Down Mexico Way

by Drew McGunn

  Ten minutes after the first men filed out of the Alamo’s gate, silence descended again on the plaza. The only sound was that made by the company of soldiers still assigned to the post, as well as several dozen men who were under the care of the fort’s doctor, who was contracted from San Antonio.

  The coach would swing by the Alamo on the way back to Austin the next day. This evening, the president would stay in an empty room in the officer’s quarters. He descended the stage and now that he was alone, allowed the doubts to eat away at him. How many acres would lay fallow because of his decision to send more men south? Would children go hungry this fall, or would they and their mothers manage to plant and harvest enough to stave off hunger? Not knowing the answers, he climbed the stairs to the officers’ quarters, where he hoped a brief nap would restore his mood and appetite.

  ***

  The next day, 900 miles to the west, Zavala’s predecessor watched his little army of seven hundred follow wagon tracks westward. He had been assured by the Yaquis chieftain, Alejandro, the road ended at the western sea, which Crockett understood to be the Pacific Ocean. With a little luck, he had told Charlie, he expected the command to reach the Mexican town of San Diego within three weeks.

  Charlie shifted in his saddle and watched the presidio of Tucson disappear as the battalion snaked along the trail. He swiped a bandana from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his face. It was too early to be sweating this much, he thought. At least he wasn’t marching, like most of the men in Crockett’s command. At the moment, the only dirt he was eating was that which was kicked up by Crockett’s horse. The men at the back of the column were forced to eat a lot more dust.

  As his horse kicked up dust, the youth’s thoughts went back to the past few days. The presidio had fallen with nary a gunshot, but he knew his Uncle Davy worried about keeping the peace. They had left the Yaquis chieftain, Alejandro, in charge of the presidio. It only made sense. After all, well over half the population of the people living in and around the town were Yaquis.

  He recalled talking with Crockett the previous evening after he had completed his chores. “Charlie, Alejandro’s people are betwixt and between. They’re not uncivilized like the Apache or the Comanche. First, they lived under the Spanish and now, for a generation, under the Mexicans. They’ve adopted a lot of the ways of the peoples that have tried to control them. That’s why I’m optimistic that we can work with them should we hold this territory once we have a peace treaty with Mexico.”

  Charlie’s thoughts returned to the present moment as his horse stepped over a large rock in the road. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why anyone would want to fight over this stretch of desert.

  ***

  5 June 1843

  North of the town of San Luis Potosi the ground next to the Rio Paisanos was carpeted by a temporary city of white canvas. Thousands of tents proclaimed to the citizens of San Luis that Santa Anna had arrived with the army. Adrian Woll, adjutant general of the Mexican army, felt a sense of déjà vu as he stared at the encampment. It dwarfed the camp he had established in Texas the previous year when he had captured San Antonio and nearly captured the Alamo.

  Since learning of General Almonte’s failure to advance into Texas, his Excellency had ordered Woll to assemble every available regiment and march them north, where they would assemble here at San Luis Potosi. His career in Mexico hadn’t fallen as far as it could have. He went from shuffling papers for a couple of months to overseeing the training camps around the capital where he had served since late last year.

  Woll’s familiarity with the officers and men in the new army led Santa Anna to grab him on the dictator’s way out of Mexico City. Santa Anna would show Adrian how to destroy the Yankee pirates.

  His Excellency had taken over the alcalde’s house near the central plaza. The comfortable ranch-style home now overflowed with various staff members. Woll drew his horse up in front of the gat. The courtyard was filled with horses, and Woll thought better of going inside yet. He left his mount in the care of the alcalde’s stable hands and walked a short distance to the plaza.

  Even though most of the army was already assembled, he watched troops from the south march through the plaza on their way to the encampment north of town. The contrast in men perplexed him. Unlike the men he led north the previous year, most of the men who paraded before him wore rope sandals. Woll had seen correspondence and knew the army had outgrown the nation’s ability to supply it in the short term.

