Dreams of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

Before dawn broke, Jamie and Ian made the livery and managed to slip out of Los Angeles without getting shot, but they did get shot at a couple of times.

  “I think those were our people shootin’ at us, Pa,” Ian said, while the men were resting their horses.

  Jamie grinned. “They still missed us.”

  Back in Los Angeles, Gillespie sent a messenger north to Monterey to seek help from Stockton, who was busy getting his fleet ready to sail to Mexico. But after eluding his pursuers for several days the messenger was captured. On the fifth day of the revolt, Gillespie surrendered his small and badly outnumbered garrison to Captain Flores.

  In a rather magnanimous gesture, Captain Flores allowed the Americans to march out to San Pedro, where they boarded a naval vessel. But Gillespie broke his word and instead of sailing out of the harbor stayed put, awaiting rescue from Stockton. He did not know his messenger had been captured.

  Jamie and Ian, meanwhile, had taken refuge in an old abandoned church just outside of Los Angeles and were sitting it out.

  “These desert jackrabbits are tough,” Ian griped, gnawing away at a rabbit they’d caught in a snare.

  “Beats no food at all,” Jamie told him. “Eat.”

  “Are we just going to sit here and do nothing?” Ian questioned.

  Gillespie’s messenger had managed to escape from his captors and made a hard and dangerous ride north to Commodore Stockton. The messenger would forever after be known as the Paul Revere of California.

  Gillespie and what was left of his garrison were still sitting aboard ship in the harbor of Los Angeles, waiting to be rescued. So far, the entire mess was a debacle, due in no small part to Stockton, who, like Gillespie, despised Californios and treated them abysmally.

  Meanwhile, Jamie and Ian had made friends with a Mexican farmer and his family who had no interest whatsoever in who ran the government as long as they were left alone to mind their own business. The spicy food was a damn sight better than what Jamie and son had been living on for the better part of a week, which consisted mostly of rattlesnake meat and an occasional rabbit.

  “Who is winning the battle in Los Angeles?” Jamie asked the man.

  “Who cares?” the farmer replied, passing the beans and tortillas. “Flores is arrogant and Gomez is a fool.”

  “And Varela?” Ian asked.

  “A thug. Eat, the war is a long way off.”

  Not really. Only about five miles. It just seemed to be a long way off.

  * * *

  Stockton, aboard his flagship, had ordered the Savannah to set sail to rescue Gillespie and his men, still in Los Angeles harbor aboard the Vandalia. When they arrived, some two hundred men, plus Gillespie’s small force, went immediately ashore to attempt to recapture the town.

  It was to be yet another debacle for the Americans. Most of the men, with the exception of Gillespie’s troops, were sailors and had no training in land combat. But Gillespie could not be reasoned with and ordered the troops ashore.

  Jamie and Ian had saddled up, over the heated protests of their Mexican friends, and decided to ride into the town to see what was going on.

  Captain Flores was an experienced campaigner, a veteran of many battles. He was busy planning a guerrilla war. He ordered all livestock, including chickens and hogs, to be driven or carried by wagon inland. He then ordered all foodstuffs in the town’s stores to be seized and carried inland also, thereby depriving the Americans of anything to eat—except what they could carry with them. They had left the ships in such a hurry, they only carried a couple of days’ rations.

  Another thing that Gillespie, in his rage, did not consider was that his men would be facing not only experienced soldiers, but the expert horsemanship of the Californio Lancers.

  When Gillespie and his men got ashore, they found themselves on foot, for every horse had been driven away. Gillespie was, in the words of one of the officers, “Unreasonable with anger.”

  Jamie and Ian could not get through the steadily growing lines that Captain Flores had thrown around the town and decided to cut north for a day and try to come back south that way. Amazingly, when they got about twenty miles north of Los Angeles, they found the Spanish people to be very friendly and very hospitable. And many that they encountered cared nothing about the war to the south of them.

  “We just wish to get along,” the leader of one community told the men. “We are so far separated from Mexico, we feel that we have lost touch with them and they with us.”

  But not all felt that way and Jamie and Ian knew it. Father and son could read it in the dark eyes, and they were careful.

