by Bob Mayer
“Your current mistake, sir, will cost you your life,” Fremont said.
“Are you not sick of war, senor?” Pico pleaded. “God has given us life as a blessing. Do you throw lives away so easily?”
“I do yours,” Fremont said coldly.
Pico spread his arms in supplication. “Colonel Fremont, you have had many victories but you have also had defeats.” He glanced over at King. “I fought in Los Angeles for my family and for my relatives, not for Mexico. If we had been allowed to live as we had before there would have been no problems. Leave us Californios in peace and you will have peace. We do not care what those in Mexico say.”
“Your cousin, Don Andres Pico,” King said, “is commandante of Mexican forces in California. If you fight for him, you fight for Mexico.”
“Country is not the same as family,” Pico said.
Cord got closer to Fremont. “He makes sense, sir,” Cord said in a low voice. “And it’s Christmas in a week, sir. Have some mercy.”
Fremont turned his imperious gaze on Cord. “Did I ask you for your opinion, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir, but we all been fighting for a long time now. We take Los Angeles, then as soon as the army moves on, we lose Los Angeles.” Cord could sense King tensing next to him. Being run out of Los Angeles had not settled well with King and he was itching to go back in a fury. “The same is true all over the territory. We found a letter detailing a Californio victory over American forces at San Pasqual, north of San Diego. Also, we don’t know the state of Commodore Stockton’s forces down south.”
Pico spoke up. “If we have to, we will leave our homes and fight you from the hills. It is a war you can never win. This is land we know and love. We will share it with you, but we must have peace and respect.”
King stepped between Cord and Fremont. “We also found in those letters information that the Mexican government has offered to sell California to Britain in exchange for a war loan. As we stand here arguing, there’s a priest on a British warship anchored in San Francisco Bay with a letter from Senor Pico authorizing the resettlement of three thousand Irish Catholic families to California.”
Fremont stood. “You have one hour to make your peace with God.” Fremont gestured to the guards. “Take him away.” He turned to King. “Prepare a firing squad. Execute the sentence after first light.”
Cord couldn’t stop himself as they dragged Pico out of the mission. “Sir, you go too far.”
Fremont ran a hand through his beard, bags under his eyes indicating the lack of sleep all in the party were enduring. Although the California winter wasn’t severe, the rain, cold and constant movement outdoors was taking its toll on the men. He slumped back down into the chair.
“I do not go far enough,” Fremont said. “As you pointed out, the populace doesn’t fear us as they should. I thought I’d made my point before, but it seems I must make it again. You are dismissed.”
Cord walked through the wide double doors, Carson at his shoulder. “We can’t let Fremont shoot that man. He’s not looking ahead.”
“And you are?” Carson asked.
“I am.” Cord paused in the early morning darkness, campfires flickering all around. “Jesus Pico is Don Andres Pico’s cousin. You think executing him is going to bring the possibility of peace in California any closer?”
You know--” Carson paused.
“What?” Cord asked.
“Fremont got a soft spot for women. And for family. Jesus Pico has some family here.”
Jesus Pico refused being tied to a tree and a blindfold. He stood tall, facing the mountains and staring at the first rays of the sun slanting over the peaks. He spotted an eagle soaring effortlessly and his heart skipped a beat as he wished with all his soul he could be that bird.
“Firing detail, attention!” Lieutenant King walked down the line, making sure the eight men were in a semblance of a military rank. In the darkness, near the Mission, he could make out Colonel Fremont watching. King walked behind the men. In a voice only they could hear, he hissed: “Make sure you fire straight and true. He’s to be dead on the first volley or I will take all of you to task for it.”
A couple of the volunteers looked over their shoulders nervously. “Eyes front,” King snapped. “Ready your weapons.”
“Senor! Please!” A woman’s plea tore through the chilly dawn. It caused Pico to lose his focus on the eagle as he recognized his wife’s voice.
