Manuel Lisa waved farewell to John Tylor, who disappeared behind the trees as he herded Joaquin’s seven horses down the Saint Charles road. Adding to the man’s enigma was the way he sat a horse. He rode with a gentleman’s seat, back stiff, head up. The way he handled the rather fractious lead mare hearkened of landed aristocracy. The sort of man who had been taught from birth to brook no misbehavior from underlings.
The man’s pack leaned against the wall, and Lisa turned his attention to it, studying it carefully. Only when he was confident he could put it back just so, did he undo the bindings. The knots were simple and Lisa undid each one. Carefully, he sorted through the articles inside. Powder, balls, the bottle of whiskey, sewing items, a patch knife, cloth, flint-and-steel, several ceramic pipes, and tobacco. And, of course, the books. Each book he laid out in order.
The first tome was Homer’s Odyssey in a Greek edition. Next came Herodotus followed by Caesar’s De Bello Gallico in Latin; Plutarch’s Lives in Spanish; a volume of Shakespeare in English; Augustine’s City of God; and Dante’s Divine Comedy, both in French. The final volume pulled from the pack was a complete edition of Plato in Greek.
Though Lisa dedicated an entire afternoon to the study of them, in none of the books did he find anything the least suspicious. The name John Tylor was carefully penciled inside the covers in bold letters. He thumbed the pages to see if anything fell out. Found no pages with circled words, no loose bindings. Not even a hint of anything indicating a secret plot or correspondence. Nothing in Tylor’s possessions so much as suggested it might be a cipher, or code.
Lisa carefully laid each book in the pack exactly as he had found it and retied the knots. Once the pack had been returned to its original condition he sat himself in an overstuffed French chair and stared at the enigmatic leather. Who was this John Tylor?
William Clark reclined on his couch when Manuel Lisa was ushered through the double doors of the Indian agent’s office. Clark had his nose pinched between two freckled fingers, rubbing his eyes.
“Headache?” Lisa asked, pouring himself a brandy and lounging on the corner of Clark’s large desk. The room was airy, the windows open to take advantage of the warm spring weather.
“Damn it, yes,” Clark muttered, and swung his feet to the floor, sitting up with an effort.
Lisa let his eyes run over William Clark’s body. The once whip-thin hero of the famous expedition had changed. Clark’s red hair was thinning over the florid face. The once-muscular frame was fighting a poor holding action against a rounding paunch. A dullness had grown behind the eyes. Worry was eating at the joviality and competence. Jefferson’s Louisiana explorer looked tired.
“Trouble?” Lisa needn’t have asked. The entire west was in turmoil as the drums of war beat louder in the east. The major powers—both political and economic—were sharpening their knives, salivating over what they might carve from the lucrative west in the coming chaos.
“Always,” Clark sighed. He walked around his desk and settled into the recesses of his stuffed chair. “The Bellefontainee Factory is up in arms over the lack of goods to distribute among the chiefs. It’s cutting into their trade with the tribes. The Indians are worried about the war talk and the reduction in presents. Nothing new, mind you—just the usual threats and unrest. Damn the British!”
Clark snorted his disdain. “The entire political applecart on the Mississippi is about to be upset because Napoleon is twisting tails in Europe half a world away!”
“We shall see how much damage is done when we get upriver.” Lisa sipped his brandy, unconcerned. “Remember, we have left good men up there. Champlain is with the Arapaho. Andrew Henry is there with Michael Immel and the others, too. Trade is more than promises. It is presence. And I have hired the best.”
Clark’s red face cracked a slight smile. “My friend, let us hope you can continue your magic upriver. God save us if the British have turned the Upper Missouri tribes against us. The reorganization of the Missouri Fur Company was bad enough. Too much capital has been pulled out. I wish you were taking more than eleven thousand dollars’ worth of goods with you.” Clark moved his lips as if he were talking to himself.
Lisa chuckled dryly. “I share your concern over my paltry cargo. The more goods I have to take, the more incentive for the Indians to bring in furs. Instead, your politics and my trade will both suffer. I shall do my best, and I will try to squeeze a few more items out of Christian Wilt.”
“I’m afraid that Christian, too, is finding things hard-pressed. Yes, he still has goods in his warehouse, but he, too, has creditors. Given that the British have cut off access to their goods through New Orleans, consider it a miracle that he was able to scrounge together the few American goods he’s managed to import.”
“Yes, yes, he has his problems, too. But it is a time for faith, not fainting. Which my partners seem to prefer.”
Clark looked up thoughtfully. “Manuel, it irks me a great deal to see Chouteau, Labbadie, and the others backing out. You were so right when you said we left good men up there. It’s tough country. I, more than anyone, understand what they face. Lord knows, Lewis and I got lucky: We didn’t have to stay and hold the country.”
