Comanche Moon Falling

by Drew McGunn

  As Hays hauled the strongbox onto his shoulder, he said, “That’s up to you. As far as I’m concerned, he’s either a spy or a traitor.”

  ***

  The waves lapped at the schooner’s hull, as Captain Hays climbed onboard the ship. He scrambled over the gunwale as Captain Thompson greeted him by the pilot’s ladder. With a perfunctory nod, he said, “Welcome aboard, Captain Hays.” He promptly turned away and ordered the ship to weigh anchor.

  As the sun edged above the eastern horizon, smoke billowed into the sky from the stubby smokestack, as the paddlewheel fixed to the side of the ship churned the water of the bay, propelling the ship forward from her anchorage. Hays stayed near the ship’s railing as she made her way through the narrow Bolivar Roads and entered the Gulf of Mexico.

  Despite the sooty smoke which curled into the early morning sky, Hays had no problem seeing all around the ship, as she cut though the water. The ship’s captain had been provided with the information the marines had obtained from Thibodaux. Hays hoped it was enough to locate the ship which had brought the counterfeit certificates to Galveston. A lookout was stationed atop the main mast, where he could scan the sea with a powerful spyglass.

  There was part of Hays who would have been happy to return to Austin, with Thibodaux in tow and consider the matter closed. Given how the movement of the deck made his stomach lurch, the largest part of his mind was thinking along those lines. But during the interrogation, which Sergeant Williams had referred to as intensive, the counterfeiter had been completely broken, and now the Texas Navy was in possession of what Hays hoped was enough information to find the ship.

  As the sun slowly rose over the eastern sea, the lookout shouted, “Ship ahead! One point to port.”

  Hays unsteadily moved from his position along the starboard railing and crossed over to the port side. Sure enough he saw another ship, still a few miles ahead, but closer to the Texas coastline. As he watched the ship in the distance, it appeared it was maintaining a steady eastern direction. A commotion broke out behind him and he turned as a blue-jacketed Marine drummer began beating the ship to quarters. Sailors and marines rushed about. To Hays it seemed like total chaos, but in less time than he would have imagined, the gun ports had been opened and the heavy guns run out. The sails were unfurled and added the strength of the southerly blowing wind to the thumping, mechanical power generated by the steam engine below deck.

  Slowly the Nueces closed the distance with the fleeing ship, until less than half a mile separated the two vessels. Captain Thompson gave an order and the sound of a warning shot echoed across the open water. Moments later, an iron ball from the schooner’s bow chaser, splashed harmlessly into the briny water of the Gulf of Mexico, more than a hundred yards to the starboard side of the fleeing ship.

  Seconds later, from the stern of the vessel a United States flag was raised. Hays glanced over to Captain Thompson, who spit over the rail and said, “Ignore that, boys. Let’s put a shot across her bow.” When he saw Hays’ raised eyebrows, he clarified, “’Tis a false flag, Captain. I’ll bet all the prize money in the world she’s been doing the Mexicans’ business, no matter who might actually own her.”

  A moment later the second bow chaser fired. This time, the shot landed less than a hundred yards ahead of the other vessel. As the two crews hastened to reload their guns, the flag on the other ship slipped from the stern. The sails were reefed, and the ship slowed. The Marigold waited for the boarding party.

  Hays accompanied a Marine lieutenant and his squad of men across the short distance which now separated the two ships. As the little boat bobbed in the water, he desperately wished he had taken Thibodaux back to Austin. But in less than five minutes, a rope ladder was lowered down the side and the boarders clambered up the Marigold’s side.

  As the ship’s captain protested, several Marines barreled around him and secured the ship’s wheel. The marine lieutenant said, “Button it up. We’re turning this tub around and returning to Galveston.”

