by Drew McGunn
Hays flushed at the compliment. “Aw, hell, General, I just did my duty.” With his remaining arm, he pointed at the empty left sleeve. A few months earlier, he had been the lone survivor when Mexican lancers had stormed a ranch house he and a company of Rangers had fortified. He had lost one of his arms there. “But I’m washed up now. There are plenty of men with two arms who’re better than me.”
Will’s smile faltered. “Jack, you’re one of the best men we’ve got, one arm or two.”
Hays dug the toe of his boot into the hard dirt, “Hell, it ain’t like it’s easy for me to do this, but my Ranging days are behind me. I've been chewing over what you said about California. And I've a mind to go back home, find a few boys who want to go prospecting. I can get me a grant of land, and if there's any gold or silver, maybe I'll be the one to find it."
Will was desperate, "Are you sure I can't change your mind? I need help finding Charlie, and you're one of the best."
"Tell you what I'll do, General. Let's see my boys. You can have any of them as wants to volunteer. Just don't take them all. Lorenzo would shit a brick."
Later that evening, Will was looking over the four men who had volunteered. The first was a young Cherokee, Jesse Running Creek. Like the other men, his uniform was battered and torn, but he carried two pistols at his belt. They were clean and well cared for. Next to him was another Ranger, who stroked his luxuriant brown mustache. “Jethro Elkins, General,” he said.
The third man said, “Ranger Dempsey LeBlanc, sir.” His Cajun accent made it sound like “Rahnzher.” Like the other two, he was festooned with a couple of pistols, and the long bowie knife at his belt glimmered in the firelight.
The last of the four wore the black chevrons of a sergeant. His gray mustache drooped, as though tired of life. But the man’s eyes were hard. “Major Hays said these boys needed a steady hand, so I thought I’d come along if you’ll have an old hand like me.”
Will couldn’t place the accent. It wasn’t quite German. The man continued. “Sergeant Maartin Jensen, sir.”
“What did you do before joining the Rangers, Sergeant?”
“I served in the first United States Dragoons before coming to Texas. Before that, I served in the Danish army at the end of the Napoleonic wars,” the graying sergeant said.
Will studied the four Rangers. He would miss the brash young major, but Hays had come through. The four men carried themselves with the casual air of veterans. “Yes,” he thought, “They would do.”
***
Will slid the rifle into the saddle scabbard and checked the straps, making sure they were cinched. The four Rangers were checking their mounts, too. Rays of sunshine blazed over the eastern mountains, and despite how early it was, it promised to be a hot day.
“Hell of a day to ride out of here, Buck.” Sid Johnston had come to see him off.
Will slid his eyes to the eastern horizon and squinted. He reminded himself he’d dealt with hotter days back in Iraq. “I’m not going to melt, Sid. Has Lorenzo cooled off yet?”
Johnston shook his head. “By the time he gets back to Austin, he’ll be fine. He’ll see that I’m a hell of an officer and forget he ever knew you.”
Despite his worries, Will laughed like he hadn't since word of Charlie's kidnapping had arrived. He dabbed at his eyes and reached into his jacket. "Would you see that this gets delivered to Becky? I can't imagine what she must be going through right now. If time weren't critical, I'd go back to see her and the children and explain myself."
“There’s nothing to explain. She’ll understand. It’s Charlie. I’ll send the letter back with Ben.”
At that moment, words failed him, and Will came to attention and saluted his friend and fellow officer. Johnston, a graduate of West Point, returned the salute. Then he grabbed Will by the collar and hugged his neck. "We'll be praying for you and Charlie. Come back safe."
As Johnston moved away, Will saw several more men approaching. In the vanguard was a slightly built man with graying hair, dressed in civilian clothes. The former commander of the Mexican Army of the North, Juan Almonte was followed by several other men. From the way they carried themselves, Will guessed they were men who had served under him in the late war.
“I’m glad I was able to find you before you left, General Travis.”
Will offered his hand. Despite the tenacious defense Almonte waged across northern Mexico, Will had come to respect the exiled officer. “With Santa Anna deposed, I’m surprised you’re still here, General.”
