Gone to Texas (25 page)

"You are exhausted, dear. You should try to rest, if you can."

"I will rest later, when he is well."

"Will he . . . be well?" Rebecca's voice quavered with emotion.

"Yes. Do you trust me, Mrs. Groves?"

Rebecca looked deep into Noelle's hazel eyes, and nodded.

"I don't believe in coincidence. I see the Master's hand in this. Your mother came to me for help, and I was able to do something for her. Now, in my son's hour of need, you appear. I feel sorry for anyone who would be so blind as to think this was all luck and happenstance."

"You knew my father. Was he . . . an evil man?"

"He was a good and decent man, but there was great misfortune in his life, and he let that turn him into an angry, bitter, and vindictive person. He was tested, and he failed the test."

"Sometimes we all fail."

"Of course we do, sometimes." Rebecca glanced at Christopher. "But even in the face of misfortune we must learn to carry on somehow."

Noelle placed her hand on top of Rebecca's. "Don't worry, Mrs. Groves. Your son will not die."

Just as they were about to cast off from the landing, a commotion on shore captured Nathaniel's attention. Three Indians had emerged from the forest. By their garb the frontiersman pegged them as Cherokees. The warrior in the lead towered over his companions. He stood six feet six in his moccasins. He did not stoop, as did many tall men who are ashamed of their height, but rather stood straight and proud. His hair was plaited in
a long queue down his back. His face was covered with a chestnut beard. That made Nathaniel take a closer look.

Klesko appeared at his shoulder. "What do you reckon them savages are up to?"

"They're not savages," corrected the old leatherstocking. "They're Cherokee. And the tall one is Sam Houston, unless I'm very much mistaken."

Houston's long strides brought him straight to the broadhorn. He wore a white doeskin shirt, elaborately worked with beads and dyed porcupine quills, yellow leather leggins, and a blue breechclout. The feather of a turkey jutted from his turban of yellow silk. A brightly hued blanket was draped over a shoulder.

Nathaniel met him on the dock. They shook hands and introduced themselves.

"I am called The Raven by my Cherokee brethren," said Houston. His firm-set mouth twitched in a wry smile. "Though there are some who prefer to call me Big Drunk, a consequence of my reputed fondness for strong spirits. We have not met before, have we?"

"No, but I've heard a lot about you."

"And I, you, Flintlock Jones. I have a favor to ask."

"Ask away."

"My brothers and I must cross to the other side. Can you accommodate us?"

"Of course."

"Good. Perhaps we can share a pipe. Cuss and discuss, as they say."

"I have a jug we could share, too."

Houston's eyes flashed with delight. "Now you're talking my language! Where are you and yours headed, by the way?"

"Texas."

"Texas!" Houston said it as one might speak his lover's name. "Then we really must have ourselves a good long talk."

Sam Houson was pleasantly surprised to learn that the legendary frontiersman's daughter was Jonathan Groves' widow. He and Jonathan, he said, had fought many a battle together under General Jackson's command, and Houston had deeply mourned his death. If he had ever known that Flintlock Jones was Jonathan's father-in-law he had forgotten it in the passage of the years. He looked in on Christopher and he expressed most fervent wishes for the young man's quick and complete recovery. It was peculiar, mused Nathaniel, to hear a man clad in such garb to speak English with such fluid and gentlemanly grace.

While Klesko steered the broadhorn across the mile-wide river, Houston's Cherokee companions manned the poles. This left Houston and Nathaniel free to palaver. They invited O'Connor, who was at loose ends, to sit with them in the bow of the broadhorn.

"I came down this river about a year ago," said Houston, gazing pensively at the green water slapping against the hull. "That was shortly after I resigned from the governorship of Tennessee.
Sic transit gloria mundi
. I turned my back on civilization. I swore never to wear the white man's clothes again, or speak the English language. Of course, I do speak it when the occasion requires. But I was firmly committed to living out the rest of my days in self-imposed exile among my Cherokee brethren."

Nathaniel knew better than to ask for the reason Houston had abandoned politics at the height of his career. Who did not know the story of Houston's ill-fated marriage to Eliza Allen? The mystery of their much-publicized divorce had been put to scandalous use by Houston's political enemies.

