by Drew McGunn
***
The road between the Trinity Gun Works and Liberty, Texas was only a few miles. After borrowing a fresh mount from the Berrys for Lieutenant Crockett, the three officers hurried back to the town, where McCulloch, acting in his capacity as general of the reserve regiments, penned orders mobilizing both the reserve and militia units, and notifying them of the Mexican invasion. From Liberty, they took the rest of the day riding to West Liberty, where they spoke with the local officers of the reserve companies, recruited among the workers of the Gulf Farms Corporation. After learning it could take as long as a couple of days to assemble the reserves, the two high-ranking officers decided to leave Lieutenant Crockett to aid the farmers in their mobilization. Johnston resisted the urge to race back to the Alamo. Major Dickinson would either hold them at bay or he wouldn’t. Instead of racing back to the Alamo, the best bet was to build his army around the two companies of regular Marines on Galveston island. The fastest way to Galveston was by way of the railroad to Anahuac.
West Liberty was connected to Anahuac by a thirty-mile railroad, the first in Texas. The train depot also played host to the town’s telegraph office, which went as far west as Columbus, and as far east as Beaumont. Before they embarked for Anahuac, Johnston and McCulloch sent mobilization orders racing along the telegraph lines across Southeast Texas.
22 March 1842
To: All reserve and militia officers
Mexico has invaded our Republic. San Antonio is the target. Assemble your companies and begin training. Further orders to follow.
Benjamin McCulloch, Brigadier General, Commander reserves.
Colonel Albert Sidney Johnston, Commander 1st Texas Infantry Regt.
The locomotive’s wheels spun along the iron rails and thick black smoke belched from the painted smokestack as the unadorned passenger carriage lurched forward, pulled by the locomotive and coal car. Wheels squealed against iron rails as the train picked up speed, rocking along the tracks, as it left the company town of West Liberty behind. Johnston stared out the dirty windows, as coal dust tinged smoke slipped by. He had read in the Telegraph and Texas Register, Texas’ widest circulating newspaper, about how the company which had built this railroad had nearly floundered when they had built the wood and iron bridge over the Trinity River. But after bringing in engineers from New York City, they had overcome the challenges and spanned the river. As he thought about this, he felt the train slow slightly as the tracks went up a slight incline, until it crossed over the river, rocking back and forth ever so slightly on the rails, until the train was once again on firm ground, racing at speeds nearing thirty miles per hour toward Anahuac.
The sun had fled the sky before the train pulled into the small port town later that evening. Steam vented from the train as it chugged to a stop. When Johnston and McCulloch climbed down from the passenger car, they were approached by a middle-aged man, wearing a blue, Texas Marine Corps jacket and brown civilian pants. “General McCulloch, we done heard about the invasion over the telegraph wire. I’m Wilberforce Atkinson, captain of Anahuac’s reserve Marine company. About half my boys live in and around town here, and we’re ready to answer the call, sir.”
McCulloch was not one to stand on parade and responded to the salute with a casual wave. “Where’s the other half of your company, Captain?”
“Around this part of the bay, sir. I’ve got a few of my boys out fetching the others. If you’re of a mind to, we’ll be ready to go with you or follow behind, as needed.”
McCulloch casually nodded. “Are there any boats available tonight? Colonel Johnston and I are of a mind to get to Fort Travis on Galveston as soon as possible.”
Atkinson pointed into the night toward the bay. “Other than a couple of fishing skiffs, no. There’s a barge due in tomorrow morning early, to take a shipment of cotton back to Galveston. Like as not, that’s your best bet, sir.”
Throughout the night, the reserve Marines of Captain Atkinson’s company filtered into town. When the sun had crested the eastern sky, most of the company’s sixty men were assembled in the town square. A low, squat steam barge pulled alongside an empty dock before the sun was more than a handspan above the horizon. Several Marines had thrown a heavy wooden plank from the dock to the ship’s deck, and before the barge’s captain could protest, Johnston and McCulloch were boarding the barge with their horses.
The barge’s captain, a grizzled, weather-beaten sailor appeared to be chewing at his salt-and-pepper beard before he managed to stutter, “What the hell is the meaning of this? Get those damned horses off my ship.”
As the town’s reserve company of Marines filed aboard, McCulloch strode over to the captain, resting his hand on the revolver on his belt, “I’ll damned well tell you the meaning of this. You’re going to get this tub moving and take us straight away to Galveston.”
At an even six feet in height, the general of militia was nearly a head taller than the weathered sea captain. But the older man stood his ground, as the Marines crowded onto the deck. “Why should I do anything for you? It’s not like we’re at war with anyone.”
McCulloch checked his impulse to lay the barge’s captain out. He chewed back what he wanted to say, and with as much civility as he could muster, said, “Unfortunately, that’s where you’re wrong. Mexico has invaded. Unless you want me to order these fine Marines to throw you overboard, you’ll untie this tub and get us back to Galveston, now!”
Ashen-faced, the old captain retreated away from the clearly angry McCulloch and ordered his men to slip the lines, and within a few minutes his barge was building a head of steam as it drifted back into the bay. A little while later, it was chugging toward the port of Galveston, trailing a thin black cloud of soot and ash.
