Comanche Moon Falling

by Drew McGunn

  “Word? Yes. Good news? Not yet,” Crockett replied. “I wonder if I made a mistake appointing Colonel Grant as chargé d'affaires to the British. I figured being a former subject that he’d do well. But his last letter just asks for more money and gives me empty promises. Dammit, Buck, it’s only been a few months, but I have my doubts that I chose well with him.”

  Will prompted him, “What about France and the Germanies?”

  Crockett cheered up at the question, “I’m glad you suggested appointing Mirabeau Lamar as minister to France. That man has fire enough for two men. I can’t rightly say that he’s making headway, but I received word just last week that he’s secured a couple of loans. He has even been able to press the French to allow emigration, which is something I didn’t think he’d be able to wrangle. The more of us there are the harder it will be to force us out. The Germanies, I’ve appointed Edward Harkort to act as our chargé d'affaires there. He’s actually still in Galveston at the moment. We’ll see him later today. He’s been building the new fort there. I don’t want to get false hope, but I am trusting that he’ll be able to talk more Germans into coming. They’re hard workers and if he’s any example, they like building things.”

  When the tiny Schooner docked in Galveston, Crockett led them down the gangplank and across the dock to a livery stable. With rented horses, the two men threaded their way through the crowded streets. As headquarters for the fledgling Texas Navy and the nascent Marine Corps, as well as the best port in the Republic, Galveston had grown rapidly over the past year, as a couple of thousand people called it home and even more transitioned through the town on the way to where they were going.

  There were fewer houses as they rode eastward. They crossed over several sand dunes until they arrived on the eastern tip of the island, where an octagonal earthen fort had been constructed. Along each wall a parapet was being constructed. Large canvas tarps were draped over several large coastal guns, in storage until their platforms were ready.

  When Will and Crockett entered the fort, Will noticed Edward Harkort approaching. Nominally an engineer under Will’s command, he had been working with the Navy to construct this fort since the middle of the year. With a thick German accent, he said, “I’m honored to have you here, President Crockett and General Travis.” His words were precise and formal, while his tone conveyed a strong hint of reproach at their unannounced arrival.

  Ignoring the German’s tone, Crockett waved him off with, “Don’t mind us, Captain Harkort. Had to escape all those congress critters in Harrisburg, and thought we’d take a gander at this here fort of yours.”

  Mollified, Harkort scurried away, shouting at several slaves working on framing one of the parapets. Will cocked an eyebrow at Crockett, “Labor problems, David?”

  Crockett’s eyes tracked across the fort and saw the slaves. He shrugged, “I left this in the hands of Harkort, Buck. Let’s ask him. He’s proven to be a trustworthy man.”

  When asked about the use of slaves, Harkort said, “I was approached by several men of property on the island and asked if I would lease their laborers. According to your own directive, General, I was permitted to use land scripts to pay for labor. But I have also paid each of the negroes two bits each day for their labor. I don’t care for what slave labor does to the value of each man’s worth, but by using them I have progressed faster than I would have without them. Their owners get some cheap land on the frontier, and these men get some silver in their pockets.”

  Will opened his mouth to respond, but closed it as he realized Harkort was making the best of a miserable system. On one hand, it gratified him to see Harkort’s own distaste for the system, but he was also disturbed how the German compromised with it, and harnessed it to the military’s purpose. “Very well, Captain.” He almost asked about where he was getting fifty cents per day for each of the slaves, then decided he didn’t want to know the answer.

  After inspecting the fortification, Will and Crockett rode out of the fort back to Galveston. “Will, people might mistake you for a Yankee rather than a Southerner with your views.”

  Will grinned sheepishly, “I’d rather they mistake me for a Texan.”

  ***

  The next day Will was back in Harrisburg, sitting in Crockett’s small cabin. Ledgers and other recordkeeping books were scattered across the table as he tried to make sense of the income and expenses. After looking over a stack of invoices, totaling more than $50,000, he set them aside and asked, “What has Michel Menard been able to accomplish as treasurer?”

