The Red Ripper (18 page)

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Authors: Kerry Newcomb

BOOK: The Red Ripper
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“We are of the same mind, my friend,” Don Murillo said, having observed the big man from the corner of
the town hall. The white-haired ranchero fell in step alongside Wallace while Chuy Montoya, his ever-present shadow, remained a few paces behind the wealthy landowner.
“Sam Houston could talk a noon breeze into a twister,” Wallace said.
“The man is eloquent.” Don Murillo grinned. “He has a great future, in either politics or the theater. Both dramas suit his style.” The
haciendado
stepped around a mud puddle. He had already been, in town and was waiting out the thunderstorms when he heard of Austin's return and decided to remain in the settlement to hear what news the man brought from Mexico City. “You'll catch your death if you aren't careful,” he cautioned.
Wallace glanced down at his disheveled appearance. There was nothing to be done. Maybe Mad Jack still had some of his clothes. It was worth a look.
They reached the Flying Jib a few minutes later. Wallace hammered on the door with his ham-sized fist until it creaked open and permitted him to enter.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Mad Jack remarked. “Hanneke! Best you go upstairs; William's got to strip down and dry his duds by the fire.”
Hanneke stepped out of the kitchen, flour up to her elbows. “I will do no such thing. William Wallace, I took care of five younger brothers; believe me, you ain't got nothing I haven't already seen before. Sit by the fire and I'll have more biscuits and coffee directly.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Wallace said.
She disappeared and then poked her head back out. “Nice to see you again, señor Saldevar. You, too, Chuy.”
Don Murillo and his
segundo
removed their sombreros and bowed in her direction and thanked her for her hospitality.
“He's over there,” Mad Jack said, gesturing toward
the hearth. “I've kept the others from storming the place and plaguing him with questions before he gathers his strength.”
“Stephen will need it if he intends to face Houston's crowd,” Wallace replied. “Sam can plumb work up a crowd.” He stripped off his shirt, muscled torso gleaming in the firelight, hard flesh puckered here and there with a scattering of scar tissue.
Hanneke brought out a platter of biscuits and an enameled tin pot of fresh coffee. She glanced approvingly in Wallace's direction, her gaze lingering on his bronzed torso.
“I take back what I said,” she lasciviously mentioned in passing. No, her brothers weren't anything like him.
William grinned and accepted the coffee and headed for the fireplace only to halt in his tracks at the emaciated figure warming his bones by the fire. Austin by nature was a lean and wiry individual. But he looked as if he had dropped twenty or thirty pounds. His cheeks were sunken, eyes hollow as twin cups, arms like twigs—at least what William could see jutting from the robe he was wearing.
“Poor thing. Came in here wearing rags. I tossed them on the logs,” said Hanneke.
“Santa Anna sets a poor table,” Austin ruefully explained. “But then, his dining room is a long reach from the palace dungeon.”
“He did not listen to your proposals?” Wallace asked, taking a seat at the table closest to his friend. He was not a man to hide his emotions, so his concern was plain to see. Austin shook his head no.
“Not one grievance, my friend?” Don Murillo added, joining them. He placed a hand on Austin's forearm.
Austin mirthlessly smiled. “He had me thrown into jail. I believe eleven, no, more like twelve weeks passed. Then I was released and given that proclamation to take
back to the rest of you.” He indicated a folded water-stained document next to a bottle of whiskey on the table.
“And it is some piece of work,” Mad Jack said, standing with his arms folded across his chest. The ring in his ear gleamed in the lamplight. “Hanneke read it to me.”
“I know it by heart,” Austin remarked. “I read it every night on the voyage home. I never thought I would last the ride from Anahuac. Never.” He grabbed the bottle of whiskey and tilted it to his lips, nursing the burning brew, warmth spreading to his limbs.
“Easy,” Wallace cautioned.
