The Texicans
A Novel Of Texas
By
Jinx Schwartz
Other books by Jinx Schwartz
Troubled Sea
Just Add Water*
Just Add Salt*
Just Add Trouble*
Just Deserts*
Land of Mountains
*Hetta Coffey Mystery Series
The Texicans
by Jinx Schwartz
Published by Jinx Schwartz at Smashwords
Copyright.2000
THE TEXICANS. Copyright 2000 Elizabeth Maul Schwartz. All rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to the memory of my parents, Johnnie Ruth Coffey Maul, and Fred Roy "Bud" Maul, two real Texans
And to my husband, Robert Schwartz: an honorary Texan
A little rebellion now and then is a good thing, and as necessary in the political world as storms in the physical Thomas Jefferson
Wretches! Soon they will become aware of their folly.
Antonio Lopez de Santa Ana
CHAPTER 1
SPANISH TEXAS
1806
Frederick Stockman didn’t scare easily, but Texas had him worried.
Five days in a leaky scow getting there had not done much to ease his concerns. And the closer they got to that inhospitable wilderness, the more nervous the crew.
“Ease the sail. Getting shallow. Quiet!” Snatches of whispered, anxious commands penetrated thick morning mists, betraying their arrival and increasing tensions onboard. As the boat drifted toward shore and turned bow-first into a slight swell, stiff sails creaked down and the anchor sploshed into chocolate water. Passengers and crew cursed even these small sounds.
The anchor dug in as an incoming tide and a light onshore breeze pushed their stern to a halt within a few feet of a boggy beach. Now only the burble of small wavelets slapping the hull divulged their presence. But it was too late. From behind a veil of cobwebby moss hanging from an ancient cypress, a pair of red-rimmed eyes watched their arrival.
Frederick slipped over the boat’s gunwale into waist-deep water, waded ashore, and stashed a bundle into a tree crotch. He paused to listen and scan the silent, swampy thicket. Satisfied that no alligators, water snakes, panthers, renegade Indians, pirates or marauding deserters from His Majesty’s Army lurked, he slogged back to the boat. Still standing in murky water, he shattered the silence, flushing a few quail with his deep voice. “Looks safe enough, I reckon. Ain’t nobody shot at us yet. Don’t see any sign of a fort, though. Are you sure this is the place?”
The boat captain looked slightly insulted. “Mais oui, monsieur,” he sniffed, “of course it is. I have been here many times. What is left of the old fortress cannot be seen from here, but we are unable to cross the bar and navigate further up the Trinity River. You must dèbarque, uh disembark, here. Let us unload quickly, for I wish to return to New Orleans on the evening tide.”
“¡Jesús y Maria! He is staying!” the hidden observer muttered under his breath.
Even this muffled whisper pounded his ears and head, adding to his suffering. As he watched Frederick through a red veil of pain, the tall stranger took yet another bundle and worked his way backwards, toward shore.
Near the swamp’s edge Frederick lost his footing and turned suddenly to catch his balance. As he did, he locked eyes with the man peering from the forest. They both froze.
“Alto...arrêté...stop,” the man on shore warned, using every language he knew. “I am armed.”
“And my arms are full,” Frederick growled, in Spanish. “State your business.” As he spoke, he slowly shifted his burden to one arm and reached for his pistol, never taking his eyes from the figure in forest shadows. “Speak up and come forward, or we’ll blow you out of those woods.” Frederick gestured with his chin towards the heavily armed crew.
No one moved for several seconds, until a small man clad in a filthy brown robe doddered forth. His arms trembled as he struggled to raise and level an antiquated blunderbuss. After a few steps he stopped. Unable to support the musket’s heft, he lowered the muzzle and slumped against a pine tree.
Frederick sloshed to the beach while keeping a wary eye on the priest. Once ashore, he bent, placed his load carefully on a log, then straightened, pistol in hand. He did not need it.
The priest’s full attention was on the bundle, which began to rise. As he gawked, it threw back its hood, and an angel with emerald eyes blinked at him in surprise and then she smiled.
“Oh, Padre,” she said, “I am so happy to see you. Please bless my child.” Sunbeams broke through the mist, bathing her red hair in a brilliant halo and illuminating the toddler she held in her arms.
