Texas

by James A. Michener

  ‘Watch the lances!’ Cobb shouted as he knocked down a lancer about to pierce Macnab, who raised his Colts in a salute as he roared past in pursuit of his own targets.

  When General Taylor saw that the day had been saved, he had the grace to say to his son-in-law: ‘Colonel Davis, my daughter was a better judge of men than I was.’ But none of the Americans believed this battle to have been a victory, not by any means. Losses were great. Valuable positions had once more been wrested away by superior Mexican numbers and performance. Indeed, as night fell General Taylor had to consider the likelihood that on the morrow he was doomed to suffer a crushing defeat, and with this mournful prospect staring at him, he assembled his officers.

  ‘Can we hold them if they make a dawn attack?’ he asked.

  ‘Our men and horses are exhausted.’

  ‘But can they make one last effort?’

  ‘They can always make an effort. But …’

  Throughout the night the discussions continued, and at one o’clock or thereabouts Taylor suggested that his best Texas scouts be sent out to bring news of exactly when the Mexicans would begin their major attack. Lieutenant Colonel Cobb thought the general had tears in his eyes as he said: ‘Give us what help you can, Persifer. I knew your uncle Leander. Good man. Good man with horses, that one.’

  Despite Captain Garner’s urgent suggestion that Cobb remain safe with General Taylor, the South Carolinian insisted upon sharing the scout with his Texans, and they went alarmingly deep into enemy territory. Two o’clock, and only sporadic signs of enemy action. Three o’clock, and still darkest winter night, with Mexican troops huddling to keep warm. Four o’clock, and only that ominous silence. Five o’clock, and just a faint show of light from a campfire visible here and there.

  At six, when dawn would betray their presence, the Rangers were in maximum danger, and Cobb, aware of this, cautioned additional care, but Panther Komax ignored his warnings, rose boldly in his saddle, stared ahead in disbelief, and shouted: ‘Jesus Christ!’

  When the others rode up, several of them repeated Panther’s cry: ‘Jesus Christ!’

  On the evening after the great battle at Buena Vista, when the Mexicans had stood within six inches or six minutes of an astounding victory, General Santa Anna had convened a meeting of his officers, and such is the strangeness of battle that approximately identical questions were being asked.

  ‘Can we crush them in the morning?’ the one-legged Napoleon asked. ‘Our lancers, all our cavalry, they did what they could this afternoon.’

  ‘Can they repeat?’

  Silence. No one dared tell the dictator of Mexico, the commander in chief, the Benemérito de la Patria, El Supremo, that something was impossible, but it was clear even to him that the mexicano cavalry had shot its bolt. It had been a gallant bolt, one of the best, but it was finished.

  ‘The infantry?’

  More silence. No other infantry in the world suffered the disadvantages that were the common lot of the peasants who formed the bulk of any Santa Anna army. Conscripted at gunpoint, they marched barefoot, clad only in thin cotton shirts even in the dead of winter—like now. And they bled and shivered and died of dysentery, for their army provided no field hospitals to accompany them and no medicines to soften the dreadful fevers they contracted. Despite these deprivations and the lack of food, they were obedient and brave, and when they started running at an enemy line they usually breached it. Such soldiers had defeated Spaniards, Frenchmen, Americans and other Mexicans, and if ordered on the morrow to attack the weakened American lines, they would do so, until their bodies piled higher than a small tree.

  But their officers stood silent, for they knew that because of supply problems, those faithful soldiers shivering in the wintry blast had eaten nothing for nearly thirty hours. They would obey orders and start toward the norteamericano lines tomorrow, that was certain, but they might well collapse before they got there, and not necessarily from enemy gunfire.

  To the surprise of everyone in his tent, Santa Anna changed the course of his discussion and said most abruptly: ‘We had a great victory today, did we not?’

  ‘Yes, General.’

  ‘And we overran six or seven headquarters positions, did we not?’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘Did we capture many enemy flags?’

  ‘We did. Cortés alone has seven. I saw them.’

  ‘Let Cortés speak for himself.’ The gallant lancer was sent for, and Santa Anna asked: ‘Did you capture enemy flags?’

  ‘Yes, General, seven.’

