Autumnfield

By Mark Wilcox

Jacob Brodie came to Texas in 1836. With no family left in Kentucky, he decided to stay and make his home in the new Republic after Texan independence had been won. It’s 1848 and after a decade and more of battling Comanche Indians and bandits along the borders, Jacob now commands his own company of Texas Rangers. But unattached and with no family, life in Texas has been a lonely existence.

The arrival in Galveston of a clipper ship from England will ultimately change Jacob’s world. For on that ship is a man, an attorney, bearing important news. From this man, Jonah Kitchen, Jacob Brodie learns he is the sole male heir to a vast estate in Berkshire, England, from where his mother’s family originated. Likewise, with this estate comes an earldom. A new life begins for Jacob in England, complete with distrustful relatives whom he’s never met and servants who live drastically separate lives.

There are also greedy, neighboring land owners who nurture a burning resentment towards this family. While becoming immersed in the upper class of Victorian English society, Jacob feels more and more like a fish out of water as he continues to cling to his honest and simple, yet rough American frontier upbringing. This is a story about a man from the New World trying hard to find his way in the old one. Ultimately, Jacob finds in England family, romance, love, and tragedy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781647505561

Mark Wilcox

Historian Mark Wilcox works as a ranger at Richmond National Battlefield Park and the Maggie L. Walker National Historic Site, leads battlefield tours around Richmond, and presents on the city’s Revolutionary War, Civil War, and Civil Rights history. Mark is also a living historian of the Colonial era and provides educational programs for public history sites in Virginia. He is also a member of the Richmond Chapter of the Revolutionary War Roundtable and blogs for Emerging Revolutionary War.

Book preview

About the Author

Mark Wilcox is a native of Richmond, Virginia. He is a historian and a first-time fiction author. Mark is a 1984 graduate of Virginia Commonwealth University’s School of Mass Communication and holds a Bachelor of Science degree. He is a contributing author for the Emerging Revolutionary War Era blog site and a member of the Richmond Chapter of the Revolutionary War Round Table. Mark is married and the father of three.

Dedication

For my family; my wife, Kimberly, whose exceptional love, support, and encouragement I could never do without. For Kelley, Taylor, and Joey, who constantly provided me with inspiration to keep writing. I’m blessed to have a family who reminds me of what’s most important in life: love, encouragement, and, probably most important of all, a good laugh.

Copyright Information ©

Mark Wilcox 2023

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Wilcox, Mark

Autumnfield

ISBN 9781647505554 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781647505547 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781647505561 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022923491

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Chapter 1

September 1848, North Texas

Patrol

It was hot and dry out in the chaparral; clouds of dust rising up behind the horses as they walked along. Twelve Texas Rangers were heading south, following along single file behind their captain. They’d been out for three weeks, sweeping northwest over the high plains in search of the Indians. Comanches had been busy raiding farms, stealing horses, and taking scalps. They supplied themselves at the expense of the settlers. They took food, guns, ammunition, whatever they needed, and left death behind them wherever they went. Now the raiders were northwest, up beyond the Llano. It had been a long stretch, these three weeks. The Rangers had managed to jump one bunch of the raiders east of Edwards Plateau; it was a running fight that never really amounted to much. Short on food and sleep, their horses nearly played out; God only knew what kept the Texans going. Now they were headed south again, back to Austin and hopefully a little rest. Captain Jacob Brodie rode at the head of the column, as usual. He was worn out, like everyone else. He was nearing middle age now and his body didn’t seem to take the pounding it once had. When he was younger, hunting the woods of Western Kentucky with his father, his energy had known no bounds. Now at 38, every muscle seemed to groan! Kentucky. It seemed like a lifetime ago when he left her, when he’d first come to Texas. Jacob came with his father and a few neighbors to help the Americans down there fight off the Mexicans. Funny, the thought of staying in Texas hadn’t even entered his mind at the time. Some painful memories and a musket ball had pretty much decided his future for him.

