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

by Jason Vail

  “We will. We should sight it in another day or two.”

  “I and some of my brothers wish to be put ashore.”

  I was sorry to hear this. We were already undermanned as it was. But Wasp did not employ pressed men. They were all volunteers. “I can’t persuade you to stay?”

  “We’ve taken no prizes this voyage, and there’s no prospect of any. We’re nothing but a big merchantman.”

  “Nothing wrong with that. You’ll be getting your wages.”

  He laughed. “Nothing wrong with a regular place to sleep. But we’ve had enough. I’ve had enough, anyway.”

  “Do all the Dominicans want to leave?”

  “No, twenty of us. The others, they like it here. They like the money, the food …”

  “The food?”

  “For them, for us, it is a banquet everyday. And they like the prospect of women. There aren’t enough of them to go around at home.”

  “So why do you want to go back?”

  “I could say I’m homesick.”

  “That seems implausible.”

  He glanced around Wasp with a confident eye. “We have been learning how to sail,” he said, “me and my brothers.”

  “I’ve noticed.” I had, in fact. They had been eager learners, every one of them.

  “We want a ship of our own.”

  “Ships are expensive.” Not to mention the fact that he probably did not have the skill to sail one. But it would have been impolite to bring that up.

  “We have enough between us to buy a small one.”

  “And carry things back and forth between the islands? I thought you didn’t like shipping on a merchantman.”

  Martin grinned. “It is different when it is your ship.”

  “A better life than creeping about the forest and robbing travelers.”

  “That is my plan. I don’t want to throw away what I’ve gained on rum and dice and women.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll put you ashore at Cap-Haitien — if you’ll help us find a coffee vendor. Our supply is almost exhausted.”

  “I shall be more than happy to do so.”

  Cap-Haitien, Sainte Domingue

  February 1821

  Cap-Haitien is a pleasant looking port town on the western side of a bay two or three miles wide, depending on where you measure; pleasant at least from our anchorage in the bay: whitewashed low buildings among broad-leafed trees and above it looming steep, forested hills. From my inspection through the glass, it did not have the run-down appearance of Port-au-Prince, as if it had not suffered so much from the wars and the chaos that followed. But perhaps that was because it was a principal port for the export of what sugar cane was still grown in the north, and had a lively fishing industry besides, as well as being a stopping point for traffic for the coastal trade from Cuba through the Hispaniola channel to the Leeward Islands.

  The sight of the place must have provoked feelings of homesickness in more of the Dominicans, because a full thirty of them elected to leave the ship. The six who remained, as some had been killed in the summer’s action against the Spanish frigate Victoria Rosa, were African in origin and did not have any affection for Domingue, and recalled it as a place of suffering rather than home.

  We did not tarry more than a day, since both Austin and Crockett chafed to reach Texas, and we still had a long and perilous way to go. I never did get that coffee and we ran out soon after our departure.

  South of Cuba

  The Caribbean

  February 1821

  The most direct route to the Gulf was along Cuba’s north coast. But as a ship neared latitude 80 degrees west, the winds and current, which ran westward along the shore giving impetus to the vessel and easy sailing, veered north and then eastward the closer you got to the straits of Florida. This forced a ship to beat against both wind and sea. So while on the map it was the shorter distance, the faster in time was through the Windward Passage separating Cuba and Domingue and along the Cayman Trench above Jamaica.

  There was always a great risk of meeting a Spanish warship, but if we did, we could run, for a time anyway, to the safety of Jamaica or Cayman.

  The current ran gently to the west. But fifty or so miles beyond Cayman, the Caribbean current surged from the south, driving toward the Florida strait into the Gulf. A sharp-eyed seaman could actually tell when he reached it, for there was often a thin line of flotsam marking the edge and a slightly different color to the water; not a great difference, just a subtle change in the deep blue hue of a translucent sea. When we caught that current, we could practically ride it all the way to Galvestown. So, anxious to spot the change, I had lookouts in the tops, and Willie and I paced the decks, competing to be the first to see it. Willie attempted to cheat in the contest by marking off latitude with his log line, muttering over his chart while he did the arithmetic.

  One of the lookouts called down that he had sighted a sail to the northwest about ten miles off.

  “What kind of ship?” I called up to him.

  “Not sure,” the sailor replied. “Two masts, a brig or schooner, I reckon.”

  “Not something to worry about,” Willie said, chewing on the end of his pencil as he regarded his latest figures.

  “I suppose not,” I said.

  It soon became obvious that we would pass quite close to the vessel, within a mile or two, and as we drew nearer, Willie said, “Something’s wrong there.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, joining him at the rail and extending my glass.

  “Have a look,” he said. “She’s got sails out, but their luffing and not making any headway. Just drifting along.”

  “Maybe she’s hove to for some reason.”

  “Been hove to since we spotted her.”

  Just then somebody began waving a white flag, or rather a white sheet, in the bows.

  “Ah,” Willie said. “They’re in some kind of trouble.”

  “Mister Hammond!” I called to the quartermaster. “Two points to starboard. Mister Halevy, trim sail to the new course. And bring us up about a hundred yards to windward of that schooner yonder. Oh, and have the men come to quarters.”