Dizzied by shock, relief, and fever the lonely, sick old monk was so overcome he broke into tears and croaked, “Welcome to Tejas, my child.”
CHAPTER TWO
Padre Solano awoke the next morning to find he had two things to thank God for: Both his malarial fever and the miserable fog were gone. He wished his headache, the soreness in his bones and the intruders had disappeared, as well.
He lay still for some time before gingerly pushing himself from a buffalo skin mattress. Days of soaring body temperatures had tenderized his skin, making his rough robe an instrument of torture.
Once upright, he made his way to a rotting pine door and wrestled it open, glowering at its stiff and stubborn cowhide hinges. Sunrays, dove coos and something seldom heard in this place, laughter, greeted him. It did not please him. The scow had sailed, but the foreigners remained in their camp, only a few yards from his decaying room in the long abandoned fort.
Did I not, months ago, inform the Bishop in Monterey of the illegal norteamericanos arriving in unwelcome droves? And that our unequipped and undermanned army in Tejas could do little to stop these interlopers? An impoverished priest, he was without means to provide food and shelter for legal residents, and himself, much less these strays. He clucked disapproval. What is a poor servant of God to do?
His Majesty’s government made it quite clear that these treacherous norteños were not welcome, but still they came. On the run from something or someone, they thought to hide in Spanish territory. Surveying the camp he admitted that, unlike most—those who came ashore like half-drowned, starving dogs—this new family had arrived with more than the clothes on their backs. But no matter, they had to go.
“This time,” he muttered, “the King’s soldiers will return and despatch these trespassers back to their own kind.”
A burst of giggles called his attention to a group of children. The foreign and mission Indian youngsters were playing a game involving an inflated pig’s bladder. In addition to the small child he’d seen in her mother’s arms yesterday, he counted three more and frowned. This is no place for white children. Nor Indians, but they will not leave.
Solano’s musings were interrupted when he heard the scarlet-haired woman call her family to breakfast. His stomach growled. Perhaps this would be a good time to enter them into my ledger? After a bit of breakfast? No, I’d best keep my distance. Is that roasting pork I smell? Well, maybe a little food, then I shall tell this family that it is not safe here. They must return to New Orleans. I will eat, and then I will warn them off. It is the least I can do for a good Catholic woman.
The woman beamed a sunny smile when she saw him coming. “Father, it makes us so happy to see you feeling better. There is even a touch of color in your cheeks,” she said, stepping from under the waxed hide roof of her makeshift kitchen.
Padre Solano, having recovered sufficiently to regain his officious manner, was not to be diverted from his Royal duties, and hot food, by cheerful pleasantries. “Señora, I must speak with your husband.”
Smiling wryly at the shabby little priest’s poor attempt at hauteur, the tall man asked, “What can I do for you, Padre?”
“I should warn you, sir, I represent His Majesty’s government here and you are trespassing on Spanish land. When the soldiers return there could be…problems. These soldiers can be, uh, somewhat undisciplined.” Solano glanced uneasily at the woman.
“I don’t reckon they’d molest us with a representative of His Majesty right here to keep ‘em in line. Tell you what, let’s have some breakfast and then you can try to scare us off.
“But first, let me introduce myself. I’m Frederick Stockman and this here is my wife, Katherine.” He pronounced it “Katrin,” in the German manner. This selective dropping of “H’s” was all that was left of Frederick’s German heritage after fifty-three years in America. It was, however, his birth in Germany that allowed him to legally immigrate to Texas; Spain distrusted North Americans and their imperialistic land grabbing ways.
“That big one over there,” Frederick pointed to a tall young man, “is our oldest, George. And these are Henry, David, John and Peter,” he said, waving his hand in the direction of the other boys. “I can’t hardly keep ‘em straight. The baby there is Margaret, and we’re all Spanish subjects with a passport issued by the Crown. Have a seat on my log here and let’s eat.”
The padre, caught flat-footed, was, for one of the few times in his life, speechless. He stood openmouthed for a few seconds, then, recovering his comportment and voice, he intoned, “In that case, Señor Estocoman, perhaps after we have eaten we can complete the formalities. I shall bless our food.”
