Land of the Free

by Jeffry Hepple

  “I’ve seen those small cannons that they sometimes call swivel guns,” Nannette said, “but the terms breech and breech loading are new to me.”

  “A breech resembles a beer mug,” Lafitte said. “It contains powder and either shot or canister. The guns have an opening on the top where the breech is inserted and wedged in place.”

  “They pack a helluva wallop and can be reloaded fast,” Tom said. “Very fast.” He grinned at Lafitte. “It might work. When do we do this?”

  “We need to discover exactly where young Colonel Van Buskirk and his men are imprisoned so that we do not harm them,” Lafitte replied. “Finding the Indians to stage the attack will take a few days as well.” He looked around and gestured toward the church. “Today is Wednesday. I should think that we could be ready by Sunday. Joining with the parishioners that will be running in terror from the church to the palisades gates should provide us with the cover we need.”

  “Brilliant,” Tom said. “I was wrong about you, Lafitte. You’re a genius.”

  Lafitte smiled. “At last we agree on something, Colonel.”

  May 26, 1805

  San Elizario Presidio, New Mexico

  Yank Van Buskirk and the seven survivors of his expedition were crowded inside a small room with an iron-banded door. The room was hot and reeked with the odors of excrement, blood, urine and vomit.

  “Colonel,” Roberts whispered.

  “He can hear you,” McGregor said. “But don’t make him talk.”

  Roberts, McGregor and the other men looked awful with bloody faces, broken fingers and bruised bodies, but Yank looked worse. His face was so swollen that his eyes were slits; all the fingers on both hands were nail-less and broken; and his mouth was a bloody, toothless gash.

  Roberts moved closer. “Did you see that Indian that come to empty the chamber pots, Colonel?”

  “I told you not to make him talk,” McGregor growled. “We seen the savage. What of it?”

  “The Indian said when the church bells stopped ringin’ we was to keep our heads down.”

  Yank tried to speak but only managed to groan.

  “Why is we to keep our heads down?” McGregor asked.

  “They’s gonna bust us out,” Roberts replied with a grin.

  “Who’s gonna bust us out?”

  “The Indian didn’t say. But he talked real good English like us, so maybe he ain’t no real Indian.”

  “Pass the word to the boys,” McGregor ordered. “Most of ‘em is down anyway so it don’t hardly matter.”

  ~

  “You should stay here,” Tom insisted.

  In answer, Nannette flicked open the blade of a stiletto and hid it in the folds of her skirt.

  As the last of the faithful entered the church, Lafitte and his men appeared in the graveyard, shielded from view of the fort by the walls.

  “There they are,” Tom said, pointing out Lafitte.

  “I see them.” Nannette looked over her shoulder. “Give the signal to the Indians.”

  “Not yet,” Tom growled. “Yank will be waiting for the bells to stop.”

  “Don’t be a fool. He and his men will have gone to ground when the bells started ringing.”

  “I hope to Christ you’re wrong because if they did, the guards will know something’s up.”

  “Well that’s an even better reason to give the signal now. It’ll take a few minutes to get inside and open fire.”

  Tom removed his hat and waved it. A moment later an Apache war-cry echoed from the grove of cottonwoods behind the church.

  ~

  “Somethin’s goin’ on outside,” Roberts said, “but the church bells is still ringin’.”

  McGregor was listening. “Whoever thought this up might not o’ knowed that they ring the church bells as a alarm. Tell the boys to get down low but not to be noticeable.”

  “How do they do that?”

  “Hell, I do no’ know. Just do it.”

  A moment later the walls shook and the halls outside were filled with dust and screams of pain.

  ~

  Van Buskirk Point, New Jersey

  Marina screamed in pain.

  “Won’t be long now, Child,” Sally said. She put a fresh cloth on Marina’s forehead. “When the next big un comes, you just go ahead on and push.”

  “What’s your name?” Marina asked in a weak voice.

  “Why you knows my name, child,” Sally replied with some concern.

