23 APRIL 1851
WASHINGTON-ON-THE-BRAZOS, REPUBLIC OF TEXAS
William Barret Travis leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar. The news from Buenos Aires was interesting, to say the least. That nephew of the great Napoleon who called himself Victor-Louis Napoleon had just contrived to have himself elected president of Argentina. From exiled comic-opera revolutionary to head of state in five years, he thought. Almost as impressive as going from failed newspaper publisher to secretary of state of the Republic of Texas in ten years. He smiled, and flicked an imaginary piece of ash from his heavily embroidered waistcoat.
Leaning forward, he wondered what it might be like to be secretary of state for the new Napoleon. I’m willing to wager, he thought, that unlike Texas, Argentina isn’t so strapped for funds that she has to gain most of her foreign intelligence from the columns of the newspapers. Turning the page of the Courier, he saw that the Federals were claiming a victory over the Confederates on one of the islands off the Carolinas. Nobody seemed to be able to exploit their battlefield successes, though, and the conflict between the two parts of the formerly United States looked set to last for years rather than the six weeks everyone had so confidently predicted last spring.
Travis re-read the story, shaking his head. The numbers of men involved were staggering—upwards of eight thousand men in the Federal army alone, close to fifteen thousand all told. We fought the Mexicans with ten percent of those numbers, he thought. What sort of carnage do fifteen thousand men inflict on one another? And what are white men, Americans, doing fighting one another in the first place?
He looked up at the mantle clock, then folded up and put away the newspaper. Lord Pakenham was due, and it wouldn’t do to keep Her Majesty’s minister to Texas waiting.
After a few minutes spent staring at the carefully arranged desktop, the walls and the office’s one small window, Travis noted ruefully that Lord Pakenham had no such qualms about keeping the Republic of Texas waiting. But then, Great Britain was the patron, and Texas the desperate supplicant, and that made all the difference in matters of diplomatic etiquette. He got up and went to the door, reaching it just as it opened. His secretary stood, a startled expression on his face.
“Suh-sir,” he stammered. “Didn’t expect to see you there, sir. Sorry. Lord Pakenham’s here to see you, sir.”
“Fine.” Travis resisted the urge to peek over Henson’s shoulder to see if the minister had noticed him. “Send him in, will you?” Travis returned to his desk, but remained standing until the door opened again.
“Lord Pakenham. Good to see you, sir.” Travis extended a hand. Pakenham, a formerly well-built man—son, Travis knew, of one of Wellesley’s generals in Jefferson’s War nearly four decades ago—was now in his forties and running somewhat to the fleshy side; he took Travis’s hand and shook it. The man was impeccably dressed, as always, and Travis made a note of the way his black crepe tie was knotted and folded. Later, he would have his man attempt to duplicate the look. “I trust you enjoyed your weekend at the coast,” he added—without a trace of irony, he hoped, though today was Tuesday and Pakenham had originally made the appointment for Monday.
“Aside from having my person mauled by your hideous mosquitoes, I had a pleasant time, yes. The hunting’s remarkably good along the coast—as good, in its own way, as the hunting to the north of here.” Pakenham sat down without waiting to be invited; for a stuffy people the English can be remarkably rude, Travis thought. “The weather was good, too. Certainly much nicer than London at the end of January. But let’s to business, shall we? I’ve got to meet that blasphemous Austrian rogue Bromowski for luncheon and cards.”
“I am at your disposal, sir.”
“Well.” Pakenham took a much-folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “I’ve heard from London at last. And you’ll be pleased to know that the chancellor and prime minister have approved the loan. So your republic will remain solvent for another month or two, what?” He laughed in the stuttering fashion—Travis was reminded of cheap tin pots falling down a flight of stairs—he always had when enjoying one of his own limp jokes.
“There is, sad to say, the usual problem to be dealt with,” Pakenham added.
“Slavery,” Travis sighed.
“The Wilberforce Society is becoming quite a bother,” Pakenham said. “It would be so much easier if the man were still alive so that his foibles could be used against him. However, there’s no point in wishing for what one cannot have. And, I’m afraid, the cabinet now has several members who openly sympathize with the anti-slavery movement’s interest in the Americas. So do a majority of our population, I’m told—though that’s obviously of much less importance.”
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