  The nature of the trouble was not apparent as we backed sail and came to a standstill relative to the schooner. She seemed intact, her head pointed toward the wind, held there by her fore- and main sails, which were set, and a jib, all rippling in the luff.

  Even without a glass, the men aboard her were plainly visible. All blacks, some bare naked, others in torn short pants. A few had curious flat-pointed blades. “Cane cutters,” Willie said as he examined them.

  “A trap, do you think?” I asked, wondering if they were pirates. “There are quite a lot of them for such a small vessel.” The schooner by my estimation was twenty feet shorter than Wasp, which put her at under a hundred feet in length; a good sized schooner, but half a dozen men could easily sail a vessel of that size. The fact so many were aboard her was not a good sign.

  “Could be. Want to hail them?”

  “We’ll send a boat over. Mister Crockett — assemble a boarding party! Muskets, cutlasses and pistols. Find out what’s going on.”

  “Right away, Captain,” Crockett said, grinning. He showed no signs that his wound still bothered him, although he often complained about my surgery at supper, especially once after we’d just left Cap-Haitien and I had a roast to carve. “I’ve been getting bored with all this sailing anyway.”

  “Just don’t kill anyone if you don’t have to,” I said, as he turned away, calling for volunteers.

  Crockett returned in under an hour, looking subdued and a bit glum, expressions that he did not naturally display.

  “Well?” I asked as he climbed on the quarterdeck.

  He looked me in the eye, then glanced across the water to the schooner. “It’s a slave ship,” he said.

  He took his hat off and ran his fingers through abundant dark hair. “I’ve read about them, but I never thought I’d see one.”

  “What a
re they doing? Letting the slaves run the thing?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No, from what we could make out, they got free and took it over. The master and the captain are barricaded in the after cabin. They’ve run out of food and water and have no idea how to sail her.”

  “Slaves,” I said distastefully. “Any idea where they’re from?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “If they were born in any of the lands here, they are still property.”

  “The two crew said they are out of Santiago de Cuba and are taking the cargo to someplace called Pinar del Rio.”

  “Also in Cuba. I suppose the crew claimed they were legal slaves.”

  “That they did. They don’t speak Spanish, though. Not a one of them. You’d think if they were born and raised in Cuba, they’d have some Spanish.” He added, “There are four women and three children in the lot. Little children. A girl and two boys.”

  “Fetch our Dominicans. They’re all from Africa. Maybe there’s one among them who can talk to them.”

  Our six Dominicans went back across with the Rangers as boat crewmen. I went also so that I could sort this out without an intermediary.

  There was no ladder and we had to pull ourselves up to the rail in order to board, but there was no shortage of hands to help us, and when it came my turn, the slaves grasped my jacket and hauled me up so that I fairly flew on deck.

  A glance around the deck told me everything I needed to know about the vessel itself. It was a typical schooner not much different from my old Libertad, built for the coastal trade. It was not meant for long sea voyages, although it could make them in a pinch, though no sensible ship owner did so since it did not pay. Nor was it equipped for hauling slaves. The hold was too small to carry the number crowded around us, and indeed, it looked as though many had been confined here, since there were shackles crudely hammered into the deck.

  Two of our Dominicans immediately found kindred spirits among the captives, and fell into a shouted conversation dominated by many voices as each of the slaves talked at once.

  It was babble to me, and I would sort it out later. So I said to Crockett, “Let’s see to the crew.”

  “What remains of them,” he murmured.

  We found them, as Crockett had reported, in the after cabin. Four slaves armed with cane knives guarded the door. They were neither big nor burly, more thin and undernourished; but fierce enough just the same.

  I indicated I wanted a word with the men behind the closed door, and the guards stood aside.

  I rapped on the door.

  A voice from beyond it asked, “¿Qué quieres ahora?”

  I understood that much, although my Spanish does not extend beyond the pidgin that the average mariner picks up from working with people from diverse backgrounds. I said to Crockett, who had a better grasp of the language, “Ask him to open the door.”

  Crockett jabbered at the door. There was jabber back. Then the door opened, revealing a small dark man with a black scruffy beard, and emitting a nauseating aroma of urine, feces and unwashed body. Apparently they had been holed up there for several days.

  The fellow looked me up and down and said something in rapid Spanish.

  Crockett said, “He demands that we give him his ship and his property back.”

  “Ask him if this is a Spanish registered vessel.”

  “He says it is.”

  “Tell him, no.”

  “He is angry and says you are a pirate.”

  “Tell him that his ship and his property now belong to the Argentine government.”

  “He says there is no such thing as an Argentine government.”

  “He must not read the papers. Tell him he is mistaken. Besides, we have more guns than he does.”

  The Spaniard was still fuming as we returned to the deck, followed closely by his mate. The sight of the angry slaves on deck and the Wasp in the near distance should have subdued the spirits of any reasonable man, but did nothing to quell his protests, until I said to Crockett, “Tell him that he has become tiresome and if he keeps up that noise I will put him over the side. Can he swim?”

