To the Victors the Remains

by Drew McGunn

  The lieutenant motioned for the Marines to lower their rifles. As they complied, an involuntary sigh of relief escaped Mejia’s lips. When the officer climbed down and stood before him, he said, “I’m from Fort Moses Austin. The fort fell when the Mexican army crossed into Texas at Laredo.”

  The young officer was genuinely shocked. “What the hell? When did this happen? We’ve heard nothing of it.”

  “The fort fell when Captain Neill was killed on the fourteenth of March.”

  The lieutenant paced back and forth, visibly upset. “What happened after that,” he eyed the dirty chevrons on Mejia’s sleeves, “ah, Sergeant?”

  For the past three days, all Mejia had been able to do was survive, only one step ahead of his pursuers. Now, what had happened on that dirt road south of Reynosa came back to him in all its horror and his eyes welled up with tears as he recounted the barbaric execution of the remainder of his company. When he’d finished, the Marines standing around, listening were visibly angry. Several were shouting that they should burn down the sleepy farming village of Matamoros, on the other side of the Rio Grande.

  Mejia looked at the lieutenant, attempting to gage which way the wind would blow. He saw a man of no more than twenty-five years, who by virtue of a congressional appointment, commanded the thirty men assigned to garrison the little fort at the mouth of the Rio Grande. The way he continued pacing told Mejia all he needed to know, the officer clearly agreed with the sentiment. But he stopped and took stock of his men and saw they were itching to give a little payback.

  He waved his hands until the men grew quiet. There were feral gleams in their eyes. All they needed was his permission. But when he spoke, he said, “Calm down, Marines! We’re not going to repay evil for evil, here.” He turned around, looking at each of his men, until his eyes fell on one of the older Marines. “Tell me, Parson, what does the good book say about that?”

  The Marine who had fallen under the lieutenant’s gaze was easily the oldest man in the fort, his gray hair stuck out from under his hat. He returned the officer’s gaze with a glare of his own. “Lieutenant, I hate that name. I ain’t been a man of the cloth since the Comanche killed my wife and children.”

  The young officer’s only response was a withering glare of his own. It lasted until the older soldier growled, “Fine. In the apostle Peter’s first letter, we’re not to be rendering evil for evil, but to repay evil with goodness. But, Hell’s bells, Lieutenant, I ain’t affixing to go heaping blessings on those bastards across the river.”

  The officer waved away the last comment. “Shut it, Parson. I believe we would dishonor our oaths to the Republic if we took it upon ourselves to go across the river and kill a passel of Mexican dirt farmers. They are innocent of any crimes committed by the Mexican soldados who killed the sergeant’s company.”

  Mejia swiveled his head around and saw the men were disappointed, but it didn’t keep the Lieutenant from forging on. “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. We’re going to get Sergeant …”

  He paused, until Mejia said, “Mejia.”

  “Sergeant Mejia onboard the packet ship at the mouth of the river and get him back to the government as quickly as possible.”

  ***

  The young officer had been true to his word. Mejia was shocked at how quickly things happened after the lieutenant had decided on a course of action. Mejia had been bundled onto a packet boat before the end of the day, and the next morning, with the tide, the packet boat had raised anchor and hoisted sail.

  The 9th of April found Sergeant Mejia sitting in a rowboat in Copano Bay, being rowed ashore in the tiny town of Copano. After the boat deposited him on a rickety dock, he decided the town wasn’t much to look at. On a busy day, there might be a couple of hundred souls in town. The buildings were a ramshackle lot. Those closest to the bay were mostly warehouses. Wagons rolled in and out of town, carrying loads to and from the warehouses. Despite the town’s small size, plenty of goods flowed from several ships riding low at anchor, into the warehouses, and from there, to towns across South Texas, including San Antonio.

  In his jacket, which he had cleaned and patched while on the packet boat, he carried a letter from the Lieutenant at Fort Brown. It instructed any citizen of the Republic of Texas to provide Sergeant Mejia every assistance necessary.

