What a glorious way to prove Antares wrong!
Glorious indeed!
Thank you sir.
I won't spoil the movie, but I will tell you that I did not enjoy it.
The Stars at Night: A Texas Timeline
- Thread starter Sicarius
- Start date
Glorious indeed!
Thank you sir.
I won't spoil the movie, but I will tell you that I did not enjoy it.
Glorious indeed!
Thank you sir.
I won't spoil the movie, but I will tell you that I did not enjoy it.
Good to know. I'll try to go in with an open mind, but I'm just going to be comparing it to the original no matter how hard I try not to.
And now for something completely different...
"No one expects the Republican Army!!"
(sorry guys, couldn't resist)
There is a mash up of "The Phantom Menace" and "Pulp Fiction" on the web called "Pulp Phantom". Just checked for it on G and there are still links to it. It is absolutely brilliant! I can promiss that you will LYAO. However, it is "not safe for work" because of the language. Enjoy!
"No one expects the Republican Army!!"
(sorry guys, couldn't resist) There is a mash up of "The Phantom Menace" and "Pulp Fiction" on the web called "Pulp Phantom". Just checked for it on G and there are still links to it. It is absolutely brilliant! I can promiss that you will LYAO. However, it is "not safe for work" because of the language. Enjoy!
The passing of a hero.
If I may be allowed to step outside of this story line for a moment...
I have just learned of the passing of Neil Armstrong. My deepest sympathies go out to his family. I feel a very real loss hearing of his passing. I have no doubt that he was an inspiration to many. He was certainly an example to yours truly. He was a very humble man and always remembered those who made his accomplishments possible. We can all learn from his example.
Maybe some day we as a nation can get back on track in the exploration of space. I used to think of going to the moon as the first big step into space, not our long past high water mark.
Sorry, don't want this to be a political commentary, want to remember what a small group of dedicated Americans did for all of us two generations ago.
God bless, and thanks.
If I may be allowed to step outside of this story line for a moment...
I have just learned of the passing of Neil Armstrong. My deepest sympathies go out to his family. I feel a very real loss hearing of his passing. I have no doubt that he was an inspiration to many. He was certainly an example to yours truly. He was a very humble man and always remembered those who made his accomplishments possible. We can all learn from his example.
Maybe some day we as a nation can get back on track in the exploration of space. I used to think of going to the moon as the first big step into space, not our long past high water mark.
Sorry, don't want this to be a political commentary, want to remember what a small group of dedicated Americans did for all of us two generations ago.
God bless, and thanks.
Though it's got nothing to do with the TL (and really shouldn't be posted here), I agree with all of that. RIP, Mr. "One Small Step".
Dammit, I was hoping Sic'd come back with an update!
Anyway, yeah RIP, and we should bury him on the moon.
Ironclads were inevitable. Even OTL the French and British were developing them in the 50s.
I still want to know what kind of ships the pirate cowboys are in. I mean, come on.... so much badass
I still want to know what kind of ships the pirate cowboys are in. I mean, come on.... so much badass
It would be cool to see a bunch of pirate cowboys commandeer one when they're still early in development...
Wow, I'm the guy who sucks! I realized I've repeatedly abused my readers with my shitty attention to deadlines, so much so that no one even thinks it out of the ordinary that months have gone by. Well, just classic writers' block, I guess, and busy life changes. But here's the penultimate chapter to our tale, and then back to the historical narrative. I'm hoping to have those out pretty quick (comparatively), since I feel renewed and filled with vinegar!
Part III
La Storia Di Un Soldato
Angel Eyes is sitting with his feet on a desk in a rough adobe office. The office holds little more than the desk, chairs, and a Texas flag. On the desk is a pile of papers and a bottle of whiskey. Angel Eyes is wearing a uniform - the uniform of the Texas Republican Army. He sorts idly through papers, smoking a cheroot. Another man in uniform, muscular but fat and unshaved, bursts into the office.
“Sergeant!”
Angel Eyes looks up sharply. The man pauses, then slowly backs out of the room and closes the door. There’s a knock.
