Dreams Beneath Your Feet (9 page)

Ermatinger unconsciously covered his nose with one hand. It had been big and pink even when he was a child. “I am no drunk, Sir.”

“We know you for a good and sober man, Bardolf.”

Actually, Ermatinger did like his tot of rum.

Roller thought all this was a hoot and especially liked the idea of addressing his boss without the “Mr.” Soon half the staff at Fort Vancouver called Ermatinger just plain Bardolf, and now all the staff at Fort Hall did. Luckily, the employees were only Walker, Roller, the Owyhees, and a German. The German, heir to a more formal culture, called him Herr Bardolf.

Now Ermatinger had the party riding toward the fort into focus. It was Morgan, with the other Americans and some Crows.

Ermatinger knew Sam Morgan, Joe Meek, Doc Newell, and the half-breed Hannibal MacKye well enough. Whatever beaver they took on the spring hunt was due to his generosity. Relying on their character, he supplied them on credit. The deal was, they would bring their furs to him and not take them to rendezvous, where the American Fur Company would be buying and selling. Ermatinger wanted to get a leg up on the Americans at every opportunity.

This time, from what he could see, it wasn't going to be much of a leg up. The packhorses bore only a meager number of furs.

Ermatinger snorted. He wondered if he'd ever get out of this country. He hated this post, the most remote in all of Oregon Territory. The supposed majesty of the Tetons meant nothing to him, and he had never seen the wonders his men described in the Yellowstone country. He hated the Snake River plains to the west. Somehow the plains had gotten the idea of growing lava rocks instead of grasses. Nor did he give a fig for the Indians he traded with, mostly Shoshones. He was not even deeply attached, if truth be told, to his attractive wife, Mary, and their daughter, a two-year-old everyone else found adorable.

In the center of his heart he held an ambition, hot as a dry leaf under a magnifying glass. He wanted a high position at Fort Vancouver. He believed he could get it, and to hell with however McLoughlin felt about him.

His performance here in the upper Snake River country was
critical to the Company. True, the beaver were getting trapped out. The advantage of that was, the American trappers were disappearing along with the beaver.

In a short time Ermatinger had increased the post's annual fur shipment by severalfold. He'd gotten more and more trade from the Shoshone Indians and the Blackfeet as well. They brought in buffalo hides and ermine and river otters, peltries now more profitable than beaver. They traded him dried buffalo meat to send down to Vancouver. And Ermatinger got the trade of whatever trappers had not yet given up working the streams.

It all added up to something important. This tough little man meant to keep the Indian tribes allied with Britain, not the United States. He intended to drive the American fur men out of the entire Oregon country. If Americans tried to emigrate to Oregon—so far only a handful of missionaries had made the attempt—he would welcome them, warn them of the dangers ahead, laugh mockingly at the idea of getting wagons across that rough trail, and turn them back.

Yes, Oregon now belonged by treaty to both America and Britain. But Francis Ermatinger intended to rule it all someday.

He took a last good look through the glass.
Damnably few furs.

“Tell the cook to prepare sufficient food,” the trader called down to Roller. “Then raise the colors.”

He smiled to himself about that. The fort seldom flew the Union Jack, because the American trappers didn't like to be reminded. Once in a while, in his opinion, a gesture of empire was a good touch.

 

“I
T'S AN INSULT
,” said Joe. “Let's tear the damn thing down. Goddamn Brits.”

While the women put up the tipis, the men relaxed and took in the fine afternoon. Sam and Hannibal had decided that the chance of rain today on the Snake River plains was none. They would build their brush hut tomorrow, or perhaps never.

Hannibal watched the missionaries put their three tents up. He noted with amusement that they took care to arrange the tents in a straight line. What, a thousand miles from anywhere, was the point of a straight line?

“Hell,” said Joe, “let's just shoot their damned Union Jack down.”

Hannibal jumped up. “Hell, yes.” He called to the tents, “Mr. Littlejohn, Mr. Clark, Mr. Smith, we need a confab.” He always called the three preachers Mr. instead of Reverend, to keep the amount of ego in camp tamped down.

The three ministers pulled long faces and rumbled over to the mountain men.

