Lone Star Rising: T.S. Wasp and the Heart of Texas

by Jason Vail

  “London?” Austin asked. “Why London?”

  Rochelle steepled his long fingers, giving off the air of a schoolmaster forced to be extremely patient with a dull student. “My dear Austin,” he said wearily, “because that is where the guns are.”

  “You mean France has none to spare?”

  “Unfortunately not. Our surplus went up in the explosion. But the British, they have thousands of guns. After the war, they disbanded much of their army, and with war debts to pay off …” he spread his hands and smiled, “… they are eager to sell muskets to anyone prepared to buy them.”

  “Oh,” was all Austin could say. It seemed a suitable plan after all.

  “We do need to make some arrangements to facilitate this enterprise,” Rochelle said, turning to a drawer in the shelf behind him. He swung around with a handful of papers. “It would not do if the Wasp turned up as herself, with all the controversy surrounding her, you know. Word of your infamy must have reached home by now, I’m sure. She could do with a change of name and nationality, I think. How would you like to be Dutch?”

  “The accent is hard to manage,” I said.

  “There is that,” Rochelle said, obviously pleased with his own cleverness at the scheme even now just unfolding in his head, “but Dutch ships are often manned by foreigners. You only need the documents to prove your registry. Bureaucrats will believe what appears on paper in preference to what is before their eyes anyway.” He spread the papers on his desk and smoothed them with his hands. “You shall be the Delft, I think. A Delft called here a month ago and sailed shortly after for Africa. My friends in the customs happened to copy her papers for me. If another Delft turns up, no one would think anything of it. What do you say?”

  “I don’t mind being Dutch,” I said. “As long as there’s money to be made in it.”

  “Oh, there is. Mister Austin will see to that, won’t you?”

  Chapter 3

  Lone Star Rising: A Short History of the Republic of Texas and the Free States of America

  by Victor D. Lautenberg

  The Spanish counsel, Arco, took a fast cutter, thinking to catch the frigate on blockade at the mouth of the Mississippi, but instead found her at anchor in the river some distance below New Orleans. He puzzled at this, but concluded that Mendez had heard about how the Wasp had evaded the Spanish frigate Victoria Rosa and did not want to take the chance of the same humiliation.

  Mendez regarded the consul with distaste as he clambered up the ladder to the frigate’s spar deck. Mendez was surprised and unhappy to see the consul again.

  “What now,” Mendez asked when Arco reached the deck and smoothed out the rumples in his coat, “another chore?”

  “No,” Arco said a bit breathlessly from his climb. “I have some intelligence that may be useful to you.”

  “I cannot imagine what you might know that would be helpful.”

  Arco gazed about at the frigate’s anchorage. “What do you intend, to take the pirate on the river?”

  “I might.”

  “That will cause an incident.”

  “A lesser one than we have already risked.”

  Arco nodded at that. “What if the pirate gets by you? Jones is said to be a skillful sailor.”

  “I doubt he has the skill to evade us on the river.”

  “Nevertheless, if Jones should reach the sea, I can tell you where he intends to sail.”

  “Indeed? And how would you know that? Gossip in the taverns? A whore whispering a rumor in your ear?”

  Arco made no indication that he was offended by the insult. “I purchased it at great cost.”

  “Waste of money.” When Arco said nothing at the rebuke, Mendez asked, “You have confidence in this intelligence?”

  “It came from one person, of all those aboard, who certainly knows where the pirate is bound.”

  “It will be of no use, but you might as well tell me.”

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  September 1820

  So we were going to Europe, and it did not look to be an unprofitable journey after all. I have to admit, though I had money in the bank from the seizure of the Spanish silver ship last summer and the prospect of wages from the journey, the chance to earn more appealed to me greatly, for it raised the prospect of acquiring additional shares in Wasp. So I looked forward to a long, lazy voyage across the Atlantic with the wind at my back and the delightful sensation of Wasp under my feet as she rode the swells in the open sea. I loved her, I loved sailing her, more than anything in life, and the opportunity to take her out and let her wings spread free against the breeze was payment enough. Well, nearly enough.

