In Harm's Way

by Drew McGunn

  Will checked behind, Cuffey was following him as they headed through Harrisburg’s foot-traffic. With the arrival of the railroad, more frequent stagecoach trips were available for travel to Austin. Will bought two tickets, and they settled down to wait.

  A few days later, Will stood in the doorframe of the small house, hat in hand. “Hatti, is Joe home?”

  The freedwoman whooped when she recognized Will. “Lands sake, Joe! The Gen’ral’s at the door.”

  A voice from within the house said, “What in the world would Gen’ral Johnston want with a poor wagoneer?”

  She turned away, “Don’t be silly. It’s Gen’ral Travis!”

  There was a scraping of a chair and a moment later, Travis’ former slave, Joe stood behind his wife. He hadn’t seen much of Joe in the intervening years since he had freed Travis’ former slave. Echoing a moment the two had shared when Will had still been adjusting to the transference, he stuck out his hand. With noticeable hesitation, Joe accepted it, and they shook.

  “Is you starting to make social calls to all the nigras in San Antonio, Marse Will?”

  Despite himself, Will chuckled, “If that would help things, I might. The truth is more complicated.”

  Henrietta shooed Will and Cuffey into the house. “If you is going to jaw about things, let me get you some coffee.”

  Will waited until Henrietta had placed a few steaming mugs of coffee in front of them. “It’s the real stuff. Stores are starting to carry everything they did before the war. Prices are starting to come down, too.”

  Will sipped the coffee. He savored the drink. It had been more than a year since he’d sat at home in San Antonio and ate her breakfasts. Joe set his cup down, “What brings you back, Gen’ral?”

  “This young man is Cuffey. When I found Charlie and was able to free him from the men who kidnapped him, this young, strapping fellow came along, too.”

  Joe stared at the young man for a long moment before shifting his gaze to Will. “Slave catchers come looking for him back east? Lots of planter folk round ‘bouts knows where you live now.”

  Will dipped his head, “I’m afraid so. Charlie took Cuffey’s leaving hard, but he deserves a fresh start without some slave catcher hounding him. I figure San Antonio offers a better opportunity.”

  Joe’s lips were pursed. He let out a noncommittal sound. “For some that’s true. If I help, I risk not just my home or my wagons but my wife and my life. Why should I?”

  Will blinked. This wasn’t the answer he had expected. Henrietta slammed a tin pan of biscuits on the table and wagged her finger in front of her husband. “Listen to me good, Joe Travis. Wasn’t the preacher man talking about the good book the other day? He said ‘I was hungry and you fed me, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, and I was a stranger and you took me in.’”

  “Hatti, them’s pretty words, but I got to think about us.”

  Tears were spilling from her face when Hatti replied, “I’m thinking about us, too, Joe. I couldn’t live with myself if we turned this young man away. You’ve been saying that the contracts to supply the depots out west getting better now that they’ve extended things to Santa Fe. You said if you could find another driver, you could expand. Now, God’s giving you the chance to do that.”

  Joe bent down and picked up one of the biscuits that had fallen on the floor. “Woman, why can’t you listen to me? This could cost us both our freedom. The Government don’t look kindly on ex-slaves helping a runaway.”

  Hatti stepped in and hugged her husband, “We need to do this, Joe. If those words from the Good Book mean anything, then we must do this.”

  Will left an hour later. Henrietta had worn Joe down. All the way back to the inn where he’d stay, he prayed for their safety.

  Chapter 18

  29 April 1844

  Will pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at his forehead. For what was probably the thousandth time, he thought about how much he hated the formal clothing worn by people in the mid-nineteenth century. He had dispensed with his jacket and wore a shirt and vest, and even though the temperature had yet to break ninety degrees, he was warm enough. The sun worked its way into the sky. “What I wouldn’t do for air-conditioning right now,” he thought.

