Home of the Brave

by Jeffry Hepple

  “Yup.” Whipple sat up and squinted into the setting sun. “What’s up?”

  “Our guns have stopped.”

  “Get the men on their feet, Lieutenant. It’ll take a while for the diversion to develop and the sun ain’t quite low enough yet for it to start.”

  “Any instruction for the men, sir?”

  “Just tell ‘em to run down the hill and kill the enemy when I give the order to charge.”

  O’Hara didn’t look satisfied.

  “What? You wanna know what’s gonna happen?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “If we make enough noise, kill a few people and scare ‘em, the Mess-kins is gonna fall back toward the plaza. Before long, they’ll be crammed in there and stumblin’ all over each other. Then the onliest ones of ‘em that’ll be able to fire at us is gonna be the front rank of maybe twenty men in each street.”

  “I see.”

  “Do ya?”

  “No.”

  “The town’s laid out like a wagon wheel.”

  “A wagon wheel?”

  Whipple nodded. “The plaza’s the hub and all the roads lead in like spokes. Them roads is real narrow. Donkey cart wide. Not hardly wide enough to put more’n maybe a rifle squad on line.”

  “I see.”

  “Once the mess-kins retreat to the plaza they’ll be bottled up. We could hold the whole blamed army in there with no more’n our one little company and a few cannons. That’s when Worth will start the howitzers again. He’ll zero-in on the plaza and keep killin’ ‘em until Ampudia surrenders or the whole army’s dead and the city’s in flames.”

  O’Hara nodded. “Now I understand.”

  As the sun was near the hilltops to the west of the city, an American demonstration began on the north and south sides. Worth’s infantry swarmed around the western hills and from their positions on the east side, sending a wave of panic through the Mexican defenders. As the Mexican infantry broke and retreated toward the plaza, the San Patricios began to reposition their guns to the southern flank where they expected the main attack.

  At the city wall, Whipple had been hit in the right cheek by a musket ball that had taken out a back tooth and exited his left cheek. The impact had been sufficient to knock him down and the blood from his mouth was enough to convince Lieutenant O’Hara that Whipple was mortally wounded so O’Hara had led the Rangers over the wall.

  Dizzily, Whipple sat up, spit a mouthful of blood and tooth fragments into the sand then looked around at the fallen Americans near him. Because the Mexican cannons had been diverted by the demonstration, the carnage was less than might have been expected. As he was getting shakily to his feet, he heard a muffled voice calling what might have been his name. “Somebody say somethin’?”

  “Over here.”

  Whipple moved toward the sound. “Talk some more.”

  “Help me get this damn horse off me, Josiah.”

  Whipple stumbled toward the nearby carcass of a horse. “Tom? What the hell are you doin’ here?”

  “Not very much,” Colonel Thomas Van Buskirk replied. “I seem to have broken my damned leg and lost my regiment. Before that, I was looking for you.”

  Whipple sat down beside him and braced both feet against the horse. “You ain’t lost your regiment. They’re either over in the plaza killin’ Mess-kins or on their way to do it. When I push you pull.”

  ~

  Whipple looked over the wall then ducked as a musket ball ricocheted near his face. “How’s yer leg?” he asked.

  “Not broken, after all,” Thomas replied. “I think my knee’s dislocated or something.”

  “I never heard of no such of a thing.”

  “I think I could walk on it if I splinted my knee so it didn’t bend backward.”

  “Bendin’ backward don’t sound so good.”

  Thomas shrugged. “What’s going on over there?” He gestured toward the wall.

  “There’s a big, three-story house about fifty yards from the wall with Mess-kins hangin’ outta every window. They got my company and your regiment pinned down, and that’s keepin’ all the streets on this side of the plaza open.”

  “See if you can find me something to use for a splint and we’ll go over the wall and take the house.”

  “Be right back.” Ignoring the heavy small-arms fire from the house, Whipple ran out among the dead and wounded, picked up an unexploded 12-pounder shell, and darted back.