  Wasp was fully provisioned for a long voyage, since we had anticipated an imminent departure for Texas, so there was not much to do during the next few days other than to keep secret our destination and make sure that the crew did not get too drunk or in too many fights ashore, as we waited for the lawyers to do their work over Wasp’s ownership. Surprisingly, we had retained most of the men we had sailed with over the summer, even the recruits who had previously sailed for the pirate Jean Lafitte, which meant there was little training that needed to be done in port, only enough to keep the fellows busy, for boredom and inactivity on shipboard lead to trouble.

  I stayed out of the lawyering side of things. I try to keep as far away as possible from lawyers, who will suck the money from your purse more readily than a bee drains nectar from a flower, leaving you the poorer and usually not better off, unlike the bee. At last, on a Saturday morning at the end of September, Austin arrived and hurried up Wasp’s after gangway from the dock, his face fixed in a determined expression.

  He came aboard followed by black servants hauling several large trunks which the servants deposited on my deck and promptly departed.

  “What’s this?” I asked him, indicating the trunks.

  “My things,” he said.

  “And they are here, why?” I asked.

  “I’m coming with you, of course.”

  “All the paperwork has been put in order then?”

  “It has. Are our passengers aboard yet?”

  “What passengers?” I had not heard anything about passengers, only about cargo, which we already had stowed yesterday in the hold: bales of cotton wrapped in canvas. Getting it aboard had necessitated quite a bit of work, since the crew had to rebalance the ship.

  “They’re not here then?” Austin frowned, put out, as if he expected that his appearance was all that the ship required to depart. All the arrangements had taken a week, and he was chafing to be away. “Damn. I wonder what’s keeping them.”

  I have to say that I did not like the prospect of having Austin or any passengers along. It wasn’t that I disliked the man, for he really was likeable once you got past his earnest way. But I had the feeling that he would feel entitled to quibble with my decisions, and I did not want to be second guessed in the management of Wasp. And passengers — well, they just got in the way.

  Crockett came over from where he had been practicing cutlass work on the after quarterdeck with the Texas Rangers who were the ship’s marines. While all the Rangers had a great deal of affection for the big knives we carried, they developed some appreciation for the cutlass, especially when we allowed loose play with single sticks. It was a pleasure to have a full complement of Rangers. We had given most of them to Libertad, which had brought the Spanish silver upriver, but after the fire they had come back along with a dozen more men so that we had a large and menacing complement of lean, nasty fellows among whom I’d be happy to board any enemy vessel. “Your place is in New Orleans,” he said to Austin, having overheard.

  “You have no idea of my place,” Austin said testily.

  “You are the consul,” Crockett said. “Your place is here, taking care of Texas’ interests.”

  “That may be, but I have been told to procure the guns above all things. Since the guns are not in New Orleans, I will go where they can be found.”

 
“I can handle the transaction.”

  “You are not a mercantile man.”

  Crockett’s eyes narrowed and his friendly face hardened at the implication of inadequacy. Both he and Austin were ambitious men. Both vied not only for Jackson’s approval, but for glory and public recognition, and both thought he who acquired the guns would have all that. He said, “I have done enough horse trading to buy a few old muskets. I bought this vessel, after all, without anyone’s help.”

  That last statement was not entirely true. Crockett had hired me in Baltimore to procure a warship for the Texans and I had selected Wasp, on which I had served during the wars with Napoleon. He had just paid the bill.

  “Nevertheless, I insist,”Austin said.

  Crockett looked to me for support, and although I thought of myself as his friend, I did not want to get involved in an internal Texas quarrel. So I looked away toward the city, pretending I had heard none of this.

