In Harm's Way

by Drew McGunn

  Will nodded. “It is. But industrialists in Britain and the United States can copy your patent. They are closer to global markets than we are. And they can make it cheaper than we do. If the legal protection isn’t there, your new enterprise could be undercut in as little as a few years. Texas needs this industry. Not just explosive cotton or repeating pistols or breechloading rifles, but textile mills, lumber mills, and shipbuilding enterprises. Steel mills and distilleries. The ability to refine oil. All of those are things we need to master. So, for now, it’s important that we protect what industry we have, no matter how small.”

  “You get passionate about it, General. I can see that. I’m glad you’re looking out for us.” Berry dug into his trousers pocket and continued, “Do you want to see the latest item from my own little project?”

  With a nod from Will, he put a small, brass cartridge on Will’s desk. “It’s got a black powder charge. Still not happy with the results from the NPC, that stuff’s too damned unstable.”

  Will picked up the cartridge. The brass casing was smooth and polished. The bullet was conical. “I borrowed that idea about a pointed bullet and used it here.”

  “Have you modified any of your rifles to use this cartridge?”

  Berry jumped up and said, “Sure have. Was hoping I could get you over to the testing range and see what you think of it.”

  Will was on his feet, hurrying from his library, he shouted from the front door that he would be back shortly, then he slammed the door as he and Berry raced for the range.

  An hour later, he looked at the table in front of the firing line. There must have been nearly a hundred spent cartridges scattered about.

  He ran his hand over the inside of the breech, his finger was streaked with powder residue. But not as much as there could have been. “Not bad. We must have shot a hundred rounds, and the breech isn’t badly fouled yet.”

  Berry handed him a grimy cloth and a flask of gun oil. “A little of this and she’ll be like new.”

  Will took a moment to clean the breechblock before handing the rifle back to the inventor. “How many cartridges can your stamping mill make a day?”

  As they started down the range to collect their targets, Berry said, “We’re still working out some kinks in production. Today, we’ll probably make five hundred. But once we’re fully up to speed, with existing equipment, more than a thousand.”

  Will winced at the news. “Just a thousand? Andy, at the Battle of Saltillo, we shot off more than a hundred thousand rounds of ammo. That would be more than three months’ worth of your ammunition.”

  When Will saw the hurt look on Berry’s face, he added, “What you’ve done is extraordinary. I’ll be glad to recommend this to Sid Johnston, in limited quantities.”

  “Limited quantities? You worried General Johnston won’t be able to get funding?”

  Will shook his head, “For a small run, he’ll be able to pay for that. But you might want to consider pitching the model eighteen forty-one revolver to foreign markets.”

  Berry wore a wary expression, “I thought you didn’t want these weapons falling into enemy hands. Won’t selling them outside of Texas make that more likely?”

  “Yeah, but Samuel Colt is pitching his thirty-eight-caliber revolver in Europe. It’s only a matter of time before other nations start buying them or making their own. Better they buy your weapon than someone else’s, especially if Sid Johnston’s budget gets cut again.” Will stopped in his tracks, weighing whether to offer up another solution. When Berry looked behind and saw him stopped, Will caught up with him and said, “I have another idea. I’ve heard the Harpers Ferry armory has started producing a rifled musket in limited quantities. While it doesn’t hold a candle to our Sabine rifle, it’s still way better than the muskets used by most of the world’s armies. You could design a rifled musket for sale abroad. If the army loses more of its funding, something that this could pick up the slack in sales.”

  It took several minutes to travel five hundred yards to retrieve the last target. As Will unclipped it from the straw bale, he was pleased with how many times the bullets tore the target. As they walked back toward town, Will played with a spent cartridge in one hand. His thoughts turned to another invention Dick Gatling had manufactured in the world that lived on only in his memories.

