The fallon legacy, p.40
The Fallon Legacy, page 40
James sighed with relief. “It’s me, Hollins. Marcos just tried to arrest me. Piedras must be getting suspicious. I’m moving out to the camp.”
“You been messing around with the colonel’s wife, Fallon?”
Something about the tone made James pause. “What do you mean?”
“Man we got spying on Piedras says a note came maybe three hours ago now. He didn’t see who delivered it, but he says Piedras went right through the roof. Had a big argument with his wife, then beat the hell out of her. Says you could hear her yelling all through the mission. Then Piedras put out orders for your arrest. We been looking for you since we found out.”
“Still wenching, James?” Henry chuckled.
“Who’s that?”
“A friend,” James said, frowning. Isobel had kept their affair going by hinting that she’d tell her husband he’d made advances if he didn’t. He couldn’t stay in Nacogdoches without bedding her, and he had to admit it hadn’t been a chore. “Hollins, you didn’t come into town just to save my hide.”
“We’re moving,” Hollins said. “Me and Simpkins and Ford are passing the word.”
“James,” Henry said, “you ready to tell me what’s going on?”
“While we ride,” James said.
The camp was a few miles east of town, a scattering of men the last time James had been there, a constellation of fires under the trees now. He had explained the situation as best he could on the ride from town; Henry had ridden the last mile in thoughtful silence, not speaking until they were drinking coffee beside one of the fires.
“You really expect to make Piedras declare for Santa Anna, James?”
“That’s what most everyone here is after,” James said.
“But you’re after something different, aren’t you? I know you a long time, James. You’re holding back.”
James nodded. “Independence for Texas. And I’m not the only one.”
“Jesus Christ! Then why all this about Santa Anna?”
“Because most people aren’t ready to think about independence. But the way I see it, the Mexican government won’t care who we’re supporting. All they’ll see is yanquis with guns, a rebel army ready and waiting. If the revolution doesn’t start on our side, they’ll force it after this. You ready to go back to Leonie now?”
“I expect I’ll stay awhile,” Henry said. “Let me have some more of that coffee.”
Early the next morning a delegation rode into Nacogdoches to present the Texans’ demands to Piedras: declare for Santa Anna and the Constitution of 1824, or abandon Nacogdoches. Isaac Burton, Philip Sublette, and Henry Augustin returned about ten o’clock with Piedras’s refusal. James Bullock, a lanky rancher from the San Augustine settlement, had been elected colonel that morning before the delegation set out. In half an hour he had them moving toward Nacogdoches.
When they reached the town, about three hundred strong, sweat was pouring down James’s face from the noon sun. The streets were empty. The column moved into the town square, heading for the mission on the knoll, where the Mexican tricolor flew boldly. Abruptly there was a clatter of hooves, and Mexican cavalry charged from side streets, firing their short musketoons. Horses reared, screaming, and men shouted.
James fired into the mass, then dropped to the ground and fired his second barrel. He thought he saw a soldier go down. Henry was beside him, kneeling and reloading. Other Texans fired, some from horseback, some from the ground. The Mexicans wheeled and disappeared back up the side streets, leaving half a dozen of their number on the ground.
Abruptly musketry rattled from the west end of the square. “They’re in the stone house!” James shouted. He remembered when it had been Haden Edwards’s headquarters.
“And the church!” another man screamed.
“Dismount!” Bullock called. “Into the buildings! For your lives!”
James joined the rush for the buildings along the south side of the square, Henry at his heels, found a place at a window, and began to reload.
“What do we do now?” Henry yelled, poking his musket through another window and firing.
“You’re doing it,” James said. “You’re doing it.”
Throughout the day the fire kept up, the Texans peppering the church and the stone house, the Mexicans returning fire desultorily. By nightfall James knew they were in for a stalemate unless one side or the other broke. The soldiers had made one sortie, about two in the afternoon, but the Texans had beaten it back with withering fire. Bodies still lay in the square. After that Piedras had contented himself with increasingly scattered return of the Texans’ fire. Conserving powder, James thought. The Texans had slackened their fire to save powder as well, but they still managed to keep up a continuous fusillade.
