by Drew McGunn
“Doc, you look like a tom cat that found a nice, juicy rat.”
The doctor beamed, “It exploded, General.”
Will was confused. “What exploded?”
Smith continued, “The cotton rags, mixed with the nitric and sulphuric acids. It exploded!”
A light turned on in Will’s memory. The two acids, dipped in cotton, like the bandages Dr. Smith had used, may have created guncotton.
Will became almost as excited as Smith. “This needs to be further explored, Doc. Is this something you can work on?”
Smith became hesitant. “General, that was a fluke. I’m sure I could replicate the explosion, but I can think of one or two others who are more gifted with this kind of thing.”
“Who?”
“Gail Bordon fancies himself an inventor. He and I are well acquainted, and if anyone can determine the right mix of nitric and sulphuric acids and how to dry the cotton so that it doesn’t just self-immolate when it feels like it, Gail is your man.”
Will recognized the name. The first couple of years after the transference, he had found Bordon’s byline in the Telegraph and Texas Register, at least until he sold it to another newspaper man. But even had that not been the case, he thought there was a connection between this Bordon and the inventor of condensed milk and the founder of Bordon Dairy Company. Before joining up after nine-eleven, in a world gone forever, Will had frequently seen the company’s trucks making deliveries at supermarkets on his way to school each morning.
***
The car lurched as the engineer released the brakes and the steam engine began rolling down the tracks, leaving Anahuac for West Liberty. Thick, black smoke slipped by the window and too much found its way into the car. It was too hot to leave the windows closed and the price to pay for the air flow was a fine layer of soot covering his jacket.
In addition to two flat cars and two boxcars, the train pulled a coal hopper and a passenger car. The former President of the Republic, David Crockett dusted the soot from his jacket and watched the handful of men in the car do the same thing.
The nearest traveler to his seat was a couple of rows away. He was finely dressed. Over the years David had become a good judge of people. While the clothes were expensive, the hat was made from straw. A practical choice for a gentleman farmer. David shifted his eyes away, sure that when the train arrived in West Liberty a coach driven by a slave would be waiting at the station to carry him back to his plantation.
Two other men sat next to each other at the opposite end of the car. While they, too were farmers, their clothing was inexpensive and practical. Occasionally, David could hear their voices carry over the rattling of the wheels thundering along the rails. One had a broad Scottish accent while the other’s Irish lilt carried over the car’s noise. In all likelihood they worked for the Gulf Farms Corporation. Crockett couldn’t help but wonder, if they would continue working the company’s fields or find their militia company called up.
Letting that thought ruminate didn’t sit well with the former president and he turned his attention to watching the coastal plain rush by his window as the train sped along the tracks at thirty miles an hour. He marveled that what used to take two days by shank’s mare now took less than ninety minutes.
Construction was underway for a railroad between San Antonio and Austin, but the last he had heard, the investors were conducting another fundraising tour back east. He had also heard the Commerce Bank was partnering with the investors who owned this line and they were surveying a route between Houston and West Liberty. David leaned back in the wooden seat, hearing his back cracking in protest. From Houston, it would only make sense to extend the railroad to San Antonio and Austin. “When that happens, you’ll be able to travel two hundred fifty miles in less than a day.” A wagon laden with supplies, pulled by a team of mules would take nearly two weeks to travel the distance. Even the stagecoaches couldn’t do it in less than four days.
The train began climbing a gentle incline and within a few seconds was rumbling across the bridge over the Trinity River. If they could connect San Antonio to Houston, it wasn’t a stretch to image a train that ran from New York City, across the Appalachian Mountains, across the farmland of the Deep South, and even across the mighty Mississippi River, all the way to Santa Fe. Such a trip now took months, but with Railroads, he reasoned, it could be done in just a few days.
David smiled at the thought before allowing the present war with Mexico to invade the happy thought. “First we deal with Santa Anna, then we build a humdinger of a railroad.”
When he had resigned from the presidency, David thought taking over a militia battalion would be easy. After all, he had the pen in his hand and with a little dab of ink, everything would fall into place. He had expected more opposition from Zavala, but Lorenzo had quickly acquiesced when he had seen Crockett’s determination. Even his son-in-law, General Travis had offered only muted opposition after his initial explosive reaction. He shook his head at the memory, it was Liza who had thrown the biggest conniption fit, he’d ever seen.
As he thought about it, the sound of her voice echoed still in his head. “David Stern Crockett, you didn’t bring me out here to Texas just to go off a wandering again!” Liza could yell plenty loud when her dander was up. The saving grace was, they had been living in the presidential mansion when this had happened, and there were no nearby neighbors.
He had patiently explained to her that he owed it to the people of Texas to volunteer for service. He’d even gone so far as to remind her that he had never failed to serve when problems came up. He had served under Andy Jackson during the war with the British and the Creek. For once, Liza wasn’t having any of it. “David, for heaven’s sake, you’re not some shirt-tail boy running off for adventure. You’re fifty-six years old.”
Being reminded of his age, of course had irritated David. “It’s not as if I reminded her she’d been married to me more than a quarter of a century, and she ain’t no more of a spring chicken than me.”
