by Martha Hix
“Then stay in Louisiana. Ye have a home here. Either here or at Magnolia Hall. Ye’re always welcome.”
“I love my husband, and I love the Republic. My place is there, and that’s where I intend to be.”
“Ye’ve really cleaved yerself to him, Emmie?”
“With all my heart and soul.” She paused. “Have you ever loved a woman . . . besides Angélique de Poutrincourt?”
“Never.”
“Have you ever taken a mistress?”
“Watch that impertinent tongue.”
Unable to repeat the information Simon had confessed, she grappled for the right words. “I’ve heard you kept a woman in Sisal. Didn’t she mean anything to you?”
“I know nothing of a woman in Sisal. Yer husband’s been filling yer head with slanderous tales about me.”
“The same way his father spread lies?”
“Yes.”
Cold washed over her. She believed he was lying. “Then you didn’t murder him? Didn’t conspire with Étienne’s second to fix the firing pin?”
“I’ll tell ye like I told ye before—I did no such thing!”
Emma walked away and tied the mare’s reins to a tree. She faced him. “Paul says you sold arms to the Centralists.”
“Another falsehood.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear your denial,” she responded. “I knew you wouldn’t lie, but my own ears needed to hear it.”
“That’s my girl.” He quickly changed the subject to Magnolia Hall. A smattering of horsetalk followed.
Guiding the conversation away from that, Emma said, “I appreciate the money you gave me; it’s provided supplies to treat those who can afford my services and the indigent of this area.”
“Glad ye’ve put the money to good use.”
She launched into a dissertation on her patients. “There’s a man who comes by the office from time to time. A consumptive. He used to live in the vicinity, but doesn’t anymore, so I don’t see him regularly. I’ve always been intrigued by him, though. He’s rather a mystery. But he mentioned your name the last time I saw him. How do you know Simon Dyer?”
Rankin inhaled sharply, and blanched.
His expression spoke louder than a thousand words. Simon hadn’t lied. Paul hadn’t lied! Yet she couldn’t be pleased. No matter what her uncle had done to others, he had been good to her. That was difficult to put aside. Being torn between two loves was a hurting thing.
She agonized over what to do. Should she turn against her criminal kinsman?
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Do you know Simon Dyer?” Emma repeated.
Rankin pulled his bearings together. “Of course I know him. But I haven’t seen him in years.”
Emma was sick at heart. She couldn’t openly accuse her uncle of wrongdoing. To do so would unearth the source of her information—Simon Dyer. Professional ethics wouldn’t allow that. The hardest part was, she couldn’t tell Paul of Simon’s confession or of this conversation. If so, she’d have to make explanations.
“I think we should head back,” she said.
Once back at the stable, Rankin made a hasty excuse to leave, and she was glad for it.
That same afternoon a communique for Paul arrived from Commodore Moore. “Meet me at the Balize pilot station posthaste,” it stated.
And at twilight, Cleopatra sashayed into the bedchamber. “There be a body tying up a sloop to the jetty.” She pursed her lips in a smug smile. “You best look out the window, missy, ’cause your man be home.”
Paul! Emma forgot everything in her elation. She ran down the stairs, threw open the door. Her legs couldn’t carry her to the dock fast enough. Arms akimbo, he stood, smiling, watching her. He wore black leather boots, dark breeches, and a shirt of soft white cotton. A slight breeze tousled his short black curls. This was how she had pictured him as a privateer before the mast. Rakish, swashbuckling, sensuous.
He started to swing off the Virgin Vixen, but Emma flew into his arms, knocking him to the deck. Inhaling salt air, tobacco, and male warmth, she landed atop him.
He laughed with joy. “I’ve fantasized about coming home, chérie, but I never thought it would be like this.”
“Hush up. You talk too much.” Her mouth came down on his, and she kissed him soundly.
Returning her embrace, he ran his hands over her back and down her legs. Clothes were dispensed with as the last ray of sunlight vanished, and the two lovers explored the wonders of each other’s body and conquered the loneliness of being apart.
Their euphoria didn’t diminish. Even though Emma’s heavy heart was a mighty weight to carry. Even though Paul, at a loss to understand why Ed Moore hadn’t sailed for Campeche, carried dire tidings from the Yucatán.
