by Mike Blakely
“Ad, conceal your men in that ravine across the road.”
Gillespie nodded.
Next in the circle was Captain Kit Acklin, another survivor of Sisters Creek.
“Kit, hide your company in that cornfield to the left of the road.”
“All right, Jack.”
“Captain Green, place your company behind that stone wall. Major Chevaille, you take the next arroyo.”
The men nodded and all turned away to take up their positions, save Walker, who stayed with Hays.
“What about you and me?” Walker said.
“We’ll ride a furlong toward Saltillo,” Hays replied. “When McCulloch’s retreat reaches us, we’ll order him to turn and attack the enemy.”
“Very well, Jack. We’ll attack with him, of course.”
“Of course.”
They galloped to their position down the road and turned to watch the Rangers slip into their hiding places. As the last men concealed themselves, a rattle of gunfire came from the direction of Monterrey. Captain McCulloch’s company came at a gallop, retreating from a battalion of Mexican cavalry riding hot behind them. McCulloch led the pursuers into the jaws of a deadly cross fire as Gillespie and Acklin, then Green and Chevaille, ordered their companies to fire. The effect on the lancers was horrific. Men toppled from their saddles by the score.
Quickly, McCulloch was upon Hays and Walker, the pursuit of the Mexicans having faltered.
“About-face, Ben!” shouted Hays. “Charge them!”
He and Walker sprang forward on their rested mounts to lead the counterattack. Dismounted Rangers poured out from the gullies, cornfields, and chaparral, and from behind the rock walls, crowding the Mexicans so closely that their long lances became ineffective. The Texans dragged men from saddles and clubbed them with empty pistols, stabbed with swords and bowie knives.
Now Hays, Walker, and McCulloch’s bloodthirsty company rode full speed into the melee, firing single-shot pistols, Paterson Colt revolvers, and sawed-off double-barreled shotguns, turning the Mexican attack into a crippled retreat back toward Monterrey.
Hays watched as a Mexican lancer swung the shaft of his weapon into the face of one of McCulloch’s men, Jim Freaner—a former newspaper reporter with the New Orleans Delta—unhorsing Freaner. Fearing Freaner would get lanced, Hays was surprised to see the erstwhile journalist spring to his feet, draw his pistol, and shoot the Mexican lancer from the saddle. Then, quickly, he caught the reins of the slain enemy’s mustang and leaped aboard the captured mount.
Now, beyond the feat he had just witnessed by Freaner, Hays noticed General Worth’s column approaching—Worth himself at the head of his division.
“Let them go!” Hays shouted, as the enemy cavalry unit retreated back toward Monterrey. “We have the road! That’s what we came for.” He looked at the dead men scattered on the ground around him. He didn’t see any of his own men dead, and only a few were nursing wounds.
“Colonel Hays!” shouted Worth as he cantered to the scene. “Well done. That was a splendid maneuver.”
Hays nodded politely. “The road to Saltillo is now ours, General. My regiment is at your service for the next objective.”
“Precisely what I came to talk to you about. I believe we must attack Federation Hill immediately.” He pointed to the long, narrow hill across the river to the south, its ridge adorned with two fortified batteries—one on the east, the other on the west. “I have held a council of war with my officers. Half of them think the hill can be taken. The other half fear our losses would be too heavy, due to the steep incline. What say you, Colonel?”
Hays did not hesitate to answer. “It can be done, sir. In my opinion, the western division can take it.”
“Then we’d better do so before enemy reinforcements arrive from Saltillo. Give me three hundred Rangers. I will send a like number of my infantry.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have half an hour.”
“We are ready now, General.”
Worth smiled. “Then kindly grant me half an hour to secure this road before we attack that hill.”
Hays nodded. “As you wish, sir.”
Worth reined away and Colonel Jack Hays turned to look up at Federation Hill. His men would have to cross the swift Santa Catarina River in full view of Mexican gunners and musketeers. Then they would have to scale the steep, rocky slopes to storm the two fortified positions on either end of the hill. So be it. This was why he came to Mexico.
