by Drew McGunn
Mollified, the officer took a white flag and carried it across the field, toward the fort.
***
One of the soldiers standing above, on one of the parapets called, “Sergeant, there’s a rider approaching. He’s under a flag of truce!”
Mejia came out of the captain’s tent, carrying most of the fort’s communication and dumped it in the camp fire. The breakfast fire had already been expanded when a few timbers from a small corral had been added to the blaze.
The pain was becoming unbearable in his leg as he eased himself down on a stool, using his rifle as a crutch. He looked at the deadly rifle in his hands, wishing he had been able to kill Santa Anna’s soldiers. Instead, he and the rest of the survivors faced an uncertain future. He called one of the other men over to him and handed the weapon over. “Break the stock and throw the whole damned thing in the fire. Before that jumped up popinjay gets here from the Mexican camp, I want every rifle tossed in the fire.”
He had no choice but to surrender, but he would be damned if he would let the company’s breech-loading rifles fall into enemy hands.
When the officer arrived, Mejia was surprised to learn the terms of surrender were unchanged from earlier. He passed along he message he would lead his command from the fort, unarmed.
***
The entire first brigade was standing at attention, facing the fort, when General Woll saw around sixty men march out from the earthen defenses. Behind them, from the center of the earthen structure, flames licked into the sky, throwing ash and soot into the air. Their dirty uniforms, normally a particularly dingy shade of tan, were stained brown with grime. In contrast to the navy-blue informs of his own infantry, he found the Texians’ uniforms drab and ugly, but they blended in well against the backdrop of the prairie.
As the little band of soldiers crossed the field, and approached the Mexican line, Woll noticed there were no officers. At the head of the column was a swarthy, short man with sergeant stripes.
The little column stopped short of the Mexican line and waited. The Colonel of the regiment in front of which the Texians had stopped, rode toward the column. Those Texians who were able, snapped to attention. The sergeant in command, snapped a salute, and in fluent Spanish said, “I am Sergeant Julio Mejia, Texas Infantry. As the ranking non-commissioned officer, I surrender my company and place me and my men at your mercy.”
The next day, the 15th of March, as General Woll’s army began the one hundred sixty mile march to San Antonio, Sergeant Mejia and his fellow Texians found themselves marching southward, into an uncertain future.
Chapter 9
Despite the chill of the north wind blowing from the Sangre de Cristos Mountains, Will was sweating as he sawed at his mount’s reins. He pulled his hat off and used it to wipe the sweat from his brow. The horse responded to his rider by dropping his head and tearing a mouthful of dry grass. Clumps of snow dotted the ground over which his army was marching. He turned in the saddle and studied the weary soldiers who were traversing the same ground they had covered less than a month before. The column of infantry had been trudging along the road, which paralleled the meandering Rio Grande. The soldiers were dusty and tired. He gave the order for the command to take a short break.
The small army had barreled back down the Camino Real de Tierra Adentro over the past twelve days, breaking camp with the dawn, and marching fifty minutes every hour, for ten hours a day, with an hour’s rest for lunch. Three miles each hour. Thirty miles a day, on the army’s best day. But they had done it. Where his horse ate at the sparse foliage, the road forked. Straight ahead, another day’s march was Ysleta. To the right, the road veered down the bank of the Rio Grande and forded the river. Another day’s march down that route was El Paso del Norte.
A company of Rangers garrisoned Ysleta. Food supplies in the village were adequate for a few dozen men. Across the river, El Paso del Norte held several thousand souls. Will frowned as his eyes flickered between both routes. He weighed whether to head south, into Mexico or to continue along the road back to Ysleta. As he stared down the road, he heard someone clearing his throat and turned and saw Major Wyatt.
“Thinking about what happens if we go for del Norte and then later find out that Santa Anna hasn’t invaded, sir?”
Standing still, the cold breeze quickly dried the sweat on his forehead and Will returned the hat to its rightful place. “The thought had crossed my mind. I know we discussed this before leaving Santa Fe. Even if Santa Anna doesn’t throw a conniption fit with us taking everything he surrendered in the treaty of Bexar, if we go into Mexico and pillage that town, we’ve as much as declared war by any reasonable standard.”
