Skye unpacked and picketed his mare and Jawbone, and returned to the campfire to fry some meat.
There would be some interesting talk soon.
thirty
Skye cooked his antelope steaks at the welcoming fire, aware that these men were watching him, and maybe more: they seemed to be assessing him as well. While he ate, slicing thin bits of meat and masticating them, he observed them as well.
He had never seen such a well-groomed, well-mannered bunch in the American wilderness, and it intrigued him. A few even shaved daily, no small feat in a place like this. Now, in the deepening twilight, they were busily policing the camp, gathering firewood, or attending to their personal toilet. Some washed their green flannel shirts in the river and set them to drying on limbs close to fires, while others aired bedrolls. One man attended to the tin messware, polishing it with river sand, rinsing and stacking it in the Studebaker supply wagon.
As soon as Skye had finished, Skittles approached him.
“You’re welcome to stay the night, Mister Skye,” he said.
The offer surprised Skye. He thought he was already welcome.
“I’ll take you up on it, Mister Skittles.”
The boss pulled out a pipe, loaded it, lit it with a lucifer, and settled beside Skye at the fire. He did not offer tobacco to Skye.
“I’m curious about what you do, Mister Skye.”
“Well, I’m curious about you, sir. I’ve been a trapper, a brigade leader, an employee of several fur companies, and I’ve lived with the Indians.”
“That commends you, Mister Skye. We’re in the fur business ourselves, as you no doubt noticed when you passed our wagons.”
“I did notice.”
“We collect hides and furs in the Indian villages, turn them over to the trading posts for delivery in St. Louis, and collect our pay at the end of each season, back in Missouri.”
“You turn them over to the posts?”
“American Fur Company, yes. They give us receipts for each hide and pelt, and these are as good as money in St. Louis. We work for a gentleman who prefers to remain anonymous, but who has generously financed our winter expeditions. The men know him only as Mister Quiet, an invented name, of course, but as good as gold.”
“And why did he invent it, sir?”
“It is simply his choice.”
His choice to ship spirits out, dodge the licensing, and turn over the pelts to licensed fur companies to bring downriver. Skye thought it was clever enough. Ever since the opening of the Oregon and Santa Fe Trails, the Yank government had lost its control of spirits destined for the Indian trade. And here was a simple but effective scheme to circumvent the government.
“We’re paid in gold. There’s an incentive on each pelt. These incentives are shared equally by my men here back in St. Louis. They contract for one winter season, coming out here in October and returning in June. We have written agreements, detailing exactly what rights and duties each participant must perform.”
“That seems to include grooming, Mister Skittles.”
“Indeed it does, sir. We’re professionals, and I insist on appropriate dress and conduct and idealism on all occasions. Our goal, sir, is to make money, and lots of it, but there’s more: our goal is to liberate the tribes from their ancient bondage upon hunting and gathering, and steer them toward a free and better life, with more personal choices and chances of fulfillment. Let them look at us. They see clean, proud, groomed, disciplined men. In short, sir, we are apostles of liberty and democracy.”
“And how’s this accomplished?”
“Trading, sir. Our goal is to show them that they can have a more abundant life by becoming animal husbandmen and farmers. We trade sharply, for as many pelts as we can get in exchange for goods they wish to have in exchange, and at the same time, we present ourselves in our dress and demeanor as representatives of a higher nature and calling.”
Skye listened, amazed. If his eyes were to be believed, these were cutthroats who despoiled every Indian village they visited, made off with every robe and pelt in the village after soaking the whole village in spirits.
Skittles sucked his meerschaum and surveyed Skye. “I see skepticism written all over you, Mister Skye. Let me say, simply, we are doing the tribes a favor. Only when they see the futility of resisting the modern world will they come to the cast of mind that is open to new things including the blessings of our world. That requires that they know they face a superior race of people, and that their old tribal superstitions will only fail them as time goes by”.
Skye laughed softly. He’d heard enough.
