Here is the third and final installment of the mini-story of Jasper's time in Galveston and the end of his human life.
As I mentioned in the first chapter, this chapter deals more with the extremely racist and dehumanizing views that were commonly held by the Confederate leadership, the average white American, and, sadly, by Jasper himself. I wanted to explore how he might reflect on the institution of slavery at this point in his life, especially considering the irony of the Emancipation Proclamation being issued on the same day as the Battle of Galveston. The other irony here is that he's about to enter a life of slavery himself. I so wish we had gotten more insight into his character; I've had a blast doing the Civil War research for this miniature story, and I'd be very curious to see what modern-day Jasper would have to say about all of it. There are some further historical notes at the end of this chapter.
Another disclaimer: this chapter contains direct quotes from Eclipse, Chapter 13. Stephenie Meyer owns it all!
A Union rowboat came back within ten minutes, but had nothing to report; they were still trying to get word of Smith's demand to Commander Renshaw, who was aboard the grounded Westfield. All the Union ships had hoisted the white flag of truce, and the land battle had also paused. While we waited, the sailors worked to free us from the Bayou City. Meanwhile, those we had left over there started bringing us our muskets and half of the ammunition stores, in case we would be entering battle again. Finally, with a rough scraping sound and a jerk, we were two separate ships again. Smith sent the Bayou City ashore to give Magruder a first-hand account of our success, and the support of our muskets.
"The truce may fail," I heard him tell Green quietly. "Renshaw's a good commander, but he's as pig-headed as they come."
I stayed on the Lane with most of my company. Once the waiting had begun, I took stock of myself, surprised to find my only injuries had been from the splinters and the knife that had cut me when I first came aboard. The gash ran from the corner of my left eye down almost to my mouth; shallow, but it'd leave a nasty scar. It was a while before I found some clean water with which to wash away the blood. No dirt, I discovered with some surprise; I supposed that was one benefit to being a pirate.
The Union commander that I had shot was taking a turn for the worse. A medic had finally been dug up, but there was little to be done. His face was turning gray. I wished he would hurry up and die already; while I felt no shame for having fired the shot, it was awful to see the accusation in his eyes every time he looked at me. If the battle were still going on, I'd be merciful and finish him off. But he was our prisoner now, and that sort of mercy wasn't allowed.
Another rowboat came. Ours this time, with a message of congratulations from Magruder. There was also an older officer that I recognized: Albert Lea, an artillery expert who had worked closely with Magruder in the preparations the week prior. He reported directly to Smith, saying that he had been sent to inspect the Lane for salvageability.
"Go ahead," Smith laughed. "I didn't hurt her too badly. She's ready for anything, so long as you don't mind going in circles!"
Lea nodded, but glanced distractedly over at the prisoners. He scanned the faces and cleared his throat loudly to address them. "Is Edward Lea aboard?" he asked roughly.
The Yankees parted, and the dying officer struggled to rise to his elbows. Lea rushed to his side, kneeling right in the blood.
"Edward," he muttered, staring at the wound.
"Father," was the weak reply. I turned aside, unable to watch any more. A moment later, the elder Lea stormed up to Smith, his face red.
"I want my boy off this ship," he demanded. "I want him taken to the hospital." Not waiting for a reply, he left to find a larger boat to carry him back on.
But not two minutes later, Edward Lea's breathing changed. One of his friends begged to know what he could do to help. He just shook his head, smiling grimly. "It's all right now. My father is here." Then he was dead.
.
.
.
Just after sunrise, the quiet of the truce was shattered by an enormous explosion.
"The Westfield," Smith said sadly. "I should have known he wouldn't let us have her." A huge column of smoke began to rise, and the rest of the Union flotilla suddenly threw itself into action. We began to reload, but Smith didn't stir from the rail. "They're running away," he sighed, shaking his head.
We didn't know whether to cheer or to be disgusted. Not only were the ships abandoning their men on land and here on the Lane, but they were fleeing under a flag of truce. I walked right up to the Yankee who had surrendered to me and spat on his boots.
"So that's what honor looks like," I said fiercely.
He had no reply.
.
.
.
My stomach was growling by the time Green and I reported to Magruder in the city. They ran up to each other grinning like schoolboys, clapping each other on the shoulder.
"Well, Tommy!" the general cried. "Looks like your horse boys can play pirate after all! Well done, man, well done!"
Green had already recovered his calm. "What happened? Why did the battle start so late?"
Magruder's smile turned to a grimace. "Things didn't go as well as we hoped. We got the artillery up to the bridge, and the mules refused to go any farther. The men had to pull them, and you know how slow that can be. And then down at the wharf, things went wrong too—the ladders ended up being too short to reach the docks. They lost the element of surprise, and the Yanks there were Massachusetts infantry. Nasty with the bayonet, that bunch. We were about to sack the whole thing when you finally joined the fight. What took you so long?"
"We were there and ready at one o'clock," Green said stiffly. "But the Lane spotted us. We had to move back several miles." He looked back out at the water. "Shame about the Westfield. I heard she was grand. Renshaw's going to have a fit."
"You haven't heard?"
"What?"
Magruder boomed out a laugh. "Renshaw's dead. Blew himself up with the damned ship!"
Green and I looked back at the column of smoke again. "Thought that was only in the stories," Green muttered.
"Oh, I don't think he did it on purpose," Magruder said gaily. "But back to business. We won the day, but the blockade's not going to take this lightly. I want those civilians out of the town, and I want to start getting them out by noon today. I'd like to evacuate them back to Houston, just in case. Think some of your boys can handle that?"
"We can handle anything, sir," I said gravely. He finally noticed me, peering at the wound on my face.
"I believe you can, son," he said with a nod. He turned back to Green. "Of course, I want most of your boys to stay on the ships. We'll probably be fighting them off again before the week is out."
Green and I exchanged a dark glance. "We're doing this again, sir?" he asked, his voice tight.
"Of course!" Magruder cried. "This is one of the best ideas I've ever had! Galveston is only the beginning. We'll wait to bit to make sure the port's secure, but then I'd like your boys to have a shot at retaking Sabine Pass… on the ships, just like today. Now, how did you like the cotton? It's up to you if you want to keep it."
