Flight of the Hawk: The River

by W. Michael Gear

  “Mission hell! Ye see’d them thar papers? They got a two thousand dollar reward out fer Aaron Burr’s arrest! He was a gonna set hisseff up as a king! Damn him and that bunch o’ scum he run wi’. He show his head ’round hyar, I’ll hang ’im meseff.” The tavern man spat on the floor in emphasis.

  “A king, you say? Gonna hang him, huh? That would serve Burr right.” Tylor nodded agreeably while he calmly sipped the ale. His guts were anything but calm. If anyone here recognized him, he could be dead in a minute.

  If it was all discovered, he had to get out of Nashville. He was a known accomplice of Aaron Burr; they’d be sure to be looking for him. But where should he go? Was Burr even now enacting the plan? Could the government react quickly enough to stop him?

  It could, and it would. Not for nothing had Tylor been all over New Orleans, Texas, Mississippi, and Arkansas. He knew exactly which officers would drop everything and run to take Burr and his little army in hand.

  “They caught Burr yet?”

  “Not that I know,” the tavern keeper growled.

  “I wonder . . . What about Wilkinson?” Tylor asked in his most innocent voice.

  “God bless the man,” the hardy related, “it whar him what sprung the whole caboodle. Or so I hear it. He dun sent the news o’ what that Divil-spawn Burr whar up to t’ Pres’dent Jefferson hisseff.”

  Tylor felt a cold shiver run down his back. The bastard had double-crossed the lot of them. He’d played along with Burr until something had come up to sour him on the possibility of success. After that, he’d backed out and done his old co-conspirators in with a rotten trick.

  Tylor gulped the last of the ale. He had to leave Nashville. There were too many here who could finger him as one of Burr’s men. God forbid that he should happen to run into Andrew Jackson or one of his officers on the street. Tylor dropped a coin on the bar, nodded to the keeper, and took no more than four steps toward the door.

  “How nice to see you, John.” If a voice could be characterized as greasy, this one was. A figure stood from a dark table in the corner. Six feet tall, broad in the shoulders, and athletic, the man’s hair was a sandy blond, the eyes light blue; but the most prominant feature was his smashed, twisted nose.

  Tylor knew just how Joshua Gregg had gotten that nose—he’d thrown the brick.

  “Hello, Joshua,” Tylor said coolly, but his guts were knotting themselves into fists. “A bit far from Washington, aren’t you?” His hand dropped to the belt knife at his hip.

  If I kill him now, there will be questions.

  Gregg smiled wickedly, facial muscles contorting the broken nose. “I’m hunting traitors, John. Looks like the hunting is very good around Nashville, too.”

  Tylor tried to ignore the steel-glint of victory that lay behind Gregg’s cold eyes.

  “I’m sure it is, Joshua. I can’t hardly say that it has been a pleasure to find you here, but I must be on my way. I have a little hunting of my own to do.” Tylor felt his bowels loosening with that warm sickly feeling. Sweat began to bead on his forehead. How much did Gregg know of his relationship with Burr?

  “Of course, John.” Gregg allowed that look of foolish pleasure to spread. “Allow me.” He opened the door.

  Tylor stepped quickly out into the sunlight, ready to run. A detail of soldiers stood in a ring around the door. Gregg viciously thrust a pistol into the small of John’s back. “You see, John, the hunting is exceptional. I came hunting traitors and conspirators—and, by damn, I found one.”

  “Joshua, what are you talking about?” Tylor turned on his heel, determined to bluff his way out. “Just what the hell are you babbling about now? What is this business of traitors? If this is another one of your foolish and infantile jokes, forget it. You brought these soldiers down here? Men who have better things to do with their time than to perpetuate your brand of humor. You’re headed for—”

  Gregg poked harder with the pistol, driving it into John’s belly. “I’ll leave that up to Jackson to decide.”

  Mocking delight burned like a fire in Gregg’s eyes, and the smile curled oddly about his lips. “I do appreciate you, old friend. I must say, that was an admirable performance. Your voice couldn’t have been better. Just the right amount of scathing pomposity. Your eyes had just the hint of outrage to make it almost believable. No wonder Burr chose you for his western agent. You are very good, John. Then again, we have always known that.”

