Lone Star Rising: T.S. Wasp and the Heart of Texas

by Jason Vail

  A shout went up from the gun deck as Wasp slowly drew away from the Spaniard. For the men could see as well as I the Spaniard beginning to wallow in the swell, coming abeam of the wind, the rudder hanging loose by only a splinter, and as we watched, snapping, and the whole thing fell with a welcome splash that brought another cheer. Most of our shot, like the Spaniard’s, had gone wide or fallen into the sea, but at least one ball had reached the mark after all.

  There was no time to lose, however, since other hounds were in the chase, and they were not wounded as we were.

  “Mister Hammond!” I called out. “What are you waiting for! Enough lollygagging! Come to northeast by north! Lively now! Where the hell is Halevy? And fetch spare lines from below!”

  The damage we had sustained left much work to do, but I paused for a moment while the ships were still close to throw back a look. Vasquez was visible upon the Spaniard’s deck shouting orders of his own, and the wind was such that I even heard them, though my Spanish was so bad I could not tell what he said. Then he, like I, paused, and we regarded each other across the expanding gap as we had done twice before when we met upon the waves. Battle is a desperate, deadly business, but it is supposed to be fought with chivalrous regard for the adversary, at least among the officers, who thought of themselves as gentlemen. This was a moment when, perhaps, we should exchange salutes, like duelers upon the field, but instead we just watched each other grow smaller with distance, until at last the urgency of our situations called us away.

  Halevy broke the reverie when he stumbled up, blood on his face, a bad cut on his cheek, one more scar to add to his many others. He would have been a handsome lad had it not been for them. “You asked for me, Captain?”

  I was so relieved to see him alive that I wanted to throw my arms around him, but that would not have done. “I did, indeed, Mister Halevy. Gather the wounded below and have them seen to as best you can. Yourself as well.”

  Chapter 18

  Lone Star Rising: A Short History of the Republic of Texas and the Free States of America

  by Victor Davis Lautenberg

  The remaining vessels of the Spanish flotilla gathered round the stricken 40-gun flagship Neptuno and did not pursue the Wasp, which came as a relief to the battered crew because if the enemy had pressed their advantage, they might have caught the sloop, and she was in no condition to fight a rowboat.

  Meanwhile, the Wasp’s crew made what repairs they could, lashing the mizzen so that it would not fall and rescuing the men trapped in the mizzen top who had no way down without the rigging, and tended to the wounded. With the surgeon lost to smallpox, the only man remotely fit to handle the task was Marcus Cowl, who had been a barber in Savannah. He could at least sew up wounds, which was all that was needed.

  Sunset arrives early in the northern latitudes at that time of year, and with the fall of night, the Wasp crept northwest, by dawn the following day reaching the eastern coast of Britain. It was then a short run south to the mouth of the Thames.

  London, Great Britain

  December 1820

  The London docks are among the world’s great wonders and they do not get the credit they deserve these days, now that we are so surrounded by strange gadgets and great works like electric lights, washing machines, and transcontinental railroads that we’ve become numb to miracles, taking them for granted as if they have always been here. There were three in that day, great basins dug from the marshes on the Thames’ north shore, around which dowdy tenements had crept out from the city like the tendrils of a terrible fungus, overhung with a pall of smoke from a hundred-thousand fires. The smallest alone occupies thirty-five acres of water and ninety acres of ground with over twenty vast warehouses to shelter the commerce of the empire.

  Wasp limped up the river under light sail to the smallest of the three at Wapping and eased through the eastern lock to her rest from our long voyage. I was glad to get there at last, and so was the crew, who anticipated shore leave in the great and exotic city. A few of our French brothers had been here before, and they had filled the others with wonder and excitement at the possibilities of sin available in the metropolis. London, they said, was New York only worse.

  We had some anxious moments when the customs collectors came around. At first I feared they might come aboard to look us over, and had they done so, they would have found our guns and more than a hundred men hiding on the berth deck, for even merchant ships the size of Wasp ordinarily had a crew of no more than twenty. Only warships carried a complement as large as ours with as many guns, and I was eager not to draw attention to us that could be avoided. But fortunately, the men with their black coats, tall black hats and pencils merely scrutinized our papers at the head of the gangway as they drank from the rum bottle someone had considerately brought out for them, nodded without interest at our false name and point of origin for the cargo — Charles Town of all places — and waited on the dock while we unloaded our bales so they could get a good accounting without having to clamber around in the hold, an unpleasant place on its best day, before it was hauled off to a warehouse to generate more expenses until Austin finally sold it. I am told that the cotton connoisseur can distinguish between Louisiana and Carolina cotton rather like a wine enthusiast can tell a grape grown in one field from another; something about the color and texture, but our customs men did not seem to have the knack any more than I did, a matter which greatly relieved Austin as it meant less money we had to spend on tariffs. Now that I think of it, Crockett told me this, so it may not be true. I don’t care enough any more to find out.

