All God's Children

by Aaron Gwyn

  “But, Cap,” said Sam, “what will she do?”

  I was eager to hear the answer to this myself.

  Noah sat there staring at the woman and her handcart. He shook his head.

  “She’s in good company,” he said. “And it seems she’s held her own so far.”

  Sam said, “We must take her with us.”

  “Absolutely not,” Noah said.

  “Captain,” Sam protested, but Noah raised a hand to cut him off.

  “She’s not a soldier,” he said, “and in case you haven’t noticed, she has no mount.”

  “She can ride mine,” said Sam.

  “No,” said Noah. “Get on your horse.”

  I watched rage flash like lightning in Sam’s eyes, and if I told you it didn’t scare me, the Lord might strike me down as a fibber. I felt something very bad was about to happen.

  But once again, Sam surprised me. He drew a long breath and marched over to his horse. He didn’t mount up, though. Not yet. He pulled several biscuits from a saddlebag, walked over and handed them to the woman.

  “Keep on for Matagorda,” he said. “Do you have a weapon?”

  The woman nodded. She bent down, rummaged in her cart, and drew out a bowie knife the size of a short sword.

  I smiled at this, but Sam’s brows were knit in concern. There was a chivalrous impulse in him, and that troubled me. Other than his lack of schooling, I’d seen no vulnerability in him whatever.

  And there was something else about it, something I wouldn’t admit to myself. I watched him walk back to his horse and climb aboard. He looked over at Noah and gave him a nod.

  Then our company began riding, moving along the dark under the trees.

  * * *

  Two days later, we were crossing a pasture when we heard the noise of gunfire rolling out to meet us. We all stopped as though we’d struck a wall, then sat our horses, listening. Presently, there was a loud crack like thunder, then the ground trembled.

  “That is cannon,” Noah said.

  Night and day, we had pursued General Houston without a great deal of assurance that we’d find him, but now every man of us knew we’d located him. We went down a cow path, live oaks towering on either side, then hit a massive trail that went over the lush green fields. Only an army could have left it, the grass flattened and the earth chewed up, a swath several acres wide. The farther we went along it, the louder the gunfire got—and not just the rumble of cannon now, but the constant crackling of muskets. It lasted half an hour, then cut off into silence.

  We’d ridden very hard, and not wanting to blow our horses before taking them into battle, paused to recruit them. Noah sat his mare, gripping the reins so tightly his knuckles were white.

  “They’ll be dead and gone before we reach them,” he said.

  I had the selfsame fear: that we’d arrive on the battlefield only to find Sam Houston butchered and his men put to the sword.

  “Rider coming,” said Sam. “Look yonder.”

  A white man was approaching on a painted pony, seeming in no great hurry to reach us. He came trotting up, hailed us and asked who was in command.

  “I am,” Noah said.

  “Are you Bob Haskins?” the rider asked.

  “I’m Captain Smithwick.”

  The rider nodded his approval. He said: “The general had intelligence you were en route. He’s sent me to notify the ranging companies of our victory: we’ve annihilated the Mexican army.”

  We just sat there staring.

  “Annihilated?” Noah said.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  The rider said, “What happened is they’d nearly pushed us into yon river, but then they lay down behind their breastworks and took a nap. General Houston ordered a charge and we rode right over them.”

  Young Levi English said, “Mexicans took a nap?”

  “They did,” said the rider. “Siesta, it’s called. Best taken round noontime, but I’d imagine it’s even better when you ain’t got an angry bunch of Texians moving on you. We charged up and beat out their brains with our rifles.”

  “Son of a bitch!” said Noah, one of the rare occasions I have heard him swear. Knowing Houston personally, he was embarrassed not to’ve been able to get our company into the fight.

  I understood the sentiment, though I’d already experienced a mess of fighting. I figured that once you’d seen a body blown apart by rifle balls and cannon, you’d seen them all.

  So, I was unprepared for the scene the rider led us to, escorting us over the beveled pastures, through the piney woods to the field where we found the Texians in celebration, drinking and carrying on. The dead Mexicans had been stacked like fence rails; there were so many of them. Buzzards circled the sky, but they’d only drift down to light on the poor bodies of horses. They showed no interest in the Mexican soldiers at all.

  Cattle had no such scruples, a great many of which had wandered up now that the shooting had stopped and begun feasting on the corpses. If I ever had regard for those animals, I lost it that day. The sight of them chewing on folks put beef off my menu for years to come.

  * * *

  General Houston’s horse had been shot out from under him, and he’d shattered his ankle in the fall. He was placed in a wagon and carried off to Matagorda. Command of the army now devolved upon General Rusk, who proceeded to move his force to Victoria.

  We rangers were tasked with guarding the baggage left behind, an added insult for those of us who’d missed out on the closing battle for Texian Independence. And when we were finally allowed to join the others outside Victoria, General Rusk put out a call for blacksmiths to head into town and serve as an armorer’s corps, repairing rifles and refitting wagons. Noah and I were daft enough to admit our expertise in these matters. I shook hands with Sam and told him I’d see him in a week or two.

