Down Mexico Way (The Lone Star Reloaded Series Book 4)

by Drew McGunn

  Elliot eyed the wagon in the center of the building. In the wagon bed there were several heavy boxes, with padlocks on them. He was too far away and couldn’t tell if anything was stenciled on their sides. But the way the three men kept looking at them hinted strongly the wagon’s contents were the subject of their conversation.

  Elliot was unlikely to get closer without being seen, and for reasons he couldn’t pin down, he decided he didn’t want Stewart to know he had followed him. The diplomat edged back to the doorway to the alley then slipped back into the narrow track between the two buildings. He retraced his steps and had turned back onto the Strand before the livery stable doors opened and Stewart casually slipped out.

  ***

  A little more than a week remained before the presidential election of 1842. Charles Elliot had taken a ferry from Galveston Island, through the bay and up Buffalo Bayou to a spot between Harrisburg and Houston. Although Texas had yet to develop clearly defined political parties, most men of voting age were split between two candidates, who had agreed to a public debate this day.

  Although still learning the ins and outs of the politics of this frontier republic, he conceded that President Crockett was a shrewd judge of his people’s character. With the resignation five months before the election, the electorate had become familiar with the new president before turning out to vote, thereby boosting his chances. At first glance, his chosen successor, Lorenzo de Zavala was an outsider. Perhaps one in ten Texians were of Mexican derivation. They called themselves Tejanos, and he had read several stories in the Republic’s most widely read newspaper, Telegraph Texas and Register, about attempts by Americans to invalidate titles to rich farm and ranch land.

  Given what Elliot had heard about men from the American South, he had been surprised when he learned the Crockett administration had used the full legal power of the executive branch to defend legitimate land titles, even though it meant frequently siding with Tejano landholders over more recently arrived Americans, with forged titles in hand.

  Even without dueling political parties, Texians still found issues over which they were divided. Zavala was campaigning for continued independence, while Sam Houston advocated for Texas to seek union with the United States.

  When he arrived, the debate’s site was already teeming with people who had arrived from nearby towns as well as from the surrounding countryside. Despite the frontier republic’s reputation for being sparsely populated, there were several thousand people settling on blankets or sitting in camp chairs or simply standing around, waiting patiently for Zavala and Houston to take their places on the podium constructed for the event.

  Knowing he would need to send a report back to the Foreign Office, Elliot took stock of the crowd. Even though a state of war existed between Texas and Mexico, more than half the crowd were men. An even mix between women and children made up the balance. The number of men carrying weapons staggered Elliot as it seemed to him every man he saw carried a hunting rifle or a Bowie knife. But a closer inspection showed more than half of the men in the crowd were not armed. Even so, Elliot made note of it.

  The speech was supposed to start at noon sharp, but a glance at his pocket watch showed it was fifteen minutes after the hour before the two candidates took to the stage, climbing stairs at either end. Both men took their seats as a speaker addressed the crowd, “Folks, thank you kindly for giving up your Saturday for your civic duty. According to the rules agreed upon by Messiers Zavala and Houston, the first speaker was decided by a coin toss, and the president will have the first thirty minutes. Mr. Houston will be allowed to respond for thirty minutes, then each will be allowed another thirty minutes in which to make any final remarks.”

  Elliot found a nearby tree under which several families had spread blankets and were enjoying the shade. He found a section of grass, burned brown by the sun and claimed it, sitting so that he could make notes in the journal he had brought.

  Zavala, whose deep brown hair was surrendering to gray streaks, stood first. He was of medium height and he rested his hands lightly on the podium as he spoke. “Citizens of Texas, I am humbled by the charge to which you elected me six years ago, and I trust that when you go to vote on September 5th that you’ll evaluate my performance over the past six years as vice president, and as of late, the president. If you feel that I have faithfully executed my duties, I would ask that you allow me the honor of returning to the Capitol to carry forward the torch of liberty and freedom.”