Green looked to me again, and I nodded uncertainly. "I think we'd like to keep it, sir," I said. "But we'd better douse them before the engagement next time. They caught on fire more than once during the battle."
"And my boys need a rest," Green insisted. "They're sleeping on their feet."
"Fine, fine. All right, Tom. Your boys can catch forty winks, but only on the island. I want them back on the boats by noon. Just spare a couple for the evacuation, and give me a list of whatever supplies you need."
"What of my dead?" Green asked. "They're still on the ships."
They started making more detailed plans, and Magruder eventually moved on to speak to someone else. I just stared out at the water, a dismal cloud settling over me. We were going to do this again? The very thought turned my stomach. It was bad enough that I was going to have to go back on board and clean up the bodies of my friends; now we were going to steam down the road and do it all again. The rocking and the vomit and the ramming and the butchery at close quarters...
"I volunteer, sir." The words left my mouth before I had even finished thinking them.
Green turned halfway to me, his eyes still on the note he was writing. "Mm?"
"I volunteer for the evacuation mission."
"Nonsense. You're a born leader, Whitlock. I need you out on those ships."
"The evacuees will need strong leadership too, sir. The general's only releasing a couple of us for the job, and it'll take some doing. Anyone can lead trained soldiers into battle, but I reckon it takes a born leader to wrangle a crowd of panicked women and children. You need me for that."
He opened his mouth to protest, but I didn't give him the chance. "Moore can handle Company A for a couple of days. He's due for a promotion, anyhow, with Lang gone. This will be a good test for him. And you'll be there, and the Commodore. Besides, these evacuees are headed to Houston. You'll need someone to give the full report to the brass there—someone you and Magruder can trust to speak for you."
"You mean someone like—"
"I'd be honored, sir," I said sharply.
"Sibley wasn't kidding about you," he muttered, turning back to his paperwork and beginning to erase. "Could talk a mule into believing it was a chicken."
"Thank you, sir."
.
.
.
"Now look here, Major... what did you say your name was?"
"Whitlock, ma'am."
"Look here, Major Whitlock. I am not running off to Houston with one measly trunk of baggage. What do you expect my grandchildren to wear when they're in the city?!"
I took a deep breath, wishing I could borrow some of Green's calm right now. I could put the fear of God into a fresh recruit when I put my mind to it, but the venerable matron standing twelve inches from my chest required a bit more decorum. I forced out a tolerant smile, trying to find the right mix between charm and authority. "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear, Mrs. Taft. This is an evacuation, not a pleasure cruise. One trunk per family, and if you would kindly make your household ready within the hour, I would be most appreciative."
"I would be most appreciative, Major, if you'd let me be! I can fit all this and more in the buggy."
"I'm afraid that won't be possible, ma'am. We only have so many carts and buggies that are fit for the journey. You'll be assigned another family to share with. Your trunk may or may not be with you, but we'll see it's reunited with you when we make camp tonight. We leave in one hour." I punctuated my orders with a crisp half-bow and spun on my heel to leave.
"Well, I never!" she huffed to my back.
I chuckled and moved on down the street, shaking my head as I heard her door slam shut. I was beginning to see how so many civilians were still in the town. Galveston was a little world all its own, many of its inhabitants living and dying without ever setting foot on the bridge. I had no doubt that, left to themselves, they'd happily barricade themselves in for the long haul, shooting out their gable windows at any Yankees who dared to march down their streets. I might have bitten off more than I could chew here. And I did feel a touch of guilt at leaving my regiment for three days. But while shooting and soldiering would get the war won, this was what we were fighting for: the freedom of our land and its people. And sometimes, managing those people required a finer weapon, one far more difficult to wield: tact. And tact, I could do.
Hopefully.
I called at the next house, but moved on when I found signs that it was vacant. I rapped on the oak door of the next one, and it opened to reveal the most beautiful creature I had ever laid eyes on. My hat was off my head in a flash, but my mouth didn't appear to be working. Her hair was as black as midnight, laying in feather-light curls around her shoulders. Her skin was the color of fresh cream, and her eyes…
"Mama! The Yankees is here!"
The woman laughed, tousling the hair of the wide-eyed lad bouncing at her side. I finally saw the glint of gold on her finger and felt a palpable stab of disappointment. "Now Georgie," she said in a delicate voice that sounded like sunshine, "do you think a Yankee would call on us like that, all clean and proper and well-mannered?"
He looked terribly disappointed. "Guess not." The end of his toy rifle clacked to the floor, the barrel still held limp in his hand.
There was a beat of awkward silence, and then I remembered that I was supposed to speak first. I bowed, tearing my eyes away from the beautiful sight before me. "Major Jasper Whitlock, ma'am, Texas Fifth Mounted Rifles. I hope you and your family are well, after the recent unpleasantness?"
She dropped a miniscule curtsy. "Susannah Brandon. My husband John is in the 11th Mississippi. This is my son, George, and I've a little girl sleeping upstairs with my aunt." She smiled again. "And yes, we are quite well, thank you."
I replaced my hat, scrambling for something polite to say. Married, Whitlock! "I've heard that's a mighty fine regiment, Mrs. Brandon. I'm sure your husband is safe and sound."
Her eyes sparkled, as if she knew some secret I didn't. "I know he is."
"Now, I'm here to administrate the evacuation of the—"
"Yes, we're ready," she interrupted cheerfully. She moved back a step, waving her hand over a monstrous pile of parcels and trunks. "I've been packed for days! You've kept me waiting a long time, Major!"
I smiled sheepishly. "I'm sorry, Ma'am. We'll be ready to leave within the hour. Only you'll need to pare it down a bit; quarters will be tight on the trip to Houston, and so I'm asking each family to limit their baggage to one trunk. Arrangements for the rest will have to be made another time."
Her smile finally faltered. "One trunk? But the weather has been so tricky lately! One never knows what to wear this time of year, and I don't… why, I couldn't possibly do with less than four trunks!"
"I'm sorry, ma'am," I said again, feeling more empathetic than I had with Mrs. Taft. "But it's the best way to bring out as many people as we can at once."
