by Drew McGunn
Hays looked ashamed for asking his question. Will decided it was time to end the meeting. They all had plenty to do if they were to leave within twenty-four hours. “We should all heed Colonel Seguin’s wisdom, men. Make sure every soldier knows that there will be no individual looting, and any rapists will find themselves on the wrong side of military justice and a short rope.”
Seguin held back after the other officers had hurried out. He smiled apologetically. “Jack’s a little more aggressive than I think is good, Buck, but he means well.”
Will stifled his own laughter, having thought the same thing only a few minutes earlier. “He’s our bulldog, Juan. We’ve trained him and his men to hold nothing back and to be bold. I can’t begrudge him for advocating a position both of us wish was possible.”
Seguin’s shoulders slumped. “Ain’t that the sorry truth? I can’t tell you how much I miss my Maria and the children. Knowing there’s a hostile army coming north toward them, and I’m helpless to do anything to help. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t tearing me up inside.”
Will sagged into the governor’s soft, leather chair. “I can’t get my mind off Becky, Charlie, and Elizabeth. No matter what kind of officer people may think of me, right now I feel like a horrible husband and father. Galivanting over here in Santa Fe, when my wife and kids need me the most.”
***
The sun had not yet risen above the gently rolling hills to the east of Santa Fe, but the orange hues played across the early morning sky. The moist vapor cloud escaped his horse’s mouth as the beast stamped its iron-shod hoof against the crystalline dew-covered brown grass. Birds waking up to another dawn were interrupted in their songs by the piercing sound of a bugle. Will decided if an army had to march, then the fourteenth day of March was as good a day as any. The lack of clouds in the sky, if it held, meant the morning chill should retreat as the sun rose into the sky, promising a pleasant day to be on the trail.
Despite every effort, he was still angry that after fighting and spilling blood, and capturing the town, they were forced to abandon their objective. He had argued with himself throughout the night to leave a portion of the battalion here, to defend their hard-won gain. The uncertainty of what they would find when they returned east was part of the reason for bringing the entire army back. The clincher though was when he asked himself how quickly Texas could resupply or support any troops left in Santa Fe, he didn’t know. The fear of a stronger Mexico lopping off bits and pieces of the Texas army was something he couldn’t shake, especially when he thought of the little outpost on the Rio Grande at Laredo. Fort Moses Austin was the first line of defense against a Mexican invasion of Texas. Knowing the soldiers at Laredo were at the mercy of an advancing army made him wary of creating a similar situation at Santa Fe.
The medical doctors in Santa Fe had taken over the hospital Dr. Smith had set up, and he and his orderlies were with the Texian soldiers, waiting for the order to march. Hundreds of newly minted Texian citizens turned out, on the edge of town, watching the thousand soldiers as they, too, waited for the order.
The sun finally peeked over the hills east of town, bathing the assembled people in a warm, yellow light. It sparkled off the rifle barrels and reflected off the bayonets. Will turned and looked at the people of Santa Fe. Many of their faces smiled, glad to see the Texians leaving, others showed their uncertainty. The very presence of the Texian army was proof to many that Mexico was no longer able to protect its northernmost outposts. As the Texian army marched south, the citizens of Santa Fe were left with promissory notes for food and fodder they had requisitioned and a promise from the Texian general they would return soon. Will had also left a warning. If, when the Texian army returned, the city was under the Mexican flag, those responsible would be labeled as traitors, and given a traitor’s punishment. It was a harsh warning for people who only days before had woken up as Mexicans and now found themselves under the Texas flag. Even though the order was his, Will thought the measure unjust.
The people of Santa Fe had been citizens of Mexico until Will’s army had enforced the treaty of Bexar. They had thought of themselves as Mexican citizens and worse, as far as Will was concerned, would act as Mexican citizens in the absence of the Texian army. It left a sour taste in his mouth leaving such a harsh warning. But as he watched his soldiers marching south, his first duty was to Texas and the army. If his warning, no matter how harsh, acted as a deterrent to future rebellions, and saved the lives of his men, then it would be worth it.
