The Morning River

by W. Michael Gear

  Fort Atkinson. The name had mingled itself with Richard's dreams to become the promised land, and the Platte his River Jordan. He splashed through the shallows, slipping in mud, back breaking. Despite the cool day, sweat trickled down his face to sting his eyes and drip from his nose. The endless weight of the cordelle lay like the great earth on Atlas's shoulders.

  "Sacre! Careful!" the cry came. "Hold on! Don't let it slip!"

  Behind them, coursing like a huge fish on a line, the Maria curved out from the shore, driven along the arc of the cordelle line by laboring polers as the boat passed wide of the sandbar she'd grounded on earlier that day.

  What a Herculean labor that had been, to free her. Now she had to swing wide around the sandbar at the mouth of the Platte—that or drop back downriver, cross to the far bank, and recross once the boat had passed the Platte.

  Dear Lord God, all they did was pole and cordelle. Didn't the wind ever blow from the south in this wretched land?

  A signal came from the patroon.

  "Go!" Trudeau cried. "Run! No slack in the cordelle, or she slip right back on the sand!"

  They stumbled forward, sloshing through the shallows, scrambling for footing in the quicksand. Breath rasped in Richard's throat.

  At the end of the cordelle, the mast bent under the stress. But Maria held her place. Brown water curled white at her bow, and the grunts of the polers could be heard as they braced their bare feet and leaned into their poles.

  The mouth of the Platte was a terrible place, shoaled with sandbars, dotted with small islands of willow, for the Platte spilled into the Missouri in interwoven ribbons of water. But beyond the Platte, up there where the bluffs rose above the tree line, lay Fort Atkinson. There lay all of Richard's hopes for escape.

  He'd never paid the slightest attention to men in uniform. The only interest he'd had was a philosopher's: lofty and abstract. The military, as Hegel had noted, was for the protection and furthering of the state's interest vis-a-vis other states. The pomp, pretty dress, and regulations had appeared rather ridiculous. Those officers he'd met had been posed of an arrogance unbecoming their lack of either the education or ability to discuss complicated subjects. Philosophy, for instance.

  Richard now chafed to see a soldier; the first uniform would mean deliverance from his living nightmare.

  I’ll throw myself at the first brightly dressed mannequin, clasp his knees, and plead that he take me to his commanding officer.

  That would work, wouldn't it? Or could Green come up with a reasonable explanation for his engage's odd behavior? Claim he was crazy, driven mad by fever, or maybe drunk.

  No. I'll hit him. Ball my fist, and whack him right in the face. They'll have to arrest me. No amount of Green's excuses will keep them from dragging me away. Then, at the inquiry, I’ll tell my story.

  That was it. Foolproof.

  Green would try and keep him on the boat, of course; but Richard had heard the talk. The army searched all of the boats, turned them inside out looking for whiskey. It was against the law to trade whiskey to the Indians, and—in addition to the kegs allotted for crew ration— Maria was chockful of curious triangular tins of the stuff. Way more than the half-gill per man per day allowed by law.

  This time you won't stop me, Mr. Green. Once I hit that soldier, I'm free! *

  And then? Well, no matter what he thought about the men in the army, the system was rational. A man didn't become an officer without some sense and training that set him above his comrades. When Richard told his tale to the commander, they'd drop charges. He'd be placed on the first boat back to Saint Louis. From there, he could find the means to buy passage back to Boston.

  I'm coming, Laura. You'll see. It won't be long now and I'll be knocking on your door.

  Boston! In defiance of his weary labor, he smiled dreamily. He could hear his boot heels striking the cobblestones as he and Laura walked down Washington Street. Her arm was tucked tightly in his. He touched his felt hat, tipping it to each passer-by, no matter how lowly. A silk cloak was swirling around his shoulders as he looked up at the familiar buildings. Just for good measure, he studied their reflection in the windows of a tobacconist, and straightened his cravat. Laura looked dashing in her long velveteen dress with a ribbon bow at the waist. The royal blue set off her long blond hair with its gathered ringlets.

  Home. Boston. The cultured tones of intelligent people like music on his ears. I will be a gentleman again.

  "Merde!" Trudeau shouted. "Pull, you women! She is backing water!"

  Richard threw himself against the cordelle, just one more grunting animal in a line of beasts. Tendons burning in his hands, he tightened his grip on the unforgiving hemp. Heave! Heave! Come on, damn it!

