Down Mexico Way

by Drew McGunn

  Almonte called, “Get this man a stretcher, and fetch a doctor!”

  He had no idea how the Texian major still breathed. Any of the injuries could turn out to be fatal, but as he watched the other man’s chest rise and fall, he decided that if the brave young officer could be saved, Almonte would see to it.

  Chapter 18

  28 May 1843

  The cane rhythmically tapped on the red brick walkway as Lorenzo de Zavala hurried from the presidential mansion. The domed Capitol building stood just across the street, but dark clouds threatened to unleash a torrent of rain. His wife, Emily, harped on him to stay out of the rain. She was too kind to mention it, but the president was susceptible to chills and became sick more easily than she liked. More sickly than he liked, if he were honest with himself.

  The Capitol building stood on top of a hill overlooking Congress Avenue, where most of the government buildings had been constructed over the past few years. Zavala crossed over the dirt road. Here and there, heavy drops of rain kicked up tiny puffs of dust when they hit the ground. Despite the damage done to the dignity of his exalted office, he picked up his pace and jogged across the road. He followed a red bricked path winding up the hill and ran up the flight of stairs to the building, ignoring the pain in his fifty-four-year-old knees.

  He passed between two of the Corinthian columns which fronted the building. The doors swung out and as soon as he crossed the threshold, the skies opened, and the rain fell in torrents. A guard stood inside the doors and came to attention as he passed by. A black doorman pulled the door closed as the wind added its strength to the pattering rain. Zavala climbed the stairs to the top floor to his corner office.

  He unlocked the door and had just sat to catch his breath when the door rattled with a persistent knock. “Come in!”

  Another of the Capitol guards stood next to a young man who wore a jacket proclaiming he was a courier for the All-Texas Telegraph office. The local office opened a few months earlier, after a telegraph line had been completed between San Antonio and Austin. With the war playing hell on the economy, the president was uncertain when the telegraph lines in East Texas would connect to the nation’s capital. The courier pulled a folded sheet of paper from an oilcloth bag. With a nod from Zavala the young man disappeared down the hall. Alone again, Zavala unfolded the telegraph message and read.

  His eyebrows raised as he saw the length of the missive. Messages tended to be short and to the point. But apparently someone in San Antonio decided to send the entire letter from General Travis by telegraph when it arrived earlier at the Alamo.

  17 May

  To Pres. Zavala

  We have secured the city of Monterrey, defeating the Mexican Army of the North after a short siege. We have been victorious in every battle and have destroyed half of the enemy’s force. Victory has not come without loss. Our army has been reduced by a thousand men due to attrition and battle casualties. To secure our supply line and to hold the city of Monterrey, circumstances require that I leave an adequate garrison behind. If Santa Anna reinforces the Army of the North, our current deployment may not be adequate to defeat the enemy. I request additional forces be rushed to Monterrey in order to carry the war goals to successful completion.

  Your obedient servant,

  W.B. Travis, Gn’l commd.

  Zavala set the letter down with an unhappy sigh. Why couldn’t fortune favor this endeavor with greater success? When he, David, and “Buck” Travis had developed the plans for the current war, he had thought a quick victory at the Rio Grande and a forced march to Monterrey would result in the enemy’s surrender. He had always been skeptical of the second goal, of forcing the Mexicans to surrender Santa Anna to them, but forcing them to recognize the borders had seemed an easy goal at the beginning of the campaign.

  It appeared Almonte was still in command of what remained of the Army of the North. Implicit in the letter was that he was retreating deeper into Mexico. The war’s active campaigning had entered its third month, but in reality, Texas had spent the better part of a year gearing up to fight Mexico on what Travis had considered even terms. So much time had elapsed since many of the men in the army had left their families, farms, or businesses. The latest report from his Treasury secretary indicated the national economy was shrinking. Tax revenue had fallen precipitously and, until the war was concluded, Zavala knew the situation would only change for the worse.

  Before a decision could be made, he needed to consult with his cabinet.

