Bonny Blue Flag 15.5

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[Concluding chapter fifteen]

Reynolds shifted, awoke, sat up in bed. Something had disturbed his sleep—not that it would have taken much to do that. He had supposed that he’d sleep like a baby in President Lamar’s soft bed; in fact, he’d tossed restlessly since turning in just a few hours ago. At first he’d blamed his sleeplessness on Susan’s refusal to join him in the mansion; she had stubbornly insisted on remaining in what she’d referred to as her house. The frustrating truth, though, was that his nerves were keeping him awake: his hold on the city wasn’t as absolute as he’d like it be.

The takeover had gone smoothly enough, with just four men killed to his knowledge, none of them people he cared for. The various government departments had been secured easily, and Captain Cooper had placed Rangers and soldiers in each of Washington’s streets to enforce the curfew Reynolds had reluctantly imposed.

But Cooper had spent tonight drinking President Lamar’s cognac and bourbon, and was presently passed out and snoring on the tobacco-stained carpet in the mansion’s main parlor. Reynolds had prayed that Cooper, an otherwise able man, wouldn’t prove too fragile a reed to be leaned upon if there was a crisis before Walker’s force arrived.

Bonny Blue Flag 15.4

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[Continuing chapter fifteen]

For a moment he was sure he’d made too much noise—damned boot hit too hard, he told himself—but as he silently caught his breath he could hear a murmur of conversation from the farthest point of the parapet. Better than I expected, he thought. Though he got to his feet he kept himself crouched over as he moved to the upper floor of the timber gatehouse. He drew his revolver only when he’d reached the shadows thrown by the gatehouse.

Inside, tucked into a corner and snoring softly, was a man in an officer’s uniform. Likely a lieutenant, and he’d done Stewart the favour of removing his gun belt, which hung from a peg driven into the wall beside the chair in which the man slept. With his free hand Stewart carefully lifted the belt from the peg; draping it around his neck and re-holstering his pistol he moved to the ladder and climbed down, marveling at the workmanship that prevented the ladder from making any sort of noise as his weight pressed onto it.

Bonny Blue Flag 15.3

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[Continuing chapter fifteen]

“You’ll go down to the river, sir,” Stewart said, “and bring Captain Miller and his men up as close to the fort as you can without allowing yourself to be seen.” Stewart looked around him. “I’ll take Marshal McCulloch with me, and have Cleburne and Mr. Patton waiting here, where they can see both the gates and you; when we’ve opened the gates, one of them will signal you. At that time, sir, it would be best if you brought Captain Miller into the fort at a dead run. If we can do this quickly, we can be in possession of Fort Walker before her defenders even know we’re here.”

“And if you can’t get the gates open?”

“I’ll likely be dead,” Stewart said, swallowing that bitter realization. “In which case I suspect it won’t matter to me what you do then.”

Bonny Blue Flag 15.2

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[Continuing chapter fifteen]

“I’d feel better about doing this if we had a few more men behind us,” John Patton said to Travis. “Shouldn’t we be bringing in more of the sentries and pickets that Reynolds has thrown out before we move on the fort?”

Travis felt inclined to agree. He could feel the press of time—or, rather, time’s absence—but storming Fort Walker, with who knew how many rebels inside it, seemed to him a desperate act for such a small band. In perhaps just under two hours of painstaking work they had managed to add just a dozen soldiers, most of them confused, to their ranks. Those men, and Miller’s militia, now waited quietly a half-mile to the east, down by the river where with luck no one would see them and give the alarm. Travis and his companions hid behind yet another commercial building, this one an excessively fragrant livery stable that was fortunately empty, its equine inhabitants presumably having been impressed by the rebels. I have learned more, Travis mused, about the back-yards and privies of Washington than any man ought to know.

