by Drew McGunn
The voices in his head grew louder, drowning every thought in their rage. He screamed. It was primal, carrying the burden of every man he’d seen murdered, he lunged at the Mexican sergeant.
The other man was half-turned, when Mejia crashed into him, driving him into the wet ground before him. Mejia landed on top of him and hammered him with his fists.
The Mexican sergeant reflexively brought his hands up, blocking some of the blows. Others smashed into his lip, his nose, and eyes. His musket had fallen away when they had crashed to the ground, but he still carried a knife at his belt.
The Tejano’s fists pounded into the other man’s face, as hands fell away, making it easier to land each powerful blow with a meaty thwack. He wasn’t sure what alerted him, but something in the way the Mexican shifted, made him roll back as a wicked blade sliced the air where he’d been just a second before.
The man in the blue and red jacket clambered to his feet, waving the pig-sticker toward Mejia, who backpedaled until his knees bumped against the fallen oak tree.
The Mexican spat in the grass as he crouched low and approached. Mejia edged to his right, along the tree trunk, hoping to maneuver around his wary opponent. But with every sidestep, the Mexican sergeant matched it with his own adjustment.
Separated by no more distance than the height of a man, Mejia watched him heft the blade, as though testing the balance. The Mexican at last broke the silence, “Your situation is hopeless. Surrender and I’ll take you back to Reynosa.”
Mejia couldn’t believe what he’d heard. “I’ve seen your mercy, puta.”
With a snarl, the Mexican sprang forward, driving the knife toward Mejia. The Tejano sprang onto the tree trunk and lashed out with his foot, catching the other man in the face.
The Tejano saw the knife sail past his eyes, as he watched the other man collapse to his knees in surprised pain, blood flowing from his broken nose. Mejia pounced onto the Mexican, knocking him onto his back. He pummeled the Mexican’s face until his knuckles bled. The other man swatted at his hands and tried to dislodge him.
His hands hurt and still the other man attempted to stop the beating. Finally, Mejia wrapped his bloody hands around the Mexican’s throat and as though his life depended upon it, squeezed with all his might, until long after the other man stopped struggling and went limp.
He staggered to his feet and found the knife in the grass and slipped it into his belt. He hadn’t seen any other soldados with the sergeant, and hopefully no one else was following, but he still felt better carrying the knife.
Less than half a mile later, he crossed a well-worn trail leading to the river. In the distance he saw an earthen fort, similar in construction to Fort Moses Austin. Above the rampart flew the Texas flag. Despite his earlier victory over his pursuer, he couldn’t resist a furtive glimpse behind him. A glimmer of a smile crossed his lips. The only one in pursuit was dead. He straightened his jacket and stepped onto the trail leading to the fort. He hoped he cut a soldierly figure as he walked toward the earthen embankment. The last thing he wanted was to be mistaken for a Mexican soldado.
When he was within shouting distance, he saw a blue-jacketed rifleman standing behind the wall, near a wooden gate. The gun was already pointed in his direction when he stopped and waved at the sentry. After a too long wait, Mejia’s nerves were worn, but the guard waved for him to come closer. Under his breath, he muttered, “I hope he’s not trying to line up a shot.”
When no more than fifty feet separated him from the fort, the sentry shouted, “That’s far enough there, old boy!” Mejia stopped and assessed the man holding the gun on him. The guard was dressed in the uniform of a Texian Marine. With a thick Irish accent, he continued, “What’s one of General Travis’ men doin’ here? You’re a wee bit too far from home, if I’m not mistaken.”
With his hands open before him, Mejia shrugged and replied, “I’d rather not be here at all, but I was part of Captain Neill’s garrison at Fort Moses Austin. I’m all that’s left of it.”
The guard eyed him for another long moment then said, “You’ll be needin’ to wait there.” He turned and shouted into the fort and a moment later the ramparts were lined with more marines, their rifles now trained on Mejia. A young officer came up next to the guard and Mejia watched the two conversed. The officer pointed toward him and asked, “Who did you say you served under?”
