by Drew McGunn
“John,” Will swore, “Brown.”
He seethed as he thought about the history he knew from his own memories of a world gone forever. In that history, Brown had been an ardent abolitionist, who had taken the war to the pro-slavery faction in Kansas before attacking a federal arsenal in Virginia in the years leading up the civil war. He’d been charged with treason for the attempt to incite rebellion among the slaves. In a history that would never be that lived only in his memories, the South had used fear and intimidation to maintain control over the slave population. It was no different than the world he now inhabited. In that other world, when abolitionists like Brown threatened that order, Southerners had reacted predictably.
Slowly, he sighed and chuckled. “Is it really paranoia if someone really is out to get you?” he mused.
Juan gave him a curious expression. Wharton frowned at Will for a moment before his lips gradually curved into a smile. “Not really. We Southerners have lived with the threat of insurrection for a couple of hundred years. This John Brown fellow sees all of us as devils complete with pitchforks and tails. Well, maybe not all. After all, word is, he’s asking for us to take his regiment and enroll it as volunteer cavalry in our army.”
He continued, “Part of me finds it appealing. We’re land rich and people poor. If this war grows and draws in even more southern volunteers, we could be facing ten times as many men as we are now. What can we mobilize? Maybe twenty-five or thirty thousand men?”
Will said, “Maybe less if we don’t want our economy to collapse. Turning every able-bodied man into a soldier is a good way to destroy our economy. But I take your meaning. On the one hand, Brown’s men represent a source of manpower, which we may badly need. But on the other, Brown’s brand of abolitionism is bound to stir even more Southerners to fight against us. He’s a dagger poised at the heart of the Southland.”
Wharton nodded. “Exactly. The question is, can we afford to hold it?”
Seguin went over to Will’s desk and opened a drawer. He pulled a decanter out and a few glasses. “I swear, Buck, I don’t know if you’re trying to hide the good stuff from your children or us. God in heaven, John, but this is complicated.”
He poured a drink. “If we ignore what Brown did and welcome him into our army, the reaction from the South could be apocalyptic. If we condemn Brown’s action and send him back north, the South is likely to be just an incensed, because Brown is a genie that once unleashed, you can’t put back in the bottle.”
Will took a drink from Juan. “To hear the two of you talking, it doesn’t sound like there’s much of a downside to welcoming Brown. Either way, now that he’s killing slaveholders, I’m damned if I do and equally damned if I don’t.”
Seguin took a sip of the fiery drink. “There’s a third option. What if we arrest him for the planter’s murder? A trial might act as a salve.”
Wharton took the third drink and said, “That was my first thought. There’s a bit of perverse pleasure this Virginia boy would feel in seeing that damned Yankee swinging from gallows. But I left Virginia behind a long time ago. The question isn’t what’s good for Virginia, or South Carolina, but what’s in Texas’ best interest. We’re getting a lot of positive press in Northern and European newspapers. Hell, Giuseppe Garibaldi commands the Ninth Infantry largely based upon Texas’ willingness to confront the question of slavery.”
He took a long pull on the drink before continuing. “If we try Brown for the murder, we risk undoing a lot of the goodwill we’re accruing with foreign powers. Hell, that assumes we could even arrest him without starting a fight with his own men.”
He drained the glass and set it down. “He’s a dagger, no doubt about it. The best place for that dagger is in your hand.”
***
28 March 1852
He bit the end of his pen as he re-read the article.
Word, at last, has reached the newspaper of record of Colonel Brown’s 1st Provisional New York Cavalry’s exploits since leaving civilization behind at St. Joseph, Missouri. The report arrives from opposite the twenty-fifth state, in the Texas Republic, in the desolate frontier town of Clarksville.
Upon discovering a large family of enslaved negros, the gallant Colonel Brown and his brave troopers found they had suffered under the overseer’s harsh whip. Further, the wealthy slaveowner had sworn allegiance to the traitors against civilization in Beaumont, where the rebels defy the legitimate government of Texas.
