by Drew McGunn
Breaking the embrace, he opened the door. The head of the Commodities Bureau stood before him. “Señor Seguin, what a singular honor.”
Erasmo Seguin shook his hand, “Mr. President, we don’t want you to be late. If we can get you on the stage in the next few minutes, you should get to San Antonio before sunset.”
Zavala leaned over his wife and gave her a final peck on the lips, “I am but a slave to my office. I shall write to you, my love.” With that, he took his carpetbag from the servant and stepped through the door and, with a final wave at his wife, walked down the sidewalk with Seguin by his side.
“Even after almost forty years, I find it hard to leave my Maria.” Seguin offered as they started across the wide street.
Zavala nodded, “After sixteen years, I hate leaving Emily even more than when we first wed. But what’s a president to do?”
Seguin laughed. “That’s easy. Bring home a favorable peace.”
Zavala sobered at the comment. “Light a candle for peace, Erasmo. You’re closer to the financial situation. How much longer can we continue the war before we destroy our economy?”
Seguin’s face lost its humor, “We are fast approaching that point. If you saw the most recent Telegraph and Texas Register, we have been forced to rebalance the basket of commodities to reflect the fact that there are more cotton-backs in circulation than there should be. We’re scraping by now, but come harvest time this fall, even if we managed to plant enough to feed everyone, there’s no guarantee we’ll have enough folks to harvest it. If that happens, then we may be the beggar with hat in hand, coming to the United States and other nations, pleading for food to feed our people.”
Zavala stopped as they neared the stagecoach, “Please tell me that a nation of farmers isn’t facing starvation.”
Seguin forced a sad smile onto his face, “My friend, you don’t pay me to give you only the good news, but the bad with it. While I may be more pessimistic than I should, the surest cure is a peace treaty with Mexico that gives us security and allows us to demobilize our reserves.”
A small troop of mounted militia were already waiting behind the stagecoach, the president’s escort to San Antonio. “I shall do my best,” Zavala said as he climbed into the coach.
He settled back in the worn, cloth-padded seat as the coach got under way, pulling away from the Capitol building. More than any other time since rising to the office of the presidency, Zavala felt the heavy weight of the office. The success or failure of the nation rode heavy on his shoulders.
Chapter 26
5 August 1843
Jose Joaquin de Herrera groaned as he stepped down from the enclosed carriage. After two weeks in the carriage he would be happy to never step foot in it again. The town of Saltillo looked like most towns and cities of northern Mexico, with its central plaza the focal point of the town. On one side of the plaza was the town’s main church and on the other, the town’s governmental offices. But in the ways Saltillo differed from other Mexican towns, it was like a strike in the face.
Over the governmental buildings flew the red, white, and blue lone star flag. Soldiers in their muddy brown uniforms were everywhere. Herrera wasn’t sure if he could have steeled his courage to ride into this stronghold of Mexico’s enemy were it not for the company of lancers who stoically remained on horseback, behind the carriage.
From a nearby governmental building a man wearing the same uniform as the soldiers, but with shoulder boards favored by the norteamericanos denoting his high rank, approached. His face yet unlined by age, and his red hair, uncovered, Herrera recognized General Travis. His two weeks of travel had not been wasted. He had read everything he could about Mexico’s breakaway province and its political and military leadership.
The enemy general wore a warm smile, and Herrera couldn’t fault him for it. He had won every battle the two nations had fought since the revolution in Texas seven years earlier. He came to attention, then saluted the Mexican president. “The forms must be observed,” Herrera thought as he offered his hand to Travis.
In strongly accented Spanish, Travis said, “Welcome to Saltillo, President Herrera. Like you, I trust, I look forward to putting this disagreement between our two nations behind us.”
As he walked beside Travis, heading toward the governmental building, Herrera said, “I’m familiar with Saltillo, General Travis, it is, after all, the capital of one of our districts.”
A soldier, with one of the new model rifles the Texians favored slung on his shoulder, opened the door and saluted as they approached. “I assure you, sir, you will not find anyone more interested in returning it to you than I. That’s one reason I’m grateful you have arrived.”
Even Herrera heard the bitterness in his own laughter, “Nothing is preventing you from assembling your army and returning to the north, General.”
Travis escorted him into the civil building’s library. A conference table stood in the center of the room, and comfortable chairs were placed close to the bookshelves. Travis took one and offered another to him. With a slight smile, he said, “Touché. I could, but how long before our two nations once again are at each other’s throat? Texas wants a peace that secures our border and provides us with guarantees against future aggression.”
“You have a strange way of showing it. It was your army that invaded Mexico, twice in the past year. You seem a nice sort, General, but you have a strange way of showing your interest in peace.”
After waiting for a serving girl, who chose that moment to enter the room to serve refreshments, Travis said, “I suppose Adrian Woll was simply lost and looking for directions last year?”
Travis’ response was a reminder the general was quick witted, and verbal reposts were part of his arsenal of weapons.
Holding his hands up, in mock surrender, Herrera said, “That was the policy of my predecessor, Santa Anna. As you no doubt are aware, the Congress in Mexico City removed him from office upon learning of his capture. Speaking of which, how is Antonio?”