Mejia repeated, “Captain Neill was our commander.” He felt the knife at his waist and was tempted to let his frustration get the better of him. But he left his hands at his side, realizing the officer was only doing his duty, protecting the post.
After that, the Lieutenant waved him to approach the gate. As Mejia advanced, he heard a wooden bar sliding out of place and the gate swung outward. There was a short, open corridor between the gate and the fort’s interior, and several Marines stood along the wall, with their weapons at the ready. His temper was already frayed, and he exclaimed, “Can’t tell the difference between a loyal Texian and a Mexican?”
The guard, still standing above, piped up, “Faith, man, when I was in the old country, I couldn’t tell me own lads from the bloody lobsterbacks. Seems the same could be said of you.”
The first response to come to mind, Mejia dismissed, after all, there were rifles pointed at him. “I might be disposed to tell you what I think of that, if you all would be kind enough to stop pointing those damned things at me.”
The lieutenant motioned for the Marines to lower their rifles. As they complied, an involuntary sigh of relief escaped Mejia’s lips. When the officer climbed down and stood before him, he said, “I’m from Fort Moses Austin. The fort fell when the Mexican army crossed into Texas at Laredo.”
The young officer was genuinely shocked. “What the hell? When did this happen? We’ve heard nothing of it.”
“The fort fell when Captain Neill was killed on the fourteenth of March.”
The lieutenant paced back and forth, visibly upset. “What happened after that,” he eyed the dirty chevrons on Mejia’s sleeves, “ah, Sergeant?”
For the past three days, all Mejia had been able to do was survive, only one step ahead of his pursuers. Now, what had happened on that dirt road south of Reynosa came back to him in all its horror and his eyes welled up with tears as he recounted the barbaric execution of the remainder of his company. When he’d finished, the Marines standing around, listening were visibly angry. Several were shouting that they should burn down the sleepy farming village of Matamoros, on the other side of the Rio Grande.
Mejia looked at the lieutenant, attempting to gage which way the wind would blow. He saw a man of no more than twenty-five years, who by virtue of a congressional appointment, commanded the thirty men assigned to garrison the little fort at the mouth of the Rio Grande. The way he continued pacing told Mejia all he needed to know, the officer clearly agreed with the sentiment. But he stopped and took stock of his men and saw they were itching to give a little payback.
He waved his hands until the men grew quiet. There were feral gleams in their eyes. All they needed was his permission. But when he spoke, he said, “Calm down, Marines! We’re not going to repay evil for evil, here.” He turned around, looking at each of his men, until his eyes fell on one of the older Marines. “Tell me, Parson, what does the good book say about that?”
The Marine who had fallen under the lieutenant’s gaze was easily the oldest man in the fort, his gray hair stuck out from under his hat. He returned the officer’s gaze with a glare of his own. “Lieutenant, I hate that name. I ain’t been a man of the cloth since the Comanche killed my wife and children.”
The young officer’s only response was a withering glare of his own. It lasted until the older soldier growled, “Fine. In the apostle Peter’s first letter, we’re not to be rendering evil for evil, but to repay evil with goodness. But, Hell’s bells, Lieutenant, I ain’t affixing to go heaping blessings on those bastards across the river.”
The officer waved away the last comme
nt. “Shut it, Parson. I believe we would dishonor our oaths to the Republic if we took it upon ourselves to go across the river and kill a passel of Mexican dirt farmers. They are innocent of any crimes committed by the Mexican soldados who killed the sergeant’s company.”
Mejia swiveled his head around and saw the men were disappointed, but it didn’t keep the Lieutenant from forging on. “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. We’re going to get Sergeant …”
He paused, until Mejia said, “Mejia.”
“Sergeant Mejia onboard the packet ship at the mouth of the river and get him back to the government as quickly as possible.”
***
The young officer had been true to his word. Mejia was shocked at how quickly things happened after the lieutenant had decided on a course of action. Mejia had been bundled onto a packet boat before the end of the day, and the next morning, with the tide, the packet boat had raised anchor and hoisted sail.
