Land of the Free

by Jeffry Hepple

  “It is but a short walk to the carriage stand,” she said pointing. “The lights are on there and there will be one or two constables.”

  “You may walk that way alone, come with me or stay here and wait,” he said. “But I shall not be detoured by rogues.”

  “Tempting fate is foolish.”

  “Ha. If you believe that, you should not even consider our expedition.”

  “That is hardly the same thing.”

  “It is precisely the same thing. Come, stay or go your own way? The choice is yours.”

  “I have already decided that I will go with you and so I shall.”

  “Then stay on my left leaving me free access to my sword.”

  “Bloody hell.” She raised her dress to remove the pepperbox from her garter then took his offered left arm. “This is foolish.”

  “To allow criminals to take one’s city is foolish. Do not cock that damned little pistol until you intend to use it.” He led her on for a short distance and then stopped.

  “Do you see something?” she whispered.

  “Not a thing. That is why I stopped.”

  “What?”

  “The brigands have an advantage only because their eyes are accustomed to the darkness. If we but wait a moment, their advantage will be no more.”

  She cocked the pepperbox.

  “I told you not to cock that.”

  “If someone comes out of the dark I will not have time.”

  “Let down the hammer unless you would enjoy shooting me as much as you did shooting Harvey Pique.”

  “I did not enjoy shooting Harvey Pique. It was purely accidental.”

  “Yes, you already mentioned that.” He took the pepperbox and lowered the hammer. “And you’re speaking French again.”

  “I didn’t mention how it haunts me,” she said in English.

  He gave her back the small pistol. “No. You didn’t.”

  “I see it over and over in my dreams,” she said in French.

  “I have heard of people being similarly troubled, but I fear that I can offer you no advice.”

  “Have you ever killed?”

  “Many times.”

  “How many?”

  “I have not kept count but the number is surely substantial.”

  “Did it ever bother you?”

  “No.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “Not even the first time?”

  “The first man I killed was a Mohawk warrior who was intent on removing a white woman’s scalp. I ran him through to the hilt. My only sorrow was that his corpse held so fast to my sword that I was unable to extract it. That cost me an arrow wound which has troubled me somewhat ever since.”

  “I suppose killing in battle is different.”

  “It is not.” He squinted up the street. “Harvey Pique was destined to die. I would have likely killed him if you had not.”

  “Do you see something?”

  “Yes,” he said, switching back to English. “I’m nearly sure it is only one man.”

  “Where?”

  “There’s a narrow alley beyond the butcher’s shop. He’s in there.”

  “Where?”

  “Three buildings up, on the right. It has a sign with a cutout pig.”

  “Yes. I see it now. What do we do?”

  “You do nothing other than to stay clear of my sword. Unless he kills me, of course. If that happens I’d advise you to shoot him with both barrels and risk the nightmares.”

  “One.”

  “What?”

  “Only one barrel is loaded.”

  “Why didn’t you reload it?”

  “I don’t know how.”

  He shook his head and started off down the center of the street. “Stay on my left and a half step behind me.”

  “Why must we do this?”

  “New Orleans is a critical part of our expanding country. It is our duty to protect our new citizens.”

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us now at the hour of our death.”

  “Hush.”

  They walked on. As they reached the butcher’s shop, a dark shape emerged from the alley. “Yer money or yer life.”

  “What’s that?” Yank extracted his arm from Marina and walked forward, cupping his left ear with his left hand.

  “I told y’ t’ stand and deliver,” the man said louder, aiming a pistol.

  “Sorry, too much time with the artillery, you know.” Yank kept closing the distance. “What was that you said?”

  “By God, I’ll blow yer stupid head off.” The man rushed forward until the muzzle was inches from Yank’s forehead. “Gimme yer purse or die.”

  Yank grasped the man’s pistol with his left hand, covering the pan and blocking the striker. In the same motion, he drew his sword and pressed the tip under the man’s chin. “Let go of the pistol and get down on the ground.”

  A moment later the man grunted and Yank jumped back to avoid the spray of arterial blood.

  “You killed him,” Marina gasped. Both her hands were covering her mouth. Her pepperbox was on the cobblestones where she had dropped it.

  “Not yet.” Yank bent to wipe the blade of his sword on the dying man’s trousers. “But it shan’t be long.”

  “Why?” Her voice sounded far away.

  Yank looked at her. “Why what?”

  “Why did you kill him? It wasn’t necessary.”

  “It was quite necessary.” Yank pointed to the ugly little dirk in the robber’s left hand. “I killed him to keep him from putting that between my ribs.” He watched as the man gurgled his last breath. “Scotsman, I think. Probably another deserter from a British ship. Bad luck, really. We could have used him.” Yank stood up, retrieved Marina’s pistol from the street and put it in his pocket. “Come along. We must find a constable. The stray dogs will smell the blood and we’ll soon be facing a pack.” He held his hand out to her.

  She took one more look at the corpse, then ignoring his hand, continued down the dark street toward the lights in the next block.

  “I gave him a choice, you know. He gave me none,” Yank said defensively.

  Marina kept walking.

