Having been carried in by the sea breeze and flowing tide shortly before noon on February 26, 1836, the two-masted trading brig Bostonian Lady was rocking gently at its anchor. There was an air of urgency about the actions of the sailors who were starting to transfer some of the cargo from the forward hold to the boats which had been lowered. Although Captain Adams had not offered any explanation, they realized that only exceptional circumstances could have caused him to accept the navigational hazards of bringing his vessel into the small, landlocked, Santa Cristobal Bay. Situated about ten miles north of the Matagorda Peninsula, it was in what was usually an unpopulated region. The nearest human habitation was the tiny port of San Phillipe, which they had passed on their southbound course some fifteen miles farther up the Texas coast.
From all appearances, the captain had not been surprised to find human beings at the bay. In fact, his behavior had suggested that he was expecting to find somebody in what should have been a deserted area. On approaching the coastline, he had studied the mouth of the bay through his telescope. Although they did not have similar aids to vision, a couple of the hands claimed they had seen a man waving what appeared to be a blanket from the cliffs above the entrance. Despite this signal, Adams had not entered immediately. Instead, the Bostonian Lady had hove to offshore for almost an hour. During that period he had climbed the main mast and searched the horizon; presumably to satisfy himself that there were no other vessels within visual distance. When sure that they were unobserved, he had descended and given orders to go in.
On entering the bay, there had been indisputable evidence that the visit was prearranged. Several men were gathered on the beach and the brig’s sole passenger had been sent ashore in the jolly boat. As soon as he had landed, orders had been given that had set the crew to work.
Few of the sailors took much interest in current affairs unless the issues involved were such as might affect them personally, but even the most disinterested of them could not help being aware that at that time there was some kind of serious trouble taking place in Texas. It had been the main topic of conversation around New Orleans for several months past. None of the fo’c’s’le hands had extensive knowledge of why the Anglo-Saxon colonists and not a few Chicanos i had elected to sever all connections with Mexico and establish a self-governing Republic under the Lone Star flag. ii Nor did they particularly care. What did concern them was an uneasy feeling that the local authorities would not approve, to put it mildly, of their visit.
The suspicion had been strengthened when the sailors were told which items of the cargo to extract from the hold. The designated boxes had caused comment and speculation after they had been loaded at New Orleans. Some were oblong, about five foot in length, three wide, three deep, and heavy. The rest were lighter and roughly three foot square. All had one significant point in common. There was nothing on them to say what their contents might be, from whence they had come, nor to where and whom they were to be delivered.
However, the hands knew better than to mention their misgivings openly. Captain Nathaniel Adams was a humane, tolerant and easy-going man—in comparison with many of his class—but he would not—could not—permit the members of his crew to question his actions. So they set to work as quickly as possible in order to reduce the length of time they must spend in such a potentially precarious location.
Fortunately for the crew, none of them stopped to think too deeply about their situation. Having arrived at their destination at the commencement of the incoming tide and with the breeze blowing from the sea toward the land, the Bostonian Lady would have difficulty in leaving before the ebb. Even after the tide had turned, it might be necessary to tow the brig out to sea with her boats. Going out before the ebb would be a slow and laborious task. Too slow, in all probability, for them to escape if anything should go wrong.
Captain Adams had a better appreciation of the position. While he was not fully cognizant with the causes of the strife which was embroiling Texas, he knew that carrying out the mission which had brought him to Santa Cristobal Bay was placing himself and his vessel in considerable jeopardy. If he should be caught, the very least he could expect was for the Bostonian Lady to be impounded. From what he knew of Latin officials—and he had seen plenty of them during his years of trading from the Rio Bravo iii in the north, via Cuba and Puerto Rico, as far as the Rio de la Plata in South America—his fate was likely to be far worse than that. He had been well paid, with the certainty of other and less risky cargoes in the future. Arrangements, which appeared to be working, had been made to reduce the risks but he knew that there was still danger and he would not be sorry when he could get under way. Once he was out at sea, it would be very difficult for the Mexican authorities to prove that he had been connected with the unmarked consignment.
