Flight of the Hawk: The River

by W. Michael Gear

  Manuel Lisa stood high on Polly’s cargo box and watched the Missouri’s twisting, sucking, brown water slide under the bows. The bossman, alert, stood ready with his pole, concentrating intently on the water ahead, ready to fend off any approaching log.

  The meeting at Fort Osage had been interesting and most informative. Captain Clemson had heard little of British intrigue upriver. The food had been mediocre. The company rustic. The biggest irritation of the night was the theft of Immel’s little mutt by the Osage. The hunter had refused to go on until his prized dancing dog was returned.

  Lisa took a deep breath. Michael, a good man, had said he would catch up later.

  Lisa heard his teeth grinding. Nerves, he decided, fighting the urge to pace the deck. The wind on his face felt restless, like his soul. His black eyes followed out the length of the taut, bowing, cordelle to the sweating men who pulled it. Like a line of ragged ants, they struggled along the shore, passing the heavy rope around trees, battling through brush.

  On the passé avant below, the polers were chanting one of their endless songs. Lisa let his gaze stray to their sweaty backs. Tylor was poling today, taking the place of Detalier who squatted at the back, his butt hanging over the stern with scours. Tylor never sang with the men, but he was a fiend on cordelle or pole. Already his bony frame was filling out with new muscle as he drove himself against the river, his face strained and lined with effort.

  “Such a . . . curious man,” Lisa mused.

  “Bourgeois!” the bossman shouted. “Ahead! Boats!”

  Lisa watched the craft—three mackinaws—as they pulled near and tied off to the side of Polly. Shouting engages and little, roly-poly, Louis Bijou were pulled up over the side. Amidst greetings, Lisa pounded his sawed-off Sioux trader on the back.

  “What news, Louis? You are well?” Lisa demanded, his eyes searching the trader’s face.

  “Oui, Bourgeois, I am well. I have a message from Robideau, La Jeuness, and the others. They are well. The river is quiet.” A beat. “But trade is down.” Louis’s bearded face was burned walnut brown from the sun. He squinted around a bulbous nose that curved over a mouth half-full of teeth.

  “Trade is down?” Lisa repeated, his stomach sinking. “It is war talk?”

  Bijou nodded, his black eyes straying to the horizon. “Seeing you on the river, the Sioux will relax. There is much talk in the camps. The forest Sioux—the Santee—are ready for war. The western Sioux—the Teton—wait to see if you will come back to them. If you build them a new post, leave them a trader, they will not go to war.”

  Immel, Daniel Laurison, and Caleb Greenwood appeared on the bank, trotting along on horseback, Immel’s dog prancing behind. “Got news, Manuel!” Greenwood hollered.

  It took only minutes for the mackinaw to ferry them aboard.

  Lisa met the tall hunter’s eyes with his own, the question unspoken. Greenwood—as was his fashion before any talk—loaded his pipe, struck a spark, and got it puffing. Lisa fought the urge to fume over the delay.

  “McKnight and Baird,” Greenwood declared, his eyes sharp, “they done left for Santee Fe. Thar oufit ’rrived at the fort ’bout when we left. They’s right a’hint ye and headed overland.”

  “Damn!” Lisa growled as his eyes caught John Tylor’s where the engage leaned on his pole. There was a light in the man’s eyes—some keen understanding. Tylor, as if sensing Lisa’s thoughts, turned his head away.

  Santa Fe? Tylor? Knowledge of the Pawnee? What did the ragged man know of Santa Fe?

  “I cannot be everywhere at once, I . . .” Lisa said thoughtfully, turning his attention back to Greenwood. “If they make it, they will have a most powerful advantage in the trade. Damn the British! Would but that I could turn my attention down there. No, instead I must hold my river and nursemaid trembling partners.” He smacked a fist into his palm.

  “Thar be time, hoss,” Greenwood said with a shrug. “Reckon them thar Spanish ain’t gonna be any too happy a seein’ them boys on their front porch. Reckon I wouldn’t put it past them to lock them boys up in someplace deep and dark, and lose the key.”

