In Harm's Way

by Drew McGunn

  “Reasons, yes. I figured you might have kicked up a catawampus with some abolitionists in the North. Hell, man, you’ve kidnapped the son of the biggest abolitionist in Texas. That’s no mean thing.”

  Jenkins’ studied look of confusion was replaced by alarm, “Shhh. Do you want our business to be the talk of Charleston today? We had a deal, sir. Will you honor it?”

  Lamont held a horse whip and used it to point at Jenkins. “My honor is good, Mr. Jenkins. Would that I could say the same about yours. You’ve flown a false flag, asking for sanctuary.”

  Jenkins became angry, “Don’t play that game with me, Mr. Lamont. I told you what you needed to know. What you didn’t know you couldn’t tell. Do we still have an understanding?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars? You’re a bold man. I’m of a mind to wish you well and send you on your way.”

  A calculating look came over Jenkins, “But you’ll not be doing that. How much?”

  “The reward must match the risk, which is great. I’ll shelter you and make sure the boy’s whereabouts remain secure.”

  “How much?”

  “Twenty-five thousand.”

  Jenkins cursed. “That’s highway robbery!”

  From his perch on the wagon’s seat, Lamont’s laughter sounded like a braying donkey. “That’s rich. Don’t talk to me of robbery, given your own sins. Take it or leave it.”

  “You’ve got me over a barrel, Mr. Lamont. But if our refuge is compromised, you’ll pay old scratch his due before us.”

  Lamont gave a single nod. “That won’t happen. My men will see to that. Load the boy in the second wagon. We’ve got a train to catch.”

  ***

  6 October 1843

  The port of Los Angeles didn’t look like much, Will thought. A single building was visible from the ship’s pilot house. From where he stood next to the ship’s wheel, the flag flying over the building was little more than a speck. Even though his time as general was over, he found himself wondering about what the 9th Infantry had been up to since arriving in California a few months earlier.

  David Crockett’s second-in-command, Major Henry McCulloch would be in charge of the 9th. If Crockett had followed the plan he created, the Major would command a force of seven or eight hundred men. Will would learn soon enough. The Mexican captain of the merchant schooner, Maria Teresa, was waiting for clearance to use the sole dock. Will and his party had brought their horses from Mazatlán. He was uncertain where the kidnappers had gone since leaving Los Angeles. The only report was a ship had taken them away, one step ahead of Crockett’s men. If the kidnappers were somewhere along the Pacific coast, better for Will’s men to keep their horses, he thought.

  As he waited for the port’s pilot to bring them permission to dock, Will looked over his men. Jesse Running Creek, the Spanish speaking Cherokee, was playing a card game with Jethro Elkins. A crutch lay beside the mustachioed Ranger. The tree which fell on his legs during the cyclone broke one of them. A doctor in Mazatlán had told them he was lucky it was a clean break. Once he had set it, he tied a splint around the break and told him to stay off it for a couple of months.

  Will’s instincts were focused on finding Charlie. An injured man, even one as resourceful as Elkins, was a liability. When he asked Lieutenant Morales about the care Elkins would receive, the former Cazadores officer said, “A Texian stranded here, once word of the peace treaty reaches Mazatlán, would face danger. Take him with us.”

  “Us?” Will asked. “You and Lobo’s assistance has been a blessing, Lieutenant. But you only agreed to travel with us to Mazatlán. You’ve done more than I could have asked.”

  Morales flushed at the compliment. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to continue.”

  “Why?”

  Morales picked his words with care, “Things here are likely to become uncertain. My men and I could be viewed as deserters if the government decided to make an issue of it. As interesting as it is traveling with you, it might still be safer than returning home.”

  Will smiled at the memory. Morales and Lobo were next to the gunwales amidships, fishing poles hanging over the railing. After fighting the Mexican army in a bitter contest for land, he still found the idea surreal that two of their party had once been part of General Almonte’s elite riflemen. But any doubts he possessed had been blown away on a washed-out trail east of Mazatlán.

