Gone to Kansas 1855

By Kendall Gott

While shelves are filled with accounts of industry titans, politicians, and exalted military leaders, this is a tale of an estranged young man making his way in a hard, cold, and often cruel world. Escaping a dull future with little meaning, he follows the example of his childhood hero and comes west into the Kansas Territory to seek his fortune. He first joins a freighting company down the Santa Fe Trail and then returns to the turbulent “Bleeding Kansas.” The long miles are marked by countless graves, scoured by Indians, and fought over by two bitterly opposed political factions. Often discouraged, he must thread his way through these obstacles, and he concludes that he could use a little divine inspiration.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781638852933

Book preview

Chapter 1

Coming of Age

Dismissals for poor performance were not uncommon, but the confrontation at hand was years in the making and long overdue.

The manager’s office was on the second floor and smelled of cigars and good bourbon. The dark paneling and impressive bookshelves produced a dark and foreboding aura, second only in effect to the massive walnut desk and high-back padded leather chair. Parted curtains let in some light through the windows, streaming in from either side of the chair to illuminate the gold and burgundy carpet. Men of the first floor were not called up to this domain unless something was gravely amiss and often departed to seek employment elsewhere.

The man behind the desk wasn’t the biggest toad in the puddle but sure wanted to be. His hair was slicked back and groomed, and the streaks of premature gray showed he had been working hard at it for years. That’s what it took to further rise in the Boatman’s Savings Institution and genteel society. Oh, certainly, Mr. Hobart Lockwood spent most of his days on his ample backside; it would be a mistake to underestimate his physical power. Underneath his fancy vest, black frock coat, and cravat, there were enough muscles and brawn to take care of himself. In his younger days, those attributes were put to use often. In recent years, they have been used to intimidate his enemies or to discipline his son.

The young man summoned to the dark realm was remarkably calm, as if he had been in this predicament before and expected to be so again. The gray tweed suit was that of a lower rung in the ladder and was worn by clerks and small businessmen. One of the buttons on the young man’s paper collar had popped off or come loose, revealing he neither noticed or simply did not care about appearances. Instead, he stood stoically, waiting for this to be all over with. Lads of eighteen years are generally not known for their patience.

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Lockwood?"

The insolent tone of voice begged for a good backhanded slap. If this conversation was taking place at home, it would be given without hesitation.

The floor manager has had quite enough of your apathy and recommends your dismissal. He says you spend most of your day reading penny press stories and socializing with your colleagues. They can’t get their own work done. Do you have anything to say for yourself, young man?

I quit. My plan is to leave town for good.

Your plan is to do what?

The manager’s face grew red in rage. His eyes sought to pop out of their sockets. He stood behind the massive desk and struck his fists down upon it.

"Head west to the frontier, Father. All the way to the Kansas Territory and maybe beyond. Seek out my future. I am of age now, and it is my right to determine it."

Bah! Your future, such as it is, is here in St. Louis. Boy, you have no idea what strings I had to pull to get you the apprenticeship here at the Boatmen’s Association Institution. Your lackluster marks in common school would have disqualified any other candidate, and it was only my reputation within this fine financial establishment that secured it for you. My standing here will suffer, no doubt. My goodness. What will Mr. Thornton say? No, by God. This latest excursion into the absurd with you is completely out of the question. You have responsibilities now.

I’m sure you will foreclose on another widow’s loan and make matters right again with the board of directors. I’m going, and there’s no way to stop me.

All I need to do is wait a few days. You never have followed through on anything in your life. You quit at the first sign of difficulty.

Not this time, Father.

Damnation. I have grown tired of such foolishness from you. Running around all these years with street hooligans filling your head with nonsense. I can’t count the times I have had to pay off a policeman to keep you out of jail. Besides, what the devil does Kansas offer that has your boiler so stoked? It was only recognized as territory ten months ago. There’s still nothing out there.

Might try my hand at trapping and hunting. Not sure yet.

Well, that’s quite a plan you have there. You set your goals so low you can’t miss. By thunder, if you go through with this, I will disown you! You won’t get a penny of the estate.

Without a word, the young man turned on his heel and left the room. He kept in mind to make his movements slow and deliberate, his tone as cold as a tomb. No childish antics this time. This was a funeral of sorts, ending one life but beginning another. The father’s sweltering tirade was just part of the hellish life he was escaping.

