by Drew McGunn
As the cutter was secured to one of the docks, Hays’ eyes were drawn to a warship, anchored northeast of the town. He recognized it from the woodcut, which had been on the front page of one of the newspapers. It was the TRS Nueces, recently constructed in the Annapolis shipyards. She was the second of three steam-powered warships to be purchased between 1838 and 1840. Her sister ship, the Crockett was currently at sea, patrolling off the gulf coast of the Republic. As Hays recalled from the article he read, the Nueces was finishing up her outfitting and training of her crew.
The young Ranger officer found lodgings at one of the hotels in town and immediately went to work. There was scant doubt in his mind, Galveston was either a point of entry for the counterfeits or they were printed in town.
***
Lucien Thibodaux clenched a cigar tightly in his mouth as he swept the dust from below the printing press in the small office out of which he ran his advertising business, when the door opened, and a breeze caused the dust bunnies to fly before his broom. He swore under his breath as he looked up and saw a young man, in his early or mid-twenties come up and lean on the counter, which separated the press from the front of the building. Thibodaux eyed the young man. What did he want? Maybe leaflets advertising the newest saloon. Maybe something different. Then his eyes fell to the newcomer’s waist where he saw the holster and the revolver.
Thibodaux came to the counter, took his cigar, and placed it between his fingers and asked, “How can I help you, young sir?”
“Captain Jack Hays, Texas Rangers. I’ve got a mind to look at your printing press, sir.” A stack of neatly cut business cards on the countertop announced the proprietor. “Ah, Mr. Thibodaux.”
It took everything within him to keep his nervousness from creeping into his voice. “It’s not much to look at, Captain. But there it is.” Thibodaux turned and pointed to the press.
“Mind if I take a closer look?”
Thibodaux shrugged and gestured to the low, swinging door, “Help yourself.”
He watched the Ranger walk around the press several times, lift the print plates, and go over to the wall to examine the brass letters Thibodaux used in the design of his advertisements. Despite his nervous apprehension, he tried to keep his voice steady when he asked, “Perhaps there’s something in particular you’re looking for?”
After a pause which stretched out to an eternity as far as Thibodaux was concerned, the Ranger shook his head. “No, sir. I don’t think you have what I’m looking for.” With no reason to stay, the Ranger left.
After he clamped down on his cigar again, it took the better part of a half hour for Thibodaux’s heartbeat to return to normal after the Ranger had departed. There was no doubt in his mind the Ranger was looking for proof of counterfeiting. He drew a ragged breath as he thanked the blessed Virgin he had decided against running any counterfeit currency on his own press.
Part of him considered shutting up shop then and there and finding the next boat back to New Orleans. But the risks of returning to Louisiana were high. He had taken a large fee from a group of Spanish speaking investors to come to Galveston. They would not take kindly to him abandoning the press or breaking the chain bringing in the fake commodities certificates.
“Still,” he thought, “the timing is bad.”
The next shipment of certificates was due later that night. If he stayed clear, his investors might decide he had cold feet and their reaction was unpredictable. He shuddered at the choices he faced. Finally, as he thought about how much he was being paid, he swallowed hard. “There is nothing to be done. I shall collect my fee. A few more such as the last one, and maybe I can find somewhere other than New Orleans to retire to.”
He took a lantern from a shelf and locked the door to the office and decided a satisfying meal was in order, oysters on the half shell would help to steady his nerves and he knew just the oyster bar.
“Easiest choice I’m faced with today,” he thought as his legs carried him toward the docks. There is only one oyster bar in town.
The sun had retired in the western sky when he stepped out of the bar, pleased his steps were steady and sure. He’d managed to find the right ratio of beer to food. Even so, as he stepped off the wooden sidewalk the risk he was running caused him to get nervous. He fumbled in his jacket and retrieved a cigar. Once it was lit, he puffed on it, as he made his way toward the other side of the island, passing by the hotel in which Captain Hays was staying.
