Bowie's Gold

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 3 “You call me a liar?”

Bowie’s blood boiled as he made his way down Bourbon Street.

He had spent the past two years cultivating men of influence and ingratiating himself to voters throughout the southern parishes of the state, and he would not see his political hopes fall prey to the mercurial whims of Congressman William Brent.

Bowie had come from nothing, raised wild in the bayous where men were esteemed for their ability to wrestle bulls and alligators. After years of arduous work, he and his brothers had established a large cypress plantation near Opelousas, complete with a sawmill. After engaging in certain profitable activities with Jean Lafitte—an enterprise they would just as soon forget—they had devoted their efforts to land speculation and politics.

His brother Rezin had recently been elected to serve Avoyelles Parish in the state legislature, and John reelected from nearby Catahoula. James, ever eager to best them, had set his sights on Washington. Having gained the support of several wealthy landowners, he had convinced Brent to step aside.

His troubles began in late 1826, when the knife became fixed to his hip. After being shot in the breast in an encounter with a particular enemy named Major Norris Wright, Rezin convinced him he must thenceforth carry a formidable blade for his protection. While a pistol might misfire, Rezin pointed out, a knife would not.

The chosen weapon was a crude, single-edged hunting knife, with a blade nine inches long and an inch and a half wide. Bowie had fashioned a sheath that almost disguised it as the weapon of a gentleman. But it was not, as he well knew. Once the point pierced flesh, a twist of the wrist would cut the heart strings of an opponent, as it had done to that same Major Wright in the Sandbar Fight.

Reports of the fight had appeared in newspapers throughout the South—and beyond—making Bowie both famous and infamous. Everyone wanted to see and touch the knife, and it seemed prudent to show them something worthy of admiration. So, during the long months of recovery, he’d found a blacksmith worthy of the task.

The new knife was ten inches of shining steel, with a crossguard to catch an opponent’s blade, and a curving clip point near the tip. The curve was honed sharp as a shaving razor, and the mere sight of it had already made men think twice about challenging him.

Over the past few months he’d taken great pains to reassure supporters he was still fit to serve them in the nation’s capital. But his new reputation was proving both a blessing and a curse. He was no longer just a man—he was a man with a knife, and he sometimes felt the blade was wielding him, rather than he the blade.

The fact that he had unsheathed it at the Monock Hotel still troubled him. He had not meant to draw it. He had not even known he had drawn it.

The thing seemed to have a mind of its own.

Hugo Tamarand’s outer door opened onto a small, dark-paneled room containing several cabinets and a single desk strewn with papers. Behind the desk, a florid-faced man with thick spectacles scribbled numbers into a ledger, his ferret-like eyes darting from papers to book and back again.

When the clerk failed to acknowledge him, Bowie cleared his throat.

Without looking up, the man said, “Your purpose?”

“I must see your employer,” Bowie said. “On a matter of great importance.”

“Out of the question. Mr. Tamarand sees no one without an appointment.”

“In that case, I require one. Immediately.”

The florid-faced man dipped his pen in an inkwell, blotted the tip, and proceeded to transfer more numbers into the ledger. “You misunderstand me, sirrah. Mr. Tamarand grants appointments only at his own pleasure. If he wished to see you, you would have been summoned.”

Bowie felt the knife calling to him. I am the answer, it said, to every question. He clenched his fists. He would not succumb to it again. He could not. Not with his entire future in the balance. Planting his knuckles on the desk, he leaned over the scribbling man.

“It occurs to me,” he said in a deathly quiet voice, “that I neglected to give you my name.”

Still the clerk did not look up. “You are welcome to keep it. And take it with you when you go.”

“The name is Bowie. James Bowie.”

For several seconds more, the man continued working. Then his hand began to shake, as if from palsy. Beads of sweat trickled down the slope of his skull. At last, he angled his gaze upward. “Ah.”

“I have just recalled,” Bowie said, “that I do have an appointment. Now. Do you wish to call me a liar?”

Color fled the man’s face. “I will inform him you have arrived.” He rose and turned toward a door on the rear wall.

“Let’s inform him together.”

Bowie followed him into a hallway lined with small offices containing other pinch-faced men hunched over ledgers.

Bowie felt a measure of shame at bullying this little man. It was an act unworthy of a gentleman. Still, it was good to know his reputation had practical application. And once ensconced in Congress, such threats would no longer be necessary.

The name of Hugo Tamarand was spoken in hushed tones within Louisiana political circles. Ostensibly, his business was shipping, but his true source of power was the behind-the-scenes manipulation of Louisiana politics. Anyone with aspirations in the state had to deal, soon or late, with Hugo Tamarand. Even Andrew Jackson, it was said, had recently come hat in hand, seeking Tamarand’s favor in his bid for the Presidency. And when Congressman William Brent promised to step aside, he had couched his words with the catchphrase, Should it please Mr. Tamarand.

Loath to prostrate himself before any man, Bowie had avoided seeing him. But he must know the truth of Brent’s intentions.

At the end of the hall, the clerk rapped knuckles delicately against an unmarked door.

“Go away,” issued a thin voice from within.

The clerk exhibited an elaborate shrug.

Bowie guided the sputtering fellow out of the way and strode inside.