The foray into a respectable life at the bank was, of course, the father’s idea. Hobart Lockwood had but one son, but in spite of his relative wealth and success, his child’s life over that past six years had not been happy ones. Hiram had lost his mother at the tender age of twelve to cholera during the epidemic that swept through St. Louis back in 1849. That year was a bad one for the whole of St. Louis as a great fire swept through the city as well. The family house was spared, but life was never to be the same for father and son. Mr. Lockwood grew cold and distant and put in ten to twelve hours a day at the bank. Most workmen toiled away at such lengths, but bank managers were usually known to work maybe eight or nine. Enough time to make it home to dinner and family at least occasionally.

Not surprisingly, Mr. Lockwood and son Hiram were devastated, but life would go on for them. It was unfortunate that they quickly drifted apart. The father spent even more time at his desk, leaving Hiram to grieve and fend for himself. It wasn’t right; it just was.

Apprentices of any trade made little, if any, money. Banking was no exception. The newcomers were not entrusted to handle any funds whatsoever and were given rudimentary tasks that were necessary but no one of any standing cared to do. His father’s influence accounted for Hiram being placed at the new accounts desk. The Boatman’s Bank was a respectable institution which caters to the rivermen, and that seemed like a fine idea on paper, but it made little sense to Hiram. It was not a useful job. Most steamboat men and working-class fellows spent all their sawbucks on liquor and women before their feet dried from the muddy landings. The few who thought to save any money came in with only a few dollars. It was not a job that would occupy anyone full time.

Opening a new account for the typical riverman was simple enough. Just fill out the form for the almost universally illiterate deck hand. Escort him to the bank teller, who took the deposit; then wait for the next chump. Some days, there might be three new accounts, while most others there were none. Fridays were particularly tiresome as they were set aside for the female community. Women didn’t open accounts but appeared at the institution to deposit some of their men’s wages before they were squandered by gambling or on liquor. This apprenticeship simply appeared to be a test of a man’s patience to wait long enough for a man higher up to die and open a position. That might be a long spell, as everyone on the first floor looked healthy in spite of the lack of getting any good sunshine on their hides.

I want to close out my account. All of it.

The painfully thin clerk named Livgren quickly motioned for silence and nervously looked about the room. Anyone closing their account so abruptly could cause a run on the bank.

Hiram. You know better than that. Keep your voice down. You fixin’ on leaving? Got a better job somewhere else?

As soon as I can, and no job just yet. People don’t seem to live past forty. I plan on living life right to the hilt. Can’t see myself dying in this bank.

Might be a good time to skedaddle, anyways.

Why is that?

The bank secretary, Joseph Thornton himself, had been acting mighty peculiar lately. The institution may be in trouble again.

How so? What has he been doing out of his ordinary pompous ways?

Been spending a lot of time in the vault for one. Counting and recounting the money back there. He keeps the guard by the door but won’t let nobody else inside while he’s doing it.

An envelope slid across the counter. The contents contained Hiram’s life savings, honestly acquired and otherwise. It wasn’t much. Livgren paid out as much of it in coinage as he was allowed. The balance was in bank currency. Well, that should be no problem if the final stage of the plan went through smoothly.

Well, as of this moment, the Boatman’s Saving Institution is no longer any concern of mine. Thank you kindly.

Wish you would take me with you, wherever you’re heading. But the missus would track me down like a bloodhound. Good luck to you.

Likewise. Take care, Livgren.

Stepping out into the sunshine was like entering into a new world. The winter of 1854 had been a hard one in St. Louis, but April was here, and the sun shone brightly this day. Instead of spending five cents on the omnibus, Hiram pleased himself with his frugalness by his decision to walk. The time spent to reach the family home uptown would give him time to blow off steam and gather his thoughts. Courage too.

He passed by the billiard halls in which he had spent so much time the past few years. The thought to look in and see his old friends occurred to him, but most had drifted away once he gained respectable employment. Others left the streets to find a better life or were swept away, either in jail or dead. Like his father, they were just another cord to cut. If the street thugs had any inkling of how much money he was carrying, they would be upon him like stink on a skunk.