From midnight on there was nothing at all from the soldiers’ positions. When a cautious party investigated at daybreak, the church and the stone house were empty except for dead and wounded.
James ran out into the square with several hundred other weary men, all those who hadn’t fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion. He’d left Henry sleeping. He was surprised to see Bowie.
“When did you arrive, Jim?”
“Couple of hours ago,” Bowie replied. The Texans swirled around the two of them, arguing over what to do next. “As soon as the word of Anahuac and Velasco got to Saltillo, I came back.”
“I didn’t think you approved.”
“There’s not much choice now, is there, James?” Bowie looked at him sharply. “They keep talking about Santa Anna. Don’t any of them know what they’re into?”
“They’ll find out,” James replied.
“Quiet!” Bullock shouted, forcing his way through the crowd. “Let me have some quiet!” Slowly silence fell. “That’s better. It looks like Piedras has pulled out to the west, probably trying to reach San Antonio. He’s left his wounded behind, but most of his men are afoot, so he won’t be moving too fast. We could catch him and finish this, only most of you are so tired you’d fall out of the saddle in an hour.”
“Might as well do this right,” Bowie sighed. “Colonel,” he called, “I’m not tired, and I’ll bet I can find fifty more who aren’t either.” There was immediately an uproar of men clamoring to volunteer. Bullock fired a musket in the air to restore quiet.
When the shouting had died, he called out, “Jim Bowie has said he’ll take fifty men after Piedras. I reckon it’s up to him to pick them. Mr. Bowie, you’ve got yourself a job to do.”
Bowie picked his men quickly, and in half an hour they were riding west. In less than two hours, pushing hard, they reached the Angelina. Cottonwoods bordered the ford, and an abandoned house looked down from a nearby brush-covered hill. It was the closest ford to Nacogdoches, the one Piedras would certainly head for, but a quick check showed that no large body of men had crossed recently. They crossed over and hid themselves among the cottonwoods on the far side.
An hour later Piedras’s column appeared. Twenty cavalry were in the lead, Sergeant Marcos at their head. The rest of the cavalry brought up the rear, no doubt in fear of pursuit. The infantry, dusty and staggering as they marched, showed the strains of being under fire all night and marching hard all morning.
Marcos rode into the water. Bowie shouted, “Fire!” and the Texans opened up.
Marcos and half the advance guard fell, the water around them whipped to froth. The survivors fell back toward the column in panic. Scrambling out of formation, the infantry ran for the house on the hill. The cavalry galloped through them to get there first, jumping off their horses and fighting each other to get inside. Piedras and Major Medina, his second in command, tried to force them back into some semblance of order, but the infantry had reached the house and were going to ground around it.
“Let’s hit them while they’re off balance,” James said, and Bowie rose to his feet.
“Follow me!” Bowie shouted. Screaming like ten thousand devils, the Texans splashed across the river.
At the base of the hill James found cover behind a bush and fired up at the house. The Texans fired, reloaded, and fired again until they sounded like ten times their number.
The return musketry was sporadic, and after a few minutes Bowie called for cease fire. He crawled over to James. “I think we have him. Do you have a clean handkerchief?” James produced one, and Bowie tied it to the end of his musket. He waved it in the air, then stood up cautiously when the fire from the hilltop stopped. “You coming, James?”
They walked up the hill side by side, James conscious of what a good target he made if Piedras did indeed know about Isobel. Twenty feet from the old house they stopped. The soldiers lying on the ground looked at them with frightened eyes. They probably thought the entire force had followed them, James realized. He hoped Bowie realized it, too.
After a few minutes Piedras and Medina appeared from inside. The usually dapper Medina was haggard, his uniform tunic half undone. Piedras’s face swelled when he saw James. He knew.
“You have come to surrender?” Piedras said.