“Nothing will be easy again. Except getting shot,” Austin testily replied. He stared at the document. “By decree of His Imperial Majesty, President Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, the following edicts are become law.” He took another drink from the bottle. In the silence, Chuy Montoya moved into the circle of light, staring at the paper, studying the neatly arranged words that had the power to take his life.
Austin slammed the bottle down on the tabletop. “That's why I wanted to see you alone, William. I wanted to know what you would think of all this.”
“What does the paper say?” Wallace asked. “Go on.”
“We cannot govern ourselves. Any talk of forming a congress is forbidden. There will be only military rule, set up by Santa Anna.”
Don Murillo scowled. “Other states have the right to elect their own magistrates; why not us? What is he afraid of?”
“‘The men responsible for the raid on Anahuac'”—Austin's gaze bore into the big man seated across from him—“‘shall be placed under arrest by General Cos and dispatched to Mexico City for punishment.'”
“Ah hell, Stephen, we only took what was ours. And
we dressed up as Comanche …” Wallace shifted uncomfortably. Austin continued. “Santa Anna has forbidden
norte americanos
to own land or property in Coahuila y Texas. The government has revoked all land grants.” Austin eased back in his chair. “He'll allow us to stay in Texas, but we have no land and no rights.”
“No rights for any of us,” Don Murillo echoed, staring glumly at the proclamation. “We have the right to a civil government, not some military tribunal.” Every official Santa Anna had appointed was corrupt. The army seldom protected them. They existed only to fatten the coffers of an uncaring and remote government.
“Sounds like
el presidente
is telling us to get out or suffer the consequences,” Mad Jack remarked. “Well, there's always room for another cantina someplace else.”
“What are you saying, Captain Flambeau?” the old
haciendado
remarked. “You would leave?”
“Full sail to the wind,” Mad Jack replied. “Santa Anna is just looking for a reason to bring his whole army down on our heads. A wise man knows when his bluff's been called. Isn't that right, William? The young blade and I rode away once before. We can do it again.” The freebooter patted his friend on the shoulder, a paternal gesture toward one who was like a son to Mad Jack Flambeau.
“Let him speak for himself,” Austin said, his deep-set eyes aglow with renewed energy. “Come on, William. People will want to know where you stand. Houston may be the mind of what is to come, but you're the heart. What say you?” He patted the proclamation.
Wallace stared at the carefully worded document. He could sense Santa Anna staring at him through the proclamation, confident, leering, supremely corrupt.
El presidente
wanted him to run, like he had from his brother's murderer. The list of people after his hide was getting
longer and longer. Juan Diego Guadiz, John Bradburn, and now Santa Anna himself.
You can run again,
he heard his brother Samuel, whisper, a ghost in the corner, silent observer, unable to rest.
Or make your stand.
Suddenly Wallace shot to his feet, his right hand a blur as it dropped to his waist, then swept up and over in a violent arc, Bonechucker firmly clasped in his fist. With a loud crash, William skewered the proclamation, pinning it to the tabletop. The foot-long steel blade slit the parchment and passed through the oak surface like a heated knife through butter.
It was an old adage, but in this case never more true. Actions did speak louder than words.
DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE OF THE REPUBLIC OF TEXAS
WHEN A GOVERNMENT HAS CEASED TO PROTECT THE LIVES, LIBERTY, AND PROPERTY OF THE PEOPLE FROM WHOM ITS LEGITIMATE POWERS ARE DERIVED … WHEN THE FEDERAL REPUBLICAN CONSTITUTION OF THE COUNTRY THEY HAVE SWORN TO SUPPORT HAS BEEN FORCIBLY CHANGED, WITHOUT THEIR CONSENT, TO A CONSOLIDATED CENTRAL MILITARY DESPOTISM … IN SUCH A CRISIS IT IS THE RIGHT OF A PEOPLE TO TAKE THEIR POLITICAL AFFAIRS INTO THEIR OWN HANDS AND ABOLISH SUCH GOVERNMENT AND CREATE ANOTHER IN ITS STEAD.
