by Drew McGunn
When the radicals aligned with the Southern Cross faction nominated Robert Rhett, it must have caused President Cass great consternation. Rhett’s nomination was a repudiation of the President’s attempt to keep the federal government above the conflict west of Louisiana.
The forlorn president, now beset by factions within his own party, was soon accosted by Northern Democrats, who for the exact opposite reasons provided by the Southern Cross faction, were upset by his refusal to maintain the status quo. They nominated the highly regarded Senator from Illinois, Stephen Douglas.
Twenty ballots and five candidates later, the convention was hopelessly deadlocked. Enough men favored someone whose name wasn’t Douglas or Rhett to deny either faction a majority.
Although dear reader, it may seem unlikely that anyone in the sultry climes of the South isn’t hot-tempered, those who by contrast to the fire eaters, are moderates, nominated the former Senator from Mississippi, Jefferson Davis. Over the next few ballots, enough men gave up their allegiances to President Cass and the honorable Senator Rhett to give Senator Davis the slimmest of majorities.
Alas, you may think this the end of the tale, but the gods struck the Democrats after Senator Davis’ nomination. That night, the Northern Democrats reconvened a rump convention at Marsh Market and nominated Senator Douglas as their candidate.
It would indeed take a monumental failing for either Democratic faction to clinch the golden prize of the presidency against a united Whig Party.
Greeley replaced the candle, burned to the nub, with a fresh one, and read his words. He corrected a word here and added punctuation there. With a nod, he took a shaker full of sand and scattered a bit across the page.
***
20 June 1852
The flimsy wooden door slammed behind him as Horace Greeley entered his hotel room. The cheap chair creaked dangerously as he threw himself into it as he glared daggers at the blank sheet of paper on the desk before him.
Count on the Whigs snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. His thoughts were dark as he worked to order them into some semblance of order. How hard could it be to find a little bit of unity in the face of the Democrats’ chaos?
In the very hall the Democrats had used a couple of weeks earlier, the Whigs had convened their own national convention. The goal was simple. Unite behind a candidate that could defeat the Democrats in November. Not an insurmountable goal, given how the electoral college favored the Whigs.
I should have known things were not going according to plan when that fool, Millard Fillmore was the first to be nominated. William should have been the first name to have been nominated. Northern liberals had arrived in Baltimore with plans to rally behind William Seward from the outset.
In a moment of charity, Greeley conceded, either could have been acceptable to the vast majority of Whigs. A conservative or a liberal, at least both were good Northern men. Why in God’s name did regional sectionalism have to plague our party as well?
It wasn’t really a surprise that Southern Whigs had offered forth their favorite son, John Tyler. It was expected. There was a long if informal, tradition that if the presidential nominee came from one section, then the vice president would come from the other. Tyler’s nomination could have been seen as an audition for the vice presidency.
Only it wasn’t. Greeley shook his head as he recalled his surprise when the convention was suspended after more than fifty ballots. Fillmore’s supporters refused to give way to Seward’s, and after four tense days, nobody had a majority. Grimacing, Greeley dipped his pen and began to write.
Lest our readers come to the conclusion that the Democrats are alone in their insanity, rest assured the disease has thoroughly infected the Whigs as well. As of the twentieth of June, little clarity has been gained after the completion of our National Convention. Not to be outdone by their Democratic neighbors, the Whig’s southern faction nominated John Tyler. This newspaper had long seen Mr. Tyler as the perineal bridesmaid. Since 1840, this is the third time he has been nominated to head our Whig ticket. Yet it is the first time his support wasn’t diluted by each successive ballot.
Our own esteemed Senator from the Empire State, William Seward, was the second nominee for the presidency, following the nomination of Millard Fillmore. One expects during the balloting for votes to fall away from one faction, as a clear consensus candidate arises. While Senator Seward built a small lead in the early balloting, neither Fillmore nor his supporters wavered.
