by Drew McGunn
Captain Javier Morales lowered the captured binoculars from his face. He had found them after his regiment had hit the Texian cavalry in the flank. The binoculars had been tied to the saddle of a horse. The rider was nowhere to be seen, and he was happy to purloin the fancy glasses. They were more compact than the spyglasses that other officers used. The fact that he could use both his eyes to sweep the rocky valley below, he thought, increased his field of vision.
Two rifle teams were pulling back from the advancing Texians. A ghost of a smile crossed his face as he watched a team of three cover the withdrawal of the others. Despite the near constant skirmishing between the Texian vanguard and the remnants of the two rifle-armed light infantry regiments, casualties had been relatively light. He was proud his men used the cover to their advantage.
The slight smile vanished as a couple of Texians, in their butternut uniforms came into focus. The taller one had a mustache. He crouched behind a boulder while the smaller one, with brownish features raced down the narrow trail until he slid up to another outcropping, where the sides of the valley were veritable cliffs. An irritated sigh escaped Morales’ lips. If his men had suffered few casualties, as they slowed the Texian advance to a crawl, the Texians who pursued his men were equally cautious. From the dozens of daily reports his men provided him, Morales could verify his men had killed only a small handful of their pursuers.
***
2 May, 1843
This was a good hill, he thought, as he stood atop the knoll north of Monterrey. No binoculars were needed for Will to see down into the town. Just to the north of town was what his men had taken to calling the Black Fort. It was a partially constructed cathedral, with thick, adobe walls surrounding the structure. Each corner had a masonry bastion jutting out from the adobe-brick walls. Flying over the cathedral was a large green, white, and red flag. Will glared down at the fortification. Was Almonte there in the confines of the fort, or in town where most of the Mexican army had taken shelter?
It had taken nearly two weeks for his army to force the Mexican rear-guard back to Monterrey. That was two weeks he could ill afford. It had seemed like new correspondence arrived daily from the government in Austin, urging a quick victory. Will knew the government was hemorrhaging cotton-backs keeping his army in the field, but despite the cost, supply wagons kept rolling south from the Alamo almost daily, filled with the provisions his army needed to survive. Despite President Zavala’s concern over the cost of the war, he twisted every arm in Congress to get every new spending bill through both houses.
To the south stood the former mountainside palace of the Bishop of Monterrey. One of Hays’ Ranger companies confirmed that at least one regiment of Mexican infantry had fortified the position. Then there was the city itself. Monterrey was the densely packed home to more than ten thousand souls. From the outskirts, to the city center, barricades had been thrown up and rooftops had been fortified.
Were time of no consideration, Will would happily move his own battalions around the town, cutting it off from the south and wait until food ran short and Almonte had no other choice than to surrender. His latest letter from Austin killed any such dream. It was politely phrased, as were all the president’s missives. But between the flowery prose, Will picked up on Zavala’s desperation. The treasury department’s latest bond auction had been poorly attended and they had been forced to sell the bonds at steep discounts. To make matters worse, the Commodities Bureau was printing cotton-backs in excess of available commodities. It was a shell game. If the war wasn’t brought to a satisfactory conclusion sooner rather than later, the entire economy of the Republic could crash.
Will shook his head in frustration as his eyes watched a column of Mexican infantry snake down one of Monterrey’s streets, marching toward the black fort. A long siege was out of the question. He needed a quick victory. Even before the transference into the body of William Barret Travis, Will had been no stranger to combat, having served a combat tour a few years earlier in Iraq, but the idea of throwing his army against the fortified positions around Monterrey gave him pause. So far, his army had taken relatively light casualties. Less than four hundred men had been killed or wounded during the first two battles, and Doctor Ashbel Smith and the other battalion surgeons had managed to keep the number of sick to a surprisingly small number. Nine out of every ten soldiers who had marched from the Alamo six weeks before were still with the army. To a soldier of the twenty-first century, the losses would seem staggeringly high, but to the men of the nineteenth, it was manageable.
