Land of the Free

by Jeffry Hepple

  ~

  Marina turned down the lamp, plunging the tent into inky blackness.

  “What are you doing?” Yank asked in annoyed tone, after listening to her rustling about for some time.

  “I’m taking off my clothes.”

  He turned toward her and peered into the dark. “That seems a bad idea.”

  “Then you’ll like the idea of my bathing naked in the pond even less.”

  “We posted a sentry there.”

  “I know. And if the night is bright I’ll ask him to avert his eyes.” She pushed open the tent flap and stood there, silhouetted against the night sky. “Of course he might not avert his eyes, unless I have a protector.”

  “Lord, keep me from sin,” he whispered.

  “I heard that,” she cackled, letting the tent flap fall.

  He crawled over his bedroll and pushed the flap open. “Where are you?”

  “Here.” She stepped into the moonlight. “Did you decide to join me?”

  He stood up slowly. “I’ve made no decisions, yet for some inexplicable reason, I’m here.”

  She laughed softly, turned and started toward the pond. “Come along, husband. I need my back scrubbed.”

  “Wait.” He caught her hand then released it and ducked back in the tent to retrieve her duster. “Indulge my prudish New England morality please,” he said, draping the coat over her bare shoulders.

  “Of course.” She stood on her toes, kissed him lightly on the lips and took his hand to lead him through the deep grass toward the pond.

  “Halt. Who goes there?” a voice asked from the tree line.

  “Friends,” Yank replied.

  “Advance and be recognized.”

  “Colonel and Mrs. Van Buskirk wish some privacy to bathe in the pond,” Yank said, without moving closer.

  “Very well, sir,” the voice in the darkness replied.

  “Mr. Chilton, is it?” Yank asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the sentry replied.

  “I can see like an owl in the dark. If you steal a peek at my wife I shall have you horsewhipped.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

  “Good man. Now turn your back and I’ll tell you when we are ready to return to our tent.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “Can you really see in the dark?” Marina giggled, starting again toward the pond.

  “Why else would I be here?”

  “You could see me in the moonlight?”

  “Nearly as clear as day.”

  “I take it that you liked what you saw?”

  “Indeed.”

  She giggled. “Getting a compliment from you is like pulling teeth.” She shrugged off the duster, ran to the pond and plunged into the water creating a gigantic splash.

  September 31, 1804

  Uncharted Bayou, Louisiana Purchase

  “Top o’ the mornin’ to y’, sir,” McGregor said.

  “And to you, Mr. McGregor,” Yank replied. He was sitting on a camp stool in front of his tent and drinking coffee from a tin cup. “Have some coffee?” He gestured toward a fire-blackened pot at the edge of his small camp fire. “I make my own. It probably isn’t as good as Mr. Sparks makes, but I enjoy the solitude of a morning.”

  “Smells good,” McGregor replied.

  Yank pointed at a small wooden chest. “Cups and camp stools in there. I don’t pack sugar, I fear.”

  “Never use it,” McGregor replied. He took a battered tin cup from the chest and a folding stool, filled the cup and sat down next to Yank.

  Yank looked out at the slow moving water of the bayou. “Has it occurred to you, Mr. McGregor, that some of our men might need a bit of firearms practice?”

  “It has indeed, Colonel,” McGregor replied. “But I was not particular sure if it was in your mind.”

  “Perhaps a hunting party would be in order.”

  “A hunting party you say, Colonel?”

  “It might be a good way to train some of the men while providing us with fresh meat.”

  “You and me to lead it, sir?”

  Yank shook his head. “I am completely ignorant of bayou game hunting practices. If you think it best, divide the men into smaller units and appoint one member of each group to lead it.”

  McGregor nodded dubiously.

  “Surely you have identified a few men in our company who possess leadership ability.”

  “A few.”

  “Well.” Yank sipped his coffee. “If you think hunting is a bad idea, Mr. McGregor, I suppose we should start loading the barges.”

