by Jon Land
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For Brown University Football
Then, now, forever
Ever true
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Welcome back to those who’ve been with me before and welcome to those visiting the world of Caitlin Strong for the first time.
I know I sound like a broken record with all those I need and want to thank but, hey, some names bear repeating, starting at the top with my publisher, Tom Doherty, and Forge’s associate publisher, Linda Quinton, dear friends who publish books “the way they should be published,” to quote my late agent, the legendary Toni Mendez. Paul Stevens, Justin Golenbock, Patty Garcia, and especially Natalia Aponte are there for me at every turn. Natalia’s a brilliant editor and friend who never ceases to amaze me with her sensitivity and genius. Editing may be a lost art, but not here, and I think you’ll enjoy all of my books, including this one, much more as a result.
Some new names to thank this time out, including Mireya Starkenberg, a loyal reader who, starting with this book, has offered her services to make sure I don’t keep butchering the Spanish language. Booke Bovo, meanwhile, provided key insights into the design and function of offshore oil rigs that, as you’re about to see and probably noticed from the cover, play a big role in the book you’re about to read. My friend Mike Blakely, a terrific writer and musician in his own right, taught me Texas first-hand and helped me think like a native of that great state. I’ve been writing about Special Forces operatives for years, but getting to know Doren “The Stranger” Ingram for a possible nonfiction book has given me fresh respect and insight into that world you will see front and center in these pages.
Check back at www.jonlandbooks.com for updates or to drop me a line. I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank all of you who’ve already written or e-mailed me about how much you enjoyed the first three tales in the Caitlin Strong series. Rest assured this fourth one does not disappoint. That’s a promise and to watch me keep it, turn the page and let’s get started.
P.S. For those interested in more information about the history of the Texas Rangers, and to see where a lot of my info comes from, I recommend The Texas Rangers and Time of the Rangers, a pair of superb books by a great writer named Mike Cox, also published by Forge.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Prologue
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part Two
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Part Three
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Part Four
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Part Five
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Part Six
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Part Seven
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Part Eight
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Part Nine
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Part Ten
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Epilogue
Other Books by Jon Land
About the Author
Copyright
The strongest man in the world is he who stands alone.
—HENRIK IBSEN,
An Enemy of the People, 1882
PROLOGUE
When Sam Houston was reelected to the presidency in December 1841, he saw the effectiveness of the Rangers and on January 29, 1842, approved a law that officially provided for a company of mounted men to “act as Rangers.” As a result, 150 Rangers under Captain John Coffee “Jack” Hays were assigned to protect the southern and western portions of the Texas frontier. Houston’s foresight in this decision proved successful in helping to repel the Mexican invasions of 1842, as well as shielding the white settlers against Indian attacks over the next three years.
—Legends of America:
Texas Legends: The Texas Rangers—Order Out of Chaos
GULF WATERS OFF THE COAST OF TEXAS, 1821
“Give me our bearings, Mr. Jeffreys,” Alfred Neal, captain of the Mother Mary, asked his first officer.
Jeffreys met Neal’s gaze with his hooded eyes, then once more consulted his map in the light shed by a lantern hanging from a pole. “The fog’s waylaid my direction, but we’re steering on course, Captain.”
The massive four-masted schooner creaked through the murky night, clumsily negotiating the Texas coast’s swampy channels. Low-hanging cypress branches scraped at the multidecked galleon’s sails, as gators darted back up on sodden land to avoid her lumbering menace. The fetid heat and stagnant air left the sweat to soak through the woolen jackets and cotton breeches of the men standing on the bridge, further attracting hungry mosquitoes fat with blood. The buz
zing, blood-crazed swarms hung over the deck, thickening as the night wore on, perhaps having summoned more of their hungry brethren from the nearby shores.
“We’d best hope so,” Captain Neal grunted and rotated his spyglass again. But the night yielded nothing through the dense fog other than stagnant water the color of tea from fallen leaves both clinging to the surface and lining the bottom. Besides the gators, packs of swimming nutria, and an occasional Night-Heron, the only signs of life the Mother Mary had encountered since nearing the Texas shores was an Indian paddling an old pirogue carved out a tree trunk. And that was precisely the point, given the nature of the cargo now contained in the hold below. That much Neal had fully expected; it was the passenger who had boarded at the same port that had taken the ship’s captain by surprise.