  At camp one evening, Jamie asked, “What day of the month is it, son?”

  Ian grinned. “Hell, Pa. I don’t even know for sure what year it is.”

  It was October 8, 1846.

  Earlier, Stockton had learned of the presence of Jamie and his son and had sent a messenger to find them and tell them they were now in the Army as scouts. They were to report everything back to him. The two men Stockton sent would act as message bearers between Jamie and the Commodore.

  “Can they do that?” Ian asked.

  “I guess so, son. They just did it!”

  * * *

  The two small armies met on level ground between San Pedro and Los Angeles. The Californios had a single artillery piece, a four pounder, and that single artillery piece was to decide the victor for this day.

  The ship’s captain and Gillespie marched their men in close column right up the middle of the road, with only a few skirmishes on either side. Flores ordered the cannon to be fired and the ball sailed right over the heads of the advancing Americans. The ship’s captain ordered his men to charge, and they charged right into murderous grapeshot from the freshly charged cannon. The Americans charged two more times, and after the last, they quit for the day and retired to the ships. They had suffered ten wounded and four dead.

  Jamie turned to a messenger. “Tell your boss that Gillespie doesn’t know what he’s doing and that the sailors need some army training. They just lost their first battle.”

  “You think I’m going to tell him that?”

  Jamie found paper and pen and wrote it out and signed it. “Now take it,” he told the man.

  Upon reading the first dispatch from the field, Stockton was highly irritated at the report. So much so that he relieved Jamie and Ian from their scouting duties, which pleased them both to no end.

  The war would drag on, with both sides taking limited casualties, for about four months, until early in 1847. The American flag was finally raised over Los Angeles on January 10, 1847.

  * * *

  “What do you want to do, Ian?” Jamie asked.

  “How about going home, Pa?”

  Jamie thought about that for a moment. “You go home, boy. I got some wandering to do yet.”

  “But Ma—”

  Jamie shook his head. “She doesn’t expect me ’til spring, Ian. I’ve stayed close to hearth and home for two years. She’d probably faint if I came back this soon. ’Sides,” he said with a grin, “you might get a real surprise when you push open the door to your cabin.”

  “What do you mean, Pa?”

  “Ride on home and find out, boy. Tell your ma I’ll see her come the spring, and you, too, I hope.”

  Jamie turned Horse and rode off to the north.

  Eight

  Charleston, South Carolina.

  “Miss LeBeau,” said the young gentleman from Virginia. “Permit me to say that your performance this evening was simply outstanding. Your talent is surpassed only by your loveliness.”

  “Why, sir, you are much too kind,” Anne said, blushing furiously and hiding the lower half of her face behind a tiny fan.

  “Please forgive me for being a bit forward, Miss LeBeau,” Cort Woodville said. “But since the play closed here in Charleston this evening, and I could not bear the thought of your leaving without my seeing you, I shamelessly admit I bribed the stage door guard to let me in. Miss
LeBeau, would you have dinner with me?”

  “Why ...” Anne was thinking fast. The play was moving west the next day, and she had absolutely no desire to travel west of the Mississippi River. And because of her temperament—which some members of the cast had compared to an enraged grizzly—Anne was having trouble finding directors who would put up with her frequent temper tantrums. Anne knew all about Cort Woodville; she’d been aware for days that the young man was interested in her. Anne had investigated Cort Woodville very carefully and very thoroughly. Now here he was, the goose whose family laid golden eggs—by the bushel basket.

  “Mr. Woodville,” Anne said, “I would be delighted to have dinner with you.”

  “Oh, Miss LeBeau,” the love-struck Virginia gentleman said. “My heart is so filled with happiness I fear it might burst with joy.”

  Idiot! Anne thought. “I’ll be ready in half an hour, Mr. Woodville.”

  “I’ll count the seconds, Miss LeBeau.”

  What a ninny! Anne thought.

  Her brother was waiting for her in her dressing room. “We’ve just been fired from the cast, Anne,” he told her.

