by Drew McGunn
Almonte was dismayed at Woll’s admission. “Surely his Excellency wouldn’t cashier you from the service, Adrian.” The younger officer shifted to a more intimate address upon hearing of Woll’s bad luck.
With a Gallic shrug, Woll said, “Reduced in rank and command of a desk in the capital. I don’t know, Juan. Perhaps, I’ll return to France. With any luck, I’ll find employ in the court of King Ferdinand.”
Almonte searched for something that would sooth the sting of Woll’s downfall but came up empty as the other officer continued his listless walk down the corridor. Shaking his head at Woll’s inglorious fall from grace, Almonte straightened his jacket and tucked his hat under his arm and tapped on the door.
Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna sat behind a massive teak desk. As Almonte marched in and stopped before the desk, he couldn’t help but look at his reflection in the desk’s wax polish. Santa Anna wore an elaborately embroidered blue and crimson tunic. His desk was tidy, letting the general take in the intricate marble inlay set in the costly wood.
In response to Almonte’s crisp salute, his Excellency smiled widely and waved him into a chair. “Juanito, I’m glad you were able to get away from Washington. Were you able to take Maria and Lupe back with you?”
Almonte tipped his head, “Yes, Excellency. The trip back was unremarkable.”
“I want you to understand my decision to recall you from that mosquito-infested town had nothing to do with your performance there. I have need of your observations into the Yankees’ mind about Texas. What kind of attitude was there in Washington to Woll’s misadventures in Texas?”
Almonte ran his fingers through hair which was turning gray at the temples. “There are plenty within the Democratic Party who agitate for annexation, asserting that Texas should be brought within their union. They believe it is their Manifest Destiny, as they call it, for the United States to stretch from the Atlantic to the Pacific.”
Santa Anna steepled his fingers and appeared to meditate for a moment. “But is not the government of President Clay against annexation?”
“As long as Clay is president, his government has made every assurance that annexation is off the table. But you should be mindful, there is yet a constant flow of settlers pouring across the Sabine River or coming in through the port of Galveston, swelling the population of Texas.”
Almonte paused as though trying to decide whether to tell more. “Out with it, my friend. I can see something else is on your mind,” Santa Anna insisted.
Choosing his words with care, Almonte said, “The way in which Woll carried out the recent campaign in Texas has elicited a strongly worded condemnation from President Clay, Excellency. Their newspapers decry the massacre at the Alamo and the executions at Reynosa.”
His Excellency leaned back in the elegant chair and stifled a yawn, “Did you remind him that how Mexico deals with her own insurrections is an internal dispute? The United States has no more business telling us how we should subjugate an unruly province than we would of how they should deal with their Negros.”
“Excellency it has been more than six years since we have exercised de facto control over our rebellious northern territory. In that time, even the British have appointed an envoy to Texas. It wouldn’t surprise me if they exchange diplomatic missions sooner rather than later.”
Santa Anna shook his head, “No, Juanito, they are pirates and as such, my government has dealt with them as the lawless bandits they are. Given the considerable investment by British bankers in our country and the recent purchase of new ships for our navy, the British are firmly invested in Mexico’s continued success.”
Almonte pursed his lips, “Bandits they may be, Excellency, but if war with them is an inevitability, I recommend caution in how we treat prisoners in the future, if for no other reason than we don’t want these pirates killing any of our soldiers they capture.”
Santa Anna stared down his nose at Almonte. It was evident from his gaze that his Excellency was of a different mind. After a protracted moment, he said, “The second reason I summoned you from Washington is that you’ll have the opportunity to establish our policy, my friend. I require another general officer with experience in the Army of the North. You’ll report to General Vasquez in Monterrey, and I’ll leave it to the two of you to decide the policy on prisoners. Does this satisfy your sensibilities?”
Almonte ignored Santa Anna's familiar yet patronizing tone. “Yes, Excellency.”
“What information have you brought back from the United States that will help us to refine our strategy for the impending campaign?”
