River Magic

North America 1822

Prologue

St. Louis, Missouri Territory, 1822.

In this alternate history, slavery has been abolished in the United States shortly after the ratification of the Constitution. Missouri is not yet a state.

The Iroquois Nations fought on the side of the United States instead of the British during the revolution, and The Iroquois Confederacy has expanded to include not only the Seneca, Mohawk, Onandaga, Oneida, Cayuga, and Tuscarora, but also the Erie-Susquehanna, the Cherokee and the Shawnee.

Alongside the Quebec Republic, and through a wise use of diplomacy, money and military power, these Nine Nations of the Iroquois Confederacy have maintained their independence and formed a strong alliance with the United States against the Indians of the western plains and the great powers of Europe who seek to reclaim North America.

Using gold discovered on Cherokee land, the Nine Nations have helped finance the Louisiana Purchase and are partners with the State of New York in the Erie canal project under construction.

1 Thief (Aimee)

I had been living in a tiny cave near the river and coming into town nearly every other day to steal food, or whatever else I could get my hands on.

I had a dress that I was able to keep reasonably clean, and I always changed into that beforehand. Everything else I owned, the cotton shirt and pants I usually wore and my deerskin jacket and my tools, I kept buried in the sand in the back of the cave. I would always wash my face and hands, tuck my blonde hair neatly under a bonnet I had, and carry a basket to make me look like I was just a normal fourteen-year-old girl out doing her customary shopping. Wearing the bonnet was a risk; I had stolen that too, off a clothesline. I figured that if its rightful owner challenged me, I would just claim I found it blowing along the street with the wind.

I had tried to count the number of houses in St. Louis, but there were so many that I gave up. I just guessed about five or six hundred. That meant that the town had grown to almost three thousand people in 1822, with more moving in every day, so I supposed that I was safe from too much scrutiny.

I usually went to the bakery near the fort. It wasn’t a real fort anymore. It held a small garrison of soldiers from both the United States and our Iroquois allies. As far as I could tell, it served mostly as the city hall and residence of the governor. I never actually entered the fort; I knew the town jail was there.

I still had a small treasure of two score copper pennies. Most had been minted by the United States, but I still had some old British pence too. Twice a week the baker made fresh bread. If I got there early enough, he would be busy and preoccupied, and some of his bread would be stacked on a table near the door. I would linger, enjoying the aroma for as long as I prudently could.

As soon as he turned his back, I would hide a couple of small loaves in my blouse, but use one or two of my precious pennies to conspicuously buy a larger loaf, which I would put in my basket. I did this to establish myself as a regular paying customer and to deflect (I hoped) any suspicion.

This was usually the only stealing I would do during the daytime as it was the only time I could get bread. At night, I had more possibilities: vegetables from gardens, eggs from people’s chicken coups, and on rare occasions, one of the chickens themselves. I was always careful to take no more than I needed.

One day, after my normal bread run, I was walking away when I heard the baker yell, Thief!

The impulse to run was almost overpowering. I’d always been so careful and could scarcely believe I’d finally been caught. But I stood my ground and slowly turned, prepared to deny everything, and run later.

What I saw was the baker, holding onto some black girl. She was dressed in a tattered cotton shirt, dirty deerskin trousers and barefoot. She looked to be about my own age or younger, and obviously from the backwoods; any town girl would be wearing a dress, not trousers. The baker let her go, but kicked her so that she flew sprawling into the dust of the street. She looked around and soon locked her eyes with mine. What I saw in her eyes then was not hurt, nor fear, nor shame, but calculation.

I knew immediately that I, or the contents of my basket, was her next target.

I walked west, away from the river. I walked briskly, but not daring to run for fear she would chase me. I planned to change direction as soon as I was out of her sight and then double back to lose her before heading to my hiding place south of town. I got to the old palisade line and turned to follow that. The palisade line was the remnant of the stockade that once sheltered the settlement from the wild Indians; but now, it was mostly gone, except for a few short sections. I stayed close to one of those sections but had to cross an open space and that’s where she caught up to me.

