Against All Odds

by Drew McGunn

  “I wish you didn’t have to go, maya lyubov,” Her Russian accent was thick as she hiccupped from crying.

  Charlie knelt by her side and ran his hand over her swollen belly. He didn’t want to go either. She was eight months pregnant, and for the first time since he’d run away to join his Uncle Davy in an expedition to California, he was fearful. It wasn’t for himself, but the idea that his wife would likely give birth to their first child while he was away left a hole in his heart. But he forced a warm smile onto his face, “Tanya, it’s going to be alright. The doctor in the fort has experience delivering children.”

  Tatiana Rostovna Travis cut in, “But he’s so young. How can Dr. Allsup be a good doctor?”

  “He’s trained under my father’s friend, Dr. Ashbel Smith. He’s a graduate from Trinity College.” Charlie took his young wife by the hand and drew her into an embrace. He wiped away a tear and continued, “When the baby’s born, if I haven’t returned, I want you to go stay with my family in Austin. Becky would love to have you there. Liza also loves you, too.”

  Tatyana looked doubtful, “But your father is the president. He can’t possibly want some foreign-born daughter-in-law underfoot. It would look bad.”

  Charlie swept a strand of her hair from her face and leaned in, kissing her. “Mrs. Travis, if you haven’t noticed, almost everyone in Texas is foreign-born. My pa wasn’t angry that I married a gold prospector’s daughter. He just wished he’d been able to attend the wedding.”

  She melted into his arms. “Alright, Charlie.” Playfully, she placed her hand on his uniformed chest. “I think you don’t want all these single soldiers to stare at your wife.”

  Charlie threw back his head and laughed, “Cut to the quick, I am.” In truth, he hated the idea of his wife being alone, even in a fort as large as the Alamo. Most of the officers’ wives were born in the United States, and Tanya didn’t fit in as well with them as Charlie would have liked. But with only weeks to go before the baby was due, it seemed best to wait until after the pregnancy for her to travel to Austin to be with his family until he returned.

  He took her by the hand and guided her out of the small kitchen, “I’ll show you how jealous I am, my dear.”

  Later, he buckled the gun-belt around his waist, grabbed his boots from the foot of the bed and slipped from the tiny room that served as their bedroom. It was better this way, that Tanya remain asleep. It wasn’t like there would be a parade to send him off to war. His train would leave within an hour, taking him to the camp outside Houston, where the 9th Infantry battalion was assembling. The 9th was a reserve unit recruited from the stevedores and gutter-rats from Galveston and Houston, and they were mostly foreign-born. He still couldn’t believe the battalion’s second-in-command had betrayed the Republic and joined the rebels in Beaumont. But for that surprising betrayal, Charlie would likely have remained a company commander in the 1st Infantry. But now sporting the gold oak clusters of a major, he was heading east to serve as the reserve battalion’s executive officer.

  ***

  Andy Berry ducked instinctively when two panels of sheet metal clanged together, like a gunshot.

  “Son, you’re as nervous as a cat beside a rocking chair. You alright?”

  “Yeah, Pa. Just sounded like something out of Revelation,” the younger Berry said.

  John Berry, Sr. looked thoughtful. “If anything can come close to the damnation of hell, a battle would be it. All the same, don’t let your ma hear you talk like that.”

  Berry tipped his head in acknowledgment. His parents were devout Baptists. Hell, I’m devout, I just wish Pa would give it a rest. He changed the subject. “Did the government confirm payment for the last of the cartridges?”

  The elder Berry nodded. “Ten thousand dollars for nearly four hundred thousand rounds.”

  Andy whistled appreciatively. “Nice. Have you looked at the new schematics for another rolling press? If we can produce more sheets of brass, we can make more ammunition.”

  His father took Andy by the arm and led him over to where two women measured gunpowder into a machine that fed the propellant into brass cartridges. “I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel to find men who can work in the gun works. I’ve had to hire women to work in some of the lighter jobs. If I went along with your proposal to add another production facility for more ammunition, I don’t know where I’d get the workers to run it.”

