North and South nas-1

by Джон Джейкс

  A coastal steamer carried them around Florida into the Gulf. The sea was rough. During the first few days, George spent a lot of time hanging over the rail. When the steamer put into New Orleans to reprovision, he was grateful to stagger onto dry land for a few hours.

  He and Orry strolled the levee and the old quarter, then drank bitter black coffee in a cafe. George had bought three papers, and after ordering a second coffee, he caught up on the news. In late September General Taylor had invested and captured Monterrey and was an even greater hero as a consequence. Politicians were saying Taylor would be the next Whig candidate for President, unless his superior, General Scott, also a Whig, had ambitions of his own. In the far West, Americans were rapidly overcoming Spanish California, which the United States had already annexed by proclamation.

  Sometimes George found it hard to believe that his country and Mexico were at war; little more than twenty years ago, the Mexican government had invited Yankee colonization of the state of Coahuila y Texas and had granted concessions to the American empresario Moses Austin so that he could secure the wanted settlers.

  Of course that had taken place in what amounted to the last hours of Spain's long rule in Mexico. The country soon won its independence, and that seemed to be the start of all the trouble. The Constitution of 1824 was repeatedly subverted by revolution. Governments rose and fell with dizzying speed.

  The year 1836 brought the short, brutal struggle for Texas independence. Early in March of that year, the Texans defending the Alamo mission were massacred. Little more than a month later, Sam Houston's men won the war and the republic's freedom at San Jacinto. Mexican resentment had simmered ever since.

  One name that had been associated with Mexican-American relations for the past two decades was back in the news once again, George discovered. General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna had voluntarily returned from exile in Cuba with his retinue and his seventeen-year-old wife. Presumably he was about to take command of the Mexican army, and not for the first time.

  Tough, wily Santa Anna, now fifty-two, had fought for so many sides and factions, it was almost necessary to consult some kind of printed program to understand his career. He had served Spain as a young army officer, then joined the rebellion against the mother country. He had been, at various times, Mexico's military chief, president, and dictator. He had won the sanguinary victory at the Alamo, then lost at San Jacinto, where he had been ingloriously captured while attempting to escape disguised in a dirty smock and carpet slippers.

  At Tampico, defending his country against an attempted Spanish reconquest, the self-styled Napoleon of the West had lost a leg. The leg had subsequently been enshrined and displayed in Mexico City when he was in power, then dragged through the streets by mobs when his fortunes changed. You certainly had to admit the man was a survivor, George said to himself. Santa Anna went with the prevailing winds, and nothing exemplified this better than the current border dispute.

  As a defeated general, Santa Anna had personally signed the 1836 peace treaty acknowledging the Rio Grande as the Texas boundary. Now he was declaring that although his name had indeed gone onto the document, he was the only one who had signed; the Mexican government, in other words, had not. Hence, Mexico had every right to repudiate the treaty and fight for the disputed territory — under Santa Anna's command, naturally.

  When George tried to discuss some of this with Orry he found his friend uninterested. He wondered about the reason for Orry's long face until he remembered that Madeline LaMotte came from New Orleans. George immediately said he would just as soon go back on board and write a long-delayed letter home.

  Orry said he'd be happy to go. His spirits improved the minute they turned their backs on the city.

  The steamer plowed on across the Gulf, bound for the mouth of the Rio Grande. A sudden storm, not unusual for the season but this time especially severe, damaged the vessel's port paddle wheel, forcing the captain to anchor off Saint Joseph Island to effect repairs. Lighters took all the military passengers ashore to Corpus Christi. Sometimes known as Kinney's Ranch, the place was a miserable village of about forty shops and houses on the west bank of the Nueces River.

  The friends went separate ways for a couple of hours. Orry was fascinated by the flat, sandy terrain of the Texas coast. Strolling the muddy main street, he was amazed to see half a dozen antelope browsing behind the unpainted buildings. He absorbed a shopkeeper's warning about tarantulas and passed it along to George when they met. His friend, however, was interested in other forms of wildlife. But his report was discouraging.

