Bradley Denton - The Territory

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The Territory

Bradley Denton

1993

Sam came awake and sat up choking. His chest was as tight as if wrapped in steel cables, and his heart

was trying to hammer its way out. He gulped a breath and coughed. The air in the abandoned barn was

thick with dust. There was just enough light for him to see the swirling motes.

A few feet away, the skinny form of Fletcher Taylor groaned and rose on one elbow. "What the hell's

wrong?" he asked.

"Shut the hell up," the man on the other side ofTaylor said.

"You go to hell,"Taylor snapped.

"Go to hell yourself."

"Let me sleep, or I'll send you all to hell," another man said.

"The hell you will."

"The hell I won't."

Taylorshook a finger at Sam. "See all the hell you've raised?"

Sam put on the new slouch hat thatTaylor had given him, pulled on his boots, and stood, picking up the

leather saddlebags he'd been using as a pillow. "I'm sorry as hell," he said, and left the barn, trying not to

kick more than four or five of the other men on his way out.

The light was better outside, but the sun had not yet risen. Sam closed his left nostril with a finger and

blew through his right, then closed his right nostril and blew through his left, trying to clear his head of

dust. The ground was dry. The thunderheads that had formed the night before had rolled by without

dropping enough rain to fill a teacup. He could have slept outside, in clean air, and been fine. As it was,

his head ached. This wasn't the first night he had spent in a barn or corn crib since leaving the river, but

he still wasn't used to it. At three months shy of twenty-eight, he feared that he was already too old for

this kind of life.

Most of the camp was still asleep, but a few men were building fires and boiling chicory. One of them

gestured to Sam to come on over, but Sam shook his head and pointed at the sycamore grove that

served as the camp latrine. The other man nodded.

Sam went into the trees, and within twenty steps the smells of chicory and smoke were overwhelmed by

the smell caused by two hundred men all doing their business in the same spot over the course of a week.

It was even worse than usual this morning, because the leaders of other guerrilla bands had brought

some of their own men into camp the day before. But at least Sam had the grove to himself for now.

When he had finished his business, he continued eastward through the grove until the stench faded and

the trees thinned. Then he sat down with his back against the bole of a sycamore and opened one of his

saddlebags. He removed his Colt Navy revolver and laid it on the ground beside him, then took out a

pen, a bottle of ink, and the deerhide pouch that held his journal. He slid the notebook from the pouch

and flipped pages until he reached a blank sheet, then opened the ink bottle, dipped his pen, and began

to write.

Tuesday, August 11, 1863:

I have had the same dream again, or I should say, another variation thereof. This time when I reached

the dead man, I discovered that his face was that of my brother Henry. Then I awoke with the thought

that it was my fault that Henry was on board thePennsylvania when she blew, which in turn led to the

thought that I was an idiot to ask a young and unsure physician to give him morphine.

But I would have been on the Pennsylvania as well had it not been for the malice of a certain William

Brown, perhaps the only man caught in that storm of metal, wood, and steam who received what he

deserved. As for the morphine, Dr. Peyton himself instructed me to ask the night doctor to give Henry an

eighth of a grain should he become restless. If the doctor administered too much, the fault was his, not

mine.

I see by my words that I have become hard. But five years have passed since that night inMemphis , and

I have seen enough in those years that the hours I spent at Henry's deathbed do not seem so horrific now

-- or, at least, they do not seem so during my waking hours.

A pistol shot rang out back at camp and was followed by the shouted curses of men angry at having

been awakened. Someone had killed a rat or squirrel, and might soon wish that he'd let the creature live

to gnaw another day. These once-gentleMissouri farmboys had become as mean as bobcats. They

generally saved their bullets for Bluebellies, but didn't mind using their fists and boots on each other.

The dream seems more pertinent, Sam continued, on those nights when the man's face is that of Orion.

Orion was as intolerable a scold as any embittered crone, and a Republican crone at that -- but he was

my brother, and it might have been in my power to save him.

Sam paused, rolling the pen between his fingers. He looked up from the paper and stared at the

brightening eastern sky until his eyes stung. Then he dipped the pen and resumed writing.

It is as fresh and awful in my memory as if it had happened not two years ago, but two days ago.

