by Drew McGunn
He despised all of his captors, even the slowwitted Zebulon, who had treated Charlie better than the other kidnappers. But he loathed Williams more than the others combined. Loathed and feared the little man. The nightmares hadn’t stopped since leaving Havana. He was haunted by the ghastly image of Sandro’s empty eyes staring at him. He prayed the dreams would leave him alone, but so far, his fervent prayers had gone unanswered.
A thump on the ship’s hull announced the warship’s longboat arriving alongside the Palmetto. Charlie’s eyes involuntarily swung to the cabin door.
“Don’t even think of it, boy. You ain’t got Eli or Ob to save your shitty, little ass now.” Williams stood and brandished the knife in front of him. “If you so much as squeak, I’ll make you bleed.”
Charlie retreated from the bunk to the wall closest to the hallway. He tried breathing, but his chest felt constricted. The feeble light from the lantern gave Williams’ eyes a reddish hue. Charlie felt like he was looking into the pits of Hell.
Overhead he heard leather-soled shoes pounding on the deck. Williams's toes touched his, and the smelly gambler's face was only inches from his own. The stale stench of an unwashed body mixed with garlic and fish threatened to overwhelm Charlie. He couldn't back up, and he couldn't step to the side. He looked down, Williams held the knife, the blade missing his shirt by a hairsbreadth.
He raised a finger to his lips, as they heard booted feet walking along the hall outside the cabin. A voice called out, “Everyone topside, by order of Commander Tidwell.”
The tip of the blade poked through Charlie’s thin shirt and pressed against his stomach. “Shhh.”
The footsteps retreated to the ladder leading to the deck.
Charlie scarcely breathed as the minutes ticked by. In his mind, he could see the sailors or marines from the US warship going through the ship’s hold, comparing it to the manifest. Unless they decided to go through the cabins, they would find things in good order. The only thing out of order, he thought, was a homicidal maniac holding a knife on him. As he tried to suck in his stomach, he recalled the conversation between the ship’s captain, Anson Tremont, and Jenkins when they had first come aboard.
“I don’t traffic in contraband slave trading, Mr. Jenkins. I’ll not risk my ship to line a few planters’ pockets.” Tremont’s soft Georgian drawl was unmistakable. Charlie had heard Pa talk about how the United States outlawed the importation of slaves from Africa. An American ship caught transporting slaves from Africa would be seized by the government.
The heavy footfall of boots on the stairs indicated someone was returning to check the passenger cabins. The door to the room next door opened for a brief moment and then closed. The steps echoed off the wooden planking. Silently, Williams slid beside him, and Charlie felt the icy touch of steel at his throat. “Not a word,” Williams hissed in his ear.
His heart was beating so loud, surely whoever was approaching would hear. The doors to the cabins all swung inward. Unless the person checking the cabins looked behind the door, he wouldn't see Charlie or his knife-wielding captor.
The doorknob twisted and the knife against his throat pressed harder. The door swung open. Could he kick at the door and get the sailor’s attention? He inched his foot forward. His neck stung as the knife pressed harder.
A moment later the door closed and the footsteps retreated again. The knife stayed at Charlie’s throat. Instead, the stinging continued until the light from the lantern went dim. Then, there was nothing.
Chapter 4
20 September 1843
Becky Travis watched the back of the uniformed messenger as he retreated to the street where his horse tore at a clump of the neighbor’s shrubs. In one hand, she held a letter, her husband’s neat scrawl on the envelope’s face. Her other hand cradled little David. A few months shy of a year old, the baby grasped a wooden toy in one of his chubby hands while the other was in his mouth.
“Who’s at the door?” her mother called out. Elizabeth Crockett had been staying with her daughter since David Crockett had resigned as president the previous year.
The door closed behind her, and Becky handed little David to her. “A rider. He had a letter from Will.” His friends might call him Buck, but to her, he was her Will.
David fidgeted in Elizabeth’s arms until he discovered the brooch at her throat and then he became enamored with it. She said, “Well, open it.”
