Captain Putnam for the Republic of Texas

by James Haley

  “Sam . . .” Bliven reached over and squeezed his forearm. “You were on the run from the law in the United States.”

  Sam pursed his lips and nodded. “For what I did to that vulture of a banker, God will hold me justified. It just wasn’t legal.”

  “I understand that. Again, I cannot say I would not have done the same. But what about David?”

  “Last I heard, he had joined up with a ranging company, hunting Indians and such. I hope they will join the Texas Army. That will put their violence to a good purpose, anyways.”

  “How did the boys turn out in such a way, Sam?”

  Sam shook his head slowly. “Becky’s death hit them like a landslide. Once she was gone, it was like they just turned dark, and bad. They adored her. I told them so many times, this is not how she would want them to be, but”—he stared at the table and sighed—“life gave them a bitter cup, and they drank every last bit of it. I am the one who lost their fortune, so I blame myself.”

  “Oh, Sam. I’m sorry.”

  “Well, enough of that. Come! We have a hundred things to do. We have to see Mr. Toby and pick up some money, and then go find the last of the provisions for the ship. I haven’t arranged for a pilot yet to get us to the mouth of the river.”

  “Excuse me, Captain . . .” Ross had not spoken up in a long time. “Speaking of bitter cup, perhaps we should find a druggist and see if we can find a quantity of quinine water.”

  “Oh, good Lord, I completely forgot about that. We left Litchfield in such a hurry.”

  “And it was cool weather, sir; it would not have been first on your mind.”

  “Quinine water?” quizzed Sam. “Have you had the swamp ague?”

  “Yes, when last I was in the Caribbean. Thankfully it is not a severe case.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Their errands required the entirety of the morning. On the waterfront they were able to hire a lighter to carry the perishable provisions across to the ship, including a cow, two sheep, and a flock of chickens, all with feed, and enough fruit and vegetables to consume before they went bad. They looked across to Algiers Point and saw the Rappahannock taut but not straining against her cable. “She looks naked with no flag,” said Bliven. “Tell me, has this revolutionary government of yours given us an ensign to sail under?”

  “Ah,” breathed Sam with satisfaction, “well you might ask. The last thing General Houston gave me before I left . . .” From his waistcoat pocket he extracted and unfolded a sheet of paper, on it a hand-colored drawing of a flag.

  “Wait, stop right there. Are you saying that Sam Houston is behind all this cloak-and-sword intrigue to get me down here?”

  Sam withheld the drawing from view as he answered. “Not you, particularly. Look, you can’t have a revolution against a country that has a navy and not have some means to counter it. Texas has thousands of farmers who can volunteer for the army, but precious few sailors, so that is what I volunteered to do. We have no ships, and that meant asking Jackson for help. He said he would see what he could do. Your ship was back in port and was to be stricken from the list, so it was the most obvious candidate to disappear from the United States and show up again in Texas.”

  “I see.” There was no denying the genius of the scheme.

  “As for you, you were sort of doomed by your own history of operating independently but discreetly and, well, showing initiative. And no one knows the ship as well as you do, so here you are.”

  “So I was just swept up in events?”

  “More or less. But we happen to think our independence is a worthwhile event. Now, have a look at the flag.” He opened the paper again. “It’s a funny thing about Houston. Where most of the yahoos joining the fight don’t see beyond driving out the Mexicans, Houston sees the chance to create a nation and then add it to the United States. That is his vision, if you like—right down to the flag he wants us to have. He hasn’t spoken of it to anyone—they would accuse him of grand delusions and chalk it up to his drinking—but he is a jump ahead of them. When the flag shows up on a Republic of Texas ship, his flag will be fait accompli. It’s not complicated, just a large gold star on a field of royal blue. You know, the bigwigs have taken to calling Texas the Lone Star.”

  “Really? Why?”

  Sam shrugged. “I have no idea. Possibly because she is the last hope of liberty on that part of the continent.”

