Gone to Texas (36 page)

Klesko shook his head and shoveled more stew into his mouth. Rebecca had a hunch he knew more about the matter than he was letting on. But she didn't press the issue.

"Why didn't you go back to Louisiana with the others, Mr. Klesko?"

Klesko almost choked on the bread he was chewing. The question rendered him momentarily speechless.

"I mean," continued Rebecca, "you must know how dangerous it is for you here."

"Yes, ma'am," he mumbled.

"I would . . . I would truly hate to see anything happen to you, Mr. Klesko."

Klesko swallowed hard and smiled tentatively.

"I know you said you wanted to see the rivers of Texas," continued Rebecca, plunging nervously ahead. "But, really, is a river worth your life?"

"I'm goin' where you're goin,' ma'am . . . Rebecca. And hang the risk."

Now it was her turn to blush. "I'm flattered, Mr. Klesko, really I am. But I simply can't have you risking your life on my account. I . . . I want you to go back to the United States, where you will be safe from harm."

Her words knocked the breath out of him. He gasped, crestfallen.

Somehow Rebecca managed to keep smiling. "I wouldn't want that on my conscience, you see."

"I see," he muttered.

Rebecca stood up. "I had best be on my way. I shall see what I can do to make arrangements for you to leave on the next available ship."

Klesko rose as she turned for the door. "Rebecca . . ."

She stopped, but did not turn to face him. "Yes?"

His voice was anguished. "My given name is John."

"Very well, then. John, I want you to know that I . . . I hold you in very high regard."

Before he could say anything in response she was gone, escaping into the night, into the darkness, where no one could see her tears.

A few days downriver from the colony of Sterling Robertson, Nathaniel and Christopher disembarked the sidewheeler at a town called Arcadia, which was built on a bluff overlooking the Trinity River. Here they met a Colonel Hosea Ingram, late of Kentucky, who recognized Nathaniel and greeted him effusively. Ingram had been a lieutenant in Richard Mentor Johnson's mounted regiment during the campaign against Tecumseh and the British, a campaign which culminated in 1814 in the Battle of the Thames, a smashing victory for the American
cause. Nathaniel had served as a scout for the American Army on that campaign.

Ingram invited the frontiersman and his grandson to stay the night at his home. Nathaniel was glad to accept. He learned that Ingram was now the proprietor of a trading post at Arcadia. In spite of the heavy duties the Mexican government required on most manufactured goods, he fared well in his enterprise. He lived with his wife and two young children in a cabin on the outskirts of town, located in a clearing where a handsome crop of corn was growing. His wife was a cordial and self-effacing woman, the two children well-mannered.

At supper they all sat around a clapboard table on stools. They ate from wooden platters, with forks made from joints of sugarcane, and cups fashioned from wild cymlings, scraped and scoured until they were white. The fare was simple, but nourishing. Christopher enjoyed himself immensely. The talk was stimulating, and the Ingrams made him feel right at home.

"A brick house will stand here someday," vowed Ingram. "My dear wife deserves that much."

"I am quite content with what we have," said Mrs. Ingram as she offered Christopher more bread, yams, and venison.

"Of course you are. But you'll have that brick house. I made you a promise and I shall keep my word. All it will take is our getting out from under the Mexican heel." Ingram scowled. "As a trader I can tell you, Nathaniel, that we can't endure this much longer. The Mexican government has levied a high tariff on everything we colonists need. I'm not talking about luxuries like coffee and tobacco and"—he picked up his sugarcane fork and dropped it on the table with a look of disgust on his face—"silverware, but the staples, like flour. You have seen, no doubt, the primitive conditions of our homes. We have to make virtually everything we use
from scratch. I tell you, they are intending to strangle the life out of us."

"But once they wanted you here," said Nathaniel.

"Yes. To fight the damned Indians."

"Hosea! Watch your language in front of the children."

"Sorry, dear."

"What are they afraid of?" asked Nathaniel.

Ingram smiled grimly. "They fear the inevitable."

"You mean revolution."