Captain
JOHN RILEY
The Citadel, Monterrey, Mexico
September 21, 1846
From his vantage on the northeast bastion of the Citadel, Captain John Riley had watched the enemy battalion massing to the northeast, just out of artillery range.
Lieutenant Patrick Dalton stepped up to his side. “How many do you reckon now, Captain?”
“Not enough to take this fort,” he said with sincere confidence. He estimated the American battalion at eight hundred men, but he saw no reason to alarm his gunners with such numbers.
For twenty-four hours, Taylor’s army had been shelling the Citadel, with little effect on materiel or morale. The Mexican gunners occasionally fired back, but the commander of the Citadel, Colonel Francisco Moreno, wisely preferred to save ammunition to defend against an all-out infantry attack.
General Taylor’s engineers had found a secure place from which to operate—a natural depression in the terrain, just deep enough to protect their gunners and supporting infantry from the Citadel’s fire. Still, Taylor had not brought much heavy artillery with him. Riley knew from the reports of spies, scouts, and deserters that Taylor had just one ten-inch mortar and two twenty-four-pounder howitzers hidden down in the swale. These high-trajectory arms were difficult to fire with any accuracy. Riley felt quite secure in the Citadel.
Behind him, he heard hoofbeats. He turned to see the gates of the fort open to admit a courier from Monterrey. The rider jumped from his horse and ran to Colonel Moreno as he reached into his tunic to present the correspondence he carried.
Riley slapped Lieutenant Dalton on the shoulder. “Keep a sharp eye about you. I’m bound to see what this rider is about.” He trotted down the slope from the battery. By the time he arrived at Moreno’s side, the rider was already in the saddle and on his way back to Monterrey.
“Colonel Moreno, sir,” Riley barked. “Captain Riley reporting to receive new orders.” He presented a salute and looked at the wrinkled note, which Moreno was still reading.
Casually, Moreno returned the salute, seemingly amused by Riley’s boldness. “Are you wondering about the courier’s correspondence, Captain?”
“Only if it pleases the colonel to inform me, sir.”
Moreno smiled. “Very well. The Americans have succeeded in securing the Saltillo road to the west of Monterrey. Do you know what this means, Captain?”
“Yes, sir. No supplies. No reinforcements. No communications with the government.”
“And no retreat.”
Riley nodded. “For my men, there must be no surrender. We are ready to fight to the death.”
“Of course you are. If you surrender, you will be hanged as traitors. Why do you think I requested that your men join my company of gunners?” He gave Riley a self-satisfied smile.
“Colonel, my men are honored to serve with Mexico against this invasion of hereticos.”
“You will get your chance, Captain. Very soon, if I am not mistaken.” Moreno lifted an eyebrow in a fatherly kind of way. “Tell me, Captain Riley. Do you ever regret deserting the American Army?”
“Never. I was treated like a dog in that army. But here, among fellow Catholics, I enjoy the respect of my brothers in arms. Here, I am a capitan!” He knew he was telling the colonel what he wanted to hear, but in truth he meant every word.
Moreno nodded in approval. “Bueno, Capitan. I expect you and your men to teach the Yanquis about the perils of invading Madre México.”
Riley dr
ew himself up to his full height and saluted. Just as the colonel returned the salute, Lieutenant Dalton called out from Riley’s battery. “Captain Riley! The drums! Taylor has ordered the long roll!”
“To your post!” Colonel Moreno said, his eyes flashing with defiance. “They are coming!”
Riley ascended the earthworks in great strides and found Dalton looking through the telescope over the sandbags.
“Report, Lieutenant.”
“I can make out the colors of the First and Third infantries.”
“Under General Twiggs,” Riley said, more to himself than to his lieutenant.
“It would seem so, sir. I also recognize the new regiments from Tennessee, Mississippi, and Baltimore.”
Riley chuckled. “So, Taylor wants to try out his volunteers. Any cavalry?”
“None, sir.”
“Artillery?”
“I spotted but a single battery of the flying artillery, sir.”
“Under whose command?”
Dalton handed the telescope to his superior with a grin. “It appears to be none other than the cursed lout Braxton Bragg, sir.” He pointed. “You know he’s a brevet captain now, sir.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Aye, sir, according to the latest deserters from the American ranks.”
