Land of the Free Read online

  Land of the Free

  Land of the Free

  Midpoint

  Land of the Free

  A novel by Jeffry Stephen Hepple

  Volume One of the Gone for Soldiers series.

  Prequel to Home of the Brave.

  Sequel to Gone For a Soldier.

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2009, Jeffry S. Hepple

  All rights reserved.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is dedicated to Jo Ann for every imaginable reason.

  Acknowledgements

  The author wishes to thank the following people for their encouragement and help in the laborious process of editing and proof-reading: Dona Dean, Beth Horsch, Margaret Lake, Teresa Shaw, Geoff Thomas and special thanks to Susan Trotter.

  Held captive by the British aboard the warship HMS Surprise, American lawyer, Francis Scott Key, witnessed the British bombardment of American Fort McHenry through the long, rainy night of September 13th and 14th, 1814.

  As the sun rose the following morning, illuminating the American flag, still flying, he wrote these words on the back of an envelope:

  O! say can you see by the dawn’s early light

  What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming?

  Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,

  O’er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?

  And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air,

  Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.

  O! say does that star-spangled banner yet wave

  O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

  Book One

  July 4, 1804

  New Orleans, Louisiana Territory

  Jasper Folsom pushed open the doors of the Gray Lady Tavern and made his way through the crowded tables to the bar. The interior was dimly lighted, dirty, smelly, populated by disreputable looking men and women of ill repute.

  “What’ll it be, Jasper?” The man behind the bar asked in English.

  “Beer.” Jasper was a small but powerfully built man with terrible burn scars on his face. He turned away to search the tables. “Where’s Marina tonight, Joe?”

  “Upstairs with a real big spender.” He began pumping beer into a mug.

  “Do I know him?”

  “Who?”

  “The big spender that took Marina upstairs.”

  “I don’t think you do. He’s a Frenchman.”

  “I know plenty o’ Frenchmen.”

  “This one’s a smuggler and some say a cutthroat pirate named Jean Lafitte.”

  “Jean Lafitte.” Jasper raised what remained of his eyebrows. “Guess I won’t be callin’ him out then.”

  “Not if you don’t have a death wish.” He put the beer mug on the bar.

  Jasper exchanged a coin for the mug, took a long swallow of beer then wiped foam from his mouth with the sleeve of his dirty shirt. “How much would you take for her?”

  “For Marina? Hell, Jasper, I couldn’t sell her to you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, ‘cause I like her and I know she wouldn’t be happy with you.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “‘Cause she complains that you stink like horse sweat. Besides, you’re ugly as sin with all them damn scars.”

  “Marina says she don’t mind the scars.”

  “What’s she say about the horse sweat?”

  “She says that she do mind that.” He chuckled. “Reckon she’ll be up there all night?”

  “Naw. She’ll be back soon. But I bet you got time to take a bath before she is.”

  “How come you’re so damned worried about how I smell?”

  “I told you. I like Marina.”

  “Then how come you whore her out like you do?”

  “Well now that’s different, Jasper.”

  “Different how?”

  “Seein’ as how I got money invested in her, it’s business. But I don’t never make her go upstairs with nobody she don’t want to go with.”

  ~

  Marina Cortés, wearing only a short chemise and black fishnet stockings, was standing in front of her bedroom mirror applying a mixture of talcum powder and rouge to cover a blue-green bruise on her cheek.

  “The blackheart who did that to your lovely face should be keelhauled,” the man on the bed behind her said in French.

  “It looks worse than it is, Captain.” She was indeed a beautiful young woman, with long, shining, black hair and enormous eyes that matched.

  He got up and took his trousers from the back of the chair. “I have something for you.”

  She looked at him in the mirror. “Thank you, but I cannot accept money. Please give it to Joseph at the bar. He is the tavern owner.”

  “It is not money.” He held up a tiny pistol so she could see it.

  “What would I do with that?”

  “Put it in your garter to shoot any man who would intend to do you harm.”

  “I know nothing of firearms and I could never shoot anyone.”

  “It is a simple matter of pulling the hammers back with your thumb and then pulling the triggers.” He walked closer to her and demonstrated. “This is one of a kind and I believe it to be the smallest pistol ever made.”

  She nodded, but was obviously disinterested.

  “It was made for me by a Swiss watchmaker”, he continued. “Notice the craftsmanship, the engraving.”

  She glanced at the tiny gun. “Yes. It is quite beautiful.”

  “As are you. And this will help to keep you that way.” He raised the hem of her chemise, put the pistol in her right garter, and ran his hand up her silky thigh.

  She pushed his hand away. “If you wish an encore, Captain Lafitte, it must be arranged with Joseph first.”

  He removed his hand from her leg and gathered his clothes to begin dressing. “Why do you work here, Marina?”

  “I do not work here. I am a slave. Joseph, the man who owns the tavern, owns me.”