  Chapter 19

  16 July 1844

  Will stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket as he felt beads of sweat reappear on his forehead. No amount of dabbing would keep the heat at bay. The gulf breeze was uncharacteristically still as he felt the vibration of the steam engine under the boat’s planking.

  A glance showed the boat was nearing the treacherous shallows off Pelican Island. From his place on the deck, he could see a shipwreck washed up on the beach of the small island that squatted in the bay between Galveston and the mainland. From Pelican Island it was less than a mile to the town’s docks. He gripped the boat’s railing with one hand and clenched a letter with the other. He reread Sam Williams’ letter and felt disquieted. There was something about the note that felt off.

  My dear William,

  Matters of gravest concern have arisen and I require your expertise to resolve them. Unless you are able to break away from your endeavors at Trinity Park and hasten here upon receipt of this note, I fear ruin may befall our mutual financial arrangement. I shall expect you on the 16th.

  Your obedient servant,

  Samuel May Williams

  Will was puzzled. When he and Sam were together, they called each other Sam and Buck. Given the nature of the bank, and Will’s decision to build a home for his family in Trinity Park, they corresponded frequently. Their regular correspondence was warm and casual. Will looked at the script. It looked like Sam’s handwriting, but the tone was completely wrong.

  “Hey, mister, we’re going to be docking in a short while. Stay clear of the sides.” A lanky young man brushed by, hurrying to the bow.

  Will stared after him. Was he one of the thousands of young men who had returned to civilian life following the end of the war the previous year or was he one of the thousands of immigrants who were arriving in Galveston?

  As the boat was tied off to the dock, he vowed he would find out what was wrong with his friend and business partner.

  When Will stepped onto Avenue B, he looked at a freshly painted street sign. In cursive letters was written, “The Strand.” Compared to what he recalled from his own youth, the Strand of 1844 paled in comparison to the one at the dawn of the twenty-first century. The broad street was hard-packed dirt. No doubt when it rained, it turned the road into miry soup. Thankfully, the day was dry, and he was able to make his way along the road until he came to the red brick building atop which was a sign declaring to passersby the imposing building housed the Commerce Bank.

  Will opened the door and found one of the clerks behind the counter. The clerk’s face lit up with a smile, “General Travis, Mr. Williams said you might stop by today. He’s back in his office with some gentleman. Said to send you back.”

  Will tried to match the young man’s smile, but the foreboding he felt kept his smile from reaching his eyes. “I suppose I shouldn’t keep them waiting. But tell me,” Will searched his memory for the clerk’s name, “Jeremiah, what kind of visitor do we have? It’s not Michel Menard or one of his accountants?” After the hell Will and Sam had undergone wrestling a loan from the Treasury Department, the last man he wanted to see show up at the bank was Menard.

  Jeremiah said “No, sir. He had an accent. Not a Yankee accent, but maybe English.”

  Will stepped behind the counter and made his way back toward Sam’s office. The only Englishman he knew was Charles Elliot, the chargé d'affaires from Great Britain. While he liked Elliot, he had only dealt with him a few times.

  When Will opened the door to Williams’ office, he saw the graying head of his business partner at his desk. Opposite from him was another man, dressed in a black suit. He recognized the short, portly figure of
Merrill Taylor. The Englishman had arranged the loan from English investors. Will resisted the urge to frown at the unexpected visitor. Instead, he forced a smile onto his face and offered his hand, “Mr. Taylor, a singular honor. When we last visited, I thought you had sailed back to England. I was under the impression our climate didn’t agree with you.”

  Taylor had the good grace to dab his forehead with his handkerchief, as he offered a weak smile, “Were the decision mine, I would be taking tea right now in my gentlemen’s club instead of sweltering here.”

  Williams offered an apologetic expression, “Buck, I’m sorry for the cloak and dagger mystery, but Mr. Taylor was insistent that you come without knowing the reason.”

  Will took a chair next to Taylor. His sense of foreboding remained strong as he said, “You’ve got my attention. What could have pulled you from your rustic English living?”

