Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (41 page)

 
          
 
Suffice it to say that military or not, the
traders made a stop here. This was the last toehold of the
United States
in the wilderness. Letters could be sent
from Atkinson, messages left, and news gathered. Here, too, final supplies
could be had, for the most outrageous prices, from the military contractors who
maintained their own trading establishments.

 
          
 
Travis slogged his way through the gravelly
mud, his nose twitching at the septic smell of urine, garbage, night earth,
manure, and rot. He carried his rifle over his shoulder, and a pack of deer
hides on his back. Rounding the corner, he nodded at a vicious-looking Pawnee
who squatted against the trading-post wall.

 
          
 
Travis kicked some of the mud off his feet,
lifted the latch, and stepped into the smoky interior of the old Missouri Fur
post. Tobacco, candle soot, and stale air added new insults to his nostrils.

 
          
 
The good Lord knows why it bothers me, he
thought. I reckon this child's done spent more'n one winter a-smelling smells
just like this. Taint never bothered me afore.

 
          
 
"Travis Hartman!"

 
          
 
Travis cocked his head as he looked across the
barrels and bales. A muscular black man sat lounging at a table behind the
factor's bench. Travis grinned and said, "Baptiste de Bourgmont! I
reckoned ye'd be dead afore now. Most likely the Ree would'a lifted yer
topknot."

 
          
 
"Figgered they'd a lifted yers,"
Baptiste replied, then he smiled. The Negro wore a long, fawn-colored leather
jacket that dangled waves of carefully cut fringe. His canvas pants were tucked
into tall moccasins dyed maroon and decorated with tin bells, beadwork, and
silver conchos. The broad black belt snugged around his hips held knife,
pistol, bullet pouch, and pipe bag.

 
          
 
Baptiste was tapping an empty tin cup on the
table with the tip of a knife blade. The charcoal black of his skin contrasted
with the bright white of his teeth. Like thick wool, his kinky black hair had
been pulled back into a severe ponytail.

 
          
 
"What brings you to Atkinson, old
coon?"

 
          
 
"Same's always." Travis stepped
behind the counter and threaded past barrels and tins, leaned the Hawken rifle
against the wall, and unslung the tightly rolled deer hides from his back.
Baptiste stood, then wrapped his arms around Travis in a bear hug, pounding him
on the back. "It shore is good to see you, coon!"

 
          
 
Travis pushed him back, slapped him on the
back, and used a toe to snag out the bench opposite Baptiste's table. "Yer
looking fit. Chopped off any heads of late?"

 
          
 
Baptiste shook his head as he sat down again.
"Lord God, Travis. I forgit just how ugly you are. I reckon as I always
had the idea that time would make yor face look more like a man's."

 
          
 
"I could take my knife, whittle a bit on
yers. Ye'd be surprised how them squaws take ter a man with a face like mine.
Figger I'm chockful of medicine."

 
          
 
Baptiste chuckled and studied his knife.
"You'd make my face look like my back, eh? The last man to scar me lies
dead in a grave in
Louisiana
." He glanced up. "But I think I'd have my hands full killing
you."

 
          
 
"Didn't do so well last time ye tried
down ter Natchez— but I reckon we'd make a scrape of her, all right."
Travis wiped his nose. "What's news?"

 
          
 
"Not much. Everyone is waiting to hear
what Atkinson and O'Fallon accomplish upriver. Otoes,
Omaha
, and Sioux been picking on each other. The
usual. Prices fo' plews are going up. People wonder if Ashley has fallen off
the face of the earth."

 
          
 
"That would be some, it would. That
Ashley, he's a canny old beaver if ever there was one. Maybe craftier than
Manuel Lisa."

 
          
 
Baptiste shrugged. "Yor with Pilcher
again this season?"

 
          
 
"Nope. Just roaming. Seeing whar my stick
floats. Come up from Saint Loowee. Travel's a mess. These rains played
hell."

 
          
 
Baptiste's eyes narrowed. "Uh-huh."

 
          
 
"You hunting for the fort?"

 
          
 
"Among other things. Like so many, I wait
to see if the army can open the river. It'll take a heap big show to undo the
damage
Leavenworth
did to the trade."

 
          
 
"Atkinson ain't
Leavenworth
."

 
          
 
"The gov'ment sent a new agent upriver.
Fella name of Peter Wilson. Gov'ment thinks it's going to try and make treaties
with the
Kansas
, Pawnee, Oto, and Ioway."

 
          
 
"Won't hold. Never does."