  Instead, he turned his attention to Clayton Wynters. A former corporal in the army, Wynters had been injured during the Comanche War and was now a partner in Gulf Corporation’s farming operations. He was saying, “The mechanical cotton planter has been expanded a couple of times since we licensed it from a company in Maryland. The original device allowed a farmer to plant a single row, using handles behind to push the plow through the dirt. Now, we’ve got four rows, and the contraption is pulled by a team of horses. One man can do the work of four now.”

  Their other companion, Dick Gatling said, “It seems to me the bottleneck on cotton farming is still picking it. You can plant it faster and with fewer workers than ever before, and cotton gins can strip the seeds away from the cotton at industrial speeds.”

  Wynters spit onto the black, loamy soil, “Yep. A plantation has slaves to do all the work, so they don’t much care about how quick they can put the seed in the ground, and we’re limited to the same problem they face when it comes to harvesting it. Labor, and lots of it.

  Will watched a couple of men hitch a pair of horses to the front of a mechanical planter. One took the lead, next to the team, while the other walked beside the planter as they began seeding the field. Wynters added, “It’s something to behold. Some of our new neighbors have set up plantations where their slaves are also prepping and seeding their fields. Hardly any mechanized devices. We may be forced to put all our works in the field during harvest season, but their overall process is slower than ours.”

  Will didn’t like the fact that more plantations were being built in the Trinity River’s rich bottomland. But there was very little he could do directly. On the other hand, maybe there was. “Dick, you’re the machinist here. What do you think about devising a machine that could pluck the cotton bolls from the plant? If we could automate that, we could expand the number of acres under development.”

  Gatling nodded, “If it’s possible, it would be something to behold. An efficient cotton picker could drive the price of cotton down and make a lot of plantations unprofitable. But that’s going to be easier said than done.”

  “Why?”

  Wynters interjected, “The plant produces the cotton balls during the period when it’s in bloom. But the bolls don’t mature at the same time. We’ll harvest the same plant several times throughout the harvest season. Even if you can make a machine that can harvest the cotton, how do you do it so that it doesn’t destroy the plant?”

  Will hadn’t thought about it in those terms. What he knew about farming he could file away on an index card. He was dependent on men like Wynters for the details about agriculture. The same was true about mechanical engineering. Without Dick Gatling, he was lost. Despite sizable gaps in his knowledge, he hoped he could take what each knew and try to harness them together. After all, Will knew what could be done, even if he didn’t know how to do it.

  As they walked back into West Liberty, Gatling said, “I’ll get started on it right away, but don’t be surprised if it takes a while. Mr. Wynters is right. Figuring out how to make something that doesn’t destroy the plant before all the cotton can be harvested is our biggest challenge.”

  Will left the farmer and the machinist to discuss the next step. He grabbed his jacket and headed for his horse, he had a meeting in Trinity Park later in the afternoon.

  ***

  The public hack rolled to a stop next to the ornate building in Saint James. A footman hurried down the stair of the building and opened the door. Merrill Taylor handed over a long wooden box and followed the footman into the building.

  The grand hall of White’s Gentlemen’s Club was extravagant. Paintings and marble carvings lined the hall. Taylor stood rooted to the floor as his eyes took in the opulence. �
��Sir, this way, please.” The footman took him lightly by the arm and escorted him up a grand staircase and through a set of double doors into a coffee room which spanned the front of the building.

  The footman brought him to a corner table where an officer in the red uniform of his majesty’s Board of Ordnance sat across the table from his own benefactor, the enigmatic Mr. Smyth. “Merrill, my boy, take a seat.” Smyth snapped his finger, and a waiter appeared at the table with near magical speed. “Tea for these gentlemen.”

  Merrill leaned the box against the wall and listened to his companions’ small talk. The sound of men speaking the King’s English after so many months away sounded at once odd and comforting to his ears. The harsh Yankee accents of men from New England grated on him. Even the soft drawls of men from the American South left him feeling like a fish out of water during his time taking care of his employer’s tasks there.

