by Martha Hix
“Cut away his breeches and tend the wound.”
Paul shut his eyes and groaned.
“Well, let me just tell you something, little lady.” McGilberry shoved away from the table. “If I take grapeshot twixt my legs, you keep your sweet little hands off my private parts or there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Mc—”
Emma kicked Paul into silence, under the table. This was her skirmish, and she wouldn’t allow him to fight her battles. “Lieutenant McGilberry, I don’t frighten easily. If you’re in need of my services, rest assured, you’ll get them. If I have to gag and tie you, you’ll be treated. And hell to pay? That doesn’t worry me one bit. I’m a”—she cast a sidelong glance at Paul—“master at paying hell.”
The light of respect now shone from Massar’s eyes, but McGilberry retreated to lick his injured pride.
Paul had never been more proud of Emma. She was an ally worth having. He was almost convinced she could, and would, take on the entire Centralist squadron by herself—with no more than a switch.
At three that morning the Wharton made sail and maneuvered to pick up the sea breeze. Paul felt like a turncoat for not being topside, but he was unable to pull away from Emma’s arms.
He kissed her throat and ran his tongue along the edge of her ear. “Vixen, you should be ashamed of yourself, keeping the captain away from his men.” He felt her slide a silken leg across his hips. “Forget I mentioned it,” he croaked.
Surrendering to her mighty forces, he chained himself to the irons of pleasure. Yet there was a poignancy to their meeting. No words were spoken, for that might have given credence to their fears. It was, Paul figured, as though she realized, as did he, that this might be their last act of lovemaking.
He lingered long after their mutual satisfaction to hold her. He yearned to take her within his body and shelter her from the hell that dawn was sure to bring. Damn her! She didn’t want protection. Didn’t require it. He ached for her to need him.
That was the trouble with strong women: they didn’t need their men. He wanted her to listen to reason when the occasion warranted it. She ought to be safe in Louisiana right now. He longed to be the dominant one in their relationship, at least when the going was tough. Situations beyond his control weren’t to his liking.
Emma just didn’t know what the fires of war could, and probably would, bring. But Paul realized all the things he craved ran counter to the things he loved and admired in his wife. Damn, life was funny.
“You’re awfully quiet,” she said.
“Can’t think of anything to say.”
She pulled away and swung onto her feet. “Go.” She pointed upward. “Get up there and do your duty. . . sweetheart.”
He went after her, pulling her back, and bent to kiss her cheek. “Please, Emma, please stay out of the line of fire.”
“You, my beloved husband, are turning out to be a real seek-sorrow.”
“And you’ve turned out to be a real pain in the arse.”
“Oh, really?” she teased. “Well, turn around, honeychile, and let the doctor make it all better.”
He groaned with exasperation before he pulled on his uniform and departed.
As the brig listed to larboard, Emma clutched her queasy stomach. She had done a good job of hiding her seasickness, a malady that had never troubled her before. She admitted aloud that she’d be glad-darned glad—when they returned to terra firma.
At dawn, his back to the slight breeze, Paul read the wind. East by southeast. The absence of good strong gusts was troubling. To be becalmed would be the ultimate . . .
He raised his spyglass to look across the bay, toward the village of Campeche. The Yucatecan fleet was nowhere in view. In his line of sight was the Centralist armada. Five small supply ships hovered around four sailing vessels. Exhilaration mixed with uncertainty washed over Paul, for he saw the snake-and-buzzard’s crowning glory. For months he had heard of them. Like proud Aztec warriors they were, those two new steam frigates built in England to annihilate the people of North America. Vapor from their stacks billowing toward the sky and awesome Paixhans guns mounted, the Guadalupe and the Moctezuma beat toward them.
The odds were against the Texans but Paul couldn’t allow anything but victory. Without President Sam Houston’s sanction, they were sailing outside the dictates of international law. If they were captured, every man jack under Commodore Moore’s command would be strung from Centralist yardarms.
Paul shared the commodore’s view. If worse came to worst, they’d put matches to the powder magazines and send the fleet, with all its crew, to the bottom. But he was not about to let that happen. Emma was aboard. They had to be victorious.