  “No, sir. I think ‘tis a fine idea but I’m not sure how to go about breakin’ the men into groups.”

  “How many men would you choose as potential leaders?”

  “There’s five I know of what has a bit more experience with firearms and such than the rest.”

  “Then perhaps you might assemble the five and discuss it.”

  “Discuss it, sir?”

  “Yes. Explain what you want and let them help you pick the men that will accompany them.”

  “Make ‘em part of the plan, so to speak.”

  “Perhaps make them part of your team, Mr. McGregor.”

  “Sort o’ like yer doin’ me, sir?”

  “Yes,” Yank chuckled. “Very much like that.”

  “Thank ye, sir.” McGregor gulped his coffee, put the cup near the fire, got to his feet, moved his right hand as if to salute, caught himself, and hurried away.

  Yank chuckled and refilled his coffee cup.

  “What’s so bloody funny?” Marina poked her head out from between the tent flaps. Her hair was tousled and her eyes were puffy.

  “Someone needs coffee.” He got another cup from the chest, filled it and held it toward her.

  She reached a hand through the tent flap to take the cup, showing him a brief flash of bare breasts. “How can you be so chipper?”

  He moved his camp stool closer to her and sat down. “I had a wonderful night.”

  She smiled. “I’m not complaining about the night,” she said as she moved back into the darkness of the tent to sit cross-legged on the disheveled blankets, “but the morning, after an hour’s sleep, is another matter.”

  Yank looked around to be sure that no one else could see her through the opening in the tent. “That’s not a very ladylike pose.”

  “It isn’t supposed to be.” She held the cup in both hands, sipped and looked at him over the rim.

  He looked around again. “You can’t really want to – that is…”

  “I really want to.”

  “You were complaining of being sore,” he whispered.

  “It’s the very nicest kind of sore.”

  “What if someone comes looking for us?”

  “Button the flaps.”

  “They might hear.”

  “What if they do? We’re married, aren’t we?”

  He put down his cup, ducked through the flaps and began buttoning them. “You have corrupted me.”

  “Umm.” She put her arms around him and kissed his neck.

  October 1, 1804

  Uncharted Bayou, Louisiana Purchase

  “Colonel,” a musketeer who was poling the barge called.

  Yank picked his way carefully between the lashings, crates and animal pens toward the stern. “What is it, Mr. Nelson?”

  Nelson pointed into the water behind them. “That big gator’s been followin’ for more’n a mile.”

  Yank drew his pistol, shot the huge reptile and worked his way back to the bow where he began reloading the pistol.

  “Why did you do that?” Marina asked indignantly.

  Yank looked at her for several seconds before replying. “The alligator was waiting for someone to fall overboard. I thought it likely that it would eventually happen.”

  “Shooting it was cruel and unnecessary,” she shouted. “No one is going to fall overboard.”

  Yank pushed her off the side of the barge.

  “
Help,” Marina spluttered as she surfaced.

  The first man in line dropped his pole, caught her hand and pulled her from the water.

  Marina crawled away from the side and sat back on her haunches, pushing her hair out of her face and wiping water from her eyes.

  Yank was standing on the bow looking forward as if nothing had happened.

  McGregor was watching Marina. “A good lesson, but a mite harsh, Colonel.”

  “Harsh?” Yank wrinkled his brow. “Not at all. If you had shouted at me that way where all could hear, I would have shot you dead before I threw you overboard.”

  McGregor turned his attention to the water ahead.

  Marina had heard the exchange and got unsteadily to her feet then made her way aft to sit behind the horse corral.

  “The colonel done the right thing,” Nelson said to her.

  She glared at him. “In shooting the alligator or pushing me into the bayou?”

  “Both, I reckon,” Nelson replied. “Can’t have a gator that close and can’t have no insubordination.”

  “Insubordination is a big word,” she snapped. “What army did you desert from?”

  Nelson looked around to see if anyone had heard her but made no answer.

