Against All Odds

by Drew McGunn

  Brooks swore, “Damnit, I can only run these boys through the steps so many times before it’s old hat to them. But shooting, by God, is what they need the most practice on, and damned if I have enough ammunition to knock a flea off a dog’s back.”

  Jesse offered a weak smile, “Look on the bright side, sir. Rumor is the Confederates in Louisiana will invade by the end of the month. By then, we’ll get all the practice we need.”

  ***

  Mid-April 1853

  The train clattered over an imperfectly placed rail, jostling Will out of his reverie. Since crossing the new bridge over the Trinity an hour before, the scenery reminded him of why this part of Texas was called the Piney Woods.

  “Are we there yet?” a soft feminine voice beside him made him turn his head. His face lit up as he looked into his wife’s sleepy eyes. It was a rare treat that she had accompanied him. When she had learned he would be touring the front lines, she had insisted she wanted to come. At first, he had refused. It was dangerous. He had told her the enemy could attack any day. It was far safer for her to stay in Austin with the children. She had countered; the newspapers from the South complained about how long it took to move an army into place. The Southern Alliance, as the seceding states had taken to calling themselves, was as hamstrung as he was when away from their own railroad network.

  In the end, Becky wore him down. Will threw his hands up in defeat when she told him that Dr. Ashbel Smith would be joining them as he wanted to tour one of the hospitals at the front. The good doctor was hunched over, asleep on the wooden seat opposite their own.

  Will could hardly blame Smith for wanting to come to the front. The hospital was one that the doctor had been working on with army surgeons for several years. While Will had given him the idea for a mobile unit of doctors and support staff, Smith had taken on the project with all the fervor of a convert. The unit had several wagons stocked with medicine and supplies, including tents and cots. Additionally, several more ambulance wagons were attached to the medical outfit, replete with stretchers for the hospital stewards to collect the wounded from the battlefield.

  Below his breath, Will murmured, “Mobile army surgical hospital, MASH.”

  “What was that, darling?”

  “Nothing,” Will hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. “Look outside, we’re nearly there.”

  The forest ended, and the coastal plain was covered with a sea of tents. Will added, “Sidney’s been using the town to drill the army away from the front.”

  The train was slowing as it neared the town. New construction lined both sides of the track, and the still-under-construction depot came into view as the train slowly rolled to a stop. “Oh, Will,” Becky said, “what happened to the town is horrible. The women and children hereabouts must be suffering horribly.”

  “The army’s set up places for the civilians to collect rations,” Will said defensively. “None of this would have been necessary if those hot-headed fools had accepted the election.”

  Becky placed her hand on Will’s arm, “There, you’re practically admitting if women had the right to vote, they’d have stopped their silly husbands from doing something so stupid.”

  Will smiled at his wife. He wasn’t sure about her logic, but since he won the presidency, she seldom missed an opportunity to push him on suffrage.

  “Balderdash, madam,” Ashbel Smith said as he appeared to awaken. “I’d mention how women lack the temperament for the weighty responsibility of voting, but we all know that’s just a fig leaf. Women control their husbands and thus his vote.”

  Becky harrumphed as the train came to a stop. “That’s why you’re still single, Doctor.”

  Smith laughed, “Oh, cut to the quick. Mr. President, your wife’s wit is as sharp as a scalpel. I am married to my profession.”

  Will held his peace as soldiers in the passenger car behind them unloaded. The train stayed in the station long enough for the engine to take on fresh water and for a handful of soldiers to climb aboard.

  Smith was traditionally minded. But over the years, Will learned there was a depth to the doctor. He had taken in an orphan, whose father had been killed in the opening days of the war and whose mother had died in childbirth, at his house in Trinity Park.

  The train winded its way toward the Sabine River, another twenty miles before finally coming to a stop a quarter mile from the river. Will waited for Becky and Dr. Smith to head toward the carriage that would take them to the mobile hospital, then he turned and saw Sidney Johnston waiting by a stack of ammunition boxes.