In the struggle to break the chains of oppression and slavery, the planter, Cornelius Perry was killed. We are pleased to report all of the negros were exculpated and are on their way north.
Was it too much? Horace Greeley weighed changing some of the wording. After all, the only thing known for sure was the planter’s name and that Colonel Brown’s men had liberated the slaves from said planter. After a final read-through, he set the pen down. It would do. Facts were less important than the truth. Truth was why people paid two cents to read his paper. His readers needed to understand the plight of the slaves down South. They needed to be motivated to do something to end the travesty, and if he needed to gloss over the details, well, that’s just what a newspaperman did.
He stood and walked over to the window. From there he could see City Hall. His thoughts traveled far beyond the machine politics of Gotham. He knew Brown’s attack on the plantation in East Texas had practically burned up the telegraph lines across the country when word had leaked out. Southern Congressmen like William King claimed the murder of Perry was proof positive servile insurrection was a growing threat.
Greeley worried that King was using the crisis in Texas to further his own political ambition. He turned away from the window and picked up an article written by one of his reporters reporting from Washington City.
‘Tis said the time to make hay is when the sun shines. Senator King from Alabama has taken this to heart. In the aftermath of the Attack on slaveholders’ interest in North Eastern Texas, in an area under control of the Junta in Beaumont, Senator King has held court in the Upper Chamber, holding hearing upon hearing over the slanderous allegation that Colonel Brown executed Mr. Perry in cold blood. King has put forth a bill demanding President Travis of Texas arrest Brown for the alleged murder of the slaver. As of yet, there has been no response from Austin.
Greeley picked his pen up and after inking it, made a few adjustments before putting the article to the side. A typesetter would be by shortly to collect it. The next piece was from the same reporter but picked up the narrative from the perspective of Northern Whigs.
A smile flickered across his face as he read the acerbic words of William Seward.
Senator Wm. Seward, when asked about Colonel Brown’s incursion into Rebel-held Texas, was quoted as saying, “The fire-eaters should have reconsidered their ill-advised Texas adventures. Now that the boot is on the other foot, may they find it pinches mercilessly.”
When asked if the worthy senator favors additional aid to Texas, Seward replied, “The United States are neutral in our neighbor’s domestic disturbances. To that end, it behooves President Cass to relocate the army to the Louisiana border with Texas to stop further filibustering. As the President is content to dither while Texas burns, if men of valor in the North wish to aid men of like mind in Texas, who am I to stop them, for that matter, who is President Cass to stop them? That ship has long sailed from its harbor.”
Greeley set the article down. His pen hovered over the text as he gave it one more perusal. He liked it just fine, he decided, and he added it to the articles ready for the typesetters.
Seward’s words, while matching the convictions of most abolitionists in the North, gave him pause. The presidential election was less than ten months away. Both the Whigs and Democrats would be hosting their conventions in the summer, and he couldn’t help but admit, at least to himself, Seward’s views could lead to conflict within the Whigs’ ranks. As popular as Seward was in New England, among Southern Whigs, all loyal unionists, they would as
soon hang Seward as look at him.
In the North, the faction within the Whig party that favored abolition was large. In the South, the Whigs viewed slavery as a necessary evil in some cases and in others, a societal good. Greeley feared the two wings might deadlock over the issue of slavery. With Southern adventurers filibustering in Texas, there was no fig leaf behind which the Southern Whigs could hope to hide. Even if it tore his party asunder, Greeley decided, abolition must become a central plank in the Whig platform and whomever the Whigs nominated for president would be a Northern man of convictions.
It would be better than the battle royal the Democrats would face, Greeley decided. In the North, some Democrats favored the Southern view on slavery, there were also Democrats who supported abolition. In the South, you had Democrats who clambered for Secession at the drop of a hat, while others were firm unionists. If they couldn’t figure out their political allegiances, they could come out of their convention in a three- or four-way race.
No, Greeley decided. While the Whig party might be heading for a splintering into two factions. The Democrats were fracturing into three. With the thought of what might befall the Democratic party in the summer, Greeley picked up his pen and began to write.