  Berry shook his head, discouraged. “I guess it’s only going to get worse, with the mobilization.”

  His pa shrugged. “Maybe. But President Travis has extended a waiver for the men working in the gun works. What we’re doing here is too important. Without more guns, Travis will have a harder time putting down those philistines in Beaumont.”

  Berry changed tack, “What about putting a factory in Houston, or even Galveston? There’s workers there for hire.”

  “Maybe. But Andy, I don’t want to spread our resources too thin. If we open an ammunition factory, who’d run it? We need our people here.”

  The discussion over, John Berry left his son standing on the floor, watching two men wrestle with a brass sheet, and feed it into a machine that would cut it into hundreds of blanks. Those blanks would be taken to another device that would machine them into cylindric rounds.

  Five thousand rounds daily were not enough to supply the army. The gun works had manufactured more than twenty-four hundred rifles that used the cartridges. Until the battle less than a week ago, more than half the weapons had remained crated and stored in a warehouse in Trinity Park. When he’d built the ammunition plant a few years earlier the idea that they could make more than two and a half million rounds of ammunition sounded far-fetched. Now that he’d done it, it was discouraging to know it was a drop in the bucket to what the army would need to carry the war to the rebels.

  An idea began to form. Berry knew his pa was right. Labor was a problem. Putting a factory in Houston or Galveston might work or not. If the government had to dip into the poorer trained militias in the towns around Galveston Bay, any factory he put in those towns could be shuttered for lack of skilled workers. But what about…

  Berry raced out of the manufactory, hurrying home. He had a letter to write and no time to waste.

  ***

  Ignoring the slave holding the polished silver tray, Jason Lamont took a glass of lemonade from it. The refreshing drink felt sweet as he tipped the glass up and drained it. The crash of musketry sounded across a fallow field. He’d grown used to it, having watched the men of the Palmetto Guard drill over the past month.

  He scrutinized them as the company shouldered arms and quickstepped across the field. They looked splendid in their matching gray uniforms and kepis. The kepis had caught on in Louisiana, with its heavy French influence and had spread across the South. Lamont had even heard rumors that a volunteer Zouave regiment in New York was now wearing the round, flat-topped hat with a narrow leather visor.

  Two more companies were at drill on the plantation. More than two hundred South Carolinians ready to answer their kith and kin in Texas, who were embroiled in a life and death struggle with the illegitimate Travis administration. He set the glass down and dismissed the slave, giving no thought to the fact William Travis had won a democratic election.

  “Uncle Jason, a coach is coming up the road.” A young man bolted around the corner, nearly running into him. It was his sister’s youngest son, Elliott.

  “Slow down, Lieutenant Brown,” Lamont drawled. “Did you recognize the carriage?”

  The young man said, “No, Uncle. It’s a jim dandy carriage. Must be someone important.”

  “Jim Dandy?” Lamont didn’t care much for the slang his nephew used. But that was only a minor irritant in comparison to the other sin committed. The slave had left, and he was alone with Elliott. He leaned in and growled, “You may be my sister’s son, Lieutenant. But that doesn’t give you permission to be familiar with me around the boys or even the slaves. We’re military now, and you of al
l people, I expect to act like it.”

  The young man gave his best impression of standing at attention. Lamont had seen better, but he let it slide. The boy was family, after all. Satisfied his warning had been taken to heart, he said, “Let’s go see who’s calling upon us.”

  When they rounded the plantation house, Lamont saw an ornate coach pulling up the drive. The black driver was dressed in colonial style livery, complete with knee britches and a tricorn hat. Before the coach rolled to a stop, another slave leapt from the back and dashed to the door, where he opened the door and unfolded a set of steps. A man of middle years stepped from the carriage.

  Lamont’s eyes grew large. He knew Joshua Ward, Lieutenant Governor of South Carolina, well. Ward owned a sugar plantation on the coast.

  Lamont brushed imagined dust from his gray jacket and hurried over. “Colonel Ward, a pleasure to see you here at Saluda Groves.” He acknowledged Ward’s honorary rank in the state’s militia.

