Gone to Texas (19 page)

Everything else was earmarked to be sold. The auction was a rousing success. It seemed to her as though the entire population of Madison County was present for the occasion. Rebecca saw quite a lot of people who had once called themselves her friends—before she had so offended southern sensibilities by emancipating the Elm Tree slaves.

"I'm glad to see they haven't permitted personal feelings to get in their way of acquiring quality furniture at rock-bottom prices," she told Christopher sarcastically.

"Maybe they're just glad we're leaving, and this is their way of donating funds to meet our travel expenses."

In what little spare time he had, Christopher struggled ferociously with a letter to Greta Inskilling—a letter which took him a fortnight to write. She had made him promise to write her when he reached home. He was to address the letter to one of her friends—evidently she feared that any letter sent directly to her might be intercepted by her father. Christopher knew the fate which
would befall any correspondence from him to Greta if it fell into the hands of Piet Inskilling.

Christopher was a mediocre letter writer in the best of circumstances. In this instance, as he tried to put his innermost feelings into words, he had an awful time of it. Ever since the levee at the White House his thoughts had been of her. Only then had he been certain of her love for him. She
had
to love him, to be willing, as she clearly was, to defy her father, risk her reputation, and brave the perils of Texas just to be at his side. Christopher still had a hard time believing he had been so blessed, and he certainly did not feel worthy of her affection. But there it was. Undeniably, Greta truly loved him. And once he was settled somewhere in Texas all he had to do was send word and she would come to him, by ship, down the Atlantic coast, around the tip of Florida, and across the Gulf of Mexico. Calculating the months ahead during which they would be apart made Christopher wretchedly heartsick.

In the letter, he told Greta that both his mother and grandfather were accompanying him to Texas. He described the sale of the horses and the auction, while leaving out altogether the business with the Vickers brothers. Sharing his expectations of their arriving in Texas and getting settled before winter, he concluded with the fervent wish that come the following spring she would make the long journey to join him.

The following spring! Writing those words produced a cold empty place inside him. It was all he could do to keep from tearing up the letter and starting a new one, in which he would beg her to come to him without delay. But it wouldn't do to put Greta at risk by asking her to make the journey down the river with him. No, it was entirely too dangerous. He had to put aside his own selfish wishes and do what was best for her. By next spring he would have a cabin erected somewhere in Texas—the least a man could do for his future bride was
to have a home she could live in. As for being apart from her for such a long time, well, he would just have to endure.

Nathaniel returned in eleven days. He had found a boat, a broadhorn, down at Cully's Landing on the Cumberland. Built by masters at the trade, it was available because some unspecified tragedy had struck the family for which it had been built, and Nathaniel had bought it for a very fair price.

"Problem is," said the frontiersman, "she's more boat than Christopher and I can safely handle. We need at least two more men, and I have found none so far. Perhaps somewhere along the way we could pick up an experienced keelboat man."

Rebecca had reservations about hiring a couple of river rats. They had a reputation for being crude, rough men, heavy drinkers, inveterate brawlers, profane and reckless fellows.

"Can such men be trusted?" she asked. "From what I've heard, they would think nothing of cutting our throats as we slept just to steal our belongings."

Nathaniel laughed. "I've met some of them, those that ply their trade on the Ohio River. They are a rough hewn lot, but the vast majority are honest, hardworking men. And we could use someone who knows the river."

By this time Rebecca had all but given up hope of the Elm Tree hands returning. But the very next day their problem was at least partially solved by the unexpected arrival of Christopher's erstwhile West Point roommate and true friend, John O'Connor.

"I told you not to be surprised to find me at your doorstep," said O'Connor.

"What did you do to get thrown out?"

"Oh, what does it matter? It was inevitable, Christopher, old bean. Just a matter of time. I'm only glad I made it before you took off for Texas."

"How did you know I was going to Texas?"

"Greta told me." O'Connor laughed at the expression on Christopher's face. "Now, don't go flying off the handle. I'm not trying to trespass on your territory. Of course, if I did try I
could
steal her away from you, and not even raise a sweat doing the deed. But no, I wouldn't do such a thing to a friend of mine. I went to see her before I left New York, to tell her I was coming to Kentucky, in case she had a message for you."