This old section of St. Louis was virtually destroyed by the fire back in ’49. Since then, it was largely rebuilt using the local red bricks. The city ordnance intended no such calamity would occur again. Near the river were the great warehouses, but the blocks further inland gave way to mercantile stores, offices, and factories. Canyons of red brick ran in every direction. This city district was of the working man. Men strode upon the plank boardwalks in their drab clothing and the few women in public in their plain day dresses. Today, the dirt streets were dry, but the first rain would turn them into seas of mud and manure. Great freight wagons pulled by miserable horses and mules shuffled goods between the riverfront to the warehouses. Cities were no place for such noble animals, or mankind for that matter.

The slave pen owned by Bernard Lynch was located on the corner of Fifth and Myrtle, just a few blocks up from the Boatmen’s Institution. Hiram couldn’t avoid it unless he wanted to add a few blocks to his travels. The main building appeared as a typical brick warehouse, and maybe it was at ground level. Lynch held most of his inventory in the basement so the screaming, wailing, and whipping would happen out of sight and hearing of the people who passed by. But no amount of dirt could keep the feeling of misery and despair from leaking out. Whether you could actually hear it or simply imagined, one could swear to be listening in on the horrors below. Once a week, the people of St. Louis witnessed the procession of chained humanity driven the three blocks from here over to the courthouse for auction. There, men, women, and children of all ages were subjected to judging by balance, structure, and muscling, just as one grades horseflesh. Prices for the enslaved people varied by age and gender, but costs average between $700 and $2,000. That was a heap of money, considering the average working man earned $30 a month, and good horse cost about the same. Buying slaves was a rich man’s game. Most of the slaves purchased here found themselves on the next steamboat heading downstream into the Deep South and life on a plantation. There was not so much use for them up here in Missouri. The plantations further south always needed new hands and paid top dollar for them.

The family home was located in a respectable part of town due west of the city center. The houses here were mostly wood framed and painted a dazzling white. The men who made out even better either moved to fancier districts or replaced the wood with brick. Sometimes, just a brick facade was added to the front of the house for appearances.

Hiram was born in this house and lived here all his eighteen years. It is one of the whitewashed varieties, not stately or beautiful but still respectable. Yet this abode was not filled with happy memories. An epidemic tore through St. Louis six years ago. There were over seventy-five thousand residents packed into the city at the time. By the time the disease ran its course, almost five thousand people died. Some British scientists now call the disease cholera and say it comes from drinking bad water. Chouteau’s Pond south of Market Street was considered the main culprit. At one time, it was filled with clear, cold water and with fish. But it was soon filled with waste, animal carcasses, and refuse that made it an open sewer. In the years that followed, the city leaders directed the building of sewers and the draining and fill of Chouteau’s Pond to prevent future outbreaks. They also established Bellefontaine Cemetery to bury the dead.

That was all just fine and dandy, but it was too late for the beloved wife and mother. She had caught the cholera at the height of the epidemic, dying in agony the next day.

Without a wife to tend the house while away, Mr. Lockwood needed help. It was impossible to hire any, as the house was feared as a sickly one. Even within the destitute immigrant community, there were no takers. His young son needed fed and clothed, and the hours at the bank kept the father away most waking hours. A man had to put in that kind of effort to provide and rise up in the cold cruel world. Sundays were for rest, and he did so then. It was no fault of his that his freeloading son would rather spend the time with his ruffian friends somewhere on the streets. The solution was to buy a slave to keep the household going. There wasn’t much said between the son and servant. She had been told from the start only to answer to Mr. Lockwood.

You are home early, child. You quit your job, didn’t you?

Fannie wasn’t your typical house servant. She used White man’s English in the house and spoke her mind. Father tolerated it, but most folks thought it uppity, if not downright rebellious. In return for his tolerance, she kept the place clean and cooked the meals without complaint, and tended to errands as needed. He even trusted her with the weekly allowance for the home’s groceries and incidentals. No doubt she found ways to stash away a few dollars here and there along the way. Fannie was such a fixture on the city streets she no longer needed a pass, but she didn’t dare venture out past the city curfew and risk the thirty-nine lashes. There was no fear of her being kidnapped as she must be well over sixty, although she didn’t exactly know how old she was. Her steely gaze would humble the most desperate man aiming to take her away and sell her. If she ended up at the slave auction here in St. Louis, she would be instantly recognized and returned, and the thief sentenced to a long prison term.

Not much got by her, but her question was purely out of curiosity than any concern.

