by Drew McGunn
Private Jarvis Smith, a recent immigrant from Kentucky, leaned against the embrasure and studied the gunners servicing their field pieces in the distance. With an open smile on his face, he whistled. “Hot damn, Captain. That’s a far piece.”
Another shell exploded against the wall, closer than Neill would have liked, and dirt showered down on the three men. Neill pointed toward the guns, “All you can do is try.”
He watched the young soldier as he leaned against the embrasure and aimed his rifle through the wide opening. He swept his hat from his head and sighted downrange. Then he picked up a handful of dirt and let it fall, gauging windspeed. He adjusted the aim, fixing a spot several feet above his target. Ready, he aimed, holding his breath. Slowly he exhaled then fired. Neill stared intently through the spyglass and jumped when he saw the bullet strike a ramrod one of the loaders was holding.
Smith frowned. “I thought I had him. Wind must have kicked up.” He reloaded his rifle and went through the same ritual. This time he knocked the hat from the artillery captain’s head, causing the officer to scurry behind the line of guns. On the fourth round, he dropped a gunner, shot through the head, who had been bending over the sights on the cannon, sending a reddish mist into the air. Neill and Mejia jumped up and down, praising the shot and pounding the young soldier on the back.
As he reloaded, Neill yelled, “Not bad, Private Smith. Show me it wasn’t just luck!”
Three shots later, he dropped another gunner.
***
General Woll and his staff officers moved further back after the second gunner had been killed by the Texian sniper. Six hundred yards would have been an impossible shot for one of his own Cazadores with the English Baker rifles they carried. He could admire such skill. But that didn’t stop him from ordering all his guns to focus on that one point on the wall, from where the rifle was fired.
Two more men died serving their guns before a shell detonated on top of the embrasure.
***
His ears were ringing when he picked himself up from the ground. Sergeant Mejia had been watching Private Smith shoot, when the world turned upside down and he found himself flung to the ground in the center of the fort. Mejia tried standing but his leg was numb. He looked down and saw a thin splinter sticking out from his thigh, dying his pants with his blood. He hobbled to his feet and put pressure on the injured leg. The numbness was fading, replaced by intense pain. But he was relieved he could still stand on it.
As his hearing returned, he heard people shouting and noticed several soldiers huddled in a circle nearby. He limped over to them and saw what they were looking at. He frowned, shoulders sagging when he saw the broken body of Captain Neill, blood pooling around him, staining the ground on which he lay. One of the company’s lieutenants was throwing up, next to the lower half of a body, all that remained of Private Smith.
Neill’s second-in-command was Lieutenant Connors, a quiet unassuming officer who largely left the running of the first platoon to Sergeant Mejia. With Neill dead, Mejia knew the men needed to see the Lieutenant take firm command and restore order within the walls of the fort.
As he tottered over to the officer, the world seemed to come to an end, and he was violently thrown to the ground again. A shell exploded directly over the fort, throwing shrapnel across the fort’s interior. Mejia fell hard on his injured leg. He screamed in agony as the splinter dragged across the ground, nearly causing him to lose consciousness. He swallowed several gulps of air, trying to push the pain and nausea away. His injured leg was soaked, and he grasped it, trying to find any more injuries.
He opened his eyes, and saw his leg was covered in red and gray matter. Lieutenant Connor lay at his feet, a fragment from the shell had clipped the top of his head, shearing it neatly off, as if cut by a surgeon’s blade.
Enraged, Mejia screamed, “Mierda!” At least a dozen men had been hit, and those who were injured were writhing in agony.
Torn between rage and grief, he looked around the fort’s interior. The officers were dead. He was the ranking non-commissioned officer. Could the men fight on? A few men were scrambling up ladders to the rifle platforms, but many were still shell-shocked from the explosion, and the wounded were bleeding, crying out in pain. Mejia staggered to his feet and saw less than half the men were in any condition to fight.
With every step toward the ladder, blood dripped from the splinter, still embedded in his leg. He moved slowly, as though in a fog, climbing each rung of the ladder, one at a time, his injured leg quivering with pain. When he reached the platform, he tied a white shirt around the barrel of a rifle and with tears streaming down his face, raised it into the air.