  Ward turned to the carriage driver, “I’ll not be too long. Check the horses and be ready to go shortly.”

  He smiled at Lamont and shook his hand. “I’ve heard good things about you, Jason. What you’re doing is likely going to be very important,” he waved toward one of the companies of volunteers drilling in a nearby field.

  Ward took him by the elbow, “Let’s go see our brave boys at drill.”

  With that, Lamont left his nephew staring at the regal carriage and let Ward lead him away.

  “A telegram arrived a few days ago from Texas. There was a battle outside of a town called West Liberty,” Ward said. “General Beauregard was defeated.”

  Lamont felt conflicted. A victory against Travis’ abolitionist army would be one step closer to seeing the upstart Travis get his. On the other hand, there was a reason he was raising a regiment of volunteers. He wanted to be there when the sons of the South dealt the mortal and final blow to Travis’ army. “How bad was it?”

  Ward shrugged, “It could have been worse. He led a combined army of Louisianans and Texans into battle, less than four thousand men.”

  Lamont barely registered Ward’s truncation, dropping the i. “How large was the enemy’s force?”

  “Less than a thousand, we think. They were behind barricades, defending the town. You’ve seen their Sabine Rifle?”

  “Yeah,” Lamont said, remembering back to when Travis had stormed his slave quarters to rescue his son. Seven years it had been, but his leg was quick to remind him of his wound whenever he put too much weight on it. “Breechloading, like John Hall’s rifles.”

  “Better. They’re able to shoot eight or more rounds in a minute.” Ward paused as he watched the company of infantry practice wheeling into line-of-battle. “How fast can your men shoot?”

  Lamont gulped. “It’s hardly a fair comparison. I’ve managed to arm my entire regiment with rifled muskets. Hell, some are even from the gun works in Texas. But we’re doing well to fire three rounds in a minute.”

  “The good news, Colonel Lamont, is that Travis won’t be able to muster up more than ten or fifteen thousand men. Against that, we’re prepared to overwhelm him with our volunteers. We’ll send as many as seventy thousand if we have to.” He paused, looking at Lamont through the corner of his eye. “That’s where you come in. Governor Means and I have been in discussion with other like-minded leaders, and we’ve decided that three regiments of South Carolinians will join their fellow Southerners in Texas, expanding the existing filibuster. You’re to send out an order to the other companies in your regiment to assemble in Columbia in a fortnight.”

  Lamont felt a thrill run up his spine. He’d soon taste the smell of gunpowder for real as he led his men into battle. His leg twinged and he leaned heavily on the cane he was forced to use. Soon he’d pay back Travis for the misery the abolitionist had visited on him.

  “How do you think President Cass will react?”

  “I wish I could tell you that he’d do as he’s told,” Ward said, “But he’s railing against the filibusters, saying they’re illegal. But there’s damn-all he can do about it. Senator Butler chairs the judiciary committee, and he’s convened a hearing on servile insurrection in the South because of Texas’ abominable Free-Birth law. In the meantime, our Southern Congressmen are doing their utmost to legitimize Beauregard’s filibuster.”

  As Lamont nodded, a thought came unbidden, sending an icy chill into his gut. “If we’ve managed, at least for the time being, to block any federal response to our actions in Texas, what’s to keep Yankee abolitionists from sending their own volunteers to swell Travis’ army?”

  Chapter 4

  16 November 1851

  He sat in the corner of the room, listening to the other men talk. In one way, he felt honored to be invited to attend the meeting, but in another, he felt like a silent conspirator. Horace Greeley slipped his pencil back into a pocket and closed the notebook. He’d remember anything worth remembering. He resisted shaking his head—no, he’d never forget anything said during this meeting.

  The current speaker’s voice rose as he said, “They’re damn near practicing treason and that fool, Lewis Cass will merrily let them get away with it.”

  Cravat untied and hanging around his neck, Solomon Foot said, “What do you expect from a Democrat, even one from Michigan, eh, Senator Seward?”

  William Seward glared at his fellow Senator from Vermont. “I’d expect him to not let a bunch of yahoos from Louisiana play at filibustering in Texas, that’s what.”