***
The barge’s underpowered steam engine chugged across the smooth waters of Galveston Bay, the bow slicing through the water, causing ripples to radiate away from the slow-moving boat. The sun was past midday when the cotton barge slipped into a berth on one of the busy Galveston docks.
In the shipping channel, a warship rode at anchor in the water. From the stern, the national flag fluttered in the breeze. As the marines filed down the gangplank onto the dock, McCulloch pointed toward the warship. “Looks bigger than our steam schooners, Sid. I take it that’s our steam frigate from the Philadelphia Naval Yards?”
“Yeah, she’s quite the ship. She’s got twelve 42-pound carronades and a bow chaser that can throw a two hundred and twenty-five-pound shot or shell upwards of five miles.”
For the first time since learning of the Mexican invasion the previous day, the two officers smiled, imagining the damage the guns would wreak upon the Mexican navy.
After the Marines had disembarked, both officers led their own mounts down the heavy plank connecting the barge to the long wooden dock. The crowd on the dock was a mixture of reserve Marines from Anahuac and sailors and dock hands unloading freight from another ship, berthed along the other side of the dock. As he led his horse through the milling mass, he saw another blue-coated Marine edging through the crowd making his way toward them. When the Marine with sergeant stripes on his sleeves slid up next to Johnston, his eyes fell on the eagles on his shoulder boards, then slid across to McCulloch, and the stars sewn on his collars. His eyes momentarily went wide as he came to attention and sharply saluted. “We wasn’t expecting y’all, sirs. I was sent by Major West to secure this here barge. We just got word from the mainland about Mexico invading.”
As they reached the hard-packed dirt road, which took the trade of the world and routed it to nearby warehouses, Johnston and McCulloch climbed onto their mounts. Johnston ran his hand along his horse’s neck, calming the beast, who was still recovering from the few hours aboard the barge. “One moment, Sergeant.” Johnston turned, and scanned the men on the dock then called out, “Captain Atkinson! Secure the barge, we may need it again shortly.”
With that out of the way, he turned again to the sergeant and said, “Lead on.”
Although McCulloch was a general of reserves and militia, and Johnston only a mere regular army colonel, McCulloch deferred to the West Point graduate. Johnston asked the major, “Has the island’s reserves and militia been called up yet?”
Major West nodded. “Yes, sir. The order has gone out. There are two reserve companies of Marines on the island and we should have them assembled before the end of the day. I know that there’s also an army reserve artillery company assigned to the fort. I would expect they’ll trickle in throughout the rest of the day, too.”
McCulloch interrupted him. “What of reserve and militia infantry?”
West spread his arms and shrugged. “I’m not sure, General, sir. I believe there are a couple of your reserve companies on the island, but I’m not sure about the militia.”
McCulloch cussed under his breath as they made their way over to West’s small office. Johnston heard the reserve officer mention Thomas Rusk, the overall commander of Texas’ unorganized militia units, and McCulloch’s nominal superior. Johnson had heard McCulloch’s acerbic opinion of Rusk on several occasions over the years, as McCulloch had worked to build a reserve command, separate from the militia.
While the criticism wasn’t completely unfounded, most of the limited funds appropriated by congress for the reserves and militia found their way into McCulloch’s meager budget.
While waiting for the reserve companies to assemble, the two officers took over West’s office. As they passed the time, McCulloch’s dark thoughts about Rusk shifted to the coming campaign, “Sid, when I spoke with General Rusk, on paper, Texas has more than ten thousand men in the militia, excluding the reserves. There are around thirty-two hundred men in the reserves.”
Johnston leaned back in the hard-backed wooden chair. “I’m familiar with the numbers, Ben. What are you getting at?”
McCulloch was picking at a fingernail with a small penknife. “Until General Travis returns from Santa Fe, you’re the ranking officer in the regular army, Sid. You know what a mess the militia is. Any army we put together to defeat the Mexican army will include our reserve regiments. I think you should command our field army and I’ll start organizing our militia companies into something that might resemble a fighting force.”
Johnston ruefully chuckled, “Better you than me, when it comes to getting Tom Rusk to do something with the militia. Trying to bring order out of that chaos is like wrestling with a pig. You both get dirty but only the pig enjoys it.” Both men laughed at the mental image of a man and pig, that looked remarkably like Tom Rusk, wrestling. “Let’s see what that’s going to give me to work with.”
McCulloch scrounged around in West’s desk until he found a blank sheet of paper. “Let’s start here at Galveston. Around the bay, there are a total of six reserve Marine companies. About three hundred and sixty men. You just need to gather the other three companies around the bay to have them all. Throw in two companies of regular Marines that garrison the forts. On paper, that’s four hundred and eighty Marines. Then we have four battalions of reserve infantry, each with eight companies. That’s another twenty-four hundred men. We also have six companies of reserve cavalry. Call it three hundred men there. We have five batteries of artillery, but three of them are heavy artillery assigned to the forts guarding Bolivar pass, here.”
