“It must be him!” The redheaded man’s voice was barely audible from behind the thick beard. He lifted a steaming cup of coffee.
“A spy?” Bissonette asked hopefully.
The Scot threw him a quick and pensive look before he rose to his feet and paced to the window. Looking out at the weed-lined street with its garbage, the Scot sighed. He nodded slightly before he turned to Bissonette.
“Take me t’ where he stays. Let’s get a look at our Mister Tylor.”
“Oui,” Bissonette agreed, hiding his reluctance.
Leading the way, Bissonette charted a path through the streets, avoiding puddles, piles of horse manure, and vile-smelling mud, until they arrived at the little shack where Tylor had been living. No more than a lean-to of rough-cut lumber, the place stood empty. Not even the bedding remained.
“John Tylor? Staying in a hovel like this? Ye’re sure, laddie? He was staying here?”
“Oui. The skinny brown man. That Tylor. I followed him to here. He was sleeping in this place. I swear.”
The Scot frowned, pulling hesitantly at his beard. “This is makin’ nay a bit sense. A mon like Tylor, livin’ like a vagabond? ’Tis true, he was dressed the part, an’ he knows the lengths to which those who hunt him will go, but t’ lower himself to such squalor?”
“Who ees this John Tylor?” Bissonette pleaded.
“Where would he be now, laddie?” The burly Scot turned on his heel and looked around at the dismal street, located as it was on the outskirts of the town. A couple of small farms could be seen where their fields backed up against the trees. Pigs rooted among the weeds.
“Perhaps on zee boat?” Bissonette cocked his head.
“Aye, we’ll try that.” The redhead was already striding away in his haste.
They found John Tylor there.
Standing back in the shadows of a warehouse, Bissonette could see the thin-framed John Tylor muscling kegs and crates aboard Lisa’s keelboat, the Polly. A light rain had begun to fall from the afternoon sky.
“Damn!” The Scot whispered huskily. “I’ll bet he’ll stay the night on board.”
Bissonette kept his gaze on Tylor. What better place to stay than perhaps in the cabin of the keelboat? Out of the rain and reasonably dry, it beat the little leaky lean-to. Given the choice, it’s what he would have done.
“What now, mon ami?” Bissonette wondered.
“Can’t get nigh close to him on that bucket.” The Scotsman sounded sour. “He’ll be leavin’ first thing in the mornin’.” A pause. “So, what’s the smart move? Wi’ all the world t’ choose from, why’d the mon come here? See, Tylor’s no one’s fool.”
“He ees working for someone who wishes to control zee river?”
“Now that, laddie, makes sense. Tylor’s known fer playin’ a deep game. Wouldn’t surprise me a wink but whot someone’s recruited the mon fer a play on the river. Nothing else would explain why a mon wi’ Tylor’s skills would dress himself in rags. Would sign on as a lowly engage. Aye, he’s crafty one, he is.”
“What are you saying?” Bissonette shot the man a sidelong glance. “He ees not what he seems?”
The Scot ignored him, thinking aloud. “So, if there be a fortune to be made, a smart mon would learn what Tylor’s game was. A smart mon would deal himself in on the play.” He paused, eyes squinted. “Aye, Lisa’ll still be need’n crew, now. Right, laddie?”
Bissonette gave another of his enigmatic shrugs. “Lisa ees a hard man to work for. A tyrant on zee river. He ees always searching for engages.”
“T’would be a mistake t’ make application to him now. Might raise Tylor’s suspicions. The mon might bolt.”
“I do not understand.”
“I wonder . . . Yet, did’na I hear that Lisa would go to the factory at Bellefontaine and meet the boats on the river?” The redhead pulled at his beard. “Come, laddie. Find me a pirogue, now. We’ve a wee bit o’ rowing to do t’night.”
Bissonette almost flinched as the big calloused hand slapped him on the shoulder.
“You do not stay in Saint Louis?” Bissonette frowned darkly at the night as he plied his paddle against the current, sticking close to the bank where the eddies helped move the boat. Yes, he was river French, but that didn’t mean he liked rowing the slim pirogue over inky black waters in the middle of the night. Such travel wasn’t just foolish, but dangerous to boot. A snag, a low-hanging branch, a float of driftwood, anything could capsize a small boat. Perhaps foul a swimmer and drown him in the disorienting darkness.
