by Mike Blakely
The camp she passed before reaching the infirmary was Major Ringgold’s unit, Company C, Third Artillery. She hoped to get a glimpse of the dashing Ringgold. He was something. He spoke French and rode fast horses. Ringgold had revolutionized artillery tactics, even writing a new army manual about it that was in use at West Point. He had traveled abroad, learning the best strategies from U.S. allies overseas and then improving upon them. His guns were called “flying artillery.” Unlike the old foot artillery, his gunners all rode horses when on the move, giving the batteries never-before-seen mobility. His textbook theories had not been proven in battle yet, but they certainly looked impressive enough at drill.
Finally Sarah approached the tents of the infirmary, where she heard the coughs and moans of men sickened by the typical camp maladies—diarrhea, measles, scarlet fever. It was peculiar, she thought, how some individuals—like Lieutenant Grant, and herself, for that matter—seemed to thrive on the hardships of marching, sailing, and camping, while others—like her poor husband—suffered miserably under the same conditions.
She approached a surgeon and asked after her husband, Sergeant John Bowman.
The beleaguered sawbones swept his arm in a gesture toward the pallets of men laid up under tarpaulins propped above them for shade. “You’d know him better than me, ma’am.”
So Sarah started strolling among the men, recognizing John’s sallow face after searching for a few minutes. She knelt over his sleeping frame and touched his stubbled face, unshaven for several days now. He opened his eyes and focused on her.
“Hello, Sarah,” he said in a croak.
“Are you all right, John?”
He coughed, then caught his breath. He looked gaunt and weak. “I will be, as soon as I get off this goddamned boat.”
“You’re off the boat, John. You’re on land now.”
“How come I still feel the boat rockin’?”
“It’ll pass, husband. Are you hungry?”
He shook his head. “Can’t hold nothin’ down. Not even a drink of water.” His eyes closed, and he seemed to be slipping back to sleep.
“I’ll be back tomorrow morning,” she promised. “And I will shave that beard of yours for you, and bring you something you can eat.”
“Thank you, Sarah.” His eyelids fluttered but did not open.
She kissed her husband’s feverish brow as he fell asleep. Sarah left the infirmary and trudged back up the beach. She worried about John, feeling somewhat dejected. She decided to thank the Lord for her own health and to pray for the best for her husband.
Passing Ringgold’s flying artillery, she noticed some commotion around one of the six-pounders and realized that the men had found an unusually large rattlesnake coiled under the gun. They were daintily prodding at it with bayonets and other implements. Trotting over to the artillery piece, Sarah noticed a broken oar that someone had thrown on the woodpile. She grabbed it and ran at the circle of men.
“Step aside, boys!” she ordered. She charged between two soldiers and used the splintered end of the oar to flip the huge diamondback out from under the gun, its tail buzzing a warning, causing men to scatter. Whirling the oar around, she used the blunt end to whack the snake over the head three times, silencing the vibrations of the tail. Pinning the fanged end of the animal to the sand, she deftly reached down and grabbed the viper close behind its battered and bloody head. She lifted it triumphantly, letting the six-foot length of the snake dangle beneath her fist.
“I don’t know what you boys are havin’ for supper,” she said, “but my boys are dining on fish and rattler stew!” She marched back on up the beach, taking her broken oar with her in case she encountered any other reptiles venturing out for the evening.
Brigadier General
ZACHARY TAYLOR
Corpus Christi Beach, Texas
September 29, 1845
His men called him “Old Rough and Ready.” He was feeling more of the former and less of the latter just now, hunched over the portable writing desk in his command tent. At least the weather had cooled enough that soldiers could drill without a tenth of them falling out from the heat. The nights were becoming downright brisk, which only reminded General Zachary Taylor that his quartermaster’s requisition for three thousand woolen blankets had not yet arrived. Washington was some two weeks away by steamer, so communications came and went slowly, especially through the hands of bureaucrats. Taylor was accustomed to that, having served on many a frontier during his military career. But now the stakes were higher, here on the verge of an all-out war with a foreign nation possessed of an army superior in numbers and experience to his own.
