Lone Star Rising: T.S. Wasp and the Heart of Texas Page 3

  “Looks like it’s the armory after all,” said William Harper, Wasp’s master.

  “Dear Lord,” Crockett said with dismay.

  “Well,” Willie said dryly, “all our work wasted.”

  I strode again to the larboard rail and gazed into the river, lighted now by the burning ship. To my relief there was no sign of enemy boats. Perhaps the fire had been the night’s gambit after all and not a diversion. I have to admit I was thankful, although the explosion was a disaster for Texas.

  “Shit,” Crockett said, adding a string of more colorful curses in his fury and dismay.

  “Well, there is a bright side,” I said to Willie when Crockett had gone forward out of earshot.

  “This is already looking pretty bright to me,” he said.

  “We’ll probably be going privateering again instead of Galvestown,” I said. That’s what we were, you see. Wasp was a sloop-of-war with only twenty guns, just shy of frigate size, to be sure, but not big enough to put up a proper fight against a decent-sized warship; commerce raiding was her proper employment. This summer we’d had our first cruise, a very lucrative one, which our friends in Texas expected to finance their rebellion against the Spanish Empire. Now, with Wasp repaired from rough handling she had suffered at the hands of a Spanish frigate, we were ready to sail again.

  “I’ve never liked Galvestown,” Willie said. “We’ll have to slip that frigate, though. That will be tough.”

  “I’ll think of something.” Though only a twenty-gun sloop-of-war, Wasp was one of the fastest warships on the waves and I was ready, even eager, to match her once more against the best any navy could throw in her way.

  “Don’t give yourself a headache.”

  “For that you can stay and keep watch. I’m going below.”

  The fire burned throughout the night and well into the next day. When it finally sputtered out under a persistent rain, all of New Orleans from Customhouse Street to Toulouse and north to Dauphine had been reduced to smoldering piles of rubble, fully a quarter of the town. It was a miracle that not more had been destroyed.

  About noon, the Spanish frigate made sail and slipped down the river. The Spanish captain and I regarded each other from our quarterdecks until the frigate had vanished around the great bend to the east of town. It was clear from the way he watched us that he bore us ill will, but whether he intended any mischief, I could only guess.

  Chapter 2

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  September 1820

  The carriage slowed to a near stop at the corner of Rue Royale and Rue Dumaine only long enough for Willie, Crockett and me to jump out. We barely had time to leap clear of the rear wheel before the driver gave the horse the whip and it sped away down the street.

  It was dark, but still quite early, and there were many strollers about, some simply taking their exercise after supper, others on the prowl for the notorious pleasures that the city had to offer. Even though the manner of our departure from the carriage was unusual in its haste, no one seemed to pay us any particular mind.

  The aroma of wood smoke was still heavy in the air from the fire earlier in the morning even this far away from the site of the conflagration.

  “The back way, you said,” Crockett commented, glancing about for Spanish agents.

  “Yes,” I said. “We enter by the back door. Rochelle is sure the front is being watched.”

  “Don’t you think this skulking around is beneath a naval officer?”

  “I’d say, yes, if we really were naval officers,” I answered. Stephen Austin, the Texas counsel in New Orleans, liked to think that Wasp and its crew were the Texas Navy, but that was sheer pretention. Wasp was not even the property of any government, but of a consortium of Texans that included its president, me, and Armand Rochelle, and although in some respects I tried to maintain naval discipline for we had to sail and act like a warship, the notion that we were a navy was utter folly.

  “David, you’re starting to sound like Austin,” Willie said.

  “You cut me to the quick, sir, with that comparison,” Crockett said with mock gravity.

  “I shall let him know you said that,” Willie said.

  Crockett looked up and down both streets. “Where to now? You are the master of intrigue, Captain.”

  “That way.” I pointed up the Rue Dumaine.