  "I've seen exactly one girl. Her face would crack a rock. Maybe I'll have better luck tonight."

  "Where?"

  "At the social. The local residents are putting it on for all the poor stranded soldiers. I swear, if I don't get to squeeze a feminine waist pretty soon, I'll go berserk."

  The social was held in a barn on Colonel Kinney's trading post. Lanterns had been hung and some moth-eaten bunting tacked to the rafters. There was fresh straw on the dirt floor, a fiddler, a trestle table crowded with cakes, pies, and tarts, and a huge bowl of whiskey punch. About eighty officers and noncoms attended, and perhaps half as many townspeople, of which only seven were female. Of these, just one was attractive, and she got most of the attention.

  She was worthy of it. She was a slender, stunning redhead in her early twenties. Her skin was white as thick cream and her eyes the bluest George had ever seen. He wasn't daunted by her surprisingly tall height or by the dozen officers already surrounding her.

  Some were majors and colonels. They would surely pull rank on him if he tried a direct assault. The enemy had to be outflanked. While the fiddler tuned up, George drifted to the punch bowl, smiling and introducing himself to various townsmen. In five minutes he had made a discovery and formulated a plan.

  He strode firmly as he approached a civilian standing in the large open doorway of the barn. George knew he cut a good figure. He had spent half an hour scrubbing travel grime off his light blue trousers and polishing the brass hilt and scabbard decorations of his yard-long infantry officer's sword.

  The man he wanted to impress was a ruddy, stub-nosed fellow with short, unruly hair that was more white than red. He wore an old-fashioned suit of black broadcloth. George toasted him with his punch cup.

  "A splendid party, sir. You Texans are good hosts."

  With a wry smile, the man answered, "In wartime, Lieutenant, patriotism sometimes outweighs prudence." "I don't understand, sir."

  "In Corpus Christi, public opinion of soldiers is about as low as it can get. Zach Taylor's troops camped here on their way to the Rio Grande. That was an experience this town won't forget. Fortunately, Texans know how to protect themselves — and their daughters." He clapped a hand on the immense holstered pistol hanging at his right hip. The barrel was almost a foot long. A Paterson Colt, George thought, perhaps a .36-caliber.

  "Oh, do you have a daughter with you tonight?" The red-faced man gave him an amused look. "I didn't say that, my lad. But you apparently possess the information. Is that why you came over to talk to me?"

  George gulped, then laughed. "And I thought I was being subtle. You're right, sir. I knew I didn't stand much of a chance of meeting her with that crowd around her. An introduction from you would give me an advantage."

  "You may not be subtle, sir, but you're clever. However, I can't introduce you until I know your name."

  "Lieutenant George Hazard, Eighth Infantry." The stocky man put out his hand. ''Patrick Flynn. Born in Cappamore, County Limerick, but I fancy I'm a Texan now. Been here long enough! Arrived the year after Colonel Kinney opened his trading post. Lost my wife that same year, but Constance and I have managed to survive — even though there's hardly enough legal business to keep a flea from starving."

  "You're a lawyer? In this town?"

  "I occasionally spend a month in San Antonio. That's where I really make my living. They're very disputatious in San Antonio. I did my readi
ng of the law way up in Belfast. Very good training — all the shipping in Belfast Lough created legalistic tangles on every conceivable subject. A series of misadventures brought me to Texas while Sam Houston was struggling to wrest it away from the Mexicans. I settled in Corpus Christi because I thought this would become a port city with plenty of work for lawyers." Smiling wryly again, he added, "Development has failed to keep pace with my hopes." He threw his head back and drained his whiskey punch. "Or my thirst." "But you must like it here." "Oh, indeed." Flynn nodded. "There's free air and free space — and none of the snobbish restraints I encountered as a boy in the old country. Some of the local citizens distrust my Roman faith, which I can't practice since there's no Catholic chapel hereabouts, but that makes us even, since I dislike the prevailing view of slavery."

  "I've heard most Texans support it."

