The Daily Brief

(Another excerpt from the work in progress – soon to be finished with the first draft! And I am featured today at the book-blog Royalty Free Fiction … a blog for historical fiction about characters who aren’t kings and queens and that…)

Chapter 12 – Returns

Mr. Burnett’s messenger to Carl in Bexar, sent by one of Captain Coleman’s volunteers, through the good offices of the local alcade returned to Austin the day before Alois Becker was buried in a ground of Margaret’s selecting: just a little way from the stump of the great oak tree, on a patch of level ground. The messenger reported that Sergeant Becker was off on a long patrol with the Ranger Company, around the borders of the Comanche-haunted Llano country, and perhaps even venturing deep into it. He and his men would likely not return for many months. Margaret had rather expected something of the sort. At least this absolved her of any responsibility to ask her brother for advice and consent regarding Alois Becker’s funeral and the disposition of his property – and of any necessity for considering his wishes on the matter. Indeed, Margaret suspected that her brother would have as little or the same care for the burial of their father as he would in the dispatch of a dead cat or dog into the nearest midden-pit – and that if he was not present, then he would not have to make a pretense of feelings that he did not have, or embarrass her by a openly displaying a lack of them.

“I that he may rest near the apple trees,” she had said to Mr. Burnett, and to Mr. Waller and those others who came to pay their respects to a man who, while never being well-liked among his fellow citizens, had something of respect for having been an early settler of the region. “He cared so tenderly for the apple trees – and we may tend his grave easily.” As no one else is likely to, for the love of him, she thought, as she and the boys walked back to the house, on that first afternoon, when she had talked of a grave for Opa on his own property, and they had gone down to inspect that place, a little below the top of the hill upon which the house sat. Mama would have – but Mama’s grave was under an oak tree near Harrisburg, that branched up in four great limbs. The best part of your father – died with your mother, Race had said. All those years since then, the act of living for Alois Becker had been merely existence, a habit, the motion and pretense of living, without the heart of it. And Margaret thought, with a twist of unease in her own breast – was all of her life and the manner of her living it since Race had gone from her, merely a well-established habit? Was she truly alive and loving, caring for her sons and her household, caring for her town and her friends, and not just some peculiar automaton, walking through the days and the necessary tasks out of habit and obligation? That question plagued her, all through the hours and days following Alois Becker’s passing, although she had some moments of savage amusement, upon realizing that she had no need to go into black for her father; she had already been wearing the customary colors of mourning for her husband – as much as these customs could be uphold on the frontier.

I am tired of it, she thought, as she walked back from the grave Alois Becker had been put to rest, and the earth above mounded up. She would have a fine stone carved, of course, and perhaps a little fencing put around the place, to keep the cattle and horses from trampling over where he lay for eternity. I am tired of it. I want to go towards living my life in hope. I want to not be afraid. I want to build the house as I want it to be, to live in it as I think fit to live. Horace walked at her side, Peter at her other with his hand in hers. The boarders and townsfolk who had attended the brief ceremonies followed behind: Mr. Waller, Richard Bullock and his family, Captain Coleman, Angelina Eberly and her family, Mr. Ware, stumping gamely along on his wooden foot.
She and Hetty had laid out the usual spread of cakes, of bread and cold meats for the mourners, on several tables set out on the porch. There were dozens of saddle horses, tied to the rails of the little corral in back, any number of traps and carriages, although most had preferred to walk from their houses nearby. So taken up with the demands of hospitality was she that Margaret had hardly taken notice of the hollow, thudding sound that the clods of earth made against the coffin; they had not the heartrending effect upon her that she had felt, upon burying Mama, in that lonely grave just outside of Harrisburg.

“So, what will ye do, Mrs. Vining? Will you be hiring anyone to work the land, then?” Angelina Eberly tucked into a platter of vegetable pickles, biscuits and sliced ham, in a shady corner of the porch. Shrewd old storm-crow, Margaret thought, with a mix of annoyance tempered with affection. She must be rejoicing at the thought of eating food that she has not cooked herself. Margaret was exhausted – she had been receiving the condolences of all of the mourners for much of the afternoon. Now – much as she had expected – the gathering had turned into rather a convivial one, with friends gathering with like-minded friends, here and there in the parlors or on the porch, enjoying the cool breeze that wafted through the trees, and the distant view of the river, as the afternoon sun slanted through new leaves and turned the water to quicksilver. Hetty had firmly taken upon herself the duties of keeping the various dishes and platters generously filled, commanding Margaret to play the part of the hostess and move among the guests. Margaret had done so, until her feet hurt – so did her hand, from having it so comfortingly pressed – and her face ached from having to keep it in the same demure expression. Now she found it a pleasure to sit in the corner and converse with Mrs. Eberly, whose blunt speech and decided opinions had the merit of being both original and amusing – if now and again more startlingly frank than Margaret thought was acceptable at her table.

“There’s hardly any of it left to make it worth-while, save for a hay-field and another of corn. I expect that I shall hire someone to come and plow it in the spring. My father farmed out of habit, I believe – and only just enough for household needs. We’ll keep the garden, and the milk-cows, of course, but I will probably sell the draft oxen.”
“Aye, and I am not sure that he thought all that much of it himself, any more.” Mrs. Eberly shook her black-bonneted head. “Poor man – he got so worn-looking, these past two or three years. In his prime, he must have been a handsome, well-set up man.”
“He was,” Margaret answered, “and more than that – he was magnificent. When I was a child; I used to think that Papa looked like the illustration of a king or a god, in the old storybooks.”
“It’s a tragedy, getting’ old,” Mrs. Eberly sighed, gustily. “But I tell you what, Miz Vining – it’s a sight better ‘n the alternative.” Margaret left unspoken the first thought that she had – which was that the worst curse of growing old often deprived one of the company and affection of those whom you loved and loved you most dearly. Mrs. Eberly still had children, grandchildren and even step-children living, so Margaret supposed that she had the love of those to keep her warm in the evening of life. But for Papa, that fire had gone out, years ago. Mama and Rudi had gone before him into eternity. If there was any comfort for Margaret in contemplating Papa’s last moments, it lay in the hope that he had been reunited with them at last; which left herself, her sons and Carl on the shores of this present world, to fend for themselves. Margaret found that rather ironic. That was what Papa had done throughout much of his, anyway.
“He loved my mother so very much,” she answered at last, “and my brother Rudi, who fell at Goliad. I fear he was a broken man, after that loss. I believe he would have rejoiced in his heavenly reunion with them – which is why I am not myself left desolate with grief. Papa has gone to be with those which he truly loved. I cannot help but think that he would have seen departing from this life as a blessing and relief.”
“Aye, you’re right, Miz Vining – so it would have been.” Mrs. Eberly took another bite out of the biscuit and ham upon her plate. “Maybe it was for the best. He was difficult, and that we all know well. It was to your credit, to have been so patient with his ways for these years. But still, where does that leave you, Miz. Vining? You cared for him in his declining years – what are you left in his will? Pardon me for speaking so bluntly – but I can not help noticing that it was your efforts which kept his estate on a level plane and a roof over all of your heads. If your father had a comfortable home in his last years, that was entirely of your work and your doing. I would not sit by and see you done out of your rights. What has he left, and what did he leave of it to you? I know that brother of yours, he’s a good lad and a brave Ranger, and he would stand to inherit something, I am sure – but where has he been for you, all these years. I won’t hear that he has inherited the larger portion, for that will not be fair at all . . . an’ pardon me for speaking so blunt an’ speaking out of turn, if you’ll forgive me, Miz Vining – but it’s a man’s world, unless we stick up for ourselves and stick together. I am a woman who would see justice done, right and proper!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Eberly,” Margaret answered, rather touched by Mrs. Eberly’s concern. “You have no need for concern. Papa did not have a will, outlining any share of his property to us . . .”
“Jus’ like a man,” Mrs. Eberly snorted, “Think he’s going to live forever! So, you and your brother share equally. Well, that’s only fair, I suppose . . . less’n he comes back with a new wife, an’ wants his share in the house! What then, I ask you?”
“I have consulted with Mr. Ford,” Margaret answered, sedately. “For he practices law, as well as medicine – and he has advised me. Papa owned several town-lots . . . as well as this house and the property surrounding. There was also a large sum of currency, which Papa had in payment from the State, when he sold all the rest. He never spent it – we found it among his things.”