“Come.”
The man, a Corporal, re-enters. “Sergeant! Sorry, sir! But you said you wanted to know immediately!”
The chair scrapes as Angel Eyes rises quickly from the desk. “He’s here?”
“Yes, sir.”
Angel Eyes brushes past the man and out the door, the door which leads to a wide walkway ringing an open square of stamped dirt, with armed Republican soldiers in the ramparts of the adobe walls - the adobe walls of the Alamo.
Dirty, scruffy men sit and stand idly, singly or alone, under the watchful eyes of the soldiers. Angel Eyes looks down over them, and one looks back - Juan Cortina. Angel Eyes nods at the soldier and turns back into the office. Cortina watches - before being grabbed by two other soldiers and dragged up the stairs.
Angel Eyes is back at the desk, sitting nonchalantly, by the time the guards shove Cortina in the door. The guards leave, but the Corporal stays.
“Well,” says Angel Eyes. “Cortina. Haven’t seen you since the gang broke up. Please, take a load off.”
“You know how it is,” Cortina chuckles nervously, sitting in one of the chairs facing the desk. “Where does the time go?”
“Or should I call you Cortina? I understand you’re going by Tom Wilson these days.”
“One name’s as good as another. In our business, sometimes it’s better, eh?”
“Mmm. And you decided to borrow one from a friend. Not very original, Cortina. Seen ol’ Tom around lately?” He leans forward over the desk, his eyes sharp.
“Heh, no, you know, just thinking about the good old days. And when the gaba- when your boys got me, I said the first name I thought of.”
“I’m hurt that it wasn’t me that you were thinking of, Cortina.”
“You don’t want people to know your name.”
“That’s right.” Angel Eyes sat back. “I don’t.”
“What do they call you around here, eh? Captain Angel Eyes?” Cortina chuckled again. “How did you get here anyway? You never seemed like much of a military man.”
“They call me Sergeant. Sergeant Mundy. As for how … the French are very willing to look the other way when it comes to the records of men with certain skills.” He puffed his cheroot, then stood, pacing around Cortina’s chair. “But that’s not what I want to talk about. What I want to know about is gold.”
“Gold? Wouldn’t we all like to know about that, eh?”
“Your old friend Tom Wilson used to talk about it all the time, in fact. Used to say that there was some gold buried down Brownsville way, but all the men who knew about it were dead. But then a few months ago, he took off hell bent for leather, looking for some nigger in the Comanche land. The damn fool ended up scalped -” he grabs Cortina’s hair, “-for his trouble.” He lowers his face to Cortina’s. “What a shame, huh?” He releases his grip and resumes pacing. “Not too far from where you and your boys do your rustling these days, from what I hear.” He stops now, in front of the chair, and leans in close. “I don’t suppose you’d know anything about all that?”
“Me? No, no, you know, I stay far away from the indios. I don’t need to look for trouble, eh?"
"Sometimes trouble finds you." Angel Eyes walks to the office's small window. "Well, that's a real shame. Because, you know, there are standing orders about dealing with criminals who don’t have valuable information.” Cortina turns to look back at Angel Eyes, but the Corporal kicks the legs out from under the chair. Cortina crashes to the ground, and the Corporal kicks him viciously in the stomach.
"You know, a couple score years ago, a whole mess of Mexicans got killed 'round here." Angel Eyes hasn't turned from the window. "I suppose one more won't make too much of a difference." The Corporal hauls Cortina up by the collar, then punches him in the face. “Well, it may to you."
The Corporal reaches over the bloody-nosed Cortina and begins to choke him with his fat hands. Cortina struggles, but he's pinned by the man's bulk. He croaks out, "J-johnson."
Angel Eyes turns from the window. "What's that?"
The Corporal's hands slacken, only a fraction. "Johnson ... the cowboy ... ask Johnson. He knows, ask Johnson ... I don't know ..."
Angel Eyes looks at the Corporal.
***
Sam is sitting quietly in the mission’s courtyard, as several Tejanos and an anglo pass a rolled cigarette nearby.
