Against All Odds

by Drew McGunn

  The men assigned to the gun stayed clear of the recoil as the gunnery sergeant pulled the lanyard taut. “Fire!”

  The gun recoiled several feet as the shell raced across the empty field, exploding in the space between the advancing riflemen and the rest of the battalion, held in reserve.

  The second gun fired as Berry tied off a rag around his lower arm. He fumbled for his binoculars and scanned the enemy. The Texas flag flew in the center of the advancing soldiers. He spat and swore, “God damned rebels.”

  He adjusted the focus and made out the letters stitched across the flag. It was the Tenth Infantry Battalion, a reserve unit recruited among the farms and towns along the Neches River in East Texas.

  By the time the third cannon was fired, the first gun crew was preparing to shoot again. The crew moved clear of the recoil, waiting for the gunner to pull the lanyard when Berry was thrown to the ground. His ears were ringing as he climbed back to his feet. The first gun hung from one of its wheels, a large hole blown in the reinforced iron breech. The gunnery sergeant, who commanded the ten-man gun crew was down, blood pooling around his head. Several other men were injured. Berry shook his head as tears stung his eyes. It was his decision to use propellant made from NPC. It was too unstable, and his men had paid with their lives.

  As the survivors of the first gun dragged their compatriots away from the wreck, Berry’s second-in-command hurried over, “Andy, er, Captain Berry, the Gatlings are ready. Permission to engage the skirmish line?”

  As the noise in his ear dissipated, Berry nodded and watched the young officer, a younger cousin who usually ran one of the gun works’ furnaces, run back to the section of Gatlings.

  Even though Berry’d heard the Gatling gun fire before, as first one, then another and finally the third opened fire, the horrible noise was like a giant piece of cloth being ripped apart. Back on his feet, the young captain watched the guns find the range and toppled the riflemen who had been advancing.

  Even though the enemy riflemen used the same open order tactics, and were spread apart, the Gatlings sprayed their bullets by the hundreds. Despite an effort to move their line forward, eventually, the colonel commanding the Tenth Infantry recalled his troops. Berry saw more than a score of bodies lying prone on the field before him as the remainder collected their wounded and retreated.

  Resisting the urge to cheer, Berry looked back on the broken gun and quietly ordered his men to cease fire. “Let’s reposition the battery and open fire on the enemy’s main line.”

  ***

  G.T. Beauregard watched the men of the 2nd and 3rd Louisiana stream back onto the road to the Trinity River. Both regiments had been fully committed, assaulting the enemy line. The rate of fire from McCulloch’s riflemen had been terrible to behold. Even though his men had advanced as skirmishers, the aimed fire had inflicted heavy casualties. He had been on the cusp of ordering the 1st Louisiana Infantry forward when death had hammered his right flank.

  That battery that didn’t have any guns, apparently has them. Beauregard silently cursed General Wyatt’s inadequate information. He wasn’t sure what was worse, watching cannons that could fire with scarcely any smoke of gunpowder or the hideous shredding sound of the guns that spit bullets by the hundreds farther than rifled muskets.

  He didn’t have the numbers yet, but he suspected he’d lost more than a hundred men against McCulloch’s riflemen. Casualties at that level weren’t sustainable. Not with a mere two thousand Louisianans and about the same number of rebel Texians.

  His teeth hurt from grinding them, and as he opened his mouth to relieve the pressure, Wyatt rode over, “They turned back the Tenth with those fiendish guns before they turned them on the main line.”

  Beauregard wondered about Wyatt’s provenance as he struggled with his temper. “Payton,” he ground out, “I thought you said the battery in Trinity Park didn’t have any guns. Your information was woefully lacking.”

  Wyatt’s face colored as he coughed. “I swear, the army had not assigned any guns to them.”

  Beauregard let his temper slip. “Did it ever dawn on you that a town that manufactures arms and weapons might have their own guns and didn’t need any damned help from Austin?”

  Chagrined, Wyatt said, “What now?”

