by Drew McGunn
One of the Rangers asked, “How much is ‘more or less?’”
The driver offered an apologetic smile, “More to the less than to the more, if you catch my meaning. Even though the NPC is in a paste form which renders it more inert than when in a granular form, it’s still too temperamental for me. Gather ‘round, I’ll show you how to enable this infernal contraption and how to disable it.”
Jesse joined the handful of Rangers around the driver, who knelt over the torpedo. “Without a percussion cap, there’s no way to detonate the NPC in the bomb.” He held up a small, brass percussion cap, not unlike the ones used in a cap-and-ball revolver. “We’ll hold off putting the cap on the nipple just yet.”
He tipped the torpedo so that Jesse could see inside its top. “Like your revolvers, there’s a small trigger that, when activated, will snap down on the percussion cap and blow up the device. So, we’ll cock the hammer.” He reached his fingers down the opening on top, and a moment later, Jesse heard a faint click.
“All set, except for the pressure plate.” The driver gently screwed the pressure plate into the trigger mechanism. “There’s not much to it. If I’d have put the percussion cap on this little piece of Hell, it’d be ready to go.”
Jesse said, “What’s the trigger pull?”
The driver said, “Twenty pounds. Now, watch as I disable the device.”
He reversed the process, showing the Rangers how to disable the bomb before climbing to his feet. He grabbed a shovel from the back of the wagon, “Follow me, I want to show you how to place them, once the torpedoes are ready.”
They were in a field on an abandoned farm, next to the northern flank of the army. The driver stopped a few paces into the tract of farmland and used the shovel to scrape away the topsoil. With a level of care that belied the inertness of the NPC, he set the bomb in the shallow hole and then pushed dirt back on top of the device, leaving only the black pressure plate exposed.
“If there aren’t any questions, let’s break into two-man teams and sow this field.”
Jesse grabbed a notebook and waited as his men returned with the torpedoes. He sketched the field, and as each team activated their first bomb, Jesse made a note of where it was buried. The orders from General Johnston had been clear. A map of each section where the mines were planted had to be marked where each was hidden.
“Major,” one of his Rangers called out, “What happens if the Allies don’t come this way? The farmer will return sooner or later. He’d get one hell of a surprise if he steps on one of these things.”
Jesse shuddered at the thought of a farmer’s children playing in the field. He pointed to his notebook, “We’ll clear these fields after we’ve defeated the enemy. Believe me, the last thing I want is for civilians to discover these things.”
In addition to sketching the field, Jesse made notes and drew diagrams of the pressure plate and the triggering mechanism. Seeding the ground was a test run. Once torpedoes protected the northern flank, Jesse and his Rangers would repeat the process between the Neches River and Beaumont. Placing the torpedoes on the army’s flank was relatively safe, as safe as anything that involved handling an unstable explosive could be. For now, they could do their work under the warmth of the midday sun. But they’d have no choice but to plant the torpedoes near the riverbank under cover of night. Every note he made today would help later.
An hour later, the driver raised his voice, “That was a single crate of forty-eight torpedoes. I’ve got five more just like it. We’ll move over to the next field and do this again.”
Jesse chanced a look into the sky. The sun was still high overhead. They had a lot more work ahead of them.
Chapter 21
25 April 1853
Mist clung to the water’s surface. General Jefferson Davis listened to the gently lapping water on the shore, although between the thick haze and the darkness of a moonless and cloudy night, he couldn’t see the Neches River despite standing less than thirty paces away.
“Maybe you’re right. Why spoil the surprise with an artillery barrage.”
A thin smile creased his face as Davis glanced at his companion. William Hardee’s face was shrouded by his hat. “We couldn’t have asked for better conditions, Bill. It can’t compete with the enemy balloonists, but our signal towers will let us do a better job with counterbattery fire once the fog lifts. We’ll hold our fire until we can see something.”
