In Harm's Way

by Drew McGunn

  “I’ll talk with Don Garza. I’m sure we can test it in the fall.”

  Gatling turned the compressor off and banked the fire in the steam engine before running a grimy hand through his hair. “I appreciate it. Between now and then, I’ll see what improvements can be made in the design.”

  Will turned to go. Living and working in Trinity Park, he enjoyed dinners with his family, and he had time to get cleaned up before Becky set the table.

  “There was something else I wanted to show you, General.” Gatling wrung his hands, smiling mysteriously.

  His curiosity piqued, Will turned around. “You’ve not been holding back on me, Dick?”

  Smiling sheepishly, Gatling waved for Will to follow as he turned and walked toward the gun works. “It’s a surprise.”

  Will followed the young inventor past the gun works’ spinning waterwheels. Beyond them was the testing range Andy Berry used to test new weapons. A white chalk line marked the firing line. A contraption, covered with a canvas tarp, was parked next to a table. Will found his steps were quicker the closer they came to whatever was under the tarp.

  Breathlessly, Will said, “Take the tarp off, I want to see.”

  With a dramatic flourish, Gatling swept the canvas away, revealing a contraption as unique as the compressed air machine. Resting on an artillery caisson was a contraption with six barrels connected to what looked like a coffee grinder.

  A voice from behind called out, “Dick, I thought you said, you’d not start without me.”

  Andy Berry approached, carrying two long, metal magazines in his hands. “I confess, General, when you talked to us about making a gun that could fire hundreds of rounds per minute, I thought you were pulling our legs. But Dick’s a mechanical genius.”

  Gatling waved away the compliment. “Without Andy’s brass cartridges, this would have stayed on the drawing board. Give General Travis one of the magazines and let’s see how this works.”

  Will took the cool metal magazine and seated it above the cartridge chamber. There was a snick as it slid into place. He made sure his companions were behind him, and then he gripped the crank handle and slowly turned it. The gun’s heavy frame and caisson absorbed the recoil as he turned the crank. Like a cosmic ripping noise, the barrels rotated around its central shaft and sent a steady stream of bullets downrange.

  The spinning barrels hit an empty chamber, and Will stopped turning the crank and Berry removed the magazine and inserted a fresh one. Will couldn’t resist a feral grin as he resumed turning the crank until again the gun emptied the magazine in just a few seconds.

  Gatling said, “Depending on how fast you turn the crank, you can fire up to two hundred rounds in a minute.”

  There was a harsh tone in Will’s laughter, “As God is my witness if we’d had these in the war with Mexico, we’d have swept the enemy from the field in no time.”

  Berry said, “It’s a fine demonstration. But you fired ten percent of our daily production in less than a minute. Until we get our cartridge production up, it’s a great idea, but it will deplete our reserves faster than we can replenish them.”

  Will helped the other two men cover the weapon with the tarp. “Andy, you need to find a way to increase your production of brass cartridges. In the short term, though, I think we’re going to keep this between us. If Lorenzo were still alive, I’d take this to Austin tomorrow to demonstrate it. But damned if I trust Richard Ellis. All this talk of annexation is idiotic. The fool is even talking about reducing the size of the army and their budget further than Lorenzo did after the Mexican war.”

  By the time Will parted ways with his companions, twilight had fallen. The new weapon had caused him to forget about dinner. He tightened his scarf against a cold breeze and hurried home.

  Chapter 23

  7 February 1847

  “David Stern Travis! Come back here and put your clothes on.” Will winced as the words pierced his consciousness. He opened his eyes and saw Becky running out of their bedroom. He heard the pitter-patter of little feet racing away followed by his wife’s exasperated voice, “Ma, can you comb Liza’s hair? I don’t want to be late for church this morning.”

  A moment later, Becky came back into the bedroom. She had a handful of clothes in one hand and a half-naked toddler in the other. “Good morning, sleepyhead. What time did you get in last night?”

