Gone to Texas

by Jason Manning

  "Yes." Christopher was surprised by the captain's excellent grasp of the English language.

  "Let me welcome you to Anahuac, señor. I hope your voyage was a pleasant one."

  "My voyage? I'm afraid I don't understand. I came overland, by wagon."

  "Indeed?" Piedras cocked an eyebrow and glanced at the lieutenant, who was glowering at Christopher as though at a common criminal. "Then I am puzzled, señor. You see, my men found a trunk on the beach near the site of the wreck of the brigantine Liberty. Your initials were inscribed on that trunk."

  A chill of apprehension seized Christopher. His mother had brought his belongings off the island, but under the circumstances it had not been possible to carry off the trunk itself. He had forgotten all about the initials he'd carved on the lid of the trunk on the day of their departure from Elm Tree.

  "They may have been my initials," he said, "but that wasn't my trunk. I . . . "

  "Yes?"

  Offer no information unless asked. "Must be a coincidence."

  "Perhaps. Where are you from, Señor Groves?"

  "Kentucky."

  "What are you doing in the Republic of Mexico?"

  "Looking to make a new start."

  "Are you a farmer?"

  "No."

  "What is your occupation?"

  "My mother and I raised horses in Kentucky."

  "Thoroughbreds? I am told they raise the most excellent horses in Kentucky."

  "We like to think so."

  "But you brought none of these thoroughbreds with you?"

  "No." On the verge of telling Piedras that Sterling Robertson was bringing the three Elm Tree thoroughbreds to Texas with him, Christopher caught himself just in the nick of time. The captain likely knew that there was a connection between Robertson and the Liberty.

  "So what do you intend to do, señor?"

  "I haven't made up my mind. I had heard there were many opportunities in Texas."

  "I see. Not really. You are related to Samuel Fulshear?"

  "That's right. A distant relative."

  "We were not aware that Señor Fulshear had any distant relatives."

  "He probably just forgot to mention it."

  Piedras gave him a strange look. Christopher cursed himself for a fool. The captain hadn't asked a question, so why the blazes was he talking?

  "Well," said Piedras, with a throw-away gesture. "Señor Fulshear is an old man, isn't he? Old men tend to be forgetful."

  He glanced expectantly at Christopher, who said nothing.

  "Are you aware, Señor Groves, that if you intend to stay you must renounce your United States citizenship and swear an oath of loyalty to the Republic of Mexico?"

  "Yes, so I've heard."

  "You are willing to do this thing?"

  Christopher hesitated. He couldn't help himself. Having spent two years at West Point preparing for a life in the service of the United States of America, he was loath to even pretend to forsake his country. He had known all along that such an oath was required of American settlers in Texas, but he had not given it a moment's thought during the long trip from Kentucky. Or perhaps, he told himself, he simply hadn't wanted to think about it.

  "You hesitate," observed Piedras.

  "As a soldier you must realize how difficult it would be to turn your back on your country."

  "I myself would not do it. Are you a soldier, Señor Groves?"

  "No. No, I'm not."

  "Perhaps you should return to your country if you love it so much."

  "I think I'll stay."

  "Ultimately it is I who will decide whether you stay or go. We are no longer encouraging immigration."

  "I noticed," said Christopher, becoming exasperated by the captain's imperious tone.

  "The problem is that so many of your countrymen have proved to be troublemakers. For instance, are you aware that several suspected smugglers were seen in this vicinity only a few days ago?"

  "I wasn't aware of that."

  "Of course not," said Piedras sardonically. It was manifestly clear that he thought Christopher was lying. "You are not aware of much at all, are you, señor? You aren't aware of two cannon which were smuggled ashore from the Liberty. And neither are you aware of the killing of several of my soldiers a few days ago."

  "I'm sorry to hear it."

  "I am confident that you are also not aware of Señor Fulshear's age."

  Christopher didn't miss a beat. "Afraid not. Like I said, he's a very distant relative. Ever since I can remember folks have said he was as old as dirt. But you might ask my grandfather."