Margaret and Hetty, and John Ford had gingerly made inventory of those few personal things which Alois Becker had kept, in a small box under his bed in the kitchen. They had made a pitiful showing: a small pocket-watch and a silver pen-knife, and a very old Bible in German with a tattered cover. There was a fat wallet of currency – that payment for the land, which he had received and hardly spent anything of, two deeds for a pair of town-lots, bought at auction under the oak tree on the day that Austin had been established – and which one day might be as valuable as the land upon which the homestead stood. There were also two folded papers, sighed by Erastus Smith, and an officer whose name Margaret could not call to mind, one testifying to the service of Alois Becker as a scout for the Army during the war, and another certifying that he had participated with great distinction in the battle at San Jacinto.
“You should be able to apply for a tract of land, on the basis of his service,” Mr. Ford had remarked upon reading them. Margaret set that thought aside; yes, the widows of the Gonzales men who fell at the Alamo had all been awarded land-tracts, for the faithful service of their husbands. At the very bottom of the box was a small thing of cob-web fine linen, folded small: an elaborately ruffled woman’s house-bonnet of the old-fashioned cut, which Margaret had recognized as being Mama’s; a ghostly scent of the verbena sachet which Mama had favored still clung to it, although it had mostly taken on the musty-paper odor of the paper currency and the property deeds. Margaret had sat back on her heels on the kitchen floor, and thought on how her father had lived as a monk, during those last years of his life. He had his farming tools, the apple trees, two or three ragged shirts and a hunting coat . . . but so little which was personally his, in the way that Race Vining’s books had been his. He was buried in the best of his clothes, and Margaret had burned the rest, as they were so ragged she wouldn’t have given them to a beggar . . . nor did she wish to cut them into strips to braid a rug out of. She did not want Papa to haunt her house, any more than he did already.

“Mr. Ford advised that we split the land into equal portions,” she explained now to Mrs. Eberly. “The town-lots are, or would be equal in value to this house. The sum in notes that my father was paid for his land is easily enough apportioned. And I have kept a good account of the cost of improvements that I made to it. I love my brother very dearly, but if he should choose the house over the town-lots, then his portion of Papa’s estate would be debited for the cost of improvements that I made to it . . . out of my own earnings. Mr. Ford has drawn up and had witnessed the necessary papers,” Margaret added, and Mrs. Eberly set aside her plate, and clapped her hands together,
“Mrs. Vining, you have not wasted your time, in renting to legislators,” she exclaimed, “That is looking after your interests very fairly, indeed. I should not have worried so, that you would be done out of your rights and fair share.”
“Certainly not,” Margaret answered, with serene confidence. “It was very kind of you to take such a concern, Mrs. Eberly. If there is a petticoat government in Austin, then I think you must be the uncrowned queen of it, and your rule is gracious and far-seeing! But I have always been good at looking after my family. I believe that we must either see to ourselves and our families, or leave this place. For myself, I had no choice: My husband was invalid, my father mad, and my brother . . . has long chosen to take his place among the ranks of our defenders – from which he may eventually return . . . or not. I wish that I had not needed to acquire and practice such efficiencies, but there you have it. This is where we live. There exist in this world women who must, or perhaps have been made to feel that their duty and obligation to custom oblige them to sit in the parlor with their hands folded, and expect the men of their kin to make their pathway smooth in all respects. I am not among them.”
“No,” acknowledged Mrs. Eberly, in what seemed to Margaret to be a rather regretful tone of voice. “Would have been nice for us, if it were; no bothers, no worries – everything taken from your shoulders . . . sitting in the parlor all the morning long, taking calls from visitors . . . eh, it would have been restful, wouldn’t it?”
“It would have been boring,” Margaret answered, firmly, and Mrs. Eberly laughed and answered, “Miz Vining, there are some days when I would like boring, would like it very much, indeed.”
“And then you think, of how very pleasing it is, to arrange your affairs and your household, and the tenor of your day in the manner which best pleases you,” Margaret answered, “And I think that I would soon become tired of helpless dependency. It does not do our men any favors, to have a helpless seraglio of one inhabitant, hanging uselessly around their necks, week in and week out.”
“You never struck me as bein’ the helpless type,” Mrs. Eberly answered. “Just as well, then.”
“I prefer, I think – the animating contest of freedom, rather than the tranquility of servitude,” Margaret answered, “As would, I believe, any woman of character and education. There is much to be said for being a widow with control of property.”
“Aye, well,” and Mrs. Eberly sighed. “You are very well right – but still, ‘tis nice to have a man about the place, sometimes. You know, Mr. Ward has been seriously courting Sue Bean – I hear they’re to be married at mid-summer. She’s over the moon in love . . . well, it must be love, then! Poor man, with him lacking an arm, and a leg as well. I hope she keeps him happy, so I do.”
“And away from cannon,” Margaret answered, very dryly. “He cannot afford loosing another limb.”
“Well, two more, but he ought to try and keep hold of that smaller limb that a man has!” Mrs. Eberly chuckled, rather knowingly, “and that bein’ the main bit that keeps a wife happy, after all.”
“I’m sure they will be very happy,” Margaret thought she made a good pretense of having missed the point of Mrs. Eberly’s jest. “Mr. Ward is a very fine and upstanding man – I am certain that he will take care of her, and the children.”
“Still, and all,” Mrs. Eberly mused, “He’s had his bad times, I am sure – and I am equally sure that his experiences must affect him – just as your father’s experiences did him. I am not certain I would want to marry a man who bore the burden of such bad fortune – or to advise any daughter of mine to do so.”
“If she loves him,” Margaret answered, “truly and deeply – then she will not see those pitiably misfortunate scars of the flesh and mind. She will see only his good character, his finer qualities, and make her decision as her heart bids her.”
“Oh, she’s young, yet.” Mrs. Eberly answered, and Margaret thought to herself that she was also young – considered next to Mrs. Eberly. Now Mrs. Eberly’s keen eyes went past Margaret, to a late arrival, a tall and rather slovenly-attired man who had just ridden up to the area before the house. He took off his hat, and sat blinking, as he sat upon his horse, surveying the gathering. He looked familiar to Margaret in some ways, rough, well-whiskered and clad in the cheap and durable clothes of a workman, and then as he ventured tentatively,
“Is this my welcome-home party? I did not expect such.”