  “There’ll be more men arriving from Alabama and Mississippi soon. We’ll leave a force at Liberty Township, and when we advance, we’ll find another way across the Trinity River. If we can’t get to Austin this way, we’ll go around them.”

  He watched his Louisiana boys carrying their wounded comrades in handmade stretchers. Getting at the Travis government in Austin wasn’t going to be as simple as taking each point along the railway. They were going to need more time and would have to travel overland. While he had severe reservations about Wyatt’s worth as a tactical officer, the fact that the soldiers under his command were well armed, uniformed, and supplied was proof that Wyatt was a gifted quartermaster.

  The rebel Texian officer seemed reticent. “Going far enough around the enemy may prove more of a challenge than it’s worth. We get more than five or ten miles away from the railroad and any advance we can manage will be slow as molasses. If they have even an inkling of what we’re doing, any movement has a fair risk of being countered.”

  Beauregard pursed his lips. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but a single glance in the direction of the old growth forest gave him the impression that Wyatt was likely right. Changing the subject, he said, “I want you to take charge of all the supplies coming in on the railroad. We’re going to need wagons, and lots of them. We’re going to need more doctors and orderlies. When we take the fight to Travis’ soldiers, I want to make sure our injured don’t have to walk five or ten miles to get to a doctor.”

  ***

  Jesse Running Creek wiped his grimy face. A cut over his brow stung as sweat ran into it. He stood and slung his rifle over his shoulder as he watched his men stand from their hiding places behind a split-rail fence. As he stepped away from the railing, his feet kicked a pile of spent cartridges. He’d fired more than a hundred rounds throughout the afternoon.

  The platoon of Marines who had anchored his Rangers’ left flank was also rising from their defensive position. They’d taken more casualties than his men. Two more of his Army Rangers had been killed, and another seven were injured. Still, he had two-thirds of his platoon ready. He knew what he wanted to do, and that was to pursue the rebel army. He’d happily lead his men back to the Trinity River sniping at the retreating command. He needed to consult with General McCulloch and see what forces were available.

  He sent his ordinance sergeant to find more ammunition, and he headed toward the center of the defensive line. He’d only gone a little way when he saw the captain of one of the reserve companies standing over a line of the dead. Jesse came to a stop when he saw the distinctive figure of Ben McCulloch in the line.

  One of the men standing near, wearing captain’s bars, said, “Captain Running Creek, they was already retreating. Hell, the battle was done won when General McCulloch stood. It must’ve been a lucky shot. But he was hit in the breast and fell dead where he stood.”

  The hodgepodge force in West Liberty had been under McCulloch’s direct command. There were no regimental officers present in town. Jesse shook his head, What a shitty situation. A general and a handful of captains and four hundred men. Jesse didn’t like it, but until someone higher ranked showed up, as the only regular army captain, he was in charge.

  The smell of burning wood cut through the acrid smell of gunpowder. The first thing was to deal with the fire in town. An unlucky shell had detonated inside the Methodist Church, but if the fire didn’t spread, it was a small price to save the town. He detailed a company from West Liberty to see to the security of the town. He was about to send another company’s ordinance sergeant to find more ammunition when the sergeant he’d sent out earlier trudged over to him, a worried look on his face.

  “Chief, there are boxes
of paper cartridges in the armory, paper cartridges by the thousands. But not a single brass cartridge remains.”

  Thoughts of following the defeated enemy died. Oh, I’d chase after them if all I had was a shoe to throw at them, but he knew that was folly. He sat down on a bale of cotton used as shelter in the battle and pulled a small notebook from a pocket. He jotted something down and handed it to the sergeant. “Get over to the telegraph office and send this to Austin.”

  Chapter 3

  1 November 1851

  Will Travers drew in a lungful of air as he stepped off the walkway leading back to the hacienda-style presidential mansion. Turning left, he strode north on Colorado Avenue. The crisp November air filled his lungs as he lengthened his stride. Part of him wished he’d given in to Davy’s plaintive begging to come along. But his youngest, at eight years, wouldn’t be able to keep up with him for long. He needed time to think, and while the mansion’s library and his own office in the Capitol Building were available, he didn’t want the interruptions common to either place.