  October 2, 1804

  On the River, Louisiana Purchase

  Yank was sitting in front of his tent on one of three camp stools, near a small fire. “Good morning, Mr. McGregor.” He poured coffee into a cup and held it up to McGregor.

  “‘Tis a fine mornin’,” McGregor said accepting the cup and sitting down next to Yank. “Nelson run off last night.”

  Yank nodded. “Too bad, but not unexpected.”

  “Aye. ‘Tis a complicated world.”

  “Yes it is.”

  “Did ya know about Nelson? I mean before yer missus…”

  “Yes, I knew.”

  “I thought ya did.”

  “Nelson was a good man. I would have stood by him if necessary, no matter what.”

  “I thought ya might of done.”

  “It might be best if we don’t speak of this further.”

  McGregor nodded. “How’s yer missus?”

  “The other day I heard one of the boys use the phrase: ‘madder than a wet hen’. I think that may be appropriate.”

  McGregor chuckled. “What time was you wantin’ to be movin’ out, sir?”

  Yank looked at the position of the sun. “After everyone’s had breakfast and a bit of time for personal things. There’s no hurry.”

  “I suppose you’d tell me why there’s no hurry, if ya thought I needed to know.”

  “I would indeed, Mr. McGregor.”

  ~

  McGregor and Marina moved up beside Yank, who was peering through his small, brass telescope.

  “What is it?” Marina asked. She had not spoken a word to Yank since he had pushed her into the water yesterday, but she was now unable to contain her curiosity.

  “It appears to be the remains of a bridge,” Yank replied. “There are adobe walls of a ruined fort or mission on the high ground.”

  “Let me look.”

  He handed her the telescope.

  McGregor was examining the vegetation. “Cottonwood, hackberry, pecan, black-gum, and blackjack oak,” he muttered.

  Yank looked at the trees, then at McGregor. “Is that significant?”

  McGregor laughed. “Only if we was wantin’ to be on the Sabine, sir.”

  Marina lowered the telescope to give McGregor her attention. “We’re not on the Sabine?”

  “No, Ma’am, this is surely the Neches,” he replied.

  Marina turned a puzzled gaze toward Yank. “Your sextant must be wrong.”

  “It hardly matters,” he answered.

  “It matters a great deal,” she said in alarm. “If this is the Neches, we’re in New Spain.”

  “I think the Spaniards are calling this New Mexico. Or perhaps it is Texas. They cannot seem to decide on a name.”

  “Spanish territory, regardless of its name,” she grumbled.

  Yank shrugged. “As far as the Spanish are concerned the Sabine is also Spanish territory.”

  “Yes but, the Spanish army patrols the Neches,” she argued. “They don’t patrol the Sabine.”

  “It should be a simple matter to turn east from here and regain the upper waters of the Sabine.”

  “What about our map?” McGregor asked. “How do we chart the Sabine when we been on the Neches the whole time?”

  Yank scanned the horizon before answering. “Extrapolating the course of the Sabine River, from wherever we find it, back to Sabine Lake in a straight line will be adequate for our mapping purposes. And now we have an excellent map of the Neches. In case this river ever becomes important.”

  “If we’re confronted by the Spanish army before we get to the Sabine the map means nothing,” Marina grumbled.

  “That has always been a risk,” Yank said. “Everyone, you included, has known that from the start.”

  “I knew no such thing,” she replied, folding her arms.

  Yank walked away from her.

  “You said so yerself when we started, Missus Van,” McGregor argued.

  “Well perhaps I did,” she responded after a moment, “but that was when I thought we would be on the Sabine.”

  “This ain’t such a bad thing,” McGregor insisted. “‘Tis the way I would of come if the choice had been mine.” He raised his voice. “Ain’t that right, Colonel?”

  “What’s that?” Yank walked back toward him.

  “I was just saying to yer missus that I was wantin’ t’ follow the Neches instead of the Sabine right from the start.”

  Yank nodded. “If I had not been instructed by Secretary Madison to follow the Sabine for diplomatic purposes, this is the route that I would have chosen.”