  “Perhaps,” Lisa murmured, mind racing, trying to plan ahead to counter the move made by Baird and McKnight. He did have one edge. Champlain had gone to the Arapaho last fall with a letter to any Spanish traders he might run into. In it, Lisa invited any Spanish trader to contact him about the initiation of trade. Perhaps that letter was even now in Santa Fe. He, a Spaniard by birth, would be much more attractive to the New Mexicans than McKnight and Baird.

  Lisa focused his eyes on the distance beyond the horizon, as if to see far-off and looming events. Trying to see into the future—to see if war would come. Assuming he could hold the river and turn a handsome profit on this trip—not to mention out-rascal his partners—he could finally give serious attention to Santa Fe. Then, and only then, would Manuel Lisa become the most powerful trader in America. Powerful enough to stop even John Jacob Astor.

  Lisa let his eyes stray over the river—his river—seeing the flat water as it alternately sucked and spewed; bits of bark, sticks, an occasional bloated buffalo carcass, or a raft of embarrass bobbed on the whirling brown surface. She was a bitch of a river to bet an empire against.

  “Louis?” Lisa turned to Bijou, who had just relaxed with a tin cup of whiskey that Luttig had handed up from the barrel.

  “Oui, Bourgeois?” Bijou’s broad smile stretched as he drank deeply of the clear spirits.

  Lisa tested his charisma, giving Bijou a smile. “You would go upriver again? For me? The Sioux know you and like you. It would mean another year away from Saint Louis. It is wrong. I should not ask this . . .”

  Louis waved it away as nothing. “What of the furs?”

  Bijou looked down at the mackinaws with their bales of tightly packed beaver. The engages, sitting at the oars, drank their drams of whiskey merrily.

  “The men will take them to Morrison and Christian Wilt.” Lisa waved a hand at the mackinaw. “Wilt will be delighted to receive something against the credit he has extended us for the trade we’ve bought from him. Give him my regards. Tell him more plews are on the way.”

  One of the engages nodded his agreement, calling up, “Of course, Bourgeois!”

  Louis cracked a smile, his missing teeth like black holes behind his beard. “I have two young Sioux women who I already miss. My wife in Saint Louis, well, she is a good Christian woman. My Sioux, as you can guess, they are not!” He leered at Lisa, expression lustful.

  “You, my friend, are a true savage. That is why the Sioux like you so much. With you at my back, I do not need to worry about Robert Dickson and his Sioux connections.” Lisa thumped his chest and raised his voice. “I—I have Louis Bijou!”

  The little round trader shrugged his embarrassment and nodded. “I will handle the Sioux for you, Bourgeois. I will do my best.”

  Lisa felt a lessening of the burden. No other man fit the Sioux like Bijou. No other man would keep them occupied, happy, and out of British influence. Lisa nodded to himself; he worked hard for Bijou’s loyalty. Keeping it required the right amount of flattery, bragging, and wheedling.

  And, of course, the fact that Bijou’s good Catholic wife was a shrew didn’t hurt matters in the slightest.

  At that moment, Lisa glimpsed the amused smile that graced Tylor’s lips as he trudged past with his pole buried in his shoulder. As if the man had just read his thoughts about Bijou, and approved.

  Here was yet another facet to the enigma that was Tylor. Did he really understand the way Lisa’s mind worked? That was a question that festered.

  Lisa waved the mackinaws on downriver. Watched them go, paddled by the singing engages. At least, there, he had a little return on his investment.

  Lisa’s mind strayed back to Santa Fe; that brought him to Tylor and the knowing look that had been in his eyes. This skinny ragged engage was no ordinary frontiersman. Tylor—despite his deplorable clothing and retiring manner—knew
too much. That being the case, why hadn’t Lisa heard of him? Had the man been with Pike on his curious expedition to Santa Fe? Perhaps he had been with the Freeman and Custis party that Jefferson had innocently sent up the Red River and into Wilkinson’s net of intrigue? A Texas trader perhaps? Who?

