by Drew McGunn
The road ran through one such farm. A whitewashed railing ran along both sides of the lane and slaves were hard at work in the field. There were men, women, and children and each had a burlap bag tied to the waist. They slowly walked along the rows of cotton, picking bolls, and stuffing them in the bag.
A horse cantered up to the wagon. Jason Lamont said to Jenkins, who was sitting on the bench, “Some of the best farmland in the Midlands, and it’s mine.”
He pointed to the fields, “All that cotton, it’s mine too. All them niggers, they’re also mine. Everything you see around you is mine. I’ve got the power to keep you safe from any outside interference while arranging things with General Travis.”
Charlie was bone tired from the long day spent on the railroad and then on the wagons, but he tried to stay awake as he recalled the moment when Lamont had taken them to the slaves’ quarters and pointed to an empty cabin, “You and your prisoner will stay there for now.”
Jenkins had been too stunned to respond, and now after several slaves had cleaned the cabin, he said, “Damn him if he thinks he can treat us like this and still demand half the ransom.”
Jackson looked around the room, “Well, Ob, it ain’t as bad as those little rooms onboard the boats.”
Jackson dodged the thrown hat. “It’s the principal of the matter, Eli. Lamont’s saying we’re no better than the darkies working in his field.”
Charlie retreated from the men to a pallet on the dirt floor. “No,” he thought, as he wrapped a threadbare woolen blanket around him, “these poor wretched slaves are far better than you’ll ever be.” Exhausted, he fell asleep.
***
20 September 1843
The bells in the tower of San Fernando were chiming noon as Becky and Elizabeth left the Methodist church with Liza in tow and little David asleep in Becky’s arms. The worst of summer was over; the temperature was only warm, instead of scorching hot. Even so, dust swirled around the hem of her dress as she walked down the street.
“Pastor Calvert was on fire today,” Elizabeth said as she guided the eighteen-month-old toddler along the road.
“True, but I enjoy it more when he talks about love. Repentance is all well and good, Mother, but the folks most in need of that sermon don’t usually darken the door of the church.”
Elizabeth scooped up Liza as the little girl tried to run toward a horse tied to a hitching post. “I thought it was nice the pastor prayed for Charlie’s safe return.”
Becky bobbed her head as David stirred. “I’ll be all the happier when Will and Charlie return.”
She stopped in her tracks as they drew even with the Commerce Bank. The doors were closed tight, but something white caught her eye. “Hold on.”
With that, she stepped over to the doors and read the note posted on the window. A moment later, she slowly returned to her mother, tears running down her face. “Lord have mercy. I wish to God, the pastor had said a prayer for us. The bank’s closed all next week.”
Later, when they had returned home, while they were preparing dinner, Elizabeth said, “There’s not enough money next month for you to pay Hatti’s wage. What are you going to do?”
Becky set a knife down on the table where she had been slicing a loaf of bread Henrietta had made the previous day. “Again? Ma, If she were working today would you say anything? I’m not going to get rid of her. Her husband is hundreds of miles away, delivering supplies to our soldiers out west. She needs this job as much as we need her help.”
“Where are we going to find the money? With the bank’s closure, we ain’t got two pennies to rub together.”
Becky giggled, “Balderdash. Ain’t none of us going to go hungry, at least not this week.”
Elizabeth smiled sheepishly. “You know what I mean. You need to make some hard decisions and do it soon.”
Becky placed a thick slice of bread, smothered in a jam in front of Liza. “I know. I’m of a mind to talk to Mr. Garza at the stables about buying one of the horses. You said a good one would sell for a hundred dollars or more. If I can get close to that, we’ll have enough money to weather the next month or two. Will should be back by then.”
Elizabeth said, “Heavens, if I had a dollar for every time I thought David would come through the door, I’d be richer than the queen of England.”
Becky teared up. The last thing she could imagine was Will staying gone longer than necessary. Despite her husband’s duty in the army, he had been everything she could have wished. When in San Antonio he had spent as much time at home as his responsibilities allowed. The tears overflowed and ran down her cheeks.