  “You still taking your morning constitutionals?” Johnston said as they shook hands.

  Will stretched, trying to untangle the mass of muscles in his back that protested from the long travel on the train’s uncomfortable wooden seats. “When I can. A walk helps to clear the head.”

  “Glad you feel that way, Mr. President,” Johnston said with a sly grin. “Let’s get to walking.”

  They walked away from the railhead, through stands of pine trees not yet reduced to kindling and firewood until they emerged from the woods. In front of them stretched a long earthen and wooden trench-line. Wooden stakes were placed in front of the entrenchment, the sharp, pointed end facing the river below.

  The earthen trench disappeared into another stand of trees more than a mile away. “It goes on for several miles, sir,” Johnston said as he led Will into the trench through a framed entry point at the back.

  The front of the trench was made of logs, stacked, one on top of the other. A wooden step let men stand against the wall, where they could fire over its lip.

  A few hundred yards along, Johnston stopped, waiting for Will to catch up.

  “Where are the men, Sid?” Will was perplexed. They had passed by only a few dozen riflemen.

  Johnston said, “This mile is held by the Sixteenth Infantry.”

  Will raised his eyebrows, “Only seven-hundred men along more than five thousand feet?”

  “Closer to seven-fifty men and six thousand feet,” Johnston said. “They’re camped back behind the line. Only a third are on the line right now. Follow me, there’s something I want to show you.”

  The army’s commander turned into another trench running perpendicular to the line. Timbers were laid over the trench as Will followed Johnston up a steep climb. The overhead planking gave the narrow ditch a tunnel-like feel and left Will with a touch of claustrophobia. When they emerged, they were in a small fortified position above the line. Will looked around and whistled appreciatively.

  A battery of four Gatling guns faced the river. Johnston laughed at Will’s reaction. “If those secesh bastards try to cross the river here, they’ll get a warm reception. Every mile we rotate these Gatling guns with field artillery.”

  Will ran his hand along one of the gun’s brass barrels. “How many men do you have now?”

  “Counting the soldiers training back at Beaumont, right at twenty-thousand men. That includes several thousand volunteers from the US.”

  Johnston left the battery and headed toward the army’s rear. A few minutes later, Will stood in a clearing watching one of the army’s reconnaissance balloon floating just above the ground, tethered with several thick ropes.

  Johnston pointed, “I thought you’d like to see what the enemy is up to.”

  Will let slip a cry of delight as he saw Charlie walking toward them. In his mind, his son was still sometimes the eight-year-old boy he’d first met sitting on the Ayres’ porch seventeen years before. The boy, now a man, stood as tall as Will now. He wore a thin mustache and neatly trimmed goatee.

  As the balloon slowly ascended, Charlie pressed him for news on his own wife and child, who were living in the presidential mansion. Will handed over a daguerreotype recently taken in Austin. No matter how long he had been stranded in Travis’ body, certain aspects of the nineteenth century remained a mystery to him and the stern look on Tatiana Travis’ face in the picture was one of them.

  When the rop
e played out, the basket gave a gentle tug, and Charlie said, “Normally, this is when we get to work.” He pointed to the telegraph box and the chair in which Will sat, “Sam sits there, and he’ll telegraph anything I see to the men below.”

  Will took the binoculars from his son and looked through them at the other side of the Sabine. Trench works mirroring the ones below came into view. The blue flag with a single star had been the flag adopted by the Louisiana volunteers when they first arrived the previous year. From several points along the trench lines, it still flew. But state flags from across the new Southern Alliance now flew alongside the first flag of the rebellion.

  “How many men do you reckon they’ve got?” Will asked.

  Charlie leaned against the basket, “Hard to say, we’ve mapped more than forty regiments so far. Mostly from the deep South.”

  Will turned his binoculars to the north. Eventually, the trenches ended amid the pine tree forest. “Do you think they’ll try to flank the army?”

  “I would if I thought I had the men, Pa. But we’ll be ready if they do.”

  Will lowered the binoculars and turned away from the enemy lines. “How so?”