“While their army is modest, at little more than a thousand men, it is my opinion they have formed units comparable to our own active militia. My sources are not certain, but it could amount to another three or four thousand men,” Almonte said.
His Excellency scowled at the news. “I had hoped to learn Woll was exaggerating, but that matches what he told me. It troubles me to give an inch to any of Mexico’s traitors, but I think I’ll postpone our land offensive against the Yucatecan rebels for now. In addition to being General Vasquez’s second-in-command, I want you to also take responsibility for the division I had intended for our offensive against the Yucatecan rebels. They’re currently stationed south of Vera Cruz. Get them on the road to Monterrey as soon as possible. General Vasquez intends to invade before the heat of summer is upon us.”
His audience at an end, Almonte rose and saluted. As the noise of his heels echoed off the walls of the corridor, his thoughts shifted to the debacle in 1836 when the Texians had captured much of Santa Anna’s army, including himself, after he was severely wounded.
In Woll’s campaign the previous year, mistakes had been made. Monterrey was a good-sized town of more than ten thousand souls and should be capable of supporting the coming campaign. He began building a mental list and realized he would require more supply wagons. As his list grew he added surgeons to it. Before he knew it, he glanced up and found himself in the coach, rolling back toward the hacienda at which his family was staying. He had been so deep in thought he didn’t recall leaving Chapultepec. He peered out the window and noticed he was rolling down the street where he had seen the boys playing tag earlier. They were still at it. Now, the swifter boy was “it.” As the coach rolled past the playing boys, Almonte couldn’t help but see how quickly he chased down the others.
***
About the same time…
Sunlight streamed through the heavily curtained windows into the bedroom, casting light onto the opposite wall. Will Travers slowly opened his eyes and regretted it as his pupils dilated. He listened and heard Henrietta moving around in the kitchen. Within a few minutes the aroma of coffee would drift through the house.
True to form, the freedwoman had the coffee brewing and Will breathed in the fragrance of the beans steeping in the kitchen hearth.
He stretched out, and his hand ran along his wife’s still sleeping body. He rolled over, propping his head up with his arm and watched her relaxed breathing as her breasts rose and fell with each breath. He ran his eyes over her sleeping body, admiring it. The pregnancy wasn’t showing yet. But when she had been pregnant with Elizabeth, it took four months for Becky to show.
He leaned over and kissed her lips, which curved upwards into a smile and he felt her arms wrap around his neck. “Good morning, my love.”
As their lips parted he returned the smile, “Good morning back at you.”
Rare were the occasions when Will had time to reflect about the previous six years. But as his wife snuggled with him and her breathing told him she had drifted back to sleep, his thoughts strayed back to the earth shattering experience which had altered his life forever. When the Humvee ran over the improvised explosive device, and overturned in the Iraqi sandstorm, he thought his life was over. Waking up in the body of William Barrett Travis, a few weeks before he was supposed to die a martyr’s death at the Alamo, was something he couldn’t have imagined in his wildest dreams
.
Even now, as he inhaled his wife’s scent while she slept next to him, trying to rationalize it was something he had failed to manage. Being ripped from 2008 to 1836 made no sense whether he attributed it to an act of God or to the fickleness of fate. His mind was more at ease accepting that it was the hand of God, rather some random violation of the laws of physics. He was convinced chasing the contradictions down the countless rabbit holes would drive him mad.
“Dwelling on that, I could gather enough wool to cloth the army,” Will thought as he slid out of bed and dressed. He left the thought in the bedroom as he gently closed the door, leaving Becky asleep. He accepted a steaming cup of coffee from Henrietta with a thank you and absentmindedly ate breakfast as he mentally planned his day.
