by Drew McGunn
Will shuddered at the thought. “Soldiers don’t react pleased when their rifle blows up in their face.”
The elder Berry nodded, “I can only imagine, General. After carefully studying your drawings, and a heavy dose of trial and error in the designs, I believe I have found a solution to the problem.” He picked the rifle back up and pointed to the gun’s breech, “This rifle uses what I call a falling block for the breech.”
Berry levered the breech open, dropping the block down, showing Will where the paper cartridge was inserted. “I’ve got a lubricated paper cartridge here.” He slid the rolled-up cartridge into the breech until the paper was snugly seated at the block. “I liked your idea to use the edge of the breechblock, as a blade, slicing off the end of the cartridge. In my testing of Mr. Hall’s carbine, that was one thing I didn’t like, having to tear the end of the cartridge with my teeth before pouring the powder and shot into the breech.” He levered the breech closed, lopping off the end of the paper cartridge, exposing the gunpowder in the barrel to the firing hole. He set a cap on the nipple and handed the gun to Will. “Let’s see what you think of this.”
Unlike the stubby length of the Halls Carbine, this prototype was a full-length rifle. The barrel alone was thirty-six inches long. As he stepped back to the firing line, he saw a target had been set up at the end of the range, a hundred yards away. He sighted down the barrel, and liked that the front sight lined up nicely with the rear. He squeezed the trigger and felt the gun recoil into his shoulder. When they retrieved the target, Will saw his shot was just off the bullseye. “Not too bad,” he said, “Is it me or are the sights off a smidgen?”
With a twinkle in his eye, the elder Berry said, “I’ve put over a dozen shots dead in the center of the bull's-eye, General. I don’t think the sights are the problem.”
Will chuckled as he was about to hand the rifle back to Berry, then noticed a smudge of fouling on his right sleeve from the rifle’s discharge. When he asked about it, Barry replied, “We haven’t completely stopped gas from escaping from the breech when this rifle is fired. I thought we had the problem licked when we designed the breech to have a metal sleeve in the back of the breech’s chamber. The idea is the sleeve would seal the breech when the gun was fired. Unfortunately, it gets fouled after a couple of shots. But even then, the gun remains very accurate and deadly out to a range of five hundred yards.”
“Mr. Berry, you’ve built a fine prototype here.” Still holding the rifle, Will levered the breech open and looked at the metal sleeve. Something tickled the back of his mind, recalling something he had read back in college. “You know, sir, I may have an idea about how to seal the block more effectively. Try putting a platinum ring in this metal sleeve. I believe if you can do that, when the gun is fired it will make a seal that is less likely to get fouled. Do that and we can conduct another test.”
Platinum’s use as a superconductive metal meant there was a small quantity available at the gun works. It took another day for John Berry, the elder, to machine a platinum ring which was fitted into the prototype’s breechblock. After a few dozen rounds were fired from the prototype, in which the seal kept gas from escaping, Will and the Berrys were satisfied with the new rifle.
That evening Will and Charlie joined John Berry, his wife, his sons, and their wives, and several of their children around a crowded dinner table. As the meal wound down, the elder Berry stood and cleared his throat until everyone around the table settled down. “I don’t have to tell most of you how much it has meant to not just us, but also to the men we employ, that we have been blessed by the contracts the army has given to us. We are doubly blessed to have General Travis and his son join us today and we would be remiss in not showing our appreciation to the general.”
As a teetotaler, and a Baptist, John Berry lifted a glass of buttermilk in Will’s direction. “To your good health, General Travis.”
Never a fan of buttermilk, Will accepted the toast with a nod and a sip in the spirit in which it was given. The Trinity Gun Works was critical to Will’s plans for his evolutionary strategies through which he intended to take the army. Berry’s gesture came from the heart. Will stood and lifted his own glass and replied, “Mr. Berry, on behalf of a grateful army, I thank you. If I may, I would like to raise a toast, not just to you and your fine sons, but to the .44 Caliber Trinity Arms Revolver and the .52 caliber rifle.”