***
Hays leaned his chair back, on two legs, resting his head against the wall of the hotel’s porch, where he was balancing a tobacco pouch in one hand and rolling paper in the other, when the pungent smell of burning tobacco caught his attention. It hadn’t been that long before when he last smelled that particular blend of tobacco. He let the paper fall to the ground as he cinched the pouch. He watched, bemused as the owner of the last printing press he had looked at earlier in the afternoon, hurried by, a cigar in his mouth and a lantern swinging by his side.
His own cigarette forgotten, and curiosity piqued, Hays let the chair’s front legs fall to the floor as he stood up and descended the hotel’s steps and settled into a gait matching that of his prey, as he followed him toward the ocean side of the island. Between the red glow of the cigar’s tip and its pungent, burning smell, the Ranger allowed some distance to separate him from his quarry. Thibodaux’s sure and steady steps moved straight as an arrow in flight until they arrived at the end of the street where it terminated against the sand dunes. In the distance, he heard the ocean lapping against the seashore.
He watched Thibodaux slide down one of the sand dunes on the beach and hurry over to the water’s edge. Hays crawled onto the sand dune and inched forward until he looked over the lip. Thibodaux had lit the lantern and was swinging it in front of him, as he looked out into the gulf.
At less than half a mile distance, as Hays judged it, he saw a light appear offshore. The moon overhead, was adequate to let him see Thibodaux on the shore, but the ship in the gulf was invisible except for the light which flashed some sort of signal to the ersatz printer. This was getting interesting, Hays thought. A bit later a longboat surged out of the murky darkness and slid onto the shore with a soft crunching noise. Several men leapt from the boat. The first, with a rope, secured the boat to the shore. Two others stood on either side with their muskets at the ready.
Hays thought, “Yes, it’s getting more and more interesting.”
A small lockbox was hefted over the side into the waiting arms of one of the sailors, who deposited it at Thibodaux’s feet. A small bag was also handed over, which Thibodaux made disappear into his jacket pocket.
The exchange was over, and the sailors pushed the longboat back into the surf, and climbed back in as they shipped oars and pulled toward the waiting ship. Thibodaux hefted the strongbox onto his shoulder and turned toward the sand dune. Hays ducked below the lip and hurried down the other side, until he reached the dirt road running along the gulf side of the island. He found a cross street and hurried down it, just before Thibodaux crested the dune and started back toward his office on the other side of the island.
As he hurried along, back toward the center of town, Hays was convinced he’d found his man. Thibodaux’s hurried behavior was plenty suspicious, but the transaction under the moon on the beach with a mysterious crew clinched the matter. He had gone no more than few hundred yards when he saw several shadowy figures moving with purpose down the center of a cross street. His hand flew to his holster and he drew up at the intersection as out of the gloom, a small group of armed men in blue uniforms emerged. As they approached Hays’ position, he saw each of them carried a carbine. It was a patrol of Marines from the island’s small naval garrison.
A gray-haired NCO, with three stripes on his sleeves, saw Hays and raised his hand as the men following him spread out in the road, forming a semicircle behind him. Hays thought it best to quickly defuse any potential situation, “Captain Jack Hays, Texas Rangers. Who do
I have the pleasure of meeting on this fine spring evening?”
The graying sergeant spit a stream of tobacco juice onto the street, a few feet short of Hays, “If you say it is, Captain. I’m Sergeant Williams and these are my men. We saw some lights offshore and were coming out here to take a gander at it.”
Hays said, “You can save yourself a trip, Sergeant. I think it may have been smugglers or more likely counterfeiters. The men who came ashore have already returned to the ship. A couple a hundred yards behind me is a man I’d be happier than a hog in mud if you’d help me capture. He’s hard to miss. He’s carrying a strongbox.”
Hays led the marines to a vantage point near the intersection, where they waited until Thibodaux trudged by. The heavy weight of the strongbox slowed his pace. After he had passed by, Hays waved for the Marines to follow him and they trailed behind the oblivious Thibodaux.
