Ride to Valor Read online

“Watch out!” Harper yelled.

  Twitch came up off the table with his knife out, the blade flashing.

  James winced at a sharp sting in his arm. He’d been cut. He backpedaled while sliding his hand under his coat and palming his own blade. As it flashed clear, customers began shouting.

  “Give them room!”

  “Make way! Make way!”

  “Someone fetch the police!”

  James hoped that last suggestion wasn’t carried out. The St. Louis police were a new department and eager to prove themselves by washing the city clean of crime. The only problem, crime was rampant, as bad as or worse than New York City.

  Twitch came at him in a crouch, flicking his knife from one hand to the other. “I’m going to carve you into bits and pieces.”

  Twitch came in low and fast and almost opened James’s gut. James retreated, gaining space, and when Twitch lunged, he sliced at the river rat’s throat, only to have Twitch leap out of his reach.

  James concentrated on the cold steel in Twitch’s hand. Twitch stabbed at his chest and James skipped aside. He didn’t see a chair. He tripped over it and stumbled. Twitch, seeing his chance, sprang—just as James flailed his arms to recover his balance. James saw his knife go in to the hilt. Twitch cried out, and then they were on the floor. Twitch wasn’t moving. James pushed and got partway to his feet, shock setting in at what he had done.

  That was when a revolver muzzle filled his vision and a man wearing a badge cocked the hammer. “Hold it right there. You’re under arrest.”

  11

  James had never been in jail. Among the Blue Shirts, jail had been a joke, so few of them had ever been arrested. The jail in St. Louis was cleaner than he had expected and run so orderly that disturbances were few. He told them he didn’t have the money for a lawyer even though he did have a stash in his room. The next day he was taken from the cell to a small room with a table and chairs and told to sit and wait. Presently a mousy man with spectacles entered and introduced himself as Timothy Peabody.

  “I’ll represent you if you’ll have me,” Peabody said as he sat, nearly dropping the papers he was carrying in the process. He rearranged them and began flipping through until he found those he wanted and pulled them out. “Ah. Here we go. Now let’s see, Mr. Doyle. You come from Chicago, you say, and you’ve only been in St. Louis a short while. No family?”

  James shook his head.

  “Ummmm. Well, it’s nice to have their support, but if you don’t, you don’t.” Peabody pushed his spectacles higher on his nose. “I’ve read the police report, and I’m afraid it doesn’t look good.”

  “I didn’t kill him on purpose,” James said.

  “So you claim. But you see—”

  “And he started it,” James interrupted. “Ask anyone who was there.”

  “There’s the crux,” Peabody said.

  “The what?”

  “The factor this case will hinge on. You don’t have a criminal record, which is good. You are gainfully employed, which is good. The bartender at the Keelhaul, though, told the police you come in there practically every night and stay late, which is bad.”

  “Why bad?” James said. “Lots of people do that.”

  “Those who like to drink and gamble, yes,” Peabody said. “Habits some of our judges take a dim view of. And it’s the judge, when all is said and done, who will ultimately decide your fate.” He cleared his throat. “Now, as I was saying, the crux of this case is the witnesses. Some agree with your assertion that—What was his name?” Peabody turned a paper over. “Here it is. Horace Twitch. Some witnesses say that Mr. Twitch was in fact the aggressor. Others, however, say that you started the altercation—”

  “What?” James blurted. “They’re lying.”

  “What reason would they have?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Perhaps they are, but it’s more probable they’re telling the truth as they perceive it.”

  “How’s that again?” James was irritated by the man’s big words.

  “No two individuals ever see the same event the same way. You would think they would but they don’t. In your case, some of the witnesses think you were at fault and others say you weren’t and they could all be telling the truth.”

  “You’re confusing me,” James said. “What does all this mean?”

  Peabody sighed. “It means this isn’t a cut-and-dry case. It means that if we let this go to a jury, there is a very real chance you will find yourself hanged.”

