Praise for E.V. Thompson
‘This is fiction of rare quality: tension and intrigue, pathos and character’
Cornish Guardian
‘With settings that stretch from China to Cornwall, these sagas delight’
Independent
‘A vigorous and fascinating piece of storytelling from the pen of a first-class professional’
Sunday Times
‘E.V. Thompson is, as always, an extremely good storyteller’
Historical Novels Review
E.V. THOMPSON
No Less Than
the Journey
I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the
journey-work of the stars.
Walt Whitman (1819–1891), ‘Song of Myself’.
Contents
Praise for E.V. Thompson
Title Page
Epigraph
BOOK 1
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
BOOK 2
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
BOOK 3
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
About the Author
By the Same Author
Copyright
BOOK 1
CHAPTER 1
‘God Almighty, Mister, if you aimed a cow’s teat the way you did that gun, you’d have a clean bucket come the end of milking time!’
Ignoring the raucous laughter from the men crowding about himself and the woefully inadequate sharpshooter, United States Marshal Aaron Berryman added, ‘Tell me, lad, is that why you gave up farming and decided to try your hand at something else?’
The object of his derision, a raw-boned countryman of Scandinavian extraction, looked sheepish. ‘No, Marshal. I gave up farming because unless you’re finding gold there’s no money to be made digging in the ground.’
‘Not if you farm the way you shoot,’ agreed Aaron, scornfully, ‘All right, check the rifle’s empty and leave it on the deck.’
Switching his attention to the amused spectators, he said, ‘Now you’ve had your fun, which of you is going to show me how it should be done?’
All but one of the men about him managed to be looking elsewhere when Aaron’s glance touched on them. The man who met his gaze was aged about twenty-five. Dark-eyed and black-haired, he was deceptively slim.
‘You … what’s your name?’
‘Wesley – Wes Curnow.’
The young man’s accent brought a momentary frown to the face of the US Marshal and he asked, ‘Where you from, son?’
‘From Cornwall – that’s in England.’
Aaron nodded, ‘I have heard of it. What are you doing on board?’
‘I’m a miner. I’m leaving the ship at New Orleans to travel up the Mississippi. I’ve got the offer of work in Missouri.’
‘Then you and me are going to be travelling together for a while. Can you shoot?’
Wes nodded, ‘My pa was gamekeeper on a large estate and was as good a shot as anyone I’ve met. He taught me.’
Aaron gave Wes an enigmatic look, ‘I know nothing about gamekeepers – but I know a hell of a lot about shooting. Pick up that gun and we’ll see what you can do….’
It had been no more than thirty-six hours since Aaron Berryman had limped slowly up the gangway of the steamship Northern Star moored alongside a wharf in New York’s dockland area, a small, leather trunk balanced upon one shoulder. Few of the passengers lining the guard rails gave him more than a cursory glance.
Had they done so, it was doubtful whether they would have been even mildly impressed. Slightly-built and of below average height, he looked even smaller because of a tendency to walk with bowed shoulders, apparently more interested in the placement of his feet than in anything, or anyone, ahead of him.
If a glance from his pale grey eyes had been intercepted, they would have noticed he had a slight squint.
But there had been many new arrivals on the ship that day and there was nothing about this man to provoke particular interest.
The ship had left Plymouth, England, thirteen days before, bringing immigrants to America to commence a new life in this vast and exciting country.
A number of the immigrants were Cornish miners, seeking an escape from the grinding poverty that had been their lot since a collapse in the price of tin and copper had put thousands of men out of work.
Most of the Cornishmen who crossed the Atlantic on the Northern Star left the ship at New York, heading for copper mines on the shores of Lake Michigan. Here they would join relatives and friends already settled in the New World.
Those who remained on board were making their way to other mining areas: Arizona, Missouri, the goldfields of California – and a few to the silver mines of Mexico.
When it left New York, the Northern Star would plough a slow and insignificant furrow through the waters off the east coast of America, disembarking immigrants and other passengers at ports along the way until it reached Tampico, in Mexico. Here, the last of the immigrant miners would go ashore and make their way to silver mines in the mountains. The cheap wooden bunks in which they had slept, puked and occasionally succeeded in uncomfortable copulation, would be ripped from the holds in order that Mexican cattle might be taken on board and accommodated in far less crowded conditions for their journey eastwards across the Atlantic Ocean to the markets of Europe.
A day-and-a-half out of New York, the Boatswain’s mate of the Northern Star toured the ship, attracting the attention of the passengers by blowing a whistle. When he was satisfied they were listening, he announced that passengers disembarking at New Orleans with the intention of travelling to destinations on the Mississippi River should muster on the main deck.
