by Drew McGunn
The speaker continued talking. Lamont thought about which states would be the first to ratify the articles. He hoped South Carolina would act first, but Louisiana was already fully committed to the war in Texas and would likely beat his native state to the punch. What bothered him were the slave states that wouldn’t be ratifying the articles. Delaware failed to send any delegates. With the departure of Maryland and Kentucky’s representatives, he was doubtful that their legislatures would even take up the articles.
Another speaker had risen. “Does Alabama vote to advance the articles to the various states?”
Standing on the floor of the Exchange, the delegates from Alabama shouted, “Aye!”
A roar of approval rattled the windows in the hall. “How does Arkansas vote?”
“Yes!”
“Florida?”
“Yes!”
“Georgia?”
“Yes!”
“Kentucky?”
The hall fell silent. Men who had disagreed with the direction of the convention had left, leaving Kentucky without a voice.
“Louisiana?”
“Yes!”
“Maryland?”
Silence.
“Mississippi?”
“Yes!” As though repudiating the cowardice of Maryland to not vote their conscience, the room shouted and stomped their approval.
“Missouri?”
“Yes!”
“North Carolina?”
“Yes!”
“South Carolina?”
“Yes!”
“Tennessee?”
“Yes!”
“Virginia?”
There was a long pause. “No!”
Lamont stared at Virginia’s delegates. John Letcher, a Congressman, was the spokesman for the Virginia delegation. He turned around the room, glaring at those who shouted in protest at Virginia’s lone voice of dissent.
The speaker took the contrarian vote in stride. Lamont couldn’t help but wonder if those men on the platform already knew the results before the Alabama delegation voted aye. He figured it would be like a politician to know the direction of the wind before stepping outside.
“By a vote of ten to one, the articles shall be presented to all Southern states within the next thirty days for ratification.”
***
Will flipped up the collar on his greatcoat and eased back on the reins, letting Juan Seguin pull up next to him. The blue norther blew in from the north, dusting a bit of frost on the trees and grass. It made him think of an old joke about the only thing between the North Pole and West Texas in winter was a barbed wire fence. It brought a smile to his chapped lips as he looked back and saw two Texas Rangers a couple of dozen yards behind. They were a constant reminder that part of the country would happily kill him as look at him.
Of course, they’re getting their due now that we’ve trapped most of the rebels along the Sabine River.
Seguin broke through his thoughts, “Smart move letting some of those bastards who supported the rebels in Beaumont down easy. Shows that we’re prepared to be high-minded.”
Will shrugged. “These are just the folks who backed the wrong side but didn’t take up arms, Juan. We’ve not captured very many of the rebel soldiers, but I’m keeping every one of those boys locked up until the end of the war.”
Seguin said, “Even though we’ve got them against the Sabine, you don’t sound like you expect the war to end soon.”
Will swore. “It’s those damned slave owners in the South that worry me. South Carolina and Louisiana have already passed the articles that came out of their Convention in New Orleans. They pick up another five states, and they’ll all secede.”
“I reckon it’s just a matter of time before Alabama and Mississippi join them,” Seguin ventured. “Who’ll be next after them?”
Will let the reins fall onto the pommel as he cupped his bare hands and blew into them. “After the shitstorm John Brown and Bedford Forrest kicked up in Arkansas, it’s a sure thing they’ll follow. It’s hard to argue that Seward will let the south keep their slaves when Brown’s lining every one of them he finds up against a wall and murdering them. After Arkansas, I figure Georgia and Florida will follow. Maybe even Tennessee, Missouri, and North Carolina.”
“Speaking of John Brown, what are you going to do with him now that Wallace’s Rangers have brought him to Austin?”
Will grimaced as though he’d bitten into a lemon. In the years before the transference, when he’d read about the Civil War, Brown’s brutality in Kansas and then his raid on Harper’s Ferry, Virginia had fired up Southerners who could legitimately point to Brown’s violence when Northern politicians promised compromise with the South over the issue of slavery. But this was worse. With Texas an independent nation, the South had stymied Northern efforts to bring in more free states, and with no Compromise of 1850, the Western Territory remained mostly closed to settlers.
But Seguin deserved an answer. “If the reports are true, Brown’s killed more than a dozen of men between Northwest Texas and Southeast Arkansas, all civilian. Their only crime was they owned slaves. You know I believe with all my heart owning another soul is a crime against God. But, at this time, neither Texas nor Arkansas considers it a crime. I can’t ignore that. Thousands of folks who still own slaves remain loyal to our government. They expect justice to be done. But Brown’s very popular in the Northeastern United States, where the abolitionist movement is strongest. A trial could damage our standing with people we desperately need as allies.”
Seguin whistled, low. “You, my friend, are between Scylla and Charybdis. What are you going to do?”
Will let a feral look cross his face, “I’ve locked him in the same cell where Lorenzo kept Santa Anna. If I can manage it, I’m going to keep him locked up until the war is over, then try him and hang him high as Haman.”