Yes, I did, and of course, Father was upset. He figures I will come back with my tail between my legs. You must think that I am foolish too.

The wayward son gone to Kansas. It’s only a foolish thing if you don’t make things better for yourself. You have to carry on for yourself.

How did you know I was fixing on leaving St. Louis? I didn’t tell anyone about my plans.

Harrumph. You have been planning this for some time. During my cleaning, I stumbled upon your store of goods. Thought that bag was full of laundry needing done. Those clothes and other such things are suited for a mountain man on the frontier. Don’t belong in a fancy bank. I suppose it is natural for a White boy your age. Lots of young men are pulling up and heading west. This country has made a habit of it since time began.

There was certainly no love between Fannie and Hiram. She was but an interloper and hired hand in his view, but he respected her more that she respected him. She was tough and took only what she had to. Her people did not have the freedom to choose their destinies, but she made out better than most of them. For the past six years, she watched Hiram squander one opportunity after another. She must truly think of him as a fool.

What do you think my chances are?

Oh no. I’m not getting in betwixt you and Mr. Lockwood. It none of my business and not my place.

She knew what side of her bread was buttered.

Fair enough. I will tell you, though, that I plan to leave in the morning after father has gone to work.

Harrumph.

Her tone could have meant she thought the idea a poor one or didn’t believe it at all.

If there was any thought of not following through, it was gone, gone, gone. There was no way to face father or this slave woman again without some measurable success. The problem now was to carry out what might bring that about.

Hiram’s bedroom was found on the second floor on the north side. The widows offered little to see except the homes of the neighbors. It did offer him privacy from his father, who bedded on the opposite side of the stairs. The basic furniture of a bed, standing wardrobe, and bureau were here. A disused writing table and chair were pushed into a corner.

The young man retrieved his canvas seabag from his wardrobe and spread the contents on the bed. Drawers, socks, two linsey-woolsey shirts. Wool trousers, vest, and wide-brimmed felt hat. He prided himself on the selection of his coat. It was longer that the common short-waisted workman coat but not as long as a frock coat. It afforded protection from the elements yet allowed freedom of movement. The pockets would come in handy. He would have preferred buckskin clothing as described in the many penny press stories he read about the frontier, but there were none to be had in civilized St. Louis.

For field gear, he had acquired a canteen, a haversack, a thick wool blanket, and a compass. Steel, flint, and a handful of Lucifers matches kept in a small tin. Toilet items, incidentals, and a flask of father’s brown liquor. Jerked beef, links of smoked sausage, and a box of pilot crackers. In addition, he possessed a large belt knife that he and his friends had lifted off a drunk one dark night. Up until now, that item was carefully hidden in the bottom of the satchel.

Never follow through with anything, eh, Father? We’ll see about that.

Fannie called up the stairs to announce supper was on the table. She never took her meals with the family, as that was not her place. So once again, it was time to eat alone.

The meal was a lavish one, at least in the amount offered. Father’s portions were always held in the kitchen until his return, so this was all meant for him. There was a whole fried chicken, for goodness’ sakes, with last autumn’s green beans and potatoes. There was mound of biscuits and a plate of apple fritter bread. An empty square tin was oddly set off to the side.

Hiram added two plus two and realized he was to eat his fill and use the tin for the leftovers. Either that was thoughtful of old Fannie, or she was quite happy to see him go and was helping him along.

Sleep came surprising easy that night. A great weight was lifting from his mind and shoulders.

The house was awoken by a pounding at the door. Hiram didn’t know the time, but the sun had not quite broken the horizon. Fannie did not open the door at this queer hour and called up to Mr. Lockwood. He nearly stumbled down the stairs in his slippers. Hiram got up to dress but did not venture from the room. The walls and floors were thin enough to hear everything.

Sorry to trouble you, sir, at this early hour, but there’s been an incident at the bank.

What the devil happened?

The night watchman reports that during a routine check, he was able to open the vault with only a bank key. He found the pile of twenty thousand dollars earmarked for deposit in Jefferson City gone. Mr. Budd himself wants all the staff supervisors to report quietly but posthaste.

George Knight Budd was the institution’s founder and came from old money back East. He was also a long-term fixture on the city council. Even more, years ago, he had arranged for the purchase of the land on which the city hall stood. There will surely be hell to pay. Mr. Budd looked like Moses himself with the long white beard and no doubt would part the careless man’s skull like the old Hebrew parted the Red Sea.

