by Drew McGunn
Chapter 7
12th March 1842
The residents of the town had taken to calling their new village, ‘Nuevo Laredo,’ in honor of the town from which they had fled, when the Texian forces had claimed the northern side of the Rio Bravo del Norte. By March of 1842, nearly two dozen adobe brick houses surrounded the small plaza. Scaffolding ringed the low walls of the small church, under construction along the south side of the plaza.
On top of the wooden frame of the scaffold, a tall officer balanced himself on a wide wooden plank. His brown hair, receding from his forehead, except for the widow’s peak, rustled in the cool, morning breeze. Adrian Woll had been in the service of Mexico for nearly a quarter of a century, but his gaunt, Gallic features still remained, although he noticed the waist of his pants needed to be let out, again and his facial features were rounder and fuller than they had been when he was a young man. At forty-seven years old, he sighed. Having survived more than a few brushes with death already, he knew he had already lost the battle with middle age.
“Enough wool gathering. I can’t turn back the clock.” Woll hadn’t climbed the scaffold to dwell on the past or his own mortality. He raised a telescoping spyglass and swept it across the other side of the river. Nestled in a bend of the Rio Bravo del Norte sat a squat, earthen fort. Built a few years earlier, grass now grew on its steep sides. Embrasures where artillery could be placed, were gaping holes cut into the earthen walls. But no guns were visible.
Woll had been present with his Excellency at the Battle of the Nueces six years before, only barely escaping capture. Born in France and having served in the defense of Paris when he was barely yet a man, then emigrating to the United States shortly thereafter, gave Woll a broader appreciation for the norteamericanos than most of Santa Anna’s officers held. He had learned, when serving as an adjutant to General Winfield Scott, the Americans were individually as brave as any soldiers he could imagine, but they lacked discipline. No, he thought, it wasn’t necessarily a fluke the men under Crockett and Travis had beaten the Mexican army before, but his army wasn’t the same that had been defeated some half-dozen years earlier either.
Over the past week, he had sent men across the river, dressed as traders, but they had ferreted out the information he sought. A single company of infantry held the fort, perhaps as many as seventy soldiers. Against that, Woll’s advanced column of twelve hundred men was approaching Nuevo Laredo from the south. His army’s lead brigade, he was sure, would make quick work of the crude fortification. He was certain he could wipe the defenders out if they didn’t surrender.
In the pocket of his navy-blue dress pants, Woll fingered a set of rosary beads and said a quick prayer to the Blessed Virgin it wouldn’t be necessary to sacrifice the men of his army to reduce the fort. He was glad there were no cavalry within the fort’s walls. Even south of the border, they had received reports of the Colt Paterson revolvers. He shuddered to think of the loss of life if he were forced to send in a charge against that kind of firepower.
Before the present campaign, he had studied the carbine the Texians had purchased from the United States. The 1833 Halls carbine was a mechanical wonder of precision engineering. Its parts were interchangeable. He had watched one of their gunsmiths in Mexico City disassemble two of the carbines and reassemble the weapons with parts from either gun. There was no difference in the weapons’ performance. This spoke well of the United States’ ability to mass produce the weapons. While there was much to like about the gun, he had been less impressed with the amount of gas which had leaked from the breech when the gun was fired. It had reduced the carbine’s velocity and range. Before coming north to take command of the Army of the North, he had watched a Cazadore practice with the weapon. Despite the leakage, the skirmisher was able to hit his target at more than two hundred fifty yards each time.
Knowing the Texian soldiers in the fort would be using the same rifle, Woll had taken this into account and had devised a strategy against the carbine. He would neutralize it, of that he was certain.