“I’ve got the cargo broken out and am having it put into the boats, Cap’n,” announced the mate, having come from the forward hold to where his superior was standing amidships studying the beach through a telescope. “So I hope yon fancy dressed supercargo iv knows what he’s talking about.”
“He said he knew the party who were waiting. Mister Shrift,” Adams pointed out. “And he wouldn’t be fool enough to go ashore unless he was certain that everything’s all right. You can start sending his consignment across.”
“Aye aye, sir,” the mate assented and returned to supervise the work.
For all the captain’s comment, he felt perturbed. The men who had hired him had laid great emphasis upon the need for secrecy and that their consignment must not be permitted to fall into the wrong hands. In spite of having received the correct signal from the cliffs and his passenger’s assurance that all was well, he was uneasy when he thought of the reception committee. While none of the quartet who had come to the water’s edge looked like Mexicans, neither did they appear to be a delegation from the Republic of Texas; particularly when something so important was involved. While the man at the left of the party most assuredly was not of Latin origin, neither did he spring from Anglo-Saxon stock. In fact, despite Adams’s entire sea service having been confined to the eastern side of the American continent and its offshore islands, he was able to recognize that the man was a native of the Orient.
Not quite five foot six in height, but with a sturdy build, the Oriental was young. Bareheaded, his black hair was close cropped and he had sallow, almond-eyed, cheerful features. His garments were a loose fitting black shirt hanging outside trousers of a similar material which were tucked into matching Hessian boots. v Apart from his footwear and the lack of a pigtail, he might have been a Chinese coolie such as could be seen in most of the United States’ major seaports. However, one rarely saw a coolie carrying weapons and he appeared to be well, if primitively, armed. A pair of long hilted, slightly curved swords with small circular guards hung—the shorter at the right—with their sheaths attached by slings to his leather waist belt. In addition, he held a long bow in his left hand and a quiver hanging across his right shoulder pointed the flights of several arrows so they would be readily accessible when required.
Adams found the second member of the quartet equally puzzling, but in a different way. About three or four inches taller than the Oriental, the snug fit of a fringed buckskin shirt, trousers and rawhide moccasins left no doubt that—in spite of a pistol thrust through the right side of a belt which also had a knife hanging at the left in an Indian-made sheath —it was a girl in her late teens and fast approaching the full bloom of womanhood. Her fiery red and curly hair had been cut fairly short. For all that the right eye was blackened and the top lip swollen, her pretty, freckled face expressed a happy-go-lucky zest for life. While the attire was unconventional to say the least for a member of her sex, it seemed to suit her personality, and, somehow, the weapons she was carrying did not appear incongruous in her possession.
From the similarity of their clothing, the remaining pair was apparently clad in some type of uniform. Hanging on their shoulders by barbiquejo chinstraps, they had black hats of the low crowned, wide brimmed pattern which had become popular as Presidente Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna’s repressive and obstructive policies had caused a growing antipathy among young Texians vi toward everything of Mexican origin. Their buckskin shirts were tucked into tight-legged fawn riding breeches and they had on Hessian boots. A pistol carried in a broad, slanting leather loop on the right side of the belt had its butt turned forward so as to be available to either hand. It was balanced by a massive knife of the kind which had already acquired the name “bowie” vii in honor of the man who was credited with designing the original weapon. There was only one noticeable difference in the pair’s attire. The man next to the girl sported a long, tightly rolled bandana that was a riot of clashing colors while his companion’s was plain scarlet.
At least six foot tall, the man with the scarlet bandana appeared to be in his early twenties. Bulky of build, he conveyed an impression of well-padded, contented lethargy. He had curly auburn hair and there was an amiable expression on his sun-reddened face.
