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

by Drew McGunn

  “Sweet Jesus, sir. President Crockett, I mean, the colonel. He’s dead.”

  Will felt the color drain from his face. His mind screamed. But he managed to stammer, “What about my son? What about Charlie?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. But he’s been kidnapped.”

  The Texas Cession: A Short Story

  November 1843; Washington, District of Columbia

  He looked out the window of the coach, as the contraption rolled along the macadamized road. Clutching at the scarf, he pulled it tighter around his throat as a cross wind cut through the vehicle. It chilled him to the bone.

  “Close the damned curtain, Beecher.” Snapped the man beside him. Artemas Beecher drew the curtain closed. He eyed the middle-aged man beside him. Colonel William Ward wore the expensive clothing of a successful southern planter, although how long before he would be able to return to his plantation in East Texas was anyone’s guess. The ink was still drying on the document appointing him minister plenipotentiary to the United States. President Zavala had appointed him to the position after his battalion’s heroic defense at the Battle of Saltillo earlier in the year.

  Artemas owed his own position of clerk to Colonel Ward. He had joined the 4th Infantry as a musician a couple of years earlier, while the battalion was still an ad-hoc collection of reserve companies. But it was during the fateful Battle of Saltillo that the seventeen-year-old drummer saved his colonel’s life when the redoubts southern wall was nearly breached. Ward had been shot in the leg and had fallen on the parapet. As the soldados clambered over the wall, Artemas had pried a bayoneted rifle from the fingers of a dead rifleman and had forced his way in front of the colonel, slashing and swinging the bayonet’s tip. Several men standing atop the steep, sloping wall leapt back the way they had come, sliding into the dry ditch.

  Artemas sat on the padded bench, his face a mask, as the emotions of the battle, five months in the past, boiled within him. He had thought himself a goner, until other riflemen raced to fill in the void. Colonel Ward had survived with only a slight hitch in his leg. For his bravery, Artemas had been offered the role of clerk, once President Zavala had offered Ward the ambassadorship to the United States. It was a strange fate for a farmer’s son from San Filipe.

  The driver applied the brake, slowing the coach. Over the squeal of the brake, as wet wood gripped wet iron, Artemas heard voices from without. Ignoring the earlier command to leave the curtain closed, Artemas peered out. The imposing Treasury building of the United States filled his view. The entrance was framed by large, ornate columns. Stairs ran from the decorative wooden doors to the paving stones which stretched the from the building’s base to the macadamized avenue.

  Crowding the expansive sidewalk were men and women, holding signs. As the coachman swung the side-door open, Artemas read one of the signs. “No Slavery! No Compromise!” Another sign read, “Free Soil for a Free People!” Another proclaimed “United States are a city on a hill.! No to expansion!”

  He leaned back in the seat as the Texas Secretary of State, William Wharton stepped from the coach, followed by Colonel Ward. For the briefest of moments, Artemas was alone. He eyed the strident messages hoisted into the air by the protesters and as he stepped down, he hurried to catch up with Texas’ envoys. Their shoes echoed on the slick paving stones as the small party of Texians strode purposefully by the middle-class Whigs who had taken time to protest the negotiations.

  A doorman, whose face was dark as night, closed the richly carved door behind Artemas, silencing the crowd of protesters.

  The Treasury department shared part of the gargantuan building with the Department of State. The party was escorted by a dapperly dressed young man. Artemas followed Ward and Wharton up a wide staircase and through a set of double doors embossed with the great seal of the United States. In gold lettering above the seal was stenciled “Department of State.”

  They were led into a room, with a long, mahogany table in the center. A dozen chairs lined the table. The young guide said, “Messieurs Webster and Randolph will be in directly.”

  Moments later, the American delegates for the conference strode through the door. Artemas studied the men. He had met Fletcher Webster a few months before in Austin, when President Zavala had first offered to sell a portion of northern California to the United States. Until then he had been the American minister to Texas. The twenty-five-year-old was the son of the American vice-president. The next man to enter was Thomas Randolph. He was of middle years, hair graying at the temples. When he shook hands with Artemas’ superior, he spoke with a soft Virginian accent.

  After the men took their seats in the comfortable chairs arranged around the ornate table, Randolph, as Under-Secretary of State spoke first. “Allow me to extend our congratulations to your nation regarding your success against Mexico. There is something which stirs the heart to watch Anglo-Saxon arms victorious over our less able neighbors.”

  William Wharton raised his hand in a half-salute, “Providence blessed Texian arms, Mr. Randolph.”

  Artemas had traveled with Secretary of State Wharton since leaving Galveston, and recognized the gentle rebuke in the diplomat’s words. The army of the republic had fielded an entire battalion of Cherokee and hundreds of Tejanos had served in the late war. Command of Texas’ mounted force was under Brigadier General Juan Seguin, who Artemas considered the most famous Tejano in the republic. Referring to Texas’ victory as a feat of Anglo-Saxon arms was impolitic.

  Randolph smiled benignly in response. More perceptive, Minister Webster added, “On the wide world stage, our nations are brothers, and seeing you prosper in your late war, buoys our hearts as well.”

