by Drew McGunn
Seguin said, “That’s half of the equation. If my clerks’ estimates are correct, the land bank will receive nearly four million dollars in payments this year. Our other sources of revenue should bring in nearly a million dollars, too. A loan that has the advantage of restoring confidence among our country’s depositors seems sensible.”
Williams wore a triumphant smile as he added, “What about the sale of Alta-California to the United States? Won’t we receive the first payment this year?”
Menard stomped over to a table and filled a shot glass with an amber liquid from a crystal decanter. He took a sip and turned back to face the other men. “That money is earmarked for payment to Mexico. Our treaty to buy Alta-California from Mexico and our treaty to sell a good chunk of it to the United States are a wash.”
“Not in the short term,” Seguin said. “We pay Mexico a million dollars a year for ten years. The US pays us a million and a half for six years and a million in year seven. Seems to me, at least for a few years, we have some flexibility.”
Menard growled in frustration. “Why, Juan? We need to rein in our spending and pay off our creditors. I don’t want it to be us with French or British warships off our coast demanding payment for unpaid bills.”
Seguin winced. A few years before, in 1838 the French had sent a squadron to Mexico to force payment of debts. Editorials in Texas’ newspapers had been less than charitable to Mexico during that period of unpleasantness. The idea that the shoe was on the other foot didn’t appeal to anyone in the tent. But he held up his finger in response. “One, we’re secure within our borders and two, most of our loans are not held by the Europeans, and three, with you in the treasury department, I’ve no doubt we’ll make our payments timely.”
Menard cut in, “That’s what I’m trying to accomplish by not adding anything else to the Republic’s balance sheet.”
Seguin held up a fourth finger, “One last thing to remember, is that we can’t afford to lose our only functioning bank. A small loan and the people who have their money there will have confidence not just in their bank but in the nation’s economy. Access to their money means that they’ll spend it and add to our economic activity. I don’t need to tell you how anemic that is today.”
With the glass still in his hand, Menard returned to his seat and sagged into it. “Damn the both of you. I’ll do it, but if you miss a single payment, Sam, I’m going to come after your bank for everything. How much do you need?”
Williams said, “Fifty thousand should let us return to normal business operations.”
Menard visibly relaxed and took a sip. “I guess that’s not too…”
Williams interrupted him. “I wasn’t finished. Regarding the bonds we’re holding. I want first rights on coupon redemption.”
Menard’s eyes bulged. The ground beneath their feet started shaking, and a loud steam whistle cut loose close by. Seguin couldn’t hear his counterpart’s words as the locomotive rumbled across the river, ushering in a new era of travel in the Republic.
Chapter 16
29 February 1844
Will was exhausted as he walked down the brick path from the Capitol Building toward the Stagecoach Inn. He’d rather have been back in Mexico, facing an army of soldados than negotiating the redemption of war bond coupons with Erasmo Seguin and Michel Menard.
As he waited for a wagon loaded with lumber to pass by on Congress Avenue, he thought back over the meeting and decided attending it had been more than worth it. During the war, the bank had purchased almost three-hundred thousand dollars in interest-bearing bonds. While the bonds would mature in ten years, there were monthly coupon payments which could be redeemed through the treasury department. Eighteen hundred dollars paid monthly to the bank would strengthen their position. While that alone would have been enough to bring him to Austin, he wouldn’t be leaving until he took possession of the fifty-thousand-dollar loan Sam had negotiated from Menard.
Congress Avenue was clear, and he crossed the deeply rutted road. His hand was on the door handle to the inn when a voice called out, “Buck, by God, that is you!”
Will turned. Sid Johnston was hurrying along the sidewalk toward him. “I thought I saw you coming from that ugly pile of stone and brick. You’re not trying to talk Lorenzo into giving your old job back?”
While Johnston’s voice was light with laughter, Will thought he detected a note of worry. “Heaven forbid. I was wrangling some business with the Secretary of the Treasury.”