She recovered immediately. "Of course," she said, reserving only one mournful peek at her luggage pile. "We'll be ready in an hour. Are all the town leaving together, then?"
"No. We'd like to begin immediately, and so we'll be taking those who are ready first. Do you have any extra carts or buggies that would be fit for a long road? Any horses shoed and ready?"
"I don't know… let me check. This isn't my home; my husband sent us here to stay with my aunt before the fighting began in Corinth. One moment please, Major." She disappeared, leaving Georgie alone to stare up at me.
"You been in the battle last night, Major?" he asked boldly.
"A little."
"I heard the cannons," he announced, still staring. "We licked em' good, didn't we Major? When I'm tall enough I'm gonna put on gray and kill me some dirty Yankees, just like you and Daddy!"
I finally realized what he had been staring at this whole time: the fresh cut running down the side of my cheek. I looked down at the innocent, smooth skin of his own cheek, and then at the toy rifle in his hand. And then I remembered another son: Edward Lea, the Yankee commander I had shot this morning… lying in his own blood on the deck of a ship while his Confederate father looked on in anguish. And then another: the Wainright kid, shooting wildly at my own men with tears rolling down his face and onto his father's corpse. I didn't know anything about children, much less how talk to them. But it broke my heart to see the excitement on this boy's face. Had I ever been this young?
I knelt down until my face was level with his. "I'd be honored to serve alongside such a brave lad," I told him. "And you should always be ready to defend your country and your loved ones. But while there may be honor in warfare, there is no glory. Especially not in this war, Georgie. The enemy is just another young man: somebody's son, just like you. Maybe even somebody's husband or daddy, with a little boy waiting for him to come home. Can you remember that?"
"Yes, sir," he mumbled.
"Two carts and horses," Mrs. Brandon announced triumphantly, returning from the rear of the house. "We can have them hitched and ready before you return. We've only two slaves here anymore, and they can fit in the one cart with us; the other one's all yours."
I stood up to my full height and nodded my gratitude. "And if you would see each cart stocked with grain for the horses, I'd be much obliged. I'll return in an hour."
She gave me a shining smile that pulled at my heart. "I'll be waiting."
.
.
.
I only brought Lockewood with me, much to Moore's relief. He didn't like the rocking ships any more than I did, but he said he would "rather face a sour stomach and a whole armada of Federal gunboats than escort a bunch of whining, fainting females into safekeeping!" I kept the news about his promotion to myself, since I hadn't officially gotten Green's endorsement, but we could hopefully get on with that after I returned. Moore had done well in the battle, keeping the men around him calm and focused. And even though his new rank would be lower than Lang's had been, he would naturally become my new right hand.
We had almost sixty evacuees ready for the first wave, all told: women and children and old men, and a good number of household slaves. And one particularly sour passenger: young Master Wainwright, whose hand I had shot aboard the Lane early this morning. My orders were to deliver him directly into military custody when I arrived so that his return to his surviving family could take place as soon as possible.
He seemed to remember me with a feeling somewhere between hatred and awe. I placed him, sling and all, in the cart with the Brandons, hoping he and little Georgie would get along. But he refused to "speak to the rebels," and once Georgie heard that, they had to be placed at separate ends of the cart to keep their fists quiet. A pair of spinsters down the line were complaining that they didn't want to ride in the same cart as their slaves, for fear of getting lice, and Mrs. Taft had plenty to say about the trunk situation. And one particularly belligerent old-timer was convinced he was in charge of the evacuation since he had "been infantry since before your pappy was born, sonny!"
Moore might have been on to something.
I pressed them until well after dusk, wanting to camp beside Clear Creek and keep the whole thing to two days if at all possible. I still didn't know how many men Magruder was planning on sparing for the evacuations, or how long the entire operation would take; Lockewood and I would need to hurry back in case there was another group waiting for escort. And besides, I didn't much like the idea of tarrying here in the middle of nowhere. The land stretching between Galveston and Houston was open for settlement now, but there was still the occasional raid by the remnants of the Karankawa tribe. They had sided with Mexico in the War for Independence, and... hadn't exactly been well treated afterwards. They would probably love the chance to come drop in on our party once they saw there were only two cavalry on guard. Rumor had it they ate the flesh of their enemies while he was still alive and watching.
We reached Clear Creek at eight o'clock. I listened to complaints and shifted baggage and people for another good hour before I got myself a bite to eat. Once we had tucked our charges in for the night, Lockewood and I had our dinners on our feet as we walked a wide circle around the encampment.
The landscape was quiet. Too quiet. Shouldn't there be more animals stirring? I shoved the last of my rations in my mouth so I could have my hands free and washed it all down with a splash of lukewarm coffee. I shrugged my rifle off my shoulder, aiming at the dark emptiness in front of me. Something was wrong here… or somewhere nearby. I could feel it. I scanned the horizon again, positive I would find something out of place. When I heard a sound behind me, I spun around, rifle and all.
Lockewood busted out laughing, holding his hands dramatically in the air. "Easy, Major! I ain't a vampire."
"Vampire?" I muttered, lowering my rifle.
"Sure. Remember those ghost stories last week? That those Virginians was telling?"
I nodded, looking over my shoulder into the shadows again. Fictional monsters were the least of my worries; an Indian with a grudge was another matter.
Lockewood took a swig of whiskey, offering me the flask as well. "Well. Right before we shoved off the other day, I heard it happened again. Another three people went missing. One of 'em turned up with the tide. Throat all chewed out."
I paused, the flask halfway to my mouth. "Where?"
He nodded back the way we had come. "I dunno. One of those pokey little settlements we passed when we was riding here last week." He spat on the ground authoritatively. "Still think it's vampires."
I smiled down into the whiskey, taking a greedy swallow of its warmth. Lockewood was a steady soldier, but it was a miracle he'd even made it to sergeant. The man could barely write his own name, much less be trusted to have a serious conversation for longer than two minutes.
He took back the flask, stowing it away inside his uniform jacket. But he was using his left hand instead of his right.
"Did you get hurt in the battle?" I asked him sharply.
"I'm fine, Ma," he growled, rolling his eyes. He turned to finish his rounds.
