by Drew McGunn
Chapter 21
1 September 1845
The faint blast on the steam whistle echoed over the walls of the Alamo. Cadet Charles Edward Travis stood at attention in the plaza, as he recalled his recent trip from Trinity Park. For part of the journey, the stagecoach rolled alongside the graded railroad bed from Houston to Hempstead. He knew his pa had invested heavily in the construction, but it was a small portion of his holdings.
Over the past couple of years, Charlie watched as new businesses were built in the growing towns of Trinity Park and West Liberty. Although most of the cotton in the area was exported to the United States and Britain, a bustling textile mill produced cheap cloth. Spreading alongside the Trinity, more mills were producing farming implements for export to the United States. Trinity College boasted a small medical school and a new school of agricultural science, in addition to mechanical engineering. Dozens of men and even a few women were studying there. The inventions they had created over the past few years were fueling development around Galveston Bay and bringing in immigrants from the United States and Europe to work in the mills, factories, and foundries.
Charlie didn’t care about all of that. After his pa had said he would contact General Johnston about securing a place for him in the army, Charlie kept reminding his pa of the promise. The result was why he stood in the Alamo Plaza with a dozen other young men, all wearing the butternut uniform of the Republic’s army. The signs of the siege of 1842 were long gone. Behind the thin line of cadets, the western wall, where the Mexican army had surged into the compound, was rebuilt. Barracks and administrative buildings lined the twenty-foot tall wall, and heavy guns were positioned on reinforced rooftops.
To his right was the Alamo chapel’s courtyard. The low wall between the courtyard and the plaza remained, but the dirt between the low wall and the chapel was replaced by gardens running alongside a paved path to the chapel’s double-doors. It was a fitting memorial to the dozens of riflemen who had died defending the courtyard wall against Woll’s overwhelming force. In his mind, Charlie was back in the chapel, standing behind the makeshift barricade, where the fort’s survivors prepared to make a final stand. He blinked and realized a tear was trickling down his cheek. Even though three and a half years had passed since General Woll’s failed attempt to capture the Alamo, for a moment, it had felt like only yesterday. He stole a glance to either side; neither cadet appeared to have noticed him, and he looked forward and waited.
He didn’t have long to wait. An officer emerged from the southern barracks, crossing through the garden in front of the chapel. With a purposeful stride, he passed through the courtyard gate and came to stand before Charlie and his cohorts. His red hair stuck out below his black, wide-brimmed hat.
“You’ll come to attention when in the presence of an officer!” he bellowed.
Having grown up around the soldiers of the Alamo, Charlie snapped to attention, ignoring other cadets’ efforts.
“I’m Captain Sherman, and I’ll be your commandant for the next two years. I don’t give a damn who you knew to get into the cadet corps or who you’re related to. If you can’t cut it, none of that will matter. The only thing that matters is knowing the man standing next to you has your back and that you have his. You’ll learn to follow orders, and eventually how to give them. But if you fail, you’ll be gone faster than a scalded dog.”
Sherman walked down the line of cadets, eyeing each one. “When I’m finished, you’ll learn how to fire a rifle faster than the men you’ll command, how to clean your rifle faster than them. You’ll learn how to march further and longer. You’ll learn how to care for your horse before you’re even awake, and long after you’re asleep. How to use that pig-sticker called a saber, and how to sight one of my artillery pieces better than my gunnery sergeants. Before you’re commissioned officers, you’ll demonstrate proficiency in every branch of service and study the art of engineering. You’ll build field fortifications and learn how to construct bridges with whatever is available. And you’ll do all that before you ever command men.”
Sherman turned and walked back to the center of the short line and came to attention before the cadre of cadets. The hospital building was in front of the cadets and from an office above the medical facility another officer appeared. Charlie recognized Albert Sidney Johnston. The general wore shoulder-boards with the single star of a brigadier general on his brownish uniform. A glance at the stern expression on Captain Sherman’s face and any temptation to wave at his father’s friend died. Johnston had been one of the first faces Charlie had seen when the relief force had arrived at the Alamo, rescuing the survivors in the chapel.