The clerk shrilled, “Mr. Tamarand, sir! This ruffian forced his way in. I assure you I—”

“That will be all, Smythe,” the voice said. “I will see him.”

Bowie’s eyes swept the room in search of the speaker. The padded chair behind the massive, marble-topped desk was vacant. Behind it rose row upon row of leather-bound books. In one corner stood a shining globe of the earth, fully a yard in diameter, and next to it stood half a man. Half, because the great Hugo Tamarand, despite the giant shadow he cast over Louisiana, was hardly larger than a boy.

The fellow’s skull was bald, and gleamed pink in the lamplight. Indeed, his entire face was pink, and his side-whiskers, as long as Bowie’s own, had the look of peach fuzz. His formal dress, a florid scarlet cravat over a satin waistcoat, made him appear the mere parody of a man.

Bowie felt even more the bully. “Your pardon, sir. I fear I have behaved badly.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Bowie. Compared with your actions this afternoon at the Hotel Monock, it would seem you have shown uncharacteristic restraint. I must thank you for not slicing poor Mr. Smythe’s throat.”

Bowie swallowed. So the man knew him, and was remarkably well informed. “That was regrettable,” he said, “but I was provoked.”

“Yes. So I understand. And I expect you had a similar excuse for that celebrated killing on the sandbar.”

Bowie bit back his response. Any answer he gave would sound lame.

Tamarand threw open his coat. “I assure you I am not armed. I hope you feel no provocation from me.”

“It’s about Brent,” Bowie blurted. “He promised me his seat.”

“Did he now?” Tamarand’s eyes were gleaming steel balls. “And did you truly think it his to give?”

Bowie held his tongue, feeling foolish.

Tamarand climbed into the overstuffed chair behind his desk. Somehow it made him appear even smaller. “Please sit, Mr. Bowie. I dislike looking up at people.”

Bowie found a straight-backed chair across from the desk. His knees rose at an ungainly angle, and he realized Tamarand could now look down upon him.

“Brent gave me his word,” Bowie said.

Tamarand reached for a long-stemmed pipe, tapping its contents into a small silver bowl. “Yes. I persuaded him to reconsider.”

“May I ask why?”

Stuffing a pinch of tobacco into his pipe, the little man lit it from a candle and puffed it to life. For a long moment, he examined Bowie through the smoke. “Mr. Brent, I regret to say, has been unwise in his investments. Quite simply, he cannot afford to leave office.”

Bowie was stunned. Money flowed freely in Washington, and had a way of sticking to the hands of public officials. That was no small factor in his desire to join them.

“You persuaded him,” Bowie said. “May I assume his debt is to you?”

“I must say, sir, you are unusually direct. But it happens directness is a quality I admire. Your assumption is correct.”

“How much does he owe?”

“A great deal, I’m afraid.”

“How much?”

“There is such a thing, Mr. Bowie, as being too direct.”

“I wish to pay it,” Bowie said. “With his debt paid, he would be free to retire.”

Tamarand turned his pipe, using the stem as a pointer. “You have much to learn of politics, I fear. Whatever the amount of Mr. Brent’s actual debt, his presence in Congress is of far greater value. To put it bluntly, he is an asset I am not prepared to lose.”

So he’s in your pocket, Bowie thought. Things were much clearer now.

“How much will it take? How much to release him, and run me in his stead?”

Tamarand’s mouth hung open. “You are an unusual fellow, Mr. Bowie. I am not unaware, of course, of your current difficulties with the General Land Office. It seems they suspect you of forging a number of old Spanish grants.”

Bowie bristled. “Unproven charges. And in any case, such pursuits are behind me now.”

Tamarand eyed him keenly. “Do not misunderstand me. The fact that you have engaged in such activities and so far eluded prosecution is a point in your favor. I am also not unaware of certain dealings you had with the pirate Lafitte. With proper grooming, a man of your audacity and moral fluidity might do quite well in Washington.” He puffed on his pipe, eyeing Bowie keenly through the smoke.

Bowie waited. To this man, everything had a price.

At length, Tamarand said, “I am sorry to dampen your hopes, but I’m afraid you would find the amount quite beyond your reach.”

“How much?”

Tamarand twisted his pink lips. “I could not possibly consider less than a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

Had Bowie been standing, he would have staggered. Even if he and his brothers were to liquidate all their property and borrow against future prospects, they would be hard pressed to raise half that amount. “Not impossible,” he said, “given time. But the election will soon be upon us. The most I could offer on such short notice is seventy-five thousand.”

“I might look favorably on a hundred and twenty-five thousand.”

“Eighty-five,” Bowie said, “with one month to gather the funds.”

Tamarand’s eyes gleamed. The man was enjoying this. “A hundred and fifteen, with a good faith deposit of twenty thousand.”

Bowie drew a wallet from his jacket pocket, sliding a thick stack of bills into his hand—money entrusted him by his brothers for a land deal in Arkansas. “Ten thousand dollars,” he said, “toward a total of a hundred thousand, payable one month from today.”

Tamarand’s eyes fixed on the cash. “Mr. Bowie, we may make a congressman of you yet. Provided you raise the rest of the money.”

“Do you doubt I can?”

“I believe you can,” Tamarand said with obvious amusement. “It will be interesting to see if you will.”