by James Haley
With the barrel thus depressed, he waited a few seconds until the first boat just crossed his sights. “Stand clear now!” He yanked hard on the lanyard.
The muzzle blast boomed out its sheet of flame, and a couple of seconds later he saw to his satisfaction that the shot was even better than he had intended, for the ball carried away the boat’s straight stem with a geyser of splinters, stopping them cold without actually killing anyone. Instantly the boat began to settle forward, the stoicism of the Mexican marines finally crumbling, and they stood in terror, shouting and gesturing.
The last thing that Bliven expected at that second was the walloping boom of the forward starboard twenty-four, its ball of fire flaring out beneath his feet, and his glance shot up just in time to see those Mexican marines cut to pieces in a shower of grape. Even at this distance he made out the spray of red from their backs and heads and legs. They spun and fell in all directions, over their seats, into the water.
The second and third boats’ rowers suddenly backwatered, stopping them dead but making them mere target practice for White’s grape-primed twenty-fours. Four and five and six and seven of them roared in a long rolling broadside. He knew what must happen and he averted his gaze, thinking, Be it on their heads. Instead he looked to the shore, where, one by one, the men of the Gonzales felt the slight press of sand beneath their feet, swam in further, and tried again, feeling it more solidly. One and then another and another of the cheering men on the beach pulled off boots and shoes, some shucking their pantaloons, and began wading out to them, catching the exhausted sailors beneath their arms, supporting them the last hundred yards to the shore.
Bliven noticed movement over to his right and saw two small sailing skiffs slap their way through the chop over the bar of the Brazos to begin rounding up any stragglers. He ran back to the hatch. “Mr. White!”
“Sir!”
“Well done. Back to solid shot now. Try to hit his paddle wheel and disable him.” Then at their starboard quarter he saw the Mexican schooner making a turn, her steering ropes reengaged, to come across their stern, and he had no way to oppose their small but effective raking fire. This was even as he saw the fire lower down had gotten away from them and was nearly out of control. The ship’s dry old wood, once it reached a certain temperature and was touched off, consumed itself and the fire spread along deck and bulkheads and knees with frightening speed. “Mr. White!”
“Sir!”
“Belay that last order. Get your men topside quickly and get them down into the boats. We are done. Take the men you need and help Dr. Haffner get the wounded up.”
He saw the schooner’s three guns run out a hundred yards away and begin her firing run at their stern. Bliven clattered to the bottom of the ladder on the gun deck, looking into the flames below. “Is anyone left down there?” he shouted. “For your lives, now, is there anyone there?” Answered only by the roar and crackle of the fire, he spied Ross through the smoke aft by his cabin, clutching a leather pouch.
“Sir, I have your log and your papers!”
“Good man, Mr. Ross, now go up and get into a boat!” Bliven climbed the ladder, again fighting down his faintness, made it to the boarding ladder, and descended to the cutter. “Pull, now. Boys, get us out of here before she blows.”
Yeakel pushed them off, and once their oars were down, they swept with a will. The Gonzales’s hulk lay between them and the approaching schooner, so he did not know exactly when they would hear the guns raking into her stern. They were two hundred yards away and pulling hard when they heard the first one, then the second and third, and they knew the hot shot must be crashing into the wardroom and the captain’s cabin. They saw the schooner’s bowsprit begin to emerge from behind their ship, when they were blinded by a flash as bright as the sun overhead, and the entire aft third of the Gonzales disintegrated in a titanic, deafening explosion that seemed to go on and on. The concussion knocked Bliven’s bicorne from his head—indeed, would have knocked him from his feet had he been standing. He leaned over to pick it up, when the cutter began to be showered with whirling, burning chunks of wood. Most were quickly tossed over the side, but one caught Bliven a terrific wallop on the back of the head, knocking him down into the cutter’s exposed ribs, from where twenty hands helped him back onto the seat. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Do not trouble. I am not hurt.”
