Read Online Eagle's Cry: A Novel of the Louisiana Purchase by David Nevin - Free Book Online Page B

into a pit of danger. Now she saw what the stakes before them really were. They turned back toward Swan’s and walked in silence. She clutched her shawl to her throat.
    “Jimmy,” she said after several blocks, “was he serious about the army? That it would come out; he’s an officer after all. Could it block the election results?”
    He hesitated. “Not—not on it’s own, I’d think. But of course, any army is there to support what is, not what could be. It’s conservative, resistant to change—”
    “But would it come out?” she cried.
    “On orders, yes. Soldiers do what they’re told.”
    “Could Alex order it? Override Mr. Adams?”
    “I—I don’t think so. It would be quite illegal.”
    “But if someone tried, it would take a commander of real stature to resist, wouldn’t it? A General Washington. And we’re cursed with General Wilkinson, a rotten traitor.”
    “We don’t know he’s a traitor, not for sure.”
    “Oh, Jimmy, sometimes you carry fairness too far. Everyone says he’s in the pay of the Spanish.”
    “But it’s only suspicion.”
    “Well, when everyone suspects the leader of the army works for the enemy, it’s a disgrace! Anyway, look at him! Gross, slimy, unctuous, obsequious—”
    She had riveting memories of Wilkinson, uniform buttons about to pop over his belly, saber out like a rooster tail, toadying to her because her husband was important—
    “How did such a creature land such a command anyway?”
    “There’s a type of man who’s adept only at advancing himself, but at that he’s very adept—canny as a fox and no more scrupulous, qualities more forgivable in fox than in main.”
    Her hand tightened on her arm. “Darling, let’s keep this on a steady course. Can you imagine having your fate in the hands of General Wilkinson or that nasty major?”
    She clutched the shawl closer. More than danger alone, she had a chilled feeling that something evil lay out there in
the dark like a sea monster swimming just beyond sight. They dined in their room, emptied a bottle of wine, and still she was cold. She sat on his lap, her head on his shoulder, and whispered, “Take me to bed, Jimmy. Love me. Hold me. I need to be held … .”
    Still, things were brighter in the morning sun. She decided she was weary of being worried and frightened; after all, they’d won the election.
    And then Rob Mustard banged on their door at the inn, lively as ever. Said he’d left New York and was bound for Charleston and heard they were here. She’d known him since Philadelphia, where he had run a loud, vibrant newspaper that always made sense. Then he’d shifted to New York, still publishing the truth as he saw it, which was as the Madisons saw it.
    He was tall and skinny, fifty or so, with a mop of wild, gray hair, a big laugh, and a ready eye for the humor of human foibles. Nothing made his editorial wit and ardor glow more fiercely than the missteps of government. But as he nursed a glass of Madeira, she saw a difference in his eyes, something haunted.
    “So,” he said, “they smashed my press and I’m wanted in New York.” His smile couldn’t mask hurt.
    “Wanted?” she said.
    “Under indictment. Fleeing arrest. Sedition, you see, which is defined as saying what people in power don’t want to hear.” He laughed without mirth. “So I’m on the run. Learned from poor Jim Callender—he waited till they came and pied his type and wrecked his press and off to solitary he went and lucky they didn’t hang him.” A wry grin. “You remember, I never minded calling a spade a spade when describing Federalist sins, but I’m not crazy brave. I slipped away under cover of night. Peter Freneau promised me a berth on his paper in Charleston, and I’m on my way.”
    “The only good thing about those evil acts was they gave us the election,” she said.

    “Hurrah for the common sense of the common man!” Mr. Mustard cried. “Press side was the worst—imagine, smashing a paper,