Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (21 page)

 
          
 
The boatmen howled in delight.

 
          
 
"Fer a legal contract?"

 
          
 
"Avec certitude. All legal. Signature and
all. You may even 'ave your lawyer .. . even Monsieur Ferrar, if you like,
inspect the document. No money until you are 'appy with the agreement. I make
but one condition. You give me your word, Travis Hartman, that he fill his
contract."

 
          
 
"And give ye time to skip out from
whatever's owed ye, eh?"

 
          
 
August added, "He will see the river one
way or another. For the price of a sou, Hartman, you can become a Good
Samaritan in the process!"

 
          
 
Travis toyed with his mug as he thought it out
Francois was a cutthroat. Plain and simple. Whatever his game, his victim would
end up dead anyway—another body floating downstream. And Green was plumb
desperate. Better half a man than no man at all.

 
          
 
"Hell! He's cheap for the price—provided
the contract's legal. If n 't'aint, I swear, I'm coming after you, Francois.
Reckon ye know me. Know I don't give my word less'n I mean it"

 
          
 
"The contract, she shall be good."
Francois slapped a callused hand on the table. "You promise me, Travis
Hart-man, that you do not let him go. That you keep him for the duration of his
contract."

 
          
 
"I’ll do'er." And at that Travis
stuck out his hand. "A sou, ye say? If'n I cain't find one, will a penny
do?"

 
          
 
"Naturellement!'' August cried. "Of
course. And on that, we will drink."

 
          
 
"Reckon so," Hartman agreed, lifting
his mug. After he swigged the cool ale, he asked, "Who's Lizette?"

 
          
 
August smiled wickedly. "You 'ave not
heard? Lizette, the Creole woman, eh? The dark beauty of the Bourgeois!"

 
          
 
"Her?" Travis squinted suspiciously
at Francois. "She's rich man's meat, coon. What's she doing squiring about
with the likes of ye?''

 
          
 
Francis grinned, exposing yellowed teeth
behind his dark brown beard. "Perhaps she finally has come to know a man,
eh?"

 
          
 
"Oh, yer flush, all right." Travis
nodded. "She don't smile at a man without he's dripping gold from his
pockets. So, tell me, she tied a ribbon on yer pizzle?"

 
          
 
"That story about her ..." Francois
leered. "It is true!"

 
          
 
"Uh-huh, wal, fer what it's worth, this
child wouldn't trust her ahint me with anything sharp."

 
          
 
"I don't want her, how do we say,
'behind' me, eh? But I 'ave been behind her, and her bottom is as good as they
say, non?"

 
          
 
"Yer funeral, coon. Now, where can I find
real men?"

 
          
 
The question is whether, assuming we recognize
in the whole series of events nothing but natural necessity, we may yet regard
the same event which in the one instance is an effect of nature only, or in the
other instance is an effect of freedom; or whether there is a direct
contradiction between these two kinds of causality.

 
          
 
—Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason

 
          
 
A door slammed, jerking Richard from his
dreams of
Boston
. He had been walking through the Commons,
talking to his long-dead mother. An odd dream for him, but it kept his mind
from dwelling on his growing thirst.

 
          
 
"Level Wake up!" a harsh voice
ordered. A boot jabbed at his ribs.

 
          
 
Light filtered through the cracks beneath the
roof. Morning had come. Richard twisted his head and looked up. A big man with
a black beard gazed down at him. He wore the boatman's loose white shirt, red
sash, wool cap, and high, laced moccasins. Like the others of his kind, his
arms and shoulders bulged with muscles.

 
          
 
"You rest up, mon ami? Sleep good, eh,
bourgeois? I should tell you, so did we. In the Le Barras Hotel, eh? Imagine,
poor engages like us, living like kings with so many fresh banknotes to
spend!"

 
          
 
Richard wriggled around and tried to sit up.
The big man flattened him with a vicious kick to the ribs. The pain made him
gasp.

 
          
 
"You be still, pig." The boatman
pulled a long knife from his belt. The honed blade gleamed in the slitted
light. Richard moaned into his gag.