  Instead of the navy-blue jackets cut in the Napoleonic style of the previous generation, these men wore white, beige, and gray tunics, the products of whatever the supply depot from which they were equipped had been able to obtain. But one thing Mexico had aplenty were the ubiquitous Brown Bess muskets purchased from Britain fifteen years earlier. Instead of leather cartridge boxes, though, the men carried haversacks, where they stored their paper cartridges.

  Woll shook his head after the men had paraded by. Some of the regiments Santa Anna was assembling were quality units, like he had led, but many were militia conscripts who had been hastily assembled and sent north. Woll had faced the Texians and knew the kind of army General Travis led. Against that, there would be nearly thirty regiments, almost fifteen thousand men, plus however much of the Army of the North remained. As he returned to the alcalde’s residence, he couldn’t help but wonder, “Will it be enough?”

  ***

  9 June 1843

  He adjusted his hat once his feet hit the ground. He tied the reins to the hitching post outside of the house His Excellency used as his headquarters in San Luis Potosi. A glance at the sky convinced him he was early. In a moment of honesty, General Juan Almonte wanted nothing more than to delay his meeting with Santa Anna.

  He had arrived the previous evening with what remained of his army. His men were still setting up camp when instructions arrived to present himself before His Excellency at ten in the morning, sharp. He stepped over to a wooden water trough and looked down at the still water and saw his reflection.

  Never the most robust of men, Almonte’s cheeks were gaunt from too many days on the march. While his navy-blue jacket was cleaned and pressed, it was faded from too many days under the harsh sun. His white pants had been washed plenty of times and had faded to grayish-brown. While his Excellency liked his officers to dress well, as befitted their stations, the battered look to his uniform, Almonte knew, was the least of his worries.

  When he decided to defend the Rio Bravo del Norte instead of invading, he had done so using a liberal interpretation of His Excellency’s orders. That General Travis had met him at the Rio Bravo with an army nearly as large as his own, proved his strategy superior to a more aggressive interpretation favored by the late General Raphael Vasquez. Now, he was summoned to appear before His Excellency to answer for his interpretation.

  He turned away from his reflection and wound his way through orderlies and couriers who clogged the building’s courtyard. He couldn’t help but thinking, he had done the right thing, given the circumstances. The breechloading rifles the Texians used were a game changer, and Almonte strongly suspected no army from Mexico with surplus British muskets would prevail. It was, he felt, a minor miracle he had arrived here with half his army still intact.

  He was ushered into the cool adobe building. A young officer in a crisply starched uniform left him in a small library. Books lined the shelves. A small, sturdy desk backed up to a bookshelf and a high-backed wooden chair faced the desk.

  He gave up trying to focus on any of the books when the door opened, and His Excellency entered. Forgetting the books, Almonte drew up next to the wooden chair and came to attention. He eyed his commander-in-chief as Santa Anna strode around the desk and leaned in, glaring at Almonte.

  After a pause that lasted far too long for Almonte’s comfort, Santa Anna said, “I’d be lying if I said I was glad to see you, Juan.”

  That His Excellency dispensed with any honorific and referred to him by his fi
rst name was hopefully a good sign.

  Almonte shrugged, “I wish it were under better circumstances, too, Your Excellency.”

  Santa Anna frowned as he took his seat. He then waved for Almonte to sit, as well. “You’ve put me in an awkward position. I had ordered General Vasquez to capture San Antonio and hold it this time. I gave him an army large enough to do the job.”

  Almonte sat upright in the chair, wondering where His Excellency was going.

  “The poor fool had to die in a fall from his horse. Of all the damnable luck. But Juan, you knew my orders and you disregarded them.”

  Silence descended upon the room. Santa Anna cocked his head as though listening for something. It was Almonte’s turn. “Ah, Excellency, the facts on the ground had changed by the time I took command. Spies in Texas reported that General Travis was marching south with a much larger army than we had expected. We have all read the reports from Woll’s expedition of the breechloading rifles the Texians now carry. An attack against fixed positions would have destroyed our army. I thought it better to turn the tables on the Texians and force them to attack our fixed position.”