“Oh, dear. As much as your Will doted on my David, the two men are as different as they can be, Becky,” Elizabeth said when she saw the tears flow. “Your man will be home as soon as possible.”
Becky dabbed her eyes. She smiled through her tears, “I know, Ma. But until then, we have to soldier on. Tomorrow, I’ll go see Mr. Garza and see if he can give us a fair price on one of the horses. Once that’s done, I’ll go visit Señor Seguin. I’ll get Will’s pension paid, and we’ll manage until he returns.”
***
Becky took the carpetbag from the stagecoach driver with a murmured, “Thank you,” and hurried toward the hotel. With every step, her relief increased. How Will managed to travel so much was a mystery to her. Twelve hours of hell is what she thought of it. There were six seats in the coach, and all of them were occupied. Most of her fellow travelers had been pleasant or aloof. Either was okay with her. The husband and wife Baptist missionaries had been chatty. Overly much, in Becky’s opinion. A young officer from the Alamo garrison had also been onboard. If he had said more than a dozen words the entire trip she hadn’t heard them.
The fifth passenger had been an elderly clerk returning to Austin. He had alternated between taciturn and conversational. He had eventually explained he had been auditing the Alamo garrison’s finances for the Treasury Department. “Quite boring,” he had said. “It only gets interesting when I find irregularities. A shame, really.”
The sixth passenger was a young Tejano. He was well-dressed and carried himself with the confidence of a Hidalgo. Too much confidence in Becky’s opinion. He had been as talkative as the missionaries. She had tired quickly of conversation when the young man had started trying to talk to her and ignoring their other traveling companions.
Now, as she reached for the door handle, another hand brushed by hers and grabbed the knob, “Allow me, bonita señorita.”
Becky was tired after so long in the coach. She had had enough of his unwanted fawning. “Manners be damned.”
“That is señora. Señora Travis.” With that, she hurried through the door.
As the door jingled closed, she heard, “The pleasure was mine, bonita señora.”
She ripped the pen from the hotel clerk’s hand and scrawled her name on the registry. With more heat in her voice than she realized, she said, “I sent a telegraph. A room reserved for Mrs. William Travis.”
When she heard the tremor in the clerk’s voice, “Y-yes, ma’am,” Becky realized the young Tejano had gotten under her skin, and she was taking her temper out on man behind the counter.
She took a deep breath and calmed her nerves. When she took the offered key, she gave an apologetic smile before climbing the stairs to her room.
The next morning after a tiring night of tossing and turning in an unfamiliar bed, she ate in the inn’s common room with the other folks staying there. Although breakfast didn’t measure up to Henrietta’s cooking, she felt better than she had since leaving San Antonio the previous day when she stood outside the modest, wooden-framed building housing the Commodities Bureau.
While the building’s window panes were spotless, the whitewashing on the building’s siding was graying with age and was starting to flake under the hot, Texas sun. Stifling an uneasy feeling, she stepped onto the porch and entered the building. There were two desks in the narrow lobby, one on each side of the room. At one sa
t a man in civilian clothes, with a pair of pistols at his waist. His right leg was propped on the desk, wrapped in heavy bandages. He wore a badge on his chest. It was a circle, about the size of a Mexican peso. Within the circle was a five-pointed star. Becky nodded in the guard’s direction. She had heard the Zavala administration had taken one of the Ranger companies on the frontier with the Comanche and had tasked them with policing the western settlements, like Austin. The Ranger dipped his head, “Ma’am.”
A clerk sat at the other desk, “Mrs. Travis?” The clerk’s mustache drooped, as though tired. Becky thought the hangdog appearance of his facial hair matched the dark circles under his eyes.
A moment later, he escorted her into a large room that took up the rest of the building. In the back corner sat a gray-haired man, hunched over a desk, reading. “Señor Seguin. Mrs. Travis to see you.”
Becky studied the man she was there to see. Erasmo Seguin, at sixty-one, wore his gray hair long. It brushed the top of his shoulders. He kept his gray beard neatly trimmed. When he stood, she noticed he was more stooped than the last time they had met.