They crested a hill east of San Antonio where they found the reason for their visit. Sprawled across the prairie were the men of the 26th and 28th Infantry battalions as well as an independent command, more than fifteen hundred soldiers learning their trade. As they rode down the slope and into the camp, they smelled breakfast cooking and heard Irish brogues mixed with melodic Italian and guttural German. The men who made up the two battalions arrived from across Europe. Many came because of generous land bounties, others came because things were worse in their homelands, and others, having watched the liberal revolutions beaten back across Europe, saw in Texas freedoms they’d never have in places like Prussia, Bohemia, or the Austrian empire.
Midway through camp, they came upon an officer sitting under a tarp, eating breakfast. When the officer spotted Will atop his mount, a chair clattered as it tipped over. The officer snapped a crisp salute, his palm facing outward, like in the British army.
Will’s stomach growled. When he and Juan had set out from the Alamo at dawn, they had planned on inspecting the camp before dining with the fort’s cadets later in the morning. He regretted the decision as the officer said, “President Travis, Vice-President Seguin, it’s a pleasure to see you so early. Can I offer you breakfast?”
The officer spoke with a sophisticated Irish lilt. As the army had expanded, General Johnston had recruited men with military experience wherever he could find them. James Mahon was no exception. After losing his seat in the British parliament the previous year, Mahon had turned up in Austin with a letter of introduction to Will. As he thought back to that first meeting, Will suppressed a smile as he recalled the shock on his face when Mahon produced a letter from Merrill Taylor, a banker in London who represented powerful British interests to Will over the years.
Mahon had stood in Will’s office a few months earlier, standing before his desk like he belonged there while Will read the introduction. The letter congratulated him on his election and the new direction Will was leading Texas and wished him success in suppressing the rebellion. It continued by implying if Texas needed to issue war bonds, there would be a ready foreign market for them
. And lastly, it offered Mahon’s services. As a former member of Parliament from County Claire, the Irishman held the respect of his fellow countrymen, many of whom were still fleeing the aftermath of the potato famine.
The letter had proven prescient. Within a month of Mahon’s promotion to colonel, the number of foreigners who showed up volunteering for service exceeded the battalion’s authorized strength. Before long, these trainees would complete their training, ready to join Johnston’s army along the Sabine River.
“I wish we could join you, Colonel. We’re due back in the Alamo shortly for breakfast with the cadets. They’d be mighty disappointed if we showed up with no appetite. General Johnston has written to me and said your boys will be ready to join him within a few weeks. Will they be ready?”
Mahon swept a hand around at the surrounding camp. “I’ve got the finest boys from Dublin to Kilkenny, sir. Not to mention a fair number of bonnie lads from Edenborough and some of Friedrich Wilhelm’s Prussian volunteers. When General Johnston calls, we’ll march forth and crush the remains of the rebellion.”
It was hard to resist Mahon’s optimism, as the tall, gray-haired colonel bubbled with enthusiasm. He worried, though. If all the Southern states he thought likely to secede did so and turned their combined might against Texas, it would take a miracle to stop them before President-Elect Seward could raise an army to force those Southern States back into the Union.
Seguin interrupted them, “Buck, look over there.”
The Vice President pointed into the sky. Rising over the encampment were three balloons, tethered to the ground by thick, long ropes.
Will followed Seguin’s gaze. One balloon was already hundreds of feet in the air. Another was a couple of hundred feet below it, and the last was but a hundred feet from the ground.
Seguin clapped and laughed as the first one reached the end of the tether, more than a thousand feet off the ground. “We’ve just quadrupled the amount of land we can cover with these balloons, Buck. These new aeronauts should be ready by the time we’re prepared to move against the rebel salient.”
Will pursed his lips. “I hope so. We’ll have a half dozen crews ready by then.”
Seguin slapped him on the back, “Charlie must be champing at the bit to get back to the Ninth.”
Will’s smile was thin, as he thought about the risk his son endured. “I’m sure he is. But life is full of disappointments. Sid’s planning on putting him in charge of our little balloon corps.”
Chapter 14
29 January 1853
“Captain, the wire’s been run, and we’ve got the telegraph machine ready to transmit.” The soldier who stood before Andy Berry wore the insignia of the republic’s signal corps, a small brass pin with two crossed spyglasses on his black wide-brimmed hat.
Berry waved off the salute. He had asked for, and General Johnston had granted him, the use of a telegraph team from the front. As far as he was concerned, he was wearing the hat of inventor and industrialist and not that of reserve commander of an artillery battery.
He stepped over to the field gun. It was one of the new model breechloaders the foundry had been making for the better part of a year. He ran his hand over the cold barrel. In nearly every way this gun was identical to those entrenched on the front more than sixty miles away. The difference was the contraption fixed to the side of the gun, near the breech.
Berry propped his leg up on the carriage’s wooden trail and raised his voice, “Gather round, boys. It’s cold enough out here that I saw a politician with his hands in his own pockets. Let’s get this over and get back to the warmth of our homes.”
