Gone to Texas

by Jason Manning

  The following spring! Writing those words produced a cold empty place inside him. It was all he could do to keep from tearing up the letter and starting a new one, in which he would beg her to come to him without delay. But it wouldn't do to put Greta at risk by asking her to make the journey down the river with him. No, it was entirely too dangerous. He had to put aside his own selfish wishes and do what was best for her. By next spring he would have a cabin erected somewhere in Texas—the least a man could do for his future bride was to have a home she could live in. As for being apart from her for such a long time, well, he would just have to endure.

  Nathaniel returned in eleven days. He had found a boat, a broadhorn, down at Cully's Landing on the Cumberland. Built by masters at the trade, it was available because some unspecified tragedy had struck the family for which it had been built, and Nathaniel had bought it for a very fair price.

  "Problem is," said the frontiersman, "she's more boat than Christopher and I can safely handle. We need at least two more men, and I have found none so far. Perhaps somewhere along the way we could pick up an experienced keelboat man."

  Rebecca had reservations about hiring a couple of river rats. They had a reputation for being crude, rough men, heavy drinkers, inveterate brawlers, profane and reckless fellows.

  "Can such men be trusted?" she asked. "From what I've heard, they would think nothing of cutting our throats as we slept just to steal our belongings."

  Nathaniel laughed. "I've met some of them, those that ply their trade on the Ohio River. They are a rough hewn lot, but the vast majority are honest, hardworking men. And we could use someone who knows the river."

  By this time Rebecca had all but given up hope of the Elm Tree hands returning. But the very next day their problem was at least partially solved by the unexpected arrival of Christopher's erstwhile West Point roommate and true friend, John O'Connor.

  "I told you not to be surprised to find me at your doorstep," said O'Connor.

  "What did you do to get thrown out?"

  "Oh, what does it matter? It was inevitable, Christopher, old bean. Just a matter of time. I'm only glad I made it before you took off for Texas."

  "How did you know I was going to Texas?"

  "Greta told me." O'Connor laughed at the expression on Christopher's face. "Now, don't go flying off the handle. I'm not trying to trespass on your territory. Of course, if I did try I could steal her away from you, and not even raise a sweat doing the deed. But no, I wouldn't do such a thing to a friend of mine. I went to see her before I left New York, to tell her I was coming to Kentucky, in case she had a message for you."

  "Did she?"

  "No."

  Christopher was crestfallen.

  O'Connor snapped his fingers. "Oh, I forgot. She did ask me to tell you that she loved you with all her heart, and that she would wait forever if she had to." He shook his head. "What a waste."

  "I ought to punch you in the nose."

  "How is that arm?"

  "Good enough to teach you some manners."

  "I doubt that. So you are off to Texas. Want some company?"

  "You want to go to Texas?"

  O'Connor shrugged. "Why not? Where else am I to go? I have no desire to return home to Boston and spend several years before the mast on some flaming whaler or merchantman. I'm strictly a landlubber, though I come from a long line of sailors."

  Christopher smiled. "Then I've got some bad news'for you. We're going by boat, down the Mississippi."

  "Oh well. How bad can that be? It's just a river, isn't it?"

  "Just a river?" Christopher laughed. "You've never seen the Mississippi, have you?"

  "My friend, this is my first time west of the Alleghenies."

  "What do you think you might do in Texas?"

  O'Connor shrugged again. "What do you plan to do?"

  "I don't know yet."

  "Well now, I've heard there's a fight brewing down there. I don't want to miss it. So when do we leave?"

  O'Connor had a strong back and wasn't afraid of work, so they made quick progress preparing to depart from Elm Tree. Nathaniel took an immediate liking to him, and so did Rebecca, who despite her best efforts to resist, fell prey to O'Connor's charm. He paid her profuse compliments at every turn, and she was flattered, even though she knew it was good old-fashioned blarney, for the most part.

  With the furniture, Rebecca's personal belongings, and all the provisions they had room for, they managed to fill two wagons to the weight limit. Oxen proved hard to come by, so Rebecca bought six mules, to go with the two she already owned, and a four-mule hitch was put on each wagon. It was decided that Christopher and Rebecca would ride in one wagon, while O'Connor drove the second, with Prissy for company. Nathaniel would ride horseback, leading the three thoroughbreds.

