Down Mexico Way

by Drew McGunn

  Almonte’s skillful retreat, and the use of his cavalry and Cazadores, dredged from his memories the cat and mouse game waged in the American Civil War between General Lee and a multitude of Union Generals. That was, until General Grant used the might of the Union army to grind Lee’s army into submission. Of course, his memory was the only place that history still lived.

  Will took off his hat and slapped it against his leg, watching as dust flew into the air. The problem is that even if Almonte was a Mexican version of General Lee, Will was no Grant. Texas lacked both the population and the resources necessary to grind away at the enemy. He needed a decisive victory that would break Almonte’s army.

  Once he had passed through Candela’s main street, there were no obstacles between him and the mountains to the south, and as he looked through the binoculars he studied the trenchworks on the slope of the nearest mountain. He bit his lip in frustration. “That would be one hell of a butcher’s bill if we have to go straight in.”

  No, he may not be Grant, and his army wasn’t the Army of the Potomac, but they were Texians, and one way or another he would find a way to dislodge Almonte’s army. He turned and ordered one of his staff to find General Seguin. The first thing was to find a way around Almonte’s position.

  A short time later, both General Juan Seguin and Major Jack Hays galloped over to him as he continued studying the fortifications. “Gentlemen, take a gander at those trenchworks.”

  While the two officers studied the slope in the distance, Will continued, “Unless there’s no other way, I don’t want to send our boys up against those fortified positions. Even with our artillery, pushing the Mexicans off that high ground would prove costly.”

  Seguin’s normally swarthy face blanched at seeing the enemy position for the first time. Hays said, “It looks worse now than it did before. Now their entire army is in those lines. What have you got in mind, General?”

  “Jack, send one of your companies to the east. Those mountains can’t go on forever. Find a way around or over them. If I’m going to commit our forces to an assault, it’s only because we’re flanking them.”

  Hays saluted and dashed down the road toward his Rangers. Will and Seguin shook their heads as they watched his horse kick up dust. The cavalry commander said, “Was I ever that impulsive?”

  Will patted him on the back, “Don’t get me started. You were ready to take on Santa Anna himself back during the revolution, if you recall.”

  Seguin chuckled. “I could have taken him, too. Almonte, on the other hand, lacks Santa Anna’s brash, ‘stick your head in a hornets’ nest’ way about him. I confess, I’m surprised we haven’t brought him to heel yet.”

  Will asked, “How many men do you reckon he lost in the retreat, Juan?”

  “Not as many as I would like. We clashed with his lancers and his Cazadores a dozen or more times over the past week and probably inflicted upwards of two hundred casualties over that time,” Seguin said, “Against that, we lost a few dozen wounded and ten dead.”

  Will had read the reports. Taken as a whole, it was nothing compared to the battle at Nuevo Laredo. The army had suffered more casualties in that fight than Will had anticipated. Lt. Colonel West’s Marines were the hardest hit. A baker’s dozen killed and more than forty injured was high. The Marine battalion was light on men to begin with, at only six companies of sixty men each. The 1st Infantry, composed entirely of regulars, and the 2nd Infantry, one of the longest serving reserve battalions, each had contributed around three hundred men to the assault. They had bogged down in the rubble of the two towns and had taken heavy casualties. Close to a quarter of the men who had gone in didn’t come through unscathed. According to the reports Will had received, forty-two men from those two battalions were killed and more than a hundred were wounded.

  “Juan, we can’t afford to trade casualties with Almonte’s army. Make sure Jack knows how important it is that he find a way around those mountains.” Will gestured toward the south. “If I’m going to send our boys into battle, I want to make sure that we bag as much of Almonte’s army as possible. I’ll be damned if I’m going to hound him all the way to Monterrey, one bloody battle after another for the next sixty miles.”

  ***

  April 16, 1843

  There was a quiet knock at the door to the study and Lorenzo de Zavala set the book he had been reading down on the end table.