Johnston slapped him on the back. “I hope you put him into a good mood. I’ve got to meet with the vulture tomorrow. He says we’re over budget. I think he’s going to try to force us to reduce the number of Sabine rifles being manufactured for the militia.”
Will cocked an eyebrow. Those contracts were turning the Berry clan into a wealthy family. A town was growing up around the gun works. He’d pass the information along.
Johnston continued, “Join me for dinner, I’ve read the story of how you rescued your son, but I want to hear it from you.”
Will smiled good-naturedly and let Johnston guide him to a table in the Inn’s common room where he spent the next hour regaling one of his oldest friends with the unvarnished account. “And, even though more than two months have passed, Charlie still wakes up in a sweat from nightmares,” Will concluded.
Johnston shook his head in wonder. “Lordy, Buck. If I didn’t know the man you are, I’d say you were a liar.”
Chuckling, Will said, “The truth is sometimes stranger than fiction. Now, enough about me. Are you taking good care of my baby?”
“Baby? Oh, the army,” Johnston said as he realized the reference. “As well as can be expected. We’re stretched too thin, now that all of the reserves and militia have been demobilized.”
“What has Zavala left you with?”
Johnston glanced out a nearby window. The hill on top of which the Capitol sat was framed in the twilight. “Lorenzo has been good. It’s Menard that keeps screaming for more cutbacks. I’ve got two battalions of infantry, Seguin’s understrength cavalry battalion, a few batteries of artillery, and the frontier battalion of Rangers.”
Will wasn’t surprised. The war had nearly ruined the nation. Keeping even a couple of thousand men under arms was still an expensive undertaking for a country as small in population as Texas. “What about Hays’ special Ranger command?”
The army’s commander leaned forward, “I wish to God you’d talked that boy into staying in the army. I don’t know what’s going on, but several men who served under Hays have also resigned. I’ve heard he’s got a land grant in California that he’s getting ready to survey. Less than a company of his men are still in the army. I’ve assigned them to the First Infantry for now.”
Will waited for the waiter to set their food down and depart before saying, “As long as things remain at peace between us and Mexico, things should be quiet.”
Johnston cut into a slab of roasted pork, “That’s my hope. The Comanche don’t fancy another go at us, and the Mescalero are trying to figure out if our offer of land along the bend in the Rio Grande is a serious gesture. If they stay peaceful, we’ll make out alright even if Menard forces more cuts on me.”
Their conversation faded as they turned their focus to the food on their plates. Before parting ways with Johnston, Will realized how liberating it felt to have left the army behind.
The next morning, Will headed over to the Treasury building. He had less than an hour before the east-bound stagecoach left and there was one other person who he wanted to see. The building housing the Treasury Department was a two-story wood-framed rambling construction. Even from the street, he could see the original building’s single floor had been added onto twice more as the Treasury department grew in size and scope.
Will found a staircase and headed up to the second floor. He stared at a long hallway with doors on either side. In a proper governmental building, each door would have a brass nameplate, telling passersby who was ensconce
d within. Some doors had wooded nameplates tacked up while others had a scrap of paper announcing the person or department within.
Will rapped on a door with a scrap of paper on it. A voice called out, “It’s open.”
Will found a man, in his mid-twenties, standing in front of a long table, which ran along one side of the room. Scattered amid stacks of correspondence and forms were a myriad of mechanical devices. Nearly every inch of the long table was covered.
Will was taken aback by the room’s cluttered appearance. With an informal wave, the occupant said, “You wanted to see me, sir? Have a seat.”
Will had to move a scale model of a reaping machine from a chair. “Thanks for taking the time to visit with me, Dick. I wanted to tell you how much I appreciated the rocket flares you made for the army last year.”
Dick flushed and offered a sheepish smile. “Truth be told, one of the patents that came across my desk last year proposed the flares.” He cast a glance around the room, “as you can see, I like to model some of the patents that we receive to see if they work. The rocket was from a fellow from Philadelphia.”