Almonte spread his hands wide, in resignation. “President Herrera didn’t see fit to overturn my exile. I’ll be heading north with General McCulloch’s brigade. I’ll stay in Texas long enough to send for my wife and daughter. From there, I’ll probably return to Washington. I’ve friends there.” Before commanding the Army of the North, Almonte had served as Mexico’s minister to the United States.
"Good luck, sir," Will said, with feeling. Almonte didn't deserve the condemnation of the Mexican government. Will didn't think it fair. Texas' superior weapons and tactics had won, despite the masterful defense Almonte had orchestrated.
Almonte frowned. “It sounds like you’ll need it more than me, where you’re going. I’m sorry for your loss. President Crockett was an able leader. I hope you are able to find your son.” He paused and looked at a young man standing behind him who wore a shabby officer’s coat. Will recognized the jacket as belonging to the Cazadores regiments. The rifle-armed Mexican light infantry had stymied Will’s advance for much of the way to Monterrey from the Rio Grande earlier in the summer.
“Going across Mexico to the port at Mazatlan is dangerous. Bandits make passage treacherous for anyone,” Almonte said, redirecting his attention back to Will.
Will shook his head. “It’s that or take a route twice as long to San Diego. I’m left with bad options and worse. I’ll take the bad, General.”
Almonte waved the comment away, “As would I, were I in your shoes. I’ve no doubt you and your Rangers would give a good account of yourselves should you run into trouble. My young friend, Captain Morales and one of his men, who is familiar with the area east of Mazatlan are willing to travel with you if you’re agreeable.”
Will searched Almonte’s eyes, looking for the reason he would help. “Why?”
“I’m a father, too.”
Shaken by Almonte’s admission, Will shook his hand and struggled to keep his emotions together. “Thank you.”
As they prepared to depart, Will studied the two Mexicans. They were a study in contrast. The former officer, Morales, was fair skinned. As the sun rose in the sky and reflected off his hair, there were hints of brown mixed with black. The Mexican army was rigidly separated by caste. The officers, like Morales, were the descendants of Spanish immigrants. The conscripts who filled the soldados’ ranks were Mestizos and full-blooded natives. Morales' companion was dark skinned. When he spoke, his Spanish was so rapid Will had a hard time understanding him. The young officer introduced him as “just Lobo.”
As he swung into the saddle, Will sketched a salute as Almonte stood on the Saltillo road. With his six men, he felt better about his prospects of making good time crossing the Western Sierra Madres. Will cast a final look behind him, dug in his heels, and guided his horse westward. He would find Charlie or die trying.
Chapter 3
Tendrils of fog laced around his feet. Charlie was alone in the jungle as the mist encircled his legs. Vines and branches sagged under the weight of heavy dew and he felt them closing in around him. He twisted his head around as he heard footfalls approaching. But he couldn’t see anything other than foliage and white mist.
In the distance, he heard a faint echoing call. It was indistinct. Was it Hiram Williams? The thought sent chills up his spine. He took a step away from the call. His feet felt heavy. He looked down but could only see the mist as it reached his torso. Another step and he felt as though he were wading through water, so dense was the thick fog.
> The call was closer. It had to be Williams getting nearer. Like fighting against a heavy current, Charlie took several more steps and tripped over something. He put his hands out to break his fall, and they landed on something soft. Within the mist, his fingers closed around something cloth, and he lowered his face and saw the buttons on a shirt, his face only inches away from the object. His hands reached above the shirt and felt something ice cold. He jerked away, but the mist was so heavy, he was held in place.
A breeze, with the smell of decay on it, cut through the fog and he saw Sandro's face materialize from the thick vapor. Eyes, pale white, stared back. A shrill scream broke the silence.
He felt something heavy strike him in the ribs and realized the scream he was hearing was his own. A harsh voice cut through. “Wake up, kid.”
Charlie's eyes sprang open. He saw the dark grizzled features of Jenkins hovering over him. “You must have been dreaming again. You were screaming.”
Remnants of a candle dripped onto a nightstand. The hotel room in the town of Chagras on the Caribbean Sea was small, but the minor port town catered to a few more ships than Ciudad de Panama on the western side of the isthmus had, so it wasn’t as run-down as the other had been.
Charlie croaked, “Just a nightmare.”
