Comanche Moon Falling

by Drew McGunn

  Will and Erasmo had spent much of the three days on the road discussing this very subject. Since the elder Seguin’s appointment as chairman of the Commodities Bureau, he had taken to the task like a fish to water. The bureau’s cotton-backs had been circulating for most of the year. With the fall crops harvested, property taxes had been largely paid in one of the fifteen commodities which made up the basket of commodities on which the currency was based. Additionally, the Texas Land Office’s bank had also received loan repayments in commodities when the farmers or ranchers were unable to pay with gold or silver.

  Seguin said, “Between all of the commodities which have passed through the bureau, we have issued more than half a million dollars in commodities certificates in 1837. Although we’re still a few weeks away from the new year, we anticipate doubling the number of certificates in circulation next year.”

  Crockett was scratching his chin, reviewing a ledger full of figures. “But, we only took in around quarter million dollars in taxes and loan repayments from people. Where did the other quarter million come from?”

  “Gold and silver payments from the tariff and gifts and loans from the United States. Even now, eighteen months since the end of the Revolution, we’ve still received aid from quite a few folks in the United States.”

  Crockett chuckled. “You’re not joking. I received a draft drawn from a bank in Philadelphia from a group called “Philadelphians for Texas Independence” in the amount of ten thousand dollars. It was accompanied by a letter from none other than Henry Clay.”

  Will was astonished. “What would the Senator from Kentucky want with Texas?”

  Crockett replied, “Henry has ambitions for the presidency. If fools like Collinsworth and Potter keep yammering for annexation, and feeding Southern Democrats’ thirst for another slave state, there are going to be northern and western interests, led by men like Henry and other Whigs who want to limit the power of Southern Democrats. This little gift is just his way of telling me to stay the course. Now back to the Commodities Bureau. Erasmo, what are your people thinking about 1838? Do they really expect to issue a million dollars in cotton-backs?”

  “The short answer is yes,” Seguin said, “The longer answer requires we look at the sources of revenue we expect to receive next year. So much of the land granted under the impresario system is still a mess. In my discussions with your secretary of Treasury, neither of us expect to see more than forty thousand dollars in revenue from real estate taxes. But the opposite is true regarding the Texas Land Bank’s loan repayments. We expect to receive more than a hundred and fifty thousand from loan repayments alone. Nearly all of these are paid by commodities. Our bureau sells some of the commodities within the Republic; some, like payments in grain, get transferred to the military, but most gets sold in the United States or Europe. For example, our tax on physical property, which includes Lumber and Grist mills as well as slaves, brought in nearly a hundred and seventy thousand dollars this year. Nearly all of that was paid for with commodities. Cotton, specifically. There were plenty of buyers for that, all of them with gold and silver in hand.”

  Seguin’s command of the figures made Crockett’s eyes glaze over. “So, in short, what’s it mean for next year, Erasmo?”

  “Excluding loans or gifts from abroad, we should raise around half a million dollars in taxes and fees.”

  Crockett grunted. “That’s still going to mean a lot of loans from banks in the United States and Europe.”

  Seguin nodded. “If Michel Menard in our Treasure department is correct, we’ll probably need more than seven hundred thousand dollars in loans.”

  Crockett groaned. “That’s not a number I’m going to dangle in front of Congress. They’ll give off a stink like the polecats they are.”

  Seguin gave a half-hearted smile. “Look at the bright side. If our growth continues, we expect to reduce new loans to less than ten percent of the budget by 1842.”

  Crockett crossed his arms on the table and lay his head on them and complained, “Great. We fix the budget, but the next president gets the credit. Where’s the justice in that?”

  ***

  The next evening, what passed for the hotel’s dining room was bedecked with festive bunting and candles. Trestle tables lined one of the walls, piled high with food. It seemed as though most of the government of Texas was assembled in the room. The wives of those who were married, were resplendent in a rainbow of reds, greens, and blues. The finest fashions available in the stores of New Orleans were on display.

