by Drew McGunn
***
The air exploded from Jesse Running Creek’s lungs when his body slammed against the house’s adobe wall.
The ground behind him was pockmarked with .69 caliber musket balls. Private Elkins knelt beside him, aiming his rifle across the narrow street. Seconds before, a soldado had appeared on the roof, firing on another rifle team.
The mustachioed Elkins cursed under his breath, “Take the outer houses, they said. Clear a few roofs, they said. Give ‘em one good kick and their defenses will crumble, they said.”
Had their predicament not been so dire, Jesse might have found Elkins’ editorializing humorous. As it was, the soldados were putting up a fierce defense. The Rangers had yet to clear the first line of houses. The men from the 3rd Infantry had followed the Rangers into the urban hell and now both commands were hopelessly mixed together.
The soldado’s head reappeared on the opposite rooftop. Elkins fired, and the soldado’s momentum carried him forward, until he pitched forward and fell to the road below with a heavy thud. How many more soldados were on top of that building? As Elkins pulled a percussion cap from his accoutrement box, Jesse said, “Cover me!”
The Cherokee Ranger sprinted across the street, and just before he rammed into the door, he turned, so his back slammed into it. For the second time in just a few minutes, his breath was knocked from his lungs.
Had the door been more sturdily constructed, he would have bounced off. Had that happened, he would have been lucky to have not drawn fire from the soldados on the other roofs, to say nothing of the ribbing he would have taken from Elkins and the other Rangers. Luck was with him, and the latch failed, and the door flew inward.
In a corner of the modest home a narrow staircase led to the roof. When he flipped the door open, he found the rooftop empty. The houses were built very close together, and in many cases were built side by side, sharing external walls. There was a narrow gap between this roof and the next. A thick, wooden board lay between the roofs.
The sound of the door to the roof opening startled a soldado on the next roof over, and he turned, swinging the barrel of his musket around. Jesse slammed his rifle into his shoulder and pointed it toward the enemy soldier. The soldado’s barrel hadn’t completed the arc when Jesse pulled the trigger. The .52 caliber ball struck the Mexican in the chest and he fell back, hitting the lip of the roof before tumbling to the street below.
Atop the nearby roofs, several soldados noticed Jesse standing exposed to their fire. Heavy lead balls turned the open trapdoor into kindling and splinters bit into his leg. Another shot passed inches over his head as Jesse fell flat on the roof. He was able to reload while lying prone. As he removed the fragments of the spent percussion cap, he was grateful to the gunsmiths of the Trinity Gun Works for their breechloader.
He raised up and saw a soldado standing up a few roofs over, reloading his musket. He aimed and fired. He ducked down as a bullet tore into the soft adobe brick on the wall below him. He became aware of something moving beside him and he turned and saw Elkins climbing through the trapdoor.
Between the two Rangers, in a few minutes they had cleared the other rooftops on this block of houses. The battle was far from over, but for Hays’ special Rangers, they had captured the first housing block of Monterrey.
***
If the street had been narrower, a single overturned wagon would have been enough to block the way. Captain Morales sheltered behind the second wagon as the wood rattled with the impact of bullets. A fusillade of shots from the soldados on the rooftops behind him responded to the Texians’ fire. He pulled the hammer back, flipped the frizzen up and checked the pan. There were enough granules of powder. He closed the frizzen and leaned over the side of the overturned wagon. A flutter of brown cloth at the other end of the street caught his attention and he aimed and fired.
He had no sooner ducked than the wooden frame of the wagon shook with more bullet impacts. The Texians had captured a line of houses on the edge of town earlier in the day once they had found their way onto the rooftops. Now they were using the same tactics against his men. Both sides had gunmen on the rooftops, taking shots at the other side.
Morales scanned the rooftop behind him and eyed several of his Cazadores. The truncated battalion of rifle-armed light infantry held a block of buildings a few hundred yards west of Monterrey’s citadel. Texian riflemen had cut off the regiment holding the hilltop Bishop’s Palace from the men in the citadel. In his hands he held orders from the Citadel, he was instructed to retake the city blocks between the divided forces, if practicable. More bullets thudded into the wooden boards he sheltered behind.
