Rivers West (1975) Read online

  The tall man with the pipe moved around the table and sat on the bench opposite me. His smile was pleasant, but the expression in his eyes was cool, calculating, and somehow taunting. I had a feeling that here was a man who looked with amused contempt on all about him.

  “Colonel Rodney Macklem,” he said, introducing himself. “Will you have a drink?”

  “Obliged, but I have a drink.”

  “You didn’t mention your name.”

  “John Daniel,” I said it easily, but there was a flicker of irritation in his eyes, of impatience, too. Here was a man who did not wish to be thwarted or turned aside, yet his lips smiled in a friendly fashion.

  I had just a thought, however, that he had expected another name … what name?

  Jambe-de-Bois was watching me, too—somewhat puzzled, no doubt, and curious.

  Bett Watson came around the table with one huge bowl of stew and two smaller ones, and with spoons and a ladle. “Start on that,” she said cheerfully.

  She was a blowsy, red-cheeked woman with black eyes. Untidy, but clean, and, I thought, a good woman with a cheerful air. “There’s more coming,” she added.

  Macklem lighted his pipe again. He avoided the eyes of Jambe-de-Bois, and Jambe did likewise. Did they know each other? Did they recall something each would prefer forgotten?

  The talk in the room was rambling, mostly of trail conditions and weather, for it was these by which we lived. Macklem was casual, talking little. Of the body we had found I decided to say nothing, yet I listened for some word of travelers. One of these men might have seen his killer, one might even be his killer … although I doubted that.

  The murdered man had been, I knew, a British army officer, and for some reason he had been pursuing the man who stabbed him.

  Why?

  Why the killing? This was no simple robbery, although every track was beset with thieves and every inn a possible lurking place for them. It was no unusual thing to find a traveler murdered, or to have one simply disappear.

  The cabin was more than just one room, but from the outside it had not appeared to be large. No doubt we would sleep on the floor in this room. Watson was even now stoking the fire, adding a couple of heavy logs that would hold the fire through the night.

  The stew tasted good. When it was finished, Bett Watson brought us a big chunk of plum pudding and a pot of coffee.

  Aside from Macklem, those in the room were a rough-looking crew, yet I suspect I looked equally rough myself.

  He said, “You are French?”

  “In part.”

  “You have a familiar look, John Daniel. I think I have seen you before, or someone very much like you.”

  I shrugged. “Perhaps. Who knows? I have been here and there.”

  He was not satisfied, and continued to talk, but his comments were leading, his questions insidious. Obviously, he wished very much to know who I was, and he was not satisfied that I was a shipwright. Yet, he was pleasant enough, and an agreeable talker.

  The air in the room was close and warm, too warm. I felt sleepy, tired from the hike. Not that I had walked far, for twenty miles was nothing exceptional, but the walking had been rough, the footing uncertain. Yet I did not want to sleep. Not until they all did.

  Suddenly I thought of the waterproof envelope inside my shirt, and the water-soaked papers. There’d been no chance to look at them. The dead man must have somebody who would know about relatives, and if he was still in the army, his superiors would want to know of his death.

  Watson and one of the others moved the table aside, and we spread our beds on the floor. All of us carried blankets—a man couldn’t travel without them. And even in the larger taverns, a man was often expected to have his own bedding.

  Long after the candles were blown out and only the firelight played on the ceiling, I lay awake, considering.

  That man had been murdered for a reason. He was following the man who had fatally stabbed him when he had fallen or been thrown into the swamp. Therefore, the murderer could assume no body would be found, and that he was free from worry.

  Two other considerations remained. Either the murderer had searched the body, or he had not. If he had searched it, he had not wanted either the gold or the papers or the pistol. If he had not been able to search the body, he might still want those papers, if they were of value to him.

  In any event, it behooved me to be very careful; to let no one know I’d seen the dead man or talked to him or examined the body.

  Jambe knew, but had shown no urge to discuss it. Was he the murderer? Might he not have concealed himself when he heard me coming?

  Under my blankets I drew out my knife. My work often called for a knife, and most men carried them as a tool if not as a weapon. Mine was razor-sharp, with a point like a needle. With the knife in my hand, I went to sleep.

  The last thing I recalled was firelight nickering on the ceiling; then, shocked awake, I saw a dim red glow with a black figure looming above me and my blanket drawn back. A hand reached for the inside of my shirt. My knife thrust sharply upward.

  Lying on my side with the knife in my right hand, I had to roll to my back to thrust. The thief, whoever he was, jerked away and vanished. Vanished!

  I sat up quickly, then came to my feet, knife in hand.

  All was dark and still. Nothing moved. There was a faint glow from the fire, a reddish glow that flickered on some of the faces, threw others into deeper shadow.

  Stepping across the sleeping men, I sheathed my blade and, taking the poker, stirred the fire, then added some smaller sticks. The fire blazed up, and the room grew lighter.

  Six men lay on the floor; all seemed to be sleeping. I looked around the room. Nothing seemed amiss.

  One of the six men was faking. At least one, and possibly more. One of those men would have robbed, perhaps murdered me.

  Which one?

  For a moment I looked at them, then I went back to my bed and lay down.

