by James Haley
“Very well, but put blocks behind the carriage wheels for good measure. Just make sure the chasers are secure in place and will not roll back down the deck. That would look very slovenly. Mr. Bandy, does your Republic of Texas have any other ships besides ours?”
“Just one, Captain, the San Felipe, an armed schooner, with about four small guns. She formerly sailed for Mr. McKinney in his trading business, but he sold her to the government. They have contracted for the delivery of four more small ships, I believe three schooners and a brig, but they are not here yet.”
“I see.”
“Now, the San Felipe is a tough little vessel, and her master, Captain Hurd, would sail her across the Styx itself to chase Mexicans. Last fall he actually challenged the Correo, beat her down, captured her, took her captain and crew into New Orleans, and charged them with piracy!”
“Good Lord,” Bliven laughed. “With what result?”
“Well, an American admiralty court could not very well sustain a charge of piracy against the commissioned naval vessel of another country. They had to let her go, but the trial was the biggest circus you ever saw. The judge found both sides in contempt of court and declared a mistrial, the Mexican captain was fit to be tied, and now he’s back out here somewhere, just spoiling for a fight.”
Bliven threw his head back and laughed again. “With two twelve-pounders.”
Sam grew serious. “Captain, there is one thing that sticks in my mind, though. Do you remember at the Exchange, General Austin made a special appeal to the commercial interests to invest their future in Texas rather than Mexico? As reasonable and hopeful as that sounded, I’m afraid he was pissing into the wind. Nearly all the large businesses in the United States—the factors, the insurance companies, and so on—are heavily invested in Mexico, and they are if anything hostile to our cause. We may well be their fellow Americans, but where their money is concerned, take it from me, they don’t care a damn for our rights or freedom. In fact, it was they who filed legal motions for the Correo de México and against the San Felipe.”
Bliven nodded slowly. “I can understand how they could create a nightmare on paper, but out here”—he waved his hand—“out here at least it comes down to powder and shot.”
* * *
* * *
In the morning they were all up at first light, officers in their best uniforms, eating together in the wardroom as Hoover brought them eggs and ham, and pancakes with a sweet cane syrup. There was general agreement that they had done well to bring Hoover into the company. White suggested his intention to run the men through the drill once only in the motions and the second time with live fire, for he was certain that many of their former merchant seamen had never experienced the tremor of a three-and-a-half-ton cannon belching fire before them.
The wardroom’s doors to the berth deck were open, and faintly above they heard the cry “Deck! Deck, ahoy! Ship off the port beam; make her a mile and a half.” Bliven was first up the ladder; Ross would know to bring him his glass and speaking trumpet. It was Yeakel on watch: due to the shortage of officers, the two lieutenants, bosun, and mate all turned tricks at the wheel.
Distantly but clearly they spied a large brig under easy sail, following a westerly course. “Mr. McKay,” said Bliven, “I understood from our conversation yesterday that the coastal traffic would be mostly inshore of us. What do you make of this?”
“May I, Captain?” McKay held out his hand and Bliven gave him his glass. “She is no coaster, Captain. She’s got a full cargo and she’s come a distance, surely has not stopped at New Orleans. I’d bet you money she is headed straight to one of the Mexican ports, Matamoros or possibly Tampico. She is the very sort of vessel you want to stop and board.”
“Angle us toward her, Mr. Yeakel. Mr. Bandy, get our ensign up the spanker boom. Mr. White, I’m afraid your boys will have to have their gunnery drill with live fire on a real target. Tell them to brace themselves. Beat to quarters.”
There was little efficiency to it, but over several minutes the twenty-fours were rolled in and their tompions removed; then powder and shot were brought up from the magazine and rammed gently home.
The brig took note of their approach, for when they were half a mile away she unfurled a large American flag.
They closed further, and Bliven handed Sam his speaking trumpet. “I do believe that the accents of your speech are more suitable to the occasion. Would you care to speak him?”