Mademoiselle! She called out, Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle, but you dropped your money. She held her closed hand out to me as if it contained a found coin, but since I’d already spent the only two coins I’d brought with me that morning, I knew it was just a ploy to get close to me. Before I could decide what to do, she was right beside me.

Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle. You look to be a fine lady with a kind and generous heart. Will you share a small piece of your bread with this poor one who has not eaten in several days?

I pulled my basket away from her, but was astonished to see the girl holding my loaf in her hand, my basket suddenly empty. She had lifted it with greater smoothness than I would have believed possible. She flashed me a mocking smile and ran.

I ran after her, trying to think of an appropriate name to call her. Shouting ‘thief!’ hardly seemed appropriate under the circumstances. Casting some slur alluding to her race was unlikely to slow her down either. Besides, when the Indian women living in the ruins of New Madrid, Missouri had chased me out of town they had called me ‘straw-head’ and ‘ghost’ because of my color. I remembered how much those simple words had stung me.

I could tell the girl was new to town because she slowed from time to time at the corners. I gained on her and was just reaching out for her when I felt a strong hand grip my arm. My momentum swung me around and I nearly slammed into the wall of a building. I tried to twist away, but the man’s grasp was too strong. He had the black girl too, his other hand holding her upper arm.

The game had changed.

The only thing that mattered now was escape.

So, the man said, I’ve caught two feral birds at once! His voice was deep and filled with amusement.

Please, sir, I said, This girl stole our family’s bread! My parents are right behind me. We all chased her. Please hold her for the watch while I...

Don’t lie to me, the man said. You’re that girl who prowls around at night. You have no parents.

That made me angry. The fact that it was true only fueled my rage.

He was a tall man, obviously strong, dark haired and clean-shaven, of middle age and dressed in what looked like a gentleman’s Sunday finery. He had a gold chain across his vest that doubtless led to a pocket-watch. I couldn’t help wondering where I could sell a pocket watch if I could get it away from him.

I kept trying to pull away but the other girl had stopped struggling. She was watching my eyes, and I had the feeling that she was waiting for me to do something before she tried to break away herself.

The man’s grip was like iron. I relaxed in his hold, then bent my neck to his wrist and bit him as hard as I could.

I awoke inside a large iron cage inside a big barn. The black girl was confined with me.

You shouldn’t have bit him, she said. He banged your head against the wall and you swooned into a faint. He threw you over his shoulder and dragged me alongside to this barn and put us inside this cage.

I tried the bars of the cage. A great padlock held the door shut. Rattling it did nothing. I glared at the other girl. "This is all your fault. You stole my bread!"

She smiled at me. "Your bread?"

"I paid for it! My last two centimes!" This was a slight untruth. I had indeed just spent the last of my French centimes, but I still had the other coppers back in my cave.

The girl’s smile faded away. What about the bread tucked inside your blouse? Did you pay for that too?

I felt for the two small loaves. They were still there. I looked back at the girl, sure she was about to attack me for them. Instead, she simply sat in the corner, watching me.

I sat down in the opposite corner and eyed her warily. She looked even thinner than I did. Then, prompted by some weird impulse, I pulled out the loaves and held them, one in each hand. One was just slightly larger than the other. I tossed it to her and she caught it as if she’d expected it. She didn’t thank me, but she smiled.

I don’t know why I did it. She wasn’t a friend. She wasn’t ever going to become a friend, either. I didn’t need or want friends. Friends were dangerous things to have, more a hindrance to one’s liberty than a help.

I asked, Did he say what he intended to do with us?

He said he wasn’t going to hurt us. He said he wanted to help us.

I nearly choked when I heard that and not because I’d bitten off too big a mouthful. Help us? I think more likely...

...sell us down the river for some unwholesome and shameful use, the girl said, completing my thought.

I didn’t want to believe that, however probable it was. Sell us? Slavery is illegal in the States and the Nations, I said. It has been since after the revolution.

I’ve heard they don’t always follow the law down in New Orleans, she pointed out. And the Spanish still hold slaves in Florida and Cuba.