Ingram nodded. "That is exactly what I mean, old friend. The British made the same mistake with our forefathers, who were taxed for everything under the sun, and yet possessed no rights, no representation in Parliament so that they might have some say in how those tax revenues were expended. The Mexicans—and the Spaniards before them—used us to tame this wilderness. We've given of our blood and our sweat to do the job, and learned to love this promised land with a passion that might surprise you. Yet we have no voice in how we are governed. We thought this was a republic similar to our own, with a constitution like ours which guaranteed basic and inalienable rights. It's bad enough now, but it will get worse. There is this fellow Santa Anna. Have you heard of him? One day he will seize power. I'm as certain of that as I am of the turning of the earth. And when that day comes it will be a dark day indeed for us. We will have to fight to survive."

Word had quickly spread throughout Arcadia that the legendary Flintlock Jones was in town, and several people dropped by the Ingram cabin that evening to welcome the visitors. More than once Nathaniel and Christopher were invited to stay for a few more days. Tomorrow there would be a wedding—always a huge social event on the frontier, with a big feast and a dance to follow. Everyone would be there. The frontiersman was inclined to stay, and so was Christopher. There was
something neither could define that appealed to them about Arcadia.

Attending the wedding on the following day was a bittersweet experience for Christopher. Greta Inskilling was foremost in his thoughts. He wondered if she had received any of his letters. And would she come to join him in Texas? Perhaps she had changed her mind. That was a woman's prerogative, wasn't it? Or maybe she had found someone else she cared for more than him. Or maybe she was already en route. And even if she did come, how would she adapt to the primitive living conditions here? Would she be content to eat out of wooden bowls and use sugarcane forks and walk on dirt floors—she, who was accustomed to the very finest that money could buy in every regard? Such doubts preyed on Christopher's mind as he watched two of Arcadia's young people promise to love and cherish each other until death parted them.

On the heels of the wedding came the supper, and all of Arcadia showed up at the town's meetinghouse for the occasion. When the supper was cleared away the dance promptly began. The Arcadians made the splinters fly. They "shuffled" and "wired" and "cut the pigeon's wing." Three black men provided the music. One played the fiddle, another the clevis, and the third scraped a hoe with a clasp knife. Several of the young ladies of Arcadia cut their eyes at the tall, young stranger who had come up the river with the legendary Flintlock, wishing he would ask them to dance. But Christopher was too heartsick to participate in the festivities. With all these people around having a good time, he felt as lonesome as he had ever felt. He stood with his back against a wall and watched the others do-si-do. Managed to put on a good front, even though he was perfectly miserable, and nobody but his sharp-eyed and perceptive grandfather could see through his brave facade.

Next morning they bade Arcadia farewell and continued upriver. The sidewheeler had gone on without them the day before, but they hailed a passing flatboat and caught a ride. Three more days on the river were required before they reached their destination. The rivermen were glad to have a hunter of Nathaniel's prowess along. He bagged squirrels, wild turkeys, and a doe, and kept their bellies full.

Sterling Robertson had arrived home from Louisiana a week earlier. He was thrilled to see Nathaniel and Christopher, having already learned of the disaster which had befallen the
Liberty
. All he had heard was that there were some survivors, but he hadn't known their identities. He apologized profusely for the trouble the two French six-pounders had caused.

"I know I could have confided in you, Mr. Jones," said the empresario. "But I had given Travis my word I would tell no one."

"I was under the impression those cannon were for you," said Christopher.

"No, no. For Travis all along. He is a rabble-rouser, that one. I fully expect that when the revolution starts it will be in Anahuac. There are no hard feelings then? Would you have sailed anyway, had you known about the cannon?"

"Probably," said Nathaniel. "No hard feelings."

Robertson had brought the thoroughbreds safely across the border. He described an incident with a Mexican patrol, and was of the opinion that had he not been so well-known and in such good standing with the government the soldiers would have made off with the horses.

"Your reputation may be somewhat sullied," warned Nathaniel. "The soldiers down in Anahuac know that there is some connection between you and the
Liberty
."

"I am not concerned about that. Listen. The Mexicans
aren't any more prepared for war than we. They're having problems of their own south of the Rió Bravo. The government is in political turmoil. But you two have a care with those thoroughbreds. Any troops you come across will like as not try to spirit them away from you. The soldiers here have grown accustomed to plundering Americans with impunity."

The loss of the brigantine guaranteed a hard winter for Robertson's people. Nathaniel promised to return after the first snow and do what he could to help.