Cups full of buttermilk clinked across the table and Will chugged the cloying drink down his gullet.
As Will and Charlie returned to San Antonio by way of a stage coach from West Liberty, Will’s spirits were buoyed by the positive developments. Even so, he knew several members on the House of Representative Appropriations Committee would scream like bobcats, when they saw the bill for the new weapons. The new 1840 Model Trinity Arms Revolver was going to cost nearly twenty dollars, nearly five dollars more than the revolver they were buying from Colt’s factory. The saving grace was the initial order would be limited. The new rifle, which he was thinking about calling the Sabine Rifle, was expensive at thirty-six dollars each. Just to outfit the regular infantry was going to cost nearly $30,000.
***
Will gazed up at the gray December sky and watched a few scattered snowflakes tumble along the biting northerly wind. He pulled his heavy, woolen greatcoat tighter around his throat as he climbed the stairs to his office above the Alamo’s hospital. The office was cold as he lit the lamps. In the corner, the coals from the previous day had grown cold in the Franklin stove. He loaded the stove with coal, grabbed an old copy of the Telegraph and Texas Register, and lit it with a match. An editorial by Sam Houston was visible, as the flames licked at the newspaper’s corners. Houston had been advocating annexation, again. As the flame spread, eating away at Houston’s words, Will slid the rolled-up newspaper under the coals and closed the stove’s door.
Will slid into his chair and allowed himself a smile as he enjoyed watching Houston’s words eaten by the flames. At least for the next couple of years, Texas was safe from any concerted effort at annexation. Two years remained until the next presidential election and it was too early to know who would follow Crockett. No doubt, Will reasoned, Lorenzo de Zavala would run. As the current vice president, it made perfect sense. But he worried whether the transplanted Mexican would be able to win enough votes. With no crystal ball to gaze into, he set the thought aside and glanced down at his clean desk.
He unrolled a large map, which stretched across the desk’s width. The whole of the Republic was spread out before him. Even though Texas claimed the Rio Grande to its headwaters, the reality was the Republic only controlled the lower Rio Grande valley’s first three hundred miles or so. Two forts were clearly marked on the map. The nearest was Fort Moses Austin, at Laredo. At long last, he had managed to get a full company of infantry stationed there. But more than fifteen hundred miles of the river, claimed by Texas, and ceded by Santa Anna, remained nominally in Mexican hands. For reasons easily understood, Santa Anna had been deposed when he returned to Mexico having lost Texas. None of the governments in Mexico City, and Will knew there had been a few of them, recognized the treaty. Eventually it was going to cause another war.
As Will looked at the western part of the map, studying where the Rio Grande curved from its northwesterly route to one which was more northerly, he thought, “If we want to capture the rest of our claimed territory, forget going straight for Santa Fe. That route takes an army too close to the treaty line with the Comanche, and there’s five hundred miles with nothing but dirt and sand.”
Will fixed his eyes on El Paso. “Take El Paso, and cut Santa Fe off from the rest of Mexico.”
Any planned expedition to bring the villages on the north shore of the Rio Grande at El Paso under Texan rule would be a huge undertaking. As he sat, eyeing the distance between San Antonio and El Paso on the map, he recalled his study of Texas history in college, before the transference. A Republic of Texas that now would never be, had made several attemp
ts to conquer the parts of Nuevo Mexico ceded by the treaty between Santa Anna and Sam Houston. All had failed.
In Will’s mind, the single biggest reason for their failure was the efforts were amateurish. There was a quote he had heard when he served in Iraq. "Amateurs talk about tactics, but professionals study logistics." His fingers followed an imaginary line between San Antonio and El Paso. To capture the Mexican enclave on the northern side of the river would require several supply depots which meant more men in the quartermaster’s corps and more teamsters and civilian contractors hauling supplies along that line. For Will’s little army it would take a herculean effort, and stretch their resources, but he was determined to make it so.
