by Drew McGunn
He shook his head, “Kidnapping some kid would make us no better than a pack of uncivilized savage Indians, Hiram. Why do that?”
Williams took another drink, before chortling. “Shit, I don’t care a damn if all Texas thinks I’m worse than a savage Indian. What I care about is a job that can put us over the top. Did I mention, Crockett positively dotes on the boy, Ob. Take the boy and Crockett will suffer a thousand deaths. You really want to make the bastard pay for what he did to Nancy?”
Jasper’s thirst for revenge overcame his reluctance, and he found himself nodding.
Williams leaned in, “This is what we need to do…”
Chapter 25
15 July 1843
José Joaquín de Herrera closed the door behind him. He should feel something more. “What man, having ascended to the office of the presidency, wouldn’t feel a sense of accomplishment?” he muttered. Several men, dressed in somber black coats, sat around the office’s conference table. If any of them heard him, they ignored the remark. Herrera was certain more than one of them had breathed a sigh of relief that Herrera had won the vote.
He tried to keep any hesitancy from his steps as he came over to the table and took his seat. “Madre de Dios. What I would give to have Santa Anna sitting here instead of me?”
The other men smiled, knowingly. Valentin Canalizo said, “Come now, Jose, your chair is certainly more comfortable than the one in Santa Anna’s cell.”
Herrera frowned as he eyed the other man. On one hand, the office of the presidency demanded his deference even if Herrera didn’t. One the other hand, Canalizo spoke nothing but the truth. Word had reached the capital just the day before of Santa Anna’s capture and the destruction of his army.
Herrera’s eyes moved, settling on the man sitting next to Canalizo. “Don Valentin, what are your thoughts?”
In his sixties, Valantin Gomez-Farias was the eldest man in the room, and like Canalizo, a former president of the Mexican Republic. He bit his lip before saying, “It’s hard to imagine a worse situation, Presidente. Since the start of the campaign earlier this year, we have managed to lose upwards of thirty thousand men. Given time, I’m sure we can build another army. But there is every chance that such a command would have to be used to put down revolts rather than drive the Texians back, if that is even possible. It galls me to say it, but you are going to need to seek terms from the Texians.”
Herrera blanched at that. “They will insist we honor the Faustian bargain they call the treaty of Bexar. Nuevo Mexico east of the Rio Grande will be taken from us. That includes Santa Fe and Albuquerque.”
Gomez-Farias nodded. “Indeed. Also, they will not release Santa Anna to us. We should steel our hearts to watching a spectacle play out in Texas where they are sure to put him on trial.”
Herrera hadn’t considered that. “Why? It is customary to release high-ranking officers once a truce is brokered.”
“Normally, yes. But don’t forget Santa Anna ordered General Woll to put the garrison of the Alamo to the sword.”
“But, Santa Anna was acting under the authority granted by the Tornel Decree. Even though it was enacted prior to our misfortune during the Texas rebellion, it remains the policy of our government even now,” said Herrera as he scratched his head in confusion.
Gomez-Farias pursed his lips before saying, “It was one thing to enact such a decree at the beginning of the rebellion in the north, but another once they had de facto independence. When Santa Anna ordered General Woll to go north and invade, who among us here really thought there was any chance that we could expel all of nearly two hundred thousand Yankees and Europeans living in Texas?”
Silence greeted him. Finally, Canalizo said, “It was our right to execute those rebels, Don Valentin. By our rights, Texas is a province in rebellion. Nothing will change that.”
Gomez-Farias shook his head. “Will it not? I wonder. We may view the Texians as rebels, but even Great Britain, our closest trading partner, has extended recognition to the Texians. For us to continue viewing them as rebels is a fiction which has blinded us to sensible action.”
From his chair at the head of the table, Herrera raised his eyebrows, “What is sensible? On many positions I have disagreed with Santa Anna, but on the territorial integrity of our country, he and I see eye to eye. Agreeing to give up our territory north of the Rio Grande won’t endear us to our fellow countrymen and it sets a dangerous precedent. Don’t forget, Texas shares a border with the United States. Texas’ success could encourage the Yankees to try wrestling Alto California from us.”
