Land of the Free

by Jeffry Hepple

  August 18, 1804

  New Orleans, Louisiana Territory

  Yank walked the plank from the flatboat to the dock with his kitbag on his shoulder, then set the bag on the pier at his feet to look over the busy port.

  “Excuse me sir, are you by chance Colonel Van Buskirk?” asked a boy in the uniform of a navy ensign.

  “Yes.” Yank looked back to see if his cargo was being unloaded.

  The ensign saluted. “I’m very relieved. I had not expected you to be in civilian clothes.”

  “It was very astute of you to pick me out of this vast crowd.” Yank waved toward the empty dock. “But I’m traveling in civilian clothes for a reason and your salute rather defeats that effort.”

  “Oh. Sorry, sir.” The young man dropped his salute and looked utterly confused.

  “What can I do for you, Ensign,” Yank asked after a moment.

  “Commander Thompson sends his regards, sir.”

  “Does he?” Yank chuckled.

  “Sir?”

  “I fear that I have not had the pleasure of meeting Commander Thompson.”

  “Oh.” The young officer was by now very flustered. “Well. Let me see.” He looked around as if help might suddenly appear.

  “Tell me Commander Thompson’s duty here in New Orleans and perhaps we can muddle through this, Ensign.”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy thought a moment. “Commander Thompson is in charge of the New Orleans Navy Yard.” He gestured vaguely over his shoulder. “I work there. For Commander Thompson, that is.”

  “Now there’s a good start,” Yank said. “Because I have brought some crates along with me that will need storage in your armory.”

  “Crates, Sir? Weapons, may I ask?”

  “Yes. Weapons and ammunition.”

  “It is my understanding that there are already weapons and ammunition in your bunker, sir.”

  “I have a bunker?”

  “Indeed, Sir. Well stocked with provisions for your expedition.”

  “Were these provisions procured by a man by the name of Harvey Pique, perhaps?”

  “No, Sir. Procured by Commander Thompson under orders from Washington, Sir. That is – I believe they came from Washington. I could be wrong. I probably should not say.” He took a breath. “But I can say that Commander Thompson does not trust this man called Harvey Pique. Yes, I think I can say that.”

  “You don’t say?” Yank chuckled.

  “No sir. That is, yes sir. That is, Commander Thompson has not been willing to grant Harvey Pique permission to view or to inventory the contents of your bunker.”

  “Well then, Ensign, I think I shall be happy to meet Commander Thompson.” Yank waved at a sailor who had ridden a cargo net to the dock and spoke to the young ensign. “Have you transportation for my crates?”

  “No, Sir. But I can arrange it, if you will give me a very few minutes.”

  “Thank you, Ensign. You will find me over there by those crates.” He pointed to the cargo and then shook his head in return to the young man’s salute before walking over to the waiting sailor.

  “Gettin’ yer land-legs under y’, are y’ sir?” the sailor asked with a toothy grin.

  “I am indeed, Boatswain,” Yank agreed. “That young officer is arranging for transportation. It shouldn’t be long.”

  “I’m in no hurry, sir.”

  “A sailor in no hurry for shore leave? Now I’ve heard everything.”

  “We are to set sail with the next tide, Sir. There’ll be no shore leave this trip.”

  “Really? What’s the urgency?”

  “Somethin’ to do with British war ships in the Gulf pressin’ honest American seamen into their service, is all I know, sir.”

  Yank nodded but offered no additional comment.

  “Do you think we’ll go to war with the English again, sir?”

  “Yes, Boatswain, I do. But not today, and probably not soon.” He waved. “Here’s my transportation.”

  The sailor whistled and beckoned to a gang of longshoremen.

  “One more minute and I shall fetch a cab for you, Colonel,” the ensign said as he jumped down from the box.

  “Not necessary,” Yank replied. “I’ll be perfectly happy riding with the cargo.”

  “But sir…”

  “I’d prefer to ride with the cargo and protect it, Ensign.” Yank showed him a pistol under his coat and then tossed his kitbag onto the wagon. “These crates contain Kentucky rifles which, as you may know, are highly prized by pirates and bandits.”

