Against All Odds

by Drew McGunn

  Greeley thought the young Secretary was showing too much forbearance acknowledging Longstreet’s former rank. The ex-Southern commander should have been sitting in a holding cell next to the Southern Alliance’s former president, Howell Cobb, as far as Greeley was concerned.

  Longstreet gestured to his companion, and Davis offered a wan smile, as though he were in pain. Forgoing the uniform he’d worn over the past year, the one-time Senator from Mississippi looked as though he used the same tailor as Secretary Webster. His somber black frockcoat was in stark contrast to the gold braiding on Longstreet’s uniform.

  Davis said, “We’ve come at the request of several prominent men to ask for the release of Howell Cobb. He’s been your prisoner for more than two months in a damp prison cell.”

  Greeley was incensed the former rebels dared to ask for the man who had presided over the failed rebellion to be released. He leapt to his feet, “Mr. Davis, you forget yourself. Like Cobb, you should be imprisoned for your treason instead of taking up Secretary Webster’s time.”

  Instead of being cowed by the Newspaper editor’s outburst, Davis returned his heated glare. General Lee pointed to the door and snapped, “Mr. Greeley, please be mindful your presence is a courtesy. If you wish to remain and record this meeting, you’ll remember that. Down the hall are several other reporters who would happily give their eye teeth to trade places with you.”

  General Buell leaned against the desk, “I don’t know, General, thousands of good Yankee boys were buried in poor Southern soil putting down this insurrection. Howell Cobb is exactly where he needs to be, to remind the rest of this lot that we’ve been more than fair. The army will stay here as long as it takes for you to understand you’ve been whipped.”

  Webster tapped his finger on the desk, impatiently, “Enough of this. When you gentlemen surrendered your armies, we accepted your paroles. We’re not going to put anyone else into prison unless they disturb the peace or persist in rebellion.” Greeley saw the look Webster sent his way and doubted his relationship with President Seward would help him if he made a second outburst. Lee was right; several other newspapermen would happily take his place.

  The Secretary continued, “While President Seward continues to consult with the attorney general about Mr. Cobb’s legal status, we are prepared to provide each of the seven states which remained in rebellion as of the first of July of this year a pathway to readmittance into the federal union.”

  The two Southerners traded looks of apprehension as they waited for Webster to continue. Since the end of the conflict, the US Congress had adopted several constitutional amendments that were making their way through the ratification process.

  “The thirteenth amendment was ratified by fifteen of the twenty-one loyal states. Missouri’s legislature has recently ratified it, too. Ironic, if you ask me, that a former state in rebellion provided the final ratification that makes the amendment the law of the land,” Webster said.

  Greeley gripped his pencil, frustrated. The Thirteenth Amendment was being called the Bitter-Pill amendment in Whig newspapers. It stipulated slavery would remain legal in all slave states not in rebellion as of July 1, 1853. Of the seceding Southern states, only Missouri repudiated their secession. Virginia, Kentucky, North Carolina, Maryland, and Delaware had remained loyal. The amendment also stipulated states in rebellion against the federal government would be subject to whatever requirements for readmission the government chose to impose.

  “Before your states will be allowed back into the Union, your legislatures will be required to ratify the Thirteenth Amendment.”

  Davis’ face twisted into a frown, “That’s as good as giving every Negro his manumission papers, given President Seward’s emancipation order.”

  Webster shrugged, “Perhaps. But just in case there’s any question. The Fourteenth Amendment will clarify that. It will require that anyone in your eight states who aided or abetted the rebellion forfeit all chattel property. Said property shall be manumitted.”

  Davis sagged against his chair, “So, it’s true, then. I had hoped the rumor was false. This will ruin us.”

  General Lee shook his head, “Only for a season, sir. I am convinced that slavery as an institution is a moral and political evil. By forswearing this evil now, your states will lay the foundation for the remainder to surrender it peaceably. By Providence’s blessing, this sectional war was short, and despite the thousands of deaths from disease and battle, very few of your young men died in this folly. The deep South shall rebuild quickly if you but accede to Secretary Webster’s requirements.”