  As Will joined the Christmas celebration, he tugged at the hem of his dress uniform. it was a frock length jacket several shades darker brown than his fatigue jacket’s standard butternut hue. When he entered the room, most eyes followed him as he made his way to where President Crockett and his wife and daughter greeted those arriving. Gone was the homespun hunting jacket, and in its place, the president wore a black dress jacket and matching cravat. His waist coat was black satin, contrasting sharply against the white silk shirt he wore.

  As Will proffered his hand, Crockett looked a little sheepish. As they shook, Crockett leaned in. “My Liza insisted we all dress for the occasion. When a woman gets an idea in her head, it might as well be set in stone.”

  To his left, his wife looked over sharply. Her sigh was one of someone used to hearing Crockett’s sharp wit. “And well we do, otherwise you men would be completely uncivilized. When we were younger, back in Tennessee, David would rather have been bear hunting than socializing. He’s traded his bears for politicians. I’ve yet to figure out how to serve one up so as you’d want a helping.” She smiled warmly at Will as she continued, “General Travis, it is a pleasure to finally meet you someplace other than my husband’s cluttered office.”

  Will took her white gloved hand and brushed his lips against the silk material. The first lady was several inches shorter than her husband, but was still a tall woman. Her thin frame would have been considered frail, except for a sturdiness she wore like an armor. A life spent on the frontier, suffering through years of Crockett’s wanderlust, had hardened her to the difficulties of privation and want. Had Will not already met her at the cabin the Crocketts called home, he would have thought her underdressed in the simple blue satin dress she wore. But he decided it suited her demeanor.

  Will’s eyes lit up as he stepped to Mrs. Crockett’s left and stood before Rebecca Crockett. The nineteen-year-old woman smiled shyly and curtsied in her green gown. Will found his voice and asked, “If I may, would you consent to dance with me this evening?”

  Rebecca’s cheeks colored as she covered her mouth with her hand. “General Travis, I’d be honored to give you the first dance.”

  As Will stepped away from the first family of Texas, Crockett detached himself and stepped over to him. “Before things get away from us, I want to introduce you to a man who has set up a hospital here over in Houston.”

  He led Will over to a man in his early thirties. His brown hair was slightly receding, and his face was framed by an equally brown beard. As Crockett and Will approached he smiled and extended his hand, “Dr. Ashbel Smith. General Travis, I presume?”

  Will shook hands with the doctor, and from the dredges of his own memory from a world gone forever, recalled an Ashbel Smith was one of the founders of the University of Texas and wondered if he was one in the same. Crockett said, “Buck, weren’t you were telling me recently the army could use a Surgeon General? I reckon I don’t know nothing about medicine, but I have heard plenty of good things about Dr. Smith here, and if you’re of a mind to, I’d happily move his appointment through Congress.”

  The young doctor looked embarrassed at Crockett’s praise, but managed to respond, “I’m honored to serve my adopted country in whatever way I may, General Travis.”

  The two men agreed to meet again later to discuss the opportunity. As the room filled up with government dignitaries, Will found Crockett had again abandoned his post near the door and migrated to a table, where a l
arge, earthen jug sat in the middle. With a smile on his face, Will ambled over to the president as Crockett poured an amber liquid into a dainty tea cup.

  “Evening, Mr. President. I see you’ve found a suitable beverage.”

  Crockett handed the tea cup to Will, “Here, Buck, take one of these blasted cups and let’s get drunk together. Damned if I know why our womenfolk love putting these shindigs on, but my Liza conspired against me with Lorenzo’s Emily and they invited half the government.”

  In one corner of the large room several musicians were practicing on their instruments. Will spotted Crockett’s wife, Elizabeth talking with Emily de Zavala and several other women. Next to Elizabeth Crockett stood Rebecca. Every look Will stole made him want to get close to her. Standing across the room, Will was able to see how much Crockett’s daughter favored her mother so much so he was a little taken aback by the similarities.

  Crockett nudged him, saying, “If I didn’t know better I’d swear I was looking at my Liza twenty years ago.”

  Will nodded. “She’s a looker. That’s for sure.”

