by Drew McGunn
Realizing he had been woolgathering, Jenkins said, “Can you find us a place for a few days? Just long enough for me to contact some friends of mine.”
“I’m sure something can be arranged,” Hamilton said. “For the right price.”
Chapter 5
1 October 1843
“Don’t that beat all?” Andy Berry said as he and Gail Borden entered Borden’s laboratory. “How many orders did we take for the NPC?”
Borden cocked his head? “NPC?”
“Nitrogenated processed cotton. But that’s a mouthful.”
Borden set the booklet of orders on a table and chuckled. Over the past few months, the twenty-seven-year-old son of John Berry had turned into a valuable, if infrequent, assistant. Usually, he worked at the Trinity Gun Works, just a few hundred yards away from Borden's lab. Berry's interest in his gun-cotton experiments had led the younger man to experiment with using the explosive in the rifles his family produced for the army.
A few months before, it had led the young man to create a small bomb which he detonated under a stump. Despite the instability of the nitrogenated gun cotton, Berry's test had revealed a commercial use for the explosive. According to the Texas Land Bank, more than two million acres were under cultivation across East Texas. Clearing a field involved the time-intensive labor to remove stumps. The larger the tree, the more likely a stump became an obstacle a farmer just worked around.
He must have said that aloud. Berry nodded. "Not anymore. For a few dollars, a farmer can buy enough NPC and blow that stump to hell and gone."
In the back of his mind, Borden worried about the military application of the new explosive. Now, it was merely a new product sold to farmers and miners. But in time, there was no doubt they would harness the explosive as a weapon. He tuned out Berry, who was talking about the demonstration earlier that day as well as the money and the orders collected afterward. The entire enterprise had been started from a mishap in a hospital when his friend, Ashbel Smith, had accidentally mixed nitric and sulfuric acids together. The rag he had used to clean up the mess had spontaneously exploded after it dried. The results were too significant not to pursue, but with the army preparing to march into Mexico, Smith had enlisted Borden’s help in experimenting with the unstable mixture.
Berry's words cut through, "Mr. Borden, I'm still not sure how we're going to take the next steps. I've taken the milled powder from the gun cotton and experimented with our rifles, but nothing I've done, from cutting the loads to putting them in metal cartridges has made a difference. Eventually, the stress on the rifle is too great."
Berry had been complaining of this issue since shortly after the first milled gun-cotton. Borden said, “Your iron is too weak. What are you doing to strengthen it?”
Berry set the papers down and used the table as a seat, “We melt the iron ore down and then use the water-powered hammers to hammer out the steel and then rollers to mold the iron into the barrels and other metal parts for each gun. Then we use the machines to drill the barrels and rifle them, as well as to cut the individual metal parts. We’d need to change the process to get stronger metal.”
Borden tilted his head in agreement. “How?”
“Damned if I know. But it’s something I’ll discuss with our other gunsmiths. The method we use to roll our iron isn’t the only method out there.”
The laboratory was well illuminated, with windows every few feet on the walls. It saved on the amount of oil used to light the lamps. Borden crossed over to the nearest window. An extensive clearing ran between the lab and the test range. A tarp covered a large gun. "What about the artillery? Any luck with our gun cotton yet?"
Berry joined him and looked at the covered gun. “You know the reason General Travis bought all of the army’s field guns from the United States?”
When Borden shook his head, he continued, “as early as last year there were no cannon makers west of the Mississippi.” He pointed to the gun. “Not anymore.”
Having read about Mexican artillery in the recent war, Borden said, “Mexico had several hundred guns. Surely they have some manufacturing?”
Berry laughed derisively. "Either left over from their days under Spain or imported from England. John Bull was happy to sell all that surplus equipment they didn't need after they sent Napoleon into exile. Most of the guns were worn from heavy use before the Mexicans ever put it into service."
