Magnolia Nights

by Martha Hix

  At half-past nine the next morning the Austin signaled the brig to hove to. With heavy heart Paul acknowledged the message. This was the day sentences would be read to the last of the San Antonio’s mutineers. Remembering Seymour Oswald’s kindness to him after his lashing, Paul was grateful that the sergeant wasn’t among them. This was going to be difficult enough, and he was worried. Without governmental sanction, he felt they shouldn’t act on the sentences. Moore, however, believed it should be done forthwith.

  He descended the ratline to the longboat. Two seamen accompanied him. George Williams took up one oar, Bobs Bates the other. Ruminating on the mutineers’ fates, Paul sat in the stern. Damn! He hated this aspect of duty. Piracy proclamation or not, he didn’t want to be a part of it, despite his respect for the now-deceased patriots who had defended the luckless schooner. In frustration he kicked the tarp.

  “Ouch!”

  Paul groaned and squeezed his eyes. Emma. He’d know her voice anywhere. He whipped the canvas cover away. There she was, face covered with grime and wearing a man’s garb. Undoubtedly McDonald’s. “Get up.”

  “Who me?” Wide-eyed, she had a look of innocence. “Are you talking to me?”

  “Coquettishness doesn’t become you, Emma Rousseau. Especially in your present garb.” It was all he could do not to swat her behind. “Let me guess. You’ve decided to see for yourself what it’s like to engage in battle at sea. And that’s exactly what you’re going to get—a sea battle with me!”

  Grinning sheepishly, she tucked the hem of her shirt into the breeches. “Well, I didn’t expect you to be happy.”

  “Why, in the name of all that’s right, can’t you behave like an ordinary woman? Why can’t I ever depend on you?” He didn’t mention her timing, which couldn’t have been worse. “Think back to the time we met. You came to my room. You thought nothing of stealing. You’ve taken up a profession that rightfully belongs to men. Now you’ve stowed away on a ship of war!”

  “I thought we decided not to talk about the past. Oh, never mind! Anyway, you didn’t complain when I was in your room. You got that plagued brooch back. You appreciated my doctoring when your . . . when your, mm, wonderful back was sliced to smithereens.” She derived a degree of satisfaction from the half-grin that he was trying to hide. “And your men deserve a surgeon’s services.”

  Silently he conceded the first part. But if the Mexican snake-and-buzzard didn’t get him first, this woman was going to be the death of him. “You’re right. Our men do need a competent surgeon. But my wife isn’t going to be the one wielding a scalpel. You, madame, are going back to Louisiana!”

  “How? Surely you won’t turn this brig around. I’m a good swimmer, but you can’t expect me to swim ashore.”

  “A shark nipping at your ankles would serve you fair.” He balled his hands into fists. “Your trouble, Emma, is you should’ve been born a man.”

  She stepped forward, looking up at him and flattening her palms against his chest. “That wouldn’t please you, would it?”

  He’d have his tongue sliced out before admitting it, but she was slowly, and successfully, drawing him into her net with her sexual powers. If they were alone . . . But they weren’t, and the longboat was near the flagship.

  He yanked the tarp aloft. “Get under there.”

  “No. My muscles are cramped.”

  He addressed her sternly. “Today the mutineers’ fate will be determined. I beg you—don’t do anything to disrupt order.”

  Wordlessly, she scooted under the canvas. She now understood his edge of temper. For over a year he had been troubled over those mutineers. She knew he was torn between sympathy and duty.

  Paul turned on his heel and marched over to the oarsmen. “Not a word of this, Bates, Williams. Stay at your posts, and make sure she stays hidden.”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n,” they both replied.

  The longboat’s prow thumped against the Austin’s wooden hull. “Ahoy!” a boatswain’s mate called down as the rope ladder was thrown over the side. Agilely Paul climbed aboard, yet his heart was a leaden weight.

  Solemn and pensive, all 146 Texas Tars in service to the Austin stood at attention. The prisoners were brought forth in shackles from the quarterdeck’s prison box.

  Paul watched the mutineers. Their faces evinced no fear, for they believed they’d be pardoned. With the San Antonio gone forever and the chief prosecution witnesses at the Gulfs bottom, they figured the case against them was weak. They were unaware that Seaman Sheppard had turned state’s evidence.

