To the Victors the Remains

by Drew McGunn

  ***

  Fiery red splashed across the western sky as the burning orb slipped below the horizon. To his left, Buffalo Bayou lazily flowed. When the battalion of Marines marched through the bustling town of Houston more than an hour before, people had poured into the street to cheer the growing army marching behind Colonel Johnston. Over the past twenty miles, the five companies had been joined by a motley assortment of reserve and militia units, who marched behind the blue-jacketed regulars. More than four hundred men marched along Houston’s main thoroughfare.

  As he sat astride his mount, Johnston scanned the crowd, spilling over from the non-existent sidewalks. Amid the women and children, there were far too many men of military age for his taste. He would have to say something to McCulloch about this. If this crisis continued beyond a couple of months, every available man in Texas might be under arms. His analytical mind wondered what that would do to the farms and the mills and stores across the republic. Then his mind grew dark as he imagined men like James Collinsworth, staying on their plantations, while poorer men rallied around the flag to protect their property.

  Despite his close friendship with General Travis, for years, he had found his friend’s abolitionist ideas about manumission to be out of step with the reality of race relations in the American South, but the idea of rich men hiding behind him and the army offended his sense of honor and duty. Maybe there was more to Buck’s grumbling than he had previously allowed, he mused.

  Like a disturbed hornets’ nest, since the news of the Mexican invasion, the town was abuzz with rumors. The Alamo had fallen, no the soldiers at Laredo had repulsed the invasion, the Comanche have stabbed them in the back and have raided below the Red River. No, General Travis and his army have returned from Santa Fe. He discounted the idle speculation of Houston’s population. The surest way to find out what was happening was to get his army to San Antonio as soon as possible.

  “Enough wool gathering,” he muttered. He was glad to be beyond the town. No sooner had he wondered where the assembling troops were encamped, then the scent of burning wood gave away their position. He turned and looked at the Marines, who marched behind him in route step. He pulled back to where Major West traipsed beside his men, “Major, look lively. I believe we’re approaching the assembly area.”

  The major shouted out a string of orders to the men, and they squared their shoulders, shifted their rifles, and their steps fell into unison and they marched proudly into the camp along the bayou.

  The next morning, the 25th of March, he had a Marine bugler blow the call for an officers’ assembly. Several hundred men, nearly all reserves, were already there. Finding out what arrangements the officers were making to keep their forces supplied was at the top of his priorities.

  More than a dozen officers assembled under an expansive live oak tree. An older officer, with oak leaves insignia on his shoulder boards was the first to speak, after Johnston introduced himself. “Colonel, I’m Lt. Colonel Erasmus Hodkins of the Third Infantry. We were under the impression that there would be supplies waiting for us here. When we got here, there wasn’t damn all waiting on us. My boys don’t have but another day or two worth of food. What’s the plan to deal with this?”

  A youthful looking captain nodded firmly. “I’m Captain Wallace Jackson, sir, of the Second Infantry. We’re in about the same condition as Major Hodkins. If we don’t have supplies within a few days, I don’t know if I can keep my boys in the field.”

  The other officers voiced similar concerns. Johnson bit down on the sigh that threatened to escape his lips. “Alright. I understand. We need food to keep our army, here, in the field. We’ll send back into Houston for supplies.”

  He tracked down Lieutenant Robert Crockett, who had arrived at the assembly area a few days earlier and gave him a handful of orders to take back to Houston. As the young officer galloped down the road, Johnston smiled at the younger Crockett’s enthusiasm. He lacked his father’s flair for the theatrical, but he was a conscientious officer, who would get supplies flowing from the east.

  The dust from the horse still lingered in the air when a red stagecoach added another cloud of brown dust billowing along the road from Houston. The stagecoach rolled through the encampment until coming to a stop near the bayou. Before the driver could set the brake, the door to the coach swung open. Johnston closed the little notebook he used for scribbling orders and returned it to his jacket pocket and walked toward the coach, his curiosity piqued.

