by Drew McGunn
When he learned that Texas had purchased technologically advanced pistols from Samuel Colt in Connecticut as well as breechloading rifles from Harpers Ferry, he decided to write a letter to the President of the Republic of Texas. Dick had grown up reading stories about Davy Crockett in dime novels he had bought with the money he earned. In the letter he praised the frontier government for being forward thinking and investing in modern inventions.
He hadn’t truly expected a response from President Crockett, so when he received one thanking him for writing and offering him a job with the Republic’s Patent Office, he said his good-byes to his family in North Carolina and moved to Texas.
He chuckled ruefully at the memory as he looked in the drawer at the letter from President Crockett. The former president had not been lying, but neither had he told the entire truth. What Crockett had meant was Dick would have the dubious distinction of being the entire Patent Office.
A rushing of feet outside his office announced lunch. The door was thrown open and Dick waved at his friend, Ezekiel Wilson, who clerked for Michel Menard, the Republic’s Secretary of the Treasury, and Dick’s boss. “Gatling, come on, old boy. Miss Mabry is dining at the Stagecoach Inn for lunch today.” Dick smiled. Miss Mabry was, in his estimation, one of the most beautiful single women in Austin. And in a town where single men outnumbered their female counterparts by a wide margin, a man had to make his own opportunity.
Dick Gatling leapt to his feet, grabbed his jacket and hat and raced out the door, hard on the heels of his friend.
***
6 August 1842
The wind filled the schooner’s canvas sails, taking the ratlines from slack to taut in less time than Mark could have described it. The southerly breeze propelled the ship through the narrow confines of Bolivar Roads, the channel between Galveston Island and Bolivar Peninsula. The fresh breeze carried the briny smell of salt. He grabbed the railing of the ship as he watched the sailors of the British Royal Navy reefing the sails. The schooner slowed. Even the power of the British Royal Navy was no match for the treacherous shoals and shallow water that had been the death of more than a few ships in Galveston Bay and the captain waited for a harbor pilot to continue into port.
His charge, Charles Elliot, stood near the gang plank, apparently willing the ship to move faster. A mooring space was open alongside one of the docks, and the ship was given clearance to berth there. As was proper for a valet, Mark stood well behind Mr. Elliot and it allowed him to observe the chargé d'affaires to the Republic of Texas. Elliot had been moody most of the time aboard since leaving from England a few weeks earlier. Even now, as the Schooner glided through the water to her resting place alongside the dock, Elliot frowned.
“No wonder,” Mark thought, looking beyond the bustling wharves at the raw town of Galveston. They had been told Galveston was the most developed city in the frontier republic. From a casual look at the town, he held little hope for the rest of the country. This was certainly a step down from Elliot’s last posting. No matter how ably he had performed his duty to the crown, being at the center of the debacle the newspapers had taken to calling the” Opium War” in China, was deleterious to one’s career.
“Of course, he’s not the only one better served by not being in the old country right now.” Mark’s frown matched that of his charge. Formerly an employee of the General Post Office, Mark Stewart had been a small cog in a much larger scandal when the activities of the Secret Office became fodder for the newspapers and Members of Parliament. Mark’s earlier role had been as a decipherer, responsible for breaking French and Spanish codes. In the scandal’s aftermath several men were publicly discharged, among them, Mark. In the end, the firings were not enough to stem the scandal, and the office was shuttered.
After the ship was moored to the dock, Elliot strode down the gangway and onto the wooden pier. Mark turned to the ship’s purser and gave him the address to which the balance of the diplomat’s luggage was to be sent. As Elliot disappeared into the crowd, Mark grabbed a valise, ran down the narrow wooden plank and hurried after the diplomat.
***
Charles Elliot was in a foul mood as he stormed off the dock and into the teeming mass of men, horses, wagons, and trade goods along Galveston’s wharves. A sharp glance behind confirmed his “employee” was following. Hong Kong, while certainly not British in the sense of Surrey or Essex, was still far more civilized and cultured than this crude town. Galveston was home to only a few thousand souls, and as he sniffed the air, each of those souls appeared to have their own outhouse.
