The single gun was followed by a salvo which pitched a hundred yards ahead, right in their projected path, a warning that should they enter that stretch of water they’d have to row through a second deadly discharge. The Dons would have every nuance of range worked out to the foot, firing from a fixed platform into an area in which they could practise at will.
‘You there,’ cried Tucker to the men with poles, who included Lampin and Couvruer, ‘get to the side and show them your arse!’
Translating that took several seconds, and occasioned a few shaking heads. But Tucker repeated his instructions more forcefully, physically demonstrating his intentions. The men laid aside their poles and lined the side of the boat. At a single command from Tucker they loosened their breeches. He did likewise, spinning round and whooping out an unintelligible insult. As he dropped them he bent right over, an action which was copied by the Frenchmen. Harry wondered what the officer on shore, who would have a glass on the galley for certain, would make of this row of pale white moons.
‘Better than carronades, I reckon,’ said Pender, heaving with laughter. Harry, as affected by whiskey as his servant, nevertheless waited to agree. He didn’t even smile till they’d passed through the patch of water still disturbed by that first salvo. By the time they were clear of further danger he’d joined in wholeheartedly with the humour that now pervaded the entire deck.
‘If only Drake had known that’s all it took to frighten a Spaniard! By God, we’d own Madrid.’
The following day saw them meandering through the bends of a relatively untroubled river. Flat country had been replaced by deep forest. At one bend they came across an area of woodland that looked like some angry giant had attacked it. Trees were uprooted whole, many lying along the shoreline. The tornado had ripped a path a mile wide through the forest, flattening everything in its path, including the levee, as it followed its twisted course. Teams of Negroes were working to repair the dykes, singing low mournful dirges as they toiled indifferently at a task that would have to be completed before the autumn rains. Coming round the arc of the river bend brought them to the place where the twister had crossed the wide watercourse, to continue on its destructive path. It was here that Tucker showed his skill with the rifle.
‘Any feller can shoot a squirrel, Ludlow. The trick is to scare the livin’ daylights out of it while leaving it whole.’ He pointed at a set of trees full of the creatures, and took careful aim with his weapon. ‘Come on now, Practical, you just bark at that there critter so he jumps ten feet.’
The gun went off with a loud roar, a streak of flame gushing out of the barrel. Harry had a glass on the squirrel. He saw it do just as Tucker demanded. At a hundred yards on a less than perfect platform, the riverboatman removed a strip of bark from right under the animal’s belly. By any standards, it was a tremendous shot.
‘Can you do it again?’
‘Later. We’re getting close to a couple of settlements.’
Baton Rouge, a small town of about a hundred houses, was, like the Manchac Post, passed during the night, this time in silence. The following day saw them approaching the middle channel of the twin islands that lay below Pointe Coupée. Tucker explained that the outer channels were safer, indeed sluggish in comparison to the one he’d chosen, but the settlements there were large enough to contain either Spaniards, or, working for them, officials of French or American origin, any one of whom had the right to call them to question. With no idea of what news had preceded them upriver, it was safer to assume the worst, even if it did entail greater effort.
The channel was like a tidal race, with the river forced to increase its velocity by the narrowness of the bottleneck. Water moving at that pace precluded sandbanks, but there were rocks, with boiling foam around their base to warn of their presence. They, of course, were easy to avoid. But it took all of Tucker’s river knowledge to spot the flow of brown water over submerged obstacles, and all of the strength of everyone aboard, above and below decks, to avoid them. Those put to poling had a busy time, being commanded to work one side of the boat then the other. When they finally cleared the narrows, the oarsmen collapsed where they sat. Everyone on deck, including Harry, Pender, and Tucker, fell back against the low bulwarks, stretching to ease their aching limbs.
In continuing fine weather their progress was good. Occasional whirlpools or excessive drifting debris would slow them. But compared to men on horses, needing constant stops for remounts, rest, and feeding, they were racing along. They opened the mouth of the Red River after fifteen days, a watercourse that tinged the brown Mississippi with its rouge sediment. Harry, by this time, was on the lookout for some sign of a message from McGillivray. The first major Indian trading stop, around the settlement called Concordia, lay between Natchez and the Red River. De Guerin had, according to the Creek chieftain, crossed in that direction three weeks before. It was a natural place for the Walloons to secure fresh horses and since they must by now be beyond Fort Rosalie, the last Spanish outpost, there was every chance that they’d cross the river into the Mississippi Territory. The guess that they would head away from the river was just that. If they didn’t, he could get ahead of them easily in Tucker’s galley. But at some stage, pursuing people tied to the land, he knew that he too would need to engage in mounted pursuit.
It was three more days before contact was made, time which dragged heavily. It was easy for Harry, in moments of introspection, to see what he was doing as a waste of time, a mere indulgence by a man who found it hard to sit still. The Frenchmen wavered from optimism to pessimism on an hourly basis, their mood swings easily calibrated by the way they looked at, or spoke, to Harry, at its worst manifesting itself as a low, continuous grumble of indistinct complaints. Pender was his usual rocklike self at such times, even though he didn’t trust McGillivray at all. Tucker, who rose day by day in Harry’s estimation, was inclined to agree.