“Well, bless my soul, if it isn’t Doctor Williamson!” Mrs. Eberly exclaimed. She added, in a much louder voice, “Say, look well, all ye – it’s Doctor Williamson, come home from Perote!” and at her words, all within earshot paid attention to the gawky scarecrow of a man, clumsily dismounting from what was obviously a hired nag, who held the reins in his hand and looked around as if he wondered what on earth he should do with them . . . indeed, and what happened in far Mexico, and by what miracle had he arrived here, upon this sorry mount? Gratifyingly, he was soon at the center of a circle of men, being warmly congratulated, as everyone exclaimed their relief and questioned him regarding his experiences, slapping his dusty shoulders with approval and enthusiasm of such a hearty sort that it appeared as if he might soon collapse underneath it. Margaret caught the attention of Johnny and Horace, who had been supporting her all this day with all the grave and careful courtesy of his twelve years.
“Go and take the horse from Doctor Williamson, unsaddle the poor beast and let him out into the pasture for a while.”
“The doctor looks very ill, Mama,” Horace answered, “D’you supposed he was tortured in Perote; with horrible instruments, and hung about with chains?”
“No, I do not think he was,” Margaret said, “for he did not write to me, complaining of such. The poor man – all he was tortured by was the loss of liberty! I think he was just tired from the journey, for he must have come such a long way! And Johnny – if he has brought anything with him, take it up to the room. Remember, we have moved his things to the little room upstairs . . .” But before Horace could even move from Margaret’s side, Mr. Burnett’s man, Hurst, had appeared as if by magic, and with efficient courtesy relieved Dr. Williamson of his horse and the small baggage it contained – mainly Dr. Williamson’s sadly battered medical satchel.” Margaret came down from the porch and through the crowd of men, which parted for her like her vision of the Red Sea parting before Moses, until she came to the doctor, still looking as baffled as he usually did in social situations.

“I am so very glad that you are free, and come home to us!” she exclaimed, and captured one of his hands in hers. “You must be exhausted, after your journey – we would have made a welcome twice as warm as this, if we had even known that you were on your way . . . Johnny, take the bag from Hurst,” she added, as her sons gathered around her, looking at Dr. Williamson with awed respect – and on the part of Peter, no little amount of puzzlement. “We have put those things of yours that you left with us, into one of the little rooms, upstairs. Do you remember the way – or do you want one of us to show you? There has been so much that has happened, since you went to San Antonio.”
“I did not think there would be so much of a crowd,” Dr. Williamson answered, peering around, in that baffled manner which suggested that he had misplaced his glasses again. “I . . . I sent a letter to you from Perote, to tell you that we were released . . . I can only think that it must have gone astray. Or that I we traveled so rapidly as to outdistance the post…”
“No matter – we are overjoyed to see you, and welcome you home,” Margaret answered, and Dr. Williamson hesitantly raised her hand to his lips for a brief kiss.
“As much as a home that I have,” he said, simply – and Margaret interpreted his baffled expression. The doctor had never liked small changes within the household, and adjusted to them with reluctance. Now, she wondered if it had been right, in moving his possessions to the upper and more private room, at the top of the house.
“We had not received any letter from you, or indeed any news of the release of the Perote captives,” Margaret said, “But you are all the more welcome – for this is the day that we have buried my father. He died, three days ago – of a cerebral stroke…”
“Is that a medical diagnosis?” Dr. Williamson inquired; his weathered face bright with sudden interest. “I would not have judged so without I had performed a dissection…”
“That was the judgement of Mr. Ford, who was in practice in San Augustine,” Margaret answered hastily. How very awkward, that Dr. Williamson had returned on the same day as Papa’s burial; there had been so much that had happened, over the last two years. Margaret had confided much of her concerns in her letters to him, been frank, humorous, and sometimes needful of reassurance in her letters – and in all, the doctor had responded in much the same nature. And now, they were face to face again, not separated by miles and prison walls. Somehow the written words had wrought a connection that was simply not there, in face to face conversation. In her mind’s eye, she had a picture of him that just did not match his present appearance and presence – and she briefly wondered if he had not created a worshipfully roseate image of her in return. But he was still a trusted friend, a guest under her roof – for she thought of it now as decidedly as hers, rather than her father’s roof – a guest of long-standing, a friend and physician to Race Vining.

“You should rest a little from your long journey,” she advised him, “In the room set aside for you, where we placed all the possessions you left with us. Wash, and change into your own clean clothes – then come downstairs and greet your friends.” She clasped his hand between hers, overtaken by a sudden feeling of affection and concern. He looked so baffled, so lost. “It is a blessing that you are free, and returned to us . . . Peter – my dear little duckling – will you show Dr. Williamson up to the little room? You remember – the doctor who cared for your Papa?” To her vague distress, her youngest son shook his head – no, he did not recall. Doctor Williamson had been a prisoner in Perote for almost half of his life. “He is our very dear friend,” she whispered to her son. “He is very tired, and he has had a very long journey – and I must stay with the guests who have come to honor your Opa. Show him into the little room, opposite yours’ and Miss Hetty’s, at the top of the stairs. All of his things are there; we made it very pleasant for him.”
“Yes, Mama,” Peter answered manfully, and turned to Dr. Williamson. “If you would kindly follow me, sir – I will show you to your quarters.” Margaret concealed a smile. It seemed that Peter had been coached by someone, someone well-accustomed to the ways of courtesy and hospitality – possibly Hurst, for she had often observed her youngest son deep in conversation with Mr. Burnett’s manservant during the last few days.

“I will see you then, among the guests,” Margaret pressed Dr. Williamson’s hand between hers once again – intending that slight embrace to be a comfort and encouragement. He still appeared somewhat lost and baffled, above and beyond his usual way. “You are among friends, now – and most welcome,” she added, impulsively going upon tip-toes and brushing his bearded cheek with her lips. “And I am glad above all to see you safe. Welcome home!”
And with that, Peter led him upstairs, just as Hurst led his poor bony livery-stable horse in the other direction. Margaret turned now to the care of her guests – oh, so many of them there were, lingering on a spring afternoon. She was glad of that, for the evidence it gave of Alois Becker being held in the high respect of his fellows, or at least – affection for her, as his daughter. But then, any reason for a gathering – be it election day, or the celebration of the victory at San Jacinto, or even just a funeral – was embraced eagerly; it had been so when she was a girl in Gonzales. With the keen judgement of a hostess, she had sensed that this particular gathering had been revived, transformed from a wake to a more joyous celebration. She looked into the kitchen, where Hetty was just adding some more wood to the fire. Two pans of biscuits sat on the table, ready for the baking.
“Oh, good,” Margaret said, “I was just thinking of more biscuits – and Dr. Williamson likes them so.”
“Aye, ‘tis a miracle,” Hetty shielded her hand with a thick fold of her apron, and closed the firebox door. “And so unexpected, Marm – we had not even made up the bed, in the little room! I took up a jug of water and some towels, for Peter said the Doctor wished to wash after his journey, but I was distracted an’ all–”
“Oh, dear – I’ll see to it, then, Hetty. It will only take a moment.” Margaret filled her arms with clean sheets and blankets from the cupboard underneath the stair-landing where they kept such things. She made her way up the stairs, thinking that she would only take a few minutes from her guests, and that surely the doctor would have changed into his own clothes and joined the others by now. There was no sound coming from behind the door, which stood half-open, so she went in with the linens . . . but he was there, standing before the opened window, as if arrested by the very sight of the sky outside, an open razor in one hand, and half the bristle scraped from his chin.