  “To have it as easy as Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar,” thought the president of the Republic as he turned his attention to the door. “Enter.”

  His servant, Cesar, a freedman of mixed blood, opened the door, “Señor Seguin and Monsieur Menard to see you, Mr. President.”

  Zavala suppressed a smile. Not el presidente, nor your excellency, but simply Mr. President. He decided it was really David Crockett’s fault that the office of president had so little ceremony or grandeur attached to it. He also caught how Cesar was precise in acknowledging Erasmo Seguin’s Tejano roots and Michel Menard’s origin as a Québécois.

  Zavala had been friends with the Seguin family since he arrived in Texas before the Revolution and had worked closely with Menard, who had been President Crockett’s Secretary of the Treasury. He counted his good fortune that the wily former French Canadian had agreed to continue serving in the same capacity in his own cabinet.

  “Erasmo, Michel, welcome. You wanted to see me? Please, have a seat. What is so important that it requires us to sacrifice our Sabbath?”

  As the other two men took seats around a low table, in comfortable chairs imported from France, the elder Seguin nodded toward Menard. The president studied his treasurer. The affable financial wizard’s brown hair was retreating from his forehead and comfortable living meant he was losing the battle with his waistline. “I apologize, sir, for imposing upon your time today. But I believe the reason for the intrusion required it.”

  Zavala raised his eyebrows in response, waiting for Menard to continue, “As you are aware, more than half of the government’s revenues for the past year have come from bonds sold both here and abroad.

  The president tapped the book he had been reading earlier, in a measured cadence, well aware of the financial situation in which the Republic found itself. Taking the cue to continue, Menard said, “At the end of the coming week, we are slated to issue another round of bonds at auction in Galveston. We’ve had several representatives from various banks from the United States confirm their intent to attend, but rumors I have picked up are alarming.”

  Zavala stopped tapping on the book and felt his stomach contract. The pending bond issue was critical. Without fresh specie, paying for the Mexican war would become more complicated. He said, “And?”

  “I’ve heard Edmond Forstall thinks our public debt has left us overextended.”

  Zavala was alarmed by this. Forstall was probably the most widely regarded banker in New Orleans, perhaps even across the entire southern United States. A considerable volume of Texas war bonds had been factored through his bank over the previous year. “What will this mean for our new bond issue?”

  Menard looked like he had bitten into a lemon as he said, “There are a couple of ways this could play out, and neither is to our advantage. We may be forced to increase the interest rate on the bonds to sell them. The plan was to tie the loans to two percent above the Lloyds rate in London, or seven percent. But Forstall is indicating that new bond holders may require both a premium rate above seven percent and a discount from the face value.”

  As the president digested the information he paled at the implication. “If we’re forced to sell at a discount and still pay more than seven percent on the face value, that could leave us dangerously overleveraged, Michel. What about European bond holders? Surely they would pay face value.”

  Menard gave a typical Gallic shrug. “Maybe. If there are any buyers from Europe in attendance. I have not received any new inquiries from London or Paris.”

  Shaking his head, Zavala said, “How much are we trying to raise i
n this round of bond issues?”

  “Just enough to carry us for a couple of months, around a half-million dollars.”

  He had been quiet until now, but Seguin cleared his throat, “I have an idea, gentlemen, that might allay some of the risk. The Texas Land Bank can step in and buy some of the bonds.”

  Menard swung his head around, surprise etched on his face. “But Erasmo, there’s not specie available. If you print cottonbacks to buy the bonds, you’ll put the Commodities Bureau in a bind. Buy too many of the bonds and that’s going to cause inflation.”

  Seguin frowned. “I know. But there aren’t many arrows in the quiver that we can use to fund the government. I’m sure you’ve seen the latest property tax receipts. They have fallen by more than a quarter. Too many of our men are in the army and not enough are working their farms and mills. Even the land bank has had to set several hundred loan defaults into abeyance. Our economy is contracting, and people are suffering. We have all agreed the best solution is to give General Travis the tools he needs to win the war, but heaven help us, we’re running out of options.”