“This is the right channel, sir,” Jeffreys resumed, returning his map to his belt pouch. “I’m sure of it.”
“You’d better be,” came the voice of that passenger from the other side of the bridge. Both Neal and Jeffreys watched the squat bulbous form of the man who said his name was Quentin Cusp step into the thin light cast by the lantern. “It’ll mark the end of your days on the seas if you’re wrong. Both of you.”
“I know I’m right by the smell, sir,” First Officer Jeffreys told him.
“And a foul odor it is. Musty and sour.”
Captain Neal almost told the man to smell himself. “I hate these damn waters,” he groused, “and I hate whatever it is you’re carrying there in your belt.”
Cusp jerked both hands down to his waist, as if to protect whatever his belt was concealing.
“I’ve seen you checking the hidden pouch or whatever you’ve got sewn in there ever since we picked you up. A man of your standing wearing the same trousers these many weeks leaves anyone of sane mind wondering as well.”
“Wondering isn’t what I paid you so handsomely for, Captain,” Cusp snapped, clearly offended.
Neal squared his shoulders and held his gaze on Cusp’s belt. “Maybe you’re a spy for the British. Maybe whatever secrets you’re carrying brands me a traitor by association. I don’t intend to hang for your crimes against the country, Mr. Cusp.”
“I’m no spy, sir, and you were hired for your reputation for discretion as much as anything, Captain, apparently not well earned.”
“You mean like those gunmen who cordoned off the dock while you waited for our skiff?”
Cusp looked surprised.
“My men are trained to be observant,” Neal continued, “especially in dangerous waters.”
Cusp started to turn away. “Then I hope they serve you just as well as sailors, Captain, so we might make port before the light gives us up. Because if we don’t—”
Cusp’s words halted when the ship shook violently. A scraping sound rose through the night, and the sailors of the bridge were jostled about as the Mother Mary’s hull shuddered and quaked before grinding to a halt that pushed tremors through the black water.
“You’ve run us aground, Mr. Jeffreys!” Neal said, swinging around. “Helmsman, bring us hard to port to catch the currents!”
“Aye-aye, Captain!” yelled back the helmsman, already fighting with the wheel.
“They’ll be hell to pay for this, Captain,” an enraged Cusp hissed, cutting off Neal’s path to the wheel.
Neal pushed him aside, studying the utter blackness of the night. “Hell might be just where we are.”
He continued moving to take the wheel himself, when a steel baling hook soared over the aft portion of the deck and jammed itself into the gunwale.
“My Lord,” Cusp uttered, “what in the name of the Almighty is—”
“Sound the general alarm!” Neal ordered the mate nearest the bridge bell.
Even as the mate reached for the bell pull and began ringing, Neal glimpsed more baling hooks being hurled through the fog over the Mother Mary’s sides fore and aft, snaring on the gunwales. The ship’s mate continued to work the bell, rousing the sleeping sailors from their berths as a succession of dark shapes climbed on board and dispersed in eerily synchronized fashion.
“Pirates,” Neal realized, wheeling about in search of some form of weapon to find only a handheld ax used to cut lines in a storm-wrought emergency. He twisted past the lumbering Cusp and dropped down to the main deck just as the fog parted to reveal a tall man with a thick, well-groomed mustache that hung over his upper lip standing ten feet before him.
“Best of the evening to you, Captain.”
“I’ll be damned,” Neal managed.
“I see you recognize me,” the pirate grinned.
“Jean Lafitte…”
Lafitte stepped further into the thin light shed by the bridge lantern. His black eyes twinkled. “At your service, Captain.”
He was tall and sinewy thin with keen black eyes peering out from beneath a battered black felt hat angled low over his forehead. He wore a tight red jacket that clung to his bony shoulders and stopped just short of the baggy trousers wedged into his well-worn black leather boots.
His neck seemed too long for the rest of his body, almost birdlike, Neal thought, also noticing bands of stringy muscle lining that neck and extending all the way to a frayed bandanna neatly tied just over the collar of his low-hanging shirt.
“You dare mock me, Captain?”
Neal showed his ax. “Have at it then.”
Ignoring the challenge, the pirate brushed back his coat to reveal both musket and sword at the ready.
Neal continued to brandish his blade. “You’ll not have my ship!”
Lafitte glanced back through the fog at his well-armed pirates taking the first sailors to emerge from below prisoner. “It would seem it’s already mine, so drop your weapon, Captain.”