I could have fought the Red Legs, as Orion and our companions tried to do. I had a Smith & Wesson

seven-shooter. If I had used it, I would have either preserved Orion's life, or fallen beside him. Either

result would have been honorable.

But I faltered. When the moment came, I chose to surrender, and handed over my pistol -- which one of

the Red Legs laughed at, saying he was glad I had not fired the weapon, for to be struck with a ball from

its barrel might give one a nasty welt.

Then, as if to prove his point, he turned it on the driver, and on the conductor, and on Mr. Bemis, and

on my brother.

As Orion lay dying, the Red Leg attempted to shoot me as well. But the pistol misfired, and I ran. Two

of the Red Legs caught me and took my watch, but then let me go, saying that killing a Missourian the

likes of me would not be so advantageous to their cause as letting me live.

I continued to run like the coward I had already proven myself to be.

Sam paused again. His hand was shaking, and he didn't think he would be able to read the jagged

scrawl of what he had just written. But he would always know what the words said.

He rubbed his forehead with his wrist, then turned the notebook page and dipped his pen.

I could not have saved Henry. But Orion would be alive today, safe inNevadaTerritory , had I been a

man. And I would be there with him instead of here atBlue Springs ; I would be thriving in the mountains

of the West instead of sweltering in the chaos ofWestern Missouri .

I have remained inMissouri to pay for my sin, but in two years have had no success in doing so. Perhaps

now that I have come toJacksonCounty and fallen in with the Colonel's band, my luck will change.

When this war began, I served with my own county's guerrilla band, the Marion Rangers, for three

weeks. But there the actual need for bushwhacking was about as substantial as an owl's vocabulary. That

was before I had crossed the state, enteredKansas , and encountered the Red Legs. That was before I

had seen my brother shot down as if he were a straw target.

I have not had a letter from Mother, Pamela, or Mollie in several weeks, although I have written to each

of them as often as I can. I do not know whether this means that they have disowned me, or whether

their letters are not reachingIndependence . I intend to go up to investigate once this coming business is

completed, assuming that it does not complete me in the process.

Sam laid the journal on the ground and wiped his ink-stained fingers on the grass. Then he peered into

the ink bottle and saw that it was almost empty. He decided not to buy more until he was sure he would

live long enough to use it.

The sun had risen and was a steady heat on Sam's face. The day was going to be hot. Another shot rang

out back at camp, and this time it was followed by yips and hollers. The boys were up and eager.

Sam slid his journal into its pouch, then returned it and the other items to the saddlebag. He stood,

stretched, and walked back to Colonel Quantrill's camp.

As he emerged from the sycamores, Sam saw fifty or sixty of his fellow bushwhackers clustered before

Quantrill's tent. The tent was open, and the gathered men, although keeping a respectful distance, were

trying to see and hear what was going on inside. Fletcher Taylor was standing at the rear of the cluster,

scratching his sparse beard.

"'Morning, Fletch," Sam said as he approached. "Sleep well?"

Taylorgave him a narrow-eyed glance. "Rotten, thanks to you."

"Well, you're welcome."

"Be quiet. I'm trying to hear."

"Hear what?"

"You know damn well what. The Colonel's planning a raid. Most of the boys are betting it'll beKansas

City , but my money's onLawrence ."

Sam nodded. "The story I hear is that the Colonel's wanted to teachJim Lane and Lawrence a lesson

ever since he lived there himself."

A man standing in front ofTaylor turned to look at them. "I'd like to teachJim Lane a lesson too," he said,

"but I'm not crazy and neither's the Colonel. Lawrenceis forty miles inside the border, and the Bluebellies

are likely to be as thick as flies on a dead possum. It'd be like putting our pistols to our own heads."

"Maybe," Sam said.

The man raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, maybe? You know something I don't?"

Sam shrugged and said nothing. Two nights before, in a dream, he had seen Colonel Quantrill

surrounded by a halo of fire, riding intoLawrence before a band of shooting, shouting men. He had

known the town wasLawrence because all of its inhabitants had looked like the caricatures he had seen

ofSenator Jim Lane and had worn red pants. Sam had learned to trust his dreams when they were as

clear as that. Several days before thePennsylvania had exploded, a dream had shown him Henry lying in

a coffin; and before he and Orion had leftSt. Joseph , a dream had shown him Orion lying dead in the

dust. But it wouldn't do to talk of his dreams with the other bushwhackers. Most of them seemed to think

that Sam Clemens was odd enough as it was, hoarding perfectly good ass-wiping paper just so he could

write on it.