A storm blew into San Antonio on the fifth of December 1835. A storm blew in on the wings of a “wild west wind.” It hounded General Cos from his bed and unleashed a thunder of guns, the screams of the dying, fire and sword and the purifying rage of battle.
Beneath the sun's blind glare, beneath a blue sky cold as the grave, muzzle blasts like lightning flashed in windows and alleys, from behind walls, and along hotly contested streets where an unruly force of Texicans fought their way from the outskirts of San Antonio toward the center of town …
A few hours earlier, William Wallace, Jim Bowie,
Don Murillo Saldevar, Bill Travis, and a few hundred brave souls from San Felipe and Anahuac had been joined by a motley collection of San Antonio's inhabitants. Frontiersmen and merchants, blacksmiths, caballeros, fishermen, and farmers, weaned on the harsh realities of the big country and believing they had suffered injustices, took up arms and formed an alliance with this rowdy bunch of rebels gathered on the outskirts of the town.
Columns of men broke off into smaller groups, approaching from a dozen different directions. Mexican patrols warily observed these disorganized-looking mobs of armed colonists but were unable or unwilling to understand their motives. The dragoons and grenadiers mistook the rebel advance for just so much posturing. It wasn't until the first shots rang out that the patrols realized they were under an attack.
Every rebel had his reason that day.
Many of the Texicans were hungry for a political change. Men like Stephen Austin and Don Murillo were anxious to resolve their grievances and saw themselves with no other options but force of arms. Sam Houston and Bill Travis were not alone in seeing an opportunity to wrest Texas from Mexico; they saw themselves following in the footsteps of Washington and Jefferson. Then there was Jim Bowie, who was always looking for a good fight.
William Wallace lacked animosity and a grand vision of empire. He wanted nothing more then to be left alone to live his life, build what he could, roam free whenever he wished, to be treated fairly and justly, to walk the proud land with honor. Of course he knew a fair number of his hard-case companions had joined the attack because they had a hankering for a drink or two or ten in the cantinas and perchance a romp in San Antonio's “fabled” brothels. What the hell … whiskey and sex were
as good a reason as any to start a revolution.
The advance went without incident for the first few blocks. Then as the Texicans broke up into still smaller groups a troop of Mexican cavalry intersected Wallace's column and attempted to block their path near La Villita, a collection of mud houses, jacals, and cantinas near the south bend of the river.
Someone fired a shot.
Another round of gunfire followed the first. Men pitched from horseback or crumpled to their knees, clutching their wounded limbs. Suddenly a battle was joined and there was no turning back. The storm must play itself out.
THE MEXICAN GOVERNMENT HAS SACRIFICED OUR WELFARE … IT HAS UNJUSTLY INCARCERATED ONE OF OUR CITIZENS … IT HAS REFUSED TO SECURE THE RIGHT OF A TRIAL BY JURY … IT HAS SUFFERED THE MILITARY COMMANDANTS STATIONED AMONG US TO EXERCISE ARBITRARY ACTS OF OPPRESSION AND TYRANNY … IT HAS DEMANDED THE SURRENDER OF A NUMBER OF OUR CITIZENS AND ORDERED MILITARY DETACHMENTS TO SEIZE AND CARRY THEM INTO THE INTERIOR.
A couple of miles downriver, on the west bank of the Rio San Antonio de Padua, Esperanza heard the rattle of gunfire and emerged from her tent to stare off toward the cluster of cottonwood trees concealing the town in the distance. She knew the attack had started and glanced around at the families of the men who had come from San Felipe to join in the fight. They were all neighbors here, friendships forged by a common bond of concern for husbands, lovers, and sons.
“You should have stopped my brother, forbid him to go,” Dorotea said, arriving at the younger woman's side.
“Murillo seeks only to impress you, to prove to you he is still the man he once was.”
“He has never had to prove himself to me,” Esperanza replied.
