by James Haley
Indeed, the moon rose before nine, arced overhead, and was halfway to sinking in the west at the change of the morning watch, the lookouts having searched the water between them and the beach the entire night without result.
“Ahoy the deck!”
“What do you see?”
“It is our friend, Captain! Crawling down the coast under a single tops’l.”
Sam ran to the starboard rail and raised his glass. “Sir, look! He is trying to pass inshore of us. The wind is with him, but he can’t trust the depth.”
“Mr. White, can you get a bead on him?”
“I can, sir.”
“Point your guns carefully, and when you are ready, fire a two-gun ranging salvo. That will let him know that we mean to shoot, and he can never survive a run by us.”
“I don’t understand,” said Sam. “Why not just let him have it?”
Bliven spoke with some impatience. “We can’t sink him at this range, and if he gets behind us, we can’t bring our guns to bear. And if we did sink him, then those guns would be easily salvaged. No, we must drive him out to sea and deal with him there.”
The flash of the two forward-most twenty-fours was blinding in the predawn gloom, and the eruption of flames had barely dissipated when the lookout cried down again. “Ahoy the deck! He is turning to sea and raising all sail!”
“Damn, I knew it!” cried Bliven. “This was his last card to play at getting into Cópano. He means to run back to Matamoros; they are going to haul the guns overland. Mr. Yeakel! Make all sail; set your stuns’l and sprits’l. I will have that little wretch if it’s the last thing I ever do! Mr. Bandy, come down. Let us study the chart.”
Mr. McKinney’s chart of the Texas coast remained open on the mahogany table, and they refreshed their mind’s eye of what must happen. The brig’s captain would not hug the coast but run south by west just as fast as he could go, straight to the mouth of the Rio Grande, and Matamoros.
In the time it took to raise the sails and come to that heading, the brig had opened a lead on them of perhaps a mile. Back on the quarterdeck as morning brightened, Bliven looked above the main topgallant and saw their green silk pennant snapping straight as a ruler toward the bowsprit. He did not need to pay out knots to know that they were racing full and by, the standing rigging pulled taut as fiddle strings. He shot his glance far forward to the newly rigged spritsail and saw it bellied out into a hemisphere—and there was the ultimate confirmation that the present quarry must be the one they sought: they were gaining on her. A brig running before the wind was a swift ship; she must be very heavily laden.
Bliven stole a fitful glance down at their new spritsail, relieved to observe it regularly showered with spray from their bow splash. “Look there, Mr. Yeakel, if the muzzle blast from the chasers does not pass completely over it, it is wet enough not to take fire.”
“Yes, sir, but how do we know the blast itself will not wreck the whole apparatus?”
“Yes, you are right. Station some men forward with axes in case the whole thing is wrecked and they have to chop it all free.”
“Aye, sir.” Yeakel trotted back to the ladder and quickly down.
Bliven pointed back out to the fleeing brig. “What do you think, Mr. White?”
White studied through his glass and then without. “I make her a mile and a quarter off, sir; that is about twenty-two hundred yards. Still a bit far to try a shot.”
“M-hm. Too far to hit him, perhaps, but not too far to fire and let him know we mean business. He can see as plainly as we that we are closing on him.”
“True, sir.”
“Mr. White, with your elevation ramps that Mr. Bandy devised, and by firing as the bow lifts up in a swell, do you think you can make a ball fly for a mile?”
“I think, sir, probably yes, but if not, the splashes will rise close enough to him to make him think about it.”
“Good. Fire then on my order, and keep firing at intervals until he drops his sails or until I order otherwise.”
“Aye, sir.” White saluted as he left. Bliven walked aft, leaning into the stiff north wind that, contrary to becoming warmer as the sun rose, acquired an ugly chill.
White employed his chasers skillfully, firing them alternately every quarter hour, the splashes falling closer and closer to the fleeing brig. At six hundred yards their quarry gave up the flight, furled her courses and driver, and rolled slowly along under topsails. “Mr. Yeakel,” said Bliven, “you may begin to shorten sail. We do not wish to overshoot her.”