  Davis muttered, “All we wanted was to be left alone.”

  The lone man wearing the butternut-brown of the Army of the Republic of Texas, William Sherman’s laughter was tinged with bitterness, “You folks picked a peculiar way to demonstrate your desire to be left alone when you aided our rebels and then invaded us with a view of annexation. I’ll not deny the damage done in places like South Carolina and Georgia, but the worst battles of this sad war were fought across East Texas. A country with scarcely a half million souls lost more than ten thousand men resisting your desire to be left alone.”

  Webster stood and gestured toward the doorway, “Go, tell your friends that readmission will only come by ratifying the thirteenth and fourteenth amendments. Rest assured, if the current state legislatures won’t do it, they’ll be replaced by ones that will.”

  ***

  Late December 1853

  “What are you going to do with your bounty, Wild Bill?”

  Jimmy Hickok turned, a smile on his face. He liked his new nickname. The circumstances under which he’d acquired it still gave him nightmares, but all the same, Wild Bill was, he thought, a hell of a lot better than Duck Bill. He said, “How many acres is it?”

  His squad’s sergeant said, “Six hundred forty acres. Here I was hoping Texas would give us some money for helping them, but now that we’ve been mustered out, I think I’ve a mind to redeem the bounty. I hear some folks this side of Jefferson have discovered gold, too. I understand the Texas land bank will redeem the bounty anywhere west of the Brazos.

  Looking at the printed bounty from the government of Texas in his hand, it was hard to think it represented a whole square mile of land. It was harder still to imagine him doing anything with it. He had no interest in farming or ranching. The last couple of years had been the most exciting in his young life, and he wasn’t quite ready to trade that in for a pickaxe or a plow.

  “I’ll figure it out later, Sarge.” With that, Jimmy grabbed his hat and strolled out of the New Orleans Barracks. He liked walking on the sidewalks of the old French Quarter. Decorations for Christmas were in most windows. Signs of the June battle were gone, although over in the American quarter, homes destroyed in the battle’s aftermath were still being rebuilt. The stores he passed by were full of goods. Once the city had fallen, the blockade of navy ships had been lifted.

  He stopped at a newspaper stand, along the plank, held up by two barrels were several newspapers. The local, the New Orleans Picayune sat prominently on display. Next to it was the Galveston Daily News. It was only a few days old. On the banner of the foreign newspaper was written, “John Brown Guilty!”

  Eying the stand’s proprietor, who was busy with another customer, Jimmy scanned the article. He hadn’t made it more than a couple of paragraphs into it, when a voice behind the stand said, “Either buy it or move along.”

  The idea of laying down a couple of pennies for a newspaper was more than the youth was willing to do, so he continued walking. He was troubled about the news out of Texas. John Brown had been larger than life to an impressionable teenager. Sure, he wasn’t perfect, but Jimmy wasn’t quite willing to admit that the people they’d killed didn’t deserve to die.

  He turned a corner and saw a dozen flags, all of them variations of the United States’ flag. Below the flags, several men wearing dragoon uniforms stood in the street. One voice carried over the din of the road, �
��Get your citizenship back, men. The Second Dragoons are recruiting, and if you’ve got experience, we’ve got a place for you!”

  Jimmy stopped and watched the recruiter deftly talk a man who was wearing the tattered remains of a rebel jacket into signing his name to a sheet pinned to the top of a barrel. The recruiter spied the youth, and before Jimmy could turn, the man was in his face, “First New York, lad?”

  Jimmy nodded, “Yeah. Just mustered out.”

  The recruiter said, “We could use a strapping lad like yourself. Were you part of the attack on New Orleans?”

  Jimmy nodded, “Uh, huh. Why’re you all recruiting. The war’s over.”

  “This one is. Congress has just opened up the Western Territory. The Second Dragoons have been ordered to pay a visit to the Comanche. Let them know these raids have got to stop. Can’t have settlers getting a haircut from an Indian barber.”

