Chasing the Texas Wind Read online

  “I have to tell you, and I pray you’ll be trustworthy and help me in this,” he said. How he could speak at all was a marvel, but his words were very clear, his whole fading being poured into making himself understood. “I have been traveling around the area for weeks making maps and notes because someone is building up a stockpile of weapons and ammunition for the Mexican army.

  “It’s absolutely vital that this information gets out of Mexico. But I placed some of the main details and instructions on where to find the rest in the small cylinder tied to my bird’s leg. If you can just find him and remove his hood, perhaps give him some food, he will fly home and the information will go with him.” He made a peculiar trilling noise and something up in the trees answered faintly.

  “There. You hear him?” the young man asked. I nodded. It was all I could do not to break down into helpless weeping, seeing his ruined body with that bright, earnest, determined soul still fighting to accomplish his mission. I got my lamp and looked around. Soon I spotted the bird roosting in a tree. Finding it was one thing. Capturing it took most of the night.

  January 16, 1844

  Gray dawn lit the horizon when the exhausted creature finally submitted to rest within my hands. I was spent, myself, but I removed its hood and gave it some of the leftover chicken from the meal I had shared with my mother’s caregivers. It ate greedily, starved, apparently. On an impulse I tied to its jesses a ring from my finger, one my father gave me years ago, a Celtic knot worked in silver. I hated to give it up but somehow I hoped it might be a point of contact with this young man’s people in the future. It renewed its struggles to escape. This time I let it go from my mother’s front porch and it flew away to the northwest in the gathering dawn. When I went back to the young man, I found that his soul seemed to have followed the bird in upward flight, and he was dead.

  On his body I found a small book of unlined sheets which contained some beautiful drawings and calligraphy, landscape sketches of the rugged area around Chollo, and some portraits of people he had obviously seen and sketched. What a gifted young man he had been. His writings were about the glory of God’s creation and his love for Jesus Christ, and even his handwriting made me cry over its beauty. He had included many Scripture verses, as if this were a devotional diary, sometimes as captions for a picture, sometimes by themselves. A number of pages of the remarkably thin, translucent paper had been torn out, and I assumed these had gone in the bird’s leg carrier.

  How horrible, I thought, these monsters who had rendered useless those hands that had created these marvelous works. They had done it purposely because they had found out somehow that he had also drawn their secrets and detailed their plans and meant to force these away from him. He had not yielded, though, and I realized that before me was a man of a sort I had never imagined, one who truly believed in the cause of freedom for Texans and had endured so much to help the effort to win the war to come, and also who possessed an all-encompassing faith in a God I scarcely believed in.

  I agonized over what to do with the poor man’s body. I had no strength to bury it, but I could not leave it for others to find. Those who tortured him had no right to recover him even in death, and those coming for the funeral should not find it here. All I could think to do was to place him inside the coffin where my mother lay, making both of the bodies fit within. The viewing had taken place the night before, and so I did it, and securely fastened down the lid.

  I hardly knew if I believed man’s spirit lived on after death, but if such was the case, I knew my mother would not object to the shell of such a man sharing her body’s resting place. I longed to keep his beautiful sketchbook, to study it, but I did not dare. I left it with him, afraid lest the ones who had murdered him should somehow discover it among my things should they manage to pursue him here. I cleaned up all traces of the man’s presence on the property and finished just as the mourners came for the funeral. Exhausted, I went through the ceremony in a daze, experiencing only a momentary terror as the men lifted the coffin and exclaimed over how heavy it was. But nothing more was said, and my mother and the stranger were buried together.

  I felt no sadness that my mother was gone. She had died to me ten years ago. It was for that beautiful, talented, fervent young man that I wept at the graveside. If only I could have known him, if only I could have shared his cause, helped in his work in a more substantial way. And then I realized that I could do so. From his sketches I determined that he had focused on the town of Avecita. He had found something there and wanted others to know of it. Others would come, to find the information, the maps he had hidden. Perhaps I could help them in some way.

  My charity work had brought me into contact with a man who had been with the American government in intelligence work. I would unfold my plan to him, and he would help me. I resolved to talk to Nathaniel Grover as soon as I returned to Rio Grande City. Of this specific man and his mission I would say nothing, but I would do what I could to help his cause. This I resolved at the graveside, and this is a resolve I will keep even if it costs all my fortune and my life.

  “Mr. Nathaniel Grover to see you, Mr. Jessup,” Cassius announced a few mornings after Angelita had found the diary. The girl had been keeping it with her constantly and working through it herself so that things would go faster. Ham had just come home for lunch and was about to steal a few minutes with her for translation work.

  “Grover!” Ham said with entirely false heartiness, lounging by the front door as Grover stood on the step. “What a pleasure to see you.”

  “Yes, well, this isn’t a social call,” Grover said. “Aren’t you going to let me come in?”

  “This isn’t a social call,” Ham shrugged. “So why should I let you in? Come to think of it, I wouldn’t let you in if it were a social call, because we have no reason to socialize. What do you want?”

  “I’ve come for the girl,” Grover said.

  “The girl,” Ham repeated.

