Gone to Texas (33 page)

"You don't think I'm going to make it, do you?" asked Christopher.

"Well," drawled Tucker, "I don't think I'll ever see an elephant fly, either—but I wouldn't mind being wrong." The Texan mounted up. "We'll move on down a ways, so's the column will pass you by. Mebbe you kin Injun-up on 'em from behind."

He and Lucus rode on. Christopher crawled to the top of a dune on his belly. Looking west, along the curve of the shoreline, he saw the column of lancers approaching. Suddenly he felt very much alone. But he was resolved to rescue Klesko, or perish in the attempt.

The column had just passed Christopher's position when the first shot was fired. A pink mist suddenly appeared around the head of the Indian scout loping in advance of the lancers. The Indian pitched sideways, twitched once, and lay dead in the sand.

An instant later Tucker's shotgun roared. With a shrill scream the horse of one of the lead lancers went down. The lancer's left leg was shredded by the buckshot. His right leg was pinned beneath the thrashing horse.

The column was thrown into turmoil—shouting men, pivoting horses. Captain Piedras spun his horse around, barking orders, trying to bring order out of confusion. Another shot—Christopher knew it came from the rifle of the Texan named Lucas. A lancer somersaulted over the haunches of his horse to lay sprawled and lifeless.

Christopher realized that the lancers, while they had a forbidding and very martial appearance, were not well-suited for the kind of fighting they would see against these Texans. They would do all right in a set piece battle, in a charge against a line of infantry, for instance. But unless they could close with their enemy, their lances were practically worthless.

Piedras was a professional. He kept his wits about him. His well-trained troops responded, recovering
quickly from their initial surprise. With lances lowered they charged into the dunes. Piedras lingered a moment to order the two men responsible for the packhorses to watch the four prisoners. Everyone else went into the dunes, and the captain was hot on their heels, the blade of his drawn sword flashing in the sun.

So far so good, thought Christopher. Only two men left behind for him to deal with. There was no reason for Piedras to leave more. The prisoners would not take much watching. All three of the crewmen collapsed, exhausted, into the sand, scarcely conscious of events around them. Klesko, on the other hand, remained standing, watching the lancers disappear into the dunes in pursuit of their ambushers. But there was little the burly riverman could do to trouble the two guards, with his hands bound and anchored to the heavy timber by the rope around his neck.

Christopher heard Tuck's shotgun boom again, farther away this time. The chase was on. The two Texans were going to lead Piedras and his lancers on a merry chase. Christopher wished them luck—and made his move.

While one of the lancers left behind took charge of the packhorses, his colleague dismounted and rushed to the aid of the man who was pinned beneath his dying horse. The former was watching the dunes, where the rest of the patrol had gone. He did not see Christopher coming up from behind until it was too late. His shout of alarm was cut short by the crack! of Christopher's pistol. Christopher waited until the last possible moment to shoot, so that when he did finally squeeze the trigger it was at very close range. The bullet struck the lancer squarely in the chest and knocked him out of the saddle. The reins of the packhorses slipped from his dead hand. The animals scattered. Christopher gave no thought at the moment to the cannon. Laden as they were, the packhorses would not stray far. Time enough later, if he survived, to retrieve the six-pounder.

He had the Tripolitan cutlass drawn. A single stroke, and he cut the rope from the timber. Klesko roared with delight as the razor-sharp blade sliced the rope which bound his wrists together. Christopher moved on, leaving Klesko to deal with the rope around his neck.

The second guard had drawn his pistol. Dismounted, he stood in the duellist's stance and drew a bead on Christopher. A packhorse darted between them. This bought Christopher valuable seconds. The lance of the Mexican he had shot lay in the sand at his feet. Christopher discarded the cutlass, scooped up the twelve-foot weapon, and charged. The lancer's pistol spit yellow flame and white powder smoke. The bullet made a disconcertingly loud cracking sound as it missed Christopher by inches. An instant later Christopher drove the lance through the Mexican. As the man fell, Christopher saw that the lancer pinned beneath his horse also had a pistol in his hand. The pistol spoke. Christopher felt the burn of the bullet. He reeled, dropping to one knee, and clutched his arm. The blood was hot and sticky between his fingers. Just a flesh wound—nonetheless, he felt suddenly light-headed and nauseated. Looking up, he saw Klesko lumber past him. The riverman had extricated himself from the rope and picked up the cutlass and now he fell upon the helpless lancer with a vengeance. Christopher turned his head away as the cutlass rose and fell, rose and fell.

