Bowie's Gold

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 5 “I shall call you ‘Jim.’ ”

Bowie’s boot heels rapped the wooden planks as he strode purposefully along the wharf. The dockyards followed the great bend in the Mississippi, and the masts of a hundred ships snaked off into the distance like a forest of barren trees. Officers and overseers barked orders in half a dozen languages. Stripe-shirted sailors strained on ropes, hoisting cargo from ships’ holds. Burly dockworkers trundled handcarts to and from waiting wagons.

Bowie hurried on. Each step brought a twinge in his lung, a parting gift from the sword of Major Norris Wright, but he could not be troubled by pain. He must raise ninety thousand dollars in thirty days or his congressional career would be over before it began. He and his brothers owned great tracts of land, but to see both men and overcome their reluctance to sell would consume most of the thirty days.

Collecting debts owed him was equally problematic. The odds of his debtors having funds at hand were slight, and there was every chance he would encounter gentlemen to whom he himself owed money.

At length he spied the red and yellow flag of Spain atop the mast of a brig. A group of gentlemen in tall beaver hats watched liveried grooms struggle to keep four spirited horses in check. Bowie admired their strong, clean lines. They were thoroughbreds all, and coming down the gangplank was the most impressive of the group, a great black stallion with a blaze of white across its face.

The well-dressed gentlemen crowded around, running hands over their flanks. One was arguably a thoroughbred himself, standing head and shoulders above the rest. He wore a camel hair coat of the latest cut and a broad brimmed white hat with an eagle feather.

Bowie hurried forward, executed a brief bow and extended a hand.

“Mr. Neville,” he said, mustering all his grace. “My compliments on an exemplary group of animals.”

Fletcher Neville chewed his cigar a moment before taking the hand. His grip was firm, but the shake tentative. “Do I know you, sir?”

“Indeed,” Bowie said. “My late friend Reuben Kemper introduced us at the track in Alexandria. My name is—”

“Bowie. Yes, I remember. You won a fair amount of my money that day, if I am not mistaken.”

“Luck,” Bowie said truthfully. The horse he had backed had bested Neville’s filly by little more than a nose. “I trust there are no hard feelings.”

“Not at all,” Neville said. “I admire a man canny enough to beat me at my own game.” He removed the cigar from his mouth and pointed it at Bowie. “Though it does make me wary of him in future.”

Neville commanded one of the richest cotton plantations in the state, and was known to be somewhat mercurial, prone to invest vast sums on the merest whim. If any man in Louisiana could be Bowie’s savior, Fletcher Neville was that man.

“I heard a story about you, Mr. Bowie.”

Bowie attempted a smile, dreading the sordid tale that was sure to come.

“I heard,” Neville said, “that you are running for Congress.”

Bowie’s smile became genuine. “I am indeed. And I intend to win.”

Neville studied him critically.

The man’s neatly coiffed black hair and strong, jutting jaw made Bowie uncomfortably aware of his own unruly red locks and dimpled chin.

“What sort of congressman would you make, Mr. Bowie?”

“A great one. And one who would not forget his friends.”

“Hm. If true, it would certainly distinguish you from that scoundrel Brent. I suppose you would not be averse to accepting a modest donation to your campaign.”

Bowie could not believe his luck. Neville was making his case for him. “You are more right than you know, sir. Truth to tell, it was for that reason I sought you out today.”

Neville turned to the tweedy, bespectacled man at his shoulder. “Levin, see that Mr. Bowie receives a check in the amount of…” he twirled his cigar in the air, “five thousand dollars.” Then, catching Bowie’s eye, he raised an eyebrow at what he found there, and said, “No, make it ten.”

“You are most generous, sir. So generous that it pains me to admit my need is considerably greater.” Seeing Neville’s eyes grow hard, he rushed ahead. “I ask no further donation, of course, but if you could see your way clear to a personal loan, I am confident that within a few months I would be able to—”

The sound of a whip crack brought both their heads around. Opposite the dock, before a tavern whose sign read Satan’s Crypt, stood a burly giant with a braided horsewhip in his hand. Facing him in the street, next to a wagon laden with kegs, was one of the tallest black men Bowie had ever seen. The fellow wore only white-duck trousers and a red rag about his neck, and his chest shone like a newly polished riding boot.

“How much?” Neville demanded.

Bowie found his mouth dry. Now that the moment had arrived, he could barely form the words.

“How much do you need? Clearly you came here with an amount in mind.”

The number was barely more than a whisper. “Ninety thousand.”

Neville raised an eyebrow. “You presume a great deal on so slight an acquaintance.”

“If I overreach,” Bowie said, “it is only due to zeal.”

The whip cracked again. No blow had yet been struck, but Bowie could see it coming. The slave betrayed not the slightest trace of fear. And with the girth of two men, the man with the whip was clearly one to be feared. A well-greased mustache flared out onto mottled cheeks, and thick brown stubble covered his fleshy jaw. Bowie knew him to be the tavern’s proprietor, a man he’d heard addressed as Heckmann.

“Move, you black jackanapes! That wine does me no good sitting on a wagon.”

Bowie turned away. He was no stranger to slavery, but he had never tolerated brutality. Still, this was no time to involve himself in the troubles of others.

He found Neville watching him.

“Well, Mr. Bowie, you do not lack brass, I’ll grant you that. And no one can accuse you of doing things in small measure. But not all I’ve heard is favorable. I believe you have earned quite a reputation as a brawler.”