“Oh – I thought you had gone downstairs,” Margaret exclaimed in surprise; surprise which turned almost immediately to concern. She dropped the linens and blanket on the shuck mattress of the bed. “Doctor – are you unwell? Is there something the matter?”
“No . . . that is . . .” he looked at the razor in his hand as if wondering how it came to be there. “I was thinking that . . . it was so very strange to look out of an unbarred window. And that this is not a dream, or Perote was but a nightmare. But it was real.”
“It was real,” Margaret answered. Danny Fritchie had said much of the same thing, and she thought that Dr. Williamson appeared to be pitiably lost, as if he had well and permanently lost his glasses. “And it was a horrible place – but you are free, now.”
“Free,” he said the word tentatively, as if he did not quite believe. “Free of one set of chains, but not another.” He had not made a motion to continue shaving, or to change from the rough clothing that he had worn for travel, although he had unbuttoned his collar and cuffs, and draped a towel across his shoulders. Margaret clicked her tongue.
“I cannot imagine what set of chains you mean,” she said, and began spreading out the sheet, fitting it over the mattress.
“No, you would not,” he answered, and Margaret’s heart was wrung. Danny Fritchie had held his baby daughter, and wept as though his heart was about to break, remembering the deaths of his friends on the Salado, and her brother Carl had looked out at the stars and wrapped silence around him, unable to sleep within walls for years, upon his return from Goliad. With his sleeves turned back, she could see the scars of healed sores that encircled his wrists like cruel bracelets. Men held their hurts inside; she hoped desperately that those scars were the very least of his. She smoothed a second sheet over the bed, spread out the blanket and turned the sheet back, all while Dr. Williamson made no further motion to complete his toilette. Something ailed the man – Margaret could not think what it might be, save that he might be uncertain about where his things – those books and extra clothing that he had left behind. She and Hetty and the boys had lugged them all upstairs and arranged them pleasingly in the little room.
“We brushed your good coat, and aired all the other things often,” she said, attempting to encourage him. She had guests downstairs, and she had told Hetty she would only be a moment. “Here – I will set them out for you.” The little room held a chest of narrow drawers, into which she had placed all of his clothing save the coat. The faint scent of verbena rose from the shirt and trousers that she arrayed on the newly-made bed. Margaret loved the odor of verbena – a liking for which she credited to Mama’s fondness for it. There was a black neck-cloth in the topmost drawer, and she laid that out as well. He was still looking into the distance, of the aspect of Austin, seen over the row of apple-trees, which still held some faint white clouds of bloom among the tender new green leaves.
“You have been very good to me,” he said at last. “You wrote to me . . . those letters were welcome. They were . . .”
“You were my husband’s friend,” she answered, firmly. What was the matter with him, she thought – with considerable impatience. She was needed downstairs, and his friends and fellow-citizens, they would be waiting to talk to him, to ask him questions about his experiences in Perote, and for news of those last few held there. “Here are your clothes. I wrote to you because you were our friend – and I thought of you with particular fondness, for tending my husband . . . and you were in such desperate need of a confidant . . .”
“I’d have gone mad, without your letters, and those others from my friends,” the expression on his craggy face was one of desolation, and she recalled again, how her brother could not bear to remain confined within walls. He and Rudi and the others taken after Coleto Creek had spent a week of imprisonment in the Goliad chapel – so crowded that the fit men and boys had slept on their feet, leaning against the walls and each other, for lack of room.

“I’m only happy that my poor scribbles were of comfort to you,” Margaret said. “And I would confess that yours were of comfort to me, as well. Sometimes I have felt very alone, even with Hetty and my friends and the boys as my solace. When I was in distress or in confusion . . . and there were so many times when I was, in these last two years – it relieved my heart no end, to have a confidant, someone whom I could pour out my worries.” Now, she feared that she might have been too frank, for it seemed that Dr. Williamson was struggling with a powerful emotion, which held him speechless. She had already settled the pillow in a clean slip at the head of the bed. Now she came around the foot of the bed, to where Dr. Williamson was still standing, irresolute, between the wash-stand with the scrap of mirror-glass hung up over it, and the window, with the razor in his hand. “You are my dear friend, also. Do not doubt that – but you have those friends and men of Austin downstairs, waiting for you to come down. Here,” she took the straight-razor from his hand, “You are nearly finished – this little bit. Hold still – there.” She capably scraped the last of bristle from his cheek, and taking the end of the towel, wiped off the remaining soap, noting almost in passing that his eyes were grey, and that she needed to reach up a little way, for he was taller than Race had been. “I have put out your clean clothes, Dr. Williamson. Put them on, and come down. Hetty will be taking a batch of fresh biscuits out of the oven. You always liked her biscuits.”
“They were always very fine,” he answered, at last, and Margaret touched her fingers to her lips, and then brushed his cheek with her fingertips. He was a dear man, but so absent-minded, and she supposed that the confusion of his home-coming – for this was about the only home that he had – must have left him as temporarily at a loss as Danny Fritchie had been. Things had changed, in his absence over the last two years, and he was not a man who dealt well with changes.

“There – I have given a distant kiss to you. You are ready to be seen in public, as soon as you put on your clean clothes. Five minutes – that is what I shall tell your friends.”
“Friends?” he sounded rather baffled, uncertain, and Margaret concealed a sigh. What was the matter with him? Honestly, it was as if his experience in Perote had turned all his mind to jelly. And Margaret knew that he had a keen mind, if at times a rather eccentric one.
“Yes – you have friends, waiting to welcome you home. They came for Papa’s burial, but they have remained to welcome you,” she said, in the same kind of encouraging tone that she used to urge her sons, when the were small, rather than terrify them into compliance with her wishes with a show of authority – what Hetty called her ‘Maeve-face’ – the look of an imperious queen, whose wishes were not to be casually ignored. But perhaps she had a bit of the ‘Maeve-face’ on her at that minute, for Dr. Williamson looked at her, really looked at her as if he understood at long last, and answered,
“Then I shall come down. It is the right thing, is it not, Mrs. Vining?”
“Yes, it is,” she said, with secret relief that he was going to put on an appearance of amiability – he was so often disinclined to fall in with the demands of what society commanded – really, this had been so often an embarrassment to her, when her table was crowded with boarders and their conversation, and he had propped a medical text against the cruets and read through-out the meal. “Put on those clothes that I have laid out for you – do you want a manservant to come up and tie your cravat? Mr. Burnett’s man, Hurst – he is an expert. I will send him up, if you require assistance.”
“No . . . I am capable of managing my own cravat,” he answered, and Margaret thought to herself that perhaps she ought to send Hurst, if Dr. Williamson did not appear within ten minutes.
“Then, we shall expect you,” she said – and was fairly sure that she did not say so with her ‘Maeve-face’. “You are a man very well-liked in Austin, and so you should have a good welcome home.”

(Deep in the Heart will continue the story begun in Daughter of Texas. During the tumultuous years of the Repiblic of Texas, the widowed Margaret Becker Vining is trying to raise her four sons by keeping a boarding house in frontier Austin, the now-and-again capitol of the Republic. Deep in the Heart will be available by December 2011, from Watercress Press. )

Chapter 9 – Forted Up

The events of which Dr. Williamson had written were confirmed within days by accounts in the newspapers which arrived from across Texas. Morag wept a little when Margaret told them of what Dr. Wiliamson’s letter conveyed. So did Hetty, but then she dried her eyes and said, “Our old Mam would have said he was born to trouble as sparks fly upwards. But he made a brave end of it, did he? And in a state of grace, as well. A blessing, I’d say – there’s many dies worse that deserves better, and many deserving worse who die well.” She dabbed at her eyes again and blew her nose. “An’ he did well by his kinfolk an’ those he called friends. Ever so grateful I am that he brought us here.”
“I wish he had drawn life from that dreadful jar,” Margaret replied, and she felt a little teary in the face of Hetty’s stoicism. “I had hoped to expand the house again, someday – and I had trusted in him to be the one to build it! Now, I am sure I can find another carpenter . . . but where do you find another cousin?”
“Oh, aye – we had cousins a’plenty in Wexford!” Hetty answered robustly, and then her eyes moistened again. “No’ many like Seamus though! We shall miss him too, Marm, miss him something awful. Now – Morag, darlin’ – if the baby is a boy, you should name him after Seamus, no matter what your man says. Aye, that’s what you should do!”
“But what if the baby is a girl?” Morag asked, laughing a little through her tears, “What then, Marm?”
“Jemima,” Margaret suggested. “Close enough to James, I think.” They talked a little over a name for Morag’s babe if it should be a girl, Margaret all the time thinking how much she would have loved to have a daughter. Not that she loved her sons any the less, or would have wished them to be anything more or less than they were – bumptious and growing boys in all their glory . . . but a daughter, to be able to share those womanly mysteries with, to talk and laugh with, as she had done with her mother, and with Oma Katerina! Boys became men – just as her dear little baby Brother Carl had grown first into a boy . . . and then departed into the world of men. Doubtless her sons would do the same and very soon, too – depart on their own errands – and if not into the Llano like Carl and his Ranger comrades, then into a world of which she would ever only know a portion.

