In Harm's Way

by Drew McGunn

  “What the hell, Dick?”

  “Ah, General Travis, I didn’t think anyone was around. What you’re looking at is my last model for a cotton harvester.” Gatling’s face was flushed with anger as he stared at the mangled mess.

  Will came over and knelt by the twisted metal. “Where’s the problem? I thought you were making progress.”

  Crossing the room, Gatling picked up a broom and began sweeping the destroyed model into a pile. “The problem is that most of the ways we’ve come up with picking the cotton bolls destroy the plant. That won’t cut it. The bolls on the plant grow at different speeds. That’s why pickers will sweep through a field three or more times until all the cotton is harvested, after which the plants can be destroyed or plowed under.”

  Will grabbed a bucket and dragged it to the pile where the young inventor swept the detritus into a dustpan and dumped it into the bucket. “This was a pneumatic picker. The idea is that we could use compressed air and blast the cotton loose from the boll.”

  “What kept it from working?”

  Gatling took the bucket from Will and set it by one of the walls before he said, “Imagine an air gun because that was basically the idea. You’d pump the device and build up a charge of air. Once a charge of air was stored, you’d use the device and blast the cotton fiber from the boll.”

  “That sounds pretty ingenious. What happened?”

  “The damned thing takes more time to pump air into it than it takes for someone to pick a boll from the plant. Do you really think Don Garza or one of these planters would use it when it takes more manpower than picking cotton by hand?”

  Will saw the problem. The pneumatic element required pumping to build up enough air pressure to do the job. It reminded him of his first pellet rifle as a teenager. He would have to pump the gun several times just to shoot one pellet. The principal was the same with Gatling’s device. “Is there any way to build a generator that could pump the air into the device?”

  Gatling stroked his bearded chin, “I don’t know. The easy solution was a self-contained device. I’ve considered begging off this project, but I hadn’t thought about a generator. I guess I can see what’s possible.”

  Will offered a smile. He really wanted a cotton harvester. There was nothing guaranteed to disrupt the slave economy than a device that could automate their jobs.

  Chapter 20

  The bronze star was placed on top the Christmas tree, and three-year-old Liza squealed as Will lowered her to the ground. “Again Daddy!”

  Little David giggled as he raised his hands up, “Me, Papa!” A few months shy of two years, the toddler was at that age where his waking moments were spent keeping his parents on their toes. Will swept down and swung his younger son over his head.

  After the toddler screamed “Down!” Will set him on the floor and retreated to the library as Becky called out, “Don’t forget, we’ve got church this evening.”

  Will eyed the papers on his desk as he settled into a chair. Work could wait. He picked up the latest newspaper and unfolded it. The headline read, “Clay Wins 2nd Term!” He had already read the article on the first page, but he flipped to the back of the paper, where the newspaper’s editorial position was stated.

  President Clay’s reelection gives hope that soon he will arrange a suitable treaty, settling once and for all, resolution to the Oregon problem. Despite supporting the Whig platform limiting our presidents to a single term, much remains incomplete and a second term may result in new states out of the Texian Cession…

  A noise alerted Will, and he turned and saw his oldest child, Charlie. Not a child anymore, he was sixteen. Will was no expert, but the boy might still have a growth spurt in him, yet. His son was a few inches short of six feet while Will was an inch over. A year had passed by since he had rescued his son from Jenkins’ crew of murderers and since then, Will had been beside the boy’s bed most of the time through the nightmares haunting Charlie’s sleep. The boy was more studious and introspective since then, and his awareness of the world beyond his home had grown by leaps and bounds.

  “Is that from Philadelphia?” he said, pointing to the newspaper.

  Will flipped the paper over, revealing the name, Pennsylvania Inquirer. “Yep. Was curious to see how the Whigs viewed Clay’s reelection last month.”

  He handed the newspaper to the teenager and gestured to an empty seat. “Do you recall what he campaigned on?”