  Santa Anna leapt to his feet, “And you lost, Juan. Not once, not twice, but three times!”

  Almonte wanted to defend himself. He had faced an army with new and better weapons and better training that made effective use of the new weapons. But the crux of His Excellency’s argument was true. In three engagements with Travis’ Texians, Almonte’s Army of the North had lost each battle and half its strength. If he hadn’t been present, Almonte wasn’t sure he would believe his own defense.

  “But, Excellency, we inflicted heavy casualties against the enemy.”

  Santa Anna sat back down, “But not enough. No doubt the norteamericano pirates will be arriving at Saltillo any day now. I will take all the army north and do what you failed to do. I will destroy Travis’ army and kill him like the cur he is. There will be a trail of bodies all the way back to San Antonio and when I get there, I’ll hang that traitor Zavala from gallows built atop the bones of his followers. Then I’ll drive the Yankee interlopers back to the Sabine River and end the norteamericano threat once and for all.”

  “Is my jaw hanging open?” Almonte wondered as he listened to His Excellency pontificate.

  “Had you not failed me, you would be at my side, Juan. But that’s not possible now. There are some in the army that believe an example should be made of you.”

  Almonte tensed as Santa Anna continued, “I would sign the order of execution were it not for the friendship I still hold dear, Juan. I understand you disobeyed my orders not because you are disloyal, but because you wanted to preserve the army. Had you won even one decisive victory, that would have wiped out the stain of disobedience. An army, even this one, will forgive much when victory is achieved.”

  In a small voice, as he thought of his wife and wondered if he would ever see her again, he asked, “What will you do, Excellency?”

  “For the time being, you must leave Mexico, Juan. You’ve been a friend to me longer than most and even though you have failed me, I owe you that much.”

  Exile, then, Almonte thought. It could be worse, much worse.

  It was clear Santa Anna was finished. When he reached the door, Almonte was turning the knob when His Excellency said, “Before you leave, turn over any prisoners in your possession. I will send a message to Travis of what to expect when we defeat him.”

  ***

  Mid-June 1843

  A trickle of black smoke curled up from the locomotive’s smokestack. One of the men who climbed down from the car, dressed as a common laborer, crossed the tracks in front of the train and hurried into the nearby woods.

  Mark Stewart scratched at his neck. The grimy shirt he wore itched wherever it touched his skin. When he had left the British consulate in Galveston early that morning, it had seemed best to wear the clothes of a day laborer. But as he raised his hand to his neck and scratched, he wondered about the hygiene of the man whose clothes he had stolen.

  The Irish laborer had seemed a likely target. Mark was able to affect the lilting brogue common among the working poor from the Emerald Isle who worked the docks of Galveston. But he regretted not washing the clothing after he had purloined it.

  The grove of trees ended a few hundred feet from the edge of West Liberty. But Mark had no interest in the town this afternoon. Perhaps another time it would be worth exploring. Without the Gulf Farms Corporation, the town would likely not exist, he thought. And certainly, the lone railroad in Texas wouldn’t connect it to Galveston Bay were it not for the farming conglomerate. Any other time, Mark would have been fascinated to study how the owners of Gulf Farms competed with the slave labor of the plantations.

  As he stepped over a fallen branch, Mark shrugged at the thought. Perhaps now wasn’t a good time to compare. He had overheard one of the men on the train complaining that a majority of the farmers employed at Gulf Farms had been called up into the military. No doubt the current war with Mexico was putting heavy financial stress on the corporation.

  No, he thought, his real interest lay ahead, through the thick grove of trees. He had walked through the woods for more than an hour when the tree line ended. He stopped under the shade of a towering live oak and stared.

  For the past year, the republic’s militia and reserve battalions had used the fallow fields and pastures east of West Liberty as a place to drill and train for war. The Republic’s military leadership had picked it because of its proximity to the railroad connecting the town to Anahuac and Galveston Bay.

