by Jeff Long
"Nearly midnight, sir," Bryan said. He closed his watch and tucked it back in a pocket.
"You hear 'em?" Burleson growled. The voices were like sniper fire, randomly snapping in the distance. Who had been the coward, who the butcher, who the thief? Always with the same answer.
"Colonel Forbes demands to clear his name," Burleson said. "He wants a court of inquiry. Tomorrow."
"And who will sit on this court?" Houston asked. "His friends."
"Friends?" Burleson snorted.
Houston shrugged. "Peers, then."
"Officers," Burleson stated.
"It would be a whitewash. You know it. They would make jokes, then declare him innocent."
"Will you endorse the court?" Burleson insisted.
"Is he guilty?"
Burleson drew a breath and sucked at his teeth. He waved at the voices. "They talk about everything, on and on. We have to put an end to it."
"An end?" Houston asked. He felt burned down to his essence. Things seemed very clear to him. "Let's say your court pronounced Forbes innocent, then who would the army have to blame?"
Burleson didn't think about it. It didn't interest him. "No one," he said. "It would end."
"And that would be good for Texas?"
"We have a country to build. Yes or no. Will you grant Forbes his court?"
"I don't know," Houston said. More troublesome than an innocent verdict would be a guilty one. What then? Would Forbes's punishment return them to innocence? Or would it simply cheat them all of their guilt?
A gun went off on the fringe of light, then several more: nervous sentinels, or perhaps just drunks. Out near the shadows one of the sharpshooters yelled, "Goddamn ye."
A second man shouted, "Quit your fire. It's Old Deef acorn-ing."
Houston rested his head back. His scout was still going out to see the world, still returning to camp to tell them about it. Maybe Smith could find a way for them.
Burleson continued standing there, his shadow razor sharp across Houston's body. "We have learned the government is returning upon the Yellowstone ," he said. "They'll come here first, to see the victory." That would suit the colonels, Houston knew. The way domestic cats showed off their dead prey, the colonels would display their battlefield.
"So the government finally quit their running, too?"
Burleson wasn't amused. "They're coming," he repeated, "and if we don't have our affairs in order, by God, they'll order 'em for us." He lowered his voice. "We're the goddamn army, Houston. It's time for us to clean the blood off ourselves. Give Forbes his court before Burnet's jackals come and give it for him. It's our affair, not theirs."
Burleson was at least partly right. Once President Burnet and the rest of his pack showed up, the troubles would only mount. One answer would be for Houston to declare martial law immediately and supersede the chaos that was approaching. A warrior king seemed to work for Mexico, why not for Texas? It seemed a moot point, though, if Houston was just going to die.
"I don't see the difference," Houston said. "We hold the court or Burnet does. Either way the colonel will have his good name restored. And these men will be silenced."
Burleson chewed on a tag of his beard. "What is it you want, Houston?"
Houston looked at the camp. It seemed crowded with more soldiers than he could remember. He wondered if new companies of men might have arrived from the States. But as he looked around all the faces were familiar and marked with their passage and battle. They were the same army, the same numbers. The difference was that they had herded together into the light, even though the light—the heat—was too much and was going to drive them back into the darkness. Waving flags and baying their ferocity, these men had come to seize an empire. Yet now they were scarcely able to occupy the night.
"Not this," he answered Burleson.
"Goddamn you," Burleson despaired. "You might as well die."
"No sir," the boy piped up from beside Houston. His alarmed voice sent a rustling motion through the other soldiers watching over the general. Someone murmured. They were all watching now.
Burleson frowned and dropped his voice. "What is it about you, Houston? You say nothing. You lead nowhere. And yet they believe in you." He was genuinely baffled.
Deaf Smith appeared, leading his horse by the reins. His leather sombrero was thrown back and his orange hair jutted like flames. He didn't blink at the heat of their bonfires. He seemed not even to notice it.
"Where have you been?" Burleson demanded.
Smith squinted at him. "Seguin's vaqueros won't come into camp. So I went out to them."