  Elliot noticed the crowd listened to his every word. He found Zavala’s comments about liberty and freedom ironic. As Texas continued to fight for the right to exist, thousands of Americans flooded across the Sabine River with their slaves in tow. Elliot, ever the abolitionist, briefly wondered how Zavala, by all accounts a staunch Mexican liberal, stomached the odious stench of slavery within the Republic.

  Zavala continued addressing the crowd, and Elliot made note when he transitioned his speech. “You have been told the United States will look favorable on Texas’ request to join their union, especially if the American presidency should change hands from the Whigs to the Democrats. That may or may not be true. I suppose if Texas were unable to meet her debts or was overwhelmed by Comanche raiding parties, I could understand a desire to splice ourselves into the fabric that is the United States. But neither of these are true statements. Because of our careful shepherding, Texas has a growing economy, a strong currency, and a treaty with the Comanche that has brought a measure of peace to the frontier.”

  From the center of the crowd a heckler called out, “What about Mexico? They aim to have us back.”

  Rather than ignoring the voice, Zavala nodded sagely. “What about Mexico? Twice Texians have stood tall and sent Santa Anna’s soldiers fleeing from our long rifles. If any man among you thinks that Santa Anna is going to drive us from our land, then, vote for my opponent. While you’re doing that, General Travis and I intend to end once and for all Santa Anna’s depredations on our fair republic.”

  Briefly, Elliot wondered if the heckler was a Houston supporter or someone who had provided Zavala the opportunity to rouse the crowd. Most of the folks in the field were on their feet clapping and shouting their approval.

  Once Zavala had reached the end of his thirty minutes, Houston replaced him at the podium. Elliot was aware the tall, broad shouldered former general of the Texas army had also been a former governor of Tennessee and had served in the United States congress, at one time.

  “Friends, neighbors, and fellow Texians,” Houston started. Elliot allowed a brief smile as the speaker borrowed from Shakespeare his opening line. “My esteemed opponent, Mr. Zavala, would like for us to continue puttering along, like one of those newfangled trains climbing a hill, huffing and a-chuffing along, barely making any headway.

  “I’ll be the first to support our boys as this latest war with Mexico gets underway. But let’s face it, the nigger in the woodpile is that even if we defeat Santa Anna’s army, we’re still going to be the little fellow between two larger and stronger countries. Mexico is always going to covet our great land, because, let’s just be honest, it was the best damned land Spain had managed to claim during their empire.”

  While the audience laughed appreciably, Elliot shook his head. There was plenty of land in Mexico that rivaled the bounty of Texas, but from someone looking south past San Antonio, Northern Mexico appeared inhospitable.

  “What we need is breathing room. Seeking annexation with the United States is the surest way to have the room and freedom to grow our industry and wealth.”

  The remainder of Houston’s thirty minutes were spent detailing the advantages statehood would bestow upon Texas. Elliot noted how the former governor danced around the lack of support from the Clay administration in Washington.

  To Elliot’s experienced ears, the following hour’s rebuttals were simply a rehash of the two men’s positions. As they descended the stairs, Elliot listened intently to the applause both men received, and for t
he life of him, he couldn’t decide who the crowd favored more.

  The ferry which brought Elliot and several dozen other spectators to hear the speech, took them back to Galveston the same evening. As he stood next to the railing, looking across the bay, he worried that if the Texians voted for annexation by electing Houston to be their next president, his job would become more difficult. It served Her Majesty’s government for Texas to exist as a buffer between the United States and Mexico. The boat sliced through the water as Elliot considered what he could do to dissuade a President Houston from pursuing annexation with the United States.

  As the boat docked and he saw his valet, Stewart, waiting with the Consulate’s new hansom, he disembarked, thankful that two years yet remained before the next presidential election in the United States.

  ***

  5 September 1842

  His stomach rumbled, letting Elliot know he had been watching the men of Galveston standing in line, waiting to vote for most of the day. Tables were set up in front of the county courthouse, where election judges matched the names of the voters against a roll containing the name of every man eligible to vote on Galveston Island. When Elliot asked how they had built their election roll, a judge had told him, Congress made a recent change that required the election roll to be taken from the militia rolls. Men under the age of twenty-one were removed from the list as well as any foreigners who had not yet met the citizenship requirements.

