January, 2010

Issue #4

Adrift Again
by Steve Whisnant

Fall 1860

I ran away from Wales for this?

Henry Morton Stanley slugged through the bog in Bradley County with several companions. Only days earlier they had disembarked from the steamer Eagle on the Mississippi River near Post of Arkansas. The trip upriver from New Orleans had been uneventful, but then they ran into the harsh Arkansas swamps.

Recent rains had swollen nearby rivers and raised the water levels in the surrounding countryside. Some said that Little Rock, several days away, was flooded and numerous cattle had died and farms were ruined. Ague and fever spread among the population and many perished.

These events were of little concern. Henry had been following his ‘adopted’ father of the same name to Warren for a possible position as a merchant. Last night’s thunderstorm, while the group tried to cross a rapid stream in pitch-black darkness, caused disarray and separated several members. Henry now found himself alone with a drunkard and preacher from up North.

“My horse’s leg is caught between submerged timber,” Reverend Morris yelled over pounding rain. The water rose to belly height upon his steed.

Henry climbed from his mount and surveyed the situation.

“Shoot the damn thing and we go, yes?” Carlos demanded. From inside his vest he retrieved a container and took a long drink. “It’s what God would want.”

“When will you run out of that awful liquor?” Henry turned to say. He then climbed down the embankment and assisted the reverend.

After a few tugs and strong encouragement, the horse broke free and they all rested on high ground.

Unable to start a fire, they ate bread and cold beans under a large cypress. “I pray for our friends,” the reverend said. “The current was strong and I fear their demise.”

“They’re all dead,” Carlos said. “Get used to it in this awful country.”

Henry ran his fingers through his mustache and retorted. “I’m sure they’re fine. I saw them on shore between lightning flashes.”

The path through the swamp was inundated under a quagmire of water and mud. The companions had to guess their way forward by choosing breaks in the trees and assuming the trail led between them. Often the person in front would disappear when his mount found a deep hole concealed by the heavy storm.

In his early twenties, Henry was younger than everyone else in the party. His appearance was normally professional as a representative of a sales team for Stanley Sr. With a black suit and matching vest, he could dazzle would-be-buyers into a purchase.

He was registered at birth in Wales as the illegitimate son of John Rowlands; his mother abandoned him to a reluctant grandfather and other relatives who treated him harshly. He ran away and sailed for America where he met his benefactor Henry Morton Stanley ‘Sr.’

For two days he and his two companions crossed the burden of south Arkansas, at times it seemed they had traveled in circles. At night they slept on small islands of muck that might disappear under water by morning. Mosquitoes swarmed like flies on molasses and the three had to assist each other to pick off the devilish bloodsucking leeches.

“Where is your God?” Carlos often said these things to show his distain for religion.

“He’s always watchin’ over us—even you,” Reverend Morris would respond.

Henry kept a watchful eye on Carlos. Whether the Mexican was dangerous or not was unknown, but instinct begged close observation of the man. His attire of woolen slacks with button up cotton shirt gave him a local appearance, but his accent and roughness suggested an origin in some far off, godforsaken country where they might just as well slice your throat as to bother with you. Even the reverend had insinuated to Henry that they should be prepared.

On the third night after leaving Arkansas Post, the travelers finally exited the bayous and continued on mud-soaked roads. Trenches from earlier wagons left deep ruts in the earth’s surface. The men approached a series of crossroads; Carlos had been drinking all morning.

From a ridge, they could see what they would soon learn were Creek Indians being removed from Alabama to far-off west.

“I recommend we camp in their old site,” Henry said, pointing to a flat area near a raging swollen river.

“I concur,” Reverend Morris said.

Carlos rolled his eyes and spit tobacco to the side.

With his gear spread out to sun dry, Henry went to explore some odd-formed trees. They had been hollowed out and the detached bark replaced.

When Henry dug his Bowie knife into the silt holding the cover in place, it fell forward revealing an Indian, standing erect, with his gun, blanket, and dressed in hunting attire. With a shriek, Henry fell back and held up his weapon.

Reverend Morris and Carlos ran over and the drunk began to laugh. “He’s dead, amigo.”