No sooner had the Louisianan entered his printing office, locked the door behind him, and lowered the window shades then Hays drew his pistol and stepped onto the porch. With the marines right behind him, he kicked in the door. The lock shattered the wooden door frame, and with the weight of several marines at his back, Hays practically flew through the door. Like a deer caught in the glare of a lantern, Thibodaux stood next to the printing press. The lockbox rested on the floor, where he had set it. A couple of boards had been moved, revealing a hidden space under the building.
With a vicious grin, Hays pointed his pistol at the smuggler. “Move and you’re a dead man!”
Thibodaux stood, frozen in place. Hays called out, “Get the strongbox and cover him.”
Two marines dashed by Hays and knocked the counterfeiter to the ground, hard. One retrieved the small metal strongbox while the other leveled his carbine at the cowering Thibodaux.
The strongbox was secured with a padlock. “If you’ll tell me where the key is, I’ll make these men go easier on you,” Hays said to Thibodaux.
The sergeant took something from his pocket and as he fiddled with the lock, said, “Never mind him, Captain. We’ll get in and see what he’s got.”
A moment later, the padlock clicked open. “How in the hell?” Hays asked.
Smiling malevolently, the sergeant said, “Let’s just say I had a misspent youth, Captain.”
When opened, the lockbox revealed hundreds of commodities certificates. Hays picked up one on the top and it felt just like the earlier counterfeit bills he had handled in Austin. He put the bill back in the lockbox, “Alright, Sergeant. Close it back up. If any of those go missing, I’ll personally see to it, you’ll find yourself transferred to the furthest fort on the Red River.”
Closing the box, the Sergeant said, “Hell no, Captain, sir. I’d rather die at sea than live that close to the Comanche.”
Hays own smile matched the sergeant’s earlier malevolence. “Now that you mention it, I do believe they’d find your silver locks quite the pretty trophy. I’d hate to tempt you. Why don’t I take the lockbox and let you and your boys take this rapscallion to the nearest jail?”
The sergeant laughed. “Have it your way, Captain. You want my boys to take good care of him?”
As Hays hauled the strongbox onto his shoulder, he said, “That’s up to you. As far as I’m concerned, he’s either a spy or a traitor.”
***
The waves lapped at the schooner’s hull, as Captain Hays climbed onboard the ship. He scrambled over the gunwale as Captain Thompson greeted him by the pilot’s ladder. With a perfunctory nod, he said, “Welcome aboard, Captain Hays.” He promptly turned away and ordered the ship to weigh anchor.
As the sun edged above the eastern horizon, smoke billowed into the sky from the stubby smokestack, as the paddlewheel fixed to the side of the ship churned the water of the bay, propelling the ship forward from her anchorage. Hays stayed near the ship’s railing as she made her way through the narrow Bolivar Roads and entered the Gulf of Mexico.
Despite the sooty smoke which curled into the early morning sky, Hays had no problem seeing all around the ship, as she cut though the water. The ship’s captain had been provided with the information the marines had obtained from Thibodaux. Hays hoped it was enough to locate the ship which had brought the counterfeit certificates to Galveston. A lookout was stationed atop the main mast, where he could scan the sea with a powerful spyglass.
There was part of Hays who would have been happy to return to Austin, with Thibodaux in tow and consider the matter closed. Given how the movement of the deck made his stomach lurch, the largest part of his mind was thinking along those lines. But during the interrogation, which Sergeant Williams had referred to as intensive, the counterfeiter had been completely broken, and now the Texas Navy was in possession of what Hays hoped was enough information to find the ship.
As the sun slowly rose over the eastern sea, the lookout shouted, “Ship ahead! One point to port.”
Hays unsteadily moved from his position along the starboard railing and crossed over to the port side. Sure enough he saw another ship, still a few miles ahead, but closer to the Texas coastline. As he watched the ship in the distance, it appeared it was maintaining a steady eastern direction. A commotion broke out behind him and he turned as a blue-jacketed Marine drummer began beating the ship to quarters. Sailors and marines rushed about. To Hays it seemed like total chaos, but in less time than he would have imagined, the gun ports had been opened and the heavy guns run out. The sails were unfurled and added the strength of the southerly blowing wind to the thumping, mechanical power generated by the steam engine below deck.
