by Drew McGunn
Brown rubbed his hands together before the fire in the hearth. “Two can play at filibustering, gentlemen. I intend to raise a regiment of men in New York who love liberty and freedom for every man, woman, and child in our nation, and take them to Texas to fight alongside Travis’ legitimate government.”
Light from the fire gave his eyes a red hue as the other men in the room stared at him, stunned by his proposal.
***
19 November 1851
The sun should have still been in the western sky, as Captain Jesse Running Creek looked upward. He was rewarded by a solitary drop of rain landing on his nose. The sun was still there but hidden behind threatening clouds.
Still, rain would be welcome, it would extinguish the few fires that lingered on the eastern bank of the Trinity River. It had been a few days now, and most of the fires were extinguished from when the rebels and their Louisiana allies had destroyed the railroad bridge.
Really, it’s a shame they didn’t stay to fight, Jesse thought as he turned away from the sky and looked through the woods. Three companies of the army’s Rangers were dug into rifle pits in the woods on the western side of the river. More than two hundred men armed with the Republic’s best rifles hunkered down. Most prayed the rain would hold off.
Not Jesse. Scattered between rifle pits, hidden under branches cut from the surrounding trees, were dozens of boats, hauled from the railhead in West Liberty. He prayed for rain. The rebels on the other side of the river were content to stay in their own rifle pits, occasionally firing across the river, as a reminder, Beauregard’s little army may have retreated, but they were still a going concern.
Behind the tree line hugging the river, Jesse heard the army. Johnston had arrived a couple of days earlier with elements of the 1st and 6th Infantry battalions and several field artillery batteries from the Alamo, all regulars. Additionally, the 9th Infantry battalion and 2nd Cavalry squadron from the reserves had also arrived. In all, more than two thousand men. And more men were on the way. From Galveston, the 1st Marine battalion was expected by rail soon. Units from across the vast expanse of the nation were being recalled. Before the end of the year, Jesse knew the army would be larger than the one President Travis had taken into Mexico eight years before.
But until then, Johnston’s small brigade was it, unless the president mobilized more reserve units.
Jesse’s prayers were answered later as the heavens opened and the rain poured down, quenching the remaining fires on the river’s eastern shore. He tightened his poncho around his neck as icy water trickled down his back. Better soaked than an easy target for the riflemen on the other side of the Trinity. He resisted the urge to look at his pocket watch. The signal to begin would come soon enough; worrying about the time wouldn’t hasten it.
As though thinking about it would make it happen, the ground beneath him rumbled as thirty field pieces opened fire. “Up, men!” he shouted as he grabbed the nearest boat’s wooden gunwale and raced toward the river.
The bow bit into the water, splashing water into the bottom of the boat, as Jesse scrambled aboard while his Rangers grabbed the oars and paddled as though their lives depended on it. Shutters on lanterns were flung open, spilling weak light onto the river’s eastern shore. If a sentry over there could see anything through the pouring rain, Jesse would have been surprised. Flashes of brief light cut through the storm as riflemen opened fire.
The sergeant beside him chuckled. “Fools just burning powder now. I can’t see my feet in this damnable soup, what the hell do they think they’ll hit?”
As if the comment required an answer, Jesse heard a scream on the river as one of his Rangers was hit. “Faster!” he screamed as flashes of light showed more men opening fire on targets the defenders couldn’t see.
He was thrown into the brackish water sloshing in the boat’s bottom when it crunched into the shore. But no orders were necessary as his men swarmed from the boat, bayonet-tipped rifles leading the way. Far closer than before, the sound of gunfire filled his ears as Jesse scrambled after his men. He could see several more watercraft grounded into the muddy earth as Rangers swarmed forward.
From atop the riverbank, a steady stream of rifle-fire poured down on his men, despite the torrent of rain and darkness. From above, a voice drawled, “Get your asses into the trench, boys. Kill ‘em all.”
Jesse swore as rebels with breechloaders fired down on his men. Despite the antediluvian deluge, the weapons fired, as soldiers levered open breechblocks, inserted paper cartridges, and forced tin percussion caps on smoldering nipples.