  “God,” James said.

  “Exactly. Which is why I recommend we don’t let it get that far. I suggest we plead guilty and throw ourselves on the mercy of the court.”

  “Both of us or just me?”

  Peabody sat back and stared. “Are you trying to be funny, young man? Because I’m not amused. When I say ourselves, obviously I mean you.” He clasped his hands. “I’m trying to help you here. I’m trying to put up the best defense I can. To get you the best terms I can. In short, not to get you sentenced to death. Do you appreciate that?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. Then we plead guilty. Not to murder in the first degree but to a lesser charge. Manslaughter, say. Specifically, involuntary manslaughter.” Peabody held up a hand when James went to speak. “Permit me to continue. All will be made clear.” He paused. “Involuntary manslaughter means you killed the man but you didn’t intend to do it, which—”

  “That’s what happened,” James said. “It was an accident. He came at me. I was defending myself.”

  “Calm down, sir. As I have been saying, that may well be the truth. But the law doesn’t deal in truth.”

  “What does it deal in?”

  “The law.”

  James was more confused than ever, and it must have shown.

  “Listen, Mr. Doyle. You’re young yet. There’s a lot you don’t understand. Most people think that laws are on the books to protect them and see that the truth always prevails. That’s not it at all. Our laws are there to see that justice is done, which isn’t the same thing.”

  “I have no idea in hell what you’re talking about,” James confessed.

  Peabody made a slit of his thin lips. “Cases are rarely open-and-shut. There is nearly always conflicting testimony, as in your instance. Nearly all the time, the party accused pleads innocent even when they are guilty as can be. Do you see where that puts the criminal justice system?”

  “No.”

  “Pay attention. How are we, the lawyers and judges and whoever, to sort through the maze of truths and untruths with any reliability? We’re not the Almighty, Mr. Doyle. We’re not infallible. So laws are passed to see to it that everyone is accorded the fairest treatment possible under these conditions. That’s the true concept of justice, Mr. Doyle. Do you understand now?”

  “No.”

  Peabody drummed his fingers. “In any event, it’s beside the point. The important thing is that we do what’s best for you. As I’ve said, I recommend pleading guilty to involuntary manslaughter and throwing yourself on the mercy of the court.”

  “So the judge would decide what to do with me?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “What exactly could he decide to do?” James wanted to know.

  “The judge will take into consideration all of the facts and render a verdict based on his assessment and experience.”

  “Talk to me like a normal person would.”

  “I can’t predict what the ruling will be,” Peabody said testily. “The judge decides at his own discretion. He has a number of options. He could dismiss the charge, although I very much doubt it. I’ve never, ever seen a case like this where the accused was let off. He could sentence you to prison. For how long would depend on his evaluation of your character and your intentions at the time.”

  “Could he still sentence me to hang?”

  Peabody coughed and looked down at the table and then back at James. “I won’t lie to you. We could throw ourselves on the mercy of t
he court and there won’t be any mercy. Yes, you could still be hanged.”

  “Hell,” James said.

  12

  A flame of hope was kindled in James’s breast when he heard the name of the judge: Sullivan. Then he was brought into court and he saw the judge’s stern face and heard his hard voice, and the flame was smothered.

  Lawyer Peabody and a lawyer for the city went through their rituals. Judge Sullivan listened with no expression, and when they were done, he commanded James to rise and startled James by having him come take the stand. James glanced at Peabody, and Peabody motioned for him to get up there.

  James was nervous as could be. He didn’t want to be hanged, and he was afraid he’d say something wrong and that would be that.

  The judge looked down on him as if from a lofty height and showed emotion for the first time. He actually smiled. “I want you to tell me in your own words exactly what happened that night.”

  James licked his lips and related it as best he remembered. He didn’t lie once, that he could think of.

  “Hmmmm,” Judge Sullivan said. “And now I’ll tell you why I had you do that, given that your attorney had already pled you to involuntary manslaughter.”