“Boys,” one of them said, “my God, look back there.”
Coasting slowly into view beyond the ship’s shattered stern, the Mexican schooner, momentarily laid almost flat by the concussion, turned tightly to port, south, into the wind until her sails luffed, and they realized that her crew must have been knocked insensible, perhaps even killed, in the full face of the explosion. They were now forward enough of the Gonzales’s remains to see the steamer off her opposite beam. A fresh column of black smoke issued from her stack and she entered a starboard turn, presumably to see if anything could be done to help those in the schooner.
A voice in the cutter’s bow shouted, “Three cheers for Captain Putnam! Hip?”
Bliven was unsure for a moment whether he was victorious or defeated. The third cheer ended with a prolonged huzzah, and he realized they cheered him because they were safe and in a moment would set foot on a friendly shore. “Is Dr. Haffner with us?”
“I am here, Captain. Let me see your head.”
Bliven felt his hat being removed and winced at Haffner’s touch on the rear of his skull. “What were our casualties?”
“There were seven dead whom I could not save. Three wounded who may live are in the boat with us. Many other smaller injuries. But for such a battle, we are very lucky.”
“Indeed, yes.”
The cutter’s bow ground to a halt and lifted up as it slid onto the beach. “Come on, boys, hop over. This captain’s feet shall not touch the water!”
Bliven felt himself being lifted up and carried and then set down ever so gently on the dry beach. Others of the crew sank down to the fawn-colored sand, sitting, lying down, curling their fingers into it, smiling at having passed alive through such a test.
Dr. Haffner was still by him. “Captain, how many fingers am I holding up?”
“Three.”
He backed a few paces away. “Now how many?”
“Two.”
“It is good, Captain. Sometimes such a blow to the back of the head affects first the vision, but that is not so with you. Nevertheless, I am not happy with how you look. You must retire to a bed at the first possible moment.”
A voice he did not recognize came from his side. “What the hell are you boys still fightin’ for? Don’t you know the war’s over?”
“What did you say?” he whispered.
“I say, a bunch more dead Mexicans is all to a good purpose, but the war is over.”
“God in heaven!” wheezed Bliven. The firmness of solid ground beneath his feet after weeks at sea made his dizziness worse, for his guts were still rolling with the swell. “Was it won or lost?”
“Won, sir! Santa Anna’s army was destroyed with hundreds killed; the dictator himself is Sam Houston’s prisoner.”
“My God, when did all this come about?”
“Twenty-first of April, near three weeks ago.”
Bliven looked sickly back out to the Mexican steam privateer and the shattered flotsam of its launches and their floating dead. “So all those men did not have to die.”
“Well, yes, they did, too, unless you and all your men wanted to die instead. May I assume from your uniform that you are the captain of this vessel?”
Bliven tried to stand straighter. “My name is Putnam, captain in the Texas Navy.”
“My name is Lacey, sir, Dennis Lacey.” He took Bliven’s hand and nearly crushed it in greeting. He had a round face, black hair going to white, and a broad smile like the designated greeter at a prayer meeting. “Welcome to Vela
sco. Captain, you are not steady on your feet. Were you hurt in the fighting?”
“Mr. Lacey, I am pleased to meet you. I was not badly wounded. I have suffered from the malarial fever for some time. If there is a doctor in your town who can supply some quinine water, I—I—believe that—”
Bliven’s eyes began to lose their focus even as he began to see in a blur his surroundings at once, and then vaguely he was aware of the comfortable warmth of the sand at the back of his head.
11
Dicey
It was not like a sensation he had felt before. It was not like an ocean swell, deep and rolling, nor even like the chop of a bay that buffeted him. It was irregular, surging and halting, such as he imagined the rapids of a river might be. He was aware of it for several seconds before he opened his eyes to find himself encased in a blanket laid upon straw. He saw the sides of a wooden box on either side of him and in an instant of terror thought he was in his coffin, but then realized he could see above him the purple and peach-colored clouds of either morning or evening. As he regained his senses he heard the creak of wheels and the plodding of a draft animal. “Hello? Where am I?”