He ground his teeth in frustration, his eyes scanning the town. The only question he needed answered was how long before he would be ready to attack. Hays’ Rangers and one of Seguin’s cavalry battalions were already here. Johnston’s brigade would arrive on the morrow and McCulloch’s the day after. If he pushed his officers and men, in three or four days he could order the assault.
“On the other hand,” he thought, “if we bypass the black fort and focus on the city, there won’t be any massed charges against heavily fortified positions. If we capture the town, the fort will have no choice but to surrender.”
He turned his back on the town and clambered down the hill, followed by several guards and orderlies. The thought of bypassing the fort buoyed his spirits as he mounted his horse and rode back toward his camp.
***
Latticed scaffolding rose along the inner walls of the half-built church that was the center of the black fort. General Juan Almonte perched atop the thick adobe walls. Dust clouds to the northwest announced the arrival of the lead elements of the Texian army. His Cazadores regiments had succeeded beyond his expectations. The fact that they had delayed the enemy for nearly two weeks was a minor miracle.
He had been able to fortify the Bishop’s palace and bring from storage several old siege guns which had been part of the presidio’s supplies. The old guns were serviceable and were mounted on the bastions of the fort. An entire brigade garrisoned the fort while another regiment had taken up residence in the former Bishop’s Palace. The balance of the army, more than six thousand men, had displaced much of the civilian population of the town, many of whom had fled to Saltillo, sixty miles away.
A noise behind him caused him to turn. General Sesma stood behind him, gasping for air. “How, by the Blessed Virgin, do you manage to climb up here, General?” Sesma gasped.
His lips turned upward as he stepped over, offering a spot on the wall. “How are your men enjoying the charms of Monterrey?” Almonte asked.
The older cavalry officer carefully stepped onto the wall from the scaffolding. “I wonder if the only folks who didn’t flee town were the prostitutes. I believe those are the only charms to be found, sir.”
Almonte laughed. “Those are charms they should do without, but they are fighters, not priests. As you can see, General Travis has arrived with his army. I expect the whole of his force will be here within the next few days. If they try to encircle the town, do you think your lancers can break through?”
Sesma stared at the dust cloud to the north for more than a minute before he responded. “The answer you’re looking for is yes. But the sad truth is that my boys took a serious beating holding back the enemy at Candela when you needed to extract the men who had been fortifying the mountain. I doubt I could scrounge up three hundred men on horseback. Against the Texians’ rifles, we’d be torn to pieces.”
Almonte hid his disappointment. In a moment of honesty, it was what he had expected. If Travis decided to besiege Monterrey, there was little he could do to stop him.
Chapter 16
11 May, 1843
Dust rose behind the two youths racing their horses along the wide, hard-packed road next to the Rio Grande. Mountain runoff had long dissipated, returning the mighty river to its normal languorous state. Charlie Travis tore his eyes from the graded road before him and chanced a look behind. Victorio’s mount was less than a horse-length behind as the young Apache warrior urged his mount to gallop faster.
&n
bsp; The road snaked around a low rising hill and Charlie sawed on the reins, bringing his horse to a halt as the wide road ended. It was replaced by deep-rutted wagon tracks. The redheaded youth used his hat to wipe sweat from his brow as his friend drew up beside him. The last month had improved the young Apache’s English. His grin was infectious as he said, “Charlie, what you do with the road?”
Charlie laughed and patted his pockets as though searching for something, “It twern’t me, Victorio. I’ve no idea who stole the road.”
The hard-packed surface’s abrupt end was a mystery to the boys. Deep ruts, a half foot deep in places, gouged the trail where wagons had plowed through soupy muck, during a recent rainstorm.
In Spanish, a girl’s voice called out, “Victorio, did Charlie beat you again?”
Charlie turned in his saddle and saw Lenna riding up to them. Behind her a squad of cavalry troopers approached.