  The last members of the party were overseeing the collection of gear on the deck. Sergeant Jensen and Ranger LeBlanc were collecting saddles and other accouterments from the hold. Over the past few weeks, Will had come to understand what Jack Hays saw in Sergeant Maartin Jenson. The old soldier was a steady hand. During the cyclone, the sergeant’s calm demeanor helped to steady all the men as they worked to free Elkins from under the tree.

  A boat bumped against the hull, a moment later the ship’s captain said, “We’re clear to dock, General.”

  A few hours later, Will stood outside the city attorney’s office, where Major McCulloch had established the office of military governor. A wooden shingle hung on the door. It read, Oficina de Síndico Procurador. At some point, someone had painted the text in gold leaf, which was now flaking. Below that, another shingle had been hung. In plain black ink, it read, Texas Military Governor.

  Will rapped on the door. Nothing. He knocked louder. Still, nothing. A moment later a soldier in the butternut uniform of the Texian army came around the corner of the building and stopped when he saw Will and his companions.

  Will didn’t recognize the private. The army had ballooned in size since the previous year. A thousand faces had been nearly impossible to recall, ten thousand would have required a miracle, and Will didn’t walk on water. “Where’s Major McCulloch?”

  The soldier eyed the men before him. Will had to concede, his volunteers were a motley crew. He and the Rangers wore the same uniform jacket as the private, but there the resemblance ended. Will’s once black wide-brimmed hat held little resemblance to its original regulation shape or color. The Rangers wore whatever headgear they had been able to find along the route as their hats fell apart. The former Cazadores had long since replaced their navy-blue jackets. In Mexico, it might have marked them as deserters or bandits, now in Texian California, it would have raised more questions than Will had the patience to answer.

  “Uh, he expecting you?”

  The thirst for information about Charlie’s kidnappers made Will’s temper short. He snapped, “Fetch him now. Tell him General William Travis is waiting on him.”

  The private stared at Will for several seconds before deciding the situation was above his pay grade, and said, “Yes, sir.”

  Minutes passed. Will was pacing in front of the office, battling his impatience when an officer came around the corner. Will’s eyes fell on the shoulder strap, where he saw the golden oak leaf. “Major McCulloch?”

  The clean-shaven major bore a passing resemblance to his brother, Brigadier General Ben McCulloch, whom Will knew well. “General Travis,” McCulloch’s voice held a note of uncertainty, “I thought you were down south in Mexico.”

  Will struggled to put a smile on his face as he mentally tamped down his impatience. “Some bastards have kidnapped my son and killed my father-in-law, Major.” Will nodded toward the door, “Why don’t you offer a bit of Texian hospitality and we can talk.”

  Blushing, McCulloch unlocked the office. Will accepted a glass of an amber liquid as he settled into a chair. He took a sip, and the fiery liquor burned his throat. “What can you tell me of the attack on my father-in-law?”

  McCulloch said, “We’re not really sure what to make of it, sir. The party that killed the president had their hands in forged land titles. Mostly petty stuff like that. I looked around the room where President Crockett was killed, and I have to tell you, I’m not sure they went in to kill him.”

  Will set the glass down after a second sip, “Are you saying they were trying to capture him?”

  “No. President Cro
ckett was beaten pretty bad before he was shot. I think your son was the target.”

  Will felt like a stake had been driven through his heart. “My son? What the hell would a group of forgers want with Charlie? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  McCulloch dipped his head, “Oh, I agree. No matter how much it doesn’t make any sense, it’s where the arrow keeps pointing. We interviewed several Californios who saw the bandits rowing out to a ship in the bay. They saw a youth with a burlap bag over his head being manhandled by the men who killed the president. Can you think of any reason they’d want to kidnap your son?”

  Will’s shoulders sagged, “Since I first read your report, I’ve been wracking my brain, why anyone would want to hurt Charlie unless they’re trying to get to me?”

  “Colonel Crockett said you made a few enemies when you all were putting together the constitution. Quite a few of the delegates favored more protections for our peculiar institution. You’ve got your share of enemies.”