“That flag,” Hannibal said, “is an affront to American sensibilities.” The Delaware was having fun.

Joe Meek sidled over to Sam and whispered, “What does ‘affront to sensibilities' mean?”

“A slap in the face,” said Sam.

“Let's get 'em,” said Joe.

Hannibal went on about treaties and legalities. Doc echoed his words, both acting like they were in high dudgeon.

Littlejohn said, “What do you say, gentlemen?”

The missionaries tugged at their beards and muttered low. They'd called each other Reverend and gentlemen all the way across the plains and mountains. Joe Meek had said more than once that the West had never seen a Reverend or a gentleman, excepting Captain William Drummond Stewart, who was gone back to Scotland to play the part of a lord.

Now Joe piped up, “I don't care about nothing but that Union Jack flying in my face. Let's give 'em what for.”

The missionaries nodded.

“Joe,” Hannibal said at the end, “you will be our ambassador plenipotentiary.”

“What do that mean?” said Joe.

“I say,” said Littlejohn irritably. He was a British emigrant.

“It means you will approach the fort with a formal diplomatic statement.”

Joe looked sideways at Sam and grinned.

“You must leave your rifle behind but carry a stick with a piece of white cloth tied to it.

“I am plenty of whatever you want,” he said.

“Hannibal, I want to go with Joe.”

This was Esperanza. Sam hadn't realized she'd walked up. She and Joe were buddies.

“Unseemly,” said Littlejohn.

“Exactly,” said Hannibal. “The presence of a woman will insult the Brits in a pointed way.”

“I say,” repeated Littlejohn.

“Now you've got to learn these words I'm going to give you to say,” said Hannibal. “But Joe must do the talking,” he told Esperanza. “He's an American.”

In a few minutes the two strode the bottomland to the bastion. As Esperanza whispered to him, Joe called out the message to Ermatinger.

“We, being citizens of the United States of America, declare to you that this is American soil.”

That was close enough. Everyone but Ermatinger knew that when the division was officially made, the Snake River would be part of the States.

“We are therefore . . .” Joe stopped and listened to Esperanza. He wanted to strike just the right tone. “We therefore demand that you lower the flag of Great Britain.”

“Go to hell,” yelled Ermatinger.

Joe was undaunted. He had a backup position.

“In case of your refusal we demand that the American flag be raised to fly beside it.” Joe paused. “Indeed, above it.” This was his own addition, and he was proud of the word “indeed.”

“You and your strumpet both go to hell,” said Ermatinger.

“Trumpet?” said Joe.

“Strumpet,” shouted Ermatinger.

Joe and Esperanza looked at each other and shrugged. Neither of them knew what it meant.

Joe and Esperanza returned to his comrades and consulted with them. Then they marched back to the bastion. Joe weaved as he went. If he couldn't be drunk, he could at least pretend.

Joe announced, “We mountain men and this mountain woman, citizens of the United States, hereby formally give you notice. If you do not comply with our wishes within ten minutes, we will take the Union Jack down by force.”

“I'll see you in hell first,” said Ermatinger. “Walker,” he called across the courtyard, “close and bar the gate.”

Now, being forced into military mode, the trappers named Hannibal their general and Sam their captain.

“I say,” protested Littlejohn. He brandished a smoothbore. “We of the cloth are able to fight.” The others had gotten out rifles they didn't maintain or practice with.

“Oh, you men of God,” said Hannibal, “on the battlefield God's representative is the general. He plans things out—he being me—and a captain leads the attacks.”

“We do not appreciate your mocking tone, Sir,” said Littlejohn.

“Having observed the battlefield,” said Hannibal, “I declare that no planning is necessary. Captain Morgan, lead the attack.”

Sam said, “Let's go.” He, Flat Dog, Joe, and Esperanza straggled in a decidedly unmilitary formation toward the fort and the flagpole.

Easing alongside Hannibal, Julia said, “Is this all right?”

Hannibal said, “Azul and Rojo, follow Captain Morgan.”

The boys sprinted forward, laughing and brandishing their bows.

The British staff of Fort Hall assembled on the ramparts, all six of them, and held their rifles at port arms, or whatever it was called.

“Reverend,” Sam said to Littlejohn, “can you hit anything with that thing?”