My father implored the man to keep his voice down and said, Be straight with me. Could my son Hiram be behind this?

Hiram knew his father didn’t think much of him, but this was a new low.

Can’t see how. Apprentices aren’t allowed anywhere near the vault. He left earlier in the day, and the money was seen by the staff at closing time.

Well, as far as I know, he’s been here ever since he left his job. I suppose it couldn’t be him. Tell Mr. Budd I will be there directly.

Hiram donned his new clothes and put his banking suit in the seabag. There might be a need for it someday or he could give or sell them to someone else.

Hiram wanted to bolt from the house but waited until his father clopped down the stairs and off to the bank. Delaying for ten minutes, he made his own way to the door. Fannie was waiting for him in the foyer, still in her robe. No emotion or warmth. No judgment either. Just standing by the door.

Mr. Lockwood gave me this to give to you. He had to go to the bank early this morning.

I heard the messenger.

She handed him a poke bag that obviously had coins in it. It felt fairly heavy for its size.

There’s a note in there, too, for you.

I will read it later.

Hiram left without a further word and didn’t look back. He even felt a certain satisfaction in leaving the full chamber pot left behind in his room. His face just might get used to smiling if this keeps up.

There was no need to visit his mother’s grave before leaving town. In truth, it was impossible, anyway. She and hundreds of other victims of the epidemic were hastily buried in a mass grave on Quarantine Island out in the Mississippi River, out where the new sickly hospital was built. There was no funeral to say a final farewell. His last memory of her was a blanket wrapped corpse left at the end of the walk for the city work gang to pick up. They came by at length and tossed her lifeless form into the wagon with the pile of other victims.

But there was one final errand before leaving St. Louis. Hiram had longed for this for some time but had to put it off until he was free of the house and Fannie’s prying eyes.

Horace Dimick established his gun-making shop on North Main Street in 1849 in the midst of the pandemic and the great fire. His rifles were renowned for their craftsmanship and long-range accuracy. The Kansas Territory was a dangerous place with all the Indians roaming about. White men out there were bickering over the slavery issue and tended to take pot shots at each other. If Kansas was so inhospitable, a good rifle was essential.

Dimick’s emporium featured a showroom with a menagerie of various weapons from long guns, shotguns, and pistols. In the back rooms, the craftsmen plied their trade, transforming wood and iron into deadly works of art. It was only a moment before a salesman approached him. No doubt he would ascertain whether the young man was a serious buyer or simple gawker.

Can I help you, young man?

Yes. I wish to purchase a rifle.

You have cash money?

I can plank down, here and now.

That certainly broke through the first layer of ice, but the man wouldn’t be considered warm and friendly.

What do you aim to shoot? Knowing that will help me assist you in selecting a suitable model.

I’m looking at going to the frontier. I need something big enough to bring down big game at a distance, but I’m not interested in any muskets.

"I see. Do you plan on throwing in with the proslavery boys or the abolitionists?"

The tone he used with the word abolitionists made it clear he didn’t approve of them. Any sale was at risk if the wrong words were spoken. Maybe it was a trick question.

I don’t want to frustrate a purchase, so I can’t say for either one. I can say though my family’s servant makes good biscuits.

The guess was correct, and a sly smile adorned the man’s face. It wasn’t the cleverest of things to say, but it did the trick.

Let’s go on over to the rack over there. We have a fine selection that should suit you. Here. Try this one.

The rifle was heavier than expected. Hiram had handled a Hawken once, and that one was a bit lighter than this piece. But the Dimick’s deep stock butt and graceful lines gave this one a better feel and balance. This weapon had a long and heavy thirty-eight-inch octagon barrel with a U-notch rear sight. Stamped behind the rear sight was H. E. Dimick St. Louis. The finish of the browned iron, beautifully stained half-length stock, and German silver hardware clearly indicated this was no cheap knock-off.

This firearm is bored for just about .46 caliber and is meant to use .44 caliber balls with a patch. It shoots clean at three hundred yards. Practice a bit, and you can extend your range even further. One of our workmen here can hit a man-sized target at five hundred yards with fair regularity.

I’ve seen some of the exhibitions Mr. Dimick has held here in St. Louis. I believe it.