"Well, you're wrong," the man said, taking Sam's shrug as a statement. "Kansas City's got it coming just

as bad, and there's places for a man to hide when he's done."

Taylorlooked thoughtful. "I see your point," he said. "Calling onSenator Lane would be one thing, but

coming home from the visit might be something else."

Sam stayed quiet. It didn't matter what the others thought now. They would mold bullets and make

cartridges until they were told where to shoot them, and they'd be just as happy to shoot them in

Lawrence as anywhere else -- happier, since most of the jayhawkers and Red Legs who had robbed

them, burned them out of their homes, killed their brothers, and humiliated their women had either hailed

from Lawrence or pledged their allegiance to Jim Lane. And if Quantrill could pull several guerrilla bands

together under his command, he would have enough men both to raidLawrence and to whip the Federals

on the way there and back.

Captain George Todd emerged from the tent and squinted in the sunlight. He was a tall, blond,

square-jawed man whom some of the men worshipped even more than they did Quantrill. He was

wearing a blue jacket he'd taken from a dead Union lieutenant.

"Hey, cap'n, where we going?" someone called out.

Todd gave the men a stern look. "I doubt we'll be going anywhere if you boys keep standing around like

sick sheep when there's guns to be cleaned and bridles to be mended."

The men groaned, but began to disperse.

"FletchTaylor !" Todd yelled. "Wherever you are, get your ass in here!" He turned and went back into

the tent.

Sam nudgedTaylor . "Now, what would a fine leader of men like George Todd be wanting with a

lowdown thief like you?" he asked.

Taylorsneered. "Well, he told me to keep my eyes open for Yankee spies," he said, "so I reckon he'll be

wanting me to give him your name." He started for the tent.

"I'm not worried!" Sam called after him. "He'll ask you to spell it, and you'll be stumped!"

Taylorentered the tent, and someone pulled the flaps closed. Sam stood looking at the tent for a moment

longer, then struck off across camp in search of breakfast. Why Quantrill and the other guerrilla leaders

were taking so long to form their plans, and why they were keeping the men in the dark, he couldn't

imagine. There shouldn't be any great planning involved in striking a blow at Lawrence and the Red Legs:

Ride in hard, attack the Red Legs' headquarters and the Union garrison like lightning, and then ride out

again, pausing long enough to set fire toJim Lane 's house to pay him back for the dozens ofMissouri

houses he'd burned himself.

As for keeping the rank-and-file bushwhackers ignorant . . . well, there were about as many Yankee

spies among Quantrill's band as there were fish in the sky. Sam had talked to over a hundred of these

men, and all of them had lost property or family to abolitionist raiders of one stripe or another. Sam had

even spoken with one man whose brother had been killed by John Brown in 1856, and who still longed

for vengeance even though John Brown was now as dead as a rock.

Vengeance could be a long time coming, as Sam well knew. In the two years since Orion's murder, he

had yet to kill a single Federal soldier, let alone one of the marauding Kansas Red Legs. It wasn't for lack

of trying, though. He had fired countless shots at Bluebellies, but always at a distance or in the dark. He

had never hit anything besides trees and the occasional horse.

Sam had a breakfast of fatty bacon with three young brothers who were fromRallsCounty south

ofHannibal and who therefore considered him a kinsman. He ate their food, swapped a fewEast Missouri

stories, and promised to pay them back with bacon of his own as soon as he had some. Then he

shouldered his saddlebags again and walked to the camp's makeshift corral to see after his horse, Bixby.

Bixby was a swaybacked roan gelding who had been gelded too late and had a mean disposition as a

result. The horse also seemed to think that he knew better than Sam when it came to picking a travel

route, or when it came to deciding whether to travel at all. Despite those flaws, however, Sam had no

plans to replace Bixby. He thought that he had the horse he deserved.

Sam tried to give Bixby a lump of hard brown sugar from one of his saddlebags, but Bixby ignored it

and attempted to bite Sam's shoulder.