Unlike the French, who had moved their own consulate to Austin, the Foreign Office had the good sense to establish Elliot in Galveston. It better suited Her Majesty’s government to appear neutral toward the growing republic. Even so, his arrival was a concession of sorts, that Britain acknowledged Mexico was unlikely to subjugate her ill-tempered former northern province.
Even the hotel, which was only a couple of years old, appeared unkempt and rude. As he stepped into the foyer, he made a vow he would buy a house in the town before sending for Clara and the children.
He had finished checking in by the time Mark Stewart had arrived, carrying a solitary valise. “Where’s the remainder of the bags, man?”
Stewart returned the frown. “The ship’s purser will be sending them, sir.”
His valet was another thorn in his side. Having served in the Royal Navy for more than a decade, Elliot was used to clear-cut roles. With any normal valet Elliot would simply tell him what to do and he would expect it to be done. Stewart was a different kettle of fish. The only benefit Elliot had found was at least he didn’t have to pay the brusque former civil servant. It still grated on him to have the other man foisted upon him just days before he was to sail to Texas. Stewart’s salary was paid for by a consortium of investors with ties to Lloyds Bank and his role was ostensibly that of private valet to Elliot. But with an enigmatic employer, Stewart wasn’t his man, and that bothered him.
“Nothing to be done about it now,” Elliot muttered as he lay down on the uncomfortable mattress. All things being equal, it was no worse than the bunk he had slept on while on the schooner. Moments later the chargé d'affaires drifted off to sleep.
When Elliot awoke, the sun was sliding below the western horizon. The sound of a door closing had brought him out of his light slumber. He fumbled his watch from his waistcoat and gaged that twilight was still an hour away. The room was unbearably stuffy and warm; he had forgotten to open the window before lying down. He took a step over to the window and raised it. He breathed in the warm, summer air then spotted a familiar figure walking quickly down the road, away from the hotel.
Chapter 3
Will stepped out of his office above the hospital. Even as the sun inched above the eastern horizon, the day promised to be hot. He placed his black, wide-brimmed hat on his head and walked down the stairs. The windows running along the wall of the hospital were open, and he heard Ashbel Smith, Surgeon General of the army becoming exasperated. He paused as he listened to the conversation.
“Dr. Jones, as the surgeon for the 3rd Infantry, I am at a loss as to why you allowed the men to dig latrines as close to the river as you have. I’ve half a dozen cases of dysentery in the hospital, and by God, if you don’t get those latrines moved, there’ll be even more.”
Will strained to hear Anson Jones’ response. Jones had practiced medicine prior to his election to the Senate in 1836. He had resigned his seat to serve as a surgeon to one of the reserve battalions. “Now, Ashbel, you know the boys was just tired when they dug them.”
Smith’s voice rose, his Yankee accent was thick with emotion, “That’s why you’re the battalion surgeon, Dr. Jones. You’re responsible for the health of your men. I don’t want to see you in my hospital until those latrines are at least a hundred feet from the San Antonio River!”
As Jones fled the building, Will heard the tinkling of glass breaking, followed by Dr. Smith’s voice rising as he
swore. Will had been ready to turn around and start back up the stairs. Stranded for more than six years in the mid-nineteenth century had taught him folks could be prickly about issues of honor, and his first inclination was to be somewhere else. But between the sound of breaking glass and Dr. Smith’s rising voice, Will swept by Jones as the former Senator stormed out of the hospital.
The hospital was a long room with beds along both sides. Will saw a few men, occupying beds at one end, and Dr. Ashbel Smith at the far end, standing next to a large table.
Will hurried over to the doctor, “You’re not hurt, are you?”
Dr. Smith waved his concern away with one hand as he scrubbed the table down with a rag. “No. But that damned fool caused me to drop a couple of vials of acid that shouldn’t have been mixed.”