  James waited, tense with dread.

  “I like to get a sense of the people I sentence,” Judge Sullivan said. “I like to know, are they good or are they bad? Does a man steal because he likes to or does he steal because he has no money to put food on the table for his family? Does a woman sell her body because she’s a Jezebel or because she couldn’t find any other way to make a living? Do you understand?”

  “I think so, sir,” James said.

  Judge Sullivan studied him. “My sense of you is that you’re not a bad apple, young man.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’m not done. You’re not bad inside, at least not yet. That you frequent the Keelhaul isn’t a good sign. You live on the wild side, and that’s not wise. But you haven’t gone so bad that you’d kill a man over a trifle like cards.”

  James wanted to say that no, he wouldn’t, but he didn’t dare interrupt.

  “On that basis alone I’m inclined to be lenient,” Judge Sullivan said.

  James almost whooped for joy.

  “But you did kill a man, intentional or not. And I can’t let that pass.”

  There was a strange roaring in James’s ears, as of his blood racing through his veins.

  “It wouldn’t be just for me to impose the maximum penalty and sentence you to the gallows. Nor would it be just for me to simply let you go. I must find a middle ground, a balance of the scales of justice, if you will. Do you understand that as well?”

  “I guess so,” James said quietly.

  Judge Sullivan loomed larger. “There must be no guesswork here, son. You must understand fully the gravity of the charge and why you must be punished according to the rule of law.”

  “The rule of law,” James repeated, for want of anything better he could think of.

  “Precisely. We are a nation of laws. Law is the glue that holds civilized society together. Without laws we would be no better than the barbarians of olden times. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

  James thought of his wild and carefree years as a Blue Shirt. “No, sir.”

  “I’ve had cases like yours before,” Judge Sullivan said. “Where the accused was a good person but had committed a heinous crime. I always try to give them the benefit of the doubt and offer them a chance to redeem themselves.”

  “Redeem?” James said.

  “Make something of yourself. Prove to me and the rest of the world that I’ve done the right thing.”

  “Prove how, Your Honor?” James asked. Peabody had told him to call the judge that and he just now remembered.

  Judge Sullivan smiled, apparently pleased by James’s interest. “By doing something worthwhile with your life. But keep in mind, I’m not forcing this on you. You’ll have a choice to make. It will be your decision.”

  “What will?”

  The judge drew himself up and squared his shoulders and said formally, “James Marion Doyle, I hereby sentence you as follows: Either you serve seven years in a penitentiary—”

  Unable to stop himself, James exclaimed, “Seven years in prison?”

  Sullivan acted as if he hadn’t heard. “Or you will enlist in the United States Army and serve out a regular enlistment of five years.”

  The last thing James would ever do was be a soldier. He had no interest in it, none whatsoever. Unfortunately, based on the tales he’d heard, prison was vastly worse.

  “No need to make up your mind right this moment,” Judge Sullivan was saying. “You can consult with your attorney and have him give me your decision within the next twenty-four hours.” Sullivan glanced at Peabody. “No more than twenty-four, you hear?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Sullivan offered a kindly smile to James. “Think about it long and hard, son. You’ll see I’m being fair. Once your enlistment is up you’re free to do as you please. Stay in the army or be discharged and become a civilian again. Now, that’s not so terrible, is it?”

  James clamped his jaws tight to keep from saying that it was terrible as hell.

  “All right, then,” Judge Sullivan said. “Take him away, bailiff. And, Mr. Doyle, try not to look so glum. It’s not the end of the world, after all.”

  It sure felt like the end of the world to James.

