To the Victors the Remains (The Lone Star Reloaded Series Book 3)

by Drew McGunn

  Will looked thoughtful. “That’s not bad. It would be the largest command we have ever fielded. But we’ve got two proposals on the table and I’d like for you to review it, too. If we wait and rebuild our regulars and train up our reserves, while picking the best of the militia to expand the reserves, how many men would we be able to field?”

  Johnston’s chair creaked in protest as he leaned back and stared at the ceiling as his mind worked out the details. After a long delay, he said, “If we were to wait until the autumn to attack, we could probably mobilize as many as twelve infantry battalions.”

  Around the room, the other officers wore looks of incredulity at Johnston’s calculation. Will was tempted to side with them, but for Johnston’s reputation for careful and deliberate thinking. “How do we manage that, Sid? Today, we’ve got five battalions between our regular and reserve infantry.”

  Johnston dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Fair enough, General. But let’s examine what’s available to us. To borrow a phrase I’ve heard you say more than once, before this shitstorm, McCulloch had done an excellent job building our reserves, and now, he’s working on assembling the militia in defense of the republic. One problem he’s faced, I’ve learned, is that Tom Rusk, who has been in nominal command of the militia since the end of the revolution, hasn’t done much to ensure all able-bodied men are enrolled. My point is that by McCulloch’s calculation, he’s found that more than six thousand men are not enrolled in the militia. I’d hazard a guess that many of them have no idea the law requires their enrollment in their district. Rusk was pretty passive about his job.”

  Will nudged him, “Where do we get the other men, Sid?”

  “We expand the reserves. We’ll transfer as much as half of the existing militia to the active reserves while McCulloch tracks down and enrolls all those missing men.”

  Will scratched at the stubble on his chin, thinking through Johnston’s numbers. “How much time will we need to train all these new reservists?”

  Johnston was quick to reply. “Give me through the end of the summer and we can have twelve battalions of infantry ready to invade come this autumn.”

  Watching his enthusiasm, Will ribbed him. “Sid, did you change your mind? Do you prefer Juan’s plan now?”

  Johnston smiled ruefully. “I’ll allow that I had my dander up, and it’s possible I was a might hasty earlier. But Juan’s idea is sound. Where does this leave us?”

  Will pulled the penknife from the desk and handed it back to Seguin. “I believe this belongs to you, Juan. In addition to the infantry we’ve discussed, I want you to figure out how to expand to eight troops of regular cavalry as well as an equal number of reserves.”

  He scanned the room, his eyes settling on Captain Hays. “I’m not sure if there’s time, but I want to expand your special Rangers from one to three companies. I’ll be recalling most of Major Caldwell’s Rangers from our frontier along the Red River, and you’ll pick from among them first, and then from the ranks of the regular and reserve services next. But I want eyes and ears south of the border when we invade, and that means more men like yours.”

  Hays preened at the news. Will could see the wheels spinning as he began to mentally make plans for building out his specialized force.

  Seguin also smiled, “With those Rangers from Caldwell’s frontier battalion, we’ll have three battalions of cavalry. That’ll be more than a thousand men.”

  Will returned the grin and sketched a mock salute in Seguin’s direction. “Indeed, General Seguin. They’ll be your responsibility. Jack will also report to you.” Seguin’s earlier smile faded when he realized how much work lay before him.

  Will’s features grew somber, as he brought up the third branch of the army. He turned to Johnston, “Our two batteries of field artillery are not going to be adequate to the role they’ll need to play. I want a battalion of six batteries of field artillery in our invasion force. Some of those guns are going to need to be large enough to knock holes in walls. Let’s bring Captain Carey back from our coastal forts.”

  An idea sprang to mind, “Also, let’s use some of our contacts back east and see if we can talk a few officers from to the United States into joining our army. If I can get the president to agree, maybe we can sweeten the offer with some land or a cash bounty.”

