Текст книги "The Black Jacks"

Автор книги: Jason Manning

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Much to Smith's amazement, Stewart emerged onto the Tremont's veranda on the morning of the third day in his uniform. All heads turned. The eyes of the young women present gleamed with admiration. The major cut a fine figure in his scarlet shell jacket. His white overalls were trimmed with a broad scarlet stripe. The shako on his head was covered with white quilted calico, and the laced crossbelt was gold lace with a scarlet train and silver "furniture'' and the cipher VR in honor of Great Britain's young Queen Victoria. A saber dangled from one of his belt slings.

Smith took Stewart aside. "Really, Major, what are you trying to accomplish? I thought your plan to remain incognito was a very prudent one."

Stewart laughed at the consternation on the doctor's face. "Don't worry, Ashbel, old chap. I've tested the waters and I believe them to be safe. Discounting a few remarks by Irish wharf rats, I haven't heard a harsh word spoken about Englishmen since I arrived. Besides, I feel peculiar out of uniform.''

"Well," said Smith, dubious, "what's the itinerary for today?"

"I would like to venture into the interior, if you don't mind. Your island is truly delightful. These warm sea breezes remind me of my sojourn in Tahiti. But I must confess I'm curious to see one of your cotton plantations."

Desperation could breed inspiration; a wonderful idea sprang full-blown into Ashbel Smith's mind and he seized it as a drowning man would clutch at a lifeline.

"Would a sugar plantation suffice, Major? One of Sam Houston's most trusted lieutenants lives along the Brazos. A place called Grand Cane. We would be welcome there, I'm sure. I think you'd get along famously with Captain McAllen."

"Splendid," said Stewart, enthusiastic. "Let's be off, then."

Chapter Twelve

John Henry McAllen greeted Ashbel Smith and Major Stewart with all the courtesy one could have asked for, and yet Smith's conscience got the better of him, and when the first opportunity came to get McAllen alone he made profuse apologies.

"I realize this must be a great inconvenience, John Henry, but I must confess that my funds are nearly exhausted. I simply can't afford to play host to the major any longer."

"Don't concern yourself with that. He is welcome to stay here as long as he wishes. In fact, this works out quite well. Only yesterday I received a letter from the general. He and his bride should arrive in Texas any day now, and he intends to bring her up this way. Perhaps Major Stewart can wait for him here."

"Wonderful! What else did the Old Chief say in his letter?"

"That he had decided to challenge Lamar for the presidency."

Ashbel Smith's eyes lit up. "So he has finally committed himself!" He knew Houston well enough to be assured that once the man said he was going to do something there would be no turning back. "Good! As soon as I return to Galveston I shall proceed to organize our forces there. It will be a hard-fought contest, John Henry, but I am confident of victory. Texas will be saved."

"From Lamar, perhaps. But what about the Comanches?"

That sobered Smith. "Any word yet as to what they may be up to?"

Frowning, McAllen shook his head. "It's quiet all along the frontier. Not a single raid, as far as I know."

"And that worries you?"

"Yes. Very much so. This time of year they are usually stirring up trouble here and there. But so far this year—nothing."

That evening, at dinner, Stewart wore his uniform, and in noticing the beguiled expression on Leah McAllen's face as she gazed at the dashing British officer, Ashbel Smith began to regret all over again his decision to bring the major to Grand Cane. What a fool he was! He should have foreseen that a woman with Leah's weakness could scarcely resist such a temptation. Chagrined, Smith watched McAllen, but their host seemed not to be aware of Leah's preoccupation with their guest. The doctor was sure, nonetheless, that McAllen was very much aware of what was going on. Precious little escaped the notice of John Henry McAllen.

"So tell me, Major," said McAllen, when their dinner plates had been cleared away by Bessie, and old Roman had brought them brandies and Havana cigars. "What brings you to Texas?"

"Just visiting, Captain."

"Nonsense. You're here on behalf of your government, in an unofficial capacity."

