Land of the Free

by Jeffry Hepple

  “About your name,” he lied.

  She looked up at him again. “Pardon me? I don’t understand.”

  “Cortés is a famous name.”

  “Ah, yes.” She smiled. “You mean the Spanish Conquistador, Hernán Cortés, of course.”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded. “He was, indeed, my forefather.”

  “Well isn’t that something?”

  “He fathered two sons who were both named Martin. The first Martin Cortés was my forefather.”

  “Well, well,” he said with a broad grin. “You must be very proud.”

  “No. Well, perhaps. But not for the reasons you might think. His mother was an Aztec woman who acted as interpreter for the Spaniards. Her Christian name was Doña Marina but she was called La Malinche. Have you heard of her?”

  He shook his head. “No, but it seems that you have inherited her name and her gift for language.”

  She gave him another smile. “I would like to have something of La Malinche in me.”

  “But,” he said, thinking. “Does that not make you a Spanish aristocrat?”

  “No, no.” She shook her head. “My forefather’s half brother was Don Martín Cortés, the second Marqués del Valle de Oaxaca and the heir of Hernán Cortés. His mother was Juana de Zúñiga. Their descendents are the aristocrats. We, the children of La Malinche, are Mestizo.”

  “Mestizo? I’m not familiar with that word. Is it Spanish?”

  “Spanish and Portuguese. It refers to people in the Americas of mixed European and Indian ancestry.”

  He nodded. “I see.”

  “Are you married?” she asked abruptly.

  He was surprised by the question. “Married? Me?”

  She giggled.

  “No. No, I’m not.”

  “Engaged?”

  He gave her a strange look. “Why do you ask?”

  She shrugged. “I thought we were getting to know each other.”

  “Oh, I see,” he said, after a moment. “No. That is, no, I’m not married or engaged.”

  “Are your parents living?”

  He shook his head. “Both of them died in the war. Yours?”

  “I don’t know. They were both still alive when I was kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped?”

  “Taken by the Apaches. Isn’t kidnapped the right word? My English is imperfect.”

  “Your English is quite perfect and kidnapped is the correct word. But for some reason…” He shrugged.

  “Oh, oh, I see. You’re thinking of me as a slave.”

  “No. Of course not. That is…”

  “Slaves are not kidnapped, they are procured. Am I right?”

  “No. The word I had in mind was captured. I didn’t…”

  “You needn’t be so defensive. Many otherwise decent people find it acceptable that human beings are kidnapped and sold at auction.”

  “No,” he protested. “I mean…”

  “How many slaves does your family own?”

  “None. Not one.”

  “How many slaves does President Jefferson own?”

  “I could not even hazard a guess. But I know that he intends to introduce a bill that will outlaw the importation of slaves.”

  “But not a bill to outlaw the owning of slaves.”

  “The southern states would secede from the Union if he tried.”

  “Then they would perish as they should. All the manufacturing is in the north.” She pointed ahead. “That is the courthouse.”

  ~

  The court clerk examined the document. “This is incorrect.” He pushed it back across the counter then produced a new blank.

  Yank and Marina exchanged a horrified look. “You mean I have to go back to that slave trader and start all over again?” Yank asked.

  The clerk looked bored. “Who owns the slave?”

  “Well…” Yank stammered. “I do, but I want her freed.”

  “Then you should have signed the emancipation document, not the trader.” He pointed at the blank form. “Fill this out.” He looked past Yank. “Next.”

  “Hold on,” Yank insisted. “I paid a thousand dollars for that.” He tapped the signed form.

  “Then you were swindled. Please step aside so that others can be served.”

  “No,” Yank protested. “Not until you tell me what I must do to free this woman.”

  The clerk rolled his eyes. “I just told you. Fill out the new form and sign it.”

  “And then what?”

  “Go to the end of this line and I’ll process you in turn.”

  “How much does it cost?”

  “Fifty cents.” He leaned to the side. “Next, please. Step up.”

  Marina took Yank’s arm and guided him toward the long desk mounted on the wall.

  “I paid that bastard a thousand dollars,” Yank muttered.

  “Please, I beg you. Fill out the form.”

  Cursing under his breath, Yank completed the form, joined the line and paid the half dollar to have the document registered. “So she’s free now?” Yank asked the clerk.

  “As free as you or me,” the man replied. “Assuming you’re free.”

  Marina pulled Yank toward the door before he could respond. “Please.”

  Grumbling, he gave in until they were outside. “Is dueling legal in New Orleans?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Neither Joseph or Josiah Meddling are gentlemen. If you issued a challenge to either they would accept your challenge and then hire thugs to kill you from ambush on the day and appointed time of the duel.”

  “Well, I assure you that I will not walk away from this.”

  “I’m not asking you to do anything but cool off before you act.”

  “You’re right. I have to give it some more thought.”

  “While you’re thinking, can we go to the market?”

  “Yes.”

  ~

  Yank decided that Marina was correct about the New Orleans market. One could indeed buy anything and everything from exotic fruits and nuts to alligator hides and precious metals. He watched the river traffic while she shopped quickly, bargained fiercely, and soon returned to him, dressed in tall boots and riding trousers with no makeup on her face and her hair stuffed into a huge sombrero.