  After the tea arrived and they had imbibed, Mr. Smyth said, “Let’s see what your man obtained from the inventive Texians, Merrill. Open the box.”

  Merrill released the leather strap holding the box closed and drew from it a rifle. His red uniformed companion rose partway from his chair to get a closer look. “Utilitarian construction. I’ve seen the like in the rifles the Yanks make at Harpers Ferry and Springfield. May I?”

  Merrill surrendered the rifle to the Ordnance man, who stood up and hefted the gun. “Balance is good.” He levered the breechblock open and ran his finger along the falling block. “Damned tight tolerances on the machining tools.”

  He held the rifle’s breechblock close to his eyes, looking inside. “That’s not something you see every day.”

  Looks of curiosity from Merrill and Smyth elicited a response from the officer, “One of the limiting issues rifles like this suffer from is too much gas escaping the breechblock. All that escaping gas reduces the punch a rifle has beyond a couple of hundred yards. A tight seal is important but hard to achieve. Whoever designed this used a small platinum ring to seal the breech. We’d need to test it, but it’s likely to be a superior seal.”

  They were quiet as the ordnance officer studied the rifle. When he handed it back to Merrill, Smyth said, “What do you think?”

  “I’d like to test it. See how it performs under field conditions. I’ve advocated that we examine the new Prussian Dreyse needle-gun, but change isn’t exactly smiled upon in our service.”

  Smyth’s chuckle was dry, lacking humor. “To say the least. God help the empire if we get into a shooting war with the Prussians. You’re the expert, Major. But I don’t think God is on the side of the biggest battalions, but on the side that can outshoot the other.”

  “This won’t be an official study. We’re too, ah, traditional for that,” the officer said apologetically. “But I’ll put this through the paces and see how it performs.”

  Merrill handed over the box, and the red-uniformed officer took his leave. Once he disappeared down the staircase, Merrill felt Smyth’s sharp eyes on him. “Accept the thanks of my compatriots in providing the gun, Mr. Taylor. Pass that along to Stewart, as well. I know you’ve hardly had the chance to adjust to life here, but in the next few weeks, you’ll be receiving new instructions at Lloyds for another trip.”

  Merrill stifled a groan. His employment with Lloyds Bank involved oversight on several unusual contracts. The one thing they had in common was they were underwritten by Smyth and his cabal of investors. They also required frequent travel. Smyth continued, “The late war between Texas and Mexico has resulted in several missed payments from General Travis on the considerable loan we made a few years ago. I need you to return to Galveston. Use Stewart if you need to but find out if the bank is solid or if there are problems with our investment.”

  “And if there are?”

  Smyth’s eyes drifted to a painting on the wall from the late war with France. It was from the Battle of Waterloo, showing the Defense of Hougoumont. Merrill followed his patron’s eyes. “You don’t anticipate intervening?”

  Turning away from the painting, his benefactor said, “Let’s leave military intervention for the French. That silliness down in Vera Cruz a few years ago did nothing but destabilize Mexico, and ultimately, that disorder played to Texas’ benefit. No, Mr. Taylor, we rely upon soft power. If General Travis and his partners are unable to normalize payments, I expect that it would open the door to more direct management.”

  Merrill’s smile was half-hearted. He liked “Buck” Travis. His expression must have been transparent. His benefactor said, “Many of my associates see General Travis as the best hope to turn back the American South’s slavocracy. While I agree he may be the best chance we have, we should never place all our eggs in a single basket. I hope he and his partner are able to resume payments, but if it isn’t possible, we can play a long game. Texas’ liberal immigration laws and land policies have allowed us to place more pawns on the chess board.”

  With that, his benefactor excused himself, and Merrill’s meeting was over. He heaved a heavy sigh. He would need to find out if any ships were sailing directly to Galveston. If not the Texas port, then New Orleans. There was too much to do before he could leave.