  Taylor looked toward Williams, “Perhaps we could discuss the matter in private?”

  Perturbed, Will shook his head, “If you have a message to pass along, I trust Mr. Williams’ discretion. What’s on your mind?”

  “My employer understood during your late war with Mexico that repayment of the loan might be delayed, but it has been more than a year since interest payments have been received by Lloyds. This is most irregular, and I am here to find out.”

  Will had not given the mysterious loan a second thought since the end of the war. His gaze shifted to Sam. Williams looked perplexed as he said, “We made payments through the end of the summer last year. A disproportionate amount of the bank’s balance sheet has been made up of treasury bonds since then. I sent a note explaining the delay. Did you not receive it?”

  Taylor shrugged. “Not to my knowledge. My employer expects the repayments to start back up now or if you’re unable to make payments, other measures may be necessary to secure the value of the loan.”

  Will’s voice was dry, he didn’t care to think about other measures Taylor had in mind. “I hadn’t thought about this while I was in Mexico. Sam, how quickly can we pick up payments?”

  Williams picked up a pen from the desk and made some calculations before saying, “We can pay the twenty-five hundred dollars by the end of the month. Continuing monthly after that, we should be able to make the payments. I notice, we’ve only been paying interest. If we were to amortize the loan, how long of a payment period would your employer require?”

  “My employer views this as a long-term investment. While it is important that you pay the interest, the principle can be paid later. As such, gentlemen, he’s willing for you to take the prior year’s missed payments and make those up over the span of a couple of years.”

  Will’s eyes drifted over to Sam, who was staring back at him. The expression on Williams’ face was clear. No words were necessary to say, “What kind of mess have you entangled us?”

  ***

  The sun was still in the sky as Gail Borden stepped onto the patio of his new home in Trinity Park. He could hear his children playing inside as he settled himself into one of the chairs. He lit his pipe and rummaged in his pocket until he fished out the crumpled envelope. He tore it open and smoothed the letter he’d pulled from within.

  His longtime friend, Ashbel Smith, had been in Galveston, working on a project over which he and Buck Travis had been theorizing. It had been more than a month since Ashbel had been gone and this was the first letter he’d received.

  My dear Gail,

  As I measure the spread of yellow fever that has gripped the town of Galveston, I thank God daily you moved your family to Trinity Park. I shudder to think how terrible it would be if I had to treat any of them for yellow jack.

  Between you and me, I am perplexed that Buck Travis’ ideas about suppressing the mosquitos was not more successful. Despite the failure, I strongly suspect he is right about the mosquito, and it is likely the carrier of both yellow fever and malaria. Of course, more study must be done, and I am determined to test his hypothesis.

  There are times Buck is so ignorant about the details of medicine and then, there are times, like now, where his insight is prescient. I have long been convinced yellow fever is not communicable through contact between people, and despite that, I am growing in conviction Buck’s insistence in quarantining those who fall ill from the fever is the right decision. We isolate our patients and hang muslin shrouds over their bedding, keeping mosquitos from getting to their victims and flying away with bad blood to infect someone else.

  There has been some success in fumigating our hospital. It stinks like rotten eggs, but the mosquitos appear to hate it worse than we poor humans. I have poured a measure of sulfur onto a metal plate. I then set the sulfur on fire with wood alcohol. It is effective at keeping the legions of mosquitos away from the hospital. I intend to order its use in public houses, including the orphanage. We may not have found a way to destroy their larvae, but I am discovering new ways to combat their presence.

  There have been deaths, unfortunately, but in comparison with the epidemic of 1839, the number of fatalities is a small fraction. Even if it takes several more years, I will prove the detestable mosquito’s connection to yellow fever. Then I will share with other doctors my conclusions. I hope that within a decade we’ll have eradicated yellow fever from the hemisphere.

