Houston rode his white horse Saracen alongside a newcomer’s wagon. The old-timer driving the wagon had a bottle on the seat beside him. Houston was transfixed by the sight.
“Where you coming from?” Houston called out.
“San Felipe,” the old-timer said. He raised the bottle and took a pull. It was hard not to notice how closely Houston was eyeing him, so the man held the bottle out, offering a swig to the general. Houston absently licked his lips. He thought that, at the moment, there was nothing on earth he wanted so much as a drink from that bottle. Then his eyes turned to the other people in the wagon—a little boy and a woman, older, but not nearly as old as the man.
Houston locked eyes with the little boy and the boy smiled back. “Your horse is the biggest,” he said.
Houston nodded. “What’s your name, son?” he asked.
“Charlie,” the little boy said, transfixed by Saracen.
The woman seated by the child stared at Houston intently. He could not tell, but there seemed to be something behind her gaze—sadness, maybe. Or accusation.
She said, “Tell him your last name, Charlie.”
The boy smiled and said, “Travis.”
Houston made the connection and looked back at Mrs. Ayers, who was now openly glaring at him. Houston’s horse slowed as the cart moved ahead, little Charlie staring back at a tortured Houston.
The rains that pummeled the Texian settlers and Houston’s army the night before also created a sea of mud for Santa Anna’s troops to slog through. Every step was an ordeal. The mud sucked shoes—even boots—off the feet of soldados and the wagon wheels could barely complete a single revolution without becoming stuck in the mire.
For Jesús, the hell of the Alamo campaign had led to a nightmare of a different kind. With every difficult step he thought, “What kind of place is this?”
Up ahead, another cannon was stuck in the mud. A sergeant summoned Jesús and four other men to try to free it with oxen.
Santa Anna gestured toward it dismissively. “Leave it!” he said. “Move!”
Castrillón said, “General, that is the fifth cannon we have discarded.”
Santa Anna paid no attention to him. “We have a good moon tonight,” he said. “We will make use of the light and keep moving.”
The Mexican army continued its filthy march through the mud, as one more cannon was pushed to the edge of the road and abandoned.
Once again, the Texians were setting up tents. Houston was pulling the saddle off Saracen when he saw a horseman coming toward him, riding slowly.
“Shite,” he muttered, recognizing who it was.
It was T. J. Rusk. Nobody in the Texian army was getting enough to eat these days, but Rusk seemed as oversized and ebullient as always. His clothes were also neater and cleaner—and in better repair—than those of Houston’s ragged soldiers.
“Sir,” Rusk said, “the enemy are laughing you to scorn. You must fight them.” He dismounted, pulled a letter from his coat pocket and began to read. “You must retreat no further. The country expects you to fight. The salvation of the country depends on your doing so. Signed David G. Burnet, President.”
Rusk folded the letter and offered it to Houston. Houston ignored him.
“Where is the pig thief these days?” Houston said, tossing a pebble into the creek. “Harrisburg?”
Rusk said, “President Burnet—as well as the rest of the provisional government—have abandoned Harrisburg.”
Houston walked away. “Seems they are retreating faster than I am,” he said.
Rusk called after him. “Sir, I have been given authority to replace you! General . . . ?”
Seguin approached Houston from the direction of the camp. He had overheard at least some of Houston’s conversation with Rusk. “General,” Seguin said. “Sam! Talk with him. Share your strategy.”
Houston glared at him.
“Have you a strategy?” Seguin asked.
Houston said, “A general who has to cajole soldiers into following is no general. I am not fond of war councils.” He peered into Seguin’s eyes angrily. “Fannin was fond of war councils,” he said.
“These men,” said Seguin, gesturing to the men setting up camp, “they believe you are a coward.”
Houston took this statement without a flinch. Even so, his face softened and he looked at Seguin.
“Did you know I told Crockett to come to Texas?” he said. “And the others . . . now they are dead at their posts—by my orders. . . .”
Seguin shook his head. “You warned them not to fort up.”
