Authors: Jason Manning
"He will always honor the memory of his father."
Gray Wolf stared at Spotted Tail, who was a very thoughtful and perceptive man, and who knew without having to be told that Gray Wolf had made another promise, this one to himself.
"I know your heart is bleeding," continued Spotted Tail. "No matter how many white men you kill, it will always bleed, until the day you die. You know this is true, Gray Wolf. That is why you intend to die in battle, so that you may join Snow Dancer in the next life. And that is why you have given up your son."
Spotted Tail was one of the few Comanches who remained committed to peace. Thanks to nearly fatal wounds suffered in a battle with the Utes, Spotted Tail's left arm dangled uselessly at his side, and he would walk with a severe limp until the day he died. These handicaps meant he would never again take the warpath, which suited him well enough, for he had acquired a strong aversion to war. Gray Wolf did not despise him for this, as others did. In fact, he was glad that Spotted Tail was a pacifist. That meant he would always be there to guide his son through life.
"I know my son will want for nothing while he is in your keeping," said Gray Wolf. His voice broke, and he turned quickly away. From the skin lodge came the cry of the infant child, and the sound wrenched painfully at his heart, and his eyes burned with sternly fettered tears.
When he reached the council and took his place in the circle, he bleakly scanned the faces of the assembled chiefs. So many familiar faces were missing! So many Quohadi leaders had perished at the Council House! Most of all he would miss the great Maguara, so valiant in war, so noble in peace, so dedicated to the welfare of the Antelope band. Most of those present today were young war chiefs, resplendent in battle array. Ironically, most of the ones the Texans had killed had been those most committed to peace.
The subject brought before the council for its consideration was the waging of war against the Texans. This time Gray Wolf knew there would be no chance of a lack of unanimity. The souls of even the few old patriarchs who remained burned for retribution. There could be no other course of action. The Comanches had been wronged. Turning the other cheek was not part of their creed.
Gray Wolf's brother, Running Dog, who had also earned the status of war leader, and who wore the buffalo-scalp bonnet, rose to speak his mind. The white devils had lured them into a trap, and they must be made to pay for this treachery, he said. The Penatekas and the Tanawas had declared war upon the Texans. The Quohadis must not dishonor their dead by failing to do the same. No mercy must be shown the whites. No man, woman, or child must be spared. For every Quohadi who had fallen at the Council House, a hundred whites must perish. The land must run red with Texas blood.
Red Eagle spoke next. He vowed he would not rest until he had tasted the hearts of a hundred Texas men. He would crush the skulls of a hundred white infants beneath his heel. He would cut open the bellies of a hundred white women so that they could not produce any more of their vermin. By the end of his tirade, Red Eagle was ranting like a lunatic, and he had worked many of those who heard him into a fever pitch, so that their angry shouts rang out for some time after Red Eagle sat down.
Soon it was Gray Wolf's turn to speak. Being one of the few to have survived the ambush at Bexar, he was looked upon with something akin to reverent awe, for clearly the Great Spirit had spared his life for some great purpose. The Quohadis believed this purpose must be that Gray Wolf was destined to lead them to victory against the whites.
"Red Eagle will wage war as he sees fit. So will Gray Wolf. But Gray Wolf will not make war against women and children. That is the way of the white man. I choose to fight like a Comanche instead." The veiled insult of his words made Red Eagle fume, but Gray Wolf paid the warrior no heed. "If we hope to defeat the Texans, the Comanches cannot wage war as they have in the past against their other enemies. The Quohadis must join forces with the Penatekas and all the other bands. Somehow we must put aside our differences. If we do not, we cannot win. The Texans are too many. Together, we must strike swiftly. We must cut a path of blood and fire from here to the great water in the south. We must do this soon, for then we will have bought precious time, and if we do not hunt the buffalo before the coming of the snow, our people will starve in the winter months. Then, early in the spring, we will join the other bands once more and strike again, in strength.
"Even so," he warned, "this is not enough, for while we fight the Texans, the Utes to the north and the Apaches to the west will try to lay waste our villages. They will try to steal our horse herds and our women. We cannot fight in the east and the west and the north all at the same time. There is only one thing we can do. We must try to make peace with the Utes and the Apaches."