"Did she?"

"No."

Christopher was crestfallen.

O'Connor snapped his fingers. "Oh, I forgot. She did ask me to tell you that she loved you with all her heart, and that she would wait forever if she had to." He shook his head. "What a waste."

"I ought to punch you in the nose."

"How is that arm?"

"Good enough to teach you some manners."

"I doubt that. So you are off to Texas. Want some company?"

"You
want to go to Texas?"

O'Connor shrugged. "Why not? Where else am I to go? I have no desire to return home to Boston and spend several years before the mast on some flaming whaler or merchantman. I'm strictly a landlubber, though I come from a long line of sailors."

Christopher smiled. "Then I've got some bad news'for you. We're going by boat, down the Mississippi."

"Oh well. How bad can that be? It's just a river, isn't it?"

"Just a river?" Christopher laughed. "You've never seen the Mississippi, have you?"

"My friend, this is my first time west of the Alleghenies."

"What do you think you might do in Texas?"

O'Connor shrugged again. "What do you plan to do?"

"I don't know yet."

"Well now, I've heard there's a fight brewing down there. I don't want to miss it. So when do we leave?"

O'Connor had a strong back and wasn't afraid of work, so they made quick progress preparing to depart from Elm Tree. Nathaniel took an immediate liking to him, and so did Rebecca, who despite her best efforts to resist, fell prey to O'Connor's charm. He paid her profuse compliments at every turn, and she was flattered, even though she knew it was good old-fashioned blarney, for the most part.

With the furniture, Rebecca's personal belongings, and all the provisions they had room for, they managed to fill two wagons to the weight limit. Oxen proved hard to come by, so Rebecca bought six mules, to go with the two she already owned, and a four-mule hitch was put on each wagon. It was decided that Christopher and Rebecca would ride in one wagon, while O'Connor drove the second, with Prissy for company. Nathaniel would ride horseback, leading the three thoroughbreds.

On the morning of the date set to leave Elm Tree, Christopher awoke feeling oddly listless. The prospect of the long journey ahead exhausted him before he had taken the first step. Suddenly his excitement had waned. He could no longer hear the exotic siren song Texas had been singing to lure him thither. Over breakfast, Nathaniel took one look at him and intuitively knew something was bothering him, and when they rose from the table to go outside and hitch up the mules, the old frontiersman asked his grandson what was bothering him. Christopher told him how he felt.

"Don't worry," said Nathaniel. "You're just homesick."

"I am?"

"Sure. Now that it's time to leave Elm Tree, you're suddenly not sure you want to go."

Christopher looked about him—at the house and
stables, the pastures and fields bright in the morning light, and that distant line of trees marking the creek, from which he had derived so much pleasure during boyhood explorations.

"You're right," he said, surprised. "I'm not even gone yet, and I miss it."

"This is the only home you've ever known. What you're feeling at this moment is perfectly natural."

Christopher figured that, as bad as he felt, his mother must feel far worse. But if she did, Rebecca didn't show it. She was very businesslike as they made their final preparations. As for Christopher, he felt almost like crying as he drove the lead wagon down the lane to the country road. How ridiculous, he told himself, especially for a twenty-five-year-old. He made the mistake of looking back, once.

Sitting beside her son, with her eyes on the road ahead, Rebecca did not see his stricken expression, but somehow she sensed his anguish, and said, "Don't ever look back, Christopher."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, and whipped up the mules.

Rebecca took her own advice, but she couldn't avoid thinking back, to all the events which had occurred in that house, all the laughter, all the tears, and all the years. Yet she kept her sorrow to herself. She had become skilled at doing so.

Chapter 15

Cully's Landing had become a place of some renown on the Cumberland River. Starting out as a small inn, in a few short years it had grown into a thriving community, with a wharf and boatyard, tavern, and about twenty cabins. Its sixty full-time residents made a living cutting timber or building boats—flatboats, keelboats, and broadhorns, canoes, pirogues, and barges—and enjoyed a brisk business. Boats of all description were in great demand, as the commerce of the rivers was booming as never before. Timber, coal, hemp, cotton, tobacco, livestock was floated down the rivers in great quantities. Tons of goods were moved down the mighty Mississippi each year. The vast majority of it was bound for the great port of New Orleans, and much of it began the long journey to the Crescent City on one of the tributaries of the Father of Waters—the Ohio, the Missouri, the Tennessee, or the Cumberland.

