Land of the Free (6 page)

“How long were you
there?”

“I attended classes for a
little over three years while working at the tavern. I would have
liked to have continued, but Joseph saw no profit in it after I had
mastered French.” She took his arm. “Please may we go
in?”

“Yes, of course.” Yank was
ill at ease having the woman clinging to his arm but could think of
no way of escaping her without being rude. He resolutely started
toward the broad porch.

She sensed his discomfort
and extracted her hand from his arm. “Forgive me. My knees are a
bit wobbly and I forgot my place for a moment.”

Shame flooded over him as he
realized just how daunting this must be for her. He recaptured her
hand and drew it into the crook of his arm. “It is I who must beg
forgiveness.” He patted her hand. “We will get through this
together.”

She looked up at him and
smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”

As they climbed the steps to
the porch, a boy of about nine or ten with very black skin was
being put through a series of exercises to demonstrate his physical
condition to the prospective buyer.

When the buyer seemed to
approve, a young woman, obviously the child’s mother, dropped to
her knees and begged to be included in the transaction.

The slaver, Josiah Meddling
by name, rounded on the mother with a quirt, ordering her to cease
her sniveling unless she wanted a hundred lashes with a
horsewhip.

Heedless of the threat, the
woman continued in a pitiful tone, beseeching the prospective buyer
to take her and her daughter with her son.

The buyer, who said he was a
planter from Baton Rouge, was obviously moved by her plea but told
her that although he intended to buy the boy, he simply could not
afford to buy all three family members.

Yank was about to step
forward but Marina held him back. “There are a thousand just like
her in that pen outside,” she whispered in English. “You cannot buy
them all.”

Yank hesitated, then nodded.
“Let’s go somewhere else.”

Marina shook her head. “It
will be the same everywhere. Please. Let us get this
done.”

“Very well.”

With sinking hearts, they
watched as the current business was concluded and the tearful
little boy was led away from his wailing, broken-hearted
mother.

“You must be Colonel Van
Buskirk,” Meddling said with a nod of recognition toward Marina.
Behind him, the weeping woman was being dragged out to the pens
along with others who had been on display.

Yank watched in horror. The
pens reminded him of a stockyard.

“You have the money and
documents?” Meddling prompted.

Yank dragged his eyes away
from the heart-wrenching scene to hand the slaver a bank draft and
a folder. “Can we hurry this along please?”

Meddling examined Yank’s
expression for another moment. “Abolitionist are you?”

Yank’s answer was curtailed
by Marina’s insistent fingernails on his bicep. “No, sir. But I am
in a hurry to get on with my mission. If you please.”

After another moment,
Meddling nodded and signed the ownership form. “I’ll register this
with the courthouse and have a certified copy for you
tomorrow.”

“Why can’t we take it to the
courthouse?” Marina asked.

“That’s not how it’s done,”
Meddling replied.

Marina snatched the form
from his hand and read it. “This says that it’s to be presented by
the owner.”

Meddling squirmed. “I’m
acting as the owner’s agent.”

Yank saw the fear in
Marina’s face and took the form from her. “I don’t mind taking it
to the courthouse myself,” he said. “Especially if we can get it
done today rather than waiting until tomorrow.”

“Well if it’s that important
I’ll do it right now and you can wait outside the courthouse for
me.” Meddling reached for the paper.

Yank turned his body to
deflect Meddling’s hand. “I’m grateful for the offer but Miss
Cortés and I prefer to do it ourselves.”

“Alright,” Meddling said
after a moment of deliberation. “Congratulations, Marina. You’re a
free woman.” He bent toward her as if to bestow a kiss but she spit
in his face and turned away, pulling Yank along with her. Once they
had regained the street, she stopped. “Are we going to the
courthouse now?”

He was staring at her and
didn’t answer.

“What?”

He shook his head.
“Nothing.”

“Are we going to the
courthouse?”

“Yes, yes. Is it within
walking distance?”

She pointed. “Just down this
road, less than a mile.”

Yank switched sides with her
so he was on the outside and gave her his other arm.

Marina began to
giggle.

“What?” he asked.

“Did you see the expression
on his face?” she chuckled. “He didn’t know what to do.”

“Nor did I,” Yank replied.
“You are a very unusual woman.”

“Me?” She looked up at him
for a moment. “For spitting on him?”

He shrugged. “Well,
yes.”

“Do you blame
me?”

“No. But – it was
surprising. You might even say, shocking.”

“Because I spit on him or
because I am a woman?”

“As I said: you are a very
unusual woman.”

“How many women do you know
who have been in that situation?” She pointed over her shoulder.
“That man put me in chains, stripped me naked and auctioned me to
the highest bidder.” She looked back for a moment. “Was I supposed
to let him kiss me?”

“No, but…”

“But what? What did I do
wrong?”

“Nothing.” He
shrugged.

“I would really like to know
what you meant. What makes me so unusual?”

It took him several seconds
to form an answer. “For one thing, I’ve never met a woman who shot
a man dead before.”

“Well, if it makes you feel
any better, that was an accident.”

He looked at her
dubiously.

“I intended to shoot over
his head but he came at me.”

“You didn’t behave like it
was an accident.”

She hesitated. “If that’s
so, I suppose I’ve learned to keep a close rein on my behavior. God
knows that I’ve become an accomplished liar and…” She shook her
head. “You come from another world and can never understand the one
I live in.”