He tripped over one of his men who lay sprawled on the slope. Like his men, Jesse carried a rifle, and he snapped it to his shoulder and fired at a muzzle flash above. He slid a brass cartridge into the breech and cocked the gun before firing at another flash.
More flashes appeared as more rebel soldiers filled the trench at the top of the slope. Jesse heard a wet splat and felt something warm hit his face as a ranger tumbled into him, knocking him into the mud. We’ve got to get off this slope, or we’ll all die. He climbed back to his feet and reloaded his rifle. “Come on, boys! I’ll see you in hell in the morning!”
He scurried over the body in front of him and climbed halfway up the hill before he slammed his rifle into his shoulder and fired at another flash. Now though, he could see faces behind the flashes above. Then the world turned upside down as a shell detonated over the trench. Like a deadly rain, broken pieces of iron sizzled as they dug into the soft ground.
His feet digging into the mud, Jesse clambered over the lip of the trench. It was as though the devil himself had paid a visit to the men, who moments before had been sending death down on him and his Rangers, and they lay broken and bloody in the bottom of the pit. Rangers jumped into the pit and bayonets flashed as lightning split the sky overhead.
***
A misty drizzle made the gray dawn feel even colder than it was, Charlie Travis thought as he watched the hated blue flag with its single star flutter to the ground, replaced by the familiar lone star flag rising into the sky through his binoculars.
Wagons creaked as they rolled by, and Charlie moved away from the muddy road as black teamsters coaxed their tired teams of horses down the road to the river. The wagons were oddly shaped, like small boats on wheels. Yelling at the teamsters were men from the Alamo’s engineering company.
When the wagons reached the slope down to the river, the teamsters grabbed their teams and held them steady as engineers took over, untied the pontoons, and lifted them from the frame then slid them on their flat bottoms into the river below. More engineers grabbed the pontoons and tied them to ones already floating in the water. Planking was laid down on top of the floating pontoons.
Charlie watched for a few minutes as the ersatz bridge took shape in the Trinity. A few more hours would see it reach the other side.
“Major,” a voice from behind startled Charlie, and he turned and saw General Johnston. A warm smile replaced his shocked expression. “For a moment, you reminded me of your father, standing there, red hair dripping with rain.”
Charlie saluted, trying to keep the smile that pulled at his lips from stealing the martial air he attempted to convey. “General, sir. We’ll have the Ninth ready to cross once the Engineers finish the bridge.”
Johnston patted him on the back, “No doubt, Major. Now that our Rangers have finally cleared the last of Beauregard’s rebs out of Liberty township, I’m going to take a boat across and take a gander. Why don’t you join me?”
Once on the other side of the Trinity, Charlie found himself climbing the steep riverbank with the aid of a rope, looking up at the backside of the army’s commander. The rope was slick from the rain, but the use of a pair of gloves made short work of the climb. The first rifle pit he saw had a dead man dressed in a butternut uniform. A breechloading rifle, identical to the one issued to the men of the 9th lay beside the fallen soldier.
Beyond the trench, several more bodies wer
e laid in a neat line. Sewn on their butternut jackets were irregular patches of brown, green and gray. The Rangers had pulled their own dead away from where the fighting had been the thickest throughout the night but left the rebels where they’d died.
“Ugly business war is,” Johnston said from his side.
“I reckon so.” At that moment, Charlie’s mind had gone back to the horrific final minutes at the battle of the Alamo, nearly a decade before. He could taste the acrid smell of gunpowder mixed with flour as he had stood in line, as a thirteen-year-old, gripping his father’s rifle as he and the other survivors waited for the final charge that never came. When they realized a relief column had arrived, he and the other men streamed from the battered chapel where they saw Sidney Johnston marching into the fort with his soldiers.
His thoughts retreated from the past, and he repeated, “Yes, I reckon so.”
Johnston turned from the line of dead Rangers, and said quietly, “When the bridge is finished, Major, detail enough men to bury all of these men.”