"They won't come in?" Houston asked.
"They're hard men, General. But they want to keep their souls."
Houston didn't want to know what that meant. He didn't ask. "What do Seguin's spies tell you?"
"All three elements of the Mexican army have come together at the Brazos. There are thirty-five hundred soldiers two days from us. And Urrea is with them."
"Urrea?" Burleson grunted. "Are you sure?"
"These vaqueros," Smith said, "they know where to hide. They catch the Mexican soldiers bringing messages or trying to run back to their villages. And they know how to get information."
"Then we've lost," Burleson said. "Urrea, with so many men ... we wouldn't last an hour."
Houston marveled at the man's abrupt gloom. Burleson's faith was an inch deep. But that was logical, given that their ownership of Texas was barely three days old. It put to mind that these men needed more than just land and sunlight. They needed belief.
Burleson tried to recover himself, piecing together a plan. "We need to warn the Yellowstone" he said. "And in the morning we need to get away from here. We need to ferry our men across the San Jacinto. And the armament. And the spoils."
Burleson stopped. "The prisoners," he remembered. He cut a glance at Houston and Houston knew his thought. If they meant to retreat—to run for their lives, this time—they couldn't
reasonably bring the prisoners along. Nor could they turn them loose. The last time Burleson had paroled Mexican prisoners— back in December in San Antonio—he'd made them swear never to fight in Texas again and they had broken their promise. This batch of prisoners would, too, and men like Burleson would see no sense in fighting the same soldier twice.
"What about the prisoners?" Houston muttered.
Burleson snarled. "This is war," he said.
Smith was looking off into the night. He wouldn't be part of any mass execution, not a second one. Houston knew the scout would simply vanish before the dawn. Why not? Houston thought. I'll go with him, into the north. He remembered that book Almonte had enjoyed: Frankenstein's creature had fled north, too. He wondered what a land of ice might look like.
An idea came to Houston. "Where is Santa Anna?" he asked.
Burleson's eyes hooded over. Had they killed the general after all? Houston started to curse, but that meant filling his lungs with the stench and he stopped. "What have you done?" he said.
"He's over there," Burleson answered. "Off a ways so no drunk will accidentally shoot him."
"I want to talk with him."
"You already talked with him."
Houston didn't argue about it. He waited.
"Goddamn it," Burleson swore. "He's nothing but mischief. But I'll bring him to you."
Houston shook his head no. "I'll go to him."
"With that leg?" Burleson sneered. When Houston didn't balk, he said, "Then go."
"Boy," Houston said to the child hunkered beside him, "will you help me stand?"
He reached up and placed a hand on Tad's shoulder. The bones in the boy's shoulder were delicate and pronounced. Houston felt them through the Mexican uniform. The child was emaciated. They all were. Even the living were turning to skeletons. Houston had acquired an empire of bones.
With his two huge scarred hands, Burleson could have lifted Houston off the ground and carried him anywhere. But Houston didn't ask and Burleson didn't offer. Hou
ston struggled upward, biting against the pain. The boy's hands slipped
and clawed at Houston's greasy flesh. Bryan stepped in, but Houston was an enormous man and his help wasn't enough. Finally Deaf Smith dropped his reins and shouldered the other side of Houston and got him upright.
Houston held on to the old scout and the boy, helpless without their support. He was gasping and the heat and strain were sweating him hard. He couldn't see how he was going to make it across camp and into the shadows Burleson had pointed at, not this way, not even dragged between Smith and the child. "The horse," he requested, ready to faint.
They worked Houston up into the saddle on Smith's horse, the mustang mare with white feet. It was the second time Smith had loaned him his horse. Houston found the left stirrup and let his right leg dangle free.
"Do you want me to come along?" Bryan asked.
Houston nodded yes. "Colonel," he said to Burleson. "Don't you do a goddamn thing unless I say."
Burleson spit.
"And you," he said to Deaf Smith. "Go eat."
The scout said, "I will." He turned away and the leather in his braided Mexican jacket creaked.
