by Drew McGunn
As King announced his guest, the camera panned out, allowing the viewers to see an older gentleman, with dark complexion. His high cheekbones belied his Amerindian derivation. His once raven hair had long given way to silver. It was cut short, and sharply parted down the middle.
The older man nodded and smiled at the camera. “Thank you for having me on your show this evening, Douglas Earl. It is a real pleasure to represent one of the views of Texas’ first peoples and share it with your viewers.”
The camera panned out and framed both men in the center of the screen. Beyond the two, a floor to ceiling window ran the entire length of the large executive suite, providing a stunning view of the prairie forty floors below.
King smoothed his tie and flashed a smile perfected by thousands of dollars of orthodontics. “Last week, we visited with Jason Ross, of the Cherokee Land Corporation. Do you take exception to any of his statements regarding the Cherokee’s early contributions to our nation?”
With a grandfatherly twinkle in his eye, Walker crossed his legs before replying. “No, of course not. In the early days of the republic, obviously we all know that the Comanche and Cherokee took very different paths to adding the ingredients of our cultures into the melting pot that defines Texas today. But allow me to remind your viewers that neither were the Cherokee native to Texas. They arrived around the same time as the white man. We Comanche were here before hem or your own ancestors.”
Douglas Earl King’s folksy charm hid a highly skilled touch at asking questions designed to elicit controversial reactions from his guests, and the old Comanche, veteran of many boardroom battles, was no stranger to subtle biting questions, riposted and put the anchor in his place.
With a placid smile, King moved the interview along. “Tell me, Elijah, in your opinion, what was the greatest challenge your ancestors faced in the early days of the republic.”
Walker’s eyes grew thoughtful, as he considered the question. “I think the first mistake my ancestors made was to underestimate the resolve of the early Texas settlers. Back in the first half of the nineteenth century my people were nomadic. In those days, we followed the buffalo and fought with anyone who approached the land we claimed. If I had to pick a point at which things started to change, it was a few months after Texas won independence. My people were afraid that if we didn’t try to stop the encroachment of the white settlers, we would be driven from the land. So, more than five hundred Comanche warriors rode out of the Comancheria and attached a settlement, Fort Parker.
“Among my people, we have never forgotten the response by General Travis. In your current history books, it gets downplayed, but the response by Travis was disproportionate. He tore through our land with his invading army, determined to force us to the peace table, no matter the cost to my people.”
King leaned in, “You said the first mistake the Comanche made was underestimating the resolve of the early settlers. A first mistake implies a second. Please elaborate.”
Walker smiled in the same grandfatherly way as earlier. “I believe it was Euripides who said that those who the gods would destroy they first make mad. It was utter folly to attack San Antonio. It’s hard to think about it now, with the city having several million people, but even back in the earliest days of the republic were there still a few thousand people living there, and most of the Texas army was there, too. My ancestors rode right into General Travis’ trap. The next twenty years were very hard on my people. Exiled off the plains south of here, we were forced to make our home here on the Red River.”
King plastered an inquisitive smile on his telegenic face. “I recall learning how hard life was for the Comanche in the years following the Comanche war. What do you consider to be the turning point for the Comanche’s fortunes?”
Walker’s eyes swept around the opulently decorated executive suite before focusing on the camera. “Ask any ten of us and you’ll get eleven answers. I’ll tell you my own thoughts, Douglas Earl. But keep in mind, I have my own biases. I think things started turning around when President Seguin offered to pay for what was then the panhandle of the Indian territory. You can be forgiven for wondering how an event that nearly caused a civil war between the northern and southern bands of the Comanche could be a turning point, but the decision by a handful of tribal leaders to take the money from the land sale and use it to found the First Comanche National Credit Corporation in 1858 was really genius.
At the time, poverty was a serious problem. The buffalo herds were fewer in number and there was growing pressure to our north from the northern plains tribes. Something had to change. My ancestors used no-interest loans from the corporation to found the first permanent Comanche towns on the banks of the Red River. Time, I think, has proven them right.”
