Gone to Texas (37 page)

Night had fallen when they arrived in Anahuac, two days after leaving Arcadia. When they reached the borrowed cabin they found Rebecca crying quietly but inconsolably. Travis was there, looking downright grim.

"They've got your friend, Klesko," said Travis. "Captain Piedras has him locked up tight in the presidio, along with Strom and his eldest son."

"What?" Christopher could scarcely believe his ear. "How?"

"I'm afraid it's my fault," confessed Travis.

"You must save them," said Rebecca.

His mother's tears shocked Christopher. She was such a strong, dauntless woman. But then he realized that maybe she cared for Klesko as much as Klesko cared for her.

"Of course we will," he said.

"What happened?" asked Nathaniel.

Travis opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment the door swung open and O'Connor stepped in out of the night.

"O'Connor!" cried Christopher, delighted. "You're back! And just in time, it seems, for that fight you've been wanting."

"Yes, I'm back." O'Connor's face was a stony mask. "And I've brought Noelle with me."

Chapter 27

That night, storm clouds rolled in off the Gulf of Mexico, and by morning the rains had come, producing a day that was gray and dismal. In that respect it matched Christopher's mood perfectly. Nathaniel had advised him to get some sleep—there was nothing they could do for Klesko before tomorrow—but Christopher hadn't managed to sleep a wink. He was angry. Angry at the Mexican soldiers, of course, but angrier still at Travis, because it was Travis who had unwittingly betrayed Klesko.

Travis was determined to make a public confession. That morning the entire population of Anahuac showed up at the meetinghouse—everyone but O'Connor and Noelle, as far as Christopher could tell. There wasn't enough room inside to accommodate everyone, so the door and windows were thrown open, despite the inclement weather, in order that those who stood outside in the downpour could hear. Many of the men had brought their families, and Christopher deemed it only right that they did so. This was the most severe crisis Anahuac had ever faced. And some of the men, like Tucker and Lucas, were armed. They had been longing for a fight, and hoped that this business would be the catalyst for starting one.

When Travis mounted the platform at the rear of the room the crowd fell silent. He scanned the somber, upturned faces of his neighbors, cleared his throat, and plunged resolutely ahead.

"Yesterday, the soldiers took the man Klesko, one of the survivors of the
Liberty
, into custody. They also arrested Joshua Strom and his eldest son. For those of you who didn't know, the Stroms were hiding Mr. Klesko, who had been accused of smuggling in connection with the two cannon. Later, I received a message from Captain Piedras. He has made an offer—the lives of those three men in exchange for the six-pounders."

A murmur of excitement rippled through the congregation. Travis killed it with the wave of a hand.

"You may be wondering how Piedras found Klesko. That was my doing. I made the mistake of telling a young woman with whom I . . . with whom I am acquainted. She happens to be the wife of Lieutenant Riaz. I was bragging to her about how we had outsmarted her husband and the captain. I had too much to drink. Not that that is any excuse. My foolish behavior has placed all of you in jeopardy. The only consolation is that I never spoke to her about where we had hidden the cannon."

Travis paused. Pale and expressionless, he waited for the explosion of outrage which he fully expected from these people who had put their trust in him. But no one made a sound. Outside, thunder rolled across the sky and the wind whipped the trees and the rain hammered against the shingles of the meetinghouse roof, but inside it was deathly silent, and as the silence extended and became even more uncomfortable someone finally coughed and someone else shuffled his feet.

"You have looked to me for leadership," said Travis, "and I have always had the best interests of Anahuac at heart. But now I have betrayed your faith. I suggest you find someone else to lead you. That is about all I have to say. I cannot ask for your forgiveness. What I have done is unforgivable. In my vanity I tried to impress a woman with how clever I was." Travis shook his head bitterly. "I deserve to be shot. I can only hope that one
day I will have an opportunity to make amends, to you, and to Texas."

From the back of the room Tucker called out, "What if we don't give 'em those cannon, Will?"

"Then Klesko and Strom and Strom's boy will be executed by firing squad. The execution will take place tomorrow at dawn."