We were both silent for a while.

I’m Angela, she said.

I was about to lie, as I usually did, but I replied honestly instead. I don’t know why. Josephine. Josephine McDonald. That’s my real name, but I tell people it’s Aimee.

Well, Aimee, I never bothered with a false name, but that sounds like a wise precaution. We’ll have to use our wits to get free of this. Do you want to work together at least long enough to do that?

I had to admit she made sense. I nodded my head, slowly. How long have you been in St. Louis? I asked her.

I got here yesterday. I slept on the roof of a blacksmith forge last night. You?

I’ve been here about a year, I think. My mother was killed in the second New Madrid earthquake two years ago. I lived with a family near Cape Girardeau for a while, but they couldn’t afford to feed an extra girl.

I wasn’t about to trust Angela with my whole life story, and certainly not about my cave. I still had my stuff buried there, including my forty-two cents.

Just then, the side door to the barn opened and the man came in, followed by an Indian woman holding my basket. I could smell hot food. I guessed from the design of the embroidery on the woman’s blouse that she was Cherokee. She kept her distance from the cage, clearly waiting for some signal from our captor.

I apologize for my rough treatment of you, he said, and for the bars. It is a bear cage I just happened to have. I am going to release you; I only wanted to talk first. If I hadn’t needed to treat my wound, I would not have put you in it. I am truly sorry. He held up his bandaged wrist.

An unlikely story, I thought, but he had no weapon that I could see, and wasn’t even carrying a cane. There was a wooden pitchfork nearby that he could reach, but maybe I could reach it first, if I could get out of the cage.

He walked to the far end of the barn, as far from both our cage and the open door to the outside as he could get without leaving the building.

The woman put down my basket and pulled an iron key from the sash around her waist. Angela said something to the woman in Cherokee that I didn’t understand, but the woman replied in English. He speaks the truth, you are free to go. But if you are wise, you will stay to listen. His words may be useful to you. She unlocked the padlock, and removed it. The whole front side of the cage swung away like a door, and she held it open wide.

I stepped out immediately, with Angela right beside me. I paused to eye my basket and the open door. The man sat down on a bale of hay and the Cherokee woman went over to stand beside him. We had a clear escape route and I was ready to run for it.

I need you, the man said. My name is Albert Wilson, and I am prepared to offer you both honest employment.

That caught my attention, but I could imagine the kind of employment we would be offered by the type of man who would steal girls off the street.

Nothing dishonorable, he added, and nothing you would be ashamed to speak of to your families in the future. Please stay long enough to hear me out. In addition to the cornbread, the basket contains a silver coin for each of you, as recompense for your brief detention and as payment for your time.

Angela picked up the basket, and for a moment, I thought she would run with it and I would have to chase her again. But she held up two bright silver Spanish dollars for me to see and pressed one of them into my hand.

I looked back at the man and the woman; they had not stirred. Angela handed me a piece of the fresh cornbread, still warm and fragrant. For only a brief moment, I wondered if it might be poisoned with some drug, but that didn’t seem likely either.

Angela took a quick look out the door, then nodded to me and stayed by my side. I took her nod to mean that there was no one waiting outside to trap us again.

So, with a silver dollar clenched tight in my left hand and warm cornbread in my right, I stood near the door and waited to hear what this strange man had to say.

I will ask you about yourselves soon enough, he began. "It is possible you are not suitable for the task I may offer you. However, I shall begin by telling you a bit about myself.

"I am primarily a man of commerce. What I sell is information. And to those who appreciate it, information is more valuable than gold. The post office sells a service for the conveyance of information and sells that service cheap, earning its money by the large number of letters carried. However, a different way to profit is to send fewer messages, but charge a very high rate for the stamp. Such a business must offer something of sufficient value to justify the high tariff. That value can be the speed of delivery, or the content of the information itself.

"I sell such a service and have a need to send important messages and small packages up and down the rivers; as far south as New Orleans, and as far up the Ohio as Pittsburgh. These messages are sent in confidence, and I believe that girls may prove to be more circumspect couriers of such letters. No one in the United States would suspect them, and no one in the Iroquois Nations would question or delay them.

