To the Victors the Remains

by Drew McGunn

  TO THE VICTORS THE REMAINS

  Book 3 of the Lone Star Reloaded Series

  A tale of alternative history

  By Drew McGunn

  All rights reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s overactive imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or locales is coincidental. Fictional characters are entirely fictional and any resemblance among the fictional characters to any person living or dead is coincidental. Historical figures in the book are portrayed on a fictional basis and any actions or inactions on their part that diverge from actual history are for story purposes only.

  Copyright © 2018 by Drew McGunn

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recordings, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright holder. Permission may be sought by contacting the author at drewmcgunn@gmail.com

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  V1

  Table of Contents

  The Story So Far

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  New Traditions

  About the Author

  The Story So Far

  In 2008, SSGT Will Travers couldn’t have imagined how wrong a routine supply run could go, as he counted down the days until his National Guard unit would rotate back stateside. That is, until an explosion overturned his Humvee and propelled him through space and time.

  When he woke, he was trapped in the body of William Barret Travis, with only a few weeks to go before his fateful death at the Alamo in 1836. With no way to return to the present, and with no desire to become a martyr for Texas liberty, Will could have fled. He had nearly two centuries of history he could exploit. Instead of fleeing or dying at the Alamo, he chose to do the impossible. He rallied every Texian volunteer between the Rio Grande and San Antonio, and met Santa Anna at the Rio Grande where he stopped the dictator with the help of David Crockett, Jim Bowie, James Fannin and seven hundred more patriots.

  As Santa Anna brought up his reserves, Will sent most of his men north, to build new defensive positions on the Nueces River. He stayed behind with David Crockett, Juan Seguin and a handful of brave riflemen and gallant Tejano cavalry. They fought a delaying action, leading the might of Santa Anna’s army into the jaws of the trap on the Nueces. The flower of Mexico died on the fields of South Texas, as Will led the Texian army to victory.

  Victory over the Mexican dictator was only the first obstacle to overcome. Having won the war, Will was determined that he would win the peace. As a student of history, he knew that without a change in direction, Texas would implement a constitution that would trap thousands of slaves and freedmen in one of the most oppressive slave codes in the American South. Indians, like the Cherokee, who were trying to put the pieces of their society back together after President Jackson’s genocidal Indian Removal Act, would be driven out of Texas. Thousands of Tejanos, who had lived in Texas for generations, would be forced from their homes, as men like Robert Potter and James Collinsworth strove to make Texas a welcome place for Anglos only.

  Will allied himself with David Crockett and Sam Houston to thwart the worst of the pro-slavery faction, and passed a constitution that gave the Cherokee a path to citizenship, and allowed for freedmen to remain in the Republic and for slave owners to free their slaves. For a man of the 21st century, it seemed too little, but it was a start.

  The constitutional convention was still in session when an assassin attempted to kill Will. He killed his assassin, and David Crockett used the shock waves sent through the convention to elevate him to the rank of general.

  With a promise from David Crockett that the hard-won gains wouldn’t be traded away, Will dives into transforming the army, but he has barely begun before the frontier erupts into violence as the Comanche ride out from the Comancheria, attacking Fort Parker on the edge of the Texian settlements.

  Will had barely begun transforming the army when the frontier erupted into violence as the Comanche storm out of the Comancheria, attacking settlements along the frontier. Pressed by the Republic’s congress to stop the raids, Will rushes north, and discovers the Comanche are masters at staying one step ahead of his army. Forced to retreat, he refines the tactics and develops new weapons designed to bring the Comanche raids to a stop.

  The following year, he returned with an army rebuilt to face the lightning fast attacks from the Comanche and led them into the Comancheria where they burns several villages to the ground and captured more than a hundred prisoners. He offered terms for the release of the prisoners, an end to the raids and release of hundreds of Anglo and Mexican prisoners held by the Comanche. The war chiefs refused and they assembled the largest war band the Comanche had ever fielded and rode to San Antonio.

  In an epic battle of civilizations, Will’s new model army defends the town and forces the Comanche to seek peace.

  In the years that followed, Will helped Texas to find its economic footing, and invested in free labor farming projects and banking. But he never lost sight of his responsibly for the army, and he continued to work with inventors to refine the weapons of war.

  By the time President David Crockett’s term in office drew to a close in 1842, he ordered Will to lead the army west, to secure the boundary agreed upon by Santa Anna and the Texians six years before. It was a herculean task for the small army, and Will was determined to rise to the occasion.

  Chapter 1

  3rd May 1841

  The young officer swept his black wide-brimmed hat from his head and took a once white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the grime from his face. The midday sun would have felt hotter if not for the cooling breeze from the north. Even so, the officer thought it warm as he unfastened his tunic’s top button. A quick glance toward the sun overhead wasn’t as important as the rumbling in his belly. “Alright, Mr. Cavanaugh, let’s break for lunch.”

