by Drew McGunn
He opened the box and pulled out a small stack of cotton-backs. “As the wife of my partner, I can extend one hundred dollars against your family’s account. And more as soon as I secure a loan from the Treasury Department.”
When she heard Williams’ words, she realized she’d been holding her breath, and she exhaled. It was a small fraction of the money her husband had in the bank, but with it, she’d be able to take care of her family until the new year. The tension of weeks’ worth of worrying ebbed away, and the strength which had driven her to leave her children behind in San Antonio was at an end. She blinked away the tears.
Williams pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and handed it to her, “I’d do more if I were able, Mrs. Travis.”
As Becky dabbed her eyes, she prayed she’d find a way to provide for her children until Will returned with Charlie.
Chapter 11
20 November 1843
Will stood next to the bronze 18-pounder bow chaser as the Nueces steamed into Charleston harbor. From his vantage point, he saw a pile of rock and bricks at the harbor’s mouth. Was that Fort Sumter? From the picture Will recalled from before the transference, Sumter looked half-built. A mile away from the half-complete Sumter stood another fort guarding the entrance to Charleston Harbor. A US flag flew atop the battlements of Fort Moultrie.
A noise from behind alerted him to another’s presence. “General, Captain Thompson wishes to see you.”
Will turned and saw the Cherokee Ranger, Running Creek. He had replaced his butternut jacket with a bright blue one. He had picked it up on the day the ship had stopped in Havana. All of his men wore civilian clothing. While the US and Texas were friendly, there was no point in drawing attention by entering the US in Texas butternut brown. “Lead on.”
Captain Thompson stood by the helm, which was located behind the iron smokestack, “General, we’ll be dropping anchor shortly. I’ll be sending a party ashore to arrange for coal. I’d like to send you and your men ashore with them.”
Will agreed. If Charlie’s kidnappers were watching ships coming into port, slipping into port under the guise of a coaling party might let them pass under the noses of whoever was observing.
Thompson continued, “It’ll take a few days to take on the coal. After that, I expect I’ll discover some engine trouble that will keep me here until you return.” The captain shook Will’s hand, and a bit later he and his party were squeezed into the ship’s longboat and shuttled toward shore.
Will looked his men over as they stepped ashore. The Mexicans, Lieutenant Morales, and the enigmatic Lobo carried revolvers and breechloading rifles obtained while the party was in California. The pistols they wore on their hips. The long-arms were wrapped in blankets. Behind them came Sergeant Jensen. Even in civilian clothing, he looked like a solider. No wonder, Will thought, the man had been one for more than thirty years. The Rangers Running Creek and LeBlanc brought up the rear.
Missing from their party was Jethro Elkins. Once Will’s posse had reached Los Angeles back in early October, the Ranger’s broken leg had prevented him from continuing. For the first time since he had received word of Charlie’s abduction, Will felt his son was nearby. He wished the mustachioed Ranger was still with the party.
There was no shortage of inns along the waterfront. Some catered to well-heeled travelers, and others served sailors who were between ships. Will found one that seemed to fall somewhere in the middle. With some money he had received from Captain Thompson, he paid for a couple of rooms.
Once settled, he and the other five men crowded into one of the rooms. The window was open, and a cool Atlantic breeze rustled threadbare curtains. A newspaper lay on the bed.
Will pointed to it, “That’s just one more proof Charlie’s abductors came through here.”
There was a reprint of the article from the Picayune, but a local reporter had added United States Marshals were searching in and around Charleston for the whereabouts of Will’s missing son.
Leaning against the wall, Lobo spoke. His Spanish was inflected with a slow drawl. “General, these bandits, if they came through here, probably did so because they are familiar with this city. Before I was conscripted, I was a hunter. When my prey realized I was on their trail, they would seek familiar terrain. Let’s search the parts of town where these forgers were likely to go. If there are no clues, then we can move on.”
In the months since the party had left Saltillo, this was the most Lobo had spoken. Jensen’s chuckle was dry, “The boy doesn’t say much, but when he does, he makes sense.”