“No? You cannot see it? And I thought the cards told you everything.”
“Not everything,” said the young woman. “My gift cannot fathom the workings of a bitter heart.”
Dorotea's expression changed. She seemed wounded by the remark, and for a moment Esperanza regretted the utterance. But words failed her. She was troubled by the gunfire in the distance and lacked the will to continue their argument. “You have resented me since the day we met in Veracruz. I know you do not think me worthy of your brother and that the first Senora Saldevar was your friend. But she is dead and buried. Now I am the mistress of my husband's house. Although you will always have a place with us, whether it is as family or a mere guest I leave up to you.” She left the older woman's side and made her way across the encampment to the cookfire around which several women had gathered in a circle of misgiving and concern.
Pamela Kania was there, blue enameled coffeepot in hand. The wife of the shopkeeper was busily serving the other women. Valentina Zavala kept her rosary entwined between her fingers, her thumb moving along the beads. She was able to pray and keep up a conversation at the same time. Her daughter, Isabel, a beauty at fourteen who considered herself of marriageable age, stepped out of her mother's shadow to greet Esperanza as she approached.
“Do you hear the guns, Senora Saldevar?”
“Yes.” Esperanza nodded, embracing the girl.
“Mama is so worried. Both Papa and Roberto are there.”
“I know.”
“But I told her not to brood or lose hope. Big Foot is there. My Wallace.”
“Yours?”
“Sf. He does not know it, but one day I will marry him. And we will have many children. And they will all have red hair and be very brave.”
“And have you told him this?” Esperanza asked.
“Many times,” Isabel said. She could remember the first time she had seen Wallace, riding like the wind, hair streaming, arm outstretched, a pistol blazing as he swept her out from the clutches of the Comanche and spirited her away to safety. In her nine-year-old mind, they were betrothed that very day. She just needed to do a little growing up is all.
“And what does Wallace say to your plans?”
“He laughs.”
“Isabel, do not bother the señora,” Valentina said.
“She isn't,” Esperanza replied. “We are talking about people who mean so much to us.” She gratefully accepted a cup of coffee from Pam Kania. The liquid was black, hot, and strong enough to float a horseshoe.
“Kenneth is safe,” Pam said, brushing a few gray strands of hair from her features. She was a plainspoken, kindly woman whose warmth and gentle demeanor in many ways reminded Esperanza of her own mother. She glanced around at the other women, Anglos, mestizos, pureblood Mexican, all of them Texicans and, with the advent of battle, all of them traitors to the central government in Mexico City.
Children darted among the trees. Esperanza watched a group of young boys with drill sticks in hand enact what they perceived to be the battle. The melee was touch-and-go. Their numbers shrank as children fell wounded, dying, expiring only to leap to their feet and complain that it was someone else's turn. Along the riverbank, soldiers and rebels fell but lived to fight again.
It would be different in the streets of San Antonio. She thought of her husband, and try as she might, her thoughts, however guilty, turned to William Wallace.
Please, Lord, not them. Not today. Let it be someone else's turn.
 
Gen. Martin Perfecto de Cos paced the confines of his quarters as his soldiers waged a desperate retreating action from house to house. One of his lieutenants rushed in to report that the troops had grudgingly yielded the outlying streets and were falling back toward the Alamo Mission. Cos immediately dispatched the young officer with orders to bring the Englishman John Bradburn to the governor's makeshift quarters. He'd been living in the garrison for months now, preferring the safety among his troops to the finery of the governor's palace in town.
Cos sighed and threw open a window so he could listen to the clash of arms. He recognized the din for what it was: the beginning of the end. The official wondered how much longer before the mob was at the gates. It was anyone's guess. He hoped there was time for a civilized drink. Damn if he was going to allow the rabble to get their dirty hands on the last of his brandy.
Bradburn reached the governor's quarters in a state of panic. His worst nightmares were coming true. The raid on Anahuac paled in comparison to what was happening. Thievery unpunished had become an act of open rebellion. He began to say as much, but Cos silenced the rotund Englishman with a perfunctory wave of the hand. The governor did not need a lecture from the man.