A moment later Klesko was kneeling before him, grinning. His face and clothes were splattered with the lancer's blood.

"Damn it all, Christopher, you're a sight for sore eyes! You bad hurt?"

"Just a scratch."

"Your ma. Is she . . . ?"

"She's alive."

"I reckon I'm gonna have to get religion. I told the Almighty I'd go to church if He'd just make certain she
came through in one piece. I didn't think He'd listen to the likes of me, but I guess I was wrong. How 'bout the others?"

"Prissy's dead. The others are well. We've got to get out of here before the lancers come back."

"Let 'em come," growled Klesko. "I've got a score to settle with those buzzards."

"Settle it later. We're getting out of here. Catch that horse with the cannon on it."

Christopher picked himself up and listened for a moment to the sound of distant gunfire. He could only hope that Piedras and the rest of the lancers had not heard the shooting on the beach. Apparently Tucker and Lucas were doing their job.

Looking about him at the dead soldiers, it occurred to Christopher that this was a hell of way to make a new beginning in Texas.

Klesko managed to catch two of the packhorses, while one of the dead lancer's mounts stood passively by and let Christopher collect its reins. The packhorse that wasn't carrying the six-pounder had its burden of provisions removed and a new burden, one of the crewmen, put on its back. A second crewman was helped into the saddle of the lancer's mount. Neither man looked able to take another step. The third member of the
Liberty'
s crew, who identified himself as John Barnwell, had held up better than his two colleagues. He was a squinty-eyed old seadog, twice the age of the others, but obviously twice as durable.

"You ought to be riding, too," he told Christopher, with a glance at the younger man's bloody sleeve.

"I'll make it."

"Where do we go?" asked Klesko.

"Anahuac. It's somewhere up the coast. I'm not sure how far. But we'd better swing inland. Those lancers will be looking for us."

"I know this coast like the back of my hand," said Barnwell. "Anahuac's about thirty miles from here."

"Thirty miles!" Christopher grimaced. "Well, I guess we'd better get started."

"Just a minute." Barnwell collected the pistols and the shot pouches of the dead men. "In case we run into them bastards again."

Christopher didn't bother telling him that if Piedras caught up with them they were as good as dead.

They moved a couple of miles inland before turning west, keeping as much as possible to the heavily wooded areas. There was plenty of good cover, but it made for slow going. Christopher, Klesko, and Barnwell each led a horse. It was all that Barnwell's shipmates could do to stay in their saddles.

It was a day of unending misery for Christopher, one he thought would never end. Apart from his wound, and the anxiety of being a fugitive on the run, he worried constantly about his mother and Nathaniel. Had Travis managed to rescue them from that island?

Finally the sun dipped below the horizon, and they found a good place to camp for the night, in a clearing deep in the heart of a thicket. Klesko used one of the pistols to bag a wild turkey while Barnwell built a small fire. Christopher was of the opinion that neither the shot nor the fire was a good idea, but Klesko would not heed his warnings.

"We've got a long way to go, and we need food," said the riverman.

While the turkey, impaled on a stick, sizzled over the flames, Klesko took a more careful look at Christopher's wound. He shook his head.

"You've lost a lot of blood."

"It's just a scratch. Don't worry about it."

"I'm worried about it plenty. If I let anything happen to you your ma will skin me alive."

Klesko used gunpowder to cauterize the wound, pouring it from a flask into the wound and setting it ablaze with the burning end of a stick plucked from the campfire. That just about finished Christopher off. Though he was starving he scarcely found the strength to eat. Had anyone asked him what he desired most from life at that moment it would have been a month flat on his back in the heavenly luxury of a feather bed. Even the hard ground felt good. His stomach full, he slipped into a deep and exhausted sleep.

When Barnwell shook him awake it was daylight. Christopher sat up quickly—and groaned. He was stiff as a board, his whole body a solid mass of pain. Barnwell put a finger to his lips.

"Riders," he whispered. "Klesko's gone to see."

Christopher was sure it had to be Piedras and his lancers. But when Klesko returned to the clearing he had Travis and Nathaniel with him. Christopher was so relieved to see them he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He asked about his mother. Nathaniel assured him that Rebecca was fine. They all were, thanks to Travis and his Texans.