“Surely.” Sam strode to the port rail. “Ahoy! Ahoy! Good day to you. What ship is that, and where bound?”
Several seconds later a high voice floated back in the prolonged vowels of the Deep South. “American trading vessel Mary Ellen, from Mobile and bound for Matamoros. Good day to you! What ship is that, and what flag?”
From Sam’s friendly hail it was apparent that the brig believed them to be American, and friends. Very clever of Sam, thought Bliven, to draw him out in such a way, asking where he was bound before identifying himself.
“We are the Texas warship Gonzales. Mexican trade is under embargo, and you are in our war zone. Heave to, for we will inspect your cargo.” It was manifestly impossible for Bliven to hear Sam’s voice and not recall his friend hearing that same demand in a British accent in previous years.
“What! I will not, sir. We are an American vessel in international waters. No such country or war is recognized. Stand off, now, and let us resume our voyage.”
Bliven crossed the quarterdeck and stood by him. “Perhaps if we wave our swords around and scream like the Berbers do, he will panic and surrender.”
Sam could not help but laugh. “Who in hell does he think he is?” He put the trumpet back to his lips. “Now listen to me, you son of a bitch. This is the Texas warship Gonzales. You will come about and take in your sails or make no mistake, I will shoot.” He lowered the trumpet. “Mr. White, get the most angle you can on the port chaser. If he keeps this up, we will have to put a ball through his rigging.”
“Yes, sir.” White ran forward to see to it.
A different voice came booming back. “Keep off me, you damned rogue. I am also armed, and I am prepared to resist your unlawful importuning.”
“My,” said Bliven, “what a learned vocabulary.”
Sam turned and saw it was Yeakel still at the wheel. “Mr. Yeakel, you see the position of Mr. White’s port chaser. Come a few points to port and give him a good line on that bastard’s sails.”
“Aye, sir.”
Gonzales heeled ever so slightly upon coming more broadside to the swell. “I am on him, sir!” called White.
Sam put the trumpet back to his lips so the brig would hear the command as well. “Fire!”
The gun’s report boomed with concussion across the water, the fire and smoke jetting upward a good fifteen degrees. Bliven studied its recoil, exultant that between the lanyard pulling taut and placing the quoins in the path of the wheels, the eight-foot recoil left the piece perfectly positioned for reloading.
All eyes studied the brig, to see a hole rip open in her main topsail. “Mr. Yeakel, come back to your course. Mr. White, run out your port guns.” Sam put the trumpet back to his lips. “God damn you, I’m not wasting any more powder to warn you. Heave to, mister, or get ready for breakfast in hell!” Beneath their feet they heard the gun ports snap open and the wheels squeal on the carriages as the guns were rolled out.
For fifteen seconds all they heard was wind and chop, until they saw the brig’s driver faint down the mizzen mast and saw men scampering aloft to reef the square sails.
Yeakel trimmed sail to match the brig and lowered the sloop’s cutter, in it their eight marines, Bliven, and Lieutenant White, with Sam left in command. There was no resistance at the brig, and they were aided in tying on. Four marines ascended first, then the officers, then four more marines. The captain met them at the wheel before the mizzen mast, a squat, musc
ular man with thick hair protruding from beneath his collar; he had very straight blond hair and small, darting gray eyes beneath a single strand of brown eyebrow.
Bliven saluted as he approached and said, “Bliven Putnam, captain—” He was within a breath of saying United States Navy as he had done for over thirty years, but caught himself. “Texas warship Gonzales.”
The other made no salute. “I am Roger Higgins. I was master of this vessel until she was taken by pirates.”
“Not pirates, Captain.”
“I will see you tried as pirates if it’s the last thing I ever do.”
“What cargo are you carrying to Matamoros?” When there was no answer, he said louder, “What—”
“Small arms and munitions for the Mexican armed forces.”
“Will you show me your manifest?”
“Under protest, yes, in my cabin.”