Berry continued, “That’s the fourth gun we’ve cast here. Its bored for three-inch ordinance. It’s the first gun we’ve manufactured I’ve succeeded at using the milled NPC in.”
Arching his eyebrows, Borden said, “Really? How many rounds?”
Berry grinned like a little boy giving away a secret, “Over a hundred.”
“Bless my soul,” Borden said. “What about the other three guns?”
Berry’s voice turned sheepish. “We melted them down for their bronze after they blew up.”
***
A few days later in San Antonio
Becky stared at the shopping list. If she could find everything on it, she might avoid the need to venture onto Alameda Street for a bit. She shifted the baby from one hip to the other while her toddler, Liza pulled on her dress.
“Missus Becky, why don’t you hand little Davy to me?” Henrietta, following a pace behind with a burlap bag in hand, offered. The little boy was still a couple of months shy of his first birthday, but like all Travis men, she thought, he was big for his age.
With an apologetic smile, she handed him over. “Thanks.”
As she walked along the dusty street, she thought about the change Will had made to her life. She had grown up in western Tennessee among hard-working farmers and frontiersmen. Very few of her neighbors had been able to own a slave. Who had three hundred dollars to buy one?
She glanced back at Henrietta and realized how much she missed Will. He had employed the freedwoman before Becky had married him and she had learned of his disdain for the South's peculiar institution. To a young woman from hardscrabble Tennessee, his views were an oddity, but as she became familiar with Henrietta, not merely as a worker, but as a person, Becky began to appreciate Will's views.
She found herself standing before a sturdy brick building, one of the first red-bricked ones in a town full of brown adobe. A sign overhead declared it to be the San Antonio branch of the Commerce Bank. Will had partnered with some financier from Galveston named Williams to establish the first private bank in Texas a few years earlier. From the lone office on Galveston Island, it had grown to several more branches across the Republic, in Houston, San Antonio, and Austin.
As she led her little troop into the bank, her eyes took a moment to adjust. Sitting in a chair, next to the door was a guard. That was new. Slowly men were trickling back into jobs across the country as militia and reserve units were demobilized. He tipped his hat to her.
“Mrs. Travis!” a voice from within the gloom called out, “welcome. What can I do for you?”
As her eyes finished adjusting, she saw an older gentleman standing behind the counter. Iron bars ran from the countertop to the ceiling. “Mr. Higgins, how are you?”
“I’ve been worse. My rheumatiz is acting up again. Wouldn’t be surprised if we get a norther afore long. Would you like to deposit the general’s pay?”
Becky put on a brave face. "I'm afraid the general has resigned. Our son, Charlie, is in a spot of trouble, and Will has gone to fetch him."
The teller reached his gnarled hand through the bars and placed it gently on her own. "I'd heard about your son, ma'am. My Martha told me that she and her friends were praying for him. I'll make sure she knows the general needs their prayers, too."
“I need to withdraw our funds,” Becky said.
“Would that be five or ten dollars?”
Becky’s eyes widened, “We’ve got plenty in the account. Why so little?”
“I’m expecting more money to come from Galveston shortly, ma’am. But for the next few days, we’re
limiting withdrawals so that folks with accounts still have access to some of their deposited money.”
Shocked, Becky said, “What has happened, Mr. Higgins? You’ve never been short of money before.”
The old man blushed. Then he said to the guard, “Pete, close the door and lock it.” Once Becky heard the lock snick into place, he continued, “I really shouldn’t say anything, but seeing as your husband is the bank’s largest shareholder, I suppose you should know. Mr. Williams has been using some of the deposits to buy the government war bonds. In the past, he’s been able to borrow directly from the Commodities Bureau if capital ran short. But now that the war is as good as over, the Secretary of the Treasury, Menard, won’t extend new loans.”
Horrified by the news, Becky said, “What is Mr. Williams going to do about this? I need to feed my children.”
