Gypsy Lady (36 page)
Jason
raised an eyebrow and murmured, "So, you and Livingston finally overcame
your differences. Do you know exactly what you have bought? The extent of the
territory has always been obscure—did the French make it clear precisely where
the boundary lines run? And did Barbe- Marbois offer proof of ownership?"
Monroe
squirmed uncomfortably and uneasily bit his lip. Trust Savage to put his finger
unerringly on the two points he and Livingston preferred not to think about.
War with Spain over the territory was implicit in the contract, and neither he
nor Livingston had any positive idea of what they were committing the United
States to pay fifteen million dollars for.
Jason,
reading Monroe's thoughts fairly accurately, questioned softly, "Do you
even know where the western boundary of the territory is?"
Almost
curtly, Monroe answered, "Robert was dissatisfied with Barbe-Marbois's
answers on that subject and has discussed that very point with
Talleyrand."
"And
what did the astute minister of foreign affairs have to say?"
Disliking
to disclose
to this increasingly insolent young man
how little they did know, Monroe hesitated. But recalling Jefferson's latest
letter and the president's admonition that Savage was to be trusted
implicitly, he said dryly, "We are to construe it whichever way we
wish!"
Jason
smiled to himself. Clever, clever Talleyrand! Trust him to give an ambiguous
answer.
"Does
the thought of United States ownership please you?" Monroe asked, breaking
into his thoughts.
Jason
shrugged. "At the moment I can see little that the change of ownership
will bring. Besides," he added, "Congress may not approve of what you
have done—
or
has that thought not yet occurred to
you?"
It
had, and he and Livingston between themselves had already discussed the
question of whether the Constitution even allowed the Federal government the
right to buy foreign lands. And both were certain the Federalists would
question it, as well as several Republican congressmen.
Yet
the purchase of the territory, whether legal or not, would solve so many
problems that had plagued the United States lately: Spain would no longer
control the Mississippi River; there would be peace with France and not war,
although war with Spain was not resolved; and most importantly, the Americans
would no longer be bound east of the Mississippi River. Hopefully, Congress and
Jefferson would take the same point of view. Whatever the outcome, he and
Livingston had signed a bargain, and now all they could do was inform
Jefferson and their own nation of what they had done.
Looking
at Jason, Monroe asked, "Now that our negotiations are done, is there any
reason for you to remain in France?"
Pausing
only a second, Jason said in an odd tone, "None."
"Then
perhaps you will continue to serve Jefferson as you have in the past and carry
these dispatches explaining the treaty to him?" It was really more of a
statement than a question, and both men knew the answer.
Two
days later Jason stood on the deck of a sleek American ship and idly watched
the coastline of Europe disappear. He was on his way home and in
a small
leather pouch around his waist rested the documents from
Paris.
Gazing
at the widening expanse of blue-green water, his face was expressionless.
Somewhere across the ever- increasing distance, he had left a wife—a wife who
could be caught up in the holocaust of war that was ready to erupt between
England and France! For a minute a flash of something approaching anguish cut
through him as the memory of a pair of dancing violet eyes leaped to his mind.
Then the icy facade was back, and after one last glance he turned with a shrug
of indifference and made his way below deck.
After over five weeks at
sea, Jason was glad to have the feel of solid mother earth beneath his feet.
Mon Dieu,
it was good to be back, he thought, smiling with
pleasure as his gaze rested upon the gently rolling green hills of Virginia.
But his pleasure was mixed; he had the dispatches to deliver to Jefferson, and
the long overland journey through the treacherous Natchez Trace to face before
he would find himself once more on home ground.
He
had lost a whole day in Norfolk cooling his heels while waiting impatiently for
his belongings to be unloaded. Then, deciding at the last moment to take
Pierre with him, he made arrangements for the transportation of his belongings
to New Orleans by a ship that was sailing on the evening tide; he did not wish
to risk their loss on the overland trail. If he hadn't had to deliver the dispatches,
he and Pierre also would have been on that ship for the final phase of their
journey.
As it
was, he hired what he hoped were two decent mounts for the trip to Federal
City, already beginning to be called Washington, and on the morning of July 15,
1803, Jason Savage handed over to President Thomas Jefferson the papers
regarding the Louisiana Purchase.
It
was a hot, bright morning and Jason, immaculate in breeches of buff nankeen and
a superbly cut jacket of tobacco brown cloth, could have thought of other ways
to spend such a delightful morning. But he had undertaken to play courier and
play courier he would!
He gazed
about the president's office, noting with satisfaction that the large windows
were thrown wide to allow a breath of fresh air to drift through the room,
while Jefferson eagerly devoured the dispatches.