“He is enjoying the hospitality of my army at the moment.”
“Somehow, I imagine any enjoyment he may be showing is feigned. On that note, the people of Mexico would like to see him restored to us so that he can be properly reprimanded for his failures.”
Travis tilted his head and paused before responding, “I will advise President Zavala of that. I have received word that he will be arriving within a week.” Herrera could tell Travis was weighing saying more. “Texas and Mexico, we are both republics, yes?”
Once Herrera nodded in response, Travis continued, “As an officer in my nation’s military, I answer to the president. I have no authority not granted to me by my country’s government. So, I will stand aside while you and President Zavala work to end this conflict.”
For once, Travis said something with which Herrera was in complete agreement. He had despised the loose alignment between the office of the president and the military. It seemed every time the nation was at war with itself, the first thing previous presidents did was invite Santa Anna back to power. Except in regard to Texas and the Yucatan peninsula, Santa Anna had crushed every revolt, but it always came with the loss of civil control. At his heart, Santa Anna was a dictator.
Travis was right. The military should always be subject to the civil government’s control, not the other way around. As he sipped his drink, Herrera’s thoughts wandered to Santa Anna. He was in a quandary. The dictator had popular support in the area around the capital and it included the poorest peons to some of Mexico’s wealthiest landholders. Herrera took another sip and worried about the future.
***
Austin’s Stagecoach Inn was not highly regarded for its kitchen’s table, but its proximity to the Capitol building, and other governmental offices, made it a popular lunch spot for civil employees. Erasmo used his fork to pull the meat from a chicken quarter as he watched his companion cutting into a beefsteak. While not a nonentity, Vice-President Richard Ellis was an outsider in th
e Zavala administration. A Southerner, originally from Virginia, Ellis had arrived in Texas a decade before by way of Alabama. A plantation owner as well, the glue that brought Zavala and Ellis together had been their determination for Texas to remain independent. It was an unpopular view among the most diehard Southerners, especially those with slaves.
But Ellis’ alliance with Zavala had split just enough of the southern vote in the last election to deny Sam Houston the office of the presidency.
Ellis ate the last of the steak before saying, “What’s the latest from Saltillo? Have you heard anything from your son or General Travis?”
Seguin gave up working the last bit of meat from the bone. The bird was dry and tough, he thought, rather like the hot August day. “If the president keeps to his schedule, he’ll arrive in Saltillo in the next couple of days.”
“How eager do you think the Mexican government will be to negotiate peace, Juan?”
Seguin shrugged, “I’ve no better an idea than you. But according to a report from General Travis, Mexico has lost upwards of thirty thousand men since this war began.”
Ellis’ jaw was slack, “That many men? How?”
“Perhaps a couple of thousand of them were killed in battle. Another fifteen thousand were captured at the battle of Saltillo alone. Nearly all the enlisted men, as I understand it, have been paroled. I imagine the total includes a sizable number of deserters, too,” said Seguin.
The door swung open, banging against the wall, startling the two men. One of the Capitol building’s guards stood framed in the door. Without pausing to catch his breath, he shouted, “Crockett’s done it, he’s captured California!”
Seguin leaned in, and said in a low voice, “The president needs this information. With this, it will put us in an even stronger negotiating position.”
Ellis agreed. “Let’s see how well this new telegraph system we have works.” With that, the two men paid their bill and hurried to the telegraph office.
Over the past few years, the electric telegraph had undergone several upgrades as its inventor, Samuel Morse, had worked with the military at the Alamo as well as with an investment group responsible for running lines between West Liberty and Houston and most recently between San Antonio and Austin.
The message, once sent, would get to San Antonio almost instantly, saving a full day or more travel. Once received by the fort’s commander, he would send it by relay rider to the south. Even so, it would take nearly two weeks for the message to reach the president.
Seguin fell into step beside Vice-President Ellis on their way back to the Capitol building. Ellis confided, “I just hope the message gets there in time to be of use to us.”
***
10 August 1843
Lorenzo de Zavala stood from his seat at the conference table, glaring at Jose Joaquin de Herrera. His back was aching, having been mercilessly jostled in the two-week ride from Austin. The single day before the peace negotiations hadn’t been enough for his back to return to something approaching normal. But his back wasn’t the reason for his scowl.
As a courtesy to his Mexican counterpart, he had agreed to hear Mexico’s peace terms.
Herrera had just finished telling him that Mexico would agree to acknowledge Texas’ independence and recognize the border between the two nations as the Nueces River. Herrera had also insisted Texas free all the officers still held following the recent battle, including Santa Anna.
Standing behind his chair, Zavala stretched his back, wishing it would quit hurting. He took a deep breath, reminding himself his counterpart was simply laying out Mexico’s starting position in the negotiations. “A lot of water has flowed down the Rio Grande since Mexico cobbled together Coahuila and Texas into a single province. Any treaty between our two countries must recognize the Treaty of Bexar. This naturally includes the towns of Ysleta, Santa Fe, and Albuquerque.”