  Rain still spattered against the window panes when Erasmo Seguin arrived in the president’s crowded office. Zavala nodded to him as he waited for the director of the Commodities Bureau to take his seat. Next to Seguin sat Michel Menard, the Republic’s Treasurer. Representing the military was the commander of the militia, General Tom Rusk.

  Ignoring the chair behind his desk, Zavala stood between the other men and the window. Everyone had read General Travis’ letter. Zavala asked, “Can we afford to acquiesce to General Travis’ request for more men?”

  Menard responded, “We need our troops returned as soon as possible, Mr. President. Every day the war drags on, the worse our financial house becomes.” Despite his lengthy residence in the Republic, second only to Erasmo Seguin, his accent still betrayed his Quebecois origin. “Our recent bond auction was poorly received, and we were forced to sell the bonds below their face value. Our creditors may come to doubt our ability to repay our debts, and when that happens, we may find no buyers for our bonds.”

  Zavala nodded. The bonds brought in the gold and silver the nation needed to buy war supplies, most of which were purchased from merchants in the United States. “Without specie,” Menard mentioned, “Our suppliers would be scarcer than whiskey at a camp revival.”

  Erasmo Seguin chuckled. “You’re just attending the wrong camp revival.” He turned serious, “A war ending in a muddle of no clear victor only sets the stage for the next war, Michel. We must give the army the tools necessary to win, even if it depletes our fiscal cupboard.”

  “We’re not talking about a depleted cupboard, Erasmo. The state of the Treasury is that we’re as poor as Job’s turkey. We’re engaging in cheap parlor tricks to pay our own soldiers.”

  Seguin frowned at that. “That’s not fair. The Commodities Bureau will print enough currency to cover those obligations. So long as we don’t go overboard, we’ll hold inflation in check.”

  Menard fired back, “That’s not the way we set things up to run. Your bureau wasn’t to print any more certificates than the commodities they backed. For the better part of the year, that hasn’t been the case. Eventually, someone’s going to figure out we have far more cotton-backs in circulation than the commodities they cover. What’s going to happen then?”

  As the two financially minded members of the group became angry, Thomas Rusk interjected, “I don’t care a tinker’s damn if the Republic ain’t got a pot to piss in, we sent Travis and the army down there to whip Santa Anna, and we best figure out a way to skin that cat.”

  Zavala eyed Rusk with surprise. A key ally to the pro-annexation party in Congress, Rusk was a close friend to Robert Potter. Before his predecessor had tapped Ben McCulloch to form a reserve army, Rusk had poorly performed his duties as General of Militia. It was the invasion that resulted in Rusk’s own increased military role. In the horse trading that went on between Zavala and congress, the president had been forced to put Rusk back in command of the militia to get support from Potter’s faction. Sometimes even a bad deal pays off. Since Woll’s invasion the previous year, Rusk had taken a more proactive role in making sure all eligible men were enrolled in the militia and that each militia company drilled frequently. He had also performed conscientiously, funneling supplies to the reserve battalions that had not been included in Travis’ invasion plans.

  In a show of approval, Zavala placed his hand lightly on Rusk’s arm, “General Rusk is right, Michel. We can ill afford another war with Mexico. The surest path forward, no ma
tter the financial cost, is victory. Rather than belabor how much this is going to cost the treasury, why don’t we focus on how much additional support will be sent?”

  Rusk said, “We already have the 6th Infantry at the Alamo. Give me the word and they’ll be on the march within two or three days. The only problem with the 6th, is that it is undersized. There’s only six companies, maybe four hundred fifty men. I’d also recommend we send the 12th Infantry. It’s spread out between here and Laredo, but they’re the only other battalion that can be assembled and put on the road within a few days.”

  Still out of sorts, Menard said, “But that will leave everything from the Rio Grande to the capital unprotected. We saw how well that turned out last year.”

  Rusk waved the comment away, “Only for a few days, Michel. There are ten battalions of militia that haven’t been mobilized.”

  Menard shot to his feet, “For good reason, Tom. Those men are needed to run their farms and keep what enterprises that are still turning a profit, operating.”