The three saw that the native was indeed deceased. Henry took out a notebook and wrote several sentences. “But buried in a tree?”

Carlos took a drink. “It is their custom to honor their dead. Make them appear as when they were living.”

Walking near the body, Carlos reached in and began to remove several items.

“What are you doing?” Henry asked.

“These blankets and gun will be of no use to him.”

“That’s disrespectful … please stop.”

“To hell with you. I do as I please.”

Henry took several steps forward as Reverend Morris also moved in. “I said to leave it alone,” Henry demanded.

Carlos threw daggerous stares but did not accept Henry’s challenge. Perhaps the tall, muscular reverend behind Henry discouraged the drunk.

“As you please,” Carlos said. He dropped the items onto the ground and returned to their fire blazing in the middle of several fallen logs arranged in a circle.

“Thank you,” Henry said to the reverend.

“You were right to stand up to him, it is wrong to scavenge through a grave. We should replace the items he removed.”

Except for troublesome ticks and mosquitoes, the night passed without incident. Next morning, Carlos loaded his gear and headed north toward Little Rock without a word.

“Glad to get rid of him,” Henry said.

Reverend Morris agreed as they sat near the fire and consumed what was left of their rations. “So, what are you writing in that journal of yours?”

“Observations of my travels. May come in handy someday, I plan to be a journalist if a career as a merchant fails.”

“Seems Arkansas would be a good place to open a store with all the people moving here. Of course, the war may end it all.”

“Yes, the war. I’m curious to learn what comes of it. And what about you?”

“The church appointed me to the Tennessee, Arkansas, Mississippi, and Alabama circuit. I’m traveling to Camden and El Dorado to meet with local bishops of the Methodist Episcopal Church. It’s been a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The pair soon parted and Henry traveled to Warren. Here he learned that his patron from New Orleans, Stanley Sr., had survived and had waited for his arrival. Unfortunately, Henry discovered that his adopted father had to quickly leave for Cuba where his brother was injured in Havana. The siblings had a joint business venture in the foreign country that needed his immediate attention.

Plans were made for Henry to stay at the Waldron’s plantation below Warren, in Ashley County. Boarding a steamer on the Saline River, he sailed south where everyone disembarked at Longview Landing; a buggy completed the track to the lodging a few miles inland.

As he approached the main house, he looked out over the fields and thought, I’ve never seen so many slaves in one area.

An overseer cursed the workers and strolled about with viciousness. Henry wrote in his journal, “His vulgarity and coarseness revived recollections of levee men. His garb was offensive; the pantaloons stuffed into his boots, the big hat, the slouch of his carriage, his rough boisterousness, were all objectionable.”

Forests surrounded farmland. The house was built of solid pine logs, roughly squared, and slightly stained by weather, neatly chinked outside with plaster and lined within with planed boards.

Mr. Waldron was a gentleman and treated his guests with utmost respect. Mrs. Waldron, with help from numerous slaves, served a wonderful dinner of fried pork, beans, and corn scones with coffee and milk. After dinner the men adjourned to the veranda for cigars and a glass of scotch. Across a long pasture black workers could be seen in their small huts with glows from fires flickering through windows.

“So you hail from Wales?” Waldron asked.

“Yes, sir. Caught a steamer across the big pond—”

“Big pond?”

“The ocean, I should say. I linked up with my adopted father, Stanley Sr., at New Orleans and we have plans to open a store in Warren. The business venture seems natural with so many moving to Arkansas.”

“Yes, but I predict a bleak future in the short run. War is coming and Arkansas will suffer along with the rest. Can’t avoid it, though. I moved here from the North myself, and know its industrial power. The South can’t overcome it, so we’ll lose. It will be awful.”

“And your slaves?”

“We’ll see.”

Piano tunes began and captured Henry’s attention. He turned and saw Waldron’s daughter through the sheer of a nearby window. In this home women were not allowed to eat at the dinner table with men, but he had noticed her as she dashed about helping to prepare the evening meal.

Her dress appeared unnatural on such a backwoods farm, as if she had gone to some trouble to wear her best. Henry could imagine her strolling down the promenade of a luxurious modern city in that gown instead of hopping over cow droppings in dainty slippers caked with mud.