Yeakel timed his slowing perfectly, coming a hundred and fifty feet off the brig’s port beam and matching her pace.
Bliven was prepared at the starboard rail with his speaking trumpet. “Ahoy, American brig. What ship are you?”
The answer came back at once. “I am Captain Carroll, American trading vessel Five Points! Who in hell are you and what in hell do you mean to arrest us in such a way?”
The Gonzales’s officers smiled among themselves. “We are Texas warship Gonzales. You are sailing in our war zone. Trade with the Texas ports is under blockade. You ran from us after trying to enter Cópano. What cargo do you carry?”
“I am an American ship in international trade. Your flag is not recognized, and you have no right to stop us.”
The hard north wind had raised a considerable swell, and the ships each lifted from the stern as they were pushed southward. It was impossible not to take some prideful fun in having run down their quarry. “Our flag, sir,” shouted Bliven through the trumpet, “will be recognized soon enough. My twenty-four-pounders give me the right to stop you. I ask again: What cargo do you carry?”
“Sawn lumber and foodstuffs, you blackguard. Do you mean to come over and steal it?”
Bliven held the trumpet away from his mouth so they could laugh among themselves and raised it again. “I thank you, we are well provisioned. We shall board you and inspect your cargo. If it is as you say, you may proceed back to Mexico, but not to Cópano.”
“Come aboard, then, you rebel.”
“Five Points?” asked Sam. “What are the Five Points? Is it from some kind of declaration?”
“No,” Bliven answered with a smile. “You see, her home port is New York. The Five Points is a square in the city where five streets come together. It’s in the immigrant portion of the city with a reputation for violence.”
Yeakel got the cutter down, making certain that it was rowed by men in uniforms. “Mr. White, I leave you in command. Mr. Bandy and I will go over. We will take McKay with us. Have your starboard guns quoined up and trained at her waterline. If one of us shouts the order to fire, tear her side out. We can swim well enough.”
“Aye, sir.”
The brig Five Points had no boarding ladder, but netting was thrown down from their waist. Her captain and officers were waiting there as Bliven swung himself over the rail, followed by Sam, McKay, and two of their crew. “Good morning, Captain. I am Captain Putnam, Texas Navy. Do you not have any better judgment than to pile on more canvas after you are challenged by a warship in a war zone?”
“By God, you are an American!” Carroll was nearly as tall as Lieutenant White, with coarse black hair and green eyes of a calculating expression. “What right have you to stop an American ship?”
“We are Texians, if you please, Captain—although it is true nearly all of us did start off as Americans. We hope not to detain you long. May I see your manifest?”
Carroll had it in hand and thrust it out, and Bliven read it over and handed it to Sam. “What do you think, Mr. Bandy?”
“Milagros,” he read. “Masa. As he said, it’s beans and flour, and I see lumber.”
“Very well, Captain Carroll. Let us have a look and you may be on your way.”
Carroll led them to the ladder and down. “I still say you have no right.”
“Your protest will be faithfully noted.” They descended through the one crew deck and entered a deep hold, where there were two lanterns lit at the foot of the ladder. They found the cargo properly stowed, the sawn lumber flat on the deck, topped by small barrels stenciled Masa, the beans in large sacks of burlap.
“Captain Carroll”—Bliven stood by him—“your cargo appears to be in order. I will tell you what, I will give you thirty dollars in silver for two sacks of your beans. How you report it is up to you. Mr. McKay, have your men take two sacks topside.”
Carroll glowered. “Captain Putnam, you may be sure that every word we have exchanged will be reported faithfully.”
“Mr. McKay, sir! Jesus, we cannot lift these sacks of beans. They weigh a ton.”
McKay regarded the burlap bean sacks piled amidships against the mainmast footing. “Daft, man, that sack should not weigh more than fifty or sixty pounds.”
