Land of the Free

by Jeffry Hepple

  “Really?” Yank looked toward her again. “Well. Hmm. A woman. No. That is… I don’t think…”

  “She speaks Spanish, French, Latin and a bunch o’ Indian tongues.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Is she Spanish?”

  “Mexican.”

  Yank looked away from her, trying to focus his mind on the mission. “How did she get here? To New Orleans, I mean. From Mexico.”

  “She lived up near Albuquerque in the Spaniard’s New Mexico territory and got took as a slave by Apaches when she was just a girl.” He laughed. “But she give ‘em so much grief that they traded her to some Sioux up at Yellow Stone.”

  Yank turned back toward the card game.

  “Turns out,” the tavern keeper continued, “the Sioux didn’t like her much better than them Apaches. So they up and sold her to a French trapper name of Fontenot. Now, he was a mean old bastard, that Fontenot, but not hardly mean enough to break Marina. A few years back he brought her here to the New Orleans slave market and sold her to Josiah Meddling. That there is where I bought her. From Josiah Meddling.”

  “She’s a slave?”

  “Yup.”

  Yank looked from the bartender to Marina and back again. “She cannot be a slave.”

  “Well she dern sure is,” the man argued. “And I have the papers to prove it.”

  “She was born free.”

  “Born free?” The tavern keeper gave a short laugh to punctuate his words. “That don’t mean nothin’. Half the slaves in the slave market was born free in Africa, or somewheres. Hell, I know a few that was slaves, made free and then grabbed up off the street and made slaves again.”

  Yank was still having difficulty getting his mind around the idea that the young woman was a slave. “But you said that she’s Mexican.”

  “Which means she’s mostly Indian. Ain’t much difference between a nigger and a Indian when you come right down to it.”

  “Well, if she’s a slave, how could I hire her as an interpreter?”

  “You don’t have to hire her. I’ll sell her to you for three hundred dollars.”

  “Sell her to me? I’d own her?”

  “Well yeah.” The bartender was losing patience with the conversation. “You want her or not?”

  Yank looked indecisive.

  “Three hundred’s a dead bargain. I could get a thousand for her on the open market.”

  “A thousand?”

  “Maybe more. Them big plantation owners in the southeast would pay a high dollar for such a good lookin’, almost white, eighteen year old girl, even if she ain’t no virgin. I’m only makin’ the offer ‘cause I like her and I figure you’ll set her free.”

  “If you want her freed, why don’t you just set her free?”

  “Can’t afford to,” the tavern keeper said with a shrug. “Costs two thousand dollars on top of what I got invested in her already. Even if I got me a fifty-percent discount from my friend Josiah Meddling, that’d be just plumb bad business.”

  “It costs money to free a slave?”

  “O’ course it does. You gotta have emancipation papers and such. Then there’s the fees the courthouse charges.”

  “How does one go about freeing a slave?”

  “Well first off, you gotta be able to prove that the slave can support his or her own self.”

  “That I can do easily by providing her employment.”

  “Well then, you just take her ownership papers to the slave market and have a trader sign a grant of emancipation. If you see Josiah Meddling and tell him you’re President Jefferson’s surveyor, he’ll give you a discount. He’s a right good American.”

  Yank was watching Marina. “Three hundred dollars you say?”

  “That’s a firm price. I won’t go a penny lower. But I’ll talk to Josiah Meddling and see if he’ll give you a better discount. Bet I could get him to do it for a thousand instead of two.”

  “Very well,” Yank said after a moment. “Can you direct me to the Banque de la Louisiane?”

  The tavern keeper pointed. “They’re moving to a new building on Royal Street.”

  “Will you take a bank draft or do you insist on coin?”

  “You’d never make it back here alive with that much coin. I’ll go with you right now so as we can get the ownership papers notarized.”

  Yank was again watching Marina who was now dealing cards. “Not right now, if you please. Not quite yet. I need a few moments to think.”

  “Somethin’ wrong?”

  “No.”

  “Havin’ second thoughts?” the tavern keeper pressed.

  Yank shook his head, but not convincingly.

  “You worried that she’ll run away?”

  Yank looked at him. “No, not exactly. I was thinking that spending an amount equal to the price of a small ship to buy a woman might be difficult to explain in my report.”

  “Don’t see why. Just get Marina to write a letter explainin’ the whole thing and include that with your report. She writes better’n most lawyers.”

  “What if she doesn’t agree?”

  “To write a letter?”

  “To be my – slave. That is, until I can grant her freedom.”

  “Oh hell, she don’t got a choice in that, does she.”

  “Still…”

  “Hold on.” The tavern keeper whistled. “Marina,” he shouted.

  She turned to look at him, gave up her cards and walked to the bar. “That was a winning hand I just folded.” She glanced at Yank but looked away quickly.

  “This gentleman is wantin’ a guide to help him survey the south western piece of the Louisiana Purchase.”

  “I know,” she replied. “Did you somehow miss the action over there a few minutes ago?”

  “Listen to me now, Marina. This here’s important.”

  “I’m listening, Joseph.”