 
          
 
"Francois and I have talked, mon ami You
have made our fortunes. More wealth than we would have seen had we counted
every sou to pass through our lives since the day of birth. But, if you lived,
told the wrong person... like Chouteau, perhaps, or Judge Lucas, it could be
very bad for us. You understand, do you not? We are not, how do you say, wicked
men. Just practical."

 
          
 
Richard closed his eyes and tensed, waiting
for the stab of cold steel and the pain that would follow. Instead, he could
feel his arms being wiggled and one hand flopped onto the ground in front of
him. He opened his eyes. His hand looked horrible, blue in color and mottled.
Then it began to hurt worse than even that blinding headache.

 
          
 
"Get up!" The order was followed by
another kick.

 
          
 
A rough hand jerked the gag out. Richard's
mouth and tongue felt made of canvas.

 
          
 
"Who ... are you?" Richard croaked.

 
          
 
"Get up!" The big bearded man
repeated. He bent down, lowering the long steel blade until Richard stared
cross-eyed down the shining length. The sharp point dimpled the tip of
Richard's nose. "I do not have to leave you beautiful, mon ami. Perhaps
you 'ave seen men with their nostrils slit? Among the Maha, it is said that a
man can run faster that way. Get more air to the lungs."

 
          
 
Richard jerked back—only to flop about on the
floor as his numb hands and legs refused to support his weight.

 
          
 
"I can't!" Richard wailed. For that
he got kicked in the ribs again.

 
          
 
He sat up, hoping the man would be satisfied.

 
          
 
A big hand reached down and lifted him
effortlessly into the rickety chair. Richard wobbled on his perch and peered
owlishly around the room. "Where am I? Please. Let me go. I haven't done
anything—"

 
          
 
"Shut up!" The fellow slapped a tin
bowl down in front of Richard. "Eat." A spoon rattled across the
table.

 
          
 
Richard lifted his purple-mottled hand and
tried to grasp the spoon. His fingers might have been made of wood for all the
control he had.

 
          
 
"Lick it up." The man leaned across
the table with a baleful black stare. "Eat, damn you ... or I'll feed
you!"

 
          
 
Richard dipped his head into the bowl and
began sucking up the contents. The stuff tasted like watery oats, bland and
tasteless. Each gulp passed his bruised throat like a length of hemp. Richard
did his best, thankful for the moisture, hopeful that the hunger pangs would
lessen in his belly.

 
          
 
Food? Does this mean they won't kill me?

 
          
 
"Where am I?" Richard raised his
head, aware that liquid was dripping from his chin and bits of gruel had stuck
to his face.

 
          
 
"You are in
Saint Louis
... animal."

 
          
 
"You weren't on the boat. Why do you call
me that?"

 
          
 
"Let us just say I owed a man a favor.
You made several men very rich, you know. It leaves us with a problem of what
to do with you. Some think you would be best served with your throat slit,
adrift in the river."

 
          
 
Richard's bowels loosened. They'd do it. His
throat went tight He started to tremble again, but forced himself to
concentrate in an effort to forget fear. But his voice squeaked as he said,
"That is not rational."

 
          
 
"What? What do you say?" The big man
pulled tobacco from his pocket.

 
          
 
For God's sake, Richard. This is your only
chance! You're arguing for your life! "Be ... Because, men are rational. I
can. .. can understand why they took the money, but to kill me for having had
it? That makes no sense. Why not let me walk out of here? I have ... have
already failed at what I was supposed to do. How much more do you want? Only
... only to humiliate me? What have I done to you?"

 
          
 
The big man leaned forward, toying with his
knife. "You do not understand. Francois, he told me you were different,
eh? A little stupid about things. Listen, mon ami. Think, eh? If you can get
that bourgeois mind to do that. You could tell the authorities who took your
money, non?"

 
          
 
"I suppose." God, they're going to
kill me after all.