Paul cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, “Starboard tack!”
When they hove into range of the Centralists, he signaled to hoist additional colors to the single-star ensign at the mizzen. The English flag was raised at the foremast. This was a psychological maneuver, for the captains of both steamers were British.
But the enemy wasn’t to be outdone. Spanish and English ensigns went up their foremasts, and they commenced firing. Paul did the same, concentrating on the Guadalupe, while the flagship pummeled the Moctezuma.
The Wharton rocked from the explosions of her guns. Grapeshot struck the steamer broadside, yet she continued her assault. Shot—some overhead, some in front of the prow—whizzed past the brig. Other pellets fell short, landing in Campeche Bay.
The Iman tacked forward, and Paul signaled to Reese McDonald, who captained the pivot. The gun’s carriage creaked as it swung to the right and aimed. The enemy gun-brig caught grapeshot in the beam, but hove around and made sail.
Suddenly the entire Centralist fleet stood southward and away, the steam frigates covering the retreat of sail.
“Cowards,” Paul yelled.
It was then the Yucatecan flotilla, sorry though it was, came abreast at the larboard quarter. Cheers were exchanged before Paul ordered the brig to beat for the Santa Anna’s Centralists.
They chased them for half an hour. Then fate turned against the Texans. The breeze died to dead calm, and the enemy’s steam squadron, on the starboard side, was propelled out of range and into Campeche harbor.
“What I wouldn’t give for one steamer,” Paul muttered to no one in particular. “Even that rotten wreck Zavala. Just one, and we’d drive those bastards to the bottom.”
Emma burst through the open hatch and rushed to her husband. She had heard screams from the enemy, had been told of the gaping holes in their vessels’ hulls. She was frightened, but she wouldn’t admit it.
“Did we win?”
“No. It was only a running brush.”
“Do we have any injuries?” she asked.
“Nary a one. So far.” He raised his fist in the direction of the Guadalupe’s stern, and raked his wife with a grin. “But in the words of John Paul Jones: ‘We’ve only begun to fight.’”
For days on end they chased after the enemy’s navy. The Centralists took a pounding, yet they didn’t return fire, and they didn’t return to their home port of Vera Cruz.
Commissioner Naylor went ashore to confer with Governor Barbachano. He was piped aboard the Wharton late that night, hours after Emma had turned in for the evening.
“Ampudia and his men are scared,” Naylor said to Paul. “And they’ve suffered numerous losses.”
“How many?”
“The limey captain of the Moctezuma, for one— Charlewood. Twenty others. Thirty injuries.”
“Good.” A smile etched Paul’s grim lips. “Let’s have a drink, good fellow. We’ll toast Galveston. Our fair city that won’t be attacked by the Aztecs’ Eagle and Serpent. Or shall I say Chicken and Worm?”
“Suits me fine. I like your analogy much better than Buzzard and Snake.” Naylor chuckled. “Let’s go below, Captain. And all I’ve got to say is hip, hip, hooray!”
The commissioner and Paul, joined by five of the other officers, gathered around the
mess table. As a bottle of French brandy was brought forth for their toast, the cook prepared a midnight supper of leftover pinto beans and cornbread, and he kept pot after pot of steaming coffee at the ready.
As that evening in May extended into the predawn hours, Paul grew to like and respect the naval commissioner. He was a fair man dedicated to Texas, and his steel-gray eyes danced with merriment when the occasion allowed.
Suddenly Reese McDonald tromped into the room. “Cap’n, the Mexs are steaming for deep water!”
Naylor’s cheerful expression turned to one of dismay.
Paul shoved his coffee mug aside. “Men, Antonio L6pez de Santa Anna’s navy is ready for battle. Let’s show them our teeth!”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Emma awoke to darkness. Yet the brig was asail. She heard men shout as hammocks were piped up and they began to run the guns out. She hastily got into her man’s garb and rushed up to the bridge. Battle was upon them.
Paul half turned to her. “Get below.”
“Not this time. Not until my services are needed.”
He shook his head. “This is a helluva time for me to wish for injuries.”
