Gone to Texas

by Jason Manning

  "You have looked to me for leadership," said Travis, "and I have always had the best interests of Anahuac at heart. But now I have betrayed your faith. I suggest you find someone else to lead you. That is about all I have to say. I cannot ask for your forgiveness. What I have done is unforgivable. In my vanity I tried to impress a woman with how clever I was." Travis shook his head bitterly. "I deserve to be shot. I can only hope that one day I will have an opportunity to make amends, to you, and to Texas."

  From the back of the room Tucker called out, "What if we don't give 'em those cannon, Will?"

  "Then Klesko and Strom and Strom's boy will be executed by firing squad. The execution will take place tomorrow at dawn."

  "What happens if we give up them cannon?" asked another man.

  "Captain Piedras gives his solemn word that the men will not be shot. Instead, they will be taken to Saltillo in chains and imprisoned there."

  "That's the same as bein' dead, if you ask me," said Tucker. "Never heard of nobody comin' out of those Mescan prisons alive."

  Sitting with Nathaniel and Rebecca in the front row, Christopher glanced across at Mrs. Strom and her other two sons, who were seated on the other side of the center aisle. Mrs. Strom was dry-eyed, her head held high and proud.

  "What do you think we should do, Will?" asked someone else.

  "I have forfeited the right to even venture an opinion."

  "Shucks, Will," said Tucker, "we all make mistakes."

  Voices were raised in agreement. Clearly the people of Anahuac were still behind Travis. Overwhelmed with gratitude and relief, Travis had to work to maintain his composure.

  "Very well, then," he said. "If you want my opinion, here it is. We cannot surrender the cannon. We cannot even admit that we have them in our possession. God only knows what would happen to this town. I firmly believe Piedras would make an example of Anahuac, and it would not be pleasant, I can assure you."

  "What could he do?" asked Tucker.

  "He could put Anahuac to the torch, and march us all back across the Sabine. I think he would like nothing better."

  Dead silence followed this dire prediction. Looking around, Christopher could read on the faces of the crowd that everyone believed Travis. He was inclined to believe it, too. Having seen Klesko and the three Liberty crewmen dragging a heavy timber by a rope around their necks, slowly strangling themselves with every step, he knew that Piedras was capable of anything.

  "I say we march in there and take our people back by force," said Tucker.

  A dozen men jumped to their feet and shouted approval of this plan.

  "We might be able to whip Piedras and his lancers," conceded Travis, "but some of us, maybe a lot of us, will perish in the attempt. And then what? They'll send an army against us."

  Would all of Texas rally to the defense of Anahuac in that event? This was the unspoken question foremost in everyone's mind. Christopher didn't think so. It wasn't time. That was what everyone said. The revolution would come, but not now, not yet, not over two six-pounders and the lives of three men.

  "So what do we do?" asked Tucker. "Let 'em shoot those three men?"

  Travis glanced at Mrs. Strom. She rose, turned to face the others.

  "My husband would not want you to risk your lives to save his. We knew the risks, and accepted them. I have no regrets. We did what we thought was right."

  Christopher shot to his feet.

  "You can't let them die," he said, glancing at Travis.

  "What do you suggest?" asked Travis.

  Christopher turned to face the Anahuacans. "I say we fight. Now. What are we waiting for? What better reason to fight than the lives of three men? The Stroms took risks in doing what they thought was right, offering shelter to an innocent man. Can we do any less? So what if they burn this town to the ground. Towns can be rebuilt. So what if they march us all back to Louisiana in chains? We'll march right back again. For months now all I've heard about Texans is that they're ready to fight for their rights—tomorrow. Well, tomorrow three men die. Here's your chance. What are you going to do about it?"

  "Groves is right!" cried Tucker. "I say we lick them Mescans!"

  A dozen men raised a cheer.

  "Piedras and his men are professional soldiers," said a farmer, rising from the pew where he had been sitting with his wife and three children. "What chance do we have against them?"

