Land of the Free (4 page)

“Sir?”

“I fear that I have not had
the pleasure of meeting Commander Thompson.”

“Oh.” The young officer was
by now very flustered. “Well. Let me see.” He looked around as if
help might suddenly appear.

“Tell me Commander
Thompson’s duty here in New Orleans and perhaps we can muddle
through this, Ensign.”

“Yes, sir.” The boy thought
a moment. “Commander Thompson is in charge of the New Orleans Navy
Yard.” He gestured vaguely over his shoulder. “I work there. For
Commander Thompson, that is.”

“Now there’s a good start,”
Yank said. “Because I have brought some crates along with me that
will need storage in your armory.”

“Crates, Sir? Weapons, may I
ask?”

“Yes. Weapons and
ammunition.”

“It is my understanding that
there are already weapons and ammunition in your bunker,
sir.”

“I have a
bunker?”

“Indeed, Sir. Well stocked
with provisions for your expedition.”

“Were these provisions
procured by a man by the name of Harvey Pique, perhaps?”

“No, Sir. Procured by
Commander Thompson under orders from Washington, Sir. That is – I
believe they came from Washington. I could be wrong. I probably
should not say.” He took a breath. “But I can say that Commander
Thompson does not trust this man called Harvey Pique. Yes, I think
I can say that.”

“You don’t say?” Yank
chuckled.

“No sir. That is, yes sir.
That is, Commander Thompson has not been willing to grant Harvey
Pique permission to view or to inventory the contents of your
bunker.”

“Well then, Ensign, I think
I shall be happy to meet Commander Thompson.” Yank waved at a
sailor who had ridden a cargo net to the dock and spoke to the
young ensign. “Have you transportation for my crates?”

“No, Sir. But I can arrange
it, if you will give me a very few minutes.”

“Thank you, Ensign. You will
find me over there by those crates.” He pointed to the cargo and
then shook his head in return to the young man’s salute before
walking over to the waiting sailor.

“Gettin’ yer land-legs under
y’, are y’ sir?” the sailor asked with a toothy grin.

“I am indeed, Boatswain,”
Yank agreed. “That young officer is arranging for transportation.
It shouldn’t be long.”

“I’m in no hurry,
sir.”

“A sailor in no hurry for
shore leave? Now I’ve heard everything.”

“We are to set sail with the
next tide, Sir. There’ll be no shore leave this trip.”

“Really? What’s the
urgency?”

“Somethin’ to do with
British war ships in the Gulf pressin’ honest American seamen into
their service, is all I know, sir.”

Yank nodded but offered no
additional comment.

“Do you think we’ll go to
war with the English again, sir?”

“Yes, Boatswain, I do. But
not today, and probably not soon.” He waved. “Here’s my
transportation.”

The sailor whistled and
beckoned to a gang of longshoremen.

“One more minute and I shall
fetch a cab for you, Colonel,” the ensign said as he jumped down
from the box.

“Not necessary,” Yank
replied. “I’ll be perfectly happy riding with the
cargo.”

“But sir…”

“I’d prefer to ride with the
cargo and protect it, Ensign.” Yank showed him a pistol under his
coat and then tossed his kitbag onto the wagon. “These crates
contain Kentucky rifles which, as you may know, are highly prized
by pirates and bandits.”

“I should say so, sir.” The
young officer looked at the crates with new respect. “Have you
fired one, sir?”

“I have fired the Baker
rifle many times.”

“Are they as accurate as I
have heard?”

Yank smiled. “I cannot guess
what you might have heard but on a calm day I have struck a target
the size of a bucket at four hundred yards.”

“Really, sir. I shouldn’t be
surprised if it doesn’t soon replace the musket in the fleet and
ashore.”

“The drawback is that a
leather wrapping patch is required, making the weapon quite slow to
load,” Yank said. “Is there a firing range in the Navy
Yard?”

“Yes, sir. But the longest
targets are a hundred yards down range.”

“That should do well enough
to give us an opportunity to familiarize ourselves with the weapon.
If you would care to join me, of course.”

“Oh, I’d be ever so grateful
for the opportunity, Sir.”

“Then, unless your Commander
Thompson objects, you shall have the opportunity.”

~

Commander Thompson was a
salty old man who had come up from the ranks and lost a leg and an
arm during the Revolutionary War. No longer able to command a ship
at sea and unwilling to retire, he took his duties at the New
Orleans Navy Yard very seriously. “That man Harvey Peach or Peaked,
or whatever-his-name-may-be, is a rogue and a villain,
sir.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Yank
said. “And, for the record, his name is Pique.
P-I-Q-U-E.”

“Appropriate.”

“I should imagine that the
men he’s hired for the expedition are all scoundrels as
well.”

“If he’s hired anyone at
all, I have not seen them,” Commander Thompson replied.

Yank looked up from the
inventory he had been reading. “Well, given your description of the
man, I should think it might actually be best if he’s indeed hired
no one.”

“Indeed.”

“But, I was truly hoping to
find that he’d hired a good interpreter. A good interpreter will
make a significant difference in the number of people we have to
kill.”

The commander chuckled. “The
Spanish make a great deal of noise about their sovereign territory
but they have yet to fire a shot in its defense.”

“I was thinking more about
Indians than I was about the Spanish army.”

“Ah.” Commander Thompson
nodded. “Yes. They could be a problem. Comanche have moved south
and west along the Red River, you know. Well mounted cavalry, you
know. Dangerous. Having an interpreter could well save a lot of
bloodshed on both sides.”

“Perhaps Mr. Pique has a
working knowledge of native tongues.”

“I doubt that he’s ever seen
an Indian beyond our local mixed breed drunks and
beggars.”

