by J. T. Edson
The Home of Great Western Fiction!
On March 27, 1836, General José Urrea ordered the cold-blooded killing of almost four hundred Texian prisoners of war.
When news of the massacre reached General Samuel Houston, commander of the newly formed Army of the Republic of Texas, he was placed on the horns of a dilemma. For political reasons, he couldn’t permit any official reprisals to be taken against Urrea, but he knew that something had to be done to stop the madman from striking again ...
There was just one man who could help the General out of his predicament. To this man the General issued an unofficial order—an order which he knew would be practically impossible to carry out. That order was ‘GET URREA!’
The man in question was Captain Jackson Baines Hardin, and men said he was ‘a lil ole devil in a fight.’
OLE DEVIL HARDIN 5: GET URREA!
By J. T. Edson
First published by Transworld Publishers in 1975
Copyright © 1975, 2016 by J. T. Edson
First SMASHWORDS Edition: September 2016
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
Cover image © 2015 by Edward Martin
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.
For all the members of the White Lion Shooting, Fishing and Beer-Drinming Society.
Chapter One – None Of Them Must Get Away!
Carrying what little remained of their personal belongings in bundles on their shoulders, some four hundred men were trudging along a trail that passed through the bottom of a woodland valley about four miles to the northeast of Goliad. Most of them were, if not happy, at least relieved by the change in their circumstances. For all that, a sense of failure prevented them from displaying joy or satisfaction. Each of them was engrossed in his own thoughts as they walked in four ragged files.
It was Palm Sunday, March 27, 1836. Six days earlier, the men in the column had partially destroyed Fort Defiance and had belatedly set off to try and join the main body of the newly-created Republic of Texas Army on the Colorado River. Already demoralized by the vacillation and inept leadership of their commanding officer Colonel James W. Fannin, they had put up only a token resistance when surrounded in open country by General José Urrea’s Tamaulipa Brigade. Apparently their lack of aggression before surrendering had saved them from meeting the fate of the defenders of the Alamo Mission at San Antonio, who had been wiped out to a man after a siege lasting thirteen days which had cost other units of the Mexican Army many hundreds of lives.
Instead of receiving similar treatment, Fannin and his men had been returned to Fort Defiance and held there. Six miserable and worrying days had dragged by until, the previous evening, an offer had been made to them.
If they would give their parole not to resume fighting against the Mexican Government and to quit Texas forever, they would be set free and escorted to safety. Suspecting that a refusal might have tragic results, Fannin and the majority of the officers had advised their men to accept. Although there were a few who had had doubts, they had concurred rather than jeopardize the chances of their companions.
Lieutenant Paul Dimmock was one who had misgivings. Having lived among Mexicans for five years before the Texians i had been driven to open rebellion by the oppressions of the tyrannical dictator, Presidente Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, ii he was puzzled by the apparent leniency being shown by their captors. It was not in keeping with the treatment usually accorded to el Presidente’s enemies. He did not have a reputation for being merciful, or forgiving, to those who opposed his will.
For all Dimmock’s doubts, he had to admit that Urrea appeared to be keeping the conditions of their release. While their weapons had not been returned to them, which was only to be expected, they had not been robbed of their personal property. In addition, to protect them from molestation by other members of the Mexican Army who did not know their status, a troop of the Tamaulipa Lancers were escorting them.
From his place in the left hand column, Dimmock found himself looking past the officer in front of him towards the rear section of the escort’s advance guard. Instead of being comforted by the sight of the lance-armed riders, sitting with easy competence on their big horned, slick-forked, low-cantled and single girthed saddles, he felt a vague uneasiness which he was unable to quell or satisfy. His instincts insisted that something was wrong, but just what it might be he could not decide.
There was, although the lieutenant did not know it, considerable justification for his suspicions and concern.
Riding his fine bay gelding at the front of the slowly moving column, as befitted the commanding officer of the escort, Major Carlos Badillo was studying the wood-covered slopes with considerable satisfaction. Everything was as planned. Nobody had forgotten the instructions which had been given to them. That was not entirely surprising as they all knew he was responsible for the orders. He had already built up a reputation for being a ruthless martinet which spread through the whole of the Tamaulipa Brigade and made him feared far more than many officers superior to him in rank.
Not quite six foot in height, Badillo had a slender build and a swift flowing grace of movement which could have brought him much acclaim as a bullfighter. Not yet thirty, and despite a certain antipathy which existed towards men of pure and high Spanish birth in the new Mexico that had gained its independence from Spain in 1822, his cold courage and ruthless nature had carried him to field rank in a regiment that had become noted for its bravery and ability in battle.
