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[Continuing chapter eleven]
“Another?” James Russell lifted the bottle. “This bourbon’s no’ a patch on a whisky from the Isle of Islay, but I admit I’ve grown a taste for it since coming here.”
“I shouldn’t,” Travis said. “But I think I will anyway. Since I can’t make sense of this sober, perhaps I can drunk.”
“Herodotus says that’s how the Persians used to do it,” Russell said. “Says they reconsidered sober any decision they made while drunk. And vice versa.” He poured bourbon into both glasses, and added a bit of water to his own. “Though it seems to me you’ve got the answer already, Mister Secretary. You’re just not prepared yet to admit it.”
“But why?” Travis took a sip, and looked out the window. The sky was clearing, and he could see stars over the low roofs of Washington. “What possible cause could lead Reynolds to plot against Lamar? And who in their right minds would follow a self-possessed idiot like Reynolds?”
“I couldn’t begin to say, man.” Russell sipped carefully, then set his glass down on a copy of last week’s Courier. Condensation beaded down the outside of the glass and began to soak into the cheap paper. “And I wouldn’t dream of asking you to betray your oath of office by telling me government secrets that might help me to guess the reason. But surely to God you can’t be all that surprised by this, Travis. This continent is populated exclusively by nations that owe their existence to plots and revolutions of one sort or another. For me, it’s easy to understand what’s happening now. It’s a little like a wild beast killing and eating a man, I’ve always thought. Once he gets a taste for it, he’ll always come back to it. So your Southerners have come back to rebelling against the Union, and the United States that were founded by an act of rebellion are now being foundered on one.
“This Texican republic also owes its existence to plot and rebellion. And now you’re facing the same thing here.”
Travis stared at him. Surely the man’s mad, he thought. There’s no equating this treachery with our honest desire to govern and represent ourselves. “Austin always said he’d rather Texas be a self-governing part of the Empire of Mexico,” he said. “We were forced to fight for our freedom.”
“And no doubt somebody feels the same way now, and who’s to say they’re wrong, at least in their own eyes?” Russell looked around, wiped his hands on his ink-stained trousers. “But whoever feels the need to rebel, surely Reynolds isn’t the one leading this plot. I agree with you there, Travis. The man doesn’t have the wit of a Mexican regent. There has to be someone else behind this.”
Russell got up, taking his glass with him, and began to pace the office. “Having said all that, though, I suppose that the identity of the master doesn’t matter so much right now,” he said. “What matters now is how organized you think they are, and when you think they’ll strike. And it’s those deserting soldiers that should worry you, I think. Men deserting in ones and twos isn’t uncommon, especially with them finding more gold in the Californias.” He turned and stared at Travis. “Whole companies deserting, if those reports are true, is something else entirely. It means this plot has got officers in it.”
“I know.” Travis hung his head, gazing into his glass. “I know.” He had always made an effort to feel sure of himself—at least he had in the years since Rosanna had betrayed him with that gambler—but tonight he felt no confidence at all. He had always trusted the army, even if some of its officers condescended to him or worse. If the army that he and Lamar and Bowie and Beauregard had built was against him…
“Give me your honest opinion,” he said. “Do you think that Beauregard’s in this?”
“Our Napoleon?” Russell started to smile, then looked at Travis and his expression faltered. He appeared to be thinking deeply. “No,” he finally said. “No, come to it, I don’t think that Beauregard would cast himself in on something like this.” He looked to Travis, but Travis could not see the point he was making, and lifted his shoulders. “He’s got nothing to gain by it, you see,” Russell said. “He’s a soldier, and that’s pretty much all he is. I’m sure it’s all he wants to be. He can see as well as I can what trying to run this country is doing to Lamar. And to you, Mister Secretary, come to that.” Travis looked up at him. “It’s aging you,” Russell said, “a lot faster than you ought to be aging. I’m sure Beauregard would rather fight Indians and continue to gild his reputation.”
“Perhaps I should go to him, then, and see if I can’t persuade him to take steps to secure the capital.”
“For the love of God, man, why don’t you take this to the president first, and let him make that decision?” Russell drained his glass. “I confess I do not understand why you would rather talk to Beauregard—or even to me—than to the one man who by rights ought to be made aware of this.”
Because if I’m wrong, Travis thought, Lamar or Reynolds will ruin my career. I can’t take that chance until I’m more sure of what I know.
And if I’m right and the plot is foiled, he forced himself to admit, I want to be the member of the government whose reputation gains from this.
He got to his feet, leaving the rest of the bourbon in the glass. “Thank you for listening to me, Mister Russell,” he said. “I trust you will do as I asked and keep this conversation in confidence.”
“For the time being,” Russell said, “I will. But one day, Travis, I’m going to write about this. I missed the great and grand revolution. I don’t intend to miss the next great story in the history of Texas.”
Next Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six
Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
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