  His eyes troubled, Moore took a scroll from Fourth-Lieutenant Quartermain. The commodore unrolled it and swallowed with difficulty. “It is my awful and painful but sacred duty to perform this sentencing. May God save your souls.”

  Paul despised yet respected what had to be done. A lesson had to be learned by all assembled. The strength of naval martial law must be maintained; no matter how difficult the conditions or how callous the commanding officer, respect for authority must reign. But he and Moore were going against their superior’s authority.

  While Moore read the articles of war and the ! charges against each of the mutineers, Paul’s jaw was clenched. Sam Houston might brand all the good men of these two ships as pirates, and their fate might not be any more noble than that of the men shackled beneath the fore yardarm.

  “John Williams,” Moore said, “guilty as charged. But in consideration of informing Captain Throckmorton at the last moment that mutiny was about to take place, your sentence is lowered to one hundred lashes of the cat.”

  “Will Barrington, Edward Keenan. One hundred lashes each.”

  The cook, Keenan, moved his mouth in silent prayer and looked to the heavens above. Barrington smiled.

  “Captain of Marines William Simpson, Seamen Isaac Allen and James Hudgins, Marine Antonio Landois. Guilty of all charges. You are to be hanged at the fore yardarm. You have twenty-four hours to prepare for your deaths.”

  “No!” shouted Landois. Simpson and Allen closed their eyes and dropped their heads.

  Hudgins shouted, “What about Sheppard?”

  “Frederick Sheppard,” Moore said, “in view of the testimony given at the tribunal in New Orleans, you are acquitted and released.”

  “You son-of-a-bitch!” Hudgins screamed at the traitor. “May your bloody soul burn in hell.”

  Paul hated his own cowardice, but he was relieved that he wouldn’t be forced to view the executions.

  “Secure Williams, Barrington, and Keenan to the number-nine gun,” Moore said, rerolling the scroll. “Commence sentencing.”

  The lash cracked through the air as Moore turned troubled eyes to Paul. “This is the most difficult day of my life. And tomorrow will be worse . . . I’ve never viewed an execution.”

  “Nor have I.”

  “I’d better board the Wharton,” Moore said. “I’ve got to do some explaining to your men.”

  “Aye, aye.” Feeling an invisible noose around his own neck, Paul did an about-face. Now Emma had to be dealt with.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Howard O’Reilly settled in for an evening of marital conviviality. As Marian’s excellent meal rested comfortably in his stomach, he chatted about the weather, the social season, and other amenable topics.

  Finally his wife yawned and stretched her arms above her head. “Think I’ll take a bath before turning in, sweetie.”

  Frowning, Howard picked up the Tropic, which was folded on the table beside him. She never allowed him to watch her while bathing, no matter how much he begged.

  His attention centered on the headline. “Wait!”

  “Whatever’s the matter? Do you need a bicarbonate for your stomach? Oh, I shouldn’t’ve had Cook put all those onions in the jambalaya.”

  “Stop fretting about the food. Paul’s in trouble.”

  Marian hurried across the drawing room and snapped the newspaper from her husband’s hand. Her eyes rounded with horror as she read the article. “Oh
. . . no!”

  “Oh yes.” Howard shot from the wing chair and ran a hand through his red hair. “That miserable fool Sam Houston’s branded the brave and courageous men of the Texas fleet as pirates. He’s invited all nations in treaty or in amity with the Republic to seize them.”

  “Do you think anyone will take such action?”

  “I doubt it, but this does mean Paul will be in trouble when he returns to Galveston. He may be hanged for this.”

  “He’ll need a lawyer,” Marian said. “You’ll have to help.”

  “If he comes to us.”

  “He will.” She lovingly touched the brush of a rust-hued sideburn. “We should take comfort in one thing. How did the Tropic put it? Oh, yes. The Texans are ‘a race in whose veins never flowed the blood of cowards.’ If our Paul dies, it’ll be courageously. Doing what he believes in. We should all be so fortunate.”

  “I daresay you’re right.” Winding his arms around her, Howard buried his face in her hair. “But our poor Emma . . .”

