Flight of the Hawk: The River

by W. Michael Gear

  “We will. Do be ready. I have no tolerance for those who would take my advance and vanish.” He could feel his temper rising at the thought. Images of Bissonette and Bouche flashed white-hot through his mind. “It would be—”

  “Your reputation for litigation in that field is well known, sir. I give you my word I shall be more than ready at the appointed time.”

  Tylor’s eyes turned Morrison’s way. “If you are familiar with the Roman phrase, sir, I will also be worth more than my salt on the cordelle.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked proudly to the door, placing his wet hat on his head and striding off in the gray drizzle.

  “A most pretentious boast!” Chouteau coughed. “You’ll break him or bury him within a week, Manuel. That, or he’ll desert.”

  Morrison’s face was stiff, then he sighed. “I do hope you know what you are doing, Manuel.”

  “A most interesting man,” Lisa added thoughtfully, and felt his forehead crease with a frown as he tried to make sense of the man he had just hired.

  “I don’t like it, Manuel,” Morrison began. “He knows too much. This is a bad time. What if he’s a British agent? He could sink the boats, stir up trouble among the tribes. He could cause us any kind of mischief.”

  “Or,” Chouteau interjected, “he might be working for the Spanish. He did seem to know a great deal about Spanish jails. They still do not relish Louisiana as an American possession.”

  “He could be many things, my friends,” Lisa softly said. “There are many factions playing for advantage in Saint Louis these days. He could be an agent for any of them, but I don’t think so. The man has his secrets, true, but I think he came to me for his own interests, and not for others.”

  “And do not underrate John Jacob Astor,” Morrison admonished with a wagging finger. “Yonder Tylor could just as easily be his agent. We know that Astor has designs on us.”

  Lisa flashed a smile. “I would never underestimate Mr. Astor. Not after last year. No, this man is not hunting, gentlemen. My sense is that he is running. All that remains is to find what he is running from.”

  The thing about a runner was that once his secret was learned, he was vulnerable. Manuel Lisa might not have been many things—least of all a saint. He had never suffered the slightest remorse after using a man’s vulnerabilities for his own advancement and profit.

  Morrison’s voice was cold. “And if you’re wrong, Manuel? If he is a spy? Are you . . . No, nothing.”

  “Capable of killing him should the situation require?” Lisa sipped his brandy and shrugged his wiry shoulders. “I will take whatever measures are necessary to succeed. And I ask you, what better place to keep track of him than in my own camp?”

  “Manuel,” Chouteau lowered his aging voice to make the point. “Never, ever, have the stakes been this high. You must be very, very careful.”

  Lisa narrowed his eyes, adding, “I shall have Baptiste Latoulipe watch our Mr. Tylor. If there is something amiss, Latoulipe will ferret it out for me.”

  The conversation slowly returned to economics, but Lisa listened with only half-interest. He knew the names of most of the British, French, and Spanish spies in Saint Louis. If he were a spy—or intelligencer, as they were called—this man was new. Astor’s? Somehow it just didn’t fit.

  It was ridiculous to consider, but could he be an American spy?

  No, William Clark would have just appointed him to the company; Tylor wouldn’t have had to sell himself to Lisa.

  Why did the man want so badly to get upriver? For all intent and purpose, the Upper Missouri was the end of the earth. Nevertheless, Lisa had sensed a hidden desperation in Tylor’s manner.

  All in good time, John Tylor. I shall know your secret.

  CHAPTER TWO

  * * *

  Three days later the sun began to shine as clouds broke into fluffy white balls and drifted eastward. The huge flights of migratory birds kept winging north along the Mississippi flyway. Life in Saint Louis was good. People climbed the huge, ridge-shaped Indian mound on the north side of town to picnic and marvel at the view it provided of the wide Mississippi valley and the distant headlands on the far Illinois horizon.

  Baptiste Latoulipe followed Lisa’s black houseboy, Charlo, into the cool recesses of the bourgeois’s opulent house. Baptiste looked about enviously, taking in the fine furnishings, the thick and soft carpets, and the porcelain statuettes. He couldn’t help but think of the money the bourgeois held for him in the confines of his safe.