This last patrol had been a long, dusty, grueling affair for Jake. As the Rangers plodded along over the empty plains, heading back into the hill country, his tired mind began to wander back over the miles and years. Still with so many miles to go before he reached Austin, he couldn’t help closing his eyes a few minutes at a time and dosing some in the saddle. When he was tired like this, his mind would sometimes start looking back. Always the same thoughts. The Revolution, back to ‘36 when he’d first crossed the Red River into Texas. He and his father had been with Houston during what they now called the ’Runaway Scrape.’ He’d spent many a long day in the saddle then. He began now to remember that long trek through East Texas and how it had all turned out. Sometimes he even fancied that he could smell that old swampland again. He hadn’t seen the place in years. San Jacinto! He just remembered being tired. He was bone-weary and saddle-sore. He and his father, Judson, had ridden with Sidney Sherman’s mounted regiment of Kentucky volunteers. Jake smiled a little as he remembered how proud he’d been to be a part of that cavalry. God, it was so long ago now. They worked as scouts mostly, as Houston led the little Texas army east, east toward Louisiana and toward what Jake would later learn was nearly 2,000 U.S. soldiers who were waiting on the east bank of the Sabine River. They had come down with General Edmund Gains, and, at that moment, they were just sitting there on the Louisiana side, waiting to be attacked, or so he heard. As it turned out, the Army of Texas changed its course to a road leading away from the Sabine. The Mexican force followed and, despite some obvious planning, there was no confrontation with the United States Army after all. Like most folks at the time, Jake hadn’t even known the troops were there, and it was just as well. He didn’t know or care a thing about politics back then, or dreams of expansion. Officially, the American soldiers were there to protect the U.S. border, but there was a lot more to it. In truth, old General Gains was waiting there, hoping to be assaulted by Santa Anna on American soil. Somebody outside of Texas wanted a war with Mexico too and he was looking for some provocation, and his name was Jackson! Old Hickory; Andy Jackson had a way of taking the bull by the horns to get what he wanted. And he had wanted Texas! He wanted all the southwest. His friend, Sam Houston, knew that. Some folks thought Houston was scared to fight Santa Anna and that’s why he was running. Others figured he knew there were troops waiting on the Sabine and that’s why he pushed to keep heading due east. Old Jackson wanted nothing more than to have the hated Mexican dictator come across the river onto U.S. soil and attack American troops who were there legally. He would have had his war all right, all legal and such. He’d figured to finally get his hands on Texas!!! But Houston’s officers and even civilians who had come along insisted he change his course and head southeast. So that’s where they went, all the way to the plains of San Jacinto while General Gains stayed on the Sabine!

Jake remembered how frightened the settlers had looked during that retreat, as everyone fled before Santa Anna. He remembered the pale faces and white knuckles he saw among the women and old folks as they led old nags and mules; some drawing small wagons and carts loaded with children and everything else they could pile in them. He remembered too the grumblings among the soldiers about Houston. The griping; the men were angry! Most of the Texans had known someone at the Alamo or among those murdered down at Goliad. They had scores to settle. Above all, though, they were just plain tired of running! Jacob was 26 years old then and full of vinegar. Up till then, the only life he had ever taken had been from the four-legged variety. It was not that he was anxious to spill blood. He wanted adventure and excitement, like most young men in that day. Jacob Brodie had dreams of glory. The Indian wars in Kentucky were long over by the time he was coming up. There were plenty of old trappers, though, who loved to sit around talking old times. They talked about the Shawnee and Cherokee raids. They reminisced about old Boone and Kenton. With the passage of the years, the blood and terror of those Indian days were somehow forgotten. The old men only seemed to remember the excitement and the glories that had been won.

Jacob opened his eyes whenever his horse would step wrong, whenever he’d feel some erratic motion. But, almost as quickly, his mind would drift off again. ‘BOOM!!!’ He startled; his eyes popped open. Nothing but chaparral in front of him. The noise had come from the deep recesses of his memory. He now saw again the ‘Twin Sisters,’ the two six-pounders used by the Texans in the battle. There was young Ben McCullach. He was about the same age as Jacob. He and his brother had come from West Tennessee, following after their neighbor, Col. Crockett. They’d followed him out to Texas, and now here they stood, fighting for freedom in a swamp. Ben was a Ranger captain now himself and a damn good one. But it was ‘young’ Ben that Jacob’s tired mind saw again loading one of the ‘Sisters.’ Crockett. Jacob smiled to himself. He had heard of Davy Crockett for most of his life. Made a pretty good name for himself down in Tennessee before he went into the Congress. They say he killed over 100 bears in one winter. Of course, a lot of old boys scoffed at that. Still, Crockett was a damn good shot, by anybody’s allowance. The wind started to kick up, coming at their backs from the north and with a chill to it. Jacob knew that would change as they continued south. September is still fairly warm down below the Colorado.

He remembered hearing how Col. Crockett lost his seat in the Congress there in Washington City. The papers had all talked about it. They had carried reports on his progress as he and some neighbors set out from down Memphis way, heading west after the elections. That had been what caught the attention of Jake’s father regarding the happenings in Texas. Crockett was already in San Antonio when Jake and his father arrived; before they went north with Houston. Before Santa Anna had come. Jake felt a quick jerk. Old Mike probably stepped in a gopher hole or something. Old Mike was an eight-year-old gelding; a buckskin. Jake’s favorite mount. The wind was getting stronger. As tired as he was, and with so many thoughts swirling through his tired mind, Jacob still tried to keep an eye open for Indian sign. The Rangers were played out. Be a good time for an ambush somewhere if the Comanches got any sense at all, he thought.

