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

by Jason Vail

  “Of American independence,” Austin said.

  “Oh,” Willie said. Now satisfied that the object of the conversation was of no importance, he returned to the Jacobin rebellion.

  Crockett glanced at the pages again. “It says that he took it, not that he has it.”

  “It says he took it as a war trophy. Nobody gets rid of trophies.”

  “Unless they are of some value, and then they sell them.”

  “But the manifesto has no value, at least in any English land. It was banned, remember? All copies were collected and destroyed. You can’t even get hold of a transcription anymore.”

  “All the more reason to think that he doesn’t have it. He would have turned it in, like a good obedient Englishman.”

  “Do you really think he would have done so?”

  Crockett considered a moment. “He’s such an arrogant shit that he might have thought the order did not apply to him.”

  “There!” Austin exclaimed again. It was clear that some impractical idea had taken command of his senses, as such things did from time to time, despite the fact that ordinarily he was a model of sobriety and good judgment.

  “Doesn’t prove anything,” Crockett said.

  “Well,” Austin said, “what if he still has it?”

  “I’m not following this at all, Stephen,” Crockett said.

  “I have it on good authority that he is in some financial difficulty,” Austin said.

  “What English lord isn’t,” Crockett muttered. “They all live beyond their means.”

  “So he may be persuaded to sell it,” Austin said.

  “Why would you want to buy a useless old piece of paper?” Willie asked.

  “Revolutions aren’t made with guns alone,” Austin said.

  “I believe the French thought the same thing,” I said, “and look how badly that turned out. A million people slaughtered, heads rolling everywhere simply because they came from a disfavored class or family, disastrous wars, tyranny rampant.”

  “We’re not the French,” Austin said. “We’re different. We will avoid their mistakes.”

  I returned to my paper, glumly certain that Austin trusted too much in the goodness of human nature, for there is never much goodness evident where power and wealth are concerned.

  “We must write to Tarleton,” Austin said. “Do you have a pen and paper?”

  Chapter 19

  London, Great Britain

  December 1820

  In the end I wrote the letter. For all his lawyerly education, Austin could not manage to sound like an Englishman even on paper. By then, you see, Americans and the English had departed so much in speech that it was hard for one to masquerade as the other even in their letters. The differences are more pronounced now, I’m told, although the upper crust of American society loves nothing more than to ape the British aristocracy.

  I hired a firm to deliver the letter and paid up front with a bonus for returning any answer. Then we sat back to wait.

  A reply came from the baron, or more accurately an agent, within a week, which given the distance to Shropshire where the Baron Tarleton made his principal residence was like sending out a note in the morning post and receiving a reply in the afternoon. The baron’s answer suggested a meeting with his London agent who was prepared to discuss business on the baron’s behalf, as no self-respecting aristocrat could be caught engaging in anything that smacked of trade. I exchanged cards with the agent and we agreed upon a day and time.

  On the appointed day, we hired a carriage, and Willie and I journeyed across London to the agent’s office, which was on the Strand just down from the law courts, a giveaway that the agent was a solicitor. You can imagine how my enthusiasm soared at the prospect.

  Even in those early days, no gentleman went out without one or two footmen — the great men had droves — so Willie had to play my footman in order to make our deception effective. He surprised me by volunteering eagerly for the chore, although he no more idea how to act like a servant than any of the rest of the crew, but he looked exotic enough that I hoped that anyone noticing lapses of conduct would put them down to the fact he was foreign. Anyway, for the most part all he had to do was stand around and glare at people, a look he managed well.

  When the carriage stopped and the driver announced we had arrived, Willie hopped off the back and held the door open for me, wearing a smirk.

  “You look so fine in breeches and stockings,” I remarked as we made for the doors of the imposing brick edifice that fairly shrieked prosperity. I did not mention the powdered wig. By then, mainly servants wore such outdated clothes, although the new King George still fancied breeches; myself, I was dressed as a well-off businessman in top hat, black coat, silver-topped cane and trousers. All rented, of course.

  “I feel like an idiot,” he said.

  “Yes, but a handsome idiot. Now be quiet. Proper servants are not supposed to speak out of turn.”

  A footman showed us to a room appointed with thick carpets having Hindu designs upon them, floor to ceiling bookshelves bursting with fascinating volumes on English law and civil procedure, and dark wood furniture that was so waxed and polished I expected I’d have seen my reflection if the light had been better. I sat down and Willie almost did too. I got tea; Willie got an odd look from the solicitor’s footman.

  “Don’t mind him,” I said to the solicitor’s footman. “He’s French.” The French were always carrying on about equality, and the British suspected French footmen of being on first name terms with their employers, which they thought scandalous.

  After no more than five minutes, the solicitor himself appeared, a marvel that we had not been kept waiting. He was a lean, fit looking man with a bald head framed by long oiled black hair and sideburns. He held out his hand and introduced himself, “James Nodes.”

  “Paul Jones,” I responded.