With an informal wave at the cadets, Johnston said, “Officers and gentlemen are what West Point turns out. You’ll not get a better education at what it means to be an American engineer than that. That’s what Captain Sherman and I experienced as we learned the art of soldiering.”
He paused, as though searching for something among the cadets. “Some of you were born in places where being a gentleman was more important than any other character trait. Rather expected if your future involved running your family’s plantation. That spirit infuses the officer corps of the United States.”
Johnston gripped the wooden railing as he stared down into the plaza. “To Hell with all of that. Texas doesn’t need more gentlemen. We need officers with a sense of duty to the Republic and a moral responsibility to the men they command. The Republic doesn’t need more men trained to die for their country, but men trained to kill. Make the other bastard die for his country while you live for yours.”
Charlie joined the other cadets clapping and shouting their approval.
“Captain Sherman isn’t here to teach you how to lead your regiments by line into battle. Our experience with Mexico has shown that kind of war is behind us. He’ll teach you the role of rifleman, cavalryman, and artillerist and how they work together. While the United States may look to Europe when it comes to how they train their officers, Texas will take the lessons learned from the Comanche and Mexicans and use them to whip any who oppose us. No, cadets, we’ll not turn you into gentlemen. When we’re done, your duty to Texas and your responsibility to your men will be your guiding principle when called to ruthlessly defend our country.”
Johnston’s eyes seemed to bore into Charlie, and the young man’s heart stirred with adventure. The general turned and a moment later, the door to his office closed behind him.
***
Mid-September 1845
The crane creaked under the weight of the five-hundred-pound cotton bale as the laborers used hooks to swing the bale from the platform onto the flatcar. As soon as the bale was unhooked, the crane pivoted back, and the laborers latched another bale to it.
Will watched the team hoist more bales of cotton. Most of it was wrapped in burlap wrapping with the Gulf Farms emblem. Some were stamped with nearby plantations’ markings. He was unhappy knowing the other bales were produced with slave labor but there was nothing he could do to stop it, at least not yet, he swore to himself.
“Those micks know how to move the cotton, almost as well as the negro.”
Will turned and saw the president of Gulf Farms approaching. “Señor Garza. It looks like a bumper crop this year. Hard to believe we’ve come back so quickly from two years ago.”
Garza clasped Will’s hand and said, “Peace agrees with us, Buck. Having all our employees back from their militia duty helps a lot. Are you telling President Zavala to keep things peaceful?”
Will laughed, “God help me, but Lorenzo didn’t talk to me for six months after I resigned. He was convinced I was abandoning my duty when I put my duty to my family above my country. But he’s come around as of late. I received a Christmas card last year, so that’s progress.”
“Lorenzo’s a good man, but the presidency changes a man. He’s singular in his service to Texas. I worry his sense of duty will steal his health,” Garza said. “Had I been in your shoes, I hope I would h
ave done as you did.”
Will was uncomfortable with the praise. He had done what needed doing, nothing more. He pointed to the men loading the flatbed railroad car. “I’ve noticed a lot of the men we’re hiring are Irish. I would hope they work as hard as,” he couldn’t bring himself to use the other word, “blacks.”
Garza offered a small smile, “I suppose. I’d gotten used to the freedmen who’d been loading freight. After the spring expansion in our acreage, most of them chose to work the fields. Wages aren’t any better, but we provide housing to the families who work the land.”
“Why the Irish?”
Garza turned his back on the laborers, “Some of the Irish are telling of famine. Potato crops are blighted and hunger stalks the land. You may want to pass that information along. I’ve talked with Andy Berry and several other mill and factory owners in the area and they could use more men. The Irish problem could be a blessing to us, Gulf Farms isn’t the only enterprise short of good workers.”
