Wreaths of Glory Page 3

  Quantrill had been bragging on the house, on Mrs. Kimbrough’s lovely dress, but now he stopped in midsentence, rising from the leather chair, and bowing at Beans Kimbrough.

  “You clean up nicely.” Quantrill winked. “A man could mistake you for a gentleman.” Quickly he looked at Mrs. Kimbrough. “I jest, ma’am. Your son is well-mannered, well-read, well-schooled. We are proud of him, and his service, but I think we should thank you for all that he is.”

  Alistair’s mouth dropped open. Criminy, Quantrill had just met both of them the other day, and he was speaking like they’d fought Lyon’s Federals together, and then some.

  With a snort, Beans moved across the rug, bowing again at his mother, and sliding into a chair across from Alistair, who happened to catch a glimpse at the pocket Colt revolver the waistcoat couldn’t quite hide.

  “So you taught school, Mister Hart?” Mrs. Kimbrough asked. Quantrill was using the Charley Hart name again.

  “Yes, ma’am. As I was saying, I grew up in Kentucky, but wanderlust took hold of me, and I journeyed West. Thought I would make my pile in Utah, then in Colorado’s gold country, but …”—his head shook—“my piles did not attain much height. So I returned to what I did best, and that is teach school. In Stanton Township. In Lykins County.” He laughed again. “I dare say I have been unable to determine which was more rude, the schoolhouse itself, or the children of Abolitionists that I labored to educate. By and by, I taught in Lawrence, too.”

  “Lawrence?” Beans leaned forward in his chair.

  “As I explained earlier, Benedict, I had my reasons for living amongst Abolitionists and villainy.”

  “I visited Lawrence a few times myself.” Beans winked at his mother, whose face paled.

  “We need not bring up those sordid excursions, Son.” She was standing, determined to return to the kitchen, when the front door opened. Then everyone stood, except Beans, who had found a cigar and busied himself clipping the end.

  “Horatio.” Mrs. Kimbrough hurriedly greeted her husband with a bow, not a kiss, took his silk hat, and left to check on supper. The man dropped a cane in a can in the corner, loosened his tie, and strode across the room to a decanter. He did not speak until he had gulped down two fingers of whiskey.

  “Is that the uniform of the Missouri State Guard?” Mr. Kimbrough asked.

  “Got mustered out.” Beans’ rough language had returned. He struck a match on his boot, and the cigar flared as he began puffing.

  “Well I can imagine.” Horatio Kimbrough set the empty glass on the table, then looked at Alistair and Quantrill. “I did not see your name in the butcher’s bill of dead in the Herald.”

  “To your bitter disappointment, I warrant.”

  Turning away from his son, the father glowered at Alistair and Quantrill. “Were you two mustered out as well?”

  Beans inherited his height from his father—the man had ducked through the threshold—but not his eyes. Horatio Kimbrough’s were darker than a crow, hard and menacing, and, unlike his two raw-boned sons, his arms and chest were stout. The top of his bald head glistened with sweat, but he didn’t seem the type of man Alistair would call a coward. He certainly couldn’t picture this man cowering behind a store’s cash box six days a week.

  “I got paroled,” Alistair stammered. “After I was captured.”

  “And I, Mister Kimbrough, did not have the honor of fighting with General Price at Wilson’s Creek,” Quantrill said coolly. “Still, I am recruiting men to defend Missouri from Yankee tyrants and Kansas jayhawkers.”

  Turning, Mr. Kimbrough snorted and spit into the empty fireplace. “We have nothing to fear from Yankees or Kansans.”

  At this, Quantrill stiffened.

  “What we should fear are the fire-breathers on both sides,” Mr. Kimbrough was saying. “Secession was pure folly. Almost as outrageous as the notion of freeing slaves.”

  Quantrill’s lips pressed tightly, but the mood relaxed as Beans blew smoke toward the ceiling and laughed.

  “How was business at the store today, Pa?”

  Now it was Horatio Kimbrough whose face reddened, but before anyone else could speak, the old Negress entered the parlor, signaling her approach by ringing a silver bell. When she stuck her head through the open door, she announced: “Supper time, gentleman. Miz Miranda say y’all come before it gets cold.”

