by Drew McGunn
The chapel, along with the entire Alamo mission belonged to the Republic, and its stout walls now reinforced, protected Texas’ interest in the southern parts of the Republic. But this day, the chapel served a far different purpose, hosting the marriage between the commanding general of the Texas army and the daughter of the Republic’s president. Will was happy to have found a Methodist minister who was agreeable to conduct the wedding ceremony inside the old walls of the chapel.
Will stood with the minister in the chancel. He wore the same dark-brown dress uniform he had worn when he first started courting Rebecca Crockett at the Christmas party nearly two years before. To his left, his best man, Juan Seguin was dressed in his own cavalry dress uniform. Rather than the long frock coat, it was an elaborately embroidered double-breasted shell jacket. Beside Seguin, stood Charlie Travis. The eleven-year-old stood proudly next to the two soldiers, wearing a black jacket and white shirt, with a cravat. As Will leaned forward and smiled at his son, the boy proudly smiled back, feeling grown up, wearing the expensive suit.
The room grew silent as the heavy chapel doors swung opened, and Will watched Rebecca Crockett, enter on her father’s arm, as they walked down the aisle. She was dressed in a cerulean gown, which made her eyes look like a cloudless sky at sunset. Everyone stood until she arrived at the altar, where she stepped next to Will. David came around, facing the two lovers and set Rebecca’s hand into Will’s. He leaned in, whispering, “William, in marriage, you can be happy, or you can be right. Maybe it’s why I spent too much time away.” He paused for a moment, and Will thought he saw a little moisture in Crockett’s eye. “The daughter of my blood, who I love so deeply I give to the son of my spirit. May you together make a happy life. Else, I know where to find you,” he said, looking at Will, as his lips curled into a happy smile.
The remainder of the ceremony passed by quickly for Will. Most of it was a blur, and he remembered very little except for the part where he said, “I do,” and the minister pronouncing them man and wife, and then kissing Becky’s sweet lips. It wasn’t their first kiss, but by Will’s estimation, it was their sweetest. As the kiss lingered, several officers whistled and coughed. There were certain proprieties to which fashionable members of society adhered, and lengthy kisses in public, even at a wedding, were frowned upon. Will couldn’t have cared less. As the first lingering kiss as man and wife ended, Will saw most of the officers were standing, applauding them. He smiled back at them, proprieties be damned.
Blushing at the attention, Becky took Will’s arm and they hurried down the aisle and out the chapel doors. As well-wishers filed out, Will turned around, still holding tightly to her hand, and looked up at the tall fortress-like walls of the Alamo Chapel and marveled at the turn of events which had led him to this moment. A little more than three years before, he woke up in the body of a man he knew of as a martyr to Texas liberty, and now a scarce three years later, he commanded the army of the Republic. He had watched David Crockett become its first elected president, and now, he had married the beautiful daughter of one of his best friends.
He couldn’t help but think, “I wanted nothing more than to forget the Alamo when I arrived.” He looked over at Becky, who radiantly smiled back at him, “Now I want to remember the Alamo.”
Chapter 19
As Will and Becky settled into married life, despite the fact Will’s scheduled didn’t give him time to take an extended honeymoon with his new bride, he was surprised to discover the idea of a honeymoon was something for which Becky saw no need.
“Will, why do we need to get away somewhere and spend a bunch of money, just to make a baby? We can do that right here in San Antonio.”
Smiling crookedly at her, he couldn’t argue with his wife, so they stayed in town and he spent more time at home in the weeks following their marriage.
As a particularly nasty cold front caused most of the folks in San Antonio to seek warmth indoors, Will was sitting at his work-desk at home, plodding through the mound of paperwork required to run even a small army. Becky and Henrietta were sitting in rocking chairs near the hearth and Charlie was sitting at the dinner table, with a textbook open. The eleven-year-old was transcribing Latin from the textbook onto a sheet of paper. As Will set his own pen down, he glanced over at the boy, who was biting his lip as he transcribed the text.
