Chapter 5: Holed Up In St Charles

Mack needed more men. He originally hoped to recruit French Canadian voyageurs for the journey, but Astor put the kibosh on that. Hire the locals. Which meant whatever and whoever he could scrape together along the way, which was fine, mostly, till now. They’d barely gotten out of St Louis, heading up the Missouri on a barge. “We gotta turn back,” he said, but the barge captain said “no, but I can put you ashore at St Charles.” That would have to do. Mack gathered up a few things and parted with his crew. “I’ll catch you up river.”

When he got off the boat, there wasn’t much there but the smell of river mud, wood smoke, sweat, horse, and whiskey. Not the sort of place that welcomes you, or even gives you a second look. If you find yourself in St Charles, you’re either heading west, coming back broke, or pretending you didn’t want to go. Mack felt like he was being watched, but he shrugged it off. He was used to being watched, used to being ready to pivot and swing. Astor would surely be angry at this detour, but nothing he could do back in New York City. Besides, having the right men was a thousand times better than being at the right time. So Mack walked a ways, that big man confident walk, assessing this new place.

Mack was good at striking up a conversation, whether with friendly or hostile. More importantly, he could talk his way out of a situation, too. Sometimes, forcefully. He was big, all right. Three hundred and twelve pounds. They said he could move mountains, literally. He wasn’t a mean man, unless he had to be. He preferred talking to fighting. As big as he was, he could move quickly and travel far, whether on foot or by boat, or by any means necessary. Astor trusted him implicitly. Mack never let him down.

Nobody to talk to in St Charles, at least not yet. He’d have to make his way up or down river eventually, but for now, the shadows of St Charles were pointing him away from the riverbanks and into town, where he’d hole up till the next move revealed itself.