by Drew McGunn
Erasmo paused for a moment, before continuing, “There’s a story I have heard repeated among these half-breed traders. In 1779, a few years before my own birth, the Spanish governor, a man named Juan Bautista de Anza, in Santa Fe, grew tired of the constant raids on the settlements under his jurisdiction. So, he formed up an army of six hundred men, led them into the Comancheria, and defeated the Comanche in battle.”
The other men leaned forward, hanging on his every word, “Anza’s army included Nuevo Mexicanos as well as more than two hundred Apache auxiliaries. Largely traveling at night, he used his Apaches to screen the main force. They were deep into the Comancheria when they came across a large village. Anza’s men attacked the town, capturing many of the women and children. In an ironic twist of fate, the Comanche warriors were at that same time busy attacking Taos. Following the capture of the Comanche town, Anza ambushed the returning warriors, killing their war chief and many men. What followed was a series of raids by Anza’s army from Santa Fe. They fought and killed Comanche warriors wherever they offered battle.”
Crockett asked, “But how did Anza bring the Comanche to the peace table?”
Erasmo Seguin nodded his head, and stood up. He walked over to the door, which was open and looked out to the west, in the direction of the Comancheria. “Peace with the Comanche, that’s the elusive question, Mr. President. It is a question we Tejanos and you Norteamericos equally have in common. I read about General Houston’s proposal to treat with the Comanche during the election and I think his way is wrong. Unlike the Cherokee, where there is a powerful sense of tribal unity, the Comanche bands owe no allegiance to each other. If it were not for Texas and Mexico, it is just as likely those different bands would war against each other.
“But back to Governor Anza. The first thing he did was have his army take captives, just like the Comanche. This forced the Comanche to trade their own captives for those held by the Spanish. The second thing he did was strategically release other captives with the news that Anza would treat with all the Comanche bands for peace, or none of them. He understood what General Houston never did. The Comanche nation lacks a central voice of authority. Each band is responsible for their own actions and a treaty with one band is not binding on any of the others. To bring them to treaty he had to force it on all of the Comanche bands bordering Nuevo Mexico.”
Will shuddered at the complexity of the problem. “It looks like we’re going to need our own Indians.” As he spoke, he experienced an ah-ha moment. Less than a year after arriving in Travis’ body, and his modern vocabulary had taken a beating. What would the other men at the table think should he refer to an Indian as a Native American? He shook the moment off, continuing, “Juan, would you see if Flacco’s people would be willing to work with us as scouts and guides? Also, Mr. President, would you reach out to Mr. Houston and see if he can talk the Cherokee into fielding a company of Rangers, on the Republic’s dime?”
The president chuckled drily. “That’s a pretty turn of a phrase for fleecing the treasury.” His eyes followed Erasmo’s, as they
looked out the door of the small cabin, looking west, in the direction of the Comancheria. “What do we do with the Comanche when we finally drive them to the peace table, gentlemen? I despised what Jackson did to the Cherokee, but there were existing treaties between the Cherokee people and the federal government, ignored by Andy Jackson. Without a treaty between us and the Comanche, it’s akin to having the Mongol horde living in our outhouse.”
Will’s thoughts, while not as colorful, mirrored the president’s. Once again, Will found himself facing a common paradox of history. From what he could tell, the Cherokee were often times more civilized than their white neighbors, having frequently adapted to the dominant culture and religion, while tribes, like the Lipan Apache struggled to maintain their tribal grounds and customs in the lands disputed by Texas, Mexico, and the Comanche. The Comanche defied Will’s modern view, and it was evident books like “Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee” held no correlation to the Comanche. They were a vastly different people than Will had been taught by Hollywood and school.
Crockett interrupted his thought, “I fear their days of wandering the plains may be numbered. Buck, it would surprise me nary at all, if by the time your boy, Charlie, is married with children of his own the world of the Plains Indians will be over. I’ll not deny it, while I have my concerns over how we wage war against the Comanche, I can scarcely sleep at night if we don’t look to our own. Because we need to secure the frontier, it will be my policy, as president, to enforce the territorial integrity of Texas, even when it brings us into conflict with Mexico or with the Comanche.”
