by Drew McGunn
Recalling how his horse had stumbled and thrown him, he barely avoided hitting a large cypress tree. It was painful as tears threatened to spill down his cheeks at the memory. When he had picked himself up and went back to the mount, he found the mare trying to climb back to her feet, but one look was enough to see her leg was broken.
A soft neigh escaped her mouth as her leg refused to cooperate. He might have found another solution save for the shouts of the Mexican infantry patrol that was following his trail. Still, with no desire to give away his position, he slid his Bowie knife from his belt. With his other hand, he stroked her face, and blinked away the tears as she looked at him with big, solemn eyes. With as much tenderness as he could muster, he turned her face away and used the knife to end her suffering.
Now he was fifty feet into the river, as the current threatened to sweep his feet from under him, voices called from behind, ordering to him to stop. “Like hell!” he muttered as he surged forward.
A gunshot echoed across the river and less than a foot away, the bullet splashed in the water. He thought, “You don’t hear the one that gets you.”
Jesse dived into the still shallow water, and with powerful strokes, drove himself forward. More shots splashed around him. As his strokes carried him toward the Texas side of the river, he saw the shoreline drawing closer. If fate smiled on him and he wasn’t struck in the back, he didn’t have far to go.
As his feet found the river bottom again, and a bullet plunged into the water only inches away, he realized the downside to the narrow spot in the river. He was still in range of the soldados firing away at him.
He crawled out of the water and stretched out behind a rotten tree trunk lying on the shore. Gasping for air, he poked his head over the log and looked back. There were a half-dozen men kneeling on the other bank, still firing at him. His rifle was with his mount back on the far shore, and his pistol was waterlogged. His only weapon was the Bowie knife at his belt.
From behind him, he heard a noise, and whipped his head around, and drew his Bowie knife. A horse was crashing through a stand of mesquite trees. “I should have listened to my father and ran the warehouse.” With no working firearm, and just his Arkansas Toothpick in hand, Jesse felt naked, waiting to see who would come crashing through the scrub brush and mesquite.
Every few seconds another shot echoed from the southern bank of the river, while Jesse crouched behind the log. He hefted the blade, it was well balanced. With a little luck, he could throw the blade and take out whoever broke through the tree line first. If more than one came through, then it would get ugly fast.
He pulled his arm back, ready to fling the knife, when a horse broke through the mesquite tree’s brambles. Atop the mount sat Jethro Elkins, another Ranger from his company. With scarcely a look at Jesse, the Ranger drew his pistol and sent a handful of shots across the river in just a few seconds.
The Cherokee Ranger scrambled to his feet from behind the log and watched the soldados scramble for cover. The Mexicans were outside the revolver’s range. Jesse put the knife away and ran over to Elkins, who offered his hand. Once the other Ranger pulled him up behind him, they turned and disappeared into the dense tree line as the soldados fired at their retreating backs.
A while later, Jesse Running Creek shifted on his feet, waiting for Major Jack Hays to acknowledge him. The major’s headquarters was in the bar of Laredo’s largest cantina. Hays sat at a round table, a ceramic jug placed in the middle, surrounded by reports, requisition forms and other administrative records. Eventually he set a report down and looked at the young Cherokee Ranger.
“Why don’t you tell me how you managed to lose both your rifle and your horse, Running Creek.”
The son of a detail oriented Cherokee merchant, Jesse methodically chronicled how he started keeping an eye on the Mexican army in Monterrey, carrying the report through the loss of his equipment and horse just yards away from the Rio Grande, ending with Ranger Elkins’ timely rescue once he swam ashore on the Texian side of the river.
Major Hays listened without interruption until the end. “Are you trying to tell me that because you got scared by a snake, a Mexican general is dead, Running Creek?”
Jesse flushed at the absurdity of the situation. Hearing the major say it that way, it did seem implausible. With a shrug, “I think I might have killed the snake, too.”
Hays shook his head, “Incredible. I think we might have to start calling you Running from Snake from now on, Ranger.”
A glimmer of a smile played across their faces, before Hays returned to his questioning. “With General Vasquez dead, who does that leave in command?”