  Will stretched, “Too late. Sometime after midnight.” He sat up and watched Becky put the clothes back on his younger son, who twisted and turned, making Becky’s job harder.

  “I don’t wanna go,” David protested. “I wanna stay home with Pa!”

  Becky swatted his bare leg, and he squealed in protest. “Stop twisting around, or I’ll give you something to howl about.”

  A moment later, he was scowling but dressed. She patted him on the backside, “Go find your grandma and help her with Liza’s hair.”

  With a glint of mischief in his eyes, the little boy scampered from the room.

  “Lord have mercy.” Becky sat next to Will and leaned over and kissed him. “Why don’t you get some more sleep. Me and Ma will take the kids to church.”

  Will yawned until his jaw popped. “Thanks. We didn’t get away from Lynch’s Ferry until well after dark. There were a couple of hundred people who came to hear us speak. Your husband’s becoming quite the raconteur.”

  “Heaven forbid,” she said as she stood and grabbed a cloak from a closet. “Pa was enough of a talker for the whole family. Were the folks in favor of continuing independence?”

  “Some were. Some weren’t. There are quite a few plantations along the San Jacinto River. I think we’ll carry Harris county when the vote is taken. But there are plenty of places further east I’m not so sure about.”

  Becky dropped her gloves when there was a loud knocking at the door. “Expecting company?”

  The insistent knocking echoed in Will’s head. “No. Make them stop.” He pulled his pillow over his head as Becky went to check.

  He could hear a muffled voice and then Becky’s. “No, he’s resting. He’ll be glad to see you tomorrow.”

  More muffled voice, followed by Becky’s. “I’m sure it’s important, Mr. Borden, but Will’s been on the road all week.”

  Will pulled the pillow from over his head. Why was Gail Borden on his porch on a Sunday? The devout inventor should have been at church already. Will called out, “I’m coming, Becky.”

  He pulled on his old army greatcoat and shuffled to the front door. Becky and her mother corralled the children past Borden. “Gail, just remember, Will needs his rest.”

  A moment later, Will was alone with Borden. He nodded toward the kitchen, “Come on in. Let’s see if Becky left any coffee brewing. What’s keeping you out of your pew this morning?”

  Borden was as excited as a schoolboy, “Take a look at this,” he said, as he brought a brownish-colored biscuit from a pocket. “This will revolutionize how armies feed themselves on the march.”

  Borden had been experimenting with boiling meat down to an extract for several months, in addition to several other experiments designed to extend the life of food. Despite his exhaustion, Will was curious about the small, flat squares. “What’s it taste like?”

  Taking one of the biscuits, Borden broke it in two and handed half to Will, “It’s mild.”

  Will bit into the biscuit. It was bland, nearly tasteless. He swallowed the dry morsel and chased it down with coffee. “Mild? Gail, it’s got no taste.”

  “You can boil it, use it as a base for soup. Add all the spices you need.”

  Will remained skeptical, even as Borden set a pot over the fire. Thirty minutes later, several biscuits were dissolved into the boiling water. Salt and pepper were liberally added. Finally, Borden dipped a cup into the liquid and handed it to Will. “Taste it.”

  Will blew on it until the rim was cool enough to not burn his lips. A meaty aroma rose from the broth, and when he sipped it, the beef flavoring was notable. He had
tasted worse. “What do you want to do with this, Gail?”

  “I’d like to pitch it to the army and navy. They need foodstuffs that won't spoil, and this will last for years.”

  Will worried it might last for years because the soldiers wouldn’t touch it. But he refrained from saying that. The premise was good, even if the biscuit was unappetizing. Briefly, Will wondered how a biscuit mixed with lemon peels or limes would go over with sailors. Long-term storage of food heavy in vitamin C could be even more marketable. But Borden’s excitement was such that Will didn’t have the heart to stop him.

  As he set the broth down, Will said, “I’ll write a letter for you. Have you considered other applications?”

  Borden said, “I used an evaporator to dry out the meat before boiling it down. I’ve been thinking of trying it with milk. If I can remove the water from milk, we could greatly increase its storage life.”

