by Win Blevins
Sam had never shot a bow and arrow. Now he yearned to.
“For the more civilized it makes a good hedge,” said M. Chouteau with a piquant smile.
“This headdress,” Clark went on, “is made of the head hide of the buffalo, which is especially thick. The horns are still on, you see.”
Sam loved that.
“It’s the Indian’s idea of power,” said Chouteau. “You wear the head of a buffalo, and the fighting horns, you will fight fiercely. Rather primitive.”
“This headdress is eagle feathers.” It was a bonnet plus a long tail of feathers. “To get each of these feathers, a man has to perform a coup. Strike an enemy. The greatest coup is to touch him with your hand.”
“Not shoot him?” asked Sam.
“No. The worth of a coup depends on the danger to the warrior, not the damage to his enemy. So you see the man who wore this bonnet performed many acts of courage.”
“They have their quaint notions,” put in Chouteau. Abby beamed a smile at him like he was the cleverest, wittiest man on earth. Sam wished he would shut up.
Clark showed them a war club, then a knife with a blade of obsidian, a glassy substance found occasionally in the Rocky Mountains, said Clark, incredibly sharp.
“This skin sack hung from a tripod. The Indians use them to cook in. It’s the stomach of a buffalo. The squaw puts in ingredients and water, like a stew, and then drops in stones she’s heated in the fire.”
There was beadwork, lots of beadwork. The Indians loved beads almost above all treasures except tobacco. “You can’t go into a village without tobacco and beads as gifts,” Clark said.
“This is a war shirt.” It was nicely decorated with beads, and hair hung from the underside of the sleeves. “What’s this?” asked Sam suspiciously, fingering it.
“Those are scalps,” Clark said, keeping his eyes away from Abby. Sam jerked his hand back.
“These dresses are ornamented with elk teeth and quillwork.” Clark pointed at each. “Squaws make this by soaking porcupine quills and dyeing them.”
“Barbaric,” said Abby, “but handsome.”
“Barbaric,” agreed Chouteau.
Sam would have looked forever, but soon Clark ended the tour with an invitation to coffee. They adjourned to his office.
“Miss McKenna, do you mind if we indulge in a cigar?” Clark was already drawing them out of a humidor.
“Not at all. I believe I’ll join you.”
Clark pulled back the cigar he was extending to Chouteau and offered it to Abby. “No,” she said, “those are a little overwhelming. I have my own.” She drew the little case from her wrist bag and pulled out a cigarette.
Sam expected Clark to register shock, but the great man looked tickled.
Sam declined—too great a risk of coughing.
Grumble took the cigar offered and fell into the ritual of cutting the end and accepting a light from Clark’s lucifer.
“Miss McKenna, what brings a lady to rough-hewn St. Louis?”
“Business, your excellency. I want to start a business.”
Sam was sure Abby would embarrass them all by volunteering that it would be a gambling hall and booze den, plus women, but she only smiled prettily.
“Cadet has kindly offered to show me some buildings for lease,” she said.
Clark nodded approvingly. Sam could see him take in “Cadet” and the circumstances and comprehend everything. New liaison for the junior empire builder.
“Mr. Grumble?”
“I live by my wits, your excellency.”
“Which is to say you’re a gambler?”
Grumble was openly delighted. “Yes, your excellency. Also an itinerant musician and other things. I hope that doesn’t lessen my welcome.”
“In St. Louis we have no pretensions,” said Clark.
Somehow Sam was surprised when Clark directed the conversation to him. “Morgantown, Mr. Morgan. Did your family found the town?”
“It’s not much of a town, sir.” He grimaced at himself. “Your excellency.” Clark smiled broadly. “My father started a mill there.”
“Your family’s still there?”
“My brother, sisters, and mother.” He wanted to mention his brother’s crimes against him, but didn’t.
“And what brings you to remote St. Louis?”
Sam thought a moment and decided to let it out. “I’m following my wild hair, sir.”
Clark gave him a decidedly odd look.
“I was frustrated at home, country getting too settled, and … I met a man, an Indian, told me to follow my wild hairs, wherever they take me.”
M. Chouteau chuckled wickedly, but Clark grew serious.
“And who was this Indian?”
“Hannibal MacKye, a Shawnee.”
