Bad Apple

We stopped by our little creek and, this time, I did make time to cook a pair of frogs. Their meat was stringy but tasty. It felt good to talk to James without being on his back. I’d come lately to horses—spending this much time with them, I mean—but I’d learned that they did hear you and they did react to you. I think he appreciated the talk because I wasn’t asking him to do something.

The next day was clear and unusually warm, and I bathed before leaving, just to cool myself. By the time I was making for Gonzales, I was rested, refreshed, and most of all clearheaded. And there was something else. A sense that this was like no war ever fought, at least to my limited knowledge, one in which every man made a difference and was expected to shoulder the most he could bear . . . and then some. Willie Miller had taken independent action, with Houston’s blessing, and had gotten a dozen crates of guns for the Texian cause. That could turn a battle. Which meant that what I had done, getting to his attention, could turn a war.

The rational side of me said, “John: you’ve done enough. Esteban has no men to haul his guns. Let it be.”

But there was a stronger part of me that disagreed. The part that was a stew of a gift from Jim Bowie, Morning Sun, others—a sense of honor that dictated that I pit myself against the cause of all of that activity, Esteban Gonzáles

I saw his shark face in my mind as I rode. I pictured his walk, his arms, the rough sound of his voice, reminded myself of the deaths he had caused. That part of me rose like a cauldron in my gut, sending hot fumes everywhere . . . just like it had when I killed the Mexican cavalrymen who tried to take me, knifed the soldiers in the retreat from San Antonio, cut out the lives of my tormenters as they slept.

It was clear that John Apple had grown to quite a different man than he had been. I wondered just who this person was . . . and who he would become. I confess being afraid of that thought; imagine suddenly not knowing yourself. Who do you talk to? Who do you ask for guidance when events ain’t finished with you?

And, God help me, they wasn’t.

Esteban was not in Gonzales. I considered whether I should wait for him or try and track him—and risk missing him, because while I may have been blessed by Morning Sun I was no Comanche scout. But that’s when I heard a voice say to me, inside my head:

You came to Texas to see the coast, the thought spoke loud. Go.

I can’t say whether it was God or too much sun that spoke, but I was glad it did. Sitting around in this acrid ruin was not something I cared to do.

I headed out the east end of the village, saw the frozen-mud tracks of a single horse and rider headed in that direction, and followed them. Realizing that I could very well meet Esteban coming back from that direction, with a cartload of guns, I was attentive to every sound, every movement that wasn’t caused by the wind, ever—

“Shit.”

There are times you get caught up in a thing and forget something so basic, so large, that you don’t understand how you could have overlooked some large aspect of it. I did that back in Mansfield, when I used to plant for the season. I would go to the plot of land with my spade and seeds and twine to build little fences the rabbits couldn’t get through—and forget the bucket of water I’d need.

I had done that with Esteban Gonzáles. Not once while I was with him did I see a cart for hauling guns. He was bringing them in regular, if the shipments I encountered was any indication. That meant, wherever he was coming from, one or more drivers with one or more carts would be coming with him. I would be facing more than Esteban.

I quickened my pace and prayed to the good Lord that wherever he had gone he had not started the return trip. I hoped he had a woman somewhere, or drank with fellow conspirators.

I had to get to him before he came west with a trained and able team like the one we had stopped.

I was lucky, in a way. Talking to stray folks I met along the way—long after Esteban had stopped leaving a trail that I could detect—I learned that the only place where shipping took place was the newly established port of Beaumont on the west bank of the Neches River. Like so many of the towns I had come through since arriving, Beaumont had been settled in 1824 as a farm run by Noah and Nancy Tevis. Other settlers came to what was then called Tevis Bluff and then, just a year ago, all fifty acres comprising Tevis Bluff and neighboring Santa Anna was bought by speculators from the north who merged them into a town named after Jefferson Beaumont, kin to one of the buyers. The main thing the townsfolk did, then, was ship what they grew or manufactured to other towns along the river.