  Most of the men knew officers who were actively serving in the United States Army, and Will could see they were building their own lists of men to invite. Hopefully, that would provide more officers. If he and the other men in the room were able to pull this off, more trained officers were a must. In a roomful of butternut uniforms, Major West’s navy-blue jacket stood out. “I’ve not forgotten about your Marines, Major. Until we’re ready to invade, I want you to work with General McCulloch on adding a few more reserve companies that can bolster our coastal defenses. But when it’s time, you and your six companies will be part of our army of invasion.”

  Ever the professional, West saluted. “Yes, sir!”

  His list nearly complete, Will turned to Sam Houston, “Last and certainly not least, General Houston.” Will acknowledged his rank from the Texas Revolution.

  Houston returned Will’s smile with a thin one of his own. “It’s about time, Buck. You’d think your Cherokee allies were more important than that.”

  Will winced at the sharp comment. There were times when interacting with Houston that he wanted to wipe his smug expression from his face. Instead he said, “I was under the impression these fine soldiers under your command were our citizens, not our allies, Sam.”

  Houston’s thin, forced smile continued, “Well, that’s what I meant, Buck. They’ve answered the call to arms, in greater numbers than other Texians. They deserve that recognition.”

  Houston was cagey, like a politician. Will wasn’t certain if the former general really meant that he deserved the recognition or if it belonged to his Cherokee volunteers. “Of course, I’m grateful, as is every other man here, of their willingness to serve. But that brings me in a circle back to you, Sam. Are you going to stay the course with the army or do you plan on taking another shot at the presidency?”

  The last six years had taught Will that even a soldier, especially one in command of the Texas army needed to develop some political chops or the politicians in congress would run him over. If there was a value that Will, as a product of the twenty-first century, innately shared with his nineteenth-century compatriots, it was that no officer should make a run for the presidency without resigning his commission in the army. He had subtly reminded Houston, he would have to choose between the two.

  Houston laughed. “Had you boys decided to go punish Woll’s army, I’d happily lead my Cherokee warriors into battle, but alas, as you so kindly reminded me, President Crockett’s term nears its end, and you’re right, I do intend to challenge Señor de Zavala for the office.”

  Will barely managed to keep a grimace from his face. Since Houston’s defeat nearly six years earlier, he’d wondered if the former general still harbored a desire to seek annexation. His voice would hardly be alone. Many Texians from the southern states advocated annexation. Adding two senators from another slave state would shift the balance of power in the United States. But Will didn’t know Houston’s mind. Instead, he nodded and said, “Congratulations on your candidacy, Sam. I’ll be issuing orders transferring them from the militia to the active reserves shortly. Who would you recommend to command them?”

  Houston nodded and said, “That’s fair enough, Buck. You’ve met Stand Watie. He’s my second-in-command, and he’d make a damn fine colonel for the battalion.” He fell silent, as though in thought, before he continued, “My Cherokee warriors are good men, Buck. Give them the opportunity to prove themselves and you’ll not be disappointed.”

  While a Houston presidency chilled him, when he thought about how Sam Houston had gutted the army of the republic in the world in which he’d come, but Will could see Houston was speaking earnestly from the heart. The man, known af
fectionately by the Cherokee as the Raven, loved his adopted people and wanted them to prosper. With a genuine smile, Will struck out his hand and said, “You have my word, Sam.”

  He scanned the room, looking at each officer, thinking of their roles in the coming days. Everything which could be resolved now had been. “I believe we’ve set things in motion here, gentlemen. My next step is simple. Our government must bless this endeavor. I’ll be traveling to Austin tomorrow. I suspect our government will respond to Woll’s invasion and the treacherous murder of our men with a declaration of war.”

  Chapter 22

  2nd May 1842

  Hell, Will decided, would be eternity rocking along in a stage coach with only Sam Houston as his companion. Fortunately, Charlie shared the seat beside him as the coach swayed back and forth, as it ate away at the distance between San Antonio and Austin. It’s not that Houston was an intransigent companion. Far from it, Houston regaled Charlie with many stories from his own youth spent living among the Cherokee. But Will’s earlier support for Crockett during the previous election acted as a barrier of amiability between the two men.