As you may know, ordinary post riders are mostly boys about your own age. Girls are not supposed to be hired as post riders, but in fact, there are quite a few.

Monsieur, Angela asked, do I correctly suppose that you are asking us to become couriers of secret messages?

Your supposition is correct.

Monsieur, I also seem to remember you saying that you would not offer us any employment that is dishonorable.

That was exactly the question I wanted to ask. It was as if Angela could hear my thoughts.

The man ran his hands through his thick dark hair, then clasped them together. "I am not a spy for some foreign power, if that is your fear. Many of my messages are in fact, in the service of the United States and the Nine Nations. Others are in support of my own interests.

Secrets, by themselves, are not dishonorable. Many actually serve the interests of honor and truth, as you may learn, if we can come to an agreement between us.

He stood up.

I stepped back, nearly bumping into Angela, but she had stepped to the side and I saw her touch her waist as if she were checking for something. That morning, I had strapped my short knife to my leg, underneath my dress, as I often did. I had been just about to feel for it to ensure it was still there when I noticed Angela’s gesture. I wondered if she was armed herself.

He had stood, but he made no further move toward us. Perhaps, ladies, you will tell me something about yourselves? Your names, at least?

I decided he probably wasn’t going to try to harm us, at least not yet. I’m Aimee, I said.

Call me Brenda, Angela said.

I turned to look at her and she winked. She’d given out an alias after my own custom rather than her true name. So, she was quick to learn, and apparently no fool.

Do you have family names?

I traded glances with Angela, or I supposed, now, Brenda.

Yes, she replied. We do.

After only a brief silence the man laughed. Well, he said, I guess I don’t need to know that. Maybe I’ll be able to earn your trust later. Your ages, at least?

I sighed, Fourteen. Fifteen in November.

The same for me, sir, Brenda said.

Please don’t call me ‘sir’. I prefer simply ‘Wilson’, if that is acceptable to you. Aimee, I first noticed you four months ago. Is that how long you’ve been in St. Louis?

I’ve been here about a year. I didn’t see the harm in telling the truth about that.

A year! You’ve been alone all that time?

Yes.

I’m impressed. Where do you sleep?

I have a hiding place. I certainly wasn’t going to tell him where.

I understand. How did you come to be alone?

My father was killed in the first series of New Madrid earthquakes back in ‘eleven, my mother in the second quake, two years ago. I lived with a different family for a year after that, but had to leave.

Have you any other family you are aware of?

No.

I see. And what about you, Miss Brenda?

We had a farm in Tennessee. There was a raid by the Quapaw Indians in April. I’ve been in charge of my own person since then.

And do you have any family anywhere?

I don’t care to answer that question, Mr. Wilson.

That seemed to startle him for a moment. Her answer seemed unnecessarily blunt to me, almost a challenge. If it had been me and I didn’t want to answer, I would have simply made up some nice-sounding lie.

Very well, he said. How did you get to this side of the river?

I swam.

Wilson was silent again, then nodded to the Cherokee woman. Mrs. Osinica has agreed to put you up in her house for the night. Her husband is an officer in the Iroquois army, stationed in the fort. You will be completely secure and comfortable with her. If you wish to hear more, meet me back here in the morning when the church bells ring nine o’clock.

Before he left, Wilson had one more thing. Aimee, once again, I apologize for striking you. My only excuse, however poor, is that I was startled out of my wits by the sharpness of your teeth. It will never happen again. No man should ever strike a woman, not if he considers himself truly a man.

I retrieved my basket and Brenda and I followed Mrs. Osinica toward the fort. Her house was only a couple of streets away from it. Not under any conditions was I going to follow her into the fort itself.

Her house was small, but had several rooms and was built of sawn lumber rather than rough-hewn logs. It seemed very modern.

Her husband didn’t come home that evening. Instead, a messenger from the fort came and spoke to her in what sounded like Iroquois and of course, I didn’t understand any of it. When the messenger