The past month had cemented his friendship with Victorio. The young warrior was carefree. He enjoyed traveling along with the Texian column. Charlie would have enjoyed the friendship more, except for Lenna. When he tried to talk to her, his words became tangled. It was hard enough thinking of things to say to her, and when he tried to articulate them, they came out all wrong. Adding to the awkwardness was the way she looked at him. It had been bad enough when she would gaze at him with open curiosity. Lately though, the frank inquisitive gaze had been replaced by furtive glances and half-smiles that left Charlie awash in uncertainty. Sometimes, like now, when she made fun of her brother and smiled at him, his stomach knotted up.
When the mounted soldiers arrived, one with two black stripes on his sleeves said, “This is where the colonel told us to hold up for the day.” He glanced at the three youths, “Why don’t y’all ride on back to the column and let Colonel Crockett know we’ve reached the end of the military road.”
Pushing thoughts of Lenna from his mind, the sudden end of the road made sense. The engineers had stopped constructing the military road north of Ysleta when his pa and the army had returned from Santa Fe. This must have been as far as they had come. A few minutes later they found the column. Nearly a thousand men were strung out over several hundred yards. Nearly nine hundred infantry were sandwiched between two troops of cavalry.
Later, after camp had been made and Charlie had finished his own chores, which largely included setting up his Uncle Davy’s tent and helping to cook the officers’ dinner, he pulled up a short log, set it near the campfire, and sat. He liked listening to his Uncle Davy’s stories. Most evenings, the former president was gregarious, telling stories collected over close to half a century. Over the years, Charlie had heard nearly all them, but the old raconteur had a way of making even an old tale seem new.
This evening, though, the colonel was uncommonly reserved. The battalion’s second-in-command, Major McCulloch, broke the silence. “Colonel, what’s it going to be?”
Rather than responding, Crockett retrieved a pipe from a pocket and after lighting it, he puffed on the stem for what seemed an eternity to Charlie. Finally, he said, “Strange, for the past year events have been working towards this moment, Henry.”
The young major held his peace as Crockett continued, “We told everyone that we needed to finish what Buck started last year and put the government firmly in control of Santa Fe. Lorenzo certainly talked it up to the newspapers across the Republic. Lordy, how they’ll squeal like stuck pigs when they find out that we had bigger plans than just Santa Fe.”
Charlie leaned in, listening to Uncle Davy. He hadn’t heard this before. From the other side of the campfire, Henry McCulloch said, “It’s your call, Colonel. We can keep marching north, come the morrow and in a week, we’ll be in Santa Fe.”
A log, mostly burned through, cracked in the center, sending embers spiraling into the night. Crockett’s eyes reflected the flames, and to the boy, it appeared they burned brightly. “No, Henry. Too much has been invested in this venture. Tomorrow, I’ll send Captain Benson, with three companies, north. He’ll have enough to garrison the town. The rest of us, we’re turning west tomorrow.”
Charlie’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. What was to the west, except more desert?
As though reading the boy’s mind, Crockett continued, “In three weeks if we haven’t captured Tucson, I’m not the Lion of the West.” His eyes, still reflecting the campfire’s flickering embers, burned. Long ago Charlie learned his Uncle Davy thought all the legends surrounding supposed exploits was nothing but hokum. But sometimes, Crockett was happy to use such hokum to his own advantage. “Another three weeks after that and we’ll capture San Diego and Norte California.”
***
Will turned to his orderly, “Make note of the time, Lieutenant.”
The young officer squinted at the page in the notebook as he scribed the date and time, 13 April 1843, 6:30 a.m.
Was it a vanity, Will wondered, to make note of what he hoped to be the beginning of the final battle of the war with Mexico? He worried, was it vanity or wishful thinking? With two victories under his belt, Will was confident in his army’s ability to defeat Almonte’s larger army. But twice before, Almonte had escaped with his force intact. The enemy general’s ability to sacrifice pieces of his army so the greater whole would escape to fight again grated against Will’s hunger for a knock-out blow. Will was growing to appreciate that time was a greater enemy than the Mexican army.
Aware the orderly was staring at him, Will turned and said, “Send my compliments to Lt. Colonel Carey. He may open fire.”
With a hurried salute, the young officer flung himself into the saddle and was cantering across the field north of Monterrey, toward Carey’s grand battery.