  It took a lot of hard convincing to sway Ed Moore to Emma’s way of thinking. “A woman has no place aboard a ship of war,” he had said, but she had adroitly listed the pluses in her favor. As to the issue of gender she was not faint of heart, and she was determined to do her part for the Navy. The Wharton lacked a surgeon, and she had both training and experience on her side. Most of all, she intended to stand by her husband, through thick or thin, and no one was going to parcel her off to Louisiana. No one.

  That evening, in the captain’s cabin at the stern of the Wharton, Paul grimaced—and it wasn’t because the brig hit a trough and dropped sharply, bow first. He was aggravated on several levels; he didn’t want his wife involved in the battle that was certain to come.

  “Drat.” As water sloshed onto the wood planking Emma grabbed the edge of the iron tub in which she bathed. “Rough seas, huh?”

  “Yes, Madame Rousseau, there’re rough seas now, and even rougher ones ahead.”

  Her blond curls were pulled up into a knot, but a loose tendril had escaped and was plastered to the rise of her breast. He couldn’t tear his gaze from it, or from the pink crests that pouted at the waterline. Having no sense of right or wrong, anger or happiness, his manhood stiffened.

  Paul forced himself to be stern. “I’ve had enough of your charming every man you meet. Ed Moore would’ve never agreed to your scheme if you hadn’t batted your lashes at him. And there’s no telling what you said or did to poor puppy-dog-eyes McDonald to get him to let you steal aboard the longboat.”

  “Sometimes being a woman has its advantages.”

  “Mighty sure of yourself, aren’t you?” he asked, wanting no reply. In two steps he was across the cabin. He pulled her, protesting, from the water. “It’s about time you learned some obedience.”

  “Stop that!”

  Taking her under his arm, he stomped toward the bed, then turned her over his knee and began to swat her wet, naked bottom.

  “Ouch!”

  He rubbed the reddening imprint of his hand before spanking her again. Hearing her moan, this time in pleasure, he squeezed that shapely cheek and slid his thumb between her legs. She opened them, and he turned his attention to her womanly delight. He ached for release.

  She slid back, unbuttoned his breeches, and stroked him. When he pulled the pins from her hair, a blond shroud fell in a tent around him. His hands shook. Gnashing his teeth in agonizing ecstasy, he fell back to the covers. The feel of her lips and tongue around him was more than he could take. Remembering her firm derrière, he pulled her from him and turned her onto her stomach. After sliding a pillow beneath her, he teased her. He wanted to be strong, to be capable of pulling back, to be able to teach her she didn’t have control. But she beckoned him with her wriggling legs. He could take no more. Curving his fingers around her hipbones, he thrust into her.

  A kaleidoscope of pleasure-coated pain exploded within Emma, and the bed groaned as Paul drove harder and harder, faster and faster, she met his pounding with her own passion. Never before had their lovemaking been this wild. Time after time he plunged into her, but she wanted more . . . more . . . more.

  “You love it,” he whispered.

  “No,” she lied.

  “Yes, you do.” He started to withdraw, but she reached back to stop him, and he thrust himself once more into her hot moist haven. Leaning forward, he slid his palms under her breasts and squeezed the nipples. “Admit it, m’amoureuse.”

  “You’re a brute.”

  “You bring out the beast in me . . . so tell me what I bring out in you. Tell me you love it.”

  “I love it.”

  At least, Paul figured, he was master of a small part of their destiny. Yet they were both slaves, each to the other’s desires, and he wished that would never change.

  With one final loving lunge of ecstasy he spent himself in the woman he adored. In the afterglow he covered her throat, her temples, her lips with kisses. There would come a day, he hoped, when Texas would be at peace. Then the proceeds from the sale of Feuille de Chêne would go a long way toward establishing a livelihood for them—a shipyard, perhaps. They would make their home in Galveston, create and raise children, grow old and fat together.

  He would never grow tired of her. Never. Getting enough of Emma was as impossible as the sun rising in the west. His life would be a void without her. He’d never allow her to grow tired of him!