  Maria skated forward, rounding the head of the sandbar. To avoid an abatis of wicked snags that thrust up from the water like the splintered ribs of a water monster, Henri leaned on the steering oar, sending her in toward shore.

  "Too much slack! Hurry! Run!" Trudeau cried, and they scampered forward like trained rats, churning muddy water with booted feet. They raced to take up the slack, diving into the willows on the Platte's north bank, clutching the slippery stems with one hand as they manhandled the heavy rope with the other.

  Richard panted and gasped, humping forward under the swaying cordelle. Ragged breath sawed at his throat. Every muscle in his legs and back cramped and ached. Off balance, the cordelle pulled him sideways through the willows. With the last of his strength, he caught himself before falling. Springy stems tangled his feet so that he crashed forward instead of stepped. He fixed his attention on Toussaint's broad back. Whiplike branches slapped at him, smacking wetly.

  Pull! Come on, Richard. Each step is closer to Fort Atkinson. Each step is closer to Boston. Boston . . . Boston. . . .

  "We 'ave her!" Trudeau called from ahead. "We've crossed the Platte!"

  Their screams and shouts sounded more like an Indian massacre than a celebration. Someone began singing ,l A La Claire Fontaine," and Richard joined in between pants for breath. He didn't sing at first, not really, just hummed along.

  They beat their way through the willows, cutting back toward the river through muck that sucked at their feet. Mosquitoes hummed up in clouds as they waded. Brain-numb, the engages slogged their way out of the marsh like weary beads on the cordelle's string.

  Richard, along with Toussaint and Robert, bellowed and roared as they dragged the thick wet cordelle through the marsh, crushing the long green leaves of cattails and flattening the round tubes of bulrush.

  They could see the river here. Maria bobbed at the end of the cordelle, cutting water.

  "Hand-over-hand!" Trudeau called, and like triumphant fishermen, they reeled in their prize.

  Richard grinned happily. Let the engages have their "Fontaine," his reward would be Boston. A summer stroll around the Commons, just to enjoy the yellow squares of candlelit windowpanes.

  Distant thunder rolled down from the plains to the west, and far off over the eastern bank, lightning flickered in the clouds.

  "We've crossed the Platte!" Engages pounded each other on the back, capered and jeered, whooping and leaping, taking turns as they pulled the Maria in and coiled the cordelle into a big black ring.

  Richard watched the keelboat ride in across the choppy brown water. Normally ungainly, she moved with a grace he'd never seen before. Almost beautiful.

  "Whiskey!" Green cried, coming to stand on the deck. "A good day's work, lads!"

  Men jumped, shrieked, and waved their red wool hats.

  Richard looked down at his hands as the Maria's hull whispered on the bank. The palms were caked with wet sand and grime, the skin reddened and callused.

  His once white shirt hung in tatters about his shoulders. The duck brown pants—the envy of Boston gentlemen— were tied on with rope. Gaps hung in what had been the knees. The heel was missing from his right boot—and that was the good one. The upper had come loose from the sole of his left; the nails had ru
sted out, and the leather was rotten and torn.

  He slapped at a mosquito and waded out into the river, washing the worst of the grime from his face and hands. He was the last to have a tin of whiskey handed down. He stared at it, fond memories in his mind of fine brandies, aromatic bourbons, sweet sherries. He could taste them, smooth, rich, and flavorful on the tongue. But that. .. that was Boston.

  The clear liquid in the cup revealed sand floating in the bottom of the tin. A glob of fat, probably from last night's supper, clung to the rim. Nevertheless, he gulped the grain alcohol straight down, winced, and tried not to cough. The draught snaked fire all the way to his gut.

  Stooping, he scooped up the muddy riverwater, and drank down all that his thirsting body could hold. The full flavor of the river no longer annoyed him; neither did the grit that stuck in his teeth.

  "Line out, lads!" Green called. "We've an hour yet to reach a decent camp, but when we get there, double rations for all!"

  Richard tossed his cup up on deck, combed his matted hair with his fingers, and waded back onto the beach. The cordelle had been coiled cunningly so the end could be un-spooled from the inside out.

  Richard took his place behind Toussaint, and shouldered the heavy rope. Across the Platte. But this time, I'm going home. Each step is one closer to freedom.

