To the Victors the Remains

by Drew McGunn

  Charlie felt tears welling in his eyes, as he listened to his father. He reached around and hugged him as hard as he could. “Thanks, Pa. I love you, too.”

  ***

  Near the Colorado River stood the lone church in Austin with a steeple. From its single bell, it tolled noon. Will listened as the bell rang twelve times. He and Charlie stood in the Capitol building’s House of Representatives’ chamber, behind a rope cordon separating the gallery from the desks behind which the peoples’ representatives sat. The back of the room was crowded with several hundred people, waiting to hear the president’s speech.

  Nearly every senator and representative had returned to Austin over the past couple of weeks, once it was evident Mexico’s latest foray into the Republic had been turned back. Additional chairs had been brought in, allowing the senators to share desks with their counterparts from the House. There was a buzz of conversation as they made small talk with each other, waiting for the president’s arrival.

  The air was growing stale at Will’s spot near the rope, which stretched from one side of the room to the other. Even though every window in the chamber was open, what little breeze came through failed to stir the air at the back of the room. As the temperature climbed, Charlie tugged at the ascot around his neck, Will resisted the urge to unfasten his jacket’s top button, silently cursing the need to maintain the formal image expected of him as commander of the army.

  The door, near the speaker’s podium swung open, and the chamber’s sergeant-at-arms stepped through. The chattering died off, as he announced the arrival of the president. To a man, the representatives and senators stood as David Crockett strode through the door. He wore a somber expression, which was far removed from the normal joviality that was his stock-in-trade.

  He stepped up to the podium and adjusted the black silk cravat tied around his throat. It matched perfectly the black suit and black waistcoat he wore. Will thought he looked like he was dressed to attend a funeral.

  He chased the thought away. Heaven help him if it were so. The president opened a leather portfolio and glanced down at a prepared text. As he spoke, Will focused intently on his words.

  “Gentlemen of the House of Representatives and the Senate. Mr. Vice President, Mr. Speaker, and Mr. President Pro-Tem.” Crockett’s gaze swept over the assembled men in the room before settling briefly on the three men to his right. Lorenzo de Zavala, as Vice President sat next to the podium, and beside him sat the Speaker of the House, Colin McKinney, and last was the president pro-tem of the senate, Richard Ellis.

  “Thank you for the opportunity to address this august body regarding the state of relations that exist between the Republic of Texas and the United States of Mexico. On the thirteenth of March, the Mexican Army of the North crossed over the treaty line at the Rio Grande and attacked elements of our army at Fort Moses Austin. At dawn on the thirtieth of March, the same army attacked without provocation elements of our active and reserve army at our primary military fortification, the Alamo.

  “Were it not for the fortuitous arrival of brevet General A.S. Johnston’s relief column, the Alamo would have become like Thermopylae of old, a holocaust of fire and death. Circumstances cast our beloved Major Almaron Dickinson in the role of Leonidas, leading his own three hundred Spartans, in defense of sacred duty.” Crockett paused, looking up from his prepared statement and gazed around the room at the assembly, looking many of them in the eyes before continuing.

  “There are those in Mexico, who claim that we are a band of pirates, when they are not busy demarking our boundaries at the Nueces River. Let us set aside such rank hypocrisy and examine how we have come to this moment. When Santa Anna overturned the lawful constitution of 1824, he made himself a dictator and an enemy of democracy. Rather than live under Santa Anna’s bootheel, we threw off the shackles of despotism and declared our independence. Texian arms were victorious and Santa Anna was captured. As the leader of the Mexican nation, he negotiated the Treaty of Bexar, in which both nations agreed our shared boundary would be the Rio Grande River to its headwaters.

  “The oath-breaker had no sooner stepped foot on Mexican soil than he repudiated the treaty. The office of the president is tasked as the executive of state with overseeing the territorial integrity of our great nation. To that end, I have instructed our secretary of war to use our army to secure our border with Mexico. We have established border forts at the mouth of the Rio Grande and at Laredo, and most recently at Ysleta. Every action taken has been in the spirit of the Treaty of Bexar, which the Senate of the Republic ratified six year ago.”

