Against All Odds

by Drew McGunn

  “And that brings us back around to why we’re here today, Sid,” Will said as he took the seat next to Fisher. “If we could defeat the enemy and knock them back into Louisiana, what kind of impact would that have on the US elections?”

  The Secretary of War said, “It could take the wind out of the Fire Eaters’ sails.”

  Johnston countered, “Or unite the lower South firmly behind them.”

  Will shrugged, “For the sake of the discussion, let’s go with the first option. How many men do we have currently under arms?”

  Johnston said, “Around twelve thousand men in the army. About twenty-six hundred men in the navy.”

  Fisher joined in, “I know we can’t mobilize every loyal man in Texas, but if we could, we have access to another thirty-five thousand men.”

  “God help us, we’ve got enough trouble arming and supplying the men we have mobilized now, George, how could we manage more?” Johnston said.

  Fisher replied, “We’re not going to mobilize them all, Sid. But we already have a model for this. We’re supporting the two regiments of volunteers recently arrived from New Jersey and Massachusetts. Nearly two thousand men.”

  Hearing about the recent volunteers triggered Will’s thoughts. “What about that cavalry regiment that came down through the unorganized territory? Brown’s First New York? I thought they should have arrived by now.”

  Johnston grimaced. “I sent a report about that. Turns out the rebels dispatched some cavalry under some fellow name of Forrest. I received word a couple of days ago that this Colonel Brown has been tangling with this Forrest fellow somewhere up by the Red River. It’s possible the rebels forced Brown to turn back.”

  Fisher added, “Or it’s possible that John Brown and this Forrest fellow have taken the fight back into the western territory or Arkansas.”

  ***

  Late July 1852

  The white stone building stood on the corner of Brazos and Ninth Street. Becky stood on the street, watching as a man dismounted and tied his horse to a hitching post before striding into the building. A crucifix perched atop the building and a wooden sign stood next to it. It declared to passersby that all were welcome to enter Saint Patrick’s Church, the lone Catholic congregation in the Republic’s capital city.

  Raised a Presbyterian by her mother, and now sharing the Methodist faith of her husband, Becky had grown up listening to anti-papist teachings. With friends like Maria Seguin, Juan Seguin’s wife, her dislike of Catholicism had largely fallen by the wayside. Even so, her feet seemed reluctant to carry her the thirty feet necessary to enter the church.

  A hand hooked around her arm, and a soft voice said, “Becky, thanks for waiting for me. With all these men, I’d feel like Daniel cast into the lion’s den without you today.”

  Becky’s eyes radiated joy when she heard Maria Seguin’s voice and felt the feisty woman’s presence by her side. “I don’t think we’ll be alone. I invited several women from the Episcopal congregation. They said they’d be here, too.”

  With Maria by her side, Becky crossed over the grassy lawn, and entered the small sanctuary. The pews were pressed against the walls, and several tables were in the center of the building. Chairs ringed the tables, and about half of them were occupied. As Becky found a seat next to Maria, she scanned the room. She recognized David Ayres in one of the seats. He was a lay Methodist minister from near Harrisburg. Many years earlier, he and his wife had taken care of Charlie when Will had been fighting Santa Anna.

  When Ayres saw Becky, he stopped talking to the man next to him and stood, “Madame Travis, a pleasure to see you.”

  Becky dipped her head. “Mr. Ayres, a pleasure.”

  “Allow me to introduce to you, Reverend Baines.” Ayres indicated the man beside him, who stood and nodded to Becky. “To Mrs. William Travis.” She recognized the name. Baines was prominent in Baptist life in the eastern part of the Republic.

  On the other side of Ayres was a middle-aged man wearing a Catholic cassock. A small crucifix hung from his neck. His full cheeks stood in contrast to the dark circles under his eyes. Becky heard Maria give a slight gasp. “It’s Bishop Odin,” she whispered. Becky had heard the name before. As the Republic’s population had burgeoned, the Pope in Rome had recognized the fast-growing Catholic community in Texas with first a prefecture and then later with a diocese. Odin was, as Becky recalled, the priest who had heard Santa Anna’s last confession, before the former dictator had been executed after the Mexican War, nearly a decade earlier.