  “Well, that seems as good a reason as any.”

  “Exactly. I believe our last errand is to call at the milliner’s shop for the material and deliver it to the seamstress. And as a happy surprise to you, she is a seamstress only by night; by day she prepares the best Acadian lunch in the city.”

  “Ha, excellent!” Bliven pointed out to the Rappahannock. “Do you have enough crew out there to hoist these provisions aboard?”

  “Oh, surely.” They left the operation in the charge of the lighter captain, and Sam discharged his duty straightaway at a millinery shop with the purchase of yards of deep-blue cotton and a lesser amount of bright golden yellow, all wrapped in brown paper. It was coming upon two in the afternoon when they found the small establishment on Chartres Street, a door and three windows wide, of three stories, with a sign in script hanging over the walk that read “Regina’s.”

  A bell suspended on a spring jangled as they entered, to be greeted by a woman so strikingly tall that even Bliven looked up a little to regard her cascade of wavy raven-black hair, eyes like sapphires, and a cream-like complexion over perfect high cheekbones. “Mr. Bandy!” she exclaimed. She held out both her hands and he took them. “We have not seen you in months! Where have you been keeping yourself?”

  “Yes, well, you may have heard that things in Texas have been in a bit of a commotion.”

  “Yes, and we have thought of you, hoping you are safe.”

  “Thank you. Well, Mrs. Regina Ferraro, I’d like you to meet my oldest friend in the world, Captain Putnam, and his steward, Mr. Ross.”

  “Gentlemen, you are welcome.”

  Bliven found himself expending effort not to stare at her bosom, almost embarrassingly ample but apparently weightless, separated from her round hips by a tiny waist. No man could regard her and not think her a goddess. “A great pleasure, ma’am.”

  Her easy laugh told him she guessed every thought he’d had and did not object. “Come in and be seated.”

  “Mrs. Ferraro,” said Sam, “the aroma from your kitchen tells me that one of your splendid Acadian stews is well simmered and ready to serve.”

  “Is that what you would like, gumbo all around? Bread and wine?”

  “You have read our minds.”

  Bliven watched her graceful movement both as she left and as she returned bearing a large wooden tray. She set before him a large bowl of rice that rose like a white island from a thick stew, umber brown and aromatic, within which he could make out chunks of sausage, and perhaps chicken or duck, and what he took for onion and celery, and a ridged, seedy vegetable he could not name. He leaned over the bowl and inhaled deeply, its dusty pungency reaching the very depth of his lungs, and then going straight to his brain, where it awakened a piece of a memory, but he could not grasp its shape. “There is something in it,” he said, “some herb or flavoring I have encountered before, long ago and I cannot place it. Can you tell me what it is, please?”

  “No doubt you mean the filé.”

  “Filé! Oh, yes.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “Years ago, I had a ship, the Tempest, and I took on a free Creole as the ship’s cook; his name was Gaston. There was a battle, my ship was sunk, and I do not know what became of him after we were rescued.”

  Regina smiled. “And the filé made you remember him.”

  “What is it? Is it a plant?”

  “We dry the leaves of the sassafras tree and grind them up. That’s all. They grow wild out in the woods
. When the French people got here years and years ago, the Indians showed them how to do it, and then the black people came up from Haiti and they took a great fancy to it. And they brought their okra with them, so now we have gumbo.”

  “Brought their what?”

  Regina picked up a spoon and fished out a piece of that green vegetable, scalloped around its edges and filled with tender seeds. “Okra. It came from Africa with the slaves. And now the food here in New Orleans is all just a match and a mix of what everybody brought with them.”

  “New Orleans is so French, yet you sound . . . what is it? Italian?”

  “Sicilian, although I have been here so long, most people can no longer pick out my accent. You have a keen ear, Captain.”

  “I have traveled widely.”