Unless Adams missed his guess, the remaining member of the group was its leader. Matching his Anglo-Saxon company ion’s size and about the same age, he had a whipcord lean physique. He stood with a straight-backed alertness that was emphasized by the other’s almost slouching posture. However, it was his features which the captain found most interesting. Combed back above the temples, his black hair seemed to form two small, curved horns. Taken with eyebrows like inverted “V’s,” a neatly trimmed mustache and a short, sharp pointed chin beard, either accidentally or deliberately the protuberances made his lean, tanned, otherwise handsome face look like the accepted conception of the Devil’s physiognomy.
Even from a distance of close to a quarter of a mile, aided by the magnification of his powerful telescope, Adams’s shrewd judgment of human nature led him to determine that the slender young man bore the indefinable and yet recognizable aura of a born leader. He comported himself with assurance, but there was no trace of self-conscious arrogance which frequently marked a less competent person who had been placed in a position of authority. In spite of that, he struck the captain as being an unusual choice for so important a task as collecting and delivering the consignment.
Despite appreciating how vital the goods in his charge might prove to be in the Texians’ struggle for independence, the “supercargo” had not shared Adams’s qualms. In fact, Beauregard Rassendyll had been delighted when—using a borrowed telescope as the brig was approaching its anchorage—he had discovered who was to be his escort. He had not hesitated to request that he be taken ashore, or in confirming that the consignment could be landed. What was more, his only slight misgivings were relieved by the conversation which took place shortly after he had stepped from the jolly boat.
“Beau!” greeted the slender young man, striding forward with his right hand held out. “I thought it was you, but Cousin Mannen said Uncle Marsden couldn’t be so short of reliable help that he’d need to send you.”
“Huh!” Rassendyll sniffed, looking all around the bay with an over-exaggerated care. “I was told I’d have a suitable escort waiting. You wouldn’t have seen them, would you Devil?”
In spite of the comments, there was pleasure on the two young men’s faces as their hands met and shook. Then they studied each other as friends would when meeting after a lengthy separation.
Studying the most obvious change in Jackson Baines Hardin’s appearance, Rassendyll felt puzzled. There had always been a slightly Mephistophelian aspect to his features, which in part had produced his nickname “Ole Devil,” viii but the hornlike effect caused by the way his hair was combed, the mustache and beard, tended to emphasize it. Being aware of the circumstances which had compelled him to come to Texas, the supercargo would have expected him to avoid anything that made him easily identifiable.
Returning the scrutiny, Ole Devil found little change in Rassendyll. His senior by four years, the supercargo topped him by about three inches and, although not as bulky as Mannen Blaze, was more heavily built. Red haired, clean shaven and handsome, clad in a white “planter’s” hat and riding clothes cut in the latest fashion popular among the wealthy young Southrons of Louisiana, he looked as hard and fit as when they had served together on a merchant ship commanded by Ole Devil’s father.
“They’ve sent you the best,” the Mephistophelian-featured Texian declared, releasing his right hand so that he could indicate a group of about twenty well-armed men in similar attire to his own. They were standing about two hundred yards away, with a number of excellent quality horses. “Isn’t that right, Cousin Mannen?”
“You’ve never been righter. Cousin Devil,” confirmed Mannen Blaze, in a sleepy drawl that matched his lethargic attitude, having ambled forward to his kinsman’s side. However, there was nothing weak or tired in his grip as he shook the supercargo’s hand. “You ask most anybody. Beau, and see what they say about Company ‘C of the Texas Light Cavalry.”
“I’d hate to, if there were ladies present,” Rassendyll stated, glancing past the Texians in a pointed manner. “Hello there, Tommy—ma’am.”
“This is an old friend of ours, Beauregard Rassendyll, from New Orleans, Di,” Ole Devil introduced, taking the hint and presenting the supercargo to the girl and the little Oriental. “I wish I could say he was kin, you can’t pick them. Beau, I’d like you to meet Diamond-Hitch Brindley. She and her grandfather are handling the transportation of the consignment.”