Clark laughed, a good, free, loud laugh. “I know Hannibal MacKye very well. A lot of people on the Missouri River do.”
“How’s that?”
“Oh, he wanders about in his way, does a little trading. If he took an interest in you, you have something to you.” Clark laughed again. “Just like him to give such advice. Well, follow it, young man, follow it. The spirit of adventure, yes, it took Captain Lewis and me to the far waters of the Pacific and then to … advantages we’d never thought of.”
“Yes, sir.” Sam felt meek.
Chouteau leapt into the pause. “Tell me, Clark, what do you hear of my competitors?”
Clark understood the question perfectly, because he launched enthusiastically into the doings of fur traders in St. Louis in this March of 1823. Sam heard about Chouteau’s outfit, known as the French Fur Company, about the doings of the Columbia Fur Company, led by Mr. McKenzie, a name spoken with wariness, and about the Missouri Fur Company, owned by men Sam had never heard of. Finally, Ashley-Henry, the largest outfit, was also headed far onto the upper Missouri. “A hundred and fifty men,” said Clark. “Impressive.”
“Or foolhardy,” noted Chouteau.
“Are you interested, Miss McKenna, Mr. Morgan?” Clark rose heavily and pointed to a huge map on the wall. “Here’s St. Louis. Here across the state of Missouri is Fort Osage, which has engaged M. Chouteau and myself a good deal.”
“It’s a private enterprise now,” said Chouteau with apparent satisfaction.
“Yes, mmm. This is Fort Atkinson, the westernmost of all our military outposts. This river, the Platte, is the traditional distinction between the upper and lower Missouri. Above there you see Fort Recovery, a post of Missouri Fur”—Sam could see it was on a huge loop of the river, like a belly button sticking far out. “To here the trade is secure. But, see, above the mouth of the Grand River, are the Arikaree villages.”
“Those Indians will be the ruin of someone,” said Chouteau.
“Yes. And further above, the Mandan villages, where Governor Lewis and our party spent the winter. The French, excuse me, M. Chouteau, the Canadians, have traded here, but Americans very little.”
“Now Mr. Morgan, already at this point we stand as far from St. Louis as your Pittsburgh is. And look what a vast country the Missouri drains above here.” He pointed—“the mouth of the Yellowstone, the mouth of the Musselshell, the Great Falls, and the Three Forks, where the Missouri begins. A great, unlimited trapping country, all on this side of the mountains. American territory.”
“Closed to Americans by the Blackfeet,” said Chouteau.
“Perhaps. Governor Lewis and I had no significant difficulties with the Blackfeet, but later Major Henry did.”
“A good country to lose your young scalp in, Mr. Morgan,” said Chouteau with a wolfish smile. “Or I am mistaken that you show more than a casual interest in the fur country?”
Sam didn’t know what to say.
Clark rose. “I have another appointment, sorry.”
“Thank you for seeing us, Excellency,” said Abby.
“You’re very welcome.” He seemed to throw a fatherly glint toward Abby. Suddenly he turned to Sam. “Mr. Morgan, would you
be interested in becoming a fur man?”
“More than interested, sir.”
“If you’ll give us a moment,” he said to the others.
Clark pointed again to the huge map. “What catches your fancy? Chouteau outfit to the Sioux country? Missouri Fur all the way to the Three Forks? Dangerous, of course. I couldn’t help you with Mr. McKenzie’s firm. What about Ashley-Henry?”
Sam thought of James Evans and his admiring remark, “That’s Indian country.”
“Ashley-Henry would be my choice, sir.”
Clark grinned. “General Ashley will be hiring men for two boats soon. To join the first two at the mouth of the Yellowstone.”
Sam held his heart in his hand. “I’d love to go with the Ashley men, sir.”
“I’ll put in a word with Ashley for you. Go to see him day after tomorrow.” Clark chuckled. “Anything for a protégé of Hannibal MacKye.”
Sam got his spot on an Ashley-Henry keelboat to head up the Missouri easily, but he didn’t meet Ashley because the general was away on business. The expedition leader, Daniel Patterson, signed Sam up. “We may be absent from the settlements as much as three years,” Patterson warned sternly. Sternness and stiffness seemed to be his way.