  Charlie pointed to the north, “If they try getting around us, we should have enough warning to pivot the army to meet them. We’ve got a brigade of cavalry to the north and one of our balloons. As a matter of fact, that regiment that maniac John Brown commanded is assigned there.”

  ***

  In the distance, a voice called out, “Timber!”

  Jimmy Hickok raised his head but couldn’t see anything other than more trees. He lowered the axe handle and rubbed his raw hands against his britches. The soldier beside him slapped him on the back, “Don’t you look just pretty as a peach wearing those god-awful ugly pants?”

  The teenager looked down at the butternut trousers he wore. Over the past few months, Jimmy had grown several inches, and his kersey blue woolen pants no longer fit. As uniforms wore out and needed replacing, the men of the 1st Provisional New York Cavalry Regiment were issued clothing from the Texian army’s supply depot.

  Jimmy didn’t care. They were long enough to cover his ankles. He couldn’t say that about his old trousers. “Covers the dirt better, Elias. I didn’t hear you complaining when they issued us new socks.”

  The older soldier shrugged, “We were quite the sight when we arrived here a few weeks ago. Low on ammunition and asses flapping out our trousers. Well, at least you, Duckbill.”

  Jimmy hated the nickname. It wasn’t his fault his nose was so large. “Unless you’re going to talk this tree down, it’s not coming down on its own.” He gripped the handle and swung at the deep gash he’d already cut in the tall pine tree.

  Between swings, Elias said, “What the hell are we doing here. When those slavers decide to attack, they’re going to have a go at the army, and we’re miles away stuck in the woods, knocking trees down.”

  Jimmy pulled the blade from the tree, knocking wood chips to the ground. “Major Douglas says we’re building an abatis. If the slavers try coming around the army’s trenches, they’ll run smack into this, once we’re finished with it.”

  The older soldier swore and spat, “I got nothing against the major, mind you, but goddammit, why’d those Rangers have to arrest Colonel Brown? He ain’t done nothing.”

  Jimmy swung the axe again before he said, “Not anything we all didn’t want to do, that’s for sure.”

  After they felled one tree, the two troopers moved to the next tree marked with red paint, denoting it was to be cut down, too. Elias said, “I hear the Texians are holding Brown in Austin. They’re not saying anything about a trial, but I’ve heard some of those Texas boys say that President Travis will charge him with murder. I swear to God above, Duckbill, if these Texians hadn’t forced all of the Colonel’s sons out of the army, we’d be riding to free him now.”

  Thinking about Colonel Brown’s surviving sons brought back memories when he and Watson Brown had carried messages for the dour colonel. Watson was closest to him in age, and Jimmy missed him something fierce. But John Brown’s youngest son to accompany him had been dead now for months.

  “Jimmy,” the teenager said through clenched teeth. “My name is Jimmy, not Duckbill.”

  Elias shrugged, “Don’t get your dander up, Hickok. It’s just a nickname. You’ve taken a fair amount of shit, being younger than the rest of us. Why haven’t you lit off for home? Not like you wouldn’t be the first.”

  Jimmy swung the axe into the tree. The ringing numbness traveled up his arms with each stroke. It was a fair question. Since Brown’s arrest, nearly one in five men had decided they’d had enough and had deserted. Of the thousand men who’d enlisted in New York the previous year, scarcely more than six hundred men remained.

  “I ain't a quitter. I joined up to stop slavers from turning our neighbor into the next slave state.” Jimmy said as he leaned against the tree catching his breath. “What about you, Elias. You’re always talking about how unfair it was that the Texians arrested Colonel Brown. Why are you still here?”

  Elias set his axe down and pulled a plug of tobacco from his pocket. He bit off a chew and offered it to Jimmy. “I might go yet. If President Seward decides to call for volunteers to put down the rebellion, I might return home and join a regiment up there. But I joined to kill slavers. For now, this is the best place to be to get that chance.”

