American Blood (6 page)

"Angus has your best interests at heart, my boy," replied Bledsoe. "No doubt he was aware that for some time now there has been a debate in this country regarding the seizure of the port of Veracruz, or Tampico, as a jumping-off point for a strike overland at Mexico City. Already, Commodore Connor's squadron is patrolling Mex
ico's gulf coast. I expect just such an expedition to become a reality by the end of the year, and I suspect General Winfield Scott will be at its head."

Delgado did not care to dwell on the subject of the war, so he changed the subject.

"I wonder, Mr. Bledsoe, if you could give me some advice. It concerns a subject with which I believe you are familiar."

"By all means," said Bledsoe, beaming. "By all means."

"Though I doubt my father would approve, I won some money at cards aboard the
Sultana . . ."

Bledsoe chuckled. "Tell him you did it to defray some of the expense of your travels."

"Yes, sir. But the currency situation here in your country is somewhat confusing."

"True, true. This is the heyday of wildcat currency, my boy, there being no stable system in place for the issuance of government paper since Andy 'By God' Jackson dealt the Bank of the United States its death blow. Every state, county, and bank now issues its own notes, and much of it is practically worthless, or, at the very least, depreciates drastically the moment you are a stone's throw from the establishment which issued it. There is one bank, however, that enjoys a record of unblemished integrity and soundness, which imparts upon its paper the merit of full value even so far away as New York and Philadelphia. I refer, sir, to the Banque des Citoyens de la Louisianne, of New Orleans. I can only hope your winnings are comprised of that institution's dixies."

"Dixies?"

"Ten-dollar notes. Printed in English on one side and French on the reverse.
Dix
is French for
ten, as I am sure you know. A dixie, as our Creole friends downriver would say, is
bon-bon."

"Why, yes," said Delgado. "Most of them happen to be ten-dollar notes from that bank."

Bledsoe slapped his knee. "Fine! Just fine! They are as good as gold. Lucky for you your opponent did not fill the pot with Illinois or Tennessee paper. I would have to consult
Paddick's
to be certain, but I believe Illinois and Tennessee state currency is redeemable at no less than a ten percent discount these days."

"Paddick's?"

"Paddick's Bank Note Detector
. A New York publication, which tries to keep track of fluctuations in currency values. No easy task in this day and age, I assure you."

"Would you see your way clear to exchange gold for the dixies in my possession, sir? Under the circumstances, I don't know that any American paper would be acceptable in Santa Fe."

"Of course, my boy. Of course. Glad to be of service. We will stroll down to my bank in the next day or two—"

"As soon as possible, please. I cannot stay long. In fact, I feel as though I should get home as soon as possible."

Bledsoe's smile faded. He cleared his throat, then glanced across at Falconer with troubled eyes beneath knitted brows.

"I recently received a letter from your father, Delgado."

Bledsoe's tone of voice alarmed Delgado. He leaned forward.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, no. Rest assured, your mother and Angus are quite well. But . . . well, as much as he misses
you after your long absence overseas, Angus desires that you remain here as my guest for a time."

"A time?"

"Until the war is over."

Delgado was momentarily at a loss for words.

"He has only your best interests at heart, my boy. These are perilous times in the Southwest."

Delgado made up his mind on the spot. "I am grateful for your hospitality, Mr. Bledsoe, and your concern. But I intend to go home."

"Hmm." Bledsoe eyed Delgado keenly. An astute judge of character, he could tell there would be no dissuading this young man once his course had been set. "Well," he said, "if you are anything like your father, I would be wasting my time trying to talk you out of returning to Taos. As the best way to realize your safe return, well, that will require some planning."

"I do not care to be a burden to you. I can purchase a horse and provisions and make the trip alone."

Bledsoe was aghast. He looked to Falconer for help.

"Not wise," obliged the mountain man. "The trail is a dangerous one, Del. Always has been, but especially now. A man alone would have a poor chance of reaching the other end."