“Friar Jesus is a good teacher,” Will thought.
Many of the wealthy Tejanos, as well as the town’s growing merchant class sent their children to the school attached to the San Fernando parish. As far as Will was concerned, there was no better option which wouldn’t require sending Charlie away to a boarding school back east.
Will was dismissive of the idea. Some of the wealthier plantation owners in East Texas who could afford to, sent their children back east to attend boarding schools. It wasn’t an option as far as Will was concerned. He hadn’t decided if the twenty-first century working-class values which he grew up with or the fact it was the rich plantation owners sending their kids to boarding schools, but Will was happy for Charlie to attend the small, private academy.
As he listened to Charlie’s pen scratch across the paper, Will opened an envelope he recently received from Don Garza, president of the Gulf Farms Corporation. Most of the letter was split between the results of the 1839 harvest and developmental plans for 1840. Toward the end, Garza disclosed plans to build a school in West Liberty, where the corporation’s offices were located. Nearly all the farmland under development by the corporation was located within a short distance from the town, and Garza speculated a school would allow him to attract more farmers, allowing the corporation to expand.
Will chuckled to himself. Part of him found it amusing Garza’s obvious intent was driven by the financial bottom line. To the president, the school was an investment in the future of the corporation. As he thought about Garza’s actions, he realized the principle of providing an education to the children in Texas would similarly act as an investment in the Republic’s future. With that thought firmly in his mind, Will lifted his pen and began writing a letter to Crockett.
***
The day’s session of the Senate had concluded only moments before and Lorenzo de Zavala was exhausted from dealing with the twenty men who comprised that august body. As the Republic’s vice president, he had the misfortune, as he thought of it, to preside over the senate. Their constant squabbles and pettiness were wearing him down. He exited the capitol building, which was still surrounded with scaffolding, as the builders worked to put the finishing touches on the structure. He cursed David Crockett under his breath for asking him to serve as his vice president. He heard a noise behind him and turned. “Of course.”
David Crockett was following him down the dirt path, which winded down the hill on top of which perched the capitol building. Zavala stopped and waited for the president to catch up. “Speak of the devil and see if he doesn’t turn up.”
Crockett smiled at the comment and slapped Zavala on the back. “It’s good to see you singing my praises, Lorenzo.”
As the two of them crossed the street, Zavala saw a small rock in the road and kicked at it. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, David?”
As they entered the smallish building which currently housed the Texas Department of State, as well as both of their own offices, Crockett led him into the cramped temporary office of the president. Crockett settled into his own chair and with a crafty smile, said, “I doubt you’ll find this particularly pleasurable. I’ve got a problem and I need you to solve it for me.”
As Zavala moved a stack of books from a small chair opposite of Crockett’s own, he said, “What sort of problem, David?”
Crockett waved a letter in front of him. “The problem with competent people is they tend to make more work for lazeabouts like me. I got a letter from Buck Travis and damned if he hasn’t presented me with a humdinger of a problem I was ignorant about until he wrote to me.”
Crockett handed the offending piece of correspondence
to Zavala, who took his time to read the letter a couple of times. Finally, he said, “Public education’s actually a pretty good idea, David. We’ve been so busy trying to hold the Republic together that we haven’t given much thought to what comes next. But General Travis is right. An investment in education is commitment to the future of the republic. But we’re as poor as church mice.”
Crockett conceded the point. “While it’s true the Republic may be as poor as Job’s turkey, at least we’ve got a pot to piss in.”
Zavala looked askance, “Nearly every dollar we collect or borrow goes to pay for our army and navy, where are we going to find the money to start our educational system?”
Crockett pointed out the window, “Lorenzo, we have a hundred ninety million acres of land in the Republic.”
Zavala’s eyes followed his finger. As he glanced out the window, he said, “But most of that land isn’t worth damn all today, David. How do you propose to make a go of public education?”
“That’s a fair assessment of our predicament, but much of our land is rich in timber and there are places where there are deposits of coal and other minerals. Hell, we already have a growing timber industry and I hear tell that north of Santa Fe there are silver and gold deposits on land we won in our treaty with Mexico.”
