by Drew McGunn
Johnston’s eyes drifted down to the casualty report on the desk then hardened when he looked up. “We shouldn’t rest until we’ve strung his “bastardness” up from the highest tree in Texas, Buck. While I agree with your assessment from last night, that we can’t kill every Mexican who surrenders, but by God, they’re going to have to pay for this.”
A knock at the door ended the conversation and several other officers entered Will’s office. Colonel Seguin led the way, followed by Sam Houston, acting as colonel of militia. Behind him came Majors West and Wyatt. Behind them appeared a nervous looking Sergeant Julio Mejia. The last to enter, and close the door behind him, was Captain Hays.
As the men found seats around the desk or leaned against the walls, Will looked at the Tejano sergeant. He was thin to a point of gauntness. His freshly laundered uniform, sported several patches and new seams where the cloth had been mended. The Alamo’s supply of uniforms had been depleted by Johnston’s reserves. Unfortunately, Mejia was hardly the only soldier making do with a uniform badly in need of replacing. His well-mended uniform hung loosely on his frame and his eyes were sunk deep in his head. Will wondered, “What must he have endured?”
Will coughed, cleared his throat, and said, “Sergeant Mejia, I know you’ve made your report to other officers, but I would like to hear it directly from you, what happened at Fort Moses Austin and afterwards?”
Mejia had replayed everything over in his mind countless times. Recounting the events for the officers in the room flowed smoothly from his lips. Until his narrative carried him to the massacre on the road south of Reynosa. He choked up, as he recounted the brutal execution.
Every man in the room was visibly angry as he struggled to give testimony to the events on that fateful day on the road south of Reynosa. He pushed through and described the deadly cat and mouse game he and the Mexican sergeant had played. He downplayed killing the other man and concluded with his arrival at Fort Brown.
Will shook his head. The sergeant’s ordeal was the stuff from which legends were born. He made a mental note to write up a recommendation to send to congress regarding the need to create awards. There was no doubt in his mind that if anyone deserved a Congressional Medal of Honor, it was Sergeant Mejia. “I’ve read the remainder of your report, Sergeant. I commend you for your gallantry in bringing word of this … crime home to us. Thank you. You’re dismissed.”
After the sergeant left, Will said, “We’re at war, gentlemen. Let there be no doubt in any of our minds this recent incursion by General Woll was a direct threat to our sovereignty. The reason I’ve asked you all to join me is to determine how do we best respond to it?”
Johnston played with the corner of his mustache, considering the question before he said, “We have mobilized our reserves, sir. As we’re all aware, a significant portion of them are present here in the fort and in town. Based upon our best estimates, we outnumber Woll’s Army of the North. We should pursue his army and destroy it.”
From his place along the back wall, Captain Hays nodded. “Just give us the word, General, and we’ll ride down there and kick their teeth in.”
Sitting on the corner of the large desk, Colonel Seguin held up his hand, as though trying to stop someone. “I share General Johnston’s opinion that we can destroy Woll’s army. The problem is behind that army, Santa Anna will be sending a second, and perhaps even a third. If not this year, then next.”
He stood and grabbed a map tube from a corner of the room and rolled a map across the desk. It showed all of Texas and part of northern Mexico. “The oath-breaker would rather send armies north than acknowledge the treaty of Bexar. Before we race down to the Rio Grande, let’s take stock of the situation. We have nearly the entire regular army assembled here,” he pointed to San Antonio on the map, “but less than half of the reserves have arrived. My counsel is that we should wait, replace our losses, transfer from McCulloch’s militia the best he has into our active reserves, and continue training our soldiers. And then, once we have done those things, we go after the head of the snake himself, Santa Anna.” He took the penknife he’d used as a pointer, and drove the tip into the desk, below the map, where Mexico City would be if the map continued to the south.
The room erupted into pandemonium. As they shouted back and forth across the room, Will gaged that his officers were evenly split between Johnston’s proposal and Seguin’s. When the men settled down, Will asked, “Sid, how many men could we move to attack General Woll’s army, if we set off tomorrow in pursuit?”