  “Now, Joshua—”

  “You were good in school, remember? You always got better marks. Remember the day you broke my nose? That time, too, you escaped my wrath. That thrown brick ultimately cost me my father’s life, remember? Oh, wait, and then there’s the swindle your family pulled to steal our lands from us? Always competent, John.”

  “Joshua—”

  “And last, but never least, is Hallie.” Gregg’s eyes narrowed. “Dear Hallie. She was the only woman I ever loved, John. Then you had to come into my life again. You and your proper damn Oxford education! There was no competing with you then either, was there?”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Yes, you are good, old friend. But today, I am finally the one who will win. Today I have the papers here for your arrest.” Gregg turned to the sergeant. “This is your man. Take him and chain him. I shall want to leave as soon as General Jackson can clear the paperwork.”

  “You sure you aren’t making a mistake again?” Tylor asked with a wry twist to his lips. He was caught. Just like a skunk in the henhouse, no doubt about it. Still, if he were brassy enough, maybe—just maybe—he could manage somehow to get out of this yet.

  One thing was sure, if he could stay cocky, Gregg would think he had some sort of leverage. Anything that worried Joshua Gregg worked in Tylor’s favor.

  “Going to tell me you were really working for Jefferson?” Joshua asked mildly. “I thought of that beforehand. Made sure the president signed your name to the complaint that went to Jackson.” To the sergeant he added, “Take him to the general. If he tries to escape, shoot him. No one will question the execution of a traitor.”

  The dream shattered.

  Tylor blinked awake, his heart pounding, and stared up at the night-dark cottonwoods and elms that blocked the night sky. Safe. In camp by the Missouri.

  Thank God.

  Jackson had held him for almost an entire year in the dark dirty little dungeon they called “the hole.” Jackson tried every angle he could find to get the authority to hang John Tylor. Anything but turn him over to the courts. In a trial, with a solid defense, Jackson feared Tylor would be acquitted.

  For almost a year, Tylor lived in wet, cold, darkness accompanied by the patter of scurrying rats, their bites festering in his skin. He remembered—and in his nightmares was there again.

  Shivering, Tylor pulled his blanket tightly to his chest. Blinking, he rubbed his hand over his cold and sweaty face. Jackson had almost broken him in that hellhole in Nashville. Only thoughts of Hallie’s love had kept him alive. And Hallie’s love had been . . . Well, best not to stir such painful memories.

  But now Baptiste knows.

  Which started the nightmares all over again.

  The next morning, after the call to arise, Tylor sat up in his blankets and dropped his head into his hands. There was no will to even move his body. Nights had always been haunted by his memories. From now on, every time he saw Baptiste Latoulipe, he would live the fear during the day, too.

  Lisa got the men organized. Once he had everyone on board, he ordered Polly to cast loose. They started rowing their way back downriver, and Tylor, despite his troubles, found a perverse humor in the wistful expressions of the cordellers who watched the bank they had labored up the night before slip slowly past.

  “You have been silent this morning and you have a worried look in your eyes,” Latoulipe said softly as he moved up next to John Tylor. “I think maybe you are worried about what you told me last night, non?”

  “Maybe,” Tylor grunted,
arms crossed on his chest.

  Levity filled Latoulipe’s eyes and he ended up chuckling softly. “Do not fear. This thing is very serious to you. Perhaps it is more serious in your mind than it is in the world. Nevertheless, since it is so very important to you, it is very important to me. Because of who you are and what you fear I could do, I will act as you act. That is the word of your friend.”

  “Listen, I’ve never told anyone before. Give me a couple of days to get used to it, Baptiste. I’m runnin’ a little scared I’m . . .” Tylor raised his hands in exasperation while he searched the boatman’s face.

  Latoulipe smiled easily and nodded more to himself than to Tylor. “Let us put it like this, John Tylor. I must earn your trust now that you have given yours to me.”

  “As they say on the river, reckon that’s it in a nutshell.”

  “Very well, but you, too, must earn my trust. I am your friend—you are mine. Now you must trust me as I trust you. You were a spy once. A spy uses the trust of others, non? I, Latoulipe, will trust you not to hurt the bourgeois or the others.” The boatman grasped Tylor’s hand and pumped it vigorously a couple of times before he walked off down the deck.