Jenkins settled back onto his pallet, grumbling. "That's the third time this week, kid. Get back to sleep."
Charlie rolled over and stared at the wooden wall. Bits of wallpaper, gray with age, clung to the wall. He followed the grain on the wood. “I’ll be damned if I’ll go back to sleep.”
The dream had been so vivid and real. The last thing he wanted was to return to it. But he was tired and the patterns on the wall eventually blurred, and he finally returned to his troubled sleep.
A door slammed, and he heard William's voice, "Boss, there's a Spanish flagged merchantman just put into the harbor."
The voice droned on, Charlie opened his eyes and pinched himself. Ouch. He was awake, and Williams’ voice wasn’t a dream. He cursed below his breath as he imagined what it would feel like to sink a knife into the wretched little man.
Jenkins said, “Is it going to Charleston?”
“No. Havana. Heading that way to pick up tobacco, I’d imagine. He dropped off a few passengers here, so I imagine there’s room for us.”
Jenkins’ voice sounded hopeful. “Shouldn’t have any trouble getting to Charleston from Havana.”
Elizondo Jackson and Bill Zebulon were sitting on the narrow bed, listening to them when Jackson frowned at Williams. “Unless you decide to kill the captain and navigator. We’re lucky we didn’t get lost in the jungle, Hiram.”
Williams sneered. “We needed the money to buy passage to Charleston. We managed to find Chagras without those dirty dagos.”
“Yeah, and what happens when you lose your cool again? When some fool on the ship calls your mother a whore, are you going to gut the poor bastard and start a fight we can’t win?”
Charlie moved against the wall as he saw Williams grow tense and flex his fists. “Watch it, Eli. I might forget whose side you’re on.”
Jenkins stepped between them, his hand resting on a knife at his belt. "Knock it off." With his other hand, he retrieved a bag of pesos from the nightstand, "Hiram, go on and book passage for the five of us."
Williams left, slamming the door behind him. Charlie heard his heavy feet stomping on the stairs as Jenkins collapsed into a chair, “Damn that man to hell.”
Agitated, Jackson paced the room, “Ob, Hiram’s crazy. We got lucky finding Chagras after he lost his temper and killed the guides.”
"Don't I know it. The problem is, he's right. We’d have been out of luck when we got here if he hadn't got the money back from them."
Jackson wagged his finger in Jenkins’ face. “I don’t mind killing anyone who needs killing, but what he did was stupid and impulsive. Ride herd on him if you’ve got to, but from here on, if he does something that risks our lives, I’ll kill him myself.”
Jenkins lowered his head into his hands, “Eli, you know it’s not that easy. He’s got a knack for finding stuff we need. Can you do as well?”
"We've been together for a lot longer than Hiram's been with us, so we can make do without him like we did before." He paused and pointed to Charlie, "When his daddy comes through with the ransom, I'm done with Hiram. Until then, I’ll try to keep my powder dry.”
***
14 September 1843
Obadiah Jenkins adjusted his footing as the vessel rolled in the gentle swells of the Florida Straits. The provincial Spanish capital, Havana appeared low on the horizon, growing slowly as the ship tacked back and forth against the light southerly breeze. The past eight days had been uneventful. Between him, Jackson, and Zebulon, they had kept a weather eye on the boy. Williams was just too unpredictable to trust him not to hurt the boy.
From his place next to the ship's gunwales he saw the boy, untied, standing next to Jackson on the opposite side of the vessel. To occupy himself, the half-breed was carving a piece of wood. The boy leaned against the railing, staring westward. The Gulf of Mexico flowed into the Florida Straits. In that direction lay Texas.
Whether the boy ever saw Texas again wasn't of concern to Jenkins. But until Travis paid the ransom, he was too valuable a chit to let Williams' fecklessness run amuck. Now they were back on the right side of the continent, and it was time to notify General Travis of the ransom. The previous evening, Jenkins stood over the boy until he had penned a letter to his parents, telling them he was alright. Jenkins would see it posted in Havana on the first ship to New Orleans or Galveston, along with the demand for fifty thousand dollars. Split four ways, it was still more money than a laborer would see in a lifetime.
