The Lone Star Reloaded Series Box Set

by Drew McGunn

  He was taking a sip of Tennessee whiskey proffered by the president, when General Travis finally arrived in the small salon Crockett used as his home office. As he took a lingering sip of the president’s excellent whiskey, Wharton found he harbored a degree of jealousy toward General Travis, who even at thirty-one, seemed to lead a charmed life. He had read the reports from the battles at the Rio Grande and the Nueces and knew that had those fights gone differently, then Travis and a lot of other men would have died, and Texas, as a republic, would have been stillborn. He decided there was no point arguing with success, and Travis’ reforms over the past few years had given the Republic a small but highly effective army.

  Once the officer was settled into a chair with a glass of the president’s whiskey, Wharton said, “The latest reports from Philadelphia are promising. Captain Boylan believes Ericsson will have the ship ready to launch early next year. He’s contracting the forty-two-pounder long gun to a foundry in England, which has an excellent reputation for naval artillery. As you’ve read in his reports, it’s evident the captain anticipates steaming into Galveston Bay before the first breath of spring next year.”

  The general set his whiskey glass down on the mahogany table and said, “If Mexico attempts to do anything against us by sea next year, we’ll lock down the gulf so completely, their trade will die on the vine.”

  After seeing the detailed design of the new ship, it was hard for Wharton to disagree. Travis fished a sheet from his jacket and set it on the table. “David, in order to field the new frigate as well as our schooners, we’re going to need to expand our navy. I’ve put pen to paper for next year’s budget, we’re going to need six hundred sailors and three hundred marines.”

  Wharton watched the president throw back the remainder of his whiskey, swallowing it in a single gulp. As he slammed the empty glass on the table, he said, “Buck, one of these days, I’m going to make you give this damned budget to congress. Those polecats are going to raise a stink when they see these numbers.”

  ***

  The hotel room was crowded and despite the open window, cigar smoke swirled above their heads. Henry Clay looked around the room, aware that some of the nation’s most powerful men were there with him. Sitting on a chair nearest the window was Daniel Webster. George Evans, Maine’s leading Whig congressman, leaned against the wall and John Crittenden, Clay’s fellow senator from Kentucky sat on the bed. The other men looked to Clay, waiting for him to explain why they were sitting in a hotel room in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania as the Whig National Convention got underway a few blocks away.

  The most powerful man in America, at least as Clay thought of him, was not there. Until a little more than a year before, Clay would have bet the most powerful man in the United States would be one of the four men in this room, but around that time he received a mysterious letter, addressed from a friend in Texas. At first, he ignored the anonymous writer, as he thought he had no time for some frontier Nostradamus. But after Mexico’s declaration of War against France, he came back to the letters and found that very prediction. Granted, France’s little pastry war with Mexico was hardly of significance to the United States, but the letter’s writer was certainly prescient.

  It was soon apparent Clay and the mysterious writer shared a common interest, neither wished to add Texas as the fourteenth slave state to the Union. When the mysterious writer predicted the beating the Whigs would take in the election of 1838, Clay dreaded any further correspondence, but the following missive took a different tact. Gone were predictions, in their place was a call to action. Clay and the other party leaders had been intending to move early in choosing the Whig candidate for the presidential election of 1840, but based upon the letters, Clay adjusted course and convinced other key politicians to let the dust of their defeats from 1838 settle and wait until the spring of 1840 to hold the convention.

  The other call to action the mysterious oracle had advised was a pact with Daniel Webster. It was for that reason Clay had called these other men to meet with him this day. He cleared his throat and said, “Thank you for joining me this afternoon. I fear if we do not join together, we’ll either get stuck with a former general or a current general. Neither Scott nor Harrison have the vision to lead our country out of the crisis created by the economic folly foisted on us by Jackson and his plantation aristocrats.”

  Webster laughed. “And I presume that you alone are the one to lead us into the promised land, Henry?”

  Clay smiled back. “Hardly that, Dan. I’d happily follow you like the children of Israel followed Moses across the Red Sea. But the truth is old fuss-and-feathers Scott will contest the convention against Harrison just out of spite.”

  Webster shook his head, “Give General Scott his due, Henry, he’s got more than enough arrogance to think he’d be the best president. But point taken. What are you proposing?”

  Clay smiled conspiratorially. “It’s simple. Over the next few days we each work to build as much support we can get in the convention hall, at the generals’ expense. After the first ballot, whichever of us has the least support, he will throw it behind the other. One of us will be president.”

  Webster smiled coyly at his fellow senator, “And what of the loser?”

  “The nation expects a unity ticket, Dan. A Northerner and a Southerner. I think we can claim that mantle.”

  Webster conceded the point. “True enough. What about you, Henry? If the wind blows my way, will you be my vice president?”

  Chapter 20

  The stagecoach jostled over the uneven road, as the steel rimmed wheels seemed to find every chuckhole on the road between Austin and Houston. Will had been skeptical of the Houston-Austin Overland Stagecoach Company’s advertisement to deliver passengers in just two days between the two growing towns.

