~ Destiny At Glorieta ~

by

Shirley K. Wolford

June 1861

Two days out of New Orleans, on the last wearisome leg of its long voyage from New York to Galveston, the three-masted schooner, Arcadian Belle, wallowed into stormy weather.

Doan Brady, balancing precariously at the bow of the ship, watched the sky darken as ominous thunderclouds blackened the southeast and gusty winds topped blue-green Gulf waters with shifting whitecaps.

The old ship’s timbers pitched agonizing complaints and the wind-filled canvas sails shrieked and rattled, brisk air sprayed salty mist and covered Doan’s face with a thin sheet of water. He pulled his tan slouch hat further down over his eyes, but didn’t move from the bow. Around him, sailors kept wary eyes on the worn rigging as the thirty-odd passengers swarmed onto the pitching deck, greeting the threatening spectacle with an outpouring of relief. After nineteen days of sultry May-June sameness, there was now something to think about besides secession and Fort Sumter or slavery and States’ Rights, cotton and burned naval yards. Or any of the other damned contentions they had been arguing about in the salon every night that might cause war to break out any minute.

The wind gusted fiercer; spray lashed up to douse all on the deck. A surge to staterooms for raingear stopped dead at the sight of a sun-bleached sail starkly outlined against the black horizon.

“Yankee, sure as shootin’.” someone muttered.

A round-faced man, a drummer by dress and manner, said stoutly, “Shouldn’t matter if ’tis. We ain’t at war. Leastwise, s’far as we know, we ain’t.”

No one seemed encouraged. Wet didn’t matter as all eyes tried to pierce the distance.

Nervous minutes passed; the sails loomed larger, then, obscured by coils of wind-whipped clouds, dipped into the waves. Erasing distance, lengthening time, the ship loomed inexorably closer. It doubled in size, then doubled again.

First Mate Ledder lowered his telescope, looked around, nodded his head and grinned at the assemblage. “It’s a Yankee gunboat, right enough.” He tucked the glass under his arm and sauntered away, ignoring the tense questions that trailed after him.

Doan stretched his six-foot, three-inch height and looked deliberately, searchingly at the ship. The extra crinkles around his dark blue eyes suggested that he was used to squinting into vast distances.

Two men joined him at the bow. They looked around nervously as the schooner crested a wave and made its long, slow descent into a trough. Doan settled back, pulled off his slouch hat and shook it to get rid of the water that had accumulated around its brim. Immediately his dark blond hair was just as wet as the rest of him, which was pretty damned wet. He ran fingers through the tangled mass, swore softly, then put the hat back on; at least the brim shielded his eyes. The smallish, wrinkled man who clung fiercely to the wet rail on his left yelled, “Well, what is it?”

Doan looked down over his shoulder. “The Mate wasn’t ribbing,” he answered. “It’s a Federal gunboat, right enough. And if it means to catch us, it just about already has.”

The approaching schooner rose and fell several more times. When it crested again, Doan compared the gunboat’s position with where it had been only a short time ago. He nodded his head, wet dripping from his hat brim. “It does mean to catch us,” he said. “It’s bearing down under full steam and sail.”

The small man groaned. “I wish to hell we knew why. “He added hopefully, “It could be nothin’ a-tall. Nothin’ important, that is.” He lowered his head. “And it could be one of two things.”

Doan, glancing at the other passengers, nodded agreement. Both possibilities, he had no doubt, were in everyone’s mind. The Federal ship could be one of those that had lately begun to enforce the blockade Lincoln had proclaimed in April. If so, its intentions toward passengers on a southern ship couldn’t even be guessed at. The second possibility, that full and open hostilities had finally begun, didn’t bear thinking about. If the war actually started, the schooner would probably not be allowed to continue to Galveston, where it could be pressed into the Southern navy.

But maybe it hadn’t come to that. Maybe the gunboat would come within hailing distance, give the schooner some kind of weather warning, then resume its course. This last seemed more reasonable when Doan considered that there had been no fresh war news in New Orleans only forty-eight hours ago.

A New Orleans reporter, talking with him over a stein of beer, had said, “Nothin’s been changed in the last month or so. The Federal navy’s picked up a few ships it claimed were haulin’ contraband to or from New Orleans, but all we did about it was hold a protest rally. So far, the only fightin’s been in the border states. But--I guess it’s Texas you want to hear about--” He sipped his beer, taking his time now that Doan showed interest.