  None other than David Crockett swung down from the doorway, landing lightly on his feet. Soldiers, seeing the president alight from the coach, came running, cheering their commander-in-chief. Johnston smiled and hurried over to the president. He came to attention and saluted. “President Crockett, you’re a sight for sore eyes, sir. To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”

  Crockett waved away the salute and shook his hand with the practice of a politician. His laughter was tinged with bitterness. “Colonel Johnston, it’s good to see you again, although I allow I wish the circumstances were different. As to what brings me here, all our fair-weathered congress critters up and decided to suspend congress and skedaddle out of Austin when they heard about that Mexican army coming to San Antonio. Pack of cowards if you ask me. However, at the advice of several members of my cabinet, I have decided that until we have secured San Antonio from any threat from Mexico, that the executive branch will operate out of Houston.”

  The image of Texas’ illustrious congressmen fleeing Austin brought a smile to Johnston’s face. “That must have been a sight to see, your Excellency.”

  The president eyed the colonel disapprovingly. “Knock that palaver off, Colonel. Call me anything else but not ‘your Excellency.’ I won’t stand on parade for such folderol.”

  They walked past the soldiers, who were smiling and shaking their president’s hand. Johnston repressed his impatience as Crockett took his time pumping hands and glad-handing the soldiers as they made their way back to the old live oak tree, under which Johnston was conducting the army’s business. As they took seats under the bare branches, Johnston said, “You’re welcome to stay out here if you’d like while we organize our reserves. I’m working on getting supplies brought forward from Houston and may use this as our forward supply depot for when we move on San Antonio. Are you familiar with the town of Seguin?”

  When Crockett nodded, he continued, “We’ll move this army forward to Seguin then. That’ll put us forty miles from San Antonio.”

  Crockett wore a thoughtful expression. “I suppose that’s why I saw my son, Bob, riding hell-bent back to Houston when I arrived?

  “Lieutenant Crockett should be able to get food and other supplies moving forward, Mr. President. He’s shaping up to be a competent officer.”

  Crockett’s laughter caused several soldiers to turn in their direction. “That makes a father’s heart warm. When I was his age and serving in the militia, I’m not sure anyone would have accused me of being a competent officer. How many men are assembled here?”

  Recalling the officers’ meeting earlier, he replied, “We’ve got five companies of Marines, nearly three hundred men under Major West. We’ve got odds and ends from three of the reserve battalions, totaling nearly four hundred more men.”

  The president removed his jacket and laid it on the ground, under the tree and moved down from the chair until he was lying down, “You’ll let me know if you need anything, Colonel? With the government’s ass waving about in the air, I’ve got time enough on my hands.”

  With that, the president closed his eyes, leaving Johnston to continue preparing his weekend warriors for war.

  Throughout the rest of the day additional men from the reserves arrived, individually and in small groups. Sometimes they were led into the encampment by officers, and just as often they came in alone, trying to catch up with their units. The highlight of the day, as far as Johnston was concerned was when the last reserve company of Marines arrived, assembled from the sma
ll towns on the west side of Galveston Bay.

  Before the light had left the western sky, Major West had assembled all six companies of his Marines, giving both Johnston and the president the opportunity to review the three hundred fifty men of the Marine battalion. After checking another rifle, making sure it was ready for action, Johnston thrust it back into the waiting hands. Crockett, a step ahead of him, was back in campaign mode, praising the Marines’ martial air. After passing in front of the entire line of Marines, they joined Major West as he dismissed the men to attend to their duties.

  Spreading his arms wide, Crockett swept up both Johnston and Major West, patting them on their backs. “This is a fine start, gentlemen. Major, your men cut fine figures. I’m confident they’ll make us proud. Colonel, the sooner you’re able to get your army to Seguin town, the sooner we’ll be able to send that army limping back to Mexico. Seeing as the government is a little out of sorts right now, and I happen to be the commander-in-chief, I’m going to temporarily promote you to brigadier general of this here army.”

  Flushing from the news, Johnston stammered, “Thank you, sir. I’ll endeavor to do my utmost. But speaking of generals, have you had any word from General Travis?”