The camera panned toward the floor to ceiling window, showing the viewer a picturesque view of the prairie in the distance. When King spoke, the camera refocused on the anchor. “How long did it take for rapprochement between the northern and southern bands?
Walker leaned back on the stool, and thought for a moment. “It must have been twenty years. Down here on the Red River, our towns were growing, and the railroads had connected them with other cities in Texas and back east. But our northern brethren clung bitterly to our old ways. I think it was their defeat at the hands of the United State cavalry in 1878 that ended their nomadic ways.
“Here in Texas we talk about the flood of immigrants that came to the Republic during the middle of the 19th century, but Douglas Earl, that flood was but a trickle compared to the number of white Europeans racing across the Great Plains in the United States. My own great-grandfather went to Austin, after our northern tribesmen were defeated by the US troops and lobbied for Congress to set aside reservations on the Texas side of the border. I wonder if that reservation saved them from extermination. That was a dark time in the relationship between the Yankee government in Washington and the native tribes across the Great Plains.”
King nodded, as if remembering the events himself. “Truly a terrible time, Elijah. Tell me, how much aid did the first Comanche National Credit Corporation provide to the northern bands of the Comanche after that?”
Walker’s eyes drifted toward an elegantly engraved map, on a panel of one of the walls. It showed a few counties, square in shape, that were formed around the towns of the southern Comanche. Between those counties and the northern bands were a row of counties formed out of the land bought by the Seguin administration. Largely populated by the descendants of people who fled the disastrous liberal revolutions of the 19th century, they separated the Comanche dominated counties along the Red River from the counties carved from the old Northern reservation.
Walker drawled, “Quite a bit. The land that the Seguin administration set aside was small and arid. The FCNCC bought land around the reservation that was more suitable for farmland and towns and helped our northern kinsmen build several towns and develop some ranches and farms.”
King placed a hand gently on the former chairman’s arm and confided, “Our one hundred seventy fifth anniversary series has celebrated that which makes us Texans. That which unites us, but Elijah, if I may, what are the differences that separate the Southern bands from the Northern bands of the Comanche?”
The producer, standing behind the table, watched in the monitor as Walker look askance at Douglas Earl. This was not on the script. The producer swore under his breath as the cameraman quietly chuckled. “Douglas Earl has gone off the reservation again.”
As though he had heard the cameraman’s soft words, Walker’s eyes crinkled as his lips hinted a smile. “Well, Douglas Earl, while none of us like focusing on our differences, I believe your own cable channel recently finished a series of programs on, what was it called? Blights across the Republic, if I recall correctly, where TCN chose to focus on the endemic poverty that persists in some pockets of the Northern bands. I wish TCN had taken the time to showcase how many in our Northern bands have done well, and have escaped from poverty that
is the legacy of the reservation system in North America.”
For the briefest of moments King looked like he had bitten down on a lemon, but he flashed his charming smile at the camera and then looked back at his guest. “Crime and poverty does seem to be pervasive in those counties inhabited by the Northern band, Elijah. Many of our viewers are curious about your bands managed to avoid a similar fate.”
Walker uncrossed his legs, and leaned forward, lightly touching King’s arm, as he replied with a folksy drawl, “Why, we adapted to the White man’s ways. Had we not, would you be interviewing me in a half-billion dollar high-rise office building on the banks of the Red River?” He didn’t allow King time to respond. “First Comanche National Credit Corporation is one of the largest financial companies in the western hemisphere. It is one of the five largest closely held corporations in Texas, worth more than fifteen billion dollars in assets. To get to that point, every Southern Comanche who could pull together a few friends and a halfway decent business idea tried their hands at the White man’s commerce. Most of it funded by the FCNCC.”