  As the Marigold’s captain blustered and threatened the young officer, the other Marines watched closely as the ship’s crew raised sail and turned back toward the port. The Lieutenant soon tired of being berated by the impotent captain and had him thrown into the ship’s hold. Hays took the opportunity to rummage through the captain’s cabin where he found the log, which detailed the ship’s previous port was Vera Cruz. He also found a large lockbox, the key for which he forcefully removed from the unhappy captain. The contents of the lockbox were a veritable treasure trove of information. He found the ship’s manifest showing a lockbox with ‘miscellaneous cargo’ had been marked as delivered. He also found a large bag, full of silver Mexican pesos. But the pièce de résistance was a new letter of marque issued by the Mexican government to the Marigold’s captain, Jason Barstow.

  Once the two ships returned to Galveston, the news of the Mexican government’s use of the Marigold became news across the Republic. The issuance of the Letter of Marque to a United States flagged ship was denounced by the United States’ chargé d'affaires Alcée Louis la Branche. Despite the ship’s United States Registration, it was quickly decided between the use of the Marigold to transport counterfeit currency, and the issuance of a Letter of Marque, the owners’ rights were forfeited.

  Several weeks later, when Hays had returned to Austin and made his report to Señor Seguin, in person, he said, “I appreciate the reward, sir. But please, the next time you need to send someone to sea, why don’t you just send me the other way. I’d rather be fighting Comanche out west than ever step foot on a ship again.”

  ***

  Fall had arrived in San Antonio by October of 1839, and a cool breeze lifted the flag flying high above the Alamo chapel. The interior was festively lit up with several hundred candles. Supplies, which normally were stacked around the chapel, were crowded into its transepts, as the space from the nave to the chancel had been cleared. Now it was crowded with chairs, benches, and the occasional pew, which were arranged in rows. They were filling up with officers from the army and their wives as well as many of San Antonio’s most prominent citizens. Even a few politicians had made their way south from Austin for the happy occasion.

  When entering the chapel, it was impossible to miss the building’s origin as a Catholic church, as those who entered the building passed by the carved statues of St. Francis and St. Dominic, one of which was missing his head, having been damaged during General Cos’ use of the Alamo in the early days of the Revolution. The soaring arches which again supported a roof over the attendees, were carved in the classic Spanish style common among the aging frontier missions, many of which still conducted Catholic mass.

  The chapel, along with the entire Alamo mission belonged to the Republic, and its stout walls now reinforced, protected Texas’ interest in the southern parts of the Republic. But this day, the chapel served a far different purpose, hosting the marriage between the commanding general of the Texas army and the daughter of the Republic’s president. Will was happy to have found a Methodist minister who was agreeable to conduct the wedding ceremony inside the old walls of the chapel.

  Will stood with the minister in the chancel. He wore the same dark-brown dress uniform he had worn when he first started courting Rebecca Crockett at the Christmas party nearly two years before. To his left, his best man, Juan Seguin was dressed in his own cavalry dress uniform. Rather than the long frock coat, it was an elaborately embroidered double-breasted shell jacket. Beside Seguin, stood Charlie Travis. The eleven-year-old stood proudly next to the two soldiers, wearing a black jacket and white shirt, with a cravat. As Will leaned forward and smiled at his son, the boy proudly smiled back, feeling grown up, wearing the expensive suit.

  The room grew silent as the heavy chapel doors swung opened, and Will watched Rebecca Crockett, enter on her father’s arm, as they walked down the aisle. She was dressed in a cerulean gown, which made her eyes look like a cloudless sky at sunset. Everyone stood until she arrived at th
e altar, where she stepped next to Will. David came around, facing the two lovers and set Rebecca’s hand into Will’s. He leaned in, whispering, “William, in marriage, you can be happy, or you can be right. Maybe it’s why I spent too much time away.” He paused for a moment, and Will thought he saw a little moisture in Crockett’s eye. “The daughter of my blood, who I love so deeply I give to the son of my spirit. May you together make a happy life. Else, I know where to find you,” he said, looking at Will, as his lips curled into a happy smile.

