Her Abundant Joy

by Lyn Cote

  Two days later, Mariel stood beside Quinn and Dorritt near their horses. On the porch, Sugar, Emilio, and Erin huddled together against the sharp wind. “Why does everybody have to keep leaving?” Erin asked in a plaintive voice.

  Mariel felt sorry for the little girl, but it was a shallow pity. She was still numbed inside. Losing Carson had killed all hope. She had believed that God had blessed her here. But it had been only an ugly joke. Everything she’d thought she’d gained was going to be taken from her again.

  “Mariel was supposed to teach me German, but she went to war with Sugar, and now—”

  “Erin,” Quinn said, “we’ve been over this. We wanted Mariel to stay with us as…we wanted her to stay with us for as long as she wished. But she must go back to her husband. It’s only right. She has no choice.”

  I have no choice. That was the way life had been, Mariel’s old life in Germany. No choice but to obey.

  “Why do you and Mama have to go? Can’t Uncle Henri take her—”

  “Erin,” Dorritt interrupted, “we will try to be home before Christmas. Mind your sister and Emilio.”

  Quinn helped Dorritt into her saddle and then he helped Mariel. Remy was already mounted on his horse. He had finally healed enough to put away the splint. His shoulders were tilted slightly and his foot had healed misshapen, but he was alive and able to ride home in time for Christmas.

  Blanche and her father were mounted. Their slaves sat wrapped in blankets on the buckboard. Many who lived on the Quinn Ranch had gathered and now called out dispirited farewells. The party of riders and the wagon turned away and headed northeast.

  Mariel tried to fight her way back to feeling. She made herself experience the brittle wind against her face, the rhythm of the horses beneath her, the chill that was creeping through all the layers of clothing she was wearing. This is real. I am going back to New Braunfels. This isn’t a nightmare. I won’t wake up and find that I have been sleeping.

  Yesterday afternoon Dorritt had come into her room and had held her hand and prayed with her. She had told her that the Lord loved her. Dorritt had repeated some verses: “Delight thyself also in the LORD: and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart. Commit thy way unto the LORD; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass.” She had tried to comfort Mariel that somehow God would intervene.

  Mariel wanted to believe that God would intervene, but how could she? Dieter had come to Texas, and he was her husband. How could God change that? If God had wanted to intervene, couldn’t he have had Dieter stay in Germany? She couldn’t bring herself to wish Dieter dead. When she’d still been his wife in Germany, she hadn’t prayed that he would die.

  Remy rode up beside her. She tensed, afraid he would say sympathetic words and she might burst into tears. She kept her face forward, not glancing at him. He said nothing, just rode beside her. Slowly his sympathetic presence began to soothe her.

  This man had changed over the past months. He was no longer a spoiled boy but a man who had suffered great pain with fortitude. And great disappointment with grace. He was a graduate of West Point, but with his body altered from his wounds, he would never be a cavalry soldier again.

  After several miles of silent riding, Remy spoke, not looking at her. “If there is any way that I can be of service to you, Miss Mariel, you know that you can ask anything of me.”

  Tears moistened her dry eyes. “Danke, I…there is nothing anyone can do for me.”

  “I felt that way when I woke up in Mexico…such horrible pain. I thought I was going to die. But I came through it…because of my cousins’ and your help. Just know that I am always yours to command, Miss Mariel. At any time. In any way.”

  “Danke.” For some reason, German words were slipping from her more and more. Some part of her was preparing to go back to her own people—or at least the people that she had come from.

  The two said no more. The chilly miles passed one by one. The wind played with the ribbons of her bonnet. It would take at least two days to reach New Braunfels. How far had Carson and Tunney gone since leaving? He had weeks to travel to reach Mexico. She closed her mind to the horrible memories of battle. Images of broken, bleeding, battered soldiers in the army hospital sickened her. If Carson was the one wounded this time, who would care for him? Emilio wasn’t there to watch out for him.

  This question moved her more than pity for herself. Dear God, don’t let him fall in battle. Bring him safely home. She stiffened herself. She could not go with Carson, could not be there if he needed her. But she could pray.