  As the coach found another chuckhole, Will amended his thought, “At least not without jostling a passenger’s teeth loose.”

  As he looked over at his son, who was attempting to read one of the pulp novels featuring Nimrod Wildfire, he was pleased with how the previous four years had progressed. The twelve-year-old Charlie was doing well in school and had adjusted to having Becky as a step-mother. As his mind wandered, he thought about how much the army had developed. While still small, at little more than a thousand men, it could stand toe to toe with any like number of soldiers in the world.

  As he thought of the breech loading carbines every soldier carried, he amended his thought, “They can more than hold their own.”

  While the steam frigate was more than a year away from delivery, the three steam schooners were an equalizing force against any aggression by sea from Mexico.

  Rather than a shrine, into which the world of his memories had turned the Alamo, now it was the central command for the army. In four short years, the fort had been expanded, allowing for more troops to be comfortably garrisoned there as well as for the command structure to function out of the facility. With two forts on the Rio Grande, Texas controlled the Rio Grande Valley from the mouth of the river and snaking northwest to where the Camino Real intersected the river, 340 miles upriver.

  As he thought of the reason for his and Charlie’s trip east, Will was especially proud of the success of the Gulf Farms Corporation. He felt he played a simple role of investor and made no claim to be the brains of the operation. Don Garza’s sharp business acumen was the driving energy behind the success of the business. Nevertheless, Will felt pride at contributing more than just money and land. Garza and the other investors had agreed to his suggested pay structure. Cotton farming was a labor-intensive process, even for the corporation, and during both the planting and picking seasons it was necessary to add the wives and older children to the labor pool. While it had required more than a little arm twisting and even a bit of shouting, in the end, Will had shamed the other investors into agreeing to pay the farmers’ wives and their children for their labor. While each farmer kept about half of the income generated by his children, the other half was
escrowed until the child was sixteen. The wives kept all their pay. It was radical for the frontier, but the whole concept of a corporation competing against traditional plantations was radical.

  Philosophically, Will would have loved to have kept child labor from the corporation’s cotton fields, but when he had floated the idea at a board meeting, the blank stares he received from the other board members told him the idea wasn’t ready yet. Every small farmstead the wagon rolled by reinforced that reality. On nearly every farm, every available family member was needed to make a go of it on the frontier. He had learned a long time ago to pick his battles. The corporation’s farm would need more automation before changing their rules on child labor, and more automation was likely years’ away. But there were other changes which could be made, and that’s why he was allowing his body to be jounced about the coach, as it rolled eastward.

  His thoughts were interrupted when Charlie said, “Pa, what are those wires for?” The boy pointed out the window to several copper wires, strung between two rickety wooden posts.

  Will looked out the window and smiled when he saw the wiring hanging between the posts. “Those are telegraph wires.”

  “What’re those?” Charlie asked.

  “The end of each of those wires is a telegraph machine. It’s a device that sends an electronic signal along those wires. They can send signals back and forth over long distances.”

  Will recalled his own surprise when President Crockett sent for him the year after the Revolution had ended, while the government was still in Harrisburg.

  “If I recall, three years ago your Uncle Davy received a letter from the inventor of the telegraph offering its use to Texas. Your Uncle Davy asked me what I thought, and I told him that if Mr. Morse wanted to let us use the device we’d be foolish to pass on it.”

  His son grew thoughtful as he watched the rickety poles slide by the window. “How fast can they send a message, Pa?”

  “Almost instantly. We actually tested these telegraph devices around the Alamo and ran some wiring between the fort and the main plaza in San Antonio. Mr. Morse and several of his men paid us a visit as we set the system up. At first the system worked poorly. The further the signal traveled the weaker it became. It took Mr. Morse more than a year to figure out how to keep the signal strong enough to travel long distances. Last year was the first time we were able to successfully send a message between the main plaza and the Alamo and back again.”

  His book forgotten, Charlie asked, “Does that have something to do with those papers on your desk about the Across Texas thing?”

  Will nodded, “Yes. A few dozen of us, along with some investor friends of Mr. Morse chartered a company called the ‘Across-Texas Telegraph Company’ last year.”

  His next question caught Will off guard, “Pa, are we rich? You’re on the board of that Farm company and you also own part of those wires. I’d think it takes a lot of money to do that.”

  Will suppressed a smile, as he thought about how best to answer a simple question which had a complex answer. “There are certainly people that we know who are richer than we are, Charlie. But the truth of the matter is that as the General of the army, I am paid well. When we founded Gulf Farms, I put the land I received for my serving in the army and used it to get part ownership. Between the land and some savings, I was able to buy a part of Gulf Farms. Now, when the opportunity to buy into Mr. Morse’s invention came around, I took more savings as well as something called dividend payments that I received from Gulf Farms to buy stock in the telegraph company. I don’t think we’re rich, but I hope these investments will make money.”