  The judge had mentioned there had been some pushback from men who had no interest in serving in the militia when the law was enacted earlier in the year. The judge had referred to them as a bunch of fancy dandies. Elliot took it to mean a few plantation owners. But on the whole, the requirement was met with enthusiasm, especially by many of the poorer farmers and tradesmen in towns like San Antonio and Galveston. “I’ll have you know, if a man ain’t interested in defending his property, damned if he deserves to keep it.” The election judge’s admission didn’t surprise Elliot. Few men relished serving in the militia to safeguard someone else’s property. Elliot made note to send his observations back to London. While Texas might be a backwater frontier republic, he was impressed Texas required militia service in order to vote.

  He was growing tired, and Stewart had brought him refreshments from the consulate throughout the afternoon, but it had been more than an hour since he’d seen his valet last. The final voter signed the roll and took a ballot. Elliott turned around, trying to see if his man was close by. Not seeing Stewart, he turned back and watched as the voter slipped the ballot into a large wooden and metal box, with a thin slit across the top, where all the ballots had been stored.

  Seeing the ballot box setting on the trestle tables triggered a thought, and he turned around, trying to find Stewart. “Where in the blazes is that man?”

  As he took his leave of the election judge, several men were hauling the box into the courthouse, where the votes would be tabulated. Elliot would have strong words for his valet when he found him. He returned to the consulate but found the door to the building locked. After unlocking the door, a thorough search of the building turned up nothing. The image of that ballot box kept returning. What was Stewart planning with those other men? The longer he searched, the more concerned he became.

  He slammed the door to the consulate and locked it. He hurried down the street and turned onto Bath Street. The livery stable stood, doors wide open, a couple of blocks down the road. He didn’t care for people to see him rushing about the town. It was unseemly behavior for a diplomat of Her Majesty’s Foreign Office, but he had to find Stewart. Whatever he was up to, Elliot had to find out.

  An older teenage boy was shoveling hay into an occupied stall, when Elliot hurried in. The wagon, which had been in the center of the wide aisle, was gone.

  “Boy, have you seen an Englishman around here today?” Elliot tried not to snarl as he came toe to toe with the youth.

  With a strong Mexican accent, the boy responded. “No, Señor.” He stepped around Elliot and shoveled hay into another stall.

  Elliot bit off a retort and stormed from the livery stable. Bath Street ran toward the wharves and the harbor to his left, and to his right it ran toward the center of the island. He sucked in air, trying to calm his nerves. Where would Stewart have gone? Whatever the valet had planned, he had kept it from Elliot and that puzzled him. “Just who is paying the man’s bills?” he asked himself.

  One way was as good as another, and he turned and trudged toward the harbor. Elliot pieced together what he knew, and at the moment it was very little. The Englishman he had seen with Stewart worked for Lloyds Bank, of that he was nearly certain. It made sense that whomever that man worked for was probably the one who was paying Stewart’s salary. More than that, what could these mysterious men want with this backwater country?

  He reached the wharves and looked down the street. Even as the sun was sinking below the western horizon, the docks and the wharves were still teeming with activity. In the milling mass of men, animals, and wagons, he strained to see his valet. In the distance, he thought he saw Stewart, if only for a brief moment. With renewed energy, Elliot began making his way down the crowded street.

  Ten minutes later, he found himself standing next to bales of cotton beside a warehouse. The five-hundred pound bales were stacked three high, allowing him to stand behind them without crouching, an act he was certain would make him appear ridiculous. As casually as he could muster, he peered around the corner and saw Stewart standing on one of the docks. A coastal schooner was being tied to the dock’s mooring. “What have we here?”