Not for the first time, Will noted how Crockett could drop the rough veneer and allow the well-spoken, self-educated man to shine through. The president continued, “We’ll respect and honor every man’s private property rights and make a home here in Texas for any tribe that agrees to live by our laws, as it appears the Cherokee will. If we can have peace with the Comanche, we’ll make no claim on the plains north of the Red River. But if the Comanche attempt to live or travel south of the Red, they will do so only in peace. If they want trade with us, I’ll be glad to put policies into place encouraging trade. But I recall from my days in Washington City words from ol’ Thomas Jefferson. ‘Millions for defense and not a cent for tribute.’ Sam was wrong when he advocated this when he ran against me, and time hasn’t made it any more right. We’re done trying to buy one band or another of the Comanche off of us to keep them from raiding. All that has done is makes the other bands want to hit us all the harder.”
“One last thing,” Crockett said, “Buck, you’ll need to develop a plan for dealing with the squaws and adolescent boys and old men you may capture. I’m sure some of those West Point boys you’ve recruited can set up a military prison where they can be housed under the best conditions you can manage. But make sure our own soldiers’ safety comes first.”
As the meeting came to an end, the president took Erasmo aside, “Señor Seguin, I am in your debt for joining your son and General Travis in meeting with me. I don’t like indebting myself further, but I have a request related to the coming war.”
As the elder Seguin nodded for Crockett to continue, he said, “When our army is successful in the war against the Comanche, we need to be ready to deal with any captives. Would you consent to using your connections within the Catholic church to establish a refuge of safety at one of the nearby missions where any children taken captive can be taken, where they will be cared for and protected against any retaliatory depredations from our loyal citizens?”
“Think nothing of it, Mr. President.” As Erasmo joined Will and Juan outside, He turned and added, “I count it as no favor to ask for an act of charity for those innocents who will pay the price for their elders’ war.”
Chapter 6
The small room in the newly constructed hotel felt much larger once the Seguins left Harrisburg with the sunrise, returning to San Antonio. Will lingered in town, at President Crockett’s behest. He pulled his pocket-watch from his vest pocket and, seeing the time, decided to walk across the few muddy streets to the president’s humble house.
He picked his way down the streets, dodging muddy craters in the road, his hands tucked into his pockets, warding off the morning chill.
“Asphalt. That’s what I should invent,” Will thought as he misjudged his step and felt his bootheel sink into the mud.
“Would make tons of money selling paving material to towns,” he muttered, shaking mud from his bootheel.
Crockett, with a buffalo robe wrapped around his shoulders, sat on the porch to his “Texas White House,” talking with several congressmen. As Will approached he heard Crockett saying, “I understand the problem with specie, Tom. The fly in the ointment is that without both a tariff and property tax, even as low as what has been proposed, we can’t protect our borders or defend our trade at sea.”
Crockett grinned ruefully at the other
man, before continuing, “It’s not like any of us was surprised that Santa Anna was denounced when he got to Vera Cruz or that the Corro administration in Mexico City rejected the treaty Santa Anna signed with us. The truth of the matter is without a standing army and navy we can’t protect our trade or our territory. If we can’t do those, then we might as well go to Washington with our tail between our legs and hat in our hand.”
The congressman said, “What’s so bad about that, Mr. President? Annexation would give us room to grow and lower our tax burden.”
Crockett glowered, “And for how long, Tom? I know Andy Jackson’s on the way out in March and there will be that Van Buren fellow next, and I hear tell he’s not sweet on annexation. I’d rather we chart our own path. And part of that path means we must figure out how to pay our own way. Taxes, and I hate ‘em as much as you, are a necessary evil. Now, Tom, I’ll be glad to talk solutions with you, but I’m afraid that General Travis here and I have a packet-cutter to catch. We’re off to Galveston this morning to review the island’s fortifications.”