Responding to the summons, Wes found himself in the company of some thirty fellow passengers, all of whom were wondering why they had been chosen from the two hundred or so others taking passage on the Northern Star.
He had not long to find out. The captain appeared on the deck – accompanied by the man with a limp who Wes had seen come on board at New York.
Wasting no time, the captain said, ‘I thank you for your time, gentlemen. You have been asked to assemble on a matter of
considerable importance,’ then, indicating the insignificant man standing beside him, he continued, ‘but Marshal Berryman will be able to tell you about it with far more authority than I.’
Turning to his companion, he said, ‘They’re all yours, Marshal.’
‘Thank you, Captain Tyrell, I’m grateful to you for your cooperation.’
As the captain of the ship made his way back to the bridge, Marshal Berryman’s gaze passed from man to man standing on the deck before him, and no one in the group felt he had been overlooked.
‘Gentlemen, I’ve called you together because of something that’s likely to affect each and every one of us who’ll be travelling up the Mississippi from New Orleans. As I’m sure you all know, although the river is probably the cheapest way of travelling to wherever it is you’re going, it ain’t necessarily the easiest. The Mississippi is a fickle river – and, believe me, I’m a Missourian and I know what I’m talking about. My father was a river-boat pilot and I’d travel with him whenever he’d let me. With time a man gets to know the river – and the river seems to know the men who love it.’
Pausing, his glance went around the group on the deck before he spoke again, ‘Unfortunately, just lately travellers have had more than the river itself to cope with. The North and the South stopped fighting each other some years ago – thank God! – but there’s a whole mess of men from both sides who enjoyed the violence and killing of war so much they’re not yet ready to give it up. Some have found their way to the Mississippi and formed themselves into a pirate gang, terrorising passengers on river-boats like the one we’ll be travelling on and stealing money and United States mail. My idea is that after a little bit of working out together, we’ll all go upriver on the same boat and teach these river pirates a lesson they won’t forget for as long as they live, which with any luck won’t be for very much longer.’
His words brought an upsurge of sound from the men listening to him. Some were excited at the prospect of a confrontation with river pirates. Others, in the main the older men, were more apprehensive.
It was one of the latter who addressed a question to Aaron Berryman, ‘This sounds like very serious business, Marshal. Am I right in assuming you intend taking command in any fight that takes place between us and these “river pirates”, as you call them?’
‘That’s what I have in mind, Mister. Do you have a better idea?’
‘Yes, Marshal. With all due respect, I think I might have more experience in commanding men in situations such as this. I fought in the war as a Confederate captain and saw my fair share of action. No doubt you fought too and, seeing as how you’re now a United States Marshal, I presume you fought for the army of the North. May I ask what rank you were, Sir?’
‘There’s no North or South now, Captain,’ Aaron replied, firmly. ‘The war is over. We’re all Americans, just as we were before it began.’
‘I’m happy enough to go along with that, Marshal, but we’re talking of fighting and commanding men.’ Almost triumphantly, he repeated his question, ‘What rank did you hold, Sir – and how much actual action did you see at first hand?’
‘I saw enough to know what fighting is all about, Captain and, yes, I fought for the North. My first battle was at Bull Run, in July, ‘sixty one. The last in Alabama, in April, eighteen sixty-five – and I didn’t miss too many in between, despite this….’
He slapped the leg that was the cause of his limp, adding, ‘When I left the army I was a brevet Brigadier General. Is there anything else you’d like to know?’
Abashed, the ex-Confederate captain said, ‘No, Sir. You’ve more than proved your credentials as far as I’m concerned. I’ll be proud to serve under you against these river pirates.’
‘Thank you, Captain. I’ll be happy to have someone with your experience fighting with me but I don’t think I caught your name….’
‘It’s Harrison Schuster, General. Before the war my family had one of the greatest plantations in the whole of Kentucky. The land is still ours, but trouble’s the only crop that’s thrived there since the war.’
‘You reaped what was sown by your folk over very many years,’ Aaron retorted, ‘but we all belong to a great new nation now and lawlessness is a threat to us all.’
Turning away from Schuster, Aaron appealed to the other men, ‘Now, how many of you men have handled a gun before…?’
CHAPTER 2
For the remainder of the voyage to New Orleans Marshal Aaron Berryman held shooting instruction twice a day for the men who would be going up the Mississippi river with him. It was immediately apparent to everyone that Wes was better than average when it came to handling a rifle, but Aaron was appalled to learn he had never fired a handgun.
