The Blood of Heaven (17 page)

V

Our Deliverance

Pinckneyville–Natchez, July 1801

The Brother and the Reverend

Morrel’s men watched me more carefully after the killing, Thorny Rose gave me more twirls of her skirt, and I attained a somewhat higher station in the order of our band. Now I could give orders as we set up our revival between the Mississippi and the town of Pinckneyville, just over the border from West Florida. I’d have the pine limbs laid over the whiskey barrels, the wood cut to make the stage, the stage itself built, and the scrap timber hauled away, all by the male Blessed, who I’d decided should earn their keep by more than mere existence. The harelips sputtered and grumbled, the legless sat beside the casks and sullenly piled on the limbs, the blind cussed while I made them feel through the gathering branches for the spigot so that it could be found even in the dark of night, the fat and the tiny both shrank and grew with their labors, but they all worked well and I worked alongside them—only not so much as them, which wouldn’t befit an overseer. They rolled themselves in dirt to staunch the sap that had gathered in the crooks of their arms, their hands, and the dips of their necks. Others, digging the trench to fill with tar to burn for mosquitoes, were blackened at the legs and hands.

Maybe it’ll stick your mouths back right! said Johnny Crabbe to a pair of harelips, scuttling by with a pile of limbs in one claw.

One came trying to kick him but saw me and went back to his task, fluttering his mouth-parts with soft curses. I’d remained wary that there would be reprisals for Jasper. But as yet there’d been nothing for me to watch but a few drunken grumblers going by no different from the billowing tent-flaps and wisps of spark from the campfires. So days I went about my work hustling the Blessed and nights I spent preparing my sermon for the coming Thursday. Samuel, though, seemed transfixed on the idea that we’d soon have to square up with some of Jasper’s friends, and often scolded me for not making any preparations—leaving my pistol in the tent and not carrying any shot or powder beyond what was tamped into the barrel.

Monday evening, finished with work and swimming in drink, I sat with Samuel at our fire while he cast shot from ingots of lead. We had enough but this lately seemed to soothe his worries, and he relaxed watching the bubbling gray turn bright and almost milky in the dark iron ladle.

I feel good, brother, I said. Feel like I’m in my place at last.

Samuel withdrew the ladle and poured its contents into a clamp-mold he’d had Crabbe steal from one of the others. Bossing freaks is one thing, he said, but don’t forget we’ve got higher things ahead. He put the ladle aside and waited a few moments before letting loose the clamp so that a ball of shot fell out and rested amongst the silvery dollops of lead which had spilled over onto the ground when he poured.

I don’t know if sitting on my ass and selling buttons in your brother’s store is higher, I said.

Samuel waited for the spattered leavings to cool, then scooped them back up into the ladle and set it in the fire, and we watched as the grass and dirt was purged from the lead and gathered in a film across the top.

You’d abandon me after all I’ve done, he said.

It wouldn’t be abandoning.

It damn sure would. Samuel took the ladle out and poured again, and again a ball fell from the mold to the dirt and the sprinkling of silver was on the ground like a sign of future wealth. I wouldn’t do that to you, he said.

Maybe I’m just caught up, I said.

Maybe you are, said my brother.

At that moment the Reverend Morrel rode through our end of the camp in his town-going clothes, passing us without a word, and disappeared towards the road into the dark. In the morning the Reverend was still gone, but we went straight-away to rigging and completed the preparations a day ahead of normal. When Morrel returned that evening, he seemed pleased as he made his inspection of the stage, the great painting of Hell at its center, half-covered by a tarp.

You’re a worthy disciple, he said to me, getting down from his horse. You may just be my Peter and spread my church across the land when the time comes.

Samuel was beside me looking stony at this pronouncement as some of Morrel’s lieutenants arrived, sidling us, and we listened all to what he said next.

But tonight, said the Reverend, we’re hosting some gentlemen from town who don’t favor the religious aspect but were kind enough to let us use this land. And they’re rich enough to be of some . . . use. So we’ll have a carnival atmosphere, eh? Then the Reverend Morrel went off to make his own preparations, and when he again appeared, that evening, he was dressed resplendent as I ever saw him in frock and jewels and polished boots, and he strode lordly through the arrangements.

The Blessed did a little frowning and grousing, but soon the place was all turned out, and though the gentlemen had yet to arrive, little revels had begun. There were targets set up for throwing knives or shooting, and a tub of fish gathered from the nearby creek and tied with ribbons bearing fortunes, which to obtain you would jab them with a long sewing needle. One of the lieutenants had his fiddle out and the drummer was told to beat soft. Just before the appointed hour the Reverend had us put the Blessed who weren’t manning games away back in camp, which we did, and those of us who were unmangled and deemed worthwhile by him were told we could return—that is, as the Reverend said, if we wore our Christly faces when we came.

Despite their grumbling at being kept from the party, the Blessed proceeded to have their own at camp. Crabbe was making crazy-legged circles of us, laughing; someone plucked strings; a key-box groaned to life. Round the fires became a place of jigging and the singing of hymns modified to rough uses; skewers were rattled along the legs of spits, bells made from pots.

Neither Samuel nor I danced, but watched for a while the Blessed go about their fun until they had us backed close to the fire by their whirling circles. When my coat-tails began smoking my brother grabbed me by the collar and yanked me from the fire.

Christ, he said, patting out the flames. You’re a prize fool.

Go fuck an anthill, Sam.

Tie your cock in a knot.

Laughter and shouts came from the Blessed:

Preacher’s lit himself!

Better keep the whiskey from him!

Shit, keep the guns from him!

Amid all this, while Samuel was still slapping at the burnt ends of my coat, now more out of anger than kindness, there was a hitch in their dancing circle as an enormous figure broke their rhythm and the capering prodigies had to scatter from what might have been a new addition to their troop—a man half a foot taller and with the same shock of red hair as Samuel, who, clapping the ashes from his hands, ran to embrace him.