Well, I’ll tell you-all what I done. Jake heard the voice of Crockett again, with that East Tennessee drawl. I rode my horse right up to the Capitol building and I told them folks they could all go hell. I was going to Texas! Jacob smiled again. He remembered how the folks had howled and whooped as Crockett spoke that night in the big plaza in San Antonio de Bexar. Only time he ever saw the colonel. He was quite the entertainer! Jacob and his father left the town soon after that. There were a couple Kentucky boys there in the Alamo. Jake remembered how his blood had run cold when they heard what the Mexicans had done to those boys a few weeks later.

Custis Waller trotted up beside Jacob. Captain, he said, the boys are commencing to straggle. Might be a good time to think about stopping. Cus Waller was a big man. Strong as an ox. He had worked for years as a blacksmith back in Virginia. He had come to Texas to fight in the war too. Just like Jacob, he got his service land and just decided to stay. Hard to walk away from a promise of 640 acres. He was a sergeant of Texas Rangers now. The dust caked his bushy mustache. He squinted all the time, like he was ever in a high wind. Jake hardly opened his eyes.

Let’s keep the boys moving a while longer, Cus, he replied. Few more miles I judge, and we should hit that lower fork of the Brazos. We can make a good camp there. Maybe we’ll stay us a day or so. Jacob turned back toward the horizon.

After a few more bumpy miles, his mind began to drift back again. He was back on the wide plain of San Jacinto. Jake remembered that the cannon had commenced firing before old Sam gave the order to advance. He saw the boys step from out of the trees that shaded their encampment. Trail arms! March! Jacob and his father rode with Sherman out on the left. They did a job that day. Once the foot soldiers stepped off, the horseman set out. They kicked their horses into a lope and then into a dead run. They pounded toward the Mexican right. Jacob could remember seeing the half-dressed Mexican soldiers scurrying about behind their barricades. The Mexicans knew the Texans were close by, but the tall grass between the two encampments had kept the Texans hidden until they were nearly on top of their enemies. It was late in the day; Santa Anna figured it was too late for a battle. The tired Mexicans were caught napping. They looked up to see a howling mob of men and boys coming right at them. There were Texians, Tejanos, Kentuckians, Virginians, all tired, hungry, and mad as hell!

Remember the Alamo! the boys had hollered. Remember Goliad. The rage ran deep in every man of the Army of Texas! Jacob didn’t like to think about San Jacinto all that often and for good reason. He saw a lot of blood spilled on that field and then too; it’s where he’d lost his father. A Mexican ball, probably even a stray from one of the panic-stricken sol dados, had found a mark; it knocked Judson Brodie from his saddle before the Kentucky horsemen had reached the Mexican line. He was gut shot; nothing anybody could’ve done for him. The world went dim for Judson Brodie once he hit the ground. He never regained consciousness. Jacob didn’t see it. He had kept riding, over the barricades of biscuit boxes and gear and into the Mexican encampment. It wasn’t until the fight was over that Jacob had realized his father wasn’t there. By that time, Judson was gone. He bled to death, still on the field.

Captain! Captain Jake! Jacob shook his head, coming quickly out of his reverie. Just as well; he never could bear to think too hard on seeing his father’s lifeless body stretched out like that. Captain. Jacob looked; it was Ansell Cobb who had been riding point. A little disconcerting for Jake; Cobb had ridden up to within 30 feet before he knew he was there. Jake was more tired than he’d thought. Found a good spot near the river, Cobb said. He was a slight, wiry man and had a scratchy, high-pitched voice. He was originally from New Jersey, of all places. He had come to Texas back in the ’20s with his family. His father had been a joiner back east. Anse Cobb was a damn fine scout; best tracker they had. Figured you’d want to make it to the fork, he drawled. Jake nodded.

I reckon you figured right. We’ll put in.

