by Drew McGunn
From behind the thin line of infantry, Will wasn’t able to see distinct targets, although along the line nearly two hundred yards in length, several men, either better shots or overly eager, fired their carbines.
Finally, through a haze of dust, more than a hundred Comanche warriors materialized. They brandished bows and arrows, spears and here and there even muskets. If he survived the fight, Will resolved to find out if those guns were trade weapons. He’d be damned if he’d let any merchants operating in Texas sell guns to the Comanche. From those first hundred warriors, Will felt a bit daunted as their numbers multiplied in number. Even though it was situated more than a hundred yards behind Will’s line of infantry, when the warriors spotted the prison camp, the shouts and taunts from the Comanche grew in volume. In contrast, the officers and NCOs in Will’s thin, butternut line offered quiet words of encouragement to their own soldiers.
Although it was only a few minutes, time seemed to stand still as the number of Comanche warriors to their north grew by what Will imagined was ten-fold. From a hundred warriors, less than a quarter mile away, they soon became more than a thousand. After their taunts, shouts and catcalls reached a fevered pitch, hundreds of them surged forward, in defiance of their well-versed tactics of hit-and-run. As they closed the distance, the volume of fire ratcheted up. From Will’s position, right behind the thin line of soldiers, he watched as sheets of flame lashed out from infantry.
Among the hurtling rush of Comanche, dozens of warriors were knocked from their saddles, hit by the aimed rifle fire, lashing out from the Texian soldiers. A man mounted on his horse is a big target. Unfortunately, most of the target is horse. Even more warriors fell from their horses, when the beasts were hit, sending both mount and rider crashing to the ground. No matter how many saddles had been emptied, even more mounted warriors were streaming in from the north. Will tried to swallow, his mouth felt as dry as sandpaper. He drew the five-shot revolver at his hip and waited.
The four men assigned to the C team, second squad, first platoon of company D, 1st Texas Infantry saw the charging mass of warriors raging like a tempest toward them. The NCO in command of the rifle team was a corporal, who drew a bead on a horseman a couple hundred yards away and fired. Immediately, he cracked open the carbine’s breech, out of which smoke curled, and took a paper cartridge from a large, cartridge box at his belt, tore off the end of the paper with his teeth and crammed the remainder into the breach-block’s tube. He slammed the breech closed, and took a percussion cap from a small, leather cap-box and pushed it onto the nipple and waited. The number two man in the rifle team, fired his carbine at a target, more than five hundred feet away, and rushed to reload. When he was finished, the corporal fired again. Their other teammates alternated firing with each other, too. Across the three companies, a total of fifty-four rifle teams coordinated their fire, sending hundreds of rounds into the charging horde of warriors.
Even though the Comanche warriors preferred, and in fact, had perfected the hit-and-run tactics which had sent tremors of terror through northern Mexico and Texas, there was nothing wrong with their courage this day. Most of them were seasoned warriors and had been on many a raid. Until the last few months, their tactics worked well. Until now, most battles were small affairs, skirmishes, seldom more than ten or twenty on either side. Before, the white man would fire his muskets and then he would have to stand to reload. It was easy to ride in and skewer him as he reloaded. The Texian army’s invasion earlier in the spring had changed the nature of the war. Two villages destroyed, more than a hundred warriors killed. The Texians had changed the way this war would be fought, and the brave Comanche warriors were doing their best to adapt to the change.
They showed their courage as their horses pounded across the three hundred yards, determined to close with the hated mud-colored soldiers. Hundreds of lead rounds had crashed into the charging warriors, from the thin line directly before them. The number of empty saddles was proof of the accuracy of the rifle fire. Less than a hundred yards to go, and if it were possible for the infantry to fire even faster, they did. Too many bullets found their targets, too many saddles were emptied. Despite their courage, most of the Comanche veered to their right and left, angling to flank the thin line of soldiers. If they couldn’t go through the Texians, they would go around. The prison camp was nearly within reach.