Will eyed several of the models. The intricate details Dick captured made him think of the DaVinci models he’d seen in museums. “Yes, but you’re the fellow who put it together for us. That’s why I came to see you this morning. You see, Mr. Gatling, I’m working with a few other men of vision over in West Liberty to put together something.” By the time Will finished explaining, he had to hurry to catch the stagecoach. As he flung himself down the stairs of the Treasury Building, he wore a broad grin. Things were coming together.
***
9 March 1844
The road between West Liberty and the newly incorporated town of Trinity Park was well maintained. Charlie urged the horse to a canter. He wanted to get there before breakfast. He was glad Señor Garza had allowed him the use of his stable. The ten miles between the two towns on foot would have taken hours. Ninety minutes after leaving the Garza stables, Charlie turned a bend in the road and saw the complex of buildings that constituted the Trinity Gun Works.
The buildings were constructed on the bank of the river. Channels had been dug into the shoreline, funneling fast-flowing water through chutes where it turned massive wheels. Those wheels were connected to shafts that connected to bellows and hammering machines. Charlie tuned out the hammering coming from the buildings. The town spreading out near the factory was his destination. With every visit, more houses were filling up the grid-like township.
He rode by a general store and a tavern, where he could smell fresh pine and paint. He swung off his mount at a crude cabin on the edge of the town. A middle-aged freedman sat on the porch, smoke curling from his pipe. “Mornin’, Master Charlie.”
Charlie tied his horse to the porch, “Aw, Amos, don’t call me that. I ain’t anyone’s master.”
Amos took the pipe from his mouth, blew a smoke ring and used the pipe as a pointer, “Might be. But I’d be a fool of a man to go ‘bout calling white boys like I’m their friend. Speaking of fools, you looking for Cuffey?”
Coloring at the conversation, he nodded.
Amos pointed at the door, “If I know my wife, Jenny’ll have a plate ready for you.”
Charlie found Cuffey at the table scarfing down hoecakes. “Eat up. I found a spot where I seen some deer yesterday.”
Charlie thanked Jenny as she set an old worn, tin plate in front of him. He liked Amos and Jenny. Amos was the only freedman who had been working at the Trinity Gun Works before Cuffey arrived. He and Jenny had agreed to take the young man in after Charlie’s pa had helped Cuffey get a job at the gun works.
After breakfast, Charlie said, “Where’d you see the deer?”
“Upriver a way.”
The young men hurried out of the house. Charlie swung into the saddle and leaned down, offering his hand to Cuffey. “It’ll be quicker if we ride.”
Later, Charlie lifted his leg over the mount’s head and slid off. A creek ran alongside the trail they followed. Once Cuffey had climbed off the beast, Charlie retrieved his rifle from the saddle scabbard.
Cuffey said, “Leave the horse here. It’s not far.”
They staked the horse to a line, and Charlie followed the young man through the pine trees.
Charlie had heard tales from his Uncle Davy about hunting blinds; those he’d use for hunting game and those he’d use to hunt men. After he and Cuffey had dragged limbs into place, he settled behind a large branch and rested the rifle across it. He carried a small knapsack slung over his shoulder and retrieved a paper cartridge.
He loaded the rifle with easy practice and fished a percussion cap from his pocket. “Have you ever fired one of these before?” he asked.
Cuffey swore. “Old man Lamont would,ve strung up a slave who’d ever tried to touch a gun.”
Charlie crouched on his knees, “Was it like that everywhere back east?”
“Not everywhere. I knew a boy who belonged to another plantation, more like a farm. He and his master hunted a lot.”
Charlie handed the weapon over, “Go ahead, take a look down the sight. Ain’t no slaver to see you now.”
He watched his friend gingerly take the gun and ran his fingers along the wooden stock. “It’s just like the guns the Berrys make.”
Charlie nodded. “The same. I lost my rifle in California and Pa got me this one from John Berry.”
Cuffey shushed him. “Deer.”
He gripped the rifle until his knuckles were white. Charlie followed the barrel and saw a buck step into the creek. He had a few points on his antlers. Just a young buck. Charlie bit back a chuckle, and thought, “Like us.”
