Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (23 page)

 
          
 
And just maybe an omen, Travis told himself.

 
          
 
The treacherous trail snaked down between
trunks of green ash and pin oak; their roots stuck up to ensnarl the unwary
foot. Travis slipped and slid, but kept his balance. As he stepped out of the
trees he crunched across riverbank gravel to reach the Maria. Travis hoisted
himself onto the wet deck and rounded the corner of the cargo box before
ducking inside through the low doorway.

 
          
 
An oil lamp cast a glow over the interior.
Green lay in his blankets, a ledger propped up on his knees. Green had thrown
his blankets over stacked bolts of cloth to make a soft, if lumpy, bed. He
glanced up, recognized Hartman, and lifted an eyebrow as he set the ledger
aside. "Bit early for you to be in, isn't it?"

 
          
 
'Trouble/' Hartman took off his soaked hat and
shrugged out of his dripping coat before reaching down into a gap between flour
kegs to retrieve a salt-glazed jug. Twisting out the wooden stopper, he lifted
the jug and took a deep swig before grimacing and wiping his lips with a
sleeve.

 
          
 
"T'ain't just water staining your coat,
is it?" Green gestured at the wet jacket. Dark red smears had run in the
rain.

 
          
 
"Reckon not. Chouteau's starting ter take
an interest in Dave Green, Travis Hartman, and the Maria. A couple of
Chouteau's engages wanted a little talk with me." Travis grinned. "I
guess one of them boys must'a busted his nose when he hit the side of Smith's
Tavern. Them logs is all hickory and ash and walnut. And thick, too. A feller
shouldn't otta run his face into 'em like that." Hartman rubbed at one of
the red stains. "I guess his head did a little leaking whilst I was
a-dragging him away."

 
          
 
"And the other one?"

 
          
 
"Oh, wal, I reckon he jist plumb passed
out when I whacked him 'longside the head with that ax handle ol' Smith was
whittling down fer halting." Travis smacked his lips, shaking his head.
"I figger it like this. Them boys surely ketched the worst of it, and I
got ter feeling a mite upset that they's all bunged up. So what, I asks meself,
would do them shady lard eaters good? Why, a boat ride, I tells meself back.
That's what they wanted ter ask this ol' coon about in the first place.

 
          
 
"Wal, sure 'nuff, I drug their heavy
carcasses down ter the water, tied 'em up right pert, and dropped 'em in a
pirogue. Then I sort of cast the whole shitaree off into the current and
figgered that they'd get a sight of traveling in afore they fetched up on an
embarrass, or else reached
Natchez
. One or t'other."

 
          
 
Green gave him a hard stare. "I don't
reckon you could have just lied to them and sent them on their way?"

 
          
 
Travis fingered his chin, frowning, and shook
his head. "Wal, Dave, I might'a ... but I ain't sure they'd a taken ter such
palaver. One of 'em was old Jacques Valmont. Didn't know the other feller.
Reckon I knew his kind, though. Big, mean, had half his ear bitten off, and a
nose what looked like somebody tried to make hominy outa it."

 
          
 
"Jacques Valmont." Green grunted.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you killed his brother a couple of years
back up on the
Heart
River
, didn't
you?"

 
          
 
"Something like that, I reckon."
Travis took another swig from the jug. "Hell, Dave, they jist come outa
the dark and Jacques starts in asking about ye and the boat and where we was
a-headed. Wal, thar's bad blood atwixt us anyhow, and I plumb didn't like the
tone in his voice. That other feller with him had his hand on his pistol, and
Jacques had his knife out. I reckon I jist laid into 'em."

 
          
 
"Jacques had his knife out?" Green
mused, looking someplace far away. "None of the Valmonts ever bluffed for
a damn. I reckon they meant business." Green looked up. "You're sure
you didn't kill 'em?"

 
          
 
"Wal, I didn't lift their topknots/'

 
          
 
Green rubbed his square jaw, eyes slitted.
"We've got thirty-one men. Barely enough to move the boat."

 
          
 
"They'll do. Dave, we're outa time. We
been lucky as it is. I don't think we got more'n a day afore someone important
perks up and takes serious notice. Not with Jacques and his pal up and
missing."

 
          
 
Green brooded in the lamplight. "You
know, Travis, I've bet the world on this."