President Zavala had forced a massive funding bill through congress, and Will needed to find out how fast the Trinity Gun Works could increase production. General Ben McCulloch’s most recent enrollment estimates for the militia looked promising, but with an invasion to organize, Will needed to know McCulloch’s views on how many men were necessary to keep farms, mills, and Texas’ nascent industry functioning. Will had already noticed in San Antonio more women were behind the counters of the mercantile stores. There was no question this war with Mexico would take too many men out of the economy. The answer he sought was to find a balance that left enough men on the Homefront, working farms, mills, and factories, while still giving him enough men to defeat Mexico.
In a hurry to get to his office at the Alamo, Will grabbed his butternut officer’s jacket and cracked the bedroom door open and saw Becky softly snoring. Despite feeling the burden of the day, the sight brought a smile to his lips. The crib in the corner held his daughter, Elizabeth. Even though Liza was more than a year old, Becky insisted she continue sleeping in their room, at least until the end of the pregnancy.
Along the back of the house, a hallway led to Charlie’s bedroom. Will stuck his head in and saw the boy was still sleeping, even as the sun rose in the sky. A few months shy of fourteen, he was growing like a weed and according to Henrietta, eating her out of house and home.
The constant nightmares following the boy’s ordeal at the Alamo a couple of months earlier were fewer now. Will still blamed himself for how close the Alamo had come to falling. Had he been at the mission turned fort with his thousand regulars, he was certain he would have been able to defeat Woll’s army and no siege would have happened. Instead, he had been securing the western frontier of the Republic nine hundred miles away, bringing Albuquerque and Santa Fe into the fold.
He listened to the faint snoring coming from the boy. He had sworn many times, over the previous couple of months, he would never let his family come so close to being taken from him again. He slipped from the room, closing the door behind, and headed to the Alamo. He had a war to plan.
Chapter 2
Summer 1842
The red-haired officer stood next to the brick wall overlooking Mobile Bay. Were it not for the Secretary of the Army’s decision to close the coastal fort at Ft. Morgan, Bill couldn’t help wondering if he would have remained in the United States army for the foreseeable future. Recalling the events of the past week, he could scarcely imagine the direction his life would now go. He stared out the embrasure, next to a heavy iron gun. While most of the fort’s coastal artillery was to be repositioned at other active forts along the gulf coast, a few, like this one, would remain under the watch of a sergeant’s guard, in a mothball status.
Below the fort, waves lapped at the sandy shoreline. As he watched the rhythmic surf pounding at the sand, the sea’s motion soothed the trepidation he felt. All this had started only a week ago. He thought back to that fateful day.
Most of the officers had already received their orders for reassignment, but none yet had arrived for him. While he worried about his next assignment, there was plenty on which to focus. He had been cataloging the battery of coastal guns facing the gulf, when a private raced up the stairs, nearly colliding with him.
“Lieutenant Sherman, sir.” The private’s nasally New Jersey accent grated against his ears, “Captain’s compliments, you’re to report to his office immediately.”
Bill frowned at the interruption and closed the ledger. “Alright, Jones. I’ll be there straight away.”
As the soldier retreated, taking the stairs two at a time, Bill hid the ledger in the ammunition locker, confident it would be waiting on his return. He was curious about the reason for the summons. As he hurried over to the captain’s office, he speculated about where his orders would take him next. Would it be Charleston harbor? Fort Sumter was under construction and Fort Moultrie had several officer billets opening up. Maybe it would be Boston. Fort Warren was also under construction and he had heard they were adding several batteries of coastal guns. As he knocked on the door, an unfamiliar voice called out, “Enter.”
Alone in the captain’s office stood a brown-haired man of medium height. Apart from a widow’s peak that threatened to hide his eyebrows, his hair was receding. Bill eyed the man’s clothing, gaging by them, that the owner was well-to-do. Having expected his captain, he was uncertain how to react to the other man, so he came to attention, and said, “Lieutenant William Sherman reporting.”
The other man stretched out his hand, “John Wharton, Lieutenant Sherman. I hope you don’t mind, but I asked to have a moment of your time.” He reached into his jacket and produced a sealed letter which he handed to Bill.