“Your protest will be noted in my report. Mr. White, take two marines and inspect the hold. You two marines, come with me.” They went below only long enough to retrieve the documents and return with them. When White came back up the ladder, he was carrying a Brown Bess musket, newly varnished, the brass work polished. “Look here, Captain, there must be fifty cases of these in the hold, plus powder, lead, and sidearms.” He held it out and Bliven took it.
“Well, now, Captain Higgins,” said Bliven. “I can understand why you did not wish to stop for us. And you will understand why we cannot let you proceed with this cargo that can only be meant for use against the people of Texas.”
Higgins had the most sullen look Bliven thought he had ever seen, his lips thin as a pencil tracing, his gray eyes beneath that single brown eyebrow half-closed in rage. “What are your intentions?”
“You fly a neutral flag,” said Bliven, “so I will not take your ship. However, I am impounding your cargo as contraband of war. Do you stand in any position of personal financial responsibility for it?”
“I do.”
“Then you will no doubt have insured it before putting to sea, am I correct?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. Then ultimately you will suffer no loss and only the inconvenience of a wasted trip—or half a trip.”
“Mr. Putnam, do not imagine you have heard the last of this. I am reporting every detail to the maritime authorities and the United States Navy. I do not believe Texas can send out a ship such as yours any more than if you claimed to have sailed here from the moon. I do not know what game you are playing, sir, but I will have you in a court of law, as God is my witness.”
“Mr. White, is your rough inspection of the hold in substantial agreement with this manifest?” He handed it over.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then use the manifest as your list of what to remove from the hold. You will transfer the entire cargo over to the Gonzales; it will require several trips. I will send more men over to help. When you are finished, please sign a receipt for Captain Higgins confirming what we have confiscated so that he may collect his loss from his insurers.
“Captain Higgins, I do regret the necessity of this action, and I appreciate your cooperation.”
“Who in the hell are you?”
“As I have said, Captain Putnam, Republic of Texas Navy. And please do not entertain any notion to detain or harm any of my crew while they are aboard. My broadside will remain trained upon you.”
Bliven returned to the Gonzales with the first fifteen crates of muskets, carrying one rifle up the boarding ladder with him.
Sam met him at the boarding gate. “What the hell, Captain? What have you got?”
“Mr. Bandy, let us be grateful that this day we saved many, many lives of your fellow Texians. That ship is loaded to foundering with lead, powder, sidearms, and rifled muskets. If they were bound for Tampico, they might have been used anywhere, but as they were bound for Matamoros, we can be sure they were intended for the invasion.”
Sam held the new Brown Bess with wonder. “Oh, God be thanked.”
“Now, does your army have any kind of arsenal where these armaments may be safely deposited until they are wanted?”
“Oh, Lord, I doubt it. In our army each man brings his own gun and melts his own balls. But we can sure make something happen.”
“Well, we can keep them safe on board until preparations are made.”
“We should put in at Velasco,” said Sam. “That is probably the fastest way to get to General Houston. Mr. McKay, do you know Velasco?”
“Well enough to know you’ll never get over the bar. We will have to mind the shallows and anchor offshore.”
When the transfer was completed, they saw the Mary Ellen raise her sails and turn away. “Northeast she goes,” said McKay. “In two days, news of this will be all over New Orleans, you can safely wager. What happens after that, I’ve no idea, but the Mexicans will be mad as hornets.”
6
Secrets
A mighty unusual fisherman it is,” said McKay, “who fills his hold on his first day at sea. But what are your intentions now?”
“To Velasco, with all speed,” said Sam. “Revolutions wait for no man.”
“Mr. Yeakel,” said Bliven, “make all sail, course due west.”
It took six days with moderately favorable winds. The mouth of the Brazos was easy to find, because with the curve of the Texas coast, the latitude of 28°52′ indicated its only possible location, even if there were no coastal schooners to follow. They came upon it early in the morning.