A hearty breakfast of Johnnycake and pork chased away some of the priest’s reserve, and curiosity got the better of his practical nature. “Señor Estocoman, I see you have no horses or oxen. How do you propose to move your family to your land grant?”
“I was gonna ask you the same thing, Padre. We were told we could buy some here.”
“Oh no, not here. Perhaps in Nacogdoches—a far walk. There are only poor Indians here and they have no animals.”
“Padre, since there’s no mission or fort, what in holy hell are you doing here?” Stockman boomed.
Katherine frowned at her husband for cussing in the priest’s presence, but Solano appeared to take little notice.
“I came to this not so holy hell to minister to what is left of these Indians. Although the mission closed long ago, they refuse to leave. I had an escort, but when I fell ill the soldiers continued their patrol and left me to heal. Or die. I do not think they cared which.”
“When’re they coming back? Maybe they’ll sell us a horse or an ox. I have money.”
“They were to return days ago, I think. I lost track of time. No matter, they will come. But, señor, these soldiers will not sell you a horse. If you had a horse they might take it. And oxen are more valuable than silver here in Tejas. Or as you call it in English, Texas.”
“I guess I’ll have to come up with another idea then. Thanks for the information though. And we’re glad you could join us for breakfast. I’ll get those papers you want.”
Later that day, Padre Solano unpacked his quill pen, precious ink, battered red leather ledger embossed with the gold Spanish Royal Crest, and dutifully recorded the Stockman family’s arrival.
Frederico Estocoman 57 años
Maria Katrina Estocoman 35 años
He paused and smiled after this last entry, which would be his private joke. In his fevered state yesterday he had, for that moment when the bright sun illuminated Katherine and her child, thought he was looking upon the reincarnation of the Virgin. After all, many married women of pure character were addressed as “Maria.”
Xorge 20 años
Enrique 14
David 12
Juan 9
Pedro 6
Margarita 3
Señor Estocoman is a native of Germany, holds a valid passport and immigrates to Tejas Territory as a loyal Spanish subject. They are of the King’s faith and speak the King’s Spanish. March 6, 1806.
He did not make note of the furs, skins and dried beef that were loaded onto the New Orleans-bound scow. Nor did he deem it necessary to mention the new blankets the local Indians, and he, now possessed. The King’s tax collectors took a dim view of foreign traders.
CHAPTER 3
Katherine stared at a patch of diamond studded sky through a frame of tree branches. A none too distant mountain lion’s scream quickened her pulse and she reached over to check on little Margaret. Mountain lions, or panthers as they called them in Texas, were known baby stealers.
Satisfied, she burrowed deeper under her quilt and closer to Frederick. Straining to hear more from the cat, hoping not to, she finally softened against her husband’s side. His light snores, accompanied by cicada and cricket chirps, comforted her. But soon the things she had learned from the priest about her new country stalked into her thoughts and kept her from sleep.
Padre Solano, replete with crawfish stew for supper, had held the family spellbound with praises, and condemnations, of this province he knew so well.
“Texas,” he’d told them, “is a bountiful land, with much game, wild horses and cattle. Vast herds of bison blanket the plains and where there is water, multiple crops can be harvested each year. If God were to create an Eden in the Americas, Texas would surely be it.
“But,” he warned, “there are serpents in this garden. You will find few legal residents here, only a few scattered settlers, priests, and soldiers. And Indians. We have some peaceful ones, but then there are the Comanches. They are fierce and cruel beyond belief.”
Sensing his talk of Indians made Katherine uneasy, he thought to comfort her, but only made matters worse by adding, “But the Comanches seldom come here because this place is not healthy. That is why the mission failed.”
Katherine’s eyes widened.
“Oh, dear, I am a foolish old man. I have distressed you.”
Katherine assured Solano she was interested in all aspects of their new country. Besides, it was the first time in her life she had engaged in a strictly social conversation with a priest and she was reluctant to discourage him. He was a clever storyteller as well as chockful with local knowledge, even though some of it was disquieting. No stranger to living in the wild, Katherine was nonetheless disturbed to learn this part of Texas was even more isolated and perilous than most.
She sighed. Have we made a mistake by coming here?
“What are you thinking about, Red?” Frederick whispered, startling her. “Are you fretting?”