“Ah, Mister Skye, think it over. As it happens, I’m shorthanded. Every time I send some wagonloads of pelts to a post, I’m shorthanded. I have two wagons out now, carrying pelts to Fort Sarpy, and that occupies four men. I’m a victim of my success. The more pelts I get, the more men I need. I’m prepared to offer you a secure and lucrative position with us for the duration of the season, June thirtieth. Less than six months. That wouldn’t be long. You would receive two-thirds of one share in the proceeds because you started late. But it happens that I could use more men, and with your experience you would be most valuable to us. Sometimes new men don’t grasp the opportunities and perils of life here. A veteran of the mountains, why, sir, you’d be worth twice a share, and if you prove out, I’ll be sure you get a bonus.”
“And what are the terms?”
“Why, you can read them anytime. I have several blank contracts which only need to have the blanks filled in. You’ll get a copy, of course.”
“And my duties?”
“Why, obey my direction always. Assist in the trading. We especially need a man who speaks the court language, or can employ the hand-talk. That’s why I’m interested in employing you.”
“And obligations?”
“To keep yourself immaculately attired and groomed always. It is a professional statement we make to the tribes. You may shave every other day, or keep a closely trimmed beard. We have a small cache of spare clothing, and will sell you enough to suffice, and you can abandon the buckskins.”
“And you mentioned privileges?”
“Of course, of course, Mister Skye. We’re not martinets here. We’re quite able to enjoy ourselves and I encourage my men to make the best of each trip west. Each man gets a gill of spirits each evening as his due. And Kentucky whiskey, too, not spirits used for the robe trade.”
A gill was two good drinks, not bad at all, Skye thought.
“As soon as the men finish their duties, we’ll all have a gill, save for our sentries, and that’s a task that rotates night by night, Mister Skye.”
“And what happens when you approach a village, Mister Skittles?”
“Well, for professional reasons we forgo our evening libations, Mister Skye. Our task then is to encourage trade, inviting men and women of all descriptions to join us for some pleasant conversation. They bring us robes, and we trade for those, and supply them with just enough spirits to make a cold night pleasant.”
Skye had seen this sort of thing, but never so veneered over with high talk of liberty and democracy and being a part of modern times. And what he had seen, from rougher and harsher traders, had sickened him. He had seen villagers shivering in their worn blankets or devoid of any cover, children desperate for food and warmth, sickened men and women, their bodies ruined by the debauch, despoiled girls hanging their heads. Some usually died, frozen or choking in their vomit, or ruined in spirit. And in the aftermath of these drunken orgies, the villages remained demoralized. Headmen’s warnings went unheeded. No one hunted and so they starved. Skye didn’t know why Indians were susceptible to spirits, but he knew the results.
He faced Skittles. “No, Mister Skittles, I’ll decline. I am headed toward my family, and the life I know.”
Skittles seemed unfazed by that. “Why, that’s fine, Mister Skye. I thought I’d inquire. You’d be a valuable asset to me. But in our world, liberty and contract are para
mount, and it always takes two or more to make a contract.”
Skye nodded. He wasn’t sure he should stay the night among these well-dressed, well-disciplined ravishers of a whole way of life. He thought of Victoria and her people, wandering freely over the open prairies, troubled by many things, but always sovereign, always free.
“Well, Mister Skye, the hour’s at hand for our gill of spirits. Would you care to join us? The gill’s on me this time.”
Skye thought of the aches of his body, and his long starvation, and the pleasure of letting some spirits steal into his belly and bring him peace.
“I’ll accept with pleasure, Mister Skittles.”
A master of revels, of some sort, handed each man a tin cup and filled it exactly half full, working around the circle with a one-gallon cask in hand. Some men sipped their ration neat, but most added some cold river water, and settled around one of the three mess fires for a social hour.
Skye sipped, relaxed, and enjoyed himself while Mister Skittles played the affable host. And when Skye had drained his gill, Skittles added a bit more with a gracious laugh.
“Tis a rare night in the wilds of the Northwest when a man can have a drink or two,” Skittles said.