Pico’s wife and children were escorted toward the firing squad by Cord. Pico’s wife prostrated herself in front of King, begging for his life, while his children milled about, tired, confused and scared. The men in the firing squad shifted uneasily. King glared at Cord, uncertain how to proceed.
“Lieutenant Cord.” Fremont strode up, his Delaware guards flanking him, Kit Carson at his side, whispering fiercely into his ear.
Cord snapped to attention. “Sir.”
“This is insubordination,” Fremont said. As Cord began to speak, Fremont raised a hand and silenced him. “But, I have reconsidered. Lieutenant King, you may dismiss your detail.” Fremont looked at Pico. “Your life is spared, sir,”
Pico crossed himself, then hurried to his wife who had wrapped her arms around Fremont’s legs still pleading, unaware of the dispensation. As Pico peeled his wife off the Colonel he said: “I was to die. I had lost the life God gave me. You have given me another life. I devote the new life to you.”
Fremont seemed startled by the declaration.
Pico escorted his wife and children away, leaving just Fremont, his guards, King, Carson and Cord.
Fremont looked at Cord. “Cross me again, Lieutenant, and I will have you tried for insubordination.”
24 December 1846, Vicinity Natchez, Mississippi
Like a knight putting on steel gauntlets, Violet Rumble slowly pulled on her deerskin gloves. Then she settled the feathered hat on her head and checked in the full-length mirror that it was angled just so. It was, but the mirror also highlighted the deep crows feet around her eyes and the paleness of her skin.
That would not do.
Violet repaired to her cosmetics bureau and rectified the etchings of time and stress as best she could. She did not bother to check the full-length mirror again. She strode out of the room and flowed down the wide central staircase to the central hall where Rosalie waited.
“You look gorgeous,” Rosalie said.
“Not today.”
Rosalie lowered her head. “I’m sorry. It is difficult.”
“This is not the Christmas I want for Ben and Abigail, so this must be done quickly and then we put on our masks and we give the children what they deserve.”
Violet went to the main doors. Echo had both open before she reached them. Stepping out, Violet halted on the portico. Samual stood at the bottom of the steps, a dark tower of quiet strength. Violet hesitated, then took the stairs, her hoop skirt gracing each one. Rosalie remained on the portico, Echo behind her.
Violet stopped on the second step from the bottom. That put her eye to eye with Samual, although he, as trained, would not raise his head.
“Samual.”
“Yes, mistress.”
Violet reached out with her deerskin-covered hand and lightly touched his chin, lifting his face, but he still would not lift his eyes. “Look at me.”
Samual swallowed hard, then his dark eyes met hers. “Yes, mistress.”
“Echo has to leave Palatine.”
Samual shut his eyes in pain, but he nodded. “I know, mistress.”
“To save her,” Violet said. “It is not as I wish but it is the reality.”
Samual said nothing.
Violet dropped her hand. “I could free her, but you know that would do no good. By law, she has to leave the state if freed. And then if she doesn’t make it to the north, she can be recaptured and sold. And you know she won’t make it past the county line given—” she paused—“given the current state of affairs.”
“Yes, mistress.”
“Also, there are worse things that can happen to her if I free her.” Violet’s jaw clenched for a moment. “As we both know.”
“Yes, mistress.”
“I’ve arranged for her to go to a fine place, with my family in Tennessee. She’ll be escorted there safely and well provided for. Her circumstances will be amiable.”
“Thank you, mistress.”
“Tell Mary—” once more Violet Rumble paused—“that she should understand.”
“She does, mistress.”
Violet paused. “Things will change here and eventually she’ll be able to come back. I have stood quiet too long. We—” she nodded her head toward Rosalie standing on the landing, though Samual’s head was once more lowered—“are working to change things.”
“Yes, mistress.”
Violet turned and walked up the stairs, not floating as she usually did, but taking each one as if climbing a steep peak. She stopped briefly and spoke to Echo without looking at her. “Go to your father, girl.”
Violet and Rosalie re-entered Palatine House while Echo and Samual embraced at the bottom of the stairs.