  Charlie glanced at the headline on the front page. “The gold discovered in California was on everyone’s lips. But the Indian territory and the dispute with Britain over the Oregon territory was what I read about.”

  Smiling at his son, Will said, “I’m glad that Jack and his companions were fortunate to discover gold, although part of me wishes they had found it in Texas instead of what people are calling Jefferson now. As I understand it, a handful of men have hazarded the Indian Territory to get there next and lay down their stake. Without a railroad or even a decent road, the trek is dangerous.

  “The discovery of gold out west adds another reason for President Clay to reach an agreement with Britain on a common border. Lorenzo offered to host a meeting between the US and Britain a couple of years ago, and Clay’s stubborn refusal was a mistake. If the British were of a mind to, they could demand everything north of the Columbia River.”

  Charlie looked at a map of North America, west of the Mississippi River and said, “Would Clay accept that?”

  Will shook his head, “I doubt it. Clay may have a reputation of being a compromiser, but he wouldn’t submit a treaty to the Senate he knows wouldn’t pass. And a boundary line at the Columbia River wouldn’t work. Seven Americans are living in the Oregon Territory for every one British. I think Clay will settle for the forty-ninth parallel. North of there, it’s mostly Canadian fur companies. Below the forty-ninth is where most of the Americans are carving out their farms and towns.”

  Charlie stood and walked over to the map on the wall. After studying it, he asked, “You said earlier you thought there might be gold in the part of California we’re keeping. What’s to keep President Clay from trying to take it from us? Now that war with Mexico is unlikely, our army is small.”

  Will came over and stood next to the map, “I wasn’t in favor of the boundaries that Mr. Wharton negotiated, but he’s got a point. Rivers make better boundaries than a simple line on a map. Also, Clay doesn’t want anything to do with Texas that draws the attention of Southern Democrats. With annexation dead as a doornail, he’s interested in opening the western territories to expansion while balancing the interests of the slave states.”

  Will pointed to a painting of a warship at sea on another wall and continued, “And, we’ve got two first-rate warships in addition to our current fleet. The Montezuma and the Guadalupe are good warships, and once Texas can afford to crew them, they’ll be added to the fleet. Lorenzo will put a couple of ships on the Pacific coast to protect Texian interests. When I talked with Sid Johnston, he said once the Military Road is finished to Santa Fe, he’ll task the company of engineers and workers to start surveying the road between there and the Pacific Ocean. By the end of eighteen forty-six, we’ll have a well-maintained road running from San Antonio to Los Angeles.”

  Charlie pursed his lips as he swiveled his gaze back to the map. “I know you want me to continue my education, Pa. But when I’m old enough, I want to help protect Texas.”

  Will’s heart sank. His life until the previous year had been solely about protecting Texas; first from the Mexicans, then from the Comanche, and again from the Mexicans. He was glad to have turned the command over to Johnston. It wasn’t a profession he’d wish for his son. The research campus, Trinity College, was coming along nicely. He would rather Charlie study science or business. He was about to tell him that when he saw the young man’s face was set and determined. Charlie had run off and joined Crockett’s expedition against Will’s wishes, and now as the boy approached adulthood, Will felt his ability to rein in
Charlie’s desires was limited at best.

  Forcing a smile, he said, “Since the end of the war, the army’s pretty firmly set on only accepting recruits over eighteen. Focus on your studies for now, and I’ll write to Sid and see if he can find a place for you. Alright?”

  With a noncommittal grunt, Charlie took the newspaper and left the library. Will sighed as he watched the redhead go. Before Charlie could do something rash, Will decided he would write to Sid. There hadn’t been time before the recent Mexican War to do anything about forming a military academy, but now, with the Republic at peace, perhaps Sid would be receptive to the idea.

  ***

  3 April 1845

  The Colorado River flowed along the south side of Austin. To look at the water, one might think it ran languidly by the capital of the republic. Will’s eyes were drawn to the brick and stone pillars embedded in the river. Water rushed by either side with overwhelming force. His eyes followed the pier upward until they rested on the iron and wooden trellis spanning the river.

