A Sinister Splendor

by Mike Blakely

  Sam Walker had been elected lieutenant colonel by the men in his recently formed regiment called the First Texas Mounted Volunteers. Though officially volunteers in the U.S. Army, every one of Zach Taylor’s soldiers knew them for what they truly were—Texas Rangers. He was second-in-command only to his friend John Coffee Hays. Jack Hays had missed the early battles at Palo Alto and Resaca de la Palma. He had been scouring the Texas settlements, handpicking his recruits and training them for war.

  It felt good to be under Hays’s command again. Hays was the bravest man Walker knew, though he didn’t look like much at first glance. He was neither tall nor particularly muscular. Clean-shaven and wiry, he did not fit the gangling, bearded prototype of the Texas Ranger. But he possessed unaccountable toughness of body and spirit. Everything about Hays bespoke a fluid grace of movement and certainty of mind and heart. Nobody could shoot straighter than Jack Hays, whether standing flat-footed with his rifle or at a full gallop with a Colt revolver. Horseback, he could throw himself all over his mount like the Comanche he had so often battled. Unhorsed, he could run for days afoot at a long trot—and sometimes did, with the Delaware and Apache scouts he employed.

  Like Walker, Hays was now twenty-nine years old. He had come from Tennessee. Walker knew he was kin somehow to Andrew Jackson and had come to Texas after San Jacinto with letters of introduction from men in power. He had met President Sam Houston and presented himself for service to the new Republic of Texas. Houston sent him to join a company of Texas Rangers under Captain Erasmus “Deaf” Smith, Houston’s famed spy and hero of the Battle of San Jacinto. By the time he turned twenty-one, Hays was captain of his own company of Rangers.

  Walker did not meet Hays until he himself came to Texas, in forty-two. They did not get to know each other well right at first, for Walker found himself captured at Mier and marched to Mexico City as a prisoner. It was only after his escape and return to Texas that he began to ride with Hays’s company of Rangers. By this time, Sam Walker was almost as famous as Jack Hays, for his exploits in Mexico had been published in the New Orleans Picayune.

  When he joined Hays’s company, his new commander presented him with two Colt five-shot revolvers manufactured in Patterson, New Jersey.

  “Take care of these weapons, Sam,” Hays had told him. “Now we will shoot bullets faster than the Comanches shoot arrows.” Since that day, it was hard to keep count of all the battles with hostile Comanche, bandits, and regular Mexican troops, including the Sisters Creek fight, where the Comanche lance had run Walker clean through. In all of these engagements, Hays had led with one consistent intent: find the enemy and attack, regardless of the odds.

  “When I joined Deaf Smith’s Rangers,” Hays had told him one night in camp, “there were about ninety boys like me who came to Texas after the Alamo. I can count on one hand those who are still alive.”

  Walker hadn’t seen Hays much during his long convalescence from his lance wound and his return to action under General Taylor. But he was aware of the new development in Hays’s life. Captain Jack had fallen in love. He was to marry Susan Calvert, whose family had moved to Texas from Alabama. She was a beautiful girl, Walker thought. But he had to wonder, would Hays’s upcoming marriage to Miss Calvert temper his fearlessness? He would likely find out on this very day.

  General Taylor had made the risky decision to divide his forces in order to attack Monterrey from the west and the east, simultaneously. The eastern assault was intended as a mere feint. The western division, under General William Worth, was expected to do the real bloody work of storming the city.

  The great Jack Hays was now a colonel, and his Rangers were in the vanguard of a sweeping maneuver around the western edges of Monterrey to seize the Saltillo road, Federation Hill, and eventually Independence Hill, upon which the ancient Bishop’s Palace perched, now fortified with Mexican infantry and artillery batteries. If they succeeded, they would cut off General Ampudia’s line of communications, supplies, and reinforcements from the south, not to mention his ability to retreat. Once that was done—and Walker had no doubt of success—they would attack and take the walled city of Monterrey itself.

  Yesterday at noon, he and Jack Hays had met with General William Worth, commander of the western division. Worth had requested that the Rangers lead his advance on western Monterrey.