  Without further incident, they brought the Maria into the camp Green had insisted that they reach. True to his word, the rations were doubled, and more whiskey was given out.

  Richard strung up his shelter the way Travis had taught him. collapsed inside, and fell asleep to the humming of rood his blanket-covered e

  The dreams were so pristine and clear: Boston, gleaming in the morning sun as he and Laura ate their breakfast before an open window. She was laughing at one ohis stork-she sipped tea from a delicate china cup.

  "Oh, Richard," she said softly, her other hand reaching for his 'You've made me so happy. . . ."

  "Hyar! Dick, c’mon. Git yer kit together," Travis’s rasping voice intruded Dick, we ain't got all day!"

  "Huh?" Richard shifted, pulled his blanket back, and peered out into pitch blackness. "Laura, I mean . . . Travis…"

  "I ain't no Laura, coon. Best rustle, now. Got bread cooking. Tend ter yer needs and roll up yer outfit. I'll be over to the fin

  Richard rubbed his head, splinters of the dream dinging to him. fading . . . fading. . . . Well, so be it. By sunset, they should be within sight of Fort Atkinson.

  He climbed to his feet and fumbled with the ties. He rolled his blanket carefully and wandered over to the fire. Hartman squatted over the low coals, his horrible face illuminated by the red glow. The scars made him look like something straight out of Hell.

  "It's the middle of the night, Travis!"

  "Be coming on light soon, Dick. Hyar, I done boilt up some coffee. Side pork's cooked and pone's crackling in the grease. Figgered I'd dip into stores fer the occasion. Dig in and eat up." Travis glanced curiously at Richard. "They didn't shave ye? Didn't pull no funning on ye?"

  "Funning?"

  "Pranks. Fer making passage past the Platte. Reckon it's like when sailors cross the equator. Means ye ain't a pilgrim no more."

  "I'm not?"

  "Hell, no. 'Course, given yer queer ways, ye'll be damn Yankee Doodle till ye dies. Some things cain't be overcome through travel, no matter how much a feller could wish."

  "I didn't see any pranks, Travis. Unless you getting me up when I ought to be sleeping is one."

  Hartman seemed to be thinking. "I reckon it's 'cause they's all been upriver. Every last man of 'em. Reckon, too, that yer not one of 'em. Yer no engage. To their eyes, yer more like a tick. A . . . what do they call 'em? Partsite?"

  "The word is parasite."

  "If'n ye says so."

  "Listen, Travis, I didn't want to be here in the first place. If you didn't wake me up as a prank, I'm going to go right back to sleep. It's a long pull into Fort Atkinson tomorrow."

  "Who's Laura?"

  "Nobody. Just a dream. That's all."

  "Uh-huh. Drink yer coffee, Dick. Then eat yer fill. Soon's ye finish, I'll be needing ye ter give me a hand with the whiskey tins."

  "Whiskey tins?"

  "Wal, coon, it's like this. Cain't take whiskey upriver. It's agin' the law. 'Course the Injun trade works on whiskey. No whiskey, no trade. Now, Green don't want no more questions asked than need be when he reaches the fort. He'll have just enough over the limit on board to look normal, whilst the two of us packs the whiskey out around the fort."

  "That many cases? On our backs?"

  Travis looked up with mild irritation. "Tarnal Hell, Dick. I done fetched hosses, and a sneaking Pawnee ter go with 'em."

  "An Indian?"

  Hartman handed him a cup of coffee. "Ye fixing ter repeat every word I says?"

  Richard dropped to his haunches and stared into the coals. He sipped the hot coffee, and glanced sideways at Hartman. This wasn't the watery brew the boatmen got on special occasions, but thick and black. Real coffee.

  "Now, pay special attention, hoss," Travis said in a low voice. "This Pawnee—Half Man. Don't trust him, hear? Don't never turn yer back on him. Yer a gonna have ter be cat-quick, and watchful as a hawk. If n ye see him do anything odd, tell me, right fast"

  "If you don't trust him, why travel with him?"

  " 'Cause he's got hosses. I need hosses ter pack the whiskey. Now, I'd rather borrow 'em from Colonel Atkinson, but he's upriver. Reckon the only other choice is ter take my chances with Half Man, and hope I can keep the red devil buffler'd Now, cat!"