 
          
 
"Reckon ye could sell 'er out. Cut a deal
with Chouteau, a boat full of goods ... delivered."

 
          
 
"Can't. I already thought some about
that. I mean, well, what am I? I'm a trader—always have been. What would I do?
Just build me a nice house, sit in
Saint Louis
, and sip wine? No, old friend. I'd rather
take my chances on losing it all. Here I could waste away in comfort, but out
there, I have the chance to build an empire."

 
          
 
Green stared down at his hands, working his
fingers back and forth. Weather had browned the skin like leather. Those
calluses had come of hard work, and the man behind them had a soul built of the
same sinew, bone, and muscle.

 
          
 
Hartman grunted and sucked at the jug again.
"Reckon I foller where yer stick floats, Dave. Tain't neither one of us a
gonna die in bed. Now, that's fer sure." After a pause he added,
"Don't know much about this crew I done scavenged. Some'11 make her with
the rye on, some we might have ter shoot afore we make it upriver. Hell, I even
bought one fer a penny from old Francois."

 
          
 
Green glanced up. "Francis? He still
around? I'd have thought he'd have been hung by now."

 
          
 
"Nope. Last I heard, he done floated over
inta
Illinois
someplace ter trade liquor. Something
happened and Francois kilt a couple of men. Heard he slipped off south ter
Fort
Massac
, and now he's back here. Seems as if some
poor Yankee Doodle from back East got crosswise with him, that's sure, and
Francois got him in the end."

 
          
 
"Huh. So what's the matter with Francois?
He get religion or something? Why didn't he cut the pilgrim's throat and dump
him in the river? It's not like him to fart around."

 
          
 
Travis hitched himself onto a barrel, his head
bent low under the plank ceiling. In the light, Dave Green's blocky face looked
as if he saw all damnation looming before him. Everything Dave had hung by a
thread, and the saws of fate were fraying that single hope.

 
          
 
"Wal, you know Francois. He's always been
a bit notional. Reckon it's jist my guess, but he's playing some sort of
joke."

 
          
 
"Is that so? Francois's jokes are usually
funny only to Francis. Remember that time up at
Fort
Manuel
? Francois had those spectacles he was clowning
around in? That Oto boy stole them one night, and Francois caught the kid,
poked his eyes out, and gave him them spectacles afterward. Said it would help
him see better."

 
          
 
"Yep, I remember. Francois's got a mean
streak that'd make a Blackfoot plumb proud."

 
          
 
Green lay back on his blankets. "Only a
fool'd cross someone like Francois. Knowing that, why'd you pick this man
up?"

 
          
 
"Figgered he was one more body. Whatever
Francois's reasons, the pilgrim's better off pulling our boat than floating
face down in the river. Francois swears himself blue that he's got a legal
paper on this feller. Said we could have the Yankee Doodle's contract of
indenture for a penny. All I had ter do was promise ter make the pilgrim fill
out his time—or shoot him if'n he cut and run."

 
          
 
Water lapped on the hull, and out in the trees
the wind sighed in the dripping black branches.

 
          
 
Green continued rubbing his hands together,
the hollow sound loud in the silence. Then he said, "If Francois is
involved, something's rotten. Keep that in mind."

 
          
 
"I did. Told him if'n he pulled a fast
one, I'd kill him. 'Course, I ain't expecting much outa the Doodle. But like I
say, I reckon he's better off a-pulling on the cordelle than he'd be as fish
food." Travis paused. "Ye've heard of this Lizette? The Creole
whore?"

 
          
 
"She ain't exactly a whore." Green
gave him a wry look. "A woman like that, well, they call her a courtesan.
I've met her. Couldn't afford her."

 
          
 
"Wal, it appears Francois can. Says she's
done tied a ribbon on his wang."

 
          
 
"His funeral, then. She's more'n he can
handle." Green nodded to himself. "All right. Time's up. Dawn—day
after tomorrow, Travis. Get the men together." Green closed his eyes, and
lay completely still in the lamplight. Only the rising and falling of his chest
distinguished him from a corpse.

 
          
 
Travis took another swig from his bottle, and
cocked his head as a rat scampered somewhere behind the packed cargo.