  "A very good chance," replied Christopher. "They are cavalry, and cavalry has seldom won a battle by itself. Beside, their training has not prepared them for the kind of tactics we will use. Then, too, you mustn't forget that we have artillery."

  "We have no ammunition for those six-pounders," said Travis.

  "No, we don't. Nor do we have time to make molds for round shot. But we can make grapeshot."

  "Even if we can whip the lancers, what about the army Will was talking about?" queried the farmer.

  "We'll deal with that when and if it happens. The government is in turmoil. That army might not come. I have a hunch the Mexicans aren't ready for a war with us. Listen. I can tell you from personal experience that it does no good to run away from trouble. It follows you wherever you go. You may not like it, but you've got to stand and fight. Napoleon himself said that retreat always cost more in men and materiel and especially morale than the bloodiest engagement, with the difference that in battle you inflict loss upon your enemy, while in retreat only you will lose. So what do you say? Stand your ground, risk everything, because if you don't you will lose it anyway."

  The farmer glanced at his wife. Eyes shining brightly, she nodded. "He's right," said the farmer. "It's now or never, boys. Let's fight!"

  Suddenly everyone was on their feet, and the cheer that rose up inside and out of the meetinghouse was so loud it drowned out the crack of thunder from the gray and turbulent sky.

  There was much to be done, and precious little time. By virtue of his inspiring words in the meetinghouse that morning, Christopher became the de facto leader of the Anahuacans, with Travis his able lieutenant. For the first time since his discharge from the United States Military Academy Christopher felt as though the two years he had spent at West Point had not been wasted after all.

  The first order of business was to render the French six-pounders effective. While a crew of a dozen men took a wagon out to the edge of the swamp to disinter the cannon, Christopher instructed another group on how to make grapeshot. Necessity was the mother of invention—horseshoe nails, small stones, bits and pieces of iron and tinware were stuffed into bags made from hemp grain sacks. As for powder charges, Christopher put more men to work making these. One thing Anahuac wasn't short of was gunpowder. A pair of ramrods were devised by securing two tightly wrapped linsey-woolsey shirts around one end of stout, straight hickory limbs.

  The question arose regarding how to transport the cannon. A wagon was dismantled and a six-pounder lashed to each of the axles. Christopher wanted the artillery to be as mobile as possible, so several farmers were dispatched to bring in their mules. Each cannon would have a hitch of four knob heads.

  Men were selected to man the six-pounders, and Christopher devoted much of his time to teaching them the rudiments of loading and firing the guns. Kindling and Spanish moss was collected, dried out, and placed in buckets covered with a makeshift leather flap. Christopher demonstrated how the powder charge was to be rammed into the barrel with the ramrods, where it was pricked by inserting a thin piece of iron—provided by the blacksmith—through the vent. The bag of grapeshot followed. Powder was then poured from a horn into the quick-match vent tube. The kindling in the buckets were set alight using flints. Then a stick dipped in coal oil was lighted and used to ignite the powder in the tube, which in turn fired the charge, which propelled the grapeshot. Each cannon was fired once, out on the edge of town, in the pouring rain, and Christopher was satisfied with the results of the experiment.

  He was impressed, too, by the spirit of the people of Anahuac. Everyone pitched in. The children c
ollected the kindling for the fire buckets. The women sewed the powder charges and bags of grapeshot together; they also provided over seventy men with food. The only persons Christopher didn't see were O'Connor and Noelle. Finally he could stand it no longer. He went to Peyton's boarding house, where according to Travis his friend and the mulatto woman were staying. He wasn't too sure if O'Connor was still his friend, so he approached the meeting with some trepidation, not knowing what to expect. The look on O'Connor's face when he opened the door was far from friendly.

  "What do you want?"

  "Among other things, to let you know there's going to be a fight tomorrow. I remember you saying you didn't want to miss it."

  "I've got more important things to do."

  Christopher glanced past O'Connor. The room was small—he could see all of it from the doorway. Noelle was standing by the window, her back to him, looking out at the rain. She wore a thin white muslin wrapper, and he could see her body through it—she might as well have worn nothing at all—and he felt the old desire stir within him. The bed was unmade, and Christopher felt a pang of jealousy in spite of himself.