****

Galveston Bay

The harbor was still a little choppy. A storm had passed over the Gulf a couple days before; a lot of wind and some fairly rough seas. It was September and still balmy in South Texas. The clipper ship Sherwood Forest had been in port for two days. The wind and the chop had kept its passengers and cargo onboard. It was a little calmer today, so down came the launch, ready to be taken ashore. All right, let’s pull, lads, called the boatswain as he settled himself in the stern. Among the 13 passengers and crew members in the launch this morning was a small, elegantly dressed gentleman. He was a tired looking, wizened, little man, although he gave off an air of refinement. A man whose hands and fingers were wrinkled, yet his nails were clean and manicured; not something often seen in Texas in 1848. He wore a tall, black, silk hat, standard for the day in the life of a gentleman, and huddled under a fine woolen overcoat. Here and there, a puzzled look was cast his way from some of the other passengers regarding that big coat. A little much on such a warm morning. One of the crew members, with perspiration already streaming down his face, looked the small man over, snorted, and shook his head. The gentleman carried a battered leather case. He had the look of importance about him. He was, in fact, a lawyer. Jonah Kitchen was his name. He had traveled a far piece indeed.

The launch slowly inched its way across the harbor until it reached the landing at Galveston Island. The passengers were put ashore. Lawyer Kitchen found he wasn’t at all impressed by his first glimpse of Texas. Galveston was still somewhat of a rough place, not exactly home to the genteel set. On its way up the Gulf, the Sherwood Forest had put in at New Orleans for a three-day stop. Mr. Kitchen was captivated by the famous city; it was so different from his home in London. He recognized at once the pervasive French influence; the private homes he saw were stately, indeed, he’d thought. He didn’t quite feel the same about the bawdy taverns amid the ‘French Quarter,’ places which he fervently avoided. But overall he was charmed by New Orleans. The city of Galveston, however, was quite another matter. After making queries to various passersby, he was, at length, able to make his way to the office of the town constable. He had business here in Texas; he was looking for a man. Of course, that type of business was pretty common in a lawman’s office. But the man Kitchen was seeking was not a bandit or a cutpurse. He was the heir to a fortune.

The old man stepped up to the door of the constable’s office and hesitated as if he wasn’t sure if he wanted go in after all. The outside was dirty which wasn’t surprising considering the amount of dust that flew up from the street every time a horse or wagon went by. The street was jammed with foot and horse traffic between the docks and customs house. There were iron bars resembling lattice work over the two front windows of the small office. As Kitchen stepped inside, his eyes were slow to adjust to the dark room.

What can I do for you? asked a potbellied man with a graying beard who sat behind a scratched-up old desk in the corner. His voice was raspy. Kitchen looked around the room. Pretty spare furnishings. Besides the battered desk, there was an equally battered table and chairs and an old cast-iron stove in the corner opposite the desk and the fat man. He could see an open door on the other side of the room. It led down a step or two to the holding cells. He couldn’t tell how many there were. Mister? came the raspy voice again. Jonah Kitchen looked up. There something I can do for you?

Oh, I beg your pardon, sir, the old man stammered. Yes, I am in need of assistance. You are the constable here, I presume? Lawyer Kitchen’s voice was as small and weak as he appeared to be himself. The sheriff was, at first, puzzled by the clip of the man’s English accent. Being a busy port town, Galveston saw lots of folks from around the world, but Sheriff Wade Riley was more accustomed to hearing rougher, more unrefined human voices. Now it was his turn to stare mutely.

Finally, he answered, Uh, yeah; yes, sir, I’m the sheriff here. Wade Riley’s the name.

Jonah Kitchen stepped forward, extending his hand. I am Jonah Kitchen, my good man. I am a barrister. Seeing the look on Sheriff Riley’s face that bespoke his lack of understanding, Kitchen corrected himself, An attorney at law, my good fellow, and I am seeking a man here in Texas. I was hoping you could direct me to the best method for accomplishing my task. He pulled his leather case to his lap, opened it, and began pulling out sheaves of paper. He began to tell his story to the sheriff as he emptied the contents of the leather case.

