by Drew McGunn
Dismayed, Miranda’s eyes flickered to the road down which the wagons had rolled. “Easy words, Colonel. The only consolation I take is that had you brought your army into town, many women and children would have been left homeless had you burned and looted, too. But these same women and children may go hungry now.”
Seguin hardened his expression. “Take your petition to Santa Anna, sir. Were he honorable, your town would be untouched. When we catch up with him, there’ll be Hell to pay.”
Chapter 10
Colonel Sidney Johnston leaned against the low wooden table, watching the other man kneel on the manicured grass, aiming the rifle downrange. Johnston flicked his eyes toward the target, more than two hundred yards away. It was a crude drawing of Santa Anna, which had been drawn by one of the gunsmiths from Trinity Gun Works. A moment later, the gun fired, recoiling into the other man’s shoulder. Despite a half-dozen rounds fired in quick succession, the acrid smoke was whisked away on a light breeze.
Johnston saw the faux Santa Anna’s face ripple as the bullet smacked the target, joining a few other tightly grouped holes placed there only moments before. “What do you think of it, Ben?”
Benjamin McCulloch levered the breech open, letting tendrils of smoke vent out the open breech, before returning it to the table. “How long before some of these start making their way into my reserve regiments?”
As they walked toward the target, along with Andy Berry, the son of the gun works owner, Johnston said, “Providence and President Crockett alone can answer that. Let me rephrase that. The appropriation bill belongs to congress. We know they haven’t a clue, so unless God can tell you the answer, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”
Berry, walking behind the two officers, added, “Y’all keep sending payments and we’ll keep on providing all the rifles we can make.”
Johnston’s glower at the young artisan was tinged with a sardonic smile. He couldn’t help but like the young man, who was the irreverent tails to his father’s dour heads. “Andy, how many of these have the gun works produced?”
Berry cocked his head to one side as he worked the math in his head. “Near enough fourteen hundred of the model 1842 Sabine rifle, Colonel.”
Johnston smiled at the number. It was nearly the exact number he had calculated. “Tell you what, Ben, if congress doesn’t abscond with our armament appropriation for the next year, we ought to be able to arm two of your reserve regiments by the year’s end. Now that most of your reserve regiments use the Halls carbine, what do they think of it?”
“Compared to an old muzzle loading musket, they’ve taken to it, like the boys in the navy take to Galveston’s ladies of the night when they’re on shore leave.”
Johnston interjected, “The sailors or the whores?”
McCulloch gave his counterpart in the regular army a dirty look for the interruption and proceeded to ignore the comment. “The downside to the carbine is that it lacks both the range and the punching power that the Sabine rifle has. But it’s accurate enough at distances a musket can’t even dream of hitting.” As they neared the target, he turned to Berry, who was still a few paces behind, “How many of the Halls have y’all made?”
As Berry worked the math in his head, his lips quietly moved, until he spoke up. “Since getting the license from Harpers Ferry to manufacture the carbine in ’39, we’ve manufactured around four thousand of them. Based on the number of them that have cycled through our shops for repairs, I’d guess that General Travis must have ordered upwards of three thousand of them from Harpers Ferry.”
McCulloch unpinned the hand-drawn target and admired the tight grouping in the head of the ersatz Santa Anna and folded the target up. “I’ll be keeping this one. Might be the closest I ever get to plugging that pompous jackass.”
As they returned from the firing range to the complex of buildings which constituted the gun works, McCulloch asked, “Sid, what did you and General Travis do with those other Sabine rifles? You wouldn’t have needed more than eight hundred to arm your infantry battalion.”
After passing through the main building, which housed several forges, where workers were crafting firearms, they emerged back into the sweet-smelling air, in front of the gun works. Johnston flicked a few bits of coal dust from his uniform, which had acquired them as he walked through the building, before he replied. “More than a thousand were issued to the infantry. Another two hundred were assigned to the Marines. I think there’s between one and two hundred that are at the Alamo waiting to be distributed to our soldiers guarding the military road to El Paso. Speaking of Marines, how many companies of reserve Marines have you been able to recruit?”