“I thought you were asleep. No, I’m not fretting. Well, a little. I try not to, but what about the children? Will we be safe? How long do you think we’ll be stuck here? We can’t expect to take the little ones far without horses or oxen. What will we do?”
Frederick gathered her in his arms. “Now don’t you peeve yourself, honey. You leave the worryin’ to me. Haven’t I always taken care of you and the children? You’re tired, Red. After a good night’s sleep, tomorrow’ll look brighter, you’ll see.”
Frederick yawned, turned over, and was soon snoring again.
Katherine was awake for a long time. She was not so sure things would be brighter. Not at all.
But day three at El Orcoquisac, as this place was called, did seem less dim. The children brought Katherine gifts from the Indians: corn and salt. Grinding the corn into meal, she added honey provided by Padre Solano, rolled the mixture in damp corn shucks and buried them in hot ashes to bake. David caught catfish, so Katherine was able to prepare a hearty meal without using precious provisions brought from New Orleans.
Their repast took on a festive air and once again the priest entertained them, between bites of ashcake, with tales of Spain, Mexico and Texas. A benign Texas.
Katherine slept soundly that night, lulled by the sighing of tall trees and the smell of campfire smoke. Perhaps, she thought as she drifted off, I worried for naught.
“Mama, those Indian kids told us there are giant man-eatin’ Indians across the bay,” David said as they ate breakfast the next morning. “They’re called Karankawas and they live on an island. And sometimes they paddle over in dugouts, steal the women and kids, and eat the men.”
Katherine, striving to remain calm in the face of this fresh piece of disastrous news, looked beseechingly at Frederick, who broke out in laughter and said, “Son, let’s not worry about a few pesky, horse-thievin’ Injuns. They may scare the puny locals, but they sure as hell don’t want to tangle with the likes of the Stockmans. Besides, Davy my boy,” he teased, “they’d probably figger you was too hard to clean.”
David colored and smiled his shy smile while the family fell into raucous laughter and side slapping in appreciation of Frederick’s clever quip.
Katherine, too, enjoyed Frederick’s joke. She smiled at the man she’d married twenty years before. With his imposing height, hazel eyes and graying hair and beard, Frederick was handsome in the rough, healthy way of frontier men. Well past middle age in a land of disease and danger where few men lived into their sixties, she noted he still cut a fine figure. For an old rogue.
David, slightly embarrassed to be the brunt of Frederick’s tease, concentrated on his venison and biscuit breakfast. Mama had used some scarce wheat flour to make both bread and biscuits this morning and he liked that. But she’d baked extra, and that usually meant his Pa was leaving. Like back in Louisiana, when Papa and George left to trade goods along the Mississippi. He was right.
“Children,” Frederick said, “your Ma and I have decided that unless we want to be stranded here forever, I’d better go on up river and find us a horse or something so we can move. We also think I’d best go alone, leaving George here to guard the home fires and keep game on the table.”
George looked less than pleased to be left behind, but before he could say anything, Frederick added, “George’ll be in charge. Well, I guess your Ma will really be in charge, but George will take care of my chores.”
Brushing biscuit crumbs from his beard, Frederick rose. “I reckon to be gone only a week or so. The priest expects his soldiers back real soon, so if I’m delayed you’ll have some extra guns about. I expect you to look out after each other and help your Mama and George with the chores. And I’ll be back before you know I’m gone. Right, Red?”
Katherine, not convinced this was one of Frederick’s better plans, nodded all the same and quickly turned away. She blinked back tears as she gave the appearance of being engrossed in the business of wrapping salted venison, biscuits and bread in cloth and putting them into Frederick’s satchel. She’d cry later. Alone.
Each time Frederick left, and there had been many such partings, Katherine feared he would not return. She knew if anyone could survive this danger fraught wilderness, Frederick could. But she had deep misgivings about his trip, for this time he was leaving her and the children in a forlorn swamp.
CHAPTER 4
Nine long days after Frederick left, ten soldiers, leading mules and led by a corporal, returned for the padre.
Solano, while thankful his escort had finally come to claim him, was dismayed to see several kegs of aguardiente strapped to the mules. Not one to resist a dram of strong drink for himself, he was nevertheless fearful of the tough young soldiers’ rowdy behavior under the influence of so much alcohol. While the men were occupied setting up their campo, Padre Solano stole away.