He urged his horse to a gallop, as he rode by the marching riflemen, and couldn’t shake the matter. Even after all these years stranded in the past, at his core, he was still Will Travers. He was a twenty-first century man. It bothered him more than he anticipated to leave the order behind that any attempt to reconnect with Mexico was a death sentence. By the time he reached the head of the column he wondered how much of the man who woke up in William B. Travis’ body still remained.
Chapter 7
12th March 1842
The residents of the town had taken to calling their new village, ‘Nuevo Laredo,’ in honor of the town from which they had fled, when the Texian forces had claimed the northern side of the Rio Bravo del Norte. By March of 1842, nearly two dozen adobe brick houses surrounded the small plaza. Scaffolding ringed the low walls of the small church, under construction along the south side of the plaza.
On top of the wooden frame of the scaffold, a tall officer balanced himself on a wide wooden plank. His brown hair, receding from his forehead, except for the widow’s peak, rustled in the cool, morning breeze. Adrian Woll had been in the service of Mexico for nearly a quarter of a century, but his gaunt, Gallic features still remained, although he noticed the waist of his pants needed to be let out, again and his facial features were rounder and fuller than they had been when he was a young man. At forty-seven years old, he sighed. Having survived more than a few brushes with death already, he knew he had already lost the battle with middle age.
“Enough wool gathering. I can’t turn back the clock.” Woll hadn’t climbed the scaffold to dwell on the past or his own mortality. He raised a telescoping spyglass and swept it across the other side of the river. Nestled in a bend of the Rio Bravo del Norte sat a squat, earthen fort. Built a few years earlier, grass now grew on its steep sides. Embrasures where artillery could be placed, were gaping holes cut into the earthen walls. But no guns were visible.
Woll had been present with his Excellency at the Battle of the Nueces six years before, only barely escaping capture. Born in France and having served in the defense of Paris when he was barely yet a man, then emigrating to the United States shortly thereafter, gave Woll a broader appreciation for the norteamericanos than most of Santa Anna’s officers held. He had learned, when serving as an adjutant to General Winfield Scott, the Americans were individually as brave as any soldiers he could imagine, but they lacked discipline. No, he thought, it wasn’t necessarily a fluke the men under Crockett and Travis had beaten the Mexican army before, but his army wasn’t the same that had been defeated some half-dozen years earlier either.
Over the past week, he had sent men across the river, dressed as traders, but they had ferreted out the information he sought. A single company of infantry held the fort, perhaps as many as seventy soldiers. Against that, Woll’s advanced column of twelve hundred men was approaching Nuevo Laredo from the south. His army’s lead brigade, he was sure, would make quick work of the crude fortification. He was certain he could wipe the defenders out if they didn’t surrender.
In the pocket of his navy-blue dress pants, Woll fingered a set of rosary beads and said a quick prayer to the Blessed Virgin it wouldn’t be necessary to sacrifice the men of his army to reduce the fort. He was glad there were no cavalry within the fort’s walls. Even south of the border, they had received reports of the Colt Paterson revolvers. He shuddered to think of the loss of life if he were forced to send in a charge against that kind of firepower.
Be
fore the present campaign, he had studied the carbine the Texians had purchased from the United States. The 1833 Halls carbine was a mechanical wonder of precision engineering. Its parts were interchangeable. He had watched one of their gunsmiths in Mexico City disassemble two of the carbines and reassemble the weapons with parts from either gun. There was no difference in the weapons’ performance. This spoke well of the United States’ ability to mass produce the weapons. While there was much to like about the gun, he had been less impressed with the amount of gas which had leaked from the breech when the gun was fired. It had reduced the carbine’s velocity and range. Before coming north to take command of the Army of the North, he had watched a Cazadore practice with the weapon. Despite the leakage, the skirmisher was able to hit his target at more than two hundred fifty yards each time.