  Will tuned out the conversation and looked out the open window, as the prairie rolled by. New stagecoach inns had opened, and with fresh mounts available at regular intervals, the coach made good time. What had once been a two-day trip, could now be made between sunrise and sunset, at least during the summer.

  A ferry now crossed the Guadeloupe River along the most direct route between the two cities, and it had been while crossing the languorously flowing river that he had noticed the frame of a wooden truss bridge spanning the river a few hundred feet upriver from the ferry. He’d read that a company billing itself as the Texas Central Railroad was responsible for the grading of land and this bridge. Unfortunately, the company was undercapitalized, and the last he had heard, the principals were trying to find new investors back east. If they ever completed the line, it would shorten the time needed to travel between San Antonio and Austin to only a couple of hours.

  After twelve hours in the coach with Sam Houston, even Charlie perked up when the coach rolled up to the Stagecoach Inn in Austin. After they climbed down, Houston extended his hand to Will and said, “General, I know my interest in running for the presidency makes you about as comfortable as a whore in church, regarding how you and I see annexation, but rest assured, if I win, you’ll have my unwavering support for the coming campaign against Mexico. That trumped-up dictator must be made to pay the price of his crimes against Texas.”

  Will shook the outstretched hand. “Sam, I appreciate your sentiments. They are my own. Should you win, I’m glad to know the military will continue to enjoy the government’s support.”

  ***

  Charlie stretched after stepping from the coach. While Mr. Houston had regaled him with plenty of stories, he was glad to see the former general’s backside as he crossed the street. He had said he was staying with a friend.

  He picked up his bag and followed his pa into the inn’s lobby, where Will checked them in. Charlie leaned against the staircase banister and watched. Twilight’s last gasp, sent tendrils of weak light to compete against the lamplight basking the lobby in a soft glow. While his pa fished a few cotton-back notes from his pocket, he followed a particle of dust, eddying and sifting in the cooling air currents from the open doorway.

  After Will signed the register, Charlie forgot about the dust and followed him up the stairs to their room. After dropping his bag on the floor, the boy plopped down on the bed. “Pa, I had no idea that Mr. Houston could talk that much. Do you think he’ll win an election against Señor Zavala?”

  Will chuckled, as he walked over to the window, and pulled the curtains wide, tying them back with a cord. Red and orange light danced across the western sky. The sun had only slipped below the horizon a few minutes earlier. As he answered, he raised the window, letting in a slight breeze. “I don’t reckon anyone knows yet, Son. Señor Zavala has been a good vice president. But a lot of newcomers may be biased by his Mexican heritage, even though we both know there’s no better Texian than Lorenzo de Zavala.”

  Charlie shrugged out of his jacket and let it fall to the floor next to his carpet bag before asking, “Do you like Mr. Houston? You were real quiet on the coach ride.”

  “Pick your jacket up and hang it in the wardrobe. Set your bag in there too. I can’t image what Becky would say if she saw a mess like that.” As Charlie reached down and grabbed his things, Will asked, “What do you mean by ‘do I like him?’”

  After hanging his jacket up, Charlie shrugged, “I don’t know, but he did all the talking during the ride up from San Antonio. It seemed like you don’t like him much.”

  As Will hung his jacket up next to Charlie’s, he offered an apologetic smile, “There’s a bit of history there, Son. Ever since I helped your Uncle Davy get elected, General Houston has resented me just a bit. I think he expected things to go different back in ’36. He expected he’d lead the army to victory over Santa Anna and win the presidency in a landslide. As you know, things didn’t work out that way, and he resents it at times, I think.”

  After dinner in the inn’s common room, they returned to their room, where they prepared for bed. After shimmying into his nightshirt, Charlie climbed into bed. As he drifted off to sleep, he dreamed he was living among the Indians, carefree and having adventures, just like Mr. Houston had when he was a teenager, living among the Cherokee.