Smith tried not to smile. Good old John Henry! As blunt and tactless as ever. Stewart would be hard-pressed to remain elusive as to his true purpose in Texas as long as he stayed under McAllen's roof.

Stewart smiled wryly at his host. "Well, I suppose there can be no harm in divulging the truth to you, sir. After all, as I understand it, you are one of Houston's most trusted associates."

Smith gaped at the Britisher. He'd been trying for days to pin down the evasive Stewart, and here the man was capitulating to McAllen with scarcely a fight!

Stewart leaned forward with a melodramatic air of conspiracy. "I tell you this, gentlemen, in the utmost confidence. My government is gravely concerned about the direction President Lamar is leading this republic."

"If you only knew!" exclaimed Smith.

"I do not refer to his economic policies, or to those pertaining to your aborigines."

"Aborigines?" Leah giggled and then, embarrassed, touched her lips with a finger. "Oh, I'm so awfully sorry. It's just that I have never heard them referred to in that manner."

Smith noted that McAllen glanced at his wife with exasperation etched upon his face, but Major Stewart's smile was tolerant.

"Perhaps I should say redskins. Isn't that what you call them out here?"

"Or red devils, red heathens, and red niggers," said Ashbel Smith. "Take your pick. None of them are very complimentary."

Stewart nodded. "We have had our share of difficulties with the indigenous populations of the empire. But back to Lamar. My government, frankly, does not approve of his schemes to conquer Santa Fe and California."

"Isn't that because the province of California serves as collateral for the loans Great Britain has made to the Republic of Mexico?" asked McAllen.

"You are well informed, Captain. But no, that is not the reason. Our chief concern is to maintain peace, or more precisely, to avoid war. We have a very profitable trade arrangement with Mexico, as well as other countries to the south. And war is extremely bad for business."

"You Englishmen fight wars for economic reasons, don't you?" asked Smith. "After all, the Opium War is all about keeping lucrative markets open."

"Precisely," replied Stewart. "You remember our discussion about your rebellion back in 1776?"

"I prefer to think of it as a revolution. Rebellion sounds . . . ignoble."

"The point is, my country decided there was no profit in keeping the colonies under its thumb. They were awfully expensive to maintain."

"Which is why you levied such onerous taxes on our forefathers," suggested McAllen. "The yoke grew too heavy for them to bear."

"But let us return to the subject at hand. Lamar is a dangerous man. One of my reasons for being here is to determine precisely how serious he is about launching an invasion of Mexico's northern provinces."

"He must deal with the Comanches first," said McAllen. "Besides, with any luck, Sam Houston will again be president by this time next year."

"That, I am sure," replied Stewart smoothly, "is something devoutly to be wished."

He spoke no more on the object of his visit to Texas. The conversation veered to a comparison of McAllen's experiences in war with the Seminoles and Comanches, and Stewart's adventures with the Maori of New Zealand—the Maoris had just begrudgingly recognized British sovereignty in the Treaty of Waitanga—and the Tamils of Malaysia, who had in the past frowned upon a British presence in Malacca and Singapore. Finally, after his second glass of brandy, Stewart excused himself and retired to his room.

The next morning, Ashbel Smith came downstairs to find McAllen on the veranda, discussing plantation affairs with Jeb, the black overseer. Old Roman had just carried out a tray with a carafe of coffee, and Smith poured himself a cup and breathed deeply of the fresh morning air. It promised to be a warm, sunny spring day. Mockingbirds performed their amazing repertoire from the branches of the trees which lined the lane connecting the house to the river road at the base of the bluff, while finches darted through the hedge of Cherokee rose. A crew was working in the sugarcane field, removing the weeds which threatened the young sprouts.

Finished with Jeb, McAllen joined Smith on the veranda. "Is our Englishman sleeping in this morning?" asked the physician.

"Oh, no," replied McAllen dryly. "He's gone riding—with Leah."

Smith almost choked on his coffee. He peered warily at McAllen, trying to judge the man's mood. But it was useless—McAllen gave nothing away. Sam Houston's words rang loud in Smith's ears: "He is, by all accounts, a dashing beau sabreur, and will no doubt be quite popular with the ladies." I am an idiot, Smith decided.