A high crowned, short peaked, black shako tilted at a rakish angle on Badillo’s head. One inch wide white bands encircled the top and bottom of the crown and a silver Mexican eagle badge glinted at the front. A silver-scaled chinstrap framed exceptionally handsome features. The cold dark eyes and lips normally held a sardonic, humorless smile that were warning of the cruelty and savagery behind them. Cut from the finest cloth to show off his build to its best advantage, his waist-long dark green tunic had a deep red chest, and facings. Its shoulder scales (denoting his rank) and other metalwork were made from silver. Tight-legged and bell-bottomed, after the fashion of a vaquero, his trousers were also of dark green and had a red stripe running down each outer seam. Large roweled and elegantly made spurs graced the heels of his sharply pointed black boots. Unlike the enlisted men, who were armed with nine-foot long lances, he carried a finely made saber on the slings at the left side of his glossily-polished black leather waist belt.
Satisfied that all was as it should be, Badillo slackened the grip of his left fingers slightly on the one-piece reins. While the fingers of his right fist went across to curl around, the hilt of his saber, his heels gave a gentle tap which signaled his well trained mount to go a little faster. Behind him, dressed in a similar fashion—although the materials were of poorer quality—the half of his troop which formed the advance guard duplicated his actions. Knowing what to expect the enlisted men ensured that they were settled firmly in their saddles and then began to lift the butts of their lances from the metal socket that was attached to each man’s right stirrup.
Following the instructions which he had received the previous afternoo
n while studying the trail with his superiors, Badillo’s second-in-command signaled for the rear guard to slow down. Until then he had set a pace which compelled the Texians at the rear of the column to step lively so as to avoid being ridden down. With their companions at the front controlled by the advance guard’s more leisurely gait, they had become bunched compactly instead of being allowed to straggle over a greater distance.
Absorbed by his attempts to work out what was puzzling him, Dimmock did not become aware of the column’s compression until just after Badillo had begun to increase the bay’s speed. By then, the burly enlisted man to the lieutenant’s rear was almost treading on his heels and the blanket-wrapped bundle carried by the captain in front of him was threatening to bump into his face.
Although Dimmock was not a professional soldier, he had sufficient military training to be aware how dangerous such bunching could be on the march. They were passing through terrain ideally suited for the laying of an ambush. There was enough cover on either side of the trail to conceal a regiment and the Mexicans were notorious for favoring such tactics.
Even as the lieutenant was contemplating the situation, he remembered that he was a prisoner on parole being escorted to safety and not a soldier marching through potentially hostile country. At the same moment, he noticed that the advance guard were drawing away. However, from his position in the column, he could not see that they were lifting their lances from the stirrup boots. Failing to see this he felt no more than a horseman’s resentment over watching others riding when he had to walk and carry his belongings instead of letting his mount do it.
With his thoughts running in this direction, Dimmock realized what it was that struck him as unusual.
The Lancers had no bedrolls attached to the cantles of their saddles!
Even with that deficiency noticed, the full significance of it did not strike Dimmock immediately. Then, slowly, he began to realize what the omission suggested.
Badillo’s troop had been assigned to accompany the parolees until they were beyond the rest of the Mexican Army’s advance. Which meant that, travelling at the pace of men on foot, they would expect to be away from their regiment for at least a week and probably longer. Yet they were not carrying blankets, nor any of the other things which they would need for such an extensive absence.
Nothing Dimmock had seen or heard of the Tamaulipa Lancers led him to assume that they knew no better than to make such an error. They were, in fact, well known as a regiment with long experience in the field. It had been gained during the various rebellions, uprisings and struggles for power that had plagued Mexico since independence had been wrested from Spain. Such hardened veterans would not set off on a journey without carrying adequate means to ensure themselves of protection against the elements.
Unless, of course, they did not expect to be away from their base camp for more than a few hours and intended to be back by nightfall.
That could only apply under the present conditions if Dimmock’s understanding of the situation came just too late!
Even as the lieutenant was about to start expressing his doubts and fears, movements and noises on the left side slope attracted his attention. Turning his gaze that way, he found the answer to why the Lancers had not troubled to bring their bedrolls. They must have known there was no need for them to do so. Clearly the column was not intended to go any further and the parole the Texians had been offered was no more than a means to lull them into a sense of false security.
Armed men were appearing from behind the bushes, trees and rocks where they had been crouching in concealment under the threat of severe punishment to any who allowed themselves to be seen and gave the ambush prematurely away.
Despite the urgency of the moment and the shock of his discovery, which none of his companions appeared to share, Dimmock’s mind was instinctively recording certain facts regarding the men on the slope. Although they were wearing the cheap white canvas trousers of the Mexican peons, they were not the recently conscripted, inexperienced and poorly trained Activos reservists frequently thrown into action to take the brunt of the enemies’ fire. They had taken off their bulky old pattern shakos with the brass plate badge, scales, and red, white and blue plume of their national colors, but the red collar, piping, epaulettes, turn-backs and cuffs of their ‘Turkish blue’ coats told that they were regular infantry.