  “That’s the ten-dollar question, Colonel, I mean, General. The last word that came back along the military road was that he had left Ysleta for Santa Fe, but that’s a couple of weeks old. I’d imagine that he’s probably still in Santa Fe, unless somehow or another he has learned of Santa Anna’s invasion.”

  Seeing the army’s campfires burning along Buffalo Bayou, Johnston’s spirits were buoyed at the sight of so many fires. “We’ll get moving as soon as possible and relieve the soldiers at the Alamo, sir.”

  Crockett gripped his shoulder, hard. “Please do, General. My daughter and her children are in San Antonio. I can’t imagine losing them.”

  Chapter 12

  Rain lashed the canvas sides of the long rows of A-frame tents. The ground was soaked, and water flowed into the Pecos. Will’s boot heels sank into the saturated ground as he strode down the makeshift road between two long rows of tents, toward the river. He passed a few cooking fires sputtering under canvas awnings, as soldiers fought the elements to prepare hot food.

  Water surged down the normally languid Pecos River, threatening to overflow its banks. With his boots sinking into the red clay mud, Will huddled under his poncho, as rivulets of water streamed off his hat, watching the water race down the too small channel of the Pecos.

  His eyes shifted to the Pecos Depot on the opposite side of the river. A short wall encircled the depot. The men stationed there had constructed several adobe structures, where supplies were stocked. But the depot might as well have been a hundred miles away, at least until the river returned to its normally shallow, lethargic flow.

  Will clenched his fist, angry at the delay. A squelching noise behind him made him turn around. Juan Seguin was attempting to dodge ever growing puddles. His cavalry boots were caked in mud. It reminded Will of kids playing hopscotch, leaping from one square to another. When he came up next to Will, Seguin glanced down at his boots and grimaced. “Damned rain. It’s hard, staring across this accursed river, seeing the depot but not being able to reach it.”

  “Ain’t that the sad, sorry truth. Any other time, and you can just about walk across it.”

  Seguin shrugged, water cascading from his poncho. “We’ll keep our powder dry and when the rain abates, we’ll get the army back across the Pecos and get them marching in short order. In the grand scheme of things, Buck, this isn’t a setback. The Alamo and San Antonio are in Sid Johnson’s hands. Even without this inconvenience,” he paused, gesturing toward the incessant rain, “we can’t get there in time.”

  ***

  Lucas Leal dangled his feet over the ledge of the new barracks, which spanned the southern wall of the Alamo. He spat down, watching as his spittle landed in the acequia outside the fort’s walls. The sergeant from Fort Moses Austin was at loose ends. None of the officers had found time to assign any duties to him or to Private Jackson. Nor had they been assigned to any of the three infantry companies in the fort. He was sure events would soon catch up to him and he would have more than he cared when Woll’s army finally arrived.

  Twenty feet below, the ripples in the acequia disappeared and he shifted his eyes back to San Antonio. The past few days he had taken it upon himself to watch the comings and goings of the old town. He had served with Juan Seguin’s cavalry six years before and was a Bexareno, a native of San Antonio. He felt protective of the town. It was where he had grown to manhood. Where he had kissed his first girl and had his heart broken. His father was buried in the cemetery there and no doubt when she passed on, his mother would join him.

  Yet, it wasn’t the same town that it had been in 1836. The town had grown. It was spilling over the San Antonio River. Despite the military’s claim on the land around the Alamo, houses hugged the Alameda road as it crossed the river and went eastward. It was hard to fathom, but the town had nearly doubled in size since the end of the revolution. If it wasn’t the largest town in the Republic it was certainly within spitting distance, Leal thought, as he spat again into the irrigation ditch below.

  Well beyond the stubby bell tower of the Church of San Fernando, he thought he caught a glimpse of something reflecting in the March afternoon sun. He climbed up from his perch on the ledge and jogged over to one of the four 9-pound cannon emplaced on the heavily reinforced roof and climbed on top of the trunnion. He shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun and scanned the distance. There was a cloud of dust a few miles south of San Antonio, too much to be able to clearly see what was causing it. But there was only one thing coming from the south that would kick up so much dust.

  Leal jumped from the cannon, landing next to Private Terry Jackson, who had taken his jacket and shirt off, and had fallen asleep on the roof. “Hey, pendejo, wake up! We got company!”