“Let’s not beat around the bush, Coronel,” Bowie replied. “Your men are worn out, you’re short on ammunition, and you’re trapped on this hill with no water except what you have in your canteens. We can sit at the bottom sniping till your tongues swell up. You’re the one who has to surrender. And state your allegiance to the eighteen twenty-four constitution. Your men will be well treated, their hurts will be tended, and they’ll be escorted to San Antonio.”
“I will never,” Piedras said stiffly, “surrender to any force that numbers among it that man.” He indicated James with his chin.
Bowie looked at James. He muttered, “A personal matter.”
Medina took advantage of the lull. “Mi Coronel, I urge you to accept this offer. The men are indeed exhausted. Our powder and water are almost gone. Further resistance can only result in a massacre. Mi Coronel, you cannot ask it of them.”
“Comandante Medina,” Piedras said, glaring at James until his eyes seemed ready to burst, “I hereby relinquish command of the Nacogdoches garrison to you.” With that he turned on his heel and marched back into the house.
Medina heaved a sigh of obvious relief. “Señores, I now declare my complete allegiance and adherence to the Constitution of eighteen twenty-four. And I surrender my command to you. Lay down your arms!” he called. “Lay down your arms and stand up!” One by one the soldiers rose, leaving their muskets on the ground, shuffling their feet uncertainly. “And now, señores, if we could get water? We intended to replenish our canteens at the river.”
“Certainly,” Bowie said. He called down the hill, then turned back to Medina. “Comandante, if you’ll be so kind as to lead your men down, single file.”
Medina made a short bow that included both James and Bowie, then motioned his men to follow down the hill. The soldiers fell in hesitantly, looking uncertainly to James and Bowie as they passed.
“We’ve done it,” James said.
“We’ve done it, all right,” Bowie said. “I wonder what Texas will say when they find out we’ve given them a war.”
“We’ve given them a nation, if they can take it.”
48
Charleston, 1832
Rain-laden winds blustered off the harbor, hammering at the house on East Bay Street. Soon Robert Fallon would have to leave the crackling fire in his study, and go out to meet with Langdon Cheves and James Pettigru. For the moment he could forget his own troubles by reading of James’s.
And so (the letter concluded) we are to hold a convention in San Felipe in October. Stephen Austin still believes in negotiation and compromise, and has announced he means to use the convention to frame a petition for redress of grievances to Mexico City. It is entirely possible General Santa Anna will occupy the Presidential Palace by that time, and many feel he would look favorably on such a petition. The events of the past six months, however, have split Texas into a Peace Party—Austin’s—and a War Party, of whom William Wharton seems to have emerged as the foremost spokesman. I am on my way to the convention, with William Barrett Travis, James Bowie and others, in support of the War Party and Independence. We must have it, or the Mexicans, when they are finished with their revolutions, will surely drive us from our lands, from Texas. I know you preach moderation, but a time comes when you must fight. It has come for us. From what you have told me of your situation, I pray it has not come for you.
Your Son,
James Fallon
He folded the letter with a sigh. It was the fifth of October today. Their convention would meet soon if it hadn’t already. His son was committed to starting a war; he was committed to stopping one. And now that Jackson had replaced Calhoun as vice president on his ticket with this Martin Van Buren for the upcoming election, war seemed even closer. The entire South saw Calhoun’s removal as a slap in the face. If only he could be as sure of his course as young James seemed of his.
The tall clock against the wall chimed ten. He hastily put the letter away in his desk; the meeting was for ten-thirty. In the hall Albert was waiting with his caped overcoat and hat. The butler’s hair showed gray at the temples, but he still cut a swath among the ladies of the city’s free black society.
As Robert shrugged into the overcoat, he found a brace of pocket pistols in the capacious side pockets. He took one out and raised an eyebrow. “Are things that bad, then?”
Alfred shrugged. “Who can tell, sir? The mobs are worse by the day.” He hesitated. “I had Josephus put a shotgun under the driver’s perch.”
Robert nodded sadly. “Thank you, Alfred. Please tell Mrs. Fallon I’ll be home for dinner.”