 
          
 
"Nope. Reckon not." Baptiste cocked
his head. "You're up to yor neck in something. I can sense it. . . like a
wolf around a weak buffalo."

 
          
 
"This child don't know nothing. If'n I
did, I reckon I'd be plumb fat and sassy, sitting in Saint Loowee in a big
house, with a fat woman tending my needs."

 
          
 
Baptiste leaned forward. "You? Don't feed
me no poor dogmeat and tell me she be fat buffler, Travis. Not after what you
and me been through."

 
          
 
"Ye never was much a one fer fancy
palaver."

 
          
 
"They beat it out of me when I's a
slave."

 
          
 
Travis glanced around. "Whar's the
factor?"

 
          
 
"Probably asleep." Baptiste looked
around the packed storehouse. His eyes rested on a keg of beads. "They's
little trade now. Most of the tribes are planting, or out fo' spring
buffalo."

 
          
 
Travis kicked the roll of deer hides.
"Thar's eleven green deer hides. Spring stuff with their hair slipping.
Reckon that'd fetch me an outfit?"

 
          
 
"Such as?"

 
          
 
"Good pair of moccasins, set of good
britches, a heavy shirt. Maybe a knife."

 
          
 
"I reckon. Yor particular about the
moccasins? Want any tribe?"

 
          
 
"Got Crow?"

 
          
 
Baptiste studied him with half-closed eyes.
"Mountain moccasins."

 
          
 
"They got ter have heavy soles. Made
outta bull buffalo. Reckon yer figgering whar my stick floats."

 
          
 
"I think they gots a pair. Your
size?"

 
          
 
"Smaller."

 
          
 
"A woman's?"

 
          
 
"Not that small. Let's say, wal, about
the size of yer foot thar, maybe a tad smaller, but not much."

 
          
 
"Mountain moccasins, not fo' a woman but
fo' a medium-size man. They got a pair in the storeroom. Good Crow work. And
you expect such fo' green spring deer hides?"

 
          
 
"Reckon so." Travis grinned.
"Maybe fer the time I kept the Sioux from lifting that curly black hair of
yern."

 
          
 
Baptiste gave Travis a crooked smile. "Or
fo' the days on the river, or the time in
Louisiana
when I hid in the tree. Or the time you got
me that job. Or the time—"

 
          
 
"Reckon I'd be right obliged if'n ye
didn't go a-palavering all about the fort with yer ideas, coon. Reckon maybe ye
seed me, done some swapping, and old Travis Hartman just up and left."

 
          
 
"I reckon that might happen."

 
          
 
"Waugh!" Travis took Baptiste's hand
and shook. He glanced around, and then added, "Reckon a boat'll arrive a
couple of days from now. Dave Green's hauling supplies for Pilcher. Carrying
them upriver. Pilcher's business, understand?"

 
          
 
Baptiste's interest visibly sharpened

 
          
 
"Now, I reckon this hyar's just atwixt
the two of us. Don't need to be nothing said."

 
          
 
Baptiste fingered his chin, thinking. "I
work fo' the Company. Not many people would ask me what yor asking."

 
          
 
Travis shrugged.

 
          
 
Baptiste grinned then. "But then, yor not
just anybody."

 
          
 
"Thanks, friend. Reckon I'll owe ye
one."

 
          
 
Baptiste shook his head. "No. You took a
big chance fo' a runaway slave. They'd a hung this nigger. Fed my carcass to
the dogs as a lesson to the others. If'n they caught us, they'd a hung you,
too. Baptiste don't forgit,"

 
          
 
'That's some, it is." Travis chuckled.
"Saw something in ye, I did. Figgered ye was worth the risk."

 
          
 
"Perhaps they gonna hang you this time if
they catches you? And maybe Green?"

 
          
 
Travis studied the tip of his thumb as if he'd
just found something fascinating there. "Wal, ye knows Davey and me. Just
hauling a load upriver fer Pilcher. But ye wouldn't know whar a feller might
hire a string of hosses, do ye? Say seven or eight? Maybe fer a week?"

 
          
 
Baptiste pursed his lips. "They'd be
questions. But ..." His eyes narrowed. "No, wait. There's this
Pawnee. Half Man. Last I seed, he was hanging around out front. He has hosses.
No questions—but a passel of trouble."

 
          
 
"Half Man? Reckon I heard of him. Runs
whiskey, hosses, and plews back and forth atwixt the Pawnee and the
Omaha
? Likes to play heap big man with the chiefs?"