  “Cool your heels. We can mobilize the 14th. They’ve been partially mobilized already, overseeing construction on the railroad from West Liberty to Houston. It’ll take a bit of time, but they can fill in the gap.”

  Zavala quickly agreed, which ended Menard’s objections. The president told Rusk to prepare the orders. It would take time, but he was determined to provide General Travis and the army every necessary tool.

  ***

  1 June 1843

  Sand and gravel crunched under his boots as Charlie Travis hurried along between the two rows of faded white canvas tents. He tugged at the ill-fitting tunic his Uncle Davy had found for him after he added the fourteen-year-old to the 9th Infantry’s roster. The youth felt ill used as he hurried around a campfire. He had run the entire length of the camp, delivering a message to Major Henry McCulloch, Crockett’s second-in-command.

  He recalled how Crockett had made a big deal when Charlie’s name was added to the roster. “There you go, Charlie. Now you get paid for running away from home.” After the laughter had subsided, his Uncle Davy had told him, “You’re Ensign Travis now, Charlie. Think of it as being a junior officer.”

  The thought left him swearing below his ragged breath. “Ensign, my ass,” the boy thought. “More like gopher. Charlie, go fer this and go fer that. That’s all Uncle Davy has me doing is fetching things for him.”

  What made it worse was that the Sonoran Desert was blistering hot only an hour after sunrise, and Crockett had him running errands since before breakfast. A tarp had been set up in front of Crockett’s A-frame wall tent. In front of the tarp, a small campfire burned. The smell of mesquite and burning cactus filled the air and made his eyes water. His friend, Victorio sat cross-legged in front of the fire roasting some small animal he had caught. Lenna, his sister, sat beside him. For a moment, Charlie forgot to be mad at his Uncle Davy as his breath caught in his throat when he saw Lenna.

  Her thick, black hair was tied in a single braid down her back and she was wearing a blue calico print blouse. When she looked up and saw Charlie, her lips turned up at the corners a bit and she turned and began talking with her brother. Talking with her had never been easy, but lately, every time he tried talking with her, Charlie found it hard to think of what to say. And the problem was, he really wanted to talk with her and spend time around her.

  He was about to sit when the flap to Crockett’s tent opened, “Charlie, what took you so long? It’s time. Chief Alejandro and his folks will be here directly.”

  With a sign that brought smiles to both the young Apaches, Charlie turned away from the fire, kicked a pebble with his toe and waited under the tarp.

  It was a short wait. Apart from the embroidered shoulder boards with the golden eagles, Crockett wore the same uniform as any of his men. The only exception was a pair of riding boots. Normally they were scuffed and dull from heavy use, but Charlie had stayed up late the previous night polishing them to a shine.

  Next to the camp a small crowd of men waited. Charlie thought they looked Mexican in appearance, but as he and the officers headed toward them, Crockett leaned over, “Don’t let that look fool you, son. They ain’t no more Mexican than you or me. They’ve been living under the boot heel of Spanish for the better part of two hundred years. Now the Mexicans have made a worse mess of things, and Chief Alejandro there is interested in kicking them out.”

  While not fluent, Charlie understood enough Spanish to follow along as the tribal leader talked with Crockett through a translator. Chief Alejandro told Crockett that he had grown up in the presidio in the valley below, only fleeing into the mountains north of town when the Mexican governor to the south had tried to force high taxes onto the Yaquis people and an end to tribal ownership of land.

  From what Charlie could piece together, he thought Alejandro had convinced himself the Texians were a better bet than the Mexicans in the Presidio San Agustín del Tucson, despite being an unknown force. When Crockett pointed this out to the Yaquis elder, the response brought laughter all around, “Better the devil I don’t know than the devil that I do.”

  Alejandro explained that the Mexican governor in Hermosillo had tried repeatedly to compel the Yacquis to pay heavy taxes to the Mexican state of Sonora, as well as enacting legislation to strip the Yaquis of their tribal lands.