“She plays wonderfully,” Henry said. “It reminds me of home.”

“Yes … haven’t heard Sara practice in a while.”

Several of Waldron’s sons ignored the conversation; instead, they sat on the edge of the porch spitting tobacco into flowerbeds. After a while they joined several “darkies”, as they called the slaves from Africa, and built a fire.

“I see you have had many trees downed,” Henry said.

“Yes,” Mr. Waldron replied. “I plan to extend the clearing and raise more cotton. Every tree felled helps to widen the cultivable land.”

The music stopped and soon the daughter strolled onto the porch. Both men stood and Henry bowed. “Sara,” he said. “I enjoyed your piano play.”

“Thank you.” She nodded, smiled with a blush, and then turned to watch her brothers.

When the hearth-logs began to crackle, and the firelight danced joyfully on the family circle, Henry felt the influence of the charm, and was ready to view his stay with interest and content.

Light performed magic across Sara’s face; Henry noticed her shy, country-girl manner and found her enchanting. Mr. Waldron refilled his scotch and then walked down the front steps to have a discussion with his sons.

“Your accent,” Sara said when they were alone. “You’re not from around here. I’ve wanted to ask you about it all evening.”

“I’m from Wales, north of England. Have you heard of it?”

“My momma said I was born in Boston. Is it near there?”

When she turned to face him, he caught her intense stare. An interest he found appealing. Perhaps she was not the nice, shy farm girl he had been led to believe.

The lace within her bodice was fixed in such a way that male eyes were drawn to view and imagine. “No,” Henry replied, now aware that she witnessed his averted attention. “Wales is a country overseas. I left because conditions there were not right for me.”

“Sounds like you’ve had an adventurous life.”

She stepped toward the railing and gazed at the fire that had grown larger after her brothers added more logs. Her movements seemed to suggest that he follow. And indeed, after a sip of scotch, he walked next to her and felt the heat.

The boys played some sort of game and did not mind their visitor. The overseer had also joined the crowd and Henry felt the man’s eyes peer holes through him. However, Henry’s primary focus was on Sara.

“What does one do around here for entertainment?”

“Are you bored?” Sara asked.

“I didn’t mean it like that. Just during the course of a week, what activities keep you sane?”

“We do stay busy with chores and church. Guests are a nice surprise.”

She looked at him and his heart felt heavy. How he wanted to take her in his arms.

“We like to fish and swim in the creek,” she continued. “When no one’s around—don’t tell anyone—but I like to swim nude.”

What a scandalous thing to say! Yet, Henry found himself unable to break with the conversation.

“Sara!” he pretended to be less shocked than he actually felt. “The ladies of Western Europe would blush at such an utterance.”

“Welcome to America, Mr. Stanley. You asked what we do. Sometimes we have to invent our excitement.”

Waldron’s sons began to sing with an old black man. While the harmony attracted everyone’s attention, Henry noticed Sara wander toward the side of the house and disappeared. Perhaps the liquor had warmed his blood, but he could not fight the girl’s magnetism.

“I must call it a night,” he said to Mr. Waldron. “The scotch has gone to my head and I need rest.”

“Just ask one of the slave girls if you need anything.”

“Thank you.”

Henry made a good show and walked through the front door and then out the rear entrance. Finding the trail outside, he followed it through pine groves. Dim light from the plantation gave way to luminosity of a full moon. A small stream could be heard ahead.

When he arrived at the shore he found the outline of Sara in the pool; her dress and undergarments lay across a low limb of a nearby tree.

“The water’s warm, Mr. Stanley. Join me.”

Even prostitutes he’d witness in big cities were not this forward, he thought. But what the heck? Soon the refreshing creek enveloped his entire body.

Sara swam closer. “Well, Mr. Stanley. Here we are … a naked woman and a naked man. What do you think we can do to entertain ourselves?”

She rubbed a hand along his back and wrapped her legs around his waist. Their lips touched and he tasted his whiskey on her tongue. The pair rocked back and forth in the slow current for God knows how long.