Riley trained the glass on the broad American line now marching toward the Citadel. Through the lenses, he quickly spotted the horse-drawn limbers of the flying artillery. Then he recognized Braxton Bragg, the worst of the nativist officers, astride a tall sorrel.
“Come closer then, will you, you bloody bastard,” Riley said in a growling voice.
“Not likely, sir. Twiggs won’t march his men straight between the Citadel and La Teneria.”
Riley looked toward the southeast, at the old tannery on the outskirts of town, about a mile away. Near the tannery building, General Ampudia had ordered the construction of a horseshoe-shaped earthen fort named for the adjacent hide works—La Teneria. Dalton had a point. Attacking one fort or the other made some military sense. But to march between the Citadel and La Teneria, within range of the guns of both forts, was unthinkable. Yet, on came the U.S. battalion.
Colonel Moreno stepped up behind Riley, having climbed the earthworks at his leisure. “Load canister,” he said calmly.
“Load canister!” Riley echoed in a shout. He watched as his men moved like the gears of a Swiss clock, meticulously loading the fixed cartridges of powder and canister—tin cylinders filled with hundreds of lead balls. When fired, each flimsy tin can would rupture, releasing the .70-caliber projectiles in a deadly hailstorm.
“Ram!”
He looked at the enemy again, astonished to see them still marching on a course that would lead them between the two Mexican forts.
“Arrogant fools,” Colonel Moreno said.
“Prime!”
“Numero uno,” the colonel said.
“Numero uno!” Riley shouted to the artillerymen at their stations around cannon number one. Listos!”
He looked at the colonel. The colonel nodded.
“Fuego!” Riley ordered.
The Irish gunner who held the primer’s lanyard against his hip leaned away from the cannon and twisted his hips, as he had been trained, to make a sharp and steady pull on the cord. The primer shot sparks down the touchhole and sent the load hurling toward the American line.
Through his field glass, Riley witnessed a swath of men in sky-blue uniforms drop from the ranks as others stepped over their bodies and continued to march. Cross fire from La Teneria raked the American front with another wave of lead, causing similar damage.
“Dos,” the colonel said. “Listos?”
“Numero dos!” Riley shouted. “Listos!”
“Fuego.”
“Fuego!”
The mammoth siege gun roared and lurched back on its chocks.
“Now, Capitan,” Moreno said, “you may fire at will. Prove to me that you know the skills of an artillery officer. Protect this fort and the city of Monterrey.” The colonel turned toward the southeast bastion to direct more firing from that point.
“Reload!” Riley yelled, feeling a surge of power he had scarcely even dreamed of possessing. He handed the telescope to Lieutenant Dalton. “Patrick, you are my eyes.”
“Aye, sir!”
As he waited for his gunners to ram home the loads in his two eighteen-pounders, he noticed that the American line had ceased to march. Through the ringing in his ears, he could tell that the U.S. drums had fallen silent. Riley figured the enemy had realized the folly of marching between the two Mexican forts.
“Hurry, you scalpeens,” he said to his men, “before they sound the retreat!”
His lieutenant, Patrick Dalton, trained the spyglass on the invading battalion. “Holy Mother Mary,” he said. “Captain, they’re reforming their battle line. They don’t aim to retreat. They mean to charge upon the city!”
“Bloody fools. Let them try. Number one! Uno! Listos! Fuego!”
As he spoke, he saw Captain Braxton Bragg’s battery of flying artillery dash ahead of the American infantry.
“Number one, reload! Lieutenant, give me the glass and swing the number two gun to the right. Follow Bragg’s advance! Numero dos, derecho!” Through the spyglass, he watched as Bragg’s battery halted to unlimber his two guns in preparation to shell the city of Monterrey.
The U.S. bugles ordered the charge as the voices of some seven hundred invaders yelled a battle cry. Over one hundred of them were already dead or wounded by the enfilading fire from La Teneria and the Citadel.
“Numero uno, listos! Fuego!”
The first gun roared and rocked aft.