  “What’s that for?” Thomas pointed at the shell.

  “Still has some fuse on it.”

  “I see that. You were supposed to fetch me a splint.”

  “I know. But this was too good to pass up. You still smoke them cigars?”

  “Yeah. But if you’re plannin’ to light that fuse use a lucifer.” Tom found his box of friction matches and handed it to Whipple.

  “Wait here. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” Whipple stood up, tossed the shell over the fence then followed it. The moment he hit the ground he began drawing heavy fire from the house again. After retrieving the shell, he dove into a ditch.

  “Captain Whipple?” the surprised voice of Lieutenant O’Hara called from his left.

  “That’ll be me.”

  “I thought you were dead, sir.”

  “Not yet, Lieutenant, but I’m a-fixin’ to try again. You got enough men there to keep them Mess-kins heads down for maybe ten or fifteen seconds?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, then. Get ‘em ready and when I say to, throw whatever lead you got at the house.”

  “We’re ready, sir. Just give us the word.”

  “Okay. Stand by.” Whipple struck a match, got up on his haunches and held the match near the fuse. “Fire!”

  As the Ranger’s muskets, and those of other Americans who had heard the exchange, fired at the house, Whipple lit the fuse, raced to the house and threw the shell through an open window. The artillery round hit the wooden floor and immediately exploded, blowing Mexican soldiers out of windows on all three stories.

  With a cheer, the Americans that had been pinned down rushed the building.

  “Are you okay, Captain,” Lieutenant O’Hara asked, after the surviving Mexican soldiers had been subdued.

  Whipple was sitting with his back to the wall of the ruined house with blood running from his nose and his wounded cheeks. “Concussion just rung my bell is all. I got a hell of a headache. Take command of the company. I have some other business soon as my head stops a-spinnin’.”

  “Where should I place the men?”

  “Anyplace comfortable and away from the zócalo. It won’t be long before our howitzers start to zero in on it and the Mess-kins surrender.”

  ~

  While the howitzers were busy pounding the plaza where the Mexican army was trapped, Josiah Whipple and Thomas Van Buskirk were sitting outside the city wall watching an ambulance and dead-cart moving through the battlefield and along the hills.

  “Oh. I got a note for y’ from yer mother.” Whipple gave the tattered envelope to Thomas.

  “I saw her in Matamoros. She said you’d gone home.”

  “‘Changed my mind.”

  “Not smart.”

  “So says the smart man sittin’ right next to me.”

  Thomas chuckled.

  “How long you been here?” Whipple asked.

  “I arrived the day after Matamoros fell.”

  “‘Thought you wasn’t gonna get in this fight.”

  Thomas shrugged. “Guilt nagged me every day and kept me awake nights. Too much soldier in my blood, I guess.”

  “How’s everybody at the ranch?”

  “Good. Everybody was getting worried about you.”

  “How was Charlie Lagrange doin’ without me?”

  “Charlie’s very competent and your men are so well trained that they don’t need any direction.”

  “That’s what I figured.”

  “I reckon Anna’s unhappy at me.”

  “If she is she�
�s hiding it. I think she really only cares about Charlie being happy.”

  “That’s turned out to be a lots better union than I would of reckoned.”

  Tom nodded. “Yes. Thankfully.”

  “Any Indian trouble?”

  “Not with us. Our laissez-faire agreement with Buffalo Hump is still holding but he keeps stealing cattle and horses from the smaller spreads so sooner or later there’ll have to be a reckoning.”

  “The United States Army can do that now.”

  Thomas listened a moment. “The bombardment’s slowing down. Negotiations for surrender must have started.”

  “I was just thinkin’ about that. Takin’ and holdin’ over ten thousand prisoners with fifteen hundred men ain’t gonna be no easy job.”

  “Taylor will probably just confiscate weapons and encircle the city until he gets some direction from Washington. Once we’ve captured all the Mexican cannons and we have them positioned around the plaza, nobody will be able to break out.”

