Down Mexico Way (The Lone Star Reloaded Series Book 4)

by Drew McGunn

  He glanced over at his teammate, Jethro Elkins. He and Elkins were the only remaining men in their rifle team. The whole company was in bad shape. Hays’ special Ranger battalion had begun the campaign with one hundred twenty men. One company had been wiped out at a hacienda between Monterrey and Saltillo and the other two companies had fifty men between them. Fortunately, their flank had also been defended by six regular Ranger companies, although they were scarcely in any better shape.

  What had Major Hays called his Rangers? “The tip of the spear,” Jesse recalled. He was amazed he had survived when so many had not. Others’ bodies had been torn and disfigured. The survivors would return to their farms, stores, and mills broken men. He was sick of being the army’s tip of the spear. At that moment as he watched the Mexican army retreat, he wanted nothing more than to be back home. If all he did the rest of his life was keep the books for his father’s mercantile interests, he would be fine with that.

  His melancholy was broken when a horseman rode up the slope. He heard others calling out, “Major! The Major’s back.”

  He climbed out of the ravine and saw Major Hays riding by. “Up, boys! Up! One more push and the war will be won!”

  “Would it?” Jesse wondered. Despite the doubt, he and Elkins joined the others as they headed down the hill, toward their horses.

  ***

  Sidney Johnston nudged his horse forward as he followed behind the five hundred odd men who advanced across the valley floor. The men from the 1st and 3rd Infantry battalions were cautious as they moved beyond the battlefield. From behind, he heard the steady tramping of feet. Turning, he saw the men of the 11th Infantry coming up fast. They had been held as a reserve regiment in Saltillo throughout the battle. Now, General Travis had ordered them up to support the advance.

  The 11th deployed into skirmish line and, with them, he now led a thousand men as he pushed hard after the Mexican army. Johnston watched his men checking soldados for weapons as they collected them when they surrendered. Once his men had rounded up around a hundred prisoners, he detailed a few men to escort them back toward the redoubts. He had no idea how the Texian army would manage the prisoners they were collecting, but one thing at a time. Every soldado taken prisoner was one less available to Santa Anna.

  At the valley’s opening, he saw a wall of men standing under several green, white, and red flags. At first glance, it was a formidable wall, totaling several thousand men. Johnston dug his binoculars from a saddlebag and stared at the enemy.

  What had first appeared a solid wall of men were several distinct clumps, standing behind their battle colors. Some groups numbered several hundred, while others were no more than a handful of men. Their uniforms were torn, and many of them were walking wounded. Almost half of them were unarmed.

  He lowered the binoculars and sent orders to his battalion commanders, to hold the line a few hundred yards from the Mexican formation.

  When Johnston’s men reached the imagined line, they halted. Tactical training took over and riflemen took advantage of whatever shelter was available as they waited for the next command.

  Johnston had ridden behind the line until he found himself beside the Texas battle standard for the 10th Infantry. The only man on horseback, other than him, was the battalion’s commander. Johnston said, “Colonel, let’s see if we can end this without any bloodshed. Take a white flag and let them know what will happen if they fight.”

  The officer pulled a linen shirt from a saddlebag and tied it to his sword. Saluting him, the colonel trotted across the field. Johnston watched intently as the battalion commander came close to the Mexican line. An officer stepped out and approached the Texian colonel. The two men talked. As time passed, Johnston wondered what they were saying. If it came to a fight, he would order his men to keep their distance and use their superior range to decimate the Mexican line, such as it was.

  After a few minutes, Johnston watched the Mexican officer turn away and return to the line. Moments later, he saw the Mexican flags dip. Men who had given their all earlier in the morning, storming the Texian fortifications, now let muskets fall to the ground as they cried. Others just stood there, shocked into silence.

  Johnston allowed a smile to play across his face. Even though there were still thousands more men to secure, lest Santa Anna reform the remains of his army, a sizable force was no longer a threat.