“Sometime in February,” he said dramatically, “General Twiggs surrendered every Federal fort in Texas without a shot being fired.”

It was old news, but Doan didn’t stop him.

“The soldiers were all paroled and sent home,” he continued, “and you’d think that’d satisfy everybody. But there’s at least one Texian still determined to stir up trouble. A Colonel Baylor. He’s organizing an army of what he calls buffalo hunters. For a big hunt on the plains, he says. But it’s an open secret he wants to invade New Mexico.”

“Whatever for?” Doan couldn’t even imagine a reason.

“Gold, of course,” the reporter said with an air of triumph. “To get the Colorado gold mines for the Confederacy. And maybe set up a trail to California to get the gold direct. Lotsa possibilities.”

“Sure,” Doan said, disgusted. “But that road from Texas to the Santa Fe Trail is not called El Jornada del Muerto for nothing.”

The newspaperman nodded. “It’s the journey of death, right enough, but gold’s a mighty mind alterer. Half the men in the world--you tell ’em there’s gold in a pit of snakes, someone’ll be brave enough or stupid enough to try to get it out.”

Doan nodded agreement and bought another round of beer. The reporter took a long swig. “You want my honest opinion, the pot’s on the boil.”

“But Jeff Davis said cotton will force England into an alliance and the Yankees to their knees.” Doan said it, but he really didn’t believe it. He’d seen enough with his own eyes, North and South alike, to have doubts. It just wasn’t that simple. The lull that had descended during the last few weeks was misleading; an ugly mood still spread across the land, whipped onward by the cheers of a lot of people whose common sense had been overcome by the drunken smell of glory.

He glanced around; some of the passengers standing beside him now--all Southrons except Ellen Schuyler, Win Van Buren and two cotton buyers--had probably joined their share of cheering mobs.

His eyes caught a slight movement of Ellen Schuyler’s head; she had been facing directly toward him, but now she turned away. It was hard to believe that only yesterday he’d held her and kissed her warm, soft lips, and gotten a response that had filled him with yearnings and visions of the future.

Unfortunately, her aunt Win had seen that kiss, and took exception. She’d talked with each of them individually, pointing out the problems such actions might engender.

Doan listened politely, but hadn’t intended to pay any attention to anything Win said.

Ellen, apparently, felt differently. She’d hardly spoken to him since.

But they sure as hell were going to talk about it before the day ended, he promised himself. He’d never been so taken with any other girl, ever. He liked everything about her--her looks, her company, the way she said and did things, her laugh--and even the slight whiff of something flowery. It all added up to perfection in his mind. The hours they’d spent on deck since their first meeting, a day out of New York City, had been the best of his life. Just thinking about it sent waves of feelings all through him, and especially through his loins.

In spite of his discomfort, he couldn’t take his eyes off her because she was so pleasing to look at. Her nose was small, her lips full and sensuous, and her chin slightly dimpled. Her honey-colored complexion and gleaming black hair, reminded him of star-spangled nights. And her amber eyes had unimaginable depths.

He’d held her close enough, often enough, to know that under that wide-skirted brown traveling suit, was a soft, warm, pulsating body. The narrow pink-lined brim of her small brown bonnet framed an almost perfectly oval face.

Ellen’s aunt, Win Van Buren, was as graceful and pretty of figure as Ellen, though she was half again as old. She had a plain, longish face, but her humorous mouth and quiet intelligence made a pleasing and lasting impression. But the idea that her niece and a backwoods Texian were falling in love was not one she approved. She’d been polite enough, but she’d had plenty to say, ending with “I’m sure you realize she could never fit into your life.” Then she’d taken a long look at his New York finery and added reluctantly, “You could probably fit into hers if you were willing to leave Texas.”

But that wasn’t the only thing, and he knew it. Ellen was convent-bred and he’d been raised on the open range of the Texas backwoods. She was culture and he wasn’t sure exactly what he was. He’d had a rigorous classical education by a stranded Harvard professor and a couple of years at New York University, learning about mining. He figured he knew which fork to use and what to do with his napkin.

But that was only part of the problem. A war was brewing and it seemed they be on opposite sides.

But even that wasn’t all of it. What he’d been skirting around thinking about was his obligation. An obligation strong enough and deep enough that it had to be met before he could make any other plan for his future.

But he wasn’t giving Ellen up without a fight.