by Drew McGunn
Elliot stared aghast at the deadly game his valet was caught up in. “Who in God’s name, is your employer?”
The wagon pulled up in front of the consulate. As he engaged the brake, Stewart gave him a positively feral smile. “You don’t want to know.”
Chapter 5
From the Telegraph and Texas Register,
Jacob Cruger, Editor
September 16, 1842
Readers will be relieved to know the Election Bureau has certified the presidential election results. President ad interim Lorenzo de Zavala has won the election in his own right by a margin of 95 votes, over challenger Sam Houston. 29,048 votes were cast for the office of the president. Below are the results of the count:
13,219 Lorenzo de Zavala
13,124 Samuel Houston
2,705 Robert Potter
The Telegraph and Texas Register received the following telegram from Sam Houston. “I have fought the good fight and would have won the election were I alone to have challenged President-elect Zavala. I still believe that those Texians who favor annexation with the United States are in the majority, but the voters have delivered their verdict, and I wish the president-elect well, and call upon all Texians to support him as he leads our nation through the perilous waters of war.”
This paper has it upon authority Mr. Houston claimed that were Mr. Potter a gentleman, that he would challenge him to a duel, but as he is uncertain as to Mr. Potter’s provenance, no such challenge could be issued. Mr. Potter was unavailable for comment before publication, but the reader will learn of his response as soon as it is made available to the paper of record.
President-elect Zavala informed this newspaper, he thanks the people of Texas for entrusting him with the authority of the office and he will use every device at his command to seek a just and lasting peace with Mexico and will not rest until the dictator is brought to justice for the vile murder of so many Texian soldiers.
***
Will looked into the mirror and adjusted the collar of his jacket. It was one of the new jackets supplied by the army’s vendor in New Orleans. The blend of cotton and wool was sturdy, extending the life of the jacket while in the field, at least that’s what the vendor promised. But the dye used looked less butternut and more of a light shade of brown. He would be attending a working meeting, and apart from the shoulder boards with two gold embroidered stars, his uniform was the same as was worn by enlisted soldiers. As a student of history, he had found nineteenth century officer uniforms to be outlandishly ornate. As the commander of the army of Texas, he had an opportunity to nip some of that in the bud. In the field, officers and enlisted men of the army of Texas wore the same uniform.
Since the declaration of war six months before, the army had been plagued with issues of consistency from the textile mills contracted to provide uniforms. But as he closed the door to his hotel room, he knew there was nothing to be done about it at the moment. As he walked toward the Capitol building, he made a mental note to write to Don Garza at Gulf Farms and ask about the prospects for building a textile mill in Texas. Garza would know if Texas’ internal market was large enough for a textile mill to turn a profit.
He reached the second floor of the Capitol and knocked on the door which once belonged to David Crockett.
“Come in.”
He found President Zavala sitting at the same desk once used by his predecessor. The two men were as different as Will could imagine. Crockett had kept the room messy, with books and maps strewn about, left wherever he had last used them. Zavala was, by Will’s estimation, a neat freak. A few books were stacked on the edge of the desk. His correspondence was organized in several tidy stacks, either waiting for his attention or for his clerk to take away.
As Will settled into a chair opposite Zavala, the President asked, “How was the coach ride up from San Antonio, General Travis?”
Despite liking Zavala, Will missed Crockett’s friendly informality. But Will had never grown as close to Zavala as he had to the man who became his father-in-law. Even so, Zavala’s easy smile was disarming. “Not bad, sir. Less than twelve hours yesterday to get here. Still though, I look forward to the day when railroads connect our cities.”
Zavala nodded with a knowing smile, “From your lips to the Almighty’s ears, General.”
He grabbed a sheaf of pages from one of his stacks and slid it across the table. “Here’s the reason I asked you to come up.”
Will flipped through the correspondence, taking a moment to read several of the pages more than once. “Well, that’s unexpected, Mr. President. It’s not every day you get a letter from General Winfield Scott.”
Zavala tilted his head in agreement. “Do you have a problem with the United States placing an observer in our army, General?”
Will looked at the name of the officer referenced in General Scott’s letter. “Captain William Hardee? Why do I know that name?” While it sounded familiar, he couldn’t recall anyone famous by that name. “Probably a general during the civil war. There must have been close to a thousand generals.”
Will asked, “What do we know of this Captain Hardee, sir?”
Zavala shrugged, “Not much, he’s from Georgia and is a West Pointer, like General Johnston. I was hoping you might know more.”
Will returned Zavala’s earlier shrug with one of his own, “I can ask Sidney. Maybe he knows something. I imagine it would be well received if we allow the United States to place an observer. The thought hadn’t crossed my mind before, but if the United States and Britain can’t settle their disagreement over their boundary, placing one of our officers as an observer would be a good idea. On that note, it might be worth it to pass along to the British chargé d’affaires and the French minister an invitation to observe the war, as well.”
Will didn’t much care for making the offer. The world would view his army as using experimental rifles and experimental tactics. The longer he could keep the genie in the bottle the happier he would be, but it wasn’t possible to keep the lid on either of them much longer. Better, he thought, to maintain a degree of control on how the Sabine Rifle and his open-order battle tactics were introduced to contemporary armies.