“If practicable,” he growled. With the Texians holding the rooftops, any attempt to force their way down the streets was just suicidal.
As if to punctuate those thoughts, he heard a startled cry overhead and turned as a rifle clattered to the ground near his feet. The man, who seconds before had been aiming it, was dangling from the rooftop, blood dripping on the ground below, dead from a Texian marksman’s bullet.
To no one in particular, Morales muttered, “it’s not practicable.” He grabbed a paper cartridge and began reloading.
***
15 April 1843
Will didn’t think the thick, adobe walls of the Black Fort were impregnable. But two days’ worth of bombardment had not damaged the outer walls as much as he had expected. He offered a silent prayer of thanks as the Mexican tricolor fluttered down. Cut off from the retreating army, the regiments trapped in the fort were surrendering.
Standing to his right was Sidney Johnston. “That would have been quite the butcher’s bill, if they hadn’t given up, Buck. I couldn’t sleep a wink last night, thinking of leading my boys against those walls.”
Will bobbed his head in agreement. What could he say, Johnston’s brigade had more experienced men. Had it come down to it, Will would have sent his brigade forward. Hundreds of men would have been killed or wounded in such an attack. Both men breathed easier knowing it wouldn’t happen now.
Taking the city of Monterrey and the central citadel in the heart of the town had come at a high enough price. More than a hundred men had died in the fighting, while hundreds more were wounded.
The Black Fort’s drawbridge was lowered, and a few minutes passed by until the first of the Mexican soldados marched out. Having surrendered, they were parading from the fort without their weapons. Despite his army’s best effort, Almonte had escaped with most of the men who had defended the town. Will’s effort to cut off Almonte’s army by sending Juan Seguin’s cavalry across the river had been a failure.
The Mexican brigade marching out, played no music. Their musicians were stone-faced in defeat. Will’s army brought no musicians to celebrate the victory. Will’s thoughts returned to Almonte’s escape. Seguin’s cavalry had been tasked with cutting the lone bridge between the town and the road to Saltillo. But Almonte had positioned a regiment in an earthen fort which protected the bridge on the south side of the river. Dozens of men had fallen trying to seize the fort, but to no avail. At best guess, Almonte had escaped with close to five thousand men.
Will had read and reread Seguin’s report of the battle, south of the river. Seguin maintained he had done everything within his power to take the objective. But with the escape of Almonte’s force, part of Will couldn’t help but wonder if Seguin had tried harder, or ordered another attack, if he would have succeeded.
When the last of the soldados left the fort, a company from Johnston’s brigade paraded through the drawbridge and entered. Moments later, the lone star flag flew over the battlements. All of Monterrey was now under his army’s control.
***
“General Sesma, if you can give me three days, I’ll be able to get the remainder of the Army of the North to Saltillo.”
General Juan Almonte’s eyes pleaded with his cavalry commander. Sesma’s horse was gaunt from the long marches the lancers had forced their horses to undergo. More than the scarecrow
appearance of the brigade commander’s horse was the haunted look Sesma gave Almonte.
His uniform grimy from days without being changed, General Sesma hesitated in his response. “Ah, General, I have scarcely three hundred men still mounted. If the Texians pursue, I can’t promise my men can turn them back.”
Almonte glowered at his subordinate. He had already endured a similar conversation from the senior captain who commanded the remnants of the Cazadores regiments. The army was spent, and Almonte knew it. The best he could hope for is to get to Saltillo. From there, he would decide his next steps. As it was, the army had been badly mauled in Monterrey. Three entire regiments, more than a thousand men had been stranded in the Black Fort. Part of him hoped they sold their lives dearly, bleeding the Texians of men they could ill afford to lose. But mostly, he hoped the men had surrendered. One thing he had come to appreciate, General Travis lacked Santa Anna’s bloodthirsty refusal to take prisoners. Perhaps it would be for the best if the men in the Black Fort surrendered, he thought.