He heard a sharp knock at the door, and glanced at the clock on the wall. Right on time. Now was the time to start designing the force he would need. He called out, “Come in.”
The door opened, and Captain Jack Hays strode in. The room temperature had climbed until the room was only mildly chilly. The young officer loosened his brown military greatcoat before sitting in the chair opposite Will. “General, I got your order to report here, sir. But I’m a might confused about it. You had me turn my company over to Lieutenant Ross. Am I in trouble?”
Will smiled warmly at the younger man. “No, Captain. Actually, your service earlier in the year in Galveston was exceptional. Major Caldwell has only good things to say about you since then. No, Jack, the reason you’ve been recalled to the Alamo is that I have a little project for which I need your skills. Before I get into it, take a gander in yonder wooden box against the wall and fetch its contents for me.”
Intrigued, Hays went over to the box and brought out a matte green jacket. It was a cotton and wool blend, similar in manufacture to the butternut uniforms worn by the Texas army. “What have we got here, sir?” Hays fingered a stitched black star on the right breast.
Will leaned back, watching Hays hold up the jacket, and said, “Captain, you’re looking at the jacket that Company I of the Texas Rangers will be wearing. Oh, and by the way, you’re being assigned to Company I, Texas Rangers.”
Hays plopped back in the chair as his mouth was agape. After a long moment he found his voice, “But General, there is no company I. Last I heard, congress has only authorized eight companies of Rangers.”
Will pulled an envelope from a drawer and handed it over to the captain. It was closed with a wax seal of the Republic. “What’s in there is not to be shared with anyone else. Further, what we talk about here is to be kept in the strictest of confidence. Understood?”
After Hays nodded, Will continued, “President Crockett and Secretary of War, Bernard Bee have authorized this special company on the condition the total size of the military remain unchanged until next year’s budget. I have instructed each of the other Ranger captains to send me their best four men by the first of January. Additionally, between our infantry, cavalry, and artillery, those sixteen company commanders are also to send me their best four men. The navy and marines will be sending around twenty, as well. That’s about a hundred and ten men. Now, Company I won’t be keeping all of these men. No, you’re going to spend the next couple of months sorting out which of these men you’ll keep. I want you to select the best shots, the hardiest fighters, best riders but more importantly, those who can think and act most independently, while still following orders. Once you’ve sorted the wheat from the chaff, you’ll keep around forty men in your company.”
Hays whistled appreciatively. “That would be one humdinger of a command, General. But, if I may ask, why?”
Will pointed at the map on the desk. “Captain, while the Comanche have been pushed out of Texas, by and large, we’d be fools to simply give them the benefit of the doubt. Also, Mexico will, no doubt, test us again, if for no other reason than to distract their people from their own government’s failures. When that time comes, I want a small force that can ride anywhere, fight anyone and whip everyone.”
Hays chuckled at the evocative image before replying. “Hell’s bells, General. That’s a tall order. How are we going to do that?”
Will’s smile slid into a malevolent grin, as he opened another drawer and pulled out the new 1840 .44 caliber Trinity revolver and set it in front of Hays. The captain picked the heavy weapon up and examined it. After cocking the pistol, he slid the loading lever out and watched the cylinder slip out of the frame. “Hot damn, General, you can reload this gun quicker than greased lightning.”
“You ain’t seen nothing yet, Captain,” Will said as he stood and retrieved a rifle, wrapped in a blanket. He unwrapped the weapon and hefted it. “The Trinity Gun Works just started producing this one here. We’re going to call it the Model 1841 Sabine Rifle. We’ve fixed the gas leakage and it is accurate out to five hundred yards. I believe a trained rifleman will be able to fire up to eight aimed rounds a minute. I’ll leave it up to your men to prove me right.”
Captain Jack Hays, all of twenty-three years of age was giddy as he thought of the firepower which would be at his command with these weapons. “Sign me up, General.”