****

Austin

The morning was cool. A Blue Norther had struck a little early above Austin, bringing a cold snap to the hill country. The Rangers were settling into a normal routine since straggling back into town a couple days before. Jacob knew the reprieve wouldn’t last long. The Comanche raids were fewer, but outlying farms continued to be hit. Jake would be taking the boys out again fairly soon. He’d also gotten a report from down south; bandits were getting pretty thick again below San Antonio. Might be a good idea to take a ride down that way before going back north. Be a good change for the boys. Fighting Comanches had a way of working a man’s nerves. You never really knew just how you’d come out of a fight with the Comanche. The Indians seemed to hold the same opinion of the Rangers. There was a fear, but a healthy respect felt on both sides of the coin. But the Rangers were fewer in number these days. There was talk around the capital of disbanding once the war with Mexico was done. The thought of quitting the Rangers had never entered Jacob’s mind. He had no one; being a Ranger was what he did, it’s who he was. With the Republic days over and Texas now part of the United States, the boys had been mustered into federal service when the war broke out. They had served well; so much so that the Rangers were now known to their Mexican opponents as ‘Los Diablos Tejanos,’ those Devil Texans! Jacob and his company had scouted some for Zachary Taylor’s army and gotten into their share of the fighting too. They had served under George Wood at the battle of Monterrey. Wood was now governor of Texas. But it was in the fight at Buena Vista that Jake had lost old Pea Vine Mason. Pea Vine was a rough old cob; a Georgian. Jake had known him since his first days in Texas, back in the Revolution. He was the reason Jake had joined the Rangers in the first place. He had filled the space in Jake’s life vacated by his father. Although Jake knew the man had a Christian name, he couldn’t, for the life of him, recollect ever having heard it. ‘Pea Vine’ was a descriptor of Mason, tall and skinny. But he was a bearcat for nerve and ferocious in battle. He’d lived for a time in San Antonio and had been a friend of Jim Bowie. A solid shot from a Mexican 12-pounder had taken the old Ranger out of Jacob’s life…and out of this world. It was becoming a familiar theme for Jake, losing those closest to him. Pea Vine and Jake had been together in that scrape with the Comanches at Walker Creek back in ‘44. It’s where Captain Jack Hays and his Rangers had introduced the Comanches to the five-shot Colt revolver; the old ’Patterson.’ John Coffee Hays always did have a good eye for weapons; he and the boys were carrying a dandy of a piece that day. Good thing too, as the odds were a bit stacked against them. Those first Colt repeaters, though, had helped 14 Rangers decisively defeat upward of 80 warriors. Jack Hays commanded the Rangers now and he was a good leader.

The Comanches couldn’t seem to accept that Texas no longer belonged to them. The same way the Texans couldn’t seem to understand the claim the Indians had on the land. A claim that went back a lot farther than their own. Like Enchanted Rock, for instance. It was a spiritual place to the Comanches; a sacred place. The way the Sioux looked on the Black Hills up in Dakota. Seeing white men up there with surveying instruments in ’41 had infuriated those warriors who had seen it. It was more than an affront to them; it was a blasphemous thing. It was blood, those Indians intended to exact for it that day too. To the Rangers, Enchanted Rock was a pile of dirt, nothing more. And there was the rub.

Walking into the bunkhouse, Jacob found only Mose Penny taking a doze in the early afternoon. The rest of the boys were out. The whores are making up for lost wages, I expect. Jake laughed to himself. Austin had its share of sporting women, that was for sure. With nothing else to fall back on, a gal had to do what she could. Austin was a good place for it. Whoring around was a favorite way of passing the time for a lot of the boys when they weren’t on the trail. Even some of the married ones. More than a few times Jake had heard the sound of a woman hollering, dishes breaking, doors flying open with a ‘WHACK!’, chickens scattering to get out of the way of a husband fleeing for his life…fleeing from a fighting-mad wife following after him with a cleaver or a pistol or anything she could get her hands on. Austin was still small enough then for news of a man’s meanderings to travel pretty fast. All the way back to the tender ears of his loving wife. You’d think they’d learn by now. Jake smiled and shook his head. He never participated in the practice all that much himself, but, sometimes a man has needs. He walked over to Mose’s bunk and started shaking his boot.

Mose. Wake on up here, boy. Mose! Penny started to stir. He was a tall lad, no more than 20; had come from Missouri a few years back. Lost his family in a cholera outbreak. Like a lot of the Rangers, Mose was alone in this world.

I’m up, Captain. He drawled. Jake walked over to the big pot-bellied stove that stood in the middle of the bunkhouse. There was coffee boiling; he poured himself a cup.

Where’re the rest of the boys? he asked.

Don’t know. Don’t care, Captain. The boy sat up in his bunk and stretched his arms high. The more they stay out of here, the better I like it. Jacob laughed. Mose had a way of always reminding him why the boys called him the ‘House Mother.’ When they weren’t on the trail, his clothes were always clean and neat. A miraculous event in a dusty place like Austin. His bunk was always tidy! Lord, how he hated a mess. The House Mother! He was forever fussing at the rest of the boys who lived in the bunkhouse, always hollering for them to pick up their duds, get their boots out of the middle of the floor, keep them whiskey jugs corked, etc. It always tickled the boys to see Mose get himself all worked up! Jake suspected that half the time they made a mess just to hear Mose holler. He was a good man to have in a fight, though. He listened well, and he hated to quit.

You ain’t fixin’ to go anywhere for a while, are you? Jake asked.

No, sir. I’m planning on staying right where I am for a spell. Been feeling a little poorly. Probably not sleeping good. Mose stretched again, yawned, and lay back on his bunk.