  13

  Topeka, Kansas

  If James were to make a list of the places he never figured to visit, Topeka would have been at the top. It wasn’t that he’d heard bad things about Topeka. He hadn’t heard any good things, either. But Topeka was where the army sent him, to a camp a mile or so from the city. Calling it that, to his way of thinking, was stretching things. Topeka’s population was barely five thousand, a drop in a bucket compared to the ocean of humanity in New York City. But here he was, with no way out. Judge Sullivan had warned him that if he deserted he would be hunted down and sent straight to prison.

  “You get only this one chance,” the judge had said. “Make good use of it.”

  But God, it was awful. James was used to city life. He wasn’t a country boy. The rolling green prairie was a whole new world. It lent the illusion that it went on forever. And everywhere there was grass. Grass, grass, and more grass, as many blades of greens as there were grains of sand on the Atlantic shore.

  The morning he arrived he was handed a blanket and told he would receive his equipment, whatever that was, in a few days.

  That night he had to sleep on the ground with nothing to keep him warm except the blanket and his coat, and well before morning his teeth were chattering.

  Water came from the Kansas River, named after an Indian tribe, or so he was told. The recruits had to tote it themselves and the buckets were heavy.

  The army fed them two meals a day. The morning meal was crackers, bacon and coffee. The crackers were tasteless and the bacon was greasy, but James liked the coffee; it was hot and black and strong enough to jolt him awake.

  Now and then other recruits talked to him, but he wasn’t in the mood to be friendly and soon he was left pretty much alone.

  James learned that he was being mustered into a company, and that the company would soon vote on its officers. He didn’t want any part of the nonsense. He didn’t care who the officers were. A captain, a first lieutenant, and a second lieutenant were chosen, to the cheers of many of the men.

  It was shortly after the vote that James found out he had been mustered into D Troop of the Fourteenth Volunteer Cavalry. He laughed on hearing it, and said to himself, “Volunteer, my ass.”

  He was assigned to guard duty and posted along the river. For several hours he walked back and forth, feeling like a fool.

  They hadn’t given him a weapon. Not that there was much danger.

  The hostiles, common knowledge had it, wouldn’t dare attack Topeka. He was to keep recruits from sneaking off
for a night of liquor and fun. A treat he wouldn’t mind himself, but he remembered the judge.

  The next day was Sunday. The whole camp attended the services. James wouldn’t have minded a priest so much, but it was a preacher who thundered to the sky that they must bend their knee to God. Later, they were given Bibles. James was at a loss with what to do with his.

  That afternoon, people came from Topeka to visit, many in carriages and wagons and some on horseback. It was quite the crowd. James took them to be relatives of the recruits until he overheard a remark to the effect that many were townsfolk or farmers with no ties to anyone. He didn’t know what to make of it and couldn’t be bothered to ask.

  James tried to avoid them, but suddenly a woman and a girl were in front of him, smiling. The girl offered her hand.

  “How do you do?” she said sweetly.

  James’s tongue clove to his mouth. She was about his age, and beautiful: eyes as blue as the Kansas sky, smooth cheeks and cherry lips, and hair like spun gold. He shook, and the warmth of her palm sent a spark shooting up his arm.

  “Cat got your tongue?” she teased.

  “Now, now, Margaret. Be polite. This young man is making a noble sacrifice and the least we can do is treat him with respect.”

  “He doesn’t look so noble, Ma,” Margaret said.

  “Now, now.”

  “He looks handsome.”

  James felt a burning on his cheeks. “What do you want?” he demanded.

  The mother offered her hand. She had on a flowered dress and a bonnet. “I’m Mrs. Craydon. We come often to show our support for the soldiers.”

  “That’s nice,” James said.

  “Is there anything you would like? Cookies? A pie? We’ll bring you one next Sunday.”

  “You’d do that for someone you don’t even know?”

  “You’re doing something for us, young man,” Mrs. Craydon said. “Think of it as us returning the favor.”

  “What am I doing for you?”

  Mrs. Craydon acted surprised by the question. “Why, you’re serving your country in a time of need. You’re defending the frontier with your life and protecting people like Margaret and me.”