Most of the men standing nearby worked in his foundry. Most days found them pouring molten steel into molds, but on this Saturday, they stood, listening, hands in pockets, stomping their feet to stay warm. A few others wore the army’s butternut uniforms, they were on loan for the demonstration.
“We’ve run a telegraph from the edge of Trinity Meadows back here to the gun. As we test the lining plane, the boys from the Signal Corps will telegraph back the results.” Berry pointed to the iron and brass contraption attached to the gun and continued, “This rotatable open sight allows us to calculate the angle. For instance, if the target we want to hit is located beyond the forest here, like the plantation over yonder, we can more precisely set the gun’s elevation.”
Berry came over to a small camp table near the gun, picked up a pencil, and using it, pointed to a map covering the tabletop. “We need to know our position relative to that of our target. In this case, that fat bastard Owen Talmage’s plantation house. It was mighty nice of him to donate it for today’s experiment.”
The men around Berry chuckled. Talmage fled with his slaves when Johnston’s army had defeated the rebels and their Southern allies on the Trinity the previous year. Since then, the local tax assessor had ostensibly seized the property for back taxes. Berry thought it was better than Talmage deserved. But seeing as how the government in Austin wasn’t seizing all the rebels’ property, it didn’t bother him in the least that local officials had taken matters into their own hands.
“We're going to measure the azimuth which is the number of degrees clockwise from true north, between our gun and the target. We'll use that tall live oak tree poking above the rest of the forest as our marker. We'll then get the azimuth between the gun and the marker. By subtracting the first azimuth reading from the second, we'll get the angle between the marker and the line to the target. Once that's done, we'll use the compass on the device on the rear of the gun and shift it until the gun's sight is laid on the aiming point. The gun's bore is now on target and ready to fire.
“Once we fire, our spotter at the forward telegraph box will let us know how much we need to adjust the elevation or direction once we roll the gun back into place. On the front, we’d be relying on the balloon corps to transmit where the round landed. They’ll send it through the signal corps back to the gunners. Any questions?"
There were none. He and his men had practiced back at the Gunworks’ testing range. But this was the first live exercise in conditions that approached what the army would face in combat.
As the men assumed their roles on the gun, Berry stayed by the map and waited as they efficiently loaded the field piece. Once they were finished, one of them shouted, “Ready!”
Berry had already calculated the geometry, but he checked his work before he came over to the metal contraption attached to the gun’s bore and set the brass compass for the calculated angle. “Alright, gunnery sergeant set the elevation.”
The gunnery sergeant spun the elevation screw until the bore aligned with the primitive goniometer. “Ready, sir.”
“An ounce of prevention,” Berry muttered as he rechecked both his calculation and the contraption’s angle. Satisfied they aligned, he raised his voice, “Fire!”
The man filling the role of gunnery sergeant checked that he was clear of the recoil and pulled the lanyard. Smoke and fire spewed from the barrel and the gun rocked back. The projectile raced over the trees, and a moment later, in the distance, they heard it crash down. The telegraph machine clattered to life, and the operator called out, “Over-shot the target by eighty yards, sir.”
“Reload,” Berry turned back to his calculations on the table as the crew rolled the gun back into place and methodically reloaded. As reservists, they knew their roles nearly as well as the regulars under Colonel William Sherman’s command and moved with an economy of motion.
Berry made another adjustment to the compass. Once the bore was lowered to match the newly measured angle, the gun fired again.
The telegraph operator shouted, “Hit! Direct hit.”
Berry joined his men, laughing and patting each other on the back, before a feral grin lit up his face, “Alright, let’s fire the rest of the rounds. No reason to leave that traitor’s house standing.”
***
1 February 1853
Seagulls squawked outside the window of the Galvesto
n Customs House. Will tried to ignore them as he spoke with the two other men in the room.
“Pass on my thanks to President-Elect Seward and President Cass, Commodore. Your arrival in the Gulf is both welcome and timely.”
Matthew Perry’s stern countenance cracked, for a moment a smile graced his features. “It’s not my place to comment on politics, President Travis, but the Southern secession finally moved Lewis Cass to act, at least enough to listen to William Seward’s request to re-form our West Indies Squadron.”
The third participant wore the blue jacket of the Texas Navy. He wore shoulder boards embroidered with a single gold star. Will saw no reason that an admiral shouldn’t command Texas’ eleven-ship navy, unlike the United States, where Matthew Perry’s rank of commodore was temporary. Once command of his squadron passed on to his successor, Perry would resume his previous naval rank of captain. Edwin Moore said, “All that matters is that our hands are finally untied. Now we can act to cut the bridge between Louisiana and Texas without risking widening the war.”
Will chuckled ruefully. “I trust you’re not talking about our declaration of war against this new Southern alliance of states. I might construe that as lèse-majesté.”
Moore returned the smile. “Of course, your Excellency. Your decision to declare war couldn’t possibly have been in reaction to them calling for seventy thousand volunteers to – how did they say it? – complete the annexation of Texas.”
“Touché, Admiral,” Will said. “Closing that railroad bridge will give us a bit of breathing room while we see what kind of help Seward will provide once he’s sworn in next month.