"What happens if we give up them cannon?" asked another man.

"Captain Piedras gives his solemn word that the men will not be shot. Instead, they will be taken to Saltillo in chains and imprisoned there."

"That's the same as bein' dead, if you ask me," said Tucker. "Never heard of nobody comin' out of those Mescan prisons alive."

Sitting with Nathaniel and Rebecca in the front row, Christopher glanced across at Mrs. Strom and her other two sons, who were seated on the other side of the center aisle. Mrs. Strom was dry-eyed, her head held high and proud.

"What do you think we should do, Will?" asked someone else.

"I have forfeited the right to even venture an opinion."

"Shucks, Will," said Tucker, "we all make mistakes."

Voices were raised in agreement. Clearly the people of Anahuac were still behind Travis. Overwhelmed with gratitude and relief, Travis had to work to maintain his composure.

"Very well, then," he said. "If you want my opinion, here it is. We cannot surrender the cannon. We cannot even admit that we have them in our possession. God only knows what would happen to this town. I firmly believe Piedras would make an example of Anahuac, and it would not be pleasant, I can assure you."

"What could he do?" asked Tucker.

"He could put Anahuac to the torch, and march us
all back across the Sabine. I think he would like nothing better."

Dead silence followed this dire prediction. Looking around, Christopher could read on the faces of the crowd that everyone believed Travis. He was inclined to believe it, too. Having seen Klesko and the three
Liberty
crewmen dragging a heavy timber by a rope around their necks, slowly strangling themselves with every step, he knew that Piedras was capable of anything.

"I say we march in there and take our people back by force," said Tucker.

A dozen men jumped to their feet and shouted approval of this plan.

"We might be able to whip Piedras and his lancers," conceded Travis, "but some of us, maybe a lot of us, will perish in the attempt. And then what? They'll send an army against us."

Would all of Texas rally to the defense of Anahuac in that event? This was the unspoken question foremost in everyone's mind. Christopher didn't think so. It wasn't time. That was what everyone said. The revolution would come, but not now, not yet, not over two six-pounders and the lives of three men.

"So what do we do?" asked Tucker. "Let 'em shoot those three men?"

Travis glanced at Mrs. Strom. She rose, turned to face the others.

"My husband would not want you to risk your lives to save his. We knew the risks, and accepted them. I have no regrets. We did what we thought was right."

Christopher shot to his feet.

"You can't let them die," he said, glancing at Travis.

"What do you suggest?" asked Travis.

Christopher turned to face the Anahuacans. "I say we fight. Now. What are we waiting for? What better reason to fight than the lives of three men? The Stroms took risks in doing what they thought was right, offering
shelter to an innocent man. Can we do any less? So what if they burn this town to the ground. Towns can be rebuilt. So what if they march us all back to Louisiana in chains? We'll march right back again. For months now all I've heard about Texans is that they're ready to fight for their rights—tomorrow. Well, tomorrow three men die. Here's your chance. What are you going to do about it?"

"Groves is right!" cried Tucker. "I say we lick them Mescans!"

A dozen men raised a cheer.

"Piedras and his men are professional soldiers," said a farmer, rising from the pew where he had been sitting with his wife and three children. "What chance do we have against them?"

"A very good chance," replied Christopher. "They are cavalry, and cavalry has seldom won a battle by itself. Beside, their training has not prepared them for the kind of tactics we will use. Then, too, you mustn't forget that we have artillery."

"We have no ammunition for those six-pounders," said Travis.

"No, we don't. Nor do we have time to make molds for round shot. But we can make grapeshot."

"Even if we can whip the lancers, what about the army Will was talking about?" queried the farmer.

"We'll deal with that when and if it happens. The government is in turmoil. That army might not come. I have a hunch the Mexicans aren't ready for a war with us. Listen. I can tell you from personal experience that it does no good to run away from trouble. It follows you wherever you go. You may not like it, but you've got to stand and fight. Napoleon himself said that retreat always cost more in men and materiel and especially morale than the bloodiest engagement, with the difference that in battle you inflict loss upon your enemy, while in retreat only you will lose. So what do you say? Stand
your ground, risk everything, because if you don't you will lose it anyway."