 
          
 
"That's him. Now, let's say a man wanted
to sneak whiskey past the army inspection. He'd help. And he'd kill you fust
time you turned yor back on him."

 
          
 
Travis frowned, remembering the mean Pawnee
leaning against the logs. "Thar's times a coon's got ter take a
chain."

 
          
 
Baptiste reached out, powerful hand grasping
Travis's shoulder. "Watch yor back, coon. If'n ye don't, yor gone
beaver."

 
          
 
For in absolute freedom there was no
reciprocal interaction either between an external world and consciousness,
which is absorbed in the manifold existence, or sets itself determinate
purposes and ideas, or between consciousness and an external objective world,
be it a world of reality or thought. What that freedom encompassed was the
world totally in the form of consciousness, as a universal will, and along with
that, self-consciousness gathered out of all the dispersions and manifoldness
of existence, or all the manifold ends and judgments of mind concentrated into
the naked and simple self.

 
          
 
—Georg Friedrich Wilhelm Hegel, Phenomenology
of Mind

 
          
 
Fort
Atkinson
. The name had mingled itself with Richard's
dreams to become the promised land, and the
Platte
his River Jordan. He splashed through the
shallows, slipping in mud, back breaking. Despite the cool day, sweat trickled
down his face to sting his eyes and drip from his nose. The endless weight of
the cordelle lay like the great earth on Atlas's shoulders.

 
          
 
"Sacre! Careful!" the cry came.
"Hold on! Don't let it slip!"

 
          
 
Behind them, coursing like a huge fish on a
line, the Maria curved out from the shore, driven along the arc of the cordelle
line by laboring polers as the boat passed wide of the sandbar she'd grounded
on earlier that day.

 
          
 
What a Herculean labor that had been, to free
her. Now she had to swing wide around the sandbar at the mouth of the
Platte
—that or drop back downriver, cross to the
far bank, and recross once the boat had passed the
Platte
.

 
          
 
Dear Lord God, all they did was pole and
cordelle. Didn't the wind ever blow from the south in this wretched land?

 
          
 
A signal came from the patroon.

 
          
 
"Go!" Trudeau cried. "Run! No
slack in the cordelle, or she slip right back on the sand!"

 
          
 
They stumbled forward, sloshing through the
shallows, scrambling for footing in the quicksand. Breath rasped in Richard's
throat.

 
          
 
At the end of the cordelle, the mast bent
under the stress. But Maria held her place. Brown water curled white at her
bow, and the grunts of the polers could be heard as they braced their bare feet
and leaned into their poles.

 
          
 
The mouth of the
Platte
was a terrible place, shoaled with
sandbars, dotted with small islands of willow, for the
Platte
spilled into the
Missouri
in interwoven ribbons of water. But beyond
the
Platte
, up there where the bluffs rose above the
tree line, lay
Fort
Atkinson
. There lay all of Richard's hopes for
escape.

 
          
 
He'd never paid the slightest attention to men
in uniform. The only interest he'd had was a philosopher's: lofty and abstract.
The military, as Hegel had noted, was for the protection and furthering of the
state's interest vis-a-vis other states. The pomp, pretty dress, and
regulations had appeared rather ridiculous. Those officers he'd met had been
posed of an arrogance unbecoming their lack of either the education or ability
to discuss complicated subjects. Philosophy, for instance.

 
          
 
Richard now chafed to see a soldier; the first
uniform would mean deliverance from his living nightmare.

 
          
 
I’ll throw myself at the first brightly
dressed mannequin, clasp his knees, and plead that he take me to his commanding
officer.

 
          
 
That would work, wouldn't it? Or could Green
come up with a reasonable explanation for his engage's odd behavior? Claim he
was crazy, driven mad by fever, or maybe drunk.

 
          
 
No. I'll hit him. Ball my fist, and whack him
right in the face. They'll have to arrest me. No amount of Green's excuses will
keep them from dragging me away. Then, at the inquiry, I’ll tell my story.

 
          
 
That was it. Foolproof.

 
          
 
Green would try and keep him on the boat, of
course; but Richard had heard the talk. The army searched all of the boats,
turned them inside out looking for whiskey. It was against the law to trade
whiskey to the Indians, and—in addition to the kegs allotted for crew ration—
Maria was chockful of curious triangular tins of the stuff. Way more than the
half-gill per man per day allowed by law.