  "I regret to say that's true. I often remark that a man always works harder for the carrot of personal advancement than he does for the stick of the slave overseer. But that's a truth my neighbors don't care to hear. Most confine themselves to grumbling and cursing, but there are a few hotheads who would like to run me out for daring to say such a thing. They don't because they know I am, shall we say, self-reliant."

  He grinned and again touched the handle of his Colt. "But you want to meet Constance."

  "Yes, I do. Very much."

  "I'll be happy to present you as soon as I rescue her from that pack of dullards — not one of whom displays your imagination. Are you perchance Irish?"

  George laughed. "No, sir."

  "I shall attempt to overlook the deficiency."

  The lawyer strode off. George straightened his collar, saw Orry bearing down and signaled him away. Orry looked around, realized what was happening, and joined several other brevet lieutenants standing near the punch bowl with morose expressions.

  Patrick Flynn snatched his daughter out of the group of senior officers. George tried to ignore their hostile looks and fix his attention on the girl. Half annoyed, half amused by the way her father had grasped her wrist and tugged her away, she allowed herself to be brought to George and presented.

  "Constance, this is Lieutenant Hazard. He wanted to meet you and knew he stood a better chance if he spoke to me first."

  "But how did he know I'd want to meet him, Father?" the girl asked with a tart smile.

  George strained to stand as tall as he could. Lord, I'm still two inches shorter. He grinned and looked straight into her brilliant blue eyes.

  "Give me five minutes, Miss Flynn, and I'll remove all doubt."

  Constance laughed. She spied a fiercely mustached major of dragoons stalking them, then took hold of George's hand.

  "Dance with me, Lieutenant, or we won't even get that five minutes.''

  He needed no further prompting. The fiddler was scratching out a waltz. George swept Constance past the fuming major and on across the floor. She was soft and sweet-smelling in his arms; so deliciously lovely that he was extremely careful about the way he held her. She noticed:

  "Your touch is very light, Lieutenant. Are you afraid I'll shatter?"

  "Why, no, you're not brittle, you're exceedingly sof — that is —"

  He strangled on the sentence. What the devil was wrong with him? He didn't usually act this way with a girl. He was behaving like Orry, who was watching him from the punch table. Orry had a big, smug grin on his face.

  For the remainder of the dance, they exchanged inconsequential remarks. He told her a few things about West Point and about his home in Pennsylvania. She repeated much of the information her father had given him. George's head swam. He simply couldn't select the right words, let alone deliver them with anything approximating charm. Constance, on the other hand, was completely at ease, smiling and chatting without the slightest awkwardness.

  He soon discovered that she was not only beautiful but intelligent. "Father sent me away to a young women's academy in San Antonio. He's in favor of education for women. He's really quite liberal for a man of his background. He says that believing in the Holy Trinity should never rule out a healthy interest in the secular."

  George smiled, relaxing slightly. "I like your father."

  "And he must have taken a liking to you, or he'd never have introduced us. I'm rather glad he did."

  "You are? Miss Flynn, that's splendid!"

  In a burst of enthusiasm, he swept her into another whirling waltz figure. A moment later she gently tapped his wrist with her ornamental fan. She wanted him to stop dancing. He obliged.

  He saw grinning faces all around. Even Orry was covering a smirk. Constance whispered to him, "The music ended several moments ago, Lieutenant Hazard."

  "It did? My God. That is — Miss Flynn, I didn't mean to curse in front of —"

  "Lieutenant," she broke in, "I'll be the one cursing if you permit me to fall into the hands of that dragoon bearing down on us. Please take me for a stroll."

  "With pleasure!"

  George gave her his arm, then guided her toward the door of the barn. The major with the mustache pursued, looking more affronted every second. He was only three paces behind them when Patrick Flynn appeared to stumble. Flynn crashed against the major, almost dumping punch on his uniform. The lawyer bathed the officer with so much apologetic blarney he couldn't be angry.

  By then George and Constance had slipped through the door into the darkness.