"Get back here, Sergeant," I ordered with a sigh. These boys did need a mother sometimes, even ones like Lockewood who were years old than me. "Jacket off. Right now."
He reluctantly obeyed, sliding his jacket off his shoulder with a wince. "There's no wound," he protested when I went for the buttons of his shirt. "Honest! I got knocked over in the fight and this whale of a Yankee landed on top of—ow!"
I frowned, feeling the swelling and knots in the muscles around his shoulder. "And so you thought volunteering for a four-day ride was a good idea."
"It's a fair sight better'n feeding the fishes again, ain't it?" He pulled his jacket back on, snatching up his rifle again. "I'll be fine."
"You better be," I threatened. I had ridden mile after mile, day after day with an injured shoulder on the retreat from Valverde, and I knew how painful it could be. The old ache in that shoulder flickered as if in response, and my eyelids drooped; I hadn't slept in two days. "You get first watch, Lockewood, just for being so stubborn. I'm going to bed."
"G'night, sir."
I shouldered my rifle and headed back toward the camp. "Wake me in four hours. Oh, and Sergeant?"
"Yes, Major?"
I turned and gave him a teasing wink. "Watch out for those vampires."
.
.
.
Crossing the creek the next morning took far longer than it should have. Most of the horses had to be unhitched and led across, and I had to commandeer the strongest slaves to get the carts, buggies and wagons across. The venerable Mrs. Taft put my patience to the test again as she put up a fuss about crossing the creek on foot "at my age!" I politely informed her that I'd be more than happy to hoist her over my shoulder and carry her across myself. She finally took my hand with a huff of protest and allowed me to escort her across the safest rocks.
Most of the evacuees were in a similar mood as we crossed. I promised them warm beds and a hot supper in Houston tonight, if we could all do our best to make good time. There'd be no stopping the rest of the day, save to water the horses and refill canteens; all meals would have to be taken cold and on the ride. Everyone did their best to shuffle their belongings accordingly, and I had to settle a few more arguments before all were ready to begin moving again.
But after we got underway, things calmed down; everyone was too busy being jolted by the quick ride to complain or argue. The sky was mercifully blue, and while it was still chilly, I really couldn't have asked for a finer day. We stuck close to the railroad for most of this second day's ride, and there was no sign of Indians, so I let myself relax. Troublesome details aside, this mission wasn't half bad. It was nice to be riding across the plain in the cool weather, and now that everyone was done complaining, I felt a warm sense of purpose in protecting civilians directly like this. My regiment had spent so much of the past two years out in the frontier, riding and fighting hard; we hadn't seen much of Texas or of her fairer citizens. I had attended a couple of fundraiser balls during our recuperation this autumn, and even danced a bit here and there. But truth be told, I felt out of place at such functions. I belonged out here, riding across the grand openness of my homeland, defending her against her enemies.
Still, it was nice to be reminded what we were fighting for. And I couldn't help but steal an occasional glance at some of the younger ladies in our little wagon train. Not all of them were fair, delicate beauties like Mrs. Brandon; the Texas I knew bred sturdy, intimidating women like Mrs. Taft. I had never given much thought as to what kind of woman I'd like to find myself growing old with; I was too busy trying to survive the war to bother much about that kind of future. But now with nothing to do but ride and think, I decided I rather liked the idea of winding up a peaceful veteran, perhaps with a ranch of my own and a little family. I felt myself blush as, just for a moment, I imagined a woman like Mrs. Brandon standing at my side. For now this was enough; to fight for my homeland, to protect the innocent, and to find my family in those I served with. Still… John Brandon was a lucky man. I just hoped he would live to know how lucky he was.
.
.
.
Lockewood was obviously feeling his injured shoulder more and more as the day wore on. By the time the sun passed overhead, his expression was a permanent grimace. But there was nothing to be done, short of ordering him to hitch a ride in one of the carts. But then his pride would hurt more than his shoulder; and besides, staying on horseback was probably the smoother option.
Patch was also having trouble. I had felt his gait change pretty early in the morning, and now he was clearly short-striding with his left rear leg. I dismounted and checked his hooves, finding nothing wrong. An hour later we all stopped to water at a pond, and I felt over the muscles in his leg, finding a tightness in part of his thigh. I kneaded it the best I could, earning a scolding snort.
"Hold still," I scolded him, digging in with my elbow. "I leave you alone for two days and now you're getting old on me."
It was more likely they hadn't exercised him properly while I had been away. I'd have a sharp word for those grooms when I got back to Galveston. But Patch was more interested in getting a cube of sugar for his troubles. He kept nuzzling me harder and harder until I stumbled away, holding my hands up in surrender. "Hey, sorry! I'm fresh out. I promise you'll have oats tonight, though." His gait was surer after that, but not for long. I walked when I could.
At least Georgie and the Wainwright kid seemed to be getting along now, and Mrs. Taft had blessedly decided to give me the silent treatment. We had an uneventful ride the rest of the afternoon, save for my worries over Lockewood and Patch. I was anxious to get back to Galveston tomorrow night, if I could manage it; I might be needed to escort another group of evacuees, and there was always the possibility of the Union flotilla coming back with bigger guns. But neither Lockewood nor Patch were in a condition to make a hard ride tomorrow. I might need to leave them both behind, but that worked out just fine; it would be easier on Lockewood's pride if I spun it in such a way that I needed him to look after Patch and bring him to join us later in the week.
We reached Houston just after dusk. Some of the evacuees melted into the city streets without even telling me. I didn't mind the smaller group, but I chided myself for not getting everyone organized beforehand. I was so used to handing out orders and following them, that I had forgotten how unpredictable civilians could be. But I supposed that meant they were no longer in my care, so I didn't trouble them. When I reached the barracks I dismounted and walked down the line of my remaining charges, asking them all to remain in formation until their safe arrival could be documented and arrangements made for those who had no family in Houston.
As I passed Mrs. Brandon's cart, I saw Georgie and the Wainwright kid playing as though they had always been best friends. Georgie was hiding behind his Great Aunt, shooting with his wooden rifle, and…
I strode angrily up to their cart, making Mrs. Brandon jump in her seat and the baby in her arms wail. "Give me that," I ordered, holding out my hand. The Wainwright kid blushed and handed me his weapon. What idiot had returned his father's pistol to him?! I spun the cylinder, ensuring it was empty. But procuring a bullet wasn't impossible. I jammed the pistol into my belt, giving him a disapproving glare.
