Forget the Alamo!

by Drew McGunn

  Will shook his head, “No. We’ll catch them when they cross. Let their lead elements get about a third of the way across then give them a big Texas howdy.”

  They watched the lancers form up, twenty men across, perhaps the width of a platoon, to keep to the shallows of the ford. As soon as the lancers were in position, the officer in a fancy uniform stored his spyglass and rode over to the first line of lancers. He pulled a sword, that reflected the noonday sun and waved it in the direction of the Texas side of the river. As the first line of lancers trotted forward, Will heard a high melodic note from a bugle float across the river, announcing the start of the battle of the Rio Grande.

  As the leading line of lancers splashed into the fast flowing, frigid water, Will noticed that amid the prickly pear cactus and the dense mesquite trees on the Mexican side, several men, dressed in blue jackets and white pants, were afoot on both sides of the road. The forward elements of Santa Anna’s infantry had arrived. Will’s attention came back to the lancers. The first row of riders approached Crockett’s imagined mark mid-river. He watched the Tennessean, with the gunstock firmly pressed into his shoulder, cock the flintlock and sight down the barrel. A moment later, he fired and Will’s eyes flew back to the charging cavalry. The dandily dressed officer flung his hands out, and somersaulted off the back of his horse, sinking beneath the flowing water.

  Crockett’s rifle shot signaled the Texians’ response to the charging cavalry. More than a hundred rifles discharged their deadly projectiles, lashing out at the advancing lancers who were less than halfway across the river. Save for one lancer in the first rank, all the others were knocked from their saddles by accurate fire from the hidden riflemen. Several horses were hit and floundered helplessly in mid-river.

  Crockett handed the empty rifle to one of his reloaders, took the proffered loaded rifle and brought it up to his shoulder where a moment later he fired again. Dozens of more rifles spit out death at the charging lancers.

  From the Mexican line a bugle sounded an urgent tattoo and the Lancers still mounted surged forward, through the middle of the river, the water coming up to their horses’ bellies. With the third rifle, Crockett aimed at the nearest lancer, several horse-lengths ahead of his nearest companion, yet more than fifty yards from the Texas shoreline. With a ringing boom, a lead ball exploded from the barrel of Crockett’s rifle, the lancer dropped his weapon and clutched his right shoulder. A second later another bullet from a different sharpshooter dismounted the injured man.

  Dozens of riderless horses milled around in the middle of the river, bumping against the bodies drifting away downstream. As Crockett and his two reloaders hurried to reload their rifles, Will watched the lancers in the rearmost line jerking their reins and pushing their horses back to southern side of the river. The balance of the surviving lancers wheeled around and navigated around panicked horses and bodies of their fellow cavalrymen bobbing in the water until they reached the relative safety of the shoreline.

  Will stared at the carnage floating and floundering in the river. Bodies of man and beast drifted along with the current, tinging the river with wide swaths of red. Closing his eyes at that moment Will was years and miles away. He was in Fallujah, Iraq, 2004, he crouched behind a wrecked, white Nissan subcompact car. He peeked through the shattered passenger-side window, looking for the sniper, who had sent him scurrying for cover. Several other men from his squad were nearby. He heard Corporal White screaming. The sniper had shot him in the leg. The rest of the squad was searching for him.

  Will scanned a low-rise apartment building opposite from the wrecked car and thought he saw a glint of something. He wondered if it could it be the scope from the sniper’s rifle. As he stared at the spot, he watched a rifle barrel extend from the window then the outline of shooter’s head. He bit back laughter. He had expected the head to be wrapped in a turban, but instead, he saw a baseball cap turned around backward. He pushed the absurd thought away and sighted his service rifle through the shattered window of the Nissan. He felt his hands shaking as he tried to line the baseball cap in his sights. He took a deep breath and mentally said the first line of the Lord’s Prayer. It struck him as irreverent, but it helped to steel his nerves and steady his aim. He looked back through the rifle’s sight and saw the baseball-capped sniper. Will squeezed the trigger and felt the recoil slam into his shoulder. A puff of red and gray mist filled the center of his sights. He lowered his rifle and watched the sniper pitch forward out the window, as he somersaulted and fell into a fountain in the apartment’s courtyard.