  “Perhaps I should buy you from him.”

  “Perhaps you should.”

  “Would you like that?”

  “Naturally. Anything would be preferable to being a whore.”

  “Not very complimentary.”

  “I do not know you well enough to pay you compliments so you must settle for the truth.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes. You are Jean Lafitte the smuggler and pirate.”

  “I am Jean Lafitte, fleet owner and importer-exporter of fine merchandise.”

  “If you wish.” She retrieved her dress from the hook and carefully slipped it over her head. “So tell me, Captain. Are you to be my new owner?”

  “Alas, I shall be leaving on an extended voyage in the morning and, in my absence, I have no place to keep you in the style to which you have been accustomed.”

  “You could buy me and set me free.”

  “I think that would require me to accept financial responsibility for you or require that I provide proof that you would be capable of supporting yourself.”

  “I gather that you are unwilling to accept financial responsibility for me.”

  “Do you make this proposal to all your clients?” he chuckled.

  “Only to the wealthy gentlemen. And we
only see one or two of them in a year, here at the Gray Lady.” She turned her back to him. “Would you be so kind as to hook my dress?”

  “You have mistaken me for a gentleman,” he said, accepting the task of fastening her dress. “And I have no fancy mansion; I live on the sea.”

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” she said in English.

  “Who said that?”

  “Benjamin Franklin, I think.”

  Lafitte slipped the last hook into its loop, then patted her on the buttocks. “There.”

  “Thank you.” She checked her reflection in the mirror then walked to the door. “Have a pleasant voyage, Captain.”

  “I have had, Mademoiselle.”

  ~

  “How much would you want for her, Joe?”

  “You got horseshit in your ears, Jasper? I just told you that she ain’t for sale to you.”

  “After that you said it was just business.”

  “‘Guess you wasn’t listenin’ to all of what I said.”

  “Bet you’d sell her to me if I had enough gold.”

  “Not unless she said that she wanted to go with ya, and that ain’t very likely.” He nodded toward the stairs. “Speakin’ of herself.”

  Jasper turned to watch Marina gliding theatrically down the stairs, trailing her fingers on the banister and examining the room as she descended.

  “Ain’t she somethin’?” Joe chuckled. “If I had the money I’d build me one o’ them theater stages and charge folks a nickel to watch her walk around on it.”

  “If you got her to take off her clothes you could charge a dollar.”

  “Hmm. Now there’s an idea worth thinkin’ on.”

  Jasper hurried across the room to meet her at the bottom of the stairs. “Evenin’, Marina.”

  “Hey there, Jasper.” She held her nose. “Whew. How many horses did you break today?”

  “I was just fixin’ to go across the street and take me a bath.”

  “Good idea.” She looked around. “Any big stakes poker games?”

  “Didn’t notice.” He looked up toward the upper landing as a door slammed and a hard looking man wearing a wide brimmed hat trimmed with a turkey feather came down the stairs to stop in front of Marina and stare at Jasper.

  “Good evening,” the man said to Jasper in French.

  Jasper nodded and stepped back.

  “And to you my dear.” The man kissed Marina’s hand.

  “Fair thee well, my captain,” she replied.

  Jasper watched as the man walked imperiously through the tables and out the front door. “Do you know who that was?”

  “Yes. Go take a bath, Jasper or I won’t be going upstairs with you tonight.”

  July 12, 1804

  Van Buskirk Point, New Jersey

  Kill Van Kull is a narrow estuary that connects Newark Bay with New York Bay. The traditional Van Buskirk family Home Place is located on a large parcel of land on the New Jersey side of the Kill. Access from Van Buskirk Point to Manhattan Island is by boat and to nearby Staten Island is by ferry.

  “Nan,” Tom Van Buskirk shouted.

  “Yes?” His wife, Nannette Van Buskirk, was picking flowers at the side of the main house.

  “Yank’s coming across on the ferry.”

  “Yank?” Carrying a basket of flowers, Nanette came around to the front porch and climbed the steps to stand next to Tom in order to get a better view of the ferry’s passenger. “Something terrible must have happened.”

  At forty-six, Nannette was still a handsome woman, but the years had been less kind to Tom, who looked ten years older than his age of fifty-two.

  “He’s not in uniform,” Tom replied, “so whatever it is can’t have anything to do with the war.”

  The war of which Tom was speaking was the ongoing conflict between the United Kingdom and the New French Empire of Napoleon. Their twenty-seven-year-old adopted son, Yank Van Buskirk, was a lieutenant colonel in the Army of the United States, and consequently both Tom and Nannette were concerned that the United States would be drawn into the war.

  “He looks tired,” Nannette said, as Yank led his horse from the ferry barge, mounted and turned the animal toward them.

  “How can you tell from here?” Tom growled.

  “Just because you cannot see does not prevent me from seeing,” she grumbled back at him.