“We’ve managed to muster four reserve companies. Two on Galveston Island and two more in towns and villages surrounding Galveston Bay. If I can find the right officers, I’m pretty sure there are a couple of more companies of Marines we could muster.”
As they bid good-day to Andy Berry and swung into the saddle, Johnston saw a cloud of dust racing down the road, toward the gun works. His hand edged toward the pistol at his belt as they watched a man racing toward them, galloping into the yard of the gun works. As the man pulled on the reins, dust swirling around him, Johnston recognized Lieutenant Robert Crockett. The young officer gave a perfunctory salute. “Colonel Johnston! The Mexican army has crossed the Rio Grande! They’ve invaded!”
***
The road between the Trinity Gun Works and Liberty, Texas was only a few miles. After borrowing a fresh mount from the Berrys for Lieutenant Crockett, the three officers hurried back to the town, where McCulloch, acting in his capacity as general of the reserve regiments, penned orders mobilizing both the reserve and militia units, and notifying them of the Mexican invasion. From Liberty, they took the rest of the day riding to West Liberty, where they spoke with the local officers of the reserve companies, recruited among the workers of the Gulf Farms Corporation. After learning it could take as long as a couple of days to assemble the reserves, the two high-ranking officers decided to leave Lieutenant Crockett to aid the farmers in their mobilization. Johnston resisted the urge to race back to the Alamo. Major Dickinson would either hold them at bay or he wouldn’t. Instead of racing back to the Alamo, the best bet was to build his army around the two companies of regular Marines on Galveston island. The fastest way to Galveston was by way of the railroad to Anahuac.
West Liberty was connected to Anahuac by a thirty-mile railroad, the first in Texas. The train depot also played host to the town’s telegraph office, which went as far west as Columbus, and as far east as Beaumont. Before they embarked for Anahuac, Johnston and McCulloch sent mobilization orders racing along the telegraph lines across Southeast Texas.
22 March 1842
To: All reserve and militia officers
Mexico has invaded our Republic. San Antonio is the target. Assemble your companies and begin training. Further orders to follow.
Benjamin McCulloch, Brigadier General, Commander reserves.
Colonel Albert Sidney Johnston, Commander 1st Texas Infantry Regt.
The locomotive’s wheels spun along the iron rails and thick black smoke belched from the painted smokestack as the unadorned passenger carriage lurched forward, pulled by the locomotive and coal car. Wheels squealed against iron rails as the train picked up speed, rocking along the tracks, as it left the company town of West Liberty behind. Johnston stared out the dirty windows, as coal dust tinged smoke slipped by. He had read in the Telegraph and Texas Register, Texas’ widest circulating newspaper, about how the company which had built this railroad had nearly floundered when they had built the wood and iron bridge over the Trinity River. But after bringing in engineers from New York City, they had overcome the challenges and spanned the river. As he thought about this, he felt the train slow slightly as the tracks went up a slight incline, until it crossed over the river, rocking back and forth ever so slightly on the rails, until the train was once again on firm ground, racing at speeds nearing thirty miles per h
our toward Anahuac.
The sun had fled the sky before the train pulled into the small port town later that evening. Steam vented from the train as it chugged to a stop. When Johnston and McCulloch climbed down from the passenger car, they were approached by a middle-aged man, wearing a blue, Texas Marine Corps jacket and brown civilian pants. “General McCulloch, we done heard about the invasion over the telegraph wire. I’m Wilberforce Atkinson, captain of Anahuac’s reserve Marine company. About half my boys live in and around town here, and we’re ready to answer the call, sir.”
McCulloch was not one to stand on parade and responded to the salute with a casual wave. “Where’s the other half of your company, Captain?”
“Around this part of the bay, sir. I’ve got a few of my boys out fetching the others. If you’re of a mind to, we’ll be ready to go with you or follow behind, as needed.”