As it seems to be in vogue, the reason for the lack of comity, like everything else, is Texas. Seward’s views, which align with the newspaper of record, require the Federal Government to act to place a wet blanket on the fire eaters in the South and their ill-fated filibustering expedition against another sovereign country. The army exists to carry out the national policy of the federal government, and if it needs to be used to interdict supplies to the filibusterers in Texas, then Seward is the man to make that happen.
Millard Fillmore has tipped his hat to those who favor the rights of the several states over the authority of the federal government, although he condemns the actions of the fire eaters. His plea of states’ rights falls on deaf ears when southern volunteers are attempting to subvert another nation’s legitimate government.
Virginian John Tyler saw no reason to give up his quixotic quest so long as no one approached the necessary one-hundred-forty-nine votes.
On the fourth and final day of the convention, with the party hopelessly deadlocked, Tyler’s supporters withdrew from the convention. They will settle on his vice-presidential running mate within the next day or two as they prepare to mount a Southern Whig campaign. Their plank demands an end to the filibustering but also seeks a plebiscite in Texas regarding annexation. Lest the reader thinks they indeed favor the rights of all Texans, the plebiscite they support is regional, encompassing only the portion of Texas in rebellion against their legitimate government. Only against the insanity of Southern Democrats do the Southern Whigs appear reasonable.
It may be some time before the smoke-filled rooms in Baltimore hotels reveal who shall carry the banner of Whiggish ideals in the November election. As of yet, the supporters of Fillmore and Seward are meeting in said rooms. Should they be unable to find a compromise, the nation may find itself in a five-way race for the presidency.
Greeley chewed on the end of his pen as he read the words on the page. It summed up the desolation he felt. Only the Whigs would manage to field three candidates against the Democrats’ two.
***
3 July 1852
Jimmy Hickok gripped the saddle horn as his horse reared onto his hind legs. The boy barely managed to hold onto his seat before his mount’s hooves crashed back to the ground. A massive pine tree rose up before him. Had he not been racing the horse hell-bent-for-leather, he’d have veered to one side or the other. But focused on his mission, Jimmy had only seen the tree with moments to spare.
The youth would have cussed except the orders he carried from Colonel Brown were clenched in his teeth. Instead, he used his knees and reins to canter around the pine tree. The sound of gunfire had never completely gone away as he had charged forward, to where the regiment’s forwardmost element was engaged with rebel cavalry.
He urged his mount to a quick canter when a bullet struck a tree he was passing by. Bits of splinters missed him and his mount, and he urged the horse back to a gallop. The hot wind was blowing through his hair when he felt a tug at his arm. A hurried glance showed where another bullet had ripped open the blue kersey cloth revealing a filthy lining made from linen beneath.
Through the forest, Jimmy spotted the scouting company. They were dismounted, firing at targets he couldn’t see. He spied the company’s white and red banner fluttering, carried by an NCO. Mixed in with them were other blue-jacketed men. Jimmy recognized the regimental flag of the 2nd Missouri Volunteer Cavalry Regiment. The newcomers, many of whom were recent German immigrants, had crossed the Red River a week before.
>
Despite his fourteen summers, Jimmy wasn’t blind to the fact that without the arrival of the 2nd Missouri the previous week, it would have been the 1st New York in retreat instead of Forrest’s rebels.
As he drew up next to the first officer he found, Jimmy slid off the saddle. No point in being a bigger target than I have to be, he thought. He took the letter from Colonel Brown from between his teeth and handed the soggy missive to the officer.
As the officer unfolded the letter, he eyed Jimmy warily. “You could have tucked this into your jacket, you know. I swear, if the ink is smeared, I’ll cuff you one you’ll not soon forget.”
As the officer read, Jimmy noticed the gunfire had died away. His reverie was interrupted when the Captain burst out, “I’ll be damned if I’ll take one more step.”
He gestured to a three-foot-tall granite obelisk standing next to the trail that passed for a road. Tilting his head to read something carved on the pillar, Jimmy repeated, “RT?”