‘You’ve got to see things from where he’s lookin’, Ludlow,’ he said, waving his arms towards the east bank of the river. ‘That was all tribal land twenty years ago. Still is, I suppose, except it’s awash with Americans and filling up by the year as more an’ more settlers arrive. The thing he cares about most is hanging on to what the Creek nation have left.’
Being from Kentucky himself, Tucker knew everything there was to tell about frontier politics, as well as the reasons behind such things as the Whiskey Rebellion and the continuing threats of secession.
‘It all comes down to money, or the lack of it, since there’s practically none west of the Cumberland Gap. In a land where rye is the staple it’s also the currency. It has to be transported west by horse, and sells for around forty cents a bushel. Now that makes profits hard to come by. The same animal that can carry four bushels of rye can carry two eight-gallon kegs of whiskey, and that will sell at fifty cents a gallon. Trouble is, the Federals wanted to slap an excise on it, which to frontiersmen, quite a few of whom supported King George twenty years ago, is not to be borne. When the revenue men arrived, they were roughly handled, and I know of one who was tarred and feathered.’
‘So what’s the solution?’ asked Harry. ‘All governments need money.’
‘More prosperity. That’s why Pinckney’s Treaty was so vital. If the frontier prospers they won’t mind paying a little. This boat of mine carries bushels by the hundred, and before de Carondelet stripped out Louisiana, I could get paid in hard money. Twenty-five years’ navigation and rights of deposit aren’t enough, but it’ll do to start. It might provide enough time to wean the folks upriver onto another means of earning a crust. Anyway, as long as they can use the river to get their produce out, and sell it at a proper rate, then it’s a fair bet they’ll stay loyal.’
‘And McGillivray?’
‘Will be happy to see the Spanish stay in control of the lower Mississippi. That means no more settlers to him.’
‘And this gold and silver?’
‘That’s larded with all manner of possibilities, some of which won�
��t even have occurred to either you or Pender.’
Pender hesitated for just a second. But his curiosity got the better of him. ‘For instance?’
Tucker seemed distracted, looking over Pender’s shoulder as though what he was saying mattered little.
‘You take that bullion, which those Walloons won’t give up without a fight. McGillivray takes it back off you and returns it to de Carondelet with you and your Frenchmen in chains. Suddenly the Governor, who doesn’t really trust him, changes his tune, and all is sunny and sweet in the Creek nation.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Nope. You say you reckon it’s going to New York as a bribe. What if the Creeks decide to take it off you to use it for the same purpose?’
‘McGillivray claims to be a rich man. Surely he could do that anyway?’
‘Certainly he’s rich, Ludlow, but not in specie. The Spaniards pay him in kind and any money he does get goes to buying trade goods from American agents. He has land and trading concessions that are worth a fortune. But unless he realises those assets he has little actual money to distribute. So that precious metal could come in very handy. It would buy them just as much influence as it would de Carondelet.’
‘It would harm his case while anyone who knew of its provenance was still alive. That would mean not only disposing of us, but of the Spaniards as well.’
‘Kinda chills the blood,’ said Tucker.
He pulled himself to his feet and pointed to the canoe heading out from the bank of the river, its prow aimed right amidships. Harry and Pender stood up as well. Those Frenchmen not rowing lined the side, watching silently as the Indians manoeuvred the flimsy craft with practised ease. It was alongside within minutes. Harry leant over the side, meaning to speak. But he was obliged to take an oilskin pouch from one outstretched hand, with the canoe turning away as soon as it was delivered.
‘Does that have a superscription on it?’ asked Tucker.
Harry opened the pouch, took out a letter, and held it out, so that the Kentuckian could see his name written in large capital letters on the cover.
‘How in hell’s name did they know this was the right boat?’
‘I don’t think we’ve been out of their sight since we set out,’ said Pender, his eyes still fixed on the retreating canoe.
Harry broke the seal and opened the letter.
‘De Guerin crossed the Mississippi north of Natchez two days ago. McGillivray thinks he’s headed for something called the Natchez Trace.’
‘Used to be the old Chickasaw–Choctaw Trail,’ said Tucker, responding to Harry’s look. ‘Runs from Natchez all the way through Colbert’s Ferry to the Cumberland River.’
‘It’s a road?’
‘Of sorts,’ Tucker replied.
Harry looked at the letter again, reading silently for several seconds. ‘McGillivray advises that we head for a place called the Bayou Pierre. We will be met by another messenger, who will confirm de Guerin’s route and provide us with horses.’
‘Horses?’ said Tucker. ‘He’s sure going to a lot of trouble. You say you did him a favour, Ludlow. Just how big was it?’
Harry waved the letter. ‘I can’t believe it was big enough to justify all this.’
‘Do we proceed?’
‘Yes. But we must put our minds to finding a way to ensure that should we find that money, McGillivray can’t find us.’
Tucker walked back to take hold of the sweep. Grinning, he slapped Pender on the shoulder as he did so.
‘He likes a tall order, your Captain.’