“Johnson! Sam Johnson!”
As Sam looks up, the other men realize he’s who the Corporal is looking for, and they quickly evaporate. Sam rises.
“That’s me.”
“Come here!”
Sam heads reluctantly towards the soldier, who pushes a ragged man to the ground. As Sam gets closer, the man rolls onto his back - it’s Cortina. The bandit spits out a mouthful of blood and gives Sam a wan smile, but says nothing.
The Corporal steps behind Sam and shoves him forward, walking behind as Sam goes up the rickety stairs. They reach the walkway, and the Corporal steers Sam towards a door, a firm grip on his neck. Reaching around, the Corporal knocks. A voice from inside calls “Come!” and the Corporal opens the door. He pushes Sam in, and steps in himself.
Angel Eyes is sitting at a small table, eating.
“Mr. Sam Ealy Johnson,” Angel Eyes says. “Sit, please.”
Sam looks suspiciously at the hulking Corporal, but sits. Angel Eyes gestures broadly. “Eat, eat! You need your strength.” Still suspicious, Sam picks up a chunk of bread and begins to eat.
“I was just talking with our mutual friend Cortina about some rumors.” He waves a fork. “You know how men can talk. But he said you might know something about some gold.” He says it idly, but his eyes are sharp.
“I do know about it,” Sam says plainly. “I’m the only man alive who knows about it. You gonna beat it out of me, like you did with him? Because I’ve whipped tougher men than big boy here.” He jerks his head back at the Corporal. “You can beat on me as much as you please. I know exactly what’s going to happen the second I say a damn word, so you’re gonna have to beat me pretty bad. Maybe kill me - and then you’ve got nothing. So we’re at what I’d call an impasse.”
Angel Eyes reclines in his chair, looking briefly taken aback, then almost amused.
“That’s a frank analysis.”
“We don’t dance around it in the west.”
“Well then, Mister Sam Ealy Johnson, what’s your western solution to this impasse?”
***
“Half?!” Cortina spat, as Sam stood before him in the courtyard. “HALF! Cowboy, Angel Eyes won’t take any kind of half. Do you know who he is? As soon as we get that treasure, he’ll slit our throats. That’s what I would -” he stops.
Sam smiles. “Well. We’ll see about that. Maybe you’ve got him all wrong, Cortina.”
“Bah! Half. Either our throats get cut or we only get a quarter each. Some bargaining, cowboy.”
“Quarters? I didn’t say anything about quarters. I gave him your half.”
As Cortina sputters, Sam laughs.
***
Sam and Cortina are shackled in the back of a horsecart at the gate of the prison. The Corporal sits in the front, and four more soldiers sit next to the captives in the back. They glare at Sam and Cortina as Angel Eyes finishes speaking to another officer.
“Just a prisoner exchange. These boys are wanted down all over the south, and the big frogs want ‘em sent down there to hang. The usual - rustling, robbery, rape, sodomy.”
Sam looks shocked; Cortina shrugs.
“We’re gonna make a good show of it for the locals, show ‘em we got the power. We’ll be a few days. Hold down the fort.”
“Yessir.”
As he salutes, Angel Eyes hopes into the front with the Corporal, who clicks his tongue. The wagon rolls down out the great gates of the Alamo, and into the streets of San Antonio. As they pass through the city, Angel Eyes turns back to the captives.
“We’ll take the river to the Gulf, and then we’ll head …” he lets the sentence hang.
“South,” is the only thing Sam says.
Angel Eyes grunts, and his eyes shift to Cortina. “I still don’t see why we needed him.”
“You get five boys, I figured I needed one, too.” Sam raises his manacled hands to scratch at his chin. “And if we get away, he probably runs slower.”
Angel Eyes chuckles and turns back forward.
Cortina leans close to Sam and whispers, “You should be careful, cowboy. You don’t know who that is.”
“You keep saying that,” Sam whispers back with boredom, “but it’s only true because you won’t tell me.”