He studied the men loading cotton bales. “Of course, that will depend on prices. Last year, we were able to sell our cotton in New England and to the textile mills in Britain for upwards of twelve and a half cents per pound. My factors in Philadelphia indicate there is a bit of a glut, and the price has fallen hard.”
Will frowned. “How badly have prices fallen?”
“Eight and a half cents on the New York Commodities Exchange according to the most recent newspaper from the empire state.”
Will shook his head at the news. He cursed the wide gaps in the knowledge he brought with him in the transference. Someone who had studied the antebellum cotton economy might have known about the sharp drop in the price of cotton, but Garza’s information was news to him.
Another thought made him feel even worse. What if his actions over the past few years had changed things so much the drop in price wasn’t something he would have known about, because he had created it? The thought left him sick to his stomach. He had lived the past nine years pushing Texas away from the American South, sowing seeds to weaken slavery within the Republic. But until the past couple of years, most of his efforts were designed around building a military that could hold its own against Mexico, and he hadn’t considered how the changes made would impact the world beyond.
He said, “What’s the lower prices mean for us?”
Garza stared at the laborers as they hoisted another cotton bale onto the flatbed car. As the silence lengthened, he eventually said, “We’ll hemorrhage money this year. Oh, it won’t drive us out of business. We sold at twelve cents a pound last year and have a small amount of savings. But if worse comes to worst, I may be coming hat in hand to you and Sam for a short-term loan.”
Despite the development of the railroad, the effects of the war lingered on. Will wondered how much healthier Gulf Farms would have been were it not for the war’s lean year. Very little cotton had been grown two years earlier, and the company had used up the earlier years’ profits. The company had barely returned to profitability in 1844, and now the price of cotton was plummeting.
He smiled wryly, “I’ll talk to Sam about it. I’m sure something can be arranged.” He still struggled to wrap his mind around the complexities of industrial cotton production. Despite the improved seed drills used to plant the cotton and the water-powered cotton gin, Gulf Farms faced the same limitation slaveholding planters faced. Picking cotton was still by hand. While Will yet hoped Dick Gatling would come through with his pneumatic cotton picker, his optimism was fading.
Because of the wildly fluctuating price of cotton, few small landholders could risk their farms on more than a few acres of cotton production. Truly profitable cotton production required large, industrial farms, plantations. Aside from Gulf Farms Corporation and a few smaller free labor enterprises, much of the cotton grown in Texas was on plantations by slaves.
Plantations of dozens or even hundreds of slaves could ride a poor harvest even better than Don Garza could. If a planter needed quick cash, his first options were bankers in New Orleans or New York. Most bankers were happy to accept slaves as collateral. If loans were not available, then the planter could sell a few slaves. When Will mentioned that to Garza, the old Tejano said, “Maybe, but we can fire our unproductive laborers, and we don’t have to hire men with whips or guns to keep an eye on them. We may pay more for each laborer, but with the devices we’ve patented or bought from young Mr. Gatling, we’ve made our employees more productive.”
Will added, “Except for the picking season. Despite thousands of dollars thrown at the problem, we’ve yet to find a solution to the worst part of growing cotton.”
Garza shrugged, “It might not happen this year, Buck. But if not your young inventors, someone will figure it out. Let’s focus on surviving this year.”
There was a crash. A cotton bale collapsed, the twine holding it snapped, sending tufts of cotton blowing across the depot. Will turned and saw two of the Irishmen pointing at the crane. The stout jib hung at a drunken angle. The stone counterweight rolled from the platform, landing with a thud next to the flatcar.
Don Garza’s bitter laughter rang in Will’s ear, “Of course, before we can sell at a loss, we have to get it to market first.”