"Magruder said I could keep it," he blurted out, his face growing redder.
"You'll get it later," I said tersely. "I'll see that it's placed with your belongings and given to your family."
"Oh, let them have their fun," Mrs. Brandon protested, shifting the yowling baby in her lap. "What harm could a little boy do with an empty pistol?"
"Plenty," I snapped. I wondered if Georgie's new friend had told him what he had been doing with that pistol just yesterday morning. I wondered if he had told him who had shot him in the hand. But then I remembered I wasn't speaking to one of my men. "My apologies, Ma'am."
"It's quite all right, Major. It's been a long day for all of us."
I nodded. "I appreciate your help with… him," I finished lamely, nodding toward the Wainwright kid. What should I call him? "The prisoner"? That didn't seem quite right. "At least they seem friendly now," I added. The boys had already adapted their game, replacing the lost pistol with an improvised bow and arrow.
Mrs. Brandon's eyes sparkled in that odd way again, like she was carrying a secret. She leaned closer. "Georgie said something very wise this morning, when I told him how nice it was that he and the Wainwright boy were playing together. He said, 'the enemy is just another young man, Mama; somebody's son, just like me.' Now where do you suppose he learned such lofty manners?"
I felt myself grinning; her light mood was contagious. "I haven't the faintest notion, Ma'am."
"Thank you for your escort, Major Whitlock," she said. Her brow suddenly creased in maternal worry. "You be careful on the ride back, now."
I tipped my hat. "I will, Mrs. Brandon. Good luck to you."
.
.
.
I had spent a lot of time in Houston this fall, so it was immediately obvious that something was different around the barracks. Everything was cleaner than usual, a fresh flag was flying, there were too many sentries posted…
"What's going on?" I asked the officer who was escorting me in.
"You haven't heard? The president's here."
I nearly stumbled over my feet. "President Davis?"
He chuckled, continuing his brisk walk. "That's the one. He spent Christmas with family in Mississippi, and now he's making a tour of the entire Trans-Mississippi theatre before he heads back up to Richmond. You'll meet him in a moment; he's gathered all the nearby brass for a talk."
I swore under my breath, suddenly aware of my appearance. I raked my fingers violently through my tangled hair and did my best to brush the trail dust off of my uniform while I walked. I didn't know the first thing about how to behave in front of a president! Did I salute or bow? What was I supposed to say, if he spoke to me? The officer chuckled again, and too soon opened the door to a private conference room. I had been in here once or twice before, but now it was all done up: portraits and framed maps on the walls, a merry fire snapping in the hearth, a luxurious red carpet laid out. Several generals and two civilians were crowded in chairs around an enormous desk. I had never seen so much rank in one room before. And seated behind the desk was Jefferson Davis.
He looked smaller and thinner in real life, but otherwise he was spitting image of a sketch I had once seen on a handbill. He sat in the armchair with a strict military posture, his long fingers resting on the map laid on the desk. He still favored the old style of collar, the kind that made you hold your chin up all day long. He looked up as we entered, his eyes bright and piercing. I snapped to attention alongside my escort.
"Major Jasper Whitlock, sir," he announced as we both saluted to the group at large. "Just arrived from Galveston with a group of evacuees."
"Excellent!" said a familiar voice, and with relief I recognized General Anderson, who was in charge here in Houston. "We received a courier yesterday, but all we know is that we had the victory. Step forward, Major Whitlock, and tell us all about it! Major Thompson, you'll see the evacuees are situated."
"Yes, sir!" He gave another salute and turned to go.
"Wait." I fumbled inside my jacket, producing the list I had scribbled and also the pistol from my belt. "Some have already made arrangements and… left the group," I admitted with a blush. "And this needs to be packed up with the belongings of a boy, last name Wainwright. He's the son of one of the U.S. naval commanders. General Magruder sent him along to be, ah, processed." I blushed again. "Processed"?! Oh, nicely done, Whitlock! I cleared my throat, stepping boldly up to the desk. I reached into my jacket again and drew out the packet that General Magruder had hastily prepared, unsure who to offer it to… the President, surely.
"General Magruder sends his regards, Mr. President," I said in a clear voice as I offered him the packet.
"This sounds like an interesting tale, Major," the president said. His voice matched his appearance: thin but strong. "You are to be congratulated on this momentous victory. What is your regiment?"
"Texas Fifth Mounted Rifles, Mr. President."
"Ah," he murmured absently, thumbing through the papers. He frowned slightly. "One of Sibley's, wasn't it?"
"Yes, sir. Mr. President."
"Mmm."
Everyone waited as he perused the contents of the package. After an interminable wait, he finally looked back up at me, restacking the papers neatly and passing them to the general on his right. "A fine victory, indeed!" he proclaimed, now glancing down at the map. "But Magruder's account was hardly exhaustive. I think you had better give us all the details, Major, from the very beginning."
I drew a deep breath and began to speak, telling them everything I knew. President Davis, and on occasion some of the others, interrupted me often with questions or requests for further detail. I was sweating bullets by the end, but General Anderson gave me an approving nod.
"General Magruder plans to use the cottonclads, and our cavalry regiments, again at the earliest opportunity," I said in closing. "He feels the method was a success, and hopes for a similar victory in retaking the Sabine Pass."
"And dismantle the blockade, piece by piece," the president finished for me, looking disinterested. "I'm not sure what he hopes to accomplish."
I looked up. "Sir?"
He ignored me, his eyes drifting back to the papers circulating among his audience as he addressed them. "Magruder is requesting more troops for this next venture."
One of the generals shook his head. "Impossible." His simple pronouncement was echoed around the group. One of the civilians protested, arguing a point which seemed valid: that Galveston was less likely to fall again if another port were successfully retaken; the enemy would need to dilute their efforts in order to seal the blockade again.