  While Austin puttered about on mercantile business, Halevy and I made arrangements for repairs to Wasp. Our mizzen could be put back in shape with purchased cordage, a matter we could take care of ourselves, and the gouges in the hull and rails from the Spaniard’s shot our carpenters could fix with some lumber. But we discovered to our horror that the main mast had a great crack radiating from the bite a Spanish ball had taken out of it, and it was terrible to contemplate that we had sailed with a mast prepared to topple at any moment. As the sheer hulks, those floating cranes used for stepping masts, were very busy, we had to get in the queue and wait our turn.

  Nova Ascendant: The Life and Times of David Stern Crockett

  by Victor D. Lautenberg and Maeve Crockett Haverford

  Austin could trade in cotton, timber and metals with any man, but commerce in guns was something where he might easily be cheated due to his ignorance, so he asked Crockett to accompany him to the meeting with their purchasing agent on the ground that, having spent most of his life around guns, Crockett knew enough to get value for their dwindling supply of money. Austin, whose family had known the horror of bankruptcy and debt due to his father’s failed money-making schemes, feared failure and financial ruin and would put aside his pride enough to avoid it.

  The agent’s office was far across London and, given the city’s confusion of twisting streets which seemed to change their names at every corner in defiance of logic and reason unlike in a proper town where the streets ran in a grid, Austin was forced to the expense of a cab, and he openly fretted at the possibility they were being taken far out of their way to ensure the fee was generous. Austin remained morose during the journey, heedless of the wonders of the great town, while Crockett was ebullient. The excursion was an adventure to him, for among other things, it afforded the opportunity to see more of London than the basin, the warehouses that surrounded the Wasp and the taverns and dives that served as the primary recreation for seamen. He was accustomed to cities, but had never seen one the size of London, which seemed to him to go on forever, streets choked with traffic so thick it was often hard to make any headway even on foot, suffocating under the aroma of horse manure and human waste, and dressed with a pall of smoke or fog that often made breathing difficult.

  At last, the cab deposited them at the foot of what seemed to be merely an alley on Chancery Lane, for it was hardly wide enough for the two men to walk side-by-sid
e, although it widened to cart width after thirty yards or so.

  “You’re sure this is the place?” Austin asked the driver.

  “You said Cursitor Street. That’s it.” The driver snapped the reins, turned the cab around and headed back down Chancery Lane.

  At last they found the agent’s house, identified by the name plate beside the door, signifying the rather sooty brick building sandwiched between a cheese shop and a tavern as the abode of Homer Dolittle, solicitor.

  “What’s a solicitor?” Crockett asked.

  “Some kind of lawyer,” Austin said.

  “Oh. God help us then.”

  “I’m a lawyer,” Austin protested.

  “Sorry. I forgot.”

  Mister Dolittle, of course, did not answer the knock himself. Rather, a young man dressed as a footman in breaches and stockings opened the door and admitted them. He led them to a front room, left a pot of lukewarm tea and disappeared upstairs to inform his master that someone had arrived to see him. Crockett and Austin settled into chairs so musty that it seemed no one had occupied them in some time. The house was oddly silent, almost as if no one was home. Yet from time to time, someone would enter the front door and mount the stairs directly, descending a short time later.

  After more than an hour, the footman returned and led them up the stairs to Dolittle’s office. The man himself proved to be as round about the middle as a ball, with a round bald head to which was attached a round nose, which gave the impression of a snowman only with clothes, although the bluish veins etched upon the nose suggested a snowman that liked his drink. On first meeting him one might take him for soft and a fool, but above that round nose, hard eyes observed the world and those within it. He greeted them and motioned for them to sit in the hard-backed chairs arrayed before a desk so overflowing with papers and open books that it seemed to grow out of the similar mess on the floor.

  “I am sorry to keep you waiting,” Dolittle said. “I’ve been so busy today, you cannot imagine. You have a problem, my boy said, and you wish to consult. About what, may I ask?”

  Austin handed him the letter of introduction from Rochelle. Dolittle’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the seal. He broke it and read the letter. When he was done, he held the leaf to the single candle providing light in the room and burned it.

  “I see,” he said, shaking his fingers, which had got singed. “I am to assist you in whatever you require. What do you require?”

  “We would like to buy some muskets,” Austin said.

  “Ah,” Dolittle said.

  “Six thousand, to be precise,” Austin said.

  “A small number present no difficulty,” Dolittle said, “but six thousand? I don’t know.”

  “We understand that the government is anxious to relieve itself of its war debt and sells guns for that purpose,” Crockett said.

  “Quite true,” Dolittle said, “but the government is particular about who receives them. They will not just sell to anyone. It must be an approved person. I cannot see the government approving of you, whoever you are. And since a particular person sent you, you must be up to no good.”

  “We have papers testifying that we serve Dutch interests,” Austin said.

  “How very nice,” Dolittle said.

  “We could say that we intend to take them to South Africa, for the defense of the colony,” Austin said. “Or to India.”

  “You could say that,” Dolittle said.

  “You don’t think that’s a good explanation?”