  We paused halfway up the block, where an empty lot, overgrown with trees and brush, occupied a center strip between two tall houses. There was rustling in the brush, and Gervase, Rochelle’s negro butler, emerged just enough for us to see him. He said: “You are late.”

  “We had some trouble with the address,” I said.

  Gervase did not see any humor in that. He had as much dignity as any European lord, and I was surprised that he had been sent to fetch us rather than some lesser person. He held branches aside for us and I could see even in the dark that there was a path through the jungle. Gervase led us deep into a little forest full of chirping frogs, clinging spider webs, abrasive palmetto, buzzing mosquitos, dangling mosses and fetid smells, the foliage dripping from the rain.

  Presently we came to a brick wall where the path dead-ended. There a ladder stood against the wall. Gervase clambered up the ladder and disappeared over the top of the wall as if such gymnastics were the most natural thing to do, even for someone with his impressive dignity.

  Crockett climbed without comment. Willie followed.

  When it was my turn, I found another ladder waiting on the other side, which I descended. Gervase climbed back up. He leaned over the top of the wall and retrieved the ladder from the jungle side by means of a rope tied to the top rung. He passed that ladder to us, eased to the ground and led us around the warehouse, which occupied the rear of Rochelle’s property, to the big house that fronted Rue Bourbon.

  He let us into the house, directed us to Rochelle’s office, and withdrew without having uttered a single word beyond his initial greeting. It was hard to tell if he approved of us, but then he gave the impression of not approving of most people.

  Rochelle and Austin were already there, Rochelle behind his broad desk and Austin sunk into one of the plush armchairs. They looked as though they had not waited to start their argument.

  A bottle of Pennsylvania whiskey sat on the desk. Rochelle had poured drinks for himself and Austin, but their glasses appeared untouched. I helped myself to the bottle and glasses from the sideboard. Rochelle did not protest. His eyes flicked to mine as I poured for my companions and we settled onto chairs of our own.

  “You two seem to be the happy couple,” I said, downing a shot and savoring the fire. “What are you fighting about now?”

  “He demands that we bear the loss!” Austin sputtered, waving an agitated hand at Rochelle.

  “Ah,” I said. “Care more for your profits than for Texas freedom, do you?”

  Rochelle shot me a glare that suggested he would like to kill me for that. “It is not your affair.”

  “Of course. I’m just a simple merchant seaman. What does it matter to me what happens in some western wasteland?”

  “Are you taking sides?” he asked, not deceived by my flippant tone.

  “Well, Austin — or rather whom he represents — are our business partners, after all. Seems to me that their financial health is my concern as much as yours.” We all had one thing in common, you see. Each of us owned a piece of Wasp: Austin on behalf of a consortium of Texas investors which included the president of that would-be country, Andrew Jackson; Rochelle, or perhaps it was the French government, for it was hard to tell where Rochelle’s personal investments left off and those of the government took precedence; and me.

  “It is a huge sum,” Rochelle gritted, steepling his claw-like fingers. He was a spare man with a long neck and a head that seemed a bit too large for his thin body, though in his day he had been a formidable fencer and duelist and it was said that he had lost none of his skill. He had certainly not lost the killer instinct.

  �
�Six-thousand muskets!” thundered Austin. Thundering was something that Austin did not do well and the words came out rather shrilly, for he was a short fellow and his voice was not deep. “It was your fault they were lost!”

  I could practically hear Rochelle’s teeth grinding at the accusation. I poured myself more whiskey. “We’re not going to have lawyers get involved in this, are we? God forbid. Things really will get messy.”

  “Embarrassing, too,” Crockett said. “Our arrangements made public in a court of law . . . nobody wants that.”

  “I insist you replace the goods that were lost!” Austin demanded. “We had not taken possession. It was your warehouse, your guards. And we have paid — paid, sir, the full amount!”

  “How did the fire start?” I asked before Rochelle could respond. “What happened to the guards?” There had been eight men guarding the warehouse. It seemed unbelievable that a fire could have broken out there without them being able to put it out before it did any real damage.

