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[Concluding chapter eleven]
The mantle clock was showing half past two when the last of the men left to return to their homes. Tomorrow they would treat as a normal business day, while surreptitiously gathering the small groups of trusted men each had enlisted to assist in the coup. Tuesday morning, they would strike.
Reynolds walked into the yard after the household slaves had done the last of the cleaning-up. He was pretty sure that Susan would hear all about the mess the men had made—and even if the slaves didn’t blather or complain to her, the tobacco-stink was unmistakable—and he knew that he’d pay the price for her anger. But he was equally sure that any discomfort would be short-lived, and more than justified when he was in his new position as president of the Republic of Texas.
He looked up. The bad weather of the past few days had seemingly lifted, and a thousand thousand stars twinkled in a clear sky. Each one seemed to say to him, You are special. You are the man the hour demands—no, the man the hour needs. It might have been Preston Brooks’s idea to attach Texas to the Confederacy, and it might be that William Walker had to command the military aspect of the coup. But only Thomas Reynolds had the authority and the contacts and—admit it—the audacity to ensure that when Walker and his men arrived the Republic would be waiting for them, a willing bride as it were. Only you, he told himself, can see that this thing happens as God intends it to happen.
He did not allow himself to think about what would happen to him should anything go wrong. Nothing would go wrong, he told himself. I am at the centre of the universe, he announced to the stars, and nothing will go wrong.
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Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven
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