  “It might be good enough for some,” Dolittle said, “but there are men with suspicious minds who might worry that these guns would fall exclusively into the hands of the Dutch there who might be inclined to use them against us. No one buys so many at once unless he wants to arm an army.”

  “Oh,” Austin said, crestfallen.

  “What about Greece?” Crockett said.

  “What about Greece?” Dolittle answered.

  “There’s talk of insurrection there as well,” Crockett said. “At least from what I’ve read in the papers.”

  “I have heard that,” Dolittle said, nodding. “There are those in Parliament who would welcome the chance to make trouble for the Turk by fomenting war in Greece. Others will be uplifted by the prospect of helping to free an ancient people from the yoke of oppression.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Yes, the public will like that, if word gets out. We might actually be able to work with that.”

  “Very well, then,” Austin said. “We will be buyers for the Greeks. How long will this take?”

  Dolittle fixed him with a hard stare. He said, “You can’t just pop into London and buy a shipload of government surplus muskets like you would a candle. This will take some time to arrange.”

  “How much time?” Austin asked.

  “A month, maybe two. It’s hard to say. The government moves with great deliberation in just about everything except when a man needs hanging. Why, are you in a hurry?”

  “We would like to get back home before the spring,” Crockett said.

  “What’s going on in the spring?” Dolittle asked. “Another war? Good lord, we seem to have enough of them, don’t we. Well, I shall see what I can do. Now, there is the matter of my fee. I shall require partial payment immediately, if you please.”

  When Austin learned that one of the great English law courts was located nearby, he insisted that they go to observe it, an understandable suggestion from a man who eventually became the chief justice of the Supreme Court. The two men lingered there for a time, watching black-robed barristers loitering about the halls, seeming to have nothing to do but chat up solicitors bustling in and out, and watched a trial for an hour before Crockett’s patience wore out. But rather than return immediately to the ship, Austin convinced him to go to a bookseller’s that he had learned about in conversation with another spectator at the trial.

  Austin’s objective proved to be several miles and a long carriage ride into London’s west side, for the shop, of the former bookseller to the king, George Nicol, was located at 51 Pall Mall.

  While Austin was drawn to the map section, Crockett wandered the history shelves. A name caught his eye and he pulled down what proved to be Banastre Tarleton’s memoirs. He flipped through the volume until he found the part about Tarleton’s last campaign, and read, lips tightening, Bloody Ban’s account of the destruction of the Tennessee Free State eleven years before.

  “What have you got there?” Austin asked, looking over Crockett’s shoulder.

  “Ban’s memoirs,” Crockett said.

  “Provokes unpleasant memories?”

  Crockett nodded. “Good friends lost, hopes crushed. It’s odd to read about it from his side, though.”

  He lifted the book to return it to the shelf, but Austin intercepted his hand.

  “I should read it,” Austin said.

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Perhaps it will tell me something about Jackson, and about you, for that matter.”

  “I wouldn’t give Ban the satisfaction of the shilling,” Crockett said.

  But Austin bought the book just the same.

  London docks, Wapping

  December 1820

  A winter storm blew in, blustery and cold, the wind snapping and rain pattering the gallery windows as we sheltered inside, wrapped in our greatcoats, wishing we had a fireplace to drive away the chill. Halevy’s fingers were too cold to manage even a few notes from his flute, and that evening, no one having any enthusiasm either for cards or talk; the officers either sank into their cups, or books, or both.

  I had the Times to keep me company and read with interest about riots in Dublin, Crocket had a treatise on infantry tactics from the last war which he had acquired from somewhere, Halevy read poetry, Willie had something called Waverly by a fellow called Walter Scott about the Jacobin uprising of 1745 which Crockett had given him (“my folks were in that,” he said when he gave Willie the book), and Austin was consumed by a f
at memoir by a former provincial governor in America. A drier thing to read I could not imagine, unless it was Blackstone or a compendium of judicial opinions.

  Nonetheless, Austin was absorbed by it, and he emitted continuous noises of surprise and disgust from his end of the table. Now and then one of the others would rouse themselves at an expression, and I expected them to ask him to take his comments elsewhere, as we were trying to enjoy a quiet evening of freezing to death and the commotion made it difficult.

  “David!” Austin exclaimed at last. “You have to see this!”

  Extracting himself with some reluctance from some battle drill or other, Crockett cocked an eye at Austin over the treatise. “Have to see what?” He did not sound particularly interested in the prospect of looking into the book on account of a grudge that he had against the author.

  Austin slid the book around the table, as it was clear that Crockett had no intention of stirring from his chair to read the important find. He followed the book and drew in a candle so that Crockett would have no trouble reading the little print. “There!” he said triumphantly.

  Crockett regarded the indicated place, but from his expression, it was clear he did not share Austin’s judgment about its significance. In fact, Crockett registered considerable distaste at what he had just read. “So what?” he asked. “He killed Jefferson. Everybody knows that. The bastard boasts of it every time anyone orders a round of drinks anywhere near him.”

  “Yes, but it also says that he has the declaration.”

  “What declaration?” Willie asked, evidently finding this interruption more riveting than the Jacobin rebellion.