Captain Putnam for the Republic of Texas

by James Haley

  Houston heard him out, his arms folded, and nodded slowly. “Did you hear that, Mr. Bandy? That is how a real man speaks. Very well, Captain, you shall fight. But how will my men be able to tell you from the enemy?”

  Seguín thought quickly. “Last night my men were playing at monte. We have the cards. Let us put the cards in our hatbands, and your Americans will know not to shoot at us.”

  “All right. If that is what you wish, that is how we shall have it. Did all you other officers hear this?” There was a murmur of assent. “Be clear about it: Captain Seguín’s scouts will be wearing playing cards in their hatbands. Do not shoot at them: Spread this word thoroughly through your regiments to the last man.”

  For the next hour Houston, with Bandy in tow, circulated among the camps, where the men who had been ready to mutiny cheered his decision not just to fight but to attack. “Men,” he repeated in each camp, “the army will cross, and some of us may be killed and must be killed. But, men, I want you to remember the Alamo. The Alamo, the Alamo! Those brave compatriots of yours gave their lives so that you and your families may live in liberty. And I want you to remember Fannin, remember Goliad, and the unspeakable murderous treachery that happened there—four hundred good men shot down in cold blood. That would have been our future under Santa Anna’s rule, but now the future that you fight for is limitless, it is brilliant. Will you not fight for this?” At each camp he was cheered lustily.

  “Well, you men get your dinners, and I will lead you into the fight.”

  “General Houston?” It was Hockley with a dozen of his artillery company.

  “General Hockley, what is it?”

  “Sir, Vince’s Bridge across Buffalo Bayou—you cannot be unaware that it is still standing.”

  “I know it is.”

  “Santa Anna’s men were reinforced during the night by three or four hundred more.”

  “I know they were, and from where our last report places them, they have marched all night to get here. They will be useless. They will probably sleep through the fight, they are so exhausted.”

  “Sir”—Hockley gestured almost helplessly in the direction of the bridge—“ought we not to cut it down?”

  “Hockley,” said Houston calmly, “have you noticed the layout of Santa Anna’s camp? He has the Texian Army in front of him, Buffalo Bayou on his left, the San Jacinto River on his right, and that terrible marsh of Peggy Lake behind him. He has left himself no way to escape except that bridge. Yes, Mr. Hockley, you take some men and chop that bridge down. But take care you tell no one of it until after we begin the attack. Once you see us start to cross the field, you men gallop like hell behind our line, cry to the men that Vince’s Bridge is down, and it is victory or death. That will make a very nice effect, don’t you think?”

  Hockley hung his head and laughed. “Mr. Bandy, you do not know this, but in General Houston’s youth, he was an amateur actor in a small theater. To this day, no one can equal him for melodrama.”

  Houston gave a courtly bow from the waist. “Thank you, sir.”

  “And what about me?” asked Sam at last. “What place have you for me?”

  “It is good of you to offer,” said Houston. “Let’s see, you are a navy man.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I imagine you are accustomed to firing larger guns than ours.”

  “Rather, sir, yes.”

  “Well, that just makes you the better qualified. I am placing you under Hockley’s command here to help with the Twin Sisters.” After Sam’s flash of confusion he added, “That is our name for the two six-pounders.”

  “That suits me very well, General, thank you.”

  The soldiers ate well of dough cakes made from the flour that Texas Tories had left for the Mexicans, and four public cows that were butchered. But as the afternoon wore on, the grumbling began again over when they would attack.

  At last, Houston approached Hockley’s crew behind the guns, carrying a spyglass, and at his order was boosted up into the boughs of a covering live oak. He lay flat on a fat branch, steadying his arm as he spied out the Mexican camp. “Gentlemen,” he said when he was helped down, “of all the advantages to have in a battle, nothing is more important than to know the enemy you are fighting. Those men who reinforced Santa Anna marched all night to do it. The Mexicans have been on pins and needles since before dawn, waiting on our attack, and it has not come. And, gentlemen, in Mexico they have a custom of every day taking a nap in the middle of the afternoon. I have just studied their encampment, and there is not a creature stirring over there. They are mentally shot and physically exhausted, and they are having their siesta. Gentlemen, form up your companies quietly to attack.”