***
Across the south Texas plain the white banner fluttered in the breeze. General Woll turned to the artillery officer. “Cease firing, Captain.”
Woll beckoned the cavalry officer who had earlier delivered his ultimatum. “Return to them, Captain. I’m feeling magnanimous. If they surrender immediately, I will offer them the same terms as before.”
The officer warily stared at the General. “Sir, do you not worry that his Excellency, the president will countermand the orders?”
Woll snapped his fingers, “I am here, and he is in Mexico City. He can do nothing about my orders today.” When the cavalry officer’s scowl deepened, he clarified. “And if he changes the order later, I won’t be able to do anything about it then.”
Mollified, the officer took a white flag and carried it across the field, toward the fort.
***
One of the soldiers standing above, on one of the parapets called, “Sergeant, there’s a rider approaching. He’s under a flag of truce!”
Mejia came out of the captain’s tent, carrying most of the fort’s communication and dumped it in the camp fire. The breakfast fire had already been expanded when a few timbers from a small corral had been added to the blaze.
The pain was becoming unbearable in his leg as he eased himself down on a stool, using his rifle as a crutch. He looked at the deadly rifle in his hands, wishing he had been able to kill Santa Anna’s soldiers. Instead, he and the rest of the survivors faced an uncertain future. He called one of the other men over to him and handed the weapon over. “Break the stock and throw the whole damned thing in the fire. Before that jumped up popinjay gets here from the Mexican camp, I want every rifle tossed in the fire.”
He had no choice but to surrender, but he would be damned if he would let the company’s breech-loading rifles fall into enemy hands.
When the officer arrived, Mejia was surprised to learn the terms of surrender were unchanged from earlier. He passed along he message he would lead his command from the fort, unarmed.
***
The entire first brigade was standing at attention, facing the fort, when General Woll saw around sixty men march out from the earthen defenses. Behind them, from the center of the earthen structure, flames licked into the sky, throwing ash and soot into the air. Their dirty uniforms, normally a particularly dingy shade of tan, were stained brown with grime. In contrast to the navy-blue informs of his own infantry, he found the Texians’ uniforms drab and ugly, but they blended in well against the backdrop of the prairie.
As the little band of soldiers crossed the field, and approached the Mexican line, Woll noticed there were no officers. At the head of the column was a swarthy, short man with sergeant stripes.
The little column stopped short of the Mexican line and waited. The Colonel of the regiment in front of which the Texians had stopped, rode toward the column. Those Texians who were able, snapped to attention. The sergeant in command, snapped a salute, and in fluent Spanish said, “I am Sergeant Julio Mejia, Texas Infantry. As the ranking non-commissioned officer, I surrender my company and place me and my men at your mercy.”
The next day, the 15th of March, as General Woll’s army began the one hundred sixty mile march to San Antonio, Sergeant Mejia and his fellow Texians found themselves marching southward, into an uncer
tain future.
Chapter 9
Despite the chill of the north wind blowing from the Sangre de Cristos Mountains, Will was sweating as he sawed at his mount’s reins. He pulled his hat off and used it to wipe the sweat from his brow. The horse responded to his rider by dropping his head and tearing a mouthful of dry grass. Clumps of snow dotted the ground over which his army was marching. He turned in the saddle and studied the weary soldiers who were traversing the same ground they had covered less than a month before. The column of infantry had been trudging along the road, which paralleled the meandering Rio Grande. The soldiers were dusty and tired. He gave the order for the command to take a short break.
The small army had barreled back down the Camino Real de Tierra Adentro over the past twelve days, breaking camp with the dawn, and marching fifty minutes every hour, for ten hours a day, with an hour’s rest for lunch. Three miles each hour. Thirty miles a day, on the army’s best day. But they had done it. Where his horse ate at the sparse foliage, the road forked. Straight ahead, another day’s march was Ysleta. To the right, the road veered down the bank of the Rio Grande and forded the river. Another day’s march down that route was El Paso del Norte.