Chapter 22
15 November 1846
Will opened the door to little David’s bedroom. The lamp in his hand chased the shadows away as he watched his three-year-old’s small chest rise and fall. The boy looked like his mother, with brown curls covering his forehead. His youngest seemed to have only two speeds. Full-tilt ahead or asleep. Will closed the door, thankful it was the latter at that moment. Further down the hall, he repeated the process at the door to Liza’s bedroom. His five-year-old daughter’s room had an elaborate dollhouse in the middle of the floor, but thankfully, she was also asleep in her bed.
He closed the door and shook his head as he followed the lamplight down the hallway. His children were growing up so fast. Had it really been ten years since the transference? He’d never forget his life before, and God alone knows all the things he still missed. But he was happy with his life and even happier with his family.
“A smile like that, I hope I’m the one you’re thinking about.”
Will looked up as he walked into the dining room. Becky sat at the table with a cup of coffee, smiling. He took a seat next to her, leaned in and planted a kiss on her lips. “Only you, love.”
An envelope lay on the table. “Open it, Will. We haven’t heard from Charlie since he graduated.”
Will tore the end of the envelope open and unfolded the single sheet of paper. “Alright. Let’s see what the boy’s got to say.”
Becky took a sip of coffee. “I can hardly believe he’s eighteen already. Where do the years go?”
Will moved the letter to catch the light from the lamp and began to read.
Dear Pa and Becky, I’ve missed you since the graduation in June. I thought Captain Sherman had marched me into the ground while I was still a cadet. But now that I’ve been assigned to command a platoon, I’m marching and drilling even more now than I did before. It’s not as bad as it could be. The shoes from the factory at Trinity Park are a real improvement over the old leather soles we used to wear. If I ever see this Goodyear fellow, I’ll buy him a drink.
Tell Mr. Berry that his M46 Sabine rifle is an excellent weapon. I spent some time with Lt. Running Creek on the firing range, and we managed to shoot ten rounds in a minute! It was a caution. Jesse says his special Rangers have taken to it like a duck to water. I wish you could talk Gnl Johnston into equipping the rest of the army with these new rifles.
I’m not sure I’ll get leave to come home for Christmas. I’ve heard rumors that our company will be deployed to Monterey. The gold rush in Franklin, across the border, is spilling into Texian California. Gnl Johnston wants soldiers to show the flag and remind folks which country they’re in. We’re not going to tolerate the lawlessness taking hold over the border. If that happens, we could be marching
west along the Military Road before the new year.
Tell Liza and Davy that I love and miss them. I love you and will post a letter once our marching orders come through.
Love, Charlie.
As Will set the letter down, he felt Becky’s hand on his cheek. She wiped the tear away. “He’s turning into a fine, young man, Will. You should be proud.”
Feeling his emotions threatening to overwhelm him, Will nodded, taking her hand in his and kissing it. “We did well, Becky. But God knows, he’s had to endure more than most boys, and despite all of that, he’s doing so well.”
Becky scooted her chair closer and held his hand, “While he may turn out to be the career soldier, I’m so grateful your soldiering days are over. Those days of you burning the midnight oil, going over paperwork are gone. Now, you’ve got time for the little ones.”
Will pulled Becky closer and leaned in, nuzzling his lips against her neck, and whispered, “And for you.”
Becky let out a squeal, “You’ll wake my ma.”
Will chuckled. “Maybe we should retire to our bedroom. I don’t know what I’d do if Elizabeth found the two of us trying for another child on the kitchen table.”
Despite her laughter, Becky looked slightly scandalized as she made to slap at his shirt. “Will Travis! The scandal it would create.”
Later that night, in their bedroom, Will stared at the ceiling. The sheets rustled and Becky leaned against him, “You’re supposed to be smiling, Mr. William Travis.
Will turned his head and saw his wife was still undressed. “You know how to put a smile on my face, my love.”
Becky snuggled against him, “What’s wrong? I can tell when you’re distracted.”
“It’s probably nothing. But I got a letter from Erasmo. Lorenzo is sick. Every time Erasmo tries to go visit him, Emily has kept him and anyone else from seeing him.”