  Tylor nodded to himself. But Latoulipe’s words didn’t reassure him.

  They had gone less than a mile before they sighted the little boat moving upstream. Lisa landed on a sandbar and waited until the little boat beached.

  As Tylor fretted about Latoulipe, he had to admit, given a choice between a tongue-lashing like Manuel Lisa was giving the small boat’s patroon, or spending a couple of weeks in Andy Jackson’s “hole,” he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have chosen the rats, the filth, and blackness again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  * * *

  Fenway McKeever watched his patroon melt under the wrath of Manuel Lisa. Every move Lisa made was cataloged in McKeever’s keen mind. He could see how each of the French reacted to the tongue-lashing.

  “Aye, Lisa’s good,” McKeever whispered to himself, noting how the trader played the crews of the two boats against each other, kindling a rivalry.

  “I give you one last chance!” Lisa thundered at the patroon. The man’s legs were shaking as he tried to swallow. “Now, we will take good men and mix them with children, eh?”

  Lisa glared around at the nervous faces. “Detalier! Citoleur! Kenton! Antonio!” Lisa barked a list of names. “You will work the little boat!”

  The men looked abashed.

  McKeever grinned when his name was called. He was reassigned to the Polly.

  Taking his pack and rifle, he walked over and tossed them up to Latoulipe, who was stowing personal effects. The boatman seemed to be in lighter spirit than usual. McKeever’s quick eyes noted the pale and preoccupied look in Tylor’s face—how his eyes strayed distrustfully to Latoulipe.

  He told! The little bastard told!

  That changed matters. McKeever bit his lip as he pulled himself up onto the deck. Latoulipe was Lisa’s man and no one else’s. But had Latoulipe told Lisa? Something about the reassuring smiles the engage kept shooting Tylor led McKeever to suspect he hadn’t.

  But that could change upon an instant. And when it did, there not only went the two thousand dollars, but any chance to use Tylor to his own benefit.

  McKeever hurried to take a place next to the engage as they shouldered poles and the cordelle was run out.

  “The bourgeois sure put yon patroon on skids,” Fenway chuckled, his best amiable smile on his lips.

  “Oui,” Latoulipe agreed. “There will be no more trouble now.”

  Poles to shoulders, they pushed their way to the end of the passé avant.

  “Tylor looks outa sorts t’day,” McKeever noted, pushing, seeking to get a reaction out of Latoulipe.

  The boatman’s eyes hardened. “He is not . . . well.”

  “Aye,” McKeever agreed. “I’d not like t’ tell Lisa aboot his illness, either.”

  Latoulipe had stiffened. He said no more, cool hostility and dismay growing in his eyes.

  The bastard was loyal to Tylor. Who’d have thought?

  Fenway gave him a bluff, tooth-filled smile to hide the sudden decision: Latoulipe had just turned into a debility. He was the kind who could never be bought or pressured. His personality was too simple—polarized between right and wrong and good and evil. No telling what he would talk Tylor into. Worse, he might mention something to Lisa. Like the two thousand dollar bounty back in the United States.

  If Tylor was exposed, if Lisa had him taken, chained, and sent back downriver for the reward, that would be money out of Fenway McKeever’s pocket.

  McKeever followed Latoulipe down the cleats, pole held tight, looking at that broad back. All he needed was a diversion. The knife would have to be slipped in just so in order to sever the diaphragm and both lungs. The body would sink then. If only Lisa would push them past dark—there would be no chance of finding the body.

  “Sawyer!” The bossman sang out.

  Mayette heaved on the rudder according to Lisa’s hand signals from the cargo box. McKeever smiled and dropped his hand to his knife. They might have avoided this obstacle, but the river was an obliging mistress. There would be others.

  The morning passed swiftly. The sun kept climbing in the sky. Tylor was tired and felt physically sick. Yes, he thought he could trust Baptiste. But, more to the point, why had he told? Why had he made himself vulnerable? An emptiness within expanded, triggering an urge to scream his desperation. What perversity of the soul goaded him to hurt everyone and everything around him in retaliation for the pain he felt?

