by Drew McGunn
Years of living in Mexican territory had honed Jenkins’ Spanish. He said, “How much?”
“Three of you?”
Jenkins shook his head. “No, there’ll be two more.”
The old man scratched at his beard and eyed Jenkins, appraisingly. “Fifty pesos, señor.”
Jenkins blanched. Seventy U.S. dollars was a lot of money. He sputtered, “That’s more than three month’s wages. You’re daft.”
The man's weathered features hardened. "As if you ask for much? Crossing the isthmus during the rainy season is dangerous. The vapors alone might kill any one of you. The risk to my son and me is great. Take it or leave it."
Williams sidled next to Jenkins. “Boss,” he hissed, “I done checked with two others, and he’s the only one willing to take us at all.”
Paying the fee would put a significant dent in their finances, and he still needed to figure out how to get from Chagras, on the Caribbean to Charleston. He glared at the old man. “Twenty-five pesos.”
The old man’s laugh sounded like glass breaking. “Fifty pesos. If you don’t like my rates, you’re welcome to talk to someone else.”
Jenkins frowned. Williams’ warning echoed in his ears. “Fine. Fifty pesos. When can we leave?”
“Saturday.”
That meant two more days in the tight confines of the hotel room. Reluctantly, Jenkins nodded.
***
Charlie rested the paddle on the canoe’s gunwales and rubbed his wrists. His captors still tied his hands each night, even though they had left the road a week before and were paddling east on the Chagres River.
From the start, the trip had been a nightmare. Ten days earlier, the weathered old guide, Julio Sanchez had led the party east from Ciudad Panama, in a torrential downpour. The first leg of the trip had been along a muddy track. It had taken them four days to travel twenty-five miles. Charlie was convinced they had only managed to stay on the road because of Sanchez’s surefooted burros.
When they had arrived at the Chagres River, they stayed at a dilapidated shack, which made the hotel back in town look like the proverbial Taj Mahal, about which Charlie's pa had told him. The shed masqueraded as both hotel and stables for the burros. From there, they continued on the river in canoes.
“Quit your lollygagging, boy, and paddle,” Hiram Williams snapped at him.
“God damn you to hell.” Charlie’s voice didn’t carry enough for the irascible gambler to hear. Sandro Sanchez, who dipped his paddle into the swiftly moving current, grunted a laugh. The son of their guide, Sandro had been assigned to Charlie and Williams’ canoe. Charlie sighed in resignation. The young man, only a few years older than Charlie’s fourteen years, was affable, and if he had to stare at the back of someone’s head, better Sandro’s than anyone else’s.
Switching to Spanish, Williams said, “Hey, pretty boy, shut the hell up.”
Charlie bit his lip as the young man, sitting a few feet away, cursed under his breath at Williams. The young man’s mustache and beard were more scruff than stubble. Charlie nearly stopped paddling, tempted to rub at the peach fuzz above his upper lip, but thoughts of Williams hitting him made him dig into the murky water with his paddle.
His shoulder muscles ached as he dipped the paddle’s blade into the river. He hated all of his captors, but Hiram Williams he hated worst of all. He had a mean streak a mile wide. If Charlie slacked on paddling the canoe, Williams was prone to leaning forward and cuffing the back of his head. Sometimes he just did it for the hell of it, too.
Less than a hundred yards ahead, Charlie watched Jenkins and Julio Sanchez, in the first canoe. The guide waved toward something out of view. Sandro turned, warily eying Williams. “My father says we’ll reach the village of Chagres soon. There’s a spot ahead of where we can stop and eat.”
Williams, sitting in the back, steered the canoe into a shallow beach next to the others. Jenkins and Sanchez were pulling food from a small crate as Charlie splashed ashore. He dug his toes into the soft sand and rolled his shoulders, when he tumbled to the ground, pain exploding from his head.
Charlie lay sprawled on the sand, his mind confused. His eyes squeezed shut as a wave of pain washed over him. He cracked open his eyes, and stars weaved around. Brown feet, belonging to Sandro knelt beside him, “Are you…”
The words were cut off by a sharp thwacking sound. “Get your ass away from the boy, you greasy puta!”