"Well, what do you make of Major Stewart?" he asked, as lightheartedly as he could manage.

"He isn't telling the whole truth regarding his reasons for coming to Texas."

"What do you think he's hiding?"

"I think he's here to persuade the general that remaining independent of the United States is the best course of action for Texas. The British want a buffer between the United States and Mexico. Preferably one free of slavery."

Smith mulled this over as he took a sip from his coffee cup. "While it's true that the Old Chief has Tom Blue and Esau, he is not much for slavery as an institution. But he's no abolitionist, either. I just don't understand why the British are so set against slavery. Oh, I know they've abolished it in their empire, but without slaves the South could not produced the cotton which feeds British textiles. It is my impression that the cotton industry, in the production of both yarn and finished cloth, is the life's blood of the British factory system. I would think it employs at least a half million workers—who would be out of work without raw Southern cotton."

McAllen nodded. He was vaguely familiar with the course of abolitionism in Great Britain. Slavery had been outlawed throughout the British domains in 1833, the triumphant culmination of a long campaign by religious and philanthropic groups. The British government had been in a reformist mood; in that same period, factory reform and a new "poor law" had been passed, designed to make working conditions less horrific in the first case, and to provide more generous care for the aged and unfit in the last. And though Parliament had authorized a special fund of twenty million British pounds to compensate slave owners whose slaves would be emancipated by government mandate, implementation of emancipation had been blocked by the Jamaican planters and had resulted in the mass migration of disgruntled Boer farmers from the Cape Colony. The "Great Trek" of the hardy Boers had taken them into Natal, where they had formed a republic, and where they were having no little trouble persuading the proud Zulus to labor in Boer fields.

"It may be," he told Smith, "that in this case the British government must choose between high principles and protecting the fifty million pounds sterling which their money men have invested in Mexico."

Smith sighed. "I just don't believe Houston will seriously entertain an allegiance with the British. He has his heart set on annexation, I am sure of it. For one thing, he would never be able to look old Andy Jackson in the eye if he tied an independent Texas to Great Britain. You know how Old Hickory feels about the redcoats!" Smith shook his head. "No, John Henry, I think the Old Chief is going to pretend to court the British, just to grab the attention of those pettifoggers in Congress. I would very much like to sit back and watch him spar with Major Stewart. Perhaps I will be able to join him when he comes here."

"You know my door is always open to you, Ashbel."

From the vantage point of the veranda, high on the bluff overlooking the Brazos, Ashbel Smith could see a good portion of the river road where it skirted McAllen's cultivated fields, and now he spotted two riders whom he surmised were Stewart and Leah McAllen. An alarming thought came to him.

"John Henry, please remember that the Old Chief would not want any harm to come to our English guest."

McAllen gave him a funny look and then burst out laughing. Smith was startled. He had seldom known his friend to laugh like this. In fact, of late McAllen had scarcely cracked a smile.

"Really, now, Ashbel, what kind of host do you take me for?"

"It's only that—"

McAllen grew serious. He put a hand on the doctor's shoulder. "Don't concern yourself on that score. Major Stewart will come to no harm by my hand. Now follow me. Let's get out of here before they return. I know you want to be on your way back to Galveston, and I have it in mind to visit a friend in Grand Cane."

Ashbel Smith was perplexed as he accompanied McAllen to the stables behind the house, followed as always by the ubiquitous Joshua. Where Stewart was concerned, Leah's behavior had not yet overstepped acceptable bounds, but Smith was certain it was merely a matter of time. She would be incapable of resisting the British officer if he proved so bold as to give her the slightest encouragement—and Smith doubted that the major would abide by any rules of proper conduct in that regard. Stewart struck him as a man who played by his own rules and liked nothing better than to thumb his nose at society. As for McAllen, the man knew his wife far too well to expect her to behave like a faithful wife should. Smith had the impression that McAllen was hiding something up his sleeve. It seemed to the physician as though his friend almost wanted an indiscretion to occur. But how could that be? McAllen was too proud to court the role of cuckold.