David allowed a smile to play across his face, imagining her response, had he been bold enough to remind her she was less than two years younger than he. The smile faded as he recalled her tears after they had moved from the Presidential mansion. He had taken her to San Antonio, where she would stay with her daughter and grandchildren. With Becky’s pregnancy, it would be better that way, he thought.
She had clung to him in the front room of the Travis home, the morning he set off for West Liberty. Even after more than a week, he couldn’t shake her words, “David, I’ve watched you run off to your adventures and I can’t watch anymore. You go, if you have to, and I’ll be waiting here if you return, but I’m not going to watch you do it anymore.”
He had held her close, running coarse fingers through her graying hair as she sobbed into his hunting jacket. He finally decided it was the way she looked at him, that bothered him the most. Part of him felt there was a finality in the way she clutched at him and when she kissed him, crushing her lips against his, it was as though she was trying to wring from him a final, intimate moment.
Steam escaped from the engine as the train approached West Liberty, slowing down. Thoughts of his wife were replaced by the excitement of being in the field again. As the train approached the town, fields that had previously grown corn, wheat or cotton were blanketed with every type of temporary shelter he could imagine. In front of the camp, a battalion of militia stood at attention as officers purposefully moved from soldier to soldier, inspecting their weapons.
David tore his eyes away from the window as the field slid from view. After a moment, the car jolted to a stop, and he grabbed a carpetbag and his rifle, a gift from the city of Philadelphia, and headed for the exit.
When he alighted from the stairs, he saw General McCulloch, standing under the awning of the station, in an effort to stay out from under the blistering sun. The general wore the black wide-brimmed hat and butternut uniform of the Texian Army. Next to him stood an officer th
at could have been his twin. With bag and gun in hand, David hurried over to them.
“President Crockett, sir, it’s good to see you again.” David had known the McCulloch family since Ben had been a little boy. The way in which the General had greeted him caused him to wonder just how welcome the former president would be as another battalion commander. For the briefest of moments, David wondered if Liza was right and this was a mistake. The thought flew from his mind as he sketched a casual salute then shook hands with the General and the other officer.
As he shook hands, he studied the younger officer, and recognized him as Henry McCulloch, the general’s younger brother. “I swear, is that Henry, all grown up? Hell’s bells, last time I saw you, you were knee-high to a grasshopper.”
The younger McCulloch flushed, suppressing a grin. “It has been a few years, Mr. President. When Ben, I mean, General McCulloch asked if I wanted to serve under your command, I told him I’d beat any man that stood in my way.”
David followed the McCulloch brothers to a small buggy, which took them to the encampment for the 9th Infantry battalion. The ten militia companies assigned to the battalion had only recently been given their mobilization orders, and the field was empty except for a company already assembled and a few lean-tos surrounding the battalion’s headquarters tent.
When David and the younger McCulloch climbed out of the buggy, the general said, “I’ll leave you and Major McCulloch to get familiar with your command such as it is as the moment. The rest of the battalion should show up within the next couple of weeks.”
With a snap of the reins, McCulloch rolled away, leaving David alone with the young major, on the edge of the sunbaked field.
***
There was a knock at the door and Will looked up. The door was open, letting in a ghost of a breeze. Colonel Payton Wyatt stood at the door. The expansion of the army from little more than a thousand men, to a half-dozen battalions around San Antonio had created an administrative headache that Will could never have untangled by himself. While Sidney Johnston’s skills had come in handy at bridging the gap in Will’s knowledge, Wyatt had demonstrated a knack for administration that had led him to become Will’s chief-of-staff.
In the years before the transference, before finding himself stranded in Travis’ mind, as an infantry grunt, he hadn’t had to think tactically beyond the company level. Oh, he had an appreciation for the basics of logistics and combined arms, but since the declaration of war a few months earlier, the army had added the reserve battalions and was now transitioning militia battalions into military service for the duration of the war. If things continued as he anticipated, Will would lead an army of more than seven thousand soldiers into Mexico after the new year. Wyatt’s administrative skills were essential. But in some respects, everyone was learning as they went along.
“Sir, Colonel Hodgens and his wing of the 2nd battalion are assembled in the plaza.”
Will set his pen down, glad to forget about requisitions for the moment, and joined Wyatt on the landing outside his office. From there, he had a commanding view of the Alamo Plaza. Six companies from the 3rd Infantry were assembled below. Next to them, six 6-pounder guns were limbered and hitched to teams of six horses each, waiting to pull their heavy loads.
As he came down the stairs, Will studied the men of the 2nd Infantry. Many of them had been part of the relief column which had rescued the remnants of the Alamo the previous April. The last four months had been spent turning the reservists into trained soldiers and bringing the battalion up to its authorized strength of seven-hundred-fifty men. Although most of the army was still armed with older rifles, Will had made sure the men under Colonel Hodgens were armed with new M42 Sabine Rifles.
Each of the men, standing at attention wore the butternut uniform of the regulars. Despite chronic shortages of uniforms and rifles, Will was determined to send these men out with the best the army could provide.