  Marina looked at Yank then at McGregor for a moment then laughed. “I think we, and the Secretary of State, may have been bamboozled, Mr. McGregor.”

  McGregor grinned. “We’re in good company at least.” He turned to Yank. “How far do you reckon to wherever this river starts, sir?”

  “No more than twenty miles,” Yank replied. “We’ve come almost four hundred miles from the Gulf of Mexico.”

  McGregor scratched his beard. “So, our route of march is east by compass bearing alone?”

  Yank pointed at the remnants of the bridge, which was now only a hundred yards upstream. “A road must have crossed that bridge at some time.”

  “Running east and west,” Marina added.

  Yank nodded. “We’ll follow the road for a while to see if it leads to the Sabine.”

  “We’re gonna need some bigger trees to make wheels for the barges,” McGregor observed. “Skiddin’ them over a long distance behind mules will tear ‘em up.”

  Yank pointed ashore. “We’ll beach them here above the high water mark and bury some supplies in those ruins for our return trip.”

  “We’ll need these barges when we get to the Sabine,” McGregor argued.

  “Not if the ground is like this,” Yank said. “And hauling them for what may be a hundred miles over rough terrain doesn’t appeal to me, wheels or not.”

  “They may be of no use, anyway.” Marina said. “Our official map shows a dotted line joining the Sabine and Red Rivers. That could mean the riverbed runs dry sometimes or it might have been drawn by someone who was just speculating that the two rivers converged.”

  “Very well, then.” McGregor turned to signal the following barges to put ashore near the old bridge.

  “I have been meaning to ask,” Yank said to McGregor’s back. “Have you some military experience?”

  McGregor turned quickly toward him. “Me, sir? No, sir. Not me, sir. What make ye ask?”

  “Your hand signals for one thing.”

  “Oh, I just picked those up somewheres, Sir.”

  “That is too bad, really,” Yank replied.

  “Why, sir?”

  “I was hopi
ng to teach the men some basic drill.”

  “Drill?” Marina made a face. “Like parade marching?”

  “Similar,” Yank agreed. “But close order drill as is necessary on a battlefield.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  Yank pointed back at the barges. “We’ll be moving across open land with valuable livestock and weapons. Those are tempting targets for Indian raids. And, as you mentioned, we could also be confronted by Spanish troops.”

  “We can’t fight the Spanish army,” she said in alarm.

  “No,” Yank agreed, “But with a bit of training we could fight and defeat a Spanish company or even a battalion.”

  “That is completely ridiculous,” she fumed. “We are thirty-seven men and a woman.”

  “Armed with muskets and rifles,” Yank replied. “The Spanish soldiers are generally armed with cutlasses and pikes while the officers carry pistols. The Indians here carry Stone Age weapons. A little military discipline would make us a formidable force capable of defeating any foe that we might encounter.”

  “I know a bit about drillin’,” McGregor said after a moment. “Formin’ columns, lines, squares and such. Nothin’ fancy.”

  “We have no need for fancy,” Yank replied. “We do, however, have a need for musket and rifle training.”

  “I can manage volley firin’ by rank, sir.”

  “Good. We also need some reorganization. Based on the results of our trials in the Navy Yard and our little hunting expedition, some of the men who are armed with rifles are poor marksmen. They might serve us better armed with muskets. If, of course, we could train the best musketeers to use rifles.” He scratched his beard as if puzzled. “I’m not sure how to accomplish that.”

  McGregor thought a moment. “‘Twould perhaps be better to organize our party like a military company. Platoons, squads and such.”

  “Excellent idea,” Yank agreed. “Perhaps the men you chose to lead the hunting parties would be good squad leaders.”

  “Not all of ‘em,” McGregor said. “I was a bit hasty in my judgment and, o’ course, Nelson has run off from us.”

  “Well, I leave it to you to pick your squad leaders then, Mr. McGregor. Weapons training and deployment under fire are the focus. Precision and straight lines are for some other units.”