Klesko managed to catch two of the packhorses, while one of the dead lancer's mounts stood passively by and let Christopher collect its reins. The packhorse that wasn't carrying the six-pounder had its burden of provisions removed and a new burden, one of the crewmen, put on its back. A second crewman was helped into the saddle of the lancer's mount. Neither man looked able to take another step. The third member of the Liberty's crew, who identified himself as John Barnwell, had held up better than his two colleagues. He was a squinty-eyed old seadog, twice the age of the others, but obviously twice as durable.
"You ought to be riding, too," he told Christopher, with a glance at the younger man's bloody sleeve.
"I'll make it."
"Where do we go?" asked Klesko.
"Anahuac. It's somewhere up the coast. I'm not sure how far. But we'd better swing inland. Those lancers will be looking for us."
"I know this coast like the back of my hand," said Barnwell. "Anahuac's about thirty miles from here."
"Thirty miles!" Christopher grimaced. "Well, I guess we'd better get started."
"Just a minute." Barnwell collected the pistols and the shot pouches of the dead men. "In case we run into them bastards again."
Christopher didn't bother telling him that if Piedras caught up with them they were as good as dead.
They moved a couple of miles inland before turning west, keeping as much as possible to the heavily wooded areas. There was plenty of good cover, but it made for slow going. Christopher, Klesko, and Barnwell each led a horse. It was all that Barnwell's shipmates could do to stay in their saddles.
It was a day of unending misery for Christopher, one he thought would never end. Apart from his wound, and the anxiety of being a fugitive on the run, he worried constantly about his mother and Nathaniel. Had Travis managed to rescue them from that island?
Finally the sun dipped below the horizon, and they found a good place to camp for the night, in a clearing deep in the heart of a thicket. Klesko used one of the pistols to bag a wild turkey while Barnwell built a small fire. Christopher was of the opinion that neither the shot nor the fire was a good idea, but Klesko would not heed his warnings.
"We've got a long way to go, and we need food," said the riverman.
While the turkey, impaled on a stick, sizzled over the flames, Klesko took a more careful look at Christopher's wound. He shook his head.
"You've lost a lot of blood."
"It's just a scratch. Don't worry about it."
"I'm worried about it plenty. If I let anything happen to you your ma will skin me alive."
Klesko used gunpowder to cauterize the wound, pouring it from a flask into the wound and setting it ablaze with the burning end of a stick plucked from the campfire. That just about finished Christopher off. Though he was starving he scarcely found the strength to eat. Had anyone asked him what he desired most from life at that moment it would have been a month flat on his back in the heavenly luxury of a feather bed. Even the hard ground felt good. His stomach full, he slipped into a deep and exhausted sleep.
When Barnwell shook him awake it was daylight. Christopher sat up quickly—and groaned. He was stiff as a board, his whole body a solid mass of pain. Barnwell put a finger to his lips.
"Riders," he whispered. "Klesko's gone to see."
Christopher was sure it had to be Piedras and his lancers. But when Klesko returned to the clearing he had Travis and Nathaniel with him. Christopher was so relieved to see them he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He asked about his mother. Nathaniel assured him that Rebecca was fine. They all were, thanks to Travis and his Texans.
"What about Tucker and Lucas?"
Travis nodded. "Worked like a charm. Piedras is running in circles." Spotting the cannon, his eyes flashed with delight. "So you pulled it off, Mr. Groves. Splendid piece of work. We'll bury both cannon, somewhere conveniently close to Anahuac, until the time comes."
"The time for what?" asked Klesko.
"Why, to win our independence, of course."
Klesko felt his neck where the rope had rubbed it raw. "I'm ready for that fight," he growled.
"I hope all of you will see fit to settle near Anahuac," said Travis.
"The Mexicans will be looking for us," said Barnwell.
"We'll find a safe place to hide the four of you, until such time as we can make arrangements to get you safely back to the United States." Trvais looked at Nathaniel and Christopher. "As for the rest of you, there will be some questions asked, but none we can't answer. Piedras won't be able to connect you with the Liberty."
