by Terry Grosz
As the rest of the party saddled and packed their horses, Iron Hand and White Eagle prepared their last breakfast on the trail. Since they were low on their supplies, that breakfast consisted of just Dutch oven biscuits and hot coffee, then the men saddled up and headed for St. Louis.
Riding down a muddy street, Iron Hand stopped the fur caravan and asked a stranger where they could find the fur house of Astor’s American Fur Company.
“Keep a-heading that-away, Stranger, and you will see her in about 300 yards on the right side of the street. You kain’t miss her, she is a big yeller building with a black sign hung out front announcing ‘Astor’s Fur Company’.”
Iron Hand thanked the man and then amid a lot of stares from a number of folks walking or riding by, the fur trappers finally pulled up in front of the yellow warehouse. When they did, a Company Clerk, upon seeing the arrival of the long string of heavily packed horses, had the men ride their mounts right up into the center of the warehouse where they could be offloaded and the furs easily counted and graded.
Four hours later, Iron Hand, Adam York and Jim Tweedle were holding bank drafts against the First Mercantile Bank of St. Louis for their furs and hides just sold. Additionally, Iron Hand was holding an additional bank draft for a little over $72,000 from a two-years’ previous trip in which Old Potts and company had waylaid a nest of trapper-killing Indians along the Missouri, and ended up with over 60 horses and their packs of furs that the renegade Indians had stolen from a number of other now dead trappers!
After visiting the bank and collecting their monies, the men agreed to meet at a nearby boarding house and eatery come dark for supper. With that, the men separated their ways except for Iron Hand. There in the bank meeting with the bank president, Iron Hand banked in his name $72,400 and except for $100 in Spanish silver dollars, walked out the door with White Eagle to see the town.
For the next three hours, Iron Hand, now asking to be called “Tom Warren”, visited shop after shop so White Eagle could see how the white man lived and what in life he favored. In fact White Eagle got his first taste of ice cream and couldn’t seem to get enough of that kind of white man’s food.
However, it was starting to get dark and close to suppertime. Plus, a few biscuits and coffee for breakfast so long ago was now ‘wearing thin on their slats’, so Tom and White Eagle headed for a place in town to eat, trumpeted as “Mrs. Davis’s Fine Food All You Can Eat 50 cents”.
Walking into the noisy and filled with other white folks eatery, Tom and White Eagle took a table with five extra empty chairs so when the Yorks and Tweedle arrived, they would have a place to sit and eat as well. Tom ordered a draft beer, his first in over three years and for White Eagle, the first glass of cow’s milk that he had ever tasted. The two of them then sat around for about an hour, getting hungrier by the minute as they waited for the Yorks and Tweedle to arrive.
Little did they realize, their friends were in jail! They had gone to a saloon, gotten rip-roaring drunk and into a fight with a number of patrons, who had objected to how they smelled! Soon the local constable was on the scene and moments later, his friends were on their way to the local lockup for being drunk and disorderly in a public place!
Finally tiring of waiting and getting hungrier by the moment, Tom and White Eagle ordered supper, another draft beer for Tom and now a sarsaparilla for White Eagle. The whole time, Tom noticed that a lot of people in the eating establishment kept casting sideways glances at the two of them. Tom figured it must have been the raggedy clothing he was wearing and swore to himself that tomorrow he would buy and commence wearing clothing like everyone else was wearing. After all, he was no longer a Mountain Man but a soon to be businessman in the shipping business, if he had his druthers.
That was about when Tom’s ‘wheels came off his wagon’! About then, the front door of the eating establishment flew open with a loud ‘BANG’ and in walked seven burly men all talking, laughing and swearing loudly. From the cut of their clothing and coarse manner of talk, Tom figured they were men who made their living on the nearby boat docks of St. Louis or were some form of Missouri River boatmen who were rough in their cut and ready to howl.
Looking all around the now crowded eating establishment and seeing no place for them to sit, the suspected river men began talking even more loudly and grousing about the lack of space for ‘real men’ to sit and eat. That was when the largest of the men spotted Tom and White Eagle sitting at a table with five empty chairs.