"As would we, in defense of our little breach," the president argued. "And we can scarce afford to dilute ourselves further, while they most certainly can. The reclamation of Galveston is of great import, and any extra effort should be exerted in its defense. Our Federal counterparts will recognize our new opportunity for the smuggling of valuable goods, and will concentrate their own efforts in their interference of our trade." He picked up a pencil and began drawing wide arcs across the Gulf of Mexico, making a few notations even as he spoke.
"All the more reason to have two ports," the civilian shot back. "Then they'll be obliged to stretch and thin the blockade out further, and we'll have more success."
The President held up his hand. "This discussion is meaningless, gentlemen. We simply do not have the resources to fortify the Port of Galveston any further, much less double such fortification at secondary ports along the Texan coast. The defense of the Mississippi River is paramount. If Vicksburg or Port Hudson fall, we will have much graver concerns than how many holes we have cut in the Union Blockade. We have achieved one, and at a strategic point; let us be grateful for this, and employ its freedom to our best advantage. But I will not sacrifice the more imperative advantage on the Mississippi for it."
"Then we tell Magruder to abort his plan," General Anderson sighed, slumping back in his chair.
The President shook his head. "No… no, let him try. That sort of enterprise is the kind of gamble we can afford to make; little to lose and more to gain. But he will need to do it with what he already has."
The other civilian, the one who hadn't yet spoken, leaned forward eagerly. "Perhaps when France—"
"France!" President Davis exploded, suddenly coming alive. "Do you think France will suddenly grasp our hand in friendship now? Tell me, Major Whitlock," he added angrily, turning back to me. "Are your family slaveholders?"
I blinked, taken aback by the unexpected question. "Yes, Mr. President."
"And are you aware, Major, of how Mr. Lincoln celebrated the New Year yesterday, at the very hour when you were risking your life to defend your state and nation?"
"I… no, sir. How?"
"He celebrated the official enactment of his Emancipation Proclamation. You have been relieved of your property, Major, simply by the flick of Mr. Lincoln's pen. This, from the same man who promised his constituents he would crush our revolution without freeing a single slave!"
"Quite the change of heart," one of the older generals said grimly.
"Hardly," the President scoffed. "Have you read the entirety of the proclamation? It is a thinly veiled call to servile insurrection, friends. Lincoln casts himself as the benevolent rescuer of the Negro race, heroically calling them to arms against their tyrannical masters. He knows what would befall those foolish enough to heed his call, what we would be forced to do to prevent the sort of abomination that took place in Haiti. They are simply his newest tools, freed to die for his campaign. An endless supply of instant soldiers, without the cost or bother of training and outfit!
"And should he succeed in his aggression against our Confederacy, what future would the poor survivors face? The institution of slavery is not only necessary to the survival of our economy; it is the natural order of things between our races. It is our duty to care for those who serve us. The slave population in America are—or were—perfectly contented with their lot. He would have those poor souls trade a life of security for death, or for a future in which their homeland has been completely devastated by the very act that freed them! I wonder what his welcome will be for the starving masses who will be emigrating north once they realize how valuable their new freedom truly is? Their welfare is his last concern, our destruction his first. He is no longer interested in reuniting the broken pieces of his beloved nation. He has, with this proclamation, plainly announced his intent to impoverish and subjugate us, alongside the convenient extinction of the Negro race! It is the greatest—the largest—crime against humanity that has ever been attempted! Does this strike you as the type of man to whom you wish to return your allegiance, Major Whitlock?"
I hoped my ignorance wasn't written all over my face. I hadn't a clue what half of his speech meant, but the correct answer was obvious. "No sir, Mr. President," I said hotly.
"Of course not! But to the observer across the sea, Mr. Lincoln has painted a touching portrait. Ah, behold the glittering United States of America, struggling to blossom in so-called moral progress despite the bigoted reluctance of the rebel South! Those nations who have always benefitted from our slave-driven export will be quick to sympathize with such a pretty picture. If they will not assist him, they will certainly excuse themselves from what Lincoln claims is a mere civil war, the birth pangs of a nation reforming itself. And he is not only pulling the wool over the eyes of these distant princes; he is stringing his entire nation along in this new charade of moral superiority. Do you know what they're singing now, in their churches and on the march? Have you heard of this new 'Battle Hymn of the Republic'?"
We all shook our heads in unison. He thumbed briefly through another neat pile of papers in front of him, bringing out a single sheet. He read in a clear, mocking voice:
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me.
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.
He slapped the paper down onto the desk. "That is their rallying cry now, gentlemen. They now seek to make us the quintessential monsters in this conflict: they for freedom, we for oppression. They cast themselves as the 'terrible swift sword' of God's wrath against us, the rebellious and cruel South. This breed of inflammatory Northern propaganda is being used to wage a war all its own, in the hearts of our former countrymen and, soon, in the malleable hearts of their new colored regiments." He nearly shuddered at this last term, shaking his head as if in disbelief. "It is meant to be answered, of course, in the slave rebellion his proclamation is designed to ignite.
"It is a shame, gentlemen, a pitiable shame. Even if God grants us victory, which he must, our new nation will be hard-pressed to reclaim her innocence. The slave population will remember the echoing song of their would-be liberators, and will struggle with a new restlessness that was previously unknown. It will take some decades for their hearts to relearn the tranquility and contentment with which they have always toiled."
His passionate speech was interrupted by a creak of the door, opening to reveal a slave girl carrying a tray filled with some kind of evening liquor in glass tumblers. As if in timely exhibit to President Davis' claims, she was the very picture of the peaceful, contented slave he had just been extolling. Her uniform, crisp and immaculate, was made of finer stuff than I would ever be able to afford. Her movements were graceful and unobtrusive, her expression serene, her future secure. Did she wish for the "freedom" that Lincoln was now offering?
The president and his audience accepted the drinks, standing and moving closer to the fire. I moved aside, unsure how long I should wait for dismissal. The president lifted his glass, once again the polished aristocrat.