Concern stamped on his face, Will said, “What did you break?”
“I had a vial of nitric acid. I use it as a cauterizing agent. I was so mad at that idiot I knocked it against a vial of sulphuric acid. And now I’ve lost perfectly good bandages wiping this mess up.”
Will involuntarily took a step back, regretting he hadn’t spent more time paying attention in high school chemistry. “You don’t think it’ll blow up, do you?”
Dr. Smith draped the soaking rag on the back of a chair, “Lordy, don’t even say that, sir. I’ll throw the rags out once they’re dry, and if need be, I’ll lay the blame at Anson’s feet.”
The odor in that wing of the hospital was strong, even with the windows open. Once the mess had been wiped away, Will walked with Dr. Smith back to the other wing, where he made small talk with the handful of hospitalized men from the 3rd Battalion.
As he stepped out the door from the hospital, Sidney Johnston walked up, “Morning, Buck. I was hoping to find you out and about, and sure enough, here you are.”
Will pointed up at his office, “Want to talk up there?”
Johnston waved off the offer, “Have you had the opportunity to inspect the 4th and 6th Infantry battalions, yet? I thought we could take a stroll and see how they’re settling in.”
Will nodded toward the gate, “Lead the way, Sid.”
The 4th Infantry was the last of the reserve battalions to arrive. Recruited from the small towns and farms of Northeast Texas, the men of the 4th had spent a couple of months drilling with General McCulloch’s militia units outside of West Liberty before being transferred to San Antonio.
Walking alongside the acequia, Johnston said, “We’ve got six battalions scattered around the countryside surrounding the Alamo and San Antonio, Buck, and our quartermaster’s corps is simply overwhelmed. There aren’t enough teamsters between the Sabine River and El Paso to keep our army supplied.”
Will frowned, hearing his second-in-command confirm what he strongly suspected. “I know. It’s been on my mind for a while now. Do you think we can keep the army supplied through the first week of September with our existing contracts?”
They had come to where the acequia curved around the fort’s north wall, and continued across the field, which only a couple of months earlier was covered with the dead and wounded of the Mexican Army of the North. Now, the brutal July sun had baked the field, wilting the flowers and weeds to brown clumps. The field rose until they crested a slight rise. Hundreds of tents spread over the prairie, in precise and orderly rows. As they overlooked the 4th Infantry’s encampment, Johnston stopped in his tracks and asked, “Two months? I had hoped to solve our logistics problems sooner than that.”
Will kicked a rock and watched puffs of dust where it skipped across the arid ground. “I don’t want to stir up animosity among our wealthy land holders in East Texas before the election. No matter what Sam Houston may promise, I fear he’ll gut the army once he’s in office. I don’t want to do anything before the election to cost Zavala even a single vote.”
Johnston eyed Will apprehensively. “What have you got in mind, Buck?”
Will’s eyes twinkled, “With the expansion of the army, we need more teamsters and wagons. Our wealthy plantation owners back in East Texas possess both the labor and the equipment to fill this need, Sid. Should President Zavala win the election in September, I intend to do whatever is necessary for the government to lease as many bondsmen as necessary, along with every wagon we can lay our hands on.”
Johnston stared into the encampment of the 4th Infantry. Will could see his friend and second-in-command contemplating the proposal. Finally, Johnston broke the silence. “They’ll squeal like stuck pigs, Buck, especially when they realize the architect of the plan is you, being as you’re so popular with Collinsworth and the other planters. But if the government compensates them for the use of their property, I think most Texians, even those fire-eaters will go along with it. It’s not like they haven’t leased their slaves out before.”
Will hadn’t planned on paying the slave owners, but as he stood next to Johnston observing the camp, he realized Zavala wouldn’t be able to push through an uncompensated use of slave labor, no matter how much Will might agitate for it. He glanced over at Johnston and decided he would let that part die in his mind, even if it left a stench in his nostrils.
