Land of the Free (8 page)

He smiled. “I don’t have to,
but, fool that I am, I think I do.”

“Then am I rehired?” she
asked breathlessly.

“I’m starving. Let’s have
lunch before we go look at our stock.”

August 21, 1804

New Orleans, Louisiana
Territory

“Thank you. We will post a
list of names at the gate when we have made our decision.” Yank was
seated on a small crate using a larger crate as a desk while a line
of disreputable looking men applied for positions with the
expedition. “Next?”

“I’m Jasper Folsom,” a small
man with a badly burn-scarred face announced. “You still needin’
you a top wrangler?”

Yank nodded. “What are your
qualifications?”

The man seemed confused by
the question. “Qualifications?” He looked over his shoulder. “I was
told you had some rank horses and I’m the best there is with
horses, or any kind of animal. Ask anybody.”

“You’re hired, Jasper,”
Marina said. She had been leaning against a stack of packing
crates, watching as Yank dismissed every applicant.

Yank turned to give her a
look of disapproval.

“Everybody knows Jasper’s a
top hand,” she said. “You won’t find anyone better if you look
forever.”

“Perhaps you should pick the
rest of our company, Miss Cortés,” Yank replied
sarcastically.

“Very well, Colonel Van
Buskirk. But we’ll let Jasper pick his own wranglers.” She walked
past Yank and pointed down the line. “Nathan? Is that Nathan
Sparks?”

“It is me.” A man came
toward her, removing his hat as he walked.

“Your cook,” Marina said to
Yank. “He is a first class butcher as well.” She eyed the line
again. “Who’s the toughest man here?”

Four men stepped
out.

“We’ll hire the last man
standing as trail boss,” she said.

“No.” Yank waved his hand.
“We’ll hire all four.”

“Then who’s gonna be boss?”
one of the men challenged.

“Your name please?” Yank
asked.

“McGregor. John.”

“John McGregor,” Yank said,
writing in a leather bound book. He looked up at the man when he’d
finished. “I am the boss, Mr. McGregor. Any other
questions?”

McGregor shook his head but
obviously had more to say.

Marina gave Yank a harsh
look then went back to the task of selecting teamsters, hunters and
scouts, while Jasper selected men who might tend the animal
herds.

Yank wrote the names of the
other three tough men in the book and had each sign or
make-his-mark on the same line.

“Harvey said you was
plannin’ to follow the Sabine,” McGregor said as Yank finished with
the third man.

Yank nodded. “That is
correct, Mr. McGregor.”

“You canno’ navigate the
Sabine,” McGregor said. “I tried. ‘Tis naught but a swamp filled
with cypress knees. “Tisn’t at all what it seems on yer maps. No
wagons can pass through the swamps and no boats can float the
bayous.”

“Then we’ll abandon the
boats to travel as a pack train.”

“Mules and horses canno’ get
through either.”

“Then we’ll abandon them and
walk.”

“Wade is more like
it.”

“Wade then.”

“The Neches River is a
better route,” McGregor insisted.

Yank turned to look at him
for a moment. “For the purposes of this exploration, the United
States is accepting the Sabine River as the western boundary of the
Louisiana Purchase. That’s not negotiable.”

“The Sabine or the Neches is
all the same to the Spaniards who claims ‘em both,” McGregor
insisted.

“Thank you, Mr. McGregor.”
Yank looked at the faces that were all watching him. “Some five or
six hundred miles north of here the Sabine River meets the Red
River. We will follow the Sabine to there, follow the Red River to
the Rocky Mountains, then turn north to intercept the Lewis and
Clark expedition.” He waited a moment for comments. “We are
explorers headed into unexplored territory whose ownership is
disputed. Our journey will be long, difficult and dangerous. Some,
or all, of us may perish along the way. Anyone uncomfortable with
that should reconsider joining.” He turned back toward McGregor.
“Are you still with us, sir, or should I draw a line through your
name?”

McGregor shrugged.
“With.”

Yank made a note then turned
the book. “You are our master at arms. Sign here.”

McGregor signed his name
carefully in practiced script then looked at Yank. “What, exactly,
does a master at arms do?”

“The master at arms
maintains order.”

“Does that make me second in
command?”

“No. Doña Marina Cortés is
second in command. But for now, you are third in command and you
will also double as our paymaster.” Yank pointed to a metal box.
“Take thirty dollars advance pay for yourself and then give each
man we hire twenty unless I tell you otherwise.” He beckoned to
Marina. “Line up the men that you have selected here please, Miss
Cortés. Then one by one tell me his name and his
function.”

“Just a minute. I’m not
ready. I need a blacksmith,” she shouted. “Any seamen here? What
about soldiers? Who’s the best shot?”

“With a Kentucky rifle,”
Yank added. “As for musketeers, all we care about is speed
reloading. We’ll conduct a test of skill on the Navy Yard’s range
before making our final decisions.”

“Riflemen here, musketeers
here,” Marina bellowed. “Twenty dollars in advance, eight dollars a
month and plenty of adventure and danger. Who’s next?”

“Miss Cortés?” Yank
beckoned.

“Yes,” she replied, as she
approached his makeshift desk.

“Make no commitments,
please. I wish to have the final decision concerning those that we
will take with us as well as how much money they will be
paid.”

“Yes, I heard. A
marksmanship test for riflemen and a reloading test for
musketeers.”