“I’m going with you to Balize,” she said, and he finally agreed.
They sailed at dawn for the pilot station at the mouth of the Mississippi. Fog as thick as pea soup met them. They caught sight of the flagship Austin and of the Wharton, which was the brig under Paul’s command. He didn’t have long to wonder why the two ships were stalled there; a longboat carrying Commodore Edwin Moore and Naval Commissioner John Naylor rowed up beside the Virgin Vixen.
Colonel John Naylor, elderly yet vital, stepped aboard. His thick gray brows were knitted. “There you are, Rousseau.”
Behind Naylor’s back Ed Moore raised a hand to signal problems. “The commissioner has been with us in New Orleans for some weeks. He’s—”
“I’ll tell him, Commodore Moore.” Naylor dusted his sleeve. “Perhaps we could go below.”
Oh no! Emma thought. The cabin was a wreck; her unmentionables were everywhere. “Oh, but it’s a lovely day, gentlemen. You don’t want to go down there,” she said quickly.
“Colonel Naylor”—Paul cleared his throat—“may I present my wife Emma.”
“Charmed.” He took her hand and gallantly kissed her fingers. “But it’s not a lovely day, Mrs. Rousseau.” As if on cue, foggy vapors swirled between them. “Please lead the way.”
Emma took the only recourse. She stepped down the companionway, kicking clothes out of sight as she crossed the salon. Then she sat squarely on the chemise that lay on the bunk. However, her concern about the cabin’s appearance vanished when Naylor turned to Paul. “I bring bad news, Captain Rousseau.”
“Our Navy is no more,” Moore said gravely.
Naylor nodded. “At the behest of President Sam Houston and under the powers granted me by the Seventh Congress of the Republic of Texas, I’ve disbanded the Navy.”
“Commodore Moore was suspended from command and ordered to report to the Department of War and Marine at once. The same goes for you, Captain.”
“Why?” Paul’s voice was strained.
“We’ve entered a period of naval pacifism. The government plans to sell the fleet.”
Emma’s eyes went to Paul. She could see the fury boiling in him. For months—years—he and Ed Moore had struggled to keep the Navy afloat, and now the Centralists were moving overland, committing atrocities against the citizens of the Yucatán peninsula as well as in the hills of central Texas. The Texan naval patriots were being forced ashore by the very Republic they had pledged their hearts and lives to.
“There’s something you should know,” Moore said. “I’d planned to join you in Campeche, but after the commissioner arrived—”
“Why the delay?” There was a sharp ring to Paul’s tone. “And what does our esteemed naval commissioner plan to do with our two last ships? Let them sit here at Balize until the highest bidder comes along?”
“No,” Naylor said. “The commodore convinced me to let him command the fleet until we reach Texas waters.”
“As well he should. To abandon our ships in a foreign port would be treason on his part.”
“Paul, please . . .” Moore waved a hand in gesture of caution. “It’s too late for recriminations.”
“Too late. That seems to be the watchword of our times.” Paul pulled a cheroot fr
om a humidor. He pinched off the end before saying, “May I beg your tolerance for a moment, gentlemen?”
“I’m interested in what you have to say,” Naylor said.
“General Martin Peraza entrusted a large amount of money to us. He gave it in good faith, and in equally good faith I promised we’d drive off Santa Anna’s Navy. Peraza was on the verge of surrendering.” Paul struck a lucifer, raised it to the cheroot, then took a long draw of smoke, exhaling it slowly. “Now Peraza and his men are going to surrender to the Centralists. And when they do, they’ll be forced to fight against our Republic.”
Naylor had the grace to appear shocked. “Surely it won’t come to that.”
“But it will. The Yucatecans intercepted an intelligence report. As soon as they’re brought to heel, Commodore Tomás Marin has been instructed to sail his formidable fleet north.” Paul allowed that to sink in. “To sack the city of Galveston.”
