Preacher's Peace (9 page)

It was just before sunrise, and in the east the sky was pearl-gray, laced with streaks of pink. The Mississippi River was glowing a silver-blue, as if it had its own internal source of light. Roosters were crowing, and in the backyard of a nearby house a cow bawled to be milked.

Although Art had told everyone to be in front of Ashley's place by sunup, they all arrived even before the sun rose. Art, who had picked out his livestock the night before, now saddled his horse, then checked the harness on his pack mules. Neither of his mules was heavily loaded now, as they were carrying only the supplies he would need for the winter, as well as some trading material for the Indians. Ashley had furnished a goodly amount of trade goods, so much that these items were equally distributed among all the mules in the party.

After Art checked his own animals, he went down the line looking at the others, and meeting the men who would be traveling with him.

“What's Ashley doing, giving the Indians all this stuff?” McDill asked as he worked on his animals. “We give them all this stuff this time, they're going to expect it every time. And if we show up empty-handed, there's going to be hell to pay.”

“Yeah,” Caviness replied. He too was working on the loads of his mules. “If we had any kind of leader, he'd tell Ashley what a fool he's makin' of himself.”

Art knew that McDill and Caviness were talking for his benefit, but he paid no attention to them. Instead, he just looked over the harness and the load. The loads were skillfully packed, evidence that McDill and Caviness knew the business. Art hoped he would have no more trouble with them.

Third in line was Don Montgomery, followed by Joe Matthews. Montgomery and Matthews were first cousins, about twenty-two years old. They were a little green, but they seemed willing enough. Last was Herman Hoffman. Hoffman was a big Hessian, and at fifty, the oldest of the group. Hoffman had fought in the Napoleonic Wars, and any misgivings Art might have had about whether or not Hoffman would follow a much younger man were dispelled when Hoffman spoke. Hoffman was a military man, used to the structure of command, and in his mind, Art was his commander, pure and simple.

“Have you been trapping before?” Art asked.

“Nein,”
Hoffman said. He held out his large, rough hands. “But I am strong and good worker. I will do what you tell me and I think all will be fine.”

Art smiled. “I think all will be fine as well.”

Looking down the street, Art saw William Ashley moving toward them, having walked up from his home. Although the sun had not yet risen, there was enough light for Art to recognize him from some distance away. Reaching the group, Ashley lit his pipe before he spoke.

“Well, Art, you have your party together, I see. Have you met all of them?”

“Yes. McDill, Caviness, and the others.”

Ashley chuckled. “Yes, I heard about your little run-in with those two last night. But from what I hear, you handled it very well. I don't think you'll be having any more trouble from those two. And they are good trappers. I probably would have had one of them lead the group if you had refused. It's just that they . . . well, you saw how they are last night. And this is as much a peacemaking trip as anything else. After what happened last winter, I don't think I could trust either one of them to make a lasting peace with the Indians.”

“No, I wouldn't think that very likely,” Art agreed.

Ashley took a letter from his pocket and handed it to Art. “This is a letter to Joe Walker,” he explained. “Joe is in command of a fort built by the American Fur Company. We may be competitors in business, but they'll have as much an interest in having peace with the Indians as we do, so I reckon Joe will treat you all right when you get there. Also, if you need to replenish any of your supplies, this letter promises that I'll make it good to them.”

“Thanks,” Art said, taking the letter and putting it into his saddle pouch.

By now several early-rising St. Louis citizens had turned out to watch the departure. While this was neither the first, nor would it be the last fur-trapping party to leave the city, it was the largest and it was being sent out by William Ashley, the most important fur trader in St. Louis.

“Sun's up,” Art said, looking across the river. “I expect we'd best be going.”

“Good luck to you, Art,” Ashley said, reaching out to shake Art's hand. Then he called to the others. “Good luck, good trapping, all you men!”

“Mount up!” Art commanded as he swung into his saddle. Twisting around, he waited until Hoffman, the last man, was mounted. “All right, let's go!” He waved the party forward.

The convoy of eighteen horses, six men, and one dog stretched out for nearly a block as Art led them forward. He planned to go north to the Missouri River, then turn and follow that river all the way to its head.

* * *

From her bedroom window on the second floor of her house, Jennie watched Art and the others leave. She had thought he might come to her again last night, hoped that he would, and purposely turned away customers so she would be ready for him. But he didn't show.

When she finally realized, well after midnight, that Art wasn't going to come see her again, she was angry and hurt. But as she considered it, the anger and hurt left, to be replaced by a terrible sense of sorrow and longing for what she knew could never be.

“Oh, Art,” she said quietly. “Why couldn't we have met at another time and another place—you a farmer, and I an innocent young girl?”

“Miss Jennie?” one of her working girls called from downstairs. “Miss Jennie, will you be coming down to breakfast?”

“Yes, Lily, I'll be right there,” Jennie called back. Before she turned away from the window, she kissed her fingers and blew the kiss toward Art, who was now so far up the street that she could barely see him.

“Go with God, dear Art,” she said quietly.

* * *

The River Bank of St. Louis had assets of nearly one million dollars, and that figure was proudly displayed on the front window of the building. In keeping with its success, the bank occupied one of the most substantial buildings in St. Louis. Built of brick and stone and iron grillwork, it sat squarely on the corner of Fourth and Market.

Although the bank was owned by a consortium of St. Louis businessmen, it was managed by its chief teller, Theodore Epson, a New Yorker who had been hired by the Board when the bank was opened. Epson arrived every morning exactly one hour before the bank opened. During that quiet hour, he would go over all the transactions from the day before, often finding a mistake one of his tellers had made.

