Paxton and the Lone Star (46 page)

True had heard the stories, had listened when Hogjaw or Joseph or one of the other men brought back the news, and had decided that, all in all, he'd had enough of Mexico. If anyone wanted a war it was fine with him as long as they marched around his land and fought somewhere else. It was early February by the time he got around to going into San Antonio to see and hear for himself. What he saw and heard was a state of confusion beggaring description. Most of those present wanted revolution and freedom, but beyond that certainty, gossip and speculation were the order of the day. The legendary Davy Crockett had arrived from Tennessee with a group of volunteers and was spoiling for a fight. Austin had assigned William Travis to command what army he could muster in the Alamo. Travis hadn't wanted the job—San Antonio had too few soldiers and was too poorly provisioned to make a good place to fight, he thought—but he took it anyway. Jim Bowie had showed up, and the Revolution was such a badly managed affair that he too had been given command. Sam Houston, commander-in-chief of what was loosely called the Texas Army, had sent word that the Alamo was indefensible and should be blown up; Bowie declared that he and his men would die to the last man defending it. Travis and Bowie, both in command, were at odds with each other and issuing contradictory orders. By eight in the evening, True lost the tangled skeins and said the hell with trying to understand any of it. Exhausted, he begged off attending a big get-together in General Cos's former headquarters and retired to Mama Flores's to get some sleep, leaving Elizabeth to go to the gathering alone.

The meeting wasn't the first of its kind. All across the state, spontaneous meetings had been held for months. Views had been exchanged, great oaths sworn. In settlement and city alike, the talk was always the same: of independence, of a new nation, of freedom.

“We hold,” Reverend Kania thundered, concluding his reading to the throng packing the ballroom, “that we are a sovereign nation, and that the bonds of independence from the oppression of the government in Mexico City must at last be broken. And remain so broken, if need be, through force of arms!”

The rhetoric from the latest draft of the proposed declaration from the leaders of the rebellion was what everyone had come to hear. Their souls stirred, the colonists roared their approval with a great cheer that filled the room, set the candles trembling, and jiggled the lamp chimneys in their holders. William Barrett Travis stepped onto the speaker's platform as Kania stepped down. “Talk of war becomes you, Reverend,” he shouted, raising a clay mug of
tequila
in a toast.

The room pulsed with laughter and good-natured catcalls. “The Lord never forbade conflict in the course of justice, Mr. Travis,” Kania replied.

“And justice is our cause,” Travis agreed to general tumult. He raised his hands for silence. “The dancing and drinking will commence as soon as I shut up and step down from here. But I don't want you to forget that the main reason we're here lies on that table.” He pointed to the rear of the room. “Sometime during the evening, stop by to sign the petitions and tell the folks what you can give—a pair of fighting hands and a rifle, a horse or two if you have extra, money, clothing, tack, provisions … we want everything we can get our hands on and we need to know how much more we can count on and from whom. Any questions, I'll try to answer. And now, if the fiddler isn't drunk already—”

“Don't say that. Hell, if Jake was sober, that's when we'd be in trouble!”

The fiddler took a bow amid more shouts and catcalls.

“—we'll start the dancing!”

Jake hit the first chords and swung into a two-step. The crowd milled, separated, and headed for the bar, the dance floor, and the tables at the rear. Mila Kania put her arms around Buckland and kissed him in front of everyone, much to the delight and applause of the onlookers. Padre Salva, one of the many Mexicans anxious to be rid of Santa Anna's capricious authority, joined the applause and shook Buckland's hand. “I'm glad there's one thing we can agree upon after all, Reverend,” he said, beaming his approval.

“Some Reverend,” Buckland demurred, a little embarrassed by all the fuss. “I have yet to finish building my church.”

“It appears,” Salva said, “that God has called you to help build a republic instead.”