  “How do I look?” She turned in a circle to show him.

  He thought she looked strikingly beautiful but only said that she looked fine.

  She paid him for the unspoken compliment with a dazzling smile. “Then let us go examine our livestock and materiel.”

  “Livestock?”

  “Horses, mules, beeves, goats and chickens for food and transportation.”

  “There was an expenditure on the books approved by Commander Thompson but I saw no livestock of any kind at the Navy Yard.”

  “If Commander Thompson or Harvey bought any animals they will be at the stockyards. We’ll inquire there.”

  “At the stockyards?”

  She saw his color fade. “What?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Well it certainly is something. You looked as if you’d seen a ghost.” She watched his face a moment. “Don’t tell me that you’re afraid of horses and cattle.”

  He laughed. “No.” He looked away for a moment to gather his thoughts. “I’ve never seen a slave market or met anyone like Josiah Meddling before today.”

  She nodded, waiting for him to go on.

  “It looked like a stockyard.” He turned toward her expecting her to laugh at him or ridicule, but she looked puzzled instead.

  “If you feel that way, why were you offended by my spitting on that pig, Josiah Meddling?”

  “I wasn’t offended, I was just surprised.”

  “I think shocked was the word you settled upon.”

  “If you prefer.”

  “You really must learn to hide your feelings.”

  “Like you?”

  “I am not a colonel.”

  “What difference does
that make?”

  “It just seems odd that a leader of men should be so transparent. I feel that I can almost read your mind by watching your face.”

  “I shall work on it.”

  “There’s no need to get angry.”

  “I am not angry.”

  “Well you are,” she countered. “It’s written all over your face.”

  “Could we perhaps change the subject, Miss Cortés?”

  “Very well. If you will agree to call me Marina.”

  He shrugged. “If you insist.”

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “You know my name,” he grumbled. “It was on those emancipation papers. I’m John Van Buskirk.”

  “Do people call you John, Van, or are you Colonel Van Buskirk to everyone?”

  “My friends and family call me Yank.”

  “Yank?”

  “As in Yankee Doodle.”

  She began to giggle.

  “Why is that funny?”

  “Well I was trying to work around to putting us both on a first name basis, but I refuse to call you Yank, Colonel Van Buskirk.”

  “Perhaps that would be best.”

  “I don’t think I like you, Colonel.”

  “I don’t particularly care, Miss Cortés. In fact, I prefer it. That will make things a bit less complicated.”

  August 20, 1804

  New Orleans, Louisiana Territory

  At the sound of the knock on his hotel room door, Yank snatched the pistol from under his pillow and rolled off the bed. “Who is there?” he called out in French.

  “Marina Cortés.”

  “Just a moment.” He put down the pistol, stepped into his trousers, padded to the door and opened it. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly noon.” She came in and closed the door. “You’re a late sleeper.”

  “I had a late night.” He went through his kit bag and began searching in its depths for clean socks and a shirt.

  “Someone released all Josiah Meddling’s slaves last night.”

  “Is that so?” He sat down on the bed to pull on his socks.

  “He’s missing.”

  “Missing Meddling. If I wasn’t so tired I think I could make an interesting limerick from that.”

  “Joseph Galloway too.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He owns a tavern called the Gray Lady,” she said sarcastically.

  “Never heard of the place.” Yank rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I need to shave.”

  “I can shave you, if you like.”

  “The idea of you with a razor at my throat isn’t appealing.”

  She sat down on the bed. “Are they dead?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Do you always sleep with a loaded pistol?”

  “Yes.” He poured water into the basin. “Is a little privacy too much to ask?”

  “No.” She made no move to leave. “A thousand dollars is a great deal of money but two human lives are worth more.”

  “What’s the value of three hundred slaves?”

  “Most of them will have been caught by now, the rest will be cowering somewhere with no money, no plans and no hope.”

  He lathered his face and looked at her in the mirror. “I don’t want or expect any gratitude from you, but I will have respect or you can go your own way.”

  “If I ever meet a man that I respect I’ll show it. You’re not him.”

  “You are dismissed, Miss Cortés. You may keep the advance.”

  She fluffed his pillows and lay back on them. “I found our stock. Some of the horses are half wild but I know a good wrangler.”

  “I said that you’re dismissed.”

  “You can’t dismiss me.”

  “Why, pray tell, can I not?”

  “Because I know what happened to Josiah Meddling and Joseph Galloway.”

  “You only think you know.”

  “It hardly matters. Some of the recovered slaves will have seen your face and slaves are only loyal to the hand that’s holding the whip.”

  He turned to look at her. “Do you think I killed Meddling and Galloway?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what makes you think I won’t kill you?”

  Her eyes went wide. “You wouldn’t. Would you?”

  He turned back to the mirror. “Meddling and Galloway have left the city. Galloway may sneak back after my expedition has moved out but Meddling is on his way to Kentucky to start a new life in a more honorable profession.”