  “Something bad must have happened.”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s walk down and meet him,” Tom suggested.

  Nannette put down the basket of flowers then gave Tom a searching look. “How is your leg?”

  “I’m fine.” He waved his hand dismissively.

  “Your limp seems bad again.”

  “I said I’m fine.” Tom took Nannette’s hand and led her down the steps to cross the meadow toward the path from the ferry.

  “He looks like Anna,” Nannette said, as Yank’s horse stepped onto the wooden causeway over the marsh.

  “He looks like John,” Tom argued.

  Yank, whose full name was actually John William Thomas Robert Van Buskirk, was the only son of Tom’s younger brother, John. Tom and Nannette had adopted Yank after his mother, Anna Livingston Van Buskirk, had died on a British prison ship in New York Bay and John was killed leading a Forlorn Hope at the Battle of Yorktown.

  “What’s wrong?” Tom shouted as Yank’s horse reached the end of the causeway.

  Yank kicked the horse into a trot and raised his hand.

  “He cannot hear you,” Nannette chided.

  “Of course he can,” Tom replied. “It was John who’d gone half deaf from the cannon fire, not Yank.”

  “Oh. You’re right.”

  “But why doesn’t he answer?”

  “Perhaps his answer is too private to shout so that the entire world would hear.”

  “Who would hear him except us and a few servants?”

  “Just hush and wait.”

  Yank reined in his horse and jumped off to hug Nannette and shake Tom’s hand.

  “What’s wrong?” Tom repeated his earlier question.

  “Secretary Hamilton just died,” Yank replied.

  Tom looked confused. “Where?”

  “At Bayard’s house on the shore.” Yank pointed. “I just came from there.”

  “Who has died?” Nannette asked in a bewildered tone.

  “Alexander Hamilton,” Tom said.

  “You knew him during the war,” Yank added, “I think.”

  “Oh yes, of course. We all know Alexander Hamilton.” She still looked puzzled. “But did you say it was his secretary?”

  “Hamilton is - that is - he was, the Secretary of Treasury,” Tom grumbled in an annoyed tone. He looked back at Yank. “What happened?”

  Yank shrugged. “Yesterday he challenged Vice President Burr to a duel and Burr accepted. They met, Hamilton either fired over Burr’s head or did not fire, that remains unclear. But Burr’s shot struck Hamilton in the stomach, wounding him fatally.”

  “Aaron Burr has killed Alexander Hamilton?” Nannette gasped.

  Tom gave her another annoyed look. “Why don’t you pay attention?”

  She started to argue but changed her mind.

  “This was at William Bayard’s place?” Tom asked.

  “No, no.” Yank shook his head. “A physician, Dr. Hosack I think, took Hamilton there to treat him.”

  Tom looked thoughtful for a moment. “I seem to recall that Burr had a duel with Hamilton’s brother-in-law, John Barker Church.”

  “Yes,” Yank agreed. “Burr, Hamilton and Church were business partners. In fact Hamilton and Burr used those very same pistols yesterday.”

  “Enough talk of this sad subject.” Nannette kissed Yank on the cheek. “We’ve missed you. We were afraid that you were off fighting somewhere in Canada.”

  “She was afraid you were fighting the French in Canada,” Tom amended. “I was afraid you were fighting the English.”

  “Are you two still consta
ntly at each other’s throats?” Yank complained.

  “He just likes to bugger me,” Nannette said.

  “I think you mean he likes to badger you,” Yank replied, trying not to laugh. Nannette was French, and although she had been in the United States for half her life, she still occasionally flummoxed English. Yank suspected that it was more often than not intentional.

  “Will somebody come and get this horse?” Tom bellowed toward the barn. “Damn darky kid,” he grumbled as a black boy of about eleven ran toward them. “What do we pay them for?”

  “Who is that?” Yank asked, nodding toward the boy.

  “Abraham. He’s Old Sally’s great-great-great-grandson.” Nannette took the horse’s reins from Yank, handed them to Tom then hooked her arm in Yank’s and began walking back toward the house. “I dare say, that may not be enough greats,” she chuckled.

  “Is she still alive?”

  “Sally? Of course. She says that she does not intend to die.” Nannette looked into his eyes. “So tell me, is there to be a wedding in our future?”

  Yank made a face. “No.”

  “No? That’s all? Just no?”

  “I asked and she said no. That’s all there is to it.”

  Impatiently, Tom tossed the reins to the young groom that had run from the barn then hurried after Nannette and Yank. “Wait, wait. I want to hear this.”

  Yank stopped and waited for Tom to catch up. “There’s nothing more to say. She’s in love with another man and if he doesn’t ask her to marry, she says that she shall die an old maid.”

  “Oh, Yank,” Nannette soothed. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Everything always happens for the best.” Yank took a deep breath and smiled.

  “So what’s your new duty assignment?” Tom asked. “Still fighting Indians in the Northwest Territory?”