“How about the two of you getting your asses out of them chairs and let a bunch of real men sit down so they can eat?” bellowed out the “Man Mountain Dean”-sized man, who was the notorious and much-feared locally, famous brawler and river man, “Mike Fink”!
About then one of the female cooks from the kitchen arrived carrying two plates of food for Tom and White Eagle. “Hello, my name is Betsy Davis and my Mom and Dad own this place. If you two haven’t been here before, just ring the little bell on your table and we will bring you more food if you want more,” she sweetly said.
“Hey! I just told these two to get their lard asses out from those chairs so all of us could sit down there and eat. Besides, what the hell is a damn good-for-nothing dirty ‘Injun’ doing here in a white man’s eating place anyways? Little Lady, you best get this damn ‘war-hoop’ out of this place established for serving white people, and fast. His kind does not belong here among us decent white folk. Now if you don’t move him, I will,” bellowed for everyone’s benefit, Mike Fink.
With those words and Miss Betsy telling him that her mom served everyone who wanted to eat just as long as they paid for their meal, Mike Fink, famed Missouri River boatman, just pushed her small frame aside and lurched his massive grabbing hands out for White Eagle in which to forceably remove him from the premises. All the time the big bully was running his mouth, White Eagle just kept his eyes on his father to see how to react to the harsh words being hurled their ways at the supper table. That was when Mike Fink, famed and feared Missouri River boatman, was jerked upward from behind as he reached for White Eagle, was spun around, kneed in the groin and with a right cross from Tom that would have felled an Army mule, Mike Fink hit the dirty wooden floor and was out for the count!
Mike Fink’s compatriots, surprised at just how quickly Tom had erupted up from out of his chair and had felled their boss and much-feared river brawler with one punch, recoiled backwards in concert and fell against a nearby wall. Then almost in unison, the remaining six men drew wicked-looking, long-bladed knives and made threatening moves towards a still standing over Mike Fink, ex-Mountain Man named Tom Warren! When they did, they found themselves in a crowded eating establishment that had now gone silent as a tomb over the action at the front door. That was when the remaining river men found themselves instantly staring at two leveled pistols being held by Tom and another one being leveled at the men by White Eagle!
“Here! Here! You men lay down those knives. You know Miss Sylvia does not cotton to any kind of violence in this here eating establishment,” said a large and muscular man named Thomas, wearing a much-used apron, who had upon hearing the start of a fight, come out from his kitchen at a dead run with an upraised meat cleaver in hand! Behind him was also another rather stout-looking individual named Clifton, also coming at a dead run and he was carrying a double barreled ten gage shotgun with both hammers pulled back and ready to ‘dance if someone played the right tune’!
Then little Betsy Davis stepped in between the warring men once again saying, “You river rats can take this outside and I mean right now! But if you persist, my brothers Clifton and Thomas will see to it that the seven of you never eat here again or anywhere else for that matter! And if my dad Marshall gets wind of this, there will be hell to pay just as sure as my mother is the best cook going in the whole darn city of St. Louis. Now, unless someone wants a good dose of buckshot from my brother’s shotgun in their hide, you men leave and I do mean now! And you two, put away those pistols, sit down and en
joy the supper I brought you. Because if you don’t, I will be offended and think that the two of you don’t like my style of cooking,” said the tiny women named Betsy…
With those words hanging heavy in the air coming from such a tiny little gal, Tom put his two pistols back into his belt-sash and so did White Eagle. As they did, the river men picked up their leader who was still out cold from Tom’s angry blow and removed him and themselves from the eating establishment. As they hurriedly exited the place carrying their boss, they fired back with the words, “Mountain Man, this ain’t over for you and your Injun. We will see you later when you don’t have this little bit of a women watching over you and those two brothers of hers standing guard over the three of you. We will have our due and pound of flesh from your miserable carcasses, you can rest assured of that.” With those words, they disappeared into the night and the folks who had grown so quiet in the eatery, broke out into cheers and loud clapping over what they had just witnessed, namely a single large man and a boy facing down seven burly, ill-tempered and ill-mannered river men...
