by Drew McGunn
Chapter 11
23rd March 1842
Rippling in the steady breeze, the Texas national flag flew from the rear of the cotton barge, which rode high in the water, alongside the dock. The old captain stood next to the helm, resting his gnarled hand on the wooden wheel. Johnston thought he looked mollified. “Well he should, we’re paying him enough.”
He glanced toward Major West, who stood next to the gangplank on the dock. The major was looking back toward the road that connected to the dock, wearing an approving smile, as he eyed the five companies of Marines assembled along the road. The two companies of regulars were smartly standing at attention, in their dark-blue jackets and light-blue trousers. Instead of the black wide-brimmed hats worn by the army, the Marines favored a wheel style forage cap.
Along with Captain Atkinson’s company from Anahuac, the two reserve companies from Galveston were also drawn up on the road. While the reserves strived to match the uniformity of the regulars, there was still some variety in their clothing, including gray militia jackets and a smattering of butternut army jackets.
The regulars carried the new Model 1842 Sabine rifle. Most of the reserve Marines carried the older Halls breech-loading carbines. Johnston agreed with Major West’s silent approval. The regulars stood at attention, holding their rifles with an ease that came from long practice with the new weapons. Johnston wondered how much difference he would find in the skill level between the regular Marines and their reserve counterparts. He glanced toward McCulloch, who was standing beside him. The general of reserves had poured his energy into turning shop keepers, laborers, and farmers into part-time soldiers. Johnston mentally shrugged. No matter their training, he’d work them hard over the coming weeks. With any luck, by the time they met the Mexicans in battle, he’d have them in shape.
There were less than three hundred men standing at attention, waiting for the command from General McCulloch to load up. He swung down from his horse, landing lightly on the wooden dock. “Colonel Johnston, the sooner started, the sooner we can get back onto the mainland.”
The two officers led their mounts onto the ship, where a couple of sailors helped to secure the animals. As Major West started loading his men, McCulloch quietly said, “Do you think Galveston will be alright once the navy moves into the gulf?”
Johnston ran his fingers along the rough railing, “Apart from the artillery, there’ll still be around a hundred men defending Galveston. Unless Santa Anna changes how he uses his navy, I think Galveston will weather this just fine. If you’re worried, we can always send some of the militia to reinforce the forts.”
Fully loaded, the barge rode low in the water. Its captain came up and said, “The last time we were riding this low was after the last cotton harvest. It’s of no concern, I’ll get us safe across the bay. Where do you want to put into?”
Johnston frowned in thought. “Can you get up Buffalo Bayou, Captain?”
Worry creased the seaman’s wrinkled face. “I’d be risking my barge if she was half as full on that bayou. Lynch’s ferry, on the other hand, should work.”
“Then Lynch’s ferry it is, Captain.”
Most of the day was gone when the barge arrived at the ferry. A small dock extended into the wide, languidly flowing San Jacinto River. Normally, the ferry, which was the only regular service along the river, carried passengers and freight between Houston and Harrisburg to the east. The Marines offloaded at the small dock and Major West had them organized and marching west on the Harrisburg Road. Johnston and McCulloch were the last to disembark. Once on dry ground, the commander of the reserves offered his hand to the other officer, “I don’t envy you, Sid. You’ve got more than two hundred miles between you and San Antonio. When I get to Liberty, I’ll send orders by telegraph for reserve units to assemble west of Houston. The militia, I’ll order to assemble at Liberty. It’s on the rail line between West Liberty and Anahuac. I like my odds for being able to supply the militia there.”
“Thanks, Ben. I hope and pray we can send Santa Anna’s army packing without having to bring up the militia, but if we need to, at least we’ve got someone like you to organize them. I don’t envy you about that. Getting the militia organized is going to be like riding herd on a bunch of cats, but if anyone can do it, it’s you.” With a salute to the colonel, McCulloch wheeled his horse around and cantered to the northeast.