  Part of his reason for the walk was it was the only exercise he managed to squeeze into his crowded schedule. He wasn’t the twenty-seven-year-old man whose mind and soul had been transported through time and space into the body of William Barret Travis anymore. He chuckled ruefully as he considered the thought. He was very much that man, but he had left twenty-seven behind more than fifteen years before. At forty-two, he found it hard to keep off the weight that came with middle years.

  With each passing year, it grew harder to recall the details of his life before the transference. Oh, he still remembered the day he passed through time and space like it was yesterday. He’d never forget the roar of explosions and the rat-tat-tat of machine-gun fire in the minutes leading up to his Humvee rolling over a roadside bomb before he lost consciousness. Nor would he forget the frozen terror that filled his veins when he realized he’d woke up in the body of William “Buck” Travis a few weeks before the Alamo.

  No, it was the faces of his parents that were almost impossible to recall. It was books he’d read when he was a youth whose passages and ideas became harder to remember. It was forgetting what it felt like to have the cold breath of an air conditioner on his bare skin that reminded him, more than anything else, the world before the transference was gone forever.

  His other reason for the walk was he needed to be alone with his thoughts. The telegram he’d received the previous day consumed him. The young captain who remained in command in West Liberty had packed more ill news into the short message than Will could have imagined. Ben McCulloch’s death was a blow that would reverberate through the army. He wasn’t just the commander of Texas’ reserves; apart from Sidney Johnston, he was the only other officer in the military with experience commanding brigade-sized forces. If anything could have been worse, it was the fact that the rebels’ attack was the final proof John Wharton had failed to bring the insurgents back into the Republic’s fold.

  War was now inevitable. Will realized he was grinding his teeth as he reached the last street before Austin ended and the prairie started. He turned the corner and resumed his fast pace. Why did I think sending John Wharton would bring peace? As Secretary of State for the Republic, he had been Will's best shot at defusing the conflict between the pro-slavery faction and Will's government. He shook his head in frustration. The idea seemed foolish, in retrospect.

  Since his arrival in Buck Travis' body, Will's conflict with slavery's supporters had been inevitable. Only blind luck had kept him from dying at the hand of an assassin's blade in the days when he and other prominent Texians had been writing the constitution. He should have expected that between his election as president and the free-birth law, war was a sure bet.

  In his heart, he knew he'd sent John to talk to the rebels because Will was sick of war. Setting aside the seven years he'd spent in the army before the transference, he had spent eight more fighting one war after another for Texas. More than a third of his life had been spent wearing his country's uniform, and he'd hoped against hope Wharton could have stopped the coming conflict.

  Thinking about the rebels in Beaumont made Will angry. The free-birth law had hardly been the only thing he'd done as president. He had expanded military funding by a quarter in the past three years. He had opened a dialogue with the southern bands of Comanche. The warlike tribe was a long way from settling down like the Cherokee, but it was a start. He'd even paid off the last of the foreign bondholders. For the first time since the founding of the Republic, nearly all public debt was held by Texas' citizens.

  Before the rebellion to the east had reared its ugly head, Will had been planning on several new enterprises. The population in Austin had grown so much he was ready to introduce legislation establishing a flagship university in the capital. No doubt, he was very proud of Trinity College, but it was a private institution, mostly concerned with mechanical engineering, medicine, and monetizing inventions created by its faculty and students.

  He'd also been planning on laying the keel on a new warship. He'd hoped to skip the trials and errors of the ironclads of the US Civil War that barely floated and launch the first of the steel naval cruisers. He’d planned to transform Corpus Christi into a port capable of building the large warship. Texas needed more than a single port at Galveston to protect and expand trade. The planned facilities would have triggered a rapid economic expansion on Texas’ southern coast. Now though, an experimental ship that would have cost more than the entire naval budget was a non-starter.