“Perhaps not.”

“May I have my emancipation
papers please?”

“Oh yes, of course.” He
handed them to her.

She released his arm and
stopped to examine the papers again. “How soon can we be
underway?”

“Underway? You mean begin
the expedition?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “I cannot
say for certain. That man Harvey was to have organized everything
so we could depart when I arrived, but it seems that he did next to
nothing.”

“What do we need?” She took
his arm again and resumed walking.

“Personnel.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes, I think so. The
materiel is in a bunker at the New Orleans Navy Yard and seemed
quite complete.”

“What kind of
materiel?”

“Weapons, tack, wagons,
tools.” He glanced toward the river. “I’ll show you as soon as we
have your emancipation properly documented and have collected your
belongings from the tavern.”

“I have nothing at the
tavern worth collecting.”

“Your clothes?”

“Whore’s clothes,” she
replied. “I don’t want them. I have a little money. Perhaps we
could stop at the market where I could buy riding clothes and
boots.”

“The market?” He looked over
his shoulder.

“No, no,” she laughed. “Not
the slave market. The New Orleans market. You can buy anything
there. Except slaves. It’s on the docks near the Navy
Yard.”

“Oh, I see,” he replied in
obvious relief. “And if you haven’t enough for whatever you need I
shall advance your wages to cover it.”

“Wages?” she asked in
astonishment. “I’m to be paid wages?”

“Of course.”

“How much?”

“Forty-one dollars a
month.”

She stared up at him.
“Forty-one dollars a month?”

“That is a ranking
sergeant’s pay,” he said apologetically. “It is all I am authorized
to pay. Although, that man Harvey received a hundred, twenty-five
dollars in advance as a signing bonus. Perhaps I could petition the
Secretary to extend the bonus to you. But that will take some time,
I fear.”

“No, no,” she said, waving
her hand. “Forty-one dollars a month is very generous.” She
wrinkled her brow. “Is everyone to be so well paid?”

“The regular men, such as
musketeers, laborers, teamsters and herdsmen, with no leadership
responsibility, will receive private’s pay.”

“Which is?”

“Eight dollars a month and a
twenty dollar signing bonus in advance. I might pay a bit more for
experienced riflemen.”

“Eight dollars is still
quite good. What kind of men do we need?”

“What kind?” He smiled. “The
rough kind. Men who can handle weapons and animals. Men who can
survive hard living.”

“No women?”

“One woman should be trouble
enough.” He chuckled but the truth of those words hit home and he
began to worry.

“You will need cooks and
seamstresses,” she said. “Those are female skills.”

“Our cook will be male and
we’ll have no need for a seamstress. Sailors can mend sails and a
blacksmith can mend harness.”

They walked in silence for a
time, both lost in their thoughts. Marina’s thoughts revolved
around her freedom and newfound money and Yank was now seriously
considering the inadvisability of taking a woman on the
expedition.

“Is something wrong?” she
asked, trying to read his face.

“No.”

“You look
troubled.”

“Just thinking.”

“About me?”

“About your name,” he
lied.

She looked up at him again.
“Pardon me? I don’t understand.”

“Cortés is a famous
name.”

“Ah, yes.” She smiled. “You
mean the Spanish Conquistador, Hernán Cortés, of
course.”

“Yes.”

She nodded. “He was, indeed,
my forefather.”

“Well isn’t that
something?”

“He fathered two sons who
were both named Martin. The first Martin Cortés was my
forefather.”

“Well, well,” he said with a
broad grin. “You must be very proud.”

“No. Well, perhaps. But not
for the reasons you might think. His mother was an Aztec woman who
acted as interpreter for the Spaniards. Her Christian name was Doña
Marina but she was called La Malinche. Have you heard of
her?”

He shook his head. “No, but
it seems that you have inherited her name and her gift for
language.”

She gave him another smile.
“I would like to have something of La Malinche in me.”

“But,” he said, thinking.
“Does that not make you a Spanish aristocrat?”

“No, no.” She shook her
head. “My forefather’s half brother was Don Martín Cortés, the
second Marqués del Valle de Oaxaca and the heir of Hernán Cortés.
His mother was Juana de Zúñiga. Their descendents are the
aristocrats. We, the children of La Malinche, are
Mestizo.”

“Mestizo? I’m not familiar
with that word. Is it Spanish?”

“Spanish and Portuguese. It
refers to people in the Americas of mixed European and Indian
ancestry.”

He nodded. “I
see.”

“Are you married?” she asked
abruptly.

He was surprised by the
question. “Married? Me?”

She giggled.

“No. No, I’m
not.”

“Engaged?”

He gave her a strange look.
“Why do you ask?”

She shrugged. “I thought we
were getting to know each other.”

“Oh, I see,” he said, after
a moment. “No. That is, no, I’m not married or engaged.”

“Are your parents
living?”

He shook his head. “Both of
them died in the war. Yours?”

“I don’t know. They were
both still alive when I was kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?”

“Taken by the Apaches. Isn’t
kidnapped the right word? My English is imperfect.”

“Your English is quite
perfect and kidnapped is the correct word. But for some reason…” He
shrugged.

“Oh, oh, I see. You’re
thinking of me as a slave.”

“No. Of course not. That
is…”

“Slaves are not kidnapped,
they are procured. Am I right?”

“No. The word I had in mind
was captured. I didn’t…”