  There in Victoria, we spent our days working on guns and bushing cannon. It was like old times in Bell’s Landing, and I felt a great optimism for what my life might become.

  For ten days, Noah and I labored there in the blacksmith’s shop, and every night I rehearsed what I’d say to Sam when next I saw him. The battle of Concepcion and the siege of Bexar had given me a taste of combat, and while some men found it repugnant, my palate had awoken to strange new flavors. When it was boiled down, warfare was a kind of hunting, but as the risks were much higher, so were the rewards. At Bexar, my marksmanship had been in high demand and throughout the whole of the campaign I’d felt necessary in a way I never had before. The men you fought beside needed you, depended on you; together, you were like a single creature. The loneliness that used to visit me so often had vanished.

  Now, our ranging company would be asked to protect settlers as they returned to their homes and I imagined that Sam and I would ride together for years to come. A great closeness developed in such circumstances and I thought that this was what I’d been searching for since I was very young.

  The higher hurdle was that I didn’t know Sam’s thinking on these matters, and having time to reflect, I thought about his exchange with the pioneer woman; I thought about the chivalry he’d shown insisting I restore that skillet to its place—in all this I detected a fierce need for women and their company. I hoped I was misreading the signs, but desire can so scramble up your thinking, you cannot figure north from south nor up from down.

  Then I thought, you are getting ahead of yourself, Mister Lammons. There will be time.

  It was a fine spring morning when Noah and I rode back to the encampment of rawhide shelters. We went up the mud trail and presented ourselves to General Rusk.

  He told us we were to be placed in a company that would ride against the Comanche, who were said to be harassing the settlers as they returned to their homes. The detail suited us better than slaving away at the anvil, and we went to collect Sam.

 
; But he was nowhere to be found. We stalked from campfire to campfire, asking after him. All knew his name and exploits—his panther cap was memorable to every man—but no one had any idea where he’d gotten to. Here and there, men passed a bottle, far too casual about Sam’s disappearance for my taste, but I’d come near getting myself in a panic. Seeing my growing distemper, Noah said he’d go ask General Rusk. I stood there, trying to get a handle on myself.

  Half an hour later, Noah came walking back down the little lane. He had a curious expression on his face and my heart dropped into my stomach.

  “What is it?” I asked. “Did something happen?”

  “They sent him out as a courier.”

  “Courier?” I said. “He can’t even read.”

  “So much the better. They won’t need to worry about their correspondence being pilfered.”

  “Where did they send him? Columbia?”

  “Matagorda,” he said. “To General Houston.”

  This calmed me some.

  I said, “So, he’s in Matagorda?”

  “He was in Matagorda. Now he’s on his way to Natchi­toches.”

  “That’s 300 miles!” I said.

  Noah shrugged. “Closer to 350.”

  It felt as if my legs had the bones yanked out of them. My mouth didn’t work. I listened to Noah explain what General Rusk had told him: how our Revolution had been financed by bankers and merchants in Louisiana, how, now that victory had been won, Houston would have to negotiate the debt we’d incurred. Stout-hearted souls had been selected from our ranks to make their way back and forth from . . .

  I couldn’t listen any longer. There were a thousand things that could befall a man between here and Louisiana; I knew because of the thousand things that had befallen Noah and myself.

  I walked over to a cook fire where men were boiling coffee. Two of them passed a bottle back and forth.

  “What will you take for that?” I asked.

  I didn’t know their names, or they mine, but we recognized each other from the campaign. One of the men offered the bottle right up.

  “Don’t need to give us nothing,” he said. “You’re welcome to a sip.”

  “No,” I said. “All of it.”

  An hour later, I sat against a live oak, and the spring morning was a bright green blur. I wondered what beast it was that gave you something one day and took it from you the next. I don’t know as I’d been one to imbibe the liquor of self-pity, but at that moment, not knowing when I’d see Sam again or ever, I drank fairly deep.

  CECELIA

  —LOUISIANA, 1837—

  She stood on a tree stump, surrounded by staring faces, the white faces of men. Women did not attend slave sales unless they were being sold themselves, and she was the only negress at auction this day. The auctioneer stood in the grass beside her, saying: “Bidding starts at five hundred, boys. Who’ll give me five, got five, now five and a quarter, five and a quarter, now half, half, got half—it’s a fancy gal, this one—now five-seventy-five, seventy-five. Yessir, now six, six, who’ll give me six . . .”

  It was hard to look at men who wanted to buy you. They were a gaudy bunch, canes and silk cravats—planters, most of them, the county’s upper crust. She stared down into the green carpet of grass, searching for a word. She’d been defiant. That was the word. And for her defiance, they’d flushed her half the length of the nation. She thought of the past ten years, a decade of falling, and a wave of sadness swelled up in her so high she thought she’d drown.