“I’ll see to it that we accept their request, Mr. President.”
Zavala pointed to the papers in Will’s hand. “What do you think of the American terms for selling more of those Hall’s rifles?”
Will shuffled the papers until he found the referenced letter. “Two thousand of them at fifteen dollars per rifle is a pretty good price. I wish they had more to sell.”
Zavala thumbed through a ledger he pulled from one of the desk drawers before asking, “Remind me again, where we are in respect to preparation for the war?”
Will leaned back in the chair, “Not too bad. Prior to General Woll’s invasion, the Trinity Gun works had provided around fourteen hundred of the Model 1842 Sabine rifle. We had transitioned close to two thousand of the earlier breechloaders to McCulloch’s reserves at that time. Between March and now, the Trinity gun works has produced another eight hundred rifles. In total, we have close to forty-five hundred breechloading rifles of one design or another.”
Will paused, considering all the men mustered into service currently. “Now the problem is that we have six battalions of infantry currently in San Antonio, one of Marines and another of cavalry, all of whom need rifles or carbines. In addition to that, we plan on transitioning up to another six battalions of militia to active reserves between now and next April. That’s close to nine thousand men we need to equip and uniform. Against that, even with these two thousand rifles from the United States, our best-case scenario only gives us close to eight thousand rifles.”
Zavala frowned, “Is that adequate for your campaign?”
Will had been puzzling over that question since Crockett’s resignation six months earlier. “It has to be, sir. I plan on leaving at least one brigade spread across South Texas from the mouth of the Nueces to Ysleta in the west. If they have to us
e their own rifles and muskets, so be it. Six years ago, we beat Santa Anna’s army with nothing better.”
The meeting continued for several hours, until interrupted by Zavala’s clerk, who reminded the president he had a luncheon scheduled with the Senate’s appropriation committee’s chairman. Will returned to the Stagecoach Inn, where he ate then retired for a well-deserved nap, confident he had done all that was possible to bring President Zavala up to speed regarding the military’s preparations.
***
“Feliz Navidad!” The door swung open wide as the warmth retreated from the assault by the frigid wind blowing down from the Sierra Madres. General Juan Almonte hastily stepped into the Governor’s Palace as the governor of Nuevo Leon closed the door behind him, driving back the frigid night air.
The door closed, warmth returned and Almonte responded, “Feliz Navidad, Governor Llano.”
He arched his eyebrows in surprise at finding the governor manning his own door. When he looked around for servants, he saw several bustling to and from a grand hall, carrying platters and trays of food, adding them to tables already groaning under the weight of the platters.
Governor Llano picked up on the reason for Almonte’s searching gaze. “It’s but a single day, General. The servants are busy in the kitchen. If I can use a military term, sometimes one has to step into the breach, and I’m quite certain they are all the happier that I’m the one bearing the brunt of father winter.”
As Almonte shed his cloak, his smile radiated as he patted his host on the back, “Careful, lest the bishop thinks you’re doing penance, Governor.” At that moment, a fragrant aroma assaulted his senses. “What is that delightful smell coming from your kitchen?”
Governor Llano took the coat and passed it to a servant in the cloakroom and directed Almonte into the well-lit hall. “That’s wild pheasant baked in a cinnamon sauce.”
He appeared ready to continue describing food being carried into the hall, when a chime at the door announced another guest. “Tis but once a year. If you’ll excuse me, General.”
As the governor rushed back to the door, Almonte took stock of the richly adorned room. Expensive paintings and tapestries covered the walls depicting important events in the history of Nuevo Leon. Several high-ranking government employees and their wives stood below a tapestry depicting the founding of Monterrey. They were in animated conversation. In one corner of the room, a few musicians were tuning their instruments. In the center of the room, but close to a table laden with food, General Vasquez and several other officers were situated as though defending a citadel from the other citizens of Monterrey. With a warm smile, Almonte joined them, saying, “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers, for he today who sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.”
Vasquez laughed along with several of the other officers. “I hope you brought more than just your Shakespeare, General Almonte. I for one have no interest in shedding blood tonight, unless it happens to belong to that delicious pheasant. If they don’t bring it forth soon, I propose we mount an expedition to the kitchen and storm the ovens!”
As the other officers laughed at his wit, Vasquez pointed toward a servant with a tray of wineglasses, “First, though, let’s fortify ourselves with more wine.” He guided Almonte away from the other officers and as they each took a glass, he continued, “A moment of your time, if you please, General.”
Vasquez took a sip before he added, “I’m glad you finally arrived. I trust you had no problems getting here from Vera Cruz.”
Almonte swallowed his wine before responding. “Given a choice between winter in Monterrey and autumn in Vera Cruz, I’ll take Vera Cruz every time. My cajones have yet to thaw.”
Given the temperature hadn’t ventured above freezing in several days, both men laughed at the mental image. Almonte grew serious. “His Excellency required my service here, and here I have arrived.”
Vasquez raised his glass in salute, “Indeed, General. How long before the rest of your men join us?”