  Crockett jabbed him in the ribs, “That’s my daughter you’re ogling, Buck.” Will looked quickly at Crockett, but seeing the twinkle in his eyes, smiled back.

  “Indeed it is, Mr. President. And a very fine looker she is.” He stepped away as Crockett’s elbow came back up. “As a matter of fact, finding my position here under attack, I shall strategically retreat to yon corner of the room, where I think I have just caught the eye of a pretty young lady.” Crockett laughed and waved Will away.

  Will sidled up next to Rebecca Crockett, and said, “If I could redeem the promise of that first dance, Miss Rebecca, will you dance with me?”

  The young woman blushed when she looked up at Will and smiled, “Oh, General Travis, I would be honored.”

  He guided her onto the dance floor where, as a festive Christmassy tune started up, Will showed Rebecca he was a better soldier than a dancer. As the song ended, Rebecca fanned herself, and stepped gingerly away from Will’s feet. “Would you fetch me a cup of punch, General?”

  Over at the punch bowl, as Will filled a small cup, Crockett came up and slapped him on the back, “Buck, I swear, I do believe that you’ve two left feet.”

  Will smiled, sheepishly, “Well, what can I say? I wanted badly to dance with her. And badly I did.”

  ***

  The cantina was nearly empty as Jose Flores sat at a table, cleaning the remnants of a small bowl of beans with a corn tortilla. He kept glancing toward the door, waiting. He had been in Laredo since his father-in-law returned to San Antonio before Christmas. The town was torn between the majority of the people who wished to return to Mexico, and a smaller minority who saw confusion and turmoil to the south and stability to the north. He had been in Laredo ostensibly to manage several business matters on behalf of his father-in-law, Erasmo Seguin, but over the past few months, it was clear, more was going on below the surface than met the eye.

  The door swung open and a brown-haired man in his early twenties strode through it. Flores looked him over, the revolver at his belt confirmed he was the man on whom Flores was waiting. Captain Jack Hays had arrived. The Ranger scanned the room before his eyes landed on Flores. He walked over and sat opposite of the Tejano.

  In a low tone, Flores said, “It’s worse than I suspected, Captain Hays. There’s an agent of Mexico, in town. I’ve managed to find out his plans.”

  Hays nodded. “Do we need to bring in soldiers from the fort?”

  “No, not yet. That would scare him away, and leave him to try again somewhere else. Better to give him enough rope to hang himself here.”

  Hays agreed. “What do you know about this agent?”

  “He’s a large landowner from Nacogdoches,” Flores said, “In the elections last year, the influx of immigrants to the area caused him to lose his election as county judge. His name is Vincente Cordova. It is my understand that he will be returning tomorrow evening with guns and gold for the faction here who wants Laredo handed over to Mexico. There are a handful of Santa Anna’s veterans who have settled here, and Cordova apparently thinks he can build his army around them.”

  Hays stood and turned toward the door, saying, “Let’s see if he gives us enough of that rope tomorrow.”

  The next evening, Hays and Flores and a dozen men from the nearby fort sheltered behind mesquite trees, and downed logs, littered along the Texas side of the Rio Grande. The deep ruts cut in the banks on both sides of the river revealed to Hayes Cordova’s likeliest route. The sun had dipped below the horizon a little while earlier and only the red and orange hues reflecting off the clouds provided light. Hays hoped the wagon would come before the twilight was gone.

  Hays grinned as two long wagons rolled down to the river on the Mexican side. The gods of luck were smiling down on him. As the wagons lurched into the river, along the ford, several mounted men rode on the flanks, warily watching the northern shore line. Apparently, Cordova thought he was taking few chances. Hays bit down on his own laughter.

  “The traitor will figure out real quick how wrong he is,” he thought.

  As the first wagon rolled up the shallow embankment, Hays pulled his revolver from the holster and glanced back at the soldiers. Each had his rifle ready for whatever action would unfold. The mules pulling the second wagon climbed onto the river bank on the Texas side and it was time, Hays reckoned. With his pistol pointed toward the wagons, he stepped out from behind the mesquite tree. He shouted, “You’re under arrest!”

