Comanche Moon Falling

by Drew McGunn

  The fact was, the gun works could build both the pistol and carbine from scratch. Only the licensing contracts prohibited it. Which was why Will was sitting across from John Berry. Next to him sat his son, Andy Berry. They sat in a small office, off the side of large smithy. Berry turned to his son and nodded. “Go ahead, and show the General.”

  The younger Berry pulled out several detailed drawings and spread them out on the table. “General Travis, I confess these drawings you gave us last year sent me to bed on more than one evening as frustrated as I have ever been. Other days, they might as well have taken me to my reward at the pearly gates of Heaven.”

  As the elder Berry glowered at his son’s choice of expression, the younger man ignored it and said, “It wasn’t until I got a chance to talk to the Rangers who have been using the Patterson Revolver that I began to understand what your designs were hinting at. Your man, Captain Hays swears his pistol, chambered in .36 caliber, just doesn’t pack enough of a punch when fired. The easiest part was designing a larger caliber for the pistol. The hard part was everything else. Watching your Rangers reload their revolvers was a sight to behold. Reloading the current model requires they break open the gun and remove the spent cylinder and then replace it with a fresh one. And that assumes they don’t drop the barrel or cylinder in the process.”

  This wasn’t news to Will. He’d been getting an earful from both Juan Seguin and Jack Hays over the gun’s many limitations. “I’m aware of the Patterson’s limitations, Mr. Berry. I realize my drawings leave much to be desired. I’m a soldier, not an artist. But where do things stand with our project?”

  The younger Berry ignored the displeasure in Will’s voice. “Figuring out the iron top-strap was actually easier than designing a lever that would hold the cylinder in place inside a single frame.”

  He was about to continue with his explanation when his father growled, “Why don’t you show him the gun, instead of talking our ears off.”

  Blushing from his father’s criticism, Andy Berry pulled an oblong box from below his seat and set it on top of the drawings. He cracked open the case, saying, “Let’s show you our prototype, General.”

  Will involuntarily sucked in his breath. He reached into the case and picked up one of the matching pistols, which were nestled on a cushion of red velvet. As he hefted the gun, he guessed it weighed nearly three pounds. As he eyed it, he noticed the frame’s iron top-strap gave the gun a much sturdier feel than the Patterson pistol. He slid the pistol’s loading lever out of the pistol and removed the cylinder. He looked at the large cylinder and noticed it had been machined to hold six rounds. He easily slid the cylinder and the loading levers back into place. Will smiled as he set the pistol back into the ornately carved box. The Berry family had done it. They had built the next evolution of revolvers for the Republic of Texas. As he admired their handiwork, there was no denying in his own mind, that in another universe, one living only in his mind, the pistol was the very image of the Remington Model 1858 revolver.

  “It’s a real beauty, Andy, but tell me how does it handle?”

  Andy Berry said, “Before we go outside and see, sir, I want to show you something my brother, John, has been working on.” He reached under his chair and brought out a cartridge box. Will was very familiar with the ones the infantry carried, but this one was different. He flipped the leather flap open and saw a wooden frame snugly fit in the box’s leather sides. Set into the wooden frame were six cylinders, loaded and ready to fire. This would make it easier for cavalry to quickly load the weapon.

  Behind the buildings of the gun works was a gun range. The range was surrounded on three sides by earthen embankments. Will set the heavy box on a table and gingerly picked up one of the pistols, and stepped over to a chalky line. He hefted the gun in his hand. He liked the feel of the balance. He held the pistol out, pointing it down range. He lined up the rear and front sights and grinned. The lack of any sights on the Patterson had been a constant complaint.

  “No problem like that here,” he thought.

  A paper target was set up twenty-five yards away and he aimed and fired the six rounds into the target. When the hammer landed on an empty cylinder, he slid the loading lever out and removed the cylinder. He took one of the loaded cylinders from the cartridge box and set it into the frame and slid the lever back into place. Then he fired the next six rounds as quickly as he could cock the hammer.

