Land of the Free (10 page)

“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 said 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 respect
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.”