  Crocket turned the page and looked up as he continued, “The lawless instability within the factions vying for control of the government of the United States of Mexico has allowed Santa Anna to seize power yet again. Even if his only crimes against Texas were the envelopment and surrender of our garrison at Fort Moses Austin or the attempted sacking of the Alamo, we would be acting in righteous fury in retaliating. But it is with heavy heart I must inform members of congress and the people of Texas that on the third of April, sixty prisoners of war from Fort Moses Austin were murdered in cold blood on the orders of Santa Anna.” Crocket paused again, his eyes red with emotion.

  Word of the massacre outside of Reynosa had not become widespread yet, even among Texas’ representatives and senators. Most were hearing of this for the first time. Stunned silence descended upon the chamber, as the news registered among Texas’ elected officials.

  First to his feet was the honorable representative from San Antonio, Francisco Ruiz. He slammed his hands on his desk, yelling, “Down with Santa Anna!”

  Other politicians leapt to their feet, shouting for revenge for their murdered soldiers. The president stood at the podium, his hands tightly clasped to its sides, as the pandemonium ran its course.

  “I trust I speak for each man who hears my voice or reads of this in the newspapers in the coming days, when I say, we have suffered the indignation of watching our fathers, sons, and brothers butchered by Santa Anna for the last time. It was for this reason I asked to address you, in a joint session of congress of the Republic of Texas. I call upon this august body to jointly issue a declaration of war against the government of Mexico. We will not rest, we will not tire nor flag in our resolve until Santa Anna has been brought to justice for his crimes against Texas!”

  Every congressman and senator, every man, woman, and child packed into the public gallery stood and cheered as Crockett closed the folder, tucked it under his arm and turned and nodded to the men to his right, and exited quickly by the same door he had entered fifteen minutes earlier.

  ***

  After he and Charlie escaped from the crush of people in the gallery, Will strode down the hallway and took the stairs two at a time, and arrived on the landing outside Crockett’s office. The door was closed but not locked and he let himself and his son into the small executive office.

  The long table he and the president had used to plan their capture of Santa Fe was gone. The large, wooden desk was back in its normal place and near the door, a couple of chairs faced the desk. Crockett’s black felt jacket was haphazardly draped over one the chairs. The president sat behind his desk, a pen in his hand swiftly scratching across a piece of paper. When he finished, he set the pen down and looked up. “It’s good to see you, Buck. I’m right glad you’re back from Santa Fe. I do wish you’d brought Becky and the baby with you, though. I miss them mightily.”

  His smile widened as he turned to Charlie, “Damnation boy, what’s my Becky been feeding you? You’ve shot up like a weed. A few more inches and you’ll be as tall as your pa, I believe.”

  Will sank down into the open chair opposite from Crockett and waved to the other chair, “If you’ll move your Uncle Davy’s jacket there, have a seat. Your uncle and I have a war to plan.”

  Crockett took the jacket from the boy and set it on the desk before responding. “It might not take that long, Buck. I’ve read the report you sent over last night,
and damned, if you haven’t put together a fine plan of action. There’s only one or two items I’d recommend differently, but that can wait.

  The president had always taken Will’s plans in his stride and adopted them as his own, when pushing them through congress. “One or two things” was a departure for Crockett. Will cocked his head to the side, and looked keenly at his commander-in-chief, “Ah, what kind of changes do you have in mind, Mr. President?”

  A crooked smile lit up Crockett’s face and filled Will with dread. “Oh, hell, David, what have you gone and done?”

  Crockett smiled impishly. “Oh, ye of little faith. Where’s your trust, can’t you extend your father-in-law a little credit?”

  Not liking the direction the president was taking the conversation, Will drily replied, “In God we trust, everyone else pays cash, David.”

  Crockett guffawed, “That’s a delightful bit of blasphemy, Buck. I’ll have to remember it. It’s only a slight change I’m looking for. I couldn’t help but notice that your plan includes a large expansion in the number of reserve battalions. I’d normally never interfere with who you pick to command these units. However, in the case of one of them, I made an exception, and taken the liberty of appointing a colonel to one of them.”