"Sometimes I think you forget," Sam said, slapping Bixby on the nose, "that I am the man who freed you

from your bondage to an abolitionist."

Bixby snorted and stomped, then tried to bite Sam's shoulder again.

"Clemens!" a voice called.

Sam turned and saw that the voice belonged to one of theRallsCounty boys who had fed him breakfast.

"The Colonel wants you at the tent!" the boy shouted.

Sam was astonished. Except for his friendship with Fletch Taylor, he was less than a nobody in the

band. Not only was he a new arrival, but it was already obvious that he was the worst rider, the worst

thief, and the worst shot. MaybeTaylor really had told Todd and Quantrill that he was a Yankee spy.

"Better come quick!" the boy yelled.

Sam waved. "I'll be right -- God damn son of a bitch!"

Bixby had succeeded in biting him. Sam whirled and tried to slug the horse in the jaw with the

saddlebags, but Bixby jerked his head up and danced away.

Sam rubbed his shoulder and glared at Bixby. "Save some for the Red Legs, why don't you," he said.

Then he ducked under the corral rope and hurried to Quantrill's tent. He remembered to remove his hat

before going inside.

William Clarke Quantrill leaned back, his left leg crossed over his right, in a polished oak chair behind a

table consisting of three planks atop two sawhorses. He wore a white embroidered "guerrilla shirt,"

yellow breeches, and black cavalry boots. He gave a thin smile as Sam approached the table. Above his

narrow upper lip, his mustache was a straight reddish-blond line. His eyelids drooped, but his blue-gray

eyes probed Sam with a gaze as piercing as a bayonet. Sam stopped before the table and clenched his

muscles so he wouldn't shudder. His own eyes, he had just realized, were of much the same color as

Quantrill's.

"You've only been with us since June, Private Clemens," Quantrill said in a flat voice, "and yet it seems

that you have distinguished yourself. Corporal Taylor tells me you saved his life a few weeks ago."

Sam looked at Fletch Taylor, who was standing at his left. Taylorappeared uncomfortable under Sam's

gaze, so Sam looked past him at some of the other men in the tent. He recognized the guerrilla leaders

Bill Gregg and Andy Blunt, but several of the others were strangers to him.

"Well, sir," Sam said to Quantrill, "I don't know that I did. My horse was being cantankerous and

brought me in on an abolitionist's house about two hundred feet behind and to one side of Fletch and the

other boys, so I happened to see a man hiding up a tree."

"He was aiming a rifle at Corporal Taylor, I understand," Quantrill said.

"Yes, sir, that's how it looked," Sam said. "So I hollered and took a shot at him."

"And that was his undoing."

Sam twisted the brim of his hat in his hands. "Actually, sir," he said, "I believe that I missed by fourteen

or fifteen feet."

Quantrill uncrossed his legs and stood. "But you diverted the ambusher's attention. According to

Corporal Taylor, the ambusher then fired four shots at you, one of which took your hat from your head,

before he was brought down by a volley from your comrades. Meanwhile you remained steadfast, firing

your own weapon without flinching, even though the entire focus of the enemy's fire was at yourself."

Sam licked his lips and said nothing. The truth was that he had been stiff with terror -- except for his

right hand, which had been cocking and firing the Colt, and his left foot, which had been kicking Bixby in

the ribs in an effort to make the horse wheel and run. But Bixby, who seemed to be deaf as far as gunfire

was concerned, had been biting a crabapple from a tree and had not cared to move. The horse's position

had blocked the other bushwhackers' view of Sam's left foot.

Quantrill put his hands on the table and leaned forward. "That was a brave and noble act, Private

Clemens," he said.

A stretch of silence followed until Sam realized that he was expected to say something. "Thank, thank

you, Colonel," he stammered. It was well known that Quantrill liked being called "Colonel."

"You understand, of course," Quantrill said, "that in the guerrilla service we have no formal honors.

However, as the best reward of service is service itself, I'm promoting you to corporal and ordering you

to reconnoiter the enemy in the company of Corporal Taylor."

"And a nigger," someone on Sam's right said. The voice was low, ragged, and angry.

Sam turned toward the voice and saw the most fearsome man he had ever seen in his life. The man wore

a Union officer's coat with the insignia torn off, and a low- crowned hat with the brim turned up. His

brown hair was long and shaggy, and his beard was the color of dirt. His face was gaunt, and his eyes,

small and dark, glowered. He wore a wide-buckled belt with two pistols jammed into it. A scalp hung

from the belt on each side of the buckle.