Samual held his daughter for a long time. He heard the rattle of a wagon enter the lane. He pried his daughter loose and looked down at her, still keeping his hands on her frail shoulders. “It the right thing. You know. I know. Here.” He let go of one of her shoulders and removed the worn leather covered Bible from his breast pocket. He pressed it into her hand. “This yours now.”
“No, papa. No.”
“You the family now. With Agrippa gone and your mama and I here, you the family.” Samual shook her slightly to get her past the pain of separation. “Things be changing. Mistress Violet a good woman. You go to her family in Tennessee and be good. Do what you have to. Wait. Things be changing. I come for you when things change.”
Echo looked up at her father. “Promise?”
“I promise,” Samual said, placing his hand on the Bible. “As God is my witness. I come for you when they do change.”
In her sitting room on the second floor, Violet Rumble was alone. She collapsed on the pillows covering the window seat and put her head in her hands. Certain no one could see her, Violet Rumble gave free rein and sobbed, tears staining the deerskin gloves.
She cried, opening up her heart to the reality that was her life. But only for a minute. Then she stopped. Went to the cosmetics table, replaced her face. She checked herself in the full-length mirror, forced a smile, changed her gloves for an unstained pair, and went to give Ben and Abigail a Christmas they would always fondly remember.
January 1847, Banquete, Texas
“Texas aint Mississippi,” Skull said.
“Hotter,” St. George said. “Never thought I’d be anyplace hotter than Mississippi.”
A line of sweat trickled down St. George’s bald scalp. It was still winter, but Texas was already as hot as Palatine in the summer. They were in the town of Banquete, outside of Corpus Christi, and the rumble of heavily supply-laden wagons moving south toward Mexico filled the air. The saloon was filled with traders, soldiers, camp followers and the innumerable ‘business’ people who followed an army on the move. And then there was Sally Skull.
“Why you want me to bring couple wagons full of guns and powder?” St. George asked. “Aint the army got enough stuff to shoot people with?”
Skull leaned closer. “Aint for the army.”
“You selling to the Mex’s?” St. George’s beady eyes shifted about nervously. “Get hanged for that.”
“Not for the Mex’s either. There’s always lots of angles in every war and plenty money to be made. You’ll see.”
A slender boy dressed in dungarees and a baggy khaki shirt, face shielded by a beaten forage cap walked through the front door of the saloon, leading a large, red-haired man in an out of date suit that had seen better days. The man had a big, bushy red beard and the skin on his face was almost as red as the beard. His bulbous, veined nose indicated heavy and often drinking.
St. George checked out the man, but when he looked at the ‘boy’ a second time, he stiffened. “She can’t be in here.”
“Why not?” Skull asked.
“She a nigra,” St. George hissed.
“Keep your voice down,” Skull said in a level tone. “She not a nigra down here. Gabriel my adopted child by Texas law.”
St. George’s jaw flapped as his brain tried to process that. “Daughter?”
“Yes.” Skull said.
“Top of the day to you, my darling lass,” the red-headed man said, giving Skull a big hug.
“Declan, meet St. George Dyer.”
“A saint!” Declan stuck out a hand. “An archangel on one hand and a saint on the other. I must be blessed.”
St. George reluctantly shook it, still trying to process Skull’s announcement regarding the child.
“So, lass, do you have what I asked for?” Declan said.
“I do,” Skull said, as Gabriel slid between her and the bar, hiding in plain sight. “Do you have the price?”
Declan reached into his suit coat and pulled out a velvet bag that jingled. “Here you be.” He waited, as if daring her to open the bag and count the gold.
Skull handed the bag to Gabriel, who put it in a pocket.
“Mighty trusting,” Declan said.
St. George wondered if he were referring to the not counting or giving it to the girl.
“You’ll find the wagons out by the stockyard,” Skull said.