  On the morning of the date set to leave Elm Tree, Christopher awoke feeling oddly listless. The prospect of the long journey ahead exhausted him before he had taken the first step. Suddenly his excitement had waned. He could no longer hear the exotic siren song Texas had been singing to lure him thither. Over breakfast, Nathaniel took one look at him and intuitively knew something was bothering him, and when they rose from the table to go outside and hitch up the mules, the old frontiersman asked his grandson what was bothering him. Christopher told him how he felt.

  "Don't worry," said Nathaniel. "You're just homesick."

  "I am?"

  "Sure. Now that it's time to leave Elm Tree, you're suddenly not sure you want to go."

  Christopher looked about him—at the house and stables, the pastures and fields bright in the morning light, and that distant line of trees marking the creek, from which he had derived so much pleasure during boyhood explorations.

  "You're right," he said, surprised. "I'm not even gone yet, and I miss it."

  "This is the only home you've ever known. What you're feeling at this moment is perfectly natural."

  Christopher figured that, as bad as he felt, his mother must feel far worse. But if she did, Rebecca didn't show it. She was very businesslike as they made their final preparations. As for Christopher, he felt almost like crying as he drove the lead wagon down the lane to the country road. How ridiculous, he told himself, especially for a twenty-five-year-old. He made the mistake of looking back, once.

  Sitting beside her son, with her eyes on the road ahead, Rebecca did not see his stricken expression, but somehow she sensed his anguish, and said, "Don't ever look back, Christopher."

  "Yes, ma'am," he said, and whipped up the mules.

  Rebecca took her own advice, but she couldn't avoid thinking back, to all the events which had occurred in that house, all the laughter, all the tears, and all the years. Yet she kept her sorrow to herself. She had become skilled at doing so.

  Chapter 15

  Cully's Landing had become a place of some renown on the Cumberland River. Starting out as a small inn, in a few short years it had grown into a thriving community, with a wharf and boatyard, tavern, and about twenty cabins. Its sixty full-time residents made a living cutting timber or building boats—flatboats, keelboats, and broadhorns, canoes, pirogues, and barges—and enjoyed a brisk business. Boats of all description were in great demand, as the commerce of the rivers was booming as never before. Timber, coal, hemp, cotton, tobacco, livestock was floated down the rivers in great quantities. Tons of goods were moved down the mighty Mississippi each year. The vast majority of it was bound for the great port of New Orleans, and much of it began the long journey to the Crescent City on one of the tributaries of the Father of Waters—the Ohio, the Missouri, the Tennessee, or the Cumberland.

  When Christopher and his party arrived at Cully's Landing, the place was bustling with activity. Another keelboat was being built, while men were loading a brand new flatboat with a cargo of tobacco and pigs. The pigs were being difficult. They refused to board the vessel of their own free will, and had broken loose, to scatter throughout the town. It appeared as though the entire population was eng
aged in trying to round them up. Pigs and people were scurrying hither and yon, the pigs grunting and squealing, the people cursing or laughing. Christopher safely maneuvered his wagon through this melee without running over anybody, and climbed the harness leather in front of the inn, where a burly, red-headed man was standing in the doorway, hands on hips, and shaking his head as he watched the goings-on with a jaundiced eye.

  "Looks like great sport," remarked Christopher.

  "Aye, that it be," agreed the man. He spoke with a heavy Scottish brogue. Squinting up at Christopher, he asked, "And who might you be, laddie?"

  "My grandson," said Nathaniel, arriving with the three Elm Tree thoroughbreds in tow. "Christopher Groves. Christopher, this is Angus Culloden."

  "Flintlock Jones! I've been expecting you." The innkeeper turned back to Christopher. "Friends call me Cully. I canna tell you what my enemies call me, not in the presence of a lady." As he reached up to shake Christopher's hand he smiled at Rebecca. "And who might this be, young Christopher? Your younger sister?"

  "My mother."

  Nathaniel chuckled. "Watch out for this one, Becky. He can charm the rattles off a rattlesnake. I don't know which one is worse—him or O'Connor."