  “I expected more of you. Being brought up in the Wild West, abducted by Indians, sold into slavery. I should think you’d be made of sterner stuff.”

  “I expected more of you too.”

  “What else could I have done?”

  “We could have gone on along the river and found a constable.”

  “That constable would have blown his whistle and soon ten of them would have come at the robber from both ends of the street.”

  “They might not have killed him.”

  “Bah. If he wasn’t killed during his arrest, they would have hanged him in the morning. If he didn’t escape that is. Perhaps that would have been your preferred outcome. A criminal on the loose. Is that it?”

  “I don’t wish to speak of this any more.”

  “Very well. I shall take you to your hotel and then report what happened to the authorities.”

  “Thank you.”

  August 22, 1804

  New Orleans, Louisiana Territory

  Marina, wearing only a long nightshirt, opened her hotel room door then staggered back to her bed, slipped under the covers and pulled them over her head.

  “Are you ill?” Yank asked.

  “I didn’t sleep all night,” she mumbled through the blankets.

  Yank dropped a twenty dollar gold piece on her, then another and another until she uncovered her head.

  “What’s that?”

  He tossed two more coins onto the pile. “A hundred dollars.”

  She sat up and gathered the money. “What’s it for?”

  “It was a reward.” He unfolded a wanted poster and dropped it onto the bed. “Dead or alive, one hundred dollars in gold.”

  She looked up at him but said nothing.

  “I tried to refuse it, but the Mayor insisted. He s
aid that they were planning to raise it to five hundred today so I saved the city four hundred by killing him last night.”

  Marina picked up the poster and read it. “This says he’s killed over forty people.”

  “They told me at the constabulary that he’s killed twenty more since the poster was printed. Not a nice man.” Yank chuckled.

  “His name was McGregor. I pray he’s not related to our Mr. McGregor. The McGregor that we hired, I mean.”

  “I doubt that the murderer was truly a McGregor. Or our McGregor either, for that matter.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “McGregor’s a very common clan name that people on the run often adopt. John McGregor is only slightly less popular than John Smith.”

  She looked up from the poster. “I suppose you think this proves that I was wrong last night?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know about that. I only know that if we permitted all the evildoers to run amuck, civilization would perish.”

  “The bible says ‘Thou shalt not kill’ and makes no distinction as to reason.”

  “Matthew says: ‘And whosoever shall kill shall be in danger of the judgment’ which implies that killing is sometimes justified.” Yank waved his hand at the money. “If you wish to go your own way, that’s yours. I can have the marriage annulled for you by sundown.”

  “I never said anything about going my own way or that I wanted an annulment,” she said in alarm. “Must you always threaten to throw me away every time we disagree?”

  He walked to the window and parted the curtains to look out. “If you are coming with me, then get up. I want the barges loaded and in the river before sundown.”

  She kicked off the covers. “Would you like to watch me dress today?”

  “I would indeed.” He let go of the curtain. “But I shan’t.” He walked to the door and stopped with his hand on the knob. “Have you always been like this or has the killing of Harvey Pique unhinged you?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m taking off this nightshirt now. If you wish to see my bare breasts stay, otherwise, get out.”

  He walked out and closed the door.

  August 28, 1804

  Above Sabine Lake, Louisiana Purchase

  Colonel Van Buskirk, his new bride, and thirty-six hired men had departed from New Orleans on six large, flat-bottomed barges, then followed the Gulf coast for three days to reach Sabine Lake. Each barge was laden with food, weapons, ammunition and livestock so that the loss of one would not wipe out the supply of any single item.

  Sabine Lake was in reality a salt water estuary of the Gulf of Mexico, and the confluence of the Sabine and the Neches Rivers. Today, the expedition had completed the lake crossing, was now deep into the bayou country, and was navigating the slow moving current by pole.

  “We are indeed surrounded by wetlands,” Yank said. He looked toward McGregor who was standing at the prow beside Marina.

  “‘Tis much deeper than when last I was here,” McGregor said, eyeing the water hopefully. “Maybe I was wrong.”

  “What if Mr. McGregor was right?” Marina asked.

  “Well,” Yank replied, “then we would have to consider backtracking to the Mississippi, following it north to the Red River and charting the Sabine southward rather than northward.”

  “Then we would never reach the Yellow Stone,” Marina argued.

  “Yes,” Yank agreed. “But this is the only disputable boundary within our area of responsibility. The Rocky Mountains are not debatable.” He waited a moment then added, “And Mr. McGregor could be wrong.”

  “Aye, ‘tis true. I could be wrong,” McGregor agreed. “‘Tis deeper than I remember it.”

  “It’s now just past high tide,” Marina interjected. “It won’t be this deep for long.”

  Yank shrugged. “So we may find ourselves stuck in the mud until it comes in again.”

  “If the river bottom’s flat,” Marina said. “If not it could capsize the barges and mire our provisions in the mud.”

  “Ah, good point.” Yank turned toward the men who were poling the barge. “Does the bottom seem flat?”

  “Yes, Colonel,” the closest man replied. “But the tide’s goin’ out and we got less than half a fathom under our keel. If the lady’s right, we might be aground soon.”