A ghost of a smile crossed Johnston’s lips. “If we could assemble the entire force, that would give us nearly three thousand two hundred men to take to the relief of the Alamo.”
Without intending to do so, McCulloch deflated Johnston’s optimism. “If we can get there in time. Otherwise, it will be a hell of a useful tool to avenge it.”
Johnston frowned at the militia general. “God help us if Santa Anna’s army captures the Alamo. Let’s hope Almaron can hold out until we arrive. I’d rather we be their saviors instead of their avengers.”
Chapter 11
23rd March 1842
Rippling in the steady breeze, the Texas national flag flew from the rear of the cotton barge, which rode high in the water, alongside the dock. The old captain stood next to the helm, resting his gnarled hand on the wooden wheel. Johnston thought he looked mollified. “Well he should, we’re paying him enough.”
He glanced toward Major West, who stood next to the gangplank on the dock. The major was looking back toward the road that connected to the dock, wearing an approving smile, as he eyed the five companies of Marines assembled along the road. The two companies of regulars were smartly standing at attention, in their dark-blue jackets and light-blue trousers. Instead of the black wide-brimmed hats worn by the army, the Marines favored a wheel style forage cap.
Along with Captain Atkinson’s company from Anahuac, the two reserve companies from Galveston were also drawn up on the road. While the reserves strived to match the uniformity of the regulars, there was still some variety in their clothing, including gray militia jackets and a smattering of butternut army jackets.
The regulars carried the new Model 1842 Sabine rifle. Most of the reserve Marines carried the older Halls breech-loading carbines. Johnston agreed with Major West’s silent approval. The regulars stood at attention, holding their rifles with an ease that came from long practice with the new weapons. Johnston wondered how much difference he would find in the skill level between the regular Marines and their reserve counterparts. He glanced toward McCulloch, who was standing beside him. The general of reserves had poured his energy into turning shop keepers, laborers, and farmers into part-time soldiers. Johnston mentally shrugged. No matter their training, he’d work them hard over the coming weeks. With any luck, by the time they met the Mexicans in battle, he’d have them in shape.
There were less than three hundred men standing at attention, waiting for the command from General McCulloch to load up. He swung down from his horse, landing lightly on the wooden dock. “Colonel Johnston, the sooner started, the sooner we can get back onto the mainland.”
The two officers led their mounts onto the ship, where a couple of sailors helped to secure the animals. As Major West started loading his men, McCulloch quietly said, “Do you think Galveston will be alright once the navy moves into the gulf?”
Johnston ran his fingers along the rough railing, “Apart from the artillery, there’ll still be around a hundred men defending Galveston. Unless Santa Anna changes how he uses his navy, I think Galveston will weather this just fine. If you’re worried, we can always send some of the militia to reinforce the forts.”
Fully loaded, the barge rode low in the water. Its captain came up and said, “The last time we were riding this low was after the last cotton harvest. It’s of no concern, I’ll get us safe across the bay. Where do you want to put into?”
Johnston frowned in thought. “Can you get up Buffalo Bayou, Captain?”
Worry creased the seaman’s wrinkled face. “I’d be risking my barge if she was half as full on that bayou. Lynch’s ferry, on the other hand, should work.”
“Then Lynch’s ferry it is, Captain.”
Most of the day was gone when the barge arrived at the ferry. A small dock extended into the wide, languidly flowing San Jacinto River. Normally, the ferry, which was the only regular service along the river, carried passengers and freight between Houston and Harrisburg to the east. The Marines offloaded at the small dock and Major West had them organized and marching west on the Harrisburg Road. Johnston and McCulloch were the last to disembark. Once on dry ground, the commander of the reserves offered his hand to the other officer, “I don’t envy you,
Sid. You’ve got more than two hundred miles between you and San Antonio. When I get to Liberty, I’ll send orders by telegraph for reserve units to assemble west of Houston. The militia, I’ll order to assemble at Liberty. It’s on the rail line between West Liberty and Anahuac. I like my odds for being able to supply the militia there.”
“Thanks, Ben. I hope and pray we can send Santa Anna’s army packing without having to bring up the militia, but if we need to, at least we’ve got someone like you to organize them. I don’t envy you about that. Getting the militia organized is going to be like riding herd on a bunch of cats, but if anyone can do it, it’s you.” With a salute to the colonel, McCulloch wheeled his horse around and cantered to the northeast.
Johnston watched until McCulloch disappeared around a heavy copse of trees. He nudged his horse around, toward the road down which the Marines had marched. Dust swirled into the air, clogging the road. Momentarily he was surprised at the amount of dust kicked up by a light battalion. He smiled sardonically. Before long, with any luck, there’d be a lot more men marching toward San Antonio. He’d make sure they’d kick up enough dust to choke Santa Anna. He dug his heels into his mount and galloped after the Marines.
The twenty miles to Houston was simply too far to march with most of the day already gone. They made camp less than an hour later, before they lost the last light of day.
The next morning, as the little column marched westward, word of the invasion had already reached the farmland through which they passed. Women and children came out from their homes alongside the dusty road and cheered the men as they marched along. Over the course of the day, scores of men, belonging to several reserve companies, streamed down the road behind them.