"I'd spent the happiest years of my childhood among the Cherokees," continued Houston after a long pull on the jug of corn liquor. "They accepted me into the tribe unconditionally. Chief Oo-loo-te-ka—He Puts the Drum
Away—adopted me. It was he who christened me Colon-neh. The Raven. The young braves taught me the green corn dance, the hoop and pole game. I spent many a day wandering along the banks of streams, side by side with some Indian maiden, sheltered by the deep woods, making love and reading Homer's
Iliad
. I swore to return to that life and never leave it."

"What has changed your mind?" asked Nathaniel.

Houston flashed a big, loose grin. "You're a sharp one, Flintlock. A couple of things happened to me on that downriver journey from Tennessee. I admit, I drank myself into an agony of despair, and there was a time or two when I was strongly tempted to leap overboard and end my worthless life. But then came the first omen. An eagle swooped down near my head, and then, soaring aloft with a wild scream, was lost in the rays of the setting sun. I knew somehow that a great destiny awaited me in the West."

Houston indulged in another drink before relinquishing the jug to Nathaniel. "But where in the West? The answer came later, when I happened to meet Jim Bowie. Do you know of him?"

Nathaniel admitted that he did not.

"Ever since that chance meeting my mind has been a blur of dreams and dark fancies of Texas. Bowie was settled there. Married the daughter of a Mexican
haciendero
. They say she is one of the loveliest women in all of Mexico, and one of the richest. Bowie told me all about Texas. He spun golden tales of great riches. 'Texas is a fine field for enterprise,' he said. 'It is a matter of time before she fights for her independence. The future of those who fight for her will be assured."

"I heard rumors that you intended to engage in an expedition against Texas," said O'Connor. "That you planned to conquer Mexico, too, and crown yourself emperor and be worth two million in two years."

Houston laughed harshly. "The rumor-mongers never
seem to have enough of me. Do I look like an emperor? I confess, I live like a king among the Cherokees. That's why I'm still here, and not in Texas with Bowie. Now there's a man who deserves his legend. He grew up on the bayous of Louisiana, riding alligators for sport. It's true! He is the greatest knife fighter in the country. He showed me a most remarkable knife, one of his own design, made to stab like a dagger and slice like a razor. Did you hear about that big shivaree on the sandbar off Natchez three years back? Two pistol duellists were determined to settle a grudge, but a fight broke out between the ten men who were present as witnesses. One of them was Bowie. He was shot twice, and stabbed once in the chest. Yet he managed to kill one man and slashed another to ribbons. What a free-for-all that must have been!

"I am told he has recently fought another duel, this one down in Texas. A man hired three assassins to ambush him. Bowie decapitated one, disemboweled another, and split the third's skull to the shoulders with a single blow of his big knife. But don't go getting the wrong idea about the man. He loves peace, and he is a true gentleman. I am told that on a stagecoach in Louisiana some obnoxious fool ignored a lady's request that he extinguish his pipe—and the next instant he found himself thrown to the floor by Bowie, and Bowie's knife at his throat."

"I bet he put out his pipe," said O'Connor.

"They say the man has never indulged in tobacco since," exclaimed Houston, and they all laughed.

"Are you bound for Texas, sir?" asked O'Connor.

"No, no. Not yet. My Cherokee friends still need me. I am going to Washington, to lodge a formal complaint with the Secretary of War, John Eaton, about those damnably dishonest Indian agents at Three Forks. They sell flour and beef at outrageously high prices, and pocket much of the profit. They introduce strong spirits,
knowing it will make my brothers foolish in the head. I'm not sure why, but Indians just can't seem to handle liquor. Maybe it's because they haven't built up a tolerance for it, like we have." He took the jug and indulged in another massive dose of tongue oil. "Worst of all, the government promised the Five Civilized Tribes a bounty for giving up their ancestral lands and relocating in the West. To date that bounty has not been paid, and I intend to know the reason why."

"Do you think the President will listen to you?" asked Nathaniel. "After all, he played a large part in forcing the Indians to move West."

"He'll listen to me. We go back a long way, the General and I. And listen, he knew that moving West was the only way to protect the Indians. The land they eke out a living on now is land the white man will never covet."

