Rivers West (3 page)

The trail was barely passable, and every step was a risk of life and limb. Yet at last we reached firm ground, higher ground. The cold wind started up again, chilling us as it blew down the long dark trail.

Once we passed the ruin of a cabin, a worn fence close by, the bark falling from the poles, rank grass growing up to cover all that lay upon the ground and to make the cabin seem even more lost and lonely.

We walked the lonely road, and as we walked, we talked of many things—of ships and men and storms at sea, of wrecks and ship's timbers and the building of strong craft, and of the feel of a well-made ship in a heavy sea. I was no seafaring man, although I'd been out on the gulf many a time, had sailed to Newfoundland, to Nova Scotia, and to Labrador. When no more than ten, I had sailed alone to Bonaventure Island, which lay within sight of my home. But these were things many a lad from Gaspé had done, and although I was no deep-water sailor, I knew how to build a ship and what it took to make it seaworthy.

Jambe-de-Bois was more. He was a deep-sea sailorman, and no flying-fish sailor. He had sailed as bos'n, as sailmaker and as ship's carpenter. He spoke of Marseilles, La Rochelle, and Dieppe, of St. Malo, Bristol, and Genoa. He knew the Malabar Coast and the Irrawaddy. All of what he talked about I'd heard from childhood, for many a Talon had returned to the sea, and the old man of the family was not the only one who'd been a privateer.

Suddenly, I stopped. We had rounded a turn in what passed for a road, and there, a few hundred yards away, was Macklem. He and others.

Jambe-de-Bois swore, but it was too late, for he had seen us and stopped to wait.

“Be careful, lad,” Jambe-de-Bois said. “Yon's an evil man, a sinful man, and one without morality or mercy. Give him the slightest chance, and he'll have your heart out and bleeding.”

“You know him then?”

He was silent, as if he had said too much, and then he replied bitterly. “Aye, know him I do…or of him, and an ugly thing it was when first he crossed my bows.

“Watch him, lad, and trust him not for one minute. For some reason, you've attracted his interest, and those who interest him die. I've seen it happen.”

Colonel Rodney Macklem waited for us on the trail, a bold and handsome man.

Chapter 3

Q
UICK, LAD, BEFORE we come up to him—and speak low, for sound carries. Where are you bound?”

Hesitate I did. Who was he to ask me this? Could I trust him more than Macklem, who seemed the more complete gentleman?

When I hestitated, Jambe said, “We've more in common than you think, much more. He wants you dead, lad, and me also. Together we're no match for him, but we might last longer. What say you?”

“I'm going to Pittsburgh.”

He scowled. “Pittsburgh? What is that? And where?”

We slowed our walk and spoke softly.

“It's a new town in the West. There was a fort there once, fort Pitt. It's a place where rivers meet and where they build boats for use on the western waters.”

“Western waters? The Pacific?”

“No…the rivers. There are great rivers there, rivers that go in all directions. Do you know the Mississippi?”

“Aye, I've shipped into New Orleans a time or two. Sure and it's the greatest river of them all!”

“It is not. There's a longer river, far longer, a river that flows into the Mississippi. It's called the Missouri. It's a river that stretches far to the west and begins in the Rockies. They'll be building boats in Pittsburgh to use on the western waters, and I'd have a hand in the building—and in good time, build my own.”

“If it's water you want, why not go to sea? There's places out there, islands and harbors and such, that no man has seen, and many worth seeing again. Why sail a river?”

“Ah, but Jambe! This is a different river! The waters flow down from the high peaks, down through roaring canyons. It's a river nearly three thousand miles long, and who knows what lies at its head or along its banks? I shall build a steamboat, Jambe, a steamboat that will climb its farthest reaches. If you wish to come with me, I can use a partner, but I want no fair-weather friend. If you sign on with me, it's for the voyage.”

Jambe was silent. Finally he swore, irritably. “Why not? I'll come along, John Daniel, if thatis what you call yourself, for I've a thought we'll be safer together.”

