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[Continuing chapter 12; this is another long one, and will conclude next week]
Travis felt the hairs prickling on the back of his neck as he navigated his carriage among the ruts on River Road heading into the center of the city. There was almost nobody on the street, even though at half-past eight it ought to be crowded with people going to their offices or shops. It might as well be Sunday for all the people out this morning.
Reynolds, thought Travis as he watched a pair of men scuttling along the wooden sidewalk in the direction of the southern outskirts. When the coup Travis had anticipated had failed to happen yesterday, he’d allowed General Beauregard to persuade him that he’d been imagining things all along, and that the senator had in fact been involved in nothing more dangerous than more anti-abolitionist agitation.
Now Travis was worried again. Perhaps I should just confront Reynolds, he thought, and force the man into the open. Unless it’s already too late for that. Texas is a big place, but it’s still a small country. It would be awfully easy to overthrow this government if you set about it the right way. His throat tightened at the thought.
He turned his carriage in the direction of Fort Walker. Beauregard had dismissed his concerns Sunday and again yesterday, but Travis felt nervous enough to risk the general’s wrath again. There has to be something behind this feeling, he thought. I can’t be the only one who’s noticed something odd this morning.
“Say, Augustus,” he called to an elderly free Negro who walked briskly toward him. “Does the city seem odd to you this morning?”
“Odd?” Augustus laughed. “Say, Mas’ Travis, where you been? Ain’t you heard the noise? Big shootin’ up to the fort just after sunup.” Travis stiffened, trying to fight the feeling of being disconnected from the world. “I heard General Beauregard got hisself shot by one of his own boys,” Augustus said. “And I saw soldiers marching to the capitol not five minutes ago. I don’t propose to hang around to see what they want.” He scurried past Travis, saying as he went, “Odd? Damned odd, you bet!”
“My God,” Travis muttered. Beauregard dead? He shifted in his seat, aware now of just how vulnerable he was here in the middle of the street. If Reynolds or some other conspirator had killed Beauregard, no member of the government could be considered safe from deadly assault. He lashed the horse into motion, this time toward the presidential mansion. If Lamar didn’t know about the coup already, he’d need to be warned. Russell was right, he thought, ashamed. I should have told the president as soon as I suspected.
He saw the soldiers at the presidential mansion before they saw him, and he turned the carriage aside in time to escape cleanly. Pausing under a tree to take advantage of the shade and the cover it provided, Travis chewed on one of the reins and tried to think of where to go next. If a soldier had killed Beauregard, and soldiers had seized the capitol building and the president’s house, that meant that the garrison had been turned. Who will defend the republic now? he wondered. His plans for gaining glory by thwarting Reynolds, he realized, had all been predicated on the garrison remaining loyal. How, he asked himself, could they have been turned so easily?
Stop thinking about that, he chided himself. The crucial thing to think about now was where he should go. Maria Pena’s place occurred to him; she would be more than happy to hide him if it came to that. Then it dawned on him that his dalliances with Maria weren’t exactly a secret in the confined space that was Washington society. Reynolds likely already had people looking for him at Maria’s place.
He started forward again, unwilling to stay in one place and risk capture while he was so obviously thinking circuitously. Now he was seeing faces staring at him from behind windows or through shutters, convinced that every pair of eyes was marking him for capture or death.
He looked up, and saw the Courier building ahead. Hope flickered back to life: The Courier had a telegraph station; Russell had been so proud when it was connected last month. No soldiers guarded its door yet; perhaps Russell could help him get word out to the regiments on the frontier. Travis stopped the carriage at the side of the building and tied the horse to a fence. A pair of horses stood patiently in the street; Travis hoped they belonged to Russell, or to some customer and not to Reynolds’s agents.
“Russell, I need to talk with you. Now.” Travis burst into the publisher’s office, didn’t even apologize to the men he had interrupted, and who turned, glaring—until they recognized him. Then all four men were on their feet, Russell’s visitors babbling in a jumble of misplaced deference. Travis tried to assure them that no apologizes were necessary, then gave up and simply pulled Russell out of his office and into the press room. “We’re in trouble,” he said, closing the door on the wide-eyed visitors abandoned in the office.
“You and me?”
“The republic. I’m told Beauregard’s dead. There are soldiers at the capitol and the president’s mansion. I’ve seen them. I need your telegraph.”
Next Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six
Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve
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