Bonny Blue Flag 15.1

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28/29 MAY 1851

Ben McCulloch stepped back into the shadows when he saw the Confederate officer creeping up to him. “Should we be happy that there’s only two of them?” Captain Stewart asked. McCulloch, Stewart and Cleburne were hidden among the outbuildings of the first house they’d encountered on the road into Washington. Up that street, intermittently lit by the flickering of a nearly dead torch, stood a pair of soldiers, muskets propped on their shoulders. The men, in their white fatigue uniforms, looked like ghosts haunting the captive city.

“Depends on how you look at it.” McCulloch spat as quietly as he could. His stomach was tight; stalking criminals was one thing, but not even the viciousness of the Regulator-Moderator War in the north-eastern counties had unnerved him the way this counter-insurgency seemed to be doing. “On the bright side, only two of them means it’ll be that much easier for us to take ‘em. On the nasty side, if we have to recapture this city two men at a time we’ll be still be at it when Walker’s men get here.” He nodded for the others to follow him, and rejoined the too-small group of patriots waiting in a hollow just outside of town.

Bonny Blue Flag 14.5

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[Concluding chapter fourteen]

Stewart had the opportunity to watch Cleburne in command when Travis ordered him to seize the ferry across the Navasota. The Irishman might not have risen any higher than a lieutenancy in the English king’s army, but he would easily make a colonel or better in the Americas. If he chose to entertain such an ambition. The ferryman and his family were surrounded with quiet efficiency by Cleburne, a man identified to him as a Texas marshal named McCulloch, and a half-dozen hand-picked farmers who knew a thing or two about sneaking up on people.

Not that there was any need for a fight. The ferryman turned out to be no enthusiast of the Reynolds fellow who’d made himself president, and was more than willing to accompany Travis and his men in their march on the Brazos ferry about a mile to the west. Which in turn was easily taken; Stewart wondered if anybody in this republic actually cared for the concept of government at all. The sun was setting when Stewart, Cleburne and the elder Patton got across the Brazos; by Stewart’s estimate it would be several hours yet before the full force of Travis’s counter-insurgency was over the west bank of the river.

Bonny Blue Flag 14.4

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[Continuing chapter fourteen]

The best thing about the Texas climate in late spring, Stewart decided, was that the heat made for the efficient drying of wet clothes. In order to head north-east from Washington he had had to cross two rivers, not one. I still have a few things to learn about campaigning, he decided as he walked along a broad track he had picked up about an hour out of town. Should have done a lot more planning. There was a ferry across this second river—he guessed it was the Navasota—but he didn’t dare risk the convenience. It wouldn’t come as any surprise if that Ranger, Cooper, was out here somewhere tracking him.

Not that he posed much of a threat to the conspirators at the moment.

Bonny Blue Flag 14.3

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[Continuing chapter fourteen]

A massive grotesque, dressed like the most decrepit Canadian mountain-man who ever drew breath, stomped toward him, right hand resting on the hilt of an enormous pistol. “You wish to speak with me?” Stewart adopted an exaggerated extension of Uncle James’s cultured drawl, guessing it would probably irritate his interlocutor—with luck to the extent the man wouldn’t think beyond it.

“Well ain’t we just God’s special creature,” the man rasped. “What you doing on the street, boy? Don’t you remember they’s a curfew?” Now he was getting closer, the outrageous specimen drew his pistol. It was a revolver, but bigger than any Colt-system weapon Stewart had ever seen. The man’s face was pocked with red scars, from some of which grew components of a vile beard in which Stewart was certain he could see the remains of a number of meals. A red-orange sash tied around a swollen waist suggested some sort of official occupation, and Stewart wondered—taking in the stained leathers and enormous, wide-brimmed hat and odd-looking boots—if this might be one of the legendary Texas Rangers.

Bonny Blue Flag 14.2

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[Continuing chapter fourteen]

The first thing to do, Stewart decided, was to hide his clothes and weapons—ideally someplace well away from the river. If he was going to have to leave Washington in a hurry, any potential pursuers would likely expect him to move south, alongside or on the Brazos. Well, he’d simply go in some other direction then. If Walker truly was invading the republic from Louisiana, he’d be approaching the capital from the north-east. So that was the best direction to travel in.