The weapons held by the enlisted men were further evidence of their status. Attached to the muzzles and ready for use, the long ‘sword-bayonets’ proved that they were armed with British Baker rifles and not the old, smoothbore Tower ‘Brown Bess’ muskets purchased from England to be issued to the Activos.
There was further evidence that the infantrymen’s presence had not come about by accident. After having selected their places of concealment with the skill of experienced campaigners, in addition to discarding their headdresses, they had laid aside their wooden canteens and the cowhide packs in which they carried their personal belongings, and the rolled blanket strapped across the top. Each man, as he lined his rifle, was encumbered only by the empty bayonet scabbard and tin cartridge box suspended from his white cross-belts. They could move quickly and with ease after they had discharged their single shot weapons.
Standing at the side of a clump of bushes half way up the right hand slope from where he had been able to keep the whole of the ambush area under observation, Colonel Sebastian Saucedo studied the distances separating the two portions of the mounted escort of the Texians’ column. Deciding that they were far enough away for his purposes, he prepared to give the order to open fire. If there should be any mishap, he would be able to counter the complaints by pointing out that every member of the ‘Landero’ Line Infantry Battalion had carried out his duties correctly.
Although Saucedo had two hundred and fifty enlisted men and their officers disposed in the area, such had been their strict attention to orders and careful placement under his supervision that not one of them had shown himself until receiving the signal to do so. The colonel was confident that, no matter what else might happen, they would continue to perform the tasks assigned to them in the same satisfactory manner. That was, he told himself with relish as he began to raise the sword in his right hand, the difference between soldiers who were led by a fighting officer and fancily dressed ‘gentlemen’ following an arrogant and self-opinionated dandy.
There was little love lost between the two officers who were responsible for carrying out the somewhat ambiguous instructions General Urrea had received from Santa Anna regarding the disposal of their prisoners. Where Badillo looked like what he was, a member of the wealthy land-owning upper class, Saucedo’s origins stemmed from a much lower section of society. Everything about him showed that he was clearly ‘of the people’.
Of medium height, stocky and, despite running to fat a trifle, powerfully built, the colonel’s leathery, heavily mustached and badly shaven face was coarse, hard and cruel. Unlike Badillo, he made no attempt to dress smartly. Apart from his insignia of rank being of tarnished silver, his uniform—which he appeared to have both slept and ate in—was of no better quality than those of the men under his command. The heavy caliber flintlock pistol in his left fist was a plain, serviceable weapon and there was nothing dainty about his sword. It was designed for hacking rather than fancy work with the point or wielding from a saddle. In fact, his clothing and boots were better adapted to walking than riding. Unlike the majority of his contemporaries in the Infantry, he invariably marched on foot with his men instead of accompanying them mounted on a horse.
It was Saucedo’s frequent boast that he had risen through the ranks and he rarely troubled to conceal his antipathy towards officers who had not. Such an attitude did not endear him to the subjects of his scorn, but he never allowed their animosity to worry him. Commanding the best-armed and toughest infantry battalion in the Tamaulipa Brigade, he had little to fear as long as he remained high in Urrea’s favor.
Only one factor spoiled the colonel’s sa
tisfaction at having been given his present assignment. Despite his objections, he was compelled to work in close conjunction with Badillo. That Urrea had insisted upon the major taking part was worrying. It implied that the general held the major, who was everything Saucedo hated and despised, in considerable esteem and was willing to accede to his suggestions. However, the colonel believed that he could bring about the removal of his rival if certain arrangements he had made were successful. At the worst, Badillo might be blamed should anything go wrong with the ambush.
Shocked both by what he saw and the realization of its implications, Dimmock froze in mid-stride. Before he could return his raised right foot to the ground or yell a warning to his companions, the burly enlisted man following closely on his heels walked into him. The collision sent the lieutenant staggering, causing him to lose his balance and be knocked out of the column. Unable to recover his equilibrium, he sprawled face forward towards the side of the trail.
In doing so, his life was saved.
‘Fire!’ Saucedo commanded in a stentorian bellow, waving his sword as a signal in case the word did not carry to those of his men who were on the opposite side of the valley.
Two hundred and twenty-five fingers tightened on triggers. Set free, the same number of hammers swung around, the flints in their jaws striking sparks from the frizzens of the Baker rifles and igniting the powder in the priming pans. Set off by the sparks of flame which passed through the vents, the cartridges’ charges turned into vast masses of gas. With a rippling roar, caused by the slight variations of time between the individual ignitions, the weapons on both sides of the valley vomited their loads at the mass of Texians.
Instantly, pandemonium reigned!
Fired from distances of between fifty and a hundred yards, not one of the shots missed finding its billet in human flesh. Taken unawares, many men went down dead or dying as the .70 caliber soft lead bullets plowed into them. As might have been expected, although a few in the center were struck down, most of the casualties occurred in the outer files. Hit in the head, Fannin fell without learning of the terrible fate into which he had led his men.