They reached the other side of the river a moment later. Houston took one more long swig for the road before disembarking with his Cherokee companions. He bowed with a continental flourish to Rebecca, shook O'Connor's hand, and then Nathaniel's.

"Whereabouts do you intend to settle once you reach Texas, Flintlock?"

"I have no idea. I've heard the Mexicans are trying to discourage new immigrants, so we may meet with some trouble."

"Their
presidios
are widely scattered and badly undermanned. I suggest you settle near other Anglos. There is strength in numbers. Nacogdoches, perhaps. Or Anahuac. And if you need a few strings pulled, seek out my friend Jim Bowie. You can usually find him in San Antonio de Bexar, down on the Camino de Real. He is not without connections. Tell him Big Drunk sent you."

Houston started to turn away, had a thought, and added with a cryptic smile, "I will see you all one day in Texas. Until then."

With that he was gone. He and the two Cherokees were quickly swallowed up by the forest.

They continued on their way downstream. At Natchez, Nathaniel invited Klesko to take his leave. The riverman had indicated that Natchez was as far as he would go, a condition Nathaniel had readily accepted, without questions. He didn't know if Klesko had a good reason for avoiding New Orleans, or if he was merely intent on partaking of the notorious pleasures offered by the infamous dens of iniquity located in the section of town known up and down the river as Under the Hill.

But when the time came, Klesko surprised the frontiersman by expressing a desire to stay with them.

"You said there are rivers in Texas. I've got a hankering to see them for myself."

Nathaniel surmised there was more to Klesko's change of plans. He had caught the riverman watching Rebecca. He had never shown her anything less than the utmost civility—in fact, he seemed quite shy and almost awestruck in her presence. Nathaniel knew he did not mean her any harm. On the contrary, Klesko worshipped the ground his daughter walked on.

"We'd be glad to have you along," said Nathaniel, and they shook hands on it.

The next day, Christopher's fever broke. He demonstrated a hearty appetite, and was quick to recover his strength, so that by the time they arrived at New Orleans, in the first week of September, he was on his feet again.

PART THREE

The Storm

Chapter 19

The decision was made to remain in New Orleans for a few days. There was much business to attend to. The broadhorn had to be sold. Wagons and mules had to be purchased for the last leg of their journey, overland to the Sabine River. Nathaniel wanted to find out as much as he could about current conditions in Texas. There were people in New Orleans who had that sort of information. The Crescent City was the jumping-off point for the majority of those who were bound for Texas.

He was immediately aware of a difference of opinion among these experts regarding the best route to take to get to his destination. Some were staunch proponents of going overland. Wagons were available which could be floated across the Sabine like a raft—there were no fords to speak of. With such a wagon a person could cross anywhere, or at least anywhere there weren't Mexican border patrols. Then there were the proponents of the sea route. Numerous were the coastal vessels—schooners, sloops, and brigantines—which plied the offshore waters between the mouth of the Mississippi River and Galveston Island or Matagorda Bay. The advantage of the latter was time saved—with favorable trade winds a vessel could make the passage to Matagorda Bay in four days. Besides, these ships were of such shallow draft that they could put in at almost any of the dozens of secluded inlets that dotted the Texas coast. Something else to consider: Lafitte and his freebooters were all cleared out of
Galveston now, and the Karankawa cannibals who had once infested the coast, making life miserable for early explorers, had been all but exterminated.

Nathaniel made the acquaintance of Sterling C. Robertson, who had obtained a colony grant from the Mexican government four years earlier. He was in New Orleans arranging for a shipment of much-needed supplies for his one hundred families.

Robertson took the frontiersman to the pharmacy of Antoine Peychaud, who happened to be the inventor of a drink Americans were calling the "cocktail." On previous visits, the Texas empresario had developed a strong affection for Peychaud's concoction. Served in a French egg cup called a coquetier, the drink was a savory mix of brandy and a blend of bitters.

Nathaniel liked the taste of this new drink. He liked even more what Robertson had to tell him about Texas. Not to worry about the Mexicans, said the empresario. There weren't enough of them to drive the Anglos out. Too late for that. Either the Mexicans learned how to live with the Texans, as the Anglo settlers were calling themselves, or
they
could vacate the premises. Robertson and his people weren't going anywhere.