  The letter continued, but Gail set the message down beside him. It was just like Ashbel to see the problem, identify it, and then share his findings with the world. How different was the life of an inventor! The porch under which he sat was paid for from the sales of NPC, as was the house.

  While his friend wasn’t ashamed to charge what he thought his services were worth, when it came to plague such as yellow fever, Ashbel never thought to profit from a discovery. If he could prove the disease was caused by the bite of a mosquito, he would share the discovery in every scientific and medical journal that would publish his theory.

  In the distance, Borden could see the wide expanse of the Trinity River flowing toward Galveston Bay and the Gulf of Mexico through the smoke of his pipe. He enjoyed escaping the noise of his children at play after dinner and sitting on the porch let him think. Thoughts of Ashbel Smith slid away as his mind drifted toward his own invention. The process of making NPC involved slowly drying sheets of nitrogenated cotton. The drying process was similar to that used in drying meat in a smokehouse. Dried meat would last longer than it would if fresh. But what if one boiled the meat down to a paste? If the paste could be mixed with flour, could it be baked into biscuits that would last even longer than jerky? An invention like that would allow the army or navy to save on the various types of foods needed when in the field or at sea.

  He envisioned the process as he stretched his legs and set his pipe on the small all-weather table by his side. He closed his eyes and let his mind consider the steps he’d need to take to produce the meat biscuit.

  A bit later, his wife, Penelope came out onto the porch and found her husband asleep in his favorite chair.

  ***

  1 November 1844

  The walk from his house to work took less than ten minutes, and rain or shine, if he were in town, he’d make the trek each day. Every day was something new. The nucleus of Trinity College was slowly attracting new talent. There were times where Will felt like a fish out of water as he poked his head in on the various projects.

  He drew in a deep breath of cool morning air as he walked and enjoyed his stroll. His path took him by the extensive gun works. While the government had reduced the military’s budget, they were still arming the army’s reserve corps with the Sabine Rifle, and Andy Berry had taken his advice and the gun works was producing a rifled musket for export. Sales orders remained high. Will wondered what would happen when the government decided they had bought enough guns. The gun works were not part of the research campus, but nevertheless, the inventions Andy Berry was working on were critically important to the next evolution of weapons, and they could ill afford for the government to close the spigot.


  A few hundred feet past the gun works was the modest building housing the production of nitrogenated processed cotton. Although Will’s investment in the venture was small, he was happy for the success Gail Borden and Andy Berry were achieving. He wasn’t sure when they would crack the formula, but Will was confident the two inventors would eventually develop a stable chemical compound for smokeless powder.

  Farther past the NPC facility was the campus with a few small buildings. One building housed a couple of classrooms. Ashbel Smith had returned from combating the deadly yellow-fever-carrying mosquito. He spent part of his day training would-be doctors in one of the classrooms and the other part of the day either writing about his research or actually conducting it. Will spent a few hours a week talking with the doctor. He was amazed how much information he remembered from before the transference about basic science and health, and those conversations with Smith helped to uncover things in his memory he hadn’t thought about in fifteen years or more.

  As Will approached the college, he wondered what Smith must think of him. His understanding of germ theory, while no more knowledgeable than that of a high school senior in the world before the transference, was twenty or thirty years ahead of the eighteen forties. When he was with Dr. Smith, he spent as much time trying to figure out how to avoid giving away things he couldn’t hope to explain than he did pointing the doctor in the right direction. He couldn’t imagine explaining the truth. “You see, Ashbel, the fact is, while I might inhabit the body of the William Travis, by a process I can never explain, my mind and soul were transplanted from the twenty-first century.” He chuckled at the idea. He’d long ago decided if God wasn’t going to put his mind back in his own body, he’d take the secret to the grave.

  Thoughts of Dr. Smith were driven from his head as he heard a crash in the building housing a machine shop. Will raced into it and found Dick Gatling standing in the middle of a room. A twisted mess of metal was at his feet. He started in surprise when Will ran in.