"Hugh speaks from experience, lad," said Bledsoe. "He knows the plains as well as anyone. That is why I retain him as my wagonmaster. He has taken two of my caravans safely through to Santa Fe. No, no, Delgado. We will have to devise a better means to get you home. At least honor us with your presence for a few days. Say a week. Tomorrow, my son, Jeremy, should be back from Fort Crawford. I would like very much for you to
meet him. The two of you may well discover that you have a lot in common. And I am also expecting my daughter, Sarah, two days later. She has been in the East, living for a time with her aunt, and attending an academy in Pennsylvania. The evening of her arrival I have arranged a dinner to celebrate her return. I believe you will find the guests I have invited to that affair very interesting. No less a personage than Senator Thomas Hart Benton will attend. And I have taken the liberty of announcing your presence at a ball to be held this coming Friday at Blackwood, the Horan plantation."

"Horan?" Delgado was dumfounded.

"Yes. Another affair to honor Sarah's homecoming. You see, I fully expect in time that she will become the bride of Mr. Brent Horan."

Poor woman, thought Delgado.

"You know Brent Horan, I believe," remarked Falconer.

Delgado grimaced. Falconer had seen the look Horan had given him on the levee road.

"We've met," replied Delgado. It would be unconscionably rude to refuse Jacob Bledsoe's cordiality, so he nodded and added, "A week, then, and I thank you, sir."

"Splendid!" said Bledsoe, beaming. "Absolutely splendid!"

4

Jacob Bledsoe was right—Delgado took an immediate liking to Jeremy, who returned to St. Louis as expected on the following day. He had journeyed to Fort Crawford, headquarters of the
Northwest Military District, located at Prairie du Chien in the Michigan Territory. Due to the wound he had received at the battle of Resaca de la Palma a few months earlier, Jeremy had been rendered officially inactive. Now that he was fully recovered—or rather as fully as he could ever expect to be with fragments of Mexican lead in his leg that, at times, caused him to limp—Jeremy had been striving to have his name placed back on the active rolls. He did not need to go as far as Fort Crawford to plead his case, but Delgado learned that he had friends there, and he had hoped those acquaintances would use their influence to assist him in his quest.

Apparently unhappy with the results of his trip, Jeremy announced upon his arrival that he intended to resign his commission as a lieutenant in the Regular Army so that he could enlist in a volunteer unit. His overriding ambition was to get back into the war. He simply could not sit by and rest on his laurels in the safety of his own home while fellow countrymen fought and died for a cause that was just. Jacob Bledsoe voiced the opinion that his son had done more than anyone could expect of a patriot. Had he not come within a hair's breadth of giving up his life for his country? What more could his country ask of a man?

But Jeremy was as determined to rejoin the war as Delgado was to get home
because
of the war. Jacob Bledsoe was keenly disappointed in his son's decision. Delgado assumed that the merchant would have preferred that Jeremy show as keen an interest in commerce and finance as he did in the martial pursuits. This, however, was simply not to be.

Jeremy Bledsoe was different from his father in
many ways. Jacob was a product of the old Eastern establishment—settled, urbane, and traditional. His son, born in St. Louis twenty years ago when the settlement had been quite a bit more rough and tumble than it was nowadays, reflected the frontier with all its virtues and vices. He was brash, sometimes boisterous—though his father believed that his going off to war had matured him considerably. He was a doer, and though he did not lack a gentleman's graces, they had a raw edge. His marks as a cadet at the Military Academy at West Point proved he was more the man of action than a profound thinker, top of his class with the horse and saber, near dead last in mathematics and chemistry. Poor marks, which had rendered him ineligible for a posting in the coveted Corps of Engineers, and fit only for the cavalry. This, though, had suited Jeremy just fine.

He was a tall and slender young man, with green eyes and light brown hair, as agile as a man with a damaged leg could be. Clad in the uniform of a dragoon, he was the picture of a dashing
beau sabreur
. But on the day that he and Delgado went riding, he exchanged the uniform for a suit of brown broadcloth and a pair of brown blucher boots. In place of an officer's shako he wore a plain visored cap. "I will never again wear that uniform," he said with a blend of conviction and regret.

Delgado had wondered how Jeremy would handle the fact that his father's house guest was a citizen of the Republic of Mexico, since another citizen of that same republic had been responsible for shooting the bullet into his leg. But Jeremy, if he made any such connection, displayed no prejudice.