In the end, Morag and Daniel’s baby arrived quite swiftly, several weeks after Margaret had received Dr. Williamson’s letter. Morag had shuffled into the kitchen at mid-morning, heavy and off-balance with the weight of the child, taking up a dish-towel to dry the breakfast dishes that her sister was washing. Morag had been sleeping badly at night in these last few weeks, and resting frequently with her feet up – such were the discomforts of imminent child-bearing. Standing close to the warmth of the stove, Margaret was carefully stirring a kettle of milk-curds, watching the heavy masses of curds separate from the clear whey. Her sons were out with Papa, working in the garden-plot under Papa’s eyes, and although they were close enough to the house, Papa still had a loaded rifle leaning against the nearest tree.
“Och, Morag dear, you should be stayin’ off your feet!” Hetty exclaimed, and Margaret turned around, echoing the sentiments as soon as she saw Morag’s face, pale with strain and particularly bruised-looking around her eyes.
“No – there’s an ache in my legs and in my back – truly it feels better to be walking around – oh!” she gasped, half-doubling over. “Mother Mary an’ Joseph!”
“What is the matter!” Both Mary and Hetty exclaimed. Margaret dropped the long spoon into the curds and Hetty abandoned the dish-pan, to come to her side.
“It . . . hurts . . .” Morag answered, between clenched teeth. “A sudden pain . . . as if . . . oh!” She held on to Hetty with both hands, her own face crimson with embarrassment. “Hetty . . . I’ve gone an’ pissed meself . . . Marm, I’m terrible sorry…”
“Not to mind,” Margaret answered calmly, as the floor at Morag’s feet became suddenly dark with liquid, which soaked into the planks or swiftly drained between. “The pain was that of the waters breaking. The baby is coming.”
“Is that what ‘tis?” Morag gasped again, and her face screwed up as another pain took hold. “Och, another one – not so bad…”
“How close together?” Margaret demanded, “And how long have you been feeling them?”
“Since last night – and a no more than a minute or two between,” Morag answered, while Hetty replied comfortably, “Just like our Mam, then.” She looked across Morag’s bowed head to Margaret. “Mam always had hers fast. Two shakes of a lamb’s tail, Mam always said. Wi’ our youngest brother, she was brought to bed after the morning milking, birthed him by the time the church clock struck ten of the hour, and was bringing supper to the reapers in the field at noon.”
“How . . . energetic of her,” Margaret said, thinking that Hetty was most likely saying so to cheer and encourage Morag, who was clinging onto Margaret’s hand with such a grip that Margaret’s fingers were practically numb.
“Well, Mam was married when she was only a bit of a girl,” Hetty answered, “And she bore twenty-three babes, an’ all but four born alive and well – with th’ youngest of us, all the midwife need do was sit at the bottom of the bed an’ hold out her hands to catch – if there was time to go an’ find her. Morag, me darlin’ it may take a little longer for your first, but I swear to you, for Mam it always went easy.”
“I want to lie down now,” Morag demanded, her face suddenly sheened with perspiration. They had arranged a bed in the old parlor for a lying in and Margaret shook her head,
“In a little while, Morag dear – if you walk now, it will bring it on easily.” She looked across at Hetty, who seemed quite calm. “Do you want me to send one of the boys for a doctor?” she asked, and Hetty shook her head.
“No need, no need, Marm.” She answered. None the less, she slipped out to the garden while Hetty helped Morag remove her dress and petticoats, and quietly asked Papa to keep the boys in the garden, or set them to work in the stable for as long as possible. Papa looked grimly pleased at that, while the boys looked disappointed at having to work all the day, instead of lessons in the afternoon.
Miraculously to Margaret, there was no need to send for the doctor or any of the women in town known to be skilled as a mid-wife – at least more skilled than Hetty –for Morag’s baby came as easily as a kitten to a mother cat, a crumpled pink shape – a comical crown of dark hair on it’s elongated little head – slipping easily from between Morag’s pale thighs. Morag cried out, almost involuntarily, a cry that was half a moan of relief and triumph mixed together. Hetty, behind Morag’s shoulders and bracing her into a sitting position on the bed, commanded,
“Now, push one more time . . . och, you’ve a grand wee daughter for Danny. He’ll want a son the next time, I’ll be bound. Is the little one all there, Marm – all of her lovely little fingers and toes?”
“She is,” Margaret answered, around a lump in her throat. Morag groaned again, as the red spongy mass of the afterbirth came away. While Hetty dealt capably with it, Margaret swathed the little form in a towel that had been warming by the hearth, gently rubbing the birth-matter from it’s tiny limbs and from the fluff of dark hair – how small was a new-born, how compact from being sheltered in the safe refuge of a mother’s womb. The baby’s flesh was pale pink with health, it drew in an astonished breath, and Margaret hastily wrapped it in the towel and put Morag’s daughter into her arms, while Hetty beamed with happiness and satisfaction upon them all.
“Father Odin, he is away, but he left me wi’ a vial of holy water so that I could baptize the wee mite myself. What name d’ye wish to call her by? Jemima for Seamus, o’course, and perhaps Marm can gi’ her another name, for luck.”
“Mary,” Margaret answered, so moved that she could barely speak. “Mary for my own mother: I’d wished to name a daughter of mine for her.”
“And for the Blessed Mother,” Hetty cooed, “That will do very well, Marm – Jemima Mary Fritchie it is, then. Look you – she smiled – I think she likes her names.”
“She has a little pain in her middle,” Margaret answered. “It only looks like she is smiling.”
“No, she is truly smiling, Marm.” Morag insisted, and her own face was split by a yawn. “Oh – begging your pardon – I did no’ think to be so tired…”
“Try and nurse the little one at little, before you go to sleep,” Margaret suggested, “So that she may become accustomed to suck, and your milk will come the sooner.” Impulsively, she bent down and kissed Morag’s forehead, and kissed the baby’s downy little head. “Rest now – this will be the last good rest you will see for years.”

Jemima-Mary was a good baby, placid and not particularly colicky. The boys – especially Peter and Jamie were entranced – and deeply disappointed that she would not be a ready playmate for a good few years. The baby took no interest at all in the boy-treasures that they brought for her from the woods and creek-banks – flowers and water-tumbled stones, and flint arrowheads, although Morag smilingly promised to keep them safe for her, until she was a little older. A week after her birth, Morag and her sister and Margaret were invited by Mary Bullock to bring Jemima-Mary to a gathering of the town’s women for afternoon tea.
“To welcome our newest little settler,” explained Mrs. Eberly, who bore the message, stumping fearlessly up the hill. “And she is quite the picture of an angel, isn’t she?” Mrs. Eberly cooed at baby, who was awake and examining the world immediately over her head and shaking her tiny boneless fists at it, laying in the cradle that Papa had made. “A love, she is – and will her eyes stay so blue? Just the color of buffalo clover – and the very image of her mama, I am sure.”
“I hope so, Marm Eberly.” Morag was pink with embarrassment and pride, at being with her baby the center of so much attention. “I hope so indade.”
“And Mr. Fritchie,” Mrs. Eberly continued, “locked up in that wretched Perote place, never laying eyes on the little mite. Well, never you fear, Mrs. Fritchie – we’ll see that you’ll be looked after, just as one of our own.”
“Thank you, Marm,” and Morag blushed even deeper, as Mrs. Eberly straightened her bonnet and prepared to take her leave.
“We will see you the day after tomorrow, then – in the china parlor at Bullocks.”
“A party,” Hetty exclaimed. “Och, and isna that what we need for a cheering-up? To see the other ladies for a bit, and to show off Jemima-Mary . . . what shall we bring, then – some ginger-cakes? Although,” and she looked as if she was having a second thought. “No, the good white flour is all but gone.”
“Apple-butter,” Margaret said. “We have plenty to share.”