Knowing the Texian soldiers in the fort would be using the same rifle, Woll had taken this into account and had devised a strategy against the carbine. He would neutralize it, of that he was certain.
***
Fort Moses Austin was a five-sided earthen fort. Nestled in a bend of the Rio Grande, two sides of the fort covered the river while the other three overlooked the irrigated fields, where farmers grew corn and other grains. A long, wooden platform ran the length of the fort’s interior wall, facing the Rio Grande River. Riflemen could stand along the platform, covering the ford between Laredo and Mexico. Andrew Neill, captain of Company N of the 1st Texas Infantry, leaned against the top of the earthen embankment, studying the other side of the river. A spyglass rested atop the wall. It wasn’t needed to see the regimental flags of the Army of the North. More than a thousand troops were parading into the tiny village on the river’s southern edge.
His voice shook with emotion as he called down into the fort. “Sergeant Leal, I need you up here right away!”
A short, stocky Tejano, with sergeant chevrons on the sleeves of his butternut jacket, climbed the ladder to the platform, joining him in looking across the water. As the sergeant stared at the army, he muttered, “Mierda.” He shook his head as he turned to the captain. “I don’t think they’d bring that many men forward if they didn’t intend to cross, Captain.”
Captain Neill scowled at the army deploying across the river. As he spoke, the brogue of his native Scotland came through, “Yeah. Unfortunately for us, the only thing standing between that army and San Antonio is this wee fort.”
The sergeant glared at the assembling force before replying. “We’ve got plenty of ammunition, Captain. They try attacking the fort, and they’ll find the entry fee expensive.”
“There’s not going to be a we, Sergeant.” Neill nodded toward a small corral. Several horses remained in the fort from the last visit of one of the Ranger companies. “I want you to take those horses and ride like Hell for San Antonio. Grab Private Jackson, if the Mexicans have slipped any cavalry across the river, two stand a better chance than one of getting through.”
As the sergeant began to protest, Captain Neill leaned in close, “Listen to me, Lucas. If they cross the river, there’s not a hell of a lot that we’re going to be able to do to stop them from storming the fort. Major Dickinson must be warned, and I can’t go. If there are Mexican cavalry swarming between here and there, you’ve got a better shot than most at getting through.”
Neill watched, and saw the sergeant wanted to argue but eventually realized the truth of his words. The Tejano’s eyes fell, and he said, “Thank you, Captain. Jackson and I will get through and warn the Alamo. I know you can slow them down, sir.”
The Scotsman slapped the Tejano on the back and watched him climb down the ladder. He looked back across the river and said to himself, “And how the Hell am I supposed to do that?”
Twenty minutes later, Neill watched as the two men rode out the gate, each leading a remount, heading north. Not normally a devout man, Neill said a prayer that they would get through.
***
Sergeant Lucas Leal turned around in his saddle and looked at the low, squat fort a few hundred yards behind him and Private Jackson. A few men, standing on the earthen walls waved at them. He didn’t want to wave back. It seemed a final act, as though saying goodbye for the last time. Some of the men he had served with for years.
Before he had ridden from the fort, he had been saddling up the horse when he felt a tapping on his shoulder. He had turned and saw Sergeant Julio Mejia. They had known each other for years, growing up together in San Antonio. When his friend spoke, his voice had been full of emotion, “Lucas, be careful out there, hermano. We’ve got these walls to protect us, and all you’ve got is a horse’s ass between you and trouble.”
Mejia handed him a hastily scribbled note, “If something should happen, please give my parents this letter, and tell them I love them.”
Leal tried pushing the letter away, “Tell them yourself, Julio. Nothing’s going to keep you from seeing them again.”
Mejia turned, stuffed the letter into Leal’s saddlebag. “Pendejo. Take the damn letter,” he forced a smile onto his face, “just in case.”
No, he wouldn’t wave goodbye to his comrades. He would see them again. He sawed the reins around and dug his heels into the horse.