  Anne peeled out of her dress and shrugged her pretty shoulders. “No matter. Cort Woodville just took the bait, swallowing hook, line, and sinker.”

  “The fool that’s been in the audience every damn night we’ve played this town?”

  “Yes. He’s really quite attractive . . . though somewhat of a simpleton. But his family is one of the wealthiest in all of Virginia—if not the richest.”

  Roscoe’s eyes shone with greed. “This could be our ticket, Anne.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? Why do you think I bribed the guard to let Cort in this evening? Now get out. I have to bathe and dress. I’ll see you back at the hotel.”

  Her brother gone, Anne stripped and inspected herself in the full-length mirror. She knew she was beautiful. Her body was the color of pale ivory, and flawless. Her hair was black and her eyes a dark blue. “Tonight’s the night, Anne,” she whispered. “Play your cards right, and you’re set for life.”

  Anne put on the finest performance of her life that evening. Thirty minutes after she’d entered Cort’s carriage, the young man had taken the bait. Another thirty minutes and she had him hooked forever.

  “I can’t bear the thought of you leaving,” Cort said over dinner in Charleston’s finest. “I just can’t.”

  “Well,” Anne said, sipping her coffee. “I really don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “What do you mean . . . dear,” Cort was so bold to add, delighted at her smile.

  “I have six weeks before I have to leave for New York City. And my brother and I don’t have the foggiest idea how or where we want to spend those weeks.”

  “At Ravenswood!” Cort blurted.

  “At where?” Anne asked. She knew all about Ravenswood. It was the largest plantation in all of Virginia. Thousands and thousands of acres and hundreds of slaves.

  “The most beautiful plantation in all of Virginia,” Cort said. “Oh, we’ll have a grand time, Anne. And my parents will love you.” He started to add, “As much as I do,” but decided that might be rushing things just a bit.

  Anne hesitated, frowning. Cort took her soft, perfumed hands in his, which were just about as soft, and said, “It’s settled, Anne. I will not take no for an answer.” He gazed into her blue eyes. “Anne, it is my fervent hope that once you see Ravenswood, you’ll not want to leave.”

  She smiled at him.

  * * *

  Jamie put the war behind him and headed north. He did not dislike California, but it was too settled for him. Jamie liked the wild country. He liked to go to sleep listening to the wolves howling and the coyotes yipping and yapping. He felt better once he was in northern California and better yet when he crossed over into the territories.

  The nights were getting downright cold, the days crisp, and for three days, he had known that someone was dogging his back trail. They—and he was certain it was more than one—were laying well back and had shown no signs of being hostile. But Jamie had a bad feeling about it in his guts. And Jamie had long ago learned to trust his instincts.

  He smiled as he recalled talking with his son while camped outside of Los Angeles, after Ian had complained about so many people wanting to see him dead.

  “You’ve got a ways to go to catch me, Ian,” Jamie had told him. “Counting all the inlaws and outlaws of those who have sworn to kill me, I figure I’ve got four or five hundred men wanting my scalp.”

  “Still, Pa, after all these years?”

  “Oh, yes, son.” He looked hard at his son. “You knew that Wesley Parsons and Winslow were in Los Angeles, didn’t you?”

  “They were there, Pa. I got there too late. How’d you find out?”

  “Same way you did, boy. I asked around.”

  “I got no more hate in my heart, Pa. I want to see Ma and the valley again.”

  “Then do it, boy,” Jamie had said softly.

  Jamie was so lost in thought he almost missed Horse’s ears pricking up. Then he felt the sudden tension of the big animal and Jamie touched his heels to Horse’s flanks and jumped him off the trail and into the timber. The shot that was intended for him slammed into a tree.

  Jamie left the saddle and let the reins dangle. He grabbed his rifle from the boot and slipped into the brush, heading back in the direction he’d come, for the shot had come from behind him.

  Jamie found a good position and bellied down on the cool ground. He could hear not a sound, for at the boom of the shot, the forest critters had fallen silent and tense.

  Jamie was almost certain his attackers were not Indians, for the Indians in this area were mostly peaceful fishers and farmers. Coos and Siuslaw and Alsea and Tillamook. Jamie had been hugging the coast for several days, enjoying the smell and sounds of the ocean.