  Greeley scanned the room, and his eyes fell on a Representative from Pennsylvania, who had not run for reelection a few weeks earlier, David Wilmot. “Were I not disgusted with my own party, I’m sure I’d disagree with both of you, but unfortunately, in the Senate, my party has been taken hostage by the fire eaters from the deep South.”

  With a look of warmth surprising from one of the Whig party to a Democrat, Seward said, “You’ve certainly fought the good fight, David. Your efforts to restrict slavery to the fourteen Southern states is appreciated. But all of that is for naught. I fear that a wave of filibusterers will overwhelm the legitimate government in Texas and then insist we kiss their ring and annex the conquered republic.”

  Wilmot blanched at the comment. “Surely, it won’t come to that. The newspapers have been talking up the victory the Texans won over a bunch of filibusters from Louisiana. It sounds like their professional army should be able to put paid to a few thousand Southern adventurers.”

  “And if that’s all they were to face I’d agree,” Seward moved across the room and stared at a map on the wall of the United States. He jabbed his finger at the map, “But I’ve learned that thousands more from four or five states are preparing to join the Louisianans in supporting the Texas rebels. By the time spring planting comes around, there could be as many as seventy thousand Southern filibusters in Texas. Against that, I don’t give the Texas regulars much of a chance.”

  Wilmot sagged in his chair, “Surely not that many, William?”

  Seward ran his finger along the top of a near-empty glass of whiskey before replying, “Today it’s the deep south letting their young men galivant off to play at soldiers in Texas, but by the springtime don’t be surprised if a few Virginians, Kentuckians, and hell, maybe even a few Marylanders are taking the mail packet boats to New Orleans to join in this Southern folly.”

  Foot interjected, “And that’s why we’re here this evening, gentleman.” He focused his gaze on Seward, “Is there any chance that we can force the issue in Congress? A bill ordering those interlopers back to their home states? Sending the army to seal the border between Louisiana and Texas?”

  Seward’s harsh laughter sounded like the braying of a donkey. “Senator King has tied up several committees, discussing how servile insurrection is imminent because of Texas’ new abolition law.”

  Wilmot shook his head. “That’s hard to fathom. It’ll be years before Texas’ law will have an impact on slavery in Texas, let alone in the S
outh.”

  Greeley’s eyes narrowed; how could he be so naïve? Say what you will about Southerners, but they’re taking the long view on their peculiar institution.

  “From your lips to God’s ears, David,” Foot said, “But I wouldn’t count on that. Already parishes across Louisiana have reported an increase in runaways. One reason Louisiana was able to come to the aid of the Texas rebels so quickly is the number of volunteer units has swelled in the last year or two to satisfy the needs of the slave patrols.”

  Standing in the shadow of the room was a fifth man. Greeley had taken his measure when he’d arrived. He was tall, black hair streaked with gray. He wore a permanent scowl. When he spoke, the other men turned to him. “Talk seems to be the national institution of our nation, but it won’t relieve the misery of the slave.”

  Seward met his frown with one of his own, “And what would you have of us, Mr. Brown?

  John Brown said, “Act on your convictions, Senator. If you won’t send in the army, and you say that these slavers will overrun Texas, what then is to happen?”

  Seward pursed his lips before turning to Greeley, “So, Horace, is this why you brought your fellow New Yorker with you? To be our conscience?”

  Greeley played at the edge of the notebook as he weighed his response. “The balance of power in Congress is such that men like Senator King can stymie progress. I thought you called this meeting because, like Mr. Brown and myself, you are tired of nothing being done to end the injustice against the abolitionist government in Texas.”

  “But you want what I can’t give. President Cass alone can order the army to Louisiana to seal the border. He won’t do it, and Congress can’t pass a bill supporting it.”

  Stepping up to the fireplace, Brown stuck his hands forward, warming them. “A fire burns in the heart of the South that burns against civilization, Senator. If you can’t act, then have the decency to stand aside while those of us with conviction to act do so.”

  “What are you proposing, Mr. Brown?” Seward’s features were aglow with light from the fire.