  Every night, after the evening meal, Tylor crawled up on the cargo box and watched the river’s black waters as he smoked his pipe. Lisa couldn’t help but wonder: What does the man think as he sits there in the dark? The bowl of his pipe glowing, it would barely illuminate the expressions of pain, regret, and worry.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  * * *

  The small ceremony being held in the little dressed-stone chapel behind the Burnt Oaks mansion was quiet, with few in attendance. The soft North Carolina breezes were playing gently at the open window casements. The sound of the slaves laboring in the fields could be heard—a barely audible background as the humble melody of a gospel. The harmonic voices were accented by birdsong and the buzzing of bees in the flowers that grew along the chapel fence.

  “Do you, Joshua Gregg, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, until death do you part?” the ascerbic reverend asked, his hands clasping the open Bible.

  Hallie winced under her pink veil. She heard the same words, would utter the same vows she had shared with John so long ago. Until death do you part? What did that mean? Her heart turned cold, and she fought for breath.

  “I do,” Joshua’s voice was almost gleeful.

  Hallie shot him a quick glance. Joshua was staring straight ahead; the muscles at the corner of his mouth twitched the same way they did when he’d made a major business coup. Triumph illuminated his blue eyes. Only his flattened nose destroyed what would have been a classic profile.

  “And do you, Hallie Hamilton Tylor, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, until death do you part?” The reverend’s voice struck her as being almost sickeningly benevolent.

  “I do.” It slipped out—almost an involuntary thing.

  Hallie’s heart surged like it would burst against her ribs.

  My God, what have I done?

  She fought for self-control. An image of John’s dancing brown eyes formed before her, as if hanging in the air. She could see his white teeth as he laughed gustily at some joke. Could remember him looking fondly over the pasture where the spring foals were prancing and cavorting after the mares. Most of all she remembered the tenderness in his eyes.

  “I now pronounce you man and wife.” The minister gave them a warm smile, his red nose almost a beacon for the brandy that would follow.

  Joshua turned toward her, lifting the pink veil. “My dear, Hallie,” his voice reeked of satisfaction.

  She looked into his blue eyes, seeing again the man’s cold passion.

  To the victor go the spoils.

  He bent over her, and nervously she tilted her head up for his lips. Instead, his arms crushed her against him. She tried to draw back as he kissed her—a flicker of fear budding in her chest. She almost cried out as his tongue forced her lips apart and slid across her gritted teeth.

  “What? No passion?” Gregg whispered as he backed away. “Well, we will save the passion for later, won’t we?”

  To the small gathering of business associates who had come for the ceremony, he announced: “Gentlemen, may I present my wife. Hallie Gregg. A flower whose beauty has possessed my thoughts since the first moment I saw her. It’s been a long and hard chase, but today I take her as my own.”

  The men, dressed in their gentlemanly finest, clapped and called out huzzahs.

  Hallie’s mouth had gone suddenly dry.

  What have I done. The words repeated as a sense of desolation opened within.

  She knew. The knowledge lay there, poorly hidden behind the shallow lies she’d told herself. Unable to stand the knowledge that she’d been labeled the wife of a traitor, she’d had one path open to her. Were she ever to live in the manner to which she had been bred and accustomed, it would be through the good graces of one man: Joshua Gregg.

  When his proposal had come, Hallie had taken it, grasped onto it the way a drowning man did a rope. As of this moment, she was mistress of Burnt Oaks with its slaves, tobacco fields, cotton, hemp, and corn. In return, all she had to do was share Joshua’s bed, dress finely, and be his beautiful, smiling, and elegant trophy.

  She felt her knees start to tremble as she let her mind picture the nuptial bed. Joshua had her arm now—was leading her down the aisle. He met his associates with a victorious smile, and ignored the household staff standing in the back, awaiting orders.

  Hallie’s anxiety increased. Nor could she help but remember another time, years ago, when she had walked down this very aisle, laughing as she stared into John’s loving brown eyes. She stifled a sob as she remembered how the nuptial bed had beckoned that time.

  “Where did we go wrong?” she whispered under her breath.

  “What, dearest?” Joshua asked.

  “Nothing,” Hallie murmured.

  The night they camped below the old abandoned Kansas village, Lisa found himself tossing nervously in his blankets. Unable to sleep, he stepped over Charlo’s body, ducked out of his tent, and walked into the night. The fire had burned low, illuminating the dark bundles of men in their blankets. The guards beyond the perimeter called softly to each other.