Epson enjoyed finding mistakes, because it gave him an opportunity to berate the hapless teller who made it. It also gave him a sense of self-satisfaction and reinforced his personal belief that, without him, the bank would fall into insolvency.

One of the most difficult tasks Epson had was in controlling the loans granted by the bank. It seemed that every board member had a close, personal friend who had fallen into financial difficulty and could survive if only they could secure a loan. Epson tried to explain to the board member concerned that the bank was not in the business of lending money to help people, but was in the business of lending money to make more money.

On the other hand, a few of the board members were after him to deny some of the more solvent loans. One example was the mortgage note the bank held on the House of Flowers. Mrs. Abernathy and her Women's Auxiliary League for the Betterment of St. Louis had done their job well, and now there were many St. Louis citizens protesting against Jenny and her House of Flowers. There were many who wanted Jenny's note called and her loan terminated, because they considered her business to be unsavory.

“Unsavory it might be,” Epson told them. “But it is certainly a profitable business. Would that all our accounts paid as promptly as the House of Flowers.”

Closing the book of yesterday's transactions, Epson checked the Terry clock that stood against the wall, and saw that it was less than a half minute until time to open. He walked over to the front door, raised the shade, and saw several people standing just outside the door. The man first in line expected Epson to open the door at that precise moment, but it wasn't yet time. Epson remained standing behind the glass, staring at the clock.

“Let us in, Epson! It's time to open the door!” someone shouted.

Holding up his finger, Epson shook his head, indicating that it was not yet time. As the crowd grew more frustrated, Epson continued to stare at the clock. The moment the minute hand reached the twelve, the clock began to chime. Then, and only then, did Epson reach for the door.

“Well, it's about time!” one of the customers said, his irritation clear in the tone of his voice.

“You know the hours, Mr. Warren,” Epson said. “Our bank opens its doors promptly at nine o'clock. Not one minute sooner and not one minute later.”

The customers poured into the bank, then hurried to the two teller cages. Epson watched with a sense of smug satisfaction, then returned to his desk. He had been there for no more than five minutes when William Ashley arrived. Stepping inside the bank, Ashley looked around for a moment, then came straight to Epson's desk.

“Mr. Epson, I wonder if I might have a word with you?” Ashley said.

“Certainly, Mr. Ashley,” Epson replied, standing to greet him. “It is always a pleasure to greet one of our fair city's most powerful businessmen. How are you doing, sir?”

“I'm doing fine, Epson,” Ashley said.

Epson's eyes squinted and he continued the conversation in a somewhat more guarded tone. “I must say I'm a little surprised to see you, though. I've been given to understand that you have started your own bank for the fur trappers.”

Ashley shook his head in the negative. “Not at all,” he said. “All I'm doing is keeping some of my trappers' earned income on the books for them.”

“Isn't that what a bank does?”

“I suppose. But I'm only doing it as a favor for my trappers. Most of them don't like to carry any more money than they need.”

“Nobody does,” Epson said. “That's what banks are for. You could steer some of your accounts our way, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” Ashley replied. “And I fully intend to, over a period of time.”

“Really?” Epson asked, brightening. “So, have you brought me a deposit today?”

“Not a deposit, but a payment.”

“A payment? I don't understand. A payment for what? You don't have a loan here.”

“It isn't for me. It is for one of your customers. It's more than a payment, actually. I intend to pay off the entire mortgage.”

“Why would you pay off someone else's mortgage” Epson asked. He frowned. “Wait a minute. Have you made the loan yourself? That's it, isn't it? You're paying off the loan because you have made it yourself. You
are
going into banking.”

“No. All I'm doing is paying off the loan on behalf of an interested party.”

“I see. And what loan are you paying off?”

“I'm paying off the loan on the House of Flowers.”

“You are paying off the whore's loan?

“Yes.”

“I don't understand. Why would you do such a thing?”

“I assure you, sir, I am not paying the loan from my own funds. I am doing so on behalf of an interested party. He doesn't want this Miss Jennie to know that he is doing it.”

Epson stroked his jaw as he studied Ashley. “Are you saying that she doesn't know her loan is being paid off?”

“That's right.”

“I am curious. Who is her benefactor? Some businessman in town?”

“I don't believe I'm at liberty to say who it is,” Ashley said. “I wasn't told that I couldn't tell, but I wasn't given permission to tell either. Therefore I feel ethically bound to keep his identity a secret.”

“Ha!” Espson said. “I was right, wasn't I? It is some local businessman. And of course he would come through someone else, if he wanted it kept secret. Like as not, it's one of the same men who, in public, call for that house to be closed, while in private, are her biggest supporters. Who is it? The mayor?”

“I told you . . . I don't believe I'm at liberty to say. It doesn't matter anyway. All I intend to do is pay off the note. Now, are you going to accept the money, or what?”

“Yes, yes, of course I'll accept the money.”

* * *

Later that same afternoon, Jennie herself called at the bank. Seeing her the moment she stepped through the door, Epson went over to meet her.

“Yes, Miss Jennie,” he said. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I wonder if we could speak in private for a few moments?” Jennie asked.

“Yes, of course we can. Come over here to my desk. We can talk there without being overheard.”

There were no other women in the bank, but there were several men customers, most of whom knew who Jennie was, many of whom had been paying customers at the House of Flowers. It would have been easy to pick out the ones who were the customers, for while the others stared at Jennie in unabashed curiosity, her customers looked away pointedly, pretending as if they didn't even see her.

Epson led Jenny through the gate of the small, fenced-in area that surrounded his desk. He offered her a chair, then sat as well.

“Now, Miss Jennie, what is it that we can only discuss in private?”

“Recently, some people have been attempting to close down my business,” Jennie said.