A keen student of women, Rassendyll had been examining the girl with interest. While she was not yet twenty and dressed in a most unusual manner, there was little of the shy, naive, backwoods maiden about her. Nor, despite the revealing nature of her garments, did she appear brazen and wanton. Instead, her whole attitude was redolent of self-confident competence. It implied that she was used to the company of men and dealing with them as equals, neither ignoring nor playing upon the fact that she was an attractive member of the opposite sex.
The supercargo was aware that he was being studied and analyzed just as thoroughly, and he found the sensation a trifle disconcerting. Normally he would have enjoyed being stared at by such a good-looking and shapely person, but on this occasion he deduced that it was not for the usual flattering reasons. She was not contemplating him with a view to a possible romance. Rather she was considering him as a man would consider another member of his sex who would be accompanying him upon a hazardous endeavor. He was as yet an unknown quantity who might prove more of a liability than an asset. From her attitude it appeared that while she was willing to accept him as the friend of somebody for whom she had considerable respect, he would have to win her approbation on his own merits.
“I’m not so old, Miss Brindley,” Rassendyll corrected, offering his hand. He wondered how the girl had come by such a strange Christian name and how she had received the injuries to her face. “It’s just that knowing this pair has aged me.
“Likely,” Charlotte Jane Martha Brindley admitted, shaking hands. “Only the name’s ‘Di,’ which’s short for ‘Diamond-Hitch’ and I’m called that because I can throw one faster, tighter ’n’ better than anybody, man, woman, or child. How soon’ll we be getting ’em over here. Beau?”
“The crew should be fetching the first of them in the next few minutes,” Rassendyll replied, having been impressed by the strength and hardness of her hand. “Are your wagons coming down?”
“We’re using mules, not wagons,” Ole Devil put in. “It was decided that they’d be quicker and better suited to our needs.”
“Grandpappy Ewart’s fetching ’em along,” Di went on. “But we figured’s how we’d best come ahead to make sure it’d be safe for them to be landed.”
“And I presume that it is safe,” Rassendyll remarked, making the words a statement rather than a question.
“It is,” Di confirmed. “Now.”
“Did you run into trouble, Devil?” Rassendyll inquired, swinging around to look at the Texian.
“Some,” Ole Devil admitted, but nothing could be read from his Mephistophelian features to suggest just how serious the trouble might have been. “With any luck, it’s all over now.”
“Huh!” snorted Di. “The way those damned renegades lit out, they won’t dare come back and, after what Tommy did to it, that blasted Mexican ship’ll not be able to.”
“Renegades,” the supercargo repeated. “Ship!”
“There were a bunch of renegades around,” Ole Devil explained. “But Cousin Mannen arrived with Company ‘C and drove them off. We found a ten-gun brig taking on water in the bay, but we tricked its captain into leaving. It went south and, provided we don’t have any delays, we should have finished here and the ship’ll be gone before it could beat back.”
“If I know Captain Adams, there won’t be any delays. He knows too well what will happen to him if he’s caught,” Rassendyll stated, then glanced at the men with the horses. Knowing something of the Republic of Texas’s newly formed army, he continued, “Is that your full company?”
“Less than half of it,” Ole Devil answered in a reassuring manner. “I’ve sent twenty-five men to the mule train in case they should be needed. The rest are beyond the rim, some keeping watch from the cliffs in case that Mexican brig comes back, the rest acting as pickets on the range.”
“Good,” Rassendyll praised, finding that his misgivings about the small size of the escort were groundless. “If you’ll bring the mules down, we can start loading them as soon as the consignment arrives from the brig.”
“It’s not that easy,” Di warned. “You can’t move pack mules as quickly as riding bosses. So Grandpappy Ewart won’t be able to get ’em here afore sundown at the soonest.”
“Sundown?” Rassendyll repeated, glancing at the sky as if to estimate how much longer they would have to wait. “Adams won’t agree to stay in the bay until then.”