  It was unlikely there’d be another attempt, but a man never knew. It might have been a simple attempt at robbery. I lay awake, staring up at the roof and listening. Light was breaking before I dozed off again—but only for a few minutes, and then they were all getting up.

  After pulling on my boots, I stood up and started to shove the pistol behind my belt.

  Macklem extended a hand. “That’s an interesting weapon. May I see it?”

  I tucked the pistol behind my belt and let my coat fall into place, concealing it. “You like to make jokes,” I said, coolly, “I lend weapons to no man.” And then I added, “It is just a pistol, like any other.”

  Over the table Watson told us the swamp lasted for only a few more miles, and the road would lead through forest.

  Inside my shirt I could feel the oilskin packet, and my curiosity was a burning thing. Yet I must be alone when the packet was opened. The other papers had dried from the heat of my body, and they, too, might be revealing.

  Jambe-de-Bois came to sit beside me at the table. “It would be a good thing,” he suggested, “if we traveled together.”

  “Yes?”

  “It would be safer, I think.”

  “For you or for me?”

  “For both. I do not like the look of some of these,” his gesture took in the others in the room, and he kept his voice low, “But I believe you already agree.”

  Why would he think me suspicious? Had he been awake during the night? Or was he, himself, the man who had loomed over me and then vanished so swiftly?

  Yet, why not let him come along? If he was the man, he could be watched better when close at hand, and if he was not, then his presence might be an added protection.

  “If you are going my way,” I said, “why not?”

  Not until the others had gone did we gather our possessions to leave. When my pack was firmly settled and I had taken up my tools and rifle, I turned to Watson.

  “Back up the trail four or five miles, there is a dead man. He was a British officer, and someone
will be looking for him.

  “Take this,” I handed him a coin from the dead man’s small store, “and see that the body is properly buried on dry land. His name was Captain Robert Foulsham, and it was yesterday he died. Put his name and date of death upon the marker.”

  Bett was staring at me, her eyes level and hard. Watson took the coin, then said, “How did he die?”

  “He was murdered,” I replied. “Stabbed. And he either fell or was thrown into the swamp. He lived long enough to get out and to tell me these things.”

  “Murdered? But who—?”

  “I think one of those who slept the night. That’s why I said nothing. Had I told you before there might well have been another killing.”

  “His possessions?”

  “He had little. I shall write to his family and his superiors, and they will come to be sure he is buried well.” I paused. “See to it.”

  We stepped off at a good pace, for I no longer worried about the peg-legged man keeping up; he was as good a walker as me. During my talk with Watson, he had said nothing.

  Alone upon the trail he said, “You take risks, my friend. There are some things better left alone.”

  “Perhaps. But I am not one to let things lie. I shall inform those who should be informed, and then I shall go about my business.”

  “It may not be so easy. Once a thing like this begins, who knows when it will end? Or where?”

  How dark was the swamp! How dank and dark!

  We walked under the perpetual gloom of interlaced boughs that shut out all but scattered bits of daylight. The earth beneath was black, a mass of rotting vegetation. Old leaves lay upon stagnant pools, old logs thrust ugly heads tangled with a Medusa’s weaving of twisted roots, old trees lay in mud around which the black water gathered.

  The trail was barely passable, and every step was a risk of life and limb. Yet at last we reached firm ground, higher ground. The cold wind started up again, chilling us as it blew down the long dark trail.

  Once we passed the ruin of a cabin, a worn fence close by, the bark falling from the poles, rank grass growing up to cover all that lay upon the ground and to make the cabin seem even more lost and lonely.

  We walked the lonely road, and as we walked, we talked of many things—of ships and men and storms at sea, of wrecks and ship’s timbers and the building of strong craft, and of the feel of a well-made ship in a heavy sea. I was no seafaring man, although I’d been out on the gulf many a time, had sailed to Newfoundland, to Nova Scotia, and to Labrador. When no more than ten, I had sailed alone to Bonaventure Island, which lay within sight of my home. But these were things many a lad from Gaspe had done, and although I was no deep-water sailor, I knew how to build a ship and what it took to make it seaworthy.

  Jambe-de-Bois was more. He was a deep-sea sailor-man, and no flying-fish sailor. He had sailed as bos’n, as sailmaker and as ship’s carpenter. He spoke of Marseilles, La Rochelle, and Dieppe, of St. Malo, Bristol, and Genoa. He knew the Malabar Coast and the Irrawaddy. All of what he talked about I’d heard from childhood, for many a Talon had returned to the sea, and the old man of the family was not the only one who’d been a privateer.

  Suddenly, I stopped. We had rounded a turn in what passed for a road, and there, a few hundred yards away, was Macklem. He and others.

  Jambe-de-Bois swore, but it was too late, for he had seen us and stopped to wait

  “Be careful, lad,” Jambe-de-Bois said. “Yon’s an evil man, a sinful man, and one without morality or mercy. Give him the slightest chance, and he’ll have your heart out and bleeding.”

  “You know him then?”

  He was silent, as if he had said too much, and then he replied bitterly. “Aye, know him I do … or of him, and an ugly thing it was when first he crossed my bows.