“We used to be in the gang together, si?” Cortina reaches to rub his neck, but the manacles stop him. “Out there on the plains at night, there’s nothing to do but talk. Angel Eyes … he didn’t talk much. But one of the other boys, he knew Angel Eyes back into the war - the American war, with the Confederados. They didn’t talk about it, much - they did hate the yanquis, though. But one night, the other one, he says something, about how they got their own back. And somebody - no, no, it was Tom, it was Tom Wilson - he says what do you mean? And Angel Eyes, he doesn’t say nothing, but the other one, he says ‘That nigger-lover President got his goddamn throat cut, that’s what.’ And then he laughed, and he pointed to Angel Eyes. ‘And that’s the one who did it!’ And Angel Eyes, he doesn’t say nothing. But you look at him, and you know. You know.”
The cart rolls towards the small, fast ships of the San Antonio river. Most are being loaded or unloaded by blacks or Tejanos, simple cargo carriers. But a few seem menacing, sleek, in motion even as they bob at the dock. As the cart rolls towards one of the sleek boats, something catches Sam’s eye. He turns in his seat and for an instant catches a glimpse of a figure amongst the stacked crates and barrels - a huge man, his face obscured by hair and beard. But then the man is gone.
***
Sam sits in the front of the fast boat, eyes closed, hands still manacled, smelling the salt air of the Gulf of Mexico. The cries of seagulls fill the air as the small boat slices through the green water.
His reverie is interrupted by Angel Eyes.
“Here we are.”
Sam opens his eyes. “Yep.”
“So,” Angel Eyes lights a cheroot, “where to, navigator.”
Sam looks out into the bay quietly for a moment. “Brownsville.”
“Brownsville, eh? Hear that boys? We’re headed to Brownsville!” As the small crew scurries about the boat, Angel Eyes stays focused on Sam. “And then?”
“We’ll see when we get there. You know how this works … partner.”
“Maybe it’s this sea air - partner - but I’m starting to feel a little impatient. I think you should show a little more spirit of cooperation in this little venture, and let me know where exactly we’re going.”
“You’ll know when we get there. You know what I said before.”
Nearby, Cortina is sitting on a barrel, eavesdropping. He cringes when Sam talks back.
“Yeah, I know what you said before. Tough guy will never talk. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe we’ll find out. But maybe we won’t have to see how tough you are. How about how good a friend you are?”
“Oh,” Sam smiles, “I don’t know about that. We’re more of acquaintances, you and I.”
“I wasn’t talking about me.” Angel Eyes turns to Cortina. “I was talking about your fat friend here! You, Cortina, how good can you swim?”
“I-I can’t swim. I don’t know how to swim.”
Angel Eyes grabs the chain between Cortina’s manacles and hauls him to his feet. “Maybe your friend here runs slow, but I bet he sinks pretty fast, hey? Let’s find out!” He shoves the man back, to the edge of the deck. Cortina struggles for purchase, but without balance, his boots just scrabble on the wet deck. Angel Eyes’s grip is all that’s keeping him from tumbling over.
“He doesn’t know a damn thing, he can’t tell you anything,” Sam growls.
“I’m not interested in what he knows, I’m interested in you! Now where the hell are we going?”
Sam rises to his feet, the thud of his boots over the creaking of the ship. Somewhere, there’s a small pop.
“Listen -” there’s a sudden buzzing which whips past the deck.
Angel Eyes begins to turn. “What?”
One of the crewmen shouts. “Captain!” Then a red burst explodes from his chest. He tumbles to the deck. In the gap behind him, tearing through the green waves, is a second ship.
“Shit!” Angel Eyes shoves Cortina back inside the boat, where he falls face down. “Get that cannon loaded!” Angel Eyes draws two pistols from his belt as the remaining crew grab their weapons. A soldier and the Corporal begin loading a five pounder cannon secured to the rear of the ship. Behind, the second boat draw up, seeming to grow larger by the second. Now, as Sam peers over the side of the ship, bullets whizzing overhead, he can see a black flag, whipping in the fierce coastal wind, with a white shape in the center. Squinting, it’s barely clear - a falcon.