Higgins quailed before her as her voice rose. “Now, Mrs. Travis, you can withdraw ten dollars today, and next week, another ten if the bank’s capital situation hasn’t improved. But rest assured, once this matter is resolved, you’ll have access to the entire balance.”
Becky shook her head as tears ran unbidden down her cheeks. She took the money and hurried away.
That evening, after she had bathed and put the children to bed, Becky sat at the dinner table. Her mother sat at one end, and Henrietta sat at the other end. A pot of coffee and several mugs were in the center. Around her, Becky had spread Will's ledger of the family's expenses, bills, and receipts.
“It’s late, Becky, why don’t we send Henrietta home?” said Elizabeth.
Becky shook her head, “This concerns Hatti, too.” She turned to the freedwoman, “I’d like it if you’d stay, but the choice is yours.”
Henrietta smiled shyly and retrieved a mug and poured herself a cup of coffee. "Thank you, Missus Becky. I'd like to stay. Joe's been running supplies out to Ysleta, and it's just me at home. What y’all decide’s gonna matter to me.”
Becky picked up a mug and hid her smile behind it. Her mother had taken Will's views on slavery in her stride, but folks had their places, and she was a bit put out that Becky had included Henrietta like an equal.
“I’ve been looking over our expenses, and frankly I’m worried sick. The bank is short of money, and I honestly don’t know when we’ll get the money in the account. I’ve pulled the money from the egg jar and added it to the pittance from the bank. We’ve only got forty dollars to make it until the bank decides to provide a few more breadcrumbs.”
She lowered her head into her hands and cried. “Oh, God, how I miss Will.”
Her mother reached across the table and took her hand, “We’ll manage. We Crockett women always have. Lord love your pa, but my David didn’t know how to manage money, and as God is my witness, I managed to keep a roof over your heads when you and your brother and sister were young. We’ll make do.”
Henrietta nodded, "Amen."
Becky tried to smile through the tears. “Between our food, the note Will’s been paying on this house, the cost of liverying our horses, clothes for the children and wages,” she paused as she waved her hand over the bills and in a stereotypical Crockett way, said, “we’ve got too much month at the end of our money.”
Elizabeth said, “How much gets paid to livery the horses?”
Becky sorted through a stack of receipts until she found the one for which she was looking. She whistled appreciatively, "Ma, we're in the wrong profession. We're paying Señor Lopez twenty dollars each month to stable two horses."
“Land’s sake. That’s highway robbery.”
Until she and the children had been deprived of Will's army pay, it hadn't seemed significant at all. His salary was more than three hundred dollars each month. He used some of it to supplement the officers' mess, but most of it was used to support Becky and the children.
Henrietta earned twenty dollars per month. Becky had long thought it was a generous salary for a freedwoman, but the wage had been agreed to by Will before their marriage, and the truth was, she earned every penny.
Becky mused, “I wonder what kind of a price Señor Lopez would give us if we sold him one of the horses?”
“A good horse would fetch more than a hundred dollars,” Elizabeth said. “But what would Will say if you do it?”
Without batting an eye, Becky said, “He’d want me to take care of our family, Ma. If I have to sell the horses or even the house, so that we have a place to sleep and my babies have food in their bellies, he’d tell me well done.”
Elizabeth gave a sharp look at the end of the table, where both women had heard another faint, “Amen.” It was all Becky could do to keep from laughing.
Before her mother could respond, Becky said, “Will’s got investments and money tied up in that farm on the Trinity River. I’ll send a letter and ask about any payments he may be due.”
Forgetting her displeasure, Elizabeth said, “Will’s been a general since the end of the revolution. Surely the military owes him a pension now. I can think of several men in Austin you could ask”
Becky’s eyes lit up, “Oh, Ma, you’re right. I’m sure Will’s got friends that could help me get his pension.” She smacked her hand on the table, making the other women jump in surprise. “Once we sell one of the horses, I’ll take the stage to Austin and ask for Señor Seguin’s help.”