She whispered words in his ear that pained him because his feelings toward her were not as long-standing as he sensed she would have liked. Perhaps their bonding was a mistake, but she felt so nice. He wanted to tell her that when he left for Warren he would be alone and with no plans to return. But this information would have to come later.

A month later, Henry watched Sara gaze at him as he climbed into the carriage for his journey back to Warren. The past few weeks had been wonderful, but Henry had plans that did not include her. Besides, he thought, a young woman like her would never settle down. And he did not want to learn about a future wife’s infidelities through the gossip chain.

He told Sara, “If things work out in Warren, I will send for you.” He immediately regretted saying it.

Her sad, green eyes indicated to Henry that she did not believe him.

The road led the coach past a field of cotton. Henry saw the overseer whipping a youngster while screaming taunts toward other slaves.

The taskmaster’s mocking behavior during Henry’s stay suggested that he knew of Henry and Sara’s secret excursions. Those sneers from the overseer led Henry to a rash decision.

Standing, he leaned out the window and yelled to the driver, “Please stop for a moment.”

Henry rolled up his sleeves as he jumped from the carriage and hurried toward the boss in the field. “That’s enough … whipping a child like that. Put down the whip!”

The overseer stood and laughed. “You mind your business, Mr. Stanley.”

Henry walked up to him and punched the side of his jaw. The overseer stumbled and tripped over a cotton plant. When he gained his stance he held out the whip and snapped it at Henry.

Perhaps it was luck, but Henry grabbed the flog and yanked it from the overseer’s hand. Curling his hands into fists, Henry said, “You should know, sir, that I learned boxing in England.”

The overseer stormed him and was immediately accosted with a knuckle to the cheek followed by a blow to the chin that placed him horizontal in the cotton plants.

Picking up his hat and dusting it off, Henry looked around and noticed smiles on the dark faces. He tipped his hat and returned to the carriage.

“I’m ready,” he said to the driver.

The trip from the plantation to Saline River, then upstream to Warren took a day and a night. Earlier he’d received a letter that explained Stanley Sr. had been killed during the voyage to Cuba. Henry planned to visit the merchant store in Warren that his father was going to purchase, and see about a job or buying the stockroom himself.

When expectations didn’t materialize he left to tramp across Arkansas. A few days into the travel, he wrote in his journal:

Within a week he arrived in Little Rock during evening hours. The town consisted of wooden buildings along the Arkansas River. Not a modern appearance, if one compared the local capital to a New Orleans or Boston. The people seemed rude with harsh language. As he reviewed his surroundings Henry noticed an Indian tribe along the river.

Their tents were pitched close to the banks. A number of crackling fires, formed of whole trunks of dry fallen trees that lay about in abundance, offered good shelter against the wind. Over the flames hung kettles with large pieces of venison, bear, squirrels, raccoons, o’possoms, wild-cats, and whatever else fortune of the chase had yielded.

A particular scene revealed as he approached. Decked out around his neck with glass beads of silver ornaments was a tall, powerful Indian in a spirited conversation with a foreigner from Germany.

Henry listened as the Indian said to the man, “I give you rifle if you fill my bottle.”

“You vont liquor?” the accented German asked. “I could be arrested if I sell to you or das black mann.”

The robust native turned sorrowfully away and headed toward a man of Mexican decent standing fifty yards distant.

“Looks like he’ll get his firewater from him,” Henry pointed.

“Ja,” the German agreed. “Wait,” he yelled to the Indian. He ran to the native and took his bottle and filled it.

When the Indian handed him the rifle, the German refused.

Elated, the Indian grabbed hold of the German and dragged him to a fire surrounded by tribesmen. The native motioned for Henry to join and he did, sitting beside the German on a fallen log.

The Indian did not take no as an answer, and the two men were obliged to drink with him and smoke his pipe. They were soon offered slices of venison.

Through an opening in a tent Henry saw what he assumed were the Indian’s wife and children staring with surprise at him and the German.

“Sons of forest assemble around us,” the Indian began a long tangent.

Henry glanced at his new German friend and they both smiled. Neither understood a damn word the Indian said.

“I’m glad we don’t have more liquor,” Henry whispered. “I think he’s had way too much already.

The Indian began a conversation with another tribesman, and seemed to be discussing where they might find more firewater.