  Richard needed no second invitation, but stuffed himself with the hot venison and corn meal. These days he shoveled his meals into his belly, constantly looking for more.

  "Yer full.'" Hartman asked, throwing out the grounds in the bottom of his cup. "Wal, come on Let's unpack them tins."

  Birds were singing by the time they carried the last of the heavy tins into the dawn-grayed trees beyond the camp. The musty smell of the river lay heavy on the damp air. Like humped monsters, made a black silhouette against the glowing eastern horizon. A line of horses—scrubby-looking ponies for the most part—stood at their picket.

  'That's the Pawnee," Travis said, pointing at a dark form rolled in a blanket. "Reckon the coon's getting all the sleep he can. All right, Yankee, come watch me. This hyar be how ye packs a hoss. Ye ever packed at

  "No."

  "Wal, watch then."

  One by one they lashed the heavy tins onto the horses, and Richard suddenly understood why they were triangular— just right to be lashed to a horse with a complicated knot Hartman called a diamond hitch.

  "And thar she be," Travis concluded as the last animal was loaded. "Whoa, there, hoss. Easy now. Dick, take up that slack on the rope. That's it. Now, bend down and look at that lash cinch. Setting pert, is it?"

  "Looks so."

  "Wal, then, I reckon I'll go kick that lazy Pawnee awake." Hartman half turned. "Huh, almost fergot." He pointed to a roll of tan hide. "Best put them on, Dick, whilst I roust out this hyar mangy half-breed. We got tracks ter make."

  Richard bent over the roll, pulling out a pair of beautiful white leather moccasins, a heavy cloth shirt, and fringed leather pants. He cast an uncertain glance at Hartman, who was crouched several feet away from the Pawnee, talking in a strange tongue and gesturing with his hands.

  How did they tan leather to be this soft? Richard stripped and slid into the pants, then pulled on the moccasins after stopping to feel the hard, thick soles. The shirt fit loosely, but how wonderful to wear something that didn't have a hole in it.

  Travis walked up, rifle in hand. "Pawnee's up. Let's get a move on."

  "Just a moment. I need to take my old clothes back to the boat."

  "Reckon not. Wrap 'em up and tie 'em with a thong. A feller can always use rags."

  "I. . . I'll pay you back, Travis. For the clothes, I mean."

  "Fergit it, lad. It's on the jawbone."

  "Travis?
"

  "What now?"

  "You and I, we won't be going by the fort, will we?"

  Travis stared around, as if to see if he'd forgotten anything. "Reckon not."

  The deep sinking sensation hollowed Richard's gut. "Damn you. Damn you all."

  Hartman's gaze went winter-hard. "Pay attention ter the Pawnee, Dick."

  "Why? Maybe I'll help him steal your whiskey. That's what you're afraid of, isn't it?"

  "Yep. 'Course, ye need ter be mindful, Dick. Ter lift our whiskey, he's gotta kill me first. Then, after he lifts my hair, he'll be fixing to lift yers, too."

  "Kill us?"

  "Reckon so. Keep your eyes open."

  Heals Like A Willow sat stiffly on her horse, her blanket over her head for protection. A low bank of gray clouds sprinkled her and Packrat with a gentle spring rain. They trotted down a trail, winding through a copse of trees.

  After two months of hard riding, she'd grown somewhat fond of the mare. After all, it wasn't the animal's fault that she'd been captured. The stolid pony had carried her resolutely across desert, plain, and prairie.

  Willow winced and tried to shift her position. If only her hands weren't always tied; but then, after two moons of practice, she'd learned to do a great many things despite bound wrists.

  Riding through the rain, they crossed hilly country covered with tall grasses and interminable patches of brush. The trees were of a kind Willow had never seen before, black-barked, with twisting branches. The wood was heavy, and burned into better coals than even sagebrush produced. And how hard it was! A digging stick made of such would last a woman all of her life.

  "Here!" Packrat told her. "We are close now."

  As they broke through the spring green trees. Willow gasped. There, before them, lay the La-chi-kuts' fort. She'd never seen the like of it. The White men had built their soldier village in a square—and such lodges, like giant baskets made of logs. And slanting roofs! A strong man couldn't shoot an arrow across the place in three shots!

  She rode in silence, trying to comprehend what her eyes saw, remembering White Hail's claim that the White men were magical. Perhaps they were.