“You have the Lord’s blessing upon you,” Declan said, with a half bow. He blew a kiss at Gabriel. “And you sweet girl, may your life always be filled with sunlight and flowers. I leave you with a blessing.” He crossed himself and muttered something rapidly in Latin or a close approximation thereof.
Gabriel spoke for the first time. “Thank you, Father.”
“Farewell.” And with that, Father Declan made his exit.
“What the hell was dat?” St. George asked. “He a priest?”
“That,” Skull said, “was a spy.”
“Who for?”
“The Catholic Church, of course, since he’s also a priest. But I think he’s more an opportunist.”
“A what?” St. George asked.
“Working for whoever pays him.”
St. George understood that.
Skull picked up her drink and gestured for the bartender. “Whiskey for my daughter.”
“The church?” St. George asked. “Why the church want guns? What he got planned?”
“Keep your voice down. He didn’t tell me what he has planned, but I got a good idea. There are a lot of Irishmen in the Yankee army. I believe Father Declan’s also a spy for the Mexican government and his job is to get as many of those Catholics to not only desert, but fight for the Mex’s. Protect the sanctity of the church.”
“The what of the church?” St. George was trying to follow the logic, but it didn’t help if he couldn’t follow the words.
Skull drained her glass. “The church always be meddling in things, ‘specially down here. I’m just keeping my options open.”
St. George shook his head. “And my cut?”
“Gabriel?” Skull said.
Gabriel pulled a different pouch out of her pocket and held it out to St. George. A muscle flickered in his jaw as he stared at it. After a long pause, he snatched it from the girl’s hand and stuffed it into his sash.
“Mighty trusting,” Skull said.
“Why you be doing this?” St. George said, jabbing a finger toward Gabriel.
“The future,” Skull said. “Always got to be thinking about the future.”
St. George stood up, shaking his head. “You crazy some of the time, woman.”
“Maybe I am,” Skull allowed. “And we need to talk about your future.”
“What about it?”
“Violet Rumble is a smart woman. Your father held sway over her husband running the slave women to the house and letting them have bastards.”
/>
“So?” St. George demanded.
“When last time there was a bastard?”
St. George’s eyes narrowed. He nodded his head toward Gabriel. “Her.”
“Long time. When last time you ran a slave girl to the master of Palatine?” Skull asked.
“Couple years.” Understanding dawned. “But Mistress Violet sent away to Tennessee the one Master Tiberius wanted.”
“Mrs. Rumble gonna to make a move against you, St. George. I’ve heard that other bitch, Rosalie Little, been making inquiries about cotton shipments. Our cotton shipments.”
“She got nothing,” St. George insisted.
“How you know?” Skull shook her head. “We can’t take a chance. We have to strike first.”
“’Strike’? What you talking about?”
“We’ll be joining you tomorrow for the journey back north,” Skull said. “I’ll tell you then. Now, let me drink in peace.”
Chapter Six
16 Jan 1847, Los Angeles, California
“Colonel Fremont, if you persist in this manner, I will have you placed under arrest for insubordination,” General Kearny shouted. “I’m the Governor of California, not you.”
Fremont stood in front of Kearny’s desk, inside the Government House in Los Angeles, and weathered the blast from the general. Along one side of the room, Kearny’s aides hovered while on the other, Kit Carson stood as mute witness to his old friend’s confrontation.
Fremont spoke in a calm tone. “Sir, I received my command, and the governorship, directly from Washington. From the President himself. It was quite explicit that at the cessation of hostilities, I was to transition from military commander to Governor of the territory. I have great deference to your professional and personal character, but until I receive word from higher authorities indicating otherwise, I will not relinquish control of California to you.”
Kearny’s hands clenched the edge of his desk. “Colonel, I am much older and the more experienced soldier than you. I have high regard for your wife and Senator Benton, whom I consider a great friend and who has shown me great kindness over the years. That’s the only reason I have not had you placed in irons already. If you persist in this course of action, I’ll be forced to send to higher command at Fort Leavenworth to have you relieved and placed under arrest.”