  “Robert Potter and James Collinsworth may be ardent supporters of slavery, but both of them had managed to work with David when they were in Congress. They might hate me, but kidnapping Charlie like they’re some kind of Comanche Warband isn’t their style.”

  “Hold on,” McCulloch said. “Why do the Comanche kidnap folks?”

  Will shrugged, “I suppose to expand their tribe or to extract a ransom from us.”

  McCulloch’s chuckle held no warmth. “I think we can dispense with the first. But what if the purpose is to ransom the boy?”

  For a moment, Will hated the young major. The idea of Charlie being a pawn to get at Will had been his greatest fear. Hearing McCulloch put words to that fear scared him. The plains tribes, like the Comanche or the Apache, had kidnapped to expand the tribe or to extort a ransom. In the years since his transference, he had never heard of a child being abducted by white renegades. Gangs kidnapping for ransom was a twentieth-century crime.

  Will rested his head in his hands as he was forced to accept the probability of the reason for the kidnapping. “Dear God, how do I get him back?” Was it a prayer or a question? Even Will couldn’t answer.

  “I don’t know if this will help,” ventured McCulloch. “The Orion is a merchant schooner that has sailed a Pacific route between Panama City and San Francisco for a few years now. Captain Palmer commands the ship.”

  Will perked up at the news. “That’s something. Has anyone seen Palmer or his ship?”

  The major spread his hands, “No one has passed anything along to me, yet. But this morning a ship has anchored in the harbor, a US warship. The USS Cyane. Talk to the captain before you plan your next step.”

  The next morning, Will climbed onto the deck of the USS Cyane. Captain Thomas Jones stood aft of the ship’s wheel, “You asked to speak with me?”

  For the first time since his transference into the body of William Barret Travis, Will stood on US territory. After seven long years, he was surprised by his own indifference. Fleetingly, he recalled a conversation he’d had with the driver of the Humvee while they’d been driving in convoy in Iraq. He had told his driver, he’d love to see what Texas would have looked like if it had never joined the United States.

  As he strode across the deck, he stifled a smile. Things for an independent Texas were certainly looking up. Then the idea of Charlie being forced into a boat focused his attention on the reason for his visit. “Captain Jones, my name is William Travis. Major McCulloch indicated you might have news of a ship called the Orion.”

  The naval captain’s eyes widened at Will’s name before he grimaced. “Nasty business that. We heard about Davy Crockett’s death. You’re looking for your boy?”

  The irony that his father-in-law had hated being called Davy wasn’t lost on Will. But he suspected the legends that had been common in the world Will knew from his own childhood would pale in comparison to how Texas would eventually eulogize the first president of the Republic.

  “Yes. What word do you have of the Orion?”

  Captain Jones’ eyes swept toward the open water beyond the bay, “Before putting into port here, we patrolled up the coast all the way up to Port George, where we showed the flag to John Bull. I made a note in the ship’s log of all ships we’ve seen, and we haven’t seen that one in several months.”

  Will was alarmed by the news, “What does that mean? Did they go into hiding?”

  Jones wagged his head, “Not likely. While there are a dozen rivers a ship could go up, there’s nothing up those rivers other than a few fur trading camps. Have you considered Panama City as a place your son’s captors may have gone? It’s the quickest way back east.”

  Will wanted nothing more than to scream in rage at the men who kidnapped his son. All he could do was shake his head. “Not yet. I guess I’ll head that way next.”

  Will turned to leave, but a word from Jones stopped him. “If I might, General Travis.” Will wore no markings on the well-worn butternut jacket of his former rank. The American officer chuckled at Will’s surprised look. “What American hasn’t heard of the victor of the Battle of the Rio Grande?”

  Will smiled ruefully as Jones guided him to the ship’s port side. “In the past when we put in here, we’d routinely refill our water-casks under the watchful eyes of the Mexican garrison. A bit of silver traded hands, and both governments officially looked away. Now that California is under new governance, I wonder if I might offer something a bit more valuable than a bit of silver for water.” The officer paused for what Will thought might be dramatic effect, “My patrol route usually takes me down to the isthmus of Panama. If it would help your quest, I’d happily give up space on my ship for you and your companions in exchange for water.”