  “That Creole,” Grover said impatiently. “The deaf and dumb girl. When I suggested to Maeve that she try her out as a ladies’ maid there was never any formal agreement for hiring or even keeping her. Since Maeve’s not here, and I’m responsible for her, I’ll just collect her and place her somewhere else.”

  “How do you know Maeve’s not here?” Ham asked mildly.

  “What? You came storming into my office, threatened me, attacked me, all because she was gone,” Grover fumed. “Of course I know she’s not here. Now look, I want the girl, and everything she’s got with her, right now.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Ham snorted. “That was May. It’s now July. How do you know Maeve hasn’t come back long ago?”

  “She would have contacted me if she had,” Grover said, but he looked uncertain. “She couldn’t have come back.”

  “Grover, get off my porch,” Ham said. “I checked, and you have no legal standing regarding Angelita. She’s sixteen, and old enough to live on her own. This is her home, by her own choice. She stays here until she decides to leave. And I doubt she’d be leaving with you.”

  Ham closed the door in Grover’s face and joined Angelita in the study. When he came home that evening he called Consuela into the den. “Pack your things, Consuela,” he said. “In the morning you leave here.”

  “Señor!” Consuela gasped. “La Señora might not agree with you.”

  “I don’t think la Señora wants a spy in her house,” Ham said. “You’ve been reporting the goings-on at this house to Nat Grover long enough. I suspected you ever since you told Dr. Ames about my coming home drunk. You could have just told him about your mistress’s fainting spell but that wasn’t good enough for you. If you can’t keep your mouth shut about personal matters in the household, you’re a perfect candidate for Grover to pay to let him know what I’m doing to find your mistress. You were the only one there when Angelita dropped Mrs. Jessup’s diary on the table at breakfast this morning. Grover shows up at my door to collect girl and hopefully diary this aftern
oon. Goodbye.”

  Maeve’s Spanish Diary Entries, continued

  March 28, 1844

  Looked at a cantina in Tecate today. In very good shape, good price, but Tecate is too far away. I need to be in Avecita. Right there, in the center of the action.

  “Where’s Tecate?” Ham muttered, sprawled on the floor of the den with Angelita lying beside him holding the diary, crumpled and smooth papers surrounding them. Ham pulled a map out of the litter and found the place. “Northeast of Avecita. Okay. Next one, Mon Petit,” he prompted.

  Angelita hung her head. She tried to speak but no sound came out. “Oh, my little one,” Ham groaned. “I’m wearing you out. We can’t destroy that little bit of voice you got back. But I’m so afraid for your mistress. What can we do? Wait. Here, watch me.” He sat up and moved his hands. “That’s ‘town,’“ he said in French. Angelita imitated the sign. Ham motioned again. “That’s ‘wagon.’ Yes, well, I’d better start remembering some more Indian signs or this is going to take a lot longer than we can afford. Um – ‘guns,’ ‘cannons’ – we’ll just use this,” he said, gesturing. “All right. Onward and upward.”

  Maeve’s Spanish Diary Entries, continued

  May 5, 1844

  The old woman who runs the cantina in Avecita won’t take much more persuasion before she agrees to sell it to me. She’s tired of it, and her daughter can continue to work for me. It’ll be good to have someone with some experience, even if she is only fifteen. I hope the patrons don’t expect wonders, for this certainly is something I have never done before. It just seems that a cantina is the best place to hear things, and to tell things at quiet times. Americans don’t always observe the siesta, and I might encounter people with more than a cool place to drink on their minds. If I knew how to pray I would. I am very worried about attracting the attention of this man Jose Iscarius de Charico. Grover assured me he would soon become very important in Ampudio’s supply network. But he is such a coarse, violent man. I’m so afraid of him.

  September 12, 1844

  An American came in today, a rather small man, with dark reddish hair and a little beard. He was very charming and spoke Spanish as well as English. He gave me an order that I will not enter here, because it turned out to be a password that I must keep secret. When I gave him what he had asked for he took it from me and slipped something into my hand. I stared at the silver Celtic knot ring. I had tried to draw a close copy of the design of my ring as I remembered it. A woodcarver in Rio Grande City had made a small plaque for me and I had placed it on the doorpost of the cantina.

  “From time to time, men will come here to your cantina,” the man said. “They’ll come during siesta time. They won’t give names, but they’ll ask for what I just asked for. They might also ask for something else. (He told me the other password at this time, and, again, I will not write it here.) You’ll know they’re looking for information, and that it’s safe to tell them anything you know,” the man said. “We are all members of the same group, and we want to help prepare Texas and its people for what’s coming. We also want to help those who are searching for peace even in the middle of a war. Can I ask you if you know Jesus Christ, Señorita?”

  I had created a character for this work, a self-assured, indifferent Tejano flirt, a sort of merry widow, and I tried it out on this man, answering him with a joke about someone like me hardly fitting in at a church. He seemed sad, and tried to explain that going to church wasn’t what mattered. I brushed off his words. I had decided that I would not get personally involved with these people, that I would keep them at a distance. It would be unwise to spend more time than necessary talking with them, and dangerous for all concerned.