  ***

  The morning breeze rustled the curtains. The soft noise woke Charlie and he opened his eyes and wiped the sleep from them. His pa was already up, standing over a wash basin placed on top of a wooden stand. He splashed cold water on his face, muttering unpleasant words about freezing parts of his body off. The boy stifled a giggle, as he recalled a similar situation a few years earlier. Then, while his pa was splashing his face with water, Charlie had heard him griping, “damned if I’m not going to invent an electric water heater one of these days.”

  He remembered asking, “Isn’t electricity what Benjamin Franklin discovered, pa?”

  Pa had explained, “He discovered that lightning and electricity are basically the same. Did you know that he invented the lightning rod?”

  Charlie had asked, “What’s that?”

  His pa patiently explained, “Tall buildings attract lightning. A lightning rod, helps to conduct the current into the ground, and defuses the electrical charge. Without it, the building is more likely to catch fire when lightning strikes.”

  As Charlie swung his feet out of bed, he realized, Pa had distracted him with the lesson about electricity. He had had never answered his question about how to use electricity to warm water. As he fished his clothes from the carpetbag, he thought one of these days, he’d ask about it.

  His pa’s brown dress uniform was draped over the bed, as he stood in front of the little mirror hanging on the wall above the wash basin. His face was covered in a lather, as he used a straight razor to scrape a few days’ beard growth from his face. Charlie didn’t think it looked fun. He ran his fingers across his face, feeling soft, downy fuzz above his lip. As his pa finished and dried his face with a towel, he beckoned Charlie over to him, where he pretended to size him up and eyed one side of his face then another. “Hmm, won’t be too much longer before I’m teaching you how to get rid of that peach fuzz over your upper lip.”

  He made as if to bring the blade to Charlie's face, as the boy danced away. As Charlie continued getting dressed, his pa shrugged and smiled. “It was probably just some dirt smudged on your face. Make sure you wash it clean.” Charlie scowled at his pa. Sometimes Pa could read him so well.

  As Will slipped on a waistcoat, Charlie was trying for the third time to tie the ascot’s bow. Becky had packed his Sunday-go-to-Meeting clothes, and he hadn’t mastered how to tie the damned thing in a bow yet. When he swore under his breath, he caught his pa looking at him. For a moment, it looked like Will’s lips were twitching upwards. Finally, exasperated, Cha
rlie held out the white ascot and his pa took it and came around behind him and wrapped it around his throat before saying, “Best not let Becky hear you talking like that. Stand still and I’ll have it done for you.”

  Charlie beamed after it took his pa two attempts to tie the bow in the current fashion. His pa glanced at his pocket watch and slid it back into the pocket. “We’ve got a bit of time yet before we need to head over to the Capitol building, Son.” He sat on the edge of the bed and patted the space next to him. “I wanted to ask you about how you’re doing? We haven’t had time yet to talk about what happened a couple of weeks ago in the Alamo’s chapel.”

  Charlie sat next to him and shrugged. “I dunno, Pa. I guess I’m alright now. But I ain’t ever been that scared before. I thought we were all going to die.”

  His pa wrapped his arm around him and gave his shoulder a squeeze. He hadn’t felt as safe for the past few weeks as he felt right then. “Believe it or not, Son, I have a very good idea how you felt. The most scared I ever was, was when your Uncle Davy and I were fighting some Mexican lancers in an arroyo south of the Nueces River. I had fallen on the ground, and this huge Mexican was standing over me with a long lance in his hands, pointing it at me. I thought I was a goner, for sure. But your uncle killed him and saved my life. I’ve been in my fair share of scrapes, and bar none, that was the most scared I have ever been.”

  Charlie leaned against his pa’s shoulder and said, “I’ve heard Uncle Davy tell the story, but the way he told it, it didn’t sound as scary.”

  His pa laughed. “Your Uncle Davy has a way of spinning words, Son. Hell, that’s part of what makes him such a good politician. He’s never been one to let a few details get in the way of telling a good story.”