  We took seats and he said, “I’ve been asked to speak with you about some business you have proposed with Baron Tarleton.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I represent Adele, the Baroness de Crequy. She has come to understand that the baron may possess an article of interest to her.”

  “What sort of article?”

  “A document.”

  “Really?”

  “A rather special and sensitive document.”

  “Go on.”

  “It came to the baroness’ attention through her reading of the baron’s charming memoire that his lordship possesses, or once possessed, a copy of the manifesto of the American rebels. She wishes to purchase it as a gift to the Emperor. As you know, the French have an attachment to the document, and it is said that no other copies are known to exist. The ones in Paris were lost during the troubles.” I had mentioned most of this in the letter to Tarleton, so none of it came as a surprise to the solicitor, although he acted as if this was the first he had heard of the proposition. Having finished this little speech, I fairly held my breath, for now was the time to deny that the baron held such a subversive and illegal paper, although the fact we were sitting here strongly suggested that he still had it.

  Nodes knitted his brows as if he was considering carefully how to reply, though he must have already worked out what he was going to say. “How much is the lady prepared to pay?” he said at last.

  I caught Willie smiling at the question, but since he was slightly behind Nodes and out of his view, the solicitor missed the reaction.

  I named a price, Nodes countered, and we went around for a time until we settled on a sum that would make Austin weep, but which I was certain he could still afford even after buying all the guns and paying all the bribes needed to get them out of the country. It was all very straightforward, like buying a barge of coal.

  “You understand,” Nodes said when we had agreed on price, “that nothing should be put in writing about this transaction. It must be upon a handshake only.”

  “I understand. It is a delicate matter.”

  “And we have the lady’s a
ssurance that she will not divulge her source?”

  “Of course. She has no wish to put the baron to any trouble.”

  “Very good. There is, however, one difficulty.”

  “Oh?”

  “The baron does not have the document in his immediate possession.”

  “Then, why are we even discussing the matter?”

  “He has given it on loan to others. It will take some time to bring it here.”

  “How much time?”

  “Not until the week after Christmas.”

  “For pity’s sake, what’s he done with it? Sent it to the South Pole?”

  Nodes looked regretful. “Not quite so far, I assure you,” he said, appearing unimpressed with my attempt at humor. “It is at Windsor.”

  “Good Lord, has he given it to the king?”

  Node brows collided as he considered whether to answer any further. “Hardly. If that were the case, there would be no getting it back. No, there apparently was a wager of some sort with the First Dragoons. They have a ceremony on Boxing Day when the regiment initiates new officers. The document plays a part in the ceremony. Originally, his lordship was merely required to bring it with him when he attended — he was their colonel for a brief time, you know —”

  “I did not,” I murmured, although Willie nodded slightly as if he did.

  “But of late,” Node continued, “his lordship has not put in an appearance —the press of his affairs, you understand — and he has left it in the regiment’s possession.”

  “’Til after Christmas, then,” I mused.

  “Does that pose a problem for the lady?”

  “I don’t think so.” Given the difficulties we were having obtaining guns, it seemed likely we’d still be here then. So we set a date for the exchange.

  “Excellent. I shall inform his lordship.”

  He rose and I stood with him. We shook hands.

  There are important moments in human events that change the world, but at the time they occur, it is often impossible to appreciate their significance. The heavens do not open, celestial song does not reverberate in the ears, the earth does not move beneath the feet any more than usual for old, creaky floorboards. Sometimes I think that even the trial of Christ must have seemed so to Pilate, just another criminal proceeding, one of many he conducted and quickly forgot. Only in looking backward from the eminence of years can one say with certainty that this or that moment was more important than any other. Now as I sit in my garden at Galvestown, the humming of the bees and the murmur of the surf in my ears and a lemonade sweating in my hand, I like to think that this was one of them, and that I played a small though uncomprehending part in what was to come. At the time, all I could think of was how foolish it seemed for the impoverished inhabitants of a wasteland to spend so much money for a tattered piece of paper. Nonsense, utter nonsense.

  “Good day to you,” Node said.

  “And to you, sir,” I replied.

  Willie and I went out to the street, oblivious to what we had just done.

  Chapter 19

  London, Great Britain

  December 1820

  Finally, our turn came at the sheer hulk, and we towed Wasp into the center of the basin to have her main mast replaced, a business almost as tricky as loading guns that required care and precision, and a great deal of expense.

  While we were engaged in this work, a boat put alongside and a naval lieutenant boarded. He handed me a letter, which it was astonishing to see came from the Admiralty, and stood around as I read it, examining Wasp and her crew with an experienced eye. His scrutiny made me uncomfortable, for naval officers, especially captains, are judged by the condition and performance of their ships. “I am required to await your reply,” he said, when I looked up.

  “Does the admiral wish to see me today?” I asked. “Or at some other convenient time?”

  “His lordship finds this afternoon convenient. One o’clock, if you please.”

  “I shall attend him then,” I said.