 
          
 
Again, men have no pleasure, but on the
contrary a great deal of grief, in keeping company, where there is no power
able to over-awe them all. For every man looketh that his companion should
value him, at the same rate he sets upon himself: and upon all signs of
contempt, or undervaluing, naturally endeavours, as far as he dares, (which
amongst them that have no common power to keep them quiet, is far enough to
make them destroy each other), to extort a greater value from his condemners,
by damage; and from others by example.

 
          
 
—Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan

 
          
 
Richard lay shivering in the dark. Lonely and
forgotten. But then, I've been lonely all of my life, haven't I? If only his
mother hadn't died. How different would his life have been? He might have been
able to grow up like the others, like Will Templeton. Will never had to live
with the knowledge that his father often slipped away in the night to lie with
a mysterious woman.

 
          
 
I'll never forgive you for that, Father.
Mother lies in her grave, and you sate yourself in another woman's arms. Once,
Richard had thought to discover his father's mistress's identity, but Phillip
had been as canny as an old fox about keeping his secret.

 
          
 
No matter what, Laura, I will be yours alone.
If I live through this, I swear I will never betray this sacred trust between
us. He nodded to himself, savoring the solemnity of his vow.

 
          
 
Then he heard the door open. Fear crawled down
his nerves as he stared into the blackness. Two men, burly shadows, entered,
then came a third man bearing a lantern. The man opened the lantern's shutter
and a feeble light played across the room.

 
          
 
"There he is. Goddamn, he stinks worse'n
a privy."

 
          
 
Richard squinted into the light, unable to
make out the figures. Rough hands grabbed him by the shoulders and feet.

 
          
 
Dear God, what now? "Who . . . who are
you?"

 
          
 
"Shut up!"

 
          
 
"Where are you taking me? Help!
Help!"

 
          
 
A big fist lashed out of the darkness and
sparks blasted through Richard's vision.

 
          
 
"Keep yer mouth shet or you'll git
another one o' those," a voice rasped in his ear.

 
          
 
"0 mon Dieu! He has pissed himself,"
another of the men cursed.

 
          
 
I'm going to die. How would it be? His throat
cut? A blow to the head? He twisted, driven by panic, but a hard cuff to the
side of the head stunned him. He swung slackly in their arms as they carried
him out into the night.

 
          
 
Dear God, don’t let me die! Those mocking
words, spoken so long ago in
Boston
, slipped loose in some desperate corner of
his mind. Three weeks and he'd run the country? The material world could be
molded by perceptions? Think of me as an animal tamer? Why don't you start a
government? A warrior, conquering with the sword of philosophy!

 
          
 
Gripped by terror, he was barely conscious of
his shivering body swaying between the men as they hustled him along night
trails. The dark boles of trees rose into a black filigree of branches. The
smell of the river—mud, water, and rotting vegetation—filled his nostrils. Then
he heard voices, soft in the night, growing louder.

 
          
 
"Hartman?" one of the abductors
called out.

 
          
 
"Hyar, coon!"

 
          
 
Richard's captors turned toward the voice,
cursing as they stumbled and slid down a steep embankment and out of the
protection of the trees. A plank bounced under the men's feet and Richard was
dropped on a wooden deck. He stared desperately at the stars, waiting for the
discharge of a pistol or the bitter sting of a knife. Water slapped a hollow
rhythm against the hull.

 
          
 
"Here's your delivery." One of the
captors smacked his hands, as if to clean them. "I been told I get a
penny."

 
          
 
"And I get papers," a tall shadowy
form replied. "Francis said this was all legal."

 
          
 
Paper crackled. "Here. Francois told me
the pig signed it."

 
          
 
"Yer sure?"

 
          
 
"Sure? What is writing, eh? Chicken
tracks on paper? Who knows? I was just told to bring him here. Francois has
given his word, rcorc?"

 
          
 
The tall shadow pointed with a hard finger.
"I reckon, and I give him mine. If'n he's crossed me, I'll drive a knife
inta his greasy French belly, down low, and saw it right up through his brisket
ter his jawbone."

 
          
 
"I do not think, mon ami, that Frangois would
trick you."

 
          
 
A low chuckle erupted. "No, I don't
reckon he would. I figger he knows this child too good. Hyar's yer penny. Give
my regards to Francis ... and old August, too, eh?"