The soldiers are firing over the sides now, but the pirates have greater numbers. A second crewman falls to the deck as a bullet rips out the side of his throat, then a third, clutching his eye as blood pours between his fingers. Then, a powerful explosion. The canon. The green waves in front of the Halcón explode into a white plume - a miss. The soldiers frantically begin to reload, but there’s a plume of smoke from the pirate ship, and a ripping sound fills the air. Sam ducks, and feet away from him a cannon ball rips through the front of the ship. Water begins to pour into the boat, and it no longer looks so green. It’s black, dead black.
Sam scrabbles across the deck with manacled hands, as Angel Eyes bellows at his crew, firing both pistols at the approaching pirate ship. Only the Corporal is working the cannon now - the other soldier is screaming, clutching his stomach, where a piece of the shattered bow embedded itself.
“Get it loaded, god damn you, get it loa-”
A second plume of smoke from the Halcón. A ball floats through the air as if weightless, then rips through the hip of the Corporal, and through the deck below. More black water surges in.
“God damn it!” Angel Eyes begins to reload his pistols. But with a crack from the ship, the Captain suddenly spins, clutching the side of his head, and steps back - back onto the black water filling the boat. He slips, and Angel Eyes disappears into the waters of the bay.
It’s quiet, now, just the sound of rushing water, the sound of flapping, torn sails.
“Cowboy! Sam! Help me! You have to help me!”
The boat is beginning to skew to the side, and Cortina tries to pull himself upwards, away from the water. His hands slip on the slick surface, and he grabs at Sam as he slides towards the sea.
“Help me! I can’t swim!”
Sam looks down at the water.
“What makes you think I can?”
And then the black water covers all.
Part III
La Storia Di Un Soldato
Angel Eyes is sitting with his feet on a desk in a rough adobe office. The office holds little more than the desk, chairs, and a Texas flag. On the desk is a pile of papers and a bottle of whiskey. Angel Eyes is wearing a uniform - the uniform of the Texas Republican Army. He sorts idly through papers, smoking a cheroot. Another man in uniform, muscular but fat and unshaved, bursts into the office.
“Sergeant!”
Angel Eyes looks up sharply. The man pauses, then slowly backs out of the room and closes the door. There’s a knock.
“Come.”
The man, a Corporal, re-enters. “Sergeant! Sorry, sir! But you said you wanted to know immediately!”
The chair scrapes as Angel Eyes rises quickly from the desk. “He’s here?”
“Yes, sir.”
Angel Eyes brushes past the man and out the door, the door which leads to a wide walkway ringing an open square of stamped dirt, with armed Republican soldiers in the ramparts of the adobe walls - the adobe walls of the Alamo.
Dirty, scruffy men sit and stand idly, singly or alone, under the watchful eyes of the soldiers. Angel Eyes looks down over them, and one looks back - Juan Cortina. Angel Eyes nods at the soldier and turns back into the office. Cortina watches - before being grabbed by two other soldiers and dragged up the stairs.
Angel Eyes is back at the desk, sitting nonchalantly, by the time the guards shove Cortina in the door. The guards leave, but the Corporal stays.
“Well,” says Angel Eyes. “Cortina. Haven’t seen you since the gang broke up. Please, take a load off.”
“You know how it is,” Cortina chuckles nervously, sitting in one of the chairs facing the desk. “Where does the time go?”
“Or should I call you Cortina? I understand you’re going by Tom Wilson these days.”
“One name’s as good as another. In our business, sometimes it’s better, eh?”
“Mmm. And you decided to borrow one from a friend. Not very original, Cortina. Seen ol’ Tom around lately?” He leans forward over the desk, his eyes sharp.
“Heh, no, you know, just thinking about the good old days. And when the gaba- when your boys got me, I said the first name I thought of.”
“I’m hurt that it wasn’t me that you were thinking of, Cortina.”
“You don’t want people to know your name.”
“That’s right.” Angel Eyes sat back. “I don’t.”
“What do they call you around here, eh? Captain Angel Eyes?” Cortina chuckled again. “How did you get here anyway? You never seemed like much of a military man.”