We came up to Macklem then, standing in the road with three others of the past night, the snake-eyed man among them.

“Come along,” he said cheerfully, “there's safety in numbers, and I hear the Indians can still be dangerous at times, to say nothing of thieving white men.”

So we went along together, Macklem and myself in the lead, and Jambe-de-Bois falling back to bring up the rear—but in such a position that if any attempt was made upon me he would be first to see a false move and not only warn but aid me. Yet there was a rankling doubt in me, for what did I know of him?

I was among enemies, yet there was a youthful foolishness and confidence in me that made me believe I could win out even if it came to blows with the lot of them.

I was stronger than they realized, and a better shot. Still, there was enough good sense in me—despite my vanity—to realize I might get no chance to shoot, nor even to use my strength.

Gradually, the trees thinned out, farms appeared. Toward evening we saw boys and girls driving cattle home from the pasture. People stopped to watch us go by, and some answered our friendly hails and some did not, yet all stared.

When we came to an inn, it was not like the hovel where we had stopped before. It was a spacious place, with two floors, glass windows, and a common room where drinks and food were served.

The proprietor here was a man of dignity, who spoke of politics in a manner that suggested he knew of what he spoke. But I was not sure. Perhaps he was no more than a fat windbag. There were aplenty of them about in that year of 1821.

Yet the linens were fresh, the floors swept, the food excellently prepared.

Alone in my room, with the doors locked and the hot water that had been brought for me in the tub, I bathed—the first time since leaving Quebec, and only the second since leaving my home in the Gaspé.

The open papers I'd taken from the pocket of Captain Foulsham were almost illegible. One was a letter, apparently from a brother. I could make out but little of it, as water had blurred the ink and made it run. The brother lived in London and was urging Captain Foulsham to return.

And I found his address.

Seated in my room. I wrote to the address of the brother in England. Carefully, I stated just what I had found, and how I had come upon the body of Captain Foulsham. I also related how I had gone through the pockets and retrieved what was there, and the money would be forwarded to him.

Moreover, I informed him I was quite sure the murderer was either one of the party that had come along from that time to this, or that the murderer at least was known to one or more of them.

Each I described with care, adding such fragments as might be useful, then I took it upon myself to open the oilskin packet.

In the packet was an order for the arrest of one Baron Richard Torville, a deserter from the British army, a traitor. There was also information to the effect that Torville had been an agent for certain forces in France against Bonaparte, but that he'd committed a murder and absconded with money that did not belong to him.

It was a long bill, listing a half-dozen crimes. A picture emerged of a man shrewd, unprincipled, and dangerous, but one with powerful connections. The title by which he was known was itself borrowed without right…there was even doubt about his name. The past of the man was shrouded in mystery.

There was no physical description.

Foulsham, an agent for His Majesty's government, had somehow tracked down and located this man—and Foulsham had been murdered.

Now I was myself in possession of information that could lead to my death.

Putting all the papers in the packet, I returned them to my shirt and went down to the common room.

It was empty.

In a small study opening off the common room, I found Simon Tate, the proprietor.

“Sir.” I closed the door. “I have a matter of urgency and secrecy.”

He picked up his glasses and stared at me, putting down his pen. That he was doubtful was obvious, but taking from my pocket the small stack of gold coins, I placed them on the table.

“I would like a draft for those, and a receipt.”

He eyed the money and then me. Briefly, giving only-the barest details, I told him of the body, that Captain Robert Foulsham was a man of importance, and that the money was to be returned to his family and the papers likewise.

That Tate was a man of affairs was obvious. His questions were few and to the point, and in a matter of minutes I was leaving the study with my receipt tucked away in my wallet and the packet left to go back to England by the next post.