  Finally he understood that he was getting nowhere with his talk about God and he asked if I had any information. I told him that de Charico, whom everyone called simply Chaco, was coming to town later that day and was meeting with his aides to plan his next arms movement in the evening.

  “Do you attend these meetings?” he asked me.

  “No women go to the meetings,” I answered. “Sometimes Chaco tells me what went on, sometimes not. He meets in the back of the alfareria, the pottery shop, at the south end of town. I know it’s dangerous for you to stay around town, but the best thing to do is to listen outside. They drink, they yell, they post no guards. Chaco owns the town and he doesn’t think anyone will come spying here where he lives.”

  “You talk like you know him pretty well,” the man observed.

  “He comes in here often. I think he is attracted to me,” I answered.

  “Be very careful, Señorita,” the man warned. “Chaco’s known or enforcing his will with a heavy hand.”

  “Señor, I have already seen the truth of that,” I admitted. “But this work, it is so important. I want to help, and if there is a price to be paid, I will pay it.”

  The man was silent for a few moments. “There was blood on the falcon when it came home,” he said finally. “You – you just found it and put your ring on it, sent it off?”

  “No, Señor, the young man who owned the bird was hiding at my mother’s house,” I said in a very low voice. “He had been tortured, and he died after he told me to send the bird home. I was there for my mother’s funeral, and I buried his body in the coffin with hers so no one would find him. There was a book of beautiful pictures and words from la Santa Biblia. I believe he drew them. I buried the book with them also.”

  The man looked at me in absolute astonishment. “How did you think of such a thing?” he asked. I explained as briefly as I could the thoughts that had run through my head. He smiled. “Thank you,” he said softly, and left. I don’t know why he thanked me.

  June 1, 1845

  Chaco comes to the cantina so often now. He is deeply engaged in the work of moving the guns and other war supplies, yet he is here nearly every day, hanging around at the bar, watching everything I do, staring at the men who talk to me, listening to everything I say to them. I begin to be afraid he will show up during siesta time, when one of the men who need information comes. But they are so careful, Mia has surprised us a time or two and they have never excited any suspicion in her.

  April 21, 1846

  Today I went to the cantina at siesta time and made my preparations for the evening. I remembered that I had intended to bring some more cleaning rags from home and I got my shawl and started for the back door. Suddenly I realized Chaco had come in the back way.

  “Oh, you have come to walk me home, Chaco?” I said with a smile. “How nice.”

  He strode up to me and ripped my shawl away. “You are not going home yet,” he said, more like a growl than real words.

  I do not want to write this down. I will only say that Chaco threw me up against the bar of the cantina that afternoon. When I tried to put him off, finally to fight him off, he beat me until I couldn’t stand up, and then forced himself on me anyway.

  “You are my woman now,” he said when he finally moved away from me. “You will remember that, will you not?”

  I wanted to scream, to cry, to pick up a knife and stab him. Instead I smiled at him, and said, “Yes, Chaco.” And he left. I collapsed on the floor and wept. I was still there when Mia and Señora Mendez walked in.

  “What’s the matter?” Mia asked, as I quickly got up, leaning against the bar, and pretended to arrange some glasses. “Aren’t you going to Chollo?”

  I stared at them for a moment. Then I remembered. I was returning home tonight. I had to return home. But would Chaco allow me to go?

  “Of course,” I said, holding on to the bar and making my way out. They watched me go. I don’t know what they thought, but it must have been obvious what had happened. I knew that Señora Mendez already thought I was a whore and would have no sympathy for me, and that her daughter was likely of the same opinion. My cart and horse stood ready out back, harnessed by the Mexican boy who sometimes did chores for me. I climbed into the seat and drove off. Chaco was nowhere to be seen, and no one
followed me.

  April 22, 1846

  I did not mean to allow the intrusion of what I once called my real life into this diary, but I must enter this record here. I came home to Palacio Del Oro last evening because we were having a dinner party, a celebration of Hamilton’s birthday. I arrived barely in time to dress, and Hamilton appeared still later. I chided him for being late, but he insisted upon commenting on the bruises that had begun to appear from Chaco’s attack. I made a comment that was both cruel and wholly uncalled for. I could not bear to have him know what had happened. This is a diary, and I hope no one will ever read it, even though I began with the intention of making a record of my noble decision and noble deeds. But as I sit here after that horrible day and night, dawn breaking, the house asleep, I must write down my thoughts about what has happened to me.

  It has occurred to me that I lost whatever claim I had to purity when I forced Hamilton Jessup into this sham marriage. I interviewed a number of men for the “position” of husband, but none was foolish or desperate enough to consent. Only he responded positively, with a quiet dignity, some embarrassment and confusion, but willingly enough. He was in a desperate financial position, for what reasons I do not know, and that must have forced him to agree. Certainly it was not my charming presentation of my terms or my feeble attempts to show I cared about his war service. I abused his pride so thoughtlessly so many times. I hardly thought of him as a person, just an ornament in my house that served its purpose. How soon he showed me how wrong I was.