The crunching of boots on gravely ground was just loud enough for Davis to hear the soldiers hauling the barges to the water’s edge. Hardee said, “The Seventh Tennessee and the Tenth Texas will go over first. Fifteen hundred men in the first wave. They’ll be followed by the Forth Alabama and the Seventh Texas.”
Davis placed his hand on Hardee’s arm. “Putting nearly half the Orphaned Brigade into the grind so soon?”
Hardee leaned forward seeming to stare into the thick fog, “Those Texas boys are some of our best soldiers, and their breechloaders put them on an even playing field.”
“Have you reconsidered going across in the third wave?” Davis’ voice was pensive, “I can ill afford to risk you.”
Hardee pointed into the mist, where the quiet sounds of his soldiers preparing to cross the Neches could be heard. “If something goes amiss, I’m better able to react if I’m over there.”
Davis grumbled, “The days of a division commander leading from the front are over, Bill. Let alone a corps commander. I ought to order you to stay over here.”
Hardee shook his head, “Jeff, the last thing I’m going to do is lead my men in some reckless attack. But we’ve already fought over this particular terrain. When we get a foothold in one of the trenches, we must exploit it, not get bogged down. We lost too many men on the Sabine. Had it not been for General Swift turning the enemy’s flank, we might still be sitting in Louisiana.”
Davis chuckled. “Had that been the case, you’d be answering to a different commander. President Cobb would have sacked me if I had squandered our largest field army in a failed assault.”
An officer with a gold star on his shoulder-board emerged from the gloom, saluted, and turned to Hardee, “Sir, it’s time. If we get moving now, we should be able to get the barges over and back a few times before the sun comes up.”
Davis offered his hand, and Hardee shook it. “God be with you, Bill. I’ll see to it that we keep the barges moving once you’ve over.”
Hardee offered a smile then came to attention and saluted.
A few minutes later, Davis stood on the shoreline and watched the closest barges push away from the shore and disappear into the misty gloom.
Time stretched as he leaned forward, listening. The sound of an oar splashing in the water reached his ears. The second time he found himself reaching for his pocket watch, he let his hand fall away. It was too dark to see the dials. Those minutes waiting for the barges to beach on the other side were the longest five minutes of Davis’ life.
A gunshot, muffled by the heavy mist, echoed across the river. A fiery red rocket streaked into the sky and exploded over the river, where it seemed to hang in space. Davis read about their use in the Mexican War a decade earlier. He wondered about the parachute that kept the flare from falling immediately back to earth. He could see how the flare would allow the enemy to light up a battlefield at night, under better conditions. But the beacon failed to pierce the fog’s heavy cloak. Despite that, the gunfire from the Beaumont side of the river grew loud as the men from Hardee’s Corps attacked the enemy’s fixed positions.
Teams of men pulled on ropes tied to the barges, and within just a few minutes, the watercraft slid into view as more soldiers crowded onto the shoreline, waiting to cross over. Other teams, on the western side of the river, waited a minute for the men to scramble onto the barges before they pulled on their ropes, bringing the laden watercraft back across.
Despite the gloom and the confusion of battle, Davis was gratified that all their preparation on the Sabine River over the past fe
w days was paying off. The officers in charge of the transport hurried more troops down to the water’s edge as they waited for the barges to return. Davis allowed a flicker of hope as he walked back to one of the signal towers.
As he wondered how long it would take for the enemy to open fire with their artillery, it was as if Sidney Johnston had read his mind. Guns behind the enemy lines began to fire. Men atop the tower shouted down to runners the coordinates of the enemy guns based on the dim flashes of light winking through the mist. Minutes passed before his own artillery returned fire.
Davis watched the muzzle flashes pierce the fog until he became aware that he could see the gunners racing around their guns through the gloom. The sun was rising.
***
Charlie felt his fingers slip on the wicker basket’s edge. He stretched his other arm and tried grabbing the slick rope between the basket and the balloon. His feet dangled as he grasped the side of the basket. Chancing a look down, the ground below spun as he felt his breakfast rise. His fingers slipped, and he felt the basket bounce as a gust of wind tossed the silk balloon about.