Chapter 22
Will was impressed by how much Galveston had grown in the five years since the founding of the Republic. The ship’s pilot who had brought him across from the mainland said there were more than four thousand souls on the island. Judging by the ships’ masts alongside the docks, more were arriving weekly. As he’d ridden his horse away from the docks and into the town, he must have heard at least a dozen languages.
As he came to a wide crossroad, a white-painted wooden sign proclaimed he was looking at Broadway. He chuckled as he urged his mount to head to the west. By the time he was past twenty-fifth, or Bath Avenue, he was leaving the city proper behind. It was a far cry from what he remembered, as every time his horse’s hoofs struck the dirt, little puffs of dust kicked up, carried along by a cool, southerly-blowing breeze.
“Not an unpleasant day for February,” he thought.
He rode along, enjoying the cool breeze, blowing from the gulf. It reminded him of the last time he had been to Galveston. He and President Crockett had toured the two coastal forts, which covered Boliver Roads, the narrow channel between Galveston Island and Bolivar Peninsula. While he wish Congress had chosen a different name for the fort on the eastern tip of Galveston, he was growing used to seeing Fort Travis on the maps and charts of the area. Despite it’s name, he couldn’t help but be impressed by the development of the fort.
Battery C of the 1st Texas Artillery was garrisoned there, along with Galveston’s contingent of Marines. The fort also served duty for the navy as a storage facility for equipment and supplies.
In addition to the two company-sized regular military units, Fort Travis also served as the muster location for General McCulloch’s national guard units on the island. When fully manned, including the reserve units, it could hold as many as four hundred men and twenty-four large coastal artillery pieces. As Will came to another cross street, which was in fact a dirt trail, he dismissed thoughts of the fort from his mind as the dirt trail became little more than a meandering foot path, which he followed until he came to another large, white-painted road sign, declaring to any and all who passed it by that he was at the intersection of Avenue P and 33rd Street. As he sat atop his horse, looking down two tracks which could only charitably be called streets, he thought it pretentious to go to such expense labeling cow paths with street posts. But he then recalled in his own time, the entire eastern end of the island was fully developed. The town developers, Mr. McKinney and Mr. Williams motto might as well have been, “Go big or go home.”
He reined in his horse as he arrived at his destination. He was outside a large story and a half, white house. Will had been amused when he had read in a newspaper Thomas McKinney had shipped in two pre-fabricated houses from Maine, but now as he stood in front of one of them, it was clear prefabricated housing in 1840s meant something entirely different than in 2008. There must have been nearly a thousand homes built on the island over
the past few years, but without a doubt, this was one of the nicest.
A man appeared from around the side of the house. His skin was as dark as ebony, and he walked with a pronounced limp using a walking stick. When he saw Will, still sitting on his horse, he hobbled over and after bobbing his head, in what must have passed for a bow, asked, “You be Gen’ral Travis, sir?”
As he dismounted, Will swallowed the bile which rose in his throat and handed the reins to the slave. “Yes, I am. Mr. Williams is expecting me.”
Will sighed unhappily, as he followed the slave. He felt angrier at that moment than he had felt five years earlier, as slavery had continued to expand its tendrils across the Republic. While things were better than in the history he knew, because no master was required to seek permission from the government to free a slave, he wouldn’t be satisfied until the whole horrid practice was consigned to the ash heap of history.
He stuffed aside his misgivings, as he followed the elderly slave up the stairs, where he expected another slave to hold the door open. But when the door flew open, he saw a young, tow-haired boy standing, with his eyes wide and his mouth slightly agape, staring at him. As Will made as if to enter, the boy grinned and stepped aside, while hollering, “Pa, General Travis is here!”
As Will followed the lad into a large sitting room, at the front of the house, he was struck by the number of shelves, lined with books, which ringed the room. A large, wooden desk was at one end of the room and two men sat there. From their looks, Will guessed his arrival had interrupted a conversation. Samuel Williams stood as Will followed the boy. “General Travis, it is indeed a pleasure to meet you.”
Will strode up and took Williams’ outstretched hand and shook it. “It is I who am indebted to you and Mr. McKinney for agreeing to meet with me.”