Some of the men who had fortified the Bishop’s Palace atop the hill west of town had escaped after a harrowing running fight against Travis’ riflemen. More than four hundred had defended the mountainous redoubt, but less than two hundred remained in the line of march now. More than a thousand men had failed to make good their escape from the rooftops and barricades in the town.
Almonte wore a stoic mask as he rode alongside one of his regiments. The Army of the North had started the campaign more than a month before with ten thousand men. Now, less than five thousand remained. Apart from a few hundred light infantry and lancers, he had lost the ability to screen his column. He knew it was a fool’s errand, asking General Sesma to protect the army’s rear against a serious effort on the part of Travis’ Rangers.
In his marriage, his wife was the more devout of the two, but in that moment of hopelessness, Juan Almonte’s fingers clenched the crucifix around his neck as he fervently prayed his army would break free of the Texians, and that somehow or another he would turn the army’s fortunes around.
Chapter 17
17 April 1843
Wind whistled through Will’s ginger hair as he stood on the balcony overlooking the central plaza within Monterrey’s citadel. Warm rays of sunlight spilled over the mountains east of town. Steam eddied from the coffee mug which he had turned into a paperweight. Loose papers rustled beneath the ersatz weight.
Two days after the fall of the Black Fort, a semblance of normal was returning to the town. Despite evacuation orders, a few thousand regiomontanos of Monterrey had stayed, and when looting didn’t materialize, store fronts began to open, and commerce started to flow again.
The top sheet of paper, Will thought, likely had more to do with the town not being looted than the goodwill of the average Texian solder. With a casual glance the lead sentence was easy to read, “Looters and Rapists Will be Hung!”
Despite the grim warning, two men were under guard in the citadel’s stockade. Will’s twenty-first century values had taken a drumming over the past seven years, but he had not batted an eye signing the court-martial’s sentence of execution. While too many men had died taking the city away from Almonte’s army, the two rapists were not, as far as Will was concerned, among that number.
He took a sip of the still-steaming coffee and thumbed through the various reports. Johnston’s brigade had assaulted the town and had sustained the majority of the casualties. More than one-hundred-fifty dead and nearly three hundred wounded. More than fifteen percent casualties. The four battalions under Johnston now fielded less than two-thousand men. McCulloch’s brigade fared somewhat better and still fielded nearly twenty-four hundred.
Seguin’s cavalry, which included Hays’ three special Ranger companies, was down to six hundred men. The artillery had come through the past couple of battles largely unscathed, apart from a few men who had become too ill to serve. Before meeting General Almonte’s Army of the North on the Rio Grande more than a month before, Will had lead more than sixty-five hundred men. Now, after two pitched battles, a thousand men had been killed, wounded, or had become unfit for duty. The numbers were sobering.
Against that, he needed to weigh the government’s goals. The army had been sent south to seek a peace treaty that would force Mexico to recognize Texas’ independence and require the surrender of Santa Anna to Texas justice. Although it was the Zavala administration’s official position, Will had fully supported both goals. But had he bitten off more than he could chew? He needed to pursue Almonte’s army, but he also had to garrison Monterrey. Were he only concerned about the few thousand Regiomontanos, he could justify leaving a few companies from one of the reserve battalions behind. But the situation was more complicated than that. Between Laredo and Candela, he had been forced to leave a couple of companies to patrol the supply line. A few more were now patrolling between Candela and Monterrey. There were several cities and towns in northern Mexico capable of raising militia forces that could prey upon his army’s supply line. Whether he wanted to or not, he would be forced to leave at least a battalion stationed in town.
A rapping on the balcony’s glass paned door interrupted those thoughts. He turned and saw Sid Johnston looking through the window. Will forced a smile on his face and went back inside.
“Gentlemen, thank you for joining me. Before we can put Monterrey behind us, we have some tough decisions to make,” Will said as General Johnston took a seat next to General McCulloch. General Juan Seguin took a chair on the opposite side of the table from the infantry officers.