Becky tore the letter open, and her eyes settled on the first words, "Dearest Becky." Her heart felt like it was stuck in her throat. Seeing her husband's words for the first time since learning of her father's death and her stepson's kidnapping brought home how much she missed Will. With her mother and Henrietta, a freedwoman who cooked and cleaned for the family, nearly always present, she was hardly alone. She'd never tell either of them how many times she had soaked her pillow with tears at Will's absence.
She continued reading, "I pray every day for you and your mother's comfort. Your father was my best friend, and I miss him terribly." She choked back a sob. Will had to be torn up over Charlie's kidnapping, but he took the time to tell her how much she was on his mind.
She blinked away the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks as she continued to read, “Given our heartache, I’m thankful to a merciful God that your mother is with you, that you may both be of comfort and strength to each other. Above nearly all other duties, I wish I could return home into your loving bosom now that peace is at hand, but I have hope that, with God before me, I will find the men who killed your father and kidnapped our son.”
The dam broke, and the tears slid down her cheeks. Since her marriage to Will, his duties in the army had kept him away from home more than either of them would have liked, and she had been the only mother Charlie had. The woman who had given birth to him had sent the boy to live with his father after their divorce. Inside of the first year of marriage, Charlie had taken to calling her “Ma.” She thought it generous of Will to acknowledge that bond.
Her tears concerned her mother, “Becky, is everything alright with Will?”
She nodded, and read the rest of the letter, “President Zavala is not happy with me, because I refuse to put Texas above my family. But, my love, you and the children are my Texas, without you I am nothing. I resigned my commission and am, by the time you read this, hot on the trail of our boy’s kidnappers. Pray that I find success, my beloved Yellow Rose of Texas. Your loving husband, Will.”
She handed the letter to her mother and grabbed a towel from the table, to dab her eyes. She had heard the story about how he had penned the song the soldiers loved to sing on the march about the yellow rose of Texas. He had said she was his inspiration for the song. She found comfort in knowing that even as he raced off in pursuit of Charlie’s captors, she was still his inspiration.
That evening at the dinner table, Becky reread Will’s letter for the dozenth time. Her mother said, “It’s still the same words. Nothing’s changed. Lordy, I hope he finds the boy soon.”
With a hint of reproach in her voice, Becky said, “He’ll be home in no more time than it takes to find Charlie, Ma. We’ve managed alright since he went away to war, we’ll be fine until he comes home.”
Elizabeth’s smile was forced, “I’m sure we will, Becky. But those payments from the army aren’t going to continue. What happens then?”
The idea that Will’s monthly pay from the army would stop hadn’t crossed her mind. Will had set up an account for the household at the Commerce Bank’s San Antonio branch. Becky had deposited his pay into that account since he rode south with the army. She was confident there was enough for several months.
She glanced over at Henrietta, who was washing dishes in the corner of the great room, in the kitchen. Henrietta's monthly wage was her single most significant expense. On Will's pay as general of the army, the twenty dollars she was paid was a small enough luxury. Becky's heart beat faster at the idea of losing Henrietta's help. With two small children under the age of fo
ur, her help was nearly indispensable. If she was careful with the money in the bank Hattie’s employment shouldn’t become an issue.
“If we need to tighten our belts a bit, I’m sure the three of us can figure it out.” Elizabeth raised her eyebrows at Becky’s remark. But as she wiped a pan dry, the relief on Henrietta’s face was plain to see. Becky continued, “I’ll go to the bank tomorrow and see how we’re doing. If it takes a bit of time for Will to return, if any of the men Will’s done business with owe him any money, I can collect.” There was no doubt in her mind Will would agree with her.
***
Wind whipped the tops of the oak trees as rain lashed the riders. Will was drenched entirely, like the rest of the party, but he nudged his mount with his spurs. They had left the village of Concordia de San Sebastian earlier that morning, but dark clouds now raced across the sky, obliterating the sun.