  Forcing a smile onto his face, Will said, “Let’s see what we can do to sell the military on your meat biscuits. We’ve got some men who are doing well selling some of Dick Gatling’s farming equipment, I’ll see if we can get them to help market this. If I can do that for you, can you move forward on condensing milk?”

  After Borden left, Will took the pot behind the house, and he dumped the meat biscuit broth onto his mother-in-law’s flower garden. But he had a spring in his step as he walked back into the house. The meat biscuit was nothing compared to the prospect of canned milk. If Borden could invent condensed milk, Will was determined to fund it, certain its future was bright.

  ***

  26 February 1847

  The crowd spilled onto the beach away from the platform. From where Will sat, he could see over the heads of the men and women of Galveston who had braved the uncertain weather to hear him speak. Some in the crowd waved the lone star flag about as if both sides in the annexation debate didn’t fly the same flag.

  A cursory review of the crowd showed the men of the Texian navy in their blue uniforms were in attendance. As the Republic’s sole naval base, Galveston hosted scores of sailors at any given time. Will irreverently wondered if the bars were closed given how many blue-jacketed sailors he saw mixed into the mass of people. Here and there, a few men wore the army’s butternut uniform. A battery of coastal artillery also called Galveston home. There was little doubt many of those men had served in the Mexican campaign a few years earlier. How many of the rest of the crowd had worn the army uniform then? More than ten thousand Texians had served in the army during the war.

  Erasmo Seguin was addressing the crowd. Will had heard this particular speech more times than he was willing to admit, and he tuned out the elder statesman. Despite the gray sky, a light breeze came in off the Gulf, turning the February afternoon into a balmy day. Growing up in Galveston, he had fond memories from before the transference of time spent playing on the beach in the long coastal summers as a child.

  In moments like this, Will let his mind wander. He had long ago decided the transference had been something different that simply being transported back in time. Given how much he had changed things in Texas, everything he knew from his own memories would, in this world, be completely different. He recalled reading about a time travel paradox, if someone made a large enough change to the past, it would result in a history so different their ancestors might never meet, resulting in the time-traveler never existing. The fact Will still lived in William Travis’ body was a good indicator something else had happened. He had overturned the applecart of Texas history, which led him to believe the transference had created a parallel universe.

  As Seguin talked about the freedoms experienced by newly arrived immigrants and Tejanos, Will found himself nodding. The reason to maintain independence wasn’t some nationalistic fantasy. Folks like the Seguins had fared far worse in the history before the transfer. An independent Texas was an opportunity to do things better. A Texas annexed by the United States would fall squarely within the slave states’ sphere. And no matter what Will could do in Texas, he didn’t see any way to destroy slavery in the United States short of a civil war. The last thing he wanted was to tie Texas to a South that couldn’t change without violence.

  Even beyond slavery, Will thought about the US’ enormous bureaucracy of the twentieth century and later. Liberty had become nothing more than a political slogan. In the America Will had come from he felt the county was slowly dying from overregulation and government control. He didn’t know if an independent Texas could avoid all the pitfalls the United States of the future, but his only choice was to try.

  The crowd’s applause drew Will’s attention back to Seguin, who was saying, “And it gives me great satisfaction to introduce someone who needs no introduction. The hero of the Battle of Saltillo, help me welcome General William Travis!”

  Will waved to the crowd as he traded places with Seguin. “Howdy, folks,” he used a voice suited to the parade ground, reaching the back of the crowd.

  “Until that fellow Senor Seguin introduced shows up, I’m glad to tell you what I think about President Ellis’ desire to quit and give up on the grand experiment we call Texas.”

  The boos in the crowd when he mentioned Ellis’ name brought a smile to Will’s face. “Were you to believe the president, you’d think we are overrun by Mexicans and Indians. Nothing is farther from the truth. The Mexicans who live in our country are loyal to Texas. If I was in a scrape, there’s nobody I’d rather have at my side than Senor Seguin’s son, Juan. Like thousands of other Tejanos, they gave their blood, sweat, and tears for Texas. Just like you.