  ‘Any other trophies?’

  ‘Many. Many.’

  Santa Anna now turned to the one man he knew he could trust in any adversity, a man who had always given straight answers: ‘Garza, can we defeat them tomorrow?’

  ‘Unquestionably.’

  ‘Why do you say that, when these others …’

  ‘Because I know what’s going on over there.’ He pointed north, toward Saltillo and the American lines: ‘They’re holding a meeting like this, and they know they’ve been defeated.’

  ‘Will they retreat, do you think?’

  Now Garza had to pause, for in his careful study of the norteamericanos he had perceived that Zachary Taylor was not the clever kind of general who saw things in big design. He was a man who took a position and held on to it until he was knocked off. ‘Retreat?’ Garcia said slowly. ‘Maybe not, but …’

  Santa Anna had heard enough. On the very threshold of a victory which would have enshrined him in the bosom of Mexico forever, he gave his order: ‘Immediately, we march back to Potosí.’

  ‘Excellency!’ Garza protested, but the fatal die had been cast.

  ‘Strike camp. Abandon everything not instantly needed, and march. Before dawn.’

  When Garza dashed to the tent where his wife was sleeping, he wakened her roughly: ‘It’s ended, Lucha. Back to Potosí.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ she cried, for she saw in the resumed battle a chance of victory for her beliefs.

  ‘It’s the end for Santa Anna,’ Garza said with great sadness, and when his wife, packing furiously, asked what he meant, he explained prophetically: ‘Another norteamericano army will land at Vera Cruz. They’ll march to Puebla and surround Mexico City. Defeat, defeat. They’ll depose Santa Anna, and then they’ll go home, thinking it’s all over.’ He interrupted Lucha’s packing and took her by the hands: ‘But for us it will never be over. If they want to steal that land south of the Nueces, they better be prepared to pay in blood.’

  It was this flight south at dawn that had so astonished Panther Komax and his fellow Rangers.

  On the day that General Taylor realized he had won the battle at Buena Vista—if one did not inspect the facts too closely—he agreed to let the Texans disband and go home. He explained to Garner that although he appreciated their contributions, ‘none more valiant,’ he could not endanger the security of his army by allowing them to harass guiltless Mexican citizens and expose the regular army to guerrilla action in retaliation: ‘You must leave at once, and try not to arouse the countryside by thoughtless killings as you go.’

  In the morning Taylor said goodbye to the Rangers: ‘I thank you for your gallant efforts. But before you depart, I want you to hear the summary prepared by Colonel Cobb,’ whereupon the South Carolinian, in his trimmest uniform, stepped forward to read a report he had compiled:

  ‘While it is conceded by all that the Texas Rangers have performed satisfactorily all military tasks assigned them, there have unfortunately been certain deficiencies in discipline, the consequences of which I shall now summarize.

  ‘General riots, pitting volunteers against regulars, five. Ordinary courts-martial, one hundred and nineteen. General courts-martial, eleven. Murders, four. Murders of Mexican citizens, eighty-four. Attempted murder, eleven. Insubordination and mutinous acts, sixty-one. Cowardice in the face of the enemy, nine.’ (At this, several Rangers cried ‘No! No!’—but the charges continued.) ’Desertion, seventeen. Di
scharged by the commanding general because of general worthlessness, nineteen. Discharged because of suspicion of insanity, no other charge appearing to be reasonable, eleven.

  ‘The Ranger known as Panther Komax, who started the riot last night which caused at least six hundred dollars’ worth of damage to government property, and who told a superior to go to hell, was subjected last night to a legally convened court-martial whose judgment is hereby delivered: “The Texas Ranger Leroy Komax, known as Panther, shall receive a dishonorable discharge and shall hear ‘The Rogue’s March.’ ” ’

  Panther stood rigid, but many Rangers, including Captain Garner, shouted ‘No! No!’—for there was no greater disgrace in the armed services than for a man to stand at his final attention as the band started to sound the miserable notes of ‘The Rogue’s March,’ and then to march goosestepping out of the company while some stout sergeant jerked high the seat of his pants.