The wind was fierce. As a native Galvestonian, he should have recalled September was the height of the hurricane season. He tossed his head, sending torrents of water onto his mount's neck. What would that matter? Would he have changed anything had he recalled the risk of hurricanes during the fall? No. He wouldn't have changed his mind. Behind the party, he heard a loud crash. He pulled the reins and looked behind. A large palm tree had toppled.
He cursed. The winds were growing stronger. They needed to seek shelter soon. If this was a full-blown hurricane, he knew the wind’s power could continue rising until the lives of the men traveling with him would be at risk. He amended the thought, more at risk than they already were.
The former Cazadore lieutenant, Javier Morales cantered over to him, his poncho proving the limits of waterproofing, “General, we should seek shelter until this storm blows over” He had to shout to be heard.
Will scowled. As close as they were to the port of Mazatlán, he hated the rain. Apart from the raging storm, they would have arrived before nightfall. Now, it was anyone's guess how long the storm's fury would last. Through the din of the wind, he heard another tree topple nearby.
He sawed on the reins, bringing his mount to a stop on the muddy trail. “Very well, Lieutenant. Let’s find a place to get out of this soup.”
"The trail's blocked back to Concordia, sir. Maybe Lobo knows of a place." His voice was hesitant as the rain came down even harder. He nudged his horse forward. Lobo, the other Mexican traveling with the party, was riding point along with the Cherokee Ranger, Running Creek.
According to Morales, Lobo had lived in this part of Mexico before being conscripted into the army. As a streak of lightning raced across the sky, Will was hopeful he would know of a place to escape the worst of the storm.
Will had sat on his hat to keep it from blowing away as the rain and wind whipped his ginger hair, while he waited for Morales to return. “There’s a place a couple of miles up the way, where the army used to keep a relay station. Lobo says if we can get there, we can ride out the storm.”
The rain was doing a thorough job of turning the trail into a mire, and after pushing his mount only a couple of hundred yards more, Will was forced to dismount and lead the horse through the muck.
The rain stung his face and hands, as it blew across the valley sideways. Treetops whipped back and forth. Will wiped the water from his eyes as the world exploded in a bright flash, and then darkness. He heard a loud crash and a sharp cry. "Help!"
He blinked and slowly his sight returned, white spots swirling before him. He wrapped the reins around his hand as his horse reared up and pulled on them. Another horse bolted by him, terrified by the lightning bolt which had struck nearby. A few yards away a stump of a tree smoldered. The rest of its seventy-foot trunk had fallen across the road.
The plaintive voice cried out again. But Will heard the Mexican lieutenant over the din of the storm, “General, the tree has fallen on someone!”
Will raced back to the tree trunk lying across the trail. Morales was kneeling next to a prone figure. As he pushed through the wind and rain, Will saw Ranger Jethro Elkins. The tree had fallen across his legs, pinning them.
He heard footfalls and turned and saw the Cherokee, Running Creek and Lobo slogging through mud puddles. "Get some rope; we're going to try pulling this thing off of Jethro here."
More splashing and a moment later, Will slid the end of a rope around the trunk. Several inches separated the log from the trail. Elkins cursed as Lobo pulled on another rope tied around the tree, "Sweet Lord Above, man. Go easy on that tree. If you ain't noticed, my damned legs have taken up residence down there.”
Will hoped Elkins wouldn’t lose his legs. As he tied the other end of the rope to the saddle’s pommel, the thought of losing one of their own only twenty days into the trek to find Charlie chilled him more than the drenching rain.
Four ropes tied to four saddles and a moment later, Will and the other men guided their horses until they pulled the lines tight. "Easy goes it." Morales still knelt by Elkins' side. Will ignored the wind and the rain, both of which were getting progressively worse. Walking beside his horse, he urged the animal to pull the rope. With the help of the other men and their mounts, he heard branches breaking and felt the tree trunk shift.
More swearing from Elkins cut through the din of the storm. “A bit more and I’ll pull him free!” Morales shouted.
Another lurch forward and Morales called, “He’s out!”
Will splashed back to Elkins. He was still on the ground. One of the other Rangers asked, “Can you feel your legs?”
“Yeah, Sergeant, they hurt like a sumbitch.”
