Chapter Thirty-nine

Beaumont, Texas, April 1836
JOHN’S STORY

 

What was more miraculous than not being shot—and mind you, through all of this I never felt that the Lord or Jim Bowie was far from me, protecting me—was what I learned after my horse was stabled and I went with the owners and their guests back to the inn.

I gave them a quick summary of my Texas history, which seemed to persuade at least my hosts that I was a solid citizen. After that, there was a general discussion among the folks there-gathered, whose sleep I had disrupted beyond repair. To begin with, there was no threat of legal action. For one thing, there was no lawman anywhere near Beaumont—nor any written laws to uphold, other than a legal charter that did not address the killing of a traitor who was trying to stab me. And I was not stealing legal goods so, technically, even if a law did exist, I would not have broken it. This, mind you, was all decided in an improvised hearing by six folks, none of whom had any legal knowledge and two of whom could not read or write. Dorcas and Dick Harris, the proprietors, had been fooled into believing that Esteban Gonzáles was, like his father, devoted to the free state of Texas. The owner of the raft, Jack Howard, a former New England whaler, was angry at the loss of his conveyance but angrier still that he had been used by the Mexican to help Santa Anna. It was he who had been sitting watch, not an employee of the inn, safeguarding the goods.

“Every time he came, Esteban had letters from the garrison of Fort Gibson, on their own printed paper, signed by their own commander, authorizing this transfer,” the big man said.

“May I see those?” I asked.

He produced the most recent document that Esteban had presented. It was indeed on the printed letter paper of Fort Gibson, and signed by Colonel Burton Gearhart, Commander. I asked if I might retain the letter. Permission was granted.

“I arrived to drive the cargo in my cart,” said another man, who went by the name of Pedro—just that. He shrugged. “I got no politics. I just carry goods.”

“You just went back and forth to Gonzales,” I said.

“That’s right. Just back and forth and back and forth.” He held up his thumb and index finger. “Two days a week—I go home to my family along the Neches.” He shrugged again. “Who run Texas, no matter to me.”

The other two occupants of the inn were a young married couple bound for their honeymoon in New Orleans. When they got back, they planned to work on the Tevis spread. I envied them. The angels of this country called to me.

But I could not stay, not more than the night. I had to get back to the fort to make certain this kind of blasphemous behavior never occurred again. The Harrises gave me some of Mr. Harris’s clothes, and mine were set out to dry a little. My soggy belongings were put on the dresser in my room. And their kindness did not stop there. I would not have been able to pay for the room, the few coins I carried having been lost in the river. Happily, my hosts wanted no money.

“You gave me a story to tell travelers for years to come,” Dick Harris told me, showing me to a room after making sure the other vessels were still secure. They belonged to local men who ferried goods from Louisiana.

“Your guests may not believe you,” I pointed out. “This land—the West—is famed for its tall tales.”

The man smiled. “This land is famed for stories, as you say, but I suspect it will be more for the real heroes who lived here. Of which I count you as one, John Apple.”

I was flattered and thanked him.

“Besides,” he went on, “the remains of the raft have washed against the seawall, and I believe I can use the barge to salvage the crates. The water will have ruint them, but what a display they will make.” He eyed the knife that had been wiped dry and set on the furniture with my guns and holster. “I don’t suppose I could buy the knife.”

“You recognize it?” I said.

“More than anything, that is what made me trust you,” he said. “No man could’ve taken that from Jim Bowie so you must have been a friend.”

“Bowie was here?” I asked.

“Before the inn was built, when we was just running the single wharf we had put up,” he replied. “It was 1832. Bowie had sent to New Orleans for some clothes for his wife, came to pick it up himself. I heard, later, what had happened to them, and my heart busted for him. And now . . . now we’ve lost him.”

He asked me to talk about the Alamo; I was too tired to talk but too tired to resist, and the words just came out. So did the feelings I had about what we had won and also what we had lost. I wept, and Dick Harris wept as we knew all of this great new republic wept.