  "O'Connor!" exclaimed Cully. "Now don't be tellin' me you brought a bloody Irishman along!"

  Nathaniel performed the introductions all around.

  Cully sighed. "Good God, Flintlock. And I suppose you'll be wantin' me to let your Irish friend under my roof next."

  "I'm sure the women could use a room. And while I cannot speak for these young men"—Nathaniel's gaze flicked guiltily in Rebecca's direction—"I could do with some of your ale."

  "Ale, yes," said O'Connor enthusiastically. "Or something stronger, if you've got it."

  They all dismounted. Nathaniel started for the first wagon to help Rebecca down, but Cully beat him to it. O'Connor managed to transport Prissy, for all her bulk, from the seat of the other wagon to the ground.

  "Just one room?" asked Rebecca. "What about you and the boys?"

  "We'll load up the boat today and sleep on it tonight. Leave at daybreak."

  "Then I will sleep on the boat, as well." She looked past him, at the broadhorn moored to the nearby wharf.

  Seeing the look on her face made Nathaniel crack a smile.

  "She's a well-built craft, Becky. About sixty feet in the beam, eighteen feet amidships, and she only draws four feet. That cargo box in the middle is large enough to store all the furniture, with room enough to spare for you and Prissy. We'll secure the horses in the steerage. The boys and I will make do bedding down on deck."

  "You sound like an old mariner, Father, like you know all about boats."

  "I don't know much," confessed the frontiersman. "And though I am old, I'm quick to learn."

  "But I don't require the luxury of a room."

  "Won't be much luxury in a Scottish inn," joked O'Connor, who had overheard.

  "Becky," said Nathaniel, "enjoy your last night on solid ground in Cully's inn. By morning the boys and I will have everything in place on the boat. I can vouch for Cully's rooms. They're clean, and the beds are comfortable."

  After two whole days in a wagon, Rebecca's body was a solid mass of aches and pains. She gave in to his persistence with a rueful smile. "I have to admit, a nice comfortable bed sounds wonderful. I must be getting old."

  Nathaniel laughed. "You're still a very attractive woman, Daughter. I can see I'm going to have to beat the men off you with a stick. I've already got Cully and O'Connor to watch for."

  "Don't be silly. O'Connor's just a boy. And it's all idle flattery, anyway."

  "You'll see. Especially when we get to Texas. From what I hear, there aren't enough women to go around down there."

  Rebecca shook her head. "I'll never marry again," she said, and sounded quite adamant.

  Nathaniel dropped the subject and took her inside.

  Cully's inn was a two-story log building, built to last, with the first floor given over to Cully's quarters and the common room. The latter reminded Nathaniel of his father's inn at Louisa, Virginia. The sights and sounds and smells triggered boyhood memories.

  They were provided with a good meal—ham, stew, spoonbread, and fresh summer vegetables. Cully was a widower. His wife and two sons had perished eight years ago, victims of a cholera epidemic. He employed a young woman to cook and clean.

  After dinner, Nathaniel sold the wagons and mules to Cully, who counted on turning a quick profit by selling the lot to the lumber crews. Business concluded, the Scotsman broke out his bagpipes and regaled the women with some lively tunes from his homeland, while Nathaniel, Christopher, and O'Connor went to work transferring the furniture and provisions from the wagons to the broadhorn. They took the horses aboard, too, the three Elm Tree thoroughbreds as well as Nathaniel's.

  "There is no shortage of thieves in these parts, I'm sorry to say," the Scotsman told them, "and those splendid animals of yours will draw many a covetous eye. I would strongly suggest you take turns standing guard—and continue to do so until you reach New Orleans."

  "Will it be any better there?" wondered Nathaniel, who thought of big cities as cesspools of iniquity.

  "You have a point, Flintlock. Probably worse."

  Leaving O'Connor to watch the boat and their belongings, Nathaniel and Christopher returned to the inn. Night was falling, and purple shadows had gathered beneath the trees. The town of Cully's Landing was quiet. The boat builders and lumberjacks had called it a day. The errant pigs had been rounded up. And Cully was no longer playing his bagpipe.