Keeping a ‘cocked’ eye on the front door the whole time in case the mean-spirited river men came back, Tom and White Eagle finally enjoyed their supper. In fact, all five platefuls between the two of them! Just as the two of them were on their second piece of apple pie, over to their table walked Mrs. Sylvia Davis, owner and head cook for the eatery.
“I would like to apologize to the two of you for the poor manners of some of my patrons. That darn Mike Fink and his crew of ruffians always bring trouble wherever they go. As a gesture of my thanks for not shooting up my place, your suppers are on me,” said Sylvia with a friendly smile.
“That won’t be necessary, Ma’am,” said Tom with his typical, heavily bearded smile. “They weren’t any bother, just a little loud and lacking in proper manners,” he continued.
Then Sylvia took another long and examining look at Tom and then said, “Say, I do believe I know you. Aren’t you Tom Warren, Miss Jeannie Warren’s husband?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” said Tom quietly, surprised over being recognized after so many years of his absence from the St. Louis area.
“Whatever happened to that little gal? I ain’t seen her in several years now that I think about it,” she continued.
“Yes, Ma’am. She and my young son died several years ago from the ‘pox’,” said Tom quietly.
“Oh, I am so sorry. She was a real God-fearing women and well-respected around hereabouts. No wonder I haven’t seen her in church for such a long time,” continued Sylvia, without realizing how much hurt she was ‘digging up’ from Tom’s past.
Quickly changing the subject, Tom said, “Say, me and the boy here will need to rent a room for a few days. Do you happen to have any that are available?” he asked.
“Sure do. That will be 50 cents per night for the two of you,” replied Sylvia.
“When we finish dinner, where do we go to get our rooms?” asked Tom.
“Just come to the front desk and either my son Clifton or Thomas will fix the two of you right up. Say, may I also suggest that the two of you also purchase a couple of baths as well?” said Sylvia with a knowing smile, realizing the two folks in front of her had just either come off a boat from New Orleans or had just returned from the frontier…
That evening, after a shopping trip to the local mercantile for some new clothing for the two of them, Tom and White Eagle enjoyed their first night’s sleep without a cloud of mosquitoes hovering overhead. Oh by the way, the hot baths, use of lots of soap, a luxury they never had on the frontier, and a heavy dose of lilac water sure felt and made everyone smell one hell of a lot better and more in keeping with the locals…
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: KEELBOATS, REUNITED, “BUCKSKINS” AND GABE’S RIFLE
The next morning after a fine breakfast at “Mrs. Sylvia’s”, Tom and White Eagle went to the livery stable and retrieved their horses. Then with a few directions as to how to find one’s way to the keelboat builder’s docks and ways, Tom and White Eagle set out for the boat docks below the bluffs of St. Louis. After a little trial and error, the two of them finally found themselves in the office of one “J. Dawson and Sons, Esq. Boat Builders”.
Walking into a sparse-looking two-room office, Tom introduced himself and White Eagle and then asked for a “Mr. Dawson”.
“You are looking at him, Stranger. What can I do you in for?” asked an all-business-like James Dawson.
“I hear from those at the Astor Fur Company, the man at the livery and Marshall Davis at the local boarding house and eatery where we are staying, that you build the best keelboats on the Missouri. Is that true?” asked Tom, “and if that be so, we maybe can do some business.”
“You heard right, Stranger,” replied Dawson quietly, as he began sizing up the giant of a man standing in front of him.
“My name is Tom Warren and this here young man is my adopted son, White Eagle. We are ‘late’ of the fur trapping trade from the frontier, and now I am interested in going into the business of shipping provisions up the Missouri to those making a go of it on the frontier, be they trappers or settlers,” said Tom. “But in order for the two of us to get into such a trade, we need to have a vessel or two under our feet and the crews to power them,” he continued.