Following an animal path along the Trinity River’s bank for a quarter mile north, he then cut through the thicket to the Stockman camp. Once he left the river there was no path, for the Stockmans were careful that no signs were left, no path marked.
Frederick had picked the spot for his family before he left and, to the priest’s thinking, he had chosen well. The high ground location boasted a freshwater stream and dense woods provided a windbreak as well as protection from probing eyes.
When the family had moved, Padre Solano was disappointed to lose them, but now he felt relief. And though Frederick had said nothing of his mistrust for soldiers, the padre knew Frederick’s choice for his concealed camp was no accident.
“Señora Maria,” he gasped when he reached the Stockman enclave, “the soldiers are back. Perhaps we should not make it known your husband is gone. Actually, there is no need for your family to talk with them. If necessary, I will talk with the capo, uh, corporal. I will tell him you are legal immigrants on your way north. If they see you, that is. And I don’t think they will....” The priest was babbling and he knew it.
Katherine, troubled by the padre’s agitation, called the children to her. Smiling, she told them, “The soldiers are back and they are tired from their trip, so I want you to be very quiet and stay close. George and Henry will return from hunting soon and then we’ll have an early supper. Your father will be here in a day or two and he’ll be real proud to hear you didn’t pester the nice soldiers.”
David, a bright child, immediately piped up. “The Indian kids told us some soldiers ain’t so nice. They take their food and make the men work. I betcha them Indians have skedaddled by now.”
The priest nodded confirmation.
Katherine frowned, then said in a calm voice, “David, with George and Henry out hunting, you’re the oldest man, so I’m making it your job to keep John and Peter quiet. And nearby.”
Proud of his responsibilities, David herded his younger brothers to a clearing in back of the camp. Picking up a pile of smooth stones, he divided them up among his siblings and they began pitching them at a stick pounded into the ground.
Katherine walked back to the river with Padre Solano, out of the children’s hearing.
“Now, Father, what’s the problem?”
“Oh señora, they brought much aguardiente, confiscated from a smuggler. I fear they will drink the evidence. Sometimes I have seen soldiers do, uh, things with Indian women when they are drunk. I have never seen these soldiers behave poorly and I truly do not believe they would molest a white woman of good standing, but perhaps it would be wise to take certain...precautions.”
“Gracias, Padre Solano, for your concern. We’re accustomed to dealing with problems of this sort, having lived many years amongst unruly types. My boys are plenty handy with a firearm, but I’m confident a confrontation can be avoided. Surely your soldiers will behave themselves with a representative of God, and the King, so near.” She smiled and added, “But, we’ll stay out of sight, as you wisely suggest. Now, perhaps you had best leave before they come looking for you.”
Katherine watched the back of the priest’s partially bald head until he disappeared from view, then she sprinted back to her campsite and sprang into action. She unwrapped Frederick’s Brown Bess musket, “Old Bessie,” from its oiled hide pouch, loaded it, and propped it nearby.
Around her head she tied a dirty rag, covering her hair. She put on several layers of clothes to pad out her slim frame, rubbed soot from a burned log into her gums and teeth, and then smeared ashes over her pale complexion. There was little she could do about her green eyes.
She broke out a jug of corn whiskey and mixed some of it with honey.
She was ready.
There would be no campfire tonight, so she was preparing a cold supper when George and Henry returned to a mother who appeared to have lost her mind.
“Mama! What happened to you?” cried Henry when he saw her. “Are you hurt?”
“Shush, Henry. Keep your voice down. We have a little company nearby and we would as soon not make their acquaintance,” Katherine said, emphasizing the “not” while keeping her voice light.
The boys listened carefully to their mother as she explained their situation. Raised near the rough-and-tumble settlement of Bayou Pierre on the Mississippi River, they were no strangers to the seamier side of life on the edge of civilization. Nor were they ignorant of the effect of too much liquor on otherwise sensible men, especially in a place where there were few ill consequences for a man’s actions. They knew what to do.
The sun set and without a fire a chill fell on their camp. A full moon brightened the forest, but not their spirits. Katherine thought the moonlight unfortunate, for darkness is a fugitive’s friend.
While the family huddled together in their rough wooden shelter, George kept watch on the river path. Katherine hated for him to be out there alone, but tonight it had to be.