He recognized above his head the seat of a wagon. “Ho, horse, ho.” The motion stopped and a figure leaned back from the seat. “Are you awake?”
“Sam? Sam, what the hell! Where are we?”
Sam tied the reins to the brake handle and lowered himself into the bed of the wagon. He felt for fever on Bliven’s forehead. “Are you all right?”
“I think so.”
“I was on the beach in Velasco, but I couldn’t get to you before you fainted. You’ve got a nasty knot on the back of your head.”
“And the swamp fever as well, I fear, for some weeks.”
They heard a horse walk up beside them. “Captain, are you all right?”
“Mr. Ross! I am heartily glad to see you. You made it off the ship.”
“Of course. Do you not remember?”
“I don’t—I am not certain. Sam, where are we going?”
“Home, to Halcyon, if it is still there. We should be there by noon. Will you be comfortable until we can get you there?”
“Yes. But if I was so injured, was there no doctor in Velasco?”
“Well, there was, but let’s just say people began asking too many questions. All that the crew knows is that they volunteered for the Texas Navy in New Orleans, but I didn’t want anyone getting to you.”
“I see. Well done. Let us continue, I am all right. Help me sit up.” When he could see over the side of the wagon he caught his breath, for the prairie over which he and Sam had passed the previous winter was now alive with wildflowers. Above a ground nearly solid with deep blue-violet lupines rose spikes of bright coral red, sprays of yellow, and great pillows of brilliant pink. “What in the world, Sam?”
Sam clambered back onto the seat, released the brake, and they rolled on. “April is our prettiest month, hereabouts. The flower show is a little past its prime by now. We drove all night,” he said. “I stopped long enough to rest the horses, but my friends’ house where we stopped before, their house was burnt down. They’re not the only ones. The Mexicans came through this country for sure.”
For the next six hours Bliven alternately slept and watched the clouds in the blue window of the sky above him, framed by the sides of the wagon. As the heat of the day warmed he pushed aside the blanket and felt the wagon stop, then make a sharp turn to the left. It took some effort, but he rose up again and saw the sign marking halcyon pass by them. He reclined against the side of the wagon, looking ahead to see what condition the house might be in.
“Well, it’s pretty well deserted,” said Sam, “but somebody’s been through here. All the animals are gone. The house is standing open. And look at this.” Sam descended from the wagon and helped Bliven slide off its tail.
“Captain.” Ross put in his hand a polished mahogany cane. “I acquired this in Velasco before we left there. I thought you might find it useful.”
Good, good Ross; what would he do without him? Sam led them a short distance to a shallow hole in the ground with Dicey’s sewing box beside it, open and empty, with needles and buttons and spools of thread scattered about it. “The Mexicans must have seen fresh dirt, figured something was hidden.” He heaved a heavy sigh. “That was where we kept our money. Well, now I guess I start over again—again.”
Bliven laid a hand on his back, trying to think how best to say that as soon as he got home he could send some money without it sounding like charity.
“No, sir, they only thought they took everything.”
“Dicey?” Sam turned at the sound of her voice and saw her standing at the edge of their clearing, her hand against a gnarled and ancient oak.
She walked into the clearing, wiping her hands on her apron. “I left the small coins in my box as bait, where I figured they would find it. I got your gold pieces safe and sound, some on me, some buried in the cane.”
“Dicey!” He strode toward her, his arms outstretched, and she flew toward him until they enveloped her, and he held her, swaying her gently from side to side. “Oh, my Dicey! Where have you been?”
After some seconds she pushed herself back, still holding him by the waist. “Pshaw, Sam! You think a colored girl don’t know how to hide herself in the woods? What has happened? Is the war over? A Mexican patrol came through here weeks ago, and I been stayin’ in the cane ever since. Nobody’s come by to say if it’s over, or who won, or nothin’.”