  “He says that he is convinced now that you are a pirate.”

  I looked hard at the Spaniard. He opened his mouth to say more, but the mate tugged on his sleeve and told him to shut up.

  Meanwhile, the tumult among the captives subsided. They stood sullenly watching to see what I would do.

  “What have you learned?” I asked one Dominican, Maada Oponjo, who had picked up the most English during his time with us. It was still pretty broken and hard to understand, and his sentences often employed pidgin French, but he was able to make himself understood. I will not attempt, however, to reproduce his speech here, as it has become fashionable among authors to do with regional dialects. Such a feat is beyond my literary capacity and my memory, since now I can only accurately recall the sense of what he said, not how he said it.

  “They are Mende people like us,” Oponjo said. “Most of them anyway. Of the Ko-Mende. I am of the Kpa-Mende, myself.”

  “What, if I may ask, is the difference?”

  “They are a different people. They speak differently, although we can understand them if we want to. Sometimes we make war on one another. I was captured by Ko-Mende and sold.”

  “I hope that you do not have any hard feelings over that.”

  Oponjo shrugged. “We capture and sell them ourselves, when we can.”

  “And what about them?”

  “They were captured a year ago and made to work on a plantation in Cuba. Then they were sold to another, and are being taken there. Two of them got free and freed others, and they took over the ship.”

  “What happened to the crew?”

  “They would not say.” But Oponjo grinned humorlessly. He knew but was not going to help. “They are hungry and thirsty, and want to know if we will feed them.”

  I scanned that ring of faces, so tight with anxiety that they appeared angry. They knew I was considering their fate and their lives depended on what I would do.

  “Tell them that I will take them aboard Wasp, but only if they are willing to work.”

  Oponjo put the question to the multitude, and there was a great deal of debate. After this had gone on for some time, Oponjo quieted them down. He said, “They want to know if they will be slaves there, or free men.”

  “Free men, but they must submit to the discipline of the ship, like everyone else.”

  More noisy debate ensued, punctuated by as much shouting and disputation as you’re likely to see on the floor of Congress.

  Oponjo said, “They want to know if they will be paid.”

  “The wages due to any common seaman. And only if they work hard and well.”

  “They want to know what will happen to the women.”

  “Tell them we will find work for them as well.”

  “They want to know what you will do with the children.”

  “I certainly have no intention of leaving them behind.”

  “They want to know what will happen to them at the end of the voyage.”

  “As far as I am concerned, their lives are their own at that point.”

  There was still more debate, and finally Oponjo said, “They agree.”

  He added, “There is one more thing. They want to know if you will kill the Spaniards. They are cruel men. Four of the people fell sick and the Spaniards threw them over the side, fearing they would infect the others.”

  “I will not kill the Spaniards. But I will take their ship.”

  Chapter 28

  The Gulf of Mexico

  28 February 1821

  The next day Wasp found the Caribbean current, and we turned northwest by north toward the Yucatan Strait, swept along by steady breezes. Wasp reveled in the voyage, her rigging thrumming contentedly in air light and warm, the sea as translucent as a stylish lady’s dressing gown; passing dolphin, porpoises, turtles, the deep flash of barracuda and, once far be
neath her, a pod of great leviathans that cruised below as dark torpedoes, surfacing to starboard all at once, blowing tall plumes from their blow holes. This was a voyage that I wished would never end, when sailing is sweet, and all works as it is expected to. We could look forward to eight or nine days of this after we slipped through the Yucatan Strait, sighting only a single sail on the way, a coastal schooner like the captured one that followed us as a dog does its master. Nothing to worry about.

  This did not mean that the men had any rest. We still drilled at the guns and with small arms. I exercised with the singlestick myself every day with Crockett, Austin and Willie, and collected an impressive patchwork of bruises. Austin was actually getting good at it. And there was the never-ending maintenance work of keeping the ship clean and in top shape.

  Integrating the new recruits proved to be more of a trial than I expected. It wasn’t that they were unwilling. The language barrier, with only two men who could speak to them — and then not to all, for not all the new comers were Mende — made instruction almost impossible. But we did the best we could. All I could expect of the recruits is that they would try, and they did that. They took readily to cutlass drill, but as sailors they were pretty useless.

  The children, however, were a great delight to everyone. They were two boys, six and four, and a girl in arms. She was a sickly thing when she came to us, listless and nearing death. But a steady diet of goat’s milk revived her, and within days she was entertaining everyone with her smiles. Sometimes, men would line up to rub her cheeks and provoke a laugh.

  Once the four-year-old went missing and there was an anxious hour when we thought he might have fallen overboard, but one of the boatswain’s mates finally heard him crying in the hold, where he had gone exploring, afraid to climb the ladder to get out.

  The evening of the eighth night after we passed Yucatan, when the steward’s mates cleared away the dinner plates, Willie and I poured over our charts and calculations again. Satisfied that we would make landfall tomorrow, if not before, we went on deck and ordered sail shortened and extra watches into the tops just in case we had made more progress than we figured. No captain wants to run aground in the night.