  "Look," he said, "don't let her do this to you."

  "She hasn't done anything to me."

  "We're talking about Klesko's life."

  "I don't care."

  Christopher controlled his anger, telling himself that O'Connor was under her spell and perhaps not entirely responsible for his words. "You're confused about what's important."

  O'Connor was furious. "Get out of here."

  "Why did you come back?"

  "I didn't want to. She did."

  Christopher shook his head. "She doesn't care about you, O'Connor. She's just using you. Can't you see that?"

  O'Connor knew in his heart it was so—Christopher could see it in his eyes. But the Irishman was stubbornly refusing to admit it to himself.

  "I told you to get out," he snarled. "Just leave us alone."

  "I want to talk to Noelle."

  "You've got a lot of gall."

  "Noelle."

  She didn't turn from the window. Though he couldn't see her face, Christopher knew somehow that she was smiling.

  "Stay away from us," warned O'Connor, almost spitting out the words. "Noelle's with me now. You're the one who uses people. You used her and then just threw her away. It's too late for you."

  "I hope it's not too late for you."

  O'Connor slammed the door in his face.

  Captain Piedras was accustomed to being awakened at dawn by his orderly. But this morning Lieutenant Riaz was the one to wake him. Piedras took one look at his subordinate's face and knew something had happened.

  "They have come," said Riaz.

  "Travis?"

  "He has brought the cannon."

  Piedras was dressed in record time. His orderly always had his uniform ready, brushed out and immaculately clean, the boots polished to a high sheen. Buckling on his sword, Piedras strode out into the presidio yard.

  "Have your company of lancers mounted and ready," he told Riaz, and strode across the hard-packed ground to the gate, where he climbed a ladder to an earthen parapet and gazed out over the hewn logs of the stockade wall.

  A lone rider was approaching down the road from Anahuac, which skirted a salt marsh at the base of a low, brush-covered ridge. Beyond the marsh lay the bay. The dawn's early light silvered the tranquil surface of the water.

  All Piedras could see of the rider at this distance was the flag of truce he was carrying, a strip of white cloth tied to the end of a crooked stick. The captain held out his hand. The orderly was ready as always, and something of a mind reader when it came to the captain's wishes. He promptly handed Piedras a field glass.

  "It is Groves," said Piedras, focusing the glass on the lone rider.

  He swept the glass further along the road to a collection of men, mules, and a wagon two hundred yards behind the horsemen. There were the brace of six-pounders. There, too, were Travis and Nathaniel Jones. Travis was sitting a dappled gray. The frontiersman stood in the back of a wagon, leaning on his long rifle. Piedras counted ten other men around the cannon. Next he scanned the brush on the ridge, but saw nothing out of the ordinary there. He paid no attention to the salt marsh. There was no cover to be had there. Even a coyote could not have concealed itself in the salt marsh, assuming it did not sink out of sight in that soggy and treacherous ground.

  With a smile he lowered the field glass and descended the parapet, where Riaz was watching his lancers form up.

  "It would appear they have accepted my offer," said Piedras. "Orderly, bring my horse at once. Lieutenant, you and I will ride out to see what Señor Groves has to say for himself."

  Christopher halted his horse a hundred yards from the presidio and waited until Piedras and the lieutenant emerged through the gate and rode up to him.

  "Señor Groves," said Piedras, looking smug, "I take it you have come to surrender the cannon."

  "No, sir. I've come to request that you release your prisoners."

  Piedras was taken aback.

  "Do you know about my grandfather?" asked Christopher. "In case you don't, let me tell you, he is one of the best shots there ever was. I wouldn't try anything, if I were you. At this range he couldn't possibly miss."

  "Insolent fool!" muttered Riaz.

  Piedras gestured sharply to silence the lieutenant.

  "You should reconsider," he said coldly. "I will order the prisoners shot immediately if you do not bring those cannon to me this instant."

  "Let them go unharmed or you'll regret it, Captain."