The captain pointed to the other side of the marker, “Says this here is the meridian Boundary, established in A.D. eighteen-forty. That may not mean anything to you, boy. But on the other side of the marker is Arkansas. We cross that line, and we’ll kick up more shit than we can shovel away.”
Jimmy was startled by a voice from behind, “You’ll watch your tongue, Captain.”
Turning, the boy saw Colonel Brown riding up, his perpetual frown carved on his always serious face. “The only manure I see is retreating into the distance. Why haven’t you followed?"
“If we follow them, we’d be crossing into Arkansas, Colonel. Illegally.” The captain’s expression was worn and painful, as though disagreeing with Brown was the last thing he wanted to do. “If we do that, God alone knows how badly that’s going to be taken back east.”
Brown’s dark, bushy beard shook as he swung his eyes to the east, as though he could still see the retreating enemy. “The men who invaded to roll back the little bit of freedom and liberty Texas is willing to grant to the Negro race are evil, Captain. They are renegades and rebels. If the people hereabouts aid them, then they are outlaws, too.”
The jingle of iron and the squeaking of leather announced the arrival of the rest of the regiment and the 2nd Missouri. Brown wheeled around, taking his place at the head of the column. “Captain, fall in. I want your company to keep an eye on our rear.”
The colonel’s burning eyes searched out someone else until they fell on Jimmy. “Boy, send my compliments to Captain Ashford. I want D Troop to scout out our advance. If Forrest decides to turn and fight, I don’t want a surprise.”
As Jimmy climbed back into the saddle, Brown stood in his stirrups and raised his voice like a preacher at a tent revival meeting. “We advance men. We’ll not rest until we’ve destroyed our enemies and brought the year of Jubilee to the oppressed.”
Jimmy’s jaw hung open as he watched the colonel canter by the boundary marker.
The column of more than a thousand men had ridden by when the youth dug his heels into his mount and raced alongside the column. He wasn’t sure what would come of invading another state, but he trusted Brown to lead them to victory.
Chapter 12
12 July 1852
The bridge over the Trinity River was still under repair, and the railroad bed between the Trinity and Beaumont was bare of iron rails and wooden ties. Under better circumstances, Will would have been able to travel from Austin to Texas’ easternmost town in as little as six or seven hours. Instead it had taken him and George Fisher two days to reach Beaumont and another full day to reach the trenchworks surrounding the rebel stronghold on the Sabine River.
As the two men rode ahead of their Ranger escort, the Secretary of War, whose voice was heavily accented, said, “If you’d told me the rebels would abandon Beaumont for even stronger fortifications, I’d have called you a liar.”
Will let a small smile surface. “Dangerous thing, George, calling your boss a liar.”
The corpulent Hungarian laughed, “True. But then I’d seek my fortune in California, like so many others have done. What word have you heard from Major Hays?”
Will’s smile turned wistful. “He and the men that traveled with him into the American valley in Jefferson have done rather well. The last letter I received said that he’s turned into a rather shrewd merchant in San Francisco. I wish we’d held onto more of California than we did. While some gold has been discovered in Texian California, the lion’s share has been to the north, in Jefferson.”
Fisher slapped his hand on his saddle horn, “It could have been worse. To hear Michel Menard talk, the bonds we’re floating to defeat the rebels are backed by the gold on our side of the border.”
As they pulled up before a large log cabin, over which flew the lone star flag, Will said, “I know, but when I think about how much gold we negotiated away when we sold the US most of the land we won from Mexico, I wonder if we did the right thing.”
Once Fisher rolled himself off his mount, he said, “The past is the past. Let’s go talk with General Johnston about the future.”
Will repressed a chuckle. If the past truly belonged to the past, he’d have not found himself trapped there. No, the past was more malleable than he’d have ever imagined when he was forced to find a solution to letting the past kill him and one-hundred-eight-seven other men at the Alamo. Sixteen years later, the world was a far different place than the one he’d studied before the transition.