Will said, “Can you climb onto your horse?”
Elkins grimaced, “You trying to kill me, General?”
Morales offered, “Why not build a travois?”
Although it was midafternoon, it looked more like twilight. Will glanced at the sky. Every time he looked up, it was worse than before. "Cut some boughs from the tree. We'll lash the branches together."
Building the travois in the rain ranked down at the bottom of Will’s experiences. He had endured some hellish situations in Iraq before the transference into William Travis' body, but this was worse. The hatchet he used to strip the smaller branches from a larger one was slick in his wet hands. If it slipped, he could really hurt himself.
He forced himself to slow down. The idea of injuring himself, and what that would mean for his search, scared him. He finished and tossed the stripped branch to Lobo, who was tying them together. Within minutes, they were back on the trail, slogging through ankle-deep water, following the intrepid Mexican Cazadore, as they guided the horse pulling the travois.
An hour later, a stone wall built to cover an overhang, loomed into view. They led their horses inside, and the last member of the party, Running Creek, had no sooner closed the door behind them when the storm grew even worse.
***
26 September 1843
“How well did you say you knew these fellows?" Jenkins asked Williams as they stood outside a tavern in the port of Charleston. The building was run-down and reeked of stale sweat and fish, but at the moment, it was quiet. He sniffed at the offending smells. Evidently, its usual patrons were still at sea.
“Me and Zeke go back years, boss. We grew up in Charleston,” Williams said.
Jenkins cast a sidelong look at the smaller man. What was unsaid was more important than what was said. Before Williams had joined up with Jenkins, Jackson, and Zebulon, he had been one step ahead of the Charleston district sheriff. Of course, that was more than a dozen years before.
“We need a place to put the boy. It’s going to take a few days before he’ll be ready to travel. Wouldn’t have this problem if you hadn’t cut him so bad.”
Williams shrugged, “Wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t tried to warn that Marine.”
"Come on, let's go see if your friend can find a place for us."
The tavern was old, but it didn't smell as bad inside as out. Large windows looked onto the street leading to the wharves. Jenkins had exp
ected a dark and dingy bar area, but the taproom was well lit and airy from the open windows. An old slave, hair long gone to gray, was cleaning glass mugs in a bucket of soapy water, under the indifferent supervision of the barkeep.
Only one of the tables was occupied. An unkempt man, whose black hair seemed determined to flee into the rafters, nursed a glass of warm beer. As Jenkins approached, he saw the man's jacket had once been a vibrant forest green. It was now faded to nearly a dingy black. "Hell's bells, Hiram, I'd a thought you be hung by now."
“I was the hare, and the sheriff was the turtle. I was halfway to Saint Augustine before he hit the district line." Williams laughed as he took a seat across from the man. "Ob, this here rapscallion is Thomas Jefferson Hamilton."
Hamilton extended his hand. Jenkins had shaken hands with worse men, and he shook the proffered hand as he sat. “Hiram tell you we need a quiet place to rest?”
“Yeah. You’re not on the run, are you?”
Williams’s laughter sounded like a braying donkey. “Not so as you’d know it, T.J.”
There was a glimmer of something in Hamilton’s eyes that made Jenkins nervous. Hamilton said, “If you’re still working your confidence games on folks, I might could help steer you in the right direction. The law ain’t too particular about a bit of card playing.”
Jenkins realized he had been holding his breath. He planned to be well hidden in the Carolina backcountry before news of Charlie's kidnapping and ransom became widespread. He exhaled as he grasped Hamilton only wanted to work a con with Williams.
When he had been in California, he had thought the hardest part of kidnapping the boy would be traversing eight thousand miles, but as he neared his goal of the Carolina backcountry, worry had begun to set in. What if someone found out while they were hiding in Charleston? Sure, General Travis would find very few friends in Charleston, but folks who thought themselves better than him could turn on him. "No," he thought, "It doesn't matter how crazy Travis' abolitionist views may be, those Holier-than-Thou, well-to-do Charlestonians, resting their fat asses in their pews would turn on me quicker than a blue tick hound could tree a coon."