“According to the Secretary
of State, Mr. Pique has travelled from here to Yellow Stone and
beyond, several times. It seems unlikely that he could have avoided
contact with numerous Indians during his journeys.”

“I fear that your Mr.
Pique’s journeys are all fabrication, Colonel. If he truly had
those credentials he would be quite famous and I surely would have
heard of him before now.”

Yank made a face. “Yes. I
suppose you would have. Have you heard of, or do you know of anyone
who might be a legitimate guide for us?”

Commander Thompson shook his
head. “You might find someone in Texas or New Mexico, but not here.
For all practical purposes, Texas from the Sabine to the Rio Grande
is an unexplored wilderness.”

Yank nodded. “Can someone in
your department arrange for an advertisement to be placed in the
local newspaper?”

“Certainly. What should it
say?”

“Only that we are looking
for men with martial skills to undertake a dangerous journey of
exploration.”

Commander Thompson laughed.
“You’ll get nothing but cutthroats.”

Yank nodded. “I will need
cutthroats. Can you also arrange a place here where I can interview
and perhaps test applicants?”

Commander Thompson shrugged.
“Your bunker should do.”

“Oh. Well then perhaps I
should see it.”

“By all means. Would you
object to Ensign Hogan acting as your escort? I don’t get around
well any more.”

“I wouldn’t object at all.
Ensign Hogan is a fine young man. Which reminds me. I promised to
let him fire a Kentucky rifle for familiarization. What must I do
to deliver that promise?”

“I’ll see to it.”

“Thank you.” Yank stood up
and offered his hand. “You have been a great help.”

“Anything for John Van
Buskirk’s son,” Commander Thompson said. “Absolutely
anything.”

Yank smiled then started for
the door.

“Oh, Colonel?” Thomson
called.

“Yes, Commander?” Yank
stopped.

“You’ll find your man Harvey
Pique at a tavern called the Gray Lady. Hogan can show you where it
is or draw you a map.”

“Thank you.”

August 18, 1804

New Orleans, Louisiana
Territory

Marina Cortés stopped at the
top of the stairs to survey the customers in the smoke-filled Gray
Lady Tavern, then proceed slowly down the steps and walked to the
bar. “Who’s the fancy dresser, Joseph?” she asked the tavern owner
behind the bar. She nodded toward a young man sitting alone at a
table.

“President Jefferson’s
surveyor name of Van Bushkirk. He’s waitin’ for old
Harvey.”

She leaned her elbows on the
bar and studied the stranger. “A genuine gentleman.”

“Looks it and sounds it. Too
bad.”

“What’s too bad?”

“Harvey’s gonna slit his
gizzard.”

“Harvey is?”

“Bet on it.”

“Well that really would be
too bad.” She watched the man for a few more seconds then glanced
at the bartender. “Give me a deck of cards and a wheel of chips,
Joseph.”

He pointed. “There’s already
a big game goin’ right over there, Marina.”

“I saw that. I’m going to
start another.”

He shrugged, reached under
the bar and came up with the cards and poker chips. “You stay away
from Old Harvey, Marina. You won’t be worth spit with a cut up
face.”

She ignored him and carried
the cards and chips to the empty table next to Yank Van Buskirk.
“Good evening.”

He was watching the door and
glanced up at her. “Good evening, Miss.”

“He called me Miss.” She
chuckled and sat down.

“I beg your pardon,
Miss?”

“Talking to myself,” she
replied.

He smiled, nodded and looked
back toward the front door.

“Who wants to play poker?”
she shouted.

“We got a game over here,
Marina,” a voice answered. “Pull up a chair.”

“Too many players,” she
bellowed. “New game. Right here. Come on all you high-rollers. I
think this is my lucky day and I’m betting more than money.” As a
few men drifted toward her table, she saw Harvey Pique come
in.

Receiving a signal from
Joseph at the bar, Yank stood up and raised his hand. “Hello there.
Mr. Pique? Excuse me. Mr. Pique? Over here, if you
please.”

~

“You don’t seem to
understand, Mr. Pique,” Yank said. “We simply cannot embark without
an interpreter who speaks the necessary Indian
language.”

The man sitting across the
table from him gave Yank a look of distain. “There ain’t no such
thing as no Indian language. All the tribes have their own lingo
and where we’re a-goin’ we’ll run into a dozen tribes.”

“Then we’ll want a dozen
interpreters,” Yank replied.

“What you’ll be wantin’
don’t much matter to me no more,” Pique said, getting to his feet.
“What you’ll be needin’ is another guide.”

“Now if you will wait just a
moment,” Yank said calmly, “I am quite sure that we can still talk
this through.”

“Talk, to my
arse.”

Yank stood up too. “I must
remind you that you accepted the commission and were paid a signing
bonus by the United States.”

“Sue me. I wasn’t expectin’
them to send a damn fool greenhorn.” Pique started toward the
door.

“Hold on there.” Yank caught
him by the arm.

Pique whirled free and in
the same motion drew a long knife from a scabbard on his thigh.
“You got about a second to live, you snot nosed Yankee
bastard.”

Yank backed up. “This is
absolutely unnecessary.”

Pique grinned, showing
several gold teeth, and lunged.

Yank jumped back to avoid
the blade.

“Hold it, Harvey.” Marina
had produced the tiny, pepperbox pistol from her garter and was
aiming it at Pique. Pique turned and started for her. An instant
later, there was a sharp report, and Harvey Pique fell in a heap at
Yank’s feet.

Yank knelt and felt for a
pulse. “He’s dead.”

Marina was still holding the
smoking pistol and staring at the dead man as if she couldn’t
believe what she was seeing.

“Are you all right Miss?”
Yank asked. The hem of her gown was pulled up, exposing her garter
and a great deal of shapely leg. With an effort, Yank looked at her
face. “Miss?”