“I’m a new man,” Bowie said. “I’ve put violence behind me now.”

“I see. And exactly when did this reformation begin? Yesterday, perhaps, right after you almost slit a man’s throat in a respectable hotel?”

Bowie could offer no defense.

“Is that how you intend to conduct yourself in the halls of Congress?”

“Certainly not,” Bowie said, hoping that was true.

“I must say I am not convinced. On the other hand, a knife at the throat may be exactly what some of our legislators need, if applied with moderation and restraint.”

“Those,” Bowie said solemnly, “are qualities I sincerely aspire to.”

Neville eyed him steadily. “For ninety thousand dollars, even in the form of a loan, I would expect a certain allegiance.”

Bowie pursed his lips. This felt like selling another piece of his soul. But a seat in Congress was practically a license to print money.

“As you may know,” Neville said, “I also have interests in Tennessee. I backed a fellow there in the last election—a backwoodsman named Crockett—because I thought he could be useful.” He gave Bowie a piercing look. “He has now decided he is his own man. I should hate for that to happen again.”

The whip cracked a third time. Not the sharp warnings he had heard earlier, but the thick, obscene slap of a quirt biting into human flesh. Bowie turned, wincing at the angry welt across the black man’s chest.

Heckmann’s whip shot forward again like a great snake.

Bowie flinched, hand straying without thought toward his hip.

But as the lash raked the slave’s shoulder, a black hand shot up. Like a trained serpent, the whip coiled around the slave’s arm, and Heckmann was caught like a fish on a hook.

Over Bowie’s shoulder, Neville said quietly, “The fool.”

Bowie wondered which man he meant.

The slave’s courage was impressive, if not mere stupidity. And no matter what Heckmann did next, he would lose. If he killed the man, he would be out a great deal of money. But if he did not, his power over this and any other slave would be forever forfeit.

Heckmann yanked a long-barreled pistol from his belt. “Release that whip, or I’ll splatter your brains on the street.”

“Shoot, then. I shall suffer no further indignities from you.” The slave’s voice was rich and weighty like an orator’s, and smacked of aristocracy.

“Shoot,” Neville said softly. “Shoot and be done with it.”

The wharf had grown still. Sailors, dockworkers and slaves alike stood frozen, waiting to see what Heckmann would do.

What he did was sputter. “Wh-Why you damned sassy ape!” His arm shook as he strove to level his pistol on the black man’s chest.

Bowie sprang forward, covering the yards between them at a gallop. Heckmann’s pistol exploded as Bowie slammed into him, and the ball crashed through the staves of a barrel. Wine gushed as Heckmann went sprawling to the cobblestone street.

The man was up in an instant, hand reaching for another pistol.

Bowie’s blade flashed from its sheath, catching the morning sun. Before Heckmann could bring the gun to bear, Bowie had him by the throat, the knife biting into his chest.

Heckmann glared into Bowie’s eyes. “Who the devil are you, to meddle in my affairs?”

“A man who hates bullies. But for the record, the name is Bowie. James Bowie.”

Heckmann’s face drained of color. “I don’t care who you are. No man stands between me and my property.”

Bowie smiled grimly. “I see two possible solutions. One, I stick you like a pig and foul the river with your corpse.” The blade dug deeper. “Or two, I relieve you of your problem.”

“So that’s the way of it.” Heckmann sneered. “You’ll either murder me or steal my slave.”

“Killing a snake is hardly murder. But it needn’t come to that. I’ll give you a fair price.”

When Heckmann ran out of curses, a crafty gleam came into his eyes. “He’s worth at least a thousand.”

“He may have been once,” Bowie said, “but he’s been ill-treated. You’ll take four hundred.”

“Four! That’s robbery!”

“If it’s more than your life is worth, so be it.”

The man’s eyes went dull as stones. “Six hundred cash, and not a penny less.”

“Five,” said Bowie, “and you’ll accept a note. I assure you I’m good for it.”

With a great scowl, Heckmann agreed, and Bowie lowered the knife. From the onlookers came a smattering of cheers, but an equal number of jeers. And as if a spell had been broken, the dock returned to life.

Bowie’s eyes sought Neville, but all he caught was the back of the man’s jacket disappearing into a carriage. An instant later the carriage and horse trailers went rumbling off down the wharf.

Bowie watched them go. The ninety thousand was now certainly lost to him, and likely the promised ten thousand as well.

He turned to face the slave.

The black man stood as if rooted to the street, the tail of the whip still coiled about his arm. “You will most assuredly regret that,” he said in his orator’s voice. There was no threat in the words. He was merely stating a fact, one he seemed to find amusing.

Bowie grinned tightly. “I already do. What’s your name, fellow?”

The man straightened, making himself even taller. “I am Mr. Samuel Frost Gideon.”

“An impressive name. And you’re an impressive man, Sam. But I’ve no use for a slave. I’m granting you your freedom.”

The man’s head drew back. “I prefer to be addressed as ‘Mr. Gideon’. And my freedom is far too valuable to be tendered upon a whim. Until I can earn it, I shall not accept it at all.”

Bowie felt his heat rising, but detected a faint smile on the black man’s lips. The rascal was baiting him. Shaking his head, Bowie emitted a gruff laugh. “I’ll play your game, for the moment. I shall call you Mr. Gideon, and you shall call me—”

“ ‘Jim,’ ” the black man said firmly. “I shall call you ‘Jim.’ ”