Crockett bade farewell to the men as he stepped off the porch into the muddy road, grabbed Will by the elbow and headed toward Buffalo Bayou, where a small schooner was anchored.
“I hope you don’t mind the change in plans, but last week, I submitted my budget, along with some new taxes and as you can imagine, I got some of our congress critters angrier than wet hens at me. Getting out of town for the day suits me fine.”
They boarded the schooner from a skiff, which transported them from the shore. The boat weighed anchor, and swung around, heading for the open waters of Galveston Bay. The president stood next to the railing, watching the shore slide by as the small double-masted ship picked up speed when the northerly breeze filled the canvas sails. Will finally asked, “Are we really going to check on the fortifications on Galveston or is this just an attempt to dodge a few unhappy politicians?”
“Both, actually. Did you know that Andy Jackson sent his congratulations to David Burnet over our independence? And he sent a personal letter to Lorenzo congratulating him on his election as vice president. But he knows how to hold a grudge. He never has forgiven me for fighting him on what he did to the Cherokee. I heard from Stephen Austin that he’s tabled any action on recognizing our independence.”
Will grimaced. “Any chance Jackson’ll relent?”
Crockett guffawed, slapping his palm on the railing. “Jackson’s too pigheaded to do that. But never mind him. Steve has met with Van Buren and has received his promise that recognizing our independence will be one of his first actions come March.”
“That’s good. How is your former electoral rival doing as Minister to the United States?” Will asked.
“Like a fish to water, I’d say. I know he’d rather be playing the role of impresario, but the constitution’s pretty much put paid to that. I expect once Van Buren is in office that Steve’s job will get a bit easier. But he’s had a fair degree of luck scrounging up a loan here and there and a few gifts as well. That money, as you well know, is coming in handy.”
Will glanced down into the murky depths of the bay before asking, “What about Europe? Any word from our ministers there?”
“Word? Yes. Good news? Not yet,” Crockett replied. “I wonder if I made a mistake appointing Colonel Grant as chargé d'affaires to the British. I figured being a former subject that he’d do well. But his last letter just asks for more money and gives me empty promises. Dammit, Buck, it’s only been a few months, but I have my doubts that I chose well with him.”
Will prompted him, “What about France and the Germanies?”
Crockett cheered up at the question, “I’m glad you suggested appointing Mirabeau Lamar as minister to France. That man has fire enough for two men. I can’t rightly say that he’s making headway, but I received word just last week that he’s secured a couple of loans. He has even been able to press the French to allow emigration, which is something I didn’t think he’d be able to wrangle. The more of us there are the harder it will be to force us out. The Germanies, I’ve appointed Edward Harkort to act as our chargé d'affaires there. He’s actually still in Galveston at the moment. We’ll see him later today. He’s been building the new fort there. I don’t want to get false hope, but I am trusting that he’ll be able to talk more Germans into coming. They’re hard workers and if he’s any example, they like building things.”
When the tiny Schooner docked in Galveston, Crockett led them down the gangplank and across the dock to a livery stable. With rented horses, the two men threaded their way through the crowded streets. As headquarters for the fledgling Texas Navy and the nascent Marine Corps, as well as the best port in the Republic, Galveston had grown rapidly over the past year, as a couple of thousand people called it home and even more transitioned through the town on the way to where they were going.
There were fewer houses as they rode eastward. They crossed over several sand dunes until they arrived on the eastern tip of the island, where an octagonal earthen fort had been constructed. Along each wall a parapet was being constructed. Large canvas tarps were draped over several large coastal guns, in storage until their platforms were ready.
When Will and Crockett entered the fort, Will noticed Edward Harkort approaching. Nominally an engineer under Will’s command, he had been working with the Navy to construct this fort since the middle of the year. With a thick German accent, he said, “I’m honored to have you here, President Crockett and General Travis.” His words were precise and formal, while his tone conveyed a strong hint of reproach at their unannounced arrival.
