The Morning River

by W. Michael Gear

  Travis rocked his mug thoughtfully. "If'n I'm desperate enough ter think of hiring the likes of you, I'm desperate, all right."

  August had begun to grin, shooting a crafty look at Francois, and then Hartman.

  Travis sipped his ale, trying to fathom the trap.

  "You need men to cordelle and pole the boat, non?" August shrugged, expression blank. "He's a man. And . . . who knows? If he does not do the work, you must have to shoot him, non?"

  Francois shook greasy black hair off his shoulders. "I own his contract, Hartman. How you say, an indenture?"

  Travis cocked an eyebrow as he stared into his ale. "I ain't enough of a pilgrim ter pay money fer no shirker.

  "Sorry, boys. I need men, strong, hale, an' hearty."

  "You 'ave not asked how much." Francois slapped the table, clearly enjoying himself.

  "Ter buy a man's indenture? How long's he got on his contract?"

  "How long you want?"

  "Two years."

  "Tres bien, I sell you this man for two years. Take him up to the Pied Noir. Make him haul your boat. I will take leisure in my great house in New Orleans, or perhaps Paris. I will caress my Lizette, and I will think of my indentured servant, hauling the boat upriver." Francis laughed happily and the others now joined in.

  Hartman pulled at his chin hairs. "Yer a damned devil Francis. Reckon ye've always been, too. Ye've nothing but trouble in that damn black heart of yern. Still, even a pig falls into a sweet spring of an occasion. 'Cept in yer case, if n yer flush, it's through murder or robbery."

  Francois's gaze hardened. "No questions asked. You are interested, or no?"

  "How much fer this pilgrim you took?"

  "One sow."

  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?"

  EIGHT

  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—"

  "When you have lived with these things, then you come back and tell me of truth." August struck like a snake, the callused hand slapping Richard hard across the face.

  Blood tasted salty on Richard's lips as it leaked from his nose. He cowered lower on the chair, trying to crawl into himself and away from this hideous man. Tears of fright began streaking down his face.

  August paced to the side, chewing gristle on his thumb. "I tell you what. You want truth? I give you truth."

  Richard looked up as August pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. "Sign that!" August produced a quill and small bottle of ink. "I will give you life, mon ami, and enough truth to fill your belly for the rest of your days .. . such as they may be."

  Flexing his fingers, Richard picked up the paper and started to scan the scrawled words.

  "Don't read!" The voice thundered. "Just sign!"

  "But I never sign any ..." One glance into those terrifying eyes and Richard picked up the quill and dipped it into the ink. His numb fingers shook as he scratched his name at the place August indicated.

  "Ah, now you will live, mon ami! Just that simple, non! You 'ave signed for your life. A life of truth. Live long, and thank August for the gift he has given you."

  Richard wobbled to his feet and tried for the door, but a big hand grabbed him and threw him sprawling. No sooner had he hit the ground than a knee landed in the pit of his stomach, driving out his wind. A second later, Richard threw up.

  "Cowardice is also truth, chien" August crooned as he quickly bound Richard's wrists and feet. "You might want to lick up what you have thrown up. You will need your strength."

  August snorted his disgust as he stood. "Good day, mon ami. Perhaps, before we deliver you to your new life, we will dunk you in the river, eh? You stink of piss and bile. No man should voyage off in search of truth when he smells like the privy behind a whorehouse!"

  August stepped out and closed the door. Richard could hear the latch being fastened on the outside.

  The wetness on his chest was growing cold. What in God's name had he signed? He flopped over on his side, only to rest his cheek in August's tobacco-stained spittle.

  Is this the reality you wanted me to find, Father? Is this what you wanted me to come to? Damn you to Hell, Phillip Hamilton!

  Years of rain and wind had created a hollow in the age-rounded rocks. The young warrior crouched in its shelter, squatted over a small fire so that his heavy buffalo robe trapped the rising heat around his hunched body. The rock outcrop blocked the bitter wind that howled out of the west bearing flakes of granular snow. Dark clouds scudded low across th
e sky.

  His horses, a scruffy gray gelding and a rangy brown mare, stood with their rumps to the storm, heads down. He'd picketed them between two gnarled juniper trees, now clotted with snow. The crusted white that lodged in the grass at the animals' feet hid the heavy twisted leather hobbles.

  Among his people, the Skidi Pawnee, he was known as Packrat: "the one who collects things." The name, like many among the Pawnee, had been given as a joke. In Pawnee eyes, Packrat was less than a commoner. He was pira-paru f a hidden child, one born without family.

  The Pawnee traced descent through the women, and it was they who owned the property and controlled the food. A man married into a woman's household, moving in to live in her half of the large, round earthen house, taking a place among the members of her family. Living in their communal houses, the Pawnee shared many things, including sexual favors; provided, that is, that all parties concerned were amenable to the idea. Strict rules existed, however. A woman kept track of which man she coupled with, always being careful to observe the incest taboos and avoid her blood kin. Beyond that, Pawnee law prescribed that the man who sired a child, and the woman who bore it, were forever responsible for the child's health and welfare. Responsible women knew who fathered their children—and Packrat's troubles stemmed from that.

  His mother's true name was Braided Woman, from a family of status and standing. Unlike many Plains peoples, the Pawnee recognized three distinct social ranks based on milial heritage. Braided Woman not only was born of chief rank parents, but at the moment of her birth, the Star Prince had studied the constellations, finding them auspicious greatness.

  With property and chiefly heritage—she was the daughter of Knife Chief—not to mention the blessing of the heaven. Braided Woman seemed to have everything a young Pawnee woman could desire. After her first menstruation, she had married old Makes His Enemies Tremble as a third wife. But during the spring planting, the year after Braid Woman's marriage, Half Man had arrived.

  In Pawnee eyes, Half Man was exactly that: half Omaha and half Pawnee. His Pawnee mother had been captured the Omaha, taken as a slave, and later escaped back to I Pawnee. Since she was a respected woman, from a respect family, her sisters had taken her in. Against the wishes her family, she had allowed her half-breed son to live.