The young guide leapt up. Charlie wasn’t sure what happened next. There was a flying fist and then a splash as Williams landed in the water. Sandro stood over the boy, his fists raised.
“Call me puta again, and I'll kill you."
Williams sputtered. “Nobody hits me, boy.”
Jenkins dropped the food and stepped forward, “Hiram, enough!”
Williams crouched in the knee-high water, shifting his attention between Jenkins and Sandro. His eyes burned with hatred. Charlie cringed as he yanked his revolver from his holster. He pointed it at Sandro and fired.
A puff of smoke escaped from the chamber as the percussion cap detonated. But the gunpowder was soaked. Screaming with rage, Williams hurled the useless weapon at the young guide. Sandro dodged the heavy gun. Charlie heard a startled grunt and turned to see Sanchez sink to the ground, his face a bloody mess. The weapon had crushed his nose.
Charlie scampered over to the old guide. Sanchez was dazed. His eyes were unfocused, blood seeped from a deep gash on his lip, dripping into his graying beard.
He heard Jenkin’s voice, “Goddammit, Hiram, stop!”
The youth turned and saw Williams tackle Sandro, who was gripping a knife. As the two hit the ground, Williams drove his fist into the young man’s face, cutting his cheek.
From under Williams, Sandro slashed with his knife, missing the gambler’s face by a hair’s breadth. Williams used his elbow to block the next swipe and the blade sunk into the sand.
Charlie shouted, “Sandro!” as Williams grabbed the young man’s throat and squeezed. Both combatants’ faces turned beet red. The guide’s from the hands gripping his throat, and Williams’ from the adrenaline-fueled exertion, as he squeezed the life from the young man.
His voice was hoarse, as Charlie screamed, “No!”
The blade slipped from Sandro’s hand as he lost consciousness.
Jenkins and Jackson rushed over to Williams and dragged him from the young man, but Charlie knew it was too late. The color was fleeing the young guide’s face, as it turned a waxy pallor.
Before anyone could react, Williams shook loose the hands holding his jacket free and fetched the knife lying next to Sandro’s limp hand. He pushed Charlie to the ground and leaned over old, dazed Sanchez. With a steady hand that spoke of practice, he slit the old man’s throat.
“What the hell did you do that for?” Jenkins screamed. “We need him to get us out of here.”
Glowering at the forger, Williams reached into the old man’s jacket and fetched out a jingling pouch and threw it at Jenkins’ chest.
“You said we didn’t have enough money for passage to Charleston. Now we do.”
Chapter 2
1 September 1843
The dust cloud gradually dissipated as President Herrera's coach and armed escort returned south. Now that peace was at hand, the Mexican president raced south to put down a Centralist rebellion. Will Travers stood next to Lorenzo de Zavala, the president of Texas, until even the dust cloud disappeared.
Zavala was the first to break the silence. “Now that we’ve won the war, it’s time to focus on winning the peace, Buck. Let’s get out of the sun and discuss which units we can safely put on the road back to Texas.”
Buck? That wasn’t really his name, but he’d gone by it for more than seven years. Will Travers shook his head. Even all these years later he marveled how God or fate had taken an infantry grunt who was just doing his duty on a supply run in Iraq and dumped his mind and soul into the body of William Barret Travis a few weeks before history would have re
corded his death at the Alamo.
After all these years as William “Buck” Travis, so many of his past memories were hard to recall, but he’d grown used to that. The mind is a resilient thing, and Will had adjusted to his new world, even as thoughts of the world he had left behind faded from his conscious memory.
Will had put down roots in his new reality. He had taken responsibility for William Barret Travis’ young son, Charlie, who had been shipped off to Travis as part of a divorce settlement with his ex-wife from Alabama. He had also married his best friend’s daughter, Becky Crockett.