Many, though, riled by the punishment they had endured, propelled their mounts forward, closing the last couple of hundred feet. Scores of warriors crashed into the waiting line of Texian infantry. The Texians’ open order tactics left little room between the line of infantry and Will, who was standing just a few yards behind them. He saw a warrior, spear in hand, ride by a soldier, lunging out, catching him in the chest, as he tried scrambling out of the way. No sooner had the soldier fallen, the warrior toppled from his horse when another soldier fired his rifle, point-blank into his face, blowing bone and brains out the back of his skull. Dozens of individual fights sprang up, as warriors closed with the soldiers. Soldiers reached for Bowie knives at their belts, as Comanches grabbed their own knives and war clubs as combat degenerated into scores of melee fights.
Where they were able, each rifle team rallied into a tight formation, each soldier guarding the others’ backs, in an outward facing square. The Comanche warrior, lord of the plains, was adept at one on one combat, but the Texians rifle teams turned the weight of the fight against them. Rather than facing a soldier in single combat, often a warrior was set upon by two or even three men from a single rifle team. Less often, a group of warriors would roll over the small team formations.
The thin line held. The tactical cohesion of his men impressed Will. For each fallen soldier in butternut, there were more fallen Comanche warriors. The warriors who threw themselves at the line of Texian infantry had endured too much and as they fell back, they hurled arrows toward their foes.
More than two hundred warriors swung to the infantry’s left flank. As they raced to the left, their attention was pulled to the corral holding the prisoners. Some of the warriors, who galloped by the infantry, sent arrows plunging into the line of soldiers. In return, those soldiers who were able, reacted by shooting back at the fast-moving targets. Along the eastern wall of the Alamo, a few men from the reserve company fired into the charging mass of warriors. Here a horse was hit, throwing its rider as it crashed to the ground and there a warrior toppled from the saddle as a bullet found its marks. But most of the warriors surged onward, toward the prison camp.
With only yards to go before reaching their goal, the Comanche slammed into Hays and Wallace’s rangers as well as the remnant of Seguin’s cavalry, who opened fire with their revolvers. Less than eighty Texians faced off against more than twice as many Comanche. Four hundred rounds of .36 caliber ammunition smashed into mass of Comanche warriors in just a few seconds. From after-action reports filed by the Texian officers, no rational person could fail to acknowledge the unsurpassed bravery and determination of the Comanche warriors. They were nearly without equal. But leather shields provide no protection to flying bullets and there comes a point at which no amount of bravery or resolve can overcome lethal firepower. Like a car hitting a brick wall, the Comanche found that point on that late spring day in 1837. The flower of the Comanche nation died on the green prairie, amid the blooms of the bluebonnet fields, outside the walls of the Alamo. They were killed in numbers they had never experienced.
Not far away, to the west, a few hundred warriors bypassed the attack on the prison camp, and rode for San Antonio. Convinced their comrades would overwhelm the Texians at the prison camp, these warriors rode for plunder. They knew they would find gold, food, and horses in the town. Instead, as they crossed the first street in town, the dozen houses, which fronted the street, erupted in gunfire. Major McCulloch’s poorly trained militia had knocked out windows and climbed onto roofs, intent on turning every home into a fortress.
Ignoring the houses along the center of the road, the warriors fanned
out, lapping around the ends of the street. Dozens of warriors rushed the last house on the western end. It was a small home of adobe construction. A heavy wooden door barred the entrance. From its few windows poked a dozen rifles. From atop its flat roof, another half dozen men fired into the mass of warriors. For each gunshot from the windows, a half dozen arrows responded. In only moments, the gunfire slackened, and warriors crawled through the windows, taking the fight to the beleaguered Texians.
Major McCulloch, from his perch atop the center-most house on the street saw the concerted attack on his flank. The militia holding the dozen houses along the street represented half his strength. But one street over, the remainder of his militia forces were assembled. He scrambled down a ladder at the back of the house and ran between two newly built homes. Across the street, he found a company of militia from Gonzales.
“Get up, men! The enemy is on our flank!”