When Christopher and his party arrived at Cully's Landing, the place was bustling with activity. Another keelboat was being built, while men were loading a brand new flatboat with a cargo of tobacco and pigs. The pigs were being difficult. They refused to board the vessel of their own free will, and had broken loose, to scatter throughout the town. It appeared as though the entire population was engaged in trying to round them up. Pigs and people were scurrying hither and yon, the pigs grunting and squealing, the people cursing or
laughing. Christopher safely maneuvered his wagon through this melee without running over anybody, and climbed the harness leather in front of the inn, where a burly, red-headed man was standing in the doorway, hands on hips, and shaking his head as he watched the goings-on with a jaundiced eye.

"Looks like great sport," remarked Christopher.

"Aye, that it be," agreed the man. He spoke with a heavy Scottish brogue. Squinting up at Christopher, he asked, "And who might you be, laddie?"

"My grandson," said Nathaniel, arriving with the three Elm Tree thoroughbreds in tow. "Christopher Groves. Christopher, this is Angus Culloden."

"Flintlock Jones! I've been expecting you." The innkeeper turned back to Christopher. "Friends call me Cully. I canna tell you what my enemies call me, not in the presence of a lady." As he reached up to shake Christopher's hand he smiled at Rebecca. "And who might this be, young Christopher? Your younger sister?"

"My mother."

Nathaniel chuckled. "Watch out for this one, Becky. He can charm the rattles off a rattlesnake. I don't know which one is worse—him or O'Connor."

"O'Connor!" exclaimed Cully. "Now don't be tellin' me you brought a bloody Irishman along!"

Nathaniel performed the introductions all around.

Cully sighed. "Good God, Flintlock. And I suppose you'll be wantin' me to let your Irish friend under my roof next."

"I'm sure the women could use a room. And while I cannot speak for these young men"—Nathaniel's gaze flicked guiltily in Rebecca's direction—"I could do with some of your ale."

"Ale, yes," said O'Connor enthusiastically. "Or something stronger, if you've got it."

They all dismounted. Nathaniel started for the first wagon to help Rebecca down, but Cully beat him to it.
O'Connor managed to transport Prissy, for all her bulk, from the seat of the other wagon to the ground.

"Just one room?" asked Rebecca. "What about you and the boys?"

"We'll load up the boat today and sleep on it tonight. Leave at daybreak."

"Then I will sleep on the boat, as well." She looked past him, at the broadhorn moored to the nearby wharf.

Seeing the look on her face made Nathaniel crack a smile.

"She's a well-built craft, Becky. About sixty feet in the beam, eighteen feet amidships, and she only draws four feet. That cargo box in the middle is large enough to store all the furniture, with room enough to spare for you and Prissy. We'll secure the horses in the steerage. The boys and I will make do bedding down on deck."

"You sound like an old mariner, Father, like you know all about boats."

"I don't know much," confessed the frontiersman. "And though I am old, I'm quick to learn."

"But I don't require the luxury of a room."

"Won't be much luxury in a Scottish inn," joked O'Connor, who had overheard.

"Becky," said Nathaniel, "enjoy your last night on solid ground in Cully's inn. By morning the boys and I will have everything in place on the boat. I can vouch for Cully's rooms. They're clean, and the beds are comfortable."

After two whole days in a wagon, Rebecca's body was a solid mass of aches and pains. She gave in to his persistence with a rueful smile. "I have to admit, a nice comfortable bed sounds wonderful. I must be getting old."

Nathaniel laughed. "You're still a very attractive woman, Daughter. I can see I'm going to have to beat the men off you with a stick. I've already got Cully and O'Connor to watch for."

"Don't be silly. O'Connor's just a boy. And it's all idle flattery, anyway."