Read Online Northfield by Johnny D. Boggs - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Johnny D. Boggs
Tags: Biographical fiction, Fiction, General, Historical, Historical - General, History, Western Stories, Westerns, 19th century, Minnesota, jesse, Fiction - Western, Westerns - General, American Western Fiction, Bank Robberies, James, Northfield
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Horace Thompson’s niece. Hester asked Mr. King if he would care to join them in the game. Mrs. Corley asked Mr. Ladd to join in as well, but the Indian-looking man shook his head and said he’d watch, but Mr. King said he would be delighted to join the contest. Now that, I tell you, was a sight, watching this towering man handle the curved stick, enjoying himself or maybe enjoying the admiration or adulation of those ladies. By jacks, he asked the ladies a bit about the country around Madelia, too.
“Landlord,” Mr. King told me, “this has been a most enjoyable day.”
We were sitting on the porch after supper, enjoying cigars and my pipe once more, listening to the ash trees rustling in the evening wind.
Mr. Ladd spoke. “Got a nice town here.”
“That’s why I settled here.”
Withdrawing his cigar, Mr. King exhaled and pointed the burning end of his long nine in my direction. “We’ve practically talked ourselves out about Watowan County and the farms for sale. Never learned a thing about you.” With a wink, he added: “And I reckon a tenant should know something about his landlord.”
What could I tell him? I was forty-three years old, a New Yorker by birth. I had left the East before I had seen twenty years, tried farming and raising stock in Wisconsin, at Bryce Prairie, which is where I had met, courted, and married Hester. She was a Bryce Prairie Green. Then came the rebellion, and I had marched off with the 14 th Wisconsin. After the war, restlessness gained control of my heart, so in ’66 Hester and I moved to Madelia. I tried farming, tried raising cattle, even tried a stagecoach business, but nothing took root until the railroad reached Madelia, and I bought the hotel from Joe Flanders.
“You said end of the hostilities…you really think the war has ended?” Mr. King asked.
I had paid scant attention to my words. So, with a shrug, I said: “Lee and the other secessionists surrendered. Ten years have passed. I’d say the war is over.”
“Secessionists.” Mr. Ladd spat. “War was about a lot more than that.”
“I take it you both fought on the side of the Confederacy,” I said with no malice to my voice, mere curiosity.
“We’re from Kentucky.” Mr. King said this too quickly, though I did not really detect anything suspicious about our conversation, indeed the entire day, until a few weeks later. “Border state. Saw men in blue and gray, and, as you said, Lee surrendered. A man’s past and his past allegiances are his own private matters.”
Which could have ended the discussion, but Mr. Ladd asked: “See the elephant?”
My head bobbed ever slightly, and I wished I were describing Lake Hanska or that German farm down the Army Road or the country west of town. We had mustered in at Fond du Lac on a bitterly cold day in ’62, reporting to Savannah, Tennessee, with Grant’s army. See the elephant? Our first blood came at Pittsburg Landing. But twenty-nine, never had I imagined such slaughter, heard such savagery, taken part in such barbarity. Mayhap, I’ve often thought, I would have forgotten the carnage of battle, except after the Rebels retreated, the 14 th had remained behind as provost guard. Other regiments moved on, in pursuit of the enemy or to lick its own wounds, leaving the unspeakable horrors behind, but we, or at least I, saw reminders of the terrible battle every damned day.
See the elephant? Corinth followed, in many ways as ghastly as Pittsburg Landing. Afterward, the misery, monotony, brutality of Vicksburg and the capture of Natchez. The bungling disaster of the Red River Expedition in ’64. Tupelo, then Nashville. Down to Mobile and Spanish Fort. Finally Atlanta, now with Leggett’s Division, Savannah and into the Carolinas. I rode in the Grand Review as a colonel, but found little glory in our triumph.
See the elephant? I had seen too much. I thought of my experiences in the war that I have described above, but, in my answer to the strangers, I
“Landlord,” Mr. King told me, “this has been a most enjoyable day.”
We were sitting on the porch after supper, enjoying cigars and my pipe once more, listening to the ash trees rustling in the evening wind.
Mr. Ladd spoke. “Got a nice town here.”
“That’s why I settled here.”
Withdrawing his cigar, Mr. King exhaled and pointed the burning end of his long nine in my direction. “We’ve practically talked ourselves out about Watowan County and the farms for sale. Never learned a thing about you.” With a wink, he added: “And I reckon a tenant should know something about his landlord.”
What could I tell him? I was forty-three years old, a New Yorker by birth. I had left the East before I had seen twenty years, tried farming and raising stock in Wisconsin, at Bryce Prairie, which is where I had met, courted, and married Hester. She was a Bryce Prairie Green. Then came the rebellion, and I had marched off with the 14 th Wisconsin. After the war, restlessness gained control of my heart, so in ’66 Hester and I moved to Madelia. I tried farming, tried raising cattle, even tried a stagecoach business, but nothing took root until the railroad reached Madelia, and I bought the hotel from Joe Flanders.
“You said end of the hostilities…you really think the war has ended?” Mr. King asked.
I had paid scant attention to my words. So, with a shrug, I said: “Lee and the other secessionists surrendered. Ten years have passed. I’d say the war is over.”
“Secessionists.” Mr. Ladd spat. “War was about a lot more than that.”
“I take it you both fought on the side of the Confederacy,” I said with no malice to my voice, mere curiosity.
“We’re from Kentucky.” Mr. King said this too quickly, though I did not really detect anything suspicious about our conversation, indeed the entire day, until a few weeks later. “Border state. Saw men in blue and gray, and, as you said, Lee surrendered. A man’s past and his past allegiances are his own private matters.”
Which could have ended the discussion, but Mr. Ladd asked: “See the elephant?”
My head bobbed ever slightly, and I wished I were describing Lake Hanska or that German farm down the Army Road or the country west of town. We had mustered in at Fond du Lac on a bitterly cold day in ’62, reporting to Savannah, Tennessee, with Grant’s army. See the elephant? Our first blood came at Pittsburg Landing. But twenty-nine, never had I imagined such slaughter, heard such savagery, taken part in such barbarity. Mayhap, I’ve often thought, I would have forgotten the carnage of battle, except after the Rebels retreated, the 14 th had remained behind as provost guard. Other regiments moved on, in pursuit of the enemy or to lick its own wounds, leaving the unspeakable horrors behind, but we, or at least I, saw reminders of the terrible battle every damned day.
See the elephant? Corinth followed, in many ways as ghastly as Pittsburg Landing. Afterward, the misery, monotony, brutality of Vicksburg and the capture of Natchez. The bungling disaster of the Red River Expedition in ’64. Tupelo, then Nashville. Down to Mobile and Spanish Fort. Finally Atlanta, now with Leggett’s Division, Savannah and into the Carolinas. I rode in the Grand Review as a colonel, but found little glory in our triumph.
See the elephant? I had seen too much. I thought of my experiences in the war that I have described above, but, in my answer to the strangers, I
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