Will heard Wyatt chuckle. “You mean any other standard than the one Santa Anna uses? If you’re of a mind to hear my thoughts, there’s not enough food and supplies in Ysleta for a hundred men, much less a thousand. Then there’s another two hundred miles back to the depot on the Pecos. Tell me, General, where do we get the food and fodder for our army if not del Norte?”
Wyatt’s argument was the same he’d been wrestling with for the last day. Will grimaced. “Damn you, Payton. I’ve spent the last day trying to find a reason to avoid taking the army into Mexico and when push comes to shove, there’s nothing else to be done. Give the order, we’re going to take El Paso del Norte.”
The column, which had been taking a ten-minute on-the-hour breather, was back on their feet, and swung south, leaving the level, graded road, and made their way across the shallows of the river, leaving the land claimed by Texas and entering Mexico.
Later, if not for the twilight, Will would have been able to see the white spire of the Mission of the Lady of Guadeloupe, as his soldiers made camp only a few miles to the northwest of El Paso del Norte. As the moon crawled into the night sky he was joined around a small campfire by Lt. Colonel Seguin and Major Wyatt. He watched the major poke a thin twig into the embers and pull it out, its end burning brightly, and use it to light a cigar.
When Wyatt settled back into a reclined position, puffing contentedly, Will said, “Part of me wants to send our boys into that town with their bayonets fixed. To Hell with whatever defenses the Mexicans may have erected.”
Seguin nodded as he filled a cup of coffee from a pot which had been percolating in the red-hot coals. He took a sip gingerly before he replied. “My family’s hacienda, south of San Antonio, lies on the most likely route the Mexican army would follow in an invasion. One thing I know for certain, Santa Anna won’t forgive me or my family for what he sees as betrayal, and frankly, Buck, I worry about them.”
Will’s sigh was loud. “I know that feeling. I worry constantly about Becky and the kids in San Antonio, too. It would behoove us to tread lightly, if the situation allows. What I was thinking is that we should send an officer under a flag of truce into town and give them an opportunity to surrender.”
After blowing a ragged smoke ring, Wyatt said, “That matches my thinking, General. I’d rather see a bloodless victory than one that sees the shedding of our boys’ blood.”
Will stared into the glowing embers, thinking about what the morrow would bring. Eventually, he broke the long period of silence. “Juan, I want you to ride into town tomorrow morning under a flag of truce and demand their surrender.”
Hidden by the shadow of his hat, Will heard the Tejano’s soft laughter. “Send the Mexican in. Is it because he can speak Spanish or because he’s expendable?”
There was no edge to the voice. Will chuckled. “If you’d rather, I’ll send Major Wyatt.”
At that, the infantry major choked on the cigar smoke, and started coughing, as he eyed Will disapprovingly. Seguin reached over and pounded the other officer on the back until his coughing subsided. “Dios mio, Buck, but have you heard Peyton try to speak Spanish? He’d just as likely butcher it up and give our surrender.”
***
The next morning, as a weak sun failed to pierce the fast-moving clouds, Juan Seguin prepared to ride into El P
aso del Norte. His butternut jacket was brushed as clean as could be done while in the field. His black boots were buffed to a shine and his black slouch hat was worn at a jaunty angle as he grabbed the pommel and swung into the saddle.
He pulled his saber from its scabbard and tied a white linen shirt to the blade. As he prepared to head down the road leading into town, he saw General Travis approach. Behind the general were a dozen of Captain Hays’ Rangers. “Colonel Seguin, your looks alone should drive terror into the hearts of your enemies.”
Seguin warmly smiled. “Ah, flattery will get you nowhere, General. Any final instructions?”
His commander pointed toward the Rangers behind him. “While I’d prefer they think you’re riding in alone, I think Maria will thank me if these boys keep an eye on you.”
Seguin raised his eyebrows, as his lips turned upwards. “God help you if my wife finds out you’re tossing me to the lions.”
As Seguin rode into town, he saw the Rangers filtering into side streets until he alone continued toward the central plaza.