Hooking the reins, Bryan led the horse on foot. The boy trailed beside Houston's bad leg. The three of them moved through camp. The heat was even worse up here off the ground. Flushed and squeamish, Houston bent forward, quivering, both hands clenching the horn. He came close to asking them to lay him out in the dirt again. But as they moved into the shadows the air cooled and he felt better.
Through the trees Houston saw a bubble of firelight. A brace of armed men was sitting beside some torches jammed between tangled roots. They looked at ease, like a hunting party lounging with tall tales and full bellies. Closer up their faces had the same famished lines as the rest, though. None stood up as Houston's bunch approached, but he did notice three guns pointing in their direction. When the soldiers saw who he was, they took away their trigger fingers and let the cocks down to half-cock.
"Howdy do, General," one said.
"I'm looking for Santa Anna," Houston said.
Behind them the shadows moved. Something glinted in the
torchlight. Houston peered at the darkness. Someone was in there. Then he saw the man. The men. There were two of them, chained to the tree like hounds.
Bryan led the horse to the very edge of darkness and there Houston found Santa Anna with his hands roped together and a length of chain running around the tree. On the other end of the chain was Almonte. Apparently Houston's officers had decided to reward the disloyal aide by attaching him to his presidente.
"Colonel Almonte?" Houston called to the shadows.
"Ah, General." For all its urbanity, the voice sounded so American. "I feared you were dead." Almonte didn't seem particularly relieved that Houston wasn't.
"Not yet," Houston said.
"I feared we were dead, too."
Houston was blunt. He offered no optimism. "Not yet," he repeated. Then he added, "Have my soldiers fed you supper?"
Almonte was stoic about it. "A little water would suffice," he said.
Houston handed down Smith's water gourd, and Tad high-stepped through the mangrove roots to give it to Almonte.
The soldiers went back to their gossip and their jug. Their torchlight flickered, making the shadows slippery and liquid. Houston eased himself from the saddle and Bryan and the boy helped him lie back among the slick roots.
He rested for a minute. From this place you could hear the river sifting by on its way to the ocean, and Houston imagined that if they slept tonight, the two Mexicans would dream of sailing down the waters to friendlier shores. A quarter mile away the center of camp gleamed brilliantly, another world.
"For saving his life, the president is profoundly grateful to you." Almonte spoke from the darkness. Clearly the Mexican colonel was not. He shifted and his chains rattled. "But why? Why not let this evil man die?"
Houston peered into the gloom, trying to locate his only hope. Santa Anna's eyes glittered. They were like unhealed wounds in the darkness, moist and pained. When he saw the flash of white teeth—a smile, a grimace—Houston looked away.
"Texas," Houston answered.
"Of course." Almonte's tone was bitter. He knew why Hous-
ton had come. And the depth of Almonte's bitterness told Houston that by coming here he might actually profit. Almonte was a genuine patriot. Santa Anna was not.
Almonte tried one more time. "General Houston, I appeal to your honor." That word again. "We are prisoners. And the president is under sore duress. He is at an extreme disadvantage in any negotiations. And any agreements made at this time would be null and void."
It was impossible not to admire Almonte's resistance. Even chained in a swamp with killers for guards, he was trying to protect his nation from its own president. But Houston was just as intent on exploiting the moment. He considered having Almonte unchained and taken back to the corral of prisoners. Then again, there might be uses for Almonte, maybe for his knowledge of international law.
"Nevertheless," Houston said to Almonte.
"I see," Almonte said. He was gracious.
"If you prefer, I can have you removed to another tree," Houston offered.
"Oh, I am quite used to this tree," Almonte said.
Bryan nestled himself among the root system in order to be close to the conversation. The boy was content to squat at Houston's feet and wait.
Houston didn't waste time. "I want President Santa Anna to order his generals to surrender the Mexican army," he said. "Further I want him to formally acknowledge the separation of Texas from Mexico and to recognize Texan independence."
Bryan politely waited to see if Almonte would translate. Almonte heaved a sigh, then got on with it. Bryan monitored the interpretation and nodded his approval to Houston.