“In these times it is very difficult to maintain your honor without losing your life,” Houston said. “But can a man choose honor, and death, for another?”
Seguin did not know how to answer this.
Houston said, his voice deep with sadness, “They weren’t good men, Juan . . . but damn, they were good men.”
Houston turned to Rusk, still standing several yards away, and motioned for him to follow him. Houston, Seguin and Rusk walked to Houston’s tent and entered.
“Have a seat, Rusk,” Houston said, gesturing to a field chair.
“General . . .” Rusk said, as he sat.
Houston waited a long moment, then said quietly, “Twenty-odd years ago, Napoleon returns from exile in Elba, puts together an army and moves east. Swiftly—trying to gain power before an alliance between nations can occur. Wellington, with fewer men, fewer armaments, stays one step ahead of the French—teasing them with his presence—knowing that a large army will splinter in order to keep up.”
Seguin and Rusk shared a look. Where was this going?
Houston continued, “He moves and he waits, moves and waits . . . for Napoleon to make a mistake—to fall into a scenario that condemns him to defeat. Wellington chooses the setting for victory before it exists for him, before he lays eyes on it. It has an open battleground, a sloping plane, cover for encampment and an opportunity to surprise the enemy flank.”
Houston raised his eyes, fixing his gaze on Rusk.
“The Mexican army is splintered and though they do not know it, Santa Anna’s troops subsist on gasps of air and sips of hope,” Houston said. “I share Wellington’s battleground vision, though I know not the name of the place I imagine. I, sir, do not consider myself Wellington. Santa Anna, however, does consider himself the Napoleon of the West. We shall move and wait until he makes a mistake and presents us with his Waterloo.”
Rusk stared at the floor, considering what he had just heard. Then after a moment, he rose. “Thank you, General.” He started to exit the tent, then stopped and turned. “General,” he said, “might I enlist as a private in your army?”
A commotion outside brought all three men out of the tent. A Mexican soldier was being dragged into camp. He had already been beaten badly, and the Texians surrounding him looked like they were in the mood to beat him again. Seguin raced to his side. The look on his face was enough to make the Texians back away and give him room. Seguin propped the soldier by a tree, then knelt beside him and began asking questions in a low voice.
Houston called out, “Colonel Neill!”
Neill ran to his side. “Yes, sir.”
“It is time for the noncombatants to move on, Colonel,” Houston said. “Have them prepare their wagons and supplies and keep heading east.”
Neill smiled. “Look, General, these have just arrived.” He pointed toward two six-pounder cannon, brand new and shiny—at least in the spots that weren’t covered in mud. “A gift from the citizens of Cincinnati,” Neill said.
Houston looked at the guns and nodded with satisfaction. He said, “Start preparing shot and loads.”
Seguin raced over with a saddlebag that he had taken from the captured soldado.
“Deaf Smith captured a Mexican courier,” Seguin said. “His letters tell us Santa Anna is nearby . . . and separated from the rest of his army.”
Seguin handed over the saddlebag. “The courier had this bag,” he sa
id. It was a fine leather bag with the monogram WBT imprinted upon it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The Mexican troops were dead tired when they were finally ordered to set up camp at the edge of the woods. Santa Anna, with Almonte, walked by the bedraggled men, inspecting and looking out onto the field in front of him. It was a half mile long, gently sloping up and away, with a stand of trees to one side. Castrillón strode to his side.
“General,” he said, “we have reports of troop movement. Houston’s army is less than three miles away.”
Santa Anna’s face broke into an excited smile. He said, “We will break camp and chase the coward.”
Castrillón shook his head. “Sir, he’s not moving. He is on his way here.” Castrillón pointed to the far woods. “His scouts were spotted in those woods. Behind us. We are cut off from all our armies except Cós.”
Santa Anna calmly considered this, idly scratching his neck. “How many men does Houston lead?” he demanded.
Castrillón replied, “Perhaps as many as seven hundred.”
Santa Anna looked at Castrillón with contempt. He had that many with him now.
