Land of the Free (12 page)

“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 hoping 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.”

McGregor nodded. “We’ll
learn ‘em, sir.”

“One more thing, Mr.
McGregor.”

“Sir?”

“Since they don’t load and
fire at the same rate, do you think the musketeers and riflemen
should be mixed or grouped together?”

“Grouped, sir. Rifle squads
and musket squads.”

“Very good, Mr. McGregor.
Carry on.”

“I would like to learn too,”
Marina said. “Everyone in our party should know how to fire and
load the weapons – cooks, wranglers – everyone.”

Yank looked thoughtful.
“Well now there is another good idea. Do you agree, Mr.
McGregor?”

“I do, sir.”

~

“Why do I think that you
hoodwinked us again,” Marina whispered from the semi-darkness of
their tent.

“Hoodwinked whom in what
manner?” Yank asked.

“Don’t lie to me. You knew
we were on the Neches from the start.”

“Yes.”

“You chose the
Neches.”

“Yes, and I as much as
admitted that earlier.”

“Why didn’t you tell
us?”

He shrugged. “I was
disobeying my orders.”

“I don’t believe
that.”

He chuckled. “Secretary
Madison made it clear that the official United States policy was to
consider the Sabine as the boundary while the unofficial policy was
the Neches.”

“And what of the
training?”

“What of it?”

“You let us think it was our
idea but it was your plan all along.”

“Yes.”

“Why the deception? Why not
just trust us?”

He shrugged
again.

She punched him on the arm.
“Answer me.”

“All right,” he complained,
rubbing his arm in mock pain. “Mr. McGregor is a deserter from the
British army. Probably a senior sergeant. He must be handled very
cautiously or he will run away as Nelson did.”

“Nelson?” she gasped. “What
are you saying?”

“Shh. Not so
loud.”

“Are you telling me that
Nelson ran away because I called him a deserter?”

“No. He ran away because he
was a deserter and you exposed him.”

“But I don’t understand. Why
did my calling him a deserter prompt him to run away?”

“He ran away so that I
wouldn’t hang him.”

“Hang him? Why would you
hang Mr. Nelson?”

“It would be my duty as a
commission officer in the United States Army.”

She put her hand to her
lips. “Oh Lord, what have I done?”

“Nelson is no great loss to
us but McGregor would be. He’s a natural leader and smart. The men
trust him.”

“What will happen to Mr.
Nelson?”

“He’ll try to float back to
the Gulf.”

“And?”

“He’ll make it or he won’t.
He’s no longer our concern.”

“Are you sure that Mr.
McGregor’s a deserter?”

“Yes. He and about half of
our company have deserted from the English, Spanish, French or
American armies or navies.”

“Spanish and French?
Who?”

“I’m sure that Mr. Gonzales
was in the Spanish army and Mr. Duvall was almost certainly a
French seaman. Your head wrangler was once an artilleryman but he
is a man of New Orleans and whether French, British or American, I
cannot say.”

“How do you know all
this?”

“Powder burns, scars and
demeanor.”

“Can they be
trusted?”

“Did you trust them before
you knew they were deserters?”

“Some.”

“There’s your
answer.”

“But you trust
McGregor?”

“I trust him so long as he
is with us, but I don’t trust him to stay with us. Not until he
trusts us, that is.”

“I think he trusts
you.”

“Not yet. But we have a good
beginning. When the time is right, he and I will discuss his
military past.”

She hesitated a moment. “Do
you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“That was a serious
question.”

“And I gave you a serious
answer.”

“Hmm. Then can I ask you
another?”

“What if I were to say
no?”

“I’d ignore you and ask
anyway.”

“So ask.”

“Do you love me?”

“I think so.”

“Not the answer I was hoping
for.”

“It’s the best I can
offer.”

“Oh well.”

They were silent for almost
a minute.

“Aren’t you going to ask me
if I love you?” Marina hissed.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I know that you
do.”

“How do you
know?”

“Go to sleep.”

“No.” She rolled on top of
him and kissed him hotly. “What makes you so sure that I love
you?”

“Stop,” he
gasped.

“Why? We’re married, you
know.”

“Yes, I know. But you are
too loud and our tent is right in the center of the
camp.”

“I promise to be
quiet.”

“You said that the last
time.”

“Give me another
chance.”

“Am I forgiven for pushing
you in the water?”