  The remainder of the ceremony passed by quickly for Will. Most of it was a blur, and he remembered very little except for the part where he said, “I do,” and the minister pronouncing them man and wife, and then kissing Becky’s sweet lips. It wasn’t their first kiss, but by Will’s estimation, it was their sweetest. As the kiss lingered, several officers whistled and coughed. There were certain proprieties to which fashionable members of society adhered, and lengthy kisses in public, even at a wedding, were frowned upon. Will couldn’t have cared less. As the first lingering kiss as man and wife ended, Will saw most of the officers were standing, applauding them. He smiled back at them, proprieties be damned.

  Blushing at the attention, Becky took Will’s arm and they hurried down the aisle and out the chapel doors. As well-wishers filed out, Will turned around, still holding tightly to her hand, and looked up at the tall fortress-like walls of the Alamo Chapel and marveled at the turn of events which had led him to this moment. A little more than three years before, he woke up in the body of a man he knew of as a martyr to Texas liberty, and now a scarce three years later, he commanded the army of the Republic. He had watched David Crockett become its first elected president, and now, he had married the beautiful daughter of one of his best friends.

  He couldn’t help but think, “I wanted nothing more than to forget the Alamo when I arrived.” He looked over at Becky, who radiantly smiled back at him, “Now I want to remember the Alamo.”

  Chapter 19

  As Will and Becky settled into married life, despite the fact Will’s scheduled didn’t give him time to take an extended honeymoon with his new bride, he was surprised to discover the idea of a honeymoon was something for which Becky saw no need.

  “Will, why do we need to get away somewhere and spend a bunch of money, just to make a baby? We can do that right here in San Antonio.”

  Smiling crookedly at her, he couldn’t argue with his wife, so they stayed in town and he spent more time at home in the weeks following their marriage.

  As a particularly nasty cold front caused most of the folks in San Antonio to seek warmth indoors, Will was sitting at his work-desk at home, plodding through the mound of paperwork required to run even a small army. Becky and Henrietta were sitting in rocking chairs near the hearth and Charlie was sitting at the dinner table, with a textbook open. The eleven-year-old was transcribing Latin from the textbook onto a sheet of paper. As Will set his own pen down, he glanced over at the boy, who was biting his lip as he transcribed the text.

  “Friar Jesus is a good teacher,” Will thought.

  Many of the wealthy Tejanos, as well as the town’s growing merchant class sent their children to the school attached to the San Fernando parish. As far as Will was concerned, there was no better option which wouldn’t require sending Charlie away to a boarding school back east.

  Will was dismissive of the idea. Some of the wealthier plantation owners in East Texas who could afford to, sent their children back east to attend boarding schools. It wasn’t an option as far as Will was concerned. He hadn’t decided if the twenty-first century working-class values which he grew up with or the fact it was the rich plantation owners sending their kids to boarding schools, but Will was happy for Charlie to attend the small, private academy.

  As he listened to Charlie’s pen scratch across the paper, Will opened an envelope he recently received from Don Garza, president of the Gulf Farms Corporation. Most of the letter was split between the results of the 1839 harvest and developmental plans for 1840. Toward the end, Garza disclosed plans to build a school in West Liberty, where the corporation’s offices were located. Nearly all the farmland under development by the corporation was located within a short distance from the town, and Garza speculated a school would allow him to attract more farmers, allowing the corporation to expand.

  Will chuckled to himself. Part of him found it amusing Garza’s obvious intent was driven by the financial bottom line. To the president, the school was an investment in the future of the corporation. As he thought about Garza’s actions, he realized the principle of providing an education to the children in Texas would similarly act as an investment in the Republic’s future. With that thought firmly in his mind, Will lifted his pen and began writing a letter to Crockett.

  ***

  The day’s session of the Senate had concluded only moments before and Lorenzo de Zavala was exhausted from dealing with the twenty men who comprised that august body. As the Republic’s vice president, he had the misfortune, as he thought of it, to preside over the senate. Their constant squabbles and pettiness were wearing him down. He exited the capitol building, which was still surrounded with scaffolding, as the builders worked to put the finishing touches on the structure. He cursed David Crockett under his breath for asking him to serve as his vice president. He heard a noise behind him and turned. “Of course.”