  Will was stunned by the offer. While Texas had enjoyed excellent relations with the United States since before the Clay administration, he hadn’t expected such a proposal.

  “How will you explain that to your superiors?”

  “If they even bother asking, I’ll just tell them the truth. I was assisting you in hunting down pirates.”

  Will blinked back tears. The offer nearly overwhelmed him. He had worried about how to get on the kidnappers’ trail, and Captain Jones offered what he considered a fair trade. Despite a voice brimming with emotion, he said, “Thank you.”

  Chapter 7

  Charlie shifted in his seat. His backside was sore from the six hours on the train. He felt as if the walls of the passenger railcar were closing in on him as he was squeezed between Jackson and Jenson on the narrow wooden bench. The seating arrangement wasn’t of his choosing, but it beat sitting next to Williams. He’d prefer being thrown into the locomotive’s firebox than sitting next to the vicious man.

  He closed his eyes and the image of being thrown into the firebox, added to the continuous rocking motion of the railcar lulled him into a stupor. He dreamed he was one of the three children of Israel being cast into the mighty furnace because he refused to bow down and worship Nebuchadnezzar's golden idol. In the dream, the fire licked around his feet, and he turned and looked at the Babylonian king. Leering back at him was Hiram Williams. “Burn, boy! You’ll burn before your pa comes for you!”

  Charlie jolted awake and looked around the car. Williams was across the aisle, looking out the window at farmland passing by. “Watch it, kid.” Jackson edged away. Charlie sucked in a large gulp of air. “It was just a dream.” Only a dream? The furnace's heat had seemed so real, at least until Williams appeared. He shuddered at the memory.

  Coming down the aisle was Jason Lamont, “Train’ll be in Columbia in a few minutes. Once the slaves have unloaded the supplies, we’ll be on our way.”

  Charlie heard the squeak of the iron wheels as the train slowed. The teenager leaned forward and looked out the window. He saw tall wooden poles, evenly spaced every so often. He recognized them. He had seen them first when he was still little, running around the Alamo, back when his Uncle Davy had agreed to be an incubator for Samuel Morse’s new telegra
ph. Nowadays, the wires connected San Antonio to Austin. It looked like the inventor’s technology was quickly following the railroads.

  “End of the line,” the conductor said as he swayed down the aisle. “If you leave anything behind, you’ve contributed to the South Carolina Railroad Conductors’ pension fund.”

  Once the train lurched to a stop, Charlie was hustled from the train by his captors. His skin crawled when he heard Williams voice softly in his ear. “Make a noise, and I’ll open you like a gutted deer.”

  Despite the fear Williams tried to instill in Charlie, what the boy could see of the city from the railroad platform looked nothing like San Antonio. He was used buildings clad in brown adobe. Clapboard and red brick buildings sprawled away from the station. The town, while not any more significant than San Antonio, felt different. San Antonio’s architecture borrowed heavily from its Spanish colonial past, while Columbia carried a hint of self-awareness at its status as the capital of the Palmetto state.

  Another difference was the sheer number of slaves. He was fifteen, and no stranger to slavery. As men had immigrated to the western parts of Texas, a few had brought their slaves with them. As one member of their congregation had told his pa, “A gentleman needs his servants.” Even then, slaves were a small part of San Antonio’s population.

  Columbia was a different world. Other than a few men, like Jason Lamont, who watched over the men unloading the wagons from the freight cars, nearly everyone on the platform was black.

  Before long, Zebulon thrust Charlie into one of the wagons, and he heard whips crack over the backs of the mules. The heavy wagon pitched forward, and the boy barely avoided falling into Jackson, who sat beside him.

  After he righted himself, he leaned against the side of the wagon and looked at the land they passed through. Townhomes gave way to small farms. Charlie watched families working to get in the harvest. On some farms, he saw the farmers and their families working alongside slaves. The further away from town the wagons rolled, the larger the farms became.