The citizen soldiers leapt to their feet, and shouldered their weapons. Armed with a flintlock pistol and Bowie knife, McCulloch led the way, at a jog.
As the men from Gonzales, sixty strong, rounded the street corner, they ran into a dozen warriors, who, content to leave their companions rampaging through the last house on the street, were seeking other houses to loot. McCulloch raised his pistol and fired it point blank into the face of a warrior and as the Comanche fell, he stepped around the body and used his knife to parry a war club aimed at his head. A youth, not yet full grown, had attempted to bash in his head. Had the club been expertly wielded, the leader of the Texian militia would have fallen there. As his men were swarming through the Comanche warriors, McCulloch used his weight to barrel over the youth, sending him sprawling to the ground.
As the Comanche warriors spilled out of the house they had overran, they saw the charging Texians. This was not the easy pickings they had expected. Rather than stay and fight, they fell back the way they came, collecting their wounded as they retreated. McCulloch’s company quickly recaptured the last house, finding nearly twenty of their militia dead in and around the building.
More militia filtered between the houses behind their line, reinforcing their comrades along the town’s northern line. With the Comanche in full retreat, McCulloch called his men back. “Let them go, boys. We stopped them.”
McCulloch surveyed the street. Dozens of bodies, mostly Comanche were scattered along its length, but plenty of arrows had found their targets through the windows of the houses in which his men had made their stand.
A stump of a live oak held a prominent place in one of the yards. As the adrenaline wore off, the major sat on the stump, “We did it. We stopped them cold.”
To the east of the Alamo, Will watched as the Comanche warriors slipped away, first in twos and threes, and then in larger groups, moving back to the north. The nearest were a few hundred yards away, and as they retreated, they paused long enough to check those on the ground, collecting their wounded. The bloodied men in the line watched the warriors as they headed north. “If any of those bastards come within arrow range, boys, take ‘em out. They may be the bravest of the brave, but they need to know Texas owns this battlefield.” Will hated himself for giving the order, wondering if a larger measure of compassion was in order.
That evening, crowded in Will’s office, he was joined by President Crockett, Lt. Colonel Johnston, Majors McCulloch and Wyatt, Captain Seguin and Captains Hays and Wallace of the Rangers. Crockett sat in Will’s chair and looked over the reports collected by the officers who were present. “Tarnation, Buck. But damned if this fight isn’t something they’ll build monuments about in a hundred years.”
He picked up a report and read, “A hundred and seventeen confirmed Comanche Killed. Forty-three more wounded were captured. God knows how many of their dead and wounded they escaped with. Hell’s bells, men, they ain’t been whipped this bad even by that governor from Santa Fe, who whipped them all those years back.”
Captain Hays, the youngest man in the room by a half dozen years, spoke up cautiously, “Mr. President, me and Bigfoot, I mean, Captain Wallace here, have our Rangers following behind ‘em and it looks like they could have another two hundred wounded and dead they done escaped with, sir.”
As Crockett smiled expansively at Hays’ words, Will shuffled through the various reports on the table until he found the one he sought. “Here’s the report on our own casualties, sir.” Will handed it over to Crockett. “Our regulars did very well. Most of our dead came from Lieutenant Esparza’s platoon, this side of the Guadeloupe River. All told, thirty-one regulars were killed and another thirty wounded. Unfortunately, our militia forces suffered heavy losses, when some of the Comanche attacked San Antonio. Fortunately, Major McCulloch’s forces held them at the northern edge of town, but at the cost of twenty-eight killed and forty-nine wounded.”
The men standing around the table were silent as each remembered those counted among the dead, whom they knew. Will finally broke the silence. “It’s likely true, we probably killed or wounded over three hundred Comanche warriors in today’s fight. But before we break out the jugs and celebrate, let’s not lose sight of the fact we suffered nearly a hundred and forty casualties, too. Not even during Santa Anna’s misbegotten invasion last year did we lose so many.”