  Will caught a glint of silver in the corner of his eye and turned and saw the sun reflecting on Sam Williams’ premature gray. “I see you found the bridge.”

  Williams clapped him on the back affectionately. “I’d have to be blind to miss this monstrosity. It took long enough to see this completed.”

  Will turned, following the tracks off the bridge and to the edge of town. He was worried about the Bexar & Austin Railroad. “How much stock did we end up buying?”

  Sam said, “More than we should have. I sold one of our larger war bonds to an investor in Mobile and used the cash from that sale to invest in this. On paper, this looks like a solid investment. A railroad between the capital of the Republic to the largest city should make sense. But it doesn’t connect to anything. At least not yet.”

  Will grimaced. “I read about how they had to haul the locomotive engine in parts to Austin and then reassemble them here.”

  “It’s hardly the first railroad engine to be hauled somewhere by wagon. Won’t be the last either.”

  “It shouldn’t be long now,” Will said, as he glanced at his pocket watch. Over the rooftops of nearby houses, he could see sooty clouds rising heavenward. The thought of losing money on this had been in the back of his and Sam’s mind since they decided to invest in the project.

  Now that the train was about to make its maiden voyage between Austin and San Antonio, Will felt jittery. “What happens if we’ve picked wrong, Sam? Can we ride a loss of a hundred thousand dollars?”

  Williams blanched, “That hardly bears thinking about. But the truth of the matter is our balance sheet looks okay. With the Treasury Department paying interest on the war bonds, we’re getting a few thousand dollars each month. We’re also issuing new loans and getting more depositors. A loss like that, might not kill us, but I can’t guarantee we’d not get another visit from your mysterious Mr. Taylor.”

  Sam stared at the bridge as a crowd grew around them. It wouldn’t be long before speeches were given and the train took off. Eventually, he continued, “Success here is more likely if someone were to build a railroad between Harrisburg and Austin, connecting all of Texas’ railroads into a single network.”

  Hearing that was like biting into a lemon. Will said, “Something like that is going to be expensive.”

  “Very. As much as a million dollars, depending on the type of bridge construction chosen.”

  Will dug into his trouser pockets and pulled them inside-out. “I’m afraid I don’t have that kind of money.”

  Sam chuckled, “While the bank has more than enough to cover it, unfortunately, it’s largely tied up in other investment projects. We may need to pitch a project like that to other investors.”

  Will turned on Williams. “You just said, we. What do you mean?”

  Sam pointed to the east, where the nearest railroad ended more than two hundred miles away. “No one else has committed to building a railroad between here and back east. We have the contacts to do it, and if we build it, I think the flow of goods, services, and people between here and Galveston Bay is such that whoever builds it will be rewarded generously.”

  Taking charge of developing a new railroad was daunting and risky. The men who had started the Austin to San Antonio route had taken several years to develop it, and it had been more expensive than they originally planned. So much so, that Sam had bought out several smaller investors as well as purchased new shares of the company. For a new railroad, all of those risks would ride on their bank.

  Feeling his own reservations, Will asked, “How long will this take?”

  Sam said, “Three years, Buck. But think of it. If we can do this, you’d be able to get on a train in San Antonio and ride it all the way to the Sabine River. Or your goods could travel three hundred miles in less than a day. Think about how much money a railroad company could make transporting the wealth of a nation across its rails.”

  A whistle blast cut through the morning air, and after several men gave speeches before the crowd of more than one thousand Austinites, Will and Sam watched the first train slowly build up speed before it rattled across the bridge, heading south.

  ***

  August 1845

  The smell of rotten eggs was nearly overwhelming throughout the hospital on Galveston Island. Dr. Ashbel Smith stepped around a ceramic pot, where wood alcohol mixed with sulfur burned. More pots had been set around the hospital as well as in many of the public buildings on the island. There was no denying it, mosquitos didn’t care for the odor.