“They call me Sergeant. Sergeant Mundy. As for how … the French are very willing to look the other way when it comes to the records of men with certain skills.” He puffed his cheroot, then stood, pacing around Cortina’s chair. “But that’s not what I want to talk about. What I want to know about is gold.”
“Gold? Wouldn’t we all like to know about that, eh?”
“Your old friend Tom Wilson used to talk about it all the time, in fact. Used to say that there was some gold buried down Brownsville way, but all the men who knew about it were dead. But then a few months ago, he took off hell bent for leather, looking for some nigger in the Comanche land. The damn fool ended up scalped -” he grabs Cortina’s hair, “-for his trouble.” He lowers his face to Cortina’s. “What a shame, huh?” He releases his grip and resumes pacing. “Not too far from where you and your boys do your rustling these days, from what I hear.” He stops now, in front of the chair, and leans in close. “I don’t suppose you’d know anything about all that?”
“Me? No, no, you know, I stay far away from the indios. I don’t need to look for trouble, eh?"
"Sometimes trouble finds you." Angel Eyes walks to the office's small window. "Well, that's a real shame. Because, you know, there are standing orders about dealing with criminals who don’t have valuable information.” Cortina turns to look back at Angel Eyes, but the Corporal kicks the legs out from under the chair. Cortina crashes to the ground, and the Corporal kicks him viciously in the stomach.
"You know, a couple score years ago, a whole mess of Mexicans got killed 'round here." Angel Eyes hasn't turned from the window. "I suppose one more won't make too much of a difference." The Corporal hauls Cortina up by the collar, then punches him in the face. “Well, it may to you."
The Corporal reaches over the bloody-nosed Cortina and begins to choke him with his fat hands. Cortina struggles, but he's pinned by the man's bulk. He croaks out, "J-johnson."
Angel Eyes turns from the window. "What's that?"
The Corporal's hands slacken, only a fraction. "Johnson ... the cowboy ... ask Johnson. He knows, ask Johnson ... I don't know ..."
Angel Eyes looks at the Corporal.
***
Sam is sitting quietly in the mission’s courtyard, as several Tejanos and an anglo pass a rolled cigarette nearby.
“Johnson! Sam Johnson!”
As Sam looks up, the other men realize he’s who the Corporal is looking for, and they quickly evaporate. Sam rises.
“That’s me.”
“Come here!”
Sam heads reluctantly towards the soldier, who pushes a ragged man to the ground. As Sam gets closer, the man rolls onto his back - it’s Cortina. The bandit spits out a mouthful of blood and gives Sam a wan smile, but says nothing.
The Corporal steps behind Sam and shoves him forward, walking behind as Sam goes up the rickety stairs. They reach the walkway, and the Corporal steers Sam towards a door, a firm grip on his neck. Reaching around, the Corporal knocks. A voice from inside calls “Come!” and the Corporal opens the door. He pushes Sam in, and steps in himself.
Angel Eyes is sitting at a small table, eating.
“Mr. Sam Ealy Johnson,” Angel Eyes says. “Sit, please.”
Sam looks suspiciously at the hulking Corporal, but sits. Angel Eyes gestures broadly. “Eat, eat! You need your strength.” Still suspicious, Sam picks up a chunk of bread and begins to eat.
“I was just talking with our mutual friend Cortina about some rumors.” He waves a fork. “You know how men can talk. But he said you might know something about some gold.” He says it idly, but his eyes are sharp.
“I do know about it,” Sam says plainly. “I’m the only man alive who knows about it. You gonna beat it out of me, like you did with him? Because I’ve whipped tougher men than big boy here.” He jerks his head back at the Corporal. “You can beat on me as much as you please. I know exactly what’s going to happen the second I say a damn word, so you’re gonna have to beat me pretty bad. Maybe kill me - and then you’ve got nothing. So we’re at what I’d call an impasse.”
Angel Eyes reclines in his chair, looking briefly taken aback, then almost amused.
“That’s a frank analysis.”
“We don’t dance around it in the west.”