  “Your family name. I want to know your whole name so I can tell the angels to look out for you.”

  “You ain’t goin’ to be seein’ no angels for a mighty long time.”

  “Your name. Please.”

  “Well now, I ain’t got no family name, child.”

  “How can you not?”

  “I was born a slave in Jamaica. Ol’ Mister Peter Van Buskirk bought me, brung me here, gimme my freedom and then Mister Abraham Van Buskirk taught me how to doctor.”

  “Then your name is Van Buskirk, just like mine.”

  “Honey child. I’d ‘splain it to ya, but you just ain’t got no idea what bein’ a slave is all about.”

  “You’re wrong, Sally. I was a slave in New Orleans until my husband bought me, freed me and married me. My emancipation papers are there in the dresser drawer.” She cringed as the contraction started.

  “Here we go, now,” Sally said. “You gots t’ push this time.”

  May 28, 1805

  The Rio Grande at the Gulf of Mexico

  The cannon at Villa del Refugio fired a single shot that passed over and aft of Lafitte’s ship as it came up before the brisk west wind and sailed out from the Rio Grande into the placid waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

  “We have made it,” Nannette breathed. She was standing on the upper deck with Lafitte while Tom was in the cabin below where a surgeon was caring for Yank and his men.

  Lafitte pointed astern to the cannon smoke over the river. “If they fired on us from Villa del Refugio we can be sure that the fleet at Veracruz is now in the wind and racing toward us.”

  “How many ships?”

  “Five schooners at least.”

  “Can we outrun them?”

  “To New Orleans, yes. But they will be close behind and there is nothing to prevent them from sailing right up the Mississippi to box us in.”

  “Nothing but the thirty-eight guns of the frigate USS Constellation,” Nannette said with a smile.

  Lafitte gaped at her. “Constellation. Now there is a fine ship. During the Quasi-War she captured L’Insurgente, which was the fastest ship in the French navy. Then the following year she out-fought the fifty-four guns of La Vengeance. The French sailors call her the Yankee Racehorse.”

  “Let us hope that the Spanish have the same respect as the French.”

  “Let us hope she is there,” Lafitte countered.

  “She will be. Her captain is Thomas’s cousin, David Van Buskirk. Do you know him?”

  “Fortunately, by reputation only.”

  Nannette smiled. “I must introduce you to him when we make port.”

  “It would be my honor.” He looked about the ship quickly before returning his attention to Nannette. “Captain Van Buskirk’s nephew has recently been gaining quite a reputation of his own.”

  “Who is that?”

  “A young captain by the name of Stephen Decatur.”

  “Margaret’s boy,” Nannette said with a smile. “He has become quite the celebrated hero since his success at Tripoli last August.”

  “And well he should be. It is said that Lord Nelson has called it the most bold and daring act of the Age.”

  “Who?”

  “Admiral Nelson is commander-in-chief in the British Mediterranean fleet.”

  “Ah. Then I suppose his opinion of Stephen is held in high regard even if he is an Englishman.”

  Lafitte chuckled. “He is held in high regard by the French Admiral Villeneuve who was chased all the way from the Mediterranean to here an
d back by Nelson.” He looked south. “We can also thank Nelson for drawing some of the Spanish fleet away from Veracruz, otherwise we would now be pursued by twenty Spanish ships of the line and that would be too many, even for Constellation.”

  Nannette started to reply but stopped as she saw Tom come onto the deck.

  “The surgeon says that Yank will live,” Tom said as he joined them.

  “May I go below and see him now?” Nannette asked.

  Tom shook his head. “Not yet. The men are near naked, badly battered and in great pain. The presence of a woman might embarrass and distress them.”

  She nodded. “I understand.”

  “If I had known what those Spanish dogs had done I would have had every one of them executed,” Lafitte said.

  “We killed all the officers and the guards,” Nannette replied. “Sergeant McGregor told me that it was a major that instigated the torture. I found him but he was already dead.”

  Tom looked toward the southern horizon. “If I live long enough, I’ll get revenge for this, some day.”