  A large, barrel-chested man with sunburned face and bright red hair climbed down from a wagon filled with dirt and turned to a group of laborers. “Ye heard Lieutenant Wagner, boys. Cesar’s got lunch ready.” To the German-born officer, the Irish foreman’s pronunciation of his rank as left-enant sounded wrong to his ears. Worse yet, was the way he pronounced the ‘w’ as ‘double u’, instead of the correct ‘v’. As the laborers received their food from the back of another wagon, the officer watched the men segregate themselves as they ate. The Tejanos were the largest group of laborers. As they found places to eat, the sound of Spanish could be heard, as they ate and chatted with each other.

  The second group of laborers were the freedmen the army had hired. Their ebon skin, the lieutenant thought, was a much better protection against the harsh west Texas sun. As they talked and ate, their patois revealed their former status as slaves.

  The last group, were the Irish. As English landlords had raised rents across the Emerald Isle, the number of Irish turning up in Galveston had climbed. Nearly a thousand had immigrated to
the Republic the previous year. Cavanaugh, unlike the other Irish, was literate. It was the reason, if Wagner was honest about it, why the Irishman was the foreman for the two score workers.

  After Wagner had eaten, he climbed atop the wagon and watched the laborers finish eating. The wagon was a custom-built device, constructed by the Republic’s small engineering company. A wide, heavy iron cylinder was fixed behind the seat. A team of two horses pulled the contraption. Its purpose was to compact the roadbed, which the lieutenant’s crew was building. Again, glancing at the sun, the young officer called out, “Mr. Cavanaugh, get the men back to work. This road isn’t going to build itself.”

  As the men returned to work, Wagner’s attention was drawn to a team of soldiers in butternut uniforms, walking across the rolling prairie toward the work crew. Each carried the new breech-loading Model 1842 Sabine Rifle. They were part of the squad of infantry assigned to Wagner’s construction crew as guards. With the Comanche war a few years in the past, the lieutenant hoped the guards were unnecessary. The soldier in the lead, with two stripes on his sleeves, saluted. “Lieutenant, sir. There’s a band of Indians to our south. They’re heading this way.”

  Wagner scowled as he looked to the south, “How many, Corporal?”

  “No more than five or six. They weren’t wearing any face paint.”

  Wagner had not heard of any Comanche bands ranging through this part of the country but having responsibility for forty workers and his own platoon of engineers, taking risks wasn’t something his Prussian sensibilities cared to do. “Alright, Corporal, let’s see what they’re up to.”

  The four riflemen deployed to the south of the workers, where they waited along with Wagner, until they saw a half-dozen Indians ride over the rolling prairie. The soldiers held their rifles at the ready, waiting to see if the mounted warriors intended any mischief. One of the warriors detached himself from the other riders and approached Wagner’s position. When he was still ten yards away, he called out in Spanish. One of the soldiers, a Tejano, said, “He says he was sent by some hombre named Flacco. Says they came from Bexar a few days ago. Lt. Colonel Seguin’s command will be on the march at the next moon and he has been asked to find out how many more days until we reach the second supply depot.”

  Wagner realized he’d been holding his breath and as the soldier translated, he let it out. Lipan Apaches, then. Flacco was a friend of Lt. Colonel Seguin. Wagner’s recurring fear was to see Comanche raiding south of the treaty line along the Red River. As he considered the answer, he looked behind his laborers in the direction from which they had come. A narrow, brown ribbon of road cut across the prairie. It traced back to the first depot, almost ninety miles east, on the upper Guadeloupe River, and from there back to San Antonio, another eighty miles away. At the speed they were building the roadbed, another three days were needed to reach the second depot.

  As he considered the distance, it was still another four hundred miles to El Paso. At the rate they were building road, Wagner had calculated his crew would get there sometime after judgement day.

  After the soldier told the Apache they would arrive at the second depot in a few days, the warrior swung his mustang pony around and joined the other Apache. Then they wheeled around and trotted away, in the direction from which they came.

  ***

  The breeze blew through the awning, causing the canvas to flap. Will Travers stood next to a support pole, looking to the west. Even at a distance of more than a mile, he could see the lone star flag of the Republic flying above the old chapel of the Alamo. It was a testament to how much had changed over the past five years since he and President Crockett had led the forces of Texas revolutionaries against Santa Anna’s veterans.

  As the cool northern breeze overcame the warmth of the setting sun, Will still marveled at the circumstances which led him to this place. A little more than five years before, he had been riding shotgun in a military Humvee in Iraq, when their convoy had been ambushed. His driver had driven over an IED, flipping the utility vehicle. When he came to, he’d expected to find himself in a military hospital, not trapped in the body of a nineteenth century adventurer. After five years, he’d long surrendered hope of swapping back into his own body. Whether a trick of fate or the hand of God had played a role in the transference, he couldn’t say. But he found more purpose to his life in believing God, rather than random fate, had led him to this point.