A few miles north of the river, they followed the road north toward San Antonio. They had not been on the road long when they spotted a small dust cloud to their front. Leal pulled on the reins and waited to see what would materialize from the brown, swirling dust. At first, he caught the glimmer of metal reflecting off the sun, then as the cloud grew closer, he saw mounted men carrying lances.
He swore in Spanish. No Texian soldiers carried lances. It appeared the Army of the North was attempting to seal off Laredo from the rest of the Republic. As the lancers spotted Leal and Jackson, they picked up their speed, racing to close the gap. Leal said a hasty prayer to the Virgin of Guadeloupe as he swung down from the saddle and pulled his rifle from the scabbard. Jackson copied his action, putting the horse between himself and the advancing lancers.
Leal levered the breech open and rammed the paper cartridge into it. He finished loading then stepped around the skittish mount, drawing a bead on the leading rider. He held his breath, steadying his nerves, and counted to three. Then he slowly squeezed the trigger. The recoil kicked back, but he held steady until he watched the rider slowly sag to the right and topple from the horse.
A few seconds later, Jackson fired. He had hurried his shot, hitting the mount instead of the rider. They watched the second horse crash to the ground, throwing the rider head over heels into the red dirt.
The third rider, seeing the results of two shots pulled up sharp, wheeled to the left, and raced toward the southeast, heading toward the river. Leal was about to let him go, when an image of the Mexican army swarming over the walls of the fort came to his mind. He raced to reload his rifle before the rider was out of range. He knelt on the road, using his elbow to steady the shot, and he aimed. He held his breath as he used both sights on the rifle to line up the shot, then he exhaled and fired.
The rider continued galloping away. Leal stood and shoved the rifle into the scabbard. “Two out of three ain’t bad, Sarge,” Jackson said.
Leal grabbed his mount’s reins and swung into the saddle, and turned around and said, “Maybe. But three out of three is a sight better. Let’s not wait for him to find any friends.” Whether he wanted it or not, war had returned to South Texas.
Switching out their remounts, the two covered more than fifty miles on the first day. It took them until the morning of their fourth day to reach the Alamo, arriving on the 15th of March. Flying high over the Alamo’s chapel was a large Texas flag, flapping in the morning breeze. The heavy wooden gates were open as was normal and an indifferent guard gave them a brief look as they entered the Alamo Plaza.
The officers’ quarters were behind the fort’s hospital, and Leal made his way through its long, empty corridor, exiting into the old convent yard. The stairs leading to the officers’ quarters was guarded by an ale
rt sentry. Upon learning of Leal’s dangerous ride from the Rio Grande, the guard hurried Leal into the narrow hallway lined with doors to the officers’ quarters.
Leal knocked on Major Dickinson’s door and waited. He heard small feet slapping on the wooden floor before the door swung open. Standing in the doorway was a young girl with dark curls. He recognized her as the major’s eight-year-old daughter, Angelina. Major Dickinson and his family lived on the post, and his daughter was a perennial favorite of the fort’s soldiers. She looked up and asked, “Are you here to see my daddy?”
For the first time in four days, the creases on his eyes crinkled and he smiled. He knelt on the floor, the pain of sitting in the saddle for so many hours sent sharp jolts of pain along his spine. “Yes, mi bonita, Angelina.”
She left the door ajar as she ran back into the quarters. He heard her yelling, “Papa! There’s a soldier at the door for you!”
A moment later, Major Almaron Dickinson came to the door, wiping shaving lather from his face with a rag. “Sergeant?” He took in Leal’s dusty and haggard look with a single glance. “Which company are you with, man? Do you have word from the west?
Leal wearily shook his head. “No, sir. Captain Neill at Fort Moses Austin sent me. The Mexican army has invaded again. As me and Private Jackson were riding away, we were attacked by Mexican lancers on the road to San Antonio, while more than a thousand of the bastards were assembling on the other side of the river.” He pulled a waterproof pouch from his jacket and handed over a hastily written note Neill had written before he and Jackson had left the fort. As the major opened the packet and read the letter, Leal leaned against the wall, as exhaustion threatened to overtake him.