  * * * * *

  The food was wonderful, but they could have served burned acorns, and Alistair would have thought they tasted better than roast beef with extra gravy. The biscuits weren’t as fluffy as his mother’s, but he couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten chicken that was not mixed with dumplings. Mrs. Kimbrough had brought out gold-rimmed china, and silver, too. Plus, they had a bowl full of fresh-picked peaches for dessert.

  Felt like a prince, Alistair did, dining at a palace.

  No one spoke during supper. Everyone kept quiet like at a prayer meeting. A body could hardly get a word in when the Durants gathered around a table full of victuals. Maybe Quantrill and Mr. Kimbrough were still fuming over their politics. Maybe Beans and his father despised one another, but respected Mrs. Kimbrough enough not to torment her. At least, not at the supper table. Even Darius, Beans’ little brother, who had missed the parlor talk, just stuffed his mouth with food, and never tried needling his brother.

  All of which suited Alistair to a T. He helped himself to three servings, then plucked two peaches from the bowl, and ate. A little hard, not quite ripe, but nothing tasted better than a peach.

  “You are welcome to spend the night,” Mr. Kimbrough said after Mrs. Kimbrough had left and the servants had removed all the plates, leaving only a pot of coffee and three china cups and saucers.

  “Why, thank you, Daddy,” Beans said with a smirk.

  “I speak to your friends,” Mr. Kimbrough said stiffly.

  “But of course.”

  “If you’d like to make yourself useful, you and Darius can see to Mister Hart’s horse. And our stock as well.”

  Beans laughed without humor, looked at his brother, and scraped the legs of his chair on the floor as he rose. “Reckon he’s sendin’ you with me, Darius,” he said, “to make sure I don’t steal no horse.”

  Beans shunned his vest and tie, making sure his father spotted the little revolver, drained his glass of tea, and followed Darius through the side door.

  * * * * *

  It had been a long time since Alistair had slept this late. Last time he took sick, Alistair remembered, had been back home, not counting the dysentery down Springfield way. And he couldn’t ever remember sleeping past 8:00. That, he had to blame on the feathered bed.

  He washed his face, rubbed his teeth with a wet handkerchief, dressed, and hurried downstairs to the smell of fresh coffee.

  “Good morning, Master Durant,” Mrs. Kimbrough said, then began sorting through a tray of silverware. “Dilly, pour him some coffee. Do you take cream? Sugar?” She wasn’t listening, though, for an answer. She stared at the forks and knives and spoons. Shook her head. Started over again, counting out loud.

  The old slave woman, Dilly, waited for Alistair. “Black’s fine,” he said.

  “Gots scones, too,” she said. “Boys ate all the ham, but I can fry more. Eggs, too.”

  “A scone’s aplenty.” His stomach remained full from supper.

  “Mister Hart left already,” Mrs. Kimbrough said. “Wanted to cover some ground before the day turned blessedly hot. Said to tell you good-bye and …” She shook her head. “Dilly … did you or Reginald …?” She let out a sigh of exasperation.

  Dilly was back, placing a plate of scones—more than the one—and a cup of steaming coffee in front of Alistair.

  “Goodness gracious,” Mrs. Kimbrough said. She studied the tray of silver in disbelief.

  Mr. Kimbrough entered the room, dropping two newspapers on the
table, nodding slightly at Alistair.

  “Yes, ma’am?” Dilly asked. She waited. “Miz Miranda?”

  Mrs. Kimbrough blinked absently, not even noticing the slave.

  “Miz Miranda?” Dilly said again.

  Alistair stopped eating. Mr. Kimbrough looked away from the newspapers.

  “What is it?” Mr. Kimbrough demanded.

  That got his wife’s attention. “Oh, it’s … nothing.”

  “It’s that son of yours,” Mr. Kimbrough snapped.

  “No. No, Horatio. I’ve just misplaced some silverware.”

  “And a china cup, Miz Miranda!” the male servant, Reginald, called from the next room.

  “That boy’s a thief!” Mr. Kimbrough roared.

  “Benedict would not steal from his own family.” Beans’ mother defended her son. “No … No. I’ve simply misplaced them.”

  “Fiddlesticks,” Mr. Kimbrough said.