Johnston watched until McCulloch disappeared around a heavy copse of trees. He nudged his horse around, toward the road down which the Marines had marched. Dust swirled into the air, clogging the road. Momentarily he was surprised at the amount of dust kicked up by a light battalion. He smiled sardonically. Before long, with any luck, there’d be a lot more men marching toward San Antonio. He’d make sure they’d kick up enough dust to choke Santa Anna. He dug his heels into his mount and galloped after the Marines.
The twenty miles to Houston was simply too far to march with most of the day already gone. They made camp less than an hour later, before they lost the last light of day.
The next morning, as the little column marched westward, word of the invasion had already reached the farmland through which they passed. Women and children came out from their homes alongside the dusty road and cheered the men as they marched along. Over the course of the day, scores of men, belonging to several reserve companies, streamed down the road behind them.
***
Fiery red splashed across the western sky as the burning orb slipped below the horizon. To his left, Buffalo Bayou lazily flowed. When the battalion of Marines marched through the bustling town of Houston more than an hour before, people had poured into the street to cheer the growing army marching behind Colonel Johnston. Over the past twenty miles, the five companies had been joined by a motley assortment of reserve and militia units, who marched behind the blue-jacketed regulars. More than four hundred men marched along Houston’s main thoroughfare.
As he sat astride his mount, Johnston scanned the crowd, spilling over from the non-existent sidewalks. Amid the women and children, there were far too many men of military age for his taste. He would have to say something to McCulloch about this. If this crisis continued beyond a couple of months, every available man in Texas might be under arms. His analytical mind wondered what that would do to the farms and the mills and stores across the republic. Then his mind grew dark as he imagined men like James Collinsworth, staying on their plantations, while poorer men rallied around the flag to protect their property.
Despite his close friendship with General Travis, for years, he had found his friend’s abolitionist ideas about manumission to be out of step with the reality of race relations in the American South, but the idea of rich men hiding behind him and the army offended his sense of honor and duty. Maybe there was more to Buck’s grumbling than he had previously allowed, he mused.
Like a disturbed hornets’ nest, since the news of the Mexican invasion, the town was abuzz with rumors. The Alamo had fallen, no the soldiers at Laredo had repulsed the invasion, the Comanche have stabbed them in the back and have raided below the Red River. No, General Travis and his army have returned from Santa Fe. He discounted the idle speculation of Houston’s population. The surest way to find out what was happening was to get his army to San Antonio as soon as possible.
“Enough wool gathering,” he muttered. He was glad to be beyond the town. No sooner had he wondered where the assembling troops were encamped, then the scent of burning wood gave away their position. He turned and looked at the Marines, who marched behind him in route step. He pulled back to where Major West traipsed beside his men, “Major, look lively. I believe we’re approaching the assembly area.”
The major shouted out a string of orders to the men, and they squared their shoulders, shifted their rifles, and their steps fell into unison and they marched proudly into the camp along the bayou.
The next morning, the 25th of March, he had a Marine bugler blow the call for an officers’ assembly. Several hundred men, nearly al
l reserves, were already there. Finding out what arrangements the officers were making to keep their forces supplied was at the top of his priorities.
More than a dozen officers assembled under an expansive live oak tree. An older officer, with oak leaves insignia on his shoulder boards was the first to speak, after Johnston introduced himself. “Colonel, I’m Lt. Colonel Erasmus Hodkins of the Third Infantry. We were under the impression that there would be supplies waiting for us here. When we got here, there wasn’t damn all waiting on us. My boys don’t have but another day or two worth of food. What’s the plan to deal with this?”
A youthful looking captain nodded firmly. “I’m Captain Wallace Jackson, sir, of the Second Infantry. We’re in about the same condition as Major Hodkins. If we don’t have supplies within a few days, I don’t know if I can keep my boys in the field.”
The other officers voiced similar concerns. Johnson bit down on the sigh that threatened to escape his lips. “Alright. I understand. We need food to keep our army, here, in the field. We’ll send back into Houston for supplies.”