There were about thirty women and older girls still living in Austin; Margaret tallied them up thoughtfully – most of them married – and on good terms with each other as much as they had to be. Mrs. Eberly was about the oldest, the grand dame of such little society as they had. Margaret reckoned herself as the only young widow who had maintained that state for more than a year, for there were ever more men in Austin – young and daring men – than there were women to court them. It took a strong-minded and resolute woman to maintain a single state for very long. Of families, there were enough with children that Race Vining might have opened a school; it distressed Margaret to know that one of the reasons – besides having no schoolmaster – for not having such was that the older boys and girls were taken up with the work that needed to be done, and the danger of Indians kept the smaller ones close to their mothers. But for the sake of the community of women, it was a rare week when there was not a gathering of women at one house or another, for a round of quilting, or to talk together as they sewed or knitted, while their children played outside in the afternoon. Today, Margaret resolved to take the older boys, Horace and Johnny with her. Otherwise, Papa would have put them to work, and today would be a bit of a holiday.
“This is Jemima-Mary’s debut into society,” She told her sons, as they walked down the rise from Papa’s house, towards the scatterings of shanties and log-houses clustered around Constitution and Pecan. Morag and Hetty laughed, as Jamie asked,
“What’s a day-boo, Mama?”
“Back in the East,” she answered, “It’s when a young lady puts up her hair and her Mama and Papa have a party for all of their friends and her friends, to let everyone know she is of an age to be courted in marriage.”
“It sounds silly,” Horace said gravely, “Can’t they all just tell by looking?”
The three women laughed together, their voices mingling pleasantly in the glade of oak trees that the path towards town meandered through, while Jamie and Peter squabbled pleasantly over which one of them would court Jemima-Mary when she was a young lady. Morag drew Jemima-Mary closer to her with one arm, and picked up the trailing hem of her skirt with the other. Hetty answered, still laughing,
“I’ll tell ye how ye can tell when you’re of an age to begin courting, laddie – it’s when you finally get your growth and ye are taller than the one ye like!” Horace blushed – he had just turned twelve, and to his horror, the two girls nearest his age in Austin both towered over him by at least half a head. Margaret saw this discomfiture and put her arm around his shoulders, whispering,
“It’s only a matter of time, dear one.” She nearly slipped and called him ‘little one.’ “Girls always get their growth first, and then the boys catch up. You’ll not be as tall as Uncle Carl, but you will be as tall as your Papa, and I liked him very much as he was.”