Fearing for all the men aboard the Wharton, and especially for her husband, Emma watched and listened as he shouted commands. He was sure of himself, and she was sure of his capabilities. She believed they would win.
The wind with them, the brig plowed through the blue waters. Guns were loaded. The decks were a scurry of activity. As sunlight brightened the sky, the enemy was in sight. In the schooner Austin’s wake, the brig maneuvered to a larboard, broadside position.
As much as Emma wanted to witness the battle, common sense reminded her to abide by the promise she had given both the commodore and Paul. She was Ship’s Surgeon. She needed to ready her equipment and supplies. After taking a last loving gaze at the man she loved, she descended to the sick bay.
Paul was relieved when she left the bridge. He couldn’t allow himself the luxury of personal worry. “The Guadalupe is ours today, men. Commence firing!”
Salvos burst from the long guns, taking their marks. A shot sliced off the enemy’s flagstaff, and it fell overboard. The Centralists hoisted an ensign on the steamer’s main gaff.
Suddenly the schooner Eagle turned her guns on Paul’s brig. Thirty-two pounds of shot struck. Screams of pain burst from the gun deck, and the ship rocked beneath his feet. “Keep firing!”
Both steamers bore down; the Guadalupe steamed to starboard.
“Man all batteries!” Paul ordered, having no fear of attack from both sides. “Run between them!”
Enemy fire caught them, and all hell broke loose on the Texas brig as the main topgallant, breast backstay, and aftershroud toppled. Grapeshot struck Lieutenant Daniel Massar, killing him instantly. He fell at his captain’s feet.
Paul reached down to pull him away from the bridge, but pain lanced his thigh as shrapnel hit him. Blood surged from the wound, so he tore off his shirt and wrapped it around the gash. He wouldn’t allow a flesh wound to stop him.
For hours the battle raged. Shells exploded, large chunks of the wooden hull flew. Cries of pain and determination mingled with the sounds of destruction. Men died, others were injured. Thomas Norris, assisting McDonald on the pivot, took a wound, but returned to his station as soon as it was dressed. Five minutes later his left arm was blown away.
Steven McGilberry, the lieutenant who had taunted Emma, fell, injured. He was carried to sick bay.
Still, the battle did not end. The brig gave as good as she took.
Uncharacteristically sickened by the carnage, Emma wanted to clutch her stomach, but didn’t. She had to be strong! She couldn’t allow this queasiness to get the better of her. Sick bay, where she toiled, was littered with moaning men, and she had no sulfurous ether to ease their suffering.
Laying a cauterizing knife on the red-hot, potbellied stove, she shouted instructions to her two assistants. “Wind another tourniquet around Davis’s foot. Open that keg of rum, and fill some tankards. These men need all the spirits”—and spirit, she thought—“they can get!”
“Yes, ma’am,” her helpers replied, setting to work.
Emma held a cup to Norris’s purple lips. He turned his head away, but she forced it back. “Take another drink.”
He did as ordered. “My arm,” he groaned, his words edged with despair, and he stared at the bloodied rag that was wrapped around the gap at his shoulder.
“Think of something else,” she murmured gently. “Do you have a woman, Seaman Norris?”
“Aye. A good one.”
“Think about her. And how happy she’s going to be when you return to her.”
His suffering face eased, somewhat.
Emma took up the glowing-hot knife with one hand, and pulled away the makeshift bandage with the other. Blood gushed and spurted forth, staining her cheek. She laid the flat side of the knife against the tattered flesh where an arm had been. Norris screamed, a piercing wail that bounced off the walls.
His flesh sizzled, a cloud of smoke rising from it, and the sickly sweet stench of scorched skin and bone sank into the pit of Emma’s weak stomach. Not breathing for fear of fainting, she forced her tongue to the roof of her mouth.
The cautery took, and the flow of blood from Norris’s shoulder stopped. He fell into blessed unconsciousness.
Emma breathed a sigh of relief and turned to the next patient. Davis’s foot, several toes blown away, was cleaned and stitched. Then, for what seemed like hours, she dug out bits of metal from injured men. Finally she came to McGilberry—the man who had challenged her not to tend his wounds looked up with untrusting eyes.