***
Fort Moses Austin was a five-sided earthen fort. Nestled in a bend of the Rio Grande, two sides of the fort covered the river while the other three overlooked the irrigated fields, where farmers grew corn and other grains. A long, wooden platform ran the length of the fort’s interior wall, facing the Rio Grande River. Riflemen could stand along the platform, covering the ford between Laredo and Mexico. Andrew Neill, captain of Company N of the 1st Texas Infantry, leaned against the top of the earthen embankment, studying the other side of the river. A spyglass rested atop the wall. It wasn’t needed to see the regimental flags of the Army of the North. More than a thousand troops were parading into the tiny village on the river’s southern edge.
His voice shook with emotion as he called down into the fort. “Sergeant Leal, I need you up here right away!”
A short, stocky Tejano, with sergeant chevrons on the sleeves of his butternut jacket, climbed the ladder to the platform, joining him in looking across the water. As the sergeant stared at the army, he muttered, “Mierda.” He shook his head as he turned to the captain. “I don’t think they’d bring that many men forward if they didn’t intend to cross, Captain.”
Captain Neill scowled at the army deploying across the river. As he spoke, the brogue of his native Scotland came through, “Yeah. Unfortunately for us, the only thing standing between that army and San Antonio is this wee fort.”
The sergeant glared at the assembling force before replying. “We’ve got plenty of ammunition, Captain. They try attacking the fort, and they’ll find the entry fee expensive.”
“There’s not going to be a we, Sergeant.” Neill nodded toward a small corral. Several horses remained in the fort from the last visit of one of the Ranger companies. “I want you to take those horses and ride like Hell for San Antonio. Grab Private Jackson, if the Mexicans have slipped any cavalry across the river, two stand a better chance than one of getting through.”
As the sergeant began to protest, Captain Neill leaned in close, “Listen to me, Lucas. If they cross the river, there’s not a hell of a lot that we’re going to be able to do to stop them from storming the fort. Major Dickinson must be warned, and I can’t go. If there are Mexican cavalry swarming between here and there, you’ve got a better shot than most at getting through.”
Neill watched, and saw the sergeant wanted to argue but eventually realized the truth of his words. The Tejano’s eyes fell, and he said, “Thank you, Captain. Jackson and I will get through and warn the Alamo. I know you can slow them down, sir.”
The Scotsman slapped the Tejano on the back and watched him climb down the ladder. He looked back across the river and said to himself, “And how the Hell am I supposed to do that?”
Twenty minutes later, Neill watched as the two men rode out the gate, each leading a remount, heading north. Not normally a devout man, Neill said a prayer that they would get through.
***
Sergeant Lucas Leal turned around in his saddle and looked at the low, squat fort a few hundred yards behind him and Private Jackson. A few men, standing on the earthen walls waved at them. He didn’t want to wave back. It seemed a final act, as though saying goodbye for the last time. Some of the men he had served with for years.
Before he had ridden from the fort, he had been saddling up the horse when he felt a tapping on his shoulder. He had turned and saw Sergeant Julio Mejia. They had known each other for years, growing up together in San Antonio. When his friend spoke, his voice had been full of emotion, “Lucas, be careful out there, hermano. We’ve got these walls to protect us, and all you’ve got is a horse’s ass between you and trouble.”
Mejia handed him a hastily scribbled note, “If something should happen, please give my parents this letter, and tell them I love them.”
Leal tried pushing the letter away, “Tell them yourself, Julio. Nothing’s going to keep you from seeing them again.”
Mejia turned, stuffed the letter i
nto Leal’s saddlebag. “Pendejo. Take the damn letter,” he forced a smile onto his face, “just in case.”
No, he wouldn’t wave goodbye to his comrades. He would see them again. He sawed the reins around and dug his heels into the horse.
A few miles north of the river, they followed the road north toward San Antonio. They had not been on the road long when they spotted a small dust cloud to their front. Leal pulled on the reins and waited to see what would materialize from the brown, swirling dust. At first, he caught the glimmer of metal reflecting off the sun, then as the cloud grew closer, he saw mounted men carrying lances.