  Within twenty minutes they stood in a thin line, one man perhaps every four feet, stretching as far as the eye could see in either direction. It was three in the afternoon. Houston arrived, walking his horse through the trees; his large white charger was as fine as Sam’s own red Ranger.

  “Oh, my God,” breathed Hockley. “Look at that uniform.” Houston had changed from his buckskin into fawn-colored breeches inserted into polished black boots, a deep blue coat with brass buttons—a uniform from the American Revolution. The symbolism did not escape a single one of the officers.

  Houston stopped his horse in front of and to the right of the guns. “Mr. Hockley, is everything ready?”

  “Yes, sir, General.”

  Houston removed his hat, a wide-brimmed white beaver, and lowered it. “Trail arms,” he said softly. “Forward.”

  The field was of tall grass, the ground rising gently before them, reaching a crest about halfway to the Mexican barricades. As the squeaking gun carriages topped it, Houston stopped. “Are you ready, Mr. Hockley?”

  “Yes, sir, General.”

  “Well, then, wheel your guns. It is time to wake them up.” Houston reined his charger to a halt beside them as the crews spun the carriages of the two six-pounders on their axes. Houston turned his attention to the barricade of baggage at the center of the Mexican line to see what effect their salvo would have. He drew his saber from its scabbard, held it aloft, and slashed it down. “Fire!”

  There was no explosion, but Sam heard one of the gunners mutter, “Oh, hell.”

  “Fire, damn it!”

  There was further fumbling at the breeches of the guns.

  “God damn it,” bellowed Houston, “aren’t you going to fire at all?”

  Sam raced over to see if he could help, and saw to his horror that the guns were of the olden type, with open touch holes. He also saw that they had no priming powder, and they had poured in the coarse-grained powder to the tops of the touch holes. He grabbed a twig from the ground, then blew the top of the powder from the hole and dug out the old powder. He pulled the stopper from his own powder horn and refilled it, finally handing it to the other gun crew, who had followed his actions.

  Sam stood back and nodded to the two men carrying old-style linstock fuses, who blew on them until they glowed, and then stepped to the side of the gun carriage to avoid the recoil. They just started to lower them when Houston’s charger neighed loudly and plunged directly in front of the Sisters.

  Corporal Ben McCulloch, in charge of the near gun, cried, “God!” and knocked one of the fuses away; the other man instinctively withheld his at the confusion.

  Houston regained control of his mount and got it out of the way, shock registering on his face, sensible at how close he had come to being blown to atoms, and amused at his escape. “McCulloch, do you think you would care to fire your guns now?”

  “Yes, sir, General. Boys, fire!”

  The brands were put to the Twin Sisters, and they jumped back in recoil from the fiery muzzle blasts.

  “Well, that will wake them up. Boys, this is it: Advance! Fifers? How about some music to march with?”

  The four musicians ha
d already consulted among themselves. Each knew different tunes, and the only one that all four knew was an off-color barroom ditty about seduction called “Will You Come to the Bower?” Sam knew it well, and if it were not for the impending battle would have sung along.

  The volunteers close enough to hear them began laughing, agreeing that there could not have been any more martial music to inspire them. First one and then another of the volunteers let loose a bloodcurdling whoop and began to run forward, their muskets en garde. “Boys,” roared Houston, “remember what we taught you, to stop and fire by companies!”

  As Mexicans began to appear at their barricades, the Texian companies stopped and fired, but the discipline only held good for the one time. The men fired and then ran forward, screaming, drawing sidearms and Bowie knives.

  “You men around me,” called Houston to the left and right, “concentrate your fire on their gun crew. Keep them from firing it.”