  "Oh, I am sure your grandfather will be able to tell me by the time he gets here." Piedras sat back down, put both booted feet on the table, and rocked back in his chair, piercing Christopher with a dark and unblinking gaze. Christopher stared right back at him. Finally, Piedras broke eye contact. He made a curt, dismissive gesture. "That is all. Thank you for your cooperation, Señor Groves. You are free to go."

  "What about that oath? Don't you want me to take it?"

  "You are young and brash. I think you might be a troublemaker. So I have not yet made up my mind on whether you are staying."

  Oh, I'm staying, thought Christopher, but he was prudent enough not to say it out loud. Instead, he turned on his heel and left the meetinghouse.

  "How did it go?" asked Travis.

  Christopher glanced at the nearby lancers, who were watching him like vultures. He swallowed his anger.

  "I think he got the better of me," he replied.

  Chapter 26

  After their interrogation at the hands of Captain Piedras, Christopher and Nathaniel both were inclined to think the wiser course might be to leave Anahuac for good. Travis tried his level best to dissuade them. Piedras might be suspicious, but he had no proof, and without proof he would not act. By fleeing, they would only confirm the captain's suspicions. Better, said Travis, to sit tight and see the bluff through to the end.

  After discussing the matter with Rebecca, Christopher and his grandfather decided to take a trip up the Trinity to Sterling Robertson's colony. Rebecca would stay in Anahuac, and Klesko would remain in hiding. They would retrieve the thoroughbreds and study the lay of the land. Travis gave them his word that he would look out for Rebecca. Rebecca was quite certain she could look after herself. She did not like Travis, and Nathaniel surmised the reason: the Anahuac lawyer was a dashing, ambitious, and somewhat impetuous man—in these and other ways he bore a striking resemblance to one Jonathan Groves.

  Old Sam Fulshear bestowed upon Nathaniel the gift of a rifle, a Kentucky flintlock, with powder and shot to go with it. Nathaniel was reluctant to accept the rifle, but Fulshear insisted. He couldn't see well enough anymore to use the weapon—in his own words he couldn't hit the broadside of a barn from the inside. If Nathaniel got around to it he could bring some venison steaks every now and again.

  On the morning of their departure they had barely left the outskirts of Anahuac behind them when a pair of Mexican lancers stopped them on the road. One was the grim-faced lieutenant who had been present during the questioning. He fired questions at them in Spanish and was aggravated by their inability to comprehend. Switching to broken English, he insisted on knowing where they were bound. Nathaniel replied that they were heading upriver to visit a friend. Again, no mention was made of Sterling Robertson. They would be back in a couple of weeks. Christopher thought the lieutenant was going to forbid them to go. Instead, they were allowed to pass.

  "Little wonder these Texicans want their liberty," said Christopher when they were well out of earshot of the lancers. "Those soldiers treat our people like dirt. Is that how the redcoats treated us in the old days, Grandpa?"

  "Well, I was only a lad then, in a backwater town. I didn't see too many redcoats. I reckon some were good and some were bad. Same with these Mexican troops. And there are some Mexican civilians around here who don't like the soldiers any more than the Americans do."

  "That lieutenant would
like nothing better than to shoot the lot of us."

  "He does seem to have a chip on his shoulder."

  Christopher wondered aloud if it was the wife of that particular lieutenant who was having an affair with Travis.

  "I'll tell you one thing," said the frontiersman. "When the time comes, those Mexicans will put up one heck of a fight."

  They took passage on one of the sidewheelers that plied the Trinity, transporting the supplies which arrived in Anahuac to the colonists located inland. This rickety craft was a far cry from the floating palaces Christopher had seen on the Mississippi River. But then, these Texans seemed to have a knack for making more out of less. Throughout the journey Christopher didn't see a single iron plow. The colonists' plows were forked limbs; one prong turned the earth, another was the handle, and the third the tongue, which was lashed to the yoke on a pair of oxen—or the horns of the beasts if a yoke was lacking. Carts balanced on a single axle with two big solid wheels seemed to be the most common conveyance, and the river craft Christopher saw most often were made of cowhides sewn together and stretched over a framework of poles. There were one or two genuine flatboats. Seeing these made Christopher think of Klesko, hidden away in that secluded dugout on the Strom farm, like a rabbit in its hole.