But his voice was as sonorous as ever, “Rebecca, child, I’m glad to see you again.”
His wide-open arms welcomed her, and she gave him a hug before she took a seat before his desk. “Señor Seguin, I’m grateful for your time,” she started. She settled into the hardbacked chair and launched into her reason for the meeting. “Until Will returns with Charlie, we’re hard-pressed right now.”
Seguin leaned forward and patted her arm in a fatherly way. “My Maria and I say prayers and light candles for your husband and son at Mass every time we go. I thought Will would make sure to provide for his family. How is it you find yourself hard-pressed?”
“We had more than enough to see us through, but the Commerce Bank held nearly all our money. It has been two weeks since their office in San Antonio has been open. Mr. Higgins has assured other people with accounts and me that our money is still there and safe, but that doesn’t feed my children.”
Seguin frowned, “I thought Will was the primary stockholder. Did this Mr. Higgins say why your money wasn’t available?”
Tears were building in Becky’s eyes as she explained how Will’s partner had invested much of the bank’s deposits in war bonds and that the Treasury Department was refusing to loan the bank any money.
Seguin stood and began pacing, “This is worse than I feared. Michel told me he was limiting any loans from the treasury now that the war is effectively over. I had no idea that the Commerce Bank had been using people’s deposits to buy bonds.”
He stopped his pacing and said, “I should have, I suppose. The war has been more expensive than I could have imagined. The treasury department wasn’t able to pay for our army as taxes slowed with so many men away from their homes. We issued war bonds to raise the money. A few months before your husband’s victory over Santa Anna we faced a crisis in selling the bonds. Our foreign bondholders were asking for steep discounts and high-interest rates. To stop the certificates from being devalued Mr. Williams bought several hundred thousand dollars in bonds. But I hadn’t realized he was using his depositors’ money. I thought it was investment capital.”
“But why can’t we get our money now?” Tears ran unbidden down Becky’s cheek.
Seguin perched on the desk, “I warned Monsieur Menard his decision to stop loaning money would have a far-reaching impact on merchants and bankers who relied on treasury certificates.”
It was clear Erasmo Seguin had already spoken to the Secretary of the Treasury about the problem resulting in the Commerce Bank’s cash on hand. She still had one arrow in her quiver. “I’m sorry to hear about that. But what about my husband’s pension?”
Despite Seguin’s swarthy complexion, she saw his cheeks redden, as he became flushed, “I wish I had a better answer, Rebecca, but Lorenzo and Congress have suspended cash payments of pensions. Men who are owed their pensions can receive a grant of land for their service. I’d need to find out how much land Will’s pension would amount to.”
Crestfallen, Becky said, “More land ain’t going to feed my babies. We need access to the pension the country owes my husband. Surely, there’s something you can do to help us claim it.”
There was sadness in the eyes of the director of the Commodities Bureau when he spread his empty hands, “I’m sorry, Rebecca. The government’s cupboard is bare. But Will is like family. I’m glad to give you enough money until he returns.”
Becky stood, tears streaking down her face, “Thank you, but I’ll not be taking charity, even from you, Señor Seguin.”
She turned and hurried out, running by engraving plates and currency presses. When she reached the street, her vision was blurred. She had taken only a dozen steps when she slammed into someone, and she felt a hand gripping her arm. Through the tears, she saw the same young Tejano blocking her way. “Ah, the bonita señora.”
Becky wanted to scream, his grip hurt her arm. “Let go of me!”
His easy laughter angered her. “A kiss for Esteban from a pretty lady and I’ll happily step aside.”
She snapped. With her free hand, she reached into her purse and brought out a gift Will had given her on their first wedding anniversary. The .36 caliber revolver shook in her hand as she said, “You’ve got three seconds to let go of me, or I’ll blow your brains out.”
He let go of her arm and stepped aside, his face ashen as he stared at the gun. He stammered, “I was only playing.” He turned and hurried away.
Becky was shaking as she uncocked the gun and made sure the hammer lined up with the cylinder's empty chamber.