Sam noted silently that the men of the Lewis and Clark expedition were gone for three years, and was happy. The terms? Hell, Sam couldn’t tell. The deal was, he was to work as a hunter on the way upriver. Once there he would help build the fort, and defend it against Indians if necessary. In the autumn and spring Sam would be part of a brigade sent out to trap and hunt the beaver. In return, the company would furnish him with powder, lead, and other necessities, and he would get to keep half the furs he took.
“I see you have a rifle. What bore?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Too light for the mountains. Go see the gunsmiths Lakonen and Hawken, they’ll make you a decent trade.”
This irked Sam—by God, he would keep his father’s rifle. But Patterson went on without noticing. “The Three Forks of the Missouri are possessed of a wealth not surpassed by the mines of Peru,” Patterson said. He spoke flatly, like he didn’t think wealth was any fun. He was a strange duck.
Sam didn’t know whether he’d come back rich or poor. He told himself, “It’s my wild hair.”
“We leave within a couple of weeks. Check in with this office every few days.”
Yes by God, SIR! Sam thought flippantly. But he just grinned and took his leave.
“Fifty-caliber, that’s the ticket for the mountains,” said Jacob Hawken. “Better yet fifty-four. Those buffalo need a kick. Not to mention griz. Have you heard about the griz?” Hawken looked at Sam with crazed eyes.
Sam didn’t answer, since it was always good to hear more.
“Ursus horribilis,” Hawken growled. “The largest flesh-eater known to man. Mind your hair.”
What a funny expression, Sam thought. He supposed it meant, ‘Watch out or you’ll lose your scalp.’
“Let me see that Pennsylvania of yours.”
“I don’t want to let it go. It was my father’s rifle.”
“A Pennsylvania won’t do for the mountains. I’ve made many fine Pennsylvanias myself, but you need a fifty caliber. Or heavier.”
“Could you bore out my thirty-six to fifty?”
“Short of dollars, are you? Why don’t you trade me the thirty-six and that shotgun for a brand-new fifty?”
“Is this barrel thick enough to stand boring out?” He handed the Pennsylvania to Hawken.
The gunsmith took it and inspected the thick, octagonal barrel. “I guess so,” he said. “Jacob Schmidt of Lancaster, a good gunsmith.” He set it on his workbench with other projects. “A dollar and a half. Pick it up a week from today.”
“One more thing, sir.”
Hawken gave him a stern look.
“I want my father’s name engraved on the stock.”
Hawken picked up the rifle again. “What’s his name?”
“He called himself The Celt.”
“All right.”
“And a circle around it made of Celtic love knots.” Lew Morgan had worn a belt of Celtic love knots, made of cord by his wife. “How much for that?”
When Hawken told him, Sam pondered. “How about if I have a small circle and just the word ‘Celt’?”
“Sure. One week today. Don’t come until afternoon.”
Sam had no time to be bored—he got swept up in Abby’s whirlwind.
Immediately she saw her first problem was cash. St. Louis had no bank to honor her bank drafts and letters of credit. Since the town was short of currency, the merchants issued a kind of paper money. The warehouses gave out receipts called deerskin notes—worth one deerskin, five deerskins, etc. The taverns gave out similar receipts; even a bakery gave them out—good for one loaf, good for two loaves … People used this paper in place of legal tender—what choice did they have?
But Abby had to pay workers and buy materials.
Cadet came to the rescue by trading her deerskin notes for her bank paperwork. She had enough to buy a good building, but she wanted to lease. She’d spend her savings on renovating, decorating, and operating capital. She hired Grumble to be her major factotum and Sam to be her man of all errands.
The right location, she thought, was a Chouteau building that housed a tavern and a small shop. She and Cadet convinced the lessee of the tavern on Rue d’Eglise that, since his wife had died, he ought to be in New Orleans with the rest of his family. Chouteau evicted the renter of the shop and leased the whole to Abby.
Immediately she hit on a name for her tavern, and a theme. Pirates’ Cove, she would call it, because pirates led by Jean Lafitte had fought heroically to save New Orleans from the British eight years ago. She got a dressmaker started on pirate outfits for her servers, and pirates’ bawds dresses for her girls. She required every sort of nautical knickknack as decoration, hawsers, fishing nets, and the like, and enlisted Captain Koch to spend a judicious amount and bring what he could find on his next return—the round trip to New Orleans took ten days or less.