"What about Tucker and Lucas?"

Travis nodded. "Worked like a charm. Piedras is running in circles." Spotting the cannon, his eyes flashed with delight. "So you pulled it off, Mr. Groves. Splendid piece of work. We'll bury both cannon, somewhere conveniently close to Anahuac, until the time comes."

"The time for what?" asked Klesko.

"Why, to win our independence, of course."

Klesko felt his neck where the rope had rubbed it raw. "I'm ready for that fight," he growled.

"I hope all of you will see fit to settle near Anahuac," said Travis.

"The Mexicans will be looking for us," said Barnwell.

"We'll find a safe place to hide the four of you, until such time as we can make arrangements to get you safely
back to the United States." Trvais looked at Nathaniel and Christopher. "As for the rest of you, there will be some questions asked, but none we can't answer. Piedras won't be able to connect you with the
Liberty."

"I don't want to go back," said Klesko, crestfallen. The thought of being so far away from Rebecca Groves made him sick to his stomach.

"Don't worry," Nathaniel told him. "We've come too far together to split up now."

"His staying will not be without risk," warned Travis. "Piedras knows his face."

Christopher laughed. It struck him as absurdly funny to be weighing risk after everything they had been through. As far as he was concerned, Klesko stayed, and the devil could take the hindmost.

Chapter 25

Anahuac had been established in 1821, when a Spanish presidio was constructed at the mouth of the Trinity River and made a port of entry for American colonists. Erected on the eastern shore of Galveston Bay, the town consisted of about sixty homes and a dozen businesses. The streets were well-ordered, the buildings stoutly made of timber harvested from the abundant forests in the vicinity. Farms prospered on the fertile black bottomland.

The first order of business upon their arrival in Anahuac was the concealment of the two French six-pounders. They were buried at the edge of a swamp two miles south of town. Almost everyone knew the location, but that was no cause for concern. Christopher soon learned that the Anglo settlers were a tightly knit group. They had their share of internecine squabbles—they were hardheaded individualists, these colonists—but when it came to deceiving the Mexicans they were all of one mind.

The swamp was a place where a Mexican soldier was unlikely to venture. The area swarmed with mosquitoes and poisonous cottonmouth snakes. But the swamp's most fearsome denizen was the alligator. In the gloom of night, when they emerged from their nests to forage for food, their bellowing was a bloodcurdling sound, and a warning heeded by the prudent. In the ten-year history
of Anahuac, several people had fallen prey to these beasts.

Travis assured Christopher that the garrison at the presidio, located some miles away at the northern tip of the bay, had a particularly good reason for avoiding the swamp. Two summers ago, a patrol out searching for a deserter had camped in the area. That night, several alligators invaded the camp, crawling boldly into the tents to seize their victims by leg or arm, then making for the blackwater nearby. One of the creatures succeeded in dragging a soldier into the swamp—the alligator killed its victim by drowning. A booted foot was all that was ever found of the unfortunate man. The other alligators were slain, but one soldier lost a leg and died from the loss of blood, while another lost an arm, an alligator's mighty jaws having snapped the limb off at the elbow. No soldier had ventured near the swamp since. It was the safest place to cache the cannon.

The four men who had been Captain Piedras's prisoners also had to be hidden. A farmer named Dale Strom agreed to hide them on his farm. There was an old, long-abandoned dugout in a secluded corner of his property, which Strom had occupied while he cleared his land and built the comfortable cabin he now lived in with his wife and three strapping sons. Klesko and the three sailors could stay in the dugout until other arrangements were made. Strom's wife would take food to them every day, after sundown, and Strom's sons promised to keep a sharp lookout for soldiers.

Anahuac was a major Texas port, a depot for the supplies brought by ship for inland settlements. A coastal schooner arrived from New Orleans a day after the arrival of Christopher and the others. The vessel was due to depart on the following day, and the skipper agreed to carry Wells, Blackburn, and the other seamen back to Louisiana. One of the sailors, however, was in poor shape, and died the night before. He was buried in the
Anahuac cemetery. The rest of the survivors of the ill-fated
Liberty
departed as planned—only hours prior to the arrival of Captain Piedras and his lancers. That solved a problem for Travis and the other residents of Anahuac. There was no mistaking those seadogs for settlers.