  “I told him you’d do for Harvey’s job,” the tavern keeper continued, “and I made him a fair price. He’s worried that you’ll run off after he buys you.”

  “No, no,” Yank protested to the woman. “That’s not it at all. I just find it highly unusual. I mean – I would set you free and you could – that is… If you wanted… I mean…”

  “My name is Marina Cortés,” she said excitedly in perfect French. “I would be happy to accompany you on your expedition and even happier to be free. Happier than you can imagine. You can depend upon my gratitude and loyalty in every way.”

  Yank was so struck by her manners and her aristocratic, Parisian accent that all he managed in reply was to mutter his name.

  She looked at the bartender. “Is this some kind of cruel joke?” she accused in English.

  “No it ain’t.” He shook his head. “I swear.”

  “Then what’s the matter with him?”

  “You was speakin’ French. Maybe he don’t speak French.”

  “I speak French,” Yank said.

  “And?” she asked.

  Yank looked at the bartender. “And we’re going to the bank now, I suppose.”

  August 19, 1804

  New Orleans, Louisiana Territory

  The New Orleans slave market was an enormous enterprise that made Yank Van Buskirk decidedly uncomfortable. Row upon row of buildings crowded the narrow street, each with its own slave pens and exercise yards. At the end of the street, inside a traffic circle, the main auction yards and holding pens dominated the view.

  “I don’t know why this is necessary, Miss Cortés,” Yank complained. “No one would ever suspect that you might be a slave.”

  Yank and Marina were in the street in front of the establishment of Josiah Meddling. Business was being undertaken on the front porch with slaves lined up for a prospective buyer’s inspection.

  “Anyone who knows New Orleans knows what I am,” she replied in French. “Shall we go in?”

  “Where did you learn French?” he asked, trying to delay their entry to the slaver’s esta
blishment a bit longer.

  “At the Ursuline Convent.”

  “You were in a convent?”

  “No. The Ursuline Nuns from France have established a school for girls and an orphanage here. They also offer free classes to African slaves and Native American girls. Joseph, the tavern owner, sent me to them because I spoke no French when he bought me.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “I attended classes for a little over three years while working at the tavern. I would have liked to have continued, but Joseph saw no profit in it after I had mastered French.” She took his arm. “Please may we go in?”

  “Yes, of course.” Yank was ill at ease having the woman clinging to his arm but could think of no way of escaping her without being rude. He resolutely started toward the broad porch.

  She sensed his discomfort and extracted her hand from his arm. “Forgive me. My knees are a bit wobbly and I forgot my place for a moment.”

  Shame flooded over him as he realized just how daunting this must be for her. He recaptured her hand and drew it into the crook of his arm. “It is I who must beg forgiveness.” He patted her hand. “We will get through this together.”

  She looked up at him and smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”

  As they climbed the steps to the porch, a boy of about nine or ten with very black skin was being put through a series of exercises to demonstrate his physical condition to the prospective buyer.

  When the buyer seemed to approve, a young woman, obviously the child’s mother, dropped to her knees and begged to be included in the transaction.

  The slaver, Josiah Meddling by name, rounded on the mother with a quirt, ordering her to cease her sniveling unless she wanted a hundred lashes with a horsewhip.

  Heedless of the threat, the woman continued in a pitiful tone, beseeching the prospective buyer to take her and her daughter with her son.

  The buyer, who said he was a planter from Baton Rouge, was obviously moved by her plea but told her that although he intended to buy the boy, he simply could not afford to buy all three family members.

  Yank was about to step forward but Marina held him back. “There are a thousand just like her in that pen outside,” she whispered in English. “You cannot buy them all.”

  Yank hesitated, then nodded. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

  Marina shook her head. “It will be the same everywhere. Please. Let us get this done.”

  “Very well.”

  With sinking hearts, they watched as the current business was concluded and the tearful little boy was led away from his wailing, broken-hearted mother.

  “You must be Colonel Van Buskirk,” Meddling said with a nod of recognition toward Marina. Behind him, the weeping woman was being dragged out to the pens along with others who had been on display.

  Yank watched in horror. The pens reminded him of a stockyard.

  “You have the money and documents?” Meddling prompted.

  Yank dragged his eyes away from the heart-wrenching scene to hand the slaver a bank draft and a folder. “Can we hurry this along please?”

  Meddling examined Yank’s expression for another moment. “Abolitionist are you?”

  Yank’s answer was curtailed by Marina’s insistent fingernails on his bicep. “No, sir. But I am in a hurry to get on with my mission. If you please.”

  After another moment, Meddling nodded and signed the ownership form. “I’ll register this with the courthouse and have a certified copy for you tomorrow.”

  “Why can’t we take it to the courthouse?” Marina asked.

  “That’s not how it’s done,” Meddling replied.

  Marina snatched the form from his hand and read it. “This says that it’s to be presented by the owner.”

  Meddling squirmed. “I’m acting as the owner’s agent.”

  Yank saw the fear in Marina’s face and took the form from her. “I don’t mind taking it to the courthouse myself,” he said. “Especially if we can get it done today rather than waiting until tomorrow.”