He turned to follow Zavala, and his heart felt like it was about to explode. He could scarcely believe David Crockett was dead. With no massacre at the Alamo, Crockett had gone on to become Texas’ first president in 1836. As commander of the small, professional army of Texas, Will worked closely with Crockett to stabilize the young republic. Will had only learned of Crockett's murder the day before, and he was still in shock. If anything could be worse, though, it was the news his son, Charlie had been kidnapped by the former president's murderers.
He didn’t want to deal with Zavala at the moment. He burned to know what happened to his son. But duty demanded he follow the president back into Saltillo’s governor’s palace.
Zavala led him into a small library he had taken as his office. Instead of books piled high, the desk was loaded down with reports and papers.
"I plan to head back to Austin within the next few days, Buck," Zavala said as he settled into his chair. "I'd like to get your thoughts about how large of an army we need to keep in Mexico. I'm not convinced Herrera will be able to push the treaty through as soon as I'd like. I want a physical reminder left behind of Mexico's obligation before withdrawing the entire army back. But heaven help us, we need to demobilize as many battalions as soon as possible."
Will wanted to scream. God and the kidnappers alone knew where Charlie was, and David was dead. Why didn’t Zavala understand that? He collapsed into the chair opposite from the president and shook his head. “I’ve got to find Charlie. I should have forced him to come home when I got his letter.”
Zavala shifted a stack of papers out of the way, clearing his line of sight. “Would it have changed anything? It’s hard to compel a young man of Charlie’s age from a thousand miles away.”
Will shrugged. "I don't know. But that doesn't matter. The only thing that does is finding him."
“Once things have settled down here, why don’t you detail a few of Hays’ boys to track down the kidnappers?”
Will winced. "That could take a while, sir. I can't imagine waiting for that. If anyone is going to find my boy, it's going to be me."
A look of alarm crossed Zavala's features. "We have men trained to follow Indians across the plains; I'm sure they are the sort who could track Charlie's abductors. Buck, I need you here."
“No, Lorenzo, you don’t. Not as much as Charlie needs me. Sidney can take over command of the troops here in Mexico and Ben can take the reserves back to Texas to be demobilized.” A. Sidney Johnston commanded the army’s 1st brigade while Ben McCulloch commanded the 2nd.
Zavala rose to his feet, "They're fine officers, but this is the army you built. As we absorb California, I want a strong hand overseeing military matters. You're that man."
Will shook his head. “God help Texas if I’m the only man who can command the army. Don’t sell Sid Johnston short. With your permission, let’s fetch him. I’d like his input on which battalions to keep here.”
A few minutes later, the brown-haired commander of the army’s 1st brigade leaned against one of the bookshelves. Will said, “Sid, we need a plan to return to the army to a peacetime footing. What are your thoughts?”
Johnston ran his finger down the leather spine of a book as he said, “There are more than ten thousand men active right now. If it were me, I’d demobilize in two stages. First, I’d send most of the 2nd brigade back to Texas. I’d demobilize the 5th, 8th, and 11th Infantry battalions once they’re back across the Rio Grande. I’d send the 2nd Cavalry back, too. That’s more than two thousand men.”
Zavala grimaced, “We need a lot more men back on the farms than just a couple of thousand, General. Can we cut anywhere else?”
Johnston said, “The 10th and the 12th Infantry are currently protecting our supply route back to the Alamo. We could shift the Ranger’s frontier battalion from Saltillo to cover the supply line between Monterrey and the Rio Grande. That’ll get you up to thirty-two hundred now.”
Begrudgingly, Zavala said, “I guess that’s a start.”
Will said, "Until the treaty's ratified we don't want to be unable to continue the war if it were necessary."
“Michel Menard is right,” Zavala said, “We’re balancing on a knife’s edge, and if we can’t find a way to get as many of our men back home and farming again, we run the risk of folks going hungry.”
Will could only nod. Menard was the Secretary of the Treasury. The former Quebecois had managed to keep the economy afloat, if just barely, during the war.
Zavala said, “That’ll get us started, but what about after the treaty has been signed? I don’t want us to fall into the same trap we found ourselves when General Woll invaded last year.”
Will glanced at Johnston and gave a slight nod.