  “I know our son, Horatio.”

  “Then that Charley Hart.” The man’s fists tightened. “I did not care for his looks. Not one iota.”

  “He is a perfect gentleman.”

  Kimbrough yelled for coffee, then found Alistair biting into a scone. “Maybe this boy’s the culprit.”

  “Sir?” Bits of blueberries and bread flew across the table. Alistair blushed, started to wipe up the mess, but Dilly was already seeing to it. She couldn’t hide her grin.

  Slurping coffee, washing down the food but spilling more down the front of his shirt, Alistair managed to say: “I haven’t taken … I didn’t … I … wouldn’t …”

  Reginald brought coffee to Mr. Durant as Beans’ mother tried to fight battles on all fronts: “Horatio, please do not insult our guests. Just eat your breakfast, Master Durant. Dilly, would you look in the pie safe? I know it seems silly, but I just don’t know where I could have put that silver.”

  “Or the coffee cup,” Reginald added.

  “Might have been Charley Hart,” Mr. Kimbrough said. “Explains why he left before first light. But I think it was your son. He’s probably already traded it for grog.”

  “I have simply misplaced everything,” she said, adding, “addled as I am.” That comment appeared to be directed at Mr. Kimbrough.

  “And I certainly do not trust this barefoot brigand from Cass County.”

  Mr. Kimbrough’s dark eyes felt like daggers, but Alistair couldn’t help himself. “Clay County,” he corrected.

  Which caused one of the slaves to stifle a laugh by coughing.

  Luckily Mr. Kimbrough hadn’t heard. His eyes narrowed, and he pointed a spoon at Alistair. “You ate your peach,” he said in a threatening tone, “skin and all.”

  “So did that Mister Hart, Horatio,” his wife reminded.

  All Alistair could do now was stare blankly at the merchant.

  Beans Kimbrough’s pa glanced at the front pages of both newspapers, sipped from his cup, shook his head, and finally trained those mean dark eyes on Alistair.

  “Never trust a man, or boy, who eats the skin of a peach.”

  Seems just plain silly, Alistair thought. He’d never heard of such superstitions. A peach might be fuzzy, but there was nothing wrong eating it. He’d been doing that since he had teeth.

  Time to skedaddle. Alistair wished he hadn’t slept so late. Wanted to know why he’d ever lit out with Beans Kimbrough and William Quantrill.

  “Well, I should be taking my leave,” Alistair announced. “I have a long way to walk home.”

  “Young man, you finish your coffee,” Mrs. Kimbrough said. “Dilly, pack Master Durant a sack. Cheese. Crackers. The rest of the scones. They’ll just get moldy here. Some ham, too. And peaches. Skin and all!”

  “You needn’t …”

  “Hush up.” She stared again at the tray of silver, pursing her lips, unable to comprehend what had happened to those missing utensils.

  “I’ll check that bag on his way out the door,” Mr. Kimbrough said without looking up. “No telling what else of ours might find its way out of our front door.” He didn’t appear to be joking.

  All Alistair could do was shake his head, and let out a mirthless chuckle. He expected a similar welcome home from his own father.

  Chapter Four

  If he lived twice as long as Methuselah, he’d never figure out Able Gideon Durant. Here Alistair came home, having lost his shotgun to the Yanks, after sneaking out in the middle of the night, hightailing it all the way down to Jefferson City to enlist. Here he came, barefoot and blistered, sweaty and stinking to high heaven, and the first person he saw on the farm was his pa.

  Here came his father, dropping the hoe in the garden, leaping over the split-rail fence, tossing off his battered straw hat, yelling at the dogtrot cabin for Ma and the sisters to hurry out and fetch a pitcher of well water. Pa, who Alistair considered the only Union man living in Clay County, put those thick arms on Alistair’s shoulders, and pulled him close. Practically crushed the breath out of his lungs, then pushed him away an arm’s length, saying: “Let me get a look at you … but … tarnation, I must got dirt in my eyes.”