Will agreed. It was sensible. They split themselves into three groups of two and waited until twilight to visit the taverns alongside the harborside.
Will arrived back at the inn a few hours before dawn. He and Morales had come back exhausted and empty-handed. When they walked into the room, tied up on the bed was a black-haired man, whose frizzy mane reminded Will of Albert Einstein.
Lobo and LeBlanc were standing over him. Black bruises around his eyes left Will suspecting the hogtied man had not come willingly. “What have we here?” he said.
“We were traipsing around one of the taverns asking about this Jenkins fellow when Mr. Hair here tried running away.” LeBlanc leered at the captive, “One thing led to another and here he is. General Travis, allow me to introduce you to Thomas Jefferson Hamilton.”
The fellow tied on the bed glared daggers at Will. “Take the gag out of his mouth. He’ll not say anything with a sock in it.”
A moment later, the man swore at Will. “You can go to Hell. I ain’t got nothing to tell you anyhow.”
“So you do know about Obadiah Jenkins, then.” Will watched as the man’s eyes darted around the room.
“I ain’t telling you shit!”
Will picked the sock off the floor, “Put this back in his mouth. We’ll make him talk.” He turned and left the room.
Later, in his team’s second room, the Danish-born Sergeant Jensen said, “I’ve served Texas in the Rangers and before that, I was in the dragoons out west. If we need to get him to talk, I can do it.” In a voice just above a whisper, he continued, “During the war with the Blackhawks, we were on patrol in what is now the Iowa territory. Settlers were staking out farms when a Sauk warband raided a farm. They killed the man, but the woman and her children were taken.
“In our pursuit, me and a few other dragoons captured a couple of Sauk warriors. It was pretty clear they knew where the prisoners had been taken.” He fell silent, evidently remembering something he’d rather forget. “This was before I saw what the Comanche could do to prisoners. But before we were finished with those two warriors, they told us what we wanted to know.”
Jensen was staring at the floor. In a voice so quiet, Will could barely hear him. “I will make him talk.”
Will stared at the modest sergeant. He had always assumed the quiet competence with which Jensen did his job masked nothing more than a stoic Danish attitude. He was moved that the old Dane was willing to revisit the demons he had carried with him for a decade to find out where the kidnappers had taken his son.
Will had been stranded in the body of William Barret Travis long enough to know torturing information from the human scum in the next room wouldn’t involve waterboarding, loud music, or psychological mind-games. He’s seen the horrors visited on his own men seven years earlier in the campaign against the Comanche warbands and had a good idea of what Jensen was capable.
Will walked to the window overlooking the harbor and clenched the old curtains, as he steeled himself against what was to come. He had grown up in a world in which “enhanced interrogation techniques” were hotly contested and of uncertain value. When weighed against his son, though, he realized he’d do anything to get Charlie back.
“If we’re going to do this, let’s get it done.”
As he reached the door, Morales said, “Do what you must, General. If the only thing that will make our guest talk is force, then by all means, do what is necessary. B
ut was it not your own William Shakespeare who said in Henry IV that ‘a plague upon it when thieves cannot be true one to another?’”
Will’s hand rested on the doorknob. “What are you suggesting?”
“Perhaps the information you seek can be obtained not by force but by appealing to his greed.”
Will chuckled, “Perhaps. Maybe Shakespeare’s right, there’s no honor among thieves.”
Back in the room where Thomas Jefferson Hamilton was tied and gagged, Will fished a small gold coin from his pocket and placed it on the bed. “My associates assure me that when they finish with you, you’ll tell me everything I want to know all the way back to the name of the girl you first kissed. You may or may not survive the experience, but you’ll talk before it’s done.”
Eyes that before had burned in anger were wide in fear as Will explained what would happen if Hamilton wasn’t forthcoming with the location of Charlie’s captors. “Or, you can tell me what I want to know, and, for your trouble, the gold is yours.”