Hiram handled several other rifles, but none seemed to suit him better than the first. The angular bent of the buttstock looked and felt as fine as the old-style Pennsylvania rifles.

I will purchase that first one. I will also need the various accoutrements and shooting supplies as well.

Very good, sir. We have all of that in stock. Would there be anything else today?

Have any revolvers?

Of course. I do recommend one of very popular Colt revolving navy model. This comes in .36 caliber. It isn’t the same caliber as your rifle, so you have to carry two types of ammunition. At least the grade of powder and the percussion firing caps are the same. We have some of the venerable Petersons here, too, but they are more tedious to load.

The revolver felt good in his hand, and it was, indeed, easy to get a sight picture on target. The action was crisp. That Samuel Colt surely made fine revolvers.

Do you have any revolvers in .44 caliber? Might be nice to have the caliber match the rifle.

We do have a selection of large revolving saddle pistols. Those Colt dragoons for instance. Nothing meant to be carried on one’s person, though. It would take a large man to carry one on his waist belt for any length of time. I have seldom seen it done.

Fine, this Colt navy will do just dandy. I don’t figure that ammunition to be much of a problem as long as I have the bullet molds for each. I suppose I will need a holster and waist belt as well.

For your revolver, sir, I recommend the purchase of the new nitrated combustible cartridges. They come in packages of six, and each cartridge includes powder and ball. Just place one in the cylinder hole, and press it home with the loading lever. No need to bother with loose powder or having to tear a paper cartridge with your teeth. They are very handy when there is need to reload quickly. The paper casing is expelled through the barrel upon firing. Some folks use grease or beeswax to top off the cylinder. They say it prevents chain firing. If you have a tight enough ball, like these, that won’t happen. You won’t have time for such procedures, anyway, in a prolonged fight.

Everything was placed on the counter and tallied. The store man’s expression looked as though he wondered if this young man actually had the money to pay for such a large purchase. To his surprise, he did. Seventy dollars in Boatman’s Institution paper bills. The clerk winched at the paper money, but it spent well enough here in town. Those bills don’t hold their value the further they went from St. Louis.

Hiram donned his equipment and smiled broadly for the first time in years. Yet it faded when he discovered all the weight hanging on the right side was troublesome and the possibles bag interfered with withdrawing the revolver from its holster. Shifting the pistol over to the left hip provided the needed counterbalance and would be much easier to draw from a sitting position or in the saddle. Much to the surprise of the store clerk, Hiram showed some proficiency in loading the revolver. The rifle went into a soft leather scabbard. The scabbard would protect the rifle from nature and prying eyes.

Hiram was ready to depart his old life, but he still needed the means to get somewhere.

The train station was a good ten blocks away, but that was no good. The Pacific Railroad only reached just short of Jefferson City, and the Hannibal and St. Joseph line required a steamboat ride up the Missouri River and was in the wrong direction. A series of stage lines ran all the way to Westport on the border, but the voyage would take weeks of discomfort.

The way to go was by steamboat.

Chapter 2

Up the Mighty River

As many settlers and adventurers launched their journeys to the West from St. Louis, many people called the city of nearly one hundred thousand souls the gateway to the West. For Hiram, this meant leaving behind the billiard halls, street gangs, ne’er-do-wells, and of course his father. A new life, whatever it may bring, lay ahead.

Spring was slow in coming this year, but March brought warmer weather, and the annual rise in the river was at hand. The rise always brought about a whirling dervish of activity at the riverfront. Workmen made final repairs to the boats, and roustabouts brought goods from the warehouses for loading onto the boats. Many rivermen were anxious to get back to work to draw pay, as their onshore habits emptied their pockets weeks ago. Boat owners desired their vessels underway to make their profits.

A quick glance up the landing showed a grand sight of at least two dozen boats getting up steam. The dockmaster was pacing with his green flag waiting for the first boat to signal she was in readiness to depart.

Those boats planning to head up the Missouri River had to wait a few weeks longer for the river to rise. The snows up in the northern mountains had not yet melted. Boat companies advertised their boat’s planned departure with placards at the landing and called upon men to sign up as crew. The Arabia looked like a fine little packet, painted white with the gingerbread trimmings. She appeared new. Two men at the stage ramp seemed anxious to be on their way. There was no