  Will gave the president an icy glare. Afraid he knew the answer, he was hesitant to ask. But Charlie piped up, “Who’d you pick, Uncle Davy?”

  With a twinkle in his eye, he smiled wide and said, “Me!”

  Will leapt to his feet, knocking his chair over backwards, and shouted, “You can’t do that! You’re the president! Who’s going to run the government if you’re gallivanting around Mexico with me?”

  The president looked back at him as though Will had a screw loose. He then tapped the paper on the desk and said, “This here letter says that tomorrow Lorenzo becomes president. At least until elections in the fall. And don’t bother asking him. It took me long enough, but I convinced him that this is for the best.”

  Will picked the chair back up and slammed the legs back on the floor before sitting down again. “What are you thinking, David? The republic needs you.”

  Crockett leaned back in his chair until it creaked and shook his head. “No, what the republic needs is another six years to grow stronger. I’ve had my ears in certain places and I learned a while back that Sam Houston is planning another run for this here desk. And Sam’s not a bad sort. Hell, he’d make a decent president if he’d get over that tomfoolery about annexation. I’ll never understand that man. He spent the last six years giving the Cherokee everything he had. And if he won and got us annexed, the United States would do their best pull the rug out from giving the Cherokee a fair shake.”

  Will was startled by the revelation. “He only told me a few days ago. How’d you find out so quickly?”

  Crockett smiled conspiratorially and said, “Come now, Buck, I ain’t no blushing bride on her wedding day. I learned a long time ago to keep my friends close and my enemies closer. It’s a gamble, but I figure if I can give Lorenzo a few months to transform himself into a wartime president, that folks won’t want to change horses midstream, and elect him to his own term. With any luck, he’ll send Sam back to live among the Cherokee again.”

  Will had always held Crockett in the highest of estimation, but this revelation made him ratchet up his opinion even higher. Shaking his head, and laughing a little at his friend and father-in-law’s machinations, he asked, “And what do you gain by commanding one of a dozen battalions going south into Mexico?”

  Crockett leaned across the desk and conspiratorially whispered, “Buck, who said anything about me going south?”

  New Traditions

  Set between the end of To the Victors the Remains and book 4 of the Texas Reloaded Series, New Traditions is a stand-alone short story.

  August 1842

  In the Capitol building, the small corner office of the president felt cramped, even though President Lorenzo de Zavala and Captain Jim Boylan were the only men present. The president’s desk was piled high with correspondence, and several law books were perched on its edge. Zavala ran his fingers through rapidly graying hair.

  Since David Crockett’s resignation earlier in the spring, the full weight of running the executive branch of the government weighed heavily upon him. It didn’t help that he should have been campaigning. Instead, he was a prisoner to the demands of the office. The reason for Captain Boylan’s presence was simply one of dozens of irons he was trying to manage. He rummaged through one of the stacks on his desk until he found the item he was looking for.

  “Captain, thanks for coming up from Galveston. As I indicated in my letter, the republic of the Yucatan has informed us that Mexico has taken possession of two new ships that pose a serious threat to both our nations’ trade. At the moment, those ships, as well as others in the Mexican fleet have moved in to blockade the Yucatan coast.”

  The naval officer tilted his head, acknowledging the news. Zavala continued, “It serves Texas’ purpose to see that Yucatan maintains her independence. Should Mexico reconquer the Yucatan, then Santa Anna would be free to turn his entire attention on us. This is why you’re here.”

  Boylan leaned forward, focusing on the president’s words, “I want you to take three of our four ships to Campeche and lift the blockade. If you can draw the Mexican fleet into battle, all the better. If we force their ships back into port, then we can force a blockade of the Mexican coast.

  “Mr. President, I have heard of the two new steamships the Mexicans have procured. The last I heard, they were under the command of English mercenaries. Would defeating these ships damage our relationship with the English?”