  Four burly sergeants surrounded Panther and brought him to face the band, which launched immediately into that doleful, insulting lament for things gone wrong. As soon as the first notes sounded, a fifth sergeant, bigger than the others, grabbed Panther by the seat and started marching him off the parade ground; never again could such a disgraced man serve with the regular army, and Panther should have gone in silence, accepting his punishment, but at the edge of the field as he was about to be shoved off, he turned and challenged the army of northern Mexico: ‘Give me six good Rangers and we’ll knock the shit outa your whole force.’

  When he was removed, Persifer Cobb returned stiffly to the reading of the citation:

  ‘Acts of bravery, unnumbered. Devotion to duty, unparalleled. Patriotism, unquestioned.’ (He paused.) ‘Rangers of Texas, you are unforgettable.’

  With that, both he and General Taylor snapped to attention and saluted.

  • • •

  Often during these hectic days of the Mexican War, Otto worried about what was happening to Ernst Allerkamp on his foray into the Comanchería, and on the way back to Texas he told Komax, who seemed undisturbed by his rude dismissal from military service: ‘I’ll bet those men who went out among the Indians had it a lot rougher than we did,’ and as soon as he reached his home and satisfied himself that Franziska was in good health, he asked: ‘And what happened to Ernst?’

  In response she rang the bell which the Allerkamp women used for signaling their men—two short, two long for Ernst—and in a moment he came from the fields, delighted to see his brother-in-law. In self-effacing words he summarized a remarkable event:

  ‘Three days after you left for Mexico, Herr Meusebach started his expedition for the Comanchería, and I was able to lead him to the principal chiefs. I translated, you know, and we conducted long talks, for the Indians like to go over everything many times.

  ‘But during hours when I wasn’t working I made friends with a young Comanche warrior. Blond hair, pale complexion, he was surely a white man. At first he would explain nothing, but when I gave him tobacco he wanted to talk. “My name is Thomas Lyons. I lived near Austin. The Comanche came to our farm and murdered my parents. Took me away with them. I like being an Indian and do not care to go back to Austin, where my brother lives.”

  ‘I could understand this; as a boy I wanted to be an Indian. But what shocked me was the answer I got when I asked: “Who is this little Mexican boy who follows you about?” And Thomas Lyons said: “I captured him during one of our raids on the Rio Grande.” And when I suggested that I take the boy with me and return him to his parents, Lyons asked: “Why?” ’

  Ernst fell silent, still disturbed by the fact that Indians, too, had slaves, and after a while Otto asked: ‘What happened with the Comanche?’ and Ernst explained how Meusebach, with skill and patience, had engineered a compassionate treaty which was to be ratified in Fredericksburg within two weeks.

  Otto was alarmed: ‘Ernst! The Comanche never honor a treaty!’ and in the days that followed, while Ernst rode out to lead the great chiefs of that tribe in for the signing, Otto moved through Fredericksburg, repeating his softly stated warning: ‘I’m a Ranger. I’ve fought Indians and Mexicans alike. They’re both no good. No place in Texas for either of them.’

  For three days, as Ernst and the chieftains approached from the west, Otto strove to discredit the treaty, and he might have continued had not Franziska intervened: ‘Otto, there’s a new day. New rules. Ernst is right. It’s time for peace.’

  Macnab was so startled to hear a woman oppose him, a dutiful German housewife, that he stood agape. He looked at her, small, tense, her hair in braids as if she were still a young girl, and to his own amazement he dropped the argument. Taking her in his arms, he whispered: ‘I came home to build us a real house. Our home. If Ernst’s treaty makes it possible, I’m all for it.’ He kissed her twice, then added: ‘But when those Indians come into our town, I’m going to be watching. Very careful.’

  On a lovely May morning the Comanche arrived, fearful Indians on sleek ponies. Remembering well the tragedy their brothers had encountered during such a meeting in San Antonio, they insisted upon a safeguard, which Ernst interpreted: ‘They will lay down their weapons, all of them, even their daggers, in the middle of the roadway if we Germans would do the same.’ Meusebach pleaded with the townsmen to accept these terms, and when, against Otto’s advice, the pile was made, two Indian braves and Macnab were assigned to watch it.