  A carriage dropped me off in the street in front of the Admiralty building. It was then a great hulking thing, U-shaped, the top opening toward the street and capped across with a row of columns in the center of which stood a miniature triumphal arch copied from some Roman original but scaled down so as not to diminish the impression made by the massive columns at the bottom of the U framing the main entrance. I had been here once before, when I had taken my boards to pass from midshipman to officer, but that had been a lifetime ago. I took a few deep breaths, as nervous as I had been then, smoothed my rented merchant’s coat and passed under the arch.

  I strode through the main doors to a great antechamber that was as quiet and dignified as the interior of a bank vault, all hushed tones and subdued lighting, even the footsteps muted, no one rushing about although the fate of the world was determined in this place, and asked after Admiral Cockburn’s office. A boy led me to a rear corner office with a view through its large windows of St. James Park.

  The lieutenant who had delivered the summons ushered me into the presence of the great man, one of Britain’s Sea Lords, the fellows who ran the navy. George Cockburn was forty-eight then and in his prime. He was tall and slender and moved with the grace of a dancer, clad in black close-fitting coat and trousers from head to riding boots. I read once that he was an avid rider and huntsman, as well as a skilled fencer. He had a longish face, handsome despite a rather overlarge nose. It was a face that seemed made for regarding the world with sardonic detachment, secure in its aristocratic superiority, yet could be surprisingly affable, and he startled me now by coming round his desk to shake my hand when I had expected to be waved into the single chair before the desk.

  He was slim and resplendent in that close-fitting coat and trousers which had been carefully tailored by a master. I, clad in brown coat, felt shabby by comparison. I could have worn Mister Austin’s fine blue coat, but that had a military cut, and my role at the moment was as a humble merchant captain. Besides, my brown coat had a special pocket under the left armpit for my Texas knife where the blue one did not, and London was almost as rough a town as New York.

  “Mister Jones, I presume,” he said.

  “I am,” I said warily, for it was an ominous thing to be summoned by one of the Sea Lords rather than some lower eminence. He was only one of the lesser lords then, not the First Sea Lord, which he eventually became, but the message I had been called to receive was too mundane to be delivered by the head man, although it was a surprise that even so accomplished a fellow as Cockburn had been selected to deliver it.

  “You’ve been making trouble for our friends the Spanish, I hear,” he said, retreating behind a broad oak desk so formidable that a company of infantry could have stood off the French Imperial Guard behind it.

  “That depends on who’ve you been talking to, sir,” I said, beginning to get a glimmer of what the trouble must be.

  “The Spanish ambassador has registered a protest with His Majesty’s government that you have been allowed to port here. Apparently, you have a habit of shooting at Spanish ships.”

  “Only when forced to do so.”

  He chuckled. “I daresay. Did you bring your ship’s papers?”

  I put my leather folder on my knees and extracted the documents, which I handed to Cockburn. He looked through them personally rather than submitting them to the lieutenant, who had remained in the room, standing by the door like a footman. Cockburn looked up. “You’ve changed your vessel’s name. Does that reflect a change of purpose?”

  “That was the intent.”

  “To become a mere merchantman?”

  I nodded.

  “A thin disguise, don’t you think? What does a merchant need with a crew so large as yours?”

  “I am merely the captain. I do what the owners instruct.”

  He pushed the papers back across the desk. As I collected them, he said, “Well, I suspect you have intentions that lie elsewhere than trade. But your letter of
marque will be of no use to you before long.”

  “The provisional government is still holding out according to the Times.”

  “Yes, a more tenacious lot than anyone expected. Tell me about what happened in the North Sea.”

  He had shocked me with the depth of his knowledge, so there seemed no point in lying. I recounted the story from the point Wasp left Calais. He listened raptly and questioned me on points of detail.

  When I finished, he nodded, “It’s a pity you did not remain in the naval service, Mister Jones.”

  “I was told there would be no place for me.”

  “To shoot up a forty-gun frigate in a mere ship-sloop — that is a great accomplishment. Too bad no one will ever hear about it. You trained your crew to naval standards, I assume?”

  I nodded. He smiled with satisfaction, not at my prowess but for what amounted to a victory of British arms.

  “Our people have become somewhat lax since the end of the war,” he said dryly. “I don’t doubt you could show them a thing or two.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” I said, astonished.

  Having said these kind things, his face hardened. “Nonetheless, it is my duty to inform you that you cannot remain in British waters any longer than it is necessary for you to complete repairs to your vessel. How long until you are seaworthy?”

  “We stepped a new mainmast today. Another week, perhaps, to re-rig and set the yards.”

  “Then I shall expect you to be gone straightaway.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  I rose as this was obviously the end of our interview.

  “Thank you for coming, Mister Jones,” he said.

  “My pleasure, sir.”

  “I am sorry,” he said, unexpectedly. “It is the policy of His Majesty’s government to favor the Spanish. The ambassador has made quite a fuss at your visit to England. He has the foreign office in a frenzy. It is a miracle that the matter has received no mention in the papers, and frankly, we would be pleased if it goes unnoticed to avoid embarrassment.”