Once he had passed a half dozen places at which road blocks could have been erected, Seguin’s curiosity was piqued. He had seen no soldados, and very few people moving about. And those who saw him riding along the road with his flag of truce fluttering in the breeze, disappeared just as quickly back into their houses. As he entered the central plaza of El Paso del Norte, a large church covered a quarter of the plaza, but the church’s bell tower failed to catch his attention. On the opposite side of the plaza stood a two-story adobe building, above which flapped the Mexican flag. A dozen men carried muskets and shotguns and they stood in front of the building, watching Seguin warily.
He was more than halfway across the plaza, when from behind the armed men, a door swung wide and a tall man, dressed in the finery of a Spanish don stepped through it. He stepped down from the porch and the men parted to let him through. Seguin cantered up to the don and drew up the reins, bringing his horse to a stop. “I am Lt. Colonel Juan Seguin, commander of the cavalry of the Republic of Texas. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”
The don, who appeared around thirty years of age removed his hat with a flourish and gave him a half bow. “Guadalupe Miranda, at your service, Colonel.” His eyes fluttered to the side and his calm demeanor slipped for the briefest of moments. “And here I thought you had come alone.”
Seguin shifted in his saddle and craned his neck and saw two of Hays’ Rangers kneeling in a doorway on the far side of the plaza, their rifles covering the armed men behind Miranda.
Seguin shrugged nonchalantly. “Just insurance, Señor Alcalde. It would appear to me that your city has been abandoned to the tender mercy of the Texian army by your Centralist overlords.”
Miranda gave a sad shrug that could only mean it couldn’t be helped.
Seguin ignored the helpless gesture. “My terms are simple. You will provide us forty tons of foodstuff and ten tons of fodder. Additionally, we’ll require twenty wagons and their teams to haul the supplies. For your cooperation we’ll leave our army outside of town.”
Miranda’s placid veneer cracked. “Forty tons! That’s highway robbery, Colonel! You would take the food out of the mouths of our children.”
Seguin frowned then casually shrugged. “The alternative is that we bring our soldiers into your humble town and take it ourselves. The choice is yours, alcalde,” he gestured to the south before continuing, “None of this would have been necessary had your central government not chosen this spring to try to conquer Texas. Again.”
Miranda stood, staring hard up at Seguin, who glared back from atop his horse. After an interminable moment, Seguin prompted the alcalde, “Which will it be, Señor? Shall I bring in my soldiers or will you collect the required supplies?”
Miranda spat onto the ground and swore. “Damn you to Hell, Colonel Seguin. You’ve given me a Faustian bargain. You’ll leave us hungry before the next harvest, but we’ll collect the supplies and wagons. God alone knows what your soldiers would do to my town.”
As the town of El Paso del Norte was plundered of most of its food, its denizens made their way into the plaza where they mutely stared at him and his well-armed Rangers. The injury made worse by the fact that it was Miranda’s guards who collected the supplies from them at gunpoint. By nightfall, Seguin watched the twenty wagons rolling north, toward the nearest ford, leading toward Ysleta. He remained in the plaza, surrounded by the handful of Hays’ Rangers.
When the last wagon creaked under the heavy load, rolling out of the plaza, Seguin turned to see Guadalupe Miranda standing on the porch of the government building. The alcalde had upheld his end of the bargain. The Tejano officer swept his hat from his head and gave the Mexican official a half bow. “On behalf of General Travis and the army of the Republic of Texas, I bid you adieu, Señor Alcalde.”
Dismayed, Miranda’s eyes flickered to the road down which the wagons had rolled. “Easy words, Colonel. The only consolation I take is that had you brought your army into town, many women and children would have been left homeless had you burned and looted, too. But these same women and children may go hungry now.”
Seguin hardened his expression. “Take your petition to Santa Anna, sir. Were he honorable, your town would be untouched. When we catch up with him, there’ll be Hell to pay.”
