by Drew McGunn
The hardest part in leaving the still smoldering camp was the decision to leave the bodies where they fell. Even though he could have issued the order, when confronted on the issue by Seguin, Caldwell, and the Apache, Flacco, all had argued that leaving the bodies was a calculated signal to the Comanche. Seguin summed up the other men’s position when he said, “General, this is like war in the old testament. When the army of Israel won, they tore down the buildings and salted the ground. It was a signal to their enemies they were willing to wage total war. The other bands will come, they will see the utter destruction of this band, and they will know that if they will not agree to a peace, we are willing to show them the same mercy they have shown us.”
The army’s return to San Antonio took another ten days, as Will placed caution to the side and ordered his army to march by the most direct path through the Comancheria. There was little doubt the Comanche watched his army’s southerly march, but his army’s vigilance discouraged any attempt to free the prisoners. By the time his tired and dirty army marched through the gate at the Alamo with their prisoners in tow, the Comanche would be coming.
***
Spirit Talker walked among the remains of the village along the river. The fires had long burned out, but the bodies remained. Ravaged by the wind, rain, and sun from above and coyotes and wolves on the ground, the many warriors who had died defending their village still bore the wounds of battle. Spirit Talker was used to it. He had seen it, many winters before in his youth, when he had taken horses from the people called the Mexicans. But the savagery visited on some of the warriors reminded him of the raids between his people, the Penateka against the Lenape. He spat on the ground as his thoughts ran to the treacherous Apache.
This was not the work of the Apache, though. The iron shod hoofs stamped into the mud along the river left no doubt those who called themselves Texians were the perpetrators. Next to him walked Buffalo Hump. The two men were as different in appearance as in temperament. Spirit Talker had long given up the raid. Arthritis made it impossible now for him to pull the war bow, and made his steps slower than they used to be. It was fitting and right that he now guided his band in peace. Buffalo Hump still walked tall and straight. Forty winters old, he was still bold and decisive. Spirit Talker could not deny his companion was a fine war chief for the band.
But, he was worried. This was the second village attacked by the Texians. In the first attack a few days before the Texians left no doubt it was revenge for the attack on the fort belonging to the people known as the Parkers. He came to stand before a young woman, lifeless, body ravaged by scavengers, the dagger still gripped in her hand. He turned to Buffalo Hump, “You want revenge my young friend. You see what the Texians have done to our people in this village, and I see it in your eyes. You want to take many scalps and prisoners.”
Buffalo Hump pointed to the woman, “They kill even the women who have many years of child bearing ahead of them. They have no appreciation for our lives or our children. How many of our People have they taken into captivity?”
Spirit Talker shrugged, “Too many. Listen to me, Buffalo Hump. Like you, I want revenge. I want the Texians to know the sorrow of the loss of their women, but that way may lay our destruction.”
Buffalo Hump shook his head. “Don’t let the voices of old women keep you from seeing our way forward, my old friend. We shall let all of the families and bands among the Penateka know and invite the Nokoni and Tenewa bands to take many horses and women from the Texians.”
Spirit Talker turned on the younger man, “Would you toss all of the women and children of the people prisoners of the white man on the fire? That way is impetuous. There are no old women’s voices rattling in my head, when I counsel caution. Yes. Rally the other chieftains among the Penateka and we shall go find out what the Texians want in return for our women and children.”
Buffalo Hump stormed away, stopping after a few feet, and turning, “I will not stop you, Spirit Talker, but while you counsel peace, I will prepare for war. I do not trust the white man. They eat away at our hunting ground, and drive away our buffalo.”
Spirit Talker waved the younger man away. Understandably he was angry. The casual way the Texians had left the People scattered among the remnants of the teepees was a stark reminder they were willing to learn from his warriors. He had heard of the raid on the Parkers’ Fort. They had built on the edge of the Comancheria. Many warriors had felt a stern message needed to be sent to the white men who were flooding into the land to the east. Now, Spirit Talker scanned the broken remains of the village. The Texians had heard the People’s message and had responded in a way which threatened the very existence of the People.
“No, we must try to find peace with the Texians.” Spirit Talker thought, “Or there will be no future for our people.”
***
April gave way to May and life returned to normal as the Alamo’s garrison drilled and trained. Most of the Rangers had returned to the forts along the frontier. East of the fort, a large paddock had been constructed, where the captured Comanche men and women were kept as prisoners. As an act of compassion, Will ordered blankets and tents provided to give the prisoners protection from the elements. The Comanche children were being kept at the decaying convent at the Mission Conception in town.
Soldiers guarded both locations. While watching a platoon march from the Alamo to relieve the guards at the paddock, Will couldn’t help noticing the soldiers’ uniforms were worse for wear, having been in the field for more than a month, but there was something else about the men. The way they marched out the gate, there was a cool determination and purpose in their steps that said these men knew they were now veterans.
He followed the men toward the paddock. As the days wore on, he wondered how long before the Comanche either came raiding or came to negotiate. As he arrived, the soldiers were changing the guard and the relieved soldiers marched back to the fort. As he looked through the slats at the women and old men, he couldn’t help thinking of the old daguerreotype photographs he’d seen of the prisoner of war camps during the civil war. Despite regular food and the tents providing cover, the air of human misery hung palpably over the camp.
