by Aaron Gwyn
The man traversed block after block in this fashion until he was no more than thirty yards from the window where I watched and then I saw his face. It was the young officer I’d spoken with several days before at Walnut Grove. I couldn’t stand to crouch there gawking while such a courageous man was gunned down and I couldn’t look away. The Mexicans on the roof across from me were watching too. They stood and leaned out over their sand bags to take aim, but before they could fire on him, the lieutenant and his gray horse passed below us and went pounding up the street, toward the outskirts of the city. I craned my neck to see him, but a building blocked my view. A cascade of rifle-fire broke out in that direction and I prayed the officer’s luck would hold; he’d exposed himself so bravely and here I was cowering.
I glanced over to the Mexicans on the rooftop, cocked my pistol and felt the trigger spring out against the pad of my forefinger. I braced both forearms on the window sill and sighted down the barrel, putting the blade of the front sight on the bottom brass button of the Mexican’s double-breasted coat. I judged the distance to be about thirty yards. I thought about that and the fact I’d be firing at an upward angle and moved my front sight onto the top, left-side button of my target’s jacket. When I squeezed the trigger, the man toppled back and disappeared. The soldier standing beside him began looking around to see where the gunfire had come from and he’d just glanced down at our window when I cocked the hammer and shot him too. Then I ducked down and scrambled back again the wall. My heart was galloping in my chest and my ears were ringing. I’d never fired a pistol indoors before; the sound had nowhere to go and I might as well have fired a cannon.
I looked at Juan and held up two fingers. He nodded. The room was so thick with gun smoke I could barely make him out. I heard McClusky start coughing. Juan cocked his pistol and stepped to the window and as soon he did so a spray of dust erupted and he dropped to the floor.
“Juan!” I yelled, thinking he’d been shot, but he just motioned for me to get down. I sprawled onto my belly as a thunder of musket-fire rang out from the rooftops and pieces of adobe began raining down.
I don’t know how many Mexicans were shooting, but at that moment it felt like Santa Anna’s whole army. The walls were coming completely apart, musket-balls ricocheting around the room. I glanced over to tell McClusky to get low, but he was already on his stomach with his fingers in his ears. He was saying something I couldn’t make out.
In the meantime, Juan had belly-crawled over to the wall at our right and was hacking out another passageway with his hatchet. It took him a little longer, working from the ground like that, but pretty soon he’d opened a moon-shaped gap like a little arch, and started beckoning us toward it. McClusky and I didn’t need much coaxing; we went clambering through like lizards.
This new chamber was different from the first two we’d invaded—long and low-slung with a walnut table that ran the length of the room. A banquet hall, I reckoned. Or some kind of hall, anyway—certainly no residence. A Mexican flag was presented along one wall and there were displays of Spanish armor such as the conquistadors must have worn. We seemed to’ve hacked our way into some sort of martial gallery: the weapons mounted on the walls ought to have been signal enough that our luck had taken a miserable turn. But we were so relieved to be out of that room the Mexican sharpshooters were firing into that we were slow to comprehend our predicament. I still had three shots left in the pistol I held, and five more in the one stuck in my belt. I can’t recall how Juan was situated. I don’t think McClusky had fired his guns at all.
There was a passage at the far end of the hall where the building dog-legged to the right, and the three of us moved toward it rather carelessly. My concern was for finding our way outside to rendezvous with our company—moving through a hostile city cut off from your fellow troopers will put a skeersome sensation in your belly. I thought of Sam and how, when the bullets were flying, he made you feel safe. I’d once had a similar feeling about Juan.
We reached the passage, turned the corner and stepped into what looked to be a canteen. Here, there were a number of small wooden tables, and at these tables, six or seven Mexican troops taking their midday meal. The nearest one wasn’t ten feet from me. The men must’ve been so absorbed by their repast that they’d not heard us coming down the passageway. Perhaps the cascade of gunfire outside the little refectory had masked our footsteps.
Juan, McClusky, and I froze like statues and the Mexicans froze as well. I seemed to notice a thousand things all at once: a row of escopetas leaning up against the far wall; one of the soldados knifing through the bloody meat on his plate; the drone of flies buzzing about the tables; the startled eyes of a boy soldier of perhaps fifteen years; the perfectly spotless baked clay floor, swept so clean it looked to’ve been painted; the smell of hot wax and the flickering of candle-flames sawing back and forth.
The man seated nearest had his back turned to us, and noticing the expression of his comrades’ astonished faces, turned to glance over his shoulder. We’d all been caught up in a breathless moment, sharing the shock and surprise. This man’s movement seemed to shatter it. McClusky cocked his pistol and placed it to the soldier’s head.