***
29 March 1852
“That was a waste of time, Payton.” G.T. Beauregard said, slapping his gloves on his trousers in frustration.
The army’s Quartermaster General nodded as he tugged at his own gloves. “I believe we could have put that damned loudmouth Robert Potter in his place if your own governor hadn’t shown up.”
Beauregard swore, his voice laced with acid. “God help military men. Politicians demand that we kowtow to their demands, and then when those demands bring ruin, they blame us. I wasn’t expecting Joe Walker to show up and tell us how the cow’s going to eat the cud.”
His voice shifted into a falsetto that sounded remarkably like Potter’s. “If you don’t chase down that Yankee rabble, the whole of civilization will come undone.”
Wyatt chuckled. “I didn’t realize you had a flair for the theatrics, G.T. For a moment, I was sure I had been transported back in time, like some specter of Dickens’ Christmas past, to repeat the last hour of my life. Heaven forbid.”
The two officers reached the street, content to keep their backs to the modest courthouse that served as the provisional government’s capitol building. “You know, Payton, I don’t want to appear unsympathetic about that fellow who was gunned down by that Brown fellow or ignore the possible threat a regiment of cavalry crossing the Red River, but they’re nearly two-hundred-fifty miles away through some of the most inhospitable country a bunch of abolitionists will ever find.”
Wyatt said, “I don’t like giving credit to Bob Potter, but even a broken pocket watch is right twice a day, and he’s right about the need to send a message, both to the folks living up near the Arkansas border and to Southerners alike.”
Beauregard shook his head, “I’ll not deny that. But once the reinforcements arrive from Mississippi, Georgia, and the Carolinas, I intend to attack Johnston’s army. From a military standpoint, Brown’s a minor distraction, too far away to quickly connect with the enemy. Unfortunately, Governor Walker agrees with Potter. How many men do you reckon would mobilize in that corner of the country if we ordered them to take on Brown and his men?”
The sound of a train whistle nearly drowned Wyatt as he said, “On the muster rolls, we’ve got five or six hundred men up near the Red River, but on a good day you’d be lucky to turn out three hundred.”
Beauregard grimaced. “If the rumors are true that Brown brought down upwards of a thousand men, I’m not sure how effective three hundred would be. I’m not looking for Leonidas and his Spartans, we know how that turned out.”
The jingling of bridles and squeaking leather came from the direction of the train depot, interrupting their conversation. A column of gray jacketed cavalry was riding two abreast. At the head, one of the troopers carried the blue flag with a single star adopted by the Southern volunteers.
“Expecting more men today, Payton?”
Wyatt nodded. “A few hundred cavalry from Alabama.”
Beauregard studied the men riding by. Every one of them wore a pistol at his hip. Like as not, they carried Samuel Colt’s newer model revolvers. Rifle scabbards were attached to each trooper’s saddle. He liked what he saw. They carried themselves with the air of men who’d give worse than they’d take.
He leaned over to Wyatt, “Perhaps we’ve found a solution to our problem.” With that, he waved to an officer, riding alongside the column. The bearded officer wheeled away from troopers and guided his mount over. Beauregard felt the cavalry officer’s intense gaze as he casually saluted.
“A fine cavalry squadron you’ve got there, Major.”
“Yes, sir,” the officer drawled. “Just point me and my boys in the direction of the enemy, and we’ll kill a chance of ‘em.”
Feeling buoyed by the enthusiastic reply, Beauregard said, “By God, I like your spirit. General Wyatt and I were just talking about an itch that needs scratching. Why don’t you find my headquarters once your men are bivouacked, Major…”
“Forrest, sir. Bedford Forrest.”
Chapter 8
11 April 1852
This is a hell of a way to spend Easter, Charlie Travis thought as he gripped the wicker basket. He chanced a look up. The airbag was tied closed with a silk rope, to keep any hydrogen from escaping, and stealing the airship’s lift.