  The baseball cap floated in the water, as the sniper’s body bobbed facedown. The water in the fountain turned a deep shade of pink. Will snapped back to the present and felt the memory recede as he focused on the bodies slipping downstream.

  As the last of the lancers splashed ashore amid a flurry of rifle fire, Crockett called out, “That’s enough, boys. I think they know we’re here now.”

  From the blind, Will watched as the remaining officers and NCOs restored order to the unit. Riderless horses trotted onto both sides of the river as well as onto the narrow island below the ford, many of their riders lost to the currents of the ever-flowing Rio Grande. Two hundred ninety men rode into the waters of the Rio Grande to punish the upstart Texians, but less than two hundred returned to the shore. Many of the wounded had drowned before they could be rescued from the fast-flowing waters of the Rio Grande.

  When the sun descended into the western sky, Will saw three different regimental standards set back from the banks of the river and a larger flag of the Mexican Republic flying further back. As Will slid down the earthen embankment at Captain Carey’s battery, he saw Bowie approaching. The knife fighter pointed to the distant pendant and said, “That big flag, flying over yonder, that’s el presidente himself, Buck.”

  Will gestured toward the regimental standards and asked, “Do you know anything about those regiments over there?” as he handed over the spyglass.

  Bowie looked through the telescoping lens before saying, “two of them are part of Santa Anna’s regular army. I see the standards for the Jiménez Regiment as well as the Matamoros Regiment. I’m not familiar with the third regiment, but judging by their uniforms, I think they belong to the active militia.”

  Will thought back to what he remembered of the Alamo, and something triggered. The reason that Santa Anna allowed the siege to go on for thirteen days was because his army was strung out over more than a hundred miles at the start of the siege. Could he be so lucky that Santa Anna would attempt to storm across the Rio Grande with this lone brigade at his immediate disposal?

  Bowie pointed across the river, “Look at that, Buck. It appears that Santa Anna’s got his dander up. Could it be he’s going to make another attempt?”

  Sure enough, men were filtering through the mesquite trees, funneling onto the shoreline, where they were densely packed. Will’s lips skinned back in a vicious grin as with great fanfare, bugles and drums began pounding out a martial tune. Bowie, still standing beside him, pointed at the nearest regimental flag, “It looks like he’s going to send the Jiménez Regiment across first.”

  The second regiment, Matamoros, crowded behind them, while Will could see the white uniforms of the militia still assembling in the mesquite trees.

  As best as he could tell, the two regular regiments were deployed in lines three men deep. Somewhere in the back of his mind, this registered as a formation common during the Napoleonic wars. It appeared the two leading regiments had no more than three hundred men each and the militia regiment that followed behind them appeared to have less than five hundred men.

  Along a front of nearly a hundred men, as best as Will could estimate, the first regiment splashed into the river. If Santa Anna wanted another fight, then Will was determined to give it to him. He saw Captain Carey standing next to a 6-pounder and he yelled, “Carey! If they get within forty yards, give them hell!”

  Will sprinted from the battery back over to Crockett�
�s blind, skidding into it. The frontiersman looked up and said, “Come to watch the fun, Colonel Buck?”

  Will grinned sheepishly as he plucked a few twigs from his uniform. “David, whenever you’re ready.” Like before, Will watched Crockett go to work at his craft as the cramped Mexican line pushed through the water cresting their knees and calves. Crockett’s rifle shot signaled his sharpshooters, and they opened a devastating fire on the advancing men of the Jiménez Regiment. The first volley from Crockett’s riflemen felled dozens of men in the front rank of the Mexican line regiment. But the men in the second rank quickly stepped forward as they continued slogging through the water, that came to their waists. After firing a second round, Crockett handed the rifle to one of the reloaders and shouted to Will, “Going to check on the rest of the boys. Be right back.”