  "We should have brought Klesko with us," he told Nathaniel.

  "He's probably better off laying low for a spell. Besides, I doubt that he would have come along."

  "Why not? He said he wanted to see these Texas rivers."

  "That man's not ever going to stray too very far from Becky if he can help it."

  "You think he's in love with my mother?"

  "Pretty certain that's the case." Nathaniel gave Christopher a sidelong look. "How does that sit with you?"

  Christopher was silent for a moment, thinking it over.

  "I think it's about time she found a man who won't stray."

  Nathaniel laughed. "I agree. Your father and I were two of the strayingest men ever born. And I don't think you're much different. But I wish you wouldn't sell your father short. He was a decent man. Just made some mistakes that he couldn't live with."

  "After what happened with Noelle, I see things a lot differently, Grandpa."

  "I'm glad to hear it."

  "But you're wrong about me. I'm going to put down roots, as soon as Greta gets here."

  "Did you get that letter written?"

  "And a couple since. Mr. Wells took the last one back to New Orleans with him. He said I could count on him to send it on."

  "I reckon we'd better get you a cabin built before she arrives. Never met a woman yet who didn't like having her own roof over her head."

  "Question is, where do we build that cabin?"

  "You'll know the place when you see it."

  It was Rebecca's nature to want to be useful at all times. The people of Anahuac had gone out of their way to help her and her family, and she very much desired to repay their kindness. When she asked Travis if Anahuac might be in need of a schoolteacher, he was enthusiastic. Being the most educated member of the community, and the only one with any books other than the Bible, Travis had been burdened with the task himself. The fact that he had been a schoolteacher back in Alabama had also been a factor. He was more than happy to turn it over to Rebecca, and offered her the use of his library.

  Classes were held in the meetinghouse. On Rebecca's first day only five children showed up. The next day there were seven, but only four on the third. Not a single pupil managed to attend for more than three consecutive days. Rebecca did not make an issue out of this poor attendance. She understood that these were the children of farmers who worked very hard just to survive, and the youngsters were often required to labor in the fields from dawn to dusk side by side with their parents. Book learning was a luxury few could afford on a full-time basis.

  The man named Tucker sat in during her second day of class, and on the day after he was joined by another buckskin-clad character. By the end of her first week there were half a dozen men in the meetinghouse. When she told Travis about this he laughed.

  "Those are Anahuac's eligible bachelors, Mrs. Groves. They're not interested in learning the classics—they're interested in you."

  Cheeks burning, Rebecca said, "I wish they would attend to their own business. It's rather disconcerting. They sit against the back wall and grin at me all day long."

  "None of them are farmers. Take Tucker for instance. He makes a living hunting game and trading in furs. But you have done us all a great service by attracting his interest. I've been here for more than a year now, and last week was to my knowledge the first time Tucker ever bathed."

  "Well, if they are not seeking an education, they don't need to attend school."

  "Wild horses couldn't drag them away, ma'am."

  "Oh, I shall rout them," promised Rebecca.

  The next school day she began her campaign by asking Tucker to solve a ciphering problem, and imposing on another man to read a passage from Shakespeare's Hamlet. From then on not a single man appeared at the meetinghouse while school was in session.

  Rebecca found that she still had time on her hands, and took up spinning. She had done a little darning and quilting as the mistress of Elm Tree, though she had much preferred working outside in her garden or with the thoroughbreds to staying inside. But what she was familiar with was nothing compared to weaving in the Mexican style. An old woman, Dona Petra, who lived and worked alone in a small dirt-floored shack on the edge of town, agreed to teach her. They worked without benefit of card, wheel, or loom. The wool or cotton was dyed, then picked out by hand. A piece of wool was attached to a spindle which was placed in a bowl and spun between thumb and finger. The thread was drawn out while the spindle turned. This was slow and tedious work, and weeks were required to spin enough thread for a blanket. The warp was then stretched on a frame. The filling of unspun wool was worked in and out of the warp by hand, secured with the use of a board which was passed over and under the threads to pack the filling tightly.