But Neal held fast, feeling the now moist ax handle quivering in his grasp.
“Your weapon, Captain.”
“Never!”
“Then I’ll save you for last, so you can watch all of your men die.”
Neal felt his breath seize up, the pressure building in his chest. He’d let his ship be taken when at its most vulnerable, the pirates’ measured assault too much to overcome. He released the ax and listened to it clamor to the deck.
“There’ll be hell to pay this time, Lafitte.”
“Why, Captain, didn’t anyone tell you the import of slaves into any United States port is illegal? But rest easy, sir, my partner and I will be glad to take them off your hands,” Lafitte said, turning at the sound of another man’s approach.
In that moment, Neal noticed a shorter man draw even with Lafitte, a man who held a musket in hand and a knife sheathed to his belt instead of a sword.
“I know you,” Neal said, squinting to better see through the night.
“I should think so,” the man followed. “Our paths crossed when we beat down the bastards from England a few years back.”
Neal’s arms stiffened by his sides. “Jim Bowie?”
Bowie bowed slightly. “At your service, Captain. And you should be aware that Mr. Lafitte fought on our side as well.”
“Until the governor of Louisiana put a five-hundred-dollar bounty on my head.”
“Good thing you had an answer for him,” Bowie said to the pirate.
“Indeed,” Lafitte acknowledged, addressing Captain Neal. “I offered fifteen hundred for the governor’s.”
Neal knew that story, just as he knew Lafitte had been born to a poor family in France in 1780. A sharp-witted, quick study of a man when he accompanied his brother Pierre to the United States. There he set up shop in New Orleans to warehouse and disperse goods smuggled by his brother before turning to the pirate’s life himself. By 1810 he was presiding over his initial band of outlaws on Grande Terre Island in Barataria Bay in the Gulf of Mexico. In 1814 the British offered the pirate a pardon, a captaincy in their navy, and $30,000 if he would aid them in an attack on New Orleans.
Lafitte refused and proceeded to inform the United States of the British plans,
offering the services of the Barataria smugglers to the U.S. instead. He fought with General Andrew Jackson in the Battle of New Orleans and received a pardon by President James Madison for his efforts. When the end of war came, he moved his headquarters to Galveston Island off the Texas coast, where he established a colony called Campeche and went back to the pirate’s life, partnering with Jim Bowie in running slaves through the newly established Texas territory.
“You might even call my friend Jean here a hero,” Bowie quipped to Captain Neal, drawing broad laughter from Lafitte’s assembled pirates, now holding the whole of the Mother Mary’s crew on their knees hostage, most still stripped down to their skivvies. “But we’ve little time to spare with such pleasantries,” he cautioned. “We need to get the slaves loaded onto the Goelette la Dilidente before first light.”
“Then bring me the first mate,” Lafitte ordered.
Mr. Jeffreys, now with arms tied behind his back, rose to his feet and was dragged to Lafitte by one of his pirates.
“You’ll do no harm to any of my crew, sir!” said Captain Neal, shoulders stiffening and chest protruding outward.
“Turn around,” Lafitte ordered Jeffreys, ignoring him.
As the first mate of the Mother Mary swung around, Jim Bowie whipped out the knife that would one day bear his name. Before anyone could so much as breathe, the blade came down in a blur and sliced neatly through Jeffreys’s bonds.
“Good work, cousin,” Bowie said, as Jeffreys swung around to face him.
“Running the ship aground was nothing, cousin,” Jeffreys said back, stretching his arms. “I still know these waters like the back of my hand.”
“Traitor!” Neal shouted, launching himself into a feeble lunge Jean Lafitte effortlessly intercepted.
The pirate kicked Neal’s legs out from under him, dropping the captain hard to the deck, and placed a booted foot atop his chest. “Don’t tempt my graces further or next you’ll feel the tip of my sword.” Then Lafitte spotted Quentin Cusp hanging back in the darkness of the bridge, his bulbous form squeezed behind a thin abutment that left his stomach protruding. “And what have we here?”
“A passenger, nothing more,” Neal gasped from the deck. “Paid for passage to our next port of call.”
“Was access to the bridge part of his ticket?”
Lafitte gestured to a pair of his pirates who rousted Cusp and dragged him down from the bridge. “State your business, sir.”