Zavala grumbled. “A treaty their current government doesn’t recognize.”
Crockett ignored the comment. “I allow, we’ve got too many taxes to make me comfortable, but thinking about our country’s future I’ve been considering the possibility of adding a mineral tax for things like coal, iron, silver and anything else that can be mined. That revenue would be used exclusively for educating Texas’ children.”
Zavala weighed Crockett’s idea. “It has some merit, if we can enforce on Mexico the Rio Grande as the border of Texas. Right now, the folks who are currently running things down there, won’t even give us the time of day.”
Crockett shrugged, “We’ll deal with that as the situation demands. Do you think we can make a go of this?”
“Maybe. Do we delegate the collection of any mineral tax revenue to our counties?”
“Hell, no. They’re having a difficult enough time just managing to get the district courts, which the constitution puts on their shoulders, to run. No. But maybe in a few years. Let’s talk about the present. Right now, where in Texas is education happening, Lorenzo?”
Zavala thought about it. “Mostly in private schools. I know Juan Seguin swears by the San Fernando Parish school in Bexar. Most of the Seguin kids attend there. So does General Travis’ son, if memory serves me correctly. San Felipe has a Methodist run school and there’s another Catholic parish school in Nacogdoches. Are you hinting we should work with these existing schools?”
Crockett nodded. “Possibly. What do you think the courts would say?”
Zavala chuckled. “As long as the money isn’t used for sectarian purposes, like religious instruction, I think they’d allow it.”
Crockett said, “That was my thought too. I got no truck with the Republic funding any church, but so long as the money is only for basic education, it could work, at least until our cities and counties get well enough organized to help carry the load.”
Zavala laughed. “You have no idea, David. I’m sure that my fellow Catholics in Congress would love to see more Catholic schools started, and our Baptist, Methodist and Presbyterian members would jump at the chance to see their own schools bolstered. Getting them to agree on that, is the easy part.”
Crockett smiled back slyly, “And the hard part is selling them on another tax. And that, my dear Lorenzo is where you come in, my exalted vice president. I need you to push it through Congress.”
Zavala groaned and let his head fall into his hands.
***
John Wharton resisted the urge to heave a sigh. The room in which he sat was cold, despite the closed window. A Franklin stove in the corner gave off scant heat. He glanced out the frosted panes and saw the dry docks of the Philadelphia Navy Yard below. He desperately wanted to be back in Texas, where he belonged. He wondered for what seemed the hundredth time how he found himself here.
He had campaigned for Sam Houston during the election four years earlier. When Crockett had won the election, Wharton won a seat in the House of Representatives, where he’d intended to serve in the government until the next presidential election, but when Stephen Austin drowned in the storm in which the Brutus was lost back in 1838, he was as surprised as anyone, when Crockett had appointed him to the post of Minister Plenipotentiary to the United States.
Despite his best efforts, that sigh finally escaped his lips. He would have been hard pressed to think of a city he detested more than Washington D.C., but now sitting in Philadelphia, he had found a winner. Were it not for a letter from both President Crockett and General Travis, he would have returned to his brother’s family in Houston for Christmas. Now, it looked like he would have to spend the season alone in Philadelphia. The mousy little assistant to the assistant to the assistant to the Secretary of War glanced over at him and asked, “Is there anything wrong, Minister Wharton?”
Wharton’s thoughts were drawn back to the present as he dryly replied, “Nothing a little warmth wouldn’t fix, Mr. Jones.”
At that moment, the door opened and a portly man, dressed in an expensive, heavy, woolen jacket entered the room, accompanied by a Naval Lieutenant and a cold gust of wind from the frigid hallway. As they settled around the table in the center of the room, Wharton took the opportunity to speak first. “Mr. Ericsson, it is a pleasure to meet with you in person. Even as far away as the Republic of Texas, we have heard of your contributions and inventions in the field of steam propulsion.” Having exhausted his own limited knowledge of Ericsson’s inventions, he concluded, “More to the point, your inventions have captured the attention of our president and War Department. Thank you for agreeing to this meeting.”