“Well then, Mister Sam Ealy Johnson, what’s your western solution to this impasse?”
***
“Half?!” Cortina spat, as Sam stood before him in the courtyard. “HALF! Cowboy, Angel Eyes won’t take any kind of half. Do you know who he is? As soon as we get that treasure, he’ll slit our throats. That’s what I would -” he stops.
Sam smiles. “Well. We’ll see about that. Maybe you’ve got him all wrong, Cortina.”
“Bah! Half. Either our throats get cut or we only get a quarter each. Some bargaining, cowboy.”
“Quarters? I didn’t say anything about quarters. I gave him your half.”
As Cortina sputters, Sam laughs.
***
Sam and Cortina are shackled in the back of a horsecart at the gate of the prison. The Corporal sits in the front, and four more soldiers sit next to the captives in the back. They glare at Sam and Cortina as Angel Eyes finishes speaking to another officer.
“Just a prisoner exchange. These boys are wanted down all over the south, and the big frogs want ‘em sent down there to hang. The usual - rustling, robbery, rape, sodomy.”
Sam looks shocked; Cortina shrugs.
“We’re gonna make a good show of it for the locals, show ‘em we got the power. We’ll be a few days. Hold down the fort.”
“Yessir.”
As he salutes, Angel Eyes hopes into the front with the Corporal, who clicks his tongue. The wagon rolls down out the great gates of the Alamo, and into the streets of San Antonio. As they pass through the city, Angel Eyes turns back to the captives.
“We’ll take the river to the Gulf, and then we’ll head …” he lets the sentence hang.
“South,” is the only thing Sam says.
Angel Eyes grunts, and his eyes shift to Cortina. “I still don’t see why we needed him.”
“You get five boys, I figured I needed one, too.” Sam raises his manacled hands to scratch at his chin. “And if we get away, he probably runs slower.”
Angel Eyes chuckles and turns back forward.
Cortina leans close to Sam and whispers, “You should be careful, cowboy. You don’t know who that is.”
“You keep saying that,” Sam whispers back with boredom, “but it’s only true because you won’t tell me.”
“We used to be in the gang together, si?” Cortina reaches to rub his neck, but the manacles stop him. “Out there on the plains at night, there’s nothing to do but talk. Angel Eyes … he didn’t talk much. But one of the other boys, he knew Angel Eyes back into the war - the American war, with the Confederados. They didn’t talk about it, much - they did hate the yanquis, though. But one night, the other one, he says something, about how they got their own back. And somebody - no, no, it was Tom, it was Tom Wilson - he says what do you mean? And Angel Eyes, he doesn’t say nothing, but the other one, he says ‘That nigger-lover President got his goddamn throat cut, that’s what.’ And then he laughed, and he pointed to Angel Eyes. ‘And that’s the one who did it!’ And Angel Eyes, he doesn’t say nothing. But you look at him, and you know. You know.”
The cart rolls towards the small, fast ships of the San Antonio river. Most are being loaded or unloaded by blacks or Tejanos, simple cargo carriers. But a few seem menacing, sleek, in motion even as they bob at the dock. As the cart rolls towards one of the sleek boats, something catches Sam’s eye. He turns in his seat and for an instant catches a glimpse of a figure amongst the stacked crates and barrels - a huge man, his face obscured by hair and beard. But then the man is gone.
***
Sam sits in the front of the fast boat, eyes closed, hands still manacled, smelling the salt air of the Gulf of Mexico. The cries of seagulls fill the air as the small boat slices through the green water.
His reverie is interrupted by Angel Eyes.
“Here we are.”
Sam opens his eyes. “Yep.”
“So,” Angel Eyes lights a cheroot, “where to, navigator.”
Sam looks out into the bay quietly for a moment. “Brownsville.”
“Brownsville, eh? Hear that boys? We’re headed to Brownsville!” As the small crew scurries about the boat, Angel Eyes stays focused on Sam. “And then?”
“We’ll see when we get there. You know how this works … partner.”