The farmer glanced at his wife. Eyes shining brightly, she nodded. "He's right," said the farmer. "It's now or never, boys. Let's fight!"

Suddenly everyone was on their feet, and the cheer that rose up inside and out of the meetinghouse was so loud it drowned out the crack of thunder from the gray and turbulent sky.

There was much to be done, and precious little time. By virtue of his inspiring words in the meetinghouse that morning, Christopher became the de facto leader of the Anahuacans, with Travis his able lieutenant. For the first time since his discharge from the United States Military Academy Christopher felt as though the two years he had spent at West Point had not been wasted after all.

The first order of business was to render the French six-pounders effective. While a crew of a dozen men took a wagon out to the edge of the swamp to disinter the cannon, Christopher instructed another group on how to make grapeshot. Necessity was the mother of invention—horseshoe nails, small stones, bits and pieces of iron and tinware were stuffed into bags made from hemp grain sacks. As for powder charges, Christopher put more men to work making these. One thing Anahuac wasn't short of was gunpowder. A pair of ramrods were devised by securing two tightly wrapped linsey-woolsey shirts around one end of stout, straight hickory limbs.

The question arose regarding how to transport the cannon. A wagon was dismantled and a six-pounder lashed to each of the axles. Christopher wanted the artillery to be as mobile as possible, so several farmers were dispatched to bring in their mules. Each cannon would have a hitch of four knob heads.

Men were selected to man the six-pounders, and
Christopher devoted much of his time to teaching them the rudiments of loading and firing the guns. Kindling and Spanish moss was collected, dried out, and placed in buckets covered with a makeshift leather flap. Christopher demonstrated how the powder charge was to be rammed into the barrel with the ramrods, where it was pricked by inserting a thin piece of iron—provided by the blacksmith—through the vent. The bag of grapeshot followed. Powder was then poured from a horn into the quick-match vent tube. The kindling in the buckets were set alight using flints. Then a stick dipped in coal oil was lighted and used to ignite the powder in the tube, which in turn fired the charge, which propelled the grapeshot. Each cannon was fired once, out on the edge of town, in the pouring rain, and Christopher was satisfied with the results of the experiment.

He was impressed, too, by the spirit of the people of Anahuac. Everyone pitched in. The children collected the kindling for the fire buckets. The women sewed the powder charges and bags of grapeshot together; they also provided over seventy men with food. The only persons Christopher didn't see were O'Connor and Noelle. Finally he could stand it no longer. He went to Peyton's boarding house, where according to Travis his friend and the mulatto woman were staying. He wasn't too sure if O'Connor was still his friend, so he approached the meeting with some trepidation, not knowing what to expect. The look on O'Connor's face when he opened the door was far from friendly.

"What do you want?"

"Among other things, to let you know there's going to be a fight tomorrow. I remember you saying you didn't want to miss it."

"I've got more important things to do."

Christopher glanced past O'Connor. The room was small—he could see all of it from the doorway. Noelle was standing by the window, her back to him, looking
out at the rain. She wore a thin white muslin wrapper, and he could see her body through it—she might as well have worn nothing at all—and he felt the old desire stir within him. The bed was unmade, and Christopher felt a pang of jealousy in spite of himself.

"Look," he said, "don't let her do this to you."

"She hasn't done anything to me."

"We're talking about Klesko's life."

"I don't care."

Christopher controlled his anger, telling himself that O'Connor was under her spell and perhaps not entirely responsible for his words. "You're confused about what's important."

O'Connor was furious. "Get out of here."

"Why did you come back?"

"I didn't want to. She did."

Christopher shook his head. "She doesn't care about you, O'Connor. She's just using you. Can't you see that?"

O'Connor knew in his heart it was so—Christopher could see it in his eyes. But the Irishman was stubbornly refusing to admit it to himself.

"I told you to get out," he snarled. "Just leave us alone."

"I want to talk to Noelle."

"You've got a lot of gall."