  A wagon waited on the end of the dock, and from down the gangplank several sailors carried heavy wooden boxes over to the wagon. The man sitting on the seat looked familiar. It was one of the election judges he’d seen back at the courthouse. These were more ballots from other parts of Galveston County. Instead of counting the votes where they were cast, the county chose to assemble all the ballots at one location before counting them.

  When loaded, the wagon rolled forward, but went less than half a block before turning from the street and rolling into a warehouse. Followed closely by Stewart. Mystified, Elliot trailed behind. Before he could close the entire distance, the wagon rolled out the door with the judge still atop the seat. Elliot stared, mouth agape, as the wagon turned the corner, heading in the direction of the courthouse.

  Where had Stewart gone? Was he still in the warehouse? Intending to find out and put an end to whatever shenanigans his valet was up to, he peered into the Warehouse’s dim interior. “What in the hell?”

  There was a second wagon, close enough in appearance to be a twin to the one the election judge rode out on moments before. Stewart sat on the seat and snapped the reins as the wagon left, rolling into a back alleyway. Paraphrasing Shakespeare as he ran across the floor of the warehouse, Elliot muttered, “Something’s rotten in the state of Texas,” and he was determined to find out how his valet was involved.

  He hadn’t gone more than a few hundred feet before regretting not having his own horse. The wagon had continued on a straight route, through the center of the town, heading toward the beach on the gulf side of town. He arrived on the shoreline, drenched in sweat and out of breath. But not more than fifty yards ahead of him stood the wagon, still harnessed to the horses. Were it not for the brilliant moonlight that bathed the sand, Elliot wouldn’t have seen Stewart as he pulled a small rowboat back to shore.

  As Stewart beached the boat, curiosity overrode Elliot’s caution and he strode across the sand, noticing the wagon-bed was empty. “What in the name of all that is holy are you doing out here, Mr. Stewart”

  The other man jumped in fright when he heard Elliot’s booming voice echo from the darkness. The former decrypter must have recognized his voice. “Lord have mercy, Mr. Elliot.” He smoothed his wrinkled shirt and when he spoke again, his voice had returned to normal. “Can I be of service, sir?”

  Elliot closed the distance and pointed his finger
into his valet’s face, “Dammit, yes. What in the blazes are you up to? Conspiring with some fellow from the bank of England and a Mexican? Are you trying to start a war, man?”

  Stewart stepped around him and went and checked on the horses. Elliot fumed as the other man appeared to ignore him. “Who in the devil does he think he is? I’m the goddamned chargé d'affaires.”

  The other man climbed onto the seat and finally responded, “Here, sir. Take my hand, and we’ll take this wagon back to where it belongs.”

  Elliot stared at his valet as though he didn’t know him. In truth, he couldn’t say he did, given that Stewart had been with him for less than three months. He was seriously doubting whether he knew the man at all as he climbed up in the seat next to his valet.

  As Stewart guided the wagon back onto the road from the beach, he said, “Like as not, you really don’t want to know, sir.”

  Elliot stewed at the insolence. “If what you did causes an international incident, I damned better be informed.”

  “There are forces at play bigger than you or me, Mr. Elliot. My employer,” Stewart stopped, thinking before continuing, “let’s just say that Texas can’t be allowed to pursue annexation.”

  Everything he’d seen over the course of the evening fell into place. The ballots from the coastal schooner had been swapped in the warehouse. The fake ballots had already been delivered to the courthouse, and Stewart had likely dumped the real ballots into the Gulf of Mexico.

  Elliot shook his head in dismay. “What have you done, Stewart? If Texas finds out you’ve tampered in their election, it will undo everything I’ve been sent here to accomplish.”

  Stewart coldly stared at him. “Then it would be best if they didn’t find out,” his voice softened as he continued, “There are two things that matter to my employer, sir. First, anything that keeps Texas out of the United States benefits my employer and Britain. Second, in this election, Houston’s base of support was the planter class and other men who benefit from the slave trade. While there is no guarantee that Lorenzo de Zavala will be a friend to the cause of abolition, the slavers will own Sam Houston should he win the election.”