  "I'm in love," George said a couple of hours later. "So that's what it is," Orry said. "I thought it was some sort of nervous condition. I've never seen you look so stupefied over a girl. Or act so tongue-tied, either."

  They were trudging along the riverbank toward the white tents and lanterns of the encampment that had been improvised to shelter the men from the steamer. George started as a big jackrabbit leaped across his path. Then, after a distinctly lovelorn sigh, he said, "I think she likes me. But I'm not positive."

  "Of course she likes you. She spent most of the evening in your company, didn't she? And she could have had her pick. Not necessarily of men more handsome than you" — Orry's mockery was broad but kindly — "but certainly of men she could look up to."

  George called his friend a name and punched his arm. Orry laughed. Again George sighed. "I hope it takes them a week to repair the steamer. She invited me to dinner tomorrow. Boiled Texas beef and potatoes."

  "Talking about her cooking already? You do sound as if you've found the love of your life," Orry said quietly.

  "By heaven, you may be right. The instant I put my arms around her, I felt — well, something momentous. But there would be problems if it became anything permanent. She's Irish. Catholic, too. Up North that isn't always a welcome combination."

  "You're getting serious awfully fast."

  "I can't help it. I don't care, either. George Hazard, master of the fair sex, is for once absolutely powerless. That's the strangest part."

  "No, it isn't. I understand perfectly."

  George knew Orry had said something, but he was too excited to hear the words, or the note of melancholy in his friend's voice.

  A distant whistle sounded the last call for the lighter. George shook Patrick Flynn's hand.

  "Good-bye, sir. You've been wonderful to a stranger." "You're no longer a stranger, lad," the lawyer said with a swift glance at his daughter. Constance had put on a light shawl and was fussing with a parasol. Flynn laid his free hand on George's shoulder and pressed gently. "We wish you Godspeed to the battle zone and a safe walk along the pathway of your duty. We want you to come back again."

  "Yes, sir, I'll do that."

  The words carried more hope than certainty. George had read the papers enough to know that many men had already died in Mexico, not only from enemy fire but from disease. Many others would perish before the war ended. A couple of days ago he hadn't troubled himself about such things. Now, suddenly, in this ridiculous little village on a barren coast, life had become wondrously precious.

  He and Constance walked out of the house
. George stepped off the plank porch into the mud and raised his hand. She closed her fingers on his, then stepped down beside him and opened the parasol.

  It was a dismal autumn day with a hint of winter in the gusty wind. He took charge of the parasol and offered his other arm. She pressed her breast against his sleeve, speaking to him silently that way. It began to drizzle as they hurried toward the pier where the last lighter was loading. "Will you write to me, George?" "Regularly. Daily! Will you answer?"

  "You know I will. You must come back as soon as you can." "I promise. I want to show you Pennsylvania. Introduce you to my family."

  He knew Constance could charm them and perhaps even overcome the suspicion of Catholics that was so prevalent in the nation. But if by some chance the family didn't welcome her, he would no longer consider himself a Hazard. In just these few days, she had become his universe — and his reason for fearing some random Mexican bullet as he had never feared it before.

  ''Father's very impressed by what you told him about your family,'' she said. "He thinks most Texans are fools because they won't admit factories are becoming more important than farms." "My friend Orry's family won't admit that." "Southerners can be so narrow-minded sometimes." No more narrow-minded than Northerners, he thought, recalling an incident in Philadelphia the week he had set off for Mont Royal.

  Obscene words and statements had been slathered in red paint all over the walls of a Catholic church. Even his brother Stanley, no admirer of Papists, had been scandalized, though more by the language than by the motivation for the act.

  Three senior officers sat in the lighter. All were frowning with impatience. The helmsman signaled for George to hurry. Another gust ripped the parasol out of his hand and sent it sailing into the water, where it bobbed like a lacy boat.

  The men in the lighter laughed at him. George didn't care. His mind and heart were filled with Constance: her fiery hair blown loose by the wind, her blue eyes searching deep into his, her cheeks rain-speckled —