Caleb Narrowly Avoids the Mann Act,
Interstate Transportation of Female Persons for Illegal or Immoral Purposes, a Federal Felony.
Acting on Moon Dog's advice, Caleb and Anne agreed to separate from the two investigators on the odd chance that someone might be watching Anne's car. Moon Dog and Hunter drove the rental cars, back tracking to Terrell's office, and dropped them there, and then, switching to Anne's car, they headed north along US 65 toward I-70 and St. Louis. Meanwhile, Caleb and Anne drove south in the general direction of the "boot heel," intending to cross the Mississippi into Illinois at Cairo.
By the time they had cleared the outskirts of Jefferson City, it was late afternoon, and the light was already beginning to fade. Low clouds were scudding in from the west, bringing with them, a cold, misting rain. Caleb turned on the windshield wipers and adjusted the heater, and pretty soon warmth and the hypnotic "schlop, schlop…schlop, schlop," of the wipers were lulling Anne into a feeling of cozy security that she hadn't felt in days.
"There's a map in the glove compartment, Anne," Caleb said, pointing toward the dash in front of her. "How about getting it out and finding me a back way down to Cape Girardeau."
"I don't need a map for that," she replied with assurance.
"You don't?"
"No," she answered. "You're only about forty-five minutes out of Rolla right now. I went to college there and know this area pretty well. Just stay on this road till it takes you through Rolla, and then I'll show you a short-cut through the Mark Twain National Forest that'll put you out an hour west of Cape."
"Amazing," he said appreciatively. "We'll probably get home before Moon Dog and Hunter."
"Don't count on it," she cautioned. "The road through the Mark Twain is awful, narrow, winding and hilly as all get out, and it'll be pitch black dark, so the going will be slow. Best thing about it, though, is that, this time of year, it'll be deserted. I can guarantee you won't see another car once we get in there."
She looked at the darkening window beside her and watched droplets of accumulated mist streaking past, driven by the rush of wind across the glass and she felt a pang of emptiness in her heart. "Home," she thought, he spoke of "home" as a destination, like a place that really exists and not some fairytale castle in a child's fantasy, and he said it so naturally, so casually, that she wondered if he knew the meaning of the word. Could he possibly know how a young woman could lay awake at night, alone, and yearn till her heart nearly burst from the ache for the home she had lost as a child. Even the home she had known in the awful months after her mother died, while her daddy slipped away into the blackness, had been a sanctuary, where the memories of love and joy had brightened the rooms long after the sounds of the laughter had faded, and she could find tranquility in the sunlit corridors. "Home," she thought, the word has a soft but solid feel about it, a comforting presence, like a warm blanket she could pull round her shoulders on cold winter nights to ward off the chill of the outside world, or even duck her head under if the boogey man got too close. "Home," she murmured softly, closing her eyes and letting the fantasy transport her for a moment, and for the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt safe and protected.
"Did you say something?" he asked over the slap of the windshield wipers.
"Where's home?" she asked cheerfully, turning away from the tear streaked window to look at him.
"Little town in the northwest corner of the state, right up against the Mississippi River; you probably never heard of it."
"Try me."
"Sure, why not," he answered with a smile. "How does Posey's Bend sound to you."
"Like I never heard of it in my life," she laughed. "You're kidding me though, right?"
"Judges don't kid," he pronounced sternly. His smile suggested to her that he was only jesting, but she wondered if the reference to the title of his office hadn't been intended to remind her of his authority.
"Pretty funny sounding name for a town, if you ask me," she responded innocuously.
"It's named after the twenty mile loop the River makes around it. It's almost a complete circle, but the town's on a high rise with scarfs that the River can't cut through. Leviticus Posey was the first permanent settler in the area, so the bend was named after him. When the town came along a few years later, they just took the name that was already there."
"How long have you lived there, Caleb?" she inquired with interest. The stories of other people's lives had always held a special fascination for her, perhaps because of the uncertain turmoil of her own, and she was genuinely interested in what she could learn of this young man.
"All my life. My family's been there practically forever. My great, great grandfather moved into the area the year after Posey. He built a forge there, and we've been there ever since."
"Gee, it could have been Montcastle's Bend, then, if your great, great grandfather had arrived a little sooner." No wonder he called it 'home,' she thought, and she could almost sense the roots spreading from the base of his family tree, branching through the soil, becoming as much a part of the earth under the town as bedrock and humus.
"It very nearly was anyway. Well, they came close to calling the town Hiram's Forge, that was my great, great grandfather's name, and there was some discussion about it at the time."
"Some discussion?" she quizzed him politely.
"Argument, then," he responded, correcting himself. "Some of the folks didn't think much of Posey and his kinfolk, 'cause they had built a little cabin down by the River on the lee side of the bend, where flatbottoms could put in out of the current, and they were selling liquor and gambling and doing God knows what all down there. For a good many years, it was a regular little Natchez under the Hill, if there's any truth to the tales about it, so most people felt like they didn't want to associate the town with that kind of activity."
"But they wound up doing it anyway?"
"Commercial interests prevailed, namely Grandpa Montcastle, and he was against calling it anything besides Posey's Bend, because that name was pretty well known all over the country on account of the 'Cotton Queen' tragedy."
"The 'Cotton Queen' tragedy?"
"A sternwheeler named "Cotton Queen" that blew up her boilers in a race from St. Louis to Memphis. The boilers blew about a mile upstream from the Bend and over 700 passengers were blown to bits, scalded to death or drown. Bodies washed up all along the Bend for a week afterwards, and there were so many of them that they had to cut a new road from town over to the River so the wagons could bring them out."
"That sounds gruesome," she observed empathetically.
"It was, but it put 'Posey's Bend' on the front page of every big newspaper in the country every day for a while, so Grandpa convinced everybody that they ought to take advantage of the notoriety and stick with 'Posey's Bend,' especially since they were trying to bring in the railroad at the time. He figured that the fame would bring new people and businesses into the area, and that the railroad would want to lay a line in there, so pretty soon Posey's Bend would become a busy little river port and a transportation center like Memphis or Natchez."
"Was he right?" she asked, though she already knew the answer, but it comforted her some to know that his ancestors hadn't been slaves to principle, whether their own or others, and they knew how to compromise when the situation required.
"You never heard of it, right?" he asked sardonically.
"I see your point," she acknowledged with a grin.
"Just a matter of bad luck. Two months after they voted on the name, the 'Sultana' blew up about thirty river miles south of Memphis and over 1500 passengers went down with her. There were more lost on the Sultana than went down with the Titanic, believe it or not, and news of the Sultana's sinking pretty much knocked 'Posey's Bend' out of the news. After that, everybody, including the railroad, just forgot all about Posey's Bend."