  “Yeah, but until he hears from Washington, Zach’s gonna be tied down here and outta business. I can’t see him doin’ that.”

  “What choice does he have?”

  Whipple shrugged. “I dunno, but he wants to fight so I’m bettin’ he’ll find another choice.”

  October 7, 1846

  Brownsville, Texas

  As the sun was rising above the tent city behind Fort Brown, an irregular Mexican cavalry regiment called the Tamaulipas rode in from the rear, throwing torches on the tents and shooting the occupants as they ran out.

  Lucky’s Place, true to its name, was at the extreme front of the tent city, nearest the fort and thus the last to be attacked. At the first sound of gunfire, William Van Buskirk had pushed Savannah out of the tent with instructions to run for the fort. William then walked calmly out through the entrance flaps of the tent and began to methodically shoot the marauders until his pistols were both empty.

  The leader of the irregulars, Juan Cortina, better known by his nickname Chino Cortina, was so impressed by William’s courage and audacity that he ordered his men to take him alive.

  ~

  “You are the famous outlaw Lucky Billy Van,” Cortina said, as he walked over to his new captive.

  “Is that so?” Near a flooded resaca, William was tied to a small oak tree with his arms over his head. Around him, Cortina’s men had begun the tasks of cooking, tending to their horses or their wounds and establishing a temporary camp.

  “You killed ten of my men,” Cortina said.

  “It should have been twelve but the damn Walker-Colts have a tendency to accidentally discharge if the chamber under the hammer is loaded.”

  “I spared you before I knew who you were.”

  “Fortunately you can easily rectify that now.”

  “You speak very good Spanish.”

  “My sainted mother is one of you bean-eaters and she insisted we learn your monkey chatter.”

  Cortina knitted his brow at the pejoratives. “If you are an enemy of Texas you might be my friend. If you are an enemy of Mexico, you are my enemy and I will kill you. Which are you?”

  “I am the enemy of everyone and a friend to no one.”

  “I think you could be loco.”

  “You would not be the first to think so.”

  “The wanted poster that I read said that you were a soldier in the army of North America and trained to be a general.”

  “I have read that poster too. The picture of me is not very flattering.”

  “If I cut you down will you give me your promise not to attack my men or try to escape?”

  “No.”

  “I am offering you freedom and an opportunity to punish Texas and North America for hunting you,” Cortina said in a frustrated tone.

  “How old are you, boy?”

  “I am twenty-two and no boy,” Cortina replied angrily.

  “Within two years the army of North America will have crushed the Mexican army and annexed everything from here to the Pacific. There is nothing that you and your vaquero cavalry can do about it. Nothing.”

  “So – do you want me to kill you?”

  “No, I would rather you set me free. But not if it costs me anything.”

  Cortina swore under his breath then signaled a man with a machete to cut William’s bonds. “Run. If I can see you in five minutes I will kill you.”

  William rubbed his wrists. “I suppose asking for my guns would be a waste of time.”

  “Go before I change my mind.”

  “I am grateful to be set free but I will kill anyone who comes after me, including you, Boy.” William walked casually across the camp, back toward Fort Brown.

  October 8, 1846

  Washington, District of Columbia

  “President Polk has informed General Taylor that the U.S. Army has no authority to negotiate truces, only to kill the enemy,” General Winfield Scott said dryly.

  “Now you know why I’ve stayed in retirement,” Yank Van Buskirk replied. “What does Polk want Zach to do now? Renege on the armistice he signed with General Ampudia?”

  “Technically it was a sixty day cessation of hostilities, but it was over in practicality when the Mexican Army was allowed to march out of Monterrey with battle honors, all their arms and a battery of artillery.”

  “Zach was outnumbered enormously.”

  “I’m not criticizing General Taylor’s decision, Yank. I’m just telling you what President Polk thinks.”