The mousy man, Mr. Jones, to his left piped up. “Minister Wharton, the United States has, since before your revolution, looked favorably on the people of Texas. Let me speak candidly, sir. Your government’s recent purchases in our shipyards has been very favorably received and is the reason, Secretary Poinsett arranged this meeting.”
Before the loquacious Jones could continue, John Ericsson interjected. “I’m pleased to hear my inventions have reached the ears of the government of Texas, but what does that have to do with me? I’m not sure how my inventions can help a few wild frontiersmen beyond the edge of civilization.”
Not for the first time since accepting the prestigious post as minister to the United States did Wharton curse the wildly inaccurate novels making their way around the United States about Texas. James French’s novel about the then Colonel Crockett sprang to his mind, but he set the unproductive thought aside as he said, “Civilization is making its way across the American continent, Mr. Ericsson, and that’s why I am grateful to Secretary Poinsett and Mr. Jones here for arranging this meeting. I have been sent by my government to seek a contract with you to build a ship. We understand you have developed a steamship powered by screws from inside the ship rather than side paddlewheels.”
Ericsson’s eyes lit up at the news and a smile creased his face for the first time since entering the room. “Yes. I have been trying to get these … gentlemen to build my ship designs.” As he finished, he pointed to the naval officer.
The naval lieutenant raised his hand, as though picking up a familiar discussion, “As we have said, repeatedly, Mr. Ericsson, your design requires more testing before the department of the navy commits two hundred thousand dollars from our appropriations budget to build this design.”
Before Ericsson could retort, Jones said, “And that’s where Mr. Wharton comes in, Mr. Ericsson.”
Picking up the cue, Wharton nodded. “Yes, that’s exactly right, sir. The government of Texas will appropriate in the 1841 budget the necessary two hundred thousand dollars for a frigate based upon your latest designs.” With th
at, he pulled from an envelope several sheets of paper on which had been drawn the proposed ship’s specifications, including the draft of the ship and the number of guns required. As he skimmed the details, he smiled as he realized someone back in Texas had taken into account Galveston Bay’s shallow ship channel.
Ericsson studied the drawings for a moment, “Ah, someone out there has been paying attention. You’ve included a forty-two-pound swivel mounted bow chaser. I’ve been working on a gun design as well as the mount that I think would benefit any ship.”
Jones, who evidently had become bored with the technical aspects of the design, chimed in. “If we’re all in agreement, the government of the United States will lease to the Republic of Texas one of our dry docks here in Philadelphia, where Mr. Ericsson will be chief engineer, designing and building a frigate for your government, Mr. Wharton.”
The meeting broke up, but Wharton was forced to take up residence in the dirty, northern city, as contracts were drafted, and initial payment was received. He followed progress closely as Ericsson began designing the frigate. The following February, he received notice from Austin his role was concluded, when it arrived accompanied by Captain James Boylan. Boylan, one of the republic’s naval captains, had been dispatched to oversee the continued development of Texas’ largest single expense, and to provide periodic updates until its scheduled completion.
Boylan’s arrival brought with it a summons for Wharton to return to Austin. And less than a month later he found himself in Austin, where the recent resignation of Crockett’s original Secretary of State, Thomas Ward, created a vacancy, which the president had offered to Wharton.
He received regular updates from Boylan and met regularly with President Crockett, passing along the latest information. During one such meeting, they were to be joined by General Travis, who was running late. They were meeting in the newly constructed presidential mansion. Wharton, a native of Virginia, was dismissive of calling the eight room house a mansion. Even so, Wharton was surprised Crockett, as a native of Tennessee, had not chosen a more Southern Plantation style for the building which would be home to Texas’ future heads of state. Despite his preference for the plantation style, Wharton couldn’t deny the Spanish hacienda design of the home had a certain warmth and charm to it.