This drew a gasp from the lips of some of those present. "But how can we do this?" asked Running Dog. "They have been our enemies since the time of our fathers' fathers, and even before."
"There is only one way," replied Gray Wolf. "We must make them see that unless the Comanches can defeat the Texans, their lands will be invaded by the whites in the years to come. It is in their best interests to leave us alone, or they will soon find themselves faced with the same enemy that threatens us now.
"Gray Wolf has only this left to say. He had hoped for peace with the Texans. Now he sees that there can be no peace. The Texans are without honor. Their word cannot be trusted. He knows now that they must be destroyed, or the Quohadis will not survive. Gray Wolf will fight them until the last drop of blood runs from his veins."
The council deliberated briefly. All could discern the wisdom of Gray Wolf's suggestions, and on that very day riders were dispatched west and north, bearing the peace pipe to the Utes and the Apaches.
Within a month's time, all the Comanche bands had agreed to unite in one great and devastating raid. They would number their warriors in the hundreds, the largest force they had ever assembled for war, and it was agreed that they would strike early in the summer.
Chapter Eleven
Major Charles Stewart, of the Royal Scots Fusiliers, stood at the rail of the steamer
Chalmette
as she entered Galveston harbor, gazing at the somewhat shabby port on the fringe of civilization—and liked what he saw. Civilization bored Stewart. His appetite for adventure was insatiable. And, from what he had heard about the Republic of Texas, he was confident of finding plenty of excitement here.
The pilot had come aboard, and the
Chalmette
was under way at full steam past the bar at the harbor's entrance. The island had been named in honor of the Spanish governor of Louisiana, Bernardo de Galvez. In the early days it had been inhabited by Karankawa Indians, who were reputed to be cannibals. Whether that was true was of little consequence now, since the Americans had long since exterminated the coastal tribe.
Of more interest to Stewart, since he had tangled with Malaysian pirates during his sojourn in the Orient, was the fact that Galveston Island had long been a haunt for Caribbean freebooters, the most notorious being Jean Laffite. After being routed out of his Barrataria stronghold on the eve of the Battle of New Orleans, Laffite had established a new base here under the Spanish and then Mexican flags, calling it Campeche. Laffite had remained for half a dozen years before being "cleared out" a second time. Rumor had it that he had gone next to Yucatán, reputedly dying there of natural causes.
Stewart was of the opinion that he had been born a century too late, else he, too, would have been a pirate, roaming the Seven Seas in search of loot, and giving Laffite some competition. As a lad growing up in Celbridge, twelve miles west of Dublin, he'd often pretended to be Sir Francis Drake, whom he considered something of a pirate regardless of his knighthood. The Spaniards had certainly thought so! In three years of raiding 'round the world in the Golden Hind, Drake had returned to London with the holds of his stout ship brimming with stolen Spanish treasure. Queen Elizabeth's cut of the booty had been 163,000 British pounds. Stewart had always aspired to that kind of life—daring exploits, fabulous wealth, a knighthood, and death in an exotic land. He disliked Merry Olde England with a passion, and so had made the world his oyster.
When the Anglo-American colonists came to Galveston they had found a low, nearly treeless island covered with long rank grass. Snakes and alligators populated the bayous—in fact, the Mexicans had nicknamed the island Punta de los Culebras, or Snake Island. In 1837 there had been only seven ramshackle houses on the island; now there was a bustling port city with a few splendid mansions. On any given day one was likely to see thirty or forty sailing ships flying the flags of a dozen different countries in the harbor.
As the
Chalmette
neared the wharf, Stewart returned to his stateroom. He was a slender, fair-haired man of thirty years. His rakish—one might say, piratical—features were dark from his recent posting in the South Pacific and East Indies. He was dressed in a natty dove-gray "shooting coat" and spotless white trousers; his scarlet uniform was packed neatly away in one of the two carpetbags which he called upon a steward—a curly-headed, rosy-cheeked Irish lad to carry off the steamer as soon as she had docked. The captain stood at the top of the gangplank to bid his passengers farewell, and Stewart paused to pay his respects and ask a question.