What made this information lucky was two things. First, it gave me a destination; and second, it was over two hundred miles from Gonzales. Esteban would just be reaching there by now. He would still have to pay off whoever had transported his goods—by barge, I reckoned, since I was told that was what fit best with what had been built there—and rest a spell. He would also have to come back along the only decent dirt road, which was the one I was on.

That still left the puzzle of who got him the information. I knew from what I heard at the Alamo that a lot of weapons for Oklahoma, Missouri, and Arkansas came by boat from the north, down the coast and around Florida into the gulf—usually through New Orleans, which was one of the reasons Stephen Austin had went there, hoping to secure arms for our cause. The army ordered guns in too great a number for a new port like Beaumont to handle. They would have to be taken off a larger ship and brought along the gulf coast.

I hoped that I would get that information from Esteban. I wondered, if I did, whether that would cause me to spare his life.

The trip to Beaumont took five days. I arrived shortly after the rising of a full moon, probably after midnight as it had been dark for several hours. I could smell the fresh water before I could see it; I could also feel the presence of the Gulf. The air had a motion, a scent, a power that I had never felt before having spent my life far from any sea. It was like the fluttering you feel, holding a moth by one wing and it buzzing the other to try to escape. Only that batting sensation hummed all over my body.

I had read that God was everywhere. If so, He had a concentration of angels here, their wings aflutter.

The moon cast the water and the structures beside it in a kind of plum shade. There was an inn, which suggested to me the kind of establishment the Coles was trying to establish inland. There was light in just one window, which I took to be a dining area since there were shapes seated inside. I was too far to make them out, which meant I was too far for them to make me out. That was fine; I intended to do some exploring first along the river.

I walked James down a gentle grass slope to the banks. A stone wall had been erected for quite some distance, roughly four feet high, suggesting that the Neches had a habit of sometimes overflowing. There was a mooring post atop the wall, a canoe banging lightly on the other side. I left James tethered there and moved low along the levee. There were three sturdy-built docks that did not go far into the river, telling me it was pretty deep along the bank. Each was guarded by a gate comprised of a waist-high horizontal log. And each was occupied by a vessel. The nearest wharf held a barge with a pair of large poles proudly upright in holders astern. It would take powerful arms to shove off from shore and move against the current. The second vessel was a dory with a single sail furled about a central mast. It was big, about two horse-lengths long, though the lazy-moving waters lifted and lowered it without effort. The third vessel, which I could not see until I had maneuvered back to the slope to see past the dory, was a large raft with no pole. Or, rather, someone took the pole with them when the raft came ashore. Because there were still contents onboard. Four crates that I knew well from having handled their brothers. They were lashed by heavy rope to iron hooks in the raft. The cargo must have arrived too late for them to be loaded onto a cart—a cart which would not have been protected. So they would rest here until morning.

I felt fire rise in my belly, reaching my throat as if I was a dragon. The guns made me mad, for sure, but so did the realization that no one here apparently questioned their legality or their destination. Is that how the new republic would operate, the one we had fought and bled and died to create?

That must not be, I told myself. I was in the core of wickedness, the place where death was distributed. It had to be stopped.

But I could not let that feeling take charge of my actions. I had to think, and with good reason: just beyond the raft, built on a stone foundation, was a shed with a small cupola. As I came closer I saw that it was not a shed but a guardhouse with a guard inside. The angle of the moonlight etched a white line about him, showed him leaning against a wall, sleeping. I crept closer, saw a cowbell on each gate. The clapper seemed to be weighted just so; though the wind gently moved the bell it did not sing out. The gate being moved would cause it to ring. Someone putting a hand on the log to jump over would shake it enough to cause it to ring. And the gate being moved was the only way to get on the wharf without going over the wall and hitting the river with a loud splash.

I wondered what the pay was for a man to sleep unless wakened by a hollow clang.