An accomplished horseman in his own right, Delgado had forgotten how much he missed riding until he settled into the saddle cinched to the back of a tall, stockinged bay; he had selected the horse himself out of the for-hire corral at the livery.

"Don't you know that old saying about horses with four stockings?" asked Jeremy, half in jest. "One white foot, buy her. Two white feet, try her. Three white feet, be on the sly. Four white feet, pass her by."

"A quaint saying," replied Delgado, "but there is no truth in it."

The bay proved him right. As soon as they had put St. Louis behind them, Jeremy challenged him to a race—across an open field to a distant line of trees and back to the road. Jeremy's sorrel hunter leaped into an early lead, but Delgado had caught up at the halfway mark, and was a full two lengths out in front by the time they were once again on the road.

Jeremy was gracious in defeat. "I thought about making a little wager on the outcome," he said, laughing. "Glad I didn't. To be honest, I don't put much faith in the old sayings, either."

A mile farther down the lane the forest began to close in—for several miles around, the insatiable appetite of a fast-growing city for timber had virtually denuded the landscape. Delgado wondered aloud why this virgin growth had remained untouched when all else around had fallen prey to the woodsman's axe or double-cut saw.

"This is Blackwood," replied Jeremy. "The Horan plantation. Or, at least, the edge of it. A mile or farther on you will find the fields, and then the main house."

There seemed, mused Delgado wryly, no escaping Brent Horan.

As they rode through the tunnel of sun-speckled green, Jeremy proceeded to tell him what he knew about the Horans, which turned out to be quite a lot. Daniel Horan, Brent's father, had been but one of many Virginian gentlemen to abandon the over-cropped land of the Old Dominion for the rich black soil of the Missouri bottomlands. In a caravan of wagons, trailed by a small herd of livestock, he had brought his wife and two little boys west, along with more than forty slaves and many fine furnishings.

The site Daniel Horan chose for his new beginning was on the bank of a navigable tributary of the Big Muddy, with abundant timber for building and for fuel. Despite the fertility of the land and being financially better off than many of his fellow pioneers, the first years for Daniel Horan had been difficult ones. Even basic supplies had proven hard to get in this as yet untamed land. Fortunately, the forests teemed with game—elk, deer, wild turkey, squirrel, and duck. They were also home to bears, wolves, and panthers, which preyed mercilessly on Horan's livestock.

"Finally," said Jeremy, "one of Horan's field hands was killed by a panther. That put Horan out of pocket eight or nine hundred dollars, so he declared war on the woodland predators. He offered a bounty on animal scalps. Times were hard, and many a frontiersman made ends meet by collecting on that bounty. Naturally, folks in these parts became beholden to Daniel Horan. The buckskinner and the dirt farmer consider him a great man still and won't brook anyone saying otherwise."

Gradually, the wilderness had been subdued. The forest fell to broadax and fire. The ground was broken by the bull plow. The yeoman farmer planted his corn or rye and sometimes even tried his luck with a few acres of tobacco for a little extra cash, while Horan and a handful of other slaveholders, with the benefit of slave labor, cultivated much larger amounts of tobacco, wheat, and hemp. With the profits from his first good year, Horan built a grand manor, importing experienced masons to work the limestone from a nearby quarry. When the manor was finished, he moved his family out of the log blockhouse in which they had been living. But Horan's wife had precious little time to enjoy her newer, more elegant surroundings. A few weeks later, she was bitten by one of the rattlesnakes that infested this country and died the following day.

"His wife's death changed Daniel Horan," said Jeremy grimly. "He became a recluse and a brutal master. Brutal father, too, by all accounts. His eldest son finally could not stand it any longer. He ran away. No one knows for certain what became of him, though I have heard rumors that he is living in Paris now. But the second son stuck it out."

"That would be Brent."

"Right. Do you know him?"

"We've met. On the packet up from New Orleans."

Jeremy smirked. "Brent enjoys his little jaunts to the Crescent City, ostensibly to attend to his father's business affairs. But I think the brothels of the Vieux Carré attract him most of all."