  Otto had wanted to be inside the hotel to safeguard the meeting, but Meusebach had outsmarted him, so there he sat in the warm May sunlight, guarding the weapons and noticing where his Colts five-shooters lay in case he had to grab them in a hurry. He noticed also that the two braves were marking the location of their weapons in case of crisis: he judged that he could outgrab and outshoot them. Next he studied how, having gunned down the two guardians, he could whip about and aim his fire at the entrance to the Nimitz House to shoot the parleying chiefs if they attempted to join the fray.

  But the tragedy of San Antonio was not repeated, because John Meusebach, supported by Ernst Allerkamp, had convinced both the Comanche and the Germans that this little paradise set down among the hills, this land of tumbling fields and flowing streams, this Eden of bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush was indeed different, and that amidst the gunfire that echoed across Texas, here stood a refuge of sanity.

  The treaty was agreed upon. Braves and Germans recovered their weapons. Macnab, as he picked up his revolvers, muttered to himself: ‘Be on watch when the next Comanche moon rides the sky.’ He wanted peace as much as anyone in Fredericksburg, but he would continue to prepare for war.

  At Easter, as he had predicted, the Comanche came sneaking back, and on a night as calm and lovely as the hill country had known, they crept toward the sleeping town.

  Otto Macnab, always on guard, saw them first, terrifying figures on the silvery horizon, and running for his guns he shouted: ‘Franza! Quick! Bring the extra powder!’ But Ernst stopped him, pointing to the surrounding hills—and there in the brightness of the Easter moon the Indians had lighted signal fires, scores of them on all perimeters, signaling the Germans that in these valleys at least peace prevailed, now and in the future.

  Otto was amazed. With Franza beside him, he laid down his guns to watch the fires, but Ernst did not look. Uncas had lowered his head, and he was weeping.

  When General Zachary Taylor failed to crush the Mexican army in his questionable victory at Buena Vista, General Winfield Scott was given the job of disembarking at Vera Cruz and finishing the job in the vicinity of Mexico City, but with an army of only ten thousand American troops to subdue millions of Mexicans on their home ground, he was forced to take draconian steps. When guerrillas struck at his supply lines, secretly at night and outside the rules of what he called ‘organized warfare,’ he issued a startling set of orders, summarized in these words:

  No quarter will be extended to murderers, robbers or any man out of uniform who attacks our convoys. They are equally dangerous to Mexicans, foreigners an
d American troops, and they shall be exterminated.

  But you are to observe certain rules. Your prisoners are not to be put to death without due solemnity. That is, there shall be no killing of prisoners. What you must do is arrest them, hold them momentarily as prisoners, convene a hearing, sentence them on the spot, and then shoot them.

  Therefore, the Americans who had protested so vigorously the savage actions of General Santa Anna at the Alamo and Goliad were now going to operate under almost the same rules.

  Scott’s second action was perhaps the more significant, for in order to have at his command men prepared to act with such severity, he asked the army to call back into service as many Texas Rangers as possible, and in compliance with this summons, Captain Sam Garner, in retirement on his farm, agreed to reassemble his Company M, if he could have with him Otto Macnab and Panther Komax.

  Garner had no trouble signing up the Panther: ‘I’d rather fight greasers than eat!’ But after the captain had spent two days with the Macnabs, he knew that Otto was completely absorbed in his son Hamish and not at all disposed to return to Mexico: ‘Look, I got me a son. I want to stay here and help Franziska with the place. You know, Captain Garner, it really is something for a man to have a son. Can you imagine a tiny little hand like that … he can’t even keep it straight … holding a Colts one of these days?’

  Garner was finding it difficult to believe that Otto, deadliest of his Rangers, could be so domesticated, so on the third day at breakfast he turned to Mrs. Macnab: ‘Franza, I want to take your man with me again,’ and she agreed: ‘I think he’s ready to go now. Be careful. All of you.’

  When the company assembled, Otto was surprised to see Panther in the ranks: ‘How can you go back after they gave you that “Rogue’s March” in Saltillo?’ The big man brushed aside such apprehension: ‘That was up north. Scott’s down south.’ And when Otto reminded him that armies keep records, he said: ‘They do, that they do. Come peace, they don’t want bastards like me. But come war, and Scott has plenty of that, they’re glad to have us.’