I drew my Colts, not intending to use them but to keep them from making the holsters squeak. From the first time I heard that canoe hitting the wall, thuk, thuk, thuk, I realized that out here, with that magical air, I noticed that sound carried. Still bent low, I crept around the shack like a big cat, on my toes. My ears was turning like I was a cat or a dog, listening for any sound from the inn which was receding to my left. I reached the waist-high log gate and saw fish net hanging from the bottom. Was that to keep critters in or out, I wondered—too late. I suddenly picked up an odor I had not smelled since Pennsylvania; unfortunately, the sleeping goat baaaaed at my presence, jumped to its feet, and ran off.

“What?” the guard sputtered.

I didn’t have time to swear, let alone think. I was nearly opposite the raft with the crates of rifles. Shoving one of my guns back in its holster, I vaulted the log barricade with the help of my free hand, causing the bell to sound. I landed like a dropped piglet, lost my gun, and didn’t have time to look for it. Two ropes, fore and aft, held the raft to the wharf. The crates was stacked in the center, two and two, with about three feet on either side for whoever was steering. I drew my Bowie knife and ran onto the south side of the raft. I prayed that I had enough of a head start.

“Hey!” the guard said, more alert now. “Who’s out there?”

The wakened sentry rang his own bell, located in the cupola, which caused James to whinny and roused the inn. Lights ignited in several windows. I heard shouts through an open door.

I cut one of the restraining ropes, which freed the tail end of the raft. It got caught in the flow, turned the raft sideways, and I lost my balance, landing in the water. Well, that was stupid. But as I said previously, I was a babe when it came to water. I had now been properly baptized.

I’d’ve swore but there was water in my mouth. Coughing it out, I slogged to the shore, where there was barely room to stand on account of the stone wall. I was grateful that my fingers had not panicked like the rest of me and had dutifully remained locked around the knife. I had no idea whether my guns would still function after their soaking, and I wasn’t sure what to do next. The guard was out of his booth and holding a rifle; luckily, the moon created the narrowest shadow where I stood frozen.

If I ran to James, I might get away—but I would never again have a chance to take the rifles or their owner.

There was something I had learned from Colonel Travis back at the Alamo, when he had answered that cannon shot from the Mexicans with one of his own. Show no fear. Attack. Otherwise, you will be fighting on the enemy’s terms.

The guard reached the wall, looked out at the river, then looked down. He knew this terrain, would discern enough of me in a moment to shoot me where I crouched. The gun barrel was over the wall, on my side. I did not think, I acted. I sheathed the knife, vaulted toward that barrel about two feet up, and grabbed it. My falling pulled it down, not free of his hands but causing it to discharge into the river. It was useless for the moment and, releasing it, I ran back to the wharf.

“He’s here!” the sentry shouted. “Esteban’s raft!”

The man ran to the gate, obviously intending to engage me. We arrived simultaneously—he had obviously done a share of poling and had arms like the log which he moved by his own self. I drew a wet gun. He hesitated. I did not know if it would fire, but he obviously had the same concern.

“You shoot me, you get hanged tonight,” the guard warned.

I switched gun hands and drew the knife. I started to cut the other rope. “Get back on shore,” I told him.

“They will follow you.”

“Get off,” I repeated. I could only entertain one worry at a time. Right now, my worry was getting the raft free.

The man looked at my moonlit gun. I had an answer, sort of, to my previous question: he was not being paid enough to risk that my gunpowder was still dry. He returned to the dock and backed through the gate as other men came running toward us—with more rifles.

I did not have but one course of action open to me. I cut the rope and ran behind the crates and lay flat down as the raft spun into the river—in my haste nearly stabbing myself in the chest with my own knife. That wasn’t my only near-calamity. The keyword I just imparted is “spun,” because in about two seconds, though I was lying down, I was facing the shore, vividly exposed by moonlight—a near and easy target. I scrambled around the raft just a heartbeat before the first volley struck wood, causing crate and raft to spit splinters into the air. I did not lay down now but crept around the long wooden boxes as the long wooden raft turned lazy circles. They happened to impede my view of the shore for a moment—the moment when Esteban set out in the canoe. That wasn’t good for me, since the raft was drifting back toward where I had hitched James—near the canoe. He proved to be an able paddler, and we were destined for a collision. The only good thing was, far as I could tell as I twisted toward the center of the river, my hated adversary was not armed. Thinking ahead, I considered our certain confrontation and the fact that even if I survived, I would be a target for any allies he had ashore.

