and constitution of the Republic of Mexico, did he not?"

"That he did," conceded Delgado. "But he will always put my mother and me, and his business affairs, before all else. I am not implying that he is without honor, of course."

"Of course not."

Delgado drew a deep breath. "He has a long-standing commercial relationship with a man named Jacob Bledsoe in St. Louis. Perhaps you have heard of him?"

"Indeed I have. I am well acquainted with Bledsoe. He is one of the leaders of the community, a highly respected gentleman."

"At my father's request I have come to St. Louis to visit Mr. Bledsoe. Perhaps he will have some ideas regarding how I am to get home, now that it appears that there is a war in my way."

A sudden commotion drew their attention. A
stateroom door burst open and several men, locked in fierce combat, tumbled out across the threshold. A young lady shrieked. The knot of men careened off the railing, and Delgado was amazed that the railing did not give way and pitch all of the combatants into the river or onto the ramshackle wharf.

"Look!" exclaimed Sterling. "It's Horan."

So it was. Horan emerged from the melee, hat missing, cravat askew, an expression of savage elation on his features. He brandished a pamphlet over his head.

"We caught him!" he cried to one and all. "Caught the scoundrel red-handed. A damned abolitionist, come to stir up our Negroes into insurrection. I say we teach the blackguard a lesson he won't soon forget."

"Tar and feather him!" came one bellicose suggestion.

"No," said Horan, his eyes blazing with a lurid fever. "Get a rope. We will hang him, here and now, and be done with it."

4

Sterling stepped forward. "Let me see that pamphlet, Horan," he said sternly. It was more an order than a request.

Smirking, Horan surrendered the damning evidence. "Have in mind defending this rascal,
Mister
Sterling?"

Delgado had no doubts now—deep animosity ran like a river of black bile between these two men. What had transpired to set these two strong wills at odds?

Sterling studied the pamphlet. "The American Antislavery Society." He fastened a cold, piercing gaze upon the stout, disheveled man now held firmly in the grasp of two others. "Your name, sir?"

"Rankin. Jeremiah Rankin." He was afraid, but though his voice trembled, he managed to conjure up a little defiance. Under the circumstances, mused Delgado, that was quite commendable.

"You are either a very courageous man, or a very foolish one, sir," said Sterling. "Were your intentions to distribute this material among the slaves?"

"I have already done so, sir, in New Orleans, Natchez, and Vicksburg."

A man emerged from Rankin's stateroom with a carpetbag. When opened, it could be seen that the valise was half full of pamphlets identical to the one in Sterling's possession.

"And these?" asked Sterling. "Bound for St. Louis, no doubt."

Rankin did not answer.

"What do we do with them?" asked the man holding the carpetbag.

"Burn them," growled Horan. "Consign them to the flames of the furnace. Perhaps our abolitionist should meet the same fate. Give him a taste of the Hell to which a just God will send him for daring to instigate our servants to revolt—to murder, rape, and pillage."

Delgado thought at first that Horan had to be joking. But there was nothing to his tone or expression to suggest that he was not in deadly earnest.

"Sterling," said Delgado. "May I see that pamphlet?"

"Certainly."

"Read it aloud, sir," insisted Horan, "so that these people may have no doubt as to the man's guilt."

Delgado glanced at the crowd of gentlemen and ladies who had congregated on the deck. He opened the slim pamphlet to a random passage and read aloud.

"We view as contrary to the Law of God, on which hang the Unalienable Rights of Mankind, as well as every Principle of revolution, to hold in deepest debasement, in a more abject slavery than is perhaps to be found in Any part of the World, so many souls that are capable of the image of God."

He paused to scan the circle of intent faces. No one seemed to be breathing. Clearly, the pamphlet and what it contained fascinated even while it repulsed them. Delgado felt like a snake handler. Turning a page, he read on:

"What is meant by IMMEDIATE ABOLITION? It means every Negro husband shall have his own wife, united in wedlock, protected by law. It means Negro parents shall have control and government of their own children, and that these children shall not be taken away from their parents. It means providing schools and instruction for the Negro. It means right over wrong, love over hatred, and religion over heathenism."

"Immediatism," said Sterling with a hard look at Rankin. "Gradual emancipation is out of fashion these days, isn't it?"

"This all seems rather harmless," said Delgado.

Horan snatched the pamphlet from his grasp. Fuming, the Southerner turned to the last page of the document.

"Voluntary submission to slavery is sinful," he read triumphantly. "It is your solemn and imperative duty to use every means—moral, intellectual and physical—that promises success in attaining your freedom. You must cease toiling for tyrants. If you then just commence the work of death, they and not you are responsible for the consequences. There is not much hope of redemption without the shedding of blood."

A murmur of shocked outrage rippled through those gathered near.

Horan raised a clenched fist. "Tyrants? Physical means? The work of death?" Infuriated, he slapped Rankin across the face with the pamphlet. "Defend that, Sterling. If you dare."