  Despite his years of experience as a soldier and guardsman, Will was in awe as he watched Crockett walk along behind the line of blinds shouting encouragement to the riflemen and steadying frayed nerves. Crockett’s earlier words about leading from the front rather than pushing from the rear came back to Will and he knew that Crockett’s action was not simply right for the old Indian fighter but a lesson for himself. Will leapt up, drew his sword and rushed to the opposite side of the road, where half the blinds were set up. From his new vantage point, Will could see many of the riflemen firing their weapons and taking a loaded gun from one of the reloaders.

  Will trained his eyes on the middle of the river where the Mexican attack was struggling against the steady barrage of aimed rifle fire. The severely decimated Jiménez Regiment had advanced two hundred feet and still had two hundred more when they broke to their right, seeking shelter on the flat, low island. The Matamoros Regiment, no longer sheltered by the Jiménez Regiment surged forward. They were nearly halfway to the Texas side of the Rio Grande. Screaming and waving their bayoneted muskets, they surged forward through the churning water.

  Will noticed, as many of Crockett’s riflemen were hurriedly reloading, the soldados surging through the shallow water approached their side of the river. From the rifle blinds, shots rang out, slapping into the bodies of the tightly packed, surging Mexican infantry. To his right, Will felt the earth shake as all three of Captain Carey’s guns loosed a hail of broken iron and bullets into the flank of the Mexican line. A few seconds later, the artillery battery closest to Crockett ripped into the other side of the Mexican line.

  A rolling cloud of smoke floated on top the river from the artillery pieces, masking the water and the soldados. Will peered into the smoky gloom, waiting to see the crushing mass of men surging toward the shore. A cold breeze stirred the smoke and as it dissipated, Will saw at least a hundred men streaming back across the river, while several score more were splashing ashore on the island, seeking what shelter as could be found.

  The white uniformed men from the San Luis Potosi Battalion, a militia regiment, were shell-shocked as the men ahead of them disappeared in the blasts of a half-dozen cannon. Nearly a score of their own number crumpled into the water, as fragments from the cannon hit them too. Ignoring their officers and NCOs they turned en masse and retreated to their side of the river.

  From his left, Will heard a smattering of gunfire from Fannin’s location, opposite the narrow island. It sounded like his men were firing on the elements of the Jiménez and Matamoros Regiments that were sheltering on the island. A rattling of musket fire erupted from the island as the soldados reacted. A deep-throated roar announced one of Captain Dickinson’s cannons raking a section of the narrow island.

  The island was little more than a long, narrow sandbar. A few trees survived the frequent floods that covered it when the river ran high. However, from the soil sprang thickets of scrub brush and high grasses that gave the professionals of Santa Anna’s army some cover from which they returned fire at Fannin’s defensive position. The six guns in Dickinson’s two batteries fired one by one, as the gunners sought to target the sniping soldados.

  Will found Crockett standing between two field guns in Captain Carey’s battery closest to the tip of the island and joined him. Crockett peered over the earthen embankment looking at the puffs of smoke denoting where soldados had taken shelter and were now firing on Fannin’s men.

  Will turned and said, “David, why don’t you bring some of your riflemen over here. The angle of the embankment won’t let us traverse the cannon to face the island, but we can put some riflemen here and do some good.” Crockett, with all the speed his forty-nine years could muster, emptied out several blinds and brought a couple of dozen men back with him.

  Will edged away from the earthen wall as several riflemen slipped between him and the cannons. Like before, each sharpshooter was supported by two men reloading. The soldados had sought the best cover they could find as they traded shots with Fannin’s men. Crockett’s sharpshooters sent raking fire into the flank of the Mexican soldados on the island. Their rate of fire was slow and deliberate. Will watched the nearest marksman take nearly a minute between shots, as he waited for a target to appear.

  After a quarter hour of the rattle of musketry and the steady booming of Dickinson’s batteries, Will heard cheering from his left flank. He rushed to the side of the battery and looked to the river. He saw a stream of blue jacketed men splashing and swimming back to the Mexican side of the river. A slight swelling along the center of the island shielded the retreating soldados from musket and cannon fire from the Texians’ fixed positions. However, Will’s vantage allowed him to view the river downstream from the ford, where he saw at least a hundred men climb out of the chilly Rio Grande.