  Jimmy stared at the recruiter with a confused expression. The recruiter pulled his own hair up into a bunch and then used his other hand to mimic getting scalped.

  The notion of seeing the Great Plains sounded fun. Fighting Comanche sounded exciting, too. “Where do I sign up?”

  ***

  June 1854

  Lt. Colonel Jesse Running Creek opened the heavy, wooden door to the Alamo’s chapel and slipped inside. As additional buildings had been added to the Alamo complex, the chapel once again reverted to its sacred purpose. Gas lamps cast a soft glow on the unpainted ceiling. Pews flanked both sides of the central aisle through the nave and an altar sat in the middle of the transept. The one concession to the chapel’s recent history was the heavy artillery battery placed over the Apse on a reinforced platform.

  The chapel was empty, and Jesse slid into a pew and leaned his head back. He’d needed to get away from the small office reserved for his use, as commander of the army’s Ranger battalion. He amended the thought, soon-to-be-former commander. With a sigh heard only by the spirits, he pulled the crumpled letter from his trouser pocket and looked at his father’s precise script. Simon Running Creek, a wealthy Cherokee merchant, had supported the men like James Collinsworth in the opening days of the rebellion. He’d owned several slaves and had bitterly opposed the Free Birth law when it was enacted a few years before and told Jesse it was a dagger posed at the heart of his business. Jesse had written his father several times over the course of the war’s first year, but after no response, his letters had grown infrequent, and since the last Battle of Beaumont, he’d not written his father at all.

  He set the letter down on the pew next to him. He wasn’t ready to see what the old man had to say, not yet. He closed his eyes, amazed how much time had passed since defeating Lamont’s lost brigade, as the rebel unit had come to be known. Almost a year gone since then. Although a couple of regiments were still strategically placed across East Texas, keeping an eye on the people who had rebelled, the army was once again reduced to its peacetime size. During the height of the war, the army’s Ranger battalion had briefly reached twelve companies and nine hundred men. By the end of the Battle of Austin, less than two-hundred-fifty men remained. Even now, the five companies he was authorized to command were understrength; the battalion mustered barely three hundred.

  Soon, though, the duty would fall to another. He had put off the moment for as long as possible. He broke the glue seal on the envelope and unfolded the monogrammed paper, with an embossed R and C in the corner. A smile slipped onto Jesse’s face as he saw the letters’ indention. He could practically hear his father saying, “What good’s a little wealth if others don’t know you’ve got it?”

  My dearest son,

  I received all of your letters. They have been read and reread until the paper cracked with age. I don’t know if I can apologize for favoring our family’s interests above that of your chosen calling, but you should know my desire was always to hand you a grand inheritance. I used the tools available to me, and for that, I can’t apologize, either. I bought the slaves because I needed labor to load and drive our freight wagons. But for my silence and my anger to you I will apologize, for despite my flaws, I raised you to follow your conscience and how can I blame you when your conscience dictated that you honor the oath you took to the republic that took us in when the United States branded us as little more than our own slaves. Know, my son, that I love you and miss you. I thank God you have come through the crucible of the war alive when so many have not.

  When the war was lost, I feared I would lose your inheritance, having backed the losing side. Those of us in Uweya Township watched in fear as those who had served with the rebels had their property taken from them. But I should have known that Sam Houston would protect those of us who merely voiced support for the rebellion. He vouched for me and several others when the army came through.

  In the end, it was for naught. All the slaves except Jackson have run off, and the government has said that I can put in a request for compensation, although I expect I’ll be called to account for my life on this earth long before the government makes good on the claim.

  I’ve read about your new assignment in the newspaper. Sam has said being Texas’ official military observer is a singular honor. He even had to show me on a map where Russia and the Ottoman Empire are located. But the idea that you will be observing a war in some place on the other side of the world worries me, and I’ll be asking the folks at church to pray for your safety each week.

  If you are able, come and see me before you leave.

  Your loving Father,

  Simon Running Creek

  Jesse wiped a tear from his eye. It had taken more than two years, but he’d finally received the letter he’d longed to receive. Folding the letter, he tucked it in his waistcoat and stood. He had packing to do before leaving.