Robertson gave him heartfelt thanks. "A hunter of your skill will make all the difference in the world. I take it you have decided to settle elsewhere."

Nathaniel glanced at Christopher. "There's a place a few days downriver we've taken a shine to."

"Yes," said Christopher. "Arcadia. I think that's where we'll be."

Robertson wished them well, and they began their journey back to Anahuac.

Arriving in Arcadia without mishap, they decided to linger there for a while. Ingram was delighted to offer them the hospitality of his home. After several days of roaming the countryside, they found a very appealing spot in some rolling hills several miles northwest of town. There was plenty of good timber and excellent graze, as well as several springs and a year-round creek. Nathaniel liked it, too, because the nearest established farm was almost two miles away. The woods were chock full of game. Wild cattle were prolific, and a
manada
of mustangs frequented the area as well.

Informing Colonel Ingram of their intentions regarding the land, Nathaniel inquired after the means by which they might lay claim to the property.

"Land is cheap enough in Texas," said Ingram. "A half-decent pony would buy you ten leagues. The problem lies in the fact that the Mexicans are not eager to have any more Americans settle here. You have three
options, far as I can see. You can just stake your claim and build your cabins and not worry about the title. We are seldom bothered by the authorities here. Of course, you would have no legal right to the land if someone cared to challenge your possession of it. Or, you could try your luck in San Antonio de Bexar, with the land commissioner, but I believe your chances there would be slim indeed."

"You said there were three options. What is the third?"

Ingram grimaced. "You could deal with Billy Parker and his bunch of rogues. Last year the land commissioner came out this way to survey and make title to the claims of settlers outside the colonies. He carried with him blank certificates of title stamped with the seal of the Republic of Mexico. All they lacked were a description of the land and the signature of the commissioner. Unfortunately for the commissioner, he lusted after the wife of one of his attaches, who soon turned up dead. Of course, the commissioner was the prime suspect in the murder, and he was arrested. He has since bought himself out of that dilemma. But his blank certificates fell into the hands of several enterprising and, may I say unscrupulous, gentlemen. They bribed an old Spaniard who had once worked as a government clerk to forge the commissioner's signature on the blanks, and now they are doing a brisk business in the counterfeits. Billy Parker is one of the men involved. A pure scapegrace, that fellow. A scoundrel of the first water. But you could acquire a certificate for that property. I have no doubt on that score."

Christopher knew his grandfather was as honest as the day was long, and fully expected Nathaniel to discard that third option out of hand. But he was surprised when Nathaniel asked Ingram what such a transaction would cost.

"Do you possess any hard money?"

"None to speak of."

"I daresay it will cost you one of those splendid thoroughbreds, then, and that regardless of whether you deal with Billy Parker or the land commissioner. You see, when you deal with a government official you must have something of value with which to bribe him. The land itself will cost you nothing. The title to it
will
cost you, if you catch my meaning."

Nathaniel and Christopher talked it over. The next day the frontiersman showed Ingram a letter which Christopher had penned.

"Bowie!" exclaimed Ingram. "You are acquainted with Jim Bowie?"

"We've never met," said Nathaniel. "But Sam Houston suggested we look Bowie up if we were ever in need."

"Good heavens, yes! Bowie knows all the right people. If anyone can get it done for you, he's the man. Here, I will see to it that this letter reaches him."

"Thank you. In the meantime, Christopher and I will return to Anahuac to get my daughter. I was wondering if we could leave the horses in your care."

"A wise decision," said Ingram with a vigorous nod. "Piedras and his bunch, eh?"

"Yes."

They left that very day, taking passage down the river aboard the same sidewheeler which had transported them north from Anahuac a fortnight before. Christopher was enthusiastic about the future, and dreaming big dreams. They would build his mother a cabin, and then one for him and Greta a mile or two away atop those rolling hills. As for Nathaniel, the frontiersman made it clear he did not require a cabin of his own. He would be away most of the time, hunting and exploring. If he had a cabin it would always seem empty to him without Amanda. It came home to Christopher then—and it was a sobering thought indeed—that one day his grandfather
would disappear into the wilderness and never return. No headstone for Nathaniel Jones. That wasn't his style.