Jesse said, “General Almonte arrived in Monterrey before the end of last year. As I understand it, he was supposed to be Vasquez’ second-in-command as well as commander for the second division.”
Hays grimaced at the news. “We’ll pass that information along back to the Alamo. They’ll want to know, but I was looking forward to facing General Vasquez. He has a reputation for charging straight ahead. Almonte is more of an unknown. The last I heard, he was serving as Mexican minister to the United States. General Travis needs to know this.”
***
Two companies of Cazadores were drilling in the valley north of Monterrey, under the watchful eye of General Juan Almonte. The light infantrymen were practicing skirmish drills, armed with British Baker rifles. Each man was trained to use whatever cover he could find, and to fight individually or as part of a larger squad.
Today, they were not practicing their marksmanship. Instead, they were training on small unit tactics. Almonte had been fortunate enough while in the United States to come into possession of a copy of Travis’ Manual of Tactics of Riflemen. Part of his time in the United States, he spent translating the manual into Spanish. With command of the Army of the North’s 2nd division, he would have the opportunity to apply the enemy’s tactics to his own light infantry. By the time he cobbled together his division, he would have nine Cazadores companies. Twice that many, if he could talk General Vasquez into adopting the new tactics for the light infantry companies in the 1st division, too.
While he envisioned the equivalent of two regiments of light infantry facing off against the Texians, a rider raced into camp from the north. “General Almonte, sir! General Vasquez is dead!”
Shocked out of the fanciful imagery, Almonte stood dumbfounded, listening to the rider recount General Vasquez’s unfortunate demise. The rider informed him the general’s body was on its way back to Monterrey by wagon. Vasquez’s staff officers had halted the relief column and would wait on General Almonte’s orders.
Still in shock at the death of the army commander, Almonte returned to the 2nd division’s encampment. Over the previous two months he had come to admire Vasquez. Sure, he was brash and headstrong, but he owned a certain daring that Almonte privately conceded he lacked. Where he was methodical and deliberate in his planning, Vasquez had been decisive and bold. While they were as dissimilar as they could be, Almonte knew he would miss the brazen flare the other officer had brought to his command.
With a sad shake of his head, Almonte sat at his desk and penned a letter, informing Mexico City of the setback. As he finished drafting the letter he considered the circumstances facing his army. The reinforcements for the 1st division would bring the division’s effective strength to nearly five thousand men. Getting the reinforcements to Nuevo Laredo was the first priority.
The timetable for the invasion required the 2nd division be assembled by the first of April. Unfortunately, that left Almonte with two regiments in Monterrey at the moment, with the rest arriving over the next month. With the death of Vasquez, he needed to transfer his headquarters to Nuevo Laredo now rather than later. He would leave one of the regiments in Monterrey, waiting for the remainder of the division to arrive. The other, he would order to march north with him.
He finished his correspondence, tossed down the pen. “Poncho! Ven Aqui.”
A you
ng officer stepped into the tent. “Yes, sir?”
Almonte handed the correspondence to him. “You’ve got a long ride ahead of you. Deliver this letter into the hands of His Excellency, the president. Also, see to it these other messages are delivered on your way out of town.”
With a crisp salute, the officer took the letters and hurried away.
The next morning, Almonte met Colonel Juaquin Mendoza of the 11th Permanente Regiment along the road north of Monterrey. Mendoza sat astride his mount, and the regiment’s five hundred men were strung out on the road, in columns of four men abreast. The two officers exchanged salutes and with little fanfare, Almonte started north.
It took two days for his force to arrive at the temporary camp erected by the 1st division’s reinforcements. During the march, as the force moved north, the plain on which Monterrey was founded, narrowed to a rough, narrow valley. The valley ran between two mountain ranges. Almonte noticed narrower points along the line of march that would make exceptional defensive positions. Despite the orders from His Excellency to invade once the army was assembled, Almonte’s methodical mind envisioned his army bleeding the Texians in a fighting retreat.