Johnston stopped twirling his mustache as he pulled a notebook from his vest pocket and hastily wrote some numbers down. After a moment, he looked up and said, “Probably around twenty-six hundred men. At best guess, Woll’s got a little more than two thousand.”
Will looked thoughtful. “That’s not bad. It would be the largest command we have ever fielded. But we’ve got two proposals on the table and I’d like for you to review it, too. If we wait and rebuild our regulars and train up our reserves, while picking the best of the militia to expand the reserves, how many men would we be able to field?”
Johnston’s chair creaked in protest as he leaned back and stared at the ceiling as his mind worked out the details. After a long delay, he said, “If we were to wait until the autumn to attack, we could probably mobilize as many as twelve infantry battalions.”
Around the room, the other officers wore looks of incredulity at Johnston’s calculation. Will was tempted to side with them, but for Johnston’s reputation for careful and deliberate thinking. “How do we manage that, Sid? Today, we’ve got five battalions between our regular and reserve infantry.”
Johnston dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Fair enough, General. But let’s examine what’s available to us. To borrow a phrase I’ve heard you say more than once, before this shitstorm, McCulloch had done an excellent job building our reserves, and now, he’s working on assembling the militia in defense of the republic. One problem he’s faced, I’ve learned, is that Tom Rusk, who has been in nominal command of the militia since the end of the revolution, hasn’t done much to ensure all able-bodied men are enrolled. My point is that by McCulloch’s calculation, he’s found that more than six thousand men are not enrolled in the militia. I’d hazard a guess that many of them have no idea the law requires their enrollment in their district. Rusk was pretty passive about his job.”
Will nudged him, “Where do we get the other men, Sid?”
“We expand the reserves. We’ll transfer as much as half of the existing militia to the active reserves while McCulloch tracks down and enrolls all those missing men.”
Will scratched at the stubble on his chin, thinking through Johnston’s numbers. “How much time will we need to train all these new reservists?”
Johnston was quick to reply. “Give me through the end of the summer and we can have twelve battalions of infantry ready to invade come this autumn.”
Watching his enthusiasm, Will ribbed him. “Sid, did you change your mind? Do you prefer Juan’s plan now?”
Johnston smiled ruefully. “I’ll allow that I had my dander up, and it’s possible I was a might hasty earlier. But Juan’s idea is sound. Where does this leave us?”
Will pulled the penknife from the desk and handed it back to Seguin. “I believe this belongs to you, Juan. In addition to the infantry we’ve discussed, I want you to figure out how to expand to eight troops of regular cavalry as well as an equal number of reserves.”
He scanned the room, his eyes settling on Captain Hays. “I’m not sure if there’s time, but I want to expand your special Rangers from one to three companies. I’ll be recalling most of Major Caldwell’s Rangers from our frontier along the Red River, and you’ll pick from among them first, and then from the ranks of the regular and reserve services next. But I want eyes and ears south of the border when we invade, and that means more men like yours.”
Hays preened at the news. Will could see the wheels spinning as he began to mentally
make plans for building out his specialized force.
Seguin also smiled, “With those Rangers from Caldwell’s frontier battalion, we’ll have three battalions of cavalry. That’ll be more than a thousand men.”
Will returned the grin and sketched a mock salute in Seguin’s direction. “Indeed, General Seguin. They’ll be your responsibility. Jack will also report to you.” Seguin’s earlier smile faded when he realized how much work lay before him.
Will’s features grew somber, as he brought up the third branch of the army. He turned to Johnston, “Our two batteries of field artillery are not going to be adequate to the role they’ll need to play. I want a battalion of six batteries of field artillery in our invasion force. Some of those guns are going to need to be large enough to knock holes in walls. Let’s bring Captain Carey back from our coastal forts.”
An idea sprang to mind, “Also, let’s use some of our contacts back east and see if we can talk a few officers from to the United States into joining our army. If I can get the president to agree, maybe we can sweeten the offer with some land or a cash bounty.”