The smells of mud, of water, and damp vegetation filled Bissonette’s nostrils as he pulled on the oars. Frogs croaked a chorus from the muddy banks a mere pebble’s pitch to the left. Night insects chirred in the underbrush, while bats fluttered low overhead. The periodic splash of a fish, turtle, or frog were the only other sounds. Overhead, patchs of black cloud obscured the stars and half moon.
“So, ’tis fer Lisa’s party that I now be bound. Ach, ’tis Saint Andrew’s luck that Tylor be but a step ahead o’ me.” The Scotsman seemed more talkative as he plied a paddle in the rear.
“Then you have more interest in thees man than in Messieur Astor?” Bissonette pried in what he hoped was an obsequious manner.
“Aye, laddie. It came clear this afternoon on the docks. A mon like Tylor, born a gentlemon, landed, and university trained as he is, do’na play the part of a lowly engage unless he has a stake in the game.”
A stake in the game? Bissonette wondered what a bedraggled and skinny man like Tylor could hope to gain on the river short of a quick death.
After what seemed an eternity, the Scot asked, “Ye dinna be trustin’ me now, do ye?”
“I work for Gratiot. I do as he says,” Bissonette returned, trying to sound unconcerned.
“Good lad,” the Scotsman grunted. “Still, I’ve seen yor eyes, laddie. Ye do’na care fer me. ’Tis a triflin’ matter, mon. I’ll tell ye soon enough. Git me to Bellefontaine. Then shall ye know . . . well, the haff of it.”
The voice almost sounded friendly. Bissonette breathed a sigh, and the quivering in his back relaxed ever so slightly. If the big man would tell him what this was all about, it might lead him to sleep a little better. He would at last be able to report the truth to Gratiot. Though there was still that nagging sensation that he and Gratiot were being played for other purposes than their own.
They had made several miles up the river. Bissonette bent his back to the oars. The sooner they crossed to Bellefontaine, the sooner he’d have the truth of this strange and dangerous man.
Studying the treeline, Bissonette realized they were close to the mouth of the Missouri. They’d been lucky so far to avoid being fouled in an embarrass of trees, snag a sawyer, or capsize on the flotsam. As dangerous as the Mississippi was, the Missouri spewed entire trees, bobbing logs, and rafts of driftwood in its muddy and sucking water.
Striking out, they cut into the swirling waters at the confluence. The light of false dawn was graying the eastern heavens. Bissonette grimaced at the knots in his muscles. Normally he didn’t push his body so hard. He might have been dead tired, but the implacable man behind him hadn’t missed a beat.
For that last half mile, they fought the current as it sought to twist the pirogue off course. Then they were around the bend, heading west. Easily now, the small boat nosed in under the steep bank of the river.
“So what are you really after in Saint Louis?” Bissonette asked, turning to watch the faint outline of the Scotsman’s face.
“I’m after Tylor, Frenchy.” The words were casual. “Oh, to be sure, I be lookin’ out fer John Jacob Astor as well. Ye see, laddie, the mon what hired me has a vested interest in seein’ Astor’s plans come to fruition. Call him a curious sort o’ backer. He’ll make a wee fortune to add to what he’s already got. You know the old saying about two birds wi’ one stone? Me, I thought I’d just cash in on Tylor’s head. But I can do that any time. Then it hit me today: There’s a fortune
to be made out here, laddie.”
“Ah, so I am right! You ’ave duped Gratiot and me.”
The white teeth in the Scotsman’s smile shone in the faint morning light. “Duped? Nay, not completely so, laddie. I told ye, Astor’s plans be me business, too. But that be a sideline, in a manner o’ speakin’. And I never lied to ye. I be from New York, and if I do me job, yor Manuel Lisa’ll be ruined to boot. Y’see, where there’s a fortune to be made, and the players are set to cut each other’s throats, there be an opportunity for an unexpected party t’ step in amidst the wreckage and take the whole prize.”
Bissonette frowned into the dark. “Then who ees eet that you work for? How did you get zee name of Charles Gratiot? Why ’ave you done these things?”