  “Hold up!” came a cry from Polly.

  The cordellers ceased their toil, bracing feet and setting themselves to hold the boat in place, waiting nervously to hear what new problem had beset them.

  Tylor could see men rushing to the Polly’s stern. They were poking about in the water with poles, faces masks of concern. He caught a glimpse as Fenway McKeever dove overboard. He saw his red head as he dove, came up, and dove again. Something overboard?

  The little boat was close behind. Even so, the vessels were well out in the river, evidently to avoid some sort of underwater obstacle.

  After some minutes of this, McKeever was thrown a rope and hauled aboard again.

  “Avant!” Lisa shouted across the distance.

  Engages called back and forth between the boats. Slowly the word came up the cordelle line, whispered from man to man. Tylor didn’t hear what was said behind him, and Charles Latour didn’t seem inclined to tell him.

  “What was that all about?” Tylor shot a look over his shoulder.

  Charles Latour’s eyes didn’t meet his.

  “Come on,” Tylor prodded irritably.

  “Baptiste Latoulipe was pulled overboard. He is drowned,” came the soft reply. “His body never surfaced.”

  Tylor’s soul turned to granite, a heavy feeling in his chest. As he leaned into the cordelle, disbelief gave way to acceptance. His one friend was dead. At the same time, part of his mind sighed in relief.

  God, you are loathsome excuse for a man.

  “Damn!” Tylor muttered to himself. What the hell had he just lost? Latoulipe would never laugh, never hug his beloved Elizabeth or his children.

  “They—they sure he drowned?” Tylor asked, hope mingled with disbelief. “Maybe he made his way over to the shore where they weren’t looking. Maybe . . .”

  But then, wasn’t that McKeever who dove in after Latoulipe? God, that had to be coincidence, didn’t it?

  “There was too much open water,” Latour told him. “You yourself could see that. If he had tried to swim for the bank he would have come up where we could see. Non, whatever it was they poled the boats around must have pinned him. The currents are very irregular around the embarrass and the sawyers. It is not the first time a man has drowned that way.”

  It took a while for it to really sink in: The warm man he had talked to that very morning was now down there in the river,
pink lungs full of muddy brown water. The soft brown eyes sightless in the murk and filling with sand.

  In Saint Louis, Elizabeth was now a widow. Yet, not for a couple of months would she know what had happened to her husband this 26th of June.

  John Tylor bit back tears at the sudden, welling sense of loss. His muscles shook, and he choked on grief. Desperate, confused, and despising himself, he threw his weight against the cordelle—seeking to escape, by exertion, the man he had become.

  They crossed the Platte at eleven that morning. The new men in the crew were shaved, bled, dunked in the river, and subjected to every other trick common to that first crossing, which initiated them into the wilderness fraternity.

  That night they passed the Papillion. All told, they had made a total of twelve miles that day. The cost for such travel: a little hard work, some sweat, a few curses, and the life of one Baptiste Latoulipe.

  The camp that night wasn’t particularly subdued. They all drank to Baptiste Latoulipe. The songs were just as loud and the men just as roisterous. The fire flickered on the same familiar faces Tylor had grown used to. Life on the river went on, but there was a little more meloncholy than usual. Whether it was due to the castigation of the little boat’s patroon and reorganization of the crews, or Baptiste Latoulipe’s death, was hard to say. Eyes were a little more remote, the songs a little sadder, and, perhaps, the night a little darker.

  Tylor sat and smoked his pipe, watching the swirling waters of the Missouri. Those cold impersonal waters bathed his friend now. He imagined Latoulipe’s sightless eyes, his slack mouth, wreathed as they had to be with stringers of green moss that trailed in the current.

  He took a deep breath and casually scanned the camp. There, in the firelight, sat Fenway McKeever. His eyes keen, fixed on Tylor with a predatory intent. Was there a hint of satisfaction in that cunning smile?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  * * *

  On the 27th of June they made twenty miles. The following day, the rudder broke on the little boat, and the craft had to be crossed to the other side of the river in order to find an accommodating shore where they could land prior to fixing the steering gear. That activity took all day, leaving the expedition with a total of six miles gained.