Elizabeth reached over and rested her hand on Becky’s, “I’ll pray that Erasmo can help, dear.”
From the other end of the table, Henrietta echoed, “Amen.”
Chapter 6
5 October 1843
Charlie scratched at the bandage around his neck. Elizondo Jackson had told him the wound would itch as it healed. As if he needed anything else over which to resent his kidnappers, the only doctoring that was done to the gash on his neck was provided by Jackson.
While the half-breed had cleaned the cut, he had told Charlie, “I’ve cut myself worse shaving.” The worst of the doctoring had come when he had poured whiskey into the wound, and that, only after he had given the boy several swigs of the potent liquor. Charlie had writhed in pain, clenching his teeth on a small wooden dowel. He hadn’t been in a forgiving mood when his captor had said, “I’ve patched all of us up at one time or another. If it makes you feel better, I’ve stitched up Hiram more than the rest of us combined.”
The other men had been preparing to leave the ship when they had come into Charleston harbor. Charlie had been alone with Jackson. Generally guarded around his kidnappers, the whiskey must have had an effect on him, “I hate him so much. I wish he was dead.”
“Get in line, kid. He’s a mean one. Try to stay clear of him while this is healing.”
Ten days later and Charlie had to admit, Jackson seemed to have done a tolerable job on stitching him up. Staying clear of Williams was harder to do. Charlie was convinced the little gambler enjoyed tormenting him whenever there was an opportunity. But since they had been taken in by an old associate of Williams, Charlie had shared a small room with Jackson and Jenkins, and his dealings with Williams had been blessedly few.
The door swung open, and Jenkins came in. Jackson set a carving he had been working on down. “Any luck?”
Charlie felt the older man’s eyes fall on him for a moment and saw a look of calculation before he responded, “Finally. Hiram found Jason this morning at the docks. Said he’d been waiting on some furniture for Saluda Groves to come in. He’ll be heading back tomorrow, and we’ll join him.”
Jackson went back to his carving, but stopped as a fleck of wood fell on the floor, “How many days till we get there?”
Another glance at Charlie and Jenkins shook his head, “I’ll tell you later.”
The next morning Charlie was jolted awake by the slamming of a door, and then Williams and Zebulon crowded into the room. Williams said, “Mr. Lamont’s ready. He’s got his wagons close at hand.”
Williams gave him an evil grin as he strode over to the sleeping mat and jerked Charlie up by his collar. His han
ds brushed against the bandages around his neck, and a wave of pain and nausea washed over him.
“Not a word, boy. I’ll finish what I started if you’re louder than a church mouse.”
As the pain subsided, he found Jackson holding him up on the other side. “What the hell would you know of a church mouse, Hiram? The last time you went to church, you stole the communion set and locked the priest in the confessional.”
Williams flashed a smile, “He had it coming.”
Manhandled by the two men, Charlie was hustled out of the room and outside. The road was dark. The good folk of Charleston saw no reason to place street lamps along a stretch of road with such run-down houses.
Two large freight wagons filled the road. Atop the first sat a well-dressed man of middle years. Next to him sat a man whose skin was dark as coal. Another white man sat on the second wagon’s seat. He wasn’t as well dressed as the first. Another black man was perched next to him.
Jenkins waved, “Morning, Jason. Ready to roll?”
The well-dressed man said, “There’s been a change of plans, Obadiah. We’ll take the train to Columbia. I don’t fancy being on the road with you and your cargo for the next ten days.”
Jenkins appeared confused, “What cargo?”
“The boy. Last night a schooner put in from New Orleans. Seems someone’s been holding out on me.”
While he detested Jenkins for the horror of the past couple of months, Charlie begrudgingly admired the staged look of confusion Jenkins wore. “I’ve done nothing of the sort, Mr. Lamont. I told you we needed a place where folks didn’t cotton to abolitionist views, where we’d be safe. Surely you understood a need such as ours had its reasons.”