The Scot laughed from deep in his belly. “ ’Tis from Astor that me employer got the name of Gratiot. It dinna seem so good to jist arrive in Saint Louis. This Tylor, he be a mon o’ striking wit, and he’d a snooped me out a’fore I might have caught him. He’d be watching the riverfront—but he’s not the type to be found in the Eagle Tavern.”
“Then you ’ave used Gratiot and me?”
The Scot waved him down. “ ’Tis not that I be ungrateful. Ye were just aboot perfect in yor scoutin’, Bissonette, laddie. Ye did me job for me, mon. Found Tylor right off. Without ye, I might have missed the mon. Lisa would have sailed a’fore I could find him. As ’tis, as soon as I discover Tylor’s game, I’ll be right quick wi’ him on the boat. I’ll learn a wee bit of Lisa’s manner wi’ an expedition at the same time. That will be uncommon knowledge to sell to Mister Astor.”
“But that is what Gratiot is for!”
“Aye, so he believes. But, face it, laddie, he’s an old mon now. Wi’ Crooks, McClellan, and Hunt on the Pacific at Astoria, who’d be a better mon to oversee the forts but me wi’ experience on the river?”
“Gratiot has been good to me. Why should I not tell him this?” Bissonette’s heart began to pound. Was the man a fool to be telling him this? Did he not understand the concept of loyalty?
“Nay, laddie.” The Scotsman’s voice was heavy. “Ye’ll nay be a tellin’ a soul from Hell.”
Bissonette’s bones went frigid. The man would kill him?
Even so, there was a way. Could he do it? The light was still so poor. He needed one last piece of information.
“You ’ave not said who you work for. Perhaps eet ees Astor after all, non? Perhaps you double-cross everyone?”
“Perhaps, Bissonette, but I’ll not be tellin’ ye. I grow weary of yer prattle. ’Tis time to be landin’ so’s I can be at the gates of Bellefontaine.” The big man leaned forward.
At that moment, Bissonette jumped. After all, where were the river French safer than in the cold waters?
The paddle smashed him hard in the back of the head and neck, splintering with the force of the blow. Lightning blasted through Bissonette’s vision. A ringing filled his ears. He sank to the bottom of the small boat, feeling it rocking frantically.
“Laddie, t’was a poor try. After all ye done fer me t’ boot,” the Scotsman’s voice crooned.
Bissonette concentrated, fighting the hazy shimmer before his eyes. Little sparks of light floated in his vision. If he could just get into the water!
The knife felt cold as it stung its way between Bissonette’s ribs and into his chest. Some vague awareness reminded him that only the sharpest of knives cut so cleanly. That dull, it might have hurt more. Another portion of his mind shrieked in terror.
Blood was welling into his mouth, and he could no longer breathe. Still conscious, he felt himself lifted—then the cold black water was all around him. Bissonette’s last foggy thought was that he didn’t even know the name of the man who had killed him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
* * *
John Tylor watched the sun rising over the low bank of trees to the east, across the roiling waters of the Mississippi River. From his vantage point on the Polly’s cargo box, he could see the humped Indian mounds in East Saint Louis. Behind them stretched the broad floodplain that people had started calling the American Bottoms. Further east, the low Illinois bluffs rose, their tree-topped heights creating a rugged horizon.
Tylor pursed his lips, looking back at the land he would never see again. Somewhere beyond that horizon lay broken dreams. Pain and anguish. Humiliation and betrayal.
The river soothed something inside him despite the morning’s chill; a slight mist arose from the sucking and swirling water. In the east, the sky was that brassy yellow that often comes with a new sun, while the deeper blue overhead shaded into indigo off to the west where night retreated.
John Tylor filled his nostrils with the scent of the river: damp, earthy, with the musk of vegetation and decay. Behind them, the odors of the waterfront were a welcome fragrance. Frogs rasped a mellow croak, and fish broke the milk-chocolate surface of the water, leaving widening rings in the current.
The keelboat on which he reposed was a pretty thing in its own utilitarian way. Tylor admired the smooth lines, now somewhat obscured by the lengths of rope and folded canvas covering the deck. Two swivel guns, one fore, one aft, were mounted in pintles for defense. She had four means of propulsion, starting with the long poles that men could use to literally push her against the current. Next came the cordelle: a rope that attached to the high mast. With it, the men would line out on the riverbank like human mules and physically pull the boat upstream against the current. The third means was by rowing, the boat being provided with oarlocks on the foredeck and afterdeck. And finally, she had a large canvas sail that could be hoisted on those rare occasions when the wind was right.