 
          
 
This time you won't stop me, Mr. Green. Once I
hit that soldier, I'm free! *

 
          
 
And then? Well, no matter what he thought
about the men in the army, the system was rational. A man didn't become an
officer without some sense and training that set him above his comrades. When
Richard told his tale to the commander, they'd drop charges. He'd be placed on
the first boat back to
Saint Louis
. From there, he could find the means to buy passage back to
Boston
.

 
          
 
I'm coming, Laura. You'll see. It won't be
long now and I'll be knocking on your door.

 
          
 
Boston
! In defiance of his weary labor, he smiled
dreamily. He could hear his boot heels striking the cobblestones as he and
Laura walked down
Washington Street
. Her arm was tucked tightly in his. He
touched his felt hat, tipping it to each passer-by, no matter how lowly. A silk
cloak was swirling around his shoulders as he looked up at the familiar
buildings. Just for good measure, he studied their reflection in the windows of
a tobacconist, and straightened his cravat. Laura looked dashing in her long
velveteen dress with a ribbon bow at the waist. The royal blue set off her long
blond hair with its gathered ringlets.

 
          
 
Home.
Boston
. The cultured tones of intelligent people
like music on his ears. I will be a gentleman again.

 
          
 
"Merde!" Trudeau shouted.
"Pull, you women! She is backing water!"

 
          
 
Richard threw himself against the cordelle,
just one more grunting animal in a line of beasts. Tendons burning in his
hands, he tightened his grip on the unforgiving hemp. Heave! Heave! Come on,
damn it!

 
          
 
Maria skated forward, rounding the head of the
sandbar. To avoid an abatis of wicked snags that thrust up from the water like
the splintered ribs of a water monster, Henri leaned on the steering oar,
sending her in toward shore.

 
          
 
"Too much slack! Hurry! Run!"
Trudeau cried, and they scampered forward like trained rats, churning muddy
water with booted feet. They raced to take up the slack, diving into the
willows on the
Platte
's north bank, clutching the slippery stems
with one hand as they manhandled the heavy rope with the other.

 
          
 
Richard panted and gasped, humping forward
under the swaying cordelle. Ragged breath sawed at his throat. Every muscle in
his legs and back cramped and ached. Off balance, the cordelle pulled him
sideways through the willows. With the last of his strength, he caught himself
before falling. Springy stems tangled his feet so that he crashed forward
instead of stepped. He fixed his attention on Toussaint's broad back. Whiplike
branches slapped at him, smacking wetly.

 
          
 
Pull! Come on, Richard. Each step is closer to
Fort
Atkinson
. Each step is closer to
Boston
.
Boston
. . .
Boston
. . . .

 
          
 
"We 'ave her!" Trudeau called from
ahead. "We've crossed the Platte!"

 
          
 
Their screams and shouts sounded more like an
Indian massacre than a celebration. Someone began singing ,l A La Claire
Fontaine," and Richard joined in between pants for breath. He didn't sing
at first, not really, just hummed along.

 
          
 
They beat their way through the willows,
cutting back toward the river through muck that sucked at their feet.
Mosquitoes hummed up in clouds as they waded. Brain-numb, the engages slogged
their way out of the marsh like weary beads on the cordelle's string.

 
          
 
Richard, along with Toussaint and Robert,
bellowed and roared as they dragged the thick wet cordelle through the marsh,
crushing the long green leaves of cattails and flattening the round tubes of
bulrush.

 
          
 
They could see the river here. Maria bobbed at
the end of the cordelle, cutting water.

 
          
 
"Hand-over-hand!" Trudeau called,
and like triumphant fishermen, they reeled in their prize.

 
          
 
Richard grinned happily. Let the engages have
their "Fontaine," his reward would be
Boston
. A summer stroll around the Commons, just
to enjoy the yellow squares of candlelit windowpanes.

 
          
 
Distant thunder rolled down from the plains to
the west, and far off over the eastern bank, lightning flickered in the clouds.

 
          
 
"We've crossed the
Platte
!" Engages pounded each other on the
back, capered and jeered, whooping and leaping, taking turns as they pulled the
Maria in and coiled the cordelle into a big black ring.

 
          
 
Richard watched the keelboat ride in across
the choppy brown water. Normally ungainly, she moved with a grace he'd never
seen before. Almost beautiful.

 
          
 
"Whiskey!" Green cried, coming to
stand on the deck. "A good day's work, lads!"

 
          
 
Men jumped, shrieked, and waved their red wool
hats.

 
          
 
Richard looked down at his hands as the
Maria's hull whispered on the bank. The palms were caked with wet sand and
grime, the skin reddened and callused.