“We trim down to two infantry battalions. Right now, the 1st and the 6th are made up entirely of regulars,” Johnston said. “I propose we keep them. We rebalance them, and we’ll have two units of eight companies each, about twelve-hundred men between them.
“I’d keep a single battalion each of cavalry and artillery. I was impressed with Hays’ special Ranger command, and I’d recommend we keep a company or two of them active. Currently, there are over six hundred men between the engineers and the quartermaster corps. We can probably reduce that to a couple of hundred.”
Johnston paused, his expression thoughtful. "That will reduce the army to brigade strength, around twenty-four hundred men."
“Will that be enough to cover our new territory?” Will said.
Johnston shrugged. “I can’t say for certain. I do know that, as of last year, the United States mustered less than six thousand regulars.”
Zavala interjected, “One thing I do know. Twenty-four hundred men will still put a sizable dent in the treasury.”
Will’s duty done, he said, “Mr. President, I told you Sidney was more than able to handle things. I know I’m leaving you with a capable commander to wind down the war and set the army on a peacetime footing.”
Johnston looked confused while Zavala was alarmed. He said, “The nation can’t afford to lose you, Buck!”
Will smiled sadly. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Lorenzo.” He dropped the formality of rank. As far as he was concerned, he was addressing an equal. “For the sake of my family, I resign my commission. I’ve got to find Charlie.”
***
He hadn’t stayed in his tent since the army arrived at Saltillo back in June. Will thought it best to give the president some space. He hadn’t taken Will’s resignation well. The side walls of the tent were rolled up, letting warm tendrils of air waft through. He sat at the cramped camp table, cleaning each piece of his revolver separately.
“Taking that peashooter with you?” Will looked up and saw Sid Johnston standing by the tent’s pole.
“I don’t fancy on remaining around for long. Is Lorenzo still spitting nails?”
Johnston sat on a cot and ran his fingers through his sweaty hair. “He’ll calm down. Eventually. I shouldn’t be surprised, Buck. I can’t imagine what I’d do if I found out my son had been taken.”
Will pursed his lips as he began reassembling the gun. “How is Preston?”
A smile lit Johnston’s tired face. “My sister says he’s growing like a weed. He’s already thirteen. I can scarcely believe it.”
He fished into his pocket and brought out a small metal case and handed it over. Will opened it and saw a solemn boy staring back at him
. Photo studios were becoming more popular in large cities across the United States. His heart threatened to break as he recalled the last night he had seen his own son. He handed the daguerreotype back to Johnston. "Fine boy you've got, Sid. You, of all people, should understand why I need to do this."
“Understand and agree, I just wish it wasn’t necessary,” Johnston said. He paused as he tucked the picture away. “With the war over, what were your plans for the gun works on the Trinity River?”
Will said, “According to the rolls there are more than twenty thousand men in the militia. If I were you, I’d keep the contracts coming. If war comes again, I’d like all of our men to have breechloaders. Beyond that, there are two other developments they’re working on worth following. They are trying to mechanize the production of brass cartridges. They've developed a new version of our revolver that uses them. The problem is that each round is handmade right now. They're horribly expensive. But if they can work the issues out and develop a cheap cartridge, you'd do well to convert the revolvers.
“The second item is one we’ve been playing very close to the vest. Near the gun works, we’re experimenting with nitrogenated cotton. The stuff’s explosive but unstable as hell. If Mr. Borden can stabilize it, it could transform all of our weapons,” Will said.
There was a noise from outside the tent. A moment later Major Jack Hays came through the opening, “General? You wanted to see me?”
"Jack, just the man I'm looking for," Will said with a weary grin.
“Uh-oh. That’s the look you’d give me when you were sending me and my Rangers on dangerous missions. Last I heard, the war’s over.”
Johnston stood and moved around Hays, heading out. “Major, make sure you tell General Travis goodbye.” With that, he started back toward town.
Hays colored at the comment. “I, ah, heard about your resignation, sir. I hate to see you leave, but I’d do the same thing in your shoes.”
Will’s smile widened. “I’m glad to hear that, Jack. I’d like for you to join me. I need steady men beside me, and there’s none better.”