He swore in Spanish. No Texian soldiers carried lances. It appeared the Army of the North was attempting to seal off Laredo from the rest of the Republic. As the lancers spotted Leal and Jackson, they picked up their speed, racing to close the gap. Leal said a hasty prayer to the Virgin of Guadeloupe as he swung down from the saddle and pulled his rifle from the scabbard. Jackson copied his action, putting the horse between himself and the advancing lancers.
Leal levered the breech open and rammed the paper cartridge into it. He finished loading then stepped around the skittish mount, drawing a bead on the leading rider. He held his breath, steadying his nerves, and counted to three. Then he slowly squeezed the trigger. The recoil kicked back, but he held steady until he watched the rider slowly sag to the right and topple from the horse.
A few seconds later, Jackson fired. He had hurried his shot, hitting the mount instead of the rider. They watched the second horse crash to the ground, throwing the rider head over heels into the red dirt.
The third rider, seeing the results of two shots pulled up sharp, wheeled to the left, and raced toward the southeast, heading toward the river. Leal was about to let him go, when an image of the Mexican army swarming over the walls of the fort came to his mind. He raced to reload his rifle before the rider was out of range. He knelt on the road, using his elbow to steady the shot, and he aimed. He held his breath as he used both sights on the rifle to line up the shot, then he exhaled and fired.
The rider continued galloping away. Leal stood and shoved the rifle into the scabbard. “Two out of three ain’t bad, Sarge,” Jackson said.
Leal grabbed his mount’s reins and swung into the saddle, and turned around and said, “Maybe. But three out of three is a sight better. Let’s not wait for him to find any friends.” Whether he wanted it or not, war had returned to South Texas.
Switching out their remounts, the two covered more than fifty miles on the first day. It took them until the morning of their fourth day to reach the Alamo, arriving on the 15th of March. Flying high over the Alamo’s chapel was a large Texas flag, flapping in the morning breeze. The heavy wooden gates were open as was normal and an indifferent guard gave them a brief look as they entered the Alamo Plaza.
The officers’ quarters were behind the fort’s hospital, and Leal made his way through its long, empty corridor, exiting into the old convent yard. The stairs leading to the officers’ quarters was guarded by an alert sentry. Upon learning of Leal’s dangerous ride from the Rio Grande, the guard hurried Leal into the narrow hallway lined with doors to the officers’ quarters.
Leal knocked on Major Dickinson’s door and waited. He heard small feet slapping on the wooden floor before the door swung open. Standing in the doorway was a young girl with dark curls. He recognized her as the major’s eight-year-old daughter, Angelina. Major Dickinson and his family lived on the post, and his daughter was a perennial favorite of the fort’s soldiers. She looked up and asked, “Are you here to see my daddy?”
For the first time in four days, the creases on his eyes crinkled and he smiled. He knelt on the floor, the pain of sitting in the saddle for so many hours sent sharp jolts of pain along his spine. “Yes, mi bonita, Angelina.”
She left the door ajar as she ran back into the quarters. He heard her yelling, “Papa! There’s a soldier at the door for you!”
A moment later, Major Almaron Dickinson came to the door, wiping shaving lather from his face with a rag. “Sergeant?” He took in Leal’s dusty and haggard look with a single glance. “Which company are you with, man? Do you have word from the west?
Leal wearily shook his head. “No, sir. Captain Neill at Fort Moses Austin sent me. The Mexican army has invaded again. As me and Private Jackson were riding away, we were attacked by Mexican lancers on the road to San Antonio, while more than a thousand of the bastards were assembling on the other side of the river.” He pulled a waterproof pouch from his jacket and handed over a hastily written note Neill had written before he and Jackson had left the fort. As the major opened the packet and read the letter, Leal leaned against the wall, as exhaustion threatened to overtake him.
***
Almaron Dickinson held the crumpled letter from Captain Neill in his hand. His wife, Susanna saw the shocked expression in his eyes and she came up and closed the door, where a few minutes earlier, Sergeant Leal had left. She asked, “Is it news from General Travis, dear? Is everything alright?”