Most of the men knew officers who were actively serving in the United States Army, and Will could see they were building their own lists of men to invite. Hopefully, that would provide more officers. If he and the other men in the room were able to pull this off, more trained officers were a must. In a roomful of butternut uniforms, Major West’s navy-blue jacket stood out. “I’ve not forgotten about your Marines, Major. Until we’re ready to invade, I want you to work with General McCulloch on adding a few more reserve companies that can bolster our coastal defenses. But when it’s time, you and your six companies will be part of our army of invasion.”
Ever the professional, West saluted. “Yes, sir!”
His list nearly complete, Will turned to Sam Houston, “Last and certainly not least, General Houston.” Will acknowledged his rank from the Texas Revolution.
Houston returned Will’s smile with a thin one of his own. “It’s about time, Buck. You’d think your Cherokee allies were more important than that.”
Will winced at the sharp comment. There were times when interacting with Houston that he wanted to wipe his smug expression from his face. Instead he said, “I was under the impression these fine soldiers under your command were our citizens, not our allies, Sam.”
Houston’s thin, forced smile continued, “Well, that’s what I meant, Buck. They’ve answered the call to arms, in greater numbers than other Texians. They deserve that recognition.”
Houston was cagey, like a politician. Will wasn’t certain if the former general really meant that he deserved the recognition or if it belonged to his Cherokee volunteers. “Of course, I’m grateful, as is every other man here, of their willingness to serve. But that brings me in a circle back to you, Sam. Are you going to stay the course with the army or do you plan on taking another shot at the presidency?”
The last six years had taught Will that even a soldier, especially one in command of the Texas army needed to develop some political chops or the politicians in congress would run him over. If there was a value that Will, as a product of the twenty-first century, innately shared with his nineteenth-century compatriots, it was that no officer should make a run for the presidency without resigning his commission in the army. He had subtly reminded Houston, he would have to choose between the two.
Houston laughed. “Had you boys decided to go punish Woll’s army, I’d happily lead my Cherokee warriors into battle, but alas, as you so kindly reminded me, President Crockett’s term nears its end, and you’re right, I do intend to challenge Señor de Zavala for the office.”
Will barely managed to keep a grimace from his face. Since Houston’s defeat nearly six years earlier, he’d wondered if the former general still harbored a desire to seek annexation. His voice would hardly be alone. Many Texians from the southern states advocated annexation. Adding two senators from another slave state would shift the balance of power in the United States. But Will didn’t know Houston’s mind. Instead, he nodded and said, “Congratulations on your candidacy, Sam. I’ll be issuing orders transferring them from the militia to the active reserves shortly. Who would you recommend to command them?”
Houston nodded and said, “That’s fair enough, Buck. You’ve met Stand Watie. He’s my second-in-command, and he’d make a damn fine colonel for the battalion.” He fell silent, as though in thought, before he continued, “My Cherokee warriors are good men, Buck. Give them the opportunity to prove themselves and you’ll not be disappointed.”
While a Houston presidency chilled him, when he thought about how Sam Houston had gutted the army of the republic in the world in which he’d come, but Will could see Houston was speaking earnestly from the heart. The man, known affectionately by the Cherokee as the Raven, loved his adopted people and wanted them to prosper. With a genuine smile, Will struck out his hand and said, “You have my word, Sam.”
He scanned the room, looking at each officer, thinking of their roles in the coming days. Everything which could be resolved now had been. “I believe we’ve set things in motion here, gentlemen. My next step is simple. Our government must bless this endeavor. I’ll be traveling to Austin tomorrow. I suspect our government will respond to Woll’s invasion and the treacherous murder of our men with a declaration of war.”
Chapter 22
2nd May 1842
Hell, Will decided, would be eternity rocking along in a stage coach with only Sam Houston as his companion. Fortunately, Charlie shared the seat beside him as the coach swayed back and forth, as it ate away at the distance between San Antonio and Austin. It’s not that Houston was an intransigent companion. Far from it, Houston regaled Charlie with many stories from his own youth spent living among the Cherokee. But Will’s earlier support for Crockett during the previous election acted as a barrier of amiability between the two men.