It was becoming clear to Taylor that on this frontier he would frequently have to adapt, forage for provisions, purchase rations from the locals, catch wild horses, and perhaps even capture enemy supplies.
As he pored over his pitiful excuse for a map of the region between the Nueces and Rio Grande, a mosquito whined into his ear. He stuck his thick index finger into his ear to smash the insect, only to feel sand grinding in his aural canal. Sand. Sand everywhere. Sand, sand, sand. And more sand. He longed to receive his marching orders away from these dunes on Corpus Christi Bay.
He heard the tapping of the West Point graduation ring on the wooden tent pole—the habit of his adjutant, Captain William “Perfect” Bliss, in announcing himself.
“General Taylor, sir, if I may?”
Taylor turned on his camp stool to face Bliss at the tent flap. The captain wore an impossibly immaculate uniform. His dark eyes peered urgently from a handsome, youthful, clean-shaven face.
“You may, Captain, if it’s good news.”
The general knew that Captain Bliss had been sent by President Polk to keep an eye on him. Taylor’s politics as a Whig did not exactly dovetail with those of the current administration. What the president had not counted on, however, was the friendship that would develop between Taylor and Bliss. The rapport had begun the moment they met, and the trust between the two men had grown daily. Bliss was, as his nickname suggested, as close to perfect as a young army officer could hope to be. He had been accepted into the academy at the age of thirteen, for heaven’s sake.
“I think you will be pleased,” said the ever-optimistic Bliss. “That Texas Ranger has arrived. Captain Samuel Walker.”
“Oh?” Taylor stood, his knees cracking, and bolted from his tent. “Where, Bill?” He narrowed his eyes at the bright autumn sunshine.
Bliss pointed. “Tying his mount, there, sir, at the picket line.”
Taylor focused on the man in civilian clothes loosening the saddle cinch, his back turned. His build was thick but lean, his posture somewhat hunched. He looked sturdy enough. Two pistol grips protruded from a leather belt, along with a short sword, a bowie knife, and some sort of pouch—probably for ammunition. He wore a Mexican sombrero.
Taylor reached for his panama hanging just inside the tent.
“Captain Walker,” Bliss called. “General Taylor will see you immediately.”
Taylor saw Walker turn to reveal a broad, fair face devoid of expression, two light gray eyes gazing like chunks of ice from under his hat brim. Shocks of light reddish hair shook like flames on the Gulf breeze. At twenty-eight, he seemed traveled and troubled beyond his years.
The two men strode together and shook hands.
“Captain Samuel Walker, at your service, sir.” The man’s face remained a blank canvas.
Taylor smiled. “We’ve been anticipating your arrival since receiving your letter. Thank you for making the long ride from San Antonio.”
“It was a nice trot, sir.”
“Would you care to take a stroll with me? You must be weary of sitting in the saddle.”
Walker nodded. “A saunter down the beach might loosen the knots, sir.”
Taylor tossed his head toward the south and the two men left Bliss behind for their walk.
“Captain, I might have expected you to stand nine feet tall, given your reputat
ion in Texas.”
“Only a-horseback, sir.”
The general chuckled. “Tell me about yourself, Captain. I’ve only heard wild rumors of your career. Start with where you come from.”
“I was born in Maryland. Joined the Washington City Volunteers when I was nineteen and went to fight the Creeks, then the Seminoles under your command in Florida, sir.”
Taylor liked the Ranger’s efficient style. One breath covered two decades. “Did we ever meet in Florida?”
“No, sir, but you signed my promotion to corporal.”
“For meritorious service?”
“It was worded ‘For exceptional courage at the battle of Hacheeluski.’”
“A hot little skirmish.”
“Yes, and I’ve seen hotter since, sir.”
As they strolled past the Fourth Infantry’s headquarters, Taylor noticed the junior officers craning their necks, trying to figure out who the civilian visitor might be.
“When did you come to Texas?”