Within the far-scattering of houses on the outskirts of town, but still short of the Bullocks’, they were startled by the swift urgent rattle of the alarm-drum sounding. Margaret’s heart chilled like a lump of ice within her breast – what was this? A man shouted, then another – Comanche! She turned and looked over her shoulder towards the steep ridge thrust up into the blue summer sky to the north of town, a height which offered a superb view of all of Austin and the outlaying houses, all the way down to the riverbank. Horror rooted her feet to the ground; the green and oak-wooded height was not green any more, but patched with seething color, of men on horseback, brilliantly painted horses and men accoutered in bright red blankets that the Comanche favored, carrying long bows and javelins adorned with ribbons and feather. Queerly, her first impulse was to turn and run back the refuge of Papa’s house, but just as sense prevailed, a man on horseback pounded past them, and reined in his horse in an uprush of dust and dancing hooves.
“To the Bullock’s fort – now!” He shouted, and she recognized Captain Coleman, of the local Ranger Company. He lived a little farther away, up the valley and farmed near Shoal Creek. Now, he held his horses’ reins in one fist, a long repeating revolver in the other, the barrel pointed upwards. Margaret gathered up the four-year old Peter in her arms, and commanded, breathlessly,
“Morag, Hetty – run! Don’t stop to look behind. Horace, take Jamie’s hand! Do it – Jamie, run now!” for Jamie clamored to be allowed to go back to the house and load for Opa so he could fight the Indians.” Hetty already had Johnny by one hand, and her other on Morag’s shoulder. Margaret looked back again, and at once wished that she hadn’t and was glad that she had, for the Indians on their gaily caparisoned horses were already spilling down through the trees – but Captain Coleman was between them and the Indians, his horse dancing impatiently to and fro – as he kept the reins tightly gathered. He turned his horse every few moments – himself always between the Indians pouring through the trees, and Margaret and Hetty, the children and Morag with the baby as they ran. Margaret’s heart pounded painfully under the bodice of her best black dress, and the corsets that she had laced so tightly. Morag ran strongly, but she was already gasping, easily tired after the work of recent childbed and the weight of that precious child in her arms. Hetty ran as like a man; her skirts pulled with indecent efficiency past her knobby knees and tucked into the waistband of her apron, her face set and her grip on Johnny and her sister like that of iron and rawhide. She was pulling them after her, an undaunted force. Margaret redoubled her efforts, spurred by the memory of every horror she had ever heard of the fate of women, of babies and children – save those of a particular age – in the brutal hands of the Comanche. There were other women with their children, running from their own houses, in town and in the outlaying ones, from the Harrell’s old compound, near the river and the confluence with Shoal Creek. They were close, close and closer still to the Bullock’s – the tall house on pilings, where the lower part had been walled in to make the dining room at ground-level for their inn, the stout log building ramble which had become a block-house and refuge. Now that so many had left Austin, Bullock’s place could shelter all that remained in an emergency, at least for hours, possibly even days.
Gasping for breath, Margaret and her sons, and Hetty with her sister and the baby gained the front door of Bullock’s, almost blinded in the sudden dimness after the bright sunlight outside. The shutters had all been hastily drawn and bolted shut; those interconnecting rooms now as dark as a cave and filled with the murmurs of frightened men and women, save when the door opened to admit another person seeking shelter at Bullock’s. Before her eyes adjusted, Margaret blundered into something hard, something solid and more oddly-shaped than a table. Already, much of the heavier furniture in the taproom and public parlor were being moved and propped up against the walls to strengthen the shutters. She put out her hand to steady herself, squinting in the dimness; it seemed that someone had now thought to bring a single cannon from the armory. How the men had ever managed to roll it inside – and when they had done this – she couldn’t think. Morag and the boys had already gone ahead, through the dark hallways to the Mary Bullock’s china parlor, which sat in the very heart of Bullocks’ establishment, the safest and most secure, and where the women and children were accustomed to take refuge upon hearing any alarm.
“Mrs. Vining?” in the confusion, someone caught at her arm – Captain Coleman, his expression urgent, as much as she could see in the darkness. “Is everyone from your household here?”
“All but my father,” she answered, and Captain Coleman’s lips made a thin line across his face. “Damn stubborn Dutchman,” he muttered, “I guess he has decided to hole up at his place. Just when we need every man-jack who can handle a weapon here!”
“What is the matter?” Margaret demanded, and stayed him by the arm as he would have turned away. She could see better now or perhaps someone had lit a few more lanterns. “Are we so few that we are in danger, even all gathered at Bullock’s?”
Captain Coleman looked as if he would rather not have answered; he was a wiry, weathered man, somewhere in his thirties; one of the many unmarried men in Austin. He still limped from a wound taken a month or two ago, which had made him unfit to ride out with his company. Margaret knew of him only that her brother spoke of him as a good Ranger and reputed to be the best poker player between Austin and Hornsby’s Bend – maybe even as far as Mina.
“Yes, damn the luck – sorry, Miz Vining. There are twenty good men out on a long scout with the Ranging Company, five more that I know – including Ed Waller – went to Houston on the stage last week for business, and another three or four are away with a wagon-load of timber yesterday to the saw-mill at Beeson’s Landing. There must be at least another dozen like your father caught by surprise and holed up in their places. I’m only here, ‘cause I’m still healing.”
“How many are here?” Margaret drew in her breath, and Captain Coleman didn’t bother to lower his voice.
“I count mebbe a few more than twenty men and some boys who are fitten’ to carry weapons.” Margaret was appalled – this few men of fit age in Austin and the district around? She had seen many times that number of Indians, in that fleeting glance over her shoulder. Was it the Penateka Comanche, who came down like a wolf on the fold, out of the Llano with a thousand warriors? Two years ago, they had terrorized the valley of the Guadalupe, pillaging their way down to Linnville, while all the folk who lived there took refuge on boats in the harbor. The Comanche were defeated in open battle only when all the Ranger companies had time to gather and ambush them at Plum Creek, upon their return journey to their customary hunting grounds in the untamed and un-peopled Llano country. But that victory was weeks in coming. It had taken no little time to assemble the volunteers, the mounted militia of all the settlements in Texas – and in the meantime, Linnville had burned, and the Penateka had taken, tortured and murdered many white captives. There were no boats, no sea refuge here, only the stout walls of Bullock’s Inn . . . and only if there were enough men to defend it.
“But don’t ye go discounting the women, if it would serve,” Hetty spoke up, at Margaret’s side. Mrs. Eberly – barely seen as a blur of pale face, in her widow-black – echoed, “I’ll take up a musket, if you’ll need . . . and some of the boys, too. If they are not old enough to aim a weapon, they are old enough to re-load.”
“So will I.” Margaret averred. She thought of her sons, of Morag and the baby, huddled in the parlor, and those other mothers and children – no, the brutal Comanche must not be allowed exercise their cruel whims upon them. Margaret would do whatever was needed, to keep them safe and alive. “Give us each a musket, Captain Coleman – or a pistol – a knife even, if that is all there is at hand.”
“Do you know how to use a musket?” he asked, skeptically. “Aim and cock – and are you sure you can kill a man with it? It’ud be no use if you, having a weapon if they can just take it away from you. ”
“A Comanche threatening my child – I’d kill with my bare hands.” Margaret answered, firmly. “I can load, and aim – I’ve watched my father, my husband – even my brothers do so, since the day we came to Texas.”
“What about you, ladies?” Captain Coleman turned to Mrs. Eberly and Hetty. “Can you load and aim, shoot to kill?”
“It’s not like there is a choice in the matter,” Mrs. Eberly answered with frank honesty, and Hetty said, “Aye well – its’ the narrow end pointed at them as you want to do the damage upon, isn’t it?” Captain Coleman chuckled, in sour amusement, but his face sobered at once. “A good thing we’re not in need of sharp-shooters, Miss Moran – but that’s the general notion. When we parcel out the town arsenal, I’ll see that you’re supplied – I reckon that now that I’m in charge, with Bullock my second. Now – go on into the parlor, so’s I’ll know where you are.”
He turned away, as the main door opened and shut. Margaret saw in the brief light which came in with the person admitted, that two men had already taken up a sentry-position on either side of it – and that Mr. Ware the Land Commissioner, who walked on a peg-leg and had his right coat-sleeve pinned up – was directing some of the older boys in adjusting the barrel of the cannon so that it pointed directly at the front door.
“Aye, there’s always a warm welcome for guests at Bullocks Inn,” Hetty observed, and Mrs. Eberly laughed in genuine amusement. Margaret thought; Angelina Eberly must have seen nearly everything in her time – I truly think there must be nothing on earth capable of shocking her. The china parlor was down a short corridor, past the door to the Bullock’s own private quarters, and a stairway which gave access to the upper floors. The parlor, as dark now as the rest of the Inn, was crammed with women and children. With no fresh air from the opened windows and the crush within, it was stiflingly warm inside; the odor of human bodies and dirty diapers was overlaid with the stink of fear. Margaret didn’t think she could endure very much time within. She was certain the war-band of Comanche she had glimpsed over her shoulder was by far the largest body of them that she had ever seen in her life. She could think of no good reason why so many would come to the valley of the Colorado all at once, unless it was to attack and overwhelm the folk of Austin, or Hornsby’s Bend, or even Mina. Most Comanche raids, they were on outlaying houses, an ambush of a few travelers, or a sudden attack upon men working in the fields. Sometimes the raiders were after horses: Papa had always kept his stable padlocked at night for that reason. In the early days, he and her brothers had ploughed the cornfield with a rifle over their shoulders; of late he had taken to doing so again. And what about Papa, now? He must have heard the alarm, and taken refuge in his own house, as he always stubbornly insisted that he would, rather than risk being caught out in the open and making a run for Bullock’s . . . surely he must be safe, if he had time to bar the doors . . . Margaret could hardly bear thinking about this.
Perhaps the Indians had been watching them all this time, observing how few men were around, noting with calculating eyes how many families were left living like ghosts among the decaying frame buildings, their horses, food stores and valuables – their scalps and their human flesh too – all ready for the taking by any raiding party able to reach out and just pluck them, like a ripe apple from one of Papa’s trees.
Morag sat in a corner of the parlor, with Jemima-Mary in her arms, and Margaret’s sons clustered with her, like chicks under a hen’s wings. She had been telling them a story of old Erin; of Cuchulain and his magical shield and sword. As always when she told them one of these tales, the Irish in her voice came out – musical and lilting, much more so than in every-day speech. Even some of the other women and children setting near her were quiet, hanging on every word as if she wove a gold-brocade spell – a spell which could magically take them away to another world.
“For it was at the place that was called Emain-Macha, Macha-of-the-Spears they called it – so they did – that Conchubar the High King held the Assembly House of the lords of Ulster, and it was there was the chief of his palaces. Oh, and a fine place it was, having the three parts to it – the House of the Royals, the Speckled House . . . and finally, the House of the Red Branch. Och, and it was truly a marvel; in the House of the Royals which had three-times-fifty rooms, the walls were of red cedar-wood with copper nails. The High King Conchubar’s own chamber was on the first level, the walls paneled with bronze below and silver above, adorned with golden birds, their eyes were set with shining jewels – there were nine divisions of it from the fireplace to the wall at the end, and each one of them being thirty feet tall! There was a silver scepter always before Conchubar, a silver scepter with three golden apples mounted upon it, as of bells – and when he took up that rod and made the golden apples ring, all the folk in the house would be silent, wherever they were upon hearing it . . . ”
“Well, we were intending to have a party,” Mrs. Eberly remarked, “Here, laddie-buck, let me have that chair. I’m too old to go charging around like this in the heat . . . when young Morag there is finished with her story we’ll have a sing-along, won’t we? And Mary can play the pianner.” She sounded so normal – as if the party which had been planned was going on exactly as expected – that Margaret thought at least some of the younger women and the children were reassured. “We’ll be out from underfoot, while Captain Coleman decides what’s best. Go on with the story, girl – silver on the walls and golden birds with jewels for their eyes . . . seems quite a place, I must say.”
Morag shifted Jemima-Mary in her arms, and resumed the tale, “Now, in the House of the Red Branch, they kept the weapons of the enemies which they had defeated – and their heads, as well – and the Speckled House was for the swords and shields and spears of the heroes of Ulster. It was called so for the colors of the hilts of their swords, and the brightness of the spears, for they were trimmed and bound around with rings and bands of gold and silver; so were the bosses of the shields and the rims of them. The drinking cups and were likewise trimmed with silver and gold. And it was the custom of the Men of the Red Branch, upon one of them being insulted; he would demand satisfaction at that very moment, even in the middle of the feasting hall . . .”
“Sounds a familiar sort,” Margaret whispered to Mrs. Eberly, who chuckled and answered, “Oh, the times I’ve had to speak up and tell them to settle it – afore they commenced to break up the furniture!”
“And Cuchulain’s sword hung with his shield – and the name of it was called Cruaidin Cailidcheann. The sword had a hilt of gold, ornamented with silver, and if the point of it was bent back, even as far as the hilt, it would spring back straight at once. Indeed, it was so sharp that it could cut a hair floating in the water, a hair from the head of a man without touching the skin – and if it cut a man in two, each half would not miss the other for some considerable time . . .”
Margaret leaned her back against the doorway – there were no more chairs, and she did not want to sit on the floor with the children, as the minutes and hours trickled away. It would be sundown, soon – very likely they would be spending the night here. She turned at a step in the corridor, to note Richard Bullock coming down the stairs, with his arms full of muskets and rifles. He also had a grey jacket, trimmed with martial braid over one arm and a peaked cap askew upon his head, a hat that looked as if it belonged to a smaller man. His son Frank followed him, similarly burdened with powder-flasks and several small haversacks over his shoulder.
“Marm Eberly, Miz Vining?” He said in a low voice, “Capn’ Coleman said you wished to be armed, since there were too few men. Are there any other ladies who can handle a rifle, or load one? Boys, too – we have enough weapons that everyone may have two at hand. Here . . .” he dealt out two each to Margaret, Hetty and Mrs. Eberly, as well as to several other ladies who stepped quietly out of the press in the china parlor. Horace and Johnny came forward as well, Horace saying gravely,
“Me an’ Johnny can load for you and Miss Hetty, Mama.”
“Good boys,” Margaret answered, her heart swelling with pride and fear for her sons as Horace and Johnny took two powder-flasks and a single haversack from Bullock’s son. “Where should we take our place, Mr. Bullock?”
“I reckon you should stay downstairs,” Mr. Bullock answered, “For I don’t believe the upstairs will stop a bullet. There’s some shooting holes in the outside walls here, Frank here will show you where. If’n you stand on benches, you should ought to be able to cover the back. An’ ma’am – don’t fire wild. We got plenty of lead, but not if you go wasting it.”
His arms empty of weapons, he was shrugging into the grey coat. It also did not seem to be his, for it did not fit him well. Someone called his name from the front of the Inn – a man’s voice, urgent but not alarmed. Margaret wondered briefly why he was bothering with such an ill-fitting coat, but then Frank Bullock hopped down from a bench, halfway along the corridor from the door that led into the china parlor. He had a small block of wood in his hand; a square of light pierced the roughly plastered log wall, light which had the golden tint of late afternoon. Outside, the tree-shadows lay long, stretching across.
“See, ma’am – each one of the shooting holes is blocked with one o’these, three or four at the same height; all the way along . . . I guess Pa thinks you each take one.”
“I think that a good idea,” Margaret answered sedately, and Mrs. Eberly snorted.
“May as well teach your grandmother to knit, laddie-buck. Load for me then, and help me up onto the bench, I’m not as nimble as I used to be.”
Silently, Frank and the other boys began loading rifles and muskets. Margaret gingerly accepted one, and stepped up onto the bench. She set her face to the shooting hole – about four inches wide, and half as tall – a space between logs deliberately left un-chinked. Papa had done the same with his house. This one looked out at the back of Bullock’s – she could see a little of Congress Avenue, but mostly the sides of other buildings, and various trees all robed in green leaves. The little wedge of sky that she could see was blue and cloudless, tinged with the golden-red of a sunset – but she could hear no bird-song. That very silence seemed heavy with menace.
“What’s happening, Mama?” Horace asked; he was loading a musket, with careful attention, as if it were a penmanship exercise. “What do you see?”
“Nothing,” she answered, and then her eye caught a movement: three men, one in advance flanked by two others – they were dark shapes and at a distance, against the dazzle of sunshine. They moved along Congress Avenue, pacing slowly. “Oh, my.”
“What did you see?” Horace asked again, echoed by Hetty and Mrs. Eberly.
“I saw Captain Coleman,” Margaret answered, “And he was carrying a white flag.”