“Henry, did I hear the baby whimper? Of late she’s been a little restless and I’m afraid she’ll wake and cry. Keep her warm.”
“She’s dead to the world for now, Mama. You get some sleep.”
Katherine closed her eyes, hoping for sleep she was certain would not come, but was astonished when cheerful bird chirps and sunrays woke her. After checking on the baby, who was gurgling happily in Henry’s arms, it was time to rummage in the stores for breakfast.
“Sorry, children, but no fire this morning,” she said with false cheer. “We do, however, have some nice smoked fish. Did you know that many people in Europe have this for breakfast every day? It’s considered a delicacy.”
“Somehow, Mama, I can’t get too danged excited about the fashion in Europe,” Henry groused. “I could use some good ole fried salt pork and quail eggs.” The others secretly agreed with their brother, but ate their fish in silence.
The Stockman camp-turned-prison, with Katherine as warden, started the day not only with cold food, but further unwelcome restrictions. “No running, noise, or wandering away,” she dictated, and for the most part, it worked, until midmorning, when the baby began to wail. Katherine reluctantly fed little Margaret sweetened whiskey and the child soon fell into an alcoholic slumber.
George and Henry took turns guarding the river path while Katherine did her best to entertain the bored and restless younger boys. She read to them from her Bible, embellishing the stories to make them more relevant to their lives. She changed her voice to bring the characters to life in a Texas swamp. She softly sang hymns and ditties, letting the children join in if they kept it low. When her voice gave out she silently prayed.
“Mama, do you smell tortillas? And roasting meat?” David asked as a southerly breeze wafted into the Stockman camp, carrying aromas and sounds from the Royal Mexican Army encampment.
Katherine mentally cursed the Spaniards, resenting the hot food and boisterous laughter denied her children.
For the second night in a row they had no fire and Katherine began to worry about keeping her family fed while they holed up like rabbits gone to ground.
Please, please, let Frederick come home tomorrow, she prayed. We can’t hide like this much longer.
It was getting harder and harder to control the children and she deplored keeping little Margaret drunk. What on earth will Frederick think when he returns to find his baby drunk and his wife transformed into a sooty old hag? Serves the old buzzard right. In spite of herself, Katherine giggled and then settled in for another long night.
Six hours later sporadic gunfire sent frightened children scurrying to her side.
“What is it, Mama? Indians?”
“Not in the middle of the night, I’d wager,” George, who had returned from his watch, told the shaken children.
“George is right. Most likely drunken soldiers letting off a little steam. Nothing to worry us,” Katherine soothed.
Clinging together in the moonlight, straining their ears to determine the direction and proximity of the shots, they heard men singing. The chorus confirmed Katherine’s suspicions.
“See, the soldiers are just having a little fiesta.” And getting rid of the aguardiente, Katherine added to herself. Tomorrow they’ll be hung over, but quiet. “I don’t think we need worry tonight. But to be sure, I want both you and Henry to stand guard, George.”
Katherine gave the boys some jerky and sent them to the riverbank to watch the path leading from the presidio ruins.
And that’s how Padre José Maria Morales y Solano nearly lost his life at the hands of a fourteen-year-old boy.
The old priest, taking advantage of his inebriated escorts’ songfest, decided it was a good opportunity to check on Katherine and the children.
Creeping along the river as stealthily as his age and physical condition allowed, he cursed his limited abilities. He stepped on a brittle tree branch and cringed when it cracked loudly and a twig lodged painfully between his toes. He froze, but discomfort forced him to bend over to remove the offending wood from his sandal. As he struggled to reach his foot, a ball of lead whizzed along his scalp, flattening him.
For the first few seconds following Old Bessie’s roar the forest fell eerily silent. Soldiers stopped singing and Katherine stopped breathing.
Henry, knocked to his knees by the musket’s mule-like kick, struggled to stand and reload. His ears were still ringing from the gun’s bellow when he heard the priest wail, “¡Jesús, Maria y José! Save me!”
Katherine heard the cry and bolted from camp in the direction of the priest’s pitiful lament, yelling, “Boys, don’t shoot! Don’t anyone shoot! George, help me with the padre. Henry, stay where you are and guard the path.”