“Sir,” Castrillón insisted, “we are at a disadvantage. Our backs are against a body of water with only a small bridge for retreat.”
Santa Anna shrugged. “With General Cós’s men we will dwarf Houston’s army.”
“But Cós will not be here until tomorrow,” Castrillón said.
Almonte chimed in, “We should prepare breastworks and put the men on alert. We are only vulnerable tonight.”
Santa Anna said patiently, “Houston has water at his back as well. Two cannon shots and he will run like a rabbit.”
Only a few hundred yards away, the Texians dismounted and started unloading weapons, ammunition, tents and supplies. Houston walked past the men, strode through a copse of trees and stepped out into the open field. To his left was the San Jacinto River, which snaked all the way around to Buffalo Bayou, behind the Texians’ camp. To his right was the road to Harrisburg and Vince’s Bridge, the only way in or out of the area. Straight ahead, about five hundred yards away, was the Mexican camp. The land between the Texians and the Mexicans was nearly flat, but there was a gentle rise in the ground. Houston looked at it with satisfaction. It just might be enough of a rise to allow his army to make it nearly all the way across the field before the Mexicans saw them. Just behind the Mexican camp was some marshy land that led to Peggy’s Lake. With water on two sides, the Mexicans would have no place to run.
Down in the Mexican camp, hundreds of troops were busy preparing breastworks consisting of trunks, wagons—anything that could help serve as a makeshift wall.
Houston took a small black box from his pocket and extracted a pinch of snuff. He inhaled it and closed his eyes. He felt as if he were reliving a dream. He thought about what he had said to Rusk: “Wellington chooses the setting for victory before it exists for him, before he lays eyes on it. It has an open battleground, a sloping plain, cover for encampment and an opportunity to surprise the enemy flank.” Each of those elements was there, exactly what Houston had been looking for. He opened his eyes and spoke to the field before him. “Do you have a name?” he whispered. “What do they call you?”
The Texians were fully aware of the proximity of the enemy. Every man was working hard, preparing to fight, eager to get to it after all this time. Houston walked back into camp and nodded at Seguin. He reached up and touched a leaf, gripping it between his thumb and forefinger. “Damp,” Houston said. “We have to keep our powder dry.”
Houston walked away, into his tent. Seguin just watched, saying nothing. Mosley Baker and Rusk walked over to Seguin and said in one voice, “Well . . . ?”
Seguin just shook his head.
Mosley Baker said, “He don’t make up his mind soon, we will fight without him.”
Seguin noticed a familiar face among his Tejanos. He walked over and said, “Menchaca, how did you get here? I thought you were in the Alamo.”
Menchaca looked at Seguin with a slight expression of shame. “I left, Don Juan,” he said.
Seguin’s brow knitted. “Left,” he said with quiet fury. “You deserted your post?”
“No, no, it was nothing like that,” Menchaca said. “Santa Anna offered us amnesty. Even Santiago Bowie told me to leave.”
“Bowie?” Seguin said.
“Yes,” Menchaca said. “Bowie said that the fight would continue. I saw that the Alamo was done for. It made no sense to stay there and die. For what?”
Seguin looked off into the distance. For what, indeed? “Then why are you here?” he asked.
Menchaca sighed. “Just because I did not want to perish in the Alamo doesn’t mean that I do not believe in our cause,” he said. “I want to defeat Santa Anna. I knew I could not do it from there. I thought maybe I could do it from here.”
Seguin patted him once on the shoulder and said nothing more.
All along the now completed breastworks, the Mexican soldiers were on their guard, waiting, watching for the attack they knew was imminent. Behind the men, Castrillón stood watching the woods in the distance, alert to any movement, any hint that the Texians were on their way. They stood at the ready. Their energy was nearly depleted from the rigorous march from Béxar, but they were prepared to fight—indeed, eager to fight. The sooner they vanquished the last of the Texians, as their army had at Béxar and La Bahía, the sooner they could go back to their homes and families.