  They found that Rebecca and Prissy had already gone upstairs to their room. Christopher went up to say good night. Nathaniel purchased a jug of corn liquor from Cully. He and Christopher were about to return to the broadhorn when a sudden commotion in the street drew their attention. Before they could go to investigate, a man burst into the common room, his face flush with excitement.

  "Klesko stole a pig, Cully, and now they're talkin' about hangin' him for it!"

  With that he was gone.

  "Good God," breathed Cully. He reached for a rifle hanging above the fireplace and turned to Nathaniel and Christopher. "If you're of a mind to, I could use your help to save a man's life."

  He did not linger long for an answer, disappearing into the night.

  There were people out in the street, all of them running in the direction of the river, mostly men, with a few women and children among them, dogs yapping at heels, some of the men carrying lanterns to light their way. A babble of excitement rose from this stream of humanity. Cully plunged into the stream, wearing an expression of grim resolve. Nathaniel and Christopher followed him.

  Down near the wharf, a crowd had collected, and Cully shouldered his way through the press toward the water's edge, where angry voices were raised. Emerging from the crowd in the wake of the innkeeper, Christopher paused to take in the scene.

  Three men were holding one of the biggest characters he had ever seen. One was gripping the Goliath's left arm, another his right, and the third had an arm locked around his neck from behind. Christopher assumed their prisoner was the pig stealer named Klesko. Klesko wasn't fat, just big. Barrel-chested, bull-necked, his arms bulged with muscles, his legs as stout as the trunks of full-grown oak trees, and just about as solid. His hands were the size of hams. He wore a torn and dirty linsey-woolsey shirt and ragged dungarees that ended in tatters at the knees. His feet and head were bare; his hair was long and matted and black as the ace of spades, like his beard, which so covered his face that Christopher could see little else besides a bulbous nose, obviously broken more than once, and blazing blue eyes so dark they looked black.

  He wasn't trying to escape, exactly—had he tried he would have tossed his three captors around as though they were rag dolls. Of this Christopher had no doubt. But he was standing rigidly, legs braced apart, head raised in a defiant pose, and shouting at the top of his lungs. Christopher wondered if he was drunk. Yet his s
tentorian voice was quite clear, the words not the least bit slurred.

  "Cast your eyes on me, boys! You know who I am? I'm the original, brass-mounted, copper-bellied corpse-maker of the Cumberland!"

  "You're a windbag and a thief," said someone in the crowd.

  The Goliath seemed not to hear. "I'm the bloodiest son of a wildcat you'll ever see," he declared. "My mama was an earthquake and my papa was a hurricane. I'll have a dozen alligators and a barrel of corn liquor for breakfast—and that's when I'm not hungry."

  "I'll believe the corn liquor part," said another, and the crowd laughed.

  "Stand back! Stand back and give me some elbow room. Blood's my favorite drink and the wails of the dyin' is my favorite music."

  As he spoke, the Goliath shook his head and glowered fiercely about him, and moved his arms up and down, seeming unaware of the fact that two strong men were attached to those limbs.

  "Better get some rope and tie him up," growled the man who had Klesko by the throat.

  "Rope hell!" gasped the man clinging for dear life to Klesko's right arm. "Somebody fetch some iron chain!"

  "Bow your heads and say a prayer if you know one!" boomed Klesko. "The massacre of entire communities is my favorite pastime."

  "Next to stealing pigs," said someone with a laugh.

  "Where's the pig?" cried a man who stood facing Klesko, his face congested with anger, his fists clenched.

  "Klesko cooked it," said the man dangling from Klesko's left arm. "He'd already done et most of it by the time we seen his campfire back up in them woods yonder and found him."

  "Ate it!" cried the man. "That was one of my best sows. You know how much I could have got for that sow down in New Orleans? You damned thief!" he snarled at Klesko. "I say hang him. Hang the thief!"

  Klesko just glared at him. He didn't seem to comprehend what was happening. "My heart's as hard as petrified wood. My bowels are made from boiler iron. I'm a child of calamity, and when I raise my voice I still the thunder. I comb my hair with bolts of lightning, and I've been known to drink large rivers dry when I've worked up a thirst."