  When the revolver was empty, he smiled and handed the gun back to Andy Berry. “Damn, man. You can load it on Sunday and fire it all week long.”

  They retrieved the target from downrange and Will was impressed with the tight grouping of the first six, aimed shots. The second set of six shots had been fired faster, and as such, were spread over the paper. Will couldn’t keep the grin from his face. Even firing fast, the last six had all hit the paper.

  The younger Berry said, “That’s some good shooting, General.”

  Will nodded, “I presume the barrel here is rifled, like the Patterson?”

  Andy nodded. “Yes, sir. What with all the machining tools we’ve had to purchase or build over the last few years, keeping the Patterson pistols working, creating this one from your drawing, by trial and error wasn’t too hard. Despite using the same machining tools, this gun is so radically different from the Patterson, my father and I believe we can patent it without violating any of Sam Colt’s existing patents.”

  Will had set the pistol back in the box when John Berry, the elder, joined Will and Andy at the firing line. In his hands he carried a rifle. As he set the gun on the table next to the pistol box, he said, “I was quite happy leaving the revolver to Andy’s devices, and dedicate my efforts to the problems which are inherent with Mr. Hall’s breech loader. We all know that too much of the gas is wasted and vented out through the breechblock. Sure, the bullet will travel three or four hundred yards, but by the time it has traveled that far, with a normal charge of gunpowder, It’s pretty much spent. On the other hand, if you put enough gunpower in Hall’s gun to do the job at those ranges, it stresses the block and has been known to cause failures.”

  Will shuddered at the thought. “Soldiers don’t react pleased when their rifle blows up in their face.”

  The elder Berry nodded, “I can only imagine, General. After carefully studying your drawings, and a heavy dose of trial and error in the designs, I believe I have found a solution to the problem.” He picked the rifle back up and pointed to the gun’s breech, “This rifle uses what I call a falling block for the breech.”

  Berry levered the breech open, dropping the block down, showing Will where the paper cartridge was inserted. “I’ve got a lubricated paper cartridge here.” He slid the rolled-up cartridge into the breech until the paper was snugly seated at the block. “I liked your idea to use the edge of the breechblock, as a blade, slicing off the end of the cartridge. In my testing of Mr. Hall’s carbine, that was one thing I didn’t like, having to tear the end of the cartridge with my teeth before pouring the powder and shot into the breech.” He levered the breech closed, lopping off the end of the paper cartridge, exposing the gunpowder in the barrel to the firing hole. He set a cap on the nipple and handed the gun to Will. “Let’s see what you think of this.”

  Unlike the stubby length of the Halls Carbine, this prototype was a full-length rifle. The barrel alone was thirty-six inches long. As he stepped back to the firing line, he saw a target had been set up at the end of the range, a hundred yards away. He sighted down the barrel, and liked that the front sight lined up nicely with the rear. He squeezed the trigger and felt the gun recoil into his shoulder. When they retrieved the target, Will saw his shot was just off the bullseye. “Not too bad,” he said, “Is it me or are the sights off a smidgen?”

  With a twinkle in his eye, the elder Berry said, “I’ve put over a dozen shots dead in the center of the bull's-eye, General. I don’t think the sights are the problem.”

  Will chuckled as he was about to hand the rifle back to Ber
ry, then noticed a smudge of fouling on his right sleeve from the rifle’s discharge. When he asked about it, Barry replied, “We haven’t completely stopped gas from escaping from the breech when this rifle is fired. I thought we had the problem licked when we designed the breech to have a metal sleeve in the back of the breech’s chamber. The idea is the sleeve would seal the breech when the gun was fired. Unfortunately, it gets fouled after a couple of shots. But even then, the gun remains very accurate and deadly out to a range of five hundred yards.”