McCulloch casually nodded. “Are there any boats available tonight? Colonel Johnston and I are of a mind to get to Fort Travis on Galveston as soon as possible.”
Atkinson pointed into the night toward the bay. “Other than a couple of fishing skiffs, no. There’s a barge due in tomorrow morning early, to take a shipment of cotton back to Galveston. Like as not, that’s your best bet, sir.”
Throughout the night, the reserve Marines of Captain Atkinson’s company filtered into town. When the sun had crested the eastern sky, most of the company’s sixty men were assembled in the town square. A low, squat steam barge pulled alongside an empty dock before the sun was more than a handspan above the horizon. Several Marines had thrown a heavy wooden plank from the dock to the ship’s deck, and before the barge’s captain could protest, Johnston and McCulloch were boarding the barge with their horses.
The barge’s captain, a grizzled, weather-beaten sailor appeared to be chewing at his salt-and-pepper beard before he managed to stutter, “What the hell is the meaning of this? Get those damned horses off my ship.”
As the town’s reserve company of Marines filed aboard, McCulloch strode over to the captain, resting his hand on the revolver on his belt, “I’ll damned well tell you the meaning of this. You’re going to get this tub moving and take us straight away to Galveston.”
At an even six feet in height, the general of militia was nearly a head taller than the weathered sea captain. But the older man stood his ground, as the Marines crowded onto the deck. “Why should I do anything for you? It’s not like we’re at war with anyone.”
McCulloch checked his impulse to lay the barge’s captain out. He chewed back what he wanted to say, and with as much civility as he could muster, said, “Unfortunately, that’s where you’re wrong. Mexico has invaded. Unless you want me to order these fine Marines to throw you overboard, you’ll untie this tub and get us back to Galveston, now!”
Ashen-faced, the old captain retreated away from the clearly angry McCulloch and ordered his men to slip the lines, and within a few minutes his barge was building a head of steam as it drifted back into the bay. A little while later, it was chugging toward the port of Galveston, trailing a thin black cloud of soot and ash.
***
The barge’s underpowered steam engine chugged across the smooth waters of Galveston Bay, the bow slicing through the water, causing ripples to radiate away from the slow-moving boat. The sun was past midday when the cotton barge slipped into a berth on one of the busy Galveston docks.
In the shipping channel, a warship rode at anchor in the water. From the stern, the national flag fluttered in the breeze. As the marines filed down the gangplank onto the dock, McCulloch pointed toward the warship. “Looks bigger than our steam schooners, Sid. I take it that’s our steam frigate from the Philadelphia Naval Yards?”
“Yeah, she’s quite the ship. She’s got twelve 42-pound carronades and a bow chaser that can throw a two hundred and twenty-five-pound shot or shell upwards of five miles.”
For the first time since learning of the Mexican invasion the previous day, the two officers smiled, imagining the damage the guns would wreak upon the Mexican navy.
After the Marines had disembarked, both officers led their own mounts down the heavy plank connecting the barge to the long wooden dock. The crowd on the dock was a mixture of reserve Marines from Anahuac and sailors and dock hands unloading freight from another ship, berthed along the other side of the dock. As he led his horse through the milling mass, he saw another blue-coated Marine edging through the crowd making his way toward them. When the Marine with sergeant stripes on his sleeves slid up next to Johnston, his eyes fell on the eagles on his shoulder boards, then slid across to McCulloch, and the stars sewn on his collars. His eyes momentarily went wide as he came to attention and sharply saluted. “We wasn’t expecting y’all, sirs. I was sent by Major West to secure this here barge. We just got word from the mainland about Mexico invading.”
As they reached the hard-packed dirt road, which took the trade of the world and routed it to nearby warehouses, Johnston and McCulloch climbed onto their mounts. Johnston ran his hand along his horse’s neck, calming the beast, who was still recovering from the few hours aboard the barge. “One moment, Sergeant.” Johnston turned, and scanned the men on the dock then called out, “Captain Atkinson! Secure the barge, we may need it again shortly.”