“Oh, Dicey, we won. All is well, Texas is going to have a free government, and the Mexicans are on their way out of the country.”
“Praise the Lord!”
“Where are the children?”
“They should be all right. I sent them up into Bolivar to stay with your friends the Harrises. They packed up and ran away with everybody else. If the war’s over, they should all be fine and come back directly. The Lederles across the road have run away, too, but I expect they’ll be back.”
“Why on earth didn’t you go?”
“Me? Shoot! I may hide, but I ain’t running from nobody. Cap’n Putnam! Lord, if you don’t look a sight. What happened to you?”
“He was in a sea battle,” interposed Sam, “just off Velasco, and his ship was blown up. The boats got him and his crew to shore.”
“Lord have mercy! Let’s get him inside. Who is this?”
“Oh,” said Bliven, “excuse me. This is my steward, Mr. Ross.”
“You are welcome, sir.”
“Most kind, thank you, ma’am.”
The sound of it made her turn. In her own house she was accustomed to being more than a slave, indeed she was mistress of the house, but she could not remember any white man ever calling her “ma’am” before. They approached the house, whose front door stood open, the jamb splintered where it had been kicked in. Sam pointed. “They took my brass lock set, the thieving bastards.”
Dicey fished in her pocket. “I don’t know what good they think it’ll do them when I got the key.” She pressed it into his hand, their laugh expressing less her witticism and more their joy at still having a roof over their heads.
They passed inside. “The house appears to be all right. Why did the Mexicans not burn it down? They burnt out so many others.”
“Well, I got one idea.” She took his hand and led him through the left door from the hall into the bedroom. “Lookee there.”
She had laid her red and yellow shawl across the dresser and on it two candles flanked a wooden cross, crude, of two orange-brown pieces of mahogany, whittled straight and tied together with thread. Her beaded necklace lay before it, and in front of the dresser was the footstool from the living room. Sam and Bliven both looked at her quizzically. “What have you done?” asked Sam.
“Well, all of us hereabouts got word that the Mexicans were coming, and I hea
rd people say that sometimes, if they know that the people in a house are Catholic, they would leave it alone. I thought it was worth a chance, so I made this here little altar before I quit the place. Now, I have to tell you, I had to knock out the back of the bottom drawer to get the fancy wood. I hope you don’t mind. It looks like it worked, though.”
All burst out laughing in relief that Sam’s home was intact. “Was it a miracle?” Bliven smiled. “If miracles really happen, maybe I need to change my religion.”
“No,” said Sam, “the real miracle comes if there is anything to eat around here. The Mexicans cleaned everyone else out to feed the army. What do you think, Dicey?”
She had taken the beads from the dresser and hung them about her neck. “Thank you, God, for watching over our home. Well, they took the chickens, sure enough. I turned the pigs out before I left; they may be all right, but maybe not. We can go look for them. But we got some food. I took some beans and cornmeal, and some ham, into the cane where I was hiding. I’ll go fetch it. Can you boys manage to get Cap’n Putnam up into the loft to bed? He looks like he’s about ready to fall over.”
* * *
* * *
“Cap’n Putnam?” He heard the voice distantly, somewhere beyond the dark.
“Cap’n Putnam!” There was a pressure on his shoulder, and his eyes opened of their own accord, without will, the reflex of decades of the instant alarms of beating to quarters.
The room was dim, but slowly he came to and recognized the loft above the parlor in Sam’s house between Velasco and Bolivar, and the figure that distended the mattress as she sat beside him. “Dicey.”
“How you feelin’?”
He breathed quietly for a few seconds. “Better, I think.”
“I made you some of that yaupon tea you like so well. Do you feel like sitting up and having a little?”
“Oh, yes, thank you.” She helped him to sit up, placed the large pillows behind him, and placed the cup to his lips, hot but not too hot. “Oh, that is good.” He reached up and took the cup from her. “Thank you, I can hold it. How long was I—”