  He coughed. People didn’t care for the stench any more than mosquitos. But the ubiquitous pots were doing what nothing else had done before, and that was keeping the mosquitos away. Dr. Smith closed the door to the hospital behind him and sat on one of the chairs on the veranda. He pulled his pipe from a white jacket and lit a lucifer and puffed on the pipe until the fragrant odor of tobacco filled his senses, driving the worst of the burning sulfur from his nose. He liked good Virginia tobacco, and as he blew a ring into the air, he allowed the first smile in many days to light up his stern features.

  He had left his lab and classroom at Trinity College when news of yellow fever in Galveston reached the town. Although San Antonio was larger than the port, the coastal town was the lifeblood of trade and immigration for the Republic. The longer the disease ran unchecked on the barrier island, the fewer ships would call upon Galveston.

  He had been in Galveston more than two weeks and this night was the first time since the start of the fever he had taken time to look into the night sky. The full silver moon was high overhead. It seemed as though a halo ringed it. He was tired from too many long days and too many sleepless nights, and he wasn’t sure if his mind was playing tricks. Even so, he allowed his eyes to stare into the heavens until he finished smoking his pipe.

  He knocked the ashes out of the pipe and returned it its pocket. He heard a rustling and turned and saw a sheet of muslin balloon from one of the hospital windows. Every open window was covered with the light material. If mosquitos couldn’t get into the building to feed on his sick patients, then it stood to reason, they couldn’t pass on the fever.

  He had long been convinced the fever and vomit were not how the disease spread. It was only after many long conversations with Buck that Smith turned his attention to the common mosquito. It had taken months of research over two yellow fever seasons for Smith to confirm, by following infection patterns, the mosquito was the carrier.

  The hospital was far from the only building fumigated with the stench of burning sulfur. Many homes used the noxious powder, mixed with wood alcohol to chase away mosquitos. Smith had gone another step and covered the cots of his sick patients with muslin tenting. If mosquitos couldn’t bite the infected and carry the contaminated blood to another, then there was hope the fever wouldn’t be able to spread.

  It had been a bad day for him when he figured this out. Since the epidemic of 1838, he had advocated against quarantining, because he knew
neither the vomit nor the patients were contagious. Now, he knew enough to understand that a quarantine kept the mosquitos from transporting infected blood. Telling people he was mistaken about a quarantine earlier had been hard. When he had told Buck this, the general had laughed and said, “Doc, there’s a reason they call what doctors do ‘practice.’ Over time folks will appreciate it more if you admit your earlier mistake.”

  As usual, Buck had been right. Yellow fever scared people worse than a rumor of Comanche on the warpath. Their natural instinct was to quarantine sick folks. Even though folks who had caught yellow fever were not contagious, the ever-present mosquito was an effective transmitter. Their rationale had been wrong, but their instincts had been dead on.

  There had been no new victims within the past couple of days. The infected in the hospital would be allowed to heal or die as God willed. As a good Baptist, he had prayed until words failed. A dozen had fallen to the fever this year. While it was the fewest he’d seen, it was still too many. It galled him to know that without his conversations with Travis he might have remained blind to the role of the humble mosquito.

  He shuddered to think of how much he didn’t know. If there was a way to treat the illness, not merely contain it, but to destroy it, he wanted to find out how. Quarantining the victims was well and good, but it was a half measure. If a cure could be found, he was determined to find it.

  He looked forward to returning to the small lab and classrooms at Trinity College. He had ideas he wanted to research and letters to write to colleagues back east. He would get the news out. He now knew the mosquito’s role in spreading the fever. He knew how to destroy their nesting spots and how to prevent the spread of the disease.

  It was a start, and with any luck, he intended to write up everything he had learned. While some departments at Trinity seemed determined to find new inventions and spin them off into profitable corporations, Ashbel Smith wasn’t worried about making a dime from what he discovered. This information could save thousands of lives across the warm, swampy regions of the South.