The 175 anniversary of the war for Texas independence is being observed this year, I’ve been to commemorative events at the Alamo, and at Presidio La Bahia. With the price of a gallon of gas already reaching towards $3.50, I had to give a miss to driving to Houston for the reenactment event there. The war was fast, furious and relatively brief; barely six months from the start of open hostilities at the ‘Come-and-Take-it Fight” in a watermelon field outside of Gonzales, to the shattering of the Mexican forces under the command of Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, in a grassy meadow by Buffalo Bayou, in 18 minutes of pitched battle. Kind of fitting, actually – as went the war, so went the final decisive battle.

So, most of the major events have their commemoration – but not so much the event that hit the Texian settlers the hardest – the terrifying Runaway Scrape. The San Jacinto reenactment touched on it a little, which is only suitable, but it would be difficult for a day-long event to do the experience justice. It was a pell-mell evacuation of all the Anglo settler families, first from all settlements and farms west of the Colorado – and then, as Santa Anna’s three columns kept advancing east, it seemed as if there would be no safety anywhere on the Texas side of the Sabine.

Fear drove the settler families, fear of the implacable Santa Anna, who had put down similar federalist-inspired rebellions in other Mexican states with considerable brutality. Upon defeating the federalist militia of Zacatecas, Santa Anna had allowed his victorious army to pillage, loot and otherwise abuse the citizens of the defeated town for two days. What happened in Zacatecas would have been well-known, among the Texian rebels; the executions of the Alamo and La Bahia garrisons were just proof that Santa Anna was running true to established form.

The direct orders of Sam Houston also provided a motivation, as if any more were needed. He had barely arrived in Gonzales on March 11, with the intent of rallying an army to him to relieve the Alamo, when word arrived that it was too late. Within hours, Houston gave orders for his army to retreat east, back to hold a strong line along the Colorado River. He also ordered that civilians evacuate as well . . . and that the town be burnt. It was a cruel plan, but one with a purpose. Santa Anna’s supply lines were stretched to the breaking point as it was. Failing necessary supplies arriving from Mexico, they could manage in the short term by forage and local requisition, but Houston’s plan was to leave a scorched earth as he retreated back and back again. Gonzales burned, so did the fledgling settlement of Bastrop, and San Felipe de Austin, although there is controversy as to who actually fired San Felipe. Refugio, Richmond, Washington-on-the Brazos – all emptied of the Anglo-American settlers and their families. Santa Anna burned Harrisburg, possibly out of frustration at not being able to catch members of the Texian government. All the way through March and into April, settler families straggled east. Some had only a bare few minutes to gather their belongings and leave. Many families buried those things they valued, intending to return when they could. It was the rainiest spring in years, which put many of the rivers at flood-stage and bogged down the Mexican army . . . but added to the sufferings of the refugees. Disease broke out, especially those intensified by cold, hunger and bad sanitation. The dead were hastily buried where they died, and their kin moved on, seeking any safety they could.

And then, on April 21st, it was all over, although it took some few weeks for word to get out, and for the refugees to believe . . . and even longer to rebuild.
(Daughter of Texas touches on this, in several key chapters – of the sufferings of women and their children, who had to leave their homes and make their way east alone – either their men were with Houston’s Army … or already dead in the fighting.)

Well, the first reviews are out and posted – a lovely one from David at ChicagoBoyz and Photon Courier, and on Amazon, one from John Willingham, whose book about James Fannin and Goliad that I reviewed. The first of many (fingers crosssed) I hope!