Chapter 10
Colonel Sidney Johnston leaned against the low wooden table, watching the other man kneel on the manicured grass, aiming the rifle downrange. Johnston flicked his eyes toward the target, more than two hundred yards away. It was a crude drawing of Santa Anna, which had been drawn by one of the gunsmiths from Trinity Gun Works. A moment later, the gun fired, recoiling into the other man’s shoulder. Despite a half-dozen rounds fired in quick succession, the acrid smoke was whisked away on a light breeze.
Johnston saw the faux Santa Anna’s face ripple as the bullet smacked the target, joining a few other tightly grouped holes placed there only moments before. “What do you think of it, Ben?”
Benjamin McCulloch levered the breech open, letting tendrils of smoke vent out the open breech, before returning it to the table. “How long before some of these start making their way into my reserve regiments?”
As they walked toward the target, along with Andy Berry, the son of the gun works owner, Johnston said, “Providence and President Crockett alone can answer that. Let me rephrase that. The appropriation bill belongs to congress. We know they haven’t a clue, so unless God can tell you the answer, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”
Berry, walking behind the two officers, added, “Y’all keep sending payments and we’ll keep on providing all the rifles we can make.”
Johnston’s glower at the young artisan was tinged with a sardonic smile. He couldn’t help but like the young man, who was the irreverent tails to his father’s dour heads. “Andy, how many of these have the gun works produced?”
Berry cocked his head to one side as he worked the math in his head. “Near enough fourteen hundred of the model 1842 Sabine rifle, Colonel.”
Johnston smiled at the number. It was nearly the exact number he had calculated. “Tell you what, Ben, if congress doesn’t abscond with our armament appropriation for the next year, we ought to be able to arm two of your reserve regiments by the year’s end. Now that most of your reserve regiments use the Halls carbine, what do they think of it?”
“Compared to an old muzzle loading musket, they’ve taken to it, like the boys in the navy take to Galveston’s ladies of the night when they’re on shore leave.”
Johnston interjected, “The sailors or the whores?”
McCulloch gave his counterpart in the regular army a dirty look for the interruption and proceeded to ignore the comment. “The downside to the carbine is that it lacks both the range and the punching power that the Sabine rifle has. But it’s accurate enough at distances a musket can’t even dream of hitting.” As they neared the target, he turned to Berry, who was still a few paces behind, �
�How many of the Halls have y’all made?”
As Berry worked the math in his head, his lips quietly moved, until he spoke up. “Since getting the license from Harpers Ferry to manufacture the carbine in ’39, we’ve manufactured around four thousand of them. Based on the number of them that have cycled through our shops for repairs, I’d guess that General Travis must have ordered upwards of three thousand of them from Harpers Ferry.”
McCulloch unpinned the hand-drawn target and admired the tight grouping in the head of the ersatz Santa Anna and folded the target up. “I’ll be keeping this one. Might be the closest I ever get to plugging that pompous jackass.”
As they returned from the firing range to the complex of buildings which constituted the gun works, McCulloch asked, “Sid, what did you and General Travis do with those other Sabine rifles? You wouldn’t have needed more than eight hundred to arm your infantry battalion.”
After passing through the main building, which housed several forges, where workers were crafting firearms, they emerged back into the sweet-smelling air, in front of the gun works. Johnston flicked a few bits of coal dust from his uniform, which had acquired them as he walked through the building, before he replied. “More than a thousand were issued to the infantry. Another two hundred were assigned to the Marines. I think there’s between one and two hundred that are at the Alamo waiting to be distributed to our soldiers guarding the military road to El Paso. Speaking of Marines, how many companies of reserve Marines have you been able to recruit?”
“We’ve managed to muster four reserve companies. Two on Galveston Island and two more in towns and villages surrounding Galveston Bay. If I can find the right officers, I’m pretty sure there are a couple of more companies of Marines we could muster.”
As they bid good-day to Andy Berry and swung into the saddle, Johnston saw a cloud of dust racing down the road, toward the gun works. His hand edged toward the pistol at his belt as they watched a man racing toward them, galloping into the yard of the gun works. As the man pulled on the reins, dust swirling around him, Johnston recognized Lieutenant Robert Crockett. The young officer gave a perfunctory salute. “Colonel Johnston! The Mexican army has crossed the Rio Grande! They’ve invaded!”