After passing through the 4th Infantry’s orderly encampment, the two officers came upon the 6th Infantry’s camp. The two battalions’ encampments were a study in contrast. The 4th had been part of General McCulloch’s reserves for a couple of years, while the 6th had been transferred from the militia only recently. Every soldier in the 4th wore a butternut jacket, while the men of the 6th wore a variety of uniforms and civilian jackets.
In one of the companies Will and Johnston were reviewing, a soldier in a surplus US army jacket stood at attention, next to one wearing a gray militia jacket, and on the other side, stood a soldier wearing a brown hunting shirt. Their pants and headgear were even more varied.
The men in the 4th were equipped with Model 1833 Halls breechloading carbines, for the most part. The men from the 6th carried hunting rifles, muskets, and shotguns in every caliber imaginable. As Will inspected each of the men, he was unable to avoid thinking about how much needed to be done before the army could successfully carry the war into Mexico.
He and Johnston found the 6th’s commander, Colonel William Ward, sitting under a pavilion in the center of a sea of lean-tos, baker’s tents, teepees, and other temporary shelters the men had thrown together.
Ward looked up from a small writing desk he was balancing on his knees. “General Travis, just the man I was writing. If you’ll give me but a moment, I’ll finish this letter to you.”
Will hid his smile. He recalled Colonel Ward had been present at both battles during the Revolution, commanding a small battalion of Alabamans and Georgians. He had proved a capable officer but had taken his land grant after the war, returning to civilian life.
“Morning, Colonel. General Johnston and I are glad to see you and your boys.” Will swept his hand around, taking in the encampment.
Ward set the writing desk on the ground and stood and gave the two generals a salute. “Thank you, sir. About that letter, my boys need just about everything, General. We have no proper tents, no uniforms or shoes, and no other guns than the ones the boys brought with them.”
Will held up his hands in mock surrender, “Colonel, we’re working on all of them. It’s just going to take some time,” he turned to Johnston, “Sid, what’s the latest news about uniforms?”
Johnston looked around the camp, at the hodgepodge of clothing worn by the soldiers and shrugged, “We’ve received approval from Congress and they’ve allocated enough money to outfit all the militia battalions to be transferred to active service. The problem is, our normal supplier in New Orleans is completely overwhelmed, and according to our most recent correspondence, is subcontracting some production to other textile mills in Tennessee and Ohio.”
Ward was crestfallen at the news. Will and Johnston finished their inspection and were making their way back to the Alamo before the midsummer’s sun became too warm.
“I’m glad he dropped it after the uniforms. We won’t know for some time yet whether the United States will sell more of Halls’ carbines to us,” Will said as he took his hat off and used it to fan his face.
Johnston pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his brow. “Have you received an update from John Berry yet about his production numbers?”
Setting his hat back on his head, Will continued walking back toward the Alamo. As Johnston fell in beside him, he said, “Yes. It is about what we expected. He should be up to ten rifles a day by the end of the summer. A thousand rifles by the end of the year. If we hold off invading until April, he guaranteed a total of two thousand.”
Johnston cursed under his breath. “That’s a long time to wait and build up our army. Lots of men will leave their fields fallow next year, Buck. That kind of hardship could put pressure on whoever is president to settle. If we haven’t dealt with Santa Anna by then, well, all we’ve done is set up the next war.”
As they passed back through the gatehouse, Will said, “I told President Crockett the same thing before he resigned, and I gave Zavala an earful, too.”
They reached the Alamo’s well, located near the hospital in the plaza. After taking a long drink from the ladle, Johnston asked, “What did our newly minted President say to that?”
Will took the ladle from his friend and as he dipped it in the bucket, said, “The same thing I’m going to tell you. You worry about defeating Santa Anna, I’ll worry about keeping the nation going.”
Will left Johnston to his duties. He had his own mountain of correspondence to attack. He had just put his boot on the first step when Dr. Smith staggered out from the hospital, wearing a big grin.