  “You mean what President Polk thinks he should think based upon what his voting public thinks it’s popular to think.”

  “That is his role as President,” Scott said. “To exercise the will of the people.”

  The people are sheep who have no idea what it takes to wage war. They want it fast and clean without costing them any tax money or sacrificing any of their own family members. Now they’re calling for Polk to relieve Zack after, with less than two thousand American volunteers, he defeated a professional army of ten thousand in a fortress city.”

  Scott didn’t respond.

  Yank shook his head. “If Polk asked you to relieve Zack, I hope you refused, Win.”

  “President Polk has ordered me to form an expeditionary force to take Mexico City. To my knowledge, General Taylor has been ordered to join me,” Scott said, obviously miffed by Yank’s words and tone. “I have not been ordered to relieve him but if I was, I would.”

  Yank thought a moment before replying. “I think you may have missed my point, Win. Did you know that Zach Taylor intends to run against Polk for president?”

  “I had heard rumors.”

  “They’re not rumors, they’re fact. And in my opinion, Polk is manipulating the battlefield for political reasons. He’s discrediting Zach and taking him from the theater where he’s succeeded in order to prevent him from gaining any more victories and public popularity. That’s dishonest and not in the best interest of the United States or Texas.”

  Scott sighed. “Everything with you is always either black or while, Yank. Someone is always a villain and the other a hero.”

  Yank waved his hand in annoyance. “Let’s get to the point. I assume you asked me here so you could convince me to join you on your Mexico City expedition, Win. The answer is no. I’m too old and too beat up to be of any use.”

  “This campaign isn’t going to be a slug festival, Yank. It’ll require careful planning and special tactics. I need your brain, not your sword.”

  “I just read the third volume of your Infantry Tactics book, Win. You’re the finest military mind in America. You don’t need me.”

  “Let me ask you a question, Yank. If you were in my position, how would you proceed to capture Mexico City?”

  “That’s simple. I’d use the same route that Hernán Cortés took in 1519 when he conquered Mexico City. There are some remarkably detailed accounts that include terrain and other battlefield elements that would still apply today, exactly as they did then.”

  “
Can you name some of those accounts for me please?”

  “Well, let’s see, there are the accounts of Cortés himself. The Conquest of New Spain by Bernal Díaz del Castillo, William H. Prescott’s History of the Conquest of Mexico. I’d have to think about it, but I could make you a list.”

  “You’ve read all these books?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cortés and Castillo in Spanish?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t read Spanish nor do I have the year or two it would take me to study the three books you just mentioned, let alone all the time it might take to read all those other books that you might add to the list.”

  “I could draw you an annotated map.”

  “Or you could come along and discuss it with me and my officers, one of whom is Colonel Jack Van Buskirk and another is Major Robert Van Buskirk. I’m told that Marina and Thomas are with Zack Taylor. Do you really want to be the only member of your family that’s not in this fight, Yank?”

  “That’s not fair, Win.”

  “Then let me ask if you really want to miss the opportunity of following in the footsteps of Herman Cortés.”

  October 18, 1846

  Van Buskirk Point, New Jersey

  Yank lit a lantern then closed the barn door and unsaddled the big black horse. As he was searching the tack room the barn door opened and Abraham came in. “Go back to bed, Abe. I can manage fine; if I could just find the horse towels.”

  Abraham went to a locker, took out two big towels and gave one to Yank. “Did you swim across?”

  “Yes. I didn’t want to wait for the ferryman to come to work in the morning.” Yank walked back into the barn to begin drying the horse.

  Abraham went around to the other side of the horse and patted the animal’s flank. “Hello there you big, bad boy.” He began drying him. “You ride all the way from Elizabeth, Yank?”

  “Yes. Beelzebub doesn’t mind. He was tired of the soft life at Liberty Hall.”

  “You goin’ to war again?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Take me with you.”

  Yank stood on his toes to try to see Abraham over the horse’s shoulders. “Are you mad?”