When the gun discharged, the Mexican’s teeth scattered across the floor like a handful of gravel; the man collapsed onto the table, McClusky already pointing his weapon at another soldado, firing again and again and again, dropping his weapon and reaching for the other in his belt; Juan shooting too, the Mexicans just reaching their feet before being blown down, several already sprawled on the floor as blue gun smoke drifted through the room. It happened very fast, yet seemed remarkably slow, as any man who’s ever been in a gunfight can attest. The Mexicans seemed to fall like ash, McClusky firing into them, Juan firing, sparks leaping from the muzzles of their guns. My ears rang so loudly I no longer heard the shots, just a high, steady whine. When the hammer of McClusky’s pistol snapped on a spent cap, the sound was like a hand slapping a bolt of cloth.
The dead and dying men lay all over, some wailing, one crawling toward a Brown Bess leaning against the wall. It had a rusted bayonet attached. Juan stepped over and seized it, then started around the room, spearing the survivors. I stood there watching. I hadn’t fired a shot.
McClusky had noticed the soldado belly-crawling toward the row of weapons; he tracked through the blood the man had left behind him, his boots leaving pale prints in the wet, red smear. He stepped on the Mexican’s back, tucked his pistol back in his belt and drew his Bowie knife.
Well, that was the last feather. The room smelled like feces and iron. I turned, stumbled back down the passageway and into the room with the long table and aired my paunch on the floor. I’d seen every foul sight a battle could present, but it seemed a fresh kind of slaughter had entered the world, some brand-new viciousness. I retched again. It felt like someone had shoved a fistful of cotton down my gullet.
When I righted myself and got my breath, I went back to join my comrades. Juan was moving around the room, searching the dead men for anything of value. Which might seem unusual, but is as common in warfare as udders on a milch cow. The oddity was that I’d never seen him do something so covetous. Then my eye fell on McClusky.
The Irishman was on the ground beside the Mexican whose throat he’d just cut. He’d rolled the man onto his back. The soldado’s blinking eyes watched his killer, lingering just at the edge of life. McClusky bent down and got very close to the man’s face. I thought he was about to kiss the Mexican, but that wasn’t it at all.
The soldier was panting. Then he drew a long breath that would be the last he’d ever take and when he started to exhale, McClusky got so close that their lips nearly touched. As the Mexican released his final breath, McClusky began to suck it in, inhaling it the way a cook breathes in the steam off a pot of beans.
A ghastly wet rattle came from deep in the Mexican soldier’s chest and his eyes opened even wider.
&nbs
p; Then the man was gone. McClusky leaned back and sat on his heels. His face was relaxed. He seemed to be anywhere but a city where two armies were caught in a murderous clash. His good eye glanced up and took me in, but I was fixed on the other: the pupil large and black as the bore of his pistol.
* * *
We ventured out into the street on the other side of the building and fell in with a company of U.S. volunteers who’d been fighting house to house. I talked with a grizzled old sergeant and learned that our indoor engagements with Mexican troops was the Battle of Monterrey in miniature: all through the city, rangers had been tunneling through walls to get at sharpshooters on the rooftops, fighting them hand to hand.
We made our way into the heart of the city and the last pocket of Mexican resistance, and by evening, General Taylor had negotiated an armistice that would last for six weeks. In the celebration that commenced when we heard Monterrey was ours, I was separated from McClusky and Juan. Which was fine by me: after witnessing the set-to in that dining room, I decided I needed a break from my comrades. As dark drifted through the bloody streets, I happened upon the young lieutenant who’d ridden so bravely past the enemy marksmen, a feat that would’ve made a Comanche jealous.
We met in a stone plaza and clasped hands. His face was blackened with gun soot, but his blue eyes were clean and bright.
“Lieutenant,” I said, “I spied that maneuver you performed earlier. That’s as canny a bit of horsemanship as I’ve ever seen.”
His face blushed so powerfully you could see a flush of dark red beneath the layer of dirt and grime.
“I’m thankful,” he said, “that Nellie wasn’t injured. It isn’t Christian to use an animal so.”
The cobbled streets were sticky with blood. You could hear the screams of dying men like barbarous birds.
“Well,” I told him, “I’ve not seen a great deal of Christian behavior since we crossed the Rio.”
The lieutenant’s mouth tightened and he shook his head.
“No, Captain Lammons. Taken altogether, this has been a wicked affair. I don’t think the Mexicans were equipped for such a fight. Today’s battle was simply murder.”
* * *
Still, the Rangers had acquitted themselves valiantly and I heard tell General Taylor was proud he’d mustered us into service. Yet he only had us on loan, and I would’ve loved to have seen Old Rough and Ready’s face when Jack Hays went to inform him that many of the Texas boys had already overstayed their enlistment. A ranger’s term of service was generally a year, and most men in ranging companies had signed on the previous fall. No doubt, General Taylor made all manner of entreaties to Colonel Hays as the Texans were the best cavalry he could’ve hoped for, but Jack was true to his word, honoring his rangers over the demands of the nation we’d just joined. The colonel would lead the Rangers north on the second day of October.
I took this as excellent news. The whole campaign had soured something in me. My term of enlistment had expired some months ago, but I didn’t know exactly when; as I’d had no intention of ever mustering out of the service.
Those final days in Monterrey, I’d wake in the cool autumn mornings and feel a chill in my bones. What did I have to show for my years of service? The Republic I’d fought for no longer existed.