Will collapsed into a high-backed wooden chair at the head of the table. “I’ve reviewed the casualty reports from each of the brigades, and it troubles me that we’re down by a thousand men from a month ago.”
Johnston grimaced at hearing the number before replying, “Sir, all our regiments have suffered more attrition than we expected. But most of those are men who are sick or wounded will return to their battalions, eventually.”
Will inclined his head, “True, eventually. But we can’t wait for them before we’ll be forced to act. The first item I want to discuss is how large of a garrison should we leave here when we march on Saltillo.”
Seguin leaned on the table, his elbows resting on the light mahogany. “More than half of the 2nd Cavalry are patrolling our supply lines between here and the Rio Grande, Buck. Add to that, a few companies of infantry have joined them. Even so, I think a single battalion would be more than enough to hold the town.”
McCulloch chimed in. “Let’s say that we leave one battalion holding the town, that would still give us about forty-five hundred men. We’ve destroyed at least half of Almonte’s army. When we catch up to him, we’ll be facing his army with even numbers. With our superior training and weapons, Almonte’s going to have to surrender sooner or later. We should be on his tail, like stink on…”
Johnston made a cutting gesture with his hands, “Hold on, Ben. That’s all well and good. But there’s no guarantee, this far into Mexico, that we’ll not be facing reinforcements from Mexico City. Would you want to go toe-to-toe with his army if it swells to twenty thousand?”
McCulloch swore, “I believe we could beat them in a fight.”
Will cut through their talk. “I’ll ask President Zavala to release another battalion or two to join us. It would be a mistake, I think, to presume Santa Anna won’t reinforce Almonte. That request will go out today in the next mail packet to Austin. In the meantime, we need to get eyes on Almonte’s army.”
Seguin sighed, “Just when I thought my boys could have another few days of rest.”
“No rest for the wicked, Juan,” Will said with a tired laugh. “How many men does Major Hays still have?”
“Perhaps a hundred, maybe a few less.”
Will nodded, “Tomorrow morning I want him moving toward Saltillo with one of his companies. We need to know what we’ll face when we get there.”
Will recognized the forced smile the Tejano brigadi
er general wore. He had worn the same smile on his face at the beginning of the meeting.
***
Scouting normally involved searching for clues about an enemy’s trail, but as Major Jack Coffee Hays surveyed the road between Monterrey and Saltillo, he surmised even a blind man could follow the route of the retreating army. Broken gunstocks were scattered to either side of the road, along with bits and pieces of uniforms. Broken wagons were simply pushed to the side, empty of their contents if the Mexican soldados had found them of value.
He pursed his lips, an army in retreat was a strange beast. Serving in the Texian army over the past half dozen years, since his own arrival in Texas after the Treaty of Bexar, he had often wondered what would have become of him had the Texians lost the battles at the Rio Grande and the Nueces during the revolution. Images of Texians fleeing eastward toward Louisiana played in his mind.
His pursed lips lifted in a thin smile. He liked to think he played some small role in helping General Travis and President Crockett maintain an independent country. He treasured that moment from a few years before, when he had uncovered the Mexican effort to smuggle in counterfeit commodities certificates. There was no doubt in his mind he had played an important role then in propping up the Republic’s struggling economy.
He was glad he had followed other Tennesseans west, like the former president or Ben McCulloch. He reached up and felt the shoulder boards on which golden oak leaves were embroidered. At twenty-six years of age, he knew Texas presented an opportunity for growth and advancement unlike anything available back east.
Of Hays’ three special Ranger companies, this, his third, was the least battered. Of the company’s original forty men, more than three-quarters of them rode with him. The other companies were back in Monterrey.
A horseman galloped toward him from the direction of Saltillo, one hand on the reins and the other clenching his hat. When he drew up before the major, Hays could see his horse was played out. The Ranger had ridden his mount hard to get back to the column. “Sir, Almonte’s army, at least what’s left of them, are in Saltillo. That ain’t all. I seen a column of lancers riding this way.”