  It had garnered him a ride on a military supply wagon, carrying gunpowder and boxes of artillery shells from the United States, to the garrison at the Alamo. As the wagon rolled along the gulf road, Mejia had warned the driver of the wagon, a freedman, that there was a risk the Mexican army could still be in possession of San Antonio and the Alamo.

  The driver tilted his head back and laughed until tears ran down his ebon skin. “Like as not, that might be true. But it’s also true that I’m black and you’re Mexican. If they’s there, I don’t figure they’ll do much to us.”

  Mejia sat back on the bench, biting his tongue. The memory of Reynosa was fresh on his mind. He still carried the knife he’d taken from that Mexican sergeant. It hung at his belt. “I’ll not let myself get caught a second time.”

  Eleven days and more than a hundred thirty miles later, on the 20th of April, the wagon crested a low rise, and in the distance, Mejia and the driver saw the town of San Antonio, spread across the prairie before them. There were no burned buildings on the edge of town. He said a prayer to the Blessed Virgin that the town was still in the hands of the Texians.

  The driver cracked his whip over the heads of the mules hauling the wagon and it lurched forward, eating away the remaining distance. Along the road, they saw a couple of tents alongside the road, and several soldiers in butternut waved at the wagon, flagging it to stop at the checkpoint. Seeing the Texian soldiers approaching, Mejia realized that he’d been holding his breath for too long. He exhaled in relief. He was home.

  Chapter 21

  Spring was in full bloom on the South Texas prairie. Bluebonnets and Indian Paintbrushes carpeted the ground in a riot of blues, purples, reds, and yellows. A dry creek bed ran alongside the military road. The men of the 1st Texas Infantry moved with purpose down the hard-packed dirt road, as the distinct hump over the chapel became visible on the horizon. They were nearly home.

  The past six weeks had been the longest in Will’s life, since leaving Santa Fe behind. He felt a profound relief, looking at the walls of the old mission-turned-fort, even if only through the spyglass’ telescoping lens. He trained the lens on the flag waving proudly atop the chapel, and realized he’d been holding his breath until he brought the red, white, and blue of the Texas flag into focus.

  He slipped the spyglass into its case and wheeled his mount back onto the road where he took in the sight of the seven hundred fifty men of the 1st Texas marching in route step along the road. They were dusty, and their uniforms were caked with the grime of the road. He was proud of his regulars. They had marched over eight hundred miles in only forty-two days. Seguin’s four companies of cavalry included Hay’s Ranger company, and they were riding on the column’s flanks. Bringing up the rear of the column were the six horse-drawn field pieces, rumbling over the road on their caissons.

  As they drew closer to the walls of the Alamo, the men walked a little straighter and they switched from route step to a cadenced march. From within the column someone began to sing a song written along the way back from Santa Fe, and the entire little army joined in.

  There’s a Yellow Rose of Texas I’m going there to see,

  No other soldier knows her, no soldier only me!

  She cried so when I left her, it like to broke my heart.

  And when I go to find her, we never more will part.

  She’s the sweetest little rosebud, this soldier ever knew,

  Her eyes were bright as diamonds, they sparkled like the dew,

  You may talk about your dearest Mae and sing of Rosie Lee,

  But the Yellow Rose of Texas beats the belles of Tennessee.

  Unbidden, a smile crept on Will’s fa
ce, as the men enthusiastically sang the Yellow Rose of Texas. In this world, far removed from the one into which Will had been born, there had been no San Jacinto and no legend of Emily West. But one night around the campfire, he had written down what he recalled of the old song, sharing it with some of his fellow officers. He’d claimed that Becky was his sole inspiration.

  Within a few days, the song had caught on and it had become a favorite marching tune for the army. It joined other songs the soldiers used to entertain themselves along the march, like The Girl I left Behind, Gary Owen, and Yankee Doodle.

  As the column swept along the road, Will’s attention was drawn to the military cemetery east of the fort. It had swollen from just a couple of dozen graves to several hundred. Scores of dirt mounds the telltale sign of soldiers who had died in defense of the Alamo. He was starved for information. The most recent news had reached the army several weeks earlier.