He tracked down Lieutenant Robert Crockett, who had arrived at the assembly area a few days earlier and gave him a handful of orders to take back to Houston. As the young officer galloped down the road, Johnston smiled at the younger Crockett’s enthusiasm. He lacked his father’s flair for the theatrical, but he was a conscientious officer, who would get supplies flowing from the east.
The dust from the horse still lingered in the air when a red stagecoach added another cloud of brown dust billowing along the road from Houston. The stagecoach rolled through the encampment until coming to a stop near the bayou. Before the driver could set the brake, the door to the coach swung open. Johnston closed the little notebook he used for scribbling orders and returned it to his jacket pocket and walked toward the coach, his curiosity piqued.
None other than David Crockett swung down from the doorway, landing lightly on his feet. Soldiers, seeing the president alight from the coach, came running, cheering their commander-in-chief. Johnston smiled and hurried over to the president. He came to attention and saluted. “President Crockett, you’re a sight for sore eyes, sir. To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”
Crockett waved away the salute and shook his hand with the practice of a politician. His laughter was tinged with bitterness. “Colonel Johnston, it’s good to see you again, although I allow I wish the circumstances were different. As to what brings me here, all our fair-weathered congress critters up and decided to suspend congress and skedaddle out of Austin when they heard about that Mexican army coming to San Antonio. Pack of cowards if you ask me. However, at the advice of several members of my cabinet, I have decided that until we have secured San Antonio from any threat from Mexico, that the executive branch will operate out of Houston.”
The image of Texas’ illustrious congressmen fleeing Austin brought a smile to Johnston’s face. “That must have been a sight to see, your Excellency.”
The president eyed the colonel disapprovingly. “Knock that palaver off, Colonel. Call me anything else but not ‘your Excellency.’ I won’t stand on parade for such folderol.”
They walked past the soldiers, who were smiling and shaking their president’s hand. Johnston repressed his impatience as Crockett took his time pumping hands and glad-handing the soldiers as they made their way back to the old live oak tree, under which Johnston was conducting the army’s business. As they took seats under the bare branches, Johnston said, “You’re welcome to stay out here if you’d like while we organize our reserves. I’m working on getting supplies brought forward from Houston and may use this as our forward supply depot for when we move on San Antonio. Are you familiar with the town of Seguin?”
When Crockett nodded, he continued, “We’ll move this army forward to Seguin then. That’ll put us forty miles from San Antonio.”
Crockett wore a thoughtful expression. “I suppose that’s why I saw my son, Bob, riding hell-bent back to Houston when I arrived?
“Lieutenant Crockett should be able to get food and other supplies moving forward, Mr. President. He’s shaping up to be a competent officer.”
Crockett’s laughter caused several soldiers to turn in their direction. “That makes a father’s heart warm. When I was his age and serving in the militia, I’m not sure anyone would have accused me of being a competent officer. How many men are assembled here?”
Recalling the officers’ meeting earlier, he replied, “We’ve got five companies of Marines, nearly three hundred men under Major West. We’ve got odds and ends from three of the reserve battalions, totaling nearly four hundred more men.”
The president removed his jacket and laid it on the ground, under the tree and moved down from the chair until he was lying down, “You’ll let me know if you need anything, Colonel? With the government’s ass waving about in the air, I’ve got time enough on my hands.”
With that, the president closed his eyes, leaving Johnston to continue preparing his weekend warriors for war.
Throughout the rest of the day additional men from the reserves arrived, individually and in small groups. Sometimes they were led into the encampment by officers, and just as often they came in alone, trying to catch up with their units. The highlight of the day, as far as Johnston was concerned was when the last reserve company of Marines arrived, assembled from the small towns on the west side of Galveston Bay.
Before the light had left the western sky, Major West had assembled all six companies of his Marines, giving both Johnston and the president the opportunity to review the three hundred fifty men of the Marine battalion. After checking another rifle, making sure it was ready for action, Johnston thrust it back into the waiting hands. Crockett, a step ahead of him, was back in campaign mode, praising the Marines’ martial air. After passing in front of the entire line of Marines, they joined Major West as he dismissed the men to attend to their duties.