  “I should say so, sir.” The young officer looked at the crates with new respect. “Have you fired one, sir?”

  “I have fired the Baker rifle many times.”

  “Are they as accurate as I have heard?”

  Yank smiled. “I cannot guess what you might have heard but on a calm day I have struck a target the size of a bucket at four hundred yards.”

  “Really, sir. I shouldn’t be surprised if it doesn’t soon replace the musket in the fleet and ashore.”

  “The drawback is that a leather wrapping patch is required, making the weapon quite slow to load,” Yank said. “Is there a firing range in the Navy Yard?”

  “Yes, sir. But the longest targets are a hundred yards down range.”

  “That should do well enough to give us an opportunity to familiarize ourselves with the weapon. If you would care to join me, of course.”

  “Oh, I’d be ever so grateful for the opportunity, Sir.”

  “Then, unless your Commander Thompson objects, you shall have the opportunity.”

  ~

  Commander Thompson was a salty old man who had come up from the ranks and lost a leg and an arm during the Revolutionary War. No longer able to command a ship at sea and unwilling to retire, he took his duties at the New Orleans Navy Yard very seriously. “That man Harvey Peach or Peaked, or whatever-his-name-may-be, is a rogue and a villain, sir.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Yank said. “And, for the record, his name is Pique. P-I-Q-U-E.”

  “Appropriate.”

  “I should imagine that the men he’s hired for the expedition are all scoundrels as well.”

  “If he’s hired anyone at all, I have not seen them,” Commander Thompson replied.

  Yank looked up from the inventory he had been reading. “Well, given your description of the man, I should think it might actually be best if he’s indeed hired no one.”

  “Indeed.”

  “But, I was truly hoping to find that he’d hired a good interpreter. A good interpreter will make a significant difference in the number of people we have to kill.”

  The commander chuckled. “The Spanish make a great deal of noise about their sovereign territory but they have yet to fire a shot in its defense.”

  “I was thinking more about Indians than I was about the Spanish army.”

  “Ah.” Commander Thompson nodded. “Yes. They could be a problem. Comanche have moved south and west along the Red River, you know. Well mounted cavalry, you know. Dangerous. Having an interpreter could well save a lot of bloodshed on both sides.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Pique has a working knowledge of native tongues.”

  “I doubt that he’s ever seen an Indian beyond our local mixed breed drunks and beggars.”

  “According to the Secretary of State, Mr. Pique has travelled from here to Yellow Stone and beyond, several times. It seems unlikely that he could have avoided contact with numerous Indians during his journeys.”

  “I fear that your Mr. Pique’s journeys are all fabrication, Colonel. If he truly had those credentials he would be quite famous and I surely would have heard of him before now.”

  Yank made a face. “Yes. I suppose you would have. Have you heard of, or do you know of anyone who might be a legitimate guide for us?”

  Commander Thompson shook his head. “You might find someone in Texas or New Mexico, but not here. For all practical purposes, Texas from the Sabine to the Rio Grande is an unexplored wild
erness.”

  Yank nodded. “Can someone in your department arrange for an advertisement to be placed in the local newspaper?”

  “Certainly. What should it say?”

  “Only that we are looking for men with martial skills to undertake a dangerous journey of exploration.”

  Commander Thompson laughed. “You’ll get nothing but cutthroats.”

  Yank nodded. “I will need cutthroats. Can you also arrange a place here where I can interview and perhaps test applicants?”

  Commander Thompson shrugged. “Your bunker should do.”

  “Oh. Well then perhaps I should see it.”

  “By all means. Would you object to Ensign Hogan acting as your escort? I don’t get around well any more.”

  “I wouldn’t object at all. Ensign Hogan is a fine young man. Which reminds me. I promised to let him fire a Kentucky rifle for familiarization. What must I do to deliver that promise?”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  “Thank you.” Yank stood up and offered his hand. “You have been a great help.”