But, as I said, one worry at a time.

Esteban was shouting at me, almost baying like a wolf. It was in Mexican, so it was as incomprehensible to me, but there was no mistaking his rage. This was a good time to find out if my gun fired; I aimed, the hammer clacked, and nothing else happened. Once, twice, three times.

I holstered it and realized I would have to rely on the knife. As I spun at the mercy of the river, I found myself talking to Bowie as though he was there. Not to God but to someone who I had seen use the knife. I pictured how he held it, how he moved. I prayed some of that would find its way to my right arm.

The canoe speared toward me, reached me, and Esteban went from a sitting position to being in the air with a powerful leap.

“Bastard!” he cried as he flew toward me.

My nemesis carried one of the two paddles with him, high over his head like a big shark fin hovering over his shark body. It came down at me as he landed, and only rolling tight against the crate protected my skull. The oar shattered, but now he had a jagged stick to use as bludgeon or knife.

Or harpoon. He raised his arm high and jabbed down at me. All that stopped him from impaling me was the heavy rope around the crates, which I had used my heels to scoot under. Problem was, now I was trapped. I could not roll overboard if I so chose. It would take time I did not have to wriggle to the end of the raft. I was in pain from one of those iron hooks in my back. And the movement of my right arm, the one with the knife, was limited by the rope that was now above it. Esteban screamed like a demon, grabbed that rope with one hand and leaped over it to where my head lay, my face exposed.

I was not so much afraid of dying but of failing at this last, important moment. I looked away, not wanting that to be the last thing I saw. I’m not sure an iron hook was much better, but—it saved my life.

The hook was to my right. Of course. That was where the crate-holding rope was tied. Dear blessed God, what was under my back was not that.

With a cry of my own, I pressed my body against the rope, at the same time worming my left arm under me. Esteban landed between me and the water, facing my trapped self. I was staring up at him, at that wood stake, at his wide, dark maw. I was able to see his narrow eyes grow big and bright as my left hand emerged with the gun I had dropped, the one that had not gone in the water, the one that put a bullet square in his dull shark’s forehead. Like a skunk, his malodorous blood spewed from him as his body went the other way. This time I had the devil’s own baptism as his gore painted my face while he was flung into the river, first bouncing off the side of the canoe. He bobbed facedown in the moonlight, a brownish grease forming around him as his foul essence poured forth.

I squirmed from under the ropes, knelt on the raft, looked back toward the shore. Men were at the wall, near the guardhouse. They had rifles but didn’t use them; I was too far to make a good target, and I was still spinning. One thing at a time: I had to deal with the guns first. The solution actually solved two problems.

I holstered my dry gun, thanking Mr. Colt and God, then reached for the canoe and felt inside for a mooring rope. Finding it, I tied that to the nearest iron ring. I did not have the strength or leverage to shove the crates overboard, but I had another idea. I proceeded to use my knife to cut the ropes that held the raft together. The twisting became more like a serpentine movement as the thing came apart fore, center, aft. I couldn’t get to the bindings under the crates but the current worked the ends of the raft, side to side, up and down, and soon the whole structure was like a sheaf of wheat in a strong wind, working against its central bond.

I got in the canoe and untied it just moments before the raft came apart, dumping its contents into the Neches with a dull, deep, sustained splash. My own vessel rolled a little from the waves—a most blessed sensation, I must say.

Retrieving the surviving paddle, I rowed Indian-style, switching from one side to the other, to return to shore. The men had begun to gather behind the wall, rifles pointed at the canoe, aligned like the picket stakes we had at the Alamo.

They hadn’t shot me yet, and I didn’t know if they would, but I took a chance and said to them that which summed up what I had done and why.

“Remember the Alamo!”

No gun was discharged as I closed on the shore and stepped from the canoe.