He lost his grip and felt himself falling. As he plummeted toward the ground, he heard gunfire below and in the flash of a moment, wondered if he would die before he hit the ground.
Charlie blinked his eyes open. Sweat covered his forehead as he sat up. It was just a dream, like the others before. Except the gunfire continued. He swung his legs down and stepped over to the tent flap and threw it back.
It was still dark. Tendrils of foggy mist hugged the ground. Soldiers raced through the airship’s field. One of the balloons was deflated; it wouldn’t fly today. Her pilot had crash-landed, damaging both the basket and the balloon’s heavy silk cloth. One of the other balloons lay half inflated on the ground. The steam engine powering the hydrogen generator was broken. One airship, Charlie’s, sagged in the air. The basket rested on the ground.
“Major, the Allies are on this side of the river!” Sam raced toward him, half-dressed. “A soldier from General Johnston’s headquarters said they’re already in the first trench.”
As he bent over, catching his breath, Sam stared at their balloon. “That’s not going anywhere anytime soon.”
Charlie slipped a linen shirt over his head. As he buttoned it, he said, “I’ll check with the crew. We’ve got to get up as soon as we can.” Swiveling his head around, the heavy mist had to clear before he’d be able to see anything more than the palm of his hand.
A few minutes later, Charlie left his ground crew chief throwing coal into the one working steam engine. The sun would be up before the balloon would.
With nothing to do but wait, Charlie and Sam jogged across the field, hurrying by a row of makeshift tables where telegraph operators usually sat. A couple of young men were already in their seats. Charlie slowed long enough to hear one say to the other, “Grand battery is asking for confirmation of target. Tell them the balloons are down. Send a runner forward with signal flags. If we can see through this shit at all, we need someone to transmit the enemy positions.”
The operator clicked back a message as the communication hub fell behind Charlie and Sam. They stumbled through what once had been a stand of trees. Short stumps protruded from the loamy soil, the only reminder of the majestic pines once gracing the broad lowlands hugging the Neches River.
Once they passed by the stumps, Charlie paused as he glanced into the sky; a couple of flares floated above the river, the red glare reflecting off the dense fog. Despite the obscuring mist, he could see pin-prick flashes of light, the tail-tale signs of rifle or musket fire in the distance.
“The Allies might be in the trenches, Sam. We’ve got a while before the balloon will be ready. Let’s get closer.”
Charlie and Sam hadn’t gone far when they stumbled upon a fresh-turned earthen berm, behind which were several dozen field pieces. A familiar voice shouted, “Then get your ass back to the telegraph operators and tell them they had better send some observers forward. Without spotters, I can’t hit what I can’t goddamned see.”
From the gloom, a bareheaded man emerged. His red hair looked disheveled, as though he had just been rousted from his bed. As Charlie ran his fingers through his own unkempt ginger head, he realized he must look like Colonel Sherman’s younger twin. The commander of Texian artillery spotted Charlie around the same time, “Travis, I need signalmen forward. If they can point to where the enemy are congregating, I can have my guns target those positions. But there’s damn all but confusion right now.”
Charlie sketched a salute to the man who had commanded the Texian Cadet Corps while Charlie had attended. “Yes, sir.”
He turned and pushed Sam, “Go back to where the telegraphers are and see if they can find some more folks to work the signal flags.”
He turned back to Colonel William Sherman, “Sir, most of our resources have focused on telegraph operators and our observation balloons. I’m not sure how much luck the Lieutenant’s going to have.”
Sherman leaned against the barrel of one of his guns, “Perhaps. But if there is any way to strike the enemy before the light of day burns away this miasma, I’ll find it. Why have you not yet taken to flight?”
“The balloon’s hydrogen is low. Not enough lift yet. We’ll be aloft as soon as we can,” Charlie said.
A bit later, Sam raced back into the battery, “Colonel Sherman, the telegraph station is operational now. They’ve confirmed the secondary line is holding. They have your orders for coordinates.”