He saw Herrera’s eyes grow hard as he stared across the table. “Further, your predecessor’s casual disregard for the rules of war has created intense enmity between our countries. Wantonly killing prisoners, especially those who surrender honorably, is a crime. These needless executions caused families to lose their sole provider. We insist that any agreement provide restitution to the families killed by Santa Anna’s brutal actions. Further, the blood of the innocents demands justice. Santa Anna will return to Texas, where he will face a tribunal.”
Herrera was quivering with anger, barely remaining in his seat. “You don’t ask for much, do you?”
Zavala took a deep breath and bit back an angry retort. “I’m not finished. Mexico is to reduce its fleet in the Gulf of Mexico and will not attempt to buy ships from European shipbuilders. Additionally, a treaty of friendship exists between our nation and the people of the Republic of the Yucatan. We require that your government come to terms with the Yucatecan government and end your attempt to conquer them.”
This time Herrera leapt to his feet, “How dare you presume to tell me how to deal with our internal affairs. The status of the Yucatan is not open for debate.”
Zavala resisted the urge to smile. Left unsaid, everything else, to one degree or another, was negotiable. “Please, President Herrera, this is but our first day. It is important that we establish our goals. I was quiet while you told me that Texas needed to give up more than half our territory, the least you can do is extend to me the same courtesy.”
Returning to his seat, Herrera bent his head in acknowledgement. “My apologies, President Zavala. I simply do not want you beating a dead mule on an issue where there can be no compromise.”
Before Zavala took his seat, he said, “From where I stand, you’re not in a position of strength. We hold the capital cities of two of your states. If you choose to resume the war, you will be hard-pressed to build an army as large as the one Santa Anna did. And if you did so, and marched them north, there will be someone standing behind you with a knife. In a little more than twenty years since Mexico’s independence, the office you hold has changed hands more than twenty times. A peace treaty, even one that takes from Mexico, is better than the alternative.”
***
That evening, Herrera was resting in the home of Saltillo’s alcalde. The town’s administrator was staying with family, allowing the president and his staff the privacy required for the hard battle ahead, saving what was left of Mexico’s honor.
He was sitting in the kitchen with several men, when his secretary, Ignacio Comonfort, asked, “Don’t the Texians realize we hold an insurmountable advantage over them?”
The president said, “In what way, Ignacio? We have more people and land, but the Texians have better equipment and their soldiers are well trained. I might be inclined to believe our advantages meant something, had we achieved any meaningful victory.”
His secretary asked, “What does that mean for these negotiations?”
Herrera sagged in his chair, admitting, “Nothing good. I will bluster and posture until I fall over dead, but I doubt Zavala is going to relent on the border. That fool Santa Anna has caused us irreparable damage. That ruinous Treaty of Bexar in 1836 is not something Zavala has any intention of letting go.”
The secretary said, “What of their other positions? Forcing us to a treaty with our Yucatecan rebels seems outlandish.”
Herrera scowled. “Zavala threw that out there to see how far he can push me. The only reason Texas gives aid to the rebels is that a destabilized Yucatan peninsula forces us to focus our energies closer to home. I fear the two issues on which Zavala will be intractable is regarding the borders and Santa Anna.”
***
Lorenzo sat on the porch in front of the city government building, in a rocking chair. There was something about watching the sun sink below the low mesas to the west that soothed him. On a bench, next to the rocking chair sat General Travis.
The two had been talking for a bit about the earlier meeting with Herrera. “There you have it, Buck. We’re about as far apart as one can be and still be
in the same room. If we can’t settle with Herrera, do you think you can capture San Luis Potosi? Surely if we started capturing cities in central Mexico that would force them to the table.”
Travis said, “God, I’d hope it doesn’t come to that. There are so many variables to include that any answer becomes meaningless. If we mobilized more militia battalions, we could use them to make our supply line more secure, and that would allow us to push on to San Luis Potosi. But that would destabilize our economy, right?”
Zavala shuddered, “More soldiers means fewer farmers, and we have few enough as it is. I’d really like to get our boys home before harvest time this autumn. Every time Michel Menard wants to meet with me, he keeps saying that if we think of our economy as a wagon, the wheels are about to come off. Already, imports, like tea and coffee, have doubled in price since the war began. Erasmo Seguin is playing some commodities against others in an effort to keep the domestic price of grain reasonable, but if we can’t get a decent crop harvested then Seguin’s efforts won’t matter a damn.”
As the sun slipped below the western mesas, Travis’ features became shadows. “I wish to hell we had new information from David. What’s the latest?”
Zavala said, “The three companies assigned to the Santa Fe region have reestablished our rule along the northern stretches of the Rio Grande. But that aside, there’s been no other news. Have you received anything else from Charlie?”
“I’d wear his hide out, if I thought I could get away with it, Lorenzo. I nearly died inside when I got his letter. I still don’t understand what got into that boy to pull a stunt like this. When they get back home, I’m sure Becky will have a few choice words for both of them. If he had run off with anyone other than David, I don’t know what I would do. How I wish he hadn’t filled my son’s head with all his stories. I know he ran away from home when he was just thirteen, but, dammit, had I realized my son would do the same thing, I would might have chained the boy to his bed.”