Spreading his arms wide, Crockett swept up both Johnston and Major West, patting them on their backs. “This is a fine start, gentlemen. Major, your men cut fine figures. I’m confident they’ll make us proud. Colonel, the sooner you’re able to get your army to Seguin town, the sooner we’ll be able to send that army limping back to Mexico. Seeing as the government is a little out of sorts right now, and I happen to be the commander-in-chief, I’m going to temporarily promote you to brigadier general of this here army.”
Flushing from the news, Johnston stammered, “Thank you, sir. I’ll endeavor to do my utmost. But speaking of generals, have you had any word from General Travis?”
“That’s the ten-dollar question, Colonel, I mean, General. The last word that came back along the military road was that he had left Ysleta for Santa Fe, but that’s a couple of weeks old. I’d imagine that he’s probably still in Santa Fe, unless somehow or another he has learned of Santa Anna’s invasion.”
Seeing the army’s campfires burning along Buffalo Bayou, Johnston’s spirits were buoyed at the sight of so many fires. “We’ll get moving as soon as possible and relieve the soldiers at the Alamo, sir.”
Crockett gripped his shoulder, hard. “Please do, General. My daughter and her children are in San Antonio. I can’t imagine losing them.”
Chapter 12
Rain lashed the canvas sides of the long rows of A-frame tents. The ground was soaked, and water flowed into the Pecos. Will’s boot heels sank into the saturated ground as he strode down the makeshift road between two long rows of tents, toward the river. He passed a few cooking fires sputtering under canvas awnings, as soldiers fought the elements to prepare hot food.
Water surged down the normally languid Pecos River, threatening to overflow its banks. With his boots sinking into the red clay mud, Will huddled under his poncho, as rivulets of water streamed off his hat, watching the water race down the too small channel of the Pecos.
His eyes shifted to the Pecos Depot on the opposite side of the river. A short wall encircled the depot. The men stationed t
here had constructed several adobe structures, where supplies were stocked. But the depot might as well have been a hundred miles away, at least until the river returned to its normally shallow, lethargic flow.
Will clenched his fist, angry at the delay. A squelching noise behind him made him turn around. Juan Seguin was attempting to dodge ever growing puddles. His cavalry boots were caked in mud. It reminded Will of kids playing hopscotch, leaping from one square to another. When he came up next to Will, Seguin glanced down at his boots and grimaced. “Damned rain. It’s hard, staring across this accursed river, seeing the depot but not being able to reach it.”
“Ain’t that the sad, sorry truth. Any other time, and you can just about walk across it.”
Seguin shrugged, water cascading from his poncho. “We’ll keep our powder dry and when the rain abates, we’ll get the army back across the Pecos and get them marching in short order. In the grand scheme of things, Buck, this isn’t a setback. The Alamo and San Antonio are in Sid Johnson’s hands. Even without this inconvenience,” he paused, gesturing toward the incessant rain, “we can’t get there in time.”
***
Lucas Leal dangled his feet over the ledge of the new barracks, which spanned the southern wall of the Alamo. He spat down, watching as his spittle landed in the acequia outside the fort’s walls. The sergeant from Fort Moses Austin was at loose ends. None of the officers had found time to assign any duties to him or to Private Jackson. Nor had they been assigned to any of the three infantry companies in the fort. He was sure events would soon catch up to him and he would have more than he cared when Woll’s army finally arrived.
Twenty feet below, the ripples in the acequia disappeared and he shifted his eyes back to San Antonio. The past few days he had taken it upon himself to watch the comings and goings of the old town. He had served with Juan Seguin’s cavalry six years before and was a Bexareno, a native of San Antonio. He felt protective of the town. It was where he had grown to manhood. Where he had kissed his first girl and had his heart broken. His father was buried in the cemetery there and no doubt when she passed on, his mother would join him.