  “Anything for John Van Buskirk’s son,” Commander Thompson said. “Absolutely anything.”

  Yank smiled then started for the door.

  “Oh, Colonel?” Thomson called.

  “Yes, Commander?” Yank stopped.

  “You’ll find your man Harvey Pique at a tavern called the Gray Lady. Hogan can show you where it is or draw you a map.”

  “Thank you.”

  August 18, 1804

  New Orleans, Louisiana Territory

  Marina Cortés stopped at the top of the stairs to survey the customers in the smoke-filled Gray Lady Tavern, then proceed slowly down the steps and walked to the bar. “Who’s the fancy dresser, Joseph?” she asked the tavern owner behind the bar. She nodded toward a young man sitting alone at a table.

  “President Jefferson’s surveyor name of Van Bushkirk. He’s waitin’ for old Harvey.”

  She leaned her elbows on the bar and studied the stranger. “A genuine gentleman.”

  “Looks it and sounds it. Too bad.”

  “What’s too bad?”

  “Harvey’s gonna slit his gizzard.”

  “Harvey is?”

  “Bet on it.”

  “Well that really would be too bad.” She watched the man for a few more seconds then glanced at the bartender. “Give me a deck of cards and a wheel of chips, Joseph.”

  He pointed. “There’s already a big game goin’ right over there, Marina.”

  “I saw that. I’m going to start another.”

  He shrugged, reached under the bar and came up with the cards and poker chips. “You stay away from Old Harvey, Marina. You won’t be worth spit with a cut up face.”

  She ignored him and carried the cards and chips to the empty table next to Yank Van Buskirk. “Good evening.”

  He was watching the door and glanced up at her. “Good evening, Miss.”

  “He called me Miss.” She chuckled and sat down.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss?”

  “Talking to myself,” she replied.

  He smiled, nodded and looked back toward the front door.

  “Who wants to play poker?” she shouted.

  “We got a game over here, Marina,” a voice answered. “Pull up a chair.”

  “Too many players,” she bellowed. “New game. Right here. Come on all you high-rollers. I think this is my lucky day and I’m betting more than money.” As a few men drifted toward her table, she saw Harvey Pique come in.

  Receiving a signal from Joseph at the bar, Yank stood up and raised his hand. “Hello there. Mr. Pique? Excuse me. Mr. Pique? Over here, if you please.”

  ~

  “You don’t seem to understand, Mr. Pique,” Yank said. “We simply cannot embark without an interpreter who speaks the necessary Indian language.”

  The man sitting across the table from him gave Yank a look of distain. “There ain’t no such thing as no Indian language. All the tribes have their own lingo and where we’re a-goin’ we’ll run into a dozen tribes.”

  “Then we’ll want a dozen interpreters,” Yank replied.

  “What you’ll be wantin’ don’t much matter to me no more,” Pique said, getting to his feet. “What you’ll be needin’ is another guide.”

  “Now if you will wait just a moment,” Yank said calmly, “I am quite sure that we can still talk this through.”

  “Talk, to my arse.”

  Yank stood up too. “I must remind you that you accepted the commission and were paid a signing bonus by the United States.”

  “Sue me. I wasn’t expectin’ them to send a damn fool greenhorn.” Pique started toward the door.

  “Hold on there.” Yank caught him by the arm.

  Pique whirled free and in the same motion drew a long knife from a scabbard on his thigh. “You got about a second to live, you snot nosed Yankee bastard.”

  Yank backed up. “This is absolutely unnecessary.”

  Pique grinned, showing several gold teeth, and lunged.

  Yank jumped back to avoid the blade.

  “Hold it, Harvey.” Marina had produced the tiny, pepperbox pistol from her garter and was aiming it at Pique. Pique turned and started for her. An instant later, there was a sharp report, and Harvey Pique fell in a heap at Yank’s feet.

  Yank knelt and felt for a pulse. “He’s dead.”

  Marina was still holding the smoking pistol and staring at the dead man as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

  “Are you all right Miss?” Yank asked. The hem of her gown was pulled up, exposing her garter and a great deal of shapely leg. With an effort, Yank looked at her face. “Miss?”

