President Lincoln's Secret by Steven Wilson

Author:Steven Wilson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2009-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

On the Washington Road

South of Baltimore, Maryland

There was no seat on the freight wagon. The unwieldy vehicle was a crude timber box set on a thick frame with huge wheels. The steering wheels were four feet high, Owen estimated, but the rear wheels were three times that. The vehicle was massive, and it rumbled over the road like faraway thunder. The teamsters rode on the inside mule of the first span of animals, one hand on a jerk line, the other holding a whip nearly eight feet long. Four spans, eight mules, pulled the wagon at a steady pace, just barely below a walk.

Goodwin had instructed Owen to ride with Mark Hurlock, and to watch him. “It may be that you’ll have to drive the wagon,” he had said, but refused further explanation.

Owen rode an ancient mule, out of harness, alongside Mark. He watched the young man skillfully guide the mules without moving the jerk line threaded through his large fingers. He had never watched a teamster drive a freight wagon before—he had considered any pursuit requiring manual labor beneath him, but Goodwin was insistent that he learn the complex task of guiding a slab-sided, cumbersome freight wagon.

He finally decided that he would prepare for a part—that of a wagon driver—and to do so required that he study the situation. To pass the time, and because he knew nothing about trade, he asked Mark. It was a mistake to do so.

The young man with the flowing blond hair and the broad hands born to dominate a band of stubborn animals loved to talk.

“It helps to know the mules,” he began, and to Owen’s dismay continued without interruption. “The eight belong to my pa, and the other ones up there your friend is drivin’ belong to Old Man Ruddel. He don’t treat his animals the way they ought to be treated.” He spat a stream of tobacco juice in a graceful arch to the side, just missing Owen. “Each one of my pa’s is picked out special by him, and he names them, too.” He nodded at the lead, inboard animal. “That’s Ben, and next to him is George, and Mike, and Jesse. And up ahead is Tom.” He glanced at Owen. “He’s oldest and he’s got more of a temper than the rest, but by God they all got enough of a temper to suit me.” He returned to his introduction. “James, but we always call him Jim, because James is far too grand for that animal, and Mordecai.” He stopped his narration long enough to dig a plug of tobacco out of his cheek with a dirty finger. “Pa said he never read the Good Book, but he always likes Bible names like Mordecai.”

“James is a Biblical name,” Owen said, hoping to break into the young man’s speech long enough to ask a question. He shifted in the saddle to improve his position. Most of the leather was worn off the saddle, and stitching stuck out to jab him as he rode.

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