“Don’t want you touching me,” he said.
“Be reasonable, Lieutenant McGilberry. We’ve got to get that shrapnel out of you.”
“I don’t want no woman quack touching me.” He motioned toward a youthful attendant. “Let Ellery do it.”
Emma frowned. Wayne Ellery’s face was even greener than Emma imagined her own to be. He had been pressed into her service that morning, and he lacked experience and probably fortitude.
She picked up a pair of shears from the instrument tray. “He’s busy right now. And unless you want an infection to spread and kill you, I suggest you shut your dratted mouth.”
Grasping the ducking of his breeches, she started to cut the material. McGilberry jerked his leg aside, and his face went whiter from the effort. But Emma leaned against his leg, bore down with all her weight, and continued to trim away the bloodied material.
He gave up the fight.
The Centralist Navy regrouped and its captains conferred. They knew when they had been whipped. Ships battered, they ran signals up the masts, conceding victory to the Tars of Texas.
Several English sailors in service with the enemy then rowed over to the Texan fleet. One of Santa Anna’s schooners lifted a white flag of surrender, and hove to alongside the Wharton. Her captain came aboard and told of their many casualties and injuries, and of the extensive damage to ships and morale.
The Texans went below to celebrate their victory.
Yet Paul took no overt delight in it. When the night’s fog rolled in, he left the bridge, stopped by the galley to order a tray of food, and then went to the sick bay. To Emma. Lovingly she bandaged his slight wound, but when he urged her to retire for the evening, she wouldn’t. Within minutes, he had had enough of her stubbornness. Though she was past the point of exhaustion, he couldn’t cajole her into taking a rest, so he scooped her up and carried her to their cabin.
“You have to eat,” he said, once food had been brought.
“Not hungry.” Her words were spoken quietly, too quietly, and she grabbed a ceiling-secured bedpost. “Just tired.”
Paul was not going to give up. He lifted the silver lid from the tray Guy Frost had prepared, and steam rose from the plate of stew.
Emma recoiled, her face turning white, then gray.
“Don’t tell me you’re
going to be sick. After all you’ve seen to—Emma!” He pushed the tray aside and grabbed her just as she folded to the floor. “Emma?”
A curtain of blond hair hid her face, and he brushed it aside. Her eyes were closed, her breath shallow. She had fainted—cold!
He carried her to bed and, holding her in his arms, sat down. Rubbing her cheek with the edge of his thumb, he kicked himself inwardly for allowing her to be a part of the sea battle. It had taken its toll on the strong woman who was his wife. On Emma, who never cried, never turned from sickness or injury, never shied away from bad smells or blood or fights. She was the stuff valiant warriors were made of.
“Why,” he wondered aloud as he tightened his arms around her, “did she faint now?” For several minutes he rocked her, whispering soothing words and reassurances, loving her with all his heart.
Slowly she began to open her eyes. “Wh-what happened?”
“You fainted.”
“Let me up. I don’t need coddling. I’m not a baby.” She inhaled a sharp lungful of air, then tried to sit up, but he wouldn’t allow it.
He watched her green eyes flicker, and suspicion dawned on him. “Are you with child?”
“I guess it’s possible.”
“More than possible, Emma Frances Rousseau. There hasn’t been a night since I sailed back to Feuille de Chêne that we haven’t . . . I’d say it’s probable.”
“Probable.” A hint of a smile lifted her lips.
“Then it’s true?”
“I don’t know.”
“Damn it, you’re a woman . . . and a doctor to boot. Surely you’d know. Have you had any other signs?”
“Now that I think of it, yes.”
Male pride burst in Paul’s chest. “A baby. Think of that? Oh, amoureuse, I love you!”
Yet now he had another worry. Though the Centralist Navy had beat a retreat, she and the child could have been killed during the fighting. Victory was theirs, but Emma was across the Gulf of Mexico from a safe haven, and the Englishmen who had come over to their side had informed him that Sam Houston had published the piracy proclamation. With “the nations of Christendom” on the lookout for the Texan fleet, they might have to run the gauntlet.