Skye found his cup refilled again, and again let the spirits flow through his veins, until at last he had reached oblivion. Lots of talk, lots of amusements. Those Yanks were a peculiar bunch, all right, with an opinion about everything, especially what they knew least about. He would undo his bedroll and plunge into a most pleasant sleep among all these good blokes.
And that was all he remembered.
The next dawn he awakened with a dull ache in his head, and a sense that something about him had changed. Yes, indeed, it had changed. His beard had vanished. He slapped his bare face. His hair, usually shoulder length, had been carefully shorn. His neck was naked. He wore a green flannel shirt he had never before seen. His old Hawken still rested beside him.
“Ready for work, Mister Skye?” asked Mr. Skittles.
thirty-one
Skye bolted to his feet. Skittles was standing there, an amiable smile on his chiseled face, while around the camp, the men were packing up.
“No,” Skye said. “I’m not. I’m not working for you.”
“Oh, but you are, Mister Skye. You signed the contract last night. Your copy is tucked into your shirt.”
“You don’t get yourself a man that way, Mister Skittles.”
“Oh, now, Mister Skye, that’s really not a wise choice. According to the contract, which was carefully explained to you, if you leave—and you are perfectly free to do so—you forfeit all your possessions.”
“What contract?” Skye dug around in the flannel shirt, found a folded sheet of foolscap, and opened it. The printed form was actually quite long. There was something at its bottom that might or might not have been his signature. “Sorry, Mister Skittles,” he said, and tore it in two.
“Not a good idea, Mister Skye. By your own free will you chose to join us, and you’re now committed to service until the thirtieth day of June. Over five months. Two-thirds of a share, which is generous, considering you’re working less than two-thirds of a full term of service, as defined in the agreement. Now, I’d suggest that you pack your bedroll and eat the porridge at the mess fire, and then set about learning our ways. You can begin by harnessing the draft horses.”
“No. I’ll be on my way. I committed myself to nothing.”
“Ah, Mister Skye, I’m afraid that would be difficult. There’s a dozen men in the company, and they’ll hold you to the forfeit. I should tell you, sir, that the language is precise. It says all your possessions. And that is perfectly clear. All is all. Your horses and tack, weapons, bedroll, tools, and of course your clothing, including those excellent moccasins. You may walk away wearing nothing at all, because your possessions are forfeit.”
He eyed the rest, knew their attention was on him, knew that a dozen men could swiftly overwhelm him, knew that Skittles meant it: he could walk away stark naked. In the winter. He knew the old trappers lore. How John Colter ran naked from the Blackfeet and survived. How Hugh Glass crawled and hobbled hundreds of miles to safety. But not in winter. Not in January.
He eyed his Hawken. He could grab it, stuff the muzzle at Skittles, hold him hostage until the rest put his outfit together, and then walk out. But he knew better. Under that hammer, the cap would be off the nipple, and they were all waiting for him to do just that, and then give him a little lesson.
Talk, then. Talk until he took the measure of all this.
Skittles watched him intently. “Not a good idea, was it, Mister Skye?”
“A contract isn’t a contract when one of the parties is impaired,” he said. “You know that.”
“Oh, yes, impaired by nature. A contract involving a madman would be a scandal. Contracts must be forged between competent adult people, wouldn’t you say? That’s the whole future, Mister Skye, and the bedrock of the American Republic. A society forged on contracts between equals, enforced by courts. We’ve no court here, of course, but a clear contract can be interpreted by our little community here. What a pity your copy lies on the ground. Perhaps you should collect the pieces and read it.”
“I was impaired. Unaware of what you were fobbing off on me.”
Skittles smiled. “Impaired is a good word. Drunk, you mean. No, Skye, your argument doesn’t hold. You are not impaired by nature. In fact, you’re the most competent man in the party, which is why I agreed to hire you. My signature’s on there too, you know. By your own free choice you chose to have a drink. By your free choice you chose to have another. No one forced you. You were perfectly free to refuse my hospitality and walk away from here this morning. You are a competent man, Mister Skye, and if you chose to sign the contract, it was as a competent and equal man. That’s ordinary logic.”
“Skittles, a man who doesn’t know what he’s signing or doesn’t remember it is not a man bound by anything.”