“Bully!” Sherman nearly shouted. He turned away from Charlie and started yelling at his crews to load their guns.
“The balloon’s being filled, Major. You see enough here?”
“Not a damned thing, Sam,” Charlie said as he started walking back toward the airship field. “I hope by the time we’re in the sky, this shitty fog clears up. How the hell can we do our job if all we see is damn all?”
***
Shot and shell arced over the line, flying back and forth between Allied gunners and their Texian counterparts. Major Jesse Running Creek peered over the edge of the trench and looked across the field. The first line of trenches had been overrun more than an hour before. The sun, coming up behind the Southern Allied army seemed determined to burn away the fog, tendrils of which still snaked along the ground.
Bodies in the butternut of the Texian army were mingled with the drab gray worn by the Southerners between the Rangers’ trench and the river. Once the enemy had breached the line of the battalion south of the Rangers’ position. Jesse had been forced to send their single reserve company to rout the enemy and plug the gap.
For now, the Allies seemed content to leave the northern flank alone. Jesse knew it wouldn’t last. Barges still plied the river, shuttling men from one side to the other, although he guessed as many as half the barges were burning wrecks. Yet, every ten to fifteen minutes several hundred more Southerners reinforced their compatriots who were increasingly testing the Texian line. By now, as best as Jesse could tell, most of the buried torpedoes between the first trench and the water’s edge had been detonated.
Jesse scowled. The notion the bombs had simply detonated was antiseptic. As he scanned the field in front of the trench, he knew the truth. The bombs had ripped soldiers apart. Those not killed had been maimed, most horribly. He wondered, as he saw through the haze a barge pulling back to the other side, if the injured who were being taken back to field hospitals were missing feet or legs. Despite hundreds, if not thousands of soldiers wounded by the hundreds of torpedoes, their compatriots were building for another rush at the defenders.
Jesse reached into his cartridge box. It hung heavy at his belt. At least for now, the brass cartridges his rifle depended upon were plentiful. He hoped it would remain so as the sun burned away the fog.
Jesse made his way down the line, patting a Ranger on the back, stopping long enough to take a smoke with another. Halfway down the line, facing the river, he came to two Gatling guns. The cre
w was filling the extended metal magazine with ammunition. As he stepped around the guns, he noticed most of the boxes were empty. Only two boxes contained ammunition.
Jesse picked up an empty magazine and handed it to the gunner, “Hold your fire until they’re within fifty paces. I don’t know when we’ll get more ammunition. Best to save it until you can do the most damage. My boys’ll do their best to keep the enemy from getting too close.”
Continuing on, Jesse came to a sharp left turn. He had reached the end of the line. To his left was the army’s flank. The battalion’s commander, Colonel Brooks, had most of the six hundred remaining Rangers spread along a quarter mile, scattered with short trenches and deep rifle pits.
In Jesse’s mind, he could see the next battalion anchoring the flank. The 21st Infantry, recruited from Santa Fe and Albuquerque, was mostly Mexicans who were still getting used to being called Tejanos. The single company of Negro soldiers anchored their flank. Beside them were the men of the 1st New York Provisional Cavalry. Dismounted and playing the role of infantry, the 1st served alongside the 3rd Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry. Together, the Yankees covered another quarter mile. Finally, the 36th Infantry, a recently mobilized militia battalion from the Texas hill country, held the end of the line. Only two thousand men to cover more than a mile.
Rifle fire broke out behind him. Jesse turned and hurried back to the “L.” He moved around the corner and raised his voice over the cacophony of gunfire. “Here they come again. Pick your target, make each shot count!”
***
From his perch atop one of the wooden towers, General Davis looked through his binoculars at the opposite bank of the Neches. The blue flag of the Filibusterers flew above the earthen ramparts closest to the river. Between those trenches and the river, scores of bodies still littered the ground, a painful reminder of how expensive capturing the first defensive line had been.