  "How dare you threaten me! Surrender the cannon."

  "Come and take them."

  Riaz couldn't restrain himself any longer. Steel rasped against steel as he brandished his saber. With a shout he raised it to strike.

  The bullet caught him dead center. Christopher clearly heard the impact. An instant later the report of Nathaniel's flintlock rifle reached him. The saber fell from the lieutenant's hand as Riaz pitched backward off the horses.

  Sitting his horse between the two six-pounders, Travis was watching Christopher and the two Mexican officers through his own field glass. "Splendid!" he exclaimed. "Right through the heart, Mr. Jones. A very commendable shot."

  Reloading, Nathaniel said, "There's nothing very commendable about being a widow-maker, Mr. Travis."

  Sawing on the reins to still his prancing horse, Christopher hurled the flag of truce into the dust of the road, glowering at Piedras. The captain, disconcerted, spared the body of Lieutenant Riaz a quick glance, then wheeled his horse and galloped back to the presidio. Christopher made haste up the road in the direction of the cannon.

  "Think they'll come out?" asked Travis as Christopher checked his horse beside the wagon.

  Christopher turned to look. This was the moment of truth. If Piedras remained behind those walls, all was lost. The minutes crawled like hours. Christopher had to remind himself to breathe. The tension was unbearable. The only man who seemed unaffected was Nathaniel. He was standing in the back of the wagon, leaning on the rifle again, completely calm and composed, watching the stockade like a hawk. Christopher's admiring gaze lingered on the tall, straight, buckskin-clad figure of the old leatherstocking. His very presence gave Christopher a much-needed dose of confidence.

  "Here they come!" yelled Travis.

  Piedras and his lancers were boiling out of the gate, charging down the road at full gallop, their lances flashing in the soft golden light of the just-risen sun.

  Chapter 28

  "Christopher, you were right about Piedras!" said Travis with a laugh. "He had to attack. It is his nature."

  In stark contrast to Travis, who was flush and edgy with excitement, Christopher sat pale and rigid as a statue in the saddle. His voice was quite calm and steady as he reminded the gun crews to hold their fire until he gave the order. He knew that what he was asking of these untried and untrained men was exceedingly difficult. The lancers were a fea
rsome sight as they thundered up the road. Yet the farmers kept their nerve and stood their ground.

  When the lancers were a mere fifty yards away Christopher shouted the order. "Fire!" The six-pounders spat flame and smoke. The carnage was terrible to behold as the grapeshot ripped through the horsemen. Men and mounts went down screaming. The blast stopped the charge cold and threw the Mexicans into disarray.

  At that moment the rest of the men from Anahuac emerged from their places of concealment in the brush along the ridge and fired a ragged but highly effective volley into the lancer formation strung out along the road. The result was devastating. In a matter of seconds thirty lancers were killed or wounded—half the men Piedras had led out of the presidio. The captain himself was miraculously unscathed. He tried to rally his command. But a second blast of grapeshot from the six-pounders finished the job. The remnants of the lancers fled into the salt marsh. The men pouring down off the ridge blocked their escape down the road.

  The mounts of the lancers were immediately bogged down—some sank up to their bellies in the soggy ground. The Anahuacans swept forward across the road, yelling and shooting, an inexorable tide of buckskin and homespun. Through the white pall of powder smoke which hung heavy and acrid in the still morning air, Christopher saw Piedras slump forward in the saddle, wounded. Then he rose up and slashed at a nearby Texan with his sword. The Texan jumped back out of the way and fired his squirrel gun at near point-blank range. Piedras toppled off his horse to lie dead in the marsh, his once impeccable uniform splattered with blood and muck.

  The lancers stood no chance. Their horses were immobilized in the salt marsh, and their lances were practically useless against the rifles and shotguns of the Anahuacans. It was just as Christopher had planned it. Though he had not seen the field with his own eyes, Travis had described it down to the last detail, and Christopher had made his dispositions accordingly. Yet he felt no satisfaction in seeing such brave men as these Mexican lancers fall.