Finishing
the last page, the president slowly laid it down and glanced with a pleased
smile at Jason. An equally pleased grin broke the serious expression on Jason's
face, and for a minute both men regarded one another with almost idiotically
smug expressions. Then Jefferson broke the silence with, "So—it is
done."
A
slow nod from Jason greeted his words, and Jason, his grin fading, added,
"Except for Congress."
Jefferson's
blue eyes narrowed, and his jaw hardened. "It will be a fight, but by God,
they
will
ratify this treaty!"
"Perhaps!
The Federalists will
certainly create opposition, and I don't envy you once the newspapers learn of
it. You're in for a hot summer in more ways than one, sir."
But
Jefferson, his eyes filled with visions, only nodded vaguely. Bringing himself
back to the present with an effort, he asked, "And you? What are your
plans now?"
Jason
shrugged. "I leave this afternoon for Greenwood to see my father, and then
I shall be for home. That is," he said quietly, "if you have no
further use of me."
"Jason,
such amicability alarms me!" teased Jefferson, his wide smile creating
deep creases in his craggy face. Seeing Savage was serious, he added, "I
depend upon your help in New Orleans once the treaty is ratified. And I will
need you to keep me informed of the reactions of the populace until that time.
But I have at this time no special task for you. Go home and enjoy the summer.
When I have a use for you—I know where to find you."
Leaving
Jefferson, Jason rode directly to Greenwood. He had sent Pierre ahead to warn
Guy of his imminent arrival.
The
meeting with his father was not something that Jason was looking forward to
with pleasure. Guy would be full of enthusiasm for the marriage and then, Jason
guessed, highly offended and furious when he learned that his son's bride was
not accompanying her husband— had in fact deserted him. It was a galling enough
thought for Jason to stomach, and he didn't relish the telling of it to his
father. And, he thought grimly, if Monroe had minded his own business and
hadn't been so eager to write to Guy about it, there would be nothing to
explain.
Jason
arrived at Greenwood late in the evening on Wednesday to find that Guy was not
at home. A longstanding dinner engagement was the reason. Jason, seeking out
his bed, was almost guiltily thankful that he did not have to talk of his
missing bride at once. Unfortunately the unpleasant news could only be
postponed so long, and the morning would come soon enough.
Entering
the breakfast room the next day, Jason was met by a jubilant if very curious
Guy. They exchanged greetings, and Jason took a seat across the table from his
father, wishing that Guy would have managed to sire a few more sons before that
last break with his wife. At least then, the onus of continuing the family line
would not be on his shoulders alone and the whole subject of marriage would
never have arisen. Sprawled in his chair, Jason eyed his father speculatively.
Guy certainly looked capable of fathering a good-sized brood even now. At fifty
years of age, Guy Savage was still a handsome and virile man. His dark face was
only faintly lined, and his unruly black hair was sprinkled lightly and, women
agreed, very attractively with silver. His shoulders were as straight and as
powerful as those of his son—if not quite as broad. Jason topped him by an inch
or two in height, but Guy had
a lean
whipcord strength
about him that even his son respected. And looking at him, Jason hoped the day
would not end with them coming to blows. Although just now Guy appeared very
relaxed and expectant, Jason knew how quickly that mood could evaporate. And
considering how disappointed Guy was going to be, Jason was not liking the task
in front of him.
Guy
had learned that his son had arrived late the night before, and with it the
puzzling news that he was alone. So Guy's first action was to ask eagerly after
Jason's absent bride.
His
pleased excitement turned to anger when Jason snapped, "The marriage was a
mistake from start to finish!
, My
bride,"
his voice grated on the word, "and I are not
living together. She prefers Europe, and I left her there!"
"You
did
what?"
bellowed Guy, his sea-gray
eyes blazing.
Jason, glancing over his shoulder with undisguised venom,
snarled, "I left her there.
And, father, if you are
wise you will not plague me further!"
Guy,
his eyes bright with frustration, stared for some seconds at his son. Guy was a
hot-tempered, volatile man and was at the moment controlling his wrath with
difficulty. And Jason was doing nothing to avert the storm
that
was obviously brewing. It
was almost as if he suddenly welcomed the opportunity to release some of his
own hurt and dull rage at what had overtaken him.
A
full-blown argument erupted, and they parted in tight-lipped anger. It was
understandable—Jason would not answer any questions, would volunteer no
information, and Guy was totally thwarted and frustrated.
They
did not see one another for several hours, each in
his own
way somewhat regretful of the harsh words hurled at one another. They finally
met again in the late afternoon. A shaky truce existing, they were seated outside
under a honeysuckle-draped arbor enjoying what coolness could be found. Guy
tried not to bring up the subject of their earlier altercation, but he just
couldn't let it lie. Almost peevishly he complained, "You could at least
explain a little. Dash it—at least tell me about the girl! Does she come from a
good family? Monroe only wrote that you had married an uncommonly pretty
girl."