  Charlie wondered what Crockett’s thoughts were. His curiosity was rewarded when the Texian officers withdrew a short ways to discuss their options.

  Major McCulloch said, “We can take the presidio without them, Colonel. But having friendly folks behind us is a sight better than having enemies to our rear.”

  Crockett agreed. “I doubt the Mexican officer in command of Tucson has any interest in fighting us. And turning the presidio over to Alejandro and his people would improve things in the short run. But let’s think about what this will mean later. As I understand it, the Sonoran state government treats these Yaquis not much better than we treat our Negros. But Alejandro wants independence of sorts, and that’s the question we need to consider.”

  McCulloch grunted like he had been kicked in the stomach, “Do you reckon that dog’s going to hunt with the government back in Austin?”

  Crockett shrugged, “If Lorenzo knows what’s good for him, he’ll figure out a way to accommodate these folks. We’ve got a pretty good thing going with the Cherokee. Charlie’s Pa calls it a win-win situation. I’d like to think we could arrange something as beneficial here. But before we start putting the cart before the horse, this is just a waypoint for us. It ain’t going to matter a tinker’s damn unless we succeed with the rest of our plans.”

  An agreement for cooperation was quickly negotiated and Charlie, once again, found himself rushing from one end of the camp to the other with orders as Crockett directed his men to break camp. The small army snaked down the mountainous trail until they were less than a half mile away from the presidio of Tucson. Such as there was of it. He had been told that the town had once been thriving in the years before the Mexican War for Independence. But since then, the presidio had withered under Mexico’s neglect and the blistering Sonoran sun.

  That same sun was halfway across the sky when Charlie watched two companies of infantry deploy along with one of the cavalry companies which anchored the riflemen’s flanks. According to the Yaquis, the Mexican garrison had been allowed to atrophy to as few as a dozen men. Despite the solid look of the adobe walls, twelve men couldn’t hope to defend them.

  The men barely started their advance across the arid ground when a smile lit Charlie’s face. The Mexican tricolor floated down the flagpole flying over the fortified walls. The tiny garrison had surrendered.

  Charlie sat astride his mount behind Crockett as the three companies advanced through the presidio’s gates. Seeing the Texian flag raise over the adobe fortifications, Charlie said, “If they would have put up a fight, we’d have whipped them good, right?”

  His Uncle Davy frowned in response. “Why’d you want to
fight them, son, if it weren’t necessary? I’ll always take a bloodless victory over one that costs us even one soldier,” he paused before slowly wheeling around, looking at the rest of the battalion, where the men were setting up camp outside the presidio’s walls. “Son, if there is one lesson this running away business can teach you, it’s this: we owe it to our men to spend their lives with care. Just because they have read a dime novel or two, they think I’m this great Lion of the West. More than a few of them would follow me into hell if I asked them to.”

  Crockett’s eyes bored into Charlies. “To hell with that. My goal is to get as many of them as possible to California then back again to Texas. Everyone that I bury along the way is a personal failure.”

  Chapter 19

  3 June 1843

  Lorenzo de Zavala’s stomach was still upset from the previous day’s coach ride. The durable leather straps suspending the coach supposedly made for a less bouncy ride, but the president was unsold on that bit of marketing as he wondered how long it would take for his stomach to return to something he considered normal.

  He would rather have been somewhere else, but as he watched the two battalions gathered in the Alamo’s large plaza, duty demanded he make an appearance and say a few words. Zavala lacked the story telling chops of his predecessor, but he was considered a gifted orator in his own right. His lips twitched at the thought. “Unlike David, I prefer to stick to the facts.”

  He stood on a makeshift stage and told the thousand assembled men of their duty to their fellow soldiers, their wives and families, and to Texas. It was short and to the point. While it may have lacked Crockett’s flare for the theatrics, it was also significantly shorter.

  He allowed an expansive smile to split his face as martial music filled the air, and the 6th and 12th Infantry battalions smoothly transitioned from standing at attention in their long lines to the columns of four men abreast. They paraded through the fort’s gatehouse; a thousand pair of feet kicked up clouds of dust.