Somberly, Crockett stood and said, “General Travis, I agree with you. Our casualties are only light when compared against those suffered by the Comanche. You and your officers did all that was asked of you by me and Congress. I’ll be sending my own full report to Congress on this campaign and I know they’ll be thankful for what you boys have done.” He paused for a moment, and it looked like he swallowed something unpleasant, as he turned to Major McCulloch, “I got my start in politics commanding militia, just like you did, Ben. For years I always thought we could call up the militia and raise an army whenever we needed. Our fights against Santa Anna last year didn’t do anything to change my mind. But now, damned if I think the same thing anymore. Buck here, I mean, General Travis, has been bending my ear ever since we sent that puffed up Jackanapes back to Mexico about the need for a more robust militia. After this, I think it’s time to do something about it.”
He picked up another piece of paper from the table up, “Ben, I know you asked for a command of a Ranger company, and honestly, I’ve got all the Ranger captains I need right now.” He nodded toward Hays and Wallace. “But what I don’t have is someone who can turn our militia into a real army at need. Well, except you. I expect I can force this through Congress, Ben, I’m going to appoint you General of the Texas Guard. Rusk will continue to command the militia, but between his unorganized militia companies and Travis’ regulars, I want something betwixt and between the two. I’ll smooth Tom Rusk’s feathers. You’ll report to General Travis, here, just as he reports to me. He’s developed some smart new tactics. He took what we did against the Mexican army and improved on it against the Comanche. Take that training manual I know he’s been working on and give Texas a guard that can stand with its regulars.”
Chapter 13
After the meeting, Will returned to the battlefield, east of the Alamo. The Texians’ wounded and dead had been removed from the field. Across the prairie dozens of horses remained where they had fallen. Gruesome work remained to remove the dead animals. Some of the Comanche dead were still strewn on the battlefield, where they had fallen. Others, perhaps a few dozen, had been tossed together in a pile, within view of the prison camp. The women inside the camp were visibly distraught over the bodies of the warriors so near.
He wasn’t sure who was overseeing the cleanup of the battlefield. Will had left it to Johnston to delegate. He found a soldier loading an assortment of weapons into a small handcart and strode over to him. “Who’s in charge of the burial details, Private?”
When the soldier saw Will, his eyes flew to the stars on his shoulder boards. He dropped the spears he had been carrying and saluted. “Sir, Lieutenant Davis is in command. Last I saw of him, he was over by the corral. I think he
was talking with one of the officers from the Marines.” The company of Marines, which Crockett had brought with him, were guarding the prison camp. Will found the infantry lieutenant talking with his counterpart from the Marines.
The Marines wore blue uniforms, sourced from the same suppliers which provided the United States Marines their uniforms. Rather than buttons with eagles and anchors, the buttons on the Marine lieutenant’s uniform gleamed with a large star, behind which was fixed an anchor. The infantry lieutenant, wearing his worn, butternut uniform, stopped talking when he saw Will approach. Both young men snapped to attention and saluted.
“As you were. Lieutenant Davis, how long until you’re finished with the cleanup?”
The young officer said, “I’ve sent for some wagons from town sir. We’ve got to butcher some of the horses, before we can get them cleared off. I’ve collected the Comanche dead over there.” He pointed to the pile of bodies. “Once the boys are finished collecting them, I was going to burn them.”
Will’s first thought dredged up a memory from his own past, before the transference. He was in high school. It was spring break and his parents had taken him to San Antonio. They had toured the Mission Trail and had finished at the Cathedral of San Fernando. In the cathedral’s vestibule, a large marble sarcophagus purportedly held the cremated remains of the Alamo defenders. His second thought was to knock the young officer to the ground. He wasn’t about follow in the footsteps of Santa Anna by burning the bodies of fallen foes.
Will took a deep breath. He’d already fought one duel because of his temper. He’d be damned if he would allow his temper to get the better of him now. After slowly exhaling and wrestling his temper back under his control, he said, “Lieutenant, take a look at those folks behind the corral fence. Now imagine they aren’t wild and savage Comanche women and old men. But instead are the folks you grew up with. Now, how do you think they’d feel about seeing the bodies of their loved ones piled a couple of hundred feet away?”