  “They were killed,” Rochelle spat.

  “Killed?” I asked.

  “Knifed, apparently, from the two we found whose bodies were not burned.”

  “I see,” I murmured, not surprised, but shocked nonetheless. New Orleans was a violent town and no stranger to murder. Bodies were always turning up in the alleys and streets or seen floating down river. But these came in ones, in rare cases in pairs. Never so many at once or killed so coldly. “None of them friends of yours, I hope.”

  “Employees,” Rochelle said, his already thin lips a thin slash across his face.

  It only then occurred to me that the incident was a terrible embarrassment for him. Rochelle was the head of French intelligence in Louisiana, you see, and it seemed he had been out intelligenced by the Spanish. This had been no ordinary crime, but an affair of state in the shadow war between empires, with Texas a pawn caught in the middle.

  “Well,” I said, “our killers will be long gone, I think.”

  “Gone with that Spanish frigate, I’ll wager,” Crockett said.

  “Quite so,” I seconded.

  “That is obvious,” Rochelle said scornfully.

  “This discussion is not getting us anywhere,” Austin said, trying to bring the conversation back to the subject of muskets.

  “No,” Rochelle said, “it isn’t.”

  “And how much have you lost in this affair, Armand?” I asked. “Did you buy the muskets from the government?”

  Austin looked startled at this suggestion. No doubt he thought he was dealing with the French state and not with Rochelle. But then he did not know Rochelle very well — or the French government, for that matter, which liked to distance itself as much as possible from any appearance of involvement with upstarts in the desert. For his part, Rochelle again looked as though he would like to kill me.

  “You did, didn’t you,” I said with a smile. I did not have to add that he had certainly made a tidy sum by acting as a middleman.

  Rochelle’s fingers drummed on the table.

  “Are you out of guns, Armand?” I asked.

  Rochelle hesitated. “That was the last of my stock.”

  “There are truly no more to be had? What about the arsenal?” New Orleans did not have much of an army, but it had an arsenal intended to provide weapons to the militia in the event of need.

  “I cannot touch that.”

  “A pity.”

  “We need guns now,” Austin said urgently. “We cannot wait. The Spanish are certain to move against us soon, and we must be ready.”

  “When do you think they will come?” Rochelle asked, although I suspected he already knew the answer. He no doubt had many spies in Spanish Mexico feeding him tidbits about the Empire’s capabilities and intentions, just as the Spanish had their own spies in New Orleans.

  “By Christmas, certainly. It will take that long to move troops from Yucatan to the Rio Grande.” There had been another rebellion, this time among the Indios of the Yucatan, which the Imperial government had been occupied in suppressing.

  Rochelle nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, but I have word that smallpox has broken out in Vera Cruz and cases have appeared in Mexico City. That may delay them. The Spanish government will not want to risk an epidemic in the army.”

  “Smallpox!” Austin gasped. The prospect of a smallpox epidemic was enough to frighten the bravest man out of his wits. Such outbreaks can reduce a town by half and wipe out entire Indian villages.

  “You may have perhaps until spring,” Rochelle said.

  “Enough time to get to Europe and back,” Crockett said.

  “Quite so,” Rochelle said.

  “Where there are guns aplenty,” Crockett said, his eyes on Austin.

  “You’re not suggesting that I sail to Europe,” Austin said, startled at this notion.

  “Well, I was not thinking you. I was thinking the Wasp. We will fetch the guns for Texas.”

  The room was quiet for a time as everyone digested this proposal, which I have to admit I had not foreseen. Crockett might appear to be a country bumpkin with his ill manners and frontier speech, but behind that long innocent face there was a crafty mind whose only fault was that it was too trusting. As I examined the proposal from every side during the silence, I saw that it was the only thing to do, though I did not relish a voyage to Europe merely to obtain guns. There would be little profit in it for me.