As he walked with Johnston through town, Charlie couldn’t help noticing the hamlet was finished. What hadn’t been damaged a few weeks earlier when Beauregard’s army had crossed going west, had been wrecked in the previous night’s fight.
When he’d said as much, Johnston replied, “Probably so. Liberty was the town progress forgot after West Liberty became the largest town in the county.”
Johnston paused, staring at the charred remains of a building. A blackened hand stuck out from beneath a long, charred board not entirely claimed by the flames which had destroyed the building.
Johnston shuddered, “I hope so, Charlie. Better to let the ghosts of this place reclaim it.”
Hastily constructed rifle pits had been dug on the edge of town. Most of the Rangers were dug in there. One of the Rangers, muddier than most, sat behind the remains of a wooden wall. Through the grime, Charlie recognized the dirty man.
Forgetting decorum, he blurted, “Jesse, my God, man, what happened to you?”
The young Cherokee officer looked up and said, “I fell getting out of the boat.”
Chapter 5
Becky Travis rolled over, her hand searching for the warmth of her husband’s body, but her fingers gripped the tangled blankets covering their bed. She cracked open an eye as the gentle light of dawn seeped through the curtains. Will was gone already. Her sigh was so loud she couldn’t help laughing at herself. But she enjoyed those rare moments before the day began when she could snuggle next to her husband, especially on a cold winter morning.
She closed her eyes; perhaps she could sleep a bit longer before Liza or Davy stirred. Before she could doze off, she heard the plaintive cry of a newborn. She grabbed her pillow and pulled it over her head. It did no good as the baby’s cry pierced through the pillow’s feathers. A moment later, she heard the soothing voice of Tatyana, calming the infant.
Charlie’s young wife had arrived a few days earlier, only a week after giving birth. Becky had scolded the young mother for traveling with the newborn, but only after welcoming them with hugs and kisses. Now, though, she wished little Leo had remained sleeping for a bit longer. Once she was awake, Becky grabbed a heavy, woolen gown from the back of a chair and put it on as she left the bedroom.
She found Tanya nursing Leo in the kitchen. As the baby suckled, the mother cooed softly in her native Russian. The smile Becky gave her first grandchild, if only by marriage, was genuine. After feeding the baby, Tanya, dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep, happily handed Leo to Becky, who placed him on her shoulder and patted his little back. She ran her fingers through his silky red hair. No doubt your father’s son, Becky thought. Charlie’s features were clearly imprinted on his firstborn.
Tanya slumped into a chair, murmuring in Russian. Becky gave her a quizzical look.
“You did this twice, Mrs. Travis, when did you manage to sleep?” Tanya’s accent was strong.
Becky smiled. “That’s nothing. My ma had five children. Now, how about calling me Becky? This Mrs. Travis stuff makes me feel old. Land’s sake, I’m only thirty-three.”
As Leo drifted off to sleep, Becky turned when she heard someone clear his throat. Diego, the mansion’s majordomo stood in the doorway. The mestizo butler held a note in his hand, “Señora Travis, a telegram just arrived for you.”
She accepted the folded note, stamped on the outside with the Across-Texas Telegraph company’s logo. Unfolding it, she read the neat script from the telegraph office clerk, Mrs. Travis, Joe did something foolish. I need help. Hattie.
Seeing Henrietta’s name on the bottom of the telegram brought a lump to her throat, as Becky realized how many years it had been since the freedwoman had cooked and cleaned for her household. The war with Mexico had ended in 1843, but its destructive effects had left the Republic’s economy in shambles at the same time Will was chasing down Charlie’s kidnappers. Forced to leave San Antonio, Becky and her family had no choice but to part ways with Hattie, whose home was with Will’s former slave, Joe.
That was how Becky found herself stepping down from the passenger car in San Antonio a few days later. Eight years had passed since she and her family had made the town their home, and the city was barely recognizable. While the central square still existed, businesses crowded the streets that radiated from the square. The wooden bridge she and her family had crossed nearly a decade before on their way to hide in the safety of the Alamo was now made of iron and brick.