  ***

  18 May 1844

  Will read the report from Dr. Ashbel Smith. In his letter, Dr. Smith detailed efforts on Galveston Island to eradicate mosquito nesting grounds. As he set the note down, Will questioned whether the measures would be enough to stop the frequent bouts of yellow fever the Texas gulf coast experienced. “There’s a reason we call it medical practice,” he thought. If it didn’t work, then the dogged former surgeon general of the Texian army would start over and find a new way to exterminate mosquito larvae.

  From the library’s doorway, he heard, “Will, are you expecting Andy Berry this afternoon? He’s at the door.”

  He looked up. Becky stood in the doorway. Light flooded the room from the windows. Light reflected from her brown hair, giving it a golden luster. As their eyes locked, both of them smiled. She crossed the room and leaned over and placed a chaste kiss on his cheek. He reached up and gently pulled her in closer. The second kiss was longer and less chaste. Becky said, “If you would like, I can send him away.” There was a purring in her voice that reminded Will of a contented cat.

  “I like the way you think, dear. Regrettably, young master Berry is expected.” Will stood and fastened the buttons on his vest. “Perhaps not too regrettable. This has something to do with some modifications to the army’s rifle. It could be interesting.”

  Becky gave an exaggerated pout. “Men and their toys. I see where I rank.” But as she left to fetch Berry, she flashed a smile on her way out the door.

  Being home more had been good for Will and his family. Becky was much happier with his schedule. While he still traveled frequently, the nonstop requirements of the army were in the past. There was no guilt if he set aside work by dinner time.

  Andy Berry strode into the room wearing a happy smile. “General Travis, thanks for agreeing to see me.”

  Will waved him into a padded chair and turned his own away from the desk. “How’s your father?”

  “As devout as ever. He’s put a bit of money up for construction of the town’s first church. Who’d have thought a town would grow up around our own gun works?”

  They could hear the joyous sound of children running in the street. School was over for the day. Will said, “I’m glad to see your family has been supportive of a school for all the kids in Trinity Park. Speaking of which I expect the front door to open any moment and hear Charlie’s voice.”

  Sure enough, the front door opened and slammed, and Charlie’s voice echoed down the hall, “Pa, Becky, I’m home.”

  Will counted until three, as he expected, he heard Becky’s feet on the staircase and her voice, “Charles Edward Travis, if I have to tell you one more time not to slam the door, I’ll fetch me a switch and make sure you remember!”

  He offered an apologetic smile to Berry, “Domestic bliss.”<
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  Berry offered a sage smile, “I sometimes wonder about the entire family settling down in one town. If me or John have a spat with our wives, damned if the whole family doesn’t know about it the next day.”

  “Tell me about what brings you over,” Will said.

  Berry laughed, “Fair enough. First I wanted to let you know that me and Gail received a charter for our corporation for manufacturing nitrogenated processed cotton. We’ve got a backlog of orders.”

  “That’s great news, Andy. NPC has the potential to revolutionize a lot of industries. Have you got confirmation of your patent yet from Washington?”

  Berry shook his head, “Not yet. Haven’t heard anything from London yet, either. Why are you worried about the patent?”

  Will handed Berry a drawing of a rocket floating over a ship, with a flare burning bright. “Recognize this?”

  “That kind of looks like the picture in the newspaper from the Battle of Saltillo. You used this to light up the battlefield, right?”

  “Yes. But the idea was borrowed from a patent we had received in the patent office. We lifted it and used it against the Mexican army. Now, the truth of the matter is that if the inventor ever decides to make an issue of it, I expect a Texas court to side with him, against the army. We had no legal right to borrow the inventor’s idea, not without recompense. That’s the reason I want you to go through the process of patenting your invention. You can’t stop people from stealing your ideas, but at least in Texas, the United States, and I hope in Britain, the courts will give you standing to sue.”

  Berry was scratching his chin, “You struck me as someone who would like to see the use of NPC spread far and wide. You said it was a game changer.”