  For a moment, I thought I glimpsed anger in Crockett’s face, and he leaned forward aggressively, slapping the cutlass blade against his thigh. Austin blanched, but he did not give way. They locked eyes in the sort of staring contest that I have seen lead either to blows or invitations to a duel. At last, Crockett said, “Suit yourself.”

  He returned to the Rangers, where he barked, “Enough of your standing around! Get back in line! Ready! Weapons in the hanging guard! Prepare for cut one! Cut one!”

  As if a machine, the cutlasses of the Rangers whipped around to cut one, hissing in the air as they sliced through the left ear of imaginary opponents.

  “Mister Halevy!” I called to the slender young man who was the ship’s first lieutenant. “Have Mister Austin’s things taken below.”

  “Sir!” Halevy called out to a trio of nearby crewmen to get the trunks.

  A carriage drew up at the foot of the gangway not long after. It was followed by a wagon piled high with trunks that tottered as the driver applied the brake so that I worried that the mound would collapse upon him. And behind that wagon were two others also filled to overflowing, but with men and women.

  “I like a parade,” Crockett said at my side, “but I’m not sure about the looks of that one.” He turned at the sound of footsteps and asked Austin, who had just returned to the quarterdeck, “Stephen, what is that?”

  Austin looked sourly at the assembly. “Our passengers. It’s about time they showed up.”

  “Good God,” I said, appalled at the size of the mob, “you could have warned us.” I had expected perhaps three or four at the most.

  “What good would it have done?” Austin asked.

  “We could have made arrangements for their accommodations, for one,” I said. “And with that mess of luggage, I imagine we shall have to shift the ballast.”

  “Might delay us a week, getting that done,” Crockett murmured.

  “It should not,” Austin said indignantly.

  “You’re not the one moving the ballast,” Crockett said.

  “Well, neither are you!”

  “Giving orders is hard work,” Crockett said. “Just ask our captain. He wears himself to a frazzle every day bossing people about. The poor fellow.”

  “Thank you for your concern, David.”

  “Just looking out for you, Captain. We’d be in a great pickle if you were to fall sick from your exertions.”

  A footman opened the carriage door. The occupants descended to the wharf, a man and a woman. The man was short and slender, clad in the newest fashion: a flat-topped hat with brim curling upward; a linen collar that descended onto a lace tie; a double-breasted jacket with a short waist and tails; tight trousers; and flat-soled, tasseled pumps. He struck a pose, his walking stick at a jaunty angle, pretending to inspect Wasp, but he seemed more intent in drawing all gazes in his direction.

  The other occupant, a young woman, paused behind the man. She was, if anything, even more dazzling, although more modestly and less expensively dressed in a sensible bonnet, a gown gathered under the bosom that covered her from chin to ankles and a parasol that she did not bother to open to the sun. Her glow radiated from her heart-shaped face, framed by auburn curls, with dancing eyes and a blossom of a mouth.

  Crockett covered his mouth with a hand to conceal a grin while his eyebrows shot up to his hairline. Willie’s mouth drooped, the only indication of disapproval he was willing to display. Austin looked glum; he had been expecting this and was not surprised by the show.

  Willie said, “You better not laugh, David. You may have to fight him if you do.”

  “Yes,” I said. “We’ll lose the fare when you kill him.”

  After a moment, the woman prodded the man on the shoulder. He turned and she gestured toward the ship. His expression said “Very well,” and, preceded by a liveried servant, they marched up the gangway to the quarterdeck.

  The servant, a big black with a fierce scarred face that seemed an ill fit for this dandy pair, intoned in good English, “His excellency Jean-Baptist Raoul de Crequy, baron of Crequy and seignieur of Ambricouart, Wandonne and Rimbval, and his sister, the Lady Adele.”

  Austin looked embarrassed at this announcement, and I caught him sneaking glances out of the corner of his eye at me, Crockett and Willie. We were not dressed to receive such a noble personage, you see; we wore only our flat-brimmed hats, work-a-day brown coats and white canvas trousers. The fancy blue uniforms that Austin had bought for us in the spring before our first voyage lay in our trunks, safe from soil and sweat.