"I am to be met by a man who does not know me," said Stewart, "just as I do not know him by sight. If you are acquainted with a Dr. Ashbel Smith, would you do me the favor of pointing him out to me?"
"Why, certainly I know Dr. Smith." The captain scanned the small crowd gathered on the wharf. "Yes, there he is. The young man sporting the dark beard, wearing the brown broadcloth. There."
Stewart spotted the man at whom the captain was pointing. "My thanks, sir."
"Enjoy your visit to Texas, Major." The captain had enjoyed Stewart's company during the voyage, having invited his distinguished British passenger to dine with him, and Stewart had regaled him with tales of exploits in faraway lands. "We don't have any Chinese warlords or Malaysian pirates to contend with here, but I don't think you'll have too many dull moments in Texas." An astute judge of men, the
Chalmette's
skipper had Stewart pegged.
"I pray you are correct on that score, Captain. Good day to you."
"And to you, Major."
Stewart followed his bags down the gangplank and approached Ashbel Smith. "I believe I am your man, Doctor."
Smith was startled. "I confess, I was looking for the uniform."
"I thought it wiser not to advertise myself, as I understand there exists in some quarters of Texas an aversion to all things British."
Smith nodded. "Most Texans are transplanted Southerners, sir, and many Southrons consider all Englishmen abolitionists. Then, too, it is widely believed that British money props up the Mexican Republic and, as no doubt you are aware, we've had some trouble with Mexico of late. But, having said that, I welcome you to Texas, Major, on behalf of General Houston."
"He left word in New Orleans that he would not be able to meet me in person. An affair of the heart, I take it."
"If everything went according to plan, he is as we speak a married man." Smith took charge of one of Stewart's carpetbags. "I hope you don't mind a short walk. The Tremont Hotel is only a few blocks away."
"I am glad for the opportunity to stretch my legs on solid ground."
They passed between a pair of warehouses, crossed Church Street near the Customs House, and angled across Market Place. Stewart paid keen attention to the sights and sounds of Galveston. A variety of people crossed his path: planters in wide hats and nicely tailored broadcloth suits, long-haired Creoles in dungarees, Irish immigrants with that distinctive brogue Stewart knew so well from his youth, barefoot Negro laborers, young ladies in lace and crinoline, protecting their honey-and-cream complexions with parasols and bonnets. Stewart paid particular attention to the latter, as he had an eye for the well-turned ankle. He fully intended to make a romantic conquest here, as he had done in every port-of-call. It was a tradition of sorts with him, and, after all, traditions were for keeping.
The Tremont Hotel was the finest hostelry Galveston had to offer, and the room Ashbel Smith had purchased for him suited Stewart completely. "I suppose you've seen much better in your travels," said Smith.
"And much worse," replied Stewart. "I once spent six months in a rat-infested bamboo hut in China."
At dinner in the restaurant downstairs, Stewart told Smith about his life.
"My father was Colonel the Honorable George Stewart, one of the sixth Lord Stewart's ten sons. He was reputedly the strongest and most handsome man in the army. He fought in the American revolt. By his first wife, a soldier's daughter, he had two sons and a daughter, but his entire family, save for the infant daughter, died of the yellow fever in New York, and my father caught the disease. He was put aboard a ship bound for England, more dead than alive. His superior, Sir Henry Clinton, did not expect him to survive, and sold his commission so that his surviving daughter would not be penniless.
"But my father recovered, only to find that he no longer had a commission or a career. He rejoined the army as an ensign, and married a woman older than he, Lady Laura Banebrook, the daughter of a duke, and my mother. She was widely believed to be the most beautiful woman in London. King George III even proposed to her when she was but sixteen years of age. But my mother rejected the royal advance and married Sir Thomas Banebrook instead. Banebrook was a sporting man. Racehorses were his passion, and he paid so little attention to his bride that she resorted to engaging in several affairs. Eventually he divorced her, which explains why she married a penniless soldier like my father, when otherwise she could have had her pick of eligible bachelors."
"But I thought you said your father was the son of a lord."