  He heard Crockett’s men joining the rest of the defenders shouting, “Huzzah!” He couldn’t keep a large smile from his face as Will realized they had likely crippled two of the three battalions that composed Santa Anna’s Vanguard brigade. Crockett slapped him on the back and said, “Buck, you look like a cat that caught the mouse.”

  Will tried to erase his jubilant grin when he said, “That was very well done, David. Let the other officers know that we’ll meet shortly? I want to know the disposition of each unit, included any casualties.”

  Will was back at the makeshift headquarters to the rear of the battle, when Captain Carey and Jim Bowie arrived from their positions along the ford. Seguin arrived a few minutes later, his horse channeling his rider’s enthusiasm as it pranced toward the assembled officers. Crockett and Captain Dickinson came in last. Crockett’s face was somber while Dickinson appeared to be near tears. When the two arrived, Crockett said, “I regret to be the bearer of ill news, Colonel Travis, but Colonel Fannin was killed while rallying his command.”

  ***

  The command tent had been pitched in a field that his Excellency had ordered the axe-wielding pioneers to clear. Colonel Juan Almonte watched the last of the officers file into the tent. He had no doubt about how this meeting would go. Almonte knew only too well that his Excellency accepted only victory. As the last to enter, he waved the guards to wait at a nearby campfire and closed the flap.

  A long table was situated in the center of the tent. At the head, stood his Excellency, Santa Anna. At forty-two, he was of average height and his Castilian features and dark-brown hair stood in stark contrast to the shorter statured, swarthy Mestizos that composed the substantial majority of not only his army but also the people of the Mexican Republic. His hazel eyes blazed in anger at the men around the table.

  To his right, Major Montoya, acting commander of the Permanente Dolores Regiment, stood with his hands clasped behind his back. The young man inherited command of the regiment when the body of General Mora had washed up on the bank of el Rio Bravo del Norte, as Almonte referred to the Rio Grande. As his Excellency tore into the young major, Colonel Almonte couldn’t decide if he was more embarrassed for the major or his Excellency’s inability to contain himself.

  “How could your men fail to reach the opposite bank, Major? These are nothing more than norteamericano pirates! Pirates!” Spittle fle
w from the dictator’s lips as the young officer remained silent. “Bah! Next time, you’ll do better or I’ll know why.”

  Almonte silently let out a breath he had not realized he was holding when the young major replied, “Yes, sir, Excellency!”

  Almonte saw him turn on Colonel Jose Romero, battalion commander of the Permanente Matamoros Battalion, eyes still blazing in anger, “What the hell happened, Colonel? Your men were behind the Jimenez Battalion and when they broke ranks, they at least tried to force their way to below the ford. Your men, they just broke and ran. Why?”

  General Filisola had remained silent until that moment, but as his Excellency’s second-in-command, he broke silence, “Excellency! I think that Major Montoya and Colonel Romero reacted as best as they could. Who was to know that these pirates would be able to fortify the Camino Real with artillery along el Bravo del Norte?”

  Santa Anna glowered at his second-in-command and snapped at him, “Our intelligence suggested no such thing, General.”

  Filisola helplessly spread his hands and shrugged, “Then our intelligence was lacking, Excellency.”

  Almonte watched as Santa Anna threw himself into his camp chair, which creaked alarmingly, and after a heavy sigh, asked, “General, where does today’s action leave our Vanguard brigade?”

  Filisola took the chair to his Excellency’s right and pulled a sheet of paper out, and said, “It could be worse, Excellency. Major Montoya’s Lancers have one hundred ninety men effective. We have forty-eight wounded, another twenty-five killed and twenty-seven missing, but presumed dead.” He found a second sheet and read, “The Permanente Jimenez Battalion.” His lips pursed as he continued, “Of two hundred seventy-four men, one hundred thirty-two are effective. Seventy-one men are wounded, thirty-seven dead and thirty-four are missing, but presumed dead.”