"I don't want to go back," said Klesko, crestfallen. The thought of being so far away from Rebecca Groves made him sick to his stomach.
"Don't worry," Nathaniel told him. "We've come too far together to split up now."
"His staying will not be without risk," warned Travis. "Piedras knows his face."
Christopher laughed. It struck him as absurdly funny to be weighing risk after everything they had been through. As far as he was concerned, Klesko stayed, and the devil could take the hindmost.
Chapter 25
Anahuac had been established in 1821, when a Spanish presidio was constructed at the mouth of the Trinity River and made a port of entry for American colonists. Erected on the eastern shore of Galveston Bay, the town consisted of about sixty homes and a dozen businesses. The streets were well-ordered, the buildings stoutly made of timber harvested from the abundant forests in the vicinity. Farms prospered on the fertile black bottomland.
The first order of business upon their arrival in Anahuac was the concealment of the two French six-pounders. They were buried at the edge of a swamp two miles south of town. Almost everyone knew the location, but that was no cause for concern. Christopher soon learned that the Anglo settlers were a tightly knit group. They had their share of internecine squabbles—they were hardheaded individualists, these colonists—but when it came to deceiving the Mexicans they were all of one mind.
The swamp was a place where a Mexican soldier was unlikely to venture. The area swarmed with mosquitoes and poisonous cottonmouth snakes. But the swamp's most fearsome denizen was the alligator. In the gloom of night, when they emerged from their nests to forage for food, their bellowing was a bloodcurdling sound, and a warning heeded by the prudent. In the ten-year history of Anahuac, several people had fallen prey to these beasts.
Travis assured Christopher that the garrison at the presidio, located some miles away at the northern tip of the bay, had a particularly good reason for avoiding the swamp. Two summers ago, a patrol out searching for a deserter had camped in the area. That night, several alligators invaded the camp, crawling boldly into the tents to seize their victims by leg or arm, then making for the blackwater nearby. One of the creatures succeeded in dragging a soldier into the swamp—the alligator killed its victim by drowning. A booted foot was all that was ever found of the unfortunate man. The other alligators were slain, but one soldier lost a leg and died from the loss of blood, while another lost an arm, an alligator's mighty jaws having snapped the limb off at the elbow. No soldier had ventured near the swamp since. It was the safest place to cache the cannon.
The four men who had been Captain Piedras's prisoners also had to be hidden. A farmer named Dale Strom agreed to hide them on his farm. There was an old, long-abandoned dugout in a secluded corner of his property, which Strom had occupied while he cleared his land and built the comfortable cabin he now lived in with his wife and three strapping sons. Klesko and the three sailors could stay in the dugout until other arrangements were made. Strom's wife would take food to them every day, after sundown, and Strom's sons promised to keep a sharp lookout for soldiers.
Anahuac was a major Texas port, a depot for the supplies brought by ship for inland settlements. A coastal schooner arrived from New Orleans a day after the arrival of Christopher and the others. The vessel was due to depart on the following day, and the skipper agreed to carry Wells, Blackburn, and the other seamen back t
o Louisiana. One of the sailors, however, was in poor shape, and died the night before. He was buried in the Anahuac cemetery. The rest of the survivors of the ill-fated Liberty departed as planned—only hours prior to the arrival of Captain Piedras and his lancers. That solved a problem for Travis and the other residents of Anahuac. There was no mistaking those seadogs for settlers.
"Piedras is no idiot," Travis told Christopher. "He was bound to suspect those fellows as having some connection with the wrecked ship. You and your family, on the other hand, will pass muster. As long as everyone gets their stories straight."
It was decided that, when asked, they would say they had come overland by wagon, and lost all of their belongings in a rough river crossing. An old man named Fulshear, one of Anahuac's founders, agreed to vouch for Nathaniel as his cousin. O'Connor would masquerade as Christopher's brother. Fulshear possessed a head-right, and according to the immigration law, was within his rights to bring family into Texas.