  As the two parties sat at the table, Wharton looked apologetic. “I confess, a year ago had I been told my adopted nation would reach from the Gulf of Mexico to the Pacific Ocean while the nation of my birth would still jointly administer the Oregon Territory with Britain, I would have labeled such a person a lunatic.”

  Artemas was not the only person at the table to raise an eyebrow. Wharton’s oblique observation was a reminder Texas remained dissatisfied the Clay administration had rebuffed an offer by Texas to host a conference between Washington and London to settle their disagreement over Oregon. Even the British envoy, Henry Fox had sent informal word her majesty’s government would view American acceptance of Texas’ offer with favor. President Clay’s silence over the matter the previous year had not gone unnoticed.

  Artemas hid a smirk. Of course, the British had been in favor of a conference. Texas captured two modern steam powered iron-hulled warships from the Mexican navy the previous year and Mexico stopped payment to the British bankers who had financed the ships’ construction. Those same bankers had been eager to reclaim the ships and had used their influence with the British Foreign Office to float the idea of accepting the offer from Texas.

  Now, Texas held California and two new warships. President Clay’s latest offer to host a conference in Washington to resolve the Oregon boundary dispute had gone unanswered by Whitehall. If anything, Artemas thought the American diplomats had done an admirable job hiding their reactions to Wharton.

  Randolph forced a narrow smile. “I’m convinced John Bull will eventually come around. It’s in their interest to settle the boundary in Oregon, too.”

  “Eventually,” Wharton conceded. “But, enough about what the British may or may not do. If I may, let us discuss something we’re both empowered to do something about.”

  He looked at Artemas, “Mr. Beecher, be so good as to unroll the map.”

  The young man jumped to his feet and uncapped a leather tube. He drew from it a large map and unrolled it. He took a few small stones from his pocket and weighted the map down. Detailed on the map was North American from the Mississippi to the Pacific Ocean. A cartographer had drawn new national borders, showing the boundary line of the Adams-Onis Treaty as Texas’ northern limit.

  Randolph stared at the map, his attention drawn to the western section, the
Pacific coastal area, “There are some fine bays and natural ports along your newly acquired coastline.”

  Wharton allowed a half-smile, “Imagine what your government could do with them. I’m sure it’s tiresome to base your Pacific Squadron out of roving supply ships instead of a modern port.”

  Minister Webster had been silent, deferring to Randolph’s senior position in the State Department, but at the mention of the ports, he said, “I had heard President Zavala and General Travis had been interested in extending the line of the Missouri Compromise in any negotiations.”

  ***

  Artemas blew the lucifer out and turned the nob on the lamp until the shadows on the room retreated into the corners. He turned and watched Minister Ward kneel and light a fire in the room’s fireplace.

  As the room warmed, the young man took a seat at a desk, while the older men rested in two plush, comfortable chairs facing the crackling fire.

  Wharton took a sip from a glass tumbler, “I bet Henry Clay is kicking himself for not agreeing to our offer last year. Had they settled the boundary with the Brits, they’d have more leverage today.”

  Ward snickered into his drink. “I ain’t prone to saying anything bad about my fellow Southerners, but damned, how did Tom Randolph’s star rise so high? And that pup of an ambassador, Fletcher Webster is still wet behind the ears, by God.”

  Wharton chuckled appreciatively, “When you’re the grandson of Thomas Jefferson, it tends to cloud people’s judgement, Bill. But don’t misread young Fletcher. He’s got more of his father in him than I’d like. If you’ve noticed, Randolph deferred to him several times today. I’d be surprised if he didn’t make a beeline over to the Presidents mansion and report to his pa and Clay.”

  Forgetting his place, Artemas asked, “Isn’t that a good thing, sir? If Mr. Webster is reporting directly to the president, seems Mr. Clay is really interested in your negotiations.”

  Ward’s face creased into a frown, but held his peace when Wharton nodded in approval. “Your right, Mr. Beecher. But Henry Clay wouldn’t have allowed the negotiations unless he was serious about buying part of California. No matter how long it takes or how much horse trading our American counterparts attempt, the major issues we’ll settle are the price and the boundary. There’s no doubt in my mind, we’ll bring a treaty back to Austin.”

  He set the empty tumbler on the narrow table between the chairs and pulled a cigar from his jacket. He cut the end from the cigar and lit it. As he puffed on it, he turned thoughtful. “You know, Bill, Lorenzo and Buck gave us enough latitude to negotiate the best possible treaty.”

  Ward leaned over his chair, “You thinking of getting more money from Clay?”

  Wharton waved the cigar, “I wouldn’t turn up my nose at that, but no, Bill. That’s not what I’m thinking. I’m mindful that a good fence makes a good neighbor. Texas is separated from Louisiana by the Sabine River, for the most part. Then we’ve got the Red River to our north and the Rio Grande to our south. If we set the thirty-six thirty meridian as our new boundary, we’ll have more than a thousand miles of open borders with the United States.”

  Ward wore a confused expression, “But, there’s not damn all west of the Red River. What’s it matter?”