“He doesn’t need to,” Ole Devil replied. “In fact, he can leave as soon as he’s sent the consignment ashore. One of the reasons we came on ahead of the mule train was so he could land it and set sail again with the minimum of delay.”
“On top of that,” Di went on, bristling a little at what she regarded as the supercargo’s implied criticism of their arrangements, “we figure on having the rifles packed ready for moving when Grandpappy Ewart gets here.”
“There’s no need for that,” Rassendyll protested. “We aren’t carrying them loose, they’re in boxes of twenty-four.”
“Our mules can tote twenty-four apiece all right, but not while they’re in a wooden box,” Di countered, and the supercargo could sense that the conversation was doing nothing to improve her opinion of him. “So we aim to take ’em out and put ’em in bundles of twelve.”
“Can you get us enough canvas from the ship to wrap them in, Beau?” Ole Devil inquired, hiding the amusement he was feeling over having noticed the girl’s attitude toward his friend and recollecting that she had treated him in a similar fashion on their first meeting. “We were traveling fast and couldn’t bring anything with us to make up the bundles.”
“I’ll ask the captain to send some over,” Rassendyll promised. “I was told that I could make any purchases which might be necessary.”
“Bueno,” Ole Devil drawled.
“You called it right, Beau,” Mannen put in, before his cousin could continue. “They’re surely not wasting any time. Here comes the first load.”
Propelled by four sailors, a boat was making a swift passage between the Bostonian Lady and the shore. At Ole Devil’s signal, the men of his company left their horses standing ground-hitched by allowing the split-ended reins to dangle and walked to the beach. Without needing orders, they waded to where the boat had been brought to a halt. Taking hold of an oblong box’s rope handles, two of them lifted and carried it on to dry land.
“Open them up, Sergeant Grayne,” Ole Devil instructed to a stocky, bearded man who had no insignia of rank but was standing aside with a short crowbar in his hand.
“Yo!” the non-com replied, giving what was already the accepted cavalryman’s response to an order.
Prying open the box’s lid, Grayne exposed its contents to view. Twenty-four rifles lay inside, their butts in alternating directions. Lifting one out, the girl examined it without worrying about the grease with which it was coated. About four foot in length, with a barrel thirty-six inches long and .53 in caliber, it looked a typical “plains” rifle developed with the needs of travelers west of the Mississippi River in mind. However, she noticed that there were three main differences between it and the weapons to which she was accustomed. Most obvious, at the breech, the hammer had a flattened head with no jaws for holding a flint and, instead of a frizzen pan, there was only a small protuberance with a nipple on top as a means of igniting the powder charge in the chamber. The third difference was a metal stud on the side of the barrel slightly over an inch from the muzzle.
“It’s a fair piece,” Di stated with the air of a connoisseur after several seconds, and she indicated the stud. “But I’ve never seen a doohickey like this afore.”
“It’s to fix a bayonet on, there’s one for each of them in the bottom of the boxes,” Rassendyll explained. “A company in the United States made them, hoping to sell them to the army, but the generals didn’t want anything as newfangled as Caplocks.”
“Which is lucky for Texas,” Ole Devil declared. “Provided we can get them to General Houston, they could change history.”
“Then we’d best be getting to doing something more than standing and talking,” Di announced, replacing the rifle and wiping her hands on her thighs.
“I’ll go and make arrangements for the canvas,” Rassendyll offered.
“Bueno,” the girl replied. “We can start splitting ’em into twelves, Devil.”
Crossing to the Bostonian Lady in the jolly boat, Rassendyll bought sufficient canvas for Di’s purpose. On his return to the shore, he found the work of making the consignment ready for onwards transportation was being carried out. So he took the opportunity to pass on some private information which he was sure Ole Devil would be very pleased to receive.
“Kerry Vanderlyne has proved who killed Saul Beaucoup, Devil,” the supercargo said, having taken his friend beyond the hearing of the rest of the party. “That clears your name. There’s nothing to stop you going back to Louisiana.”