They half dragged, half carried the hapless monk back to camp.
“Light a fire, George, and use some gunpowder to get it going. Throw in some bear grease...I need light and water, pronto. It’s too late to hide. Even the drunkest soldier had to hear that shot.
“Henry, when they come up the path, don’t shoot. Holler for them to stop and then I’ll talk with them. Don’t show yourself. They may be walleyed soused, but they’re still trained professionals.”
Cradling the dazed priest’s bloody head in her lap, Katherine sobbed, “Oh, Padre Solano, please forgive us. Henry didn’t know it was you.”
Solano, bewildered and in pain, struggled to figure out what happened. Did I fall?
“Can you hear me, Father? It’s Katherine...Maria Katrina. You’ve been shot. There’s blood on your head, but the ball seems to have only cut your scalp. Be still and let me clean the wound.”
Returning with more spring water, George told his mother, “I can see a parade of torches along the river path, Ma. And the padre probably left a trail to our camp a mile wide, so they’ll be here real soon.”
“Call Henry back. I want everyone to sit here in the full light of the fire. All except you, George. You hide in the woods behind camp. Take the weapons with you and station yourself so you have a good view of us, especially me. Don’t shoot unless I pull off my scarf, but if I do I want you to kill as many of them as you can. Hurry, I hear them.”
With her family gathered around the fire, Katherine leaned over and whispered, “Father Solano, I’m going to sit you up. I need you to hold the baby. Do you think you can do that?”
The padre nodded and wished he had not. He groaned in protest when Katherine jammed a battered hat stuffed with moss on his aching, tonsured pate and positioned him so he would be the first seen. He was seated on a log, propped up between Katherine and Henry, when a soldier crashed out of the woods and reeled to a tipsy stop. Befuddled, he waved his pistol in the air, then gawked at the people sitting calmly around a fire.
Katherine, never taking her eyes from the soldier, snaked her hand to the edge of her scarf. She pictured George taking aim. “Wait, George, wait,” she whispered under her breath.
The young soldier squinted, as though seeing double, then spied the priest, who, for some unfathomable reason, was holding a baby.
“Padre, what are you doing here?” he slurred. “And who are these people?” As he talked he clumsily stuffed his pistol back into his belt and appeared close to doing grievous harm to his privates.
Katherine relaxed and lowered her hand to the priest’s shoulder, careful not to snag her scarf as she did so. “The young man asked you a question, Padre Solano,” she said loudly, giving the dazed monk’s shoulder a hard squeeze.
Solano, his eyes slightly crossed in an effort to see clearly, vaguely wondered why he was holding little Margarita. Focusing on the soldier, he grinned crookedly and announced, “Welcome to Tejas, my child.”
For what seemed an eternity, only the crackling fire and men rustling through the thicket disturbed the hushed tableau vivant. Then Katherine broke into a guffaw appropriate to a Louisiana saloon. The children sniggered and the Spanish soldier joined in.
Padre Solano smiled. He was pleased these people were amused, but wondered what he said that was so funny.
The other soldiers arrived to find an old hag, a Franciscan monk wearing a straw hat, several children, and their fellow soldier engulfed in spasms of laughter.
Whatever these people were drinking, they wanted some.
“Doña Katrina, I must speak with you,” the Corporal said when he visited the next evening.
“Of course, Capo Rodriguez. How are you feeling?”
“Sober, with a headache, thanks to the aguardiente. It is no wonder they call it ‘water with teeth.’ But I shall recover, as will the priest. It is of him that I wish to speak with you.”
“Sit down, please. Café?”
The Spanish corporal settled onto a log by the fire, accepting a cup of coffee that he suspected was his own. His soldiers were overly generous with his provisions.
“As you know, we came to escort Padre Solano back to San Antonio de Béjar. When he can travel we must go. He is reluctant to leave you here, but I am not certain you are willing to go with us.”
“You are correct, young man. I’ll wait here for my husband.”
“That is the problem, Señora Estocoman. I cannot. Leave you here, I mean.”
“I don’t understand. Will you force us to go with you?” Katherine asked, keeping her voice light.
“It is not my wish to do so, but I will if I must. Perhaps your husband will return in the next few days and the problem will be solved.”