  Crockett frowned, “Not as much as he promised. Oh, he’s hiring reputable men to act as customs agents at our ports and has actually proposed an idea for selling land to newcomers. But it’s not taking off. it’s just the hole we are digging ourselves into is so damned deep, that it’s going to take a miracle to pull us out of it. The republic is more than a million dollars in debt, and I can assure you that we took in only slightly more than one hundred thousand dollars this year. Who’s going to extend credit to a broke country?”

  Will whistled appreciatively, and said, “That’s no small feat, David. For what it’s worth, I think you need to give Menard a free rein with the treasury regarding to customs duties. I’d be willing to bet that more than two million dollars in trade will come through our ports and borders with the United States next year. The tariff alone should be able to generate more than a quarter million dollars. I know it’s a drop in the bucket. But it’s a start.”

  As Will continued flipping through the various ledgers, he found one which listed as assets 251,579,800 acres. 26,280,000 acres were marked as distributed, either during the Spanish or Mexican eras. Will showed the information to Crockett, “Here’s the long-term solution to our money problems, David. We have more than two hundred and twenty million acres of public land in the Republic. The first thing we need to do is empower Menard’s treasury department to collect property taxes. From there, we need to quickly settle as many of the title disputes between people as we can. The sooner a piece of land has a clear title, the sooner it can be taxed.”

  Crockett shook his head in disagreement, “Buck, I’m not in favor of taxing people coming and going. Won’t we make enough just selling the public lands? It seems to me that it would take a couple of life times to sell all the land.”

  Will glibly replied, “If a man owns six-hundred-forty acres, at a minimum, his land is worth three hundred twenty dollars. That assumes it is truly valued at the fifty cents an acre we’re currently selling our public lands for. Now, if the tax on the property is one per cent, this farmer or rancher pays three dollars and twenty cents. That’s a small price to pay, David. Especially if we permit the tax collectors to accept grain, corn or cotton in place of hard currency.”

  Crockett smiled at the thought of paying in kind. “I like that idea. Although how Menard’s revenue collectors would manage it would be a sight to see.”

  “That gives me an idea, David. You should appoint some people to study what it would take to form a commodities bureau.”

  Crockett eyed Will skeptically. “A what?”

  Will continued, “A commodities bureau. Here’s what I’m thinking. When people pay their property taxes with commodities, the Commodities bureau could exchange the goods with certificates, not unlike the treasury certificates from the United States. But our certificates would be backed by the value of what was traded. The bureau could sell the commodities that are collected in the States or even in Europe.”

  Crockett’s face was one of surprise. “That sounds like a capital idea. What kind of commodities would we allow people to use to pay their taxes? Because as I understand it, the commodities get passed through your bureau and turned into what is basically currency.”

  Will gave it some thought and grabbed a stub of a pencil and jotted down a list. When done, he read it back to Crockett, “Of course, the first two are gold and silver. Add to them cotton, wheat, sugar, corn, and coffee, and you have the basis of a basket of commodi
ties. The way to keep it working is the bureau will have to adjust the objective value of the commodities within the basket to keep the related value of the certificates stable.”

  Crockett rubbed his temples, “That seems complicated.”

  “In a perfect world, we could rely on a currency backed by gold and silver. The problem is that Texas has neither,” Will said, “by trading certificates to our farmers and ranchers for the commodities they produce, it establishes both a value for the commodity being traded as well as for the certificate. What’s the most valuable cash crop produced in the Republic today?”

  “Cotton.”

  Will could tell the wheels were spinning in Crockett’s head, so he helped to fill in the details, “Let’s say we collect ten thousand bales of cotton as payment for taxes. We could then sell it to the British or the Yankees for gold or silver. We turn around and put the gold and silver in our vaults and issues certificates in the amount received.”

  Crockett frowned. “I can see how it could generate revenue for the government and even how it can put money into circulation, but it’s going to take someone special to run this. I don’t suppose you’d consider it?”