  A few minutes passed as others joined those around the tables, then Bishop Odin cleared his throat. He spoke with a distinct French accent, “I want to thank President Travis and Vice President Seguin for extending an invitation to discuss the growing problem of widow and orphans in Texas. Their wives, Rebecca Travis and Maria Seguin, have graciously agreed to attend this meeting, representing the administration. As Saint James said, religion that is undefiled before God visits the fatherless and the widow in their tribulation.”

  Becky scanned the room, noting the nods of agreement he received from men and women not generally inclined to heed his words. The bishop continued, “We are faced with a crisis today. Hundreds of women have become widowed, and hundreds more children have been left orphans. As I took a carriage to the railroad station in Galveston to come here, I looked out the window and saw boys standing outside the station, begging for alms. Nearby, women who only months ago prayed for their husbands return, sold themselves for a loaf of bread. Our Christian duty is clear. We must do something to provide shelter for the orphans and sustenance for the widows.”

  Moved by Odin’s plea, Becky said, “My family has been affected by this crisis. We have taken in a child whose father and mother both died. How many other children are without shelter or food?”

  Reverend G.W. Baines’ voice was rich and sonorous as he said, “My own congregation has provided meals and is checking on the women in Huntsville whose husbands will never return. We’ve been blessed to find homes for orphaned children. It has placed a strain, however small, upon our church. If more is needed, I can talk with families and see if we can take in more children.”

  David Ayres nodded in agreement. “Our own congregation has done the same. I’ll talk to my wife. I’m certain my family can take in a few children in need of a home.”

  Becky smiled at their personal generosity. From the stories Charlie and Will had told her, Ayres would give the shirt from his back to take care of those in need.

  She said, “Reverend Ayres, you’re a light in the darkness. My husband swears that he knows of no one more generous than you. If it were possible for a few generous men or even congregations to meet the needs of all widows and orphans in Texas, we’d likely not be here. We need to find a solution bigger than any of us that will provide for all of our orphans and widows.”

  The bishop, from his seat near the head of the table, clapped his hands when Becky finished. She flushed as he said, “Bravo, Mrs. Travis. I couldn’t have said it better. As a matter of fact, I would like to offer a proposal.”

  He had the attention of everyone in the room. “I’m aware that both the Baptists and Methodists in Texas have associations. The Episcopalians have a diocese in the Republic. Of course, we Catholics have our own diocese, too. What I’m proposing is that we pool our resources to establish something larger than what any of us can do by ourselves.”

  Reverent Baines said, “What have you in mind?”

  “A commission,” Odin replied. “As Christ issued his commission to his disciples, so we, too, should go forth through the Republic and gather those children who can’t be readily placed with nearby family or friends. We should move heaven and earth to provide for those widows unable to meet their needs and those of their children. If each association and diocese provide what support they can, and we pool our resources, we will be able to provide food and shelter for everyone displaced by this horrible war.”

  Baines wore a thoughtful express
ion. “I can’t promise anything. We Baptists have a penchant for doing things our own way. However, the war has left us deeply divided. And that has left us unable to do all that we’d like. I’ll have to talk to several others. If I can convince them that by partnering with Methodists, Episcopalians, and Catholics, that we’d do far better than just by ourselves, I might be able to get approval.”

  The Bishop said, “A committee overseeing this commission would seem prudent. If you can talk your association into helping, it would only make sense that one of your number would need to be on the committee.”

  Ayres stood, his chair scraping the floor. “I feel as though I want to race away now and get permission from our own mission board. But I notice that there are four denominations present. That would put four men on the board.” He nodded to Baines, “Assuming you can convince your fellow Baptists. I’d like to propose a fifth member. Someone whose interests should be above our own.”

  Odin tilted his head, in a question, “Do you have someone in mind, Reverend Ayres?”