  Artemas wondered the same thing. The land to the west was empty of civilization. Like a professor explaining a complex lesson, Wharton gently shook his head. “Not so much as we might like, Bill. There are more than thirty thousand men, women and children living in the Rio Grande basin around Santa Fe and Albuquerque. Word is, most of them are going to stay put and accept Texian citizenship. There’s another ten thousand or so on the California coast. Add in the Indians and the land is hardly empty.”

  He took a final puff from the cigar and set it in a brass tray. “I’ve been looking at young Master Artemas’ map, and I think we should use the natural rivers of our newly acquired territory to separate Texas from the United States. Both the Colorado and San Juaquin Rivers are natural boundaries, and if we offer those boundaries to Messers Webster and Randolph we need only worry about three hundred miles with no river between us and them, and that’s through some of the most inhospitable land God ever made.”

  His face, Artemas decided, was devoid of emotion when he finished. It was as though he were hiding something. The young man ventured, “Is there anything else, sir?”

  “If we offer these new boundary lines to the United States, we’ll keep nearly one hundred thousand more square miles than under the thirty-six thirty offering.”

  Artemas looked at the map. Yes, he could see the benefit. There would need to be some accommodation regarding the bay at San Francisco. The boundary would run through the bay. It would provide the US Pacific squadron a couple of different options for good anchorage. His eyes rose as he studied the map. Texas would retain Monterey, Los Angeles and San Diego.

  ***

  Outside the window snow eddies swirled. Artemas shivered despite the heat radiating from the franklin stove. November would be giving up the ghost within the next couple of days, and already old man winter was covering the American capital in a white blanket. He turned his back on the window and saw the other men in the room were all smiles.

  Well they should be, he thought. All that remained was for the two sides to sign the treaty. That, and get both countries’ senates to ratify it. He walked over to the conference table and looked at the map spread across it.

  An army cartographer had redrawn the map Artemas has brought to the conference, and the proposed boundaries were clearly marked. Texas would retain everything south of the San Juaquin River in the western portion of the territory and everything south of the Colorado River in the east. The territory to be transferred was close to three hundred thousand square miles. The agreed upon price for the territory worked out to a bit more than four and a half cents an acre, or nine million dollars, paid out over the course of six years.

  The treaty which ended the Texas-Mexican War required Texas pay ten million pesos for all of Alta California, but it was to be paid over ten years. Artemas didn’t envy the Treasury Department. It would be their responsibility to manage the receipts and payments.

  The young man turned, as he heard Thomas Randolph laughing. The Undersecretary of State was leaning over the table, examining the new markings on the map. Next to him stood Artemas’ superior, William Ward.

  Ward said, “Nice touch, calling your part of California, ‘Jefferson.’ I like that.”

  “It only seems fitting. Thomas Jefferson gave us the Louisiana Purchase, doubling the size of our nation. Naming our newest acquisition in honor of our third president strikes me as a singular honor.”

  The door opened, and a man entered, carrying a contraption over his shoulder. The young man’s eyes lit up when he saw it was one of the new daguerreotype machines. He had seen several studios offering pictographic services around the American capital.

  Fletcher Webster raised his voice, “Gentlemen, I thought it would be fitting to capture such a momentous moment for both of our nations so that a likeness of this occasion could be kept for posterity.”

  The signatories, Randolph and Wharton stood next to the treaty, holding the pens which they had used to sign the document. Webster and Ward stood to either side. As the photographer slid the plate used to capture the image into the contraption Wharton waved to him. “Mr. Beecher, stand beside Mr. Ward. I’ve a feeling this is a moment for the history books.”

  ***

  Summer 1844

  He scratched at his beard as his sure-footed mount crested the hill. Artemas sucked in his breath when his eyes fell on the valley below. A river snaked through the valley, meandering from north to south. He recalled the name, having studied the map of the area more times than he’d care to remember. It was the Rio de los Americanos. As he followed one of his traveling companions down the hill, he wondered if the Yankees would keep the name or change it.

  He wiped sweat from his brow and eyed the midday sun. Even though the
party had traveled only a hundred miles from San Francisco, the temperature had spiked as they moved away from the coastal plain and entered the interior highlands. “At least it’s not as hot as it is in Austin,” he thought.

  He let his mount pick its route down the hill while he ran his eyes up and down the valley. Logging the old growth trees would be profitable, but that wasn’t the reason he and his traveling companions had spent four months traveling by sea around South America. Further down the hill rode the party’s leader. Major Jack Hays gripped the reins with his one arm, as he led a dozen men into the valley.

  Artemas, like the others following behind the former Ranger, had received a land grant following the war with Mexico. At that time, he had given it little thought. He had joined Colonel Ward’s trip to Washington, DC as his clerk. He shook his head at the memory. Ward’s appointment as minister to the United States was payback for his service in the war, and Artemas had learned by the end of the negotiated treaty that Ward was ill suited to the role. This realization demoralized the young man and he had returned to Texas with Secretary of State Wharton.

  When he arrived back in Austin, Major Hays made a point of meeting him because his land grant was in the recently sold territory of Jefferson.

  His horse neighed when the party reached the river, tearing his mind away from the past. Major Hays climbed from his mount. “Alright boys, let’s set up camp here. Time to find out if the rumor of gold is true.”

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