“Decidedly, Sir.”

“Ready, aim, fire!” said Sam merrily.

Littlejohn peppered the Union Jack with buckshot. It tattered nicely.

They glared at their opponents on the ramparts. These men had been friends for several years, drinking together, eating together, camping together. Everyone but Ermatinger was a good companion.

“Fire!” cried Ermatinger.

The British lifted their rifles to the sky and shot holes in the air.

“Azul, Rojo,” cried Sam, “the flag.” The boys aimed their arrows. “Ready, aim, fire.”

After the arrows cut their holes, there wasn't enough of the Union Jack left to keep Ermatinger's wife decent. Joe knew her to favor indecency anyway.

“Men and woman,” cried Sam, “it's time for the assault. Charge!” All the men rushed the gate. They laid their shoulders to it with a will, and the thing splintered. It had only been built for show anyway.

Ermatinger called a retreat, and the entire fort staff skedaddled to the trading room.

The mountain men charged up the ramparts, and Joe Meek shinnied up the pole. He had a little American flag he wore as a hatband, because he liked to make a show of being American when he went to Taos or up to the Hudson's Bay post at Flathead Lake.

At the top he stripped the Union Jack off its rope, spat on it, and hurled it to the ground. Then, with some reverence, he established Old Glory in its place. When the wind caught the Stars and Stripes, the attacking force fired their rifles into the air and shouted their triumph.

Joe leaped off the top of the pole, caught the ramparts with his feet, did a somersault, hit the floor of the plaza rolling, and stood up with a big grin.

“We're not finished,” said Sam.

All the trapper soldiers, with Esperanza in the throng, marched to the trading room. “Bardolf,” cried Sam, “come out!”

“Go to hell,” said Ermatinger.

“Come out, or I'll shoot this lock and we'll come in.”

“Bugger off.”

“Bardolf, if we have to come in, we'll take everything in the trading room, down to the last coffee bean.”

Silence.

“We'll make a nice profit, selling all your goods to the Shoshones.”

Finally John Roller cracked the door open. “What do you want?”

“Come on out.”

Roller was a friendly man, endowed with a goofy gap-toothed grin. The men knew him well and liked him.

“What do you want?”

“One keg of your finest rum,” said Sam, “and all sins are forgotten.”

“Stick a toothpick up your arse,” yelled Ermatinger from inside.

“A keg,” said Joe Meek, and cocked and aimed a threat bigger than a toothpick.

“Bardolf, give way, or we'll strip this place clean.” Sam grinned at Meek. “I can't control Joe for long.”

Roller stood in front of them and fidgeted. The poor man couldn't do a thing but gap-grin. Finally, the door cracked open again. Anonymous hands pushed a keg out. The mountain men seized it.

Roller said, “Mind if I join in?”

In less than an hour all ten mountain-man soldiers, plus eight wives, were sitting in front of a big campfire, pleasantly soused. Most of them hadn't tasted a proper rum before, for the traders usually kept that for themselves.

Sam noticed that Meek and Doc were dipping into one of their
quarrels. Doc said, “I want to take wagons to Oregon, be the first to do it.”

Joe gave him a queer look. “It can't be done.”

“I've thought on it considerably,” said Doc. “We can accomplish it.”

“Doc,” said Joe, “you got me to nursemaid the missionaries, but I'll be damned if I'll give suck to wagons.”

“By God, Meek, listen.” Doc, with his smidgeon of book learning, had developed the conviction that he could control life. Sam scooted out of that conversation as fast as he could.

He found a boulder and tootled on his Irish whistle. Esperanza, Azul, and Rojo did silly dances to his tunes. The twilight lingered long. It was a good evening.

“Esperanza,” Sam called, “you were a good soldier. I'm going to play a march in your honor.”

He piped it out, and Esperanza did a mock soldier step. Joe Meek even joined her.

Again, Sam thought,
Maybe it's all going to work out.

 

 

 

K
ANAKA
B
OY TOOK
a score of men and left a handful behind to mind the camp and the stills. He liked to travel with an overpowering force. Anyone who saw the rifles, pistols, tomahawks, and belt knives these men carried would stand well off.