  “Welcome aboard, monsieur,” I said, checking Crockett and relieved to see that he had got his face under control. I had long ago learned how prone the Texans were to condescending to their betters, neglecting their “sirs” and talking back, and he had me a little worried. “I am Captain Jones. This is Mister Crockett, our lieutenant of marines, Mr. Harper, our sailing master, and I believe you already know Mr. Austin.”

  Crequy’s eyes swept over the lot of us with the same regard as if we were his field hands and he nodded in recognition of the introductions only because he was forced to do so out of politeness and even that seemed a burden.

  Lady Adele’s eyes met each one of ours, on the other hand, and on mine they lingered a moment, and I thought I felt my heart skip a beat: hers were brown eyes full of laughter. She was younger than I thought, no more than eighteen.

  “Pleased to meet you all,” she said in English. “It is such a beautiful ship. I have never seen anything so pretty in all my life!”

  “We are proud of her,” I managed.

  “And such a wicked ship, we’ve heard,” she said.

  “Wicked only to her enemy,” I said. “Steadfast and faithful to her friends.”

  “I have heard it is a fast ship,” the baron said.

  “There are few who can match her,” I said.

  Crequy nodded. “Well, then, let us not delay. I am anxious to get to France. I have much important business. I say, what are you all standing around for?”

  Lone Star Rising: A Short History of the Republic of Texas and the Free States of America

  by Victor D. Lautenberg

  Armand Rochelle’s concerns about an outbreak of smallpox in Mexico were well founded. The first cases appeared at the port of Tampico in mid-July. Others rapidly occurred in Mexico City and Vera Cruz. Before long, the dreadful disease had spread throughout central Mexico, killing tens of thousands, even emptying some villages of all their inhabitants.

  A quarantine on naval traffic from Mexico imposed by the Spanish Empire only stalled the spread but did not halt it. By September, cases were reported in Hispaniola, Havana and as far north as Saint Augustine.

  The French government followed the Spanish example and refused docking privileges to all vessels from Mexico. None proved to be infected, but the French took no chances just the same. It was well they did, for in the second week of September a Portuguese brig reached New Orleans with half the crew prostrate from smallpox and many already dead. The ship anchored in the river, no ma
n allowed ashore, while the disease burned its deadly course through those aboard.

  Chapter 4

  The Mississippi River

  September 1820

  It was mid-afternoon before we had the crew fully aboard and were away from the dock under headsails and spanker, letting light sail and the river’s considerable current carry Wasp downstream.

  If you hold your left hand in front of your face and cock your thumb across the palm, the outline of the thumb resembles the course of the river below New Orleans. The town lies just to the left of the knuckle, which represents the bend to the east of the city. Then there is a relatively straight course southeast to another bend, where the river curls sharply west, followed by several miles on a north-by-westerly course, until the river arrives at another sharp bend to the south marked on the maps as the English Turn, which lies about eighteen-odd miles from the town.

  There is not much to see below New Orleans but swamp, broken by the occasional plantation. A few fishing boats coasted on the water and we passed a brigantine merchantman, but as the river is two-thousand feet broad along this passage and the channel relatively deep, we had no trouble getting by each other, with only the shoals near the shore posing any danger.

  We passed the merchantman to our larboard so slowly and closely that her captain was able to hail to us. “Are you that privateer we’ve heard so much about? That Wasp?”

  Although we carried no colors, Wasp looked every inch the warship she was, even though a small one. This close, an observer could not miss the gunports cut into her sides, despite the fact she was painted so that they could not be seen from a distance. So if there were rumors about her among the seafaring, it would be foolish to deny who we were, especially since the merchant captain would pierce any lie we threw his way when he reached New Orleans.

  “We are!” Willie called back from the quarterdeck, as I was on the starboard side watching the jungle and worrying about shoals, although the water was so brown and dirty you’d hit one before you knew it was there.