Jason,
lounging in a cane chair, threw his father a resigned look. 'I notice you
don't ask if we love one another. I seem to remember you thinking that more
important than anything."
"Obviously
you don't, or you wouldn't now be separated. I saw no reason to question what
I can see with my own eyes. And if it wasn't a love match, you must have married
well.
An heiress, perhaps?"
"As
a matter of fact—yes, she is. And she does come from a good family. Her father,
deceased incidentally, was an earl. You might have met him—the earl of Mount,
Lord Tremayne. His brother Edward has the title now. And her mother, Rachael,
with whom I spent a few days, is a delightful woman—you'd like her."
Guy
made a queer choking sound, and Jason glanced curiously at him. His father's
face was drained of all color and Jason, his eyes suddenly narrowed, asked
sharply,
"
Something wrong?"
"No!
I—er—was just startled. Tremayne, you say, eh?" Guy's voice was shaking,
and Jason, his eyes narrowing further, watched him closely.
Casually,
Guy asked, "Your wife, Catherine, is the oldest child?"
"Yes,
now that you ask it, she is. Her mother was married before, and I believe there
was a child by that marriage. Does it matter?"
"No,
no," came the hasty reply.
"Just curious."
Surprisingly,
Guy seemed disinclined to discuss the matter further after that, and Jason,
delighted to drop the subject, volunteered nothing more. But the relationship
was strained, and Jason saw no reason for prolonging his visit. Consequently,
he set about preparing to leave at dawn on Friday. There was little to be done,
as he was traveling exceedingly light, and beyond choosing horses and seeing
that adequate food was packed, there was nothing more to be taken care of.
He
was extremely careful in his selection of the horses though; he needed good
animals with stamina and speed and yet not of such breeding and appearance as
to incite envy or greed among the inhabitants of the Natchez Trace. Men had
been murdered and their bodies left to rot on the Trace for nothing less than a
high-spirited horse.
As
planned, he and Pierre left just before dawn. The air was cool now but already
with a hint of the heat that would follow. The journey ahead was hazardous—more
than once Pierre hinted that perhaps they should travel back to Norfolk and
wait for another ship—but with the familiar long-bladed knife resting
comfortably against his buckskin-clad thigh and a rifle strapped over his bedroll,
Jason was prepared to face any danger on The Trace.
The
Trace!
Pierre gave a shudder and glared resentfully at
his master's broad back.
Mon Dieu!
Monsieur
was crazy, he decided. Look at
him,
he thought
disgustedly, dressed like some backwoods lout, his coarse, black hair no longer
fashionable but growing long, so long it covered the back of his neck.
Jason,
elegantly clad, was the kind of man he would have followed willingly to hell,
but monsieur, wearing those deplorable buckskins and so carelessly groomed that
at a quick glance he might be mistaken for some half- breed trapper, revolted
Pierre's very proper sense of what was fitting.
The
area known as the Natchez Trace was old. The first trail had been made by the
wild animals, the deer and the buffalo, on their way to the open grasslands.
Next
came
the Indians, following the tracks left by
their prey. The white man did little to change the Trace, which twisted like a
snake from Nashville to Natchez—five hundred miles of treacherous trail that
wound around impassable swamps and through virgin: timberlands. Travel
normally was from Natchez north, for most people took the Mississippi River for
the southward journey, but after all those weeks at sea watching the waves of
the
ocean,
Jason was disinclined to travel on water.
He
wanted the feel of a good horse under him and the tiredness that comes from a
long day on the trail. .And he was halfway spoiling for a fight. Pierre prayed
fervently every night that they would attract no attention from the unsavory
population of the Trace, but Jason was almost disappointed when they arrived at
The King's Tavern without incident. The King's Tavern marked the end of the
Trace and the most harrowing part of their journey. Now there was just a long
ride down the Mississippi River to Beauvais.
As
the huge flatboat pulled away from Natchez, Pierre prayed that the pilot was
experienced and knew every sandbar and current in that mighty river and that
the river pirates were busy elsewhere. The barge was loaded with lumber from
the north and a variety of goods headed for New Orleans. The very richness of
its cargo: would make it irresistible to the many river gangs that preyed on
just such flatboats.
In
spite of Pierre's unspoken fears, the journey was uneventful, but the little
valet couldn't help making a loud sigh of relief after they disembarked at the
docks of Beauvais and had mounted their horses. Jason, hearing the sigh,
turned hi the saddle and grinned back at him.
"Happy to
be home?"