He saw where the Brit frigates likely would drop anchor, positioning their guns for devastating broadsides against his troops and whatever position he had staked out. Sound carried well in the quiet of the early morning, so he imagined he could hear the faint clank of chains and the rubbing squeak of ropes on pulleys as their landing boats made their way down to the water.
He heard the shouts of their marine captains ordering the disciplined disposition of their hard men. These would not be children like the Mexican cadets or the peasants conscripted into uniform that he had faced in Veracruz and Churubusco, scurrying backward, brave but undisciplined in their rout. They would be seasoned and mean-hearted Royal Marines.
They would most certainly land, take their losses, and determinedly push his equally determined but much smaller company of men down and away from this position.
Both sides would suffer.
He pulled his slicker closer as the wind bit into his neck. He wished he were in Mexico again.
After an hour of mapping and marking, Pickett called up Lieutenant Henry Martyn Robert from the beach below. “I believe this is the best place to be, Henry. Can your howitzers hit the beach from here?”
Robert, only one year out of West Point, shook his head, then looked again through his field glass to be certain.
“No, Captain. We will likely need to land some of the thirty-two-pounders from the Massachusetts. Before it moves away to get out of reach of their frigates. If the reports are correct, they are sending three big ships.”
Robert was often hesitant but punctilious and almost always right. Pickett simply nodded his head slowly. He knew he would be outgunned and outnumbered. He was determined not to be outdone.
As he watched his lieutenant walk back down to the south beach to await the landing of more supplies, Pickett said aloud to himself, “Let them come. We’ll make another bloody Bunker Hill of it.”
Pickett drifted for a bit. He found himself back in Virginia, where even now, in this early March, color was beginning to show through on crocus-covered afternoons. He saw himself riding down a long lane and paying his respects to some fine young woman and her parents, securing a place and position for himself out of uniform, a dandy gentleman of means.
At last.
She would be a red-haired filly or a black Irish high-bred dame.
He closed his eyes and, for a brief moment, tasted the minted cool juleps that quelled the heaviness of Richmond summer afternoons, so far away from the cutting bite of the whiskey from Frisco that he and so many others in his command had as a meager resort to the cold and boredom of the Northwest. Even here on verdant San Juan, only a few miles by sea from the supplies and excitement of Victoria, he envisioned no relief.
So he pulled his slicker even closer and bowed his head slightly to let the light rain fall off the brim of his cap.
And then he thought of Emmy Evers.
She was there in his dream, walking right by him, turning her head ever so slightly, telling him she knew he was there, watching her every step and nuanced gesture. His heart began running double-time, and he felt it deeply pounding up through his neck and into his face. He could feel that his face was flushed, and he opened his eyes, and she was there and then she was not.
And he wondered if she needed him; he wanted her to need him, but she would never be his and would dismiss him for his arrogant presumptuousness. So, in his dream, she just went on, and he was back in the rain, which was in his shirt and on his back now.
It was not a good place to die.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
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Ksi Amawaal
Ksi Amawaal Sityaawt Gatgyet was widely known to be a very wealthy tyee, so many saw his widely broadcast invitation to this potlatch as a great opportunity—for the longstanding tradition in the region was that potlatch guests received gifts, and a tyee’s wealth and power were measured by how much he gave away.
In the entire Northwest, Ksi Amawaal was the most magnanimous of all the chieftains. And when the Americans spoke of their presidents or the Brits about Victoria, the Tsimshian sneered because their tyee could not be surpassed in their minds. Thus, clan chiefs arrived from areas as far away as the Queen Charlottes and Nootka, many curious and many envious.
To one accustomed to tribal confrontation and protectionism, or to a European concept of ostentation, the wealth displayed by the Tsimshian at Three Spirits was astounding, and most wondered how they had achieved and maintained it. The answer was straightforward. Ksi Amawaal had created a well-maintained, neutral platform for trade, affording protection to everyone who entered. And at this potlatch, every one of the guests brought along goods that might be exchanged in a common market that would develop throughout the encampments.
The Tsimshian were healthy, numerous, well armed, and protective of that peace because Ksi Amawaal had long ago shown them how they would prosper if they could act as intermediaries and facilitators rather than as combatants. And observing the disruption to customs and the uniqueness of his tribe’s heritage that always ensued after the arrival of even the most well-meaning of interlopers, he tactfully kept missionaries out.
Thus, Ksi Amawaal’s people had avoided some plagues that had beset tribes closer to the coast. He had also learned to keep his tribe away from the pain of the scourges by listening to gossip from traders and quarantining anyone who appeared for trading during the pestilence. And when the opportunity arose to give cowpox pus to immunize his tribe, he had taken the first inoculation as a demonstration