“See what my brother-in-law has done? Santa Anna has placed me in a most impossible predicament. How am I to hold Texas when I don't even have enough men to defend this garrison?” Cos managed to fill a couple of glasses with tepid brandy. His hands were trembling. Cos scowled and glared at Bradburn. “See to your dress,
señor,” he snapped. The Englishman struggled to tuck in his shirt. He secured a broad leather belt around his swollen belly. When Bradburn was properly attired, Cos handed him a drink. The alcalde accepted the brandy. Another day he might have enjoyed himself. Today he had the worried expression of a condemned man savoring his last meal. The governor stretched forth his arms, issued an order, and an aide, bearing a uniform, darted in from a side room and finished dressing the officer. The aide took care to smooth the coat about the general's shoulders.
Bradburn glanced down at the brandy in his hand. “Is this why you sent for me, to share a salute?”
“No, señor, I have a most important task for you to perform.”
Bradburn hoped it involved fleeing the town before the Texicans were at the gates. He wanted nothing to do with that mob storming through the streets. He knew where there was a carriage and team of matched geldings just waiting for a man with enough sense to stay out of harm's way. Unfortunately, Cos had other ideas. Bradburn's carriage would have to wait.
THESE AND OTHER GRIEVANCES WERE PATIENTLY BORNE BY THE PEOPLE OF TEXAS UNTIL THEY REACHED THE POINT AT WHICH FOREBEARANCE CEASES TO BE A VIRTUE. THE NECESSITY OF SELF-PRESERVATION, THEREFORE, NOW DECREES OUR ETERNAL POLITICAL SEPARATION.
Gunfire lit the shadows where men crouched and fought and died—gunfire rumbled like thunder; deeper explosions roared and shook the adobe walls as grenades spent their swift fuses and unleashed a ball of flame in the confines of a shop, house, or fortified jacal. Shuttered windows disappeared in a hail of splinters; once-solid
walls crumbled outward from the force of the blasts. Rifles and muskets and flintlock pistols spewed gray-black clouds of powder smoke that clung to the air like burial shroud and carried the stench of death.
A column of vaqueros and Louisianans led by Jim Bowie and Don Murillo Saldevar surged down the Calle Dolorosa, scattering patrols of grenadiers who made but a token effort to resist their attack. Seeing the Mexican infantry in retreat fueled the rebels' lust for battle. They hounded the fleeing troops into the market square, charged across the Plaza de las Islas like an onrushing tide only to break against a redoubt bristling with fresh troops and a nine-pounder cannon firing grapeshot. The Mexican defenders had fortified the front of “Mama Gavia's” Casa del Oro Hotel, a solid sun-washed structure overlooking the market. Its balconies and raised veranda provided excellent placement for the troops.
The attackers dived for cover, realizing too late they had plunged headlong into a trap. The
mercado
soon ran red with blood, as the first volley left half a dozen colonists wounded and writhing in agony. A second blast sent lead shot ripping through flesh and bone, silencing some, wounding others.
Don Murillo didn't need to order the men around him to abandon the attack. The column scattered and sought the meager protection of the market stalls and two-wheeled carts strewn about the square. Chuy Montoya scampered across the plaza, dodging a hail of round shot to join Don Murillo, Bowie, and a half-dozen other men behind a spring-fed well that served as a watering tank for man and beast. The well was about twenty feet in diameter. But even its yard-tall stone walls could not save them. Texicans immediately found themselves peppered from all sides by regular infantrymen placed in the shops, on the rooftops, and lining the balcony of a hotel that overlooked the makeshift redoubt.
Bowie and the others returned fire as best they could, though it was difficult to reload their flintlock rifles from a prone position. There were no other options unless a man wanted to sit up and risk having his head blown off as he rammed home powder and shot.

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