  He intended to tell the Mexicans not to reach for their guns, but before those words could leave his lips, the nearest horseman grabbed a pistol from his belt. He hammered the flintlock back and pointed it in Hays’ direction. Instinctively, Hays ducked while lining up his shot. He sighted down the barrel and squeezed the trigger. Both pistols went off at the same time. The .36 caliber ball struck the horseman, whose pistol kicked in his hands as it discharged. The musket ball slapped harmlessly into the wet mud a few feet in front of the Ranger.

  The riders, accompanying the wagons, were all armed. Next to the second wagon, two of the horsemen bolted forward, reins in one hand, and a pistol in the other. The last of the daylight still reflected off the evening clouds, as Hays saw the riders racing toward him. He aimed at the nearest and pulled the trigger in haste. The bullet sailed harmlessly over the rider, as he charged. Hays fired again, and this time, struck him in the torso. The rider slid off the animal, landing with a bone-jarring crash. The second rider barreled down on Hays. Only ten yards separated the two men. Hays started moving to the side, as one of the soldiers stepped up next to him, rifle already at his shoulder. The butternut clad rifleman fired, striking the rider in the head, knocking him off the back of the horse.

  A few more shots echoed as the last of the light fled the western sky. Of the six horsemen, all had been dismounted by Hays’ men. Two were dead. Two more were injured badly. Of the last two, one had been shot in the leg while the other had lost his seat when his horse had been startled by the gunfire. Several soldiers hauled the wagon drivers from their perches atop the wagons and forced them at gunpoint next to the other survivors.

  As the soldiers secured the prisoners, Hays and Flores clambered onto the wagons and loosened the tarps. They tossed them back, revealing several long crates full of muskets and ammunition. They also found in the saddlebags tied to one of the horses, a few thousand dollars in gold. Flores smiled at Hays. “I told you, my Ranger friend. Cordova’s guns and gold!”

  Hays returned the smile. “I love it when a plan comes together.”

  The weapons and gold secured, the two men returned to the prisoners. Flores looked at each of the prisoners, finally bringing his eyes to rest on the lone uninjured man. “Captain Hays, may I introduce you to his honor, Vincente Cordova.”

  Hays looked down at the dejected prisoner. “Vincente Cordova, you’re under arrest for treason.”

  Chapter 16

  The smell o
f breakfast wafted across the room where Henrietta cooked on an iron stove. Will had hired the former slave to cook and clean around the house. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the aroma of bacon cooking on a skillet. It was just one more reason he was happy Travis’ former slave, Joe was doing well for himself. Like several former slaves, Joe held a contract to transport supplies for the army between Texas’ port cities and the Alamo. Will was a little fuzzy on the details of Henrietta’s route to freedom and exactly how she and Joe had married, but he was happy for both of them, as they made a new home for themselves in San Antonio.

  The smell of eggs had nothing to do with his happiness, he told himself as she set a plateful of eggs and bacon in front of him. “No, nothing at all to do with it.”

  He dug into his plate and returned to reading an article in the Telegraph and Texas Register. He was pleased as he read the Texas Supreme Court had denied Vincente Cordova’s final plea in the drama which played out over the previous six months, since his capture with Mexican guns and gold. To date, his was the only trial in Texas for the crime of treason. Will had followed the trial when it had been held in San Antonio earlier in the year.

  He recalled how most Anglo-owned newspapers had denounced the Crockett administration’s decision to allow the trial to proceed in the Bexar district court. Laredo was within the Bexar district, so the decision to hold it in San Antonio was proper. But even many within Congress worried that San Antonio, with its majority Tejano population wouldn’t find Cordova guilty. The fears were groundless. The jury consisted of some of San Antonio’s more prominent Tejano families as well as several wealthy Americans. While Cordova’s trial for treason lasted more than a week, the jury took less than an hour to convict him. When Will found out Jose Salinas, the mayor of San Antonio, had handpicked the jury pool, he was disquieted. On one hand, the evidence was damning, but Will didn’t like the idea of tampering with a jury, even when the result should have been a forgone conclusion.