Land of the Free (11 page)

“You seemed less than
pleased with my decisions a few nights back.”

“That was before I knew that
the man was a wanted killer.”

Before Yank could answer,
McGregor, with six musketeers, joined them, as the wranglers
struggled with the spooked horses. “Indian trail.” He nodded toward
the willow.

“Yes, that was why Colonel
Van Buskirk ordered out the riflemen,” Marina replied.

“Might be worth scoutin’ for
a bit,” McGregor suggested. “We surely could move faster on dry
land.”

“Scout it for threats, by
all means,” Yank said, “but not as an alternate route. We’ll stay
on the river as long as we can.”

“I agree.” Marina walked
away from them toward Nathan Sparks, the cook, and pointed out
where to set up his kitchen.

“Well,” Yank said to
McGregor, after watching her for a moment. “I had best get a detail
busy setting up tents and digging a latrine.” He started away then
stopped and pointed. “There’s a pond just there, Mr. McGregor, but
this close to the river it may be brackish. While you’re checking
that trail, please keep an eye open for a spring. I’d like to keep
our fresh water casks full.”

McGregor shook his head.
“Pine trees around that pond. The water’s sweet.”

“I fear that you may be
mistaken, Mr. McGregor. Black pines are quite salt
tolerant.”

“I’ll check it right away,
sir.”

“No, check the trail for any
hostiles first while keeping a lookout for fresh water, please.
Safety must always be our first priority.”

“O’ course, Colonel. I’ll
check that trail right away.”

~

Marina turned down the lamp,
plunging the tent into inky blackness.

“What are you doing?” Yank
asked in annoyed tone, after listening to her rustling about for
some time.

“I’m taking off my
clothes.”

He turned toward her and
peered into the dark. “That seems a bad idea.”

“Then you’ll like the idea
of my bathing naked in the pond even less.”

“We posted a sentry
there.”

“I know. And if the night is
bright I’ll ask him to avert his eyes.” She pushed open the tent
flap and stood there, silhouetted against the night sky. “Of course
he might not avert his eyes, unless I have a protector.”

“Lord, keep me from sin,” he
whispered.

“I heard that,” she cackled,
letting the tent flap fall.

He crawled over his bedroll
and pushed the flap open. “Where are you?”

“Here.” She stepped into the
moonlight. “Did you decide to join me?”

He stood up slowly. “I’ve
made no decisions, yet for some inexplicable reason, I’m
here.”

She laughed softly, turned
and started toward the pond. “Come along, husband. I need my back
scrubbed.”

“Wait.” He caught her hand
then released it and ducked back in the tent to retrieve her
duster. “Indulge my prudish New England morality please,” he said,
draping the coat over her bare shoulders.

“Of course.” She stood on
her toes, kissed him lightly on the lips and took his hand to lead
him through the deep grass toward the pond.

“Halt. Who goes there?” a
voice asked from the tree line.

“Friends,” Yank
replied.

“Advance and be
recognized.”

“Colonel and Mrs. Van
Buskirk wish some privacy to bathe in the pond,” Yank said, without
moving closer.

“Very well, sir,” the voice
in the darkness replied.

“Mr. Chilton, is it?” Yank
asked.

“Yes, sir,” the sentry
replied.

“I can see like an owl in
the dark. If you steal a peek at my wife I shall have you
horsewhipped.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,
sir.”

“Good man. Now turn your
back and I’ll tell you when we are ready to return to our
tent.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Can you really see in the
dark?” Marina giggled, starting again toward the pond.

“Why else would I be
here?”

“You could see me in the
moonlight?”

“Nearly as clear as
day.”

“I take it that you liked
what you saw?”

“Indeed.”

She giggled. “Getting a
compliment from you is like pulling teeth.” She shrugged off the
duster, ran to the pond and plunged into the water creating a
gigantic splash.

September 31,
1804

Uncharted Bayou, Louisiana
Purchase

“Top o’ the mornin’ to y’,
sir,” McGregor said.

“And to you, Mr. McGregor,”
Yank replied. He was sitting on a camp stool in front of his tent
and drinking coffee from a tin cup. “Have some coffee?” He gestured
toward a fire-blackened pot at the edge of his small camp fire. “I
make my own. It probably isn’t as good as Mr. Sparks makes, but I
enjoy the solitude of a morning.”

“Smells good,” McGregor
replied.

Yank pointed at a small
wooden chest. “Cups and camp stools in there. I don’t pack sugar, I
fear.”

“Never use it,” McGregor
replied. He took a battered tin cup from the chest and a folding
stool, filled the cup and sat down next to Yank.

Yank looked out at the slow
moving water of the bayou. “Has it occurred to you, Mr. McGregor,
that some of our men might need a bit of firearms
practice?”

“It has indeed, Colonel,”
McGregor replied. “But I was not particular sure if it was in your
mind.”

“Perhaps a hunting party
would be in order.”

“A hunting party you say,
Colonel?”

“It might be a good way to
train some of the men while providing us with fresh
meat.”

“You and me to lead it,
sir?”

Yank shook his head. “I am
completely ignorant of bayou game hunting practices. If you think
it best, divide the men into smaller units and appoint one member
of each group to lead it.”

McGregor nodded
dubiously.

“Surely you have identified
a few men in our company who possess leadership
ability.”

“A few.”

“Well.” Yank sipped his
coffee. “If you think hunting is a bad idea, Mr. McGregor, I
suppose we should start loading the barges.”