  David Crockett was following him down the dirt path, which winded down the hill on top of which perched the capitol building. Zavala stopped and waited for the president to catch up. “Speak of the devil and see if he doesn’t turn up.”

  Crockett smiled at the comment and slapped Zavala on the back. “It’s good to see you singing my praises, Lorenzo.”

  As the two of them crossed the street, Zavala saw a small rock in the road and kicked at it. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, David?”

  As they entered the smallish building which currently housed the Texas Department of State, as well as both of their own offices, Crockett led him into the cramped temporary office of the president. Crockett settled into his own chair and with a crafty smile, said, “I doubt you’ll find this particularly pleasurable. I’ve got a problem and I need you to solve it for me.”

  As Zavala moved a stack of books from a small chair opposite of Crockett’s own, he said, “What sort of problem, David?”

  Crockett waved a letter in front of him. “The problem with competent people is they tend to make more work for lazeabouts like me. I got a letter from Buck Travis and damned if he hasn’t presented me with a humdinger of a problem I was ignorant about until he wrote to me.”

  Crockett handed the offending piece of correspondence to Zavala, who took his time to read the letter a couple of times. Finally, he said, “Public education’s actually a pretty good idea, David. We’ve been so busy trying to hold the Republic together that we haven’t given much thought to what comes next. But General Travis is right. An investment in education is commitment to the future of the republic. But we’re as poor as church mice.”

  Crockett conceded the point. “While it’s true the Republic may be as poor as Job’s turkey, at least we’ve got a pot to piss in.”

  Zavala looked askance, “Nearly every dollar we collect or borrow goes to pay for our army and navy, where are we going to find the money to start our educational system?”

  Crockett pointed out the window, “Lorenzo, we have a hundred ninety million acres of land in the Republic.”

  Zavala’s eyes followed his finger. As he glanced out the window, he said, “But most of that land isn’t worth damn all today, David. How do you propose to make a go of public education?”

  “That’s a fair assessment of our predicament, but much of our land is rich in timber and there are places where there are deposits of coal and other minerals. Hell, we already have a growing timber industry and I hear tell that north of Santa Fe there are silver and gold deposits on land we won in our treaty with Mexico.”

 
Zavala grumbled. “A treaty their current government doesn’t recognize.”

  Crockett ignored the comment. “I allow, we’ve got too many taxes to make me comfortable, but thinking about our country’s future I’ve been considering the possibility of adding a mineral tax for things like coal, iron, silver and anything else that can be mined. That revenue would be used exclusively for educating Texas’ children.”

  Zavala weighed Crockett’s idea. “It has some merit, if we can enforce on Mexico the Rio Grande as the border of Texas. Right now, the folks who are currently running things down there, won’t even give us the time of day.”

  Crockett shrugged, “We’ll deal with that as the situation demands. Do you think we can make a go of this?”

  “Maybe. Do we delegate the collection of any mineral tax revenue to our counties?”

  “Hell, no. They’re having a difficult enough time just managing to get the district courts, which the constitution puts on their shoulders, to run. No. But maybe in a few years. Let’s talk about the present. Right now, where in Texas is education happening, Lorenzo?”

  Zavala thought about it. “Mostly in private schools. I know Juan Seguin swears by the San Fernando Parish school in Bexar. Most of the Seguin kids attend there. So does General Travis’ son, if memory serves me correctly. San Felipe has a Methodist run school and there’s another Catholic parish school in Nacogdoches. Are you hinting we should work with these existing schools?”

  Crockett nodded. “Possibly. What do you think the courts would say?”

  Zavala chuckled. “As long as the money isn’t used for sectarian purposes, like religious instruction, I think they’d allow it.”

  Crockett said, “That was my thought too. I got no truck with the Republic funding any church, but so long as the money is only for basic education, it could work, at least until our cities and counties get well enough organized to help carry the load.”