“You can tell her yourself,” Moira said, coming down the sweeping stairs. Alfred discreetly withdrew. “Another political meeting, Robert?”
“Another, I’m afraid.”
She wore her forty years with queenly elegance, he thought, raven hair untouched by gray, face smooth as it had been at twenty. She was one of those women who grew more beautiful with the years. Conscious of his own age—sixty-one, he reminded himself grimly—he straightened his shoulders. One day, he feared, she’d realize she was married to an old man. He refused to admit that age had only made him look more the corsair and the splashes of gray at his temples more distinguished, or that almost as many women eyed him now as had twenty years before.
“I thought,” she said, straightening his lapel unnecessarily, “that I’d invite John Lafflin and his bride for supper next week. But I’m not sure I want to remind you how attractive men your age are to young women.”
He grinned, wondering if she’d read his mind. She was wont to do that. “John’s gone to Saint Louis on business. He won’t be back till Christmas.” Lafitte had managed to carry off his disguise—to the world he was six years dead in Yucatán—going into business with Glenn Mortimore and, just that year, marrying Mortimore’s young daughter, Emma. The thought of supper invitations sparked something in the back of his head, and when he remembered what it was, he knew Moira wouldn’t be pleased. “Last week I asked Edward to come to supper tonight. With the elections coming up, and all the troubles, it slipped my mind.”
“For one night, Robert, I can stand him.”
From the way her jaw tightened it wasn’t as simple as that, but he wisely let the matter lie. Edward was twenty-four now, in his own apartments two years; and much as Robert hated to admit it, life had been more peaceful since he’d moved out. Abruptly he remembered the time.
“I have to rush, dear. I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Don’t forget,” she called after him as he hurried out, “Elizabeth is going to Charlotte’s poetry reading tonight.”
The rain pelted against him like birdshot as he hurried down the walk to where a heavily cloaked Josephus held the coach door. Purple-gray thunderheads were building up out to sea.
As the coach rattled over cobblestones he kept the leather curtains open despite the rain. Even with the weather, every intersection had its boxtop orator, wearing the white cockade of the Unionists or the blue of the Nullifiers. Around each speaker was a bodyguard, a dozen men gripping clubs. More often than not, there were fewer listeners than bodyguards, but that there was anyone at all spoke of the passions in the city.
“Put the horses under cover, Josephus,” he said when the coach drew up in front of the house on Meeting Street where Cheves was staying, “and get yourself something hot to drink.”
The butler took his hat and overcoat, and led him up to the second-floor sitting room where Cheves and Pettigru waited.
“Robert,” Cheves said warmly, “I’m glad you could come.” A thin man, two inches shorter than Robert and five years younger, his head seemed too large for his body, the more so for his high forehead and great mass of graying hair. He wore small round spectacles set low on his nose.
“I’m glad you finally decided to join us,” Robert said. Until the previous summer Cheves had cooperated with the Nullifiers. He inclined his head to Pettigru, warming his buttocks in front of the fire. “James.”
Pettigru was a younger man than the other two, spare and intense. “I wasn’t sure you’d come, Robert.”
“Why not?”
“From some of the statements you’ve made lately, I thought you might have moved to the Nullifier camp.”
Robert bristled. “And I stand by my statements. The new tariff leaves all the worst features of the old in place. The only way to spike Hamilton and Hayne is to get some reasonable adjustment.” Those two had come a long way since Vesey, he thought. Hamilton was governor, Hayne United States senator. They, with Calhoun, were the prime movers of the Nullifiers.
“Easy, gentlemen,” Cheves laughed. “It’s the Nullifiers we must fight, not each other.”
“There are too damned many people ready to fight,” Robert grumbled. “And this time I’m not talking about the Nullification clubs.”
“Perry and Bynum,” Cheves said quietly. Robert nodded. Two months before, in the upcountry, the controversy had erupted in a duel. Clark Bynum, Nullifier editor of the Greenville Mountaineer, had been killed by Benjamin Perry, Unionist editor of The Sentinel.