Katherine nodded and smiled, but her heart was racing. Surely they won’t make me leave. What will Frederick do if he returns to find us missing?
All watched anxiously for Frederick the next few days. The enclave of unwilling inhabitants in the insect and reptile infested swamp settled into a routine as they awaited the padre’s recovery from a convenient relapse that the corporal suspected was a delaying tactic.
The soldiers, many with children of their own back home, gave the Stockman youngsters treats, told them stories and allowed them to ride His Majesty’s mules.
Miguel Gonzales, the first drunken soldier to stumble into the Stockman encampment, was assigned as protector of the family against alligators, snakes, mountain lions, renegade Indians and drunken soldiers.
A Spanish aristocrat born in Mexico, Miguel was serving his military duty before going to Spain to study law. His fair skin, deeply tanned in the Texas sun, accentuated bright blue eyes and white-blonde hair. Although a lowly private, his demeanor and appearance made it obvious he was of the upper classes.
Two years younger than George, and six years older than Henry, the eighteen-year-old soldier soon became their friend, reveling in the familial warmth of the large, fascinating, Stockman clan. His own family had returned to Spain, expecting him to follow, but Miguel, more interested in the New World, was not looking forward to going to the old one. “Jorge,” he told his new friend, George, “it is my dream to go to New Orleans. And to see the Mississippi River. Is it as large as the Rio Bravo?”
“I never saw the Bravo, but in some places you can’t hardly see across the old Missisip. And New Orleans...” George launched into a glowing description of that town. Sitting in an isolated swamp, it seemed unfathomable that a city like New Orleans was only a little over three hundred miles away as the crow flies. The boys figured they could make it on a good horse in less than a week. They talked a lot about horses, with which they had much experience, and of girls¾with which they had almost none.
Miguel recounted the events of his less than satisfactory career as a soldier in His Majesty’s lancer unit, The Second Flying Company of Alamo de Parras, at San Antonio de Béjar. For a few days life was relatively pleasant at Orcoquisac.
Until the storm hit.
And it was a toad strangler.
Torrential rains swelled the Trinity River into an ugly reddish-brown threat spilling over its banks. The downpour indiscriminately soaked soldiers, settlers and servants of God.
Katherine and the children moved into the fortress ruins, as did the soldiers. At their consolidated camp, they stretched every tarp, blanket and animal hide they could find over makeshift roof repairs, but their lives remained miserable in the face of inescapable dankness.
Under their poor shelter, Corporal Ruiz, Padre Solano and Katherine passed the time discussing the dilemma in which they found themselves.
“I’ve thought this through, capo. If I leave here before my husband comes back, it will be in chains,” a defiant Katherine told them.
Padre Solano raised his eyebrows in alarm, but the corporal smiled. “I have no chains, señora. Nor would I be willing to put them on you. I have a better idea. I shall leave Private Gonzales here to protect you until your husband returns. Then he can escort your family to your new home.”
Katherine beamed. Then she frowned. “Could you look around for Frederick? I mean, he should be traveling south and you are going north, right?”
“Of course we can,” Padre Solano interjected. “We could follow the river north to El Camino Real instead of taking the Opelousas Trail, can we not?”
The corporal eyed the priest. “Would that choice of route perhaps aid in your recovery?”
Solano smiled and nodded.
Ruiz sighed. “Then we shall take the long way home. We will leave as soon as this weather has passed, now that the padre has been miraculously cured of his fever.”
Katherine suppressed a giggle.
Twenty days after Frederick left to buy some horses, Katherine, small children gathered around her, watched the soldiers ride away. When Padre Solano turned and waved his final adios, a tear escaped, sliding down her cheek and over her upturned chin. For all her bravado, she was immensely relieved that Private Miguel Gonzales was staying behind until Frederick returned.
But where, oh where, was Frederick?
CHAPTER 5
Frederick didn’t know where he was.
He did know the miserable rain had ceased, for it no longer ran into his nose and mouth. This thought reminded him of an old joke about people who were so purse proud their upturned noses threatened to drown them when it rained. He started to laugh, but the pain in his head checked him in mid-chortle.
He pushed himself to sitting and looked around for his horses. To his vast relief, he saw them grazing nearby. He vaguely remembered hobbling them before the fever flattened him, but had no idea how much time had passed since then.