“No, sir. I think ‘tis a
fine idea but I’m not sure how to go about breakin’ the men into
groups.”

“How many men would you
choose as potential leaders?”

“There’s five I know of what
has a bit more experience with firearms and such than the
rest.”

“Then perhaps you might
assemble the five and discuss it.”

“Discuss it,
sir?”

“Yes. Explain what you want
and let them help you pick the men that will accompany
them.”

“Make ‘em part of the plan,
so to speak.”

“Perhaps make them part of
your team, Mr. McGregor.”

“Sort o’ like yer doin’ me,
sir?”

“Yes,” Yank chuckled. “Very
much like that.”

“Thank ye, sir.” McGregor
gulped his coffee, put the cup near the fire, got to his feet,
moved his right hand as if to salute, caught himself, and hurried
away.

Yank chuckled and refilled
his coffee cup.

“What’s so bloody funny?”
Marina poked her head out from between the tent flaps. Her hair was
tousled and her eyes were puffy.

“Someone needs coffee.” He
got another cup from the chest, filled it and held it toward
her.

She reached a hand through
the tent flap to take the cup, showing him a brief flash of bare
breasts. “How can you be so chipper?”

He moved his camp stool
closer to her and sat down. “I had a wonderful night.”

She smiled. “I’m not
complaining about the night,” she said as she moved back into the
darkness of the tent to sit cross-legged on the disheveled
blankets, “but the morning, after an hour’s sleep, is another
matter.”

Yank looked around to be
sure that no one else could see her through the opening in the
tent. “That’s not a very ladylike pose.”

“It isn’t supposed to be.”
She held the cup in both hands, sipped and looked at him over the
rim.

He looked around again. “You
can’t really want to – that is…”

“I really want
to.”

“You were complaining of
being sore,” he whispered.

“It’s the very nicest kind
of sore.”

“What if someone comes
looking for us?”

“Button the
flaps.”

“They might
hear.”

“What if they do? We’re
married, aren’t we?”

He put down his cup, ducked
through the flaps and began buttoning them. “You have corrupted
me.”

“Umm.” She put her arms
around him and kissed his neck.

October 1, 1804

Uncharted Bayou, Louisiana
Purchase

“Colonel,” a musketeer who
was poling the barge called.

Yank picked his way
carefully between the lashings, crates and animal pens toward the
stern. “What is it, Mr. Nelson?”

Nelson pointed into the
water behind them. “That big gator’s been followin’ for more’n a
mile.”

Yank drew his pistol, shot
the huge reptile and worked his way back to the bow where he began
reloading the pistol.

“Why did you do that?”
Marina asked indignantly.

Yank looked at her for
several seconds before replying. “The alligator was waiting for
someone to fall overboard. I thought it likely that it would
eventually happen.”

“Shooting it was cruel and
unnecessary,” she shouted. “No one is going to fall
overboard.”

Yank pushed her off the side
of the barge.

“Help,” Marina spluttered as
she surfaced.

The first man in line
dropped his pole, caught her hand and pulled her from the
water.

Marina crawled away from the
side and sat back on her haunches, pushing her hair out of her face
and wiping water from her eyes.

Yank was standing on the bow
looking forward as if nothing had happened.

McGregor was watching
Marina. “A good lesson, but a mite harsh, Colonel.”

“Harsh?” Yank wrinkled his
brow. “Not at all. If you had shouted at me that way where all
could hear, I would have shot you dead before I threw you
overboard.”

McGregor turned his
attention to the water ahead.

Marina had heard the
exchange and got unsteadily to her feet then made her way aft to
sit behind the horse corral.

“The colonel done the right
thing,” Nelson said to her.

She glared at him. “In
shooting the alligator or pushing me into the bayou?”

“Both, I reckon,” Nelson
replied. “Can’t have a gator that close and can’t have no
insubordination.”

“Insubordination is a big
word,” she snapped. “What army did you desert from?”

Nelson looked around to see
if anyone had heard her but made no answer.

October 2, 1804

On the River, Louisiana
Purchase

Yank was sitting in front of
his tent on one of three camp stools, near a small fire. “Good
morning, Mr. McGregor.” He poured coffee into a cup and held it up
to McGregor.

“‘
Tis a fine mornin’,”
McGregor said accepting the cup and sitting down next to Yank.
“Nelson run off last night.”

Yank nodded. “Too bad, but
not unexpected.”

“Aye. ‘Tis a complicated
world.”

“Yes it is.”

“Did ya know about Nelson? I
mean before yer missus…”

“Yes, I knew.”

“I thought ya
did.”

“Nelson was a good man. I
would have stood by him if necessary, no matter what.”

“I thought ya might of
done.”

“It might be best if we
don’t speak of this further.”

McGregor nodded. “How’s yer
missus?”

“The other day I heard one
of the boys use the phrase: ‘madder than a wet hen’. I think that
may be appropriate.”

McGregor chuckled. “What
time was you wantin’ to be movin’ out, sir?”

Yank looked at the position
of the sun. “After everyone’s had breakfast and a bit of time for
personal things. There’s no hurry.”

“I suppose you’d tell me why
there’s no hurry, if ya thought I needed to know.”

“I would indeed, Mr.
McGregor.”

~

McGregor and Marina moved up
beside Yank, who was peering through his small, brass
telescope.

“What is it?” Marina asked.
She had not spoken a word to Yank since he had pushed her into the
water yesterday, but she was now unable to contain her
curiosity.