Good. I ain’t got time to go rounding ’em up, so when the boys all get back…you make sure they stay put until I come talk to y’all. We’ll be heading back out directly. The idea of a new patrol caused Mose to sit up in his bunk again. Like the rest of the Rangers, he wasn’t too fond of chasing after Comanches.

We heading up north again, Captain Jake? Jake could see the tension in the lines of the boy’s face.

Nope, he answered. Not yet, anyway. Bandits are getting troublesome down San Antonio way, we hear. So we’ll be heading south for now and see if we can’t relieve matters somewhat for the good folks down there. Jacob left the bunkhouse and headed down the street to the capital. He needed to see Major Jack and lay out his plans for the next patrol.

****

A Glimmer

The town hall of the city of Galveston was a bit more refined than the building containing the office of its high sheriff, Jonah Kitchen noticed. Wade Riley didn’t know the man Kitchen was seeking, he said, but he thought he’d heard the name. At least there was a glimmer of hope for the little man who had traveled so far from home on his important mission. The sheriff had suggested Lawyer Kitchen pay a visit to the city hall to see the mayor; the Honorable Joseph Bates.

Jonah Kitchen sat outside the office of the mayor in an uncomfortable, wooden-backed chair; his battered leather case held tightly in his hands while it rested on his lap. The miles were catching up with him now and it had been a very long day. It seemed like days had passed since he was rowed ashore early that morning. He caught himself nodding off a couple of times. He was told the mayor was still meeting with Mr. Borden, the collector of customs for the port of Galveston. Jonah was unimpressed. He just hoped he could stay awake until the mayor was free. He dropped his tired head into his hands. His journey had led him to yet another office and yet another city official here in America. He remembered the old courthouse he had visited in Fincastle, Virginia. ‘Hall of Records,’ indeed. He scoffed to himself. It had taken him weeks to travel there by coach from the Tidewater, through what they called the Valley of Virginia. How foolish it seemed to him now, the high hopes he’d had of finding the man he sought still residing there in Virginia. This man apparently didn’t make it a habit to stay long in one place Jonah had found, to his great dismay.

Excuse me, sir. Mr. Kitchen, is it? The mayor can see you now, sir. Jonah looked up to see a young, rather well-dressed man standing at the door of the mayor’s office. Mr. Borden had apparently concluded his business with the mayor and was striding across the antechamber on his way back to the customs house. Rousing his stiff, tired body from the uncomfortable chair, Kitchen slowly moved toward the office door. The mayor’s young secretary didn’t seem to notice the lethargy in the movement of the elderly man as he stepped back inside the office to announce him. Mr. Jonah Kitchen to see you now, sir. As Jonah entered the office, he saw Mayor Joseph Bates sitting behind a large, handsome, walnut desk. European walnut had always caught Jonah’s fancy. Unlike the sheriff’s dark little office, the mayor’s office was bathed in sunlight. His lavish but dusty drapes were pulled back as far as possible to allow in the light. Joe Bates liked having a bird’s eye view of his city. He liked to keep an eye on what was going on in town. From his office he could routinely scan the wharves that were lined with warehouses, cotton bales, and sheds housing various kinds of produce and other commodities bound for world markets. Although the light was welcome to Jonah’s tired eyes, he couldn’t help noticing just how dusty all the furnishings were. Sunlight tended to point out things of that nature, unfortunately. However, concern over the cleanliness of the mayor’s office was certainly not a part of his mission today. He lumbered forward on his tired legs, a tired smile appearing on his tired-looking face. Bates waived the elderly man off before he even extended his hand in greeting. The mayor looked tired himself. Please sir, won’t you be seated. Bates motioned for Jonah to sit in the leather chair opposite the walnut desk. Jonah noticed at once the mayor’s refined, aristocratic accent, yet it was one with a very distinct southern American flavor.

And what can I do for you, Mr. Kitchen?

Joe Bates was 43 years old, although he looked a bit older. He had only recently been appointed mayor of the city of Galveston, which was fairly impressive for a man residing in Texas for only three years. But Joe had spent most of his adult life in public service, of some sort, back in Alabama. He was wise to the ways of the astute politician and he expected to go far here in Texas. He made it his business to know everything there was to know about Galveston; the people who lived there and the people doing business within her confines. He looked Jonah over with a sharp, shrewd eye but was unable to even imagine the nature of the business this tired-looking old man had brought before him. The gesture caused Jonah to sit up a little straighter in his chair. He cleared his throat, looking a little like an old Tom turkey with his loose, wrinkled skin flapping with every movement of his jaw muscles.