Christopher admired the courage and compassion shown by the Stroms and the other Texans. They were all putting themselves at risk for the sake of strangers. But such generosity and self-sacrifice seemed to be commonplace among these people. They accepted Christopher and the others into their homes with open arms, and freely shared what little they possessed.
Wild game harvested from the forests and the corn they grew themselves were the main components of the settlers' diet. The corn was boiled or fried or roasted. Christopher preferred corn buried, husk and all, in hot ashes. Ears were scraped on graters fashioned from old tinware, and the corn was then pounded into meal, mixed with water, and baked into a rich, sweet bread. Real flour cost ten dollars a barrel after the Mexicans had imposed their tariff, and few of the settlers possessed that kind of money. Pelts were the principal medium of exchange. Domestic animals were almost as scarce as coin of the realm. Those who owned a few hogs or a milch cow were considered fortunate indeed. As a result, milk and butter were also in short supply. Christopher didn't mind. During those first few days in Anahuac he stuffed himself with venison and corn bread. Never had food tasted so good to him.
They were invited to stay in an empty two-room cabin at the edge of town, built by a colonist whose wife had died back in Alabama while waiting for her husband to send for her. The man had departed and never returned. These were fairly comfortable quarters, and they wanted for nothing thanks to the generosity of their neighbors.
Travis mustered all the persuasive powers of an accomplished lawyer in trying to convince Christopher that Anahuac was a good place for him and his family to put down roots. He had taken a liking to Christopher, and was doubly impressed when he learned, through O'Connor, that he had a pair of West Pointers on his hands.
"We'll need good men in the fight that's coming," he told Christopher. "You proved you could handle yourself back there on the coast."
"We're grateful to you and the other folks here for taking us in. But we're just not sure yet where we want to settle. This is a big country. My grandfather and I were talking about taking a trip upriver to have a look around."
"Go ahead. But you won't find a better place than Anahuac, or better people."
"Probably not," conceded Christopher.
"When we have our independence, there will be abundant opportunity for a young man with your background. For my part, I hope to play an active role in creating a republic we can all be proud of. Are you interested in politics?"
"I don't know. I might be."
"We'll have to keep an army," said Travis, warming to his theme. "After we whip the Mexicans we'll have the Indians to deal with. As a graduate of the United States Military Academy I am certain you could have a commission."
"I didn't graduate."
"What? But I thought . . . "
"Evidently O'Connor didn't tell you the whole story." Christopher proceeded to do just that.
"I see," said Travis, and smiled. "I, too, came to Texas to escape an unhappy past."
In the privacy of his cramped one-room law office on the main street of town, as they shared a bottle of rum, Travis told his story, and Christopher came to realize that this man was typical of so many others who had come to Texas to seek a new beginning.
Born in South Carolina in 1809, Travis had moved to Alabama with the rest of his family at the age of nine. While studying the law he taught school to make ends meet. In 1828 he married one of his pupils, Rosanna Cato, the daughter of a prosperous farmer. Travis passed the bar and became the proud father of a strapping baby boy. Then his world was shattered. His young wife was unfaithful to him. They say he killed the other man. He would not confirm or deny this to Christopher. To Texas he had come, hanging his shingle in Anahuac, listing himself on the Mexican census as a widower. As far as he was concerned, Rosanna was dead. He resided at Peyton's boardinghouse, down by the docks. He drank a little, gambled a lot, and, as a handsome young bachelor, vigorously engaged in casual affairs, including one with the wife of a lieutenant posted at the Anahuac presidio.
"You like taking risks," said Christopher.
"It adds spice to an otherwise bland existence. I am sick unto death of writing wills and settling petty squabbles over property. Thus far my most spectacular case has been fighting the sale of a blind horse. My best fee has been a yoke of oxen."