  “There are not many of us here yet,” she said, “but more of my family are coming, and my family alone will do much to increase the city, I can tell you. I will leave you to your meal.”

  Bliven had already sampled it. “It is delicious. I have not had its like in many years.”

  Sated, they made ready to leave, and Regina saw them to the door. “Oh! I brought you something,” said Sam. He handed over the brown paper wrap of cloth and placed on it the sketch of the desired ensign.

  “Ah! You wish me to do some sewing for you.”

  “An ensign for our ship.”

  “Truly!” She lay the parcel on the table nearest the door, opened it and assayed the material, and studied the drawing briefly. “Eight feet by fifteen? That is a pretty big flag, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but ship’s ensigns are commonly much larger than what you run up a flagpole. We want other ships to be certain at a distance of who we are, and whether they want to shoot at us.”

  “I see. And this is pretty heavy cotton. Don’t you think a light silk would flutter out much more smartly in a breeze?”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Ferraro, but silk would whip to shreds in a very short time.”

  “Very well, you shall have just what you ask. Why don’t you call for it in three or four days?”

  “That will suit us perfectly.” He took her left hand and turned it palm up, placing in it ten silver dollars. “Satisfactory?”

  She closed her beautiful long white fingers around the coins. “Perfectly. Good day to you, then, gentlemen.” She extended her right hand. “Captain.”

  Bliven bowed as he took it. “Mrs. Ferraro, thank you for a marvelous lunch and conversation.”

  “Ma’am,” said Alan Ross.

  As they walked toward the wharf, Sam began laughing. “You know, a light silk would in fact flutter out much more smartly, don’t you think.”

  His mirth was contagious. “Well,” said Bliven, “women do see different possibilities than men do in a given situation, don’t they?”

  “Perhaps some curtains for the gunports?”

  * * *

  * * *

  It was four thirty as the lighter coasted up to the Rappahannock’s boarding ladder. Bliven saw no one on deck as they approached, which was a very strange circumstance, but then as they tied up he heard the thudding scurry of hard-soled shoes above. Halfway up he heard the silver accolade of the bosun’s whistle, and as he stepped onto the deck he was greeted with an enfilade of smart salutes, which he returned.

  “Welcome aboard, Captain,” said the bosun. “Are you surprised?”

  “Mr. Yeakel! After the month I have had, I do not believe anything could surprise me for the rest of my life.” He extended his hand. “But I am very, very glad to see you.”

  Yeakel took it warmly. “Likewise, Captain.”

  Bliven glanced among the crew but recognized no one else. “Have you been with the ship the whole time this past year and a half?”

  “But for two leaves to visit my family, yes, sir.”

  “M-hm. And do I not remember seeing orders at the time I left the ship that she was to be converted to a receiving vessel?”

  “Yes, sir, but since your illness—from which I am happy to see you so recovered, or at least seem so recovered—those orders were rescinded. Mr. Bandy will communicate the new scheme of things to you, if he has not already.”

  “Yes, he will. Would you care to introduce me to my new officers?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Bandy of course will be your first lieutenant. May I present Mr. White, who will be your second lieutenant?” Bliven traded salutes and shook hands with an extraordinarily tall man with tightly curled ash-brown hair and a natural turn of the eyebrows that gave his face a quizzical expression.

  “And the third lieutenant?”

  “There is none, Captain,” said Yeakel. “We came down with rather a skeleton crew. The word was that we were embarking for New Orleans for her to become a receiving ship, and those men about the Navy Yard whose enlistments were up, and who were game to relocate here, volunteered.”

  “And where was she during that intervening year and a half?”

  Yeakel shrugged. “Just laid up in ordinary, although I was given some other duties about the Navy Yard.”

  “You remained aboard? That must have been a lonely vigil.”

  “No, sir, I rather enjoyed it.”

  Bliven searched again among the crew. “Is there no surgeon? No chaplain?”

  “Not yet, Captain,” said Yeakel.