  Out of habit he turned his steps toward the river and the boats. Lisa leaned his head back to look up at the endless stars that gleamed brightly in the moonless night.

  So far, so good. But what would their fate be if one of the boats was to sink? How could he hold the river against the lure of British goods? Already his stores were down as a result of the embargo—and the American trade goods that made up the majority of his trade didn’t have the same demand or value that better-made British goods had.

  Lisa walked past the beached mackinaw to the edge of the dark water.

  A black shape moved ahead of him. On cat feet Lisa crept forward. A man relieving himself?

  The dim shape that leaned on the Polly’s bowline had ceased to move, as though frozen. Lisa eased forward, step by step. As he squinted in the darkness, he could make out John Tylor’s distinct profile. Was the man attempting to hurt the boat? Lisa fingered the knife at his belt and waited, but Tylor only stared out over the water, periodically grunting to himself.

  “For as hard as you worked today, you show much activity,” Lisa’s soft voice made the man jump.

  Tylor turned slowly, features shadowed by the night.

  “There are times a man needs to think. Alone. By himself.”

  “Yes,” Lisa agreed, his voice soft. “This thing you run from, it bothers you a great deal.”

  “You only assume I run.”

  Lisa noted the wildness—the fear. Apparently he had come too close for Tylor’s comfort. Time to back off.

  Lisa considered Tylor’s intelligence. His determination. The man had potential, could be a considerable asset if his loyalty could be won. Assuming Lisa could discover the man’s secret, leverage could be had to bend Tylor to his will.

  At the same time, the recruitment must be handled very carefully.

  Lisa shrugged inoffensively. “Many men here have left disaster behind and are building new lives. John Tylor, I do not care what you have been or done. My success hinges on my proficiency in recognizing and utilizing men of ambition and skill. And you—you are on the verge of destroying yourself. There is no greater sin than wasted potential.”

  Tylor took a deep breath. “Save the flattery, Mr. Lisa. Seems to me I’ve heard that line before. Even bought into it, once. A long time ago.”

  Lisa settled himself onto a stump that stuck out of the sandy bank. “I make my living by the quality of men who work for me. Like Louis Bijou. Of whom I know you approve. The day will come when he will ask me for some favor. On that day, I will grant it.”

 
; Tylor crossed his arms in front of him and searched Lisa’s shadowed face. “You know nothing of my past. Who I am, or how I came to be here. Once, Booshway”—Tylor used the American pronunciation of bourgeois—“I might have been the man you suspect me to be. Trust me on this, we’re both better off if you just let me work my way upriver.”

  Lisa allowed himself a shadow of a smile. “That would be my worry, wouldn’t it? I told you, I judge men well. I think you could help me out here.”

  Lisa wiped his nose with a finger and frowned at Tylor’s stubborn silence.

  He continued. “Do not mistake my motives. I am not a good Samaritan, Tylor. I am considered ruthless—a merciless competitor. In the words of a dissatisfied employee, I am heartless, steeped in villainy, treacherous, and generally a ‘damned rascal Spaniard.’ Maybe it is true. Maybe . . .”

  He laughed at himself. “No, I am a despot—and I make no apologies. My goals are profit and power. I cannot do all this by myself. In you I see an asset to my company, and I always need good men.”

  “I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Lisa. But like I said, the last thing I would be is an asset to your company.”

  “Do you not underestimate yourself?” Lisa shot back. “I find it hard to believe that a man with your obvious education, determination, and character would be a liability. Unless, of course, you have made the decision to make nothing of your life. Such a decision on your part would be a curious thing.”

  “I suppose I’m just a curious sort of man, Booshway.”

  “Something broke you back there—but the river has a habit of mending or destroying a man. How will you fare, John Tylor?”

  Tylor bit his lip and looked off over the roiling waters, saying nothing. Despite the darkness, Lisa thought he saw shame seething in Tylor’s face.

  Angry with himself, Lisa snapped, “It is late, Tylor. In the meantime, spare yourself any worry on my account. Do not think I’d press you into a situation unsuited to your abilities—or cause you to compromise yourself. One does not win loyalty in such a manner. It would be poor business.”