  “Let’s talk about the Indians. How many of you joined me in our late war with Mexico? No doubt you remember the gallantry of the 8th infantry. Perhaps you recall their nickname? The Cherokee Rifles? I favor the continued policies of Presidents Crockett and Zavala regarding the Indians. We have thousands of Cherokee, Creek, Choctaw, and Chickasaw living in towns and villages and on farms and ranches across Texas. I believe it is far better to find common ground with our red neighbors, many of whom worship in the same churches as you than to chase them from the homes they bought, same as you.”

  The crowd was quiet. While many were European born, many more had immigrated from back east, lured by cheap land and a chance to start over. Their conflict with the American Indian was two centuries old. Will faced an uphill battle to win them over. “I can see the looks on your faces. Why am I talking about the Indian when you came to listen to me talk about why I’m against annexation? If we surrender our independence, we abandon the right to determine how we’ll relate to our native neighbor. Washington would decide that. After watching Andy Jackson, God rest his soul, chase the civilized tribes out of Georgia and the Carolinas, against the ruling of the Supreme Court, I have no faith in the US to seek just compromises with the Indians living within our borders.

  “We are a moral people. We all worship the same God and trust in His providence. What Jackson did to those folks is a travesty against natural law. We can do better. We must!”

  Will's voice rose over the crashing of the waves on the beach. The crowd was silent, but the faces he could see were thoughtful, not angry. If he were going to lose his audience, it would be now. “In the United States, they have done everything in their power to ignore the elephant in the room, slavery. But every year, the relations between the North and South gets worse. Why would we want to tie ourselves to that mess? To the politicians in Washington, Texas represents two more senators from the South. To the South, Texas is the gateway to the west, more places to extend slavery to balance against the fast-growing Northern states. The compromises that hold that union together will eventually fail. When that happens, a sea of blood will cover that nation. For the sake of our families, for the sake of our children, we must stay clear of that.”

  A smattering of applause greeted the remarks.

  “Forgive the allusion, but I feel as though I am like Paul of old, looking through a glass darkly at what is to come, east of the Sabine River. Out o
f that conflict, I see a federal government powerful enough to crush opposition to it. And that’s what you’d get if Texas ever joins the United States. A vote for annexation is a vote against our liberty and freedom.”

  Will hid his disappointment at the crowd’s polite applause. His job was to stir the crowd’s emotions and motivate them to vote against annexation. He worried he may have failed.

  Later, over dinner in one of Galveston’s restaurants, when he mentioned this to Seguin, the old Tejano said, “Buck, you did more than just stirred their emotions, you got them to think. I watched them while you were talking and you challenged their assumptions and their beliefs. You made them think about the future, and you made sure they understood their future under the stars and stripes would be much worse than under our own banner. Keep giving speeches like that, to borrow an expression I’ve heard you say, you’re going to have to put your money where your mouth is.”

  Will sat the wine glass down, and with a sinking feeling, asked, “What do you mean?”

  Using his fork as a pointer, Seguin said, “You need to run for the presidency.”

  ***

  5 March 1847

  Will winced. It seemed as though a hundred burning kerosene lamps bathed the ballroom of the Hotel Lafitte’s ballroom in a harsh light. Despite one last cold front attempting to grip the bustling town in winter’s embrace, the room was stifling, as more than a hundred people waited anxiously for the latest telegram with vote tallies to arrive.

  “Juan, how the hell are you doing?” Will said as he pounded Colonel Juan Seguin on the back.

  “Begging my poor father to resign. His grandchildren miss their abuelo.”

  The heavy demands of campaigning against annexation had taken their toll on Erasmo Seguin. His normally swarthy skin was pallid. Dark circles caused his eyes to appear sunken. If anything, the elder Seguin looked worse now than he had when they had finished their campaign circuit a couple of weeks before.

  “Erasmo, at least take some time to rest.”