  Zavala frowned, “You’ve heard that rumor, too. I believe Britain’s sale of those ships to Mexico has far more to do with challenging the United States than intending to put a dagger at our heart. If something happens to those ships, it’s possible it could impact our relationship with the British, but it’s equally likely, that destroying them may alter the balance of power with the United States, in a way that plays to our advantage. Either way, I think the reward is worth the risk.”

  Zavala turned his attention to the paperwork on his desk and Boylan took his leave and was deep in thought, planning the campaign as he left the Capitol building.

  ***

  The gentle swells of the Gulf of Mexico rocked the ships of the Texas Navy as they rode at anchor a few miles north of the Yucatecan port of Campeche. A midshipman aboard the squadron’s flagship, the Fannin, raised a signal flag, ordering an officer’s call. In response, longboats were swung out from the Nueces and the Austin, and a short time later, each ship’s captain and Marine officer were ferried between the ships.

  Lieutenant Oliver Porter grabbed the sides of the pilot ladder and climbed up the rope ladder, until he swung his feet over the gunwale and felt the solid wooden decking under him. Despite more than a year’s service in the Texas Marine Corps, Porter preferred standing on dry ground to the rolling and pitching of a ship’s deck. He saluted the ship’s ensign, flying aft of the ship, then saluted the officer of the watch. A midshipman, no more than fourteen or fifteen years of age, guided him to the wardroom where the other officers were assembled.

  Captain Boylan, acting as the squadron’s commodore, nodded to him as he entered, and indicated toward an empty chair. Porter hurried over, and took his seat next to Captain Gabriel Gibson, the commander of the Fannin’s Marine contingent. Boylan remained seated as he spoke, “Gentlemen, now that we have arrived on station, I’m at liberty to divulge our plans. Of course, you all are aware that we have been tasked with breaking the Mexican naval blockade of the Republic of Yucatan’s port.

  “The Mexican fleet has been augmented with a couple of new warships they purchased from the British. The Montezuma and the Guadalupe. Either of them is the equal to the Fannin, and from what I’ve heard, both are clad with iron plating. The reports I have from our spies in Mexico is that they’re crewed by British officers a
nd a mix of Mexican and British sailors.”

  The captain paused as he searched the table around which they were seated. He found what he was looking for and continued, “In addition to these two steam frigates, the Mexican fleet consists of the Regenerator, a steamship the Mexicans have converted to carry some guns, and two schooners and two brigs. Were it not for the ironclad ships, we’d sweep their fleet from the gulf and be its undisputed masters.”

  The captain from the Nueces, Henry Thompson asked, “What about the armament of those ironclads, Captain?”

  Boylan’s face settled into a frown. “The British-built ships carry Paixhans guns. For those who may not be familiar with them,” he said with a sidelong glance at the Marine officers, “they’re designed expressly for firing exploding shells. Our best guess is that both are equipped with a half-dozen of these guns. Of special note, though is that both ironclads are equipped with a 68-pounder pivot gun, mounted on the bow. Against that, the Fannin’s got one twelve-inch bow-chaser that can fire a two-hundred-twenty-five pound shell, as well as her twelve 42-pounder carronades.”

  Captain Gibson leaned back in his chair, rocking it back on its back legs, “The Fannin sounds like she can give as good as she gets, what have you got planned.”

  Boylan stood to his feet and leaned over the table and in a conspiratorial whisper shared his plan.

  ***

  The rhythmic sound of water lapping against the longboat’s hull did nothing to sooth Lieutenant Porter’s nerves as the crowded boat sliced through the waters of the Bay of Campeche. Twenty men, a mixture of sailors and Marines were crowded onto its benches. Three more longboats kept pace and in formation with Porter’s boat, as they rowed through the heavily overcast night’s inky darkness.

  The crew had been rowing for a couple of hours, following a compass reading, which according to Yucatecan sources would take them to where the Mexican fleet rode at anchor outside the harbor of Campeche. Porter turned from his place near the bow, and watched his men silently pulling on their oars, as though willing the boat to go even faster.