On the second day of instruction, after practise with a Henry fifteen-shot repeating rifle came to an end, the marshal signalled for Wes to remain behind when the others dispersed.
When they were more-or-less alone, he reached beneath his coat and pulled out a handgun. Passing it to Wes, he said, ‘Have you ever seen one of these before?’
Looking at the gun in his hand, Wes shook his head, ‘No, but it’s a beautifully made weapon.’
Aaron inclined his head in agreement, ‘It’s certainly that and familiarisation with it could one day make the difference between living and dying. That’s a Colt revolver, boy. There are gunfighters in this country – good gunfighters – who favour other guns, but seven out of ten of ’em will be carrying some form of Colt. This one fires a forty-four calibre bullet, and that’s big enough to stop anything smaller than a buffalo. Besides, if you’re close enough to be using a handgun against another man the size of the bullet it fires won’t matter. It’s the accuracy of the man using it which will decide the outcome. Right, now I’ll show you what to do with it….’
For the remainder of the voyage, Marshal Berryman made Wes practise using the Colt revolver for at least two hours every day. By the time the Northern Star berthed in New Orleans, Wes was able to hit targets fixed to the ship’s rail with at least three of the Colt’s six bullets.
Despite this, Aaron was still not satisfied. As he told Wes, ‘There are a great many mean men out there who can score six out of six, son. Until you can match ’em, shot-for-shot; put the bullets where they need to go, and get them off a fraction of a second faster than the other man, you’d do better to stay East of the Mississippi. But we’ll keep practising. Perhaps you’ll improve when you own a gun of your own.’
New Orleans was a vibrant and exciting sea port and the dock area particularly busy. Goods from almost every country in the world were brought in by freighter and sailing ship. In addition, produce was piled high on the dockside, carried downriver from the interior. Cotton plantations, devastated by years of war, were producing crops once more, giving employment to men and women who had once been slaves. Now, they were paid labourers – although few outsiders could have detected any difference.
The night-life of New Orleans was brash and memorable. Taverns and saloons vied with brothels and gambling-houses for custom, providing every possible diversion in a bid to attract custom.
Yet, even in this thriving town, the deep wounds caused by the late Civil War were still much in evidence – and when one particular incident flared up, Wes witnessed Aaron Berryman in action.
From conversations Wes had overheard on board the Northern Star, he realized that to plantation owners, the words “freedom” and “slaves” were mutually exclusive. War had cost them dearly, yet, in effect, it had done little to change the social structure of the Southern States.
This was particularly evident in the bars of New Orleans. Crowded with seamen, frontiersmen and townsfolk, there was not a freed slave to be seen. Furthermore, when men had drunk enough to burst forth in song, their ditties were more often than not those which had found favour with soldiers of the Confederate army.
Despite this, many of the women who worked in the saloons had a high proportion of African, Mexican or Native American blood cou
rsing through their veins.
It was one of these saloon women who was responsible for reinforcing the importance Marshal Berryman had placed upon the handgun when giving weapon instruction on board the Northern Star.
Wes and Aaron had become friends during their passage on the Northern Star and, to celebrate their first night ashore in New Orleans, Aaron took Wes on a tour of the riverside saloons.
In what would later in the day become one of the sea port’s busiest establishments, they arrived at a fairly quiet time. As a result, the “hostesses”, employed on a commission basis by the saloon owner, descended upon the new arrivals. Fortunately, a crowd of mining men from upriver entered the saloon almost immediately and all but one of the girls abandoned the two men in the hope of more lucrative pickings.
The girl who remained squeezed herself onto the padded seat between Wes and Aaron and introduced herself as ‘Lola’. Unlike many of the other girls in the room, Lola had no African blood in her veins, although she clearly had a Mexican background.
Looking from the United States marshal to Wes, she asked, ‘You boys just arrived in New Orleans? Where you from – and where are you going?’
As Wes and Aaron exchanged glances, Lola added, ‘Most men who arrive in New Orleans are moving on to somewhere else. Usually heading West, each chasing his own particular dream.’
‘That’s a mighty perceptive remark, Lola,’ Aaron said, ‘But you’re right, we’re heading upriver, maybe not chasing dreams, but looking for a chance to do what we’re best at. Wes here is from England. He means to go mining in Missouri.’
Lola showed immediate interest. Turning to Wes, she said, eagerly, ‘You are an English miner? So was my father. He came to Mexico from Cornwall to mine silver when he was still a young man.’
‘I’m from Cornwall too,’ Wes said, ‘Where is your father now?’
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