It wasn’t much, but the six companies of infantry and the battery of artillery were the first strategic move by Texas since Woll’s army retreated in disgrace. A single nod from Will to Colonel Hodgens was all it took for the short, stocky officer to swing into the saddle, and call out, “Battalion, by company into columns, right face!”
Like a machine, the four-hundred fifty men smoothly turned from their long line, two men deep, into columns of four men abreast, ready to march.
“Forward, march!”
Will watched the men parade by as they marched through the gates. They were heading south, to reoccupy Laredo.
Chapter 4
15 August 1842
“Somebody in the Foreign Office must really hate me,” thought Charles Elliot for what seemed like the thousandth time since arriving in Galveston. The role of charge d'affaires in backwater Texas was a far cry from his earlier posting in Hong Kong, where he was the First Administrator. Apart from assisting a few sailors whose behaviors resulted in their involuntary confinement and occasionally meeting with merchants looking for a favor, Elliot was hard pressed to fill up his day.
On the other hand, he was ahead on his promised correspondence to Clara. The hours of inactivity only accentuated his longing to be with her and the children, but the baby was simply too young to travel. He hoped she and the children would be able to travel to his duty station as early as next year. Galveston was a hardship at the best of times, made all the lonelier by his wife’s absence.
A knock at the door broke his reverie, and a moment later Stewart poked his head in the room “Will there be anything else before I go to the market?” The open door created a crosscurrent breeze with the open window. Pages rustled on the desk, threatening to take flight.
Placing a hand on the letter to his wife, Elliot looked up at his enigmatic valet, “Something other than trout, Stewart. And no oysters. I hope you can find some greens available.”
“As you say, sir.” Stewart closed the door.
“Now there’s a riddle of a man,” Elliot thought. While the valet attended to the normal duties of a man servant, he was gone far more often than Elliot thought proper for a man of his station. He glared out the window, frustrated with the shackles foisted upon him by the Foreign Office and Mr. Stewart’s secretive employers. With a shrug, he tossed the pen down on the page and walked over to the open window, overlooking the street.
The British Consulate was in the central business district on Avenue B, along a stretch the locals had taken to calling “the Strand.” It was across the street from the Galveston office of the Commerce Bank of Texas. There were cotton brokers, wholesalers, and attorneys filling up the blocks near the wharves. Much to his dismay, there was also a slave market as well. Before Hong Kong, he had served in Guiana, in South America, in the official capacity as Protector of Slaves. He had taken that position a few years before Great Britain freed the slaves in the colonies in 1833. The experience had converted him into a firm believer in abolition. That brought him back to the present. As if he needed one more reason to hate his new assignment.
He watched Stewart exit the Consulate and head away from the market, deeper into Galveston Island. That was odd. Elliot bit back a chuckle, realizing how odd his valet’s behavior had been since the very day he was assigned to him.
If the valet was working on business for the bankers, whose purse strings paid for Stewart’s services, then Elliot rationalized, it wasn’t really his business.
But he didn’t like being lied to or deceived, and his man was definitely not heading to the market. He glanced back at the half-written letter to his wife. It could wait. His curiosity piqued, Elliot grabbed a straw hat from a rack and placed it on his head as he left the consulate and hurried to see where Stewart had gone.
He left the building in time to see his valet turn the corner onto Bath Street, heading back toward the center of the island. He followed as quickly as decorum would allow, reaching the intersection in time to see his valet cross the street. He followed behind for a few blocks until he saw Stewart en
ter a newly built livery stable.
Elliot came to a stop while he was still more than a block away. “Do I want to know what Stewart’s up to? If he gets caught doing something illegal, what will that do for my career?” Worried about what he might see, the British charge d'affaires crossed the last block and looked at the livery stable. While there was traffic on the road, the wide doors to the stable were closed.
There was a narrow alley between the stable and the smithy located next door, and Elliot looked to see if anyone was paying attention to him. Seeing folks on the street intent on their own business, he slipped between the buildings. There was a door on the side of the livery stable. As Elliot approached the fresh scent of pine confirmed the recent construction. The door was cracked open, but little light filtered through the door, facing the alleyway.
A lantern hung in the middle of the livery stable, and Elliot could hear stomping of hoofs in the stalls. He ignored them as he slipped through the door and flattened his body against the nearest stall. Sunlight also filtered through windows set high along the walls, bathing the wide central aisle in natural light.
Peering around the corner of the stall, Elliot saw Stewart standing next to a wagon, talking to a couple of men. From his hiding place in the shadows, the diplomat did a double take as he stared at a portly man with sallow skin. He had seen the man before in England. The name escaped him, but he was certain he was employed by Lloyds Bank in London. “What in the blazes is a banker from Lloyds doing in bloody Texas?”
The third man was a Mexican. His velvet blue jacket and white silk shirt told Elliot all he needed to know about his station. He was a man of importance. But Elliot had never seen the man before and didn’t know if the Mexican was one of several thousand who styled themselves as Tejanos, loyal to the Texas government or if he was an agent of Mexico. As they talked, it was impossible to hear what they said.