Walker slid off the tall stool and walked over to an old black and white photograph hanging on a marble wall. The camera followed him, and zoomed in to show a Comanche, with his hair braided back, hawking silver jewelry on the dockside in Kyoto. In the background were several sailing ships with tall masts. The old Comanche turned back to King. “My great-grandfather and a few other young bucks set up shop in Meiji Japan around 1870, selling Comanche jewelry and trinkets. It may have been glossed over in the standard Texas history books, but it’s no exaggeration to say that in the last few decades of the nineteenth century, wherever you found the flag of Texas commerce flying, you’d find a Comanche hawking our wares too.”
He returned to the stool and as he sat he said, “I don’t really understand why the same entrepreneurial spirt hasn’t been as pronounced among the Northern bands. Even so, I would like to remind your viewers, no other financial institution has made as large a commitment to the Northern bands as FCNCC. I’d like to think the First Comanche National Credit Corporation is the lender of choice there.”
King had recovered his telegenic charm by that time. “Thank you, Elijah. We have time for one final question on this evening’s show. Given that our series focuses on a retrospective of the past one hundred seventy-five years, what would you say is one of the proudest moments for the Comanche as part of the mosaic of the people of Texas?
“One moment to define our relationship with the rest of Texas? That’s a tall order, Douglas Earl.” Walker drawled, “Naturally, we’re proud of the Comanche regiment that served during the dark days of the War of Liberation. Knowing that our people made a substantial contribution to the freeing of the slaves is something we’ll always be proud of. I’m mindful that as the world prepares to commemorate the centennial of the Great War, Texas’ role has always been controversial, especially as we never ratified, let alone even participated in the Treat of Oslo. But that aside, if you study any significant battle between Texas and the Ottoman Empire, like the battle of Riyadh or the Siege of Baghdad, among the very first soldiers across the trench lines were the Comanche.
Behind the camera, the technician started counting down the end of the segment. King gazed into the camera, conveying the reassuring gravitas he was known for and said, “Thank you, Chairman-emeritus Elijah Walker. That is all the time we have this evening. Join us next week for the exclusive interview with Colton Crockett, the sixth great-grandson of the first president of the Republic of Texas, David Crockett, as he takes us through the battlefields of the War of Liberation. This is Douglas Earl King, reporting from Comanche City.”
Book 3:
To the Victors the Remains
Chapter 1
3rd May 1841
The young officer swept his black wide-brimmed hat from his head and took a once white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the grime from his face. The midday sun would have felt hotter if not for the cooling breeze from the north. Even so, the officer thought it warm as he unfastened his tunic’s top button. A quick glance toward the sun overhead wasn’t as important as the rumbling in his belly. “Alright, Mr. Cavanaugh, let’s break for lunch.”
A large, barrel-chested man with sunburned face and bright red hair climbed down from a wagon filled with dirt and turned to a group of laborers. “Ye heard Lieutenant Wagner, boys. Cesar’s got lunch ready.” To the German-born officer, the Irish foreman’s pronunciation of his rank as left-enant sounded wrong to his ears. Worse yet, was the way he pronounced the ‘w’ as ‘double u’, instead of the correct ‘v’. As the laborers received their food from the back of another wagon, the officer watched the men segregate themselves as they ate. The Tejanos were the largest group of laborers. As they found places to eat, the sound of Spanish could be heard, as they ate and chatted with each other.
The second group of laborers were the freedmen the army had hired. Their ebon skin, the lieutenant thought, was a much better protection against the harsh west Texas sun. As they talked and ate, their patois revealed their former status as slaves.
The last group, were the Irish. As English landlords had raised rents across the Emerald Isle, the number of Irish turning up in Galveston had climbed. Nearly a thousand had immigrated to the Republic the previous year. Cavanaugh, unlike the other Irish, was literate. It was the reason, if Wagner was honest about it, why the Irishman was the foreman for the two score workers.
After Wagner had eaten, he climbed atop the wagon and watched the laborers finish eating. The wagon was a custom-built device, constructed by the Republic’s small engineering company. A wide, heavy iron cylinder was fixed behind the seat. A team of two horses pulled the contraption. Its purpose was to compact the roadbed, which the lieutenant’s crew was building. Again, glancing at the sun, the young officer called out, “Mr. Cavanaugh, get the men back to work. This road isn’t going to build itself.”