  Zavala reached over and patted his old friend on the arm, “We’re doing everything we can, Erasmo. As a matter of fact, I had a conversation with James Collinsworth, in the Senate this past week. He said that despite the government ‘renting’ so many of his slaves, he was committed to growing as much corn and wheat as possible. There are more than a few farms lying fallow, and I fear that by the time the fall harvest is upon us that starvation will stalk some families. I’m glad that even someone as recalcitrant as Collinsworth understands that we’re in this together.”

  As the meeting broke up, Menard added, “There’s another possibility, too. The Commerce Bank has not yet participated in any of the bond issues. I will talk with Sam Williams. It may be that I can talk him into buying a substantial number of the bonds.”

  Less than a week later, the Galveston Customshouse had been turned into an auction house. The crowd was smaller than Menard and Zavala had hoped to see. The largest grouping of men surrounded Edmond Forstall. The Texas Treasurer had registered everyone for the auction, and most of them represented important banks known throughout the United States. There were a few other representatives from elsewhere in attendance.

  One of his custom officers stepped to the podium, ready to start the bidding. A rustling from behind them caused the two government officials to turn around. Sam Williams strolled through the door. He came over to Menard and the two shook hands. “You do like to cut things fine, Mr. Williams.”

  The affable banker hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets and said, “While my duty to my country comes above every other loyalty, Michel, I also have a duty to the bank’s other partners.” He turned and nodded to Seguin, “Good morning, Señor.”

  The auctioneer gaveled the room to silence. “The Republic is opening the bond issue for five hundred thousand dollars. The opening bid on the bonds is seven percent, a two percent premium over Lloyds rates. Bonds are available in ten thousand dollar increments.”

  The room was silent as the banker and their factors considered the bid. As the silence lengthened, Sam Williams called out, “I’ll take one hundred thousand dollars at the declared interest rate.”

  There was a surprised muttering from the men surrounding the New Orleans banker. In one action, a fifth of the entire bond issue was gone. As though waiting for permission, other men began buying the bonds at the same price. Ten thousand in one transaction, fifty thousand in another, until only one hundred thousand dollars in bonds remained.

  With a smirk on his face, Edmond Forstall raised his voice, “I’ll buy the remainder for eighty thousand at eight percent!”

  The room erupted in chaos. Some of the previous buyers were angry while others were shocked at Forstall’s effrontery. There was no point in delaying any further. With a sidelong look at Menard, Seguin stepped forward, “The Texas Land Bank will buy the remaining one hundred thousand dollars at face value.”

  Menard watched Forstall blinking in surprise. The New Orleans banker had expected to take a sizable profit from the auction, and with the last of the bonds purchased, he had come up empty. The Treasurer ambled over to where the Southern bankers stood around the defeated Forstall.

  “Well played, Monsieur Menard,” Forstall said, offering his hand. “Remind me not to play you in whist. That was a masterful game you played.”

  Menard allowed an expansive grin to play across his face. But Forstall continued, “What miracles do you plan on pulling off when you issue your next round of bonds?”

  The banker turned and left the building. Menard had no response.

  ***

  Late February 1843

  Gail Bordon enjoyed walking barefoot along the beach, watching his children play in the surf as the weather had become unseasonably warm. His wife, Penelope, held onto his arm as she tried to maintain her balance in her shoes.

  “You should try it without the shoes, dearest.”

  She gasped, “What would people think, Gail? It’s unseemly. Perhaps we should call the girls back, I don’t like them playing in the water. It’s not safe. I wish you had continued with the development of the bathhouse you designed.” She sniffed as her heel sank deep into the sand.

  “Why couldn’t you have continued with that? Instead, your current invention is scaring me. You nearly burned down the carriage house today.”