  The column turned from the road, heading toward the fort’s gates. Moments later, the lead elements swept through the gates and into the Alamo plaza. He followed the vanguard and saw the edges of the plaza was lined with soldiers. Atop the walls, more men crowded, watching his army’s return. Apparently, Johnston had managed to mobilize a sizable portion of the reserves.

  He wheeled out of the line of march, as rank after rank filed into the plaza. Through the noise of traipsing boots, he heard his name called. He turned and saw Becky. In her arms was their daughter, Elizabeth. She was nearly ten months old. It startled him how much she had grown in the span of just a few months. Despite the cacophony of noises in the plaza, the little girl turned her head, following her mother’s finger, pointing to Will. She giggled and laughed when she saw him. She hadn’t forgotten her papa. Despite the fatigue and exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him, a lightness settled over him as he leapt from his mount and ran to his wife and child, catching them in a fierce embrace. He wiped away the unbidden tears as he took his daughter in his arms and hugged her tightly to him, as she squealed in protest.

  Standing behind his stepmother was Charlie. Gone was the little boy. The youth had grown in the time he’d been away, and his head came up to Will’s chin. The boy smiled when Will’s eyes fell on him. With his wife clinging to his neck and his daughter in one arm, he beckoned his son with the other. Slowly, reluctantly, he crossed the short distance and let Will draw him into the family’s embrace. As Charlie buried his head into Will’s shoulder, he felt the boy shudder then heard the muffled sound of him sobbing. Confused, Will looked to Becky. She shook her head, leaned in and whispered, “Oh, Will, it was horrible! The Mexicans nearly wiped out the fort before Sidney’s men came to our rescue. Poor Charlie was helping to defend the chapel, at the last.”

  He was shocked at how close things had come to a complete disaster. How close he had come to losing the people who had come to mean everything shook him to the center of his core. He vowed he would never let anything befall his family, nor let them come so close to disaster. After a lengthy moment, he disentangled himself from his family. Ignoring decorum, he planted a kiss on his wife’s lips, and plopped a wet kiss on his daughter’s forehead, then he took Charlie by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes, “Son, you’ll be alright. When time permits, we’ll talk about what happened. Okay?” Charlie brushed tears from his eyes and nodded.

  ***

  21st April 1841

  He sat in the same chair he’d called his own some three months previous. Across the desk from him sat General Johnston. The two had talked late into the previous evening about the relief of the Alamo. Will had wanted to learn of how he had managed to bring such a sizable relief force to the fort.

  Now, after sleeping with Becky for the first time in far too many nights, he said, “I know I’ve said it last night, Sid, but I cannot tell you enough how grateful I am that you saved my family from falling into the hands of the enemy.”

  Johnston was clearly uncomfortable with the praise. He cleared his throat before replying. “Ah, hell, Buck, it’s not anything you wouldn’t have done for me, and we both know it. But, as God is my witness, I wish we would have arrived before Woll and his troops got inside the Alamo’s walls. We could have saved more than two hundred lives.”

  The detailed casualty reports of the Alamo’s defenders lay on the desk, at Will’s fingertips. He glanced down at the sheaf of papers. “What madness has descended upon Santa Anna, Sid? It wasn’t enough that they killed our wounded within these very walls, but to execute prisoners in Reynosa, after honorably surrendering. It violates every rule of war. Has Santa Anna lost his mind?”

  Johnston’s eyes drifted down to the casualty report on the desk then hardened when he looked up. “We shouldn’t rest until we’ve strung his “bastardness” up from the highest tree in Texas, Buck. While I agree with your assessment from last night, that we can’t kill every Mexican who surrenders, but by God, they’re going to have to pay for this.”

  A knock at the door ended the conversation and several other officers entered Will’s office. Colonel Seguin led the way, followed by Sam Houston, acting as colonel of militia. Behind him came Majors West and Wyatt. Behind them appeared a nervous looking Sergeant Julio Mejia. The last to enter, and close the door behind him, was Captain Hays.