  Waking up in the body of William Barret Travis had been disconcerting, to say the least. Even after all this time, it stretched his mind to consider how different the world was becoming since he, President Crockett and the army of Texas had won independence on the Nueces River in 1836. In the world living only between his ears, Sam Houston had crushed Santa Anna and Crockett and Travis had died at the Alamo. In the world he now inhabited, Will commanded the Texian army, David Crockett was president, and Sam Houston chose a life of semi-exile among the Cherokee of east Texas, after losing the presidential election of 1836 to Crockett in a landslide.

  The wider world wasn’t the same either. Henry Clay had won the presidential election of 1840 in the United States and all Western Europe now recognized Texas’ independence. Will had no idea when he recommended to Crockett that Mirabeau B. Lamar be appointed chargé d'affaires to France, that the ambitious former Georgian, would take to Europe like a fish to water, or that Europe would reciprocate.

  Other changes had happened much closer to home. He had married Rebecca Crockett nearly two year

  earlier and their first child together was due soon. Will couldn’t help but smile, as he looked vacantly toward the old fort. “Not bad for a guy who was supposed to die a martyr.”

  The sound of a throat clearing brought Will back to the present and he turned. Colonel Albert Sidney Johnston sat in a rickety field chair across a table from a young officer. “General, I was asking Captain Hays here, how much longer he expected his command to continue their game.”

  Twenty-four-year-old Jack Hays spread his hands wide and grinned at the Colonel. “Hard to say, sir. Last week, the game continued until almost dawn the following day before the second platoon captured the first’s flag. This evening, I think, shouldn’t be as long. This time, when one of the boys gets tapped out, he’s ‘dead’ for good.”

  Will watched his second-in-command and saw the irritation in his body language. Even though a graduate of West Point, Johnston was more innovative than many of his fellow graduates. “We’re putting a lot of time and effort into your boys, Captain. Letting the wargame drag into the night raises the risk of injuries.”

  This wasn’t the first time Johnston had voiced this concern. Before Hay could respond, Will interjected, “Colonel, while I agree with you about greater risk for injury at night, the skills that Hays’ boys are building, I think outweigh the risk.”

  As the sun sank below the western horizon, Will said, “Aside from the infrequent noise, it is nearly impossible to hear them as they move back and forth across the field. On our campaign to El Paso these skills could allow us greater control over a battlefield.”

  Will watched as Johnston pursed his lips. This was a familiar battleground between the two men. Part of Will agreed with the colonel. The risks associated with training at night was higher than during daylight hours. But the benefits, Will thought, outweighed the risks. But he conceded, Johnston’s tendency toward conservatism when it came to risking his soldiers’ lives was a trait he admired.

  As the moon crested the eastern sky, Will heard a noise behind him and he turned and saw two men, dressed in black clothing, with their faces and hands blackened with charcoal. One of them held a checkered flag with a “1” stenciled on it. The other saluted Captain Hays, saying, “Private Watkins, second platoon, sir! I believe first platoon has misplaced this.”

  The wargame over, the men of Hays’ Rangers came together around a sizable campfire as the two lieutenants debriefed their men over the things that went right and wrong for both platoons. After a moment, Will
tuned them out and turned back to Hays and Johnston. “Jack, the use of black clothing for your soldiers was a stroke of genius. How prepared are your boys?”

  Hays watched the men around the campfire, as the soldiers talked through the game. Finally, he turned back to Will and said, “Every one of them can hit the fly off the back of a bull at three hundred yards under the right conditions and more than a few can hit the center of a bullseye at five hundred yards. Most are tolerably good with a pistol out to a hundred feet but beat all at fifty feet or less.”

  Hays paused, gathering his thoughts for a moment, “General, you told a story about a Chinese army and how they could fight and kill with just their hands and feet. That’s gotten me thinking about ways to train our boys in hand-to-hand fighting. We’re still trying to figure out the details, but should you happen to see a Chinaman who knows that way of fighting, send him our way.”

  Hays’ ability to adapt filled Will with hope for the coming campaign. Will had discovered his own tendency to micromanage and had been second-guessing his decision to send Lt. Colonel Seguin as the expedition’s commander. The leadership skills Hays had demonstrated as he had drilled his company of Rangers buoyed Will’s optimism that Seguin had good officers under his command.

  Coming back to Hays’ comment, Will said, “I’ll keep my eyes open for any Chinamen, Jack. But keep up what you’re doing with the unarmed combat and keep us appraised. But the reason I dragged Colonel Johnston out here this evening was to discuss the coming campaign with you. Juan is due to head out on the first of June with his seven companies. We had hoped to start earlier but delays with expanding the quartermaster corps has required our timetable be adjusted.”

  Will continued, “We’ve stationed the two platoons of Company H at the first two depots, along with a few men from the quartermaster’s corps to manage our supplies there. Additionally, we have a platoon of engineers building a military road between here and the second depot. We have two more depots to put out there, to the west. Tomorrow morning, Company I is scheduled to head out, to garrison the next two depots. The fly in the ointment is that we have no idea where we’re going to position them. That’s where your company comes in.”