  Chapter 17

  14 April 1853

  Dust engulfed the coach as the horses pulling it came to a stop. Becky bit back a sigh. No sooner had she and Will returned from the front on the Sabine River than she packed her bags for a planned meeting in San Antonio for the Widows and Orphans project.

  “Momma, are you alright?”

  Becky’s smile was worn and tired, “Yes, Liza. Just tired. When we finish here, we’ll take a day or two to relax with Maria Seguin at her family’s hacienda. Won’t that be fun?”

  Elizabeth Travis’ smile lit up the coach. “Can we ride horses with the vaqueros?”

  “We’ll see. Come, I think we’re the last to arrive.”

  As Becky took the hand of the driver and stepped down from the coach, she saw a long wall, more than a hundred yards long. Beyond the wall, a chapel with a dome was visible in the distance. A man wearing a black cassock hurried from the gatehouse, a crucifix around his neck swung back and forth as he hurried over.

  “Madam Travis, a pleasure to see you again. Welcome to the San Jose y San Miguel de Aguayo Mission.”

  After exchanging pleasantries, Becky said, “Have Mr. Ayres and Reverend Bains arrived?”

  Offering his arm, Bishop Odin led her into the mission’s expansive plaza, “Yes. If you’d like refreshments before we start the tour, I’ll ask they join us in the convento.”

  The plaza covered a couple of acres. It was almost as large as the Alamo Plaza. Children were at play along one section of the surrounding walls.

  Becky shook her head, “We are due at the Hacienda Seguin later this afternoon. If the gentlemen are ready, I don’t want to be the cause of any delay.” She turned to Liza, “If you’d like, you may play with the other girls.”

  As she watched Liza hurry across the dirt-covered plaza, Odin said, “They grow so fast. She seems to favor her mother.”

  Her worn smile returned, “It seems like only yesterday that I rocked her to sleep in her little crib. Now, my baby is almost a woman.”

  Odin gestured toward the small gatehouse built into the mission’s wall. “That’s why we’re here, to give these children the opportunity to grow into men and women of good character.”

  After being greeted by Ayres and Bains, Becky joined them at the table. With three sets of eyes staring back at her, she thought about her husband, who routinely spoke before hundreds, sometimes, thousands of people, and how, on occasion, he would get nervous. She squared her shoulders and said, “A lot has happened since we first met last year to form this commission. I think we’ve all been humbled by the outp
ouring of support we’ve received from throughout the Republic. The Diocese of Galveston’s generous donation of the property around Mission San Jose has been a godsend, and we couldn’t have done this without your help, your Excellency.”

  Odin dipped his head in acknowledgment. “It wasn’t that much. The buildings had been in disrepair, unused since before the revolution.” He pointed out the window to scaffolding against the walls of the church, “We’re still a long way away from having the mission repaired.”

  Bains added, “While I tend to think the most important work is still before us, the most urgent has already been completed. There’s a dry roof over the head of every child here and plenty of food, too.”

  Becky knew it to be true. After the Bishop had made the abandoned mission available to the Commission, but before the first orphan arrived, they had repaired the walls and fixed up each of the dilapidated houses that lined the mission’s walls.

  Ayres said, “Is it true there are more than forty children housed here now?”

  “Yes,” Becky looked at a roster on the table, “we are providing shelter to forty-seven children. We’ve even started a school for them. But here’s the problem, gentlemen, and the reason I asked for this meeting. Since the collapse of the rebel army around Beaumont earlier in the year, we’re finding the number of orphans in the east to be greater than we first thought.”

  Ayres’s eyes narrowed as his lips curved downward. “The get of traitors?”

  Becky found her own eyes narrowing when Odin placed a gentle hand on her arm. He said, “I believe it was Saint James who said, pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, to visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world.”

  Bains' eyes held a trace of mirth, “David, the bishop is right, you know. Those children are no more responsible for their fathers’ actions than me or you.” He waited for Ayres to relax his jaw before continuing, “The question becomes what can we do about it? We have enough money to pay the staff here through the end of the summer. Fixing up more of the buildings here isn’t going to come cheap.”