1 JUNE 1851
WASHINGTON-ON-THE-BRAZOS, REPUBLIC OF TEXAS
Travis turned to the newspaperman. “I hope I’ve saved the republic, Russell.”
They sat on a stone fence alongside the road into Washington. Behind them somewhere, Susan Reynolds, white-faced and thin-lipped with shock and anger, supervised a makeshift hospital. Travis had commandeered the Reynolds place; it was only fair, and Thomas Reynolds was unlikely to ever appear to complain about it.
“Oh, aye,” said Russell. “That goes without saying.” Russell seized Travis’s hand, and shook it. “But you’ve also guaranteed yourself the presidency, should you want it. We voted for Mirabeau Lamar, after all, and all he did was beat a bunch of sleeping Mexicans at San Jacinto—and most would agree that you and Bowie had more to do with San Jacinto than he did. Ah, Travis, but you—you have defeated a desperate invasion by well organized and equipped white men. And you did it virtually by yourself.”
“Stop it, Russell,” Travis said. “You’re being vulgar.” I like the sound of that, Travis had to admit to himself. But it’s the sort of thing you tell to farmers when you’re passing around the jug at election time. Men such as we know better. “You and I both know that the real architects of this victory are Ben McCulloch, Captain Stewart, and Mr. Cleburne. I had about as much to do with this as did the flag.”
“Don’t underestimate the power of a good symbol, Mr. Secretary,” Russell said. “Especially if the symbol is also the one member of the government to show common sense throughout this affair. I told you once, Travis, that I was going to write about this once it was over. I fully intend to live up to that threat.”
“We’ll see about that,” Travis said. “In the meantime, Russell, stop your scribbling and give me a hand here. What am I going to do with these men?”
They were watching an irregular cavalry unit chivying the prisoners along the road into Washington and the conclusion of a forced march that had lasted all the previous night. The riders, led by a most improbable commander—the Episcopalian bishop of East Texas—had been trailing after Walker’s men for days, apparently, and had arrived from the east just as Colonel Steele’s dragoons, brought in by Ben McCulloch, had smashed into Walker from the west. The battle, a near-run thing for so long, had ended abruptly, almost in anticlimax.
The number of prisoners was surprisingly small; somewhere between fifty and a hundred men, and that included those wounded who had survived the first night after the battle. They had left few dead on the field, and Travis knew from McCulloch that they’d faced as many as four hundred men. That meant several hundred desperate men were on the run in central Texas. Steele’s dragoons were out after them now, and Travis prayed that most of them would be run to ground within a day or so. Who knew how much damage these men could do to the farms and plantations that lay between here and Mexico or Canada? It was distressing enough to think on the stories he’d been hearing about what Walker had done on his march here.
“I’m afraid,” Russell said, “that I’m not going to be able to help you there, Travis.” He pointed to the prisoners. “Those that are from the army might be salvageable. Most of ‘em are immigrants, after all, just like the boys in the Washington garrison. They did what their officers told ‘em. On the other hand, they’re also traitors. What’ll the people say if you let traitors live?” He shook his head.
“Then there’s Walker and his men. Walker has to hang, no doubt about it. But his men? Most of ‘em are no better than bandits, it’s true. But they’re also a lot of them from the Confederacy. How’s Richmond going to behave if you go hanging a bunch of their citizens, just because they tried to overthrow our country and kill us all?”
“Thank you, Russell,” Travis said. “I appreciate your assistance.”
“Glad to help,” Russell said. “And don’t you try to tell me, William B. Travis, that you haven’t already devised some plan for dealing with the Confederacy.”
Travis hadn’t, in fact. It wouldn’t do, he decided, to tell Russell of that.
“Cleburne!”
Travis looked up, startled, to see Charles Stewart carefully climbing the stone fence. While Travis assimilated this sight, Stewart trotted toward the Reynolds house, shouting for Cleburne. As Stewart disappeared into the building Travis thought he heard the phrase “I’ve found him!”
After a few moments Stewart emerged from the house, this time with Cleburne in tow. The two men rushed toward the fence and Stewart crossed it again, this time with something approaching a jump. Cleburne stopped to acknowledge Travis and Russell, but before any of them could speak, Stewart was shouting again. “Come on, you great Irish idiot! Give me a hand with him!”
Stewart had stopped beside a litter being pulled by two prisoners. On the litter was a young man, dressed in greasy broadcloth and with a face as pale as the bandage wrapped around the upper half of his skull. By dress the young man could have been any Texican defender wounded in yesterday’s battle. His presence in the prisoner column, though, argued otherwise. “A friend of yours?” Travis asked.
Cleburne paused in the act of going over the fence. “The young Virginian I told you about yesterday,” Cleburne said. “The one I’d hoped had had the sense to leave Walker before it came to—to this.”
“By the look of that head wound,” Travis said, “it doesn’t look as though he did.”
“I’m afraid not.” Cleburne started forward, then stopped and turned to face Travis from the other side of the fence.
“What’s going to happen to him?”
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Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
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