  “Gentlemen,” Worth had said at the end of the briefing, “here at Monterrey, I intend to earn a grade or a grave.”

  Worth had missed the battles in the Rio Grande Valley because he had resigned his commission due to a dispute over who outranked whom in Taylor’s chain of command. Worth, a brevet brigadier general, had refused to serve under Colonel David E. Twiggs. He had traveled all the way to Washington, DC, to plead his case. Then, when Worth read the news of Palo Alto, he withdrew his resignation and hurried back to Texas to get in on the fighting. Yes, General Worth was obsessed with promotion, but Walker considered that a good motivation to win the upcoming fight. Walker had his own obsessions and motives, mostly centered around revenge.

  Yesterday afternoon they had ridden from Walnut Springs, circling far around the Mexican batteries on Federation Hill. In the distance, behind them, they had heard the cannonade begin between Taylor’s batteries and the Black Fort—a fortified cathedral that the Mexicans called the Citadel. Here, on the western outskirts, the Rangers had skirmished with Mexican cavalry and dodged enemy artillery fire.

  Last night, a hard rain had pelted them for hours. They had brought no tents or rations with them, and though they had found pigs and chickens to slaughter at an abandoned farmhouse, they discovered that if they lit cooking fires, the Mexican gunners lobbed shells at them in the dark. But cold and hungry was often the Rangers’ way, and Walker didn’t dwell on hardships. The damp chill only made his old wounds ache for new companions.

  As for the hunger, he remembered something he had heard General David Twiggs say back at Walnut Springs, explaining why he always took a laxative the night before a battle: “A bullet striking the belly when the bowels are loose might pass through the intestines without cutting them.”

  If that were true, Walker thought, this would be as good a day as any for a belly wound, for he hadn’t eaten a bite in almost twenty-four hours.

  By the dark of the predawn hours, they had advanced to this point, until Colonel Hays called a halt to let his men catch some rest and await daybreak. Now the Rangers slowly woke by ones and twos and fumbled with their tack and weapons, readying themselves for another eventful day of rangering.

  Peering through the mist across the Saltillo road, Walker suddenly caught signs of movement. Colors, rendered pastel by the light fog, nonetheless emerged. Reds, blues, greens. Tunics, pennons, plumes. Cavalry. Mexican lancers. They were already on the move, and some of the Rangers were still sleeping.

  “Jack,” he said, just loud enough that Hays could hear him, some thirty paces away.

  “I see them,” Hays replied. The colonel mounted his horse. He was hatless, having lost his sombrero somewhere in the dark. He had a red bandana tied on his head like some reckless pirate. “Get the men ready. I’ll buy us some time.”

  “Wake up, boys!” Walker kicked a young recruit lying on the ground with his hat over his face. “Draw your cinches and prepare to mount. Check your loads, too. The Mexicans are just across the way, there.”

  Wondering what Hays had in mind, he mounted his horse for a higher vantage from which to watch the colonel lope his steed gracefully toward the lancers, a rifle shot away. Under the lifting fog, he could now make out an entire regiment of Mexican cavalrymen, led by a colonel wearing a red-plumed hat. They had obviously spotted the Rangers, for they had spread out in line formation in preparation to attack. The Rangers were outnumbered two or three to one, but this would matter little to “Devil Jack,” as Hays was known among Mexicans and Indians.

  Hays reined in his mount halfway between the two forces and made a grandiloquent bow from the saddle. The valley was quiet enough tha
t Walker heard his commander’s shout, aimed at the Mexican leader: “Colonel! Desafiarte a un duelo en este terreno! Hombre a hombre!”

  A duel? Walker thought. Man to man? He held his breath, hoping to catch the Mexican colonel’s reply. It came almost instantly, in a bold baritone: “Aceptó!”

  Walker shook his head as he smiled. This was Jack Hays’s idea of buying a little time? “Rangers!” he shouted. “Mount up! You’re gonna want to see this.”

  Hays rode back toward his men, turning his horse in tight circles, first to the right, then to the left, filling the mount with excitement for the charge. Meanwhile, the Mexican colonel threw down his hat, removed his coat, tossed aside his canteen and other accoutrement unnecessary for dueling. Finally, he drew his saber and waited, his fiery mount prancing most gracefully beneath him.