The 9th of April found Sergeant Mejia sitting in a rowboat in Copano Bay, being rowed ashore in the tiny town of Copano. After the boat deposited him on a rickety dock, he decided the town wasn’t much to look at. On a busy day, there might be a couple of hundred souls in town. The buildings were a ramshackle lot. Those closest to the bay were mostly warehouses. Wagons rolled in and out of town, carrying loads to and from the warehouses. Despite the town’s small size, plenty of goods flowed from several ships riding low at anchor, into the warehouses, and from there, to towns across South Texas, including San Antonio.
In his jacket, which he had cleaned and patched while on the packet boat, he carried a letter from the Lieutenant at Fort Brown. It instructed any citizen of the Republic of Texas to provide Sergeant Mejia every assistance necessary.
It had garnered him a ride on a military supply wagon, carrying gunpowder and boxes of artillery shells from the United States, to the garrison at the Alamo. As the wagon rolled along the gulf road, Mejia had warned the driver of the wagon, a freedman, that there was a risk the Mexican army could still be in possession of San Antonio and the Alamo.
The driver tilted his head back and laughed until tears ran down his ebon skin. “Like as not, that might be true. But it’s also true that I’m black and you’re Mexican. If they’s there, I don’t figure they’ll do much to us.”
Mejia sat back on the bench, biting his tongue. The memory of Reynosa was fresh on his mind. He still carried the knife he’d taken from that Mexican sergeant. It hung at his belt. “I’ll not let myself get caught a second time.”
Eleven days and more than a hundred thirty miles later, on the 20th of April, the wagon crested a low rise, and in the distance, Mejia and the driver saw the town of San Antonio, spread across the prairie before them. There were no burned buildings on the edge of town. He said a prayer to the Blessed Virgin that the town was still in the hands of the Texians.
The driver cracked his whip over the heads of the mules hauling the wagon and it lurched forward, eating away the remaining distance. Along the road, they saw a couple of tents alongside the road, and several soldiers in butternut waved at the wagon, flagging it to stop at the checkpoint. Seeing the Texian soldiers approaching, Mejia realized that he’d been holding his breath for too long. He exhaled in relief. He was home.
Chapter 21
Spring was in full bloom on the South Texas prairie. Bluebonnets and Indian Paintbrushes carpeted the ground in a riot of blues, purples, reds, and yellows. A dry creek bed ran alongside the military road. The men of the 1st Texas Infantry moved with purpose down the hard-packed dirt road, as the distinct hump over the chapel became visible on the horizon. They were nearly home.
The past six weeks had been the longest in Will’s life, since leaving Santa Fe behind. He felt a profound relief, looking at the walls of the old mission-turned-fort, even if only through the spyglass’ telescoping lens. He trained the lens on the flag waving proudly atop the chapel, and realized he’d been holding his breath until he brought the red, white, and blue of the Texas flag into focus.
He slipped the spyglass into its case and wheeled his mount back onto the road where he took in the sight of the seven hundred fifty men of the 1st Texas marching in route step along the road. They were dusty, and their uniforms were caked with the grime of the road. He was proud of his regulars. They had marched over eight hundred miles in only forty-two days. Seguin’s four companies of cavalry included Hay’s Ranger company, and they were riding on the column’s flanks. Bringing up the rear of the column were the six horse-drawn field pieces, rumbling over the road on their caissons.
As they drew closer to the walls of the Alamo, the men walked a little straighter and they switched from route step to a cadenced march. From within the column someone began to sing a song written along the way back from Santa Fe, and the entire little army joined in.
There’s a Yellow Rose of Texas I’m going there to see,
No other soldier knows her, no soldier only me!
She cried so when I left her, it like to broke my heart.
And when I go to find her, we never more will part.
She’s the sweetest little rosebud, this soldier ever knew,
Her eyes were bright as diamonds, they sparkled like the dew,
You may talk about your dearest Mae and sing of Rosie Lee,
But the Yellow Rose of Texas beats the belles of Tennessee.