Then he looked down and felt his stomach trying to climb its way out of his mouth. He leaned back and swallowed hard. “You might not want to look directly down. Can get a mite dizzy doing that.”
Charlie resisted the urge to snap at his companion. The young student from the mechanical and technical school that was part of Trinity College, was busy connecting a wire into the portable telegraph box pushed up against one side of the basket on a tiny table. Swallowing his own bile, Charlie managed to choke out, “How many times have y’all tested this damned thing, Sam?”
“Plenty of times, Charlie. We even took Mr. Borden up in the balloon before hauling it to the front. This is the third balloon we’ve made,” Sam Williams said defensively. “So, the odds of this crashing and killing us isn’t near as high as if we were still using the first balloon.”
“What happened to the first balloon?”
“It crashed. But the man in the basket only broke his arm and leg.”
Charlie’s stomach lurched as the long rope connecting the balloon to the ground was let out further. He had to focus on something else before he lost his breakfast. “How’d your pa let you do something like this? I can’t imagine Sam Williams, banking impresario that he is, would let his son ride in this, let alone on a battlefield.”
Sam grinned. “Once Austin decided to follow Pa into business, nobody really complained about me attending the mechanical engineering program at Trinity. I guess Pa’s happy I’ve found something that challenges me.”
Charlie frowned as the wind buffeted the basket, making it sway back and forth. “I’ve met your pa, and he doesn’t seem the kind of man who’d let even his second son climb into a balloon on a battlefield.”
Chuckling, Sam said, “He doesn’t know about this. I’d like to keep it that way.” He leaned over the telegraph box and pressed his finger against a metal key. “Plus, as of yet, I’m the only student crazy enough to volunteer who knows Mr. Morse’s code. What about you? I heard you were second in command of an infantry battalion.”
Charlie closed his eyes as the wind made the basket sway more than before. “Colonel Garibaldi volunteered me. Said having eyes overhead like an eagle would be worth more than having me as his number two.”
With one hand, Charlie gripped one of the ropes connecting the basket to the balloon. With the other, he clasped the binoculars around his neck. “Alright, how much further do we have to go?”
“The ground crew will tether us at a thousand feet
. From there, we’ll be able to see seven or even eight miles away.”
Charlie wrenched his eyes away from the basket’s bottom and blinked away tears at the yellow orb of the sun rising in the sky. He looked through the binoculars, scanning Johnston’s defensive line. For the past couple of months, the army had been preparing to advance against the rebels and their Southern allies. Supplies had turned West Liberty into a sizable depot. A steady stream of rifles, cartridges, and field pieces had flowed out of the gun works and iron foundry in Trinity Park. The ink on the order to march, to come to grips with the rebels, was still drying when General Johnston hastily countermanded his own order when he learned Beauregard was bringing his army west.
“Why’re the rebels attacking? They’ve sat on their asses all winter long. Why now?” Sam Williams looked at him with passing confusion.
Charlie shrugged. “Probably for the same reason General Johnston had been about to attack. For the rebels to win, they have to either destroy Johnston’s army or force the army back to Austin and demand my pa surrender the capital.”
Sam offered, “And for us, it’s the opposite, we’ve got to destroy their army or capture their leaders in Beaumont?”
Still scanning the ground below, Charlie said, “That’s right. Personally, I’d rather take the fight to the rebels. Sitting here waiting for Beauregard’s army to attack seems like a lost opportunity.”
Sam snickered, “General-in-chief Charles Travis, master, and commander. Why doesn’t Johnston listen to you?”
Charlie gave the seventeen-year-old Williams a rude gesture before continuing. “We’ve got a bit more than seven thousand men here. The recent volunteers from the South have swollen the rebel army to twenty thousand. The general may have decided it’s better to have the enemy bleed on our defensive positions instead of the other way around.”
A flash of something caught Charlie’s attention. In the distance, he saw several more flickers, followed by roiling white smoke. Several seconds elapsed before he heard the thunder of enemy field guns firing on the defenders.