George Todd, standing just behind this man, placed a hand on his shoulder. "I don't much like it either,

Bill, but Quantrill's right. A nigger's the perfect spy."

The seated man shook Todd's hand away. "Perfect spy, my hairy ass. You can't trust a nigger any more

than you can trust Abe Lincoln."

Quantrill looked at the man without blinking. "That concern is why I'm sending two white men as well --

one that I trust, and one that he in turn trusts. Don't you agree that two white men can keep one nigger

under control, Captain Anderson?"

Anderson met Quantrill's gaze with a glare. "I have three sisters in prison in Kansas City for the simple

act of remaining true to their brother's cause," he said. "I do not believe they would care to hear that their

brother agreed to send a nigger to fight in that same cause, particularly knowing the treachery of which

that race is capable."

Quantrill smiled. "As for sending a nigger to fight, I'm doing no such thing just yet. I'm sending him as a

spy and as a guarantee of safe conduct for two brave sons of Missouri. No Kansan is likely to assault

white men traveling with a free nigger. As for treachery, well, I assure you that John Noland has proven

his loyalty. He's killed six Yankee soldiers and delivered their weapons to me. I trust him as much as I

would a good dog, and have no doubt that he will serve Corporals Taylor and Clemens as well as he has

me." The Colonel looked about the tent. "Gentlemen, we've been jawing about this enterprise for

twenty-four hours. I suggest that it's now time to stop jawing and begin action. If you never risk, you

never gain. Are there any objections?"

No one spoke. Anderson spat into the dirt, but then looked at Quantrill and shook his head.

"Very well," said Quantrill. "Captains Anderson and Blunt will please gather your men and communicate

with me by messenger when your forces are ready." He nodded to Taylor. "Corporal, you're to return no

later than sundown next Monday. So you'd best be on your way."

Sam made a noise in his throat. "Sir? On our way where?"

Quantrill turned to Sam. "Kansas Territory," he said. "Corporal Taylor has the particulars. You're

dismissed."

Sam didn't need to be told twice. He left the tent, picked up his saddlebags where he'd dropped them

outside, and then ran into the sycamore grove.

Taylor caught up with him in the trees. "You should have saluted, Sam," he said. "It's important to show

the Colonel proper respect."

Sam unbuttoned his pants. His head was beginning to ache again. "I have plenty of respect for the

Colonel," he said. "I have plenty of respect for all of them. If they were to cut me open, I'd probably

bleed respect. Now get away and let a man piss in peace."

Taylor sighed. "All right. Get your horse saddled as soon as you can. I'll find Noland and meet you north

of the tent. You know Noland?"

"No. But since I've only seen one man of the Negro persuasion in camp, I assume that's him."

"You assume correctly." Taylor started to turn away, then looked back again. "By the way, we were

right. We're going to Lawrence. You and I are to count the Bluebellies in the garrison, and -- "

"I know what a spy does, Fletch," Sam said.

Taylor turned away. "Hurry up, then. We have some miles to cover." He left the grove.

Sam emptied his bladder and buttoned his pants, then leaned against a tree and retched until he brought

up most of the bacon he'd had for breakfast.

"Kansas Territory," Quantrill had said. There had been no sarcasm in his voice. Kansas had been

admitted to the Union over two and a half years before, but none of the bushwhackers ever referred to it

as a state. In their opinion, its admission to the Union as a free state had been an illegal act forced upon

its residents by fanatical jayhawkers. Sooner or later, though, those house-burning, slave-stealing

jayhawkers would be crushed, and Kansas Territory would become what it was meant to be: a state

governed by Southern men who knew what was right.

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摘要：

TheTerritory BradleyDenton 1993 Samcameawakeandsatupchoking. Hischestwasastightasifwrappedinsteelcables,andhisheartwastryingtohammeritswayout. Hegulpedabreathandcoughed. Theairintheabandonedbarnwasthickwithdust. Therewasjustenoughlightforhimtoseetheswirlingmotes.Afewfeetaway,theskinnyformofFletch...

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Bradley Denton - The Territory

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