  “I’ve got more on my plate than I can say grace over, David,” Will said, “But I’ll tell you who I think would do well with it. Erasmo Seguin. Turn the project over to him, with the authority of the government behind him and I’ll bet he’d have it running before the end of next year.”

  Crockett scrawled some notes down and said, “Enough of this. If I stare at any more numbers I’m going to lose my mind. Did I tell you that my Liza is supposed to be here by Christmas?”

  “You mentioned something yesterday, as I recall,” Will replied, “But I don’t think you said when you were expecting her to arrive.”

  Crockett stood, and shuffled the ledgers and piles of paper into what Will hoped was a semblance of order. After what seemed like an hour, but was probably less than a minute Crockett confessed, “Buck, I’ve not been the kind of man that I should have been to Liza or to Polly before she passed.”

  Will’s eyebrows arched as the president mentioned his two marriages, and Crockett hurriedly added, “Oh, I’ve never been unfaithful to my Liza or Polly, bless her soul. Well, unless it was to the frontier or my itch to travel. But I’ve been gone from home far more than I was ever there. I told myself I was doing it for her and the children, always to provide a better life, but when I saw you bring your own son back to San Antonio with you, I knew I had missed the mark. When she gets here, I don’t want to make a mess of things.”

  Will smiled and placed his hand on his older friend’s shoulder. “I think you’ll do fine, David. One thing I have learned over the past year is that Texas is a place for second chances.”

  Chapter 7

  March of 1837 roared in like a lion. A bitterly frigid wind blew across the plains from the arctic north. As Will rode toward the San Fernando Catholic Church he fervently hoped this would be the last cold front of the season. He pulled his coat up tighter around his neck and tried to ignore the blasts of icy wind cutting through his woolen overcoat. Small hands, in woolen mittens, were wrapped around his waist, as Charlie sat behind Will, his feet dangling above the stirrups.

  After the Revolution, several prominent members of the San Antonio community came together, pooling resources to establish an academy. Since the closing of a public school a couple of years earlier, the children of Bexar had been without a school. In the previous fall, the academy launched, as a partnership between monied Bexareno interests and the local Franciscan monastery. They leased space from the parish of San Fernando. Most of the students were children of San Antonio’s more affluent residents. And, Will, despite his republican sensibilities, found himself, as General of the Army, considered by most, one of the town’s more affluent and eligible bachelors. Plus, as Will thought about it, Charlie was thriving, learning, and making new friends.

  The seven months since returning home with Charlie had been good for both Will and the boy. For Will, putting some separation between the stress inherent in commanding Texas’ army and his home life was restoring a semblance of balance. More than a year had passed since the transference; he long ago decided to make the most of the circumstances in which he found himself. In addition to his military duties, he worked to undo the abandonment issues resulting from the five-year separation the boy had suffered away from his father. It seemed to be working, Charlie appeared to be happy. Will was amazed how quickly Travis’ son, now eight years old, adjusted to life in San Antonio. Part of that he attributed to the time spent with the Seguin children. Part of it, Will realized, came from the investment Will made in time spent with Charlie. Will was no expert chess player, but over the winter, he took time to teach him how to play chess, and more than a few cold evenings were spent, the two of them sitting cross-legged before the hearth fire, playing the game.

  As the bitter wind whistled across the main plaza, they arrived at the church where they saw several children, bundled in their winter clothing, hurrying into the relative warmth of the building. Will offered Charlie his hand and helped him slide off the horse. As the boy’s feet touched the ground, Will echoed words his own father had told him a lifetime ago, “Behave yourself, son. When school is released, go home with Teresa and Jose, and I’ll pick you up from the Seguins on the way home this evening.”

  Charlie stopped and turned to wave, as a gust of wind nearly swept his hat from his head. Grabbing at it before it was carried away, the boy turned and ran toward the church’s heavy oaken doors.

  Will pulled his reins and wheeled around and pointed his horse toward the Alamo, allowing his thoughts to drift. He returned to his conversation with President Crockett back in December. One of the outflows from it was a bill to implement the Texas Land Office. The TLO had received its charter the previous month.