  Dorritt had said, “Commit thy way unto the LORD; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass.” Mariel began to repeat these phrases, adding, “Keep Carson safe.” Even though her freedom might be ended, it would console her knowing that Carson was alive. This is all I ask. There is no hope for me. Preserve his life. Give him peace, a life filled with peace.

  Late in the afternoon two days later, Mariel hung back as their party rode into the valley of New Braunfels. The LaCroixs had gone east the day before, following the Colorado River toward home. Today Mariel must face Dieter and the people who had tried to destroy her with gossip. And she must not allow them to diminish her.

  Reuniting with Dieter would not kill her; it would just make her hate living. She struggled against the despair that had sunk its ugly teeth into her spirit. I am a different woman than I was in Germany. I am a Texas woman. I must not let Dieter take this from me. I will not be the frightened mouse hiding in the corner, hoping to be ignored. I am a Texas woman. The woman Carson Quinn, finest of all men, wanted as his wife.

  In the village, familiar people came out of their cabins and barns to gawk at them. How much of their vile gossip had they poured into her husband’s ears? Recalling this ignited a blaze in the pit of her stomach. She straightened in her saddle.

  I will not be ruled by any of these people and their mean-spiritedness. If anyone starts to speak against me, I will tell the truth. I don’t care if they believe me or not. I will not be cowed by their gossip or Dieter’s ill treatment. I am Mariel, beloved of Carson Quinn.

  Finally, the Quinn party halted in the common green of the village. Herr Meuserbach came out of his large cabin to greet them. Other villagers were coming too. Quinn slid from his horse, and the rest of them followed suit. Mariel waited and was the last to dismount. Then she lifted her chin and walked straight to Meuserbach. A moment of silence splashed over all of them. Mariel felt every eye upon her.

  Then the crowd parted, and a man with his hands in his pockets and his head bowed moved forward. His hat brim, pulled down low on his brow, hid his face from her. The clothing looked familiar, but…

  Finally, he reached her and looked up. “Mariel?” His voice quavered.

  Mariel, for a second time, felt the invisible hand crush the warmth from her. Why had no one told her? What could have happened?

  Eighteen

  Carson and Tunney had reached Taylor’s command in Mexico, south of Monterrey, several weeks earlier, at the start of January 1847. They had ridden through the army encampment with thousands of blue-clad U.S. soldiers and volunteers, then camped and waited for McCulloch, Hays, and other Rangers to arrive. Taylor kept asking when they thought McCulloch would come.

  Now, coming in from the blustery wind, Carson with McCulloch, who had just arrived, entered Taylor’s office, a jacal some peasant had run from to escape the U.S. Army. Carson would finally find out why the Rangers had been called back. Still deep in a waking nightmare, he could not remember one detail he had experienced on the journey here. The numbness lingered on. He was barely aware of fatigue or hunger or thirst. Nothing seemed to stick.

  “McCulloch, I’ve never been happier to see any soldier in my long career,” Taylor said, then he cursed, startling Carson. “If you’d been here, this infernal situation would never have occurred.”

  McCulloch raised one eyebrow and looked to Carson first and then to the American general, who still wore scruffy bedroom s
lippers and the dusty green coat. “What’s the trouble?”

  “I sent out a courier and blast if he didn’t let himself get caught. And with him all my dispatches about my plans, troop strength, and the new strategy from Washington. Polk is sending General Scott to land and attack Vera Cruz and then on to Mexico City. All of this information fell into Santa Anna’s bloody, dishonorable hands.”

  For the first time in weeks, Carson felt something. He recalled Blanche’s outburst of laughter when Tunney had said…Carson suppressed the same jarring, illogical reaction that Blanche had had. He must have shown some amusement, because Taylor scowled at him.

  “That’s a mite inconvenient,” McCulloch commented and leaned out the door to spit. Cool air rushed in. “What do you want us to do?”

  “I need to mislead Santa Anna into thinking that I am going to do what I had planned to do—to retreat. Then I must do the complete opposite—attack instead of retreating north. First, I need to know if it is a sound strategy. Or if I am, in effect, forcing my troops and all the volunteer companies to commit suicide.”

  With a steady gaze, McCulloch considered Taylor for many moments. “You need us to go in and see how many men Santa Anna has.”