“Patrick, are you on Bragg yet?”
“Almost, sir!”
“Reload number one,” Riley said to the gunner manning the lanyard.
Dalton was eyeballing the target down the tube of the eighteen-pounder. “I’m on him, Captain! I’ve got Bragg!”
“Numero dos!” Riley thought back to the day at Fort Texas when Bragg had thrown a bucket of dirt clods in his face. “Listos!” Earlier, at Corpus Christi, Bragg had slapped him for no good reason and had insulted his Irish ancestry. He waited, allowing the infantry charge to catch up to Bragg’s battery, which was almost loaded and ready to fire at the city.
Here’s a bushel of Irish retribution, he thought.
“Fuego!”
Dalton’s aim proved true. Hunks of lead kicked up dust and peppered Bragg’s battery. A gunner went down, holding what was left of his leg. A horse stumbled in its rigging and fell sideways, kicking. Another volley of canister from La Teneria tore into the invaders from the other direction, dropping another gunner and some charging infantrymen passing by. A load from the Citadel’s southeast bastion fell short, but the spherical projectiles bounced and reached Bragg’s beleaguered battery, splintering ammunition crates and the bones of the gunners.
“Reload number two!” Riley shouted. He noticed that the Americans’ charge was now too far advanced for his first gun to fire, as the second gun now blocked its shooting lane. “Number one, stand down!”
Now it was evident to Riley that the enemy assault was intended all along to capture La Teneria, not the Citadel. The Americans had fought their way so close to La Teneria that firing upon them from the Citadel at this point would endanger his fellow Mexican Army gunners at the redoubt. Why the Americans had approached La Teneria between the two forts was still a mystery to Riley. What a blunder Twiggs had made, to the tune of two hundred American casualties. He could have stayed out of range of the Citadel and assaulted La Teneria from the east or southeast. At any rate, the only target Riley still had in range was Braxton Bragg’s crippled artillery battery.
Riley looked through his field glass. To his disappointment, Bragg stood untouched and unfazed. His fieldpieces had fired once each at the stone walls of Monterrey, the exploding shells causing scant demolition. Bragg was gesturing violently at his men to reload and
continue firing.
“Sir?”
Riley tore his eye away from the glass and looked at Lieutenant Dalton, finding him ready to fire the reloaded cannon. Riley nodded. “Fire.”
“Fuego!” Dalton yelled.
The giant scattergun slung another tin can of man-made hail through the ranks of the U.S. artillerymen, yet Bragg remained unscathed.
“Reload!”
Riley glanced beyond Bragg to see that the infantry charge had effectively been halted, though a few tough and lucky Americans had survived to reach the outskirts of Monterrey, where Mexican defenders now fired down on them with muskets, from sandbagged rooftops. Though the charge had moved beyond the range of the Citadel, La Teneria continued to hammer the invaders.
When he looked back at Bragg, he saw something he couldn’t make sense of, so he trained his telescope on the flying artillery again. While Bragg’s surviving men reloaded the field guns, Bragg himself hovered over a slain horse, busying himself by stripping the harnesses and rigging from the carcass of the beast. He seemed not to notice the salvo that ripped through his ranks from La Teneria.
“What the devil is he doing?” Lieutenant Dalton asked.
Riley shrugged. “I suppose he doesn’t want the rigging to fall into the hands of his enemies. Is the gun ready?”
“So it will be in a flash, sir.”
Riley panned across Bragg’s battery with his scope. He made out several corpses strewn about. A horse with its guts protruding from a belly wound grazed as if mindless of its hopeless plight. Men too wounded to stand took refuge between two of the guns, which offered a modicum of protection from the cross fire.
“It’s ready, sir! Listos!”
Riley looked into the black eyes of the Mexican corporal who manned the lanyard on the eighteen-pounder. He glanced back toward Bragg, then again at the corporal. “Pobres pendejos,” he said. Poor assholes.
The corporal nodded, pulled a bit of slack from the lanyard.
“Fuego!”
Captain
ELECTUS BACKUS
Monterrey, Mexico
September 21, 1846
You are really in it now, Electus. What have you gotten yourself into?