“That is a legitimate fear,” Gomez-Farias conceded. “But an equally legitimate fear is that Texas can continue the war. I would rather not see San Luis Potosi turned into a battlefield. Should we risk the loss of another ten thousand?”
Herrera said, “I value everyone’s input, but it will fall to me to make a truce with General Travis. I would trade away ten Santa Annas before I agree to trade away any of our territory.”
Gomez-Farias gave a half bow from his place at the table, “You are the president.”
Herrera allowed a cloud to cross his face. In truth, he wanted the office like he wanted cholera. But having been elected, it seemed he had few choices available to him. The first was to find a way to end the war without giving away the keys to the kingdom.
***
16 July 1843
The corn tortilla tasted bland. The idea of returning to South Carolina was growing on Jenkins the longer he thought about it. It was only a memory, but his mouth watered, longing for grits and bacon. He pushed away the memory and swallowed. The cantina did a brisk business, serving breakfast to a steady stream of customers. But he sat with Elizondo Jackson, while Williams and Zebulon were scouting around town. How difficult could it be to find a white teenage boy in a town full of Mestizos and Indians?
Jackson used a tortilla to clean the last bit of beans from a bowl and plopped it in his mouth. He took a drink of water and said, “We’re not really going to go through with this, are we?”
Jenkins’ mouth tightened. The half-breed Spaniard from Florida had urged caution after Williams had explained his scheme. “I thought you had worked this out of your system already, Eli. Did you talk with Captain Palmer?”
The chair creaked under his weight as Jackson leaned back, “Of course. I had to promise every peso we’ve got, but he’s willing to take us and our cargo. There’s a couple of stops to make between here and there, but he’s willing to take us to Panama City.”
Silence descended until he added, “Ob, is this really what you want to do? We do this and there ain’t no going back from it. In the past, if the game was up and we had to leave, we’d just move somewhere else and start a new job. We fail at this, and Crockett and Travis will hunt us down and kill us. Hell, even if we succeed, and they pay a ransom, they’ll likely still hunt us down.”
Jenkins admonished him, “You worry too much, Eli. You’re not telling me anything I haven’t already considered. I aim to use Travis’ abolitionist views against him. His views make him a pariah to most people in the South. I’ve got some ideas about who we can work with once we return to South Carolina. From there, it’s a simple matter of letting Travis know the price. He’ll pay. If he doesn’t he’ll never see the boy again.”
Jenkins’ eyes burned with intensity as he spoke. Jackson exhaled sharply, “Why, Ob?”
The cantina’s door opened, and Williams and Zebulon strode in. Jenkins replied, “Revenge.”
Williams reeked of nervous energy, “You ain’t gonna believe this, Ob, but we’ve got us a two-fer.”
Jenkins rose, pushing his chair away from the table. He cocked an eyebrow in anticipation.
The shorter man lowered his voice and leaned over the table. “Travis’ brat is eating breakfast with none other than Crockett.”
Jenkins tossed enough money on the table to cover the meal and said, “Let’s do it. We may not get another chance like this.”
*
**
The hotel’s common room was empty except for Colonel David Crockett and Charlie Travis. After the challenges of governing the greatest portion of Alta California over the past week, Crockett enjoyed a quiet breakfast with his grandson.
He watched the teenager using his fork to move the remains of his breakfast around the plate. The boy had something on his mind.
“Cat got your tongue, Charlie?”
The youth set his fork down and said, “Uncle Davy, why did Victorio and Lenna leave? I thought they would stay around for a bit.”
“Given the way you’ve been ogling his little sister, I imagine Victorio figured her virtue and honor were at stake,” Crockett said, his eyes sparkled as he watched Charlie’s expression.
The boy’s face turned red as his mouth tried to make a sound. Finally, he squeaked, “I didn’t think anyone noticed that I liked Lenna. I never even held her hand. How’d Victorio find out?”