  June 15, 1805

  Van Buskirk Point, New Jersey

  Marina ran across the wooden causeway toward the ferry but was stopped by Nannette. “Is he dead?” Marina asked in a flat tone.

  “No,” Nannette replied, “but he’s in bad shape.” She took Marina’s hand and tried to turn her back toward the house. “Let the men bring him and get him settled in bed.”

  Marina jerked her hand free and raced down hill to where four men were carrying a litter.

  Tom stepped in front of her. “You’ll do more harm than good if you go to pieces.”

  “I won’t go to pieces.” She moved around him to look at the ruined face on the litter. “Hello, husband; you look a bit worse for wear,” she said, reaching for his hand.

  He pulled his hand away and tried to talk.

  Marina now saw the bandaged hand and that Yank’s teeth had been knocked out or pulled. “We have a son. I named him John but we can change it if you want.”

  He tried to answer but began coughing.

  “Sally is here,” Marina said. “She will have you well before you know it.”

  ~

  “He ain’t half as bad as he looks,” Sally said. “That cough worries me some but if we can gets him on his feet and movin’ around it should pass.”

  “On his feet,” Tom repeated. “He’s half dead.”

  “His lungs needs to drain,” Sally replied. “He been on his back too long.”

  Nannette fixed Tom with a look that could have nailed him to his chair. “How about his hands and face, Sally?”

  “His fingers was broke but not mashed,” Sally answered. “I got ‘em all straight and splinted. The bone’ll knit fine and the nails’ll grow back. His nose ain’t never gonna be pretty again. I couldn’t do much with that. They say there’s a man in Groton that carves teeth outta whale bone that looks jus’ like the real things.” She turned her back to the fire. “Y’all needs to let Miss Marina nurse him.”

  Nannette looked doubtful.

  “That girl already been a wonder to him,” Sally said. “I could see him gettin’ stronger by the minute.”

  “Magic?” Tom asked skeptically.

  “You could call it that, Mr. Tom,” Sally replied. “I’m thinking that Mr. Yank was a’ scared that Miss Marina wouldn’t want him no more, and now that she plainly do, he’s getting’ his-self better.” She gestured toward the stairs. “Go see if he don’t look better. Go ahead on.”

  Nannette glanced at Tom and stood up. “Shall we?”

  He nodded and got to his feet. “Can you stay, Sally?”

  “As long as you wants me to,” she said. “I’d do most anything for Mr. John and Miss Anna’s boy.”

  June 24, 1805

  Van Buskirk Point, New Jersey

  “We can call him Jack,” Marina said.

  Yank nodded. He was in the rocking chair on the front porch next to her, and had the infant cradled in his arms.

  Marina picked up a newspaper that Tom had left and scanned the front page. “Admiral Villeneuve, with eleven ships, has escaped from Toulon and passed the Strait of Gibraltar where he has joined a Spanish flotilla at Cádiz.” She looked at Yank. “That will keep the British Navy busy and away from us for a time.”

  Yank nodded.

  Marina sat up in the chair and shaded her eyes. “Someone’s coming.”

  Yank held the baby toward her.

  She folded the newspaper, got up and took the child. “Don’t go in, John. Whoever it is has come to wish you well. You can’t hide forever.”

  With a grunt, Yank got to his feet and hobbled into the house.

  Marina walked down the steps and watched as the visitor cantered his horse across the causeway and turned toward the house.

  “Now there’s a man that can sit a horse,” Tom said, as he joined her.

  “Who is he?” she asked.

  “He looks familiar but I can’t really say.”

  “Are you armed?”

  “No. You’re safe here, Marina.”

  “I hope so.”

  The rider approached and took off his hat. “Good day to you, folks. My name is Andrew Jackson and I’ve come to ask about young John Van Buskirk’s health.”

  Tom walked forward and reached up to shake Jackson’s hand. “I’m Tom Van Buskirk. I think you know my wife, Nannette.”