“I landed in Galveston in forty-two, about the time the Mexican Army under General Woll invaded San Antonio. In answer to that affront, I volunteered to fight the Mexicans at the Battle of Salado Creek. From there I rode with General Somervell and the Texas Army to the border, in retaliation for the San Antonio raid. We took Laredo and Guerrero without a fight. You probably know what happened next.”
“Not from the horse’s mouth. Tell me about it.”
“Somervell got cold feet and went back to San Antonio. But a couple hundred of us were not yet satisfied that Mexico had been punished, so we quit Somervell’s command and went on downstream to capture another border town.”
“Mier?”
“Yes, sir. The day before Christmas I was scouting ahead with two other men. We were ambushed by Mexican cavalry. Two of us were captured and put in a jail in Mier. As you know, our main force was surrounded at Mier the next day and had to surrender, but I was not in that fight. I could only listen to the shooting from my prison cell.”
“Quite a soldier’s Christmas for all of you.”
“You might say so, sir. After that, we were marched deep into Mexico. One morning we overpowered our guard, capturing arms and mounts, and made our escape. We then set out for Texas.”
“A long trek.”
Walker nodded. “Too long. We had to kill our horses for food. We ran out of water in the mountains and most of us had to surrender. You know what happened after.”
“Yes,” Taylor said, quietly. “The notorious Black Bean Incident. A cruel lottery.”
“Every tenth man was to be executed, by order of President Santa Anna. The beans were in a covered mug. White beans, mostly, but every tenth one was black. We were down to one hundred seventy men, so there were seventeen black beans in that mug. I overheard Bigfoot Wallace say that the black beans looked a little bit bigger. They all felt the same size to me. I drew a white one. Seventeen of my comrades were not so lucky. They were stood against a wall and massacred.”
“Another wartime atrocity by Santa Anna,” Taylor said, shaking his head. “What was next for you and the survivors?”
“Most of the men were marched to the prison at Perote. My group was taken to Tacubaya. They forced us to work on roadways around the city of Mexico. After months of hard labor, starvation, and some rough treatment and such, I escaped with two others. Seeking out American and French citizens who were fain to help us, we made our way to Tampico, where I boarded a ship for New Orleans. I had no money, but the ship’s crew needed a carpenter, so I signed on to work off my passage in that capacity.”
Taylor thought of Walker’s knowledge of the country and cities in Mexico as he shot a smile at the Ranger. “Ah, New Orleans.”
“Yes, sir, it was a balm for the soul to be back among free men.”
“I read the newspaper accounts. I believe it was in the New Orleans Picayune. You vowed vengeance on Santa Anna.”
“That was an accurate quote and I fully intend to live up to it.”
“You’ve quite likely come to the right place if those are your intentions, Captain Walker. Now, tell me about your Ranger service.”
“After I fattened up a bit in New Orleans, I went back to Texas and joined the company of Captain John C. Hays. The boys all call him Captain Jack. I knew him from the Somervell expedition. When I signed on with Jack, he gave me these.” Walker drew his two pistols from his belt. He lay one across his open palm and extended it to the general.
“Colts?”
“Yes, sir. Model five, made in Paterson, New Jersey.”
Taylor took the arm and studied it. “I’ve never actually held one of these in my hand. I’ve only seen one or two.” His eye for weaponry quickly noted the innovation—a revolving cylinder that served as a magazine for five rounds that could be preloaded into the five chambers of the cylinder. “I’ve tried some cumbersome pistols with four or five revolving barrels,” he said. “This seems far superior, as long as the chambers line up perfectly with the barrel.”
“It’s very well machined,” Walker said. “I’ve never had one fail in that respect.”
“That kind of failure might blow a man’s hand off.” Taylor stopped on the beach, turning the pistol from side to side. “Pray tell, Captain.” He laughed. “Where the devil is the trigger?”
“Cock the hammer, sir,” Walker suggested.
Taylor thumbed the hammer back and saw the trigger swing into view from the underside of the frame, where it awaited his index finger. “Brilliant design.”