Chapter Thirteen

McAllen rode with Ashbel Smith as far as the Grand Cane ferry operated by Cedric Cole, an attenuated, yellow-haired Scotsman who had been a member of the Black Jacks from their first campaign against the Florida Seminoles. Cole seldom spoke more than a dozen words on any given day, and his perpetually dour expression made it seem as though he nursed a grudge against the world and everyone in it. But McAllen knew that, in Cole's case, at least, looks were deceiving. Cole was a man who had proven he could be relied upon in a scrape, and he would have gladly laid down his life for McAllen or any one of his fellow Black Jacks without a moment's hesitation.

After saying his farewells to Smith, McAllen turned to Cole and told him he was calling for a meeting of the Black Jacks at Yancey's cabin in an hour's time. Cole answered with a curt nod and began to haul on the towline, carrying Ashbel Smith to the eastern bank of the Brazos River.

McAllen and Joshua rode up to the Torrance cabin. The rhythmic ringing of a blacksmith's hammer on iron stopped as they appeared, and McAllen saw Brax in the smitty, watching them. He got the distinct impression that Yancey's boy wasn't overjoyed to see him.

Such was not the case with Yancey, who always greeted McAllen like a long-lost brother. McAllen told him he wanted as many Black Jacks as could attend a meeting to congregate at the cabin in an hour's time. Hearing this, Yancey grew solemn. "This has to do with the Comanches, doesn't it?" McAllen said that it did. "I'll send Brax into town," replied Yancey, and went out to the smitty. When he returned, McAllen asked idly after Emily's whereabouts. She was down at the river, replied Yancey, supposedly checking the trotline for any catfish foolish enough to get themselves caught on a Torrance hook, but more likely sitting on a log lost in daydreams.

"Were I you," said McAllen, "I wouldn't let the women stray too far alone, at least for the time being."

Yancey nodded. "Aye, you're right as rain, John Henry. I'll—"

"I'll go get her," said McAllen.

Ordering Joshua to stay behind, he walked down to the Brazos. He wanted to be alone with Emily. Just as Yancey had suspected, she was sitting on a log that jutted out into the river, splashing the water with her bare feet as she gazed at the sunlight scintillating off the ripples and roils of the river's surface. McAllen moved quietly through the trees—it was second nature for him to move like a cat stalking prey—and she wasn't aware of his presence until he was almost upon her.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, and jumped off the log to stand in the shallows, the hem of her homespun skirt swirling around pale, slender calves. "Captain McAllen! I didn't hear you—"

"I'm sorry if I startled you. I came down to make sure you were all right."

"Thank you." Self-consciously, she brushed tangled auburn hair away from her cheek, wishing she had known McAllen was coming by to visit. She looked a mess, and had she known, she could have brushed out her hair and donned the Sunday calico dress.

"It is I who should thank you, Emily."

"What ever for?"

McAllen reached into the pocket of his coat and took out a handkerchief. This he unfolded to reveal the wildflower which she had secreted in his clothing weeks ago. Emily blushed furiously and could not look into his eyes.

"Oh, that," she said thickly, as though the act had been of so little consequence that she had completely forgotten about it.

For a moment McAllen was silent, and as Emily chanced a darting, sidelong glance at him, she saw that he was staring at the flower with an odd, indecipherable expression.

"No one has ever given me anything like this before," he said at last, and looked up to capture her gaze with his own.

Emily felt her heart beating like the wings of a hummingbird against her rib cage as a curious warmth diffused itself through her whole body. She didn't know what to say, afraid to say anything lest it be the wrong thing. McAllen stared at her a moment longer and then it seemed to her as though he abruptly made up his mind about something. Refolding the handkerchief with the flower still in it, being very careful as though the flower were some holy relic, he put it back into his pocket.

"You ought not to go too far from the house alone," he said.

"Why not?"

"I'm sure your father has told you about what happened in San Antonio."

"I'm just glad you weren't hurt." She added hastily, "And Uncle Yancey and Dr. Tice, too."