There was a crack of the rifle and the area in front of the blind was covered in gray smoke. “Did you get him?”
Cuffey was coughing. “Damned if I know. That’s a powerful lot of smoke.”
The two raced around the blind and to the young men’s astonishment, the buck was thrashing in the water, as blood poured from his neck. “Hot damn! I hit him!”
Charlie was pounding his friend on the back, “Beginner’s luck if I ever saw it.” He was laughing as he said it.
They were swinging the carcass onto Charlie’s horse’s rump when they heard branches snapping nearby. Seconds later, a short, round man stumbled into the creek bed. Charlie sensed Cuffey go tense. He followed his friend’s eyes and saw a whip secured to the man’s waist.
“Nice buck you got there, boys,” the man said as he leaned over to catch his breath.
“Thanks,” Charlie said as he tossed a rope over the buck. He felt Cuffey pull the line taut and then tie it to the saddle.
Charlie grabbed the rifle and slid it back into its scabbard as he saw two black men splash into the creek behind the man. “Rufus, Cicero, take a break.”
“Look at me, all poor manners. I’m Douglas Smith. I work for Mr. Talmage. He owns the Trinity Pines plantation.” Uncertain how to react, Charlie took the outstretched hand and shook it.
“Uh, I’m Charlie. This here’s—” Charlie started.
Cuffey cut him off, “Jack. Master Charlie, yo’ momma gonna be tickled when you bring home dis here buck, yes, suh.”
Charlie was nonplused by his friend’s reaction. But he played along, “Uh, right, Jack. We’d best get going.”
He nodded at the overseer and the slaves, “Nice to meet y’all.”
Pulling on the reins, Charlie followed behind Cuffey, who set a brisk pace until they had left the others far behind. Finally, tired of the silence and pulling the horse’s reins that he’d prefer to ride, Charlie blurted, “What was that about?”
Cuffey turned, “How many runaways named Cuffey you suppose there are around here?”
Charlie shrugged, “None that I know of. Pa got you fixed up with good papers showing you’re a freedman.”
Cuffey’s laughter was haunted, “I’m gonna thank your pa for that all the way to Saint Peter’s gates, but you and me know those papers won’t hold up. P
aying a county judge to put a stamp on them papers don’t mean shit if Lamont shows up with real papers. Best some fat overseer see a white boy and his slave.”
Angry, Charlie barreled around his friend, “That’s stupid.”
But as he hurried along the trail he realized Cuffey was right. Had he given Cuffey’s real name, he could have undone all that had been accomplished since the night a few months before when his pa had told the escaped slave to get in the boat.
He apologized, and by the time they returned to Trinity Park, they were in high spirits over their kill.
***
13 March 1844
Will glanced at his pocket-watch as the train chuffed to a stop in front of the West Liberty station platform. Five minutes late was as good as being on time. The train had arrived from the west, from Houston. What had once taken two or three days by foot could be done in less than two hours now.
One of the men disembarking from the train wore the butternut uniform of the regular army. Will recognized him by his brown beard and receding hairline. Will smiled as he watched the major flick a bit of coal dust from the gold oak leaf cluster shoulder boards. Will saw the medical officer wore the insignia he had created for the office of Surgeon General a few years earlier. Crafted in silver, twin snakes wrapped around a winged staff were pinned to the officer’s lapels. As Will had spent the past seven years building Texas’ army, he hadn’t been able to resist adding touches of familiarity, like the caduceus for doctors, crosses for chaplains, and a castle for engineers.
“Dr. Smith, it’s good to see you.” Will waved away the salute Ashbel Smith offered.
“General, I’m pleased to see you again. I confess, your recent letter intrigued me.”
Will led the doctor to the coach he had borrowed from Don Garza. An older Tejano took the doctor’s bags and secured them in the boot, at the back of the carriage.
The wagon lurched into motion, and Will settled back in the plush cushion. Ten miles lay between the depot and Trinity Park.
“How are things with the army?”