As the men returned to work, Wagner’s attention was drawn to a team of soldiers in butternut uniforms, walking across the rolling prairie toward the work crew. Each carried the new breech-loading Model 1842 Sabine Rifle. They were part of the squad of infantry assigned to Wagner’s construction crew as guards. With the Comanche war a few years in the past, the lieutenant hoped the guards were unnecessary. The soldier in the lead, with two stripes on his sleeves, saluted. “Lieutenant, sir. There’s a band of Indians to our south. They’re heading this way.”
Wagner scowled as he looked to the south, “How many, Corporal?”
“No more than five or six. They weren’t wearing any face paint.”
Wagner had not heard of any Comanche bands ranging through this part of the country but having responsibility for forty workers and his own platoon of engineers, taking risks wasn’t something his Prussian sensibilities cared to do. “Alright, Corporal, let’s see what they’re up to.”
The four riflemen deployed to the south of the workers, where they waited along with Wagner, until they saw a half-dozen Indians ride over the rolling prairie. The soldiers held their rifles at the ready, waiting to see if the mounted warriors intended any mischief. One of the warriors detached himself from the other riders and approached Wagner’s position. When he was still ten yards away, he called out in Spanish. One of the soldiers, a Tejano, said, “He says he was sent by some hombre named Flacco. Says they came from Bexar a few days ago. Lt. Colonel Seguin’s command will be on the march at the next moon and he has been asked to find out how many more days until we reach the second supply depot.”
Wagner realized he’d been holding his breath and as the soldier translated, he let it out. Lipan Apaches, then. Flacco was a friend of Lt. Colonel Seguin. Wagner’s recurring fear was to see Comanche raiding south of the treaty line along the Red River. As he considered the answer, he looked behind his laborers in the direction from which they had come. A narrow, brown ribbon of road cut across the prairie. It traced back to the first depot, almost ninety miles east, on the upper G
uadeloupe River, and from there back to San Antonio, another eighty miles away. At the speed they were building the roadbed, another three days were needed to reach the second depot.
As he considered the distance, it was still another four hundred miles to El Paso. At the rate they were building road, Wagner had calculated his crew would get there sometime after judgement day.
After the soldier told the Apache they would arrive at the second depot in a few days, the warrior swung his mustang pony around and joined the other Apache. Then they wheeled around and trotted away, in the direction from which they came.
***
The breeze blew through the awning, causing the canvas to flap. Will Travers stood next to a support pole, looking to the west. Even at a distance of more than a mile, he could see the lone star flag of the Republic flying above the old chapel of the Alamo. It was a testament to how much had changed over the past five years since he and President Crockett had led the forces of Texas revolutionaries against Santa Anna’s veterans.
As the cool northern breeze overcame the warmth of the setting sun, Will still marveled at the circumstances which led him to this place. A little more than five years before, he had been riding shotgun in a military Humvee in Iraq, when their convoy had been ambushed. His driver had driven over an IED, flipping the utility vehicle. When he came to, he’d expected to find himself in a military hospital, not trapped in the body of a nineteenth century adventurer. After five years, he’d long surrendered hope of swapping back into his own body. Whether a trick of fate or the hand of God had played a role in the transference, he couldn’t say. But he found more purpose to his life in believing God, rather than random fate, had led him to this point.
Waking up in the body of William Barret Travis had been disconcerting, to say the least. Even after all this time, it stretched his mind to consider how different the world was becoming since he, President Crockett and the army of Texas had won independence on the Nueces River in 1836. In the world living only between his ears, Sam Houston had crushed Santa Anna and Crockett and Travis had died at the Alamo. In the world he now inhabited, Will commanded the Texian army, David Crockett was president, and Sam Houston chose a life of semi-exile among the Cherokee of east Texas, after losing the presidential election of 1836 to Crockett in a landslide.