 
          
 
"Son voyage, Hartman. Just don't let him
break his contract, eh? That was Francis's only condition."

 
          
 
Richard closed his eyes as footsteps retreated
across the deck and down the bouncing plank. When he looked up, dark shapes had
gathered like blots against the stars.

 
          
 
"Christ," a voice muttered. "He
stinks like pig shit. Dip him in the river for a while."

 
          
 
"You know, there's people downstream
might want'ta drink that water."

 
          
 
"Reckon so . . . but then, what they
don't know ain't a gonna hurt 'em none."

 
          
 
"Oh, God," Richard mumbled as hard
hands picked him up. "Leave me be, please?"

 
          
 
"Shut up!" A voice hissed from the
dark. "It's bad enough we gotta smell ye, let alone listen to ye
whimpering like a sheep."

 
          
 
As his buttocks hit the cold black water
Richard let loose with a squalling sound, then he was under, still grasped by
strong hands, trying to hold what breath he had left.

 
          
 
His head broke the surface and he gasped
before he was pushed under again. The cold ate into his limbs while his heart
pounded. He came up, and was ducked yet again.

 
          
 
They held him down longer this time. The
current gurgled and tugged at him. Darkness and cold, like leaching death,
caressed his chilled skin with a lover's touch. His lungs began to labor,
sucking at the bottom of his throat. In panic, he thrashed against their hold.
Their iron grip held and they pulled him—wriggling—from the water like a gaffed
fish.

 
          
 
They laughed as they dumped him on the deck.
Richard coughed, spent and trembling, as water ran from his soaked clothing. He
broke into sobs then, wishing for death, barely aware of the men as they walked
away. He began to shiver as the night wind blew across his sodden body.

 
          
 
He heard himself start to mutter incoherently.
Is that me? a distant part of his brain wondered. Dark forms moved in the night
around him.

 
          
 
"Oh God. Why is this happening to
me?"

 
          
 
The cold crept through his numb joints—a cold
unlike anything he had ever experienced, teeth chattering, bones shaking. It
intruded into his soul as water did the pages of a book.

 
          
 
What kind of nightmare was this? One from
which he could not awaken, a terror to be lived, not dreamed.

 
          
 
Someone relieved himself over the side of the
boat.

 
          
 
"Please," Richard called softly.
"Help me."

 
          
 
"Waugh!" a gruff voice called.
"Who be thar? That you, Doodle?"

 
          
 
"I'm c—cold." Richard gritted his
teeth to stop them from chattering.

 
          
 
"Huh!" the gruff voice continued.
Richard had heard him called Hartman. The man disappeared for a moment, then
approached on silent moccasined feet. He dropped a blanket over Richard,
peering down curiously in the darkness. "You're that Yankee Doodle I done
contracted fer?"

 
          
 
"Help me.. .please! I've been
kidnapped"

 
          
 
"Now, I reckon that be a matter of
opinion. Yer a-headed upriver, lad. We bought yer contract from ol' Francois.
Has your sign on it, they say. You just stay plumb put, pilgrim."

 
          
 
"You don't understand Dear God, I'm going
to die, I just know I am. Can't you do anything?"

 
          
 
"Well, it don't seem right—"

 
          
 
"God, no! I've been kidnapped!"

 
          
 
"—just ter leave ye a-layin' on the open
deck this a-way."

 
          
 
The man reached under Richard's shoulders and
lifted him against the cargo box. "Hyar now, pilgrim. Ye just take a mite
o' this hyar jug o' mine. Reckon it otta light a little fire in yer Yankee
belly."

 
          
 
The cool jug was tilted to Richard's mouth. He
could smell the stuff, almost pure alcohol. He drank, and sputtered on the
harsh liquor.

 
          
 
"Thar ye be."

 
          
 
"Thank you. No one's been nice to me in
days. I'm Richard Hamilton." He gasped at the warmth building in his
stomach.

 
          
 
"I be Travis Hartman. My pleasure ter
meet ye, Dick."

 
          
 
"What did you mean, a contract?"

 
          
 
"Reckon it's a paper what ye signed,
a-sayin' ye'll go with us up ter trade with the Injuns upriver. I been havin' a
time gittin' hands fer this hyar trip. Ain't got no permit from ol' redhair
Clark
. So ye see, lad, this's all from under the
boards."