  He did not enjoy being shot at.

  Jamie’s patience, taught him by the Shawnee Indians who had taken him as a small boy, was limitless. He did not move. Somebody down there would make a mistake, sooner or later. But it would not be Jamie.

  Finally, he caught a small splash of color that did not fit in with the terrain or the foliage. After a few moments, the color moved and became larger. Now Jamie could make out the chest of a man. He hesitated, then lifted his rifle and sighted in. His rifle boomed and the splash of color was now all mixed with crimson. The man rose up to his full height, swayed there for a moment, and then slowly toppled over backward, to lay in a still sprawl.

  The sounds of cursing reached him. Then a voice. “I told you Perry didn’t get him.”

  “Well, he shore got Perry,” another voice said. “Now what?”

  “We wait. He’s just a kid. He’ll make a mistake.”

  They think I’m Ian, Jamie thought. But by now Ian’ll be home, or very close to the valley.

  Then Jamie caught movement off toward the west, his left from where he was lying in the brush. He had shifted locations immediately after the shot. Somebody was trying to circle around. But they made a mistake, and in stalking, one mistake could be fatal.

  Jamie began to stalk his stalker, and Jamie had no equal at man-hunting. For a man of his size, he was soundless in the timber, moving like a ghost.

  Jamie often used the Indian method of concealment, simply hiding where there is no cover. Most people look at things, but never really see them.

  The man Jamie was stalking was very good, for twice Jamie lost his quarry. Then Jamie made his move, as quick and silent and awesome as a puma’s strike. Jamie clubbed the man on the side of his head and the man dropped like a stone. Jamie trussed him up and then slapped him into consciousness. The man opened his eyes to feel the cold steel of Jamie’s razor sharp Bowie knife on his throat.

  “As any fool can plainly see,” Jamie whispered. “I’m the boy’s pa. And I don’t like people shooting at me. Now I would have to say that you fellows made a really bad mistake. What do you think about it?”<
br />
  The man was scared but defiant. “Don’t make no difference. They’s gold on your head, too.”

  “Howard!” the shout came from below them. “Watch it. The kid’s moved. He’s after you.”

  “Wrong!” Jamie shouted. “I’ve got him. And my name is Jamie. Ian is my son.”

  There was a few seconds of silence. “Shit!” a man said.

  “MacCallister!” another voice was added. “Don’t hurt Howard. He’s my brother. You hurt him and by God I’ll trail you straight into Hell if I have to.”

  Jamie suddenly rose, picking Howard up as if the man were a child and flinging him down the slope. Howard bounced and slammed into rocks and trees and howled in pain. Jamie quickly shifted positions, back to his original spot.

  “Goddamn you, MacCallister!” Howard’s brother yelled up the slope, for a moment exposing himself.

  Jamie snapped off a shot, the ball whining off the huge rock beside the man, chipping off fragments and lashing the man’s face with the tiny bits of stone.

  Just as soon as he shot, Jamie raced back to Horse and led the animal a few hundred yards into the brush before mounting up and quietly riding out. If those pursuing him were fool enough to follow, the next time they met, the advantage was going to be all Jamie’s.

  They followed. An hour later, Jamie sat Horse in the timber and looked with a disgusted expression in his eyes as the men pressed on after him.

  For a moment, Jamie debated whether or not to just lose the men and go on about his business. Then he thought of home and Kate and all the kids in the peaceful valley. If he didn’t stop the man-hunters here, they’d surely come into the valley, just like those who came after Wiley Harper did.

  He slid off Horse and took his rifles. Without even realizing he was doing it, Jamie’s eyes had already found the best defensive position. He got down behind the fallen logs and waited. He had made up his mind about something else, too: once this pack of man-hunters was dealt with, he was going to take the pressure off of his son. He was going to lay down the warning and have it spread from one end of the wilderness to the other: End the hunt for my son or face me. One way or the other, Jamie was going to see to it that his son did not have to endure what he had been forced to endure all his life: one seemingly endless fight for survival after the other.