  “It is a terrible risk,” Austin said, temporizing.

  “What else are we to do?” Crockett asked. “We’ve had a setback. We must overcome it.”

  Austin sagged. “I suppose so.”

  “Well, then, we’re going to Europe.” Crockett smiled brightly. “I’ve always wanted to see the Continent.”

  “You’ll find it generally more careworn than what you’re used to in British America,” I said. There was far more poverty and suffering in Europe than anywhere in British America, where at least there was land and food aplenty, and an opportunity to get rich.

  “But Paris, London,” Crockett said.

  “I doubt you’ll see more than some miserable harbor town,” I said.

  “There is the matter of money,” Austin said. “We’ve already paid for the guns we lost. We haven’t much left.”

  Austin and Rochelle exchanged flinty glances, two stubborn men conscious of the bottom line.

  Rochelle was the first to soften, for the bottom line for France involved more than mere profit: France stood to gain if the Texas rebellion were successful. She would have a weak buffer state on her North American border between her and the Spanish Empire that she expected to dominate as she did Belgium and the little German states in Europe. Few knew then how profitable control of North America would prove to be, but Rochelle was a far thinker and he dreamed of the wealth he was sure lay concealed deep in the country and was determined that it should belong to France. He said, “I will provide a letter of credit for the entire sum you have already paid.”

  Austin brightened at this generosity, only to be quickly deflated as Rochelle added, “On the proviso that you transfer ten percent of the Wasp to me.”

  I have never seen joy turn so abruptly to rage. Austin blubbered so that he could barely speak. He finally managed, “This is robbery, sir!”

  Rochelle spread his hands. “I am bearing the risk of loss, as you requested. I must be compensated, at least in part.”

  “But,” Austin sputtered, “that will give you as many shares in the vessel as we have, and we put up the greater part of the money to buy her!” A consortium of Texans, Andrew Jackson most prominent among them, had pooled their meager cash to buy Wasp, and no doubt Austin was worried about how they would react to this proposal.

  Rochelle sat impassively. He sensed that because this proposal would not result in the immediate loss of cash to the Texans Austin would agree. And he was right, for Austin jerked his head in assent.

  “Very well,” Austin spat as if the words were foul in his mouth.

  “I shall h
ave the papers drawn up straightaway,” Rochelle said. He paused, looking thoughtful. “There is one other thing that bears mention. It concerns our costs.”

  “What of it?” Austin asked suspiciously, smelling a condition coming that had to be some sort of trap.

  “Sending the Wasp to Europe will be an expensive proposition.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t considered that,” Austin snapped.

  “Well,” Rochell said, “perhaps there is something we can do to ameliorate the sting.”

  “How so?”

  “Captain,” Rochelle said, addressing me instead of answering Austin, “even if the Wasp is fully manned and provisioned for a long voyage, shouldn’t there be some space left in her hold?”

  “Some,” I said, sensing where he was going.

  “Well, then, there is room for cargo, I should imagine.” Rochelle fixed his eyes on Austin. “Surely as a commercial man you would not be averse to obtaining some profit from this unfortunate voyage — for yourself and your investors?”

  I held back a grin. As much as I enjoyed matching wits with an enemy, the prospect of profits was never unwelcome, especially since I was a co-owner of Wasp. One day, she would be fully mine and every penny she earned would belong to me. I disliked sharing Wasp with anyone; it was like having to share my wife. But under present circumstances, that could not be avoided.

  “Making such arrangements will delay us,” Austin said. “There is not a day to be wasted.”

  “I think only a day or two at most,” Rochelle said. “Your assent will make it easier for my principals to agree to return the money you have already paid for the lost guns and powder.”

  I could practically hear Austin’s teeth grinding. But he nodded.

  Rochelle smiled. “Excellent. I happen to have another warehouse, this one full of cotton which I was regretfully unable to sell this season. You shall take it to London and peddle it for me there.”