Will tuned out the conversation and looked out the open window, as the prairie rolled by. New stagecoach inns had opened, and with fresh mounts available at regular intervals, the coach made good time. What had once been a two-day trip, could now be made between sunrise and sunset, at least during the summer.
A ferry now crossed the Guadeloupe River along the most direct route between the two cities, and it had been while crossing the languorously flowing river that he had noticed the frame of a wooden truss bridge spanning the river a few hundred feet upriver from the ferry. He’d read that a company billing itself as the Texas Central Railroad was responsible for the grading of land and this bridge. Unfortunately, the company was undercapitalized, and the last he had heard, the principals were trying to find new investors back east. If they ever completed the line, it would shorten the time needed to travel between San Antonio and Austin to only a couple of hours.
After twelve hours in the coach with Sam Houston, even Charlie perked up when the coach rolled up to the Stagecoach Inn in Austin. After they climbed down, Houston extended his hand to Will and said, “General, I know my interest in running for the presidency makes you about as comfortable as a whore in church, regarding how you and I see annexation, but rest assured, if I win, you’ll have my unwavering support for the coming campaign against Mexico. That trumped-up dictator must be made to pay the price of his crimes against Texas.”
Will shook the outstretched hand. “Sam, I appreciate your sentiments. They are my own. Should you win, I’m glad to know the military will continue to enjoy the government’s support.”
***
Charlie stretched after stepping from the coach. While Mr. Houston had regaled him with plenty of stories, he was glad to see the former general’s backside as he crossed the street. He had said he was staying with a friend.
He picked up his bag and followed his pa into the inn’s lobby, where Will checked them in. Charlie leaned against the staircase banister and watched. Twilight’s last gasp, sent tendrils of weak light to compete against the lamplight basking the lobby in a soft glow. While his pa fis
hed a few cotton-back notes from his pocket, he followed a particle of dust, eddying and sifting in the cooling air currents from the open doorway.
After Will signed the register, Charlie forgot about the dust and followed him up the stairs to their room. After dropping his bag on the floor, the boy plopped down on the bed. “Pa, I had no idea that Mr. Houston could talk that much. Do you think he’ll win an election against Señor Zavala?”
Will chuckled, as he walked over to the window, and pulled the curtains wide, tying them back with a cord. Red and orange light danced across the western sky. The sun had only slipped below the horizon a few minutes earlier. As he answered, he raised the window, letting in a slight breeze. “I don’t reckon anyone knows yet, Son. Señor Zavala has been a good vice president. But a lot of newcomers may be biased by his Mexican heritage, even though we both know there’s no better Texian than Lorenzo de Zavala.”
Charlie shrugged out of his jacket and let it fall to the floor next to his carpet bag before asking, “Do you like Mr. Houston? You were real quiet on the coach ride.”
“Pick your jacket up and hang it in the wardrobe. Set your bag in there too. I can’t image what Becky would say if she saw a mess like that.” As Charlie reached down and grabbed his things, Will asked, “What do you mean by ‘do I like him?’”
After hanging his jacket up, Charlie shrugged, “I don’t know, but he did all the talking during the ride up from San Antonio. It seemed like you don’t like him much.”
As Will hung his jacket up next to Charlie’s, he offered an apologetic smile, “There’s a bit of history there, Son. Ever since I helped your Uncle Davy get elected, General Houston has resented me just a bit. I think he expected things to go different back in ’36. He expected he’d lead the army to victory over Santa Anna and win the presidency in a landslide. As you know, things didn’t work out that way, and he resents it at times, I think.”
After dinner in the inn’s common room, they returned to their room, where they prepared for bed. After shimmying into his nightshirt, Charlie climbed into bed. As he drifted off to sleep, he dreamed he was living among the Indians, carefree and having adventures, just like Mr. Houston had when he was a teenager, living among the Cherokee.