“Then, by God, you lift it!” the man shouted. “I ain’t giving myself no rupture trying to carry that thing.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, man.” McKay strode over and bent down to heft the sack onto his shoulder, but it did not budge. “What on—Mr. Bandy, there is something peculiar about this.”
Sam joined them, pulled his Bowie knife from its sheath, and slit through the burlap, and before he had finished the cut a cascade of dried beans of light brown, with dark brown flecks, flowed through the rent with a dry rattle onto the decking. Looks were exchanged around, and when the beans stopped falling he enlarged the rent. The further outflow of beans left them staring at the round leaden curve of a twelve-pounder ball. “Will you look at that,” said Sam softly. He reached in and started to pull it free, but it required both hands. “Well, now, that’s some mighty big beans you got here, Cap’n.” He held it up for Carroll’s gaze. “How long do you have to cook one of these things, anyhow?”
Carroll shifted his weight, rolled his eyes, and made no reply.
“Mr. McKay,” said Bliven, “please to break open a few barrels of this flour. We shall inspect it.”
McKay set his lantern on the nearest one and removed a crowbar from a stanchion to assault the top of one of the barrels.
Carroll stepped forward. “Stop! Unless you want to blow us all to kingdom come. Very well, yes, there is powder in these barrels. You do not wish to hack at them and perhaps make a spark.”
“We thank you for your good sense, Captain Carroll,” said Bliven. “And now finally it occurs to me that the lumber that lines the bottom of your hold rises considerably above the curve of your bottom. Could it possibly be that there is some additional commodity lying beneath these boards—something heavier, perhaps, serving as ballast?”
Carroll resumed his silence.
“Sam? Have a look, please.”
Sam stepped down onto the raw boards, pulling up one and then another, leaning them aside against the ship’s ribs. McKay joined him, holding the lantern. They noted the boards carefully cut, as though premeasured for reassembly. After removing lumber from a layer four boards deep, they beheld the dark glint in the lamplight of bronze, and further effort revealed the five-foot barrel of a twelve-pounder field gun.
Bliven stepped down and joined them. “Mr. McKay, will you hand me your lantern?” He knelt on the barrel, running his fingers around the breech as he inspected it closely, then stood. “Come, gentlemen.”
As they rejoined Carroll, Sam asked, “Where do you suppose they got these?”
“Boston,” said Bliven bitterly. “I am ashamed to say I know the foundry marks well. They are produced by the Cyrus Alger Company, a very leader in the production of improved alloyed field weapons.”
“Captain Carroll,” said Bliven, “will you tell me now how many of these guns you are transporting?”
“Thirty,” he answered, “to unload at Cópano to forward to the Mexican army.”
“Well, that is what we need to know. Let us go back up.”
“Captain, sir?” asked Sam. “A word in private, if I may?” The two of them walked forward toward a small warren formed by the sail room and paint lockers. Sam laid a hand on Bliven’s back and whispered, “Well, now that we’ve got these guns, what in the hell are we going to do with them? The barrels alone weigh seven or eight hundred pounds apiece. The cutter could never get them over to our ship.”
“I know. That is not practicable, and even if we got them to Galveston, there is no transport to get them to General Houston. And further, if that awful Potter fellow has started organizing his navy department, he will be doing it in Galveston, and he needs to be kept as deep in the dark as can be managed. He surely knows about us now because of the small arms we delivered there, and if we land again he may try to extend his authority over us and expose our whole game. I am understanding now why Houston told us to remain at sea.” His lips tightened in fast thought. “Go back to the Gonzales and tell Mr. White to follow us closely. Return with a dozen men. We will sail her into deeper water and consign the whole business overboard.”
Topside, as Sam was pulled back across, Bliven saw Carroll standing sullenly at his wheel. “One thing puzzles me, Captain Carroll, so perhaps you will gratify me. What was the need to try to disguise your cargo at all? If you are going to carry cannons and shot and powder, why not just get on with it?”