Yet at the door Tate stopped me. Windbag he might seem when talking at large in the common room, but he was serious now. “This man of whom you speak,” he said quietly, “is a dangerous man. Once a man engages in political intrigue, it can become a way of life. You must ask yourself now, as I am asking, why is he
here
, in America? Such a man does not only think of escape. You can be sure he has other ideas.”

He paused, “Mr. Talon, I must speak of this to a friend of mine.”

This I did not like. Yet I hesitated. “What sort of friend?”

“You might say that he has the ear of those who matter, Mr. Talon. He is a man who seems of no importance, yet when he speaks, those in power listen.”

“Very well then.”

“A moment, Mr. Talon. You have chosen to confide in me, and you have acted…you have acted correctly, I believe. So let us talk, just for a minute.

“I know too little of affairs in your country, Mr. Talon, but I would assume they are similar to ours. Let us simply say that here the people rule—but to rule is not enough. The people must also be watchful, they must care for their country and its future.

“There are many self-seekers amongst us, yet many of those are sincere patriots. Our country is growing, but there are many forces, some abroad, some within, that are dangerous to us. You know of the purchase of the Louisiana Territory?”

“I have heard of it.”

“Its borders are ill-defined. We have Spain for a neighbor on the south, and we have England on the north. I know that many of the English and most of the Canadians are our friends. But some are not.

“What we have most to fear, I believe, are those within our own borders who think less of country than of themselves, who are ambitious for money, for power, for land. Some of these men would subvert anything, anything at all, my dear sir, for their own profit. They would even twist the laws of their own country in their desire to acquire wealth or power. Such men are always prepared to listen to a smooth-talking man with a proposal.

“Are you going to stay among us, Mr. Talon?”

“I do not know,” I said frankly. “I have come to this country because there seems to be opportunity. I am looking for honest work, success. Money, perhaps. I have heard they are building boats at Pittsburgh. I am a builder.”

He nodded. “Good! Very good! We need builders, sir. We need them very much, but we need builders who build not only for themselves and for profit—and I certainly believe in profit—but for the future. Are you that kind of a builder, Mr. Talon?”

I hoped I was. Political matters of which this man spoke had never entered my life or my thinking. Nor had it ever seemed that the government of a people was any part of my consideration. Suddenly, uneasily, I began to realize that it might be…that it was.

“I hope so, Mr. Tate.”

“Exactly. You must remember, my friend, that if we leave the governing to others, then others will govern, and possibly not as we would like. In a country such as this, none of us is free of responsibility.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What I am getting at, Mr. Talon, is that you have inadvertently come upon something that may be of great importance, and in which you are already involved. It might be very helpful if you would keep an eye on the situation…tactfully, of course.”

“I don't see how I could do that. My immediate concern is to go west and find a job building boats for the western waters. I'm no politician.”

He studied me for a moment, then shrugged. “So be it. However, young man, you find yourself involved. If what you have told me is true, the murderer of the young officer may be someone very close to you. He may suspect you have or had these papers. He may attempt murder to recover them.

“It has been said that the guilty flee when no man pursueth, Mr. Talon, but the guilty often suspect others of knowing more than they do. Your own life may be in jeopardy.”

“I must risk that.”

“And remember, sir, that whether or not you're a citizen of the United States, you cannot achieve success if there is turmoil or revolution or war. Good government is everybody's business.”

I shrugged. “I know naught of government. I am just a builder.”

He got to his feet. “I hope you continue to build, Mr. Talon. Good luck to you.”

When I had closed the door behind me, I stood for a minute, pondering. There was much to what Tate had said. Good government
was
the responsibility of all. Even me, an alien and a stranger, if I was to make my home here.

Jambe-de-Bois was waiting outside the inn soaking up the morning sunlight. He squinted up at me, one lid half-lowered. “They left. Rode off down the road.”

“They?”

“Macklem and them. He asked about you.”

Macklem was gone, yet how far had he gone? It was not him so much as the snake-eyed man of whom I thought. Were they a team? Or did they, like Jambe-de-Bois and myself, simply travel together?