The lieutenant broke the seal and read the letter. His eyes widened when he saw it was from Secretary of War, John Bell. He read then reread the letter before raising his eyes to look at Wharton. “I don’t understand, sir.”
The stranger leaned against the captain’s cluttered desk and motioned for Bill to sit. Once Sherman had settled himself into a chair, Wharton said, “No doubt you’re wondering why an agent of a foreign government would request to meet with you alone.”
Bill nodded. “The thought had crossed my mind, sir.”
“As you, no doubt, are aware, Mexico and Texas are gearing up for war. As part of our preparation, Texas bought several dozen field pieces from the United States. We are creating a battalion of light artillery. But we need trained officers to command it.”
Bill could see the trajectory of the conversation. “What does that have to do with me, Mr. Wharton?”
With a faint smile, Wharton said, “President Clay has given his blessing to allow officers who might wish to do so, the freedom of resigning their commissions in the United States army, and to accept a similar or higher rank in the army of Texas.”
Bill glanced down at the letter in his hand and responded, “Why would I want to do that?”
Wharton’s smile grew broader. “To advance in the United States Army, someone above you has to retire, resign, or die. An officer can spend a very long time moving from lieutenant to captain. Many of your fellow officers retire at that rank, simply because there isn’t any opportunity higher. What Texas can offer you is a captaincy in command of a field battery, the experience of commanding men in combat and the opportunity for advancement.”
Bill couldn’t deny, it was an attractive offer. He had known a few people who had gone to Texas, and the favorable tales they sent back were alluring. But if he accepted the commission, what would that do to his own prospects? His thoughts drifted to Ellen, whom he’d known since they were young children. Of late, he had thought of asking for her hand in marriage. But a lieutenant’s pay was paltry. Would she look favorably upon him for accepting a captaincy in the Texian army? The pay would make it easier to provide for her, he was sure of it. Still though, he saw tremendous risk.
With a note of hesitation in his voice, Bill asked, “What are your terms, Mr. Wharton?”
Like an angler setting the hook, Wharton said, “If you accept my offer, Texas will commission you as a captain of artillery. Pay is one hundred twenty dollars per month. Your rations, uniforms and housing expenses will be covered by the army. A
lso, you’ll receive a six-hundred and forty-acre bounty from the Republic if you agree to serve for the duration of the war with Mexico. Upon completion of the war, you’ll also receive an additional league of land.”
Bill’s eyebrows rose involuntarily. As a 2nd lieutenant, he earned eighty dollars each month, but was required to pay for his uniform and rations from that amount. If he lived anywhere other than the fort, he would need to cover rent with his pay, too. From newspapers, he knew that land could be had for as little as fifty cents an acre in Texas. The incentive was worth easily more than three hundred dollars. If he stayed in the Texas army for the duration of the war, an additional league of land was worth at least another two thousand dollars.
As he counted the potential windfall he would receive for service in the Texian army, Bill imagined Ellen accepting his proposal. He offered up a grin as he said, “I believe you’ve found your man, Mr. Wharton.”
***
The patent clerk raised the window, hoping to let in whatever breeze that might exist as the June morning gave way to afternoon. Dick thought Austin in summertime was hotter than his childhood home in North Carolina. As he filled his lungs with the hot, dry air, he considered it might even be hotter than old Scratch’s home. He returned to his desk where he continued reading the specifications of a patent he was tasked with registering. It was the schematics for another modification of a cotton carding machine from the Gulf Farms Corporation. He had accepted the filings for more than a dozen inventions this year alone from Gulf Farms.
He set the completed filing aside and wiped his brow. Most of the inventions which came from Gulf Farms wouldn’t amount to much, he thought. But throw enough innovation at a problem, like cotton production, and Dick conceded they would eventually streamline how the South produced cotton. He glanced at his pocket watch which he had earlier set on his desk, and saw it was nearly lunch. He opened a drawer and pulled out the design which had brought him to Texas.