  One day, he, his Elizabeth, and his two children would live in a house like this. His sweat on the river would ensure that. For that he had dedicated himself. All it would take was one more trip. One more backbreaking summer of endless work, danger, and risk. Then, with what he would be paid, that dream house would be his.

  Nor did he have any doubts about his patron, Manuel Lisa. Lisa took care of those who served him loyally. And if Baptiste Latoulipe had a single flawless character trait, it was loyalty.

  Lisa’s office always looked the same to Baptiste. This was a working man’s office, with fine chairs, a remarkable oiled wooden desk with an oil lamp, a pane-glassed window, and shelved ledger books.

  Charlo immediately poured a crystal half-full of brandy and handed it to Baptiste as Lisa looked up from his ledgers, waved to a seat, and bent over the figures again.

  Baptiste sat easily, letting his eyes roam the room, cataloging the Indian artifacts, knickknacks, a leather-bound Bible in Spanish, and the curiosities that lined the packed shelves. He pulled his pipe from his pocket, filled the bowl, and leaned down for an ember from the fireplace.

  Lisa was sharpening his quill as Baptiste pulled at his pipe and tried to order his thoughts, his eyes focused on some distant point beyond the lime-plastered walls.

  “Yes, Baptiste?” Lisa’s precise voice brought the engage’s attention back. The bourgeois scribbled something at the bottom of the page and settled the pen in the inkwell. The keen black eyes were waiting.

  “I followed this John Tylor,” Baptiste began. “You asked me to report anything unusual.” He hesitated, trying to think of how to say it well. Lisa’s gaze urged him along. “He goes to Reuben Lewis and gets his advance. Then he buys a Kentucky rifle which shoots a .54 caliber ball. After that, he does a strange thing. He has the barrel cut shorter and half the stock removed. Then he buys a sword and cuts it in half, taking the guard off and leaving the quillons.”

  “That makes sense. He has a rifle which is easier to handle and a fighting knife which will not break. What else does he do?”

  Baptiste looked into Lisa’s eyes. “He buys tobacco and a bottle of good whiskey which he does not drink. He buys new clothes of buckskin which he packs away. And he buys one other thing.”

  Latoulipe hesitated, unsure.

  “What?”

  “Books!” Latoulipe gave Lisa a helpless look, his hands motioning a shrug.

  “Books?” Lisa wondered. “What kind of books?”

  Baptiste swallowed nervously and sighed his misery. “I do not know, Manuel. You know I do not read.”

  Lisa toyed with an arrowhead on his desk. “Does he read these books?”

  “Every night,” Baptiste assured him. “Each book he buys, he reads. Some he takes and trades back to the old French. Some he reads and keeps. He binds them in oil cloth and puts them in a pack he has bought. That is all. He sees no one. He does not drink or whore with the engages. He just . . . reads.” Baptiste looked his despair at Lisa.

  “He trades books with the old French?”

  “Oui, that, and with the American officers.” Baptiste puffed a cloud of blue smoke at the stained ceiling.

  “Has he seen Charles Gratiot?”

  “Non.” Latoulipe granted a thin smile of understanding. “If he is someone’s agent, he is not seeing any of the people I would suspect.”

  “Has he traded books with William Clark?”

  “Non. In fact, one day Clark comes down the Rue
de la Tour and Tylor crosses. Out of the way. As if he avoids Clark. It is strange, non?”

  The silence lasted for nearly a minute as Lisa’s stare fixed on some far distance in his mind. He tapped his long fingers, stained as they were by the ink from his quill.

  Lisa came to some conclusion, stating, “Have him come here. I will assign him the job of running the expedition’s horses over to my brother, Joaquin, in Saint Charles. Tylor will leave his pack here under my protection. Then, my friend, I shall see what is in these books he reads.”

  “You will read these books yourself?”

  Lisa chuckled, arching a dark eyebrow. “There is more than one kind of intelligence passed within the pages of a book, my friend. They may contain ciphers, hidden pages, and many other aspects of the intelligencer’s art.”

  “The what?”

  “A way of passing messages.”

  “And you think Tylor is doing that?”