  Ayres, smiling from ear to ear, nodded at Becky, “Yes, sir. As our mission is to help alleviate the suffering of all widows and orphans in the Republic, I propose that the president of this commission be our own First Lady, Mrs. Travis.”

  ***

  Early September 1852

  “It’s funny how a body can get used to swinging under one of these big balloons, Major.”

  “Speak for yourself, Sam,” Charlie Travis said as his knuckles turned white, gripping the edge of the wicker basket.

  As the nominal second in command of the 9th Infantry, Charlie should have been on the ground, preparing the battalion for the day’s operation. Instead, from where the balloon hung in the sky, he had a clear view of both the Texian fortifications and those of the rebels and their Southern allies. Colonel Garibaldi had no shortage of officers who could act in Charlie’s capacity as executive officer. It still galled him that the Italian had been the officer to suggest him for his current assignment, a detached observer, reporting on the enemy’s every move. The 9th had been reinforced with several new companies, men who’d recently arrived from the Italian peninsula, inspired by news reports in Italian newspapers of Colonel Garibaldi’s exploits in what was becoming known as the Texas Civil War.

  Charlie realized he’d spoken aloud when Sam said, “Never understood why it’s called a civil war. There ain’t nothing civil about it.” He checked one of the connections to the telegraph machines before continuing. “It’s clear today, Major. Can see for miles. I wish to God we could see north a couple of hundred miles. I’d like to believe our Yankee volunteers along the Red River have knocked Forrest’s rebels all the way back to Little Rock.”

  Charlie ignored the ground below and looked to the north. Farms dotted the landscape along the Sabine River, but interspersed between the farms were the thick Piney Woods of East Texas. Far north of where the last farm hugged the riverbank, the dense forest continued. Beyond that was the Red River, nearly two hundred fifty miles away. The news in the Northeast was grim. Reports of bushwhacking between Brown’s little army and the Southern cavalry under a Major Bedford Forrest continued to trickle in throughout the summer.

  His father was worried the situation between Brown and Forrest was spinning out of control. There were reports of John Brown being burned in effigy in cities and towns across the South. Word was, thousands of men were signing up to serve in volunteer regiments across the region in response.

  Horror stories of farms burned to the ground and the menfolk executed were detailed in the New Orleans Picayune newspaper almost daily. Countering that were reports from Colonel Brown complaining that Forrest was disregarding the rules of war when he executed prisoners in retaliation.

  Charlie closed his eyes and shook his head as he recalled reading a newspaper calling his father a hypocrite for endorsing the execution of Santa Anna under the Zavala administration while tolerating John Brown’s war crimes. Most of what was coming out of Southern newspapers about the war in Texas was nothing more than propaganda, and usually, his father was quick to rebut the propaganda through Texas’ newspapers. But about their accusation against Brown, the president was silent.

  However, his father was taking the deteriorating situation in the northeast seriously and had recently dispatched eight of the twelve mounted Ranger companies serving in the Frontier battalion near the Comancheria in hopes of bringing order out of the chaos created by Brown and Forrest.

  As though Sam Williams could read his mind, the youth said, “You reckon the Texas Rangers your pa dispatched are going to stop the killing?”

  Charlie thought about the rough and ready Rangers who served in the Frontier Battalion. Unlike the Rangers assigned to the army, who were highly trained specialists, the men serving in the frontier battalion served more as mounted police on the border with the Comancheria. They wore no uniform but had over the past decade adopted a badge made from Mexican silver pesos, cut in the shape of a star. When Charlie had once asked his father about the confusion of fielding two very different types of Rangers, Will had said, “There’s some things you just don’t mess with, and Texas Rangers are one of those things.”

  Charlie considered Sam’s question. “Another three or four hundred men will likely let us close the door for Southern filibusters coming down by way of Arkansas. Maybe that’ll tamp down the killing.”

  The youth said, “Do you think they’ve been ordered to arrest John Brown?”

  “For what?”