  “Watch him, lad, and trust him not for one minute. For some reason, you’ve attracted his interest, and those who interest him die. I’ve seen it happen.”

  Colonel Rodney Macklem waited for us on the trail, a bold and handsome man.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Quick, lad, before we come up to him—and speak low, for sound carries. Where are you bound?”

  Hesitate I did. Who was he to ask me this? Could I trust him more than Macklem, who seemed the more complete gentleman?

  When I hesitated, Jambe said, “We’ve more in common than you think, much more. He wants you dead, lad, and me also. Together we’re no match for him, but we might last longer. What say you?”

  “I’m going to Pittsburgh.”

  He scowled. “Pittsburgh? What is that? And where?”

  We slowed our walk, and spoke softly.

  “It’s a new town in the West. There was a fort there once, Fort Pitt. It’s a place where rivers meet and where they build boats for use on the western waters.”

  “Western waters? The Pacific?”

  “No … the rivers. There are great rivers there, rivers that go in all directions. Do you know the Mississippi?”

  “Aye, I’ve shipped into New Orleans a time or two. Sure and it’s the greatest river of them all!”

  “It is not. There’s a longer river, far longer, a river that flows into the Mississippi. It’s called the Missouri. It’s a river that stretches far to the west and begins in the Rockies. They’ll be building boats in Pittsburgh to use on the western waters, and I’d have a hand in the building—and in good time, build my own.”

  “If it’s water you want, why not go to sea? There’s places out there, islands and harbors and such, that no man has seen, and many worth seeing again. Why sail a river?”

  “Ah, but Jambe! This is a different river! The waters flow down from the high peaks, down through roaring canyons. It’s a river nearly three thousand miles long, and who knows what lies at its head or along its banks? I shall build a steamboat, Jambe, a steamboat that will climb its farthest reaches. If you wish to come with me, I can use a partner, but I want no fair-weather friend. If you sign on with me, it’s for the voyage.”

  Jambe was silent. Finally he swore, irritably. “Why not? I’ll come along, John Daniel, if that is what you call yourself, for I’ve a thought we’ll be safer together.”

  We came up to Macklem then, standing in the road with three others of the past night, the snake-eyed man among them.

  “Come along,” he said cheerfully, “there’s safety in numbers, and I hear the Indians can still be dangerous at times, to say nothing of thieving white men.”

  So we went along together, Macklem and myself in the lead, and Jambe-de-Bois falling back to bring up the rear—but in such a position that if any attempt was made upon me he would be first to see a false move and not only warn but aid me. Yet there was a rankling doubt in me, for what did I know of him? I was among enemies, yet there was a youthful foolishness and confidence in me that made me believe I could win out even if it came to blows with the lot of them.

  I was stronger than they realized, and a better shot. Still, there was enough good sense in me—despite my vanity—to realize I might get no chance to shoot, nor even to use my strength.

  Gradually, the trees thinned out, farms appeared. Toward evening we saw boys and girls driving cattle home from the pasture. People stopped to watch us go by, and some answered our friendly hails and some did not, yet all stared.

  When we came to an inn, it was not like the hovel where we had stopped before. It was a spacious place, with two floors, glass windows, and a common room where drinks and food were served.

  The proprietor here was a man of dignity, who spoke of politics in a manner that suggested he knew of what he spoke. But I was not sure. Perhaps he was no more than a fat windbag. There were aplenty of them about in that year of 1821.

  Yet the linens were fresh, the floors swept, the food excellently prepared.

  Alone in my room, with the doors locked and the hot water that had been brought for me in the tub, I bathed—the first time since leaving Quebec, and only the second since leaving my home in the Gaspe. The
open papers I’d taken from the pocket of Captain Foulsham were almost illegible. One was a letter, apparently from a brother. I could make out but little of it, as water had blurred the ink and made it run. The brother lived in London and was urging Captain Foulsham to return. And I found his address.

  Seated in my room, I wrote to the address of the brother in England. Carefully, I stated just what I had found, and how I had come upon the body of Captain Foulsham. I also related how I had gone through the pockets and retrieved what was there, and the money would be forwarded to him.

  Moreover, I informed him I was quite sure the murderer was either one of the party that had come along from that time to this, or that the murderer at least was known to one or more of them.

  Each I described with care, adding such fragments as might be useful, then I took it upon myself to open the oilskin packet.

  In the packet was an order for the arrest of one Baron Richard Torville, a deserter from the British army, a traitor. There was also information to the effect that Torville had been an agent for certain forces in France against Bonaparte, but that he’d committed a murder and absconded with money that did not belong to him.

  It was a long bill, listing a half-dozen crimes. A picture emerged of a man shrewd, unprincipled, and dangerous, but one with powerful connections. The title by which he was known was itself borrowed without right … there was even doubt about his name. The past of the man was shrouded in mystery.

  There was no physical description.

  Foulsham, an agent for His Majesty’s government, had somehow tracked down and located this man— and Foulsham had been murdered.

  Now I was myself in possession of information that could lead to my death.

  Putting all the papers in the packet, I returned them to my shirt and went down to the common room. It was empty.