With that out of the way, he turned again to the sergeant and said, “Lead on.”
After disentangling themselves from the crowds, they made good time as they headed east, along the road on the bay side of the island, arriving at Fort Travis in less than half an hour. As they came through the open gate, the fort was a bevy of activity. Before they could dismount, a tall, slender officer in a blue Marine Corps jacket came over to them. “Colonel Johnston, General McCulloch, I’m surprised to find you here. Word only reached us this morning of Mexico’s invasion? How can we be of assistance?”
Although McCulloch was a general of reserves and militia, and Johnston only a mere regular army colonel, McCulloch deferred to the West Point graduate. Johnston asked the major, “Has the island’s reserves and militia been called up yet?”
Major West nodded. “Yes, sir. The order has gone out. There are two reserve companies of Marines on the island and we should have them assembled before the end of the day. I know that there’s also an army reserve artillery company assigned to the fort. I would expect they’ll trickle in throughout the rest of the day, too.”
McCulloch interrupted him. “What of reserve and militia infantry?”
West spread his arms and shrugged. “I’m not sure, General, sir. I believe there are a couple of your reserve companies on the island, but I’m not sure about the militia.”
McCulloch cussed under his breath as they made their way over to West’s small office. Johnston heard the reserve officer mention Thomas Rusk, the overall commander of Texas’ unorganized militia units, and McCulloch’s nominal superior. Johnson had heard McCulloch’s acerbic opinion of Rusk on several occasions over the years, as McCulloch had worked to build a reserve command, separate from the militia.
While the criticism wasn’t completely unfounded, most of the limited funds appropriated by congress for the reserves and militia found their way into McCulloch’s meager budget.
While waiting for the reserve companies to assemble, the two officers took over West’s office. As they passed the time, McCulloch’s dark thoughts about Rusk shifted to the coming campaign, “Sid, when I spoke with General Rusk, on paper, Texas has more than ten thousand men in the militia, excluding the reserves. There are around thirty-two hundred men in the reserves.”
Johnston leaned back in the hard-backed wooden chair. “I’m familiar with the numbers, Ben. What are you getting at?”
McCulloch was picking at a fingernail with a small penknife. “Until General Travis returns from Santa Fe, you’re the ranking officer in the regular army, Sid. You know what a mess the militia is. Any army we put together to defeat the Mexican army will include our reserve regiments. I think you should command our field army and I
’ll start organizing our militia companies into something that might resemble a fighting force.”
Johnston ruefully chuckled, “Better you than me, when it comes to getting Tom Rusk to do something with the militia. Trying to bring order out of that chaos is like wrestling with a pig. You both get dirty but only the pig enjoys it.” Both men laughed at the mental image of a man and pig, that looked remarkably like Tom Rusk, wrestling. “Let’s see what that’s going to give me to work with.”
McCulloch scrounged around in West’s desk until he found a blank sheet of paper. “Let’s start here at Galveston. Around the bay, there are a total of six reserve Marine companies. About three hundred and sixty men. You just need to gather the other three companies around the bay to have them all. Throw in two companies of regular Marines that garrison the forts. On paper, that’s four hundred and eighty Marines. Then we have four battalions of reserve infantry, each with eight companies. That’s another twenty-four hundred men. We also have six companies of reserve cavalry. Call it three hundred men there. We have five batteries of artillery, but three of them are heavy artillery assigned to the forts guarding Bolivar pass, here.”
A ghost of a smile crossed Johnston’s lips. “If we could assemble the entire force, that would give us nearly three thousand two hundred men to take to the relief of the Alamo.”
Without intending to do so, McCulloch deflated Johnston’s optimism. “If we can get there in time. Otherwise, it will be a hell of a useful tool to avenge it.”
Johnston frowned at the militia general. “God help us if Santa Anna’s army captures the Alamo. Let’s hope Almaron can hold out until we arrive. I’d rather we be their saviors instead of their avengers.”