A company of Rangers garrisoned Ysleta. Food supplies in the village were adequate for a few dozen men. Across the river, El Paso del Norte held several thousand souls. Will frowned as his eyes flickered between both routes. He weighed whether to head south, into Mexico or to continue along the road back to Ysleta. As he stared down the road, he heard someone clearing his throat and turned and saw Major Wyatt.
“Thinking about what happens if we go for del Norte and then later find out that Santa Anna hasn’t invaded, sir?”
Standing still, the cold breeze quickly dried the sweat on his forehead and Will returned the hat to its rightful place. “The thought had crossed my mind. I know we discussed this before leaving Santa Fe. Even if Santa Anna doesn’t throw a conniption fit with us taking everything he surrendered in the treaty of Bexar, if we go into Mexico and pillage that town, we’ve as much as declared war by any reasonable standard.”
Will heard Wyatt chuckle. “You mean any other standard than the one Santa Anna uses? If you’re of a mind to hear my thoughts, there’s not enough food and supplies in Ysleta for a hundred men, much less a thousand. Then there’s another two hundred miles back to the depot on the Pecos. Tell me, General, where do we get the food and fodder for our army if not del Norte?”
Wyatt’s argument was the same he’d been wrestling with for the last day. Will grimaced. “Damn you, Payton. I’ve spent the last day trying to find a reason to avoid taking the army into Mexico and when push comes to shove, there’s nothing else to be done. Give the order, we’re going to take El Paso del Norte.”
The column, which had been taking a ten-minute on-the-hour breather, was back on their feet, and swung south, leaving the level, graded road, and made their way across the shallows of the river, leaving the land claimed by Texas and entering Mexico.
Later, if not for the twilight, Will would have been able to see the white spire of the Mission of the Lady of Guadeloupe, as his soldiers made camp only a few miles to the northwest of El Paso del Norte. As the moon crawled into the night sky he was joined around a small campfire by Lt. Colonel Seguin and Major Wyatt. He watched the major poke a thin twig into the embers and pull it out, its end burning brightly, and use it to light a cigar.
When Wyatt settled back into a reclined position, puffing contentedly, Will said, “Part of me wants to send our boys into that town with their bayonets fixed. To Hell with whatever defenses the Mexicans may have erected.”
Seguin nodded as he filled a cup of coffee from a pot which had been percolating in the red-hot coals. He took a sip gingerly before he replied. “My family’s hacienda, south of San Antonio, lies on the most likely route the Mexican army would follow in an invasion. One thing I know for certain, Santa Anna won’t forgive me or my family for what he sees as betrayal, and frankly, Buck, I worry about them.”
Will’s sigh was loud. “I know that feeling. I worry constantly about Becky and the kids in San Antonio, too. It would behoove us to tread lightly, if the situation allows. What I was thinking is that we should send an officer under a flag of truce into town and give them an opportunity to surrender.”
After blowing a ragged smoke ring, Wyatt said, “That matches my thinking, General. I’d rather see a bloodless victory than one that sees the shedding of our boys’ blood.”
Will stared into the glowing embers, thinking about what the morrow would bring. Eventually, he broke the long period of silence. “Juan, I want you to ride into town tomorrow morning under a flag of truce and demand their surrender.”
Hidden by the shadow of his hat, Will heard the Tejano’s soft laughter. “Send the Mexican in. Is it because he can speak Spanish or because he’s expendable?”
There was no edge to the voice. Will chuckled. “If you’d rather, I’ll send Major Wyatt.”
At that, the infantry major choked on the cigar smoke, and started coughing, as he eyed Will disapprovingly. Seguin reached over and pounded the other officer on the back until his coughing subsided. “Dios mio, Buck, but have you heard Peyton try to speak Spanish? He’d just as likely butcher it up and give our surrender.”
***
The next morning, as a weak sun failed to pierce the fast-moving clouds, Juan Seguin prepared to ride into El Paso del Norte. His butternut jacket was brushed as clean as could be done while in the field. His black boots were buffed to a shine and his black slouch hat was worn at a jaunty angle as he grabbed the pommel and swung into the saddle.