  Within seconds half of the Mexican gunners were picked off and the others were fleeing as a white-haired officer attempted to rally them, whipping them with his saber and shouting, to no avail. At least two of the fleeing gunners pulled at him to flee with them, but he did not. Instead, he stepped up onto an ammunition box and stood, arms folded, glowering at the oncoming Texians. He was in a magnificent, gold-corded uniform.

  War Secretary Rusk was within Houston’s earshot. “I know that man! That is General Castrillon. Boys, don’t shoot him, he is no Santanista; he is a brave man and I want to question him.”

  “Bullshit!” spat one of the volunteers, who knelt and took careful aim at him. Rusk rode close and with his saber knocked his musket up just at the instant it fired, causing the man to leap up in total fury. “You stupid piece of shit! You don’t get men into a battle and then tell them who to shoot and who not to shoot! What is wrong with you?” He slapped Rusk’s horse on its rump with his own saber, causing the animal to plunge with Rusk hanging on.

  Castrillon stood motionless on his ammunition box, glaring, until he was blown backward by at least four balls striking him at once as though hit by a firing squad. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  Houston’s white charger stopped and fell to his knees with a shudder, three bright red holes in his throat and chest. “A horse, someone bring me a horse!” In the time it took to remount him, the line had outpaced him, but Sam had stayed by him and heard him utter a profanity and lean forward in his saddle, but then continued on.

  Even before the time he got over the barricade of baggage carts, Sam saw the battle had devolved into a rout, into pandemonium, the Mexicans fleeing for their lives, the Texians killing whomever they could catch.

  On his right Sam heard a pathetic wail, turning his head to see a boy of at most fourteen, and slight for his age, on his knees.

  “¡No, no! ¡Por María, salve mi vida!” The Texian volunteer who was loping toward him and was almost upon him unsheathed a fearsome Bowie knife, and in a lightning-quick arc down and up caught the boy in the center of his chest just beneath his rib cage, the force of it lifting him off the ground with a plangent scream, the piercing point of the knife distending the back of his white blouse.

  In unthinking terror the fleeing Mexicans ran straight behind them and upon reaching Peggy Lake, instead of turning to the side to stay on dry ground, plunged into the marsh and instantly sank calf-deep into the muck. There must have been three hundred of them struggling through the reeds, one sucking step at a time. At least thirty of the Texians reached the edge of the marsh and took their leisure, loading, shooting one down, reloading with wadding and ramrod, and shooting another one down, trading jokes and wagers while they were doing it.

  General Rusk, the secretary of war, saw this and rode up in a rage, demanding a halt to the slaughter. No one paid him the least heed until Rusk again knocked a man’s rifle up with his saber. That volunteer bridled and backed up a step. “Mr. Rusk, sir, if Jesus Christ came down from heaven this instant, sir, and told me to stop shooting Santanistas, I would not do it, sir!”

  “By God, you will!” Rusk held his saber aloft.

  “By God, sir, I won’t.” The man took another step back and cocked the hammer on his musket, leveling it at Rusk’s chest.

  Rusk backed his horse a few steps and lowered his sword. “All right, then, have it your own way.”

  Houston found another several dozen volunteers in the Mexican camp, looting the tents and occasionally killing a Mexican soldier found hiding there. Houston waved his saber in the air. “Men, the battle is won! Victory is ours! Form back into your ranks and begin taking the prisoners to the rear.” But it was as though he never spoke at all. “Form your ranks,” he roared again into the pandemonium.

  Having no luck there, Houston galloped northwest from the Mexican encampment, repeating his order to cease fire and take prisoners. To catch those Mexicans who fled in that direction to Buffalo Bayou, there was no time to reload. The volunteers chased them, clubbed them down, and finished either with a Bowie knife or a rifle butt to the head.

  “Take your prisoners!” roared Houston again.

  “Boys, you heard the general!” bellowed one of the volunteers. “Take prisoners! You know how to take prisoners, don’t you? Shoot one, then club guns and remember the Alamo! Remember the Alamo, remember Goliad, and club guns left and right and knock their goddamn brains out!”