  Jackson lifted his hat, exposing his face. “Eh?” He had been sleeping soundly.

  “Get moving, jackass. The Mexicans are coming.”

  Jackson grabbed his shirt, and grumbled, “That’s Jackson. The onlyest Mexican I know is you. And you’re already here.” As he fed an arm into the garment his eyes followed to where Leal was pointing. The cloud of dust was unmistakable, “Ah, hell.”

  Leal ignored the private as he walked over the side of the roof and looked down into the Alamo Plaza and shouted, “Captain, an unidentified force to the south!”

  A few minutes later, a lanky officer climbed through the crow’s-nest-like opening leading to the roof. He joined the two soldiers, as they stared to the south, and retrieved a spyglass from his tunic. It took him only a few seconds to find what he was looking for. He slammed the telescoping spyglass shut and raced back to the other side of the roof, where he called out, “Mexican cavalry force entering San Antonio!”

  ***

  The door swung heavily on its hinges, as Charlie stood on the threshold of the house he’d called home for more than five years. He adjusted the strap of the backpack to keep the canvas from digging into his shoulder. A couple of blocks away, the bells of San Fernando Church rang out, alerting the denizens of the town to the Army of the North’s impending arrival. He looked down the street, watching wagons lumber toward the central plaza, then back into the house, where he saw his stepmother, Becky, with tears spilling down her cheeks, helping Henrietta load food into a blue-and-white checkered blanket on the table.

  The noise from the bells echoed in the room, causing baby Elizabeth to cry in her crib. He retreated from the door, leaving it ajar and knelt by his little sister, and made cooing noises as he tried to sooth the nine-month old. From behind him, he heard, “Charlie, please hand Liza to me. We need to get out of here. The Mexicans will be here any moment!”

  He set the backpack on the wooden floor and picked up the fussy baby. As he settled Elizabeth against his chest she stopped crying. From the kitchen table, Henrietta swore
below her breath as the blanket resisted her efforts to tie the corners into a makeshift bag, heavy with food. Charlie smiled at the mild profanity while Becky pretended she didn’t hear the freedwoman. “Lordy mercy, Miss Becky, I’m hurrying. If I could just get this blamed blanket tied, we’d be halfway out of town.”

  Charlie wiped the smile from his face as he handed Elizabeth to Becky, “Hattie, I’ll help with that.”

  He pulled at the corners, until he feared the blanket would rip. Then he tied them together, knotting the ends to keep them from coming undone. Henrietta hefted the load onto her back, “Showoff.” But there was warmth in her voice as she groused.

  Both women were out the door, heading toward the plaza as he swung the pack onto his back. He turned and took in the empty room. Over the mantle, above his father’s desk was his prized rifle. It had been a gift from the Trinity Gun Works. It was the first Model 1842 Sabine rifle produced by the gun works. Charlie couldn’t stand the idea of the finely crafted weapon falling into the uncaring hands of the enemy. He grabbed it and the brown, undyed leather belt with cartridge and cap boxes. The thirteen-year-old boy slung the belt onto his free shoulder and hurried after his family.

  Bedlam reigned in the streets. Old men, women, and children streamed east, toward the Alemeda Street bridge. Burdened by his heavy pack and the weapon and accouterments, Charlie trudged behind the women. As they crossed the bridge over the San Antonio River, his stepmother stopped and watched the crowd surge past her. Nearly everyone went straight, towards Gonzales and Seguin Town. To the left, the road ran to the gates of the Alamo. The chapel’s façade had been fixed several years before, giving the church a distinct bell shape. Atop the chapel’s roof, the Texas flag waved briskly in the cool March afternoon breeze.

  If Charlie had his druthers, he would turn to the left. He was of an age when the army seemed filled with glory and honor. He had stopped swinging wooden swords with his friends the year before, and now when he saw soldiers drilling on the fields outside the fort, his heart stirred, as he imagined himself, rifle leveled, advancing against Texas’ foes. Boys younger than he had beaten drums for the Continental army less than seventy years before.