"To your health, sirs, in this New Year, and to our glorious nation. May she thrive and prove victorious against the enemy at every opportunity. "
They drank the toast and their talk turned to lighter matters, but a few moments later we all startled to the sound of shattering and splashing. The slave girl, on her way to the door, had accidentally spilled the remaining glass off of her tray, sending its shards and contents across the tile floor next to the map desk. She sank silently to her knees, whisked a towel off of her apron string, and began to clean up the spill as the men returned to their chatter. As she stood to replace the broken pieces on the tray, her eyes lingered on the map and the papers scattered around it. I tensed in worry briefly, but of course her expression revealed nothing past the placid emptiness so common to her race; for all she knew, she was looking at a pile of recipes for Christmas dinner. She continued her task, quietly laying the broken glass on the tray and then dipping back down for more. Then she disappeared just as quietly as she had come.
I must have stood there for another hour while the president and his distinguished audience debated over what answer to send with me to General Magruder. In the end, some small allowance was made for the fortification of Galveston, but none for the attempt upon the Sabine Pass. I was finally given a written expression of these decisions and told to return to Galveston with all haste.
With a final salute, I left them and returned outside. The stars were out now, and the bustling line of my evacuees had disappeared. Only Lockewood remained, half asleep on his feet as he leaned against a hitching post. He was awkwardly trying to massage his injured shoulder with his other hand, which he dropped instantly at my approach.
"Finally, Major! I brought you back some dinner, but it's cold now."
"Good enough," I sighed. I was starving as well as weary; I was supposed to be two hours into the ride back by now. We went back to the stables and pulled up two crates to sit on while I ate my cold dinner. Patch nodded in his stall, happily finishing up his own meal of oats and hay. I exchanged a few words with the groom on duty, telling him about Patch's difficulty on the trail and how I wanted him cared for. I explained that I'd be leaving him here for the meantime, and that I'd need a good replacement saddled and ready in ten minutes.
"You're staying too," I informed Lockewood after the groom had moved on. "Now, don't make a fuss!" I warned, pointing threateningly at him with my fork as he began his protest. "There's no telling when I'll be free to ride back here to get him, and don't pretend that shoulder isn't killing you. So you both rest up for a few days, and then bring him down with you to the Pass, or wherever we're at."
Lockewood scowled at me for a good ten seconds, and then leaned forward to whisper. "So, what's he like? The president?"
I hesitated, chewing thoughtfully. "About what you'd expect," I said vaguely. My head was still swimming with everything President Davis had said, and it certainly wasn't my place to criticize our leader… but the whole experience had left me with a bad taste in my mouth. He had a commanding presence and an inspiring way with words, yet there had been something unsettling about his manner, when he had speaking about how thinly spread out forces were. And then again when he had said "Even if God grants us the victory, which he must…" I had distinctly gotten the impression that President Davis himself didn't believe that victory was assured. It had been obvious all along that the odds were against us, but I had thought the war was going well. At least, better than the impression I had gotten tonight. Were things not as hopeful as we had been led to believe? It was even more unsettling to head into this next battle at the Pass, knowing not only that the odds were against us as before, but that our success wouldn't even matter.
And then there was all that talk about Lincoln and his proclamation. Such things were above my reckoning, but everyone knew the institution of slavery was necessary for the survival of the South. What did Lincoln intend to do with us, and with the slaves, if he should whip us in the end? I had been so set on winning this war—or dying in it, like as not—that I hadn't given much thought to what it might be like to lose it.
By the time I was done eating, the groom had brought me the new horse. He was a chestnut stallion, three years old; I liked the mischievous spark in his eye. After I had secured Lockewood's reluctant promise that he would get his shoulder looked at tomorrow morning, I rose to bid Patch farewell.
"Be good," I warned, tracing the white patch on his neck. He snorted and nosed me in the chest, sending a trail of oats sprinkling down my row of buttons. I scratched him one last time between the ears and mounted the other horse, grinning down at his obvious displeasure.
"Jealous?"
He snorted again and turned away, giving me the silent treatment. "Yeah, I'll miss you too, pal," I called cheerfully over my shoulder. "I'll see you in a few days."
.
.
.
After such an odd week, it was invigorating to ride at a hard gallop; woke me right up. The horse seemed to think so, too, and I saw no reason why we couldn't make it back to Galveston before dawn. I normally wouldn't have ridden through the night, but I still had that full moon hanging in a clear sky, and I was anxious to get back to my regiment. And I still didn't like the idea of camping out alone in that open space between Clear Creek and Virginia Point.
As I rode, my thoughts drifted back again to everything I had heard from President Davis and the generals. How did I feel about the proclamation? It didn't affect me that much, personally. I supposed I technically stood to inherit Jedidiah and Ned, back at the ranch… but it was more than likely that Pap had cut me off. I sure didn't have any plans to go back and find out. Anyway, I hadn't joined up to fight in the War of Northern Aggression in order to keep a couple of worn-out ranch hands working for free. I had joined up because Texas had joined up—because she had signed on with a government that promised not to poke around in our business all the time, trying to run our lives from a cozy white house thousands of miles away. This was the second revolution, and this time Lincoln was the tyrant who was refusing to let us go. The president had to be right; this proclamation was just another one of Lincoln's strategic plays. A damned good one, it sounded like.
I wondered, though, what Jedidiah and Ned would think about the fact that a stranger up in Washington had just declared them free, if they ever heard the news. They were men too, after all; just because they weren't people in the same way I was, didn't mean that words like "freedom" couldn't set their hearts on fire. I wondered if they would give Pap any trouble at home, once they heard the rumor. I sort of hoped they would. I had been the first to run off, after all. If they had gone and done the same, good luck to them. I would still be here, fighting to my last breath for the Lone Star.
Suddenly the words of the Yankee who had yielded to me yesterday came echoing back: slavers and traitors. Is that how we would be remembered, if we lost this war? Would these long, grim days of riding and fighting and dying be called... what was it President Davis had said, as he had mocked Lincoln's false nobility? The birth pangs of a nation reforming itself.
History would judge us in the end; if we did lose, I'd be too dead to care how I was remembered. And if we won, well… there was no reason the Confederacy couldn't reform itself a dozen times over, after we had shaken ourselves free of Lincoln and those like him. I didn't much like the way the president had talked about slavery, though, as if it was something to be proud of. I had always thought of it as a necessary evil. No nation was perfect, after all. We would continue to grow and change, and we could begin as soon as we had rid ourselves of the tyranny of the Federals. I only hoped I would live long enough to see the day. I was only mortal, after all; whether by living it or laying it down, my life belonged to Texas, and to whatever nation she chose.