  At last Houston sat on his horse, victorious on the day but defeated by his own army. “Men,” Sam heard him say to those around him, “I can win battles with you, but damn your manners.”

  Sam trotted over to him and held his horse by the bridle. “Mr. Bandy, these men will not listen. If Urrea or Filisola show up in the next moment with their armies, we shall all be killed.”

  “Well, thank God there is no sign of them, and you left such a strong camp guard, they can tie down any Mexican reinforcement until we can get reorganized.”

  “Maybe so. Mr. Bandy, fetch me those officers, for I have been wounded.” As Houston was helped back to camp, Rusk galloped up to Sam. “Mr. Bandy, you appear to be the only sane man on the field. I am sorry to ask it, but I want you to look among the Mexicans for survivors. I will send a wagon for those you find.”

  “Yes, sir.” He knew what awaited him. Dead men staring at the sky. Dead men gutted and disemboweled. He saw so many intestines that afternoon, he swore he would never eat sausages again. Dead men, shot in the forehead and their brains exploding out the backs of their skulls.

  So, thought Sam, this is how the Tree of Liberty is watered. But according to Jefferson, it is watered with the blood of patriots, and tyrants. He said nothing about the blood of hundreds and hundreds of these poor, ignorant, frightened, hungry peasants, who in all probability never wanted to leave the simple labors they had always known. The Tree of Liberty was very cruel indeed to demand their lives.

  The more bodies that Sam saw in their search for survivors, the more he was struck how small most of them were. One can be slight and of gracile build but still be strong. Many of these men and boys appeared to simply never have had enough to eat. There was only one man whose blood he wanted to water a tree with, and that was Santa Anna.

  10

  Reckonings

  Tasked to find someone living among so many dead, Sam found none at first, although two gurgled out the last of their lives as he knelt by them. Twice it got to be too much, and he had to look away—across the river toward Lynch’s settlement, or back to the oak trees of the Texian camp, or up to see the late-afternoon clouds coasting by. He was glad Bliven was not here to see this.

  He knew well that Bliven could fight, and in battle he could kill, but he also knew of his conscience and his sensibilities; that he grew disgusted, and then furious, and ultimately despondent, at mindless bloodlust—and that was what had transpired here, an exposition of hatred, vengeance, and murder with no necessity for it. It was well that he did not see
it.

  The wagon that Rusk had promised rumbled onto the field and Sam hailed them. “Why are you pulled by horses? Would not oxen better serve your purpose?”

  “Sir, we have no oxen,” one said with a decided tone of bitterness. “We had two, to pull the cannons, but this damn mean old woman come up and cut ’em loose and led ’em away. Cussed out the general something fierce, the damned old blister; said he promised her when he borrowed them there would be no fight. Have you found any wounded?”

  He had not, other than the two that expired before him. The rest either died where they fell, or else—and he suddenly realized what a pointless errand he had been assigned—bodies he found whose bullet wounds would not have been fatal had had their throats cut like slaughtered sheep. He realized that the Texians had already been over the field, dispatching the wounded. Still, Sam walked dogged, crossing the field back and forth, turning over those not already on their backs. The wagon rolled after him, finally loading in perhaps five or six who were still alive, although it was likely they would die before reaching a doctor.

  They found no Texians, as it seemed others in Houston’s army had scoured the field and taken all their own fallen with them when they finally quit the place. Sam knew that reports of battles contained some accounting of the enemy’s dead; he saw no one else counting. At first he kept track by twenties, folding one finger against his palm for every score of bodies, but gave it up when he found himself walking along with two closed fists and realized they had hardly begun.

  It was coming on evening when Sam made his way back to the camp in the live oaks and found the volunteers still in a frenzy of whooping, celebrating, shaking hands. To his surprise he saw Mexican prisoners, sitting on the grass before the tree line where they could be easily watched, numbering it seemed as many as the bodies he had found. He asked one of the guards where the wounded were being cared for, and was pointed to a hollow within the stand of oak trees and was told to ask for the chief surgeon, Alexander Ewing.