“Sweet Jesus, this is worse than the internment camps where the Japanese were imprisoned in World War II.” Will thought to himself.
Not for the first time, he said a prayer the Comanche war would end soon. While his heart beat with compassion springing from his own twenty-first-century values and renewed faith, he couldn’t avoid the actions required by the standards of 1837. It was one more example of how he had changed since the transference into William B. Travis’ body and he didn’t like it.
Two weeks after the army’s return to San Antonio, a dozen Comanche showed up outside of the walls of the Alamo, holding shields painted white, symbolizing peace. Will was called to the wall, as dozens of soldiers ran, with carbines in hand, and took up their positions atop the wall. A few hundred yards away, Will noticed a platoon of Texas cavalry shadowing the Comanche delegation. He was relieved the Comanche hadn’t come this close without being spotted. An old man, his long hair pulled back, sat on his horse at the head of the group of Indians. The image of the prisoners wallowing in the paddock a few hundred yards away was all the motivation he needed to see if the Comanche could be reasoned with.
Juan Seguin was already at the gate, sword clipped to his belt. Will eyed the saber and quipped, “Ever show up to a knife fight and have a gunfight break out, Juan?”
Seguin smiled sheepishly and unclipped the scabbard, and after handing it to a nearby soldier, followed Will out the gate.
***
Spirit Talker sat atop his horse looking at the long walls, ringing the large fort. In his youth, he remembered coming here and trading with the Spanish for food, horses, and weapons. The transformation of the walled complex was disconcerting. As the gate swung open, he saw two men walk out. The taller of the two was pale skinned and he was bare headed with hair the color of fire.
The shorter of the two wore a black, wide brimmed hat and was swarthy. Spirit Talker was sure he was a Mexican. It was strange the White man and Mexicans were both part of what they called Texas. More disconcerting, were the uniforms both men wore. They were the color of mud. The Spaniards had worn bright blue and red uniforms, as had the Mexicans after them. Spirit Talker had assumed it was the nature of both races to announce to their enemies their presence by being more colorful than the birds of the air.
“The Texians were proving to be different birds,” Spirit Talker thought drily.
Before they could speak, Spirit Talker addressed them in Spanish, “You have destroyed two of our bands and have captured many of our women and children. I, Spirit Talker, have come on behalf of the Penateka to negotiate a peace treaty and end the fighting between the People and the white man of Texas. I also seek the release of my people you hold here.”
The shorter of the two mud draped men spoke in the language of the white man. The taller of the two men listened and then the silence grew long as Spirit Talker waited for him to respond. Finally, after what seemed too long, he spoke one word. There was no need for a translator, “no” was the same in Spanish as in English.
Spirit Talker blinked. He expected something. A counter-offer or some proposal. He held his hand open to the men below him, “I have come in peace, as is the custom between all men. In our battles with you Texians and the Mexicans before you, all have found it good to seek peace. We have always been willing to sell back any captives you wish to buy. You have many of ours and we wish to trade for them.”
Through the Mexican, the White man said, “It is true that if we wished we could trade captives with you, and I have no doubt you would be fair in returning to us an equal number, if you and your band have them. And you and I may even agree on a peace between Texas and your band. But I don’t care to have a peace treaty with only your band. I will have peace with all the Comanche or none of them. That is your choice to make.”
This was unexpected. Even before the time of his grandfathers, it was custom for the Spanish and Mexicans to seek peace and provide gifts to the People. It was how it had always been. “I am but one among several Penateka chiefs. I can make peace with you and my own band. The other chiefs keep their own counsel and do as they choose.”
The man with fiery hair replied, “I am aware of that. I will give you time to consult with the other chiefs of the Penateka Comanche. Let them all come to negotiate peace or let them select a few among them to act for them. Be warned. Any band who attacks a Texas settlement or our farmers, will receive the same treatment that we have given out over the past month.”
Spirit Talker looked searchingly into the eyes of the fiery haired chief, looking for a sign of compromise. Finding none, he nodded his head, sadly, and pulled the reins to the left, guiding his horse away from the walls of the old fort. He had hoped for more. The greatest strength of the People was its defused governance. Each band followed its own leaders. When there was disagreement, as was common between the proud warriors of the People, rather than battle within the band, it customary for the band to split. The land of the Comancheria was wide and rich in game and buffalo. Until now. The White man pushed into their land and took that which didn’t belong. Looking back at the faces of the warriors who rode with him, their faces told him all he needed to know. An ill wind blew from the south. It chilled his neck. It was the winds of war.
Chapter 10
2nd of May 1837
To the officers and enrolled militia of the Republic of Texas for the militia districts of San Antonio, Goliad, Victoria, Gonzales, and Bastrop.
In accordance with the Militia Act of 1836, revised 3rd of April 1837 by 1st Congress of the Republic of Texas, you are hereby ordered to report to the prescribed armories of each respective district and assemble in San Antonio no later than 24th May 1837. Call to service is 90 days or the duration of the current campaign, if shorter.
Signed,
General William B. Travis, Commander Army of Texas.