He could hear Sidney Johnston’s voice from within the cabin, “I don’t care how many wagons it’s going to take; I want you to bring every bullet you can from Trinity Park. I can’t mount an attack or defend against one without more ammunition.”
As Will stepped into the dimness of the cabin, the maps strewn about a large table made him reconsider. Maybe in some ways, it’ll always be the same.
“Howdy, Sid. Problem with supplies?” Will asked.
Johnston’s face lit up at the sight of Will. “Resign the presidency. You can have the army again. I quit.”
Will returned the smile. “Not happening. When my term’s over, I’m going to sit on my porch in my rocking chair, scaring cats, and telling children to stay off my grass.” He grew more solemn. “Are there problems with supplies?”
“Except for ammunition, the only supply problems we have is being eighty miles from the railroad. We’re running wagons back and forth pretty much all the time. But we’re short on the brass cartridges our M1846 rifles use. Doesn’t help that the Gatling guns use the same ammunition.”
Will wasn’t surprised. He’d read the reports from Andy Berry, who’d expanded production in Trinity Park, and signed several contracts with manufactories in Hartford, Connecticut, and New York City to provide more brass cartridges. But with more than three thousand rifles using the brass ammunition, and several full batteries of Gatling guns, the nation was struggling to keep the army supplied.
Fisher interjected, “Do you have enough to fend off an attack, General?”
Johnston nodded. “Probably. But not enough to take the fight to the enemy. Not yet."
He straightened a map and opened a window, letting the hot summer sun chase away the cabin’s shadows. Will recognized the fortified bend in the river, behind which the rebels and their Southern allies sheltered. Johnston pointed to the map. “They must have been preparing these while they were still holding Beaumont. Their trench line is anchored along a bend in the river. Only about a mile or so of trenches, and behind that, they’re protecting the railhead into Texas. No shortages of trains pulling in supplies, or men.”
Will stared at the map. “Why do you think they pulled out of Beaumont? We’d have paid a terrible price to capture the town.”
“I’m not sure, but I’ve heard that men like James Collinsworth thought that by inviting in the filibusters that they’d be able to win a quick war against us. When that proved wrong, the more men who flow in from states like Louisiana or Alabama, the smaller the influence the rebels h
ave.”
Fisher added, “I’m sure Collinsworth and Potter thought that when they decided to overthrow your administration, they believed every Texian from the deep South would rally to their cause. They probably expected widespread support. At best, perhaps sixty or seventy thousand people have joined their rebellion.”
Johnston said, “Their failure to push us past the Trinity didn’t help their cause. When it became evident that they weren’t going to push further to the west, their ambitions were forced to become smaller.”
Will shook his head. “I understand that. But why retreat all the way to the Sabine? They’ve surrendered nearly all the territory they held and threw the people who supported them into the wind. I don’t understand that.”
“Do you mind if I sit?” Fisher asked as his large frame collapsed into a chair at the table. “I have a theory. Men like Collinsworth aren’t calling any shots anymore. They’re entirely dependent upon the filibusters to support them. The problem is that these Southern soldiers answer to the various state governments. The men running those governments are focused on the November election. I think they’re conserving their position here on the Sabine River because they expect to win the presidency. If they win, not only will they be able to muster all of their state militias, but they’ll also be able to direct the US army to support the rebels.”
Will snorted derisively. “In what world will those fire eaters in the Southern Cross manage to win the White House? The Democrats fractured. Their northern faction picked Stephen Douglas. The Southern, Jeff Davis. Despite the Whigs fracturing, they still hold the upper hand.”
Fisher dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I was telling you what I think their plans are, not whether those plans hold water. I agree with you. Even if Davis managed to win, he’d be stuck with too few members of the House of Representatives. That, and the same tactics the fire eaters have used to hobble any effective response from Lewis Cass, were he inclined to get off his ass, would be used by the Northern Whigs to clip Davis’ wings.”