  Will cursed under his breath. He cursed the rebels in East Texas for starting a conflict they’d not win. He cursed the governor of Louisiana for encouraging the filibuster. Lastly, he cursed his country’s precarious financial situation. During the last war with Mexico, many of the bonds had been bought by Southern bankers and businessmen. Will couldn’t see the same men putting down gold and silver for Texas bonds when those same men were funneling money and supplies to the volunteer regiments being raised to dislodge him from the presidency.

  “Good thing no one else can hear you. They might mistake you for a sailor the way you cuss, instead of an old army man.”

  Will jumped in surprise as Sid Johnston joined him as he came to the northeast corner of the town and turned onto East Avenue. “What the hell, Sid. Spying on your president these days?”

  “It’s not spying when some folks want you dead. I’ve got a couple of Rangers who keep an eye on you when you take your morning constitutional.” Johnston said.

  “I ought to order you to stop that nonsense.”

  Johnston laughed as he patted Will on the back. “I’d hate to have to ignore you. I take my orders from your boss.”

  Will chuckled as he settled back into his long gait. “Becky can be a mite protective.”

  “And persuasive.”

  Will said, “What’s got you up from San Antonio?”

  “That damned telegram from Captain Running Creek,” Johnston chewed at the words as he spat them out. “My God, the first move on the chess board and those damned rebels have castled us. I don’t know what I’m going to do without Ben.”

  He paused, sucking in air. “How in the blazes do you manage to walk so fast? Ben knew all our reserve battalions like the back of his hand. He knew which could be mobilized fastest and which were the best trained. I’m going to miss that bastard.”

  As he waited for Johnston to catch his breath, Will nodded. “I’m already missing him. I should have listened to you when you begged me to send you and the army to crush those assholes in Beaumont. At least Ben would still be alive now.”

  Johnston chuckled, “You do have a way with words, Buck. What would you have me do about these, ah, assholes in Beaumont?”

  “I’ve made a hash of things, Sid. If I’d told you a few months ago to go crush these rebels, the problem might have gone away. Now, we’ve got Southern militias coming across the Sabine. Anything we do is going to resound across the Southern states.”

&
nbsp; Will started walking, and a moment later, he heard Johnston’s steady tread keeping pace with him. “We’re at war now, Sid. How many men can you move against the rebels, and how quickly?”

  “I’ve managed to collect two battalions of riflemen at the Alamo. The other three are spread pretty thin, but I can order them to begin shifting toward the east. I’m awfully short on cavalry. I’ve got less than a hundred horsemen available. But I’ve got half the army’s field artillery sitting at the fort.”

  Will shook his head, “Numbers, Sid. How many men and how soon?”

  “Around two thousand men. I can have them rolling east within a week.”

  Will said, “I don’t want to strip the cupboard bare. Let’s mobilize a few battalions of reservists while leaving the rest to run their farms and work the factories.”

  Sid’s smile was predatory. “Give me another three or four battalions, and I can move more than four thousand men against them.”

  “Then do it.”

  Johnston stopped again to catch his breath. “What about those Southern militias?”

  “If they’re on our side of the Sabine River, they’re enemy combatants. Our minister to the US will raise holy Hell with President Cass about them. But I don’t want any of our boys getting confused and finding themselves in Louisiana or Arkansas. The last thing we want is this thing blowing up and bringing in the US.”

  When Johnston leaned up, his face red with exertion, he said, “How do you manage to walk so fast? I’m drilling men every day, and I can’t keep up with you.”

  Smiling conspiratorially, Will lifted one of his feet and showed Johnston the rubber soled shoes. “Vulcanized rubber.”

  ***

  Wind rattled the small windowpane set high in the wall of the tiny room. A stove was squeezed into one corner, and a table was in another. Brevet Major Charlie Travis looked down at his wife who nursed a cup of hot tea as she sat at the table. Tears streaked her cheeks as she returned his gaze.