  Rebecca found that she still had some idle time, and in those moments with nothing to do her thoughts turned to Klesko. She wanted to visit him, now that Nathaniel was away. She knew her father would have objected strenuously had she attempted anything so rash while he was present. Klesko was a fugitive, and she would endanger herself as well as the riverman. She tried to talk herself out of it, but failed. When she broached the subject with Travis, it was the lawyer's turn to try and dissuade her.

  "You forget," he said, "that Captain Piedras has eyes and ears in Anahuac. Someone is informing him of everything that goes on here. Under those circumstances it is an entirely too hazardous venture."

  "Nonetheless," she said, "I am going to see him. He's been buried in that dugout for weeks now, and I am certain he would appreciate a little company."

  Travis kept trying to talk her out of it, to no avail. The next day, a Sunday, Rebecca accompanied the Stroms to their farm after church service. She spent the rest of the day with them. Late that night, when the farmer's wife took some bread and rabbit stew out to Klesko, Rebecca went along.

  The night was dark and the journey long—a half-mile jaunt through thicket, across field, and over a babbling brook. The wind had picked up, thrashing the top of the trees about, and the woods were filled with moving shadows. Rebecca was tortured with second thoughts, and so keyed up that she saw a Mexican lancer behind every tree. Why was she putting Klesko and the Stroms in jeopardy like this? She was on the verge of telling Mrs. Strom that she wanted to turn back when the farmer's wife whispered, "It is just ahead." The dugout was built into the side of a hill, deep in a thicket, and Rebecca couldn't make it out until she was right up on it. Mrs. Strom tapped lightly on the door. Klesko opened up immediately. When he saw the two women he sheepishly lowered the pistol he was holding.

  "You have a visitor, Mr. Klesko," said Mrs. Strom as she handed him the bread and the bowl of stew. "Should I wait for you, Mrs. Groves?"

  "Than
k you, but there's no need for you to do that. I can find my way back."

  Mrs. Strom smiled and disappeared into the night.

  "You shouldn't have come, ma'am."

  "Perhaps not. But here I am. Aren't you going to let me in?"

  "It don't look right," protested Klesko. "You being out here with me like this."

  "Well, the damage is done now, isn't it? They can think what they want. I'm here, and I would prefer not to stand outside."

  The dugout was black as the womb until Klesko lit a candle. The Spartan furnishings consisted of a rough-hewn table, a couple of empty casks for sitting on, and a rope-slat bed. Blankets over a single window kept any telltale light from escaping.

  "It ain't much," said Klesko. "But it's better than some places I've stayed. And it sure beats a Mexican jail."

  "Mr. Klesko! You've shaved off your beard!"

  Embarrassed, he ran a hand over his face. "Yes, ma'am. Not that it would fool them soldiers."

  "You have a strong, handsome face."

  Klesko blushed furiously. A woman had never talked to him like that. "Shoot, ma'am, I'm as ugly as warmed-over sin, beard or no beard."

  "You really must call me Rebecca. 'Ma'am' makes me feel even older than I am."

  "You ain't old, ma'am—I mean, Rebecca."

  She smiled, realizing that she had been fishing for a compliment. She ordered him to sit down and eat, and he offered to share the meal with her, even though he was famished. She declined the offer. They sat on the casks, at the rickety table, and she made small talk while he ate, bringing him up-to-date, telling him about her adventures as a schoolmarm, and how she had learned to weave in the Mexican style, and how Nathaniel and Christopher had gone north for a few weeks. He asked about O'Connor, and she informed him that the young Irishman had gone back to New Orleans, quite unexpectedly, without giving any indication whether he intended to return.

  "I reckon he's gone back for that gal Noelle," said Klesko solemnly.

  "Whatever happened between Christopher and that girl? He hasn't spoken a word about her since we left New Orleans. I thought they were getting along famously."

  Klesko shook his head and shoveled more stew into his mouth. Rebecca had a hunch he knew more about the matter than he was letting on. But she didn't press the issue.