  Carson comprehended how dangerous this mission was. This general wanted the Rangers to go where he didn’t trust his own men—to go smack up to Santa Anna’s army and get back, unscathed. Carson drew in air. Taylor had grit all right. And gall.

  “Yes, so if Santa Anna tries to follow me thinking I’m retreating,” the general continued, “I’ll know if I can beat him. From what I’ve heard of him, attacking a retreating army is just what he’s capable of. Here, look at the chart.” He ruffled through the papers on his desk and pulled out a rough, hand-drawn map. “There’s a place near an estate, called Buena Vista—”

  Hearing that a Mexican estate had the same name as his mother’s family’s plantation made Carson think of Remy, of home, of…

  When Carson jerked himself back to the present, Taylor was still speaking. “I hope Santa Anna will think he has us on the run. I studied that estate, Buena Vista, where it’s situated in the surrounding mountains. He can’t outflank me, and I intend to turn and beat him. Weaken him, make him retreat.”

  McCulloch grunted.

  Sudden images from the bloody Battle of San Jacinto hurtled through Carson’s mind. They jolted him. He blurted, “There isn’t a Texian alive who won’t do anything to beat Santa Anna.”

  Taylor rocked on the balls of his feet as if Carson’s words had knocked him back on his heels. “You sound like you mean business.”

  Carson didn’t bother to reply.

  McCulloch did. “Carson fought Santa Anna at San Jacinto.”

  Taylor raised both eyebrows. “You must have just been a cub then.”

  “Fourteen,” Carson bit out. The memories had awakened him now. His stomach roiled with anger over the past, over the present with Santa Anna’s second attempt to best Texans, over this U.S. general sending the Rangers, not his men, on this dangerous mission.

  “Maybe you’re a natural born soldier. Some men are. I’ve seen that plainly over the years.” Taylor clasped his arms behind his back and looked into Carson’s eyes from under his own bushy gray brows. “I could offer you a lieutenancy in the U.S. Army, a battlefield promotion.”

  The words smacked Carson like the kick of a stallion. He reeled with the blow, then glared. “I’m a Ranger because my people need protection. I’m no soldier.”

  Those same bushy eyebrows rose high. “McCulloch, pick your men and find out what I need. Send me the information I must have as fast as you can.” Taylor held out his hand. McCulloch and Carson shook on it. Without another word, they left.

  Outside in the chilly sunlight, Carson saw Niven striding toward him and inwardly groaned. Not now. Not here.

  “How is my brother-in-law?” Niven asked without preamble.

  “On his way home with his father and your bride. He probably won’t serve in the army again. His shoulder and foot will never be the same.”

  “Sorry to hear that, but glad to hear that he’s well enough to go home. How was my bride?”

  “Just like you left her.” Carson couldn’t help adding a slight veneer of sarcasm.

  Niven grinned. “Glad to hear that. Anything I can do for you?”

  “No—”

  “I hate to interrupt this cozy family chat, but the Rangers got to be moving out.” McCulloch had arrived only a few hours before Carson and Tunney, and he looked peeved.

  “Then I will let you go about your scouting.” Niven bowed and said, “Godspeed.”

  Watching Niven walk away gave Carson a sense of relief. She hadn’t been mentioned. He turned back to the scene around him and stalked after McCulloch to round up their band of Rangers. And head farther into enemy territory. Just where he wanted to go.

  It didn’t take weeks for McCulloch and his handpicked Rangers to find Santa Anna’s army to the south. After night fell and the army slept, the Rangers crept forward through blackness. From a rise, they began counting campfires. On his belly looking over the cliff, Carson did his own count silently. And cursed Santa Anna. Where had the butcher dragged these poor fellows from? When McCulloch looked to him, the man’s eyes glistened in the slight moonlight. Carson muttered, “I figure around fifteen thousand troops.”

  McCulloch’s reply was pithy and coarse. Then he said, “Let’s get some sleep, then we’ll take another look in the morning.”

  Morning came, a damp foggy one. McCulloch tapped Carson on the shoulder. “I want a closer look before I report to old Rough and Ready in his bedroom slippers.”

  Carson just looked at him. Blankly. How?