  As the men found seats around the desk or leaned against the walls, Will looked at the Tejano sergeant. He was thin to a point of gauntness. His freshly laundered uniform, sported several patches and new seams where the cloth had been mended. The Alamo’s supply of uniforms had been depleted by Johnston’s reserves. Unfortunately, Mejia was hardly the only soldier making do with a uniform badly in need of replacing. His well-mended uniform hung loosely on his frame and his eyes were sunk deep in his head. Will wondered, “What must he have endured?”

  Will coughed, cleared his throat, and said, “Sergeant Mejia, I know you’ve made your report to other officers, but I would like to hear it directly from you, what happened at Fort Moses Austin and afterwards?”

  Mejia had replayed everything over in his mind countless times. Recounting the events for the officers in the room flowed smoothly from his lips. Until his narrative carried him to the massacre on the road south of Reynosa. He choked up, as he recounted the brutal execution.

  Every man in the room was visibly angry as he struggled to give testimony to the events on that fateful day on the road south of Reynosa. He pushed through and described the deadly cat and mouse game he and the Mexican sergeant had played. He downplayed killing the other man and concluded with his arrival at Fort Brown.

  Will shook his head. The sergeant’s ordeal was the stuff from which legends were born. He made a mental note to write up a recommendation to send to congress regarding the need to create awards. There was no doubt in his mind that if anyone deserved a Congressional Medal of Honor, it was Sergeant Mejia. “I’ve read the remainder of your report, Sergeant. I commend you for your gallantry in bringing word of this … crime home to us. Thank you. You’re dismissed.”

  After the sergeant left, Will said, “We’re at war, gentlemen. Let there be no doubt in any of our minds this recent incursion by General Woll was a direct threat to our sovereignty. The reason I’ve asked you all to join me is to determine how do we best respond to it?”

  Johnston played with the corner of his mustache, considering the question before he said, “We have mobilized our reserves, sir. As we’re all aware, a significant portion of them are present here in the fort and in town. Based upon our best estimates, we outnumber Woll’s Army of the North. We should pursue his army and destroy it.”

  From his place along the back wall, Captain Hays nodded. “Just give us the word, General, and we’ll ride down there and kick their teeth in.”

  Sitting on the corner of the large desk, Colonel Seguin held up his hand, as though trying to stop someone. “I share General Johnston’s opinion that we can destroy Woll’s army. The problem is behind that army, Santa Anna will be sending a second, and perhaps even a third. If not this year, th
en next.”

  He stood and grabbed a map tube from a corner of the room and rolled a map across the desk. It showed all of Texas and part of northern Mexico. “The oath-breaker would rather send armies north than acknowledge the treaty of Bexar. Before we race down to the Rio Grande, let’s take stock of the situation. We have nearly the entire regular army assembled here,” he pointed to San Antonio on the map, “but less than half of the reserves have arrived. My counsel is that we should wait, replace our losses, transfer from McCulloch’s militia the best he has into our active reserves, and continue training our soldiers. And then, once we have done those things, we go after the head of the snake himself, Santa Anna.” He took the penknife he’d used as a pointer, and drove the tip into the desk, below the map, where Mexico City would be if the map continued to the south.

  The room erupted into pandemonium. As they shouted back and forth across the room, Will gaged that his officers were evenly split between Johnston’s proposal and Seguin’s. When the men settled down, Will asked, “Sid, how many men could we move to attack General Woll’s army, if we set off tomorrow in pursuit?”

  Johnston stopped twirling his mustache as he pulled a notebook from his vest pocket and hastily wrote some numbers down. After a moment, he looked up and said, “Probably around twenty-six hundred men. At best guess, Woll’s got a little more than two thousand.”

  Will looked thoughtful. “That’s not bad. It would be the largest command we have ever fielded. But we’ve got two proposals on the table and I’d like for you to review it, too. If we wait and rebuild our regulars and train up our reserves, while picking the best of the militia to expand the reserves, how many men would we be able to field?”

  Johnston’s chair creaked in protest as he leaned back and stared at the ceiling as his mind worked out the details. After a long delay, he said, “If we were to wait until the autumn to attack, we could probably mobilize as many as twelve infantry battalions.”