When he led the men of the 11th into the encampment near where General Vasquez died, he found the men subdued. Vasquez had been a popular and gregarious officer and the men under his command had rewarded him with their devotion. The melancholy within the camp was strong, leading Almonte to think, “I know that level of devotion well. It mirrors the devotion those of us who serve under His Excellency know.”
During the following week, Almonte led the force northward following the road between the mountain ranges. Even after the column turned back to the northwest, along the road to Candela, Almonte’s thoughts returned to the rugged road over which his army had just marched. It was the perfect fallback position, should Travis’ Texians invade.
From the dusty, tiny town of Candela, the road skirted the Chihuahuan desert, on its way to Nuevo Laredo. The last five days between those towns was dry and dusty, but the mountains were to their south, and even though it was still late February, the weather was not too cold. As he led the men of the relief column and the 11th Permanante Regiment, he felt that circumstances and Vasquez’s orders were contrary to each other.
“If I follow through with Vasquez’s orders, I’ll be taking this army straight into the jaws of Travis’ riflemen. But if I defend the river then fall back to fortified lines in the mountains north of Monterrey, my odds of defeating the Texians are all the better.”
After allowing his mind to rationalize the benefits of a defense in depth, he came back around to the problem, “But His Excellency has ordered the army I now command to invade Texas and capture San Antonio.”
It was a conundrum that troubled Almonte throughout the two-week march between Monterrey and Nuevo Laredo.
But clarity finally came once he stood in the tower of the little church in the plaza of Nuevo Laredo. He held a spyglass to his eye, studying the star fort Texas had built in the bend of the Rio Bravo. Guns faced Mexico through the embrasures dug into the earthen walls.
Whoever commanded the Texian force in Laredo had done more than simply reoccupy the fort Woll had captured the previous year. Trenches had been dug, extending away from the fort, but facing the river. Spies in Laredo told him there were nearly five hundred soldiers garrisoning the fort and town.
Almonte figured with ten to one odds, his existing division around Nuevo Laredo could overwhelm the Texian garrison, but at what cost? With better weapons and better training, if Texas stayed on the defense, even with both divisions, nine thousand men, a couple of battles like the Battle of the Nueces in 1836 and his army would be ruined. He took an oath to serve His Excellency. His Excellency expected the army to advance and capture San Antonio later in the spring.
“I have no interest in playing King Phyrrus to Travis’ Romans.”
The guard in the tower looked over at him. “Sir?”
He hadn’t realized he spoke aloud. “Nothing, soldier.”
He climbed down the ladder, and as he left the church, he knew the surest way to give Santa Anna a victory was to lure Travis to defeat. He untied his mount from the hitching post and swung into the saddle. All the intelligence making its way south from San Antonio confirmed Travis was building an army he intended to use to invade Mexico. Almonte knew there was no time to waste. He had trenches to dig, artillery batteries to position, and an army to train.
***
Sergeant Major Julio Leal wore a stormy expression as he stood next to the First Sergeant for Company A, 9th Infantry Battalion. They watched a platoon of thirty-two men deploy into a thin line of skirmishers. “Dammit, Sergeant Jackson, they’re coming off the line slower than they should. And Jesuchristo! Your rifle teams are as awkward as a group of boys asking girls to dance at a Quinceanera.”
Sergeant Terry Jackson blushed under the fusillade of criticism from his friend and mentor. “I’m trying, Sergeant. The boys was out in town drinking in the tavern with the colonel and didn’t get in until late.”
Lowering his voice, Sergeant Major Leal said, “Terry, what Colonel Crockett decides to do with his time is his own damned business. Lieutenant Everett aside, you’re responsible for the men in your platoon. If that means the next time the colonel wants to stay out until the sun comes up telling folks tall tales, you will take your ass over to the tavern and get the boys back to camp. Hell, ain’t nary a one of them had a pass last night, did they?”
Jackson hung his head in shame. In a battalion full of militiamen, the two sergeants were the only regulars transferred into the unit when it formed a few months before. It grated on Leal that his longtime friend’s platoon was underperforming. As far as he was concerned, Jackson’s platoon should have been drilling rings around the others.