Which is why, finally, I had to get rest so I could help make sure our loss had not been for nothing. My host graciously accepted my decision to retain the keepsake and bid me a good night.

I slept deep, trusting that if anyone here had deceived me and came for me in slumber, the same guardians would watch over me as had done so on the river.

It was the smell of eggs and griddle cakes and strong coffee that woke me the next morning. There was still something I didn’t understand, and I was wondering if anyone there had any ideas.

When we had gathered around the table and said our prayers—me leading grace, which honored me powerfully—I asked the diners for their indulgence.

“I will leave here and go to Fort Gibson directly,” I said. “It is my intention to expose the one who sent the letter, whether it is the man who signed it or someone who stole his good name. But—Mr. Howard,” I turned to the owner of the late raft, “is there a printed document that announces the schedule of these shipments? How would Esteban Gonzáles have known to come here now?”

“I had been wondering that myself,” Dick Harris said. “I would have thought such shipments, like payroll, are not publicly known in order to prevent just such theft.”

“I do not know the answer to that,” Howard boomed. “But I can tell you that when the army arrives to collect their goods for distribution, they do not come just for them.”

“Do you know what else?” I asked eagerly.

Howard said that he did. He told me what it was. And with that information I had narrowed to a very few the number of sinners who could have done this thing.

It was with gratitude I departed after a good meal and even better fellowship. I left also with food and drink enough for several days. It would take, I knew, the better part of two or three weeks to make the journey to Fort Gibson; a dangerous trek, for it would bring me through territory with a Mexican army closing from the southwest and Sam Houston’s men doing who-knew-what to the northeast. For all I knew, they might have orders to shoot to kill.

I decided it was probably safer to head for where the Texians might be—which was how, by yet another miracle, I found myself on the outskirts of San Jacinto as the terrible reign of Santa Anna came to an end in Texas. My heart felt like it was being twisted by big hands when I heard the sound of warfare—the same as it sounded at the Alamo, big and loud and near. I was drawn toward it, for it was large enough to sound like the end of someone’s dream.

It happened not to be our hopes that were being blasted by cannon and gunfire. From the time I heard it until the time I arrived—less than a half-hour by my reckoning—the war was ended. The republic was achieved. The tyrant was thrashed and returned to his homeland, accepting the terms of surrender as dictated to the dictator.

I did not stay for the celebration that followed. There could be no joy in my heart until the felon who had aided in the death of my friend had been brought to justice. I did not go out of my way to stop at the Coleses’ place, though I resolved to journey there after my trip to the fort. However, I did detour through Comanche country to visit with my brother Morning Sun and to see, again, the squaw who had been so enamored with me. I knew it might cause Swift Water some ache to see me again but—well, I was feeling alone and there was something inside that compelled me to go.

I reached the settlement in time to see her joined with Morning Sun. First, San Jacinto—now this. I had to ask myself if God was conducting all of this, the timing, wanting me to close doors so that I could open new ones. Sweet Swift Water seemed very happy, as did Morning Sun, not just to be bound but to see me. The braves taunted me with their light dances, but only for a moment—only until Morning Sun called their attention to my Mexican saddle and Bowie knife, all won in battle. I feared that someone would take that as a sign to challenge me, but none did. I did not understand the words of Morning Sun, but his tone was respectful rather than mocking. To attack me, they would be attacking him. None was prepared to cause such a rift.

I moved on, just me and James . . . and that important paper I carried in my breast pocket. As much as it was a journey across the land, it was also a journey through my insides. I reflected on everything I had experienced, everyone I had met, every scrape I had survived. I thought about all of those who had not, all of it for an idea—one they did not even survive to enjoy. What a quality of man to make such a sacrifice as that. Fate and circumstance had forced me to take some of those risks, perhaps less willingly than a Bowie or a Fannin, and I wondered how, when this was finally ended, I could dedicate my remaining years to that level of charity and goodness.

The answer, I decided, was roam the land with one great purpose in mind: to help the oppressed by killing those who needed it, and to plant the seeds of the future in their otherwise unworthy carcasses.