  Would they have a chance at all those dreams? The Wharton was bearing down on the coast of Telchac, bearing down on the Mexican Navy. The Texans would be victorious, Paul couldn’t doubt that, but they still might face the wrath and fury of Texas’s Big Drunk.

  “Paul,” Emma murmured, tracing her fingertip along the scar on his jaw, “could we do it again?”

  “I think something can be arranged. . . .”

  Paul’s plans didn’t come to fruition. By the time they arrived in Telchac the Moctezuma had left. They came abreast of a merchantman sailing for New Orleans, and Paul cleared passage for Emma, but she flatly refused to leave the brig. He realized that when she made up her mind there was no unmaking it.

  He ordered full sail, and the Wharton, along with the flagship, stood for Sisal.

  “When we’re engaged in battle you’ll remain below,” he warned. “If I have to chain you there, that’s where you’ll stay.”

  “Chain me? What happens if this brig goes down? Would you have me drown?”

  “Why do you always have an answer for everything?”

  Sisal proved a silver lining to the cloud. Paul, along with Commodore Moore and Colonel Naylor, called on Governor Barbachano and soothed his ruffled feathers, explaining that the fleet had not reneged on its commitment. They were there to stop General Ampudia.

  “For that I’m thankful. We had given up hope,” Barbachano responded; then he informed them that the Moctezuma was with the Centralist armada. At Campeche.

  “My navy stands ready to assist in this battle,” the governor said. “But our gunboats are small and slow and poorly armed. I have only the schooners Siselano and Independencia to help you. It will be sail against steam, mi amigos. Good luck.”

  They exchanged salutes and gentlemanly handshakes, and the Texans rowed back to the commodore’s vessel. Paul then listened to Moore’s plan of attack, and interjected his own ideas here and there. Nothing was to be left to chance.

  Soon the two-ship fleet of the single-star Republic was headed for the Bay of Campeche. When night fell, the Wharton unfurled her sails. Tomorrow they would face the enemy. Tonight they would ready themselves, spiritually and emotionally, for battle.

  The officers’ mess was amidships on the gun deck. Emma, dressed in breeches and shirt requisitioned from a diminutive marine, sat down to the right of Paul, who was positioned at the head of the long table. The cramped cabin smelled of weathered wood, tobacco, and cooking. Twelve officers lined the table. Guy Frost, the cook, brought forth a pot of stew and a jug of rum.

  Ashe
s from Frost’s cigar fell into the pot, but he made no mention of it. No one else did either. But Emma’s usually sound stomach was queasy.

  Deciding it was nothing more than nerves, she concentrated on the cook. He was about forty, and had a stomach that could only be categorized as a belly. Bristly brown hair, streaked with gray, fringed his incredibly small ears. He was a jovial sort.

  “Eat up, laddies,” Frost said, he being the only enlisted man who had the gall to address his superiors as such. “Me stew’s getting cold as a witch’s teat.” He colored. “Sorry, ma’am. Guess I been at sea too long.”

  “No harm done, Mr. Frost. I expect to be treated in the same manner as the men.”

  This comment drew a snigger from two of the officers.

  Paul slapped his palm on the table and cutlery jumped. “That will be enough!”

  Emma had sensed their animosity, and she intended to face it. “Thank you, Paul—um, Mr. Rousseau. If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear what Lieutenants Massar and McGilberry have to say.”

  Massar bent his eyes on his commanding officer. “If it’s all right with you, sir . . .”

  Taking a swallow of rum, Paul glanced sharply at his wife, then at Daniel Massar. “You have my permission.”

  “Mrs. Rousseau, some of us don’t like the idea of having you on this brig.” Massar, a young man built like a steam engine, frowned. “It’s bad luck.”

  “You won’t think so when I’m available to doctor your wounds,” Emma replied. “I’m a qualified physician. I’ve had quite a bit of experience with . . .” She hesitated, unwilling to say amputations. “You won’t find my training lacking.”

  “We don’t want a woman doctoring us,” McGilberry said.

  “You’ll change your mind.”

  Massar sneered. “I doubt it.”

  “What if one of us takes grapeshot twixt his legs?” The older of the two protestors, McGilberry, quaffed his mug of grog. “What will you do then?”