He was a well-read man. Christopher discerned this by his conversation, and confirmed it with a look at a shelf on the wall behind Travis' desk. The shelf was laden with the works of Steele and Shakespeare, Homer and Herodotus. He was also vain, temperamental, supercilious at times, and most assuredly ambitious to a fault. In the beginning of their acquaintance Christopher wondered if Travis wanted war with the Mexicans because he was genuinely committed to winning freedom and justice for all Texans, or if he merely wanted to create an environment in which he could wield power. In the months to come Christopher would meet other men—men who were destined to become leaders in the fight for Texas independence—whom he had no doubt were motivated by a lust for power. But he became convinced in time, and never swerved from that conviction, that Travis, a romantic at heart, wanted the fight for all the right reasons.
When Captain Piedras and his dusty, trail-sore lancers returned to Anahuac they did not enter the town, but rode directly to the presidio. That surprised Travis, who had expected the Mexicans to search every house for cannon or smugglers or both. Several days later, Piedras appeared at the town's meetinghouse, a one-room log structure furnished with split log pews. This building also served as the community's church and dance hall and court of law. The captain summoned Travis, whom he knew to be the town's spokeman. Travis appeared at the borrowed cabin a little while later. The lawyer looked positively grim as he told Christopher, Nathaniel, and Rebecca about his meeting with Piedras.
"I had expected him to turn this town upside down," said Travis. "But he's a clever fellow. Nothing quite so predictable. I expect he would make a worthy opponent in a game of chess."
"He suspects the truth?" asked Nathaniel.
"Of course. He is by nature a suspicious man. That is not an issue, really. He can't prove anything unless he finds those cannon. Or your friend Klesko. Somehow, though, he knows about the three of you."
"How is that possible?" asked Christopher. "I haven't seen a single soldier."
"Perhaps one of our Mexican civilians. Or maybe more than one. The captain's eyes and ears."
Christopher nodded. He had seen a handful of Mexican women about town, and a number of Mexican men worked as common laborers on the busy docks.
"He wants to talk to you and your grandfather," Travis told Christopher. "And O'Connor, as well. Where is O'Connor, anyway?"
"On his way back to Louisiana. Borrowed a horse and left this morning."
"Louisiana? What for? Is he coming back?"
"I don't know. He's gone to find someone."
"Just as well. There's nothing to worry about. Just stick to the story we've devised. Only be careful what you say. Piedras is a sly fox.
"
"Why doesn't he want to question me?" asked Rebecca.
"The captain has a rather low opinion of women. He doesn't think they are worth interrogating, I suppose. He can't imagine that you would know anything of value."
Rebecca's eyes flashed with resentment. "If that's his attitude, it's lucky for him he doesn't want to talk to me."
Christopher volunteered to go first. Travis walked with him as far as the door to the meetinghouse. Captain Piedras' escort, four lancers, sat their horses in the hot sun, their lances couched, their dark eyes beneath the visors of their shakos regarding the pair of Anglos with nerve-wracking impassity. It seemed to Christopher that somehow they knew he had slain two of their comrades. Of course there was no way they could know, unless Travis or Tucker or one of the other Texans who had been on the coast that day had talked. That was inconceivable.
"Keep your wits about you," said Travis, with a final word of advice. "Offer no information unless asked. Say as little as possible."
"Thanks, Counselor."
Travis smiled. "You've got some good nerves, Mr. Groves."
"If you only knew," said Christopher, and went inside.
Captain Piedras sat behind a table at the far end of the room. To one side of him stood a young, slender, scowling lieutenant. The captain rose from his chair as Christopher approached. He was short and stocky, with a square-jawed face and hair graying at the temples. His uniform was impeccable. Christopher sized him up as a stickler for rules and regulations, a man who expected the utmost from his men, a demanding taskmaster who never indulged in leniency. In the field he would be bold and aggressive, perhaps overly so.
Clicking the heels of his high-polished boots together, Piedras bent almost imperceptibly at the waist, a stiff and entirely minimal bow. A faint and meaningless smile touched one corner of his mouth, barely noticeable beneath the bold sweep of a cavalryman's mustache.
"Señor Christopher Groves, I presume."
Gone to Texas Page 26