  The plan, when fully implemented, would be to run the sale of public land through the land office. Gold and silver were in very short supply throughout the republic, so with a little prodding by Will, Crockett had convinced Congress to promote land sales through a land bank which “loaned” the funds to settlers to purchase the land. No actual currency would trade hands. The settlers would take possession of the land, and the Land Bank would receive a promissory note from the settler for the value of the land. The notes would carry an interest rate of three percent, which was slightly below international rates, and carried monthly, quarterly, or yearly repayment schedules, as selected by the borrower. Will recalled a letter he read from the Treasurer of the Republic of Texas, in which the Canadian born Michel Menard enthusiastically endorsed the scheme. The money received from the ongoing payments would flow into the general fund each year.

  As he crossed the wooden bridge over the San Antonio River he adjusted the thought. That depends on the effects of the banking crisis. In his history books, he remembered reading about the crisis of 1837 in the United States. While he saw no way to influence the coming crisis, hopefully the steps he talked Crockett into implementing would cushion its effect on Texas in the coming years.

  “Maybe Stephen Austin can exploit the crisis and increase immigration into Texas.” Will thought, “Especially from free states.”

  For what seemed like the thousandth time, he puzzled over ways to increase immigration from both the free states and Europe. The surest way to end slavery was to make Texas more accessible to Yankee and European immigration.

  Realistically though, the best hope in the short run, was to continue expanding the agricultural economy. Before Texas could successfully build industry, there would need to be railroads, and before the railroads would be built, the border issue with Mexico would need to be sorted out. But first, he needed peace with the Comanche.

  As usual, when Will passed through the Alamo’s gatehouse, the gate was open. Except during times of crisis, the gate stayed open during daylight hours. Six companies of infantry were assembled in the Alamo plaza. The 450 men looked sharp in their butter
nut uniforms and black slouch hats, each man holding his carbine breechloader at attention. The last of Santa Anna’s captured gold and silver had gone to buy the uniforms for the army. Even so, never had the army of the Republic of Texas looked more professional than they did then, standing in formation in the plaza.

  Opposite the infantry, on the other side of the plaza, Captain Seguin’s two companies of cavalry were assembled. Like the infantry, the eighty troopers were arrayed in the new uniforms. Each trooper carried a holstered Paterson Colt Revolver at his belt and a carbine breechloader in a saddle scabbard. Standing above the plaza, along the west wall, Captain Dickinson’s forty artillerymen also stood at attention.

  In the center of the plaza Lt. Colonel Johnston stood, waiting for each company commander to report the status of his company. Will dismounted and joined Johnston. “Just a week to go before we head into the Comancheria again, Sid,” Will said quietly. “Did the company commanders inform their men that today’s drills will determine which companies go and which staying behind?”

  Johnston shrugged, “Lots of boys are upset that both of Seguin’s companies are going. All of the boys are eager to take the fight to the Comanche.”

  Shaking his head, Will said, “It’s because they don’t know better. By the time the campaign is over, most of them will gladly trade places with those who stay.”

  Johnston issued commands to each company commander for the day’s exercise. As Juan Seguin joined them, they followed one company as it marched over to a firing range they had put together a half mile north east of the Alamo. There were several dozen targets downrange of the line, set at intervals between 100 and 400 yards away.

  Will had stood on this very line on many occasions, firing one of the rifled carbines at the targets. Today, he watched the men of Company C as they practiced. A corporal, standing on the end of the firing line, opened the breech while pulling a paper cartridge from the black leather box at his hip. He bit the end from the cartridge and poured the powder into the breechblock and then slid the bullet and paper on top of the powder before closing the breech. He next reached into a cap box at his waist and took a percussion cap and set it on the nipple. He raised the rifled carbine to his shoulder and aimed at the target downrange and fired. He flipped the breech open and grabbed another cartridge and ripped it open with his teeth, and repeated the process over again, and less than ten seconds later sent another bullet flying to the target.