  “Well if it’s that important I’ll do it right now and you can wait outside the courthouse for me.” Meddling reached for the paper.

  Yank turned his body to deflect Meddling’s hand. “I’m grateful for the offer but Miss Cortés and I prefer to do it ourselves.”

  “Alright,” Meddling said after a moment of deliberation. “Congratulations, Marina. You’re a free woman.” He bent toward her as if to bestow a kiss but she spit in his face and turned away, pulling Yank along with her. Once they had regained the street, she stopped. “Are we going to the courthouse now?”

  He was staring at her and didn’t answer.

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Are we going to the courthouse?”

  “Yes, yes. Is it within walking distance?”

  She pointed. “Just down this road, less than a mile.”

  Yank switched sides with her so he was on the outside and gave her his other arm.

  Marina began to giggle.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Did you see the expression on his face?” she chuckled. “He didn’t know what to do.”

  “Nor did I,” Yank replied. “You are a very unusual woman.”

  “Me?” She looked up at him for a moment. “For spitting on him?”

  He shrugged. “Well, yes.”

  “Do you blame me?”

  “No. But – it was surprising. You might even say, shocking.”

  “Because I spit on him or because I am a woman?”

  “As I said: you are a very unusual woman.”

  “How many women do you know who have been in that situation?” She pointed over her shoulder. “That man put me in chains, stripped me naked and auctioned me to the highest bidder.” She looked back for a moment. “Was I supposed to let him kiss me?”

  “No, but…”

  “But what? What did I do wrong?”

  “Nothing.” He shrugged.

  “I would really like to know what you meant. What makes me so unusual?”

  It took him several seconds to form an answer. “For one thing, I’ve never met a woman who shot a man dead before.”

  “Well, if it makes you feel any better, that was an accident.”

  He looked at her dubiously.

  “I intended to shoot over his head but he came at me.”

  “You didn’t behave like it was an accident.”

  She hesitated. “If that’s so, I suppose I’ve learned to keep a close rein on my behavior. God knows that I’ve become an accomplished liar and…” She shook her head. “You come from another world and can never understand the one I live in.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “May I have my emancipation papers please?”

  “Oh yes, of course.” He handed them to her.

  She released his arm and stopped to examine the papers again. “How soon can we be underway?”

  “Underway? You mean begin the expedition?”

  “Yes.”

  He shook his head. “I cannot say for certain. That man Harvey was to have organized everything so we could depart when I arrived, but it seems that he did next to nothing.”

  “What do we need?” She took his arm again and resumed walking.

  “Personnel.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes, I think so. The materiel is in a bunker at the New Orleans Navy Yard and seemed quite complete.”

  “What kind of materiel?”

  “Weapons, tack, wagons, tools.” He glanced toward the river. “I’ll show you as soon as we have your emancipation properly documented and have collected your belongings from the tavern.”

  “I have nothing at the tavern worth collecting.”

  “Your clothes?”

  “Whore’s clothes,” she replied. “I don’t want them. I have a little money. Perhaps we could stop at the market where I could buy riding clothes and boots.”

  “The market?” He lo
oked over his shoulder.

  “No, no,” she laughed. “Not the slave market. The New Orleans market. You can buy anything there. Except slaves. It’s on the docks near the Navy Yard.”

  “Oh, I see,” he replied in obvious relief. “And if you haven’t enough for whatever you need I shall advance your wages to cover it.”

  “Wages?” she asked in astonishment. “I’m to be paid wages?”

  “Of course.”

  “How much?”

  “Forty-one dollars a month.”

  She stared up at him. “Forty-one dollars a month?”

  “That is a ranking sergeant’s pay,” he said apologetically. “It is all I am authorized to pay. Although, that man Harvey received a hundred, twenty-five dollars in advance as a signing bonus. Perhaps I could petition the Secretary to extend the bonus to you. But that will take some time, I fear.”

  “No, no,” she said, waving her hand. “Forty-one dollars a month is very generous.” She wrinkled her brow. “Is everyone to be so well paid?”

  “The regular men, such as musketeers, laborers, teamsters and herdsmen, with no leadership responsibility, will receive private’s pay.”

  “Which is?”

  “Eight dollars a month and a twenty dollar signing bonus in advance. I might pay a bit more for experienced riflemen.”

  “Eight dollars is still quite good. What kind of men do we need?”

  “What kind?” He smiled. “The rough kind. Men who can handle weapons and animals. Men who can survive hard living.”

  “No women?”

  “One woman should be trouble enough.” He chuckled but the truth of those words hit home and he began to worry.

  “You will need cooks and seamstresses,” she said. “Those are female skills.”

  “Our cook will be male and we’ll have no need for a seamstress. Sailors can mend sails and a blacksmith can mend harness.”

  They walked in silence for a time, both lost in their thoughts. Marina’s thoughts revolved around her freedom and newfound money and Yank was now seriously considering the inadvisability of taking a woman on the expedition.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, trying to read his face.

  “No.”

  “You look troubled.”

  “Just thinking.”

  “About me?”