Should it be necessary to flee. He still wasn’t certain this would be the case.

It’s increasingly likely, though, he thought. Even as he skirted the town along the west, keeping to valley bottoms and woods whenever he could, Stewart could see that the republic’s capital did not look much like a city going about its usual business. Instead it reminded him too much of the way Harpers Ferry had looked the day, just over a year ago now, when he and several thousand members of the Army of Virginia had marched up to it to drive the Federals out. Nothing he saw now was sufficient to disabuse him of the idea that had fixed itself on him from the boiler deck of the Bluebell.

Walker had supporters within the capital if not the government itself, and those supporters had taken control, or were in the process of doing so.

Bonny Blue Flag 14.1

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28 MAY 1851 (MID-DAY)

WASHINGTON-ON-THE-BRAZOS, REPUBLIC OF TEXAS

I will never complain about a Mississippi riverboat again, Stewart said to himself as the Bluebell backed water ferociously, the captain apparently having decided it would be better to ease alongside the wharf rather than charging into it. On the Mississippi he’d only been worried he was about to die; here he was sure of it.

When no collision ensued he looked up at the pilot-house, wondering if he’d been unfair to the captain and crew. Then he decided he hadn’t been. Texans were quite obviously mad, all of them.

Bonny Blue Flag 13.5

Previous    First

[Concluding chapter thirteen]

Patton felt a rush of awareness, almost of inspiration. It was the same feeling he’d had at the Institute when he’d finally understood a concept one of the instructors had been trying to pound into his head. He had no idea how well he’d be able to implement Wheat’s suggestion, but he suddenly felt incredibly clear-headed: I’m drunk, he thought, and even drunk I know that what Wheat’s told me makes perfect sense. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “This is the first time anybody’s ever given me such an intelligent, practical piece of advice.” He shook his head. “I spent weeks with Cleburne coming here. I got less inspiration from him in a month than I have in one evening in your company, Captain Wheat.” He kicked at a clump of sod dislodged by some hoof or other at the end of the day’s march. It galled him now to think that Cleburne had perhaps betrayed him, had just possibly abused the trust Patton had placed in him. As soon as he thought that, though, he knew the thought to be unworthy. His face flushed so that he was sure it was visible in the darkness as a glow from a lantern.

Bonny Blue Flag 13.4

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[Continuing chapter thirteen]

He hadn’t really thought about it, he realized. The subject must be important, he concluded, else Wheat would not have brought it up. But what would it do to the captain’s opinion of him were he to admit ignorance? “I assume that the men I know fight for honor,” he said. “I can only guess at the motivation of most soldiers. Probably to avoid being whipped by their officers would be my guess.”

“And there may well be some men who are like that. But don’t be upset, Patton, when I tell you that in my experience you’re being unfair to the common soldier. Disgusting brutes though they may otherwise be.”

“Was that another example of your style of leadership? Tell me I’m wrong and then make a joke so I won’t feel so bad?”

“See? You’re learning already!” Wheat smiled. “You going to finish that?” He pointed to Patton’s cup. “It’s going to get stale.”

Bonny Blue Flag 13.3

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[Continuing chapter thirteen]

Wheat led them through the ranks of pegged wagons and past the mules, which snorted derisively as they passed. Patton snorted back at them, until he felt Wheat’s hand on his shoulder again. “You won’t win an argument with a mule,” he said, “so don’t even start.”

“Sorry,” Patton muttered. It wasn’t fair that Wheat should expect him to be at his best after having been plied with drink.

Bonny Blue Flag 13.2

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[Continuing chapter thirteen]

“What did I say that offended him?” Patton asked, miserable. He stared into the fire. All he’d wanted was some reassurance that he’d been doing the right thing, would continue to perform adequately in whatever fight was to come.