My name is Jonah Kitchen, Your Excellency, he began. Bates found the term ‘Excellency’ a little amusing. I am an attorney, Kitchen continued, and I’ve traveled from London, seeking a man who, I believe, is the legal heir to a vast estate in Berkshire, England. The shrewd, dry look on the face of Mayor Bates was suddenly replaced by one of interest. Allow me to explain, sir. Joe Bates was all ears.

Jonah Kitchen was in the employ, as attorney and business agent, of the Westovers, an old and affluent family in Southern England, he explained. The extensive manor home and grounds of Sir Cedric Drake Westover, Fourth Earl of Berkshire, known as ‘Autumnfield Manor,’ had been in the Westover family for generations. A member of the House of Lords, a squire and magistrate, Lord Berkshire was an aged man when, after a lifetime of conducting his families’ business interests and fattening its coffers, he decided to wed, or at least, to re-wed. He had married once before as a young man, for love. Unfortunately, that union had produced no children. In fact, Lord Berkshire lost his wife in childbirth and the male child had died some days later. After many years, he began to feel the weight of the responsibility of producing a male heir to the estate and title. He decided to wed again, taking for his bride one Frances Eleanor East Templin in 1823. The East family had once been a politically powerful and prestigious one. A reversal of family fortunes, however, had rendered the power of the Easts almost null in London. Marrying well was most important in those times. The fact that Frances, or Fanny as she was affectionately known, was over 25 years younger than her new husband was certainly not unusual. Despite her tender years, Fanny was already widowed herself and had brought to her new marriage a baby girl no more than two years old. The newly married couple had begun a family of their own almost immediately. It was a son Cedric Westover wanted. A strapping baby boy. Unfortunately, it wasn’t to be. In the next few years, three daughters were born to the Westovers before Cedric’s health began to wane. Three lovely girls but no sons. According to English law, lands and titles were bestowed upon male heirs first and, in 1846 when Cedric Westover passed, he left no direct male heir. His line was at an end. Being an attorney himself, Joe Bates was not unfamiliar with standard inheritance laws of the day.

In accordance with the will and wishes of Lord Berkshire, explained Lawyer Kitchen, the family attorneys, of whom he was one, set about locating the next in line to the Westover estate and title to the earldom. The search had to be conducted in one of the nearer branches of the family. The lawyers began their work even before Cedric’s death. They worked diligently and tirelessly, pouring over the family lineage, hoping to secure an heir while Lord Berkshire yet lived. He unfortunately passed away before the thing could be achieved. After nearly three years of tedious research, months of conning over musty old record books, examining what seemed like endless entries of births and deaths, the three attorneys at last believed they’d found what they were looking for from a branch of the family that had migrated to America back in the last century. All of the research, all of the legal documents, everything or copies of everything, was carried in the leather case of Jonah Kitchen. He was looking for a resident of Texas, he said, by way of Virginia and Kentucky. A man named Jacob Edward Brodie. With so much information being spoken at him and it being the end of a very long day, the eyes of Mayor Bates began to get heavy and he found himself wishing this little man would conclude his speech and move on. But then a familiar name spilled out. Slowly, there was a nod of the head and then a slight smile began to crease the corners of the mayor’s mouth as he sat up in his chair.

A man named Jacob Brodie, you say? Jonah returned a hopeful nod. The heir to a vast English estate and a nobleman to boot? Bates slowly began to relax his body; he settled back comfortably in his big, leather chair. Now this business was getting interesting. At last, he thought, a meeting that could possibly be wrapped up quickly.

Yes, Your Excellency, said Jonah, I’m looking for a Jacob Brodie…of Texas. His voice was seeming to grow a little weaker.

Well, Mr. Kitchen, Joe Bates said as he stood up from his chair, stretched his back, and walked over to the nearest window to scan the waterfront, I can, I believe, be of some measure of assistance to you, sir. Joe smiled broadly as he looked back at Jonah.

The streets of Galveston were routinely thronged with seaman and merchants from dozens of American and foreign ports. A lot of good folks were coming to Texas for one reason or another. With so many crowding in, the wrong kind of element, the ‘felonious sort,’ as Joe Bates was fond of saying, was bound to slip in among the rest. So, it behooved the mayor to keep an eye on law enforcement within his city and, indeed, in that part of South Texas. When his well-paid sheriff and deputies were not able to control the visitors and inhabitants, Joe Bates didn’t hesitate to call in the Rangers to restore order. To set things right, as it were. Of course he’d heard of Jacob Brodie. Knew him well, as a matter of fact.