The children had long ago been trundled off to bed to leave the remaining hours of the evening to the adults. Earlier, Elizabeth had tried to talk True into coming, but when he insisted on going to their room, had left alone in a fit of pique. Now she knew it was time to leave, but not wanting to face True just yet, she stayed and watched from her vantage point against the back wall with the others who weren't dancing. A small mountain of pies and cobblers,
tortillas
and
frijoles,
and barbecued chicken and goat had been consumed. Off to one side, an argument was raging over which was best for the liver, corn whiskey or
tequila.
A swirl of dancers filled the center of the room, shouted requests at Jake the fiddler and his two cohorts on guitar and accordian. Across the floor, Joseph swung Lottie around and sent her spinning into another couple. Buckland and Mila Kania were sipping punch and engaging in a lively debate with Jack and Helen Kemper. Helen kept her pointed chin tucked against her chest and peered at Mila over her glasses. The good Reverend might succeed in bringing Jack into the fold of humanity, but Elizabeth doubted he would ever extract the milk of human kindness, as Hogjaw put it, from the likes of Helen.

Kevin and Mildred Thatche came by to say goodnight. Kevin was carrying Kevin, Jr., who had fallen asleep upstairs in the nursery set up in General Cos's deserted office. Kevin had grown taller and added weight, especially in his shoulders and chest, which were broad and manly beneath his homespun shirt. At sixteen, Mildred had already lost the first bloom of youth, for frontier life was difficult at best. Elizabeth tried not to think too much about the new lines she saw on her own face in the mirror each day.

A hand touched her elbow. “May I have the honor of this dance?” William Travis asked.

“The floor is crowded,” Elizabeth answered flatly, her mood as gloomy as the winter night.

“The street isn't.” His face was slightly florid from too much drink. “We'll dance there.”

“It's too cold.”

Travis raised one eyebrow. “A beautiful woman can always find a reason not to be alone with a man. It's one of the first things they learn how to do.” He uncorked a bottle of
tequila,
poured some into his punch, and tasted. “That is awful.”

“Why do you drink it, then?”

“It's a soldier's lot to make do.”

“Soldiers,” Elizabeth scoffed. “I'm sick of the word.”

“But it's a necessary one in these troubled times. It's soldiers who'll give us a country of our own, free of Mexican domination.”

“And widows and fatherless children in the same breath. Don't forget them.”

Travis shrugged, apparently unconcerned. “I haven't. But as has been pointed out, we all die sooner or later. Better to do so for a cause instead of accidentally, from disease, or in a senseless barroom altercation.”

That hit home. Elizabeth closed her eyes and, against her will, saw an image of her father, his skull crushed, his mouth agape. “Still,” she said, shuddering, “too many will die.”

“On the contrary. Some, to be sure—perhaps even myself—but not
too
many. There are never too many in the name of freedom. Besides, we have the march on them. Sam Houston's army is forming. Mine will grow. Mexico is riddled with warring factions, and Mexico City is a long way from here. I doubt Santa Anna will be able to muster more than a couple thousand men, and even if he does the coast is being watched and we'll have plenty of warning. He'll need an advantage of at least three to one if he hopes to beat us. Of course, if he tries …” Travis's eyes lit up with a secret fire. “A small war will help our cause, for it will settle the question once and for all.”

Elizabeth stared at him in horror. “You
want
war, don't you? You'll be disappointed if Santa Anna doesn't march, if you don't get your bloodshed and glory.”

Travis looked uncomfortable for the first time. He ran a hand through his neatly combed black hair. “I wouldn't say—”

“You're the first man I've ever met who
wanted
a war. It's indecent!” Elizabeth hissed.

“I think you're beginning to sound hysterical, Mrs. Paxton,” Travis said, trying not to show his growing anger.

“No,” Elizabeth said. “That's not being hysterical. It's being honest. We should fear you more than Santa Anna.”

Travis's voice was cold and haughty. “Our cause is just, Mrs. Paxton. A great many people believe in it and are convinced our way is the only way. I am sorry I cannot convince you—or your husband, evidently.”

“I'm not sorry at all. I'm sick of causes. And the only thing I'm convinced of is that spring will bring more than yellow roses to my door.” She set down the cup she held and, eyes flashing, stepped back from him. “And now, if you'll excuse me …” Angry and frightened at the same time, she threaded her way through the knot of colonists who had gathered to listen, narrowly avoided a collision with Mackenzie Campbell who, arm in arm with a laughing señorita, was leaping and kicking out his heels, and fled out the door into the silence of the winter night.