In his mind, Will envisioned the orderly passing the orders to the artillery officer from Virginia. Carey’s grand battery included all the army’s artillery. The thirty-six guns were positioned in an arc, separated from the city and the Black Fort by an anemic creek, where a flow of water trickled toward the Rio Santa Catarina. The city’s southern boundary was defined by the bank of the fast-flowing, narrow river.
Six guns faced southward, focused on the steep slope, atop of which sat the Bishop’s palace. On the opposite end of the grand battery twelve guns faced the formidable walls of the Black Fort, including Captain Sherman’s howitzers. The other eighteen guns angled to the southwest, facing the homes and businesses of Monterrey.
Will resisted the urge to look at his pocket watch. The glow in the east was still too dim to see the watch’s hands. He didn’t need to see it to know the orderly had arrived at the grand battery and was passing along the orders. In moments, shells would rain down on the buildings that ten thousand souls called home. Two days before, Will had sent an officer under flag of truce, demanding the town’s surrender. He had sent it with no expectation that Almonte would acquiesce, but the sternly worded missive had warned Almonte that the full horrors of war would be visited upon the town if surrender wasn’t forthcoming.
In a fiery crescendo, the Texian gunners opened fire. From north to south, each gun erupted, throwing shot and shell at their respective targets. The battle was joined. Will was mollified that many of the ten thousand regiomontanos had fled over the past forty-eight hours, but he couldn’t help wondering how many had remained behind, convinced that Almonte’s army would protect them. Will closed his eyes against the horror an exploding shell would wreak on the soft tissue of an innocent civilian. He offered a silent prayer that all civilians had fled the town as shells began detonating on the edge of Monterrey.
***
Coffee vibrated in the tin cup as a shell detonated in the distance. General Juan Almonte sent a fleeting glance at the mug, in which the liquid had long grown cold. The enemy’s guns had been firing for more than an hour already, although none had landed within the walls of the citadel in the center of Monterrey. Semaphore signals from the Black Fort and the Bishop’s Palace indicated the bombardment had been largely ineffectual.
He amen
ded the thought. The enemy howitzers didn’t need to breach the fort’s thick walls, when they could lob their shells over the very walls designed to protect against this type of attack. Even so, apart from a few shells injuring men in the fort, the attack was largely sound and fury. The tin cup rattled again as another shell detonated nearby. For now, it was sound and fury. It wasn’t likely to remain that way for long.
A little while later he climbed to the top of a bell tower, part of the citadel’s chapel. He could see over the houses, most of which were only a single-story tall. The large green, white, and red national flag flew proudly over the incomplete cathedral which was the focal point of the Black Fort. Although he couldn’t see them, he imagined hundreds of soldados crouching behind the solid adobe walls. Should the Texians attack the well-positioned fort, they would pay a terrible butcher’s bill.
He swiveled his eyes to the west. The steep slope that led to the Bishop’s palace was easy to see. The men who defended the residence were hard to spot, but he knew they ringed the entire plateau.
Between the fortified heights of the Bishop’s palace and the walls of the Black Fort were several thousand homes and businesses tightly packed between the narrow crisscrossing streets of Monterrey. He feared this would be where the battle would be decided. Every building that could be fortified had been and barricades slashed across most of the streets. To Almonte’s way of thinking, General Travis had one good option. Taking the city would cut off the other fortified positions. The only question was, how long before Travis would recognize it and attack?
The sun had been overhead for more than an hour when the question answered itself. The Texian artillery had reduced its fire to infrequent and sporadic bursts by the end of the morning. Whether it was because Travis found it to be ineffectual or because of supply issues with the Texians’ ammunition, Almonte could only speculate.
Had the wind not blown from the north, Almonte wouldn’t have heard the faint pounding of a drum. From the same direction a thin line of riflemen started across the valley. When they were only a few hundred yards shy of the city, they opened fire as they advanced. Behind the thin line came more men in ugly brown uniforms favored by the Texians. The battle was joined.