“Good God!” Naylor didn’t enjoy his mission. Never had. He had left retirement and ease at the earnest solicitation of President Houston. “Something has to be done to bring those rebels to heel,” Sam Houston had said, “and I want you to do it. Moore respects you. He’s never respected me or my authority. It’s your duty as a citizen of Texas to curb the violations of authority that Commodore Moore and Captain Rousseau perpetrate against my administration.” Then, as now, John Naylor had difficulty understanding Houston, but a call to duty was a call to duty.
Rubbing the tense muscles in his neck, Naylor studied the two men in question. They weren’t rascals. They were fighters with love of freedom and country in their souls. And they were willing to give their lives for the cause. He appreciated their will and wisdom.
His graveled voice rose. “We can’t let Santa Anna get away with it.”
“My sentiments exactly, Colonel.” Paul knew an advantage when one was presented. “So . . . do you still wish to send us like whipped pups back to Galveston, then drydock the Austin and Wharton until you can find a buyer?”
“No, for God’s sake. No! We must save the Republic.” Naylor’s gray eyes rested on Moore, then Paul. “Do you have any suggestions?”
“I’d like to hear what Paul has to say,” Moore said.
“I understand the Moctezuma is planning to move Santa Anna’s troops from Telchac to Campeche. I suggest we make a detour on our way to home port. If we engage in some well-placed salvos against the ship, then we’ll be in a good position to attack the Centralist squadron guarding the port of Campeche. With the Guadalupe whipped, too, Santa Anna’s armies would receive no reinforcements or supplies—and they couldn’t be united. The Yucatecans could reorganize their land forces, defeat their foe . . . and ours.”
“Brilliant!”
“Then we have your consent, sir?” Paul asked. Moore looked to Naylor.
The colonel, arch Texan and proud of it, fell to contemplation. He was alarmed by Captain Rousseau’s words. For too long he had lived in a state of complacency, expecting that nest of Centralist rattlesnakes to strike the western regions of Texas. He had been resigned to that, but he had never given full thought to what would happen if a coastal invasion were to take place—near his plantation!
And he, John Naylor, had plenary power to do with the Texas Navy as he saw fit. It wasn’t too late to exercise his authority, but he had no say over Moore and Rousseau. Their hides belonged to Sam Houston.
“May we have your answer, Colonel?” Moore asked.
“There’s something you need to know,” Naylor replied solemnly. “I haven’t been totally honest with you.” He slipped his hand into his frock coat, and withdrew the secret document that might stand in the way of Texas’s freedom. “I think you’d better read this.”
Moore took the parchment. His eyes widened as he read it. “May God have mercy on us! Has this been published?”
“No, and it won’t be. Provided you do as told and sail into the port of Galveston.”
“What does it say?” Emma asked, unable to keep quiet.
“Houston plans to brand us pirates!”
She gasped. Paul went white beneath his tan.
“This proclamation,” Moore explained, “invites the nations of the world to . . . seize us. We’re to be arraigned and sentenced by a legal tribunal.” A muscle worked in his throat as he read aloud the closing sentence. “‘The naval powers of Christendom will not permit such a flagrant and unexampled outrage.’”
“I couldn’t tell you before,” Naylor said. “And I shouldn’t now. That document is to be published only if you give me any trouble.”
“It’s underhanded trickery on his part.” Ed Moore stood his ground. “He won’t do it. Public opinion is too strongly against him.”
“If we sail on our course to honor our commitment and to protect our citizens against invasion,” Paul said, “it’ll be without the sanction of our government. In the eyes of the world we’ll be regarded as those who put to sea under the skull and crossbones.”
“I’m willing to take that chance, and the men under my command will feel likewise,” the commodore said.
Paul nodded. “Absolutely.”
“I appreciate your apprising us of the situation, Naylor.” Moore took a step forward. “And now I ask you—are you with us or not?”
Naylor brushed a palm across his lips. “I’m with you.”
Emma shuddered to think of it. On one side was right; on the other, Sam Houston’s law. Provided they didn’t perish in the campaign, they’d face the wrath of their Sam Houston—and punishment by court-martial. She longed to run to Paul, to plead sensibility and self-preservation.