Because the wind was blowing from the south, the sun was setting before the Santiago dropped anchor in Havana harbor. The next morning, Jenkins and his companions were rowed ashore.
Once upon the cobblestone street running alongside the harbor, Jenkins was nearly run over by a slave on horseback, pulling a two-wheeled carriage. A prosperous merchant and his wife sat comfortably in the contraption. Wagons laden with sugarcane were creaking and groaning under the weight, as oxen pulled them from a warehouse toward the docks. As Williams clambered onto the road beside him, he stuck his hands into his pockets and sniffed the air. “Smells too much of dago and nigger for me.”
Jackson, holding the boy by the scruff of the neck, joined them. “No, that’s the smell of whiskey and sweat. If you’d bathe that smell would go away.”
Williams turned on him and put his hand on the butt of his revolver. Jenkins swore and turned to the two of them. "Enough!"
Heads turned in their direction as people heard Jenkins’ angry shout. “Hiram, if you reach for that pistol one more time around us, I’ll kill you with my bare hands if I have to.” He shifted his glare to Jackson. “Eli, you go off and poke a bear and one day that bear’s gonna claw you good and proper. Let Hiram be.”
Jackson said, “If I have to listen to that puta say one more word about dagos, you’ll have to kill me to keep me from gutting him like a pig.”
Jenkins winced. He'd known the half-breed Floridian for more than half his life. Typically, Jackson was oblivious about his Spanish blood, but Williams’ constant harping about dagos had crossed a line. He turned to Jackson, “Take Bill and the boy and find a tavern. Me and Hiram are going to mail the note for General Travis and find a ship bound for Charleston.”
He grabbed Williams’ arm and hustled him away from the rest of the group. When they were alone, he turned on his sullen companion, “You’ve got to stop this palaver with Eli.”
Williams huffed up. “He started it, calling my ma a whore. I’d a put a hurt on him the likes of which he wouldn’t soon forget.”
What could he say? Jackson had only spoken the truth about William's mother. "You'll not be putting the hurt on anyone else without my leave, Hiram. If you ever forget that I'm the biggest toad in this puddle, you’ll
find yourself on a lee shore.”
The unkempt gambler’s eyes flashed for a moment before Williams plastered a smile on his face, “Hell, Ob, a week on a ship and you’ve gone all sailor on me. I know who’s in charge.”
Jenkins continued walking along the road, “Don’t forget it. Now, help me find a ship going to Charleston.”
***
25 September 1843
A ship was fast approaching from the stern. Charlie strained his eyes, trying to see the speck of a flag flying from its yardarms. He felt the presence of Bill Zebulon on one side of him and Williams on the other. The gambler rested a hand lightly on his shoulder. Since embarking on the Palmetto several days earlier, his captors had kept an even closer watch on him. He wasn’t allowed to talk to the ship’s American crew.
As the ship neared, Charlie saw an American flag streaming over the pursuing vessel. What would a US flagged ship want with a merchantman chock full of goods from Europe? Charlie heard the ship’s captain tell Jenkins, “She’s likely part of the slave trade patrol. She’s a bit far to the north of the regular routes in the Caribbean.”
Charlie recalled his father telling him about the British and US-led efforts to choke off the slave trade from Africa. While the British and American governments had made the transatlantic slave trade illegal in 1808, much of South America ignored the law. It was frequently violated in the Caribbean, too. Every once in a while, smugglers would attempt to offload slaves in the American South.
Charlie’s hope soared as the captain ordered the ship to reef the sails. If the warship sent over men to search the Palmetto, he would find a way to get their attention!
Jenkins came over. In a low tone, he said, “Take the boy to our cabin and hide him there. Tie him up and gag him if you have to.”
His disappointment must have been written large over his face as Williams cackled, “You’re stuck with me, kid.” He dug his fingers into Charlie’s shoulder and steered him below decks to one of the cabins.
Bolts secured the table to the floor, and two narrow bunks were fixed to the cabin walls. A lantern swung from the low ceiling, casting a flickering light onto the walls. Williams leaned against the table, playing with a sharp knife. Charlie eyed the deadly weapon in the hands of the unstable gambler. Why did Jenkins send him belowdecks with Williams?