  Jackson shook Tom’s hand. “Indeed I do, Colonel. I knew your brother as well. The two of them talked so much about you that I almost think I know you too. But I just missed meetin’ you by a few days. You’d just gone north with George Rogers Clark.” He put his hat back on.

  “Why don’t you get down, Colonel Jackson?” Tom asked. “My wife’s gone to New York but should be back shortly.” He beckoned toward the barn and Abraham ran toward them.

  Jackson dismounted and gave the reins to the boy. “How’s young John doin’?”

  “Poorly.” Tom gestured toward Marina. “This is his wife and his son.”

  Jackson smiled and walked closer. “I’m pleased to meet you, Ma’am.”

  “I’m honored, Judge,” she said.

  “I quit the court,” Jackson replied. “I’d be happy if you would call me Andy.”

  “Only if you will call me Marina.”

  “That would be a pleasure, Marina.” He looked toward the house.

  “Perhaps we could sit on the porch for a few minutes, Andy,” Marina suggested. “John was badly beaten by the Spaniards and he is reluctant to see visitors.”

  Tom nodded. “He’s sure to have seen you ride up. Let’s give him a few minutes to screw up his courage. I’m sure he’ll join us.”

  “I disagree with Colonel Van Buskirk,” Marina said. “I think that John is not likely to join us.” She led the way up the steps. “Pulling out his teeth was one of the methods that the Spaniards used to torture him and he cannot speak clearly. That and his appearance have made him reclusive during his convalescence.”

  “I surely don’t want to cause the boy any distress,” Jackson said.

  A maid appeared in the doorway and looked questioningly at Tom.

  “Would you like something cold to drink, Colonel Jackson?” Tom asked. “Or tea, perhaps.”

  “Let me see to some refreshment,” Marina said before Jackson could answer. She hurried into the house followed by the maid. “Can you serve tea on the porch please, Martha?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Should I use the good china?”

  “I should think so, but you might be the better judge.”

  “Is that man important?”

  “Important? Yes. Yes, he is. Quite important, I believe.”

  “Then we’ll use the good service.” The woman hurried toward the kitchen.

  Marina climbed the stairs and gave the baby to the nurse who was waiting expectantly, then went into the bedroom where Yank was staring out the window. “Colonel Jackson came a very long way to see you.”

  Yank shook
his head.

  “You speak better than you think you do,” she insisted. “I can understand every word you say.”

  He shook his head again.

  “Very well,” she sighed. “We’ll be having tea on the porch if you change your mind. I’m sure your Aunt Nannette will invite him to stay the night at least.”

  September 2, 1805

  Washington, District of Columbia

  James Madison hurried around his desk to shake Yank’s hand. “I am most happy to see you again, Colonel.”

  “And I you, sir,” Yank replied.

  “Please have a seat.” Madison returned to his chair behind his desk, sat down and opened a bound volume. “Your report has been very helpful.”

  “I fear that my mapmaking was a failure.”

  Madison waved his hand in dismissal. “The details of the boundaries can be determined easily enough in due time. Your description of your travel is invaluable. Before your report, we knew practically nothing about the southwestern Indians or how the Spanish governed New Spain. Your country is grateful for your service.”

  “Thank you, sir. Something that I did not mention in my report is my impression that there is a growing public disapproval of Spanish government within the area north of El Paso.”

  “Really?” Madison raised his eyebrows. “That might help us in our efforts to establish the disputed portions of Texas.”

  “The Spaniards themselves seem to hold a distinction between the territory of Texas and the territory of New Mexico. I cannot be sure, but my impression is that the Rockies are the east-west dividing line that they use.”

  “We shall press for the Rio Bravo in the south and the Rio Grande in the west.”

  “You are aware, sir, that they are the same river?”

  “Yes, yes. But the Spanish call it the Rio Bravo from El Paso eastward to the Gulf and they call it the Rio Grande from El Paso northward to the headwaters somewhere above Santa Fe. The maps of northern New Mexico are poor.” Madison closed the book. “Are you well enough to undertake a new task, Colonel?”