Chapter 8
Charlie’s hands were blistered, and he had wrapped them in a rag as he gripped the shovel. His life in San Antonio was as far removed from Southern plantation life as imaginable. The thought about what slaves did after the harvest had been collected had never crossed his mind. Until now.
“Pace yo’self, boy.” A slave pushed a wheelbarrow a few feet behind him. “You ain’t gonna get a reward for first place.”
Charlie used his shirt to wipe his face. Despite the crisp fall day, he was sweating. “Shit,” he said. And he meant it. He dug the shovel into the wheelbarrow’s pile of manure and then spread it over the soil.
“Truer words,” said the slave.
They worked in silence until the wheelbarrow was empty. As they walked back to a wagon loaded with more of the natural fertilizer, the young man beside him said, “It’ll be lunch soon. Slow down a spell, and with any luck, they’ll ring the dinner bell around the time we get there.”
“Alright, Cuffey,” Charlie said.
Charlie slowed his walk a bit and looked across the field. Jackson was on duty. He was chatting with an overseer. Every day one of his captors joined the overseer, keeping an eye on him. At first, Lamont’s slaves had avoided Charlie like the plague. On large plantations, a few white overseers kept a close eye on the field hands. But they didn’t work beside the slaves.
Things changed a bit a week after they had arrived at Saluda Groves. Charlie had been forced to help pick the last of the cotton, and Hiram Williams was assigned to watch him that day. After half a day, Charlie’s fingers were sore and blistered, but his bag was less than half full of cotton. Williams had been razzing the slaves until the overseers came over to him. Charlie couldn’t hear what was said, but when the other white man strode away, Williams stomped over to Charlie and screamed, “What the hell’s wrong with you? Less than half a bag, boy. Them niggers working rings around you.”
He pushed Charlie to the ground and tore the bag from his waist. Then he upended it and poured it out on the boy’s head as he lay in the dirt.
After that, Charlie found himself working beside one of the slaves each day. Most wouldn’t say much, but Charlie liked Cuffey, who was only a few years older than him. It was from Cuffey he learned that even the overseers disliked Williams. Cuffey had explained it, “Them overseers, they usually makes sure
we’re getting the work done Marse Jason tells them to. They know if they treat us too bad, we have ways to be difficult. Ain’t none of them like it when Mister Williams is around. He’s just mean as a cuss.”
Charlie said, “Is that why you’re working with me?”
Cuffey offered a toothy grin. “Maybe. Or maybe I drew the short straw and nobody else wanted to spread shit with you.”
True to the slave’s word, the dinner bell was clanging when they arrived at the manure wagon.
As Charlie sat with Cuffey eating lunch, Jason Lamont rode up. “Jenkins! I want a word with you.”
Jenkins had been eating with Charlie’s other captors. He stood and said, “What’s got your dander up? I’m right here.”
Lamont threw a wadded-up piece of paper in front of him. “Your damned ransom note was published in New Orleans. Every Federal Marshal between the Sabine and the Potomac knows there’s a ransom on the boy.”
Jenkins jerked his head toward Charlie, “Well, at least the boy’s pa knows our demands. No doubt he’ll come through with the payment soon.”
Lamont growled in frustration. “Do you think so? The newspaper in Columbia said that as of the first of September, General Travis was still in Mexico. Even if he’s aware of your demands, it could be another month or longer before he can do anything. And, in the meantime, why did you tell Travis to post an advertisement in the Charleston Courier? Why don’t you set up a lighthouse and flash a beacon to every marshal in the South that we’ve got the boy in the Palmetto state?”
Jenkins seemed affronted by the accusation. “What else was I supposed to do? I needed a way for the boy’s father to contact us.”
Lamont jerked on the reins, swinging around, “Keep the boy out of sight. Figure out where to stash him if any federal marshals come looking around. If anyone finds out the boy is here, I’ll see that you swing.”
***
2 November 1843
The door slammed open, and a young midshipman, no older than Charlie stood in the doorway, catching his breath. “Sir, the Orion is still in port. Captain’s compliments, he’d like to see you at the helm.”