  “Mr. Berry, you’ve built a fine prototype here.” Still holding the rifle, Will levered the breech open and looked at the metal sleeve. Something tickled the back of his mind, recalling something he had read back in college. “You know, sir, I may have an idea about how to seal the block more effectively. Try putting a platinum ring in this metal sleeve. I believe if you can do that, when the gun is fired it will make a seal that is less likely to get fouled. Do that and we can conduct another test.”

  Platinum’s use as a superconductive metal meant there was a small quantity available at the gun works. It took another day for John Berry, the elder, to machine a platinum ring which was fitted into the prototype’s breechblock. After a few dozen rounds were fired from the prototype, in which the seal kept gas from escaping, Will and the Berrys were satisfied with the new rifle.

  That evening Will and Charlie joined John Berry, his wife, his sons, and their wives, and several of their children around a crowded dinner table. As the meal wound down, the elder Berry stood and cleared his throat until everyone around the table settled down. “I don’t have to tell most of you how much it has meant to not just us, but also to the men we employ, that we have been blessed by the contracts the army has given to us. We are doubly blessed to have General Travis and his son join us today and we would be remiss in not showing our appreciation to the general.”

  As a teetotaler, and a Baptist, John Berry lifted a glass of buttermilk in Will’s direction. “To your good health, General Travis.”

  Never a fan of buttermilk, Will accepted the toast with a nod and a sip in the spirit in which it was given. The Trinity Gun Works was critical to Will’s plans for his evolutionary strategies through which he intended to take the army. Berry’s gesture came from the heart. Will stood and lifted his own glass and replied, “Mr. Berry, on behalf of a grateful army, I thank you. If I may, I would like to raise a toast, not just to you and your fine sons, but to the .44 Caliber Trinity Arms Revolver and the .52 caliber rifle.”

  Cups full of buttermilk clinked across the table and Will chugged the cloying drink down his gullet.

  As Will and Charlie returned to San Antonio by way of a stage coach from West Liberty, Will’s spirits were buoyed by the positive developments. Even so, he knew several members on the House of Representative Appropriations Committee would scream like bobcats, when they saw the bill for the new weapons. The new 1840 Model Trinity Arms Revolver was going to cost nearly twenty dollars, nearly five dollars more than the revolver they were buying from Colt’s factory. The saving grace was the initial order would be limited. The new rifle, which he was thinking about calling the Sabine Rifle, was expensive at thirty-six dollars each. Just to outfit the regular infantry was going to cost nearly $30,000.

  ***

  Will gazed up at the gray December sky and watched a few scattered snowflakes tumble along the biting northerly wind. He pulled his heavy, woolen greatcoat tighter around his throat as he climbed the stairs to his office above the Alamo’s hospital. The office was cold as he lit the lamps. In the corner, the coals from the previous day had grown cold in the Franklin stove. He loaded the stove with coal, grabbed an old copy of the Telegraph and Texas Register, and lit it with a match. An editorial by Sam Houston was visible, as the flames licked at the newspaper’s corners. Houston had been advocating annexation, again. As the flame spread, eating away at Houston’s words, Will slid the rolled-up newspaper under the coals and closed the stove’s door.

  Will slid into his chair and allowed himself a smile as he enjoyed watching Houston’s words eaten by the flames. At least for the next couple of years, Texas was safe from any concerted effort at annexation. Two years remained until the next presidential election and it was too early to know who would follow Crockett. No doubt, Will reasoned, Lorenzo de Zavala would run. As the current vice president, it made perfect sense. But he worried whether the transplanted Mexican would be able to win enough votes. With no crystal ball to gaze into, he set the thought aside and glanced down at his clean desk.

  He unrolled a large map, which stretched across the desk’s width. The whole of the Republic was spread out before him. Even though Texas claimed the Rio Grande to its headwaters, the reality was the Republic only controlled the lower Rio Grande valley’s first three hundred miles or so. Two forts were clearly marked on the map. The nearest was Fort Moses Austin, at Laredo. At long last, he had managed to get a full company of infantry stationed there. But more than fifteen hundred miles of the river, claimed by Texas, and ceded by Santa Anna, remained nominally in Mexican hands. For reasons easily understood, Santa Anna had been deposed when he returned to Mexico having lost Texas. None of the governments in Mexico City, and Will knew there had been a few of them, recognized the treaty. Eventually it was going to cause another war.