  ***

  28 July 1854

  “Are you sure this is going to work?” Charlie said as he studied the contraption in the middle of the large room’s floor.

  Andy Berry nodded toward a man kneeling beside the contraption with pipes and tubing running one way or another, as far as Charlie could tell. “Ask Dick. He’s the one who proposed it and built it.”

  Richard Gatling adjusted a bolt with a wrench before he gave Berry a baleful stare, “Oh, ye of little faith. Just because we’ve not yet found the ideal solution for harvesting cotton, doesn’t mean we’re devoid of talent.”

  He wiped the grease from his hands onto a dirty towel and stood up, “I’d like to tell you the idea for this little beauty is all my own, but back when I ran the patent office, I received a publication from the English about a fellow who built something similar. Basically, it’s a gas vacuum engine. According to the math, it should produce the same horsepower as a steam engine four or five times heavier.”

  Charlie’s eyebrows shot up. Since the end of the war, the nascent balloon corps had experimented with putting a small steam engine into a balloon with a rigid frame. But the weight to power ratio simply didn’t work, not well enough to risk the lives of his pilots.

  “Step back, I’m going to start it.” With that, Gatling attached a lanyard to a friction primer. “With the artillery switching to breechloading guns, there are a lot of these laying around. The spark from the primer will ignite the engine – I hope.”

  With his back against the wall, watching the inventor, Charlie wondered if this was what the ancients felt like when confronted with the mysterious unknown. His lips twitched as he thought of this as industrial magic. He supposed that made Gatling a modern-day Merlin.

  Gatling offered a smile to the other men as he pulled the lanyard. There was a snap and a bang. A long thin copper rod rose into the air before a clanking noise caused Charlie to cover his ears. Black, billowy smoke seeped from a round cylinder. Charlie beat a hasty retreat from the room as Gatling opened the windows before joining the other men outside, where they watched tendrils of smoke eddy through the openings.

  Berry slapped Gatling on the back, “Works better than the last model, Dick
.” He turned to Charlie, “This ain’t exactly easy, Major. We’ll study what went wrong and try again in a couple of months. Give us time, and your boys will be flying over future battlefields like birds.”

  Charlie didn’t share the inventors’ optimism, nor was he sure he wanted to ride in a basket with a smelly, smoky contraption. But now the demonstration was over, he headed home. Since the war’s end, he had moved with his wife and son into his parents’ house. A couple of months remained before the election and even then, a couple of more months until the new president would be sworn in. His parents would return then. He stopped on a street corner and looked at the framing going up on a new house. It was hardly the only building going up in town, but unlike the others, this one would be his when it was finished.

  According to the carpenters working on it, the house would be finished by the end of the summer, long before President Travis would become ex-President Travis. Until then, he was happy to live comfortably in his parent’s house.

  The last hundred paces brought him to the house with a wide covered patio, he’d lived in for a couple of years before joining the army. A red brick path led from the dirt street to the steps leading to the patio. His feet had scarcely touched the brick when he heard a shriek. He looked up and saw his nearly three-year-old son scampering down the stairs, racing toward him.

  Charlie swooped down and snatched the toddler into the air as the boy squealed with delight. As he hugged the child, he saw his wife standing on the patio, beaming. Charlie flashed a grin at her as he climbed the stairs.

  Tanya Travis said, “I’ve seen that look before, Major Travis. Every time you give me that look, I get pregnant.” To underscore her words, her hands rested atop a distended belly.

  Charlie’s laughter could have been heard by the next-door neighbors, had there been any. “Mrs. Travis, you’re more beautiful every day.” He leaned over her pregnancy and kissed his wife.

  ***

  11 December 1854

  Will glanced to his side, smiling at Becky as they stood to one side under the lofty portico over the Capitol Building’s porch. He gripped her hand as she slid it into his own. Had it been six years since he’d stood in the middle of porch to take the oath of office? It didn’t seem that long.