The building needed refurbishing. Her carpenters quickly cut a wide door that connected the tavern and former store, and next to it installed a big double fireplace that served both. A blacksmith built cookstoves for the two rooms, designed to stand in the fireplace. Then she instructed the carpenters to change the upstairs of the former tavern, once a storeroom, into a series of small bedrooms and bought real beds—no tick mattresses on the floor for her girls. The small room over the one-time shop she converted into an apartment for herself. “Until I have time to pick out a house,” she said.
Meanwhile, she lived at the hotel and installed Grumble and Sam in the unfurnished apartment. They got free rent for watch-dogging.
Grumble agreed to be Abby’s pianist, but he made her promise to hire someone else for two nights a week, Saturday night so he could play the fiddle with piano backing and Sunday night so he could have a day to run his repertory of tricks at another tavern. “I don’t know if I’ll make a good employee,” he fussed to Abby. “I’m used to being on my own.”
“You’re the only one I can trust,” she said. After a while she promised to give him time to make two steamboat trips to New Orleans each year, taking advantage of marks each way. “And if you work for me for two years,” she said, “I’ll go partners with you on your own tavern.”
Grumble liked that.
“At your age,” she added, “you should stop wandering and get some security.”
He didn’t like that.
She set herself the goal of opening in ten more days, ready or not, but she didn’t seem to drive anyone hard. She progressed by charm, flirtation, and fun.
Sam knew right away that she was giving M. Chouteau more than charm, much more. But that was her way, and she was his friend. With Grumble and Abby, whether it seemed hard or easy, he’d made more room in his mind for friends to be different from the way he was brought up.
He ran whatever errand she asked, lent a hand wherever she wanted. She ran him from daylight to dark and paid him five dollars a week. He thought maybe he could save enough to buy beaver traps. And he would trade the shotgun to Hawken for a pistol. The one he picked out was fifty caliber, so he could use the same lead balls the rifle used.
Sam pivoted on the balls of his feet, looking over the heads of the opening-night crowd from his perch on the stairway landing. The house was full—people ate, drank, gambled, and danced merrily. Abby’s opening was a success. William Clark was in attendance. The governor of the new state of Missouri, whose name Sam didn’t get, was there. Two or three men of each of the prominent French families had turned out—Pratte, Labbadie, Gratiot, Laclede, and a couple of branches of the Chouteaus. Abby had persuaded M. Chouteau that a grand opening night was essential, and her lover had responded well.
Sam hoped he wasn’t going to have to do anything. His job was to stand somewhere conspicuous, holding the fine new side by side Abby provided, and keep an eye out for trouble. If patrons took to fighting, he was to fire one barrel at the opposite wall, well over everyone’s heads. The birdshot wouldn’t hurt the wall much, or people either, except at very close range. “Don’t get eager beaver,” she said. “If you see trouble starting, go to Mr. Jim first. He’ll handle it.”
Mr. Jim was one of the two bartenders, the bulky one. Sam didn’t know why he was called Mister.
“There’s only a chance in a hundred you’ll need to use that thing.”
Sam’s hands rested on the muzzle of the side by side. He felt self-conscious in the fancy new cotton shirt Abby had bought him, which was pleated in front and had sleeves that puffed from dropped sleeve to wrist. “Very handsome,” Grumble commented.
Grumble was at the piano, decked out in one of the new pirate outfits, dashing out “Johnny Has Gone for a Soldier” and other dance tunes.
Abby was dealing at one of the tables. She’d told Sam she intended to do a lot of losing on opening night. Her laughter carried all the way across the room to Sam. She liked playing games with men, all kinds of games.
M. Chouteau was the ringleader of the French billiards players just below Sam. Abby had paid a fortune for the mahogany table with polished slate bed, expropriated from Plantation House with money and charm. Sam had a good view. The game was played with three balls, one white and two red. Apparently you scored by hitting your ball with the long cue and making it bounce off both other balls. If you missed, you lost your turn. The French elegants strutted when they played well. To Sam this was the thing that made civilization a bore.