“No. I mean that I will make
the final decision on all personnel. Is that perfectly
clear?”

“Yes, but had I not forced
the issue, you would have hired no one.”

“Not true,” he replied. “But
this is neither the time nor place to discuss that. You will either
do things my way or collect your pay.”

“You’ve demonstrated this
morning that you can’t get along without me.”

“One more word and we’ll
both be finding that out.”

She hesitated then turned
away. “You men that have experience as teamsters, line up here to
talk to the colonel. You other men that I’ve picked, right here.
You don’t have a job until the colonel says so.”

~

Yank knocked softly on the
hotel room door. It was opened immediately by Marina who had a book
in her hand. Except for the hat, she was dressed as she had been
during the day. “Good evening, Colonel.” She gave him a hint of a
smile.

“I was going to supper and
wondered if you would care to join me,” he said.

She looked surprised for a
moment and then stricken. “Oh dear. I have nothing to wear. The
need for a gown had not occurred to me.”

“I’m certain that we can
find someplace where your attire will be acceptable.”

“I still have the dress I
was wearing the first day,” she said, lapsing unconsciously into
French. “Perhaps that would do.” She stepped back from the door.
“Come in and give me a moment to change.”

He looked nervously up and
down the hall.

“If you’re concerned about
my reputation, you needn’t be,” she giggled.

He walked in and closed the
door. “What are you reading?” He pointed to the book she was
carrying.

“It is a copy of Coronado’s
journal.” She handed it to him, “There are details of his trek east
which may be useful to us.”

He thumbed through a few
pages. “Yes. This could be very useful.”

“You read
Spanish?”

“Yes. Although my spoken
vocabulary is poor.”

“I also have some journals
of my ancestral grandmother. In them, she describes the journey
from Coronado’s winter camp to Yellow Stone in detail. If we are
forced to abandon the Sabine we can at least reach Lewis and
Clark’s trail by following her directions.”

“Where did they come
from?”

She wrinkled her brow.
“Where did what come from?”

“Your journals. You didn’t
have them with you and we didn’t get your things from the
saloon.”

“You’re the suspicious type,
aren’t you?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“I had Jack, the colored boy
that works there, bring them to me.” Marina sat down on the bed and
began to pull off her boots.

“Perhaps I should wait
outside,” Yank stammered.

She looked surprised.
“Why?”

“While you change your
clothes.” His face was very red.

“Of course. If you wish. Or
you could just turn your back.”

“No.” He shook his
head.

“No what?”

“Stop doing that. We must
talk.”

“I’m just taking off my
boot.”

“And I’m asking you to
stop.”

“Very well.” With a puzzled
expression, she leaned back on the bed.

Yank took a deep breath. “I
don’t know what I was thinking, but you cannot go with
us.”

“Why?”

“A woman in a party of rough
men…” He spread his hands. “I don’t know what I was
thinking.”

She shrugged. “I can take
care of myself.”

“How? By shooting every man
who takes an interest in you?”

“If they believe that I’m
your woman there will be no problems.”

“What?”

“It isn’t that complicated.
You need show no open affection or demonstrate our relationship
beyond sharing a tent with me and perhaps…”

“What?” This was said with a
gasp and a new flush of color.

She rolled her eyes. “Does
sharing a tent shock your delicate sensibilities?”

“Yes. It would be completely
- indecent,” he stammered. “Immoral.”

“Immoral to share a
tent?”

“Cohabitation without
benefit of marriage is a sin.”

She laughed. “Then marry
me.”

Unable to answer, he simply
gawked.

“So long as the marriage
isn’t consummated it can be easily annulled when we return,” she
said calmly.

“But…”

“No,” she interrupted.
“Think before you argue.” She pointed to the straight backed chair
at the small desk. “Sit down and think. This is an important
decision that impacts the future of our country
enormously.”

“Our country?”

“The United States of
America. I’m an American too now. That’s something I’ve dreamed of
for many years and I don’t take it lightly.”

“Of course, but…”

“No. Sit down and think.
Please. This is not the time for an emotional decision.”

He hesitated for a moment
then obediently crossed the room to pull out the chair.

“Let us examine this
logically,” she suggested. “You need a multi-lingual interpreter
and I am the best you will find anywhere.”

“I agree. But the many
negatives outweigh the single positive.”

“What negatives? You have no
wife, no fiancée and no family.” She stood up and planted her hands
on her hips determinedly. “Would an annulled marriage of
convenience discredit you with the army or damage your
career?”

“No, but…”

“But what?”

“It-it seems –
immoral.”

“You said that being
unmarried and sharing a tent would be immoral. What’s immoral about
being married and sharing a tent?”

“The tent is no longer the
issue,” he grumbled.

“What is the issue
then?”

“The marriage.”

“Marriage is
immoral?”

“Yes. I mean no. That is...”
He took a breath. “Our marriage would be immoral.”

“You’re not making
sense.”

“Marriage is a sacred,
religious sacrament. One cannot…”

“Hogwash,” she said,
interrupting him. “Any magistrate, justice of the peace or ship’s
captain can marry us in a civil ceremony without benefit of
clergy.”

“But there is a pledge and
the implication of…”

She raised her hand to stop
him. “Don’t say love. That is a myth.”

“Love is a myth?”

“Can you deny that marriage
among gentry, such as you are, is much more often a matter of
political or financial advantage than a demonstration of mutual
affection?”

“No, I cannot deny that.
But…”