  “Let’s take a ride through the camp. With the fog and the greenwood fires they’ll light to cook breakfast, they’ll never see us.”

  Two Rangers riding through an enemy camp of fifteen thousand? Carson’s only thought was, What do I have to lose?

  The two of them swung up into their saddles and walked their horses toward the camp. McCulloch was right. As they slipped between sentinels, the morning mist hid their approach. Once in the camp, the two of them moseyed their horses through the billowing white smoke of the breakfast fires.

  Carson had been unmoved on his journey here and during the weeks of waiting, but this short jaunt prickled every one of his nerves wide awake. He quivered with awareness of danger on all sides. One outcry and they would be undone. Captured. Or killed.

  As they moved on unmolested, occasionally a Mexican soldier would glance up, look shocked, and then blink. But by the time he opened his eyes again, they were cloaked once more in the white smoke. Just ghosts of Rangers—no doubt they were thought to be simply evil omens. Diablos. Tejanos. As one soldier gawked at them, he crossed himself. Finally, the two of them ambled out of the enemy camp and back to the rest of the Rangers.

  Tunney looked up and shook his head in disbelief. Carson could hardly believe that they had come back alive. He felt like a bow string stretched too taut too long.

  McCulloch said, “Fifteen thousand it is.” No one replied, but all mounted up and headed back to Taylor. No one wanted to take this news to the General. The U.S. Army was outnumbered three to one.

  McCulloch delivered the result of their reconnaissance to the U.S. general. Over the next few weeks, Taylor, with his reduced infantry less than a third of what he’d had to face Monterrey, fell back in a feint to draw Santa Anna to him. It worked. Santa Anna pursued them and caught them—right where Taylor had planned he would.

  On the morning of February 21, 1847, Santa Anna’s emissary, under a white parlay flag, suggested that the Americans surrender. Taylor told him to tell Santa Anna to go to Hades. The battle of Buena Vista commenced.

  Near the end of the second day of battle, Carson and Tunney were backing up the Illinois volunteers, holding off the Mexican infantry. They fired their rifles, picking off Mexicans who broke through and pierced the Illinois line. The din of exploding
canisters, whining lead balls hitting metal, dirt, and flesh, the yells and curses of the fighting men wrapped around Carson but did not stir him inside. He was a fighter. Habit took over.

  A close outcry turned Carson’s head. Tunney was falling from his saddle.

  Carson didn’t think twice. He leaped down and examined his friend. He froze, his heart flipping in his chest. A stray shot must have caught Tunney. Tunney was dead. The shot had severed an artery in his neck; the crimson flow had already gushed and stopped. Lifting his friend, Carson placed him facedown over his saddle and rode away, leading the horse to the rear. A constant roar filled his ears, but he wouldn’t have Tunney’s body trampled, desecrated by two armies.

  By the time Carson reached the rear troops tucked into the mountains and ravines, the gunfire had ended for the night. Black smoke and early winter nightfall had halted the battle. Rangers started filtering back, joining Carson in preparing their comrade for burial. None of them spoke except in monosyllables. Within hours, Tunney had been laid to rest by his friends.

  The sudden loss shocked Carson back to feeling once more. On the outside, he sat at the Ranger campfire, silent and morose, trying to keep down the bitter scalding coffee someone had handed him. On the inside, anger-hatred-disbelief-anguish-loss-friendship-shock cascaded through him in such vivid and brief blasts that he felt as though a volcano was working its way through him. Lava like currents seared him.

  Why hadn’t Tunney stayed with the pretty widow in New Braunfels? Why had Tunney, who’d retired honorably, returned to this war—twice? Had it been the pull of camaraderie, the call to protect? Carson had no answer. The person he wanted most to talk to, his father, was hundreds of miles north. His father had faced this kind of crisis long ago: whether to go on with the life he knew, rejecting God and his gift of Dorritt, or to turn toward God and accept life and love.

  Memories of Mariel kept leaking through the barrier Carson had erected against her. Her flaxen hair whispered against his cheek. Her soft fingers stroked through his hair. Her…He forced himself to block out the impressions of her streaming through his senses. The battle would start again at dawn. Honor compelled him to stay and fight. He started in a war, he had to stay till the end regardless.