A more sobering thought would hit me when I considered taking my land payment and mustering out of the company: where could I possibly go? There was Noah, of course. But if I took my headrights around Webber’s Prairie, would my jealousy let me live so close to Sam, seeing him week to week with his frontier wife and son?
There had been a time when Juan might have factored into my plans, but that had passed. I hadn’t seen him since the evening we were separated, during the merrymaking that accompanied our taking the city. I reckoned this was likely for the best; I did not want to know what all McClusky had done. Colonel Hays was allowing his men to indulge in spirits, but he’d issued three general orders that might as well’ve been carved in stone: no ranger was to plunder the homes of Monterrey; no ranger was to harm the citizens’ livestock; no ranger was to lay a hand on any woman or child.
I suppose I oughtn’t have been surprised when Isaac Casner came knocking on the door of the little house where I was quartered. It was the evening before our departure for Texas and something anxious had been brewing in me all week. When I opened the door and saw Ike standing there, I knew it was about Juan and Felix before he’d spoken a word.
“Cap,” he said, “you’re going to want to see this.”
I put on my hat and followed Uncle Isaac through the winding streets.
By the time we reached Hays’s quarters, a crowd had formed around the building, Texans crowding the doorway and bunched around the open windows, leaning against the sills. Ike made a path for us, and I nudged in between the dirty troopers, stepped up through the doorway and entered a hall that was ringed about by rangers, most of whom I knew, a number of which I’d ridden with over the past decade.
Jack Hays stood at the far end of the room, the short man with his pale eyes blazing; in front of him, two men stood with their backs to me, one short, one tall. I stopped and stood there. I’d never attended a court martial before. How do you court-martial men who were kept in service by little more than the promise of land titles that were likely to be contested?
The colonel had turned to confer with a man whose face I recognized, but whose name I didn’t know. Then he turned back to Juan and McClusky.
“Well,” he said, “if either of you have ought to say in your defense, now’s the time to do it.”
They stood there a silent moment, Juan staring at his feet, McClusky in a posture that was far too casual for the taste of Jack Hays.
“Colonel,” said McClusky, “I’ll not be made a catspaw of.”
“Catspaw,” said Hays, his brow rumpling. “What are you talking about?”
I saw the problem right away: Felix was absolutely snapped. You could hear it in his voice and see it in the way he swayed on his feet.
McClusky said, “I mean to say that you ordered us to take the city. Private Juarez and myself shot as many Mexicans as any regular, I’d wager. More than most, mind you.”
“The problem,” said Hays, “isn’t how many Mexicans you shot. The problem is the two of you were reported robbing houses, and then the lieutenant here finds the plunder among your belongings. Explain yourself.”
McClusky said, “None of that coin belonged to us, Colonel.”
“Yes,” said Hays. “That is why you’re standing here.”
He studied both of them.
“I’ve no objection to you men tying on the bear, but we’re answerable as to how we conduct ourselves in this city. Do you wish the honor of Texas to be stained and her best men branded sneak thieves?”
I realized then that Hays felt guilty about the savagery of the fighting he’d ordered his men into, about the rangers he’d lost. He had no reason to explain himself to a couple of privates, and for their part, they were lucky not to’ve already been the guests of honor at a string party. He was giving them every opportunity to exonerate themselves.
Juan, I thought. Say something.
And then, as if in answer to my prayer, Juan coughed into his fist and said, “I myself have no concern over what a Mexican brands me.” He eyed Hays for a moment before adding, “Colonel.”
A hush passed through the room. Several men cleared their throats.
And still the colonel showed restraint; he’d no desire to bring down the hard hand of punishment on men who’d fought so bravely for him, and he certainly didn’t want other rangers to see him doing so. Perhaps he was wondering how he’d ever recruit another company if word got out that he’d executed a couple of Texas boys for taking a little kelter off people who’d sniped at them from rooftops.
“Private,” he said, “who is your captain?”
I stepped forward.
“Colonel Hays,” I said. “I’m these men’s captain. Duncan Lammons.”
Hays nodded and motioned me up. I walked over and stood beside Juan, feeling every eye in the room on me, the back of my neck hot as an iron. I suddenly felt that I was guilty of something I couldn’t name.
Maybe I was.
“Captain Lammons,” said Hays, “these are your rangers?”
“Yessir,” I said.
“They stand accused of a serious offense.”
“Yessir. I understand that.”
“Did you have knowledge of it?”
“None at all. Not until Private Casner came and got me in my quarters about half an hour ago.”
“Are you willing to stand for them?”
“Sir?”
He said, “I asked if you’re willing to stand for them, Captain. To vouch for their service. What is your opinion of these men?”
I glanced beside me, catching the sheen of gray stubble from Juan’s face, the red tuft of McClusky’s filthy beard. I thought about Felix bending over the soldado, sucking his last breath away. I thought about the conversation I’d had with Juan en route to Mexico, that he known what I was the whole time. I swallowed very hard and looked back at Hays.