The north wind pressed against her, chilling flesh and bone. Elizabeth hurried up the street to Mama Flores's
Casa del Rio
and, shivering uncontrollably, burst into the main room. It was warm inside and uncharacteristically quiet except for the subdued interchange of voices coming from the little
cantina
off the lobby. Curious, she crossed the lobby, pushed open the door, and found Scott and Joan Campbell sitting at one of the tables. The stolid, squarejawed blacksmith waved her in. “I thought we were the only ones here,” he said, pulling out a chair for her.

“I didn't mean to intrude.”

“Nonsense, dear,” Joan said with a laugh. She poured a glass of cider from a clay pitcher and slid it across the table to Elizabeth. “We've been toasting February. With the last of the cider we brought with us.” Joan hiccuped and giggled. “It's only fair you should have some.”

Elizabeth had never seen the woman's cheeks so red. “What on earth, Joan …” She tried not to stare. “I believe you're—”

“I am not!” Joan interrupted, squaring her shoulders and correcting a slight list to the starboard. “I am undertaking a very important mission. I am determined to outlast the gentleman across the table from me.”

“I can't believe it.”

“Now, now. I will be the same pillar of earthly wisdom and kindness tomorrow as I have always been. You young people think you're the only ones who are young. Well—” She blinked, considered the last sentence, and decided it was close enough to what she meant. “It's not true. Ruthie and Dianne are asleep. The gentleman and I are alone, and if we want to be young again, we will.”

It was impolite to laugh, perhaps, but Elizabeth couldn't help it. “Joan,” she said, giving her a hug, “you will always be young. Always.”

Joan nodded solemnly. “That's right. Keep your youth, I always said.” Her good cheer faded suddenly and she stared into her glass. “Hmmmph! Might as well take an oath to foolishness. Like my boys traipsing after Travis and Bowie. Ready to whip a whole army, they are. Think their skins are made of iron. Foolishness.”

“The hell you say,” Scott roared, slamming his fist on the table.

“Graveyards are full of boys like ours,” Joan snapped over the rim of her glass. “Good boys.”

“And people like Santa Anna are going to keep sending them there if nobody does anything about it. Right?” he asked Elizabeth.

Elizabeth didn't agree, but didn't want to contradict him, either. “Well …”

“Scott! You promised.”

Scott's anger faded as quickly as it had flared, and a sly, drunken look came over his face. “If you don't want me to talk, then why did you make eyes at me and call me in here?”

“For shame!” Joan exclaimed. “I never—”

“Made eyes at me, she did,” Scott said to Elizabeth, and winked so his wife couldn't see. “Sashayed over as pretty as you please. And the things she whispered in my ear? Lordie and Saint James, they'd sprout hair on a bald man! Even Leakey, God bless him. Fill my tankard, woman. Fill it, I say.”

“It's still full from the last pouring,” Joan said dryly.

“Oh,” Scott replied sheepishly. Suddenly, his cheeks puffed out, he swallowed a belch, and groaned. “Ah, but I love this woman. You know that, don't you, Joanie? That I love you?” He blinked, arched his eyebrows, and looked at Elizabeth. “If you tell this to a soul, I'll deny it,” he said. The words were no sooner out than his head dropped forward and he slumped over onto the table, sound asleep.

The room was quiet while Joan moved Scott's drink out of the way and arranged his head more comfortably on his hands. “Four for him and and four for me,” she said with a triumphant grin. “Even Stephen. After all these years.”

Scott began to snore.

“You mean you?…”

Joan nodded. “Every few years. Last time it was with bergen—bourbon, that is. I beat him that time, too.” She raised her glass in Elizabeth's direction. “Here's to February, my dear.”

“To February,” Elizabeth toasted, stifling a laugh and then drinking.

“And something else, Elizabeth.” Joan looked entirely serious, now. She pushed her hair back from her face, sat with her elbows on the table, her hands around her glass. “I'm an old woman with too much cider sloshing around in me for my own good. It gives me a loose tongue, so you'll have to forgive me if I talk about something that's none of my concern.”