Ignoring the German’s tone, Crockett waved him off with, “Don’t mind us, Captain Harkort. Had to escape all those congress critters in Harrisburg, and thought we’d take a gander at this here fort of yours.”
Mollified, Harkort scurried away, shouting at several slaves working on framing one of the parapets. Will cocked an eyebrow at Crockett, “Labor problems, David?”
Crockett’s eyes tracked across the fort and saw the slaves. He shrugged, “I left this in the hands of Harkort, Buck. Let’s ask him. He’s proven to be a trustworthy man.”
When asked about the use of slaves, Harkort said, “I was approached by several men of property on the island and asked if I would lease their laborers. According to your own directive, General, I was permitted to use land scripts to pay for labor. But I have also paid each of the negroes two bits each day for their labor. I don’t care for what slave labor does to the value of each man’s worth, but by using them I have progressed faster than I would have without them. Their owners get some cheap land on the frontier, and these men get some silver in their pockets.”
Will opened his mouth to respond, but closed it as he realized Harkort was making the best of a miserable system. On one hand, it gratified him to see Harkort’s own distaste for the system, but he was also disturbed how the German compromised with it, and harnessed it to the military’s purpose. “Very well, Captain.” He almost asked about where he was getting fifty cents per day for each of the slaves, then decided he didn’t want to know the answer.
After inspecting the fortification, Will and Crockett rode out of the fort back to Galveston. “Will, people might mistake you for a Yankee rather than a Southerner with your views.”
Will grinned sheepishly, “I’d rather they mistake me for a Texan.”
***
The next day Will was back in Harrisburg, sitting in Crockett’s small cabin. Ledgers and other recordkeeping books were scattered across the table as he tried to make sense of the income and expenses. After looking over a stack of invoices, totaling more than $50,000, he set them aside and asked, “What has Michel Menard been able to accomplish as treasurer?”
Crockett frowned, “Not as much as he promised. Oh, he’s hiring reputable men to act as customs agents at our ports and has actually proposed an idea for selling land to newcomers. But it’s not taking off. it’s just the hole we are digging ourselves into is so damn
ed deep, that it’s going to take a miracle to pull us out of it. The republic is more than a million dollars in debt, and I can assure you that we took in only slightly more than one hundred thousand dollars this year. Who’s going to extend credit to a broke country?”
Will whistled appreciatively, and said, “That’s no small feat, David. For what it’s worth, I think you need to give Menard a free rein with the treasury regarding to customs duties. I’d be willing to bet that more than two million dollars in trade will come through our ports and borders with the United States next year. The tariff alone should be able to generate more than a quarter million dollars. I know it’s a drop in the bucket. But it’s a start.”
As Will continued flipping through the various ledgers, he found one which listed as assets 251,579,800 acres. 26,280,000 acres were marked as distributed, either during the Spanish or Mexican eras. Will showed the information to Crockett, “Here’s the long-term solution to our money problems, David. We have more than two hundred and twenty million acres of public land in the Republic. The first thing we need to do is empower Menard’s treasury department to collect property taxes. From there, we need to quickly settle as many of the title disputes between people as we can. The sooner a piece of land has a clear title, the sooner it can be taxed.”
Crockett shook his head in disagreement, “Buck, I’m not in favor of taxing people coming and going. Won’t we make enough just selling the public lands? It seems to me that it would take a couple of life times to sell all the land.”
Will glibly replied, “If a man owns six-hundred-forty acres, at a minimum, his land is worth three hundred twenty dollars. That assumes it is truly valued at the fifty cents an acre we’re currently selling our public lands for. Now, if the tax on the property is one per cent, this farmer or rancher pays three dollars and twenty cents. That’s a small price to pay, David. Especially if we permit the tax collectors to accept grain, corn or cotton in place of hard currency.”