  Walker squinted through the day’s first ray of sunlight. He saw Colonel Hays draw his sword. Both combatants charged into the middle ground, their mounts kicking up mud as they built speed. Walker worried over Hays’s inexperience with the saber but no longer had any questions about the amount of sand left in the craw of the groom-to-be.

  At full gallop, the two duelists closed the distance between them quickly. Ten lengths shy of the clash, Hays suddenly threw his sword aside and veered slightly to his right. He drew a Colt five-shooter from his belt, threw his body down across the right side of his horse, reached under the neck of his mount with his revolver in hand, and fired a shot that hit the brave Mexican colonel in the chest. The vanquished leader rolled backwards over the rump of his horse and hit the ground, dead.

  Hays wheeled his horse to return to the Rangers. “Dismount!” he shouted. “Sam! Dismount the men!”

  Walker understood the strategy. “Dismount, boys! They’ll be coming madder than hornets! Use your rifles first. Keep your mounts in front of you!”

  A bugle sounded the charge on the Mexican side and some four hundred lancers sprang forward from the Saltillo road. He cocked his rifle and rested it over the seat of his saddle.

  Hays returned to the line, leaped from his horse, and drew his carbine from his saddle scabbard. “Hold your fire!”

  The horses of the Rangers, trained at this maneuver, behaved remarkably well with the enemy regiment rumbling down upon them.

  “Hold your fire and don’t forget to aim!” Hays shouted, as cool as ever.

  As Walker watched the glorious menace of the Mexican assault, the steel lance points, jutting skyward, began to dip downward, the nine-inch blades threatening ghastly injury and vicious death. The leveling points made his heart pound, but he shoved aside thoughts of another lance wound and picked his target—the attacker advancing nearest to him. Over the iron sights of his rifle, he drew a deadly bead.

  “Hold your fire!” Hays ordered. “Hold … Aim … Fire!”

  The entire line of Rangers erupted in white smoke and rifle balls as enemy riders tumbled from their saddles. Walker saw his target drop dead from the back of his mount just a few steps away. Mexican horses plunged wildly through the Texas front, carrying empty saddles or riders, both untouched and wounded, some slamming into the mounts of Rangers and knocking men off their feet.

  Walker held tightly to his reins as his warhorse pulled in alarm. The Mexicans fought to check their mounts, but their battle-crazed beasts charged fifty yards or more beyond the Rangers before the lancers could regroup for another assault. Walker was satisfied to see that, beyond them, though too far away to be of help anytime soon, the main body of General Worth’s division was marching toward the Saltillo road.

  Knowing there would be no time to reload their long arms, he returned his to his saddle scabbard, having settled his mount. “Boot your rifles, men! Grab your pistols! Keep your mounts in front of you!” Around him, he saw all his men standing, though a few held bleeding wounds from the lance blades.

  “Get ready!” Hays yelled down the line. “We can whip them if we stand our ground!”

  The second Mexican charge was on its way.

  “Hold,” Hays yelled. “Aim … Fire!”

  Again, the deafening staccato of gunshots rang. Bullets tore into the gaudy uniforms of the lancers that charged courageously through the line of Rangers, though one in five were shot from their saddles. Walker had time to use two rounds from his Colt and emptied two more saddles as a result. And still the lancers turned and regrouped for yet another charge.

  Smoke stung his nostrils as Walker looked to one side to see a young recruit throw his single-shot pistol down and draw his bowie knife.

  “Private!” he yelled, handing his Colt revolver to the young man. “There are three live rounds left in there.”

  The wild-eyed private nodded appreciatively and took the gun. “Thanks, sir!”

  “I want that back, you hear?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Walker drew his second Colt revolver and pulled his horse in front of him, once again resting his firearm across his saddle seat. Amazed at the resilience of the Mexicans, he still sensed a lack of zeal in this third charge. The enemy mounts were winded, and the men had to be demoralized by their losses.

  “Fire at will!” Hays hollered.