Manuel Lisa had named her Polly in honor of his wife.
Having seen the supposed light of Lisa’s love, Tylor considered the boat to be a hell of a lot better looking. Not to be unkind, but he wondered if he’d discovered yet another reason the famous trader spent so much time away from home.
Not that you were any different, and you were married to one of the most beautiful women alive.
A second, smaller keelboat was tied off to the aft. It, too, was being loaded. The hollow rumblings as kegs were rolled up the plank and were shimmed into place came as music to Tylor’s ears. He hadn’t heard a name given to the smaller vessel. People just called it, “the little boat.” Given the reduced amount of cargo, it would have been foolish to pole and pull a second, full-sized, keelboat up the Missouri.
A third vessel, a mackinaw, would also accompany the expedition. The agile mackinaw would essentially be an errand boat that would allow scouts to ascend the river, would land and retrieve the hunters, and carry people back and forth to shore.
Many of the engages, or voyageurs, as they called themselves, looked like walking dead. Only minutes before, a cart had arrived from Yosti’s Tavern. The sight of it looked like something hearkening back to the Black Plague, given the sprawled bodies piled in the rear. The driver had yawned, climbed over the seat, and carelessly kicked three comatose men out the back, letting them fall where they would on the planks.
The carcasses of Andre Saint Germaine, Josef Leclair, and Alexy Jollet were unceremoniously dragged down to the shore and doused until they came to. Others—who had assembled on their own power—glared out of red-rimmed eyes and winced as they moved. Antoine Citoleur lay propped over the gunwale. His body spasmed every so often accompanied by the horrid sounds of dry heaving.
Tylor pulled passively on his pipe, a light smile on his lips; he contemplated how his companions would fare that first day of work.
People began to arrive, women walking arm in arm with their husbands, consorts, or lovers; eyes somber, tears crept down rouge-painted cheeks as they embraced and kissed their men. The paid doxies were a great deal more cheery, and much less inhibited, as they rubbed against their charges, batted their eyes, and caressed the men’s nether regions with unrestrained enthusiasm.
Lisa’s carriage, full of partners, clattered through the gap that was Market
Street and pulled up with a flourish. Charlo, Lisa’s houseboy, hung from the rear as a footman, and dropped down to bring the step around for the carriage occupants. Cheers went up from the gathering crowd.
Seeing the occupants, Tylor moved quickly to the other side of the cargo box. It didn’t seem possible that William Clark would recognize him, dressed as he was in rags. Now bearded, thin, he looked a much different man from the one who had once shared the famed explorer’s claret and engaged in animated discussion of the western lands in Clark’s elegant parlor.
Tylor placed a hand to his chest, and could feel his heart pounding. Couldn’t they just get underway?
God forbid! Clark wouldn’t conduct an inspection! Tylor froze and swallowed, his mouth dry. Would the Indian agent recognize him now as the man who had once sat at the right of the vice president of the United States?
Wouldn’t that be the perversity of fate? To have made it so far, to be within moments of making his escape, only to have William Clark take a second glance, and ask, “Don’t I know you?”
Tylor closed his eyes and rubbed the scars along his arms. Even here, someone would mention the reward: two thousand dollars. Money enough to make a poor man rich. Enough to raise the hue and cry for the traitor who’d betrayed his country.
“Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s go!”
He glanced around the oak cargo box and let his eyes sweep one last time over what he could see of the huddled buildings up on the bluff. His fate would pursue him here as it had to Cincinnati, Indianapolis, Cairo, and other places.
Tylor could feel the dark lord of Death, hot upon his heels. Only the wilderness was left. A place where a man could lose himself forever.
Baptiste Mayette’s heavy feet bounced up the plank. Then came a shuffling of wood as the gangway was drawn aboard. Mayette—an engage with Lisa’s 1807 expedition—had risen to the position of patroon, steersman for the Polly. The boat would be under his nominal command while his second, called the bossman, stood in the bow and directed the polers who would fend off the flotsam the Missouri threw their way.
Flight of the Hawk: The River Page 5