  “Freeing those slaves was still a crime,” she said, a bit less certain than before.

  “There’s no law that says a slave owner can’t free his slaves.”

  “But without papers…” She watched his face. “They have papers, don’t they?”

  “And twenty dollars in gold each.”

  “That’s six thousand dollars. He only swindled you out of one.”

  “Interest.”

  “What did you do to them? Meddling and Joseph, I mean.”

  “I never put a hand on either of them.”

  “That’s an evasion.”

  “I know.”

  “You won’t tell me, will you?”

  “No.”

  She sat up. “Did you do anything about the mother of the boy who was sold yesterday?”

  “She’s on her way to Baton Rouge with her daughter. I sent a letter with her to the planter that bought her son. I think he’ll do the right thing.”

  She smiled. “Would you like to go upstairs with me?”

  He turned to look at her. “This is the top floor.”

  “No. You don’t understand. When I worked at the Gray Lady and a man wanted…”

  “Say no more,” he interrupted. “I do understand.”

  “Well?”

  “No thank you.”

  “I wasn’t a whore by choice,” she said angrily.

  “That’s immaterial.”

  “What must I do to get you to rehire me? I have nothing else of value to offer.”

  “That’s not going to work.” He rinsed his face and picked up his shirt. “Your friends told me that you double-crossed them.”

  Her color faded.

  “How many times have you done this?”

  She got up off the bed and walked toward him. “You don’t understand.” She looked frightened.

  “Of course I understand. Joseph sells you to some fool like me. Meddling fakes the ownership transfer and you run away from the fool and go back to Joseph at the first opportunity. Then you’re sold again to some other fool. Clever, except now you have no one to go back to, do you?”

  “Please believe me. I wasn’t going back to Joseph this time. You have to believe me. Please. I want to go with you.”

  “Oh dear. I’ve made a huge mistake,” he said sarcastically.

  “You have made a mistake. I swear on my life.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “Think about it. Please. Just think about it. I took the papers from Meddling so that you’d take them to the courthouse instead of him. I spit in his face to show him I was through.”

  He nodded. “I wondered about that.”

  “Joseph never sold me to anyone like you before,” she said. “They were all pigs who would have used me, abused me and exploited me worse than Joseph. The moment I saw you I knew you were different. I decided that I’d find some way to go with you.” She caught her breath. “Please take me with you,” she sobbed. “Chain me if you must. I want to go with you. You have to believe me.”

  He smiled. “I don’t have to, but, fool that I am, I think I do.”

  “Then am I rehired?” she asked breathlessly.

  “I’m starving. Let’s have lunch before we go look at our stock.”

  August 21, 1804

  New Orleans, Louisiana Territory

  “Thank you. We will post a list of names at the gate when we have made our decision.” Yank was seated on a small crate using a larger crate as a desk while a line of disreputabl
e looking men applied for positions with the expedition. “Next?”

  “I’m Jasper Folsom,” a small man with a badly burn-scarred face announced. “You still needin’ you a top wrangler?”

  Yank nodded. “What are your qualifications?”

  The man seemed confused by the question. “Qualifications?” He looked over his shoulder. “I was told you had some rank horses and I’m the best there is with horses, or any kind of animal. Ask anybody.”

  “You’re hired, Jasper,” Marina said. She had been leaning against a stack of packing crates, watching as Yank dismissed every applicant.

  Yank turned to give her a look of disapproval.

  “Everybody knows Jasper’s a top hand,” she said. “You won’t find anyone better if you look forever.”

  “Perhaps you should pick the rest of our company, Miss Cortés,” Yank replied sarcastically.

  “Very well, Colonel Van Buskirk. But we’ll let Jasper pick his own wranglers.” She walked past Yank and pointed down the line. “Nathan? Is that Nathan Sparks?”

  “It is me.” A man came toward her, removing his hat as he walked.

  “Your cook,” Marina said to Yank. “He is a first class butcher as well.” She eyed the line again. “Who’s the toughest man here?”

  Four men stepped out.

  “We’ll hire the last man standing as trail boss,” she said.

  “No.” Yank waved his hand. “We’ll hire all four.”

  “Then who’s gonna be boss?” one of the men challenged.

  “Your name please?” Yank asked.

  “McGregor. John.”

  “John McGregor,” Yank said, writing in a leather bound book. He looked up at the man when he’d finished. “I am the boss, Mr. McGregor. Any other questions?”

  McGregor shook his head but obviously had more to say.

  Marina gave Yank a harsh look then went back to the task of selecting teamsters, hunters and scouts, while Jasper selected men who might tend the animal herds.

  Yank wrote the names of the other three tough men in the book and had each sign or make-his-mark on the same line.

  “Harvey said you was plannin’ to follow the Sabine,” McGregor said as Yank finished with the third man.

  Yank nodded. “That is correct, Mr. McGregor.”

  “You canno’ navigate the Sabine,” McGregor said. “I tried. ‘Tis naught but a swamp filled with cypress knees. “Tisn’t at all what it seems on yer maps. No wagons can pass through the swamps and no boats can float the bayous.”