Now was the time for maximum speed. The river, given the continuing good weather, had slowed somewhat in the time that they’d been on it, which lessened the effect of its obstacles, and past the Loftus Heights and Fort Rosalie they were clear of Spanish territory, so no precautions were required to avoid officialdom. The following days settled into the steady routine that was reminiscent of life aboard Bucephalas at sea: the orderly changing of watches, of meals prepared and consumed, of sleep taken and men brought awake to their duty, all proceeding at the proper pace. The crew had been apprised of what McGillivray had said, which raised their confidence and earned Harry the odd unbidden smile. Natchez was passed within two days, as they continued to reel off the miles.
The contrast, as Tucker steered the galley into the Bayou Pierre, was marked. From an open river they’d now entered a dank, stagnant piece of water surrounded by tall willows and poplars. There were few sounds; the croaking of numerous frogs, with the occasional bull-like roar of an alligator echoing eerily off the wall of moss-strewn forest. The air was still and oppressive, full of flying insects, with mosquitoes attacking everyone on deck in droves. He advanced about a quarter of a mile. A hail from the shore caused him to head for a convenient willow which grew right in the middle of the river, to which he attached a cable. Immediately a canoe set out from the shore, in the bows a man in European clothes.
‘Judge Peter Bryan Bruin,’ he called, coming aboard. Harry thought he detected a trace of an Irish accent. The face was florid and square, the smile wide. ‘I have a plantation just to the south of here. Alexander McGillivray asked me to give this to you.’
‘Is the title Judge an honorific?’ asked Tucker.
‘No, sir, it is not. I am employed to administer the law in this part of the Mississippi Territory.’
He passed Harry another unsigned letter, written in the same disordered capital letters, then indicated to Tucker that he should proceed further into the swamp. The atmosphere became, if anything, even more oppressive the further they travelled. Bruin chatted aimiably about the area and its commercial prospects. If the deep suspicion harboured by the three men beside him was evident, he ignored it.
‘Might sell up and move to Natchez,’ he concluded, as the canopy of trees thinned overhead. ‘Being a judge don’t leave me much time to run the land.’
They emerged into a clearing, which had a levee of medium height, and contained a few ramshackle houses, a tavern, and a cotton gin.
‘You’re to disembark. The horses are corralled on a piece of high ground about a quarter of a mile from here. They will take you to wherever it is you’re planning to go.’
Bruin looked from one to the other, as if hoping that they would explain what was clearly a mystery. But no one obliged so he bade them good day and, now that the gangplank was out, went ashore.
‘Does that letter say anything about your Walloons?’ asked Tucker, as soon as he was out of earshot.
‘Still on the Natchez Trace.’ He passed the letter to the American. ‘McGillivray has drawn us a map.’
‘If he wrote this, Ludlow, and gave it to that judge, then he’s not in New Orleans.’
‘He can’t be,’ added Pender.
‘So where is he?’ demanded Tucker.
‘Ahead of us, I should think, shadowing our quarry.’
Tucker looked at the black waters of the bayou. ‘This whole thing stinks so much it makes the swamp smell like perfume.’
Harry twitched his nose, which was full of the corrupt odours of rotting vegetation. ‘The scent of betrayal, I think.’
‘He’s even got the local law on his side. But you still won’t turn back.’
Harry shook his head slowly. ‘McGillivray is counting on us outnumbering the Spaniards. But he can’t believe for a moment that we mean to murder them.’
‘If he was plannin’ to do that hisself,’ observed Pender, ‘he wouldn’t need us here.’
‘That’s right,’ Harry replied, before turning back to speak to Tucker. ‘So your theory must be correct. He daren’t let anyone see him, especially the Spaniards, in case they, as survivors, spread word of his involvement. If any of what you suppose is true regarding his handing us over to the Spanish, he has to take us on his own land, otherwise de Carondelet will smell a rat.’
‘And have you thought on long enough to foil his plan?’
Harry indicated the knot of Frenchmen, who were watching the trio closely. �
��It was really never possible for these men, having recovered their money, to return to New Orleans. So what is there for them to the north?’
‘Millions of square miles of America,’ Tucker replied.
‘And a lot of settlements that a generation ago were French.’
Tucker was quick to see what Harry was driving at. ‘All of them on the river.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you have a ship stuck in New Orleans.’
‘Yes.’
‘You think de Carondelet will let you go?’
Harry shrugged. ‘I will plead that my liberty is more important than money and take his draft on the Spanish treasury, so his reasons for detaining me will disappear.’
‘Good luck, Ludlow,’ Tucker said with heavy irony. ‘Don’t bother to tell me what you intend to try. But I will say that whatever it is doesn’t have a prayer if de Guerin gets back there before you.’
‘It would be helpful if he too were to continue north. Even a few days’ head start would make all the difference.’
‘So, let me get this aright. You want me to take these men further up the Mississippi …’
Harry nodded. ‘As long as they are out of Spanish territory they should be safe.’
‘And at the same time you want me to make sure that the Walloons you intend to rob are kept from telling what’s happened.’
‘I don’t have the means to pay you, Tucker. But if we are successful, our crew most certainly do. And I think, under such circumstances, you could name your price.’
The Scent of Betrayal Page 32