Jesús waited with the others. He gripped his rifle and squinted toward the trees from which the Texians would emerge. No one talked. They simply waited. They waited through the morning in the blazing heat of noonday, in the muggy, mosquito-heavy air of afternoon—and on into the damp cool of the evening. They waited until midnight, and into the haunted hours of the early-morning darkness.
And as the sun rose over the field, bright and yellow in the sky, the exhausted soldados continued to wait. And still nothing happened.
Jesús, not for the first time, fought to keep himself from falling asleep. He had found a way to prop himself against the breastwork so that even if he drifted off, he would remain standing up. In this way, he had been able to steal a few winks through the night. But now the sudden blare of bugles jerked him awake. Fear coursed up his spine—it was the Texians! They were attacking!
With immense relief, Jesús saw that it was not the enemy approaching, but the very welcome troops of General Cós. Jesús and the men around him cheered the arrival of the reinforcements. Others might rejoice in the fact that the added numbers would make victory certain. The only thing that mattered to Jesús, though, was that now he might be able to get some sleep. But Cós’s men were even more exhausted than the army that was already in place. No sooner did they march into camp than the weary men began to flop down without even removing their packs. Most of them fell asleep immediately.
Almonte surveyed the reinforcements and smiled. “We are safe now.”
Castrillón wished he could be so sure. He looked at Almonte, then at the sleeping soldiers, hoping the general was right.
Almonte shouted an order: “Rest, men,” he called out. “Rest for battle!”
Houston heard the bugles, too. He was standing with Seguin, watching as Cós’s army reached camp.
“How many are there?” he said.
“It looks like six hundred troops, maybe more,” Seguin said. “Altogether, that makes thirteen or fourteen hundred. Twice what we have, almost.”
Houston considered the odds. Seguin watched and waited, hoping against hope that Houston was not going to once again order a retreat. This, Seguin thought, was the moment of truth.
Houston said, “There is a bridge behind the Mexican army.”
“Vince’s Bridge,” Seguin said eagerly.
Houston nodded. “Send Deef Smith and his boys to burn it,” he said.
Seguin almost yelped with relief and started to hurry off to carry out the order. Houston stopped him. “Juan
?”
Seguin turned.
“Do we have music?” Houston asked.
Seguin pondered for a moment. “A drummer, I believe,” he said.
Houston nodded. “See if you can find him a friend or two,” he said.
Seguin grinned and nodded back. Then he raced off, oddly exhilarated.
Word quickly spread around the Texian camp. Eagerly, the men began preparing to fight, loading their rifles, sharpening their knives, checking their reserves of powder and shot. When Seguin returned, Houston motioned him to come to him.
“Captain Seguin,” Houston said, “you and your men will guard the camp.”
Seguin was too astonished to say anything. Houston’s face softened. “There could be confusion out there, Juan,” he said. “Some men’ll shoot any Mexican they see.”
“General, sir,” Seguin said evenly, “you ordered me to stay with you; I stayed. My friends—the friends I left behind—are dead. This is our fight, too. Even more than yours.”
Houston exhaled a long sigh. “All right,” he said. “You will join Sherman on the left flank. But Juan, put some sort of identifying mark on yourself, so nobody accidentally puts a bullet into you.”
“I have a deck of cards,” Seguin said. “We will each put one in the bands of our hats.”
“Sounds good,” Houston said.
“And Sam,” Seguin said. “Please be sure and spread the word.”
Down in Santa Anna’s camp, the Mexicans were sleeping. Jesús was so exhausted that he expected that he would drop right off. But he did not. An odd thought had gotten into his head and would not leave him alone. That night, that awful night. The Texians in the Alamo had been sleeping, relaxing. They had let their guard down because they were so very tired. And now, thought Jesús, we are so very tired. . . .
The Texians up in Houston’s camp were too excited to be tired. They checked and double-checked their weapons and equipment, tapped their feet nervously, counted the minutes until “Old Sam” would give them permission to get revenge. Almost every man among them had lost friends or relatives at the Alamo or at La Bahía. Now they would make the Mexicans pay.
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