  As Will looked at the western part of the map, studying where the Rio Grande curved from its northwesterly route to one which was more northerly, he thought, “If we want to capture the rest of our claimed territory, forget going straight for Santa Fe. That route takes an army too close to the treaty line with the Comanche, and there’s five hundred miles with nothing but dirt and sand.”

  Will fixed his eyes on El Paso. “Take El Paso, and cut Santa Fe off from the rest of Mexico.”

  Any planned expedition to bring the villages on the north shore of the Rio Grande at El Paso under Texan rule would be a huge undertaking. As he sat, eyeing the distance between San Antonio and El Paso on the map, he recalled his study of Texas history in college, before the transference. A Republic of Texas that now would never be, had made several attempts to conquer the parts of Nuevo Mexico ceded by the treaty between Santa Anna and Sam Houston. All had failed.

  In Will’s mind, the single biggest reason for their failure was the efforts were amateurish. There was a quote he had heard when he served in Iraq. "Amateurs talk about tactics, but professionals study logistics." His fingers followed an imaginary line between San Antonio and El Paso. To capture the Mexican enclave on the northern side of the river would require several supply depots which meant more men in the quartermaster’s corps and more teamsters and civilian contractors hauling supplies along that line. For Will’s little army it would take a herculean effort, and stretch their resources, but he was determined to make it so.

  He heard a sharp knock at the door, and glanced at the clock on the wall. Right on time. Now was the time to start designing the force he would need. He called out, “Come in.”

  The door opened, and Captain Jack Hays strode in. The room temperature had climbed until the room was only mildly chilly. The young officer loosened his brown military greatcoat before sitting in the chair opposite Will. “General, I got your order to report here, sir. But I’m a might confused about it. You had me turn my company over to Lieutenant Ross. Am I in trouble?”

  Will smiled warmly at the younger man. “No, Captain. Actually, your service earlier in the year in Galveston was exceptional. Major Caldwell has only good things to say about you since then. No, Jack, the reason you’ve been recalled to the Alamo is that I have a little project for which I need your skills. Before I get into it, take a gander in yonder wooden box against the wall and fetch its contents for me.”

  Intrigued, Hays went over to the box and brought out a matte green jacket. It was a cotton and wool blend, similar in manufacture to the butternut uniforms worn by the Texas army. “What have we got here, sir?” Hays fingered a stitched black star on the right breast.

  Will
leaned back, watching Hays hold up the jacket, and said, “Captain, you’re looking at the jacket that Company I of the Texas Rangers will be wearing. Oh, and by the way, you’re being assigned to Company I, Texas Rangers.”

  Hays plopped back in the chair as his mouth was agape. After a long moment he found his voice, “But General, there is no company I. Last I heard, congress has only authorized eight companies of Rangers.”

  Will pulled an envelope from a drawer and handed it over to the captain. It was closed with a wax seal of the Republic. “What’s in there is not to be shared with anyone else. Further, what we talk about here is to be kept in the strictest of confidence. Understood?”

  After Hays nodded, Will continued, “President Crockett and Secretary of War, Bernard Bee have authorized this special company on the condition the total size of the military remain unchanged until next year’s budget. I have instructed each of the other Ranger captains to send me their best four men by the first of January. Additionally, between our infantry, cavalry, and artillery, those sixteen company commanders are also to send me their best four men. The navy and marines will be sending around twenty, as well. That’s about a hundred and ten men. Now, Company I won’t be keeping all of these men. No, you’re going to spend the next couple of months sorting out which of these men you’ll keep. I want you to select the best shots, the hardiest fighters, best riders but more importantly, those who can think and act most independently, while still following orders. Once you’ve sorted the wheat from the chaff, you’ll keep around forty men in your company.”