  At its peak, the Texian army had drilled a half-dozen battalions in the fields in front of Mark. At least that’s what the newspapers in Galveston had reported. Now, most of the reserve battalions had marched south with the Texian army and most of the men in the remaining militia battalions had returned to their farms.

  Despite that, Mark watched a few companies drill. It was late in the afternoon. He was sure they would dismiss the men back to their camp shortly. And that’s what he was waiting for.

  He settled against a tree, eying the sun. For what he had planned it was best to wait until after sunset. He had read in the Telegraph and Texas Register that of the nearly one hundred militia companies, organized in eight battalions, Thomas Rusk, general of the militia, rotated a few companies through the camp at West Liberty each week. Ostensibly, it was to prepare the men serving in the militia to mobilize if they were called into service. Mark suspected the Texians wanted to have a few hundred men under arms in the eastern part of the Republic, in the unlikely event Mexico should try to invade by sea.

  On the other side of the field, the men dispersed back to their camp. The sun would set within the hour. He chuckled at the thought of Mexico invading Texas by sea. The young republic owned four purpose-built warships. The largest, the Fannin, was a screw-propelled steam frigate. The other three were steam-powered sloops-of-war. Mark shook his head as he recalled seeing the two warships British merchants had sold to the Mexican navy riding at anchor in Galveston Bay. After the battle of Campeche between Texas and Mexico last year, the Mexican navy, as the Texians were fond of saying, didn’t have a pot to piss in, anymore. The western Gulf of Mexico was, for the time being, a Texas lake.

  And that was why Mark was leaning against a tree, waiting for the last vestiges of light to flee the western sky. His employers favored an independent Texas. Anything with the potential to act as a counterweight against the growing power of the United States was worth supporting. But Texas, Mark thought, was a poor mistress for Britain to cozy up to. Much of the eastern portion of the Republic was given over to a plantation economy, built upon the backs of black slavery. That made his employers nervous.

  The sun slipped below the horizon and Mark left the tree cover and casually crossed the field toward the militia camp. When he was within a hundred feet of the edge of the camp, he squatted down and watched. The tents were lined up on each side of the company’s street. Cooking fires l
ined the center of the camp. At the front of the street, the company had stacked their arms, interlocking the bayoneted rifles stacked together.

  Mark waited. As the men of the militia company ate, there were no guards posted around the camp. But he needed to be patient. His goals would be for naught if anyone saw him approaching. It took several hours before the men settled down. Fires eventually died down, becoming beds of glowing coals. Normal nighttime noises replaced the sound of men moving about. Unfortunately, before retiring to bed, the militia company’s captain posted a guard on the camp, forcing Mark to crawl further into the field to avoid detection.

  “A small price to pay,” he thought. It was but a single man, circling the camp. The rest, Mark thought, was easy enough. The guard was behind the camp when he made his move. The Englishman ignored the stiffness in his knees and raced toward the nearest stack of standing rifles. The sound of the guard, marching along the back of the camp, was faint and he unlocked the stack. He pulled a rifle out and set it on the ground then locked the stack back in a triangle. Taking the time to relock the stack was a calculated risk. If the guard discovered the stack was missing a rifle, then he had sacrificed precious seconds. But if it went unnoticed, he smiled as his hurried back across the field, “then I’ve made good my escape with a rifle my employers will be happy to study.”

  Chapter 20

  The ride back to the encampment north of town was long, made all the longer as Juan Almonte contemplated exile. It was hardly the worst fate His Excellency could have doled out, but the sense of abandonment and betrayal whistled through his soul like a blue norther. If faced with exile, Almonte knew he could live with it. But his wife, Maria, how would she adjust to the loss of her home, friends, and country? As he guided his mount along the well-travelled road, he couldn’t predict her response. She was in the capital city and somehow, he felt Santa Anna would order him directly to Vera Cruz or Tampico. Despite all that Maria would give up in exile, there was a certitude in Almonte’s heart that she would come as soon as he sent for her.