  Bordon tried to smile at his wife’s criticism, but lately, he wondered what he had got himself into. When he had received the letter from his friend, Ashbel Smith, the idea of working with him to develop his nitrated cotton had excited him. But more than six months later, his greatest success had been crystalizing the nitrated cotton.

  But today, a small batch had exploded. In addition to damaging the coach house, he had blown out the windows on the backside of his house. Fortunately, one of his neighbors had been available and they quickly put out the fire. But what would have happened had a larger batch exploded?

  He looked at his children, playing in the water, and felt his wife’s hand on his arm. He had no choice but to relocate where he worked on his experiments. A converted coach house was a poor substitute for a laboratory. He had a few ideas, and when the children tired of the beach, they would return home. He had letters to write.

  A few weeks later, Bordon stepped down from the carriage. Steam hissed from the locomotive as other passengers crowded by, intent on the business. “Mr. Bordon?”

  He turned upon hearing the voice. A richly dressed Tejano sat in a horse-drawn buggy. Bordon wearily put on a smile. After the boat ride from Galveston to Anahuac then the train ride to West Liberty, he was tired. “Señor Garza? It is a pleasure to meet with you.”

  After he joined Garza in the buggy, and they were rolling away from the train depot, Garza said, “When I received a letter from my old friend Erasmo that you needed a place to work, I was honored he thought of me.”

  Bordon was bemused how quickly things had happened, when he wrote to his friend, Ashbel. Smith had written back and introduced him to an inventor of sorts in the Patent Office by the name of Gatling. Gatling, in turn worked for Michel Menard, the Secretary of the Treasury. Menard worked closely with Erasmo Seguin, the Director of the Commodities Bureau. Seguin also served on the board of directors for the Gulf Farms Corporation. And that was how he found himself sitting next to Señor Garza, who was the president of the corporation.

  “I’m just thankful that my work is important enough to warrant your interest,” Bordon said. And it was true. Even though he had only been working on the nitrated cotton for a few months, the application as a replacement to black powder was too important to not be a priority.

  As they drove out of town, they passed by acres upon acres of fallow fields. “Do you expect to plant anything this spring, Señor Garza?”

  “Yes. We’ve set aside some acreage for cotton production, but just a fraction of last year’s amount. While I’ve lost close to half my worker
s to the army, I’ve been able to arrange for their families to carry some of the work load. We’ll forgo most of our cash crop and focus on corn, wheat, and potatoes this planting season.”

  Bordon was tired and Garza, like a good host, carried the conversation as the buggy rolled down the road. The road was well maintained, even as the farmland fell behind them. Despite his exhaustion, Bordon picked up on a shift in the conversation when Garza said, “I’ve talked with Andy Berry about your requirements and he and his folks are prepared to offer you a place to work on your invention. The Trinity Gun Works has been expanding lately, and it so happens they have a building that will allow you to focus on your fire cotton. It’s well away from their production facilities, but close enough that you may find it useful to consult with the Berrys as you continue your work.”

  Bordon was too tired to correct him. He was simply building on Ashbel Smith’s discovery. The ride from West Liberty to the Trinity Gun Works was less than a couple of hours, and the last half of it he was asleep. When Gail Bordon climbed down from the buggy, he was dead on his feet after such a long day’s travel. He scarcely saw the small town growing up around the gun works as Andy Berry brought him to his father’s house where Bordon fell into the bed provided.

  His last thought as he drifted to sleep was his wife and children. His dreams were filled with exploding coach houses.

  Chapter 13

  Jesse Running Creek eyed the trenchworks on the slope above his position. Since the army’s arrival that morning, the four-man rifle team had watched the Mexican trenches. From what he could tell, the men who were gazing down the hill at the Texian army, filling the plain below, were armed with muskets. That likely meant they were armed with the surplus Brown Bess muskets bought from the British in the years following the Napoleonic Wars. Jesse’s eyes slid from the trenchworks to his own rifle. The Sabine M42 rifle’s design was less than two years old. The Brown Bess had been in service for more than a hundred years.