  When she glanced back up, she saw a man standing toward the rear of the crowd, apart from all the rest. It was the rider she’d encountered several days before, the one who’d followed her all the way to her cell. He was closer now, and she was able to study him. He had sandy blond hair, bright blue eyes, and you could tell he was some kind of soldier, though he wasn’t dressed like it. He wore a buckskin jacket, leather leggings, and he was staring at Cecelia like she was familiar to him. She stared back as if he might be familiar too. He was a young man, but even so, he seemed unimpressed by all these planters and their finery. His expression said he held them in contempt, and she’d never seen men such as these looked down on, not even by other whites. He’d so captured her attention, she didn’t hear the auctioneer say, “Sold,” and when the auctioneer’s aide stepped over and took her hand, she started and jerked away.

  She hadn’t seen the man who’d purchased her. The aide led her back to a tent where she’d wait for her new owner. Money would change hands; deeds would be signed. Cecelia knew this happened, but she’d never witnessed it.

  She sat on the floor of the tent cross-legged, singing softly to herself. She was anxious to see what sort of man had acquired her, but she tried to keep her voice clear and calm.

  And who’re you keeping calm for? You don’t have a soul to sway, one way or the other.

  I have myself, she thought.

  Do you? the voice inside her asked. Are you sure?

  Directly, the auctioneer’s aide came striding toward the tent. There was a tall man on his right, dressed like the other planters—silk hat and cane—but on the aide’s left was the blond man in his rough clothes, a long knife in a leather scabbard, a pistol tucked in his belt. He walked alongside the aide, but he was addressing the tall planter, making some appeal. The planter just shook his head. He seemed to think the blond man would go away, but Cecelia could see he wasn’t going anywhere. The three of them stepped up to the tent’s entrance.

  “If you wished to acquire her,” said the tall man, studying Cecelia, “you ought to have offered a bid.”

  “I’m offering it,” the blond man said.

  “Mr. Fisk,” said the aide, “we have other negroes for sale. You may find one that suits you even better.”

  The man named Fisk ignored this. He looked past the aide at Cecelia’s new owner.

  “A thousand,” he said. “That’s a hunnerd and fifty profit, and you don’t have to lift a finger.”

  He spat in his palm and extended it, but Cecelia’s new owner didn’t even turn his head. His eyes cut sideways to study Fisk’s hand, and Cecelia knew he wouldn’t touch it.

  Which disappointed her for some reason. She’d already taken a dislike to this planter. He had a lazy eye and there was something cold in his face.

  “Sir,” he said, “I’ve done all the nigger-trading I care to this day. Mr. Camden is correct: there are others being sold as we stand here, chattering. And for considerably less than you offer me.”

  Fisk watched the man a moment. His eyes were bright, and his face was sunburned, as if rarely out of the weather.

  “Eleven hunnerd,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” said Cecelia’s new owner. “No.”

  “You won’t taken eleven hunnerd dollars?”

  “I will not.”

  “Twelve hunnerd,” Fisk said.

  “Sir,” said Cecelia’s owner, “I don’t believe you are in earnest.”

  Fisk stood there with his hand still out. He lowered it and hooked the thumb inside his belt.

  “Do what?” he said.

  “I suspect you are not entirely serious,” said the tall man. “In your offer of twelve.”

  Fisk stared at the planter, his brow furrowed.

  “You’re saying I’m a liar,” he said.

  “I did not say that, Mr. Fisk. Don’t presume to take offense where none is given.”

  “Pre-sume,” said Fisk, trying out the word. He looked at Cecelia, and she thought there was something about his face. He didn’t seem like the type she’d encountered at slave sales.

  He glanced back at Cecelia’s new owner.

  “You’re not interested in my money, you’re saying.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” the planter told him.

  Fisk’s eyes narrowed.

 
Then turning, he walked away.

  * * *

  She sat beside the lazy-eyed planter on the front seat of his buggy, trotting along a narrow lane. Every mile they put behind them made her more nervous. She’d never had a man force himself on her, though she certainly knew it happened. And this man would try her at his first opportunity.

  They made their way down the deserted road, winding through the bearded oaks, the trees hemming them in. They passed down a flat stretch where she could see bare cotton fields through the trees, then the road turned and went into a stand of cedars.

  They’d hardly gone fifty feet when they rounded a bend and there sat Fisk on his beautiful bay horse. He had a chestnut mare just behind him, and he’d positioned these animals in the very center of the road.

  And what was it he wore on his head? she wondered. The skin of some cat?

  The planter began slowing the buggy and brought it to a stop. She thought that Fisk looked older than he actually was. Something about his manner. He sat his horse very straight. His neck was thick with muscle and his hands were large.

  “Afternoon,” he said.

  The planter climbed down from the buggy and Fisk dismounted his horse as well. The two of them squared up in the road, Cecelia on the buggy-seat, watching.

  The planter said, “You are obstructing the thoroughfare.”

  Fisk said, “You’re sure you won’t sell to me?”

  “I’m quite certain.”

  “You’re definite on that?”

  “Remove yourself,” the planter said.

  Fisk’s blond beard was scruffy. He lifted his hand to stroke it.

  “Because you think I ain’t serious,” he said. “You think that I pre-sume.”

  Cecelia felt a shift in the air. It went strange, and there was an unmistakable scent of savagery on the breeze, just like there’d been in those moments before they’d hacked off Jubal’s ears. She leaned forward on the seat, got her feet planted, and hunched there, waiting.