Carroll looked down the deck of the ship he no longer commanded. “The Five Points is an American merchant vessel. We are not supposed to take part in armed conflicts. Our company, however, chartered us to the government of Mexico, and for the vessel to remain insured we were required to mask any cargoes of war matériel.”
“Ah, I see. Thank you.” An American cannon foundry, and the American insurance companies again. They had been a burr under his saddle since the commencement of this whole operation. Their lack of regard for fellow Americans fighting for their freedom in Texas was odious enough, and now, to know they were minimizing their risk by cloaking their cargoes on vessels in Mexican charter, made it clear that they lacked political sympathies to any party whatever. They were in it purely for the profit to be made in the war and bloodshed. Yet corporations did not act from their own sentience; they were run by men. What species of men had so little conscience?
Sam returned with the carpenter and his sounding line. There was no speaking for the next hour as they steered the Five Points due east with the Gonzales following in tandem.
“Excuse me, Captain?”
“Mr. Caldwell?”
“I just wanted to let you know, the sounding is no bottom.”
“Thank you, Mr. Caldwell. Please to have Mr. McKay take in the sails and begin hoisting the bronze guns out of the hold and over the side.”
“Yes, sir. It does seem a terrible great waste, though.”
“I know, and I agree, but we cannot take them with us.”
Thirty times, Sam and Caldwell, down in the hold, made fast lines around the guns’ trunnions, with McKay cranking the windlass, each five-foot barrel slowly twirling its way up through the hatch, where other crewmen from the Gonzales guided it to the boarding gate, unfastened the rope, and let it fall eight feet into the Gulf waters, the bright bronze visible to a surprising depth as it shot to the sea floor. Then came the carriage assemblies, and the balls that were passed from hand to hand up the ladder, the men discovering in the doing not just solid shot but grape and canister as well.
“Captain Carroll,” said Bliven at last, “our duty here is nearly finished. Your guns and ammunition are now at the bottom of the sea, and we have taken your powder for our own needs. You are a neutral ship, so I do not claim you as a prize—although I believe that an admiralty court would sustain me if I chose to do so. I am hereby returning your manifest to you.”
He handed it over, and Carroll accepted it without comment.
“However, the military shipment that you went to such pains to deliver must have been accompan
ied by letters or dispatches to those who were expecting them. Will you give those over to me, or shall we be compelled to search for them?”
Carroll shrugged. “They are nothing to me now; come to my cabin and you shall have them. I cannot return to Matamoros now in any event. The higher up in the Mexican army you go, the more suspicious the officers become of everyone and everything, because no one knows who will be denounced and shot next. Today Santa Anna is on top; tomorrow, who knows? No, Mexico has seen the last of me.”
In his cabin he opened a desk and produced a leather pouch packed tight with documents in Spanish, elegant with rubrics.
Bliven tucked them into his coat. “I am sorry for the position in which you have put yourself. If it is any consolation, I believe you have tried your best to carry out your responsibilities. You could not have known that you were sailing into the path of a vessel that would completely overmatch you, and we thank you for your cooperation. May I advise you to put into a port at your first convenience and take on some ballast? Our operation has left you high in the water. I wish you fair sailing. Good-bye.” Carroll’s expressionless gaze followed him as he grasped the netting and swung over the side and down to the cutter.
No sooner had they sent the Five Points on her way east than Sam joined Bliven on the Gonzales’s quarterdeck, watching her slowly recede from view.
“Mr. Yeakel,” said Bliven, “we cannot go north into this wind. Let us beat eastward until it is more favorable.”
“Captain,” said Sam, “I know we did the right thing, but dropping all those guns overboard just rubs me the wrong way when our boys need them so badly.”
Bliven rested his forearms on the railing, finally unbending from his blustering posture in this ticklish business. “I know, Mr. Bandy, I know. But it was manifestly impossible to take them with us, and certainly not to Galveston.”
“Yes, sir, I do understand, of course. But now, do you think we can assume that those thirty field guns were the entirety, or nearly so, of all the artillery that the Mexican army was expecting to land in Santa Anna’s support?”