He pulled his saber from its scabbard and tied a white linen shirt to the blade. As he prepared to head down the road leading into town, he saw General Travis approach. Behind the general were a dozen of Captain Hays’ Rangers. “Colonel Seguin, your looks alone should drive terror into the hearts of your enemies.”
Seguin warmly smiled. “Ah, flattery will get you nowhere, General. Any final instructions?”
His commander pointed toward the Rangers behind him. “While I’d prefer they think you’re riding in alone, I think Maria will thank me if these boys keep an eye on you.”
Seguin raised his eyebrows, as his lips turned upwards. “God help you if my wife finds out you’re tossing me to the lions.”
As Seguin rode into town, he saw the Rangers filtering into side streets until he alone continued toward the central plaza.
Once he had passed a half dozen places at which road blocks could have been erected, Seguin’s curiosity was piqued. He had seen no soldados, and very few people moving about. And those who saw him riding along the road with his flag of truce fluttering in the breeze, disappeared just as quickly back into their houses. As he entered the central plaza of El Paso del Norte, a large church covered a quarter of the plaza, but the church’s bell tower failed to catch his attention. On the opposite side of the plaza stood a two-story adobe building, above which flapped the Mexican flag. A dozen men carried muskets and shotguns and they stood in front of the building, watching Seguin warily.
He was more than halfway across the plaza, when from behind the armed men, a door swung wide and a tall man, dressed in the finery of a Spanish don stepped through it. He stepped down from the porch and the men parted to let him through. Seguin cantered up to the don and drew up the reins, bringing his horse to a stop. “I am Lt. Colonel Juan Seguin, commander of the cavalry of the Republic of Texas. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”
The don, who appeared around thirty years of age removed his hat with a flourish and gave him a half bow. “Guadalupe Miranda, at your service, Colonel.” His eyes flittered to the side and his calm demeanor slipped for the briefest of moments. “And here I thought you had come alone.”
Seguin shifted in his saddle and craned his neck and saw two of Hays’ Rangers kneeling in a doorway on the far side of the plaza, their rifles covering the armed men behind Miranda.
Se
guin shrugged nonchalantly. “Just insurance, Señor Alcalde. It would appear to me that your city has been abandoned to the tender mercy of the Texian army by your Centralist overlords.”
Miranda gave a sad shrug that could only mean it couldn’t be helped.
Seguin ignored the helpless gesture. “My terms are simple. You will provide us forty tons of foodstuff and ten tons of fodder. Additionally, we’ll require twenty wagons and their teams to haul the supplies. For your cooperation we’ll leave our army outside of town.”
Miranda’s placid veneer cracked. “Forty tons! That’s highway robbery, Colonel! You would take the food out of the mouths of our children.”
Seguin frowned then casually shrugged. “The alternative is that we bring our soldiers into your humble town and take it ourselves. The choice is yours, alcalde,” he gestured to the south before continuing, “None of this would have been necessary had your central government not chosen this spring to try to conquer Texas. Again.”
Miranda stood, staring hard up at Seguin, who glared back from atop his horse. After an interminable moment, Seguin prompted the alcalde, “Which will it be, Señor? Shall I bring in my soldiers or will you collect the required supplies?”
Miranda spat onto the ground and swore. “Damn you to Hell, Colonel Seguin. You’ve given me a Faustian bargain. You’ll leave us hungry before the next harvest, but we’ll collect the supplies and wagons. God alone knows what your soldiers would do to my town.”
As the town of El Paso del Norte was plundered of most of its food, its denizens made their way into the plaza where they mutely stared at him and his well-armed Rangers. The injury made worse by the fact that it was Miranda’s guards who collected the supplies from them at gunpoint. By nightfall, Seguin watched the twenty wagons rolling north, toward the nearest ford, leading toward Ysleta. He remained in the plaza, surrounded by the handful of Hays’ Rangers.
When the last wagon creaked under the heavy load, rolling out of the plaza, Seguin turned to see Guadalupe Miranda standing on the porch of the government building. The alcalde had upheld his end of the bargain. The Tejano officer swept his hat from his head and gave the Mexican official a half bow. “On behalf of General Travis and the army of the Republic of Texas, I bid you adieu, Señor Alcalde.”