Finishing the glass of wine, Almonte set it on a serving tray which was passing by. “Two of the nine regiments are on the march even as we speak. I expect the first of them to arrive by the New Year. The others will arrive between then and the beginning of spring. Additionally, I have good news for you. The levies His Excellency has ordered up to replace Woll’s losses in the 1st Division should be here by the beginning of February.
Vasquez’s eyes lit up at the news. “Splendid, sir. That will give us an army close to twice the size his Excellency took to Texas back in ’36. We’ll sweep the norteamericano rebels aside, once and for all.”
The wine helped to warm Almonte from the inside out. Had he not already had a glass, likely he wouldn’t have quirked an eyebrow at Vasquez’s bellicosity. Woll’s report of his defeat had been sparse on the composition of Johnston’s relief column. “What news from the north?”
Vasquez missed the doubt in Almonte’s eyes. “My soldiers on the Rio Bravo report that the rebels have rebuilt the fort at Laredo, called Moses Austin. They have reinforced it with a large number of soldiers and light artillery. When it is time to cross the river, removing them will be the first act of our re-conquest.”
Almonte frowned. Had neither Woll nor Vasquez thought to occupy the fort? Sensing the question would be poorly received, he shifted his questions further north “What of San Antonio? Do we have any current reports?”
“Travis has returned from Nuevo Mexico with his army, joining up with Johnston’s activos. Our best guess is there are six regiments of infantry and a squadron of cavalry. Also, if the report is to be believed a regiment of naval infantry.”
This should have been news to Almonte. The navy’s stinging defeat at Campeche earlier in the fall, had been in the newspapers. As one given to reading Yankee newspapers, Almonte had read detailed reports about the Texian Marines who had cut out the Guadalupe, before the battle had even started. That General Travis had managed to get a few companies diverted to his own army showed forward thinking.
“I have heard their, ah, naval infantry is formidable, General.”
Vasquez directed a servant with a drink tray over, before saying, “It would be foolish to underestimate their ability, given their recent performance. But still, they are fish out of water in San Antonio.”
Using his wine glass as a pointer, Vasquez added, “When we invade in the spring, Juan, we’ll go north with nine-thousand men. Against that, Travis and his rebels won’t amount to more than three or four thousand. We are better supplied, and our men are better armed than we were six years ago.”
Almonte tried holding his peace, fearing the alcohol which had loosened his commander’s tongue might betray him, too. But he knew that Travis had turned the regulars in his army into a truly formidable fighting force. Might he have accomplished the same with his activos? If he had, then even if he had four thousand soldiers, they would be formidable.
Against his better judgment he asked, “General Vasquez, have we considered a defensive posture next spring? If we were to take the next few months and develop defensive positions along the Rio Bravo, perhaps we could entice the Texians into bleeding on our fortifications, instead of the other way around.”
The second glass Almonte had watched Vasquez drink was empty in the general’s hands, and he couldn’t help but wonder how many more his superior had drained before his own arrival. There was a glint of sadness in his eyes when Vasquez said, “Juan, like you, I serve at His Excellency’s pleasure. It pleases our president to order an attack on San Antonio. Sitting on our hands until Travis decides to try knocking on our defenses, isn’t possible.”
Vasquez’s melancholy response ended Almonte’s inquiry, at least on that front. He shifted to a safer topic. “How have you found Monterrey, General?”
“Damned cold,” Vasquez replied, “In more ways than one.” He pointed toward the hallway, where Governor Llano was still greeting guests. “Don’t let Manuel de Llano fool you. I have it on the best of
authority he would have joined all these rebellions across our fair country, were it not for the fact that the Army of the North has made treason unappealing to him.”
Almonte was alarmed, “You don’t think he would throw in with the Texians?”
As though stepping on a bug, Vasquez wore a distasteful look. “He hates the norteamericanos as much as you or I. No, I don’t think he would. But if he thought he could set himself up as president of a northern republic and make it stick, he would slide the knife of treason in our backs.”
Before Almonte could think of a response a bell rang, and he heard oohs and aahs as servants brought in several platters of roasted pheasants. The spicy scent of cinnamon made his mouth water and thoughts of rebellious governors and a rebel province to the north fled as he made his way toward the food.
Chapter 6
Late February 1843
The young man knelt by the bank of the languid Rio Grande, washing the blood from his hands. The water, as it flowed through his fingers, was tinged with red as he frantically scrubbed at the blood. Behind him, perhaps as little as a hundred yards away, he heard footfalls, amid the cottonwoods and cypress trees. “Aqui!” a voice called out.
More rushing feet approached. They must have found his mount, where he had been forced to put her down. He wiped his red-streaked hands on his trousers and waded into the muddy river, without a backwards glance. It was too hard. Were he to look, it would have reinforced how far he had ridden, just to come up short, this close to the border.
Everything had been fine the first couple of days after he had killed the snake, but as he had approached the Rio Grande, patrols of lancers had become common, and even infantry patrols were crisscrossing the southern approaches to the river.
“A goddamned gopher hole!” Were it not for that, he wouldn’t be stuck on this side of the river forced to swim across.