Despite the years, her feet knew the way to her old house, and without realizing it, she let them guide her. It was a short walk. When she came to where the house once stood, it was gone. In its place stood a red brick building. A bright yellow sign was fixed above the building; it read Maverick’s Mercantile.
Becky blinked back a tear. She had so many memories of their home there. Both her children were born in the house. Now it was gone, swept away by progress.
She willed her feet onward; there were nothing but memories at her old home. Hattie still lived in the same modest house she and Joe had built more than a dozen years before. A simple garden covered the front yard, and as Becky made her way through it, the front door swung open, and Henrietta stood there. The freedwoman was only a few years older than Becky, but her hair was already losing the battle to gray.
“Miss Becky, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Bless you for coming.” Henrietta met her halfway, and the two women, one the wife of the president of the Republic and the other a freedwoman of color hugged in the middle of a garden full of mustard greens and chili peppers.
Later, as Becky sipped a cup of coffee, Henrietta explained, “Joe and Cuffee been doing big business with the army. They’ve been carrying supplies up the military road to Ysleta and Santa Fe, too. Joe, he’s been promising me a new home. Said he was going to hire me my own Irish maid, the silly fool of a man.”
She brought over a platter of tortillas from the stove and a plate of butter and sat in the chair next to Becky. “Lordy, what’d I do with an Irish maid. Maria, she lives next door, helps me if I need it. She showed me how to make these corn tortillas that Joe loves so much.”
Becky looked around the room. A couple of doors along one side led to the small bedrooms, and another led to the backyard, where another garden covered nearly every square foot. “When’s Joe due back?”
Tears spilled from Henrietta’s eyes. “He’s ‘sposed to be home a month ago, Miss Becky, but him and that damned fool Cuffee done joined the militia in Santa Fe. They’s going to be called to duty against the rebels.”
Becky lowered the tortilla she’d been about to bite into, stunned. “They did what?”
She’d heard every word Henrietta uttered, but the words were too outlandish to believe. “That’s not possible,” she managed to say.
“You know it, and I’s know it, but those fools don’t.” She stood and went into one of the bedrooms and returned a moment later with a letter and gave it to Becky.
The flowing sc
ript was in Spanish. “I took it to my neighbor, Maria, and we went over to San Fernando where one of the priests translated it. Joe had a clerk write it.”
Although it was changing, many folks in San Antonio were fluent in Spanish. Joe had picked it up over the years, carrying supplies for the army to the outposts to the west. Unfortunately, Becky couldn’t read it. “Hattie, what’d Joe say?”
Clenching the letter, Henrietta said, “The local colonel, some fool of a man named Montoya decided to recruit a company from the drovers, freight haulers, and muleskinners who travel between San Antonio and Santa Fe. He done found enough fools to fill up a company’s worth of colored men. The letter says Joe and the rest of the battalion are going to march this way after the beginning of the year. You’ve got to tell Marse Will and have this stopped. It’s too dangerous.”
Becky had never imagined anyone would arm a company of Negro soldiers. Although she believed that if someone like General Beauregard knew a militia company contained freedmen, he’d use it to stir up more hatred against her husband. The last thing Will needed was more enemies.
But as she saw the raw pain on Henrietta’s face, she recalled Will telling her about how it had been Hattie who had talked Joe into sheltering Cuffee after slavers had come looking for him in Trinity Park. She had willingly laid her and her husband’s lives on the line to save Cuffee from being taken back to South Carolina in chains.
“I’ll talk to Will and let him know about Joe,” she offered. She knew the anguish Hattie felt. Every time Will had ridden off to war, part of her died inside until he returned safely. How many women had waited in vain for their husbands, who never returned? Yes, she would talk to Will.
***
The boy rubbed his hands together as he tried to keep warm, watching the train roll to a stop. Steam vented from the locomotive as hundreds of men swarmed from the dozen or more passenger cars. They looked splendid in their dark blue jackets, as they began setting up camp in the fields south of Chicago.