“It’s Mister Skittles, Mister Skye. We are all gentlemen here. This is a company of American gentlemen and capitalists.”
“Slavery,” said Skye. “You are coercing labor from me against my will.”
“That’s a quaint interpretation of entering into an agreement, Mister Skye.”
“You support black slavery back in the States?”
“Good heavens no, Mister Skye. I’m an abolitionist. I believe in freely negotiated labor, not servitude. No man here believes in servitude, and that includes serfdom or any other form of bondage or semislavery, including debt-slavery. That’s what the Republic’s all about. What separates us from the rest of the world. Each person is his own master.”
“Except when he works for a master who won’t release him.”
Skittles laughed gently. “You’ll find, Mister Skye, that there are other clauses that now bind you. One deals with insubordination. At my discretion it can be punished by flogging. The other deals with laziness, for which there are several remedies, such as being denied meals. But the main one is simply that one’s share of the proceeds is forfeit. No work, no reward. Perfectly sensible.”
“And of course you make these decisions.”
“Who else? A contract is an agreement between a master and employee. If the labor is performed to my satisfaction, you receive your reward. That, Mister Skye, is the law of God. St. Paul said, in essence, let him who doesn’t work, not eat.” He paused. “Well, sir, enough of this. We must be on our way. Are you going to forfeit your worldly goods or join the company?”
“Why the pretense, Mister Skittles? You knew perfectly well I don’t want to work for you and would leave if I were not being coerced. So why do you pretend I’m not being coerced? You’re coercing me with my life. You call it forfeit of my possessions, but what you mean is that if I leave I die of exposure. Why not call it what it is? You want me to be a bondsman, a slave.”
“You’re a card, Mister Skye. All Brits are cards. Here in the States, each man shapes
his own destiny, out of his own free will. It is my will to shape your destiny, as long as you don’t care to shape your own. It’s the fittest who survive and prosper. The dregs are fated to work for masters. Eat the porridge if you want, or don’t eat it. And then harness one of the teams. We’re leaving.”
Skittles smiled cheerfully and walked away. Skye watched him. The man certainly commanded the company. A word from him sent men into feverish preparations. This was a clear, cold winter day and would be a good one for travel.
A slave once again. When he was a boy a press gang had yanked him off the streets of London, and he was a slave in the Royal Navy. They didn’t call it slavery, of course. The crown opposed slavery. They paid him a pittance and called it a wage and took it from him for any infraction, and wouldn’t release him. He had been a boneheaded youth then, and fought it every way he could, fought it until they all but threw him overboard. Then he came to his senses and began to make himself a reliable seaman, valuable to them, and was watched less and less as he proved himself an able man.
Now, after four decades of hard living, he had absorbed a lesson or two. He wouldn’t fight; not yet. He would make himself an able man and trusted man in this company, and as soon as he had his chance, he would be on his way. This was a big land and there would be plenty of chances.
He spooned gruel into a tin mess plate and ate it. It tasted like paste, but it would serve to fuel him. No sooner did he finish than one of the men, Mister someone, snatched his plate, washed it, and stowed it away. Mister this, mister that. Mister master, who pretended this was a company of equals in voluntary alliance with one another.
He rolled up his bedroll, stowed it in the supply wagon, checked his Hawken—which indeed had no cap on its nipple but was otherwise loaded—and slid it into the wagon as well. For the time being, until he was trusted, they would keep weapons from him.
The draft horses were picketed on good grass. He looked for the mare and Jawbone, and found that they had already been tied behind a wagon and loaded with goods not his own. For a moment his temper flared. Skittles had no scruples about commandeering labor as well as property. Skye’s horses were simply something to exploit, and what did it matter that Skittles didn’t own them? Skye choked back his rage and collected two draft horses, big black geldings, and began harnessing them, remembering from times past how it was done. He dropped the collar over their necks, strapped the surcingle in place, and slowly readied each of the docile well-groomed and muscled horses. This outfit used tugs, and each wagon was teamstered by a man walking beside the paired draft horses.
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