“Have them start over, and this time, if they don’t beat their previous time, I’ll assign every last one of them to guard duty for the next week.” Leal turned and left Jackson staring at his backside before turning to the men.
As Leal crossed the road between the men drilling in the field and their camp, he smiled as he listened to Jackson chewing at his men for their poor performance.
In the battalion’s command pavilion, he found the greying former president crowding over a small camp desk. He was studying a map. As the battalion sergeant major, what Leal’s job lacked in leading riflemen, more than made up for it in administrative paperwork. It still bemused him when he thought of the path his life had taken over the past year. A year before, he had been first sergeant for a company stationed on the Rio Grande. When Woll’s army had arrived, his captain had sent him and Jackson north to the Alamo, delivering word of the Mexican invasion to Major Dickinson.
He and Jackson had barely managed to survive the siege and only lived because of General Johnston’s timely arrival. His friend, Jackson had nearly died and had only returned to duty when they were transferred to Crockett’s 9th battalion. Yes, the past year had been more than strange. He eyed his commanding officer who was poring over a map of Texas’ newly acquired territory and amended the thought. “Next year looks to be even more interesting.”
Chapter 7
24 March 1843
The two men stood in the trench south of Nuevo Laredo, on a rise overlooking the town. Further up the hill another trench had been completed a few days before. Wearing a private’s jacket, General Juan Almonte stood next to the captain in command of one of the army’s Zapadores companies.
Between the Army of the North’s two division, they shared a battalion of Zapadores. These Mexican sappers were skilled at digging entrenchments. They were the engineers of the army. Several dozen men were swinging pickaxes into the hard soil as others shoveled the freshly turned earth over the lip of the trench, raising a protective barrier against whatever the Texians might eventually throw against them in the coming days.
“How goes the construction, Captain?” Almonte’s plain uniform provided a measure o
f anonymity, especially considering the trench was within extreme range of the riflemen in the fort opposite Nuevo Laredo.
The captain waved his hand in the direction of his workers, “As long as the riflemen in the fort leave us alone, we’ll be finished with this trench tomorrow.” Seeing a question on Almonte’s face, he continued, “Don’t worry, General, it will be more than adequate for your Cazadores battalion.”
A grin lit the general’s features, “Am I that transparent?” He stepped back and watched the captain instruct his men in their work. Since arriving at Nuevo Laredo more than a month before, he had constructed a ring of entrenchments around and through Nuevo Laredo. The two divisions’ eighteen infantry regiments each had a light infantry company. Each of the eighteen Cazadores companies had been split from their parent unit and formed into two ad-hoc regiments.
It was quite simple, he thought. The two regiments of riflemen, both armed with British Baker rifles would hold the trench lines closest to the river. There was no guarantee he would be able to deny Travis’ Texians the southern shore of the Rio Bravo, but he could make any victory Travis wrestled from him as expensive as possible.
Satisfied the army’s sappers were on schedule, Almonte followed the communication trench back up the hill, to where a strong, fortified line had been constructed. These fortified trenches ran for more than a mile, covering the ford at Laredo from all angles. The artillery battalion’s thirty field pieces were emplaced along the heights overlooking the town, situated in embrasures, cut in the earth and reinforced by woven gabions full of rocks and dirt. Even if the gunpowder used by the Mexican army was inferior to that bought by the Texians from the United States, he had done all that was possible to give his gunners an edge.
From the fortification on the hilltop, Almonte had a commanding view of the two towns down below as well as the five-sided fort, over which the Texas flag flew. Most of the army was now assembled here and he was as prepared as he could be to defend the line. For a while, he had worried about the Texians attempting to flank his position. Such was always possible, but the other fords nearby were deeper and more treacherous than the shallows across the Rio Bravo at Laredo. Even so, he had assigned most of his cavalry to screen those fords. If Travis decided to flank him, then there would be no battle here, and the effort spent entrenching his army around Nuevo Laredo would be for naught. He had lost sleep over that, until he thought about the four regiments not present with the army. Two of them were fortifying the pass south of Candela while the other two were fortifying narrow points in the valleys that led to Monterrey.