  The next volley killed a score of enemy riders and halted the attack. The Mexican bugler was blowing the retreat from somewhere far down the line, but the bloody lancers were already falling back, some stopping to pick up their dead or wounded. Walker glanced about him and saw one young Ranger sprawled on the ground, apparently dead. Others had been slashed by lance blades, but none of those injuries appeared mortal.

  Sergeant Buck Barry, an experienced Ranger, strode among the recruits, goading them up. “There’s more to come today, boys! We’ve yet to secure the road or take a hill. Catch the loose horses. We’ll need them. Reload your weapons.”

  The sergeant ambled toward Walker. “The boys done good,” he said.

  Walker nodded. “They made a hell of a thrust, but we stood our ground.”

  “We must have killed eighty of them.”

  “I’d say closer to a hundred,” Walker replied.

  “I’ll never call a Mexican a coward again.”

  Walker took the borrowed revolver back from the young recruit. “We are on their ground now, Sergeant. They will fight.”

  Colonel

  JOHN COFFEE HAYS

  Saltillo road, Monterrey, Mexico

  September 21, 1846

  Hays stood on the battleground, holding the reins to his mount. He watched a small party of his Rangers escorting his wounded men to the rear, behind General Worth’s line, where a surgeon’s tent presumably would be established. Most of the injured men could still ride, but one had to be borne away on an improvised litter made from a tarpaulin stretched between two Mexican cavalry lances, carried by four Rangers on foot.

  Enemy round shot from Federation Hill, across the river, began to thud into the prairie around the Rangers. Hays looked up the Saltillo road, which led to the outskirts of Monterrey, where he saw Mexican infantry marching toward him. He knew more cavalry would be coming, too, to avenge their slain riders.

  Swinging his gaze back to the rear, he spotted a battery of flying artillery speeding into position to shell the enemy foot soldiers. Behind them, Worth’s main column marched double-quick. He smiled, sensing the odds shifting to favor the American assault.

  He took a swig from his canteen and rinsed the dust and grit from his mouth, spitting it into a shiny puddle of fresh blood on the ground in front of him. He wondered what his fiancée, Susan, would have thought about his duel with the Mexican colonel. He realized that this was the first time in his life he had ever considered what a woman might think of his martial exploits. He decided it was better not to ponder it.

  He liked thinking of Susan, though. He remembered the picnics they had enjoyed, an easy buggy ride beyond the outskirts of San Antonio. They would find a shady spot with clear water running among live oaks or bald cypress trees and feast on the treats she had prepared. On the way back to t
own, he would hand the reins of the buggy horse over to Susan and jump out to run alongside the vehicle for a few miles to keep his legs and lungs strong. Susan would laugh at him and shake her head as he paced the horse’s trot.

  Hoofbeats snapped his mind back to the Saltillo road. He looked up to see Sam Walker approaching with the regiment’s five captains. Good. Walker was always reliable, and frequently indispensable. The men rode up, pulled rein, and dismounted.

  “Gentlemen, we have prodded the dragon,” Hays began. “They will send many more to avenge those we have already slain. It’s time for some Comanche strategy.”

  He looked at thirty-four-year-old Ben McCulloch, artillery veteran of San Jacinto, cavalry commander against the Comanche at the battle of Plum Creek, and hardened veteran of dozens of Ranger campaigns. “Ben, mount your company. You’ll be the bait.” Hays pointed to the road leading into Monterrey. “Wait there until the lancers come around that hill and see you. When they attack, you retreat.”

  McCulloch scowled.

  “I know you don’t like to retreat, Ben, but you’ll get your chance to draw blood.”

  Now Hays addressed his other four captains. “The rest of you will dismount your companies. Order every fifth man to conceal the horses in the chaparral. We will place you in ambush along the road. When the enemy follows Captain McCulloch’s retreat down the road, open fire.”

  He looked into the eyes of Captain Richard Addison Gillespie, a thirty-one-year-old Ranger veteran. Like McCulloch and Sam Walker, he had served at the Battle of Sisters Creek. He and Walker had both been run through by Comanche lances there. Though Hays had expected neither to survive that day, both stood before him now, ready for the next fight.