“They knew the risks.” Lisa crossed his arms. “If nothing else, I would go back for them, William. Many curse me and call me a ‘Black Spaniard’ but I would never leave those men stranded.” He shook his head, a crooked smile on his thin lips. “As if those wolves needed rescuing. They are pirates who—”
“You didn’t come here to tell me that. The boats leave tomorrow.” Clark leaned forward, propping his head on his hands, eyes on the trader. “So . . . ?”
Lisa took another sip of his brandy and frowned, eyes meeting Clark’s. “Have you ever heard of a John Tylor? He has signed on as an engage. An educated man, perhaps thirty, thin of frame, medium of height. Of the frontier, but not, as he is a learned man, fluent in many languages. Is he a spy for the American government? Has he been sent to observe us on the river?”
William Clark’s eyes widened. “That is the last thing I would have expected to come out of your mouth. An American spy, sent to keep an eye . . .” He shook his head after pausing thoughtfully. “No. I would have heard. I have plenty of channels to learn what they don’t tell me from Washington City.”
“So you’ve never heard the name John Tylor?”
Clark waved it off. “Of course I have. I grew up with a lad named John Tyler. It’s a common name, Manuel. Comes of the craft, like Smith or Miller. Think of—”
“This Tylor spells it with an o. The man is truly an enigma. Educated. A gentleman of refined manners. Yet he appears in rags. Better yet, he speaks knowledgeably of the western lands. Especially the Pawnee. For these reasons, I fear he may be a spy.”
Clark’s laugh carried a hollow amusement. “There are more spies in this city than dogs—and the mutts outnumber people by four to one. Though a gentleman spy—”
“Dressed in rags,” Lisa reminded.
“Dressed in rags,” Clark amended. “That comes across as slightly unusual. Damn this headache. I can barely think. The name has a ring to it. Something, Manuel, that I should know. Why does it sound so familiar?”
Lisa spread his arms apologetically. “Seriously, I have hired him. I am sending quiet inquiries to Andrew Jackson, to friends at Vincennes, Prairie du Chien, and some other places to see if anyone knows him or his business. If an answer arrives that is important, send someone upriver to warn me.”
Clark nodded his solemn assurance, and added, “The British have granted that damn Robert Dickson a trading license. That’s the sort of agent you would expect out of Montreal. They like someone with flare who will appeal to the Indians. An unknown man? Dressed in rags? And working as an engage? Not the sort who can rally the upper river chiefs to switch alliances.”
“I’m thinking he may have a more nefarious purpose. Send messages about my actions to my rivals? Sew discontent among the engages?”
“Perhaps he’s been sent to sink your boats?”
Lisa squinted, a look of distaste on his face. “I don’t think so. He’s not the kind. I would expect that of a saintly sort—not a man who’s obviously running from something he fears.”
“Something he fears?” Clark pinched his nose again and winced. “The best way to recruit a spy is to hold hostage something he values. Threaten those he loves? Offer to expose an affair with another man’s wife, or better yet, knowedge of a theft or murder?”
“Perhaps.” Lisa paused, smiled, and added absently, “It is probably nothing. I think I just use Tylor to keep my mind off business.”
Clark made a choking sound. “Manuel, you always think of business. I don’t care if you’re eating, sleeping, or defecating. I’m not sure you ever think of anything else.”
“And you think of your duty,” Lisa countered, inclining his head.
“That’s what makes us such good allies.” Clark ran stubby fingers through his thinning hair. “Our goals are similar: a unified American west, Manuel. You seek such an end because of the economic rewards. I seek it for the long-term security of my country. We work well together since what is good for the country is good for your trade. Together, you and I, we shall forge the institutions of a gentleman’s democracy in our noble experiment.”
“More romantic philosophy from Jefferson?”
“No, Manuel, just facts. The settlers are going to be here someday. When they arrive, I want them to find Indians with whom they will trade, not fight. We have the opportunity to bring two entirely different peoples together to build a stronger whole—like mixing tin with iron.”
“If the British unsettle the tribes, it will be like the Huron situation all over again,” Lisa said darkly. “Unrelenting warfare. Extermination of entire peoples. I need the river tribes to be satisfied with American supervision. If not, it will mean no trade with the Upper Missouri. Given that the partners are running scared, it would be a disaster for us—and a windfall for the British.”
Clark was nodding seriously, his eyes on the far wall as he took a deep breath. “It’s in your hands, Manuel. The tribes trust you. If anyone can hold the north, it will be you. My friend, you are worth more than a regiment.”
Clark paused. He looked up at Lisa, his eyes miserable. “You realize, don’t you? If you get in trouble up there, we can do nothing. No help will be coming from the United States. You will be on your own.”
“One is always on his own on the upper river, William.” Lisa pondered his brandy, turning the glass in his fingers as he studied the last of the amber liquid. The future dangled by a thread. Nations hung in the balance. A mistake in judgment, a sunk boat, could have consequences that would reach far beyond the life and fortunes of Manuel Lisa and his fur company.
Lisa studied the patterns of light in the swirling brandy, but they offered no insight for the future.