“Well as I said, you heard right, Stranger. My sons and I build the best keelboats going along the Missouri. They are made only from the finest virgin oak, hickory and chestnut trees that we can find, and the lumber used therein on my boats is kiln-dried before planking to reduce warping. I only build them to order, though. However, I would suggest if you really want a good one and one for use on this here river for all seasons, that it be from 60 to 75 feet in length, have the beams run from 15 to 18 foot depending on the length of boat needed, and three to four feet when it comes to the depth of the hold. My keels also run clear from the bow to the stern for the strength in design it brings. My cargo boxes run from four to five feet a-top the deck, and run about 48 to 60 feet in length depending on the length of boat you would want. All of my boats have a sturdy mast far forward to carry a full sail for use when the winds are right or for holding a rope or cable when cordelling is called for. Bear in mind, the forward mast on all of my boats is built stout enough to be pulled by anywhere from 20-40 men while travelling upstream when the vessel is fully loaded. You won’t find any keelboat better made along these here docks when it comes to a well-built vessel,” said James, with just a lilt of ‘stud horse proud’ in the tone of his voice.
“What kind of time frame are we looking at? I ask, because I will need two of them built in time so we can run the Missouri all the way up to Fort Union during the annual high water flows, because I will be in the business of carrying a full load of provisions for Kenneth McKenzie, Factor for the American Fur Company at Fort Union,” said Tom.
For the longest time James just looked at Tom as if sizing him up for being truthful and a serious customer. After all to his way of thinking, purchasing and then operating a keelboat was not one for the faint-hearted or one without the proper monetary backing, much less when it came to two boats.
Then James Dawson asked, “What length you be looking at, Stranger, were I to build them for you here at my ways?”
“I would be looking at two keelboats that were each 75 feet in length and everything else standard in structure,” replied Tom firmly.
“Are you a military man?” asked James Dawson, as he gave Tom a sideways look as if trying to figure out the huge man standing before him before his conversation went any further.
“Why do you ask?” asked Tom.
“The manner in which you speak tells me you be either military or ex-military,” replied Dawson with a serious look back at Tom.
“You are correct. I am ex-military, U.S. Army, Topographical Engineers,” replied Tom.
“I thought so. You military guys are all alike, all business and no pleasure. If you want two keelboats, I will need $2,000 per boat on the ‘barrel head’
in order for me and my boys to get started. Then I will need an additional $2,000 per boat upon finishing and in coin of the realm, not paper, on credit or trade,” replied Dawson with a stern look back at Tom.
“That sounds fair to me,” said Tom. “I will have the money to you just as soon as the bank can give me the needed funds and then I will be back shortly,” replied Tom. With that, a handshake followed closing the deal and off Tom and White Eagle went back to their new bank to withdraw the needed funds in order to put a down payment on the boats so Dawson and his sons could get started. After all, come spring thaw and high water on the Missouri, Tom needed to have his boats built, have them fully loaded with provisions, and his cordelling crews lined up so they could be on their way to Fort Union at the right time of the year and without delay.
At the bank, Tom withdrew $4,000 Spanish silver dollars (the accepted coin of the realm in those days on the frontier), or about 250 pounds of silver! With a rented buckboard from the livery, Tom and White Eagle returned to Dawson’s boatyard, made their down payment against two keelboats and were informed that Dawson would make a request to the local lumber mill for the needed kiln-dried oak and hickory lumber to be shipped over the next couple of days by wagon to his shipyard.
“See why I thought you be military? ‘Johnny on the spot’ when it came to making any business deal,” said Dawson with a smile over the business just generated.
With that chore out of the way, Tom then made a special surprise trip to the local cemetery. It took him a while to locate Jeannie’s gravesite but he finally did. Alongside her grave also rested another smaller tombstone for one Christopher Warren, age two…
Tom and White Eagle spent several hours that afternoon pulling weeds around the two gravesites, laying flowers and in general cleaning up and rebuilding the small white picket fence surrounding the gravesite. As they did, Tom noticed several different bunches of dried up and old wilted flowers which had been placed by the two gravesites. He had no idea as to who could have put flowers around his family’s gravesites, but it made him ‘smile’ inside that someone other than him had remembered his two passed and dearly loved souls as well.