"Thing is, the Comanches are bound to strike back. And I don't want you getting hurt, Emily. So, for the time being, you'd be doing me a big favor if you stay within sight of the house when you're alone."

"I'll do anything you ask."

He glanced up and down the river. A wistful smile touched the hard lines of his face. "I know that's asking a lot. This is a beautiful place, and it's my favorite time of the year."

"Mine, too."

"Been a long, cold winter."

"The water's still a little cold. . . ."

He held out his hand to help her from the river, and the touch of his fingers sent an electric jolt through her body. Even when he relaxed his grip she held on tight.

"Captain. . ."

"If you're going to give me flowers you might as well call me John."

She blushed and wondered if she was dreaming, and thought she ought to pinch herself, but then decided not to, because if she was dreaming it was the most wonderful dream she'd ever had, and she didn't want to wake up, ever again.

"I just wish . . ." Suddenly she lost her nerve and blushed furiously.

"I wish things could be different, too," he said, reading her mind. That was easy, because they were of the same mind. "But we can't always have what we want, at least not right away."

Emily's hopes were dashed. Sensing her dismay, McAllen pulled her closer.

"Emily, in time things will be different. Please try to understand. I made a horrible mistake. Now I must try to undo what I've done. If you could just see your way clear to . . ."

They heard someone coming through the trees, and McAllen let go of her hand, and she took a discreet step away from him as Braxton Torrance came into view. He frowned at McAllen, and then, as he glanced suspiciously at Emily and saw the high color in her cheeks and the bright, slightly dazed look in her eyes, his frown deepened into a scowl.

"I just come back from town, Captain McAllen," he said. "Thought I'd wander down here and make sure nothing was . . . wrong."

McAllen smiled. "No, nothing's wrong. I was just asking Emily not to go off alone for the time being. Until we know what the Comanches are up to."

"Don't you worry about her, Captain. You can count on me to watch out for her."

McAllen looked at Emily. She looked down at her wet feet, at the black river mud between her toes.

"You do that, Brax," he said quietly. "I don't want anything to happen to her."

"Neither do I," countered Brax. "I aim to marry this gal someday soon."

"Braxton Torrence!" exclaimed Emily, aghast.

He looked as innocent as a baby. "You mean you ain't told the captain how we plan to get hitched?"

"We've planned no such thing!" she cried, her eyes pleading with McAllen to believe her. But McAllen was impassive. In despair, she fled up the slope in the direction of the cabin.

Brax gave McAllen a long, speculative look. "I am gonna marry her, Captain," he said, with a trace of belligerence.

McAllen nodded. "Well," he said, and that was all. He turned away and followed Emily to the cabin. By the time he got there Emily had sought refuge in her room. McAllen settled down on the porch with Yancey. They shared a jug of corn liquor and McAllen fired up a Cuban cigar, and they waited for the Black Jacks to answer their captain's summons.

They arrived in twos and threes or alone, and it wasn't long before all of them were present and accounted for. Cedric Cole had left his ferry, and Will Parton his church. George Scayne had put his wife in charge of the store, and A. G. Deckard had done the same with his tavern. Dr. Tice was there, of course. The last to come were those who owned farms on the outskirts of town—they arrived on horseback or, in a couple of cases, in wagons. But within the hour they were congregated in front of Yancey's cabin, some standing, others sitting on their heels, all watching Captain McAllen with a grim and silent intensity. They knew what their captain had to say would be important. He would not have wasted their time if it weren't.

When he was sure all twenty-one of them were present, McAllen stood up and stepped to the edge of the porch.

"I guess by now you've all heard about the Council House fight. Well, it wasn't much of a scrape, really, as scrapes go. Thirty Comanche chiefs rode in to talk peace, and most of them never rode out again. There were two companies of Texas Rangers there, and when the shooting started they didn't waste any time—they got to work doing what they do best."

"How did the trouble get started, Captain?" asked Deckard, the one-armed tavern keeper.