“Nothing,” Wheat said. “You said nothing wrong. Old Fontaine’s just a bit touchy, that’s all. He’s probably seen more fighting than you and me put together—he’s certainly seen more of the world than we have. But he doesn’t like to talk about it.” Wheat took another pull from the jug, and passed it to Patton. “He told me once fighting was just his job, and he saw no need to discuss business when he wasn’t doing business.”

“Just a job?” Patton stared, wondering if the whiskey was affecting his hearing. “How could he think that? I’ve always thought that being a soldier was something—well, something noble. Something to be proud of, anyway.”

Mid-Novel Blues and Greens

I'm about fifty thousand words into the first draft of the current project. This has me between eleven and twelve chapters through a twenty-chapter outline. And, as so often seems to be the case at this point in a novel, things have slowed down (instead of two thousand words a day I'm writing more like two hundred) and my interest in the characters has begun to shrivel.

Am I concerned? I am not. This happens all the time, and I always manage to blast through and enjoy a headlong rush to the finish.

Well, nearly always.

Bonny Blue Flag 12.10

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[Concluding chapter 12]


“The militia?” McCulloch couldn’t restrain a laugh at the memory of the militia musters he’d seen when he first came to Texas—to say nothing of what had happened to the men led by Polk last week. In theory, every able-bodied man in the country was a member of the militia, liable for military service should the country be invaded—or in a state of rebellion. In fact, though, militia musters usually ended up in drunken brawls. And despite what other parts of the continent apparently thought of the Republic of Texas, not every man in this country had a rifle or musket, much less one in working order. As money had become ever tighter, the frequency and quality of the militia musters had declined to fewer than one haphazard event a year. “When was the last time, Mister Travis, that the government could afford a complete mustering of the militia in just this county, much less across the whole republic?”

Bonny Blue Flag 12.9

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[Continuing chapter 12; this is another long one, and concludes this week]

“It’s not that there are so many of them,” Travis said, stretching his legs. “It’s that there are so few of us.”

“But how many?” Cleburne asked. “If you can just give us a number—”

“We’ll know how hard it’s going to be to re-take the city,” McCulloch finished.

“All I can say for certain is that there can’t be all that many of them,” Travis told them. McCulloch and his companions had joined Travis and Russell under the largest of the trees; as their horses grazed, the five men sat and talked about the alarming news each group had given the other. They look beaten, McCulloch thought about Travis and Russell. Their voices are dull, and they don’t seem to care about anything. Look at the way Travis just picks at the grass. Then the secretary of state looked at McCulloch, and there was still fire in his eyes. Maybe we’re not done yet, McCulloch thought. “They managed to keep what they were doing a secret,” Travis said, “and that’s almost impossible to do if you’ve got more than a handful of men involved.”

“But the soldiers,” McCulloch said.

“Most of them just following orders, I’ll wager,” said Russell, the newspaper man. “They’re most of them fresh off the boat, and they’ve been taught with the lash to do what they’re told.” Cleburne nodded, and McCulloch wondered if the Irishman had been on the delivering or receiving end of a whip in his soldiering days. He wasn’t quite sure how to take the Irishman. The man seemed brave enough. But the memory of Irishmen deserting from the army during the revolution to join their fellow-Catholic Mexicans, taking up the Mexican offer of land and gold in return for betraying the Texans, was still with McCulloch.

“My guess,” Russell continued, “is that you’ll be able to swing most of them to you if you can just find a way of dealing with the bad officers.”

“Any good officers in town, you reckon?” McCulloch asked Travis.

“There must be some,” Travis said. “I can’t believe that everyone in the garrison is that venal or traitorous.”

“Then they’re either hiding or in prison. Either way, you got to get them out of wherever they’re being held,” McCulloch said. “That’s how you get the soldiers to come around to you.”