Slowly the Nueces closed the distance with the fleeing ship, until less than half a mile separated the two vessels. Captain Thompson gave an order and the sound of a warning shot echoed across the open water. Moments later, an iron ball from the schooner’s bow chaser, splashed harmlessly into the briny water of the Gulf of Mexico, more than a hundred yards to the starboard side of the fleeing ship.
Seconds later, from the stern of the vessel a United States flag was raised. Hays glanced over to Captain Thompson, who spit over the rail and said, “Ignore that, boys. Let’s put a shot across her bow.” When he saw Hays’ raised eyebrows, he clarified, “’Tis a false flag, Captain. I’ll bet all the prize money in the world she’s been doing the Mexicans’ business, no matter who might actually own her.”
A moment later the second bow chaser fired. This time, the shot landed less than a hundred yards ahead of the other vessel. As the two crews hastened to reload their guns, the flag on the other ship slipped from the stern. The sails were reefed, and the ship slowed. The Marigold waited for the boarding party.
Hays accompanied a Marine lieutenant and his squad of men across the short distance which now separated the two ships. As the little boat bobbed in the water, he desperately wished he had taken Thibodaux back to Austin. But in less than five minutes, a rope ladder was lowered down the side and the boarders clambered up the Marigold’s side.
As the ship’s captain protested, several Marines barreled around him and secured the ship’s wheel. The marine lieutenant said, “Button it up. We’re turning this tub around and returning to Galveston.”
As the Marigold’s captain blustered and threatened the young officer, the other Marines watched closely as the ship’s crew raised sail and turned back toward the port. The Lieutenant soon tired of being berated by the impotent captain and had him thrown into the ship’s hold. Hays took the opportunity to rummage through the captain’s cabin where he found the log, which detailed the ship’s previous port was Vera Cruz. He also found a large lockbox, the key for which he forcefully removed from the unhappy captain. The contents of the lockbox were a veritable treasure trove of information. He found the ship’s manifest showing a lockbox with ‘miscellaneous cargo’ had been marked as delivered. He also found a large bag, full of silver Mexican pesos. But the pièce de résistance was a new letter of marque issued by the Mexican government to the Marigold’s captain, Jason Barstow.
Once
the two ships returned to Galveston, the news of the Mexican government’s use of the Marigold became news across the Republic. The issuance of the Letter of Marque to a United States flagged ship was denounced by the United States’ chargé d'affaires Alcée Louis la Branche. Despite the ship’s United States Registration, it was quickly decided between the use of the Marigold to transport counterfeit currency, and the issuance of a Letter of Marque, the owners’ rights were forfeited.
Several weeks later, when Hays had returned to Austin and made his report to Señor Seguin, in person, he said, “I appreciate the reward, sir. But please, the next time you need to send someone to sea, why don’t you just send me the other way. I’d rather be fighting Comanche out west than ever step foot on a ship again.”
***
Fall had arrived in San Antonio by October of 1839, and a cool breeze lifted the flag flying high above the Alamo chapel. The interior was festively lit up with several hundred candles. Supplies, which normally were stacked around the chapel, were crowded into its transepts, as the space from the nave to the chancel had been cleared. Now it was crowded with chairs, benches, and the occasional pew, which were arranged in rows. They were filling up with officers from the army and their wives as well as many of San Antonio’s most prominent citizens. Even a few politicians had made their way south from Austin for the happy occasion.
When entering the chapel, it was impossible to miss the building’s origin as a Catholic church, as those who entered the building passed by the carved statues of St. Francis and St. Dominic, one of which was missing his head, having been damaged during General Cos’ use of the Alamo in the early days of the Revolution. The soaring arches which again supported a roof over the attendees, were carved in the classic Spanish style common among the aging frontier missions, many of which still conducted Catholic mass.