  “We shall see, Baptiste. And if he is not?” Lisa’s eyebrow arched even higher, “Then, our Mr. Tylor is even more of an enigma.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  * * *

  Manuel Lisa waved farewell to John Tylor, who disappeared behind the trees as he herded Joaquin’s seven horses down the Saint Charles road. Adding to the man’s enigma was the way he sat a horse. He rode with a gentleman’s seat, back stiff, head up. The way he handled the rather fractious lead mare hearkened of landed aristocracy. The sort of man who had been taught from birth to brook no misbehavior from underlings.

  The man’s pack leaned against the wall, and Lisa turned his attention to it, studying it carefully. Only when he was confident he could put it back just so, did he undo the bindings. The knots were simple and Lisa undid each one. Carefully, he sorted through the articles inside. Powder, balls, the bottle of whiskey, sewing items, a patch knife, cloth, flint-and-steel, several ceramic pipes, and tobacco. And, of course, the books. Each book he laid out in order.

  The first tome was Homer’s Odyssey in a Greek edition. Next came Herodotus followed by Caesar’s De Bello Gallico in Latin; Plutarch’s Lives in Spanish; a volume of Shakespeare in English; Augustine’s City of God; and Dante’s Divine Comedy, both in French. The final volume pulled from the pack was a complete edition of Plato in Greek.

  Though Lisa dedicated an entire afternoon to the study of them, in none of the books did he find anything the least suspicious. The name John Tylor was carefully penciled inside the covers in bold letters. He thumbed the pages to see if anything fell out. Found no pages with circled words, no loose bindings. Not even a hint of anything indicating a secret plot or correspondence. Nothing in Tylor’s possessions so much as suggested it might be a cipher, or code.

  Lisa carefully laid each book in the pack exactly as he had found it and retied the knots. Once the pack had been returned to its original condition he sat himself in an overstuffed French chair and stared at the enigmatic leather. Who was this John Tylor?

  William Clark reclined on his couch when Manuel Lisa was ushered through the double doors of the Indian agent’s office. Clark had his nose pinched between two freckled fingers, rubbing his eyes.

  “Headache?” Lisa asked, pouring himself a brandy and lounging on the corner of Clark’s large desk. The room was airy, the windows open to take advantage of the warm spring weather.

  “Damn it, yes,” Clark muttered, and swung his feet to the floor, sitting up with an effort.

  Lisa let his eyes run over William Clark’s body. The once whip-thin hero of the famous expedition had changed. Clark’s red hair was thinning over the florid face. The once-muscular frame was fighting a poor holding action against a rounding paunch. A dullness had grown behind the eyes. Worry was eating at the joviality and competence. Jefferson’s Louisiana explorer looked tired.

  “Trouble?” Lisa needn’t have asked. The entire west was in turmoil as the drums of war beat louder in the east. The major powers—both political and economic—were sharpening their knives, salivating over what they might carve from the lucrative west in the coming chaos.

  “Always,” Clark sighed. He walked around his desk and settled into the recesses of his stuffed chair. “The Bellefontainee Factory is up in arms over the lack of goods to distribute among the chiefs. It’s cutting into their trade with the tribes. The Indians are worried about the war talk and the reduction in presents. Nothing new, mind you—just the usual threats and unrest. Damn the British!”

  Clark snorted his disdain. “The entire political applecart on the Mississippi is about to be upset because Napoleon is twisting tails in Europe half a world away!”

  “We shall see how much damage is done when we get upriver.” Lisa sipped his brandy, unconcerned. “Remember, we have left good men up there. Champlain is with the Arapaho. Andrew Henry is there with Michael Immel and the others, too. Trade is more than promises. It is presence. And I have hired the best.”

  Clark’s red face cracked a slight smile. “My friend, let us hope you can continue your magic upriver. God save us if the British have turned the Upper Missouri tribes against us. The reorganization of the Missouri Fur Company was bad enough. Too much capital has been pulled out. I wish you were taking more than eleven thousand dollars’ worth of goods with you.” Clark moved his lips as if he were talking to himself.

  Lisa chuckled dryly. “I share your concern over my paltry cargo. The more goods I have to take, the more incentive for the Indians to bring in furs. Instead, your politics and my trade will both suffer. I shall do my best, and I will try to squeeze a few more items out of Christian Wilt.”