"His Excellency states that he will do nothing to disgrace himself or his nation," Almonte replied. "Many Mexican soldiers have died here and at the Alamo and elsewhere in his name."
"I wouldn't like to see our two countries go to war," Houston said. "Not in anyone's name." He watched carefully and it happened. Santa Anna literally blinked. He said something to Almonte, who apparently disputed his commanding general. Santa Anna responded with an angry torrent of Spanish.
"If the United States Army has crossed the Sabine River, it will mean war between our two countries," Almonte stated.
"That would be a terrible thing," Houston said. "But perhaps it doesn't need to come to that."
"A surrender by the Mexican army is out of the question," Almonte warned.
Houston had figured as much. Such a surrender would imply the defeat of all Mexico. Even for a man like Santa Anna that was too much. "Surely there's a way to avoid a confrontation," Houston said.
"General Gaines must withdraw immediately," Almonte answered.
"He would never agree to that," Houston bluffed, "not unless the Mexican army were to withdraw also. Call it an armistice. Sometimes it's better to stop the bloodshed and let the passions cool."
Almonte was silent for a long minute. Houston made his face a mask of patience. Everything depended on what came next. If Almonte balked, if Santa Anna refused—if they doubted Houston's desperate little fiction—then the rest of the Mexican army would advance and destroy this so-called Republic of Texas. The two Mexicans talked.
"What would constitute a negotiated withdrawal?" Almonte's voice was full of caution.
Houston had put little thought into the proposal, much less its details. "We would instruct General Gaines to pull back into the United States," he invented. "You would instruct your troops to withdraw from Texas."
Bryan was looking on with disbelief. Only minutes ago, it had seemed they were doomed. Now, through a cheap trick and by playing to one man's cowardice, Houston was cobbling together a nation.
"And the prisoners?" Almonte asked. He meant the Mexican prisoners in Houston's hands. Houston addressed the American prisoners in Mexican hands.
"Any prisoners of war in Mexican custody—any still alive— you will liberate immediately. Once your army evacuates Texas, we will parole all prisoners of war in our keeping, including yourself and General Santa Anna."
Almonte soberly relayed this. Santa Anna considered Houston's concoction of terms. When he spoke, it was with an authority Houston hadn't heard him use since being captured. Almonte demurred. Once again Santa Anna tongue-lashed
him, but Almonte shook his head no and wouldn't convey the message.
Santa Anna's face took on a prayerful joy. He began speaking rapidly and melodiously, at sudden and complete ease. Once more Houston marveled at him. The man was metamorphic, one moment a worm wriggling for his life, the next a butterfly born to be an emperor. Almonte tsk'd as if hearing something unclean.
"What's he say?" Houston asked.
Almonte cocked his jaw, deciding there was some grim satisfaction to be had. "His Excellency was just remembering the first time he came to Texas. It was a quarter century ago. He was a young and ambitious lieutenant. He wanted to climb life's staircase four steps at a time. He came with the army under a brutal general named Arredondo. They came to rid Texas of your tumultuario, your dregs from the Mississippi, who were trying to steal our land even then. But on that occasion the North Americans were not so lucky. It was a swift battle. Afterward, when the North Americans were dead, Arredondo hung their bodies in the trees of Medina like fruit, and the people of San Antonio came out and chopped off the arms and legs and called the North Americans dogs. For many, many years, there was no more trouble in Texas."
Houston stayed hushed. Santa Anna could have been describing Houston in his own youth at Horseshoe Bend. "A curious memory," he commented.
"You remind him of Arredondo," Almonte said.
"He's mistaken."
"Perhaps. Never mind."
For a long minute Houston felt unclean, too. The fact of the matter was he had more in common with this ruthless dictator than with any other man in Texas, indeed in all of North America, unless one counted Old Hickory. They were one and the same, generals with bloody hands and wild appetites and a habit of operating on the periphery of human behavior, upon the blank spaces of half-drawn maps. They believed in their own destiny and imagination was their only law.