He shook his head. “No. Not the General. But it’s not alright either.” He held the letter out to her and she blanched as she read the missive. She threw her arms around him and cried.
His wife’s tears soaked into his jacket, but how could he blame her? The Alamo had a company of infantry and a battery of artillery in the fort. It held scarcely more than a hundred men, against an army of more than a thousand, most likely already marching north. He looked at the top of her hair, as she clung to him, then at the serious expression worn by his daughter, who hugged his leg. His youngest, William, played on the floor with blocks, too young to know the fear which had gripped his parents. The Major untangled himself from his wife and tried to sooth her. “I expect we have a few days before any Mexican army shows up, my love. Stay here with the children. I need to see Captain Anderson. We’ve a fort to defend.”
Dickinson dashed from his quarters and found Captain Henderson, the only one of his battery commanders at the fort. He sent the captain to fetch the officer in command of the fort’s infantry company to meet in the general’s office above the hospital. In addition to Major Dickinson, Captains Henderson and Anderson arrived a few minutes later, followed by several junior lieutenants, who crowded along the walls as the major explained the situation.
“Since seizing power again last year, apparently Santa Anna has decided it wasn’t enough to ignore his previous treaty with Texas. His Army of the North has apparently attacked us at Laredo and the assumption is they’re marching north toward San Antonio, even now.” Dickinson glanced out the window, as if expecting someone else to arrive, then shook his head in disappointment. “Of course, this had to happen while Colonel Johnston isn’t here. Bob, when his he expected to return?”
He directed the last to a young infantry lieutenant, standing at the back of the room. The officer pulled a thin booklet from a pocket and leafed through the pages before responding, “Sir, unless things have changed, he and General McCulloch are leaving Galveston for the Trinity River. They’re scheduled to tour the gun works there this week.”
Dickinson sighed in disappointment. “We’ll figure out a way to get word to him. Really makes me wish the telegraph network was further along.” He scanned the back of the room, looking at the lower ranking officers before settling on the one to whom he had spoken. “Crockett, I want you to hightail it over to the Stagecoach Inn in town and have them put you on an express coach to Austin. Get word to the government about the invasion. Once that’s done, take the stage to Houston then to the Trinity River. I want you to find Colonel Johnston and tell him yourself about the invasion.”
The young officer protested, “Major, this ain’t fair. I’ll miss the fight here. You’re doing this because my pa is the president.”
Dickinson snorted in response. “Damned right I am, Lieutenant. I don’t expect things to go to Hell here, but if they do, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let the president’s son get killed or captured.”<
br />
“Major, sir! I protest!” the young officer raised his voice.
“Fine. I have noted your protest,” Dickinson said, exasperatedly. “You can continue protesting all you want, as long as you do it at the Stagecoach Inn and you’re on the stage when it leaves! Now, get moving!”
The office emptied of the other junior officers, as they followed young Crockett out the door. After closing the door, Dickinson sagged into General Travis’ chair. “If we’re lucky, we may have a bit more than a week before that Mexican army arrives, gentlemen, and it will be up to the three of us to put together the Alamo’s defense.”
Captain Anderson said, “We’ve got a little more than seventy soldiers in my company. But there’s a couple of companies of reserve infantry in town. We might be able to muster up another hundred and fifty riflemen.”
Hearing that lifted Dickinson’s spirits. “By God, I like the sound of two hundred riflemen a whole lot better than seventy.” He switched his attention to the other officer, “What about our artillery, Tom?”
Captain Henderson said, “The Bexareno Light Artillery is a company-sized unit in town, sir. I’ve trained a lot of their men on the Alamo’s guns. The name’s more pretentious than the men. There’s around thirty-five men in the battery.”
Dickinson found a nub of a pencil on Travis’ desk and used the back of Neill’s earlier letter to jot down the numbers. “Around two hundred twenty riflemen and seventy artillery. That’s around three hundred or so. I’ll get the orders issued. I want our reserves from town inside these walls before the sun goes down this evening.”