  “I’m afraid that Christian, too, is finding things hard-pressed. Yes, he still has goods in his warehouse, but he, too, has creditors. Given that the British have cut off access to their goods through New Orleans, consider it a miracle that he was able to scrounge together the few American goods he’s managed to import.”

  “Yes, yes, he has his problems, too. But it is a time for faith, not fainting. Which my partners seem to prefer.”

  Clark looked up thoughtfully. “Manuel, it irks me a great deal to see Chouteau, Labbadie, and the others backing out. You were so right when you said we left good men up there. It’s tough country. I, more than anyone, understand what they face. Lord knows, Lewis and I got lucky: We didn’t have to stay and hold the country.”

  “They knew the risks.” Lisa crossed his arms. “If nothing else, I would go back for them, William. Many curse me and call me a ‘Black Spaniard’ but I would never leave those men stranded.” He shook his head, a crooked smile on his thin lips. “As if those wolves needed rescuing. They are pirates who—”

  “You didn’t come here to tell me that. The boats leave tomorrow.” Clark leaned forward, propping his head on his hands, eyes on the trader. “So . . . ?”

  Lisa took another sip of his brandy and frowned, eyes meeting Clark’s. “Have you ever heard of a John Tylor? He has signed on as an engage. An educated man, perhaps thirty, thin of frame, medium of height. Of the frontier, but not, as he is a learned man, fluent in many languages. Is he a spy for the American government? Has he been sent to observe us on the river?”

  William Clark’s eyes widened. “That is the last thing I would have expected to come out of your mouth. An American spy, sent to keep an eye . . .” He shook his head after pausing thoughtfully. “No. I would have heard. I have plenty of channels to learn what they don’t tell me from Washington City.”

  “So you’ve never heard the name John Tylor?”

  Clark waved it off. “Of course I have. I grew up with a lad named John Tyler. It’s a common name, Manuel. Comes of the craft, like Smith or Miller. Think of—”

  “This Tylor spells it with an o. The man is truly an enigma. Educated. A gentleman of refined manners. Yet he appears in rags. Better yet, he speaks knowledgeably of the western lands. Especially the Pawnee. For these reasons, I fear he may be a spy.”

  Clark’s laugh carried a hollow amusement. “There are more spies in this city t
han dogs—and the mutts outnumber people by four to one. Though a gentleman spy—”

  “Dressed in rags,” Lisa reminded.

  “Dressed in rags,” Clark amended. “That comes across as slightly unusual. Damn this headache. I can barely think. The name has a ring to it. Something, Manuel, that I should know. Why does it sound so familiar?”

  Lisa spread his arms apologetically. “Seriously, I have hired him. I am sending quiet inquiries to Andrew Jackson, to friends at Vincennes, Prairie du Chien, and some other places to see if anyone knows him or his business. If an answer arrives that is important, send someone upriver to warn me.”

  Clark nodded his solemn assurance, and added, “The British have granted that damn Robert Dickson a trading license. That’s the sort of agent you would expect out of Montreal. They like someone with flare who will appeal to the Indians. An unknown man? Dressed in rags? And working as an engage? Not the sort who can rally the upper river chiefs to switch alliances.”

  “I’m thinking he may have a more nefarious purpose. Send messages about my actions to my rivals? Sew discontent among the engages?”

  “Perhaps he’s been sent to sink your boats?”

  Lisa squinted, a look of distaste on his face. “I don’t think so. He’s not the kind. I would expect that of a saintly sort—not a man who’s obviously running from something he fears.”

  “Something he fears?” Clark pinched his nose again and winced. “The best way to recruit a spy is to hold hostage something he values. Threaten those he loves? Offer to expose an affair with another man’s wife, or better yet, knowedge of a theft or murder?”

  “Perhaps.” Lisa paused, smiled, and added absently, “It is probably nothing. I think I just use Tylor to keep my mind off business.”

  Clark made a choking sound. “Manuel, you always think of business. I don’t care if you’re eating, sleeping, or defecating. I’m not sure you ever think of anything else.”