When the other man nodded, Will felt a burden lift. He hadn’t been aware how deeply troubling the idea of torture had been until removed. The prospect of torturing the man, even for the noblest of reasons had weighed heavily on him.
With the gag gone, Hamilton said, “An old friend of mine, Hiram Williams reached out to me a couple of months ago, said he needed a place to stay while they were in town. I let him and his friends stay for a few days. They were looking for someone. Eventually, they met up with a gentleman who came for them in the dead of night. They took the train to Columbia.”
“How’d you know they took the train?”
“These ropes are tight. Care to cut me loose?”
Will picked up the coin and made to stick in back in his vest pocket when Hamilton hurriedly said, “If they didn’t think I ought to know, I thought otherwise. I wondered if it might be valuable information. Is it?”
Will hated the man. Part of him wanted to see Hamilton pay. But he hadn’t forgotten the way the burden lifted when the man had caved.
He turned to Running Creek, “Cut him loose.” He tossed the coin in Hamilton’s lap and left.
***
Late November 1843
Had it only been two weeks since she had taken the stagecoach north? Thankful for a seat beside the window, Becky gazed across the prairie. In the distance, she could see the tall northern wall of the Alamo. By the time Becky had moved to San Antonio after the wedding, the crumbling adobe wall had been destroyed, and a long, two-story barracks was nearing completion. Made of adobe, in the evening sun, it reflected a golden hue.
She could scarcely wait to see Liza and David. Two weeks wasn’t long, but she wondered how much the baby had grown. As the sun dipped below the western prairie, she doubted if the trip had been worth it. Mr. Williams’ generosity notwithstanding, she had come back nearly emptyhanded.
The Travis family’s fortunes were a microcosm of Texas. The war had left both her family and her nation as poor as Job’s turkey. The thought brought a sad smile to her lips, as she recalled the expression was a favorite of her father’s.
As the coach rolled into San Antonio’s central plaza, she knew the hardest part of her journey was still ahead. Without knowing when Will would return with Charlie, she had no choice but to strip her family’s finances to the bone.
With her carpetbag in hand, she hurried home. With each step, she alternated between elation at the thought of seeing her children and despair at the failure of her mission.
When she turned the corner from the plaza, she saw her home in the distance. She found her feet racing along the dusty street until she stood in front of her house. Despite twilight stealing the last of the light, she saw two figures sitting on the porch, in the shadow.
Unbidden, she called out, “Ma!”
“Lordy mercy,” A familiar voice called out.
Becky burst into a run, holding high the hem of her dress until she threw herself into her mother’s arms. All of the heartache of Will’s absence, adding to the trials of her trip spilled down her cheeks as she hugged her mother.
Later that evening, she sat at the oaken dining table with her mother and Henrietta. She said “There’s no money for a pension, not yet. Maybe never.”
Elizabeth was pensive. “Is it just Will or is it all veterans?”
Becky shrugged, “I don’t know. Señor Seguin was apologetic, even offered to help. But I get the feeling our government wrote checks it couldn’t cover, and now the Treasury is stopping all payments that it can justify.”
Becky accepted a cup of tea from Henrietta as she continued, “All that money Will invested in the big farm at West Liberty and the bank is tied up. Señor Garza and Mr. Williams were clear Will’s investments were not profitable this year.”
She folded her arms on the table and rested her head. “We can’t stay here. Sweet Lord above, I’m going to miss this place.”
While Henrietta studied her teacup in silence, Elizabeth placed her hand on Becky’s shoulder, “As long as we’re together, we’ll pull through.”
Fresh tears spill from Becky’s eyes. “I wish to God Will was back. None of this would be necessary.” She felt helpless rage as she gripped the table, “Damn all men who start wars to Hell.”
From the end of the table, she heard a faint, “Amen.”
Becky reached toward Henrietta and gripped her hand, her eyes begging forgiveness even as her words were stuck in her throat.