Bliven was the last to the quarterdeck, dressed in civilian traveling clothes of middling quality. He found Sam better dressed, also out of uniform, McKay at the wheel with Yeakel beside him, and Lieutenant White in his best undress blues, his black shoes and brass buttons equally polished, his billed cap with its gold band snugged down; its severely flat top seemed nearly seven feet above the ground. “Well, Mr. White, you look very fine this morning.”
He saluted. “Thank you, sir.”
Off to their starboard lay the Texas coast, low and sandy, topped with thick tufts of beach grass and brush.
“Excuse me, Captain,” said Caldwell as he approached. “I wanted to let you know we are crossing into six fathoms.”
“Very well, thank you. Mr. Bandy, that is the mouth of the Brazos up ahead?”
“Indeed it is. The town of Velasco is a couple of miles upriver, which serves our purpose. We will have been seen by only a minimum number of people. You and I can take the cutter across the bar to the town and find our way to General Houston. We should be all done with our business in maybe three weeks, and we can rendezvous back here with the ship.”
“Well, let us make it four weeks to be safe. It is easier for me to lie low than to keep the ship out of sight.”
“I believe you can drop your anchor at any time, Captain,” said McKay.
“Very well, let go the anchor.” McKay relayed the order, and far forward they heard the clatter and splash.
“I will go below and get my things while Mr. Yeakel gets the boat down,” said Sam.
“Yes, and have Mr. Ross bring up my portmanteau if you would. Mr. White?”
“Captain?”
“Mr. White, I need hardly say to you how much I dislike to leave my command, even in performance of a duty with which I am most specifically tasked.”
“I do understand, sir.”
“I have every confidence in you, and in Mr. Yeakel and Mr. McKay. You will continue the mission to disrupt Mexican commerce and engage any of their vessels that come against you.”
“Yes, sir. At least we have plenty of powder.”
“Ha! You certainly do. Once we are ashore, Mr. Bandy will inquire how the Texian forces can best use the armaments we have taken, but we will keep them aboard for now.” From the midships they heard the canvas being taken off the cutter and the lines made fast. “Keep
a good log, and remember: one month from today, on this spot. We will be watching for you.”
The crewmen pulled at their sweeps toward the coast and they passed over the bar. As the surf line passed behind them the water changed from dark green to a muddy jade. “Just how shallow is this water, Sam?” With the uniforms packed away, there was no need for formality.
“Eight feet, maybe. Less after a flood silts it up.”
Two and a half miles up the stream they made out the wooden shingle roofs of a small but busy town and then, jutting from the right bank, a low wooden pier that proved to be of a pine board framework nailed to cedar poles pounded into the muck. The path was well-worn, but they encountered no one between there and the outer buildings of the town.
Carrying their portmanteaus, they approached an open-fronted livery stable whose proprietor, a large man in his fifties, hurried out to meet them. “Why, Mr. Sam! We were just discussing when you might be returning. Did you have a good trip?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Philpott. What is the news? Have the Mexicans invaded yet?”
“Not that we have heard.” He set his hat, a sailor’s cap of the German style, on his head. “Good thing, too. Word is the government is all in a mess.”
“Mr. Hiram Philpott, this is my friend Mr. Putnam.”
“How d’ye do, sir?” They shook hands.
Sam pointed into the stable. “How is my Ranger?”
“Oh, he had a double appetite this morning, Mr. Sam. Something must have told him you were coming home.”
The dim of the livery stable was not unwelcome after looking into the morning sun. Sam led them straight to a stall housing a blooded stallion, as red as cherry wood, who shook his head and pranced in his place as Sam threw an arm over his withers and heavily patted his other side. “Well, that’s my good boy. Yes, sir.”
Bliven’s sigh was audible. “Oh, Sam, he is magnificent.”
“And smart as a whip. Mr. Philpott, Mr. Putnam will also be needing a horse for a few weeks, something nice and easy that won’t be any trouble. Let’s get them saddled up. Now, what do you mean the government is all in a mess?”