  “Well,” he said almost to himself, “we surely have our work cut out for us. Where is the rest of the crew?”

  “We sailed down with approximately half the full complement. Most of them are presently at liberty in the city.”

  “I see.” He walked slowly aft down the starboard gangway, then looked over his shoulder. “Mr. Bandy, Mr. White, if you please?” They followed him until he paused just forward of the mizzenmast, where he laid a hand on the wheel. “Well, in spite of all, it is good to find myself back on the Rappahannock.”

  “Oh, Captain, you could not have known about this. I am sorry no one has mentioned this to you before. She is not the Rappahannock, not any longer. You will understand, we cannot have an American vessel involved in our struggle down here. For the duration, at least, she is the Texas warship Gonzales, named for the opening victory of our revolution.”

  Bliven stared at him blankly. “Oh, I see.” He strode aft to the taffrail and peered over, but had no perspective to see down the sheer, and so pointed below. “Did you . . . ?”

  “Yes, sir, they painted the new name on her stern before we put in at New Orleans. Saved people asking questions.”

  “Naturally. Well, since I am apparently the last one to learn anything anymore, and I realize that I am merely the captain, but could I inquire where we will be bound?”

  Sam grinned. “Why, to Texas, of course.” As Bliven’s eyes grew wide, Sam held up one hand. “Forgive me, Captain, in Texas we become accustomed to a less formal manner of doing . . . well, everything. I have no doubt that in a short time I can regain the use of the formalities to which you are accustomed. Sir, on the desk in your study you will find a packet containing your orders, with certain sealed letters. Because of the extremely sensitive and confidential nature of our mission, you are to deliver these letters, still sealed, to Sam Houston, who as you know is the commander in chief of the Texas forces. It must pass personally from your hand to his, and to no other. You will appreciate that the capture of such a communication could not be risked in an overland conveyance.”

  “Wait. Did Mr. Austin not say that there are no Mexican forces now in Texas?”

  “At the time he left, there were not. But we know Santa Anna is assembling an army, and there is no telling how soon he can strike into Texas. By the time we can land and seek Houston out, the country may be overrun. We cannot say.”

  “I understand. I assume that we have charts of the Texas coast?”

  “Sadly, sir, we do not.”

  Bliven’s face see
med to turn to stone. “Please tell me that you are joking.”

  “We do have a general coastal map showing the locations of our ports, but they lie mostly at the mouths of the rivers, and you could not put in, in any case, because you draw too much water to get over the bars. The whole length of our coast is very shallow and sandy.”

  “I had assumed that we would be bound for Galveston. Does that port not have deep water?”

  “It does, deep enough, but for that reason—the volume of commerce—it also has Mexican agents keeping an eye on the waterfront. We cannot be too cautious.”

  “I see, but, should Mexicans not be easy to identify within the town?”

  “They would be, if they were all from Mexico, but Galveston is a hotbed of Tories. Many of the merchant class there are more in sympathy with the business interests in New Orleans, and regard the revolution as the project of the lower class. Some of those who have the means to trade also have speculated in land, and they are loyal to the state government in Coahuila . . . or think they are, but that government no longer exists.”

  Bliven’s smile was sardonic. “In other words, you are prosecuting your revolution on rather the same terms as the American Revolution sixty years ago.”

  “A very similar circumstance, yes, sir.”

  “Is no one loyal to the central government?”

  “To Santa Anna?” Sam barked out a sharp laugh. “If there is one unifying factor in all of Texas, it is hatred of Santa Anna, even among the native Mexicans in San Antone. But he is all there is, and since he is marshaling his army of invasion, he is the one they suck up to.”

  “He is really that terrible?”

  “He is a butcher.”

  “I was curious whether the newspaper accounts back home are truly accurate.”

  “If they describe him in terms of Genghis Khan, or Tamerlane, they are. Of course, he merely compares himself to Napoleon.”