Mr. Kitchen, I’m proud to say that Ranger Captain Jacob Brodie is one of the best men in Texas! Bates crowed. At first, the words held no meaning for the old man. He was exhausted as he sat in the office chair. But then, slowly, Bates’s words began to take on meaning; they began to sink in. Had he heard the man, right? Did he say he knew Jacob Brodie? A feeling of elation began to sweep over Jonah Kitchen. It would seem he had finally found the man for whom he had been searching these last months and years! For the first time in a very long time, Jonah Kitchen, Esq., knew the true feeling of relief. His body relaxed, even went limp, as he exhaled a long breath and dissolved into the leather chair. Jonah smiled. He was, he thought, at last getting closer to his quarry.

Capital! was all he could say.

****

Chapter 2

October 1848 – South Texas

Bandits

Throw the guns out, gringo! growled a gnarled, leather-faced man pointing an old-style flintlock musket at the white men. The five bandits had, by now, surrounded the small, one-horse chaise. The driver slowly threw down his short rifle. There was a Texan on horseback, accompanying the two men in the buggy, who tossed down his revolver. He had a rifle as well, which he also tossed into the dirt. Jonah Kitchen sat motionless in the chaise. Although he had had no encounters himself, he’d known of the presence of highwaymen back in England. But, from what he’d heard, there were none who could match these Mexicans for audacity. The ambush took place in the bottom of a dry gully through which the road passed. The high ground on either side of the road and a few scattered cottonwood trees had kept the bandits hidden. The leather-faced man was sitting his horse in the middle of the dirt road as the chaise rolled up, sitting there with a grin on his face that got wider as the chaise got closer. Within seconds of stopping, the three men from Galveston were surrounded.

Joe Bates knew Jacob Brodie owned some land somewhere around Austin and thought it the most likely place to either locate him or, at least, find someone who could get word to him. Bates had recommended the two men accompanying Kitchen; they worked on the docks. They had been hired by the old man on the spot; the horse and chaise he had rented from a local livery. The party had been on the road for two days and were just east of San Antonio, close enough to the town that the escorts had begun to let down their guard.

Get down, the rough-faced man directed the three travelers. His words were short and guttural. Jonah and his driver stepped out slowly. The other man swung down from his saddle. One of the bandits immediately took his reins. Jonah thought the robbers were hard-looking and dirty beyond description. Specks of spittle shot out of his mouth like a scattergun whenever the leader spoke, through his dirty, black-and-yellow stumps that had once been teeth. The other bandits looked much the same. Most were armed with old muskets, a couple brandished revolvers.

Give the bag! the leader grunted at Jonah, pointing to his leather case. The order gave Jonah a start; his body actually flinched noticeably. He stared wide-eyed at the bandit as he gripped the leather case tighter and drew it up near his breast.

Oh, no. No, sir. I cannot lose this case, he stammered. The old bandit looked to one of his comrades who was standing nearest the old man and calmly motioned for him to take the case. For an instant, a tug-of-war raged between the Mexican and the Englishman as each maintained his grasp on the battered case. One of the Galveston men tried to intervene but was pistol-whipped by another of the bandits. He fell with a thud; a deep gash cut into his forehead. The other Texan stood motionless. He was being paid to take the old man to Austin; nothing was said about taking a bullet for him too. Finally, Jonah was flung to the side. He fell to the ground hard. A pain seared through his right hip as he made contact with the desert floor. A slight chuckle followed by a wheezing cough came out of the throat of the leader.

The winner of the contest held up the leather case like a prize; a huge grin spread across his dirty face. Just then, in an instant, something spun the man around; blood was spurting from a hole in his neck. He was almost on the ground before the report of the gun was heard or, rather, comprehended by the men standing there. Other shots began to ring out. From out of nowhere, horseman pelted over the sides of the gully, sparks belching from the barrels of their revolvers. More bandits were hit. It happened so fast that none of the Mexicans had time to react. The company of Rangers were only a mile or two away when they spotted the dust being kicked up by the chaise. They had just spotted the vehicle itself when it went down into the gulley…but then the dust cloud began to dissipate; it had stopped. Could be an axle had broken. But that gully was also a good place for an ambush. The Rangers sank spurs and raced to the aide of the travelers. After only a few seconds, three of the bandits were shot dead. A heavy swat with the barrel of a revolver from big Cus Waller had knocked one of the bandits out of his saddle as he tried to spur his horse out of the low ground. After shooting the man holding up the leather case, Jacob immediately leveled his big Walker Colt at the bandit leader. He was caught by such surprise that, for an instant, all he could manage to do was sit there, staring at the large gun pointed at him. Finally, he threw down his musket. The fight was short and now it was over.

****

San Antonio

The cantina was dark; the air was thick with cigar smoke. The place was right off the main plaza and a favorite of Jake and the boys. The proprietor, Diego Sanchez, was a good friend. Jonah looked about him; Tejano culture was so alien to a man who had spent most of his adult