  Yank looked ahead then pointed. “Let us secure the barges in that lagoon and observe how the river changes with the tide.”

  Marina pointed beyond. “That may be a meadow. The animals need exercise and fodder.”

  “More likely saw-grass in a marsh,” McGregor suggested.

  Marina shook her head. “I see several species of pine trees that won’t grow in marsh.”

  Yank looked ahead but said nothing.

  “If we don’t get the horses on firm ground soon they’ll go mad and become dangerous,” she argued. “I have seen it many times with war horses brought from Europe.”

  “Yes. I have seen that too.” Yank watched an alligator slide into the water. “The cattle and goats will have to be left in their pens. Herding them and keeping them safe will be too difficult.”

  Word of the decision passed from man to man, barge to barge and within half an hour, all six craft were firmly lashed to huge cypress trees.

  Yank and Marina walked into the meadow, tested the ground and then signaled McGregor that it was solid.

  “Could we make camp here?” she asked hopefully.

  “By make camp, do you mean pitch the tents?”

  “Yes, and set up the kitchen. I for one would be glad to sleep on dry land for at least one night, have a hot meal and perhaps even bathe, if we find fresh water.”

  He nodded but kept walking. “There may be a spring over there.” He pointed then turned back toward the barges and whistled. “Mr. McGregor! Send us four riflemen, please.”

  “Riflemen?” Marina asked. “What for?”

  “Indians.”

  “Where?” She searched the perimeter of lush vegetation.

  “I don’t see any at the moment,” he replied, “but we are within the Caddo hunting grounds.”

  “We have a treaty with the Caddo.”

  “On the Red River, perhaps,” he countered. “Here they’re allied with France or Spain and irrespective of the real territorial boundary, the Spanish claim ownership of this river.”

  “They claim it but do not defend land east of the Neches River.”

  “How do you know this?”

  She shrugged. “At the tavern, in addition to other things, it was my job to listen to the talk of men.”

  His face colored.

  “You are such an unmitigated prig,” she complained. “I spent many more hours playing cards, dancing and engaging in conversation than I did sharing a bed.”

  His rejoinder was cut off by the arrival of the riflemen.

  “Watch the perimeter until everyone with muskets is ashore.” Yank pointed. “There is a trail beyond that big willow that looks too wide for game.” He watched the men deploy then turned back to Marina. “How long were you with the Apache?”

  “Four winters,” she said, looking into his eyes. “I would rather not answer questions about that part of my past.”

  He waved his hand dismissively. “My only interest is in your knowledge of western Indians. Your private business is none of mine.”

  “Of course it is your business but…”

  “Forget it,” he said in an annoyed tone.

  “I mean no disrespect,” she said after a moment.

  “I understand.”

  “I don’t think you do.” She shook her head. “Or perhaps it is me who doesn’t understand.”

  He looked puzzled. “What?”

  “I’m unsure of how I should behave. Should I be a dutiful wife, always agreeing with my husband, or should I be a member of the expedition, voicing my opinions, even when contrary to your own?”

  “Say what you want any way you want to privately, but among the others remember that respec
t is essential to leadership. Your apparent opinion of me and of my decisions will weigh heavily upon the men.”

  “Posh. You are a colonel in the regular army of the United States and I am just a - I am - a woman.”

  “I’m a peacetime lieutenant colonel, promoted to that illustrious rank based mainly upon my family name.”

  “I don’t believe that for a moment,” she scoffed.

  “Perhaps, but many of these men know better than you do and they’re waiting to decide if I am worthy of leadership.”

  “They can plainly see that you’re cool under stress and make sound decisions.”

  “You seemed less than pleased with my decisions a few nights back.”

  “That was before I knew that the man was a wanted killer.”

  Before Yank could answer, McGregor, with six musketeers, joined them, as the wranglers struggled with the spooked horses. “Indian trail.” He nodded toward the willow.

  “Yes, that was why Colonel Van Buskirk ordered out the riflemen,” Marina replied.

  “Might be worth scoutin’ for a bit,” McGregor suggested. “We surely could move faster on dry land.”

  “Scout it for threats, by all means,” Yank said, “but not as an alternate route. We’ll stay on the river as long as we can.”

  “I agree.” Marina walked away from them toward Nathan Sparks, the cook, and pointed out where to set up his kitchen.

  “Well,” Yank said to McGregor, after watching her for a moment. “I had best get a detail busy setting up tents and digging a latrine.” He started away then stopped and pointed. “There’s a pond just there, Mr. McGregor, but this close to the river it may be brackish. While you’re checking that trail, please keep an eye open for a spring. I’d like to keep our fresh water casks full.”

  McGregor shook his head. “Pine trees around that pond. The water’s sweet.”

  “I fear that you may be mistaken, Mr. McGregor. Black pines are quite salt tolerant.”

  “I’ll check it right away, sir.”

  “No, check the trail for any hostiles first while keeping a lookout for fresh water, please. Safety must always be our first priority.”

  “O’ course, Colonel. I’ll check that trail right away.”