Crockett chuckled. He remembered being the boy’s age, many years before, and still recalled the discomfiture of first love. “I was just funning you, Charlie. I believe Victorio and Lenna left because they had seen and done what they wanted. They were the first of their band to see the Pacific Ocean. They were ready to go back to Texas,” he paused, thinking about the various tribes with whom Texas was trying to keep the peace. “I suspect they are eager to see how their people are adjusting to the land in West Texas that they’ve acquired.”
He hid a smile when Charlie said, “So, you don’t think that Lenna knew I liked her?”
Crockett patted him on the back, “No, son, not unless she was deaf, dumb and blind. If an old man like me could see it from a mile away, I’m pretty sure she knew how you felt.”
Crockett didn’t think the boy’s face could grow any redder as the boy muttered, “Oh, hell.”
Crockett eyed the towel covering a few corn tortillas, trying to decide if he could eat another one, when the door to the small dining room smashed open. A smallish man with a week’s worth of beard on his face stepped through the door. He was well-dressed, although the clothes were unkempt and dirty. A glance was enough for Crockett to recognize the pistol in the ruffian’s hand as one of the Colt Paterson revolvers.
The man stepped into the center of the room, pushing aside empty tables. Several more men followed him through the door and spread out. Although it was nearly imperceptible, Crockett saw the man’s gun hand shaking.
“Keep your asses in your chairs and ain’t nobody getting hurt.”
Crockett’s right hand had been in his lap when the men had burst through the door. He moved it until it rested on the butt of his revolver. How he managed to slip it from the holster with the nervous little man waving his pistol between him and Charlie was more than he could say.
Next to the door, the oldest of the intruders spoke, “Bill, tie up Mr. Crockett. Hiram, grab the boy.”
The small, weaselly man took one step toward Charlie when all hell broke loose. Shooting from the hip, Crockett fired, hitting the dirty little man. The pistol spun from his hand as his body twisted. The bullet had struck him in the shoulder. He fell to his knees as a bull of a man charged by him.
As the large man raced by Charlie, a fist lashed out, knocking the teenager from his chair. Then the beast was in Crockett’s face. As he struggled to stand, Crockett fired his revolver again, but the round went wide, missing his assailant.
Stars danced before his eyes when the beefy man struck him in the face, knocking him back into the chair. His head slammed into the wall behind him and the room spun around. The fist lashed out again, and Crockett felt himself being propelled from his chair. He landed with a thud, and the air was knocked from his lungs.
He hadn’t been hit like this since his brawling days when he was a young man hauling freight on the Mississippi. He struggled to focus his eyes, to see where Charlie had landed. Through a blur, he saw the boy being hauled to his feet by a man with a swarthy complexion.
“No!”
A boot slammed into his ribs, and Crockett’s body involuntarily curled up. He clung to consciousness as he tried sucking in a lungful of air. He heard a hard slap and as though he were at the bottom of a well, a faint voice was saying, “Tie the boy up and put this sack over his head. Be quick, those shots are sure to bring soldiers.”
His entire world was pain. The taste of iron filled his mouth. He struggled to move his legs, and his body protested, as lances of agony shot through him.
The older man, the one Crockett gaged was in charge, placed his foot on his back and forced him prone. “Lay there like that, Mister President Crockett, and we’ll leave you be in a moment.”
Crockett spat blood onto the floor, clearing his mouth, “Why?” he croaked.
The man leaned over, “You took from me, and now I’m taking from you. You want the boy back, so tell General Travis we’ll be in touch.”
Crockett’s life had been one of epic swings. He had started businesses only to watch them crumble into dust. Then he had ridden a wave of public support to the halls of the United States Congress, only to lose an election two years later. But he had come roaring back two years after that to win again, only to have Andy Jackson’s surrogates trounce him a final time. Texas had been a new beginning, and with the help of Buck Travis, he had reached heights he had only dreamed of. Despite that, he had lived in the shadow of his own myth. Now, as his assailants hustled Charlie from the ruined dining room, all that had been swept away. His groan wasn’t the agony of a man beaten into submission, but of abject failure. California was supposed to be his swan song, something to rival the legend he had crafted around his image.