  Ma and his sisters had nothing in their eyes. Nothing but tears. Portia and Roberta, the two youngest, stood back hugging each other, Portia saying, “I told you he wasn’t killed,” and Roberta, wiping her eyes, muttering something Alistair couldn’t quite hear. Cally, by all rights an old maid two years Alistair’s senior, wiped her hands on her apron, alternately nodding while shaking her head, letting the tears cut rivers through the dirt on her face. Then there was his mother, Persis, bawling like a newborn, wetting his cheeks with kisses, and practically cracking all the ribs his father hadn’t squashed.

  Over his mother’s sobs, he could make out part of his kid sisters’ conversation.

  “I never thought he was dead.”

  “Did, too.”

  “No. Just that Tommy Cobb said he heard Frank James say he saw our brother dead on the battlefield.”

  “Tommy Cobb used to live in Chicago. You can’t trust what no boy from Chicago says.”

  What does Tommy Cobb know? Alistair thought. Tommy hadn’t joined the Missouri State Guard. Far as Alistair knew, Tommy was still clearing fields along Shoal Creek. Frank James had been there, but, like Alistair, was sicker than a dog when the battle commenced. Measles, he thought. Maybe mumps. Frank, who lived on a farm about five miles closer to Centerville, had seen as much action in battle as Alistair had. Last he’d seen of Frank, he was still sick, waiting his parole from the Yankees.

  Pa told Roberta and Portia to hush up, and Ma kept muttering: “God be praised. God be praised. God be praised.”

  When she pulled away, Persis Durant touched her trembling lips, then put the back of her hand on Alistair’s cheeks. “Lands sake,” she said, “I believe you need a razor.”

  “Ma,” Alistair said, “I’m seventeen years old.”

  Smiling, his father ran his hand on Alistair’s other cheek. “You’re two months passed sixteen, son, but I dare say Persis is right. You do need a shave.”

  “What he needs,” Cally said, “is a bath. And them clothes burnt.”

  Which was just like Cally.

  * * * * *

  “I’m not a Republican, Son. Doubt if you’d find any Republican in Missouri this side of Saint Louis. Voted for Stephen Douglas, I did. Thought he could keep a lid on things. But now …” His head shook wearily. “The Little Giant himself is dead. Much like the Union itself, I fear.”

  Freshly washed—even behind his ears—and wearing clean duck trousers and a homespun shirt, Alistair stared in disbelief. He hadn’t heard of Stephen Douglas’ death. Hadn’t heard anything much since joining the Confederate militia in June. They were sitting outside for supper. Too blasted hot to eat indoors, but the table had been set with Davenport ironstone, not tin, as well as store-bought sugar, things u
sually reserved for Christmas and Easter, or when Grandma Agnes visited from Gallatin.

  “You understand,” Able Durant went on, “that I oppose Secession. Always have. I remember joining up with a militia in Kentucky before we moved west, and I remember saluting the Kentucky flag and the Stars and Stripes. Hanged if I’ll ever fire on that flag, Son.”

  “We’re glad you didn’t,” his mother interjected.

  “I didn’t do much of anything,” Alistair said.

  “But you stood your ground.” Able Durant’s head nodded firmly. “Did what you thought right. That’s what a father wants from his son. Persis, pass our son some more peas.”

  Right? Alistair didn’t know if he thought the Confederacy was right. He had joined up because he figured war would be some adventure. Certainly the idea of battle and glory seemed a whole lot more appealing that hoeing fields, digging potatoes, and shucking corn. About the only thing that satisfied Alistair was working horses, which reminded him. After his mother had filled his empty plate with more peas, he leaned back in his chair, and stared at the corral.

  “How’s that black mare coming …?” He didn’t finish. The front legs of the chair fell forward, and he almost shot to his feet. “Where’s?”

  “Jayhawkers,” his father said.

  “You mean redlegs,” Cally said with contempt.

  “Same thing,” Able Durant muttered. “Come by when I was in Centerville one eve. Took the black, took all the horses.”

  His mother shook her head. “Rode off with three of your pa’s best Poland Chinas.”

  Roberta added: “Even took a crock of honey.”

  “Said we was lucky,” Portia said, “’cause they was leaving us the house and barn.”

  Alistair held the butter knife in his hands, gripping the handle so hard his knuckles whitened. He felt his entire body trembling. When at last he released the knife, letting it drop to the table, his eyes found his father. “But you’re not a Secesh. And there are no slaves here to be stolen.”