  “What?” she asked without taking her eyes from the corpse.

  “Are you all right?”

  She seemed to snap out of the trancelike state. “Yes. Yes. I’m fine.” She tried to put the pepperbox back in her garter but her hands were shaking too badly.

  “You might want to put the hammer down on that.” He pointed.

  “What?” She looked up at him with, huge, black, uncomprehending eyes.

  He took the pistol from her. “It seems to have two barrels and two hammers.” He eased the second hammer down. “It would be a sin to damage that beautiful leg.” He handed her the pistol.

  “A sin?” she asked.

  “Put that away, Miss.” He pointed at the pepperbox but his eyes were on the smooth skin of her bare thigh.

  “Oh yes.” Her hands were still shaking badly but this time she managed to push the pepperbox back under her elastic garter.

  Yank turned away from the distraction to look around the room. The tavern had gone silent for a moment when the fight started, but as the smoke cleared, conversation went back to the normal level. Yank’s eyes returned to the body at his feet and the spreading stain of dark blood. “What must be done about this?”

  “Drag the carcass out to the alley or give the keeper behind the bar some money to have it done for you,” the man across from Marina suggested. “It’s your bet, Marina.”

  “What about the police?” Yank asked.

  “You mean a constable?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “I’d forget that if I was you and let Joseph handle it.” He pounded the table. “Are you gonna play poker or not, Marina?”

  “Hold your horses.” She picked up her cards. “My bet?” Her face was very pale but her hands now seemed steady.

  With one last look at Marina, Yank stepped over the corpse, walked to the bar and put down a silver dollar. “Is that enough?”

  “One more would be just right.” The tavern keeper replied with a grin.

  Yank put another coin on the bar. “Will there be any trouble with the law?”

  “Nah. Nobody much liked old Harvey anyway.” He signaled to someone at the back of the room. “Besides. Everybody knows that Marina wouldn’t kill no payin’ customer unless she had to, not even Harvey.”

  “She seems t
o be somewhat shaken by it.”

  “She’ll get over it. Tough as nails, that one.”

  “She didn’t look it.”

  “A woman’s looks’ll fool ya, more often than not.”

  “I suppose so.” Yank watched as two young black men dragged the body out through the back door and a third cleaned up the blood as if it were an everyday occurrence. “Why did he react that way?” Yank asked. “I only wanted to talk.”

  The tavern keeper shrugged. “With you alive old Harvey might of had to give back the money that he was paid to take you west.”

  “I hadn’t intended to dismiss him.”

  “It appears that he would of dismissed you, if it weren’t for Marina’s little thigh gun.”

  Yank nodded. “I should thank her but I’m afraid that interrupting the poker game again might provoke another fight.”

  “Might,” the tavern keeper agreed. “You showed yourself slow to self defense. This here is a dog eat dog kinda town. If folks here thinks that yer soft, yer real likely to get some heat.”

  “I would have defended myself, if I had thought it was necessary. But I was never in any danger.”

  The tavern keeper shrugged. “Yer either awful sure of yerself or yer awful green.”

  “Perhaps a bit of both.” Yank watched as the man cleaning the floor spread fresh sawdust over the wet planks. “I don’t suppose it will be easy finding another guide after this.”

  “Not if you’re insistent on a white man. Harvey’s the onliest white man around here that claims to have been to Yellow Stone.”

  “I’m not that particular about the guide’s skin color.” He was watching Marina again. Beneath too many layers of powder and rouge, she was quite astonishingly pretty. The image of her silk clad calf and the bare skin of her thigh above the fancy garter was still very vivid in his memory.

  “How about sex?” the tavern keeper asked.

  Yank jumped as if stabbed and turned to face the bartender in surprise. “What did you say?”

  “The sex of yer guide,” the man explained with a chuckle. “Would you have a problem pickin’ a woman?”

  “A woman?”

  “Marina there.” The bartender pointed. “She’s been to Yellow Stone.”