“I’m Frederick Gerstoecker,” the German said. “From Hamburg.”

After official introductions, they watched as the Mexican peddler was summoned to camp. Immediately Henry recognized Carlos!

Soon the native handed over his rifle and other, personal items. The woman in the tent appeared displeased when her spouse gave Carlos a blanket.

A bottle of liquor was exchanged when Carlos said, “Let me sleep with her,” he pointed toward the Indian’s woman, “and I give you another bottle.”

“Carlos!” Henry stood and walked over. “That’s enough. Can’t you see how drunk he is? Leave them alone.”

“Amigo, I let you talk to me like this once … but not again. This matter does not concern you.”

Carlos continued his negotiations; it seemed the Indian did not understood or surely he would have been insulted.

“Sleep with the woman and two more bottles,” Carlos said.

Henry accosted Carlos who stumbled a few feet. “I said to leave!”

From beneath his vest Carlos retrieved an eleven-inch-long bowie knife with metal handle, and slid it from its leather sheath. As he closed in, he swiped the seven-inch spear point blade harmlessly through the air while laughing. “You die, my friend.”

Henry took a fighter stance and waited for an opening. Several stabs with the knife sent him lurching in avoidance. In one instance, as Carlos swung and missed, Henry found a clear shot and struck the man square in the jaw.

Carlos wobbled, but brought the knife quickly back around and found flesh through Henry’s chest, a glancing wound.

Henry took two steps toward his adversary and let go two, three, four, and then five more punches to the man’s head. Carlos’ blade fell near the river.

With surprising vivacity, from the ground Carlos grabbed Henry’s legs and pulled him down. Blood streamed from Carlos’ face, but he bombarded Henry with blows from both fists. A crowd encircled the scene.

Somehow Henry was able to throw Carlos off and Henry came up swinging. Carlos recovered his knife. It was difficult for Henry to see through blood flowing across his eyes. He too reached for his Bowie, similar to Carlos’ weapon.

The two men circled one another taking occasional swipes. When Carlos made an unwise attack, Henry took advantage and brought his blade up into the man’s belly, feeling entrails slice like butter.

Taking short, small gasps, Carlos tried to scream but was unable.

Henry took several steps and then collapsed.

Henry awoke alone in a one-room log cabin with silt covering the cracks. Half-smothered in blankets, he felt his body shake violently and his blood was suddenly iced. Hot-water bottles surrounded his makeshift bed tucked in a corner.

Trying to rise, his whole being screamed in agony and it seemed even strength to remove coverings was lost. After many shivering hours, a hot fit followed, accompanied by delirium, which, about the twelfth hour, was relieved by exhausting perspiration. Finally, six hours later, Henry became cool and sane, his appetite was ravenous but no one had entered to check on him.

He lost consciousness again and awoke the next day. Gerstoecker, the German, sat in a rocker reading a book entitled Kosmos.

“Gut Morgan,” he said.

“What happened?”

“The locals call it ague, some disease. Typhoid, perhaps?”

“I thought I’d die. Carlos … the fight? What of him?”

“He’s dead, but das is gut. It was self-defense. You had many witnesses. Besides, it’s very bad to sell alcohol to the Indians. ”

“How long—”

“A few days. We thought your sickness was from das wounds, but soon learn it vas ague. Here, have some peaches and plums.”

“Thank you.”

Henry arose and dressed while eating. “Where are you going next?”

“I take boat up river. Hard work … and the captain does not like me. But I do anyway.”

“Yes, I was a cabin boy on a steamer when I came to America from England.”

“And you … where do you go from here?”

“I want to be a journalist and I keep records of my travels.”

“Me, too,” the German said.

“There’s rumor of a famous explorer, Dr. David Livingston, living in Africa. Many countries there are uncharted. I’ve considered surveying them while searching for Dr. Livingston. Then I plan to write about it.”

“Be sure to see Dustyn Richards before you leave Little Rock. Sheriff Richards has a few questions.”

As if on cue, a knock on the cabin was followed by a large man opening the door without waiting for a signal to enter. Henry noticed the badge as the stranger stepped inside.

“Sheriff Richards, I presume?”

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