“Maybe it’s this sea air - partner - but I’m starting to feel a little impatient. I think you should show a little more spirit of cooperation in this little venture, and let me know where exactly we’re going.”
“You’ll know when we get there. You know what I said before.”
Nearby, Cortina is sitting on a barrel, eavesdropping. He cringes when Sam talks back.
“Yeah, I know what you said before. Tough guy will never talk. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe we’ll find out. But maybe we won’t have to see how tough you are. How about how good a friend you are?”
“Oh,” Sam smiles, “I don’t know about that. We’re more of acquaintances, you and I.”
“I wasn’t talking about me.” Angel Eyes turns to Cortina. “I was talking about your fat friend here! You, Cortina, how good can you swim?”
“I-I can’t swim. I don’t know how to swim.”
Angel Eyes grabs the chain between Cortina’s manacles and hauls him to his feet. “Maybe your friend here runs slow, but I bet he sinks pretty fast, hey? Let’s find out!” He shoves the man back, to the edge of the deck. Cortina struggles for purchase, but without balance, his boots just scrabble on the wet deck. Angel Eyes’s grip is all that’s keeping him from tumbling over.
“He doesn’t know a damn thing, he can’t tell you anything,” Sam growls.
“I’m not interested in what he knows, I’m interested in you! Now where the hell are we going?”
Sam rises to his feet, the thud of his boots over the creaking of the ship. Somewhere, there’s a small pop.
“Listen -” there’s a sudden buzzing which whips past the deck.
Angel Eyes begins to turn. “What?”
One of the crewmen shouts. “Captain!” Then a red burst explodes from his chest. He tumbles to the deck. In the gap behind him, tearing through the green waves, is a second ship.
“Shit!” Angel Eyes shoves Cortina back inside the boat, where he falls face down. “Get that cannon loaded!” Angel Eyes draws two pistols from his belt as the remaining crew grab their weapons. A soldier and the Corporal begin loading a five pounder cannon secured to the rear of the ship. Behind, the second boat draw up, seeming to grow larger by the second. Now, as Sam peers over the side of the ship, bullets whizzing overhead, he can see a black flag, whipping in the fierce coastal wind, with a white shape in the center. Squinting, it’s barely clear - a falcon.
The soldiers are firing over the sides now, but the pirates have greater numbers. A second crewman falls to the deck as a bullet rips out the side of his throat, then a third, clutching his eye as blood pours between his fingers. Then, a powerful explosion. The canon. The green waves in front of the Halcón explode into a white plume - a miss. The soldiers frantically begin to reload, but there’s a plume of smoke from the pirate ship, and a ripping sound fills the air. Sam ducks, and feet away from him a cannon ball rips through the front of the ship. Water begins to pour into the boat, and it no longer looks so green. It’s black, dead black.
Sam scrabbles across the deck with manacled hands, as Angel Eyes bellows at his crew, firing both pistols at the approaching pirate ship. Only the Corporal is working the cannon now - the other soldier is screaming, clutching his stomach, where a piece of the shattered bow embedded itself.
“Get it loaded, god damn you, get it loa-”
A second plume of smoke from the Halcón. A ball floats through the air as if weightless, then rips through the hip of the Corporal, and through the deck below. More black water surges in.
“God damn it!” Angel Eyes begins to reload his pistols. But with a crack from the ship, the Captain suddenly spins, clutching the side of his head, and steps back - back onto the black water filling the boat. He slips, and Angel Eyes disappears into the waters of the bay.
It’s quiet, now, just the sound of rushing water, the sound of flapping, torn sails.
“Cowboy! Sam! Help me! You have to help me!”
The boat is beginning to skew to the side, and Cortina tries to pull himself upwards, away from the water. His hands slip on the slick surface, and he grabs at Sam as he slides towards the sea.
“Help me! I can’t swim!”
Sam looks down at the water.
“What makes you think I can?”
And then the black water covers all.
When I read this bit, I nearly fainted. Then I saw the "historical narrative" bit.
You and me both.
Excellent update as always, Sic. Really had me anxious for ol' Sam as to how he was gonna get himself outta this one.