“I know you can’t afford a housekeeper, Miss Becky. Joe should be back soon. I’d go with you if I could, but my place is with him, even if he spends too much time away.” Henrietta’s voice was raw with emotion.
Becky dabbed her eyes, “You’ll always have a place with us if you need it.”
The freedwoman’s face glistened in the firelight, her tears still streamed down her face as she picked up the teapot. “I’ll be back in the morning, I’ll help til y’all have to move.”
Once they were alone, Elizabeth said, “Where are we going to go? Surely Will has friends who can help.”
Becky stubbornly stuck her chin out, “I’ll not be taking charity, Ma. You and Pa raised me better than that. Turns out there are a few houses for rent in West Liberty. I figure we can do laundry and sewing there. We’ll pay our own way until Will returns with Charlie.”
A few days later, she and her mother stood in San Antonio’s main square. Little Liza gripped her grandmother’s hand. Becky’s arms were full, holding David. The house was locked. The furniture was still in it, and she didn’t know when or if they would return to claim their property. The red Concorde stagecoach stood before the governor’s palace, on one side of the square, waiting.
Becky had already said goodbye to Henrietta. No doubt some of the more proper women in town would be scandalized by their tearful hugs, but she couldn’t care less. Over the years the black freedwoman had become more than just an employed housekeeper, Hattie had become a friend. Becky hadn’t even boarded the coach, and she was missing everything she held dear in San Antonio.
Elizabeth handed her a handkerchief, “The driver’s coming. Let’s get the children loaded and get seated.”
With a final backward glance at the city of the Alamo, Becky climbed aboard and waited for the coach to roll away.
Chapter 12
The iron wheels grated against iron rails as the train rounded the curve. A glance out the window revealed they were nearing the bridge over the Congaree. Will felt his heart rate pick up. Twenty-five miles until Columbia. The train slowed and began gently rocking side to side as he listened to the clackity-clack of the car crossing the river.
From the information wheedled from Thomas Jefferson Hamilton, he knew Charlie had been forced to ride this route. He shook his head; no boy’s first railroad ride should be as a captive. As he stared out the soot-covered window, he pursed his lips. Will had grown up with cars and planes. Passenger railroads were already a thing of the past when he had been little. While such
conveniences would be useful, he had long ago resigned himself to not living to see airplanes crisscrossing the sky. What he knew about engines wouldn’t fill up a single page.
Maybe Charlie would live to see cars and airplanes, but he’d certainly see the railroads crossing the Republic in the near future. The idea buoyed Will’s spirits. It was the first time in several days where he considered Charlie’s future. He would find his son and bring justice to the men who had kidnapped him.
The Congaree River receded behind the train. The tracks ended in Columbia. There were plenty of places where the kidnappers could have gone to ground. Was it possible they had used the capital of South Carolina as a jumping-off point to somewhere more remote? The Piedmont stretched to the Appalachian Mountains. Would Charlie’s kidnappers take the boy further into the backcountry? Will didn’t know. But the optimism he felt earlier vanished, like the coal smoke whisking by the window.
An hour later, Will climbed down the stairs, landing on the depot’s wooden planking. To one side were a few buildings and beyond that, the Congaree River and then farmland. On the other side, behind the depot, lay the town of Columbia. As the conductor walked by, he said, “Welcome to the second largest city in the Palmetto state. Forty-five hundred souls call Columbia home. We hope you enjoy your stay.”
A wide boulevard stretched north, heading to the city limits. The street running east to west had a signpost. It read, Gervais street. The South Carolina State House was a few blocks east from the depot. As Will walked along the side of the dirt street, he watched the folks who made Columbia their home go about their lives. He and his five companions walked by a blacksmith’s shop. The smith, a burly black man, was shaping a horseshoe, using a hammer and anvil.
Next door, a sign over the building said, “Schneider’s Fine Furniture.” A workroom was visible through the windows. A middle-aged white man worked a piece of wood on a lathe while a black youth pumped the lathe’s foot-pedal.