"But," said Delgado, "you've seen to it that your slaves are illiterate. Since they cannot read, those words are harmless."

"A few of the ungrateful wretches flaunt our codes and
have
learned to read," said Horan. "They will spread this vile poison to others, sowing the seeds of discontent. They think they want their freedom? They will suffer and starve as freedmen. Our Negroes are well cared for. They are clothed, fed, and housed. They are nursed to health when they fall prey to sickness. They want for nothing. Compare their condition to the plight of the poor in Northern cities, who labor sixteen hours a day in mill and factory, are paid starvation wages, and struggle to survive in plague-infested slums!"

Horan stabbed an accusing finger at Rankin. "This man is not concerned with the well-being of the Negro. The abolitionist is the tool of the Northern industrialist, who fears the political power of the South, and seeks to destroy our soci
ety by removing the cornerstone of its foundation. The South cannot survive without the institution of slave labor, sir. You should understand that, Sterling. You were, after all, born a Southerner."

"I am a Westerner," said Sterling.

"A Westerner, opposed to expansion."

"I favor the expansion of republicanism, sir, but not the peculiar institution with it. And I will not allow you to hang this man. I may not agree with his ideas, or especially his tactics, but I will not stand by and let the fate which befell Elijah Lovejoy repeat itself here."

Delgado knew the story of Lovejoy, the abolitionist editor. Ten years ago, the man had been hounded out of Missouri. Moving to Illinois, he continued his crusade against slavery. After his printing presses were destroyed on three separate occasions, his house invaded by an unruly mob, and his wife pushed to the verge of hysterical collapse, Lovejoy had armed himself, vowing to protect his family and property. When a mob came to wreck his fourth printing press, Lovejoy confronted them with pistol in hand, and was gunned down in the process. He had become a martyr to the abolitionist cause.

A boy broke through the press of passengers. By the condition of his dirty linsey shirt and ragged dungarees, Delgado took him for one of those less fortunate souls who were berthed on the main deck with the cargo. In his white-knuckled grasp was a length of braided hemp, and on his face was stamped the same mad lust for blood Delgado had seen on Brent Horan's patrician features.

"Here's your rope!" exclaimed the youth. "Stretch the damn Yankee's neck!"

Horan gave Sterling a look of defiance as he
snatched the rope from the boy. Making a slip knot loop at one end, he put it over Rankin's head and pulled the loop closed around the abolitionist's neck. Rankin renewed his struggle to free himself, but to no avail. The pressure of the rope seemed to make his eyes bulge in their sockets. Cold sweat beaded his forehead, and he began to mumble the Lord's Prayer. He could no longer deny his fate.

Seeing that Horan was prepared to go through with the lynching, some of the men in the crowd turned their backs, leading the women away from the scene. But no one stepped forward to intervene—except Sterling, who clutched Horan's arm.

"Don't be a fool," rasped the newspaperman. "By his own admission, this man has broken the laws of several states. Turn him over to the authorities, Horan, for the love of God."

Horan grinned like a wolf. "Let go of me, Sterling, or I'll hang you right alongside him."

Sterling removed his hand. The slump of his shoulders told Delgado that he would go no further to try to save Rankin.

As he stepped forward, Delgado reached into the pocket of his frock coat and extracted the derringer. He acted almost by reflex, without giving any thought to the consequences of his actions. Angus McKinn had always claimed his son was too impetuous for his own good.

"Pardon me," he said.

Horan looked at him, saw the pocket pistol, and froze.

"I was under the impression," said Delgado coldly, "that this nation was built upon certain unalienable rights. Are you acquainted, Horan,
with the first ten amendments to the Constitution?"

Horan just stared at him, rendered speechless by astonishment more so than fear.

"I refer specifically," continued Delgado, "to the right of free speech, not to mention the right to a public trial with an impartial jury and the assistance of counsel."

Horan was quickly recovering. "Stay out of this, sir," he warned, his words like cold steel. "This is none of your affair."

"I disagree. Is this a republic, or a monarchy? The former is antithetical to the latter. Yet, in recent weeks, during my sojourn in the South, I have begun to wonder if the United States of America is a republic at all. I have seen tyranny, aristocracy, hereditary privilege, restrictive land tenure, and servile obedience enforced by repressions. And you, sir, you must be a prince of this aristocracy, since by your whim a man can lose his life."

Horan darkened. "I find your words insulting, McKinn."

"These are the facts which insult you." Delgado took a step closer and planted the derringer's double barrel in Horan's rib cage. "If this man hangs, Horan," he said, pitching his voice so low that only Horan could hear him, "you won't be alive to see it."

For a moment Horan made no move. He searched Delgado's face for any clue that this might be a bluff. There was no such clue. Delgado knew he might very well have to kill Horan. The man's towering pride might not permit him to back down, especially in the presence of so many witnesses. But Delgado realized that he could not
back down either, if for no other reason than that Jeremiah Rankin's life depended on him. So he kept his nerve and did not flinch from the malevolence in Horan's gaze.