  From his seat next to the telegraph, Sam expertly rolled his eyes, like only a teenager can. “You know, for killing those farmers.”

  Charlie shrugged. “Not sure if the Rangers could get away with it. There’s a lot more Yankee boys up there than ours, you know.”

  “I hope so. I don’t cotton to most of the articles coming out of New Orleans, but if you put Santa Anna and John Brown on the same saddle, you’d not find any light between either one’s backside and the leather.”

  Charlie chuckled at the image, “I suppose you’re right. But right now, Brown’s our murderer, and that’s worth something.”

  Sam shook his head, “Maybe. But he’s like shooting one of those old-style revolvers with the cap and ball. If you don’t have the powder packed just right or one of those percussion caps misfires, you could have all the rounds blow up in your hand.”

  “You do have a way with bringing things into focus,” Charlie allowed. “Why do you want him brought to justice?”

  “He’s killing civilians. They’re just farmers. They ain’t broken any laws. Once we’ve whipped the rebels, those farmers he hasn’t killed are going to be our neighbors. If he’s allowed to get away with murder, he’s going create a division that won’t be healed until I’ve got gray whiskers.”

  With that, Sam stroked the downy peach fuzz on his face.

  Sam was right, Charlie conceded. What Charlie saw below looked positively civilized compared to the hell Brown and Forrest were creating in the north. He could see two battalions, assembling in the Texian trenchworks. One with nearly a thousand men was his own 9th. Mostly men of foreign birth, who had rallied to join the army when the East Texas rebels had stabbed the rest of the country in the back. The other was the 21st Infantry from the Rio Grande District. Most of the men were from the farms surrounding Santa Fe and Albuquerque, but one of the companies were the Negro soldiers recruited by Colonel Montoya. Charlie had no doubt those men were champing at the bit to attack the rebel fortifications.

  The telegraph key began to clatter. “It’s about to start, Major.”

  The field guns along the mile-long front began to fire, quickly obscuring the field between the two armies with black-powder smoke. Charlie had heard Andy Berry was still working on smokeless powder, but it was a long way from being ready. Even so, Charlie considered the smoke a good thing. It would mask the initial advance when it came.

  Adding to the steady boom of artillery came the sound of the Gatling guns. They so
unded like God rending his garments in Heaven. It would take a brave, or perhaps foolish, soldier to poke his head out of the rebel trenches.

  From his vantage above the field, Charlie watched the two battalions, close to seventeen hundred men flow out of the Texian trenches. From a thousand feet overhead, the men looked no more significant than ants scurrying across the field. In his mind’s eye, though, he could imagine each rifle team of four men staying close together. They’d race across the eight hundred yards of no-mans-land between the two armies, not stopping to fire until the rebels opened fire.

  The rebel guns had already been firing, engaging in an ineffectual counterbattery fire. But before the men were halfway across the field, the rebel gunners shifted their targets and began firing on the advancing soldiers. Four hundred yards away was a hard shot to make for a man with a rifled musket, but possible. Hundreds of men stood up, risking being shot by the Gatling guns, and fired at the advancing men.

  Charlie imagined each rifle team going to ground, seeking whatever cover they could find and firing back at the entrenched enemy. It’s what they’d been trained to do. Two would race forward while the others fired and reloaded. Then those two would leapfrog ahead. It was methodical, adding aimed fire at the top of the rebel trenches while eating away at the distance. Four hundred yards, then three hundred, then two hundred.

  Hundreds of yards of the rebel line were ablaze with artillery and gunfire. Charlie could see, in the distance from the middle of the rebel camp, reinforcements racing forward. There were a lot of them.

  “Sam, let command know that there’s a brigade, maybe three thousand men moving from the enemy’s camp toward the entrenchments.”

  Charlie heard the clickity-clack of the telegraph key as he focused the binoculars on the attack’s narrow front. At a hundred yards, the fire from the rebel rifle pits was nearly non-stop. The fire from the advancing riflemen was just as fierce, but they had stalled out, unable to advance.