“It’s a might too fragile for campaigning. I’d rather it had a real trigger and a sturdy brass trigger guard. Feel free to fire it if you’d like to, sir.”
Taylor smiled and pointed to a chunk of driftwood beached at high tide. “That stob sticking up amidships,” he said, announcing his target. He executed a left face, assuming the pose of a pistol duelist, elbow bent, muzzle skyward. He lowered the barrel, sighted, and fired. A spray of sand flew up short of the log.
“It takes some getting used to,” Walker allowed. “Shoot all five rounds if you’d like, sir.”
Taylor cocked the Colt and adjusted his aim. He shot long. The third attempt blew a chunk of waterlogged wood away a foot to the right of the target. The fourth round sailed high and wide, but the fifth shattered the knot serving as his bull’s-eye.
“Bravo,” Walker said.
“It has a right smart little kick to it.”
The Ranger shrugged as he took the empty pistol back from the general. “It’s thirty-six caliber. I’d rather it were forty-five.”
“Care to show me how it should be done?” Taylor asked, pointing at the second pistol on Walker’s left hip.
In a blink, Walker whipped the revolver from his belt and fired two shots into the log, the bullets fitting into the same hole. He shifted the Colt to his right hand and repeated the feat with two more shots. He reached his left hand downward to the beach and scooped up a sand dollar, which he handed to Taylor. “If you please, sir, toss this in the air.”
The general took a grip on the intended target—a large, perfect specimen the size of a tea saucer. “Ready?”
“Listo.”
Taylor flung the sun-bleached sand dollar into the sea breeze. Before it had flown a dozen feet, Walker blasted it to fragments with the last live round in his Colt. A cheer rose from the officers of the Fourth, just up the beach.
Taylor gestured down the beach for the stroll to continue. “Brilliant shooting,” he said, though he felt bested by the exhibition. He noticed that Walker had somehow removed the barrel and the cylinder from the Colt. The Ranger reached into the pouch on his belt and produced another revolving cylinder, already loaded with powder and bullets, percussion caps fixed in place over each of the five steel nipples. He slipped the loaded cylinder into place and reconnected the barrel of the Colt with a familiar ease.
“Are those the exact arms you carried at the Sister Creek fight?” Taylor had heard of the legendary battle—the f
irst clash in which Rangers used the five-shot revolvers against Comanche warriors, surprising the braves with superior firepower.
“The same,” Walker said.
“Do you remember the fight well? I’ve heard you were wounded severely.”
“I carry the memory of the battle of Sister Creek right next to my heart.” He pulled the top of his shirt open to give the general a peek at the scar on the upper part of the left side of his chest.
“Is that where the Comanche got you with his spear?”
Walker nodded. “Ran me clean through on that bloody battlefield. We were outnumbered five to one. I remember shooting my tenth round and drawing my bowie knife, but when I wheeled my mount, the warrior was almost upon me. I still recall the way he twisted his wrist as his pony bore down on me. He turned the flat of the steel blade horizontal so it would slip between my ribs.”
Taylor didn’t press for further details on the Sister Creek fight. He knew Walker had been so badly wounded that his recovery was considered miraculous to many. “Your service to Texas has been trumpeted far and wide, Captain, and your courage is unquestionable. I consider your visit to my camp an honor.”
“I am equally honored to enjoy your hospitality.”
“Now, about your letter of last month. I seem to recall you wished to make an offer of some kind to my command.”
“I am here to volunteer my services, sir. I know this border. I know the interior of Mexico and I know the enemy. I would like to raise a company of Texas mounted rifles. A spy company. My men will serve as your eyes and ears, carry correspondences, and track enemy troop movements. And when the war starts, we will serve as cavalry.”
This man is a godsend, Taylor thought. His mere presence in camp will bolster moral.
“How many men do you hope to recruit?” he asked.
“No more than thirty, sir. An elite corps. Only the best and bravest.”
“How quickly might you be able to assemble your company?”
Walker looked out across the Gulf of Mexico. “Even if you were to march for the Rio Grande today, I promise you my company would overtake your army before you arrived.”