***
Nearly a month had passed since Will watched the Comanche chief, Spirit Talker, ride away empty handed. The late May sun stood high in the Texas sky, as the temperature hovered near ninety degrees. For what seemed the millionth time, Will wished for air-conditioning. It was silly, he realized, to miss air-conditioning most of all. There were so many other more useful things he should miss more. Internal combustion engines, for instance. Paved roads would be nice, too.
Still though, when he considered the current situation, he was well ahead of where Texas could be. The army was equipped with the most state-of-the-art weapons in existence in 1837, and the tactics were at least a generation ahead of other nations. The finances of the Republic were still shaky, even though large strides had been made over the last six months. The most recent edition of the Telegraph and Texas Register reported the Texas Land Bank had issued loans for more than a million acres since opening, valued at more than half a million dollars.
Even the Commodities Bureau was slowly growing, as property taxes came due, and the taxes often were paid in kind. Juan Seguin had told him just a few days ago, one of the larger plantation owners had paid his taxes with twenty-five bales of cotton, which the bureau had already sold to a New York based company. Those bales were on their way north to be turned into textiles. The Commodities Bureau received $1,200 in silver and in turn, put into the general fund an equal value of cotton-backs, as folks were calling the new currency. The cotton-backs were then used to pay the bills of the republic, often finding their way into the pockets of Will’s soldiers each payday, and from there, into general circulation.
Will would make do without his air-conditioning.
“All things considered,” he thought, “things are shaping up much better for Texas than in the world I left behind.”
He stood on top of the chapel’s wall, admiring the roof covering the chapel’s nave. Heavy support beams ran over the chancel, but the roof was not yet extended that far. Below, the dirt ramp which once held several east facing guns was gone. In its place, a large wooden platform ran the width of the chancel, a dozen feet above the floor. Three heavy guns faced eastward. Gun ports, which had been hastily dug through the thick adobe walls in the days before Will’s arrival at the Alamo well over a year before, had been squared and thick shutters added, to protect the platform from the elements once the roof had been completed.
Flashes of light in the distance caught his attention, and Will looked up to see coming down the Gonzales road a column of mounted men. Behind them rolled several wagons. A flag fluttered in the warm breeze, at the head of the cavalcade. A particularly warm gust made the mounted force’s flag dance in the wind, and Will could see a single star in a blue field in the upper left corner of the flag. Thirteen red and white stripes horizontally crisscrossed it. As the mounted men came nearer, Will saw most of the men wore blue jackets. One man, riding next to the standard bearer, wore brown buckskins. With a sinking feeling, Will had a strong suspicion of who was leading the column and hastily climbed down a ladder and ran to the Alamo’s gate.
As he reached the gate, he watched as President Crockett rode through it, with a company of Texas Marines trailing. From behind him, Will heard Lt. Colonel Johnston walk up, muttering about where he’d find a place to bivouac the marines.
Will turned and quipped, “Sid, it looks like our president has decided to come a-calling and he brought his own honor guard.”
Johnston grunted. “I hope he left a decent force to defend Galveston. Won’t do us any good to beat the Comanche if we let the Mexicans through the back door.”
Crockett rode across the plaza until the last of the marine detachment passed through the gate, and then swung around and trotted over to Will.
Ever the soldier, Will snapped a sharp salute. “President Crockett, sir! We had no notification of your visit. Otherwise we’d have turned out the garrison in your honor.”
Crockett shrugged, “Guess it�
��s a good thing I just came then. I can’t stand all of the hoopla that some of those fine folks back in Harrisburg think a government needs.” Then, as if reading Will’s mind, “Anyway, I brought my own honor guard with me. Please see to the needs of these fine Marines, General Travis.”
Will turned to Johnston, who shrugged and said, “I’ll see to it, sir. Where do you want to bivouac them?”
Will pointed to the north. “Put them in the first floor of the North barracks. They can share the space with Company C.” Then he turned and ran to catch up with Crockett, as the president led the way up the stairs to Will’s office.
Following on the heels of the president, Will entered his office to find Crockett settling himself into Will’s chair. Shaking his head, Will leaned against the table and exasperatedly said, “David, please tell me you didn’t ride two hundred miles just so you wouldn’t miss a fight.”
Crockett grinned ruefully. “A man must do what needs doing, Buck. Now that Liza, Bob, and Becky have arrived, the house is overrun with would-be suitors. Anyhow, you know me too well. I would have hated to miss out on this here shindig you’re about to have. Also, as Commander-in-Chief, it’s only right that I come out here and inspect the army, right, Buck?”
The smile faded, and he continued, “Well, that’s what I told those bright plumed Congressional popinjays back in Harrisburg. The truth of the matter sets elsewhere. You and I both know your raid into the Comancheria was approved by Congress. They were mighty pleased with how it started. Hell, they read your dispatches into the congressional records each week. But they wanted to keep the army raiding through the Comancheria, killing the Indians until they’re gone. Lots of congresscritters were unhappy you ended the campaign when you did, to say nothing of the stink they raised about paying for your prison camp, either. Lots of good folks in Congress think the only good in’jun is a dead in’jun.”