Three of the men had hustled the boy out the door. Crockett didn’t see the one he had injured climb to his feet and stumble over and retrieve his pistol. He didn’t hear the little weasel of a man approach. Nor did he hear the cock of the hammer.
At that moment, he realized chasing after the legend had been folly. What mattered most was his family. How would he be able to face his daughter and son-in-law? He didn’t hear the final shot.
***
Working with Jackson to lift the boy into the bed of the wagon, Jenkins jerked his head around when he heard the shot from within the hotel’s common room.
“What the hell?” he muttered. He looked around and saw that Williams was missing. He jumped from the wagon and raced back into the building. Hiram was standing over Crockett, smoke curling from the barrel of the pistol in his hand. Blood pooled beneath the body.
“What have you done, you fool!”
Williams looked up and Jenkins saw madness lurking in the other man’s eyes. “He shot me. I killed him.”
A deep red splotch was spreading from the hole in Williams’ shoulder. Jenkins wanted to rip the gun from the homicidal maniac’s fingers. The look in Williams’ eyes dissuaded him. Instead, he said, “Get beside Bill on the wagon. We need to get over to the harbor.”
As the wiry man swayed by, he added, “And put something over that. You’ll bleed out.”
Left alone in the room with the body, he wondered if that might be best. Williams had made a hash of things. He stood over the body. He had wanted nothing more than to make Crockett suffer like he had all these years. In a single fit of rage, Williams had ripped that from him.
He realized only a couple of minutes had elapsed since he and his partners had broken through the door. It wouldn’t be long before soldiers came rushing over to check on the commotion. Despite the void he felt seeing Crockett’s body, he knew things would only go from bad to worse if he stayed there.
He raced from the room and climbed into the wagon bed next to the boy. Jackson snapped the reins and the wagon lurched forward, rolling toward the waterfront.
***
To President Lorenzo de Zavala
Austin, Republic of Texas
18 July 1843
Sir, I have the duty to inform you that yesterday morning, former president David S. Crockett was found shot to death in one
of the hostels of Los Angeles. I have been able to ascertain a party of four men assaulted him while he was breaking his fast. It is possible one of his attackers was wounded during the assault. I ordered our men to scour the land around the town of Los Angeles, and by way of information received, learned of an American flagged ship, the Orion, that sailed out of the harbor shortly thereafter. Reputable witnesses confirmed a boat slipped away from the wharves with four men who were reported coming from the direction of the ambush.
As though the news I bear is not grievous enough, I must ask that you pass along to General Travis that his son, Charles E. Travis was breaking fast with Colonel Crockett when the assault happened. Said witnesses confirmed a fifth person was forced onto the boat, albeit bound and covered. It can only be presumed the boy was captured.
Until I receive orders to the contrary, I will execute Colonel Crockett’s directives. Half our command has been dispatched north and will bring Monterey and its environs under the Texas banner.
I remain your obedient servant,
Henry McCulloch, Major commanding
Los Angeles, Alta California
***
23 July 1843
The stagecoach was parked at the foot of the Capitol lawn on Congress Avenue. President Lorenzo de Zavala watched his wife, Emily, move the curtains aside and look out across the street. “Oh, I hate saying goodbye, my love.” She let the curtains fall back in place as she threw her arms around his neck. He felt her hot tears against his collar.
“Em, it’s all right, my dearest. If there’s any hope of ending this war on a favorable footing, I must go. The surest way to obtain a lasting treaty is for me to negotiate it.”
The pout she wore he had seen on many occasions. He seldom refused her petulant expression. He had learned a long time before that while he may preside over the republic, within the walls of the presidential mansion, he was but a servant to her desires. But this was no ordinary mission. The fate of the nation would travel with him as he headed south.
He untangled her hands and kissed her with all his passion, until interrupted by a knock at the front door. Zavala waved away Emily’s black servant, “I’ve got it.”