“I detect a vicious cycle forming,” Russell said. “We need soldiers to defeat the coup. But in order to obtain their services we have to first defeat them in order to free the captive officers we need to lead them.”

“Which brings us back to the few of us against the uncertain—but surely superior—number of them,” Travis said. “I know in my heart that most Texans won’t support this Walker person if they’re given the choice. But I seem to be the only member of the cabinet not in custody. Do I dare risk appearing in Washington to make my case?” Don’t let him talk himself out of trying something, McCulloch thought. Trying anything, and failing, is still better than just giving up.

“Seems to me you don’t have a choice, sir,” Patton said. “You stay in hiding, this Reynolds fellow can say anything he wants about you. The more you repeat a lie, the more likely it is to be believed,” the Virginian added. “You have to go back.” McCulloch nodded agreement, glad that the others weren’t going to let Travis give up either.

Russell leapt to his feet, scattering dust as he did so. “Who’s to say,” he said excitedly, “that we have to go charging back in there by ourselves? Why can’t we build our own force as we go back?”

“I don’t understand you,” Travis said.

“The militia,” Russell said. “Why don’t you call up the militia? As the senior representative of the government, you’re not just allowed to muster the militia, you’re bloody well required to do it. Every farmer out here, every man hiding in his house in Washington, is a member of the militia.”

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

Bonny Blue Flag 12.8

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[Continuing chapter 12; this is another long one, and concludes this week]

Wouldn’t it be funny, Ben McCulloch thought, if it turned out the one thing we inherited from the Mexicans was an inclination to revolution? He glanced at his companions, and his spirits sank that much lower as he remembered the news they’d brought. What possible difference could a wounded Irishman and a taciturn Virginian make when they were up against a mercenary army supported by nobody knew how many mutinous soldiers of Texas’s own army?

“So Secretary Travis is supposed to be watching for this Walker feller?” he asked John Patton.

“Assuming he got my message.” Patton’s soft Virginia drawl was already starting to slide into the broader Texan twang. Same thing that happened to me and Hank when we came down from Tennessee, McCulloch thought. “He may not have. I’d have expected the army to be waiting for Walker if he had.”

Bonny Blue Flag 12.7

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[Continuing chapter 12; this is another long one, and concludes this week]

“Congratulations, Mister President,” Hopkins said. “It looks as though everyone on the list is in our custody, and the city is secure.” Hopkins took a long swallow from the bottle he held, then offered it to Reynolds.

Reynolds shook his head. “Please don’t call me president,” he said. “That remains to be decided.” It’s the one part of my plan I haven’t confided to Mister Walker, he thought, and felt a small tremor at his audacity. Or was it foolishness? Walker could be a very nasty man. “And not everyone’s in custody. Secretary Travis hasn’t been brought in yet.” I should stop calling him “Secretary,” he thought. The man’s a wanted criminal, and deserves no respect. “Any more word on that?”

Bonny Blue Flag 12.6

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[Continuing chapter 12; this is another long one, and concludes this week]

Russell smiled tightly. “So you were right.” He walked briskly to the stairs. “You should be proud of your Cassandra-like qualities.” Travis flushed; Cassandra at least had tried to warn people about her predictions. “Up here,” Russell said, and began to climb.

The closet-sized room at the top of the stairs was dark; Russell lit a lamp. “I should knock a window into this wall,” he muttered. “I suspect I’m going to have someone in this room more or less full-time before long. Everybody’s hooking up telegraphs these days.” The telegraph itself was surprisingly small for such an important device, nothing more than a piece of polished wood with a metal bar mounted on it and wires running to the wall and up into the ceiling.

Russell released a catch and began tapping the lever. He paused, tapped again, then clamped the lever back down again. “Nothing,” he said. “They’ve cut the wires. Nobody in the great wide world will know what’s going on here.” He smiled again, and said, “This is far more organized than I’d have thought Reynolds was capable of.” Then his smile straightened out. “They’ll be coming here, won’t they? They’ll be wanting my press.”