But what was sensible? Abiding by Sam Houston’s dictum put the whole Gulf in peril. Emma realized that Paul would never be able to live with the knowledge that he hadn’t done everything in his power to preserve the lives of his countrymen, even if it meant the loss of his own.
She resigned herself. She might lose him, but she wouldn’t tie him with her own selfish fears. He was a Navy man, first and foremost, and her love was strong enough to grant him his freedom. But there was a hurting, aching tear in her heart.
The three men put their heads together to plan their strategies. While they did so Emma shaped her own plans. She was not going to stand by while Paul sailed away, possibly forever. The Wharton needed a surgeon, and she intended to fill that need. Most of all, she wanted to be with her husband. There was no use arguing about her decision. She knew Paul; he’d have her put ashore, and there’d be no stopping it. But she’d be aboard that brig when it sailed. She didn’t know how yet, only that she’d have to be crafty.
Day broke to cerulean skies and a fine tail wind. Sailing conditions were perfect, so the Austin, with Naylor aboard, and the Wharton made for Telchac.
Paul grasped the rail and watched the Virgin Vixen head west. The sloop carried a letter to the editor of the Galveston newspaper. It stated Commodore Moore’s intentions in the Yucatecan waters, and declared that he had the consent and full concurrence of Naval Commissioner John Naylor.
The sloop also carried Emma. It would make a detour on its way to Texas to put her ashore at Feuille de Chêne. A tug yanked at his heart. Would he ever see her again? There were no guarantees that the Wharton wouldn’t go to the bottom, or that a shot wouldn’t fell him. He wasn’t afraid to die. But never holding Emma in his arms again, that thought scared the hell out of him.
“I love you,” he mouthed across the waters.
In truth he was surprised she had put up but a modicum of resistance at being sent back to the plantation. So little, in fact, he became suspicious now. She wouldn’t dare conceal herself on this brig, he told himself. Even Emma wouldn’t do something that harebrained.
And it would’ve taken an accomplice. Moments from the previous evening flashed into his mind. After he had said goodbye to Emma, he and Naylor were piped aboard the flagship to assess a ticklish situation. Then Naylor discovered he had forgotten the piracy proclamation, and the longboat was sent back to r
etrieve it from the Virgin Vixen. Reese McDonald had been the oarsman.
“McDonald,” he shouted down the deck, “front and center.”
The young marine stopped polishing the pivot gun, handed the rag over to a weathered old salt, and made his way to his captain. His footsteps still echoing on the planks, he saluted snappily. “Sir?”
“Are you certain Mrs. Rousseau’s aboard that sloop?”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but I can’t guarantee her whereabouts at this moment.” McDonald squared his wide shoulders. “She was on deck when I boarded the longboat.”
Though McDonald’s faithfulness and character were both proven, Paul wasn’t convinced. “She wouldn’t by any chance be on this brig, would she?”
“No, sir!”
Paul was of a mind to row the longboat after the Virgin Vixen and make certain Emma was on board, but he’d never catch her. The notion of tacking westward was dismissed by him also.
A delay wasn’t justifiable. Tomorrow a painful duty had to be performed on the flagship. The San Antonio mutineers would be punished. Sam Houston had signed the extradition papers—finally —and the men had been released to naval jurisdiction. Before Naylor had arrived in New Orleans a tribunal had been convened, and the Austin had been transporting the prisoners to Galveston. The warship wasn’t on course for home port presently, but Moore was adamant that sentences be read on the morrow. And he wanted both ships in the middle of Gulf waters when justice was carried out.
No, Paul couldn’t run after Emma. For now, he had to trust in her word and McDonald’s obedience. “Dismissed.”
But he couldn’t dismiss the suspicion that she had something up her sleeve.
Hair tucked beneath a sock cap, Emma tugged at her scratchy sleeve. She had borrowed her garb from Reese McDonald. Bless him! Naturally her shirt and breeches were too long and way too big, but she had negated wearing feminine finery. A stowaway needed practical garments.
At present, she was hiding in the Wharton’s longboat, beneath a tarp, and that was where she intended to stay until the North American coast was long over the horizon. Perhaps tomorrow she’d make an appearance. In the meantime, she’d make do, twiddle her thumbs and eat the jerky Reese had provided.