 
          
 
"You called Francis an animal. What would
it mean to you, rich man, to see us hang, eh? If Francois is an animal, then so
am I, non! A boatman ... a Creole. But what is that to you, bourgeois? You have
not worked like a dog on the boats for all these years. You have not sweated
your guts out in the sun, frozen in the snow, ached and cursed and slapped the
mosquitoes. You have not seen your home go from
France
to
Spain
to
France
to
America
. You know not what it means to lose
everything." The fierce eyes bored into Richard's. "You, rich boy,
'ave lived like a pampered prince!"

 
          
 
Richard stared at the tabletop, a numbness in
his soul. He barely saw the rat droppings and honey brown urine that stained
the dusty wood.

 
          
 
"So, bourgeois? Does it not make more
sense to cut your throat? If you are feeding fish, you will not be telling the
governor that Francois and August 'ave robbed you."

 
          
 
Richard licked his lips. "Listen to me.
We are both rational. We can find a way. It comes from the proper perception of
life. I could give you my word that I'd tell no one who took the money. I am a
moral man, an intelligent man. Don't you see?"

 
          
 
August laughed again. "Your word? What
means a word? Eh? What is your word? Nothing but air! Moral, you say? ‘I’m a
moral man!' Sacre merde! Tomorrow you will walk into the governor's office and
say, ‘I am a moral man. Francois and August have stolen my money.' "

 
          
 
"If I give you my word, it would be a
bond. Between the two of us. Surely you can see the rational—"

 
          
 
"You 'ave much to learn about morality,
boy."

 
          
 
"I'm talking about ultimate morality.
One's duty to himself and—" Acting out of principle. So, where does the
principle lie, Richard? Keeping your word? Or allowing robbery to go
unpunished? He swallowed hard. And by giving my word, I become a participant in
the robbery — in the immoral action.

 
          
 
"Duty?" August used the tip of his
knife to peel dirt from under his thumbnail. "But, of course, Francois and
I have done nothing more than our duty to ourselves. And, for the rest of our
lives, we will see to it that we live like bourgeois."

 
          
 
"There is more to life than money. There
is honor and responsibility to oneself and—and one's conscience."

 
          
 
"Mon Dieu! Honor! What is honor? Honor
does not fill the belly of a man. You would expect me to believe that? How can
you tell this to me, eh? I have lived long, monsieur. Not always have I lived
well. Honor, mon ami, is a worthless term. Did Napoleon act with honor when he
sold
Louisiana
to the Americans, eh?'' The big man spat a
stream of tobacco juice on the ground. "You are a fool, boy. But, then, a
wise man would still 'ave his money, and would not be tied up like a pig
waiting for slaughter, non!"

 
          
 
Richard shook his head. "Listen. There's
a dignity to human existence. You should know that if you are a man. It's
deep-seated. It's what separates us from animals. It—"

 
          
 
"Animals, mon ami?" the big man
interrupted. "You have just lost your own argument. For it was you who
called my friend an animal." August cocked his head. "Ah! And he even
gave you a gift! Sent you the head that fascinated you so!"

 
          
 
Richard stared into those hard black eyes,
seeking any hint of compassion. "But... but there's got to be something
inside, in the soul, don't you see? That spark of... of..."

 
          
 
August spat on the floor again. "You tell
me, eh?"

 
          
 
"That essence that makes us human! That
necessitates introspection. The concept must be nurtured by investigating a
man's life. From study—" Sweat trickled down Richard's brow.

 
          
 
The big man stood. "Your words are like
garbage in the streets. They blow about and do nothing but add stink to the
air."

 
          
 
"But there's truths

 
          
 
"Truth? You tell me what is truth? Truth
is cold and fever and pain and death! It is life, monsieur. You tell me of your
rich American truths. They mean nothing to me. Let me ask you—you ever killed a
man, copain? You ever see the truth in his eyes? You ever find your friends cut
apart by the Indians? Eh? Have you?" August leaned over the table and
glared into Richard's eyes. "Look into the face of death, mon cher, there
you will see the only real truth."

 
          
 
"No. No, there's got to be—"