  It was an incomplete answer. Texas had based the military pay scale on one being used by the United States in 1836. A brigadier general earned more than three hundred dollars each month. In an era in which the average clerk made twenty dollars, he knew he was doing much better than nearly everyone else. Even though Texas was about as far removed from the financial markets of New York and London, Will also wasn’t afraid to make his own opportunities. He hoped his investments would multiply with time. If he and the other investors could stay the course while Samuel Morse perfected his telegraph machine, Will knew just how profitable it could become. On that note, Will thought a little discretion was in order.

  “As you can see, they’re just now running copper wiring between Houston and Washington-on-the-Brazos. It’s all still rather secret, Charlie. Both Mr. Morse and President Crockett are holding off reporting this to our newspapers. So, just like those reports you see me reading in the evenings that are secret, this one is like that, too.”

  ***

  The stagecoach rolled to a stop in front of a two-story, wood and stone tavern in Houston. As Will stepped out and stretched it felt as though every bone in his body creaked and protested the abuse the previous forty-eight hours had inflicted on it. As advertised, he and Charlie had travelled from Austin to Houston in two days. As he crossed the street to the tavern, Will thought there was an air of pretention among the town’s developers. The street was mostly dirt, the part which wasn’t dirt was mud. But to cross from one side to the other was ninety-two feet from sidewalk to sidewalk.

  Will secured a room for the evening at the tavern. The coach to West Liberty would not leave until early the next morning. After cleaning the grime of the previous two days’ travel, he and Charlie were about to head down to the tavern’s taproom for dinner when there was a knock at the door.

  Perplexed by the sound, as the decision to stay here had been made when they had alighted from the coach, Will wondered who was knocking. As he opened the door, a short, portly man stood in the doorway offering his hand. “Merrill Taylor, at your service, General Travis.” The heavyset man spoke with a clipped English accent. Will looked him over, and there was something inviting about his smile, as though he were genuinely happy to be there. “May I come in? I represent banking interests in London, sir.”

  Hardly what he was expecting, Will opened the door and allowed the Englishman entry. As he settled into the lone, wooden backed chair, Mr. Taylor sighed painfully. “I do miss the comforts of England, General. Truthfully, while I have the utmost admiration for the fortitude and élan in which you Texians excel, I fear I would not last two weeks in this hardy land. But suffice to say, it seems to agree with you and your family.” He nodded briefly in Charlie’s direction, where the boy sat on the bed, studiously pretending to read his novel about Nimrod Wildfire.

  Will acknowledged the comment with a nod of his own but thought it best to let the other man divulge the reason for the visit.

  “I’m sure you’re curious as to what could motivate one such as myself to surrender my comforts and hie to this godforsaken place. I have been commissioned by several investors who have taken an interest in your investments, especially the, ah, Gulf Farms Corporation.”

  Will cocked an eyebrow and asked, “What about my investments has caught your factors’ attention, Mr. Taylor?

  “As I understand it, this year alone, Gulf Farms is projected to produce more cotton than the next five largest suppliers of cotton in Texas. You and your partners’ success is of special interest in that it has been done in defiance of the American South’s particular institution.”

  Will grimaced at his words. “Everything seems to come down to slavery, doesn’t it?”

  Taylor’s normally jovial face was solemn. “That, I regret to say, is as true a statement as can be made, General Travis. My factors were impressed by your impassioned stance during your own republic’s constitutional convention against the American South’s economic interests.”

  Will laughed bitterly. “That’s the irony, Mr. Taylor, I actually favor the South’s economic interest. Where I differ is that I know slavery will be the ruin of their interests, but they’re too mired in the weeds of their system to realize they’ve made a pact with the devil.”

  Taylor said, “Indeed. Your candor deserves the same on my part, sir. The men I represent have been impressed with
the way your farming corporation stands on the cusp of changing the way in which cotton is farmed. You are industrializing the process. In England, the textile industry is growing by leaps and bounds. New mills are sprouting up from Liverpool to Bristol and everywhere in between. But their growth, until now, has come from cotton grown almost exclusively from slave labor, in your neighbor’s southern states.”

  Will’s ears perked up. “Are you proposing that your investors wish to invest in Gulf Farms?”

  Taylor tilted his head and pursed his lips before answering. “Not exactly. For reasons that are entirely their own, my factors wish to remain anonymous. Let’s say there are other interests at work in England heavily invested in their own Mexican adventure, and my factors desire anonymity. What they propose is a personal loan facilitated by the Lloyds Bank of London, my present employer, to you directly.

  Several thoughts stampeded through Will’s mind as he digested the news. “Just how, uh, invested do your factors intend to be, Mr. Taylor?”

  Taylor leaned in, conspiratorially, and said, “One quarter of a million pounds, General.”

  Will collapsed on to the bed in shock, where he sat next to Charlie, who had given up any pretense at reading and was staring, slack-jawed at the Englishman. Will strangled out, “Just who in the hell are these benefactors of yours, Mr. Taylor?”

  Taylor smiled, leaned back in the rickety chair and said, “The generosity in the terms of the loan is only exceeded by their strict requirement for anonymity. I would not be giving anything away to say among their number are several of my country’s leading abolitionists as well as several well-connected politicians.”