.
.
.
I was nearly back to Galveston when the horse started giving me trouble. His gallop turned into a hesitant trot, and all of a sudden he was prancing sideways, tossing his head.
"Steady, now!" I scolded, pulling hard left on the reins. "What's gotten into you?" He tossed his head again, stopping altogether. I glanced around, shivering as I felt that same crawling sensation I had felt around here last night. Like something was watching me… or someone. Another shiver ran through me as I remembered those stories about the Karankawas eating the flesh of their enemies. I anxiously dug my spurs into the horse's side, but he wasn't budging.
I glanced around again, and then blinked in surprise. Not fifty feet in front of me, where there had been empty ground a second ago, stood three women. Two were fairheaded, and the third had a Mexican look about her. They were just standing there, staring at me. They had no escort, no wagon, nothing. I couldn't have somehow missed these three when we first set out from Galveston, could I? Maybe another group had already been run out this way and they had gotten separated. Either way, they shouldn't be alone out here, especially not with... whatever was out there. As if in response to my worry, the horse shivered under me and suddenly reared, letting out a whinny of distress. The women didn't move an inch.
I fought the horse back down, afraid he would frighten them. I dismounted and moved closer, opening my mouth to offer my assistance. But as the moon shone out from behind a cloud, I froze where I stood: these were the most beautiful women I had ever laid eyes on. Not the fragile, pale beauty of Mrs. Brandon, or some of the girls I had danced with earlier this year: these women were terrifyingly beautiful. And maybe it was just my imagination, but the full moonlight seemed to give their skin a glimmer that was unnatural. It struck me now that the two white women were too white. But that fact was soon lost on me as the real shock came: their eyes. They were red, red as blood.
Definitely not evacuees.
One of the women leaned in, sniffing me like she was admiring a rose… or a nice steak. "Mmm," she sighed. "Lovely."
She slid an inch closer to me, but the dark-haired one grabbed her arm, jerking her to a stop. Her lips moved as if in speech, but all I heard was a light, musical whisper. "Concentrate, Nettie," she finally said aloud. I felt myself blush as her glorious voice washed over me; this was no mortal woman. She was an angel… or something else entirely. I wanted to reach out and touch her to see if she was real. I wanted to run. I wanted to hear her speak again. She was tilting her head, looking me over with her red eyes the way I'd seen men look over slaves and horses. "He looks right—young, strong, an officer…"
I opened my mouth again to introduce myself, but nothing came out.
"And there's something more… do you sense it?" she asked the others, turning her head without releasing me from her eyes. "He's… compelling."
The one who had sniffed me—Nettie—smiled. "Oh, yes," she murmured. The smile was beautiful, and yet the way her teeth shone in the moonlight sent a shiver down my spine.
"Patience," said the dark-haired one, the leader: she was clearly in charge. "I want to keep this one."
Nettie frowned, and the other one sighed. "You'd better do it, Maria, if he's important to you. I kill them twice as often as I keep them."
Keep? Kill?
Maria lifted her chin. "Yes, I'll do it. I really do like this one." She smiled at me, and the hair stood up on the back of my neck. She took one step closer. "Take Nettie away, will you? I don't want to have to protect my back while I'm trying to focus."
"Let's hunt!" Nettie said eagerly. She took the other blonde's hand and they were suddenly running on toward Galveston- so graceful, and much too fast. I was left alone with Maria, staring helplessly into the fiery depths of her eyes. I was drowning... I knew I should fight the current, that I should run, but for the life of me I couldn't remember how.
"What's your name, soldier?" she purred, taking another step forward.
"M-Major Jasper Whitlock, ma'am."
Another step. She smiled again. "I truly hope you survive, Jasper. I have a good feeling about you."
A final step brought her face an inch from my chest. She slowly looked up into my eyes, and I had the most surprising impression that she was going to kiss me. But there was a blur and a sharp pain in my neck, and she was suddenly standing far away with the back of her hand raised, trembling, to her mouth.
I finally moved forward to help her. But the pain was spreading fast and hot, down into my chest and out my left arm. I tried to call out to her, but my voice came out a choking gasp. I stumbled over my feet and crashed down onto my knees, staring up at her in confusion. Had I been shot? Were we under attack?
I looked around wildly, making the horizon swim until everything was black. My breath was coming faster and faster. I tried to lift my hand to draw my pistol, but I couldn't even find my hand in the fire. It burned hotter still, the flames licking down my legs and up into my throat and out my eyes, and I finally let out a hoarse cry that sounded far away. As I felt my face dig into the dirt and the flames closed in, Maria's voice was the last thing I heard.
"Yes, Jasper... I have a very good feeling about you."
The unnamed slave girl in Houston who was cleaning up the "spilled" liquor was Mary Jane Bowser. She was a freed slave, planted in the Davis household as a Union spy by Elizabeth Van Lew, one of the four subjects of Karen Abbot's new book, Liar, Temptress, Soldier, Spy: Four Women Undercover in the Civil War. Bowser's college education and photographic memory, to say nothing of her unique placement and connections, made her one of the most effective Union spies in the Civil War.
Pretty much everything in this story was real except for Jasper, Mrs. Brandon, and the invented campfire buddies from Company A. Much of Jefferson Davis' dialogue here was paraphrased from his own speeches and memoirs, particularly his... very colorful response to the Emancipation Proclamation. The Neptune was sunk right away in the second battle of Galveston, and the Captain of the Bayou City blew himself up with his own cannon while saying "Well, here's your New Year's present!" The commander of the Union flotilla, Renshaw, blew himself and his men up while trying to scuttle the grounded Westfield. Ten-year-old master Wainwright, the son of the Harriet Lane's commander, stood over his father's body shooting two revolvers until he was out of bullets and his hand was shot by an unnamed soldier in the Texas Fifth Cavalry. And Edward Lea lay there dying just as his Confederate father came on board to find him. "My father is here" are the famous words that have echoed down through the years from the Battle of Galveston.