"I'm not sure. I've heard a lot of different stories. And I don't guess it matters much now. What's done is done. There may never have been any real hope for peace with the Comanches. Maybe it was inevitable that we fight them to the bitter end. But the last thing we need right now is a war with them. And I believe that's what we've got now, gentlemen. A long and bloody war."

"United, the tribes of Israel were unbeatable," said Will Parton, the preacher. "Divided, they fell on hard times. You reckon all the different Comanche bands will join forces?"

"I do," replied McAllen. "If this doesn't persuade them to put their petty rivalries aside and fight together, then nothing will. I also assume they will strike before too much longer. They can't make war all through the summer. They've got to hunt the buffalo, so that there's food enough for their families come winter.

"I've called you all here to go over the plans we made a long time ago, in case of an Indian attack in force on the settlement. The most important thing is to get the women and children across the river on Cedric's ferry. The Comanches would have to go fifty miles north to find a place to ford the Brazos, so if our people can get to the east bank they should be safe enough. That means we must make sure we have warning in time to get this done. I also suggest caching some weapons and food across the river. If worse comes to worst, there may not be a Grand Cane to come back to when it's all over."

"That's a good idea," said one of the Black Jacks, and a murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.

"They'll come from the west or the north," surmised McAllen. "They always do. So keep your eyes open and your weapons close at hand. Our job will be to hold them up long enough for our people to get across the river."

The men nodded. They knew without asking that if it was humanly possible, McAllen would join them as soon as he got his own people at the Grand Cane plantation across the Brazos to safety.

That was all McAllen had to say. Most of the Black Jacks went back to their work. A few lingered awhile to talk things over. McAllen declined Yancey's invitation to stay for dinner. He was sorry to see nothing more of Emily, but he thought it the wiser course to take his leave. Reluctantly, he mounted up and rode back to the plantation.

Taking Jeb aside, he told his overseer that in all likelihood there would be a Comanche raid, and soon. This was all he had to say; Jeb knew what to do in that eventuality. There were several boats down at the landing, and the overseer was well aware that it was his responsibility to get all the slaves—and Mrs. McAllen—down to those boats and to the other side of the river. The captain and Joshua would be busy trying to hold off the Indians if there was an attack on the plantation.

McAllen found the big house empty, so he walked out back to the kitchen. Bessie and Roman were there, Bessie stirring up a delightfully aromatic stew in a big iron kettle suspended from one of the hooks in the fireplace. As usual the two were bickering. McAllen would have thought something wrong with them if they were getting along.

"I declare, Marse John," said an exasperated Bessie, "I doan know what I'm gwine do with dis ol' man. I found him out in dat garden dis mornin', jis' workin' away. He gwine work hisself to death. Doan he know he's older'n Moses?"

"You had better take things easy for a spell, Roman," advised McAllen, even though he knew it was a waste of breath.

"Then I be's good for nothin', Marse John. And dat won't do. Nossir, dat won't do."

"If something happened to you, who would Bessie nag?" asked McAllen. "Have either of you seen Leah?"

Bessie and Roman exchanged wary looks.

"She be's off with dat Englishman," said Bessie, disgusted. "Mark my words, Marse John." She waved the wooden ladle at McAllen. "Dat man ain't no gennelman. He be's nothing but trouble. You oughts to run him off dis place."

McAllen smiled. "No, I can't do that. The general wants him taken care of. So we must make him feel right at home."

"Oh, he be's making hisself right at home," said Bessie, caustically. "Doan you worry none 'bout dat."

"And don't you worry, Bessie. Everything is working out just fine." McAllen sat down at the rough-hewn table in the middle of the kitchen. "Now, how about some of that stew?" he asked cheerfully. "I'm starving."

Bessie stared at him. What in the world had gotten into the captain? It was bad enough that Miss Leah did the things she did in Austin and Galveston and all those other places, but now the shameless hussy was cutting eyes at another man right here under her husband's roof! And here was the captain acting like he didn't have a care in the world! Bessie shook her head. "Beats all I ever seen," she muttered as she ladled some stew into a big crockery bowl.