This was Reuben Kemper. And he took his smaller brother up in fistfuls of coat and raised him from the ground, smiling, but not so happy as Samuel. The older brother set the younger down and, having to holler for the noise of the Blessed, asked what had become of their father.

He ran us off, said Samuel.

And who in hell is us? said Reuben.

Samuel pointed with his thumb hooked and waved me over. Still smoking, I approached the long-sought Reuben. He wore his coat buttoned down the middle and I could see that there were bulges in the fabric at his chest and hip as my hand was taken up first in one of his then doubled over by the other—as though to show that he could swallow me whole with them.

Angel Woolsack, I said.

Damn that, said Samuel, punching his brother in the shoulder, he’s a Kemper now.

Reuben narrowed his eyes at me. I’ll take my brother’s word for the moment. But now you need to come with me to see your Reverend.

We followed him from the party of freaks to the pleasures of human men. On the way Samuel told him something of our story, pausing heavily on the death of their youngest brother. I couldn’t see if Reuben wept, for the two giants were ahead of me and all I saw was backs that blocked out everything until we passed beneath a tent, stepped up onto the stage, and they stopped and stood apart, revealing the Reverend Morrel sitting with a pair of men at a table set with candelabra and bottles of wine.

So, said the Reverend, you’ve found my best two young fellows, Mister—

Kemper, said Reuben.

Samuel started to explain but his brother hushed him. The fiddler was working down below the stage and the whine of bow across gut-strings made me want to run before a thing had happened.

The other men at the table stared knowingly from under their brows at Reuben. These were Daniel Clark of New Orleans and Edward Randolph of Pinckneyville. Clark you could tell from the moment he spoke that he was a scion of Ireland, Randolph that he was a genius of a kind. They were merchants, speculators, and I would come to know both well, but this was my first sight of them. Someone had pulled aside the tarp from the painting of Hell, and the business of the night commenced beneath the grinning, fiery face of the Devil.

You’re blood, said Morrel. How fine. Of course, there’s a resemblance, if not as much in Angel.

Reuben said, That’s because he’s no Kemper and besides the point. Sam here tells me he’s got a contract with you through September.

That’s right, that’s right. Pull up a chair and have a glass. Morrel waved a bottle of wine and in the candle-light I could see the dark drink sloshing in its bottle.

Reuben Kemper hauled an empty chair across the boards and sat, keeping one hand to Samuel’s shoulder.

And what does my brother do in fulfillment of this contract?

Morrel poured wine for all at the table. Well, he said. I don’t have the papers on me for specifics, but it’s a bit of preaching at revival time, though that’s mostly Angel, and otherwise just chore-work. I also tend a trading business, like you men, and he helps in that.

Chore-work, said Reuben.

I don’t mean for it to sound menial, said Morrel. These are good young chaps. Maybe the best I’ve got.

With that in mind, said Reuben, how much would it cost me to assume my brother’s contract?

The Reverend Morrel smiled, propping his thin arms on the table so that his rings glinted when he laced his fingers, affecting deep consideration. O, he said, we’re not yet half-way through the season, work’s been a bit slow, so I’d say about one hundred dollars.

No, sir, Samuel said, rasping surprise at the reverend’s exaggeration. It’s fifty a piece.

Not a bad wage for chore-work, Reuben said.

Well, the Reverend said, I’d be remiss to say the boy doesn’t help in some of my other ventures.

Samuel leaned towards the Reverend, saying, But you said—

I believe I can swing a hundred, Reuben said, pulling his brother back.

Morrel’s eyes lit like his rings. Then perhaps we can work something out.

Samuel bent to his brother’s ear. I won’t leave without Angel, he said. He’s been my brother when I had none and he came this far looking for you.

I opened my mouth to say that I would stay and didn’t need to be a Kemper anymore, but there was, stronger than the need to keep on preaching, stronger than the want to steal, flipping like a lock onto a flint, the thought of Red Kate. And if this Reuben was betrothed to the mistress, then I might have an in with her for my own future bargaining. So I shut my mouth and felt like an unwanted nigger on the block, not even asked to dance.

Has the other one signed the same contract? asked Reuben.

Roundabouts or maybe even more, said the Reverend. But I don’t think I could spare both, and not Angel here, who’s the best young preacher I’ve ever seen.

Reuben shifted in his seat and creaked the table, jangling glass-ware, when he put his elbow down to lean forward and say, You know, I believe actually I’ll have the pair. Two hundred even, is it? Grinning, he reached into his coat as though for a billfold, but the Reverend, sensing quarry, now put up his hands.

Like I said, one I can spare. But two? No, Mister Kemper, that may just be impossible; Randolph and Clark here can vouch, Reuben said, or make up the difference if you care to.

Indeed, said Clark.

Randolph nodded thoughtfully, eyes shut, as he drained his glass.

See, said Reuben. I’m well-respected here and below the line. Have you been to West Florida, Reverend?

Can’t say that I have.

O, it’s a fine place. A little freer than the American side of the line, if you’ll take my meaning. That is, if you don’t mind some oily Spanish dealings and machinations on occasion.

Clark bleated a laugh and Randolph put fist to mouth to smother his.

All right, Reuben said, clapping the tabletop so hard I thought the glass would shatter. The pair it is.

No, Mister Kemper. Now that I’ve prayed on it a bit more, I don’t think I can spare either till September. Come see me then.

Not for two hundred?

Sorry, no. The Reverend twirled his glass and shined bright.

Nor for two hundred and, say, ten?

My apologies, but that’s just not sufficient. I foresee a good end to the summer’s trade and I need my hands.