Unbidden, a smile crept on Will’s face, as the men enthusiastically sang the Yellow Rose of Texas. In this world, far removed from the one into which Will had been born, there had been no San Jacinto and no legend of Emily West. But one night around the campfire, he had written down what he recalled of the old song, sharing it with some of his fellow officers. He’d claimed that Becky was his sole inspiration.
Within a few days, the song had caught on and it had become a favorite marching tune for the army. It joined other songs the soldiers used to entertain themselves along the march, like The Girl I left Behind, Gary Owen, and Yankee Doodle.
As the column swept along the road, Will’s attention was drawn to the military cemetery east of the fort. It had swollen from just a couple of dozen graves to several hundred. Scores of dirt mounds the telltale sign of soldiers who had died in defense of the Alamo. He was starved for information. The most recent news had reached the army several weeks earlier.
The column turned from the road, heading toward the fort’s gates. Moments later, the lead elements swept through the gates and into the Alamo plaza. He followed the vanguard and saw the edges of the plaza was lined with soldiers. Atop the walls, more men crowded, watching his army’s return. Apparently, Johnston had managed to mobilize a sizable portion of the reserves.
He wheeled out of the line of march, as rank after rank filed into the plaza. Through the noise of traipsing boots, he heard his name called. He turned and saw Becky. In her arms was their daughter, Elizabeth. She was nearly ten months old. It startled him how much she had grown in the span of just a few months. Despite the cacophony of noises in the plaza, the little girl turned her head, following her mother’s finger, pointing to Will. She giggled and laughed when she saw him. She hadn’t forgotten her papa. Despite the fatigue and exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him, a lightness settled over him as he leapt from his mount and ran to his wife and child, catching them in a fierce embrace. He wiped away the unbidden tears as he took his daughter in his arms and hugged her tightly to him, as she squealed in protest.
Standing behind his stepmother was Charlie. Gone was the little boy. The youth had grown in the time he’d been away, and his head came up to Will’s chin. The boy smiled when Will’s eyes fell on him. With his wife clinging to his neck and his daughter in one arm, he beckoned his son with the other. Slowly, reluctantly, he crossed the short distance and let Will draw him into the family’s embrace. As Charlie buried his head into Will’s shoulder, he felt the boy shudder then heard the muffled sound of him sobbing. Confused, Will looked to Becky. She shook her head, leaned in and whispered, “Oh, Wi
ll, it was horrible! The Mexicans nearly wiped out the fort before Sidney’s men came to our rescue. Poor Charlie was helping to defend the chapel, at the last.”
He was shocked at how close things had come to a complete disaster. How close he had come to losing the people who had come to mean everything shook him to the center of his core. He vowed he would never let anything befall his family, nor let them come so close to disaster. After a lengthy moment, he disentangled himself from his family. Ignoring decorum, he planted a kiss on his wife’s lips, and plopped a wet kiss on his daughter’s forehead, then he took Charlie by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes, “Son, you’ll be alright. When time permits, we’ll talk about what happened. Okay?” Charlie brushed tears from his eyes and nodded.
***
21st April 1841
He sat in the same chair he’d called his own some three months previous. Across the desk from him sat General Johnston. The two had talked late into the previous evening about the relief of the Alamo. Will had wanted to learn of how he had managed to bring such a sizable relief force to the fort.
Now, after sleeping with Becky for the first time in far too many nights, he said, “I know I’ve said it last night, Sid, but I cannot tell you enough how grateful I am that you saved my family from falling into the hands of the enemy.”
Johnston was clearly uncomfortable with the praise. He cleared his throat before replying. “Ah, hell, Buck, it’s not anything you wouldn’t have done for me, and we both know it. But, as God is my witness, I wish we would have arrived before Woll and his troops got inside the Alamo’s walls. We could have saved more than two hundred lives.”
The detailed casualty reports of the Alamo’s defenders lay on the desk, at Will’s fingertips. He glanced down at the sheaf of papers. “What madness has descended upon Santa Anna, Sid? It wasn’t enough that they killed our wounded within these very walls, but to execute prisoners in Reynosa, after honorably surrendering. It violates every rule of war. Has Santa Anna lost his mind?”