  ***

  Jack Hays held the reins with his remaining hand as he galloped at the head of his Rangers. He and his men had parted ways with the Rangers of the frontier battalion earlier. They had run into the men from the 4th infantry engaged in a running battle with a column of soldados who were trying to withdraw. The Rangers from the frontier battalion swept around, intent on cutting the column off from the south.

  Hays and his men left the battle to the others. He wanted to get ahead of the retreat. Somewhere up ahead, the only Mexican soldados would be those behind him, and that’s where he wanted to be.

  The sun was overhead, and his stomach rumbled, letting him know it was past noon. The road between Saltillo and San Luis Potosi was empty, save for Hays and his men. Since arriving at their present spot an hour before, they had not seen anyone. But that changed as a small clump of men in blue jackets with red trim came along. A squad of Rangers surrounded the clump and in short order, they started collecting prisoners who straggled up the road.

  After a bit, Hays thought he saw something, or someone, moving through the brush well away from the road. He turned, looking for one of his men to send and investigate. But the nearest was corralling a few prisoners toward a natural bowl where the Rangers were collecting them.

  “I’ve got it,” he thought, and he nudged his horse in the direction of the brush.

  He guided his mount around a fallen log and saw a scrap of blue cloth hanging on a long thorn on a cactus bush. Was his imagination playing tricks on him? He felt like something or someone was watching. Hays climbed from his horse and tied the reins to the fallen log and drew his revolver.

  Away from the cactus, Hays’ eyes were drawn to a giant yucca plant. Several of its sword-shaped leaves were quivering. Had they just been moving? With his pistol in front of him, Hays slowly approached. Was it his imagination, or did he hear rustling? Unsure, he cocked the pistol and continued forward.

  When he was only a few feet away and about to edge around one side, he saw a man in a worn and faded blue jacket run from the other side. He was racing toward Hays’ horse.

  “Stop!” The man didn’t miss a beat. Hays aimed and snapped off a shot. It kicked up dirt between the fleeing soldado’s feet.

  “Stop, or the next one will be in your back.” Hays had no idea if the soldado understood him, but he stopped, and hung his head low.

  Using his pistol as a prod, Hays poked his prisoner in the back, “Move it, hombre.”

  He untied the reins and led his horse as he walked behind his crestfallen prisoner. Holding the reins while also keeping his pistol pointed on the man proved difficult. But the soldado seldom looked back as Hays guided him toward the bowl where they corralled prisoners.

  Despite the threadbare jacket and grimy white pants, Hays wondered if his prisoner was truly a common soldier as he was dressed. Although mussed from slinking through the brush, his hair was neatly cut. His features were whiter than the average Mestizo soldado. Perhaps he had found himself an officer.

  When they arrived at the bowl, more than a hundred prisoners were settled in, waiting to be taken back toward the redoubts. “Get yourself on in there,” Hays said as he pushed the soldado forward with the barrel of his pistol.

  He climbed back into the saddle, which proved no easy task with just one arm and watched his prisoner slink down on his haunches on the edge of the circle of disarmed soldados. Several of the men closest to him started whispering among themselves. Hays smirked. Apparently, he had found some muckety-muck.

  Three prisoners came to their feet and swept their hats from their heads and saluted. As
word spread through the soldados that the newcomer was someone special, Hays thought he heard what they were saying, “Excellencia,” said one. Another exclaimed, “Presidente.”

  Hays swore, “Sonofabitch!” He had done more than capture some high-ranking muckety-muck. He had captured, Antonio Lopez, by God, Santa Anna. His Rangers, those nearby, noticed their prisoners’ excitement and they approached the bowl.

  “Boys, we may have just ended the war,” Hays said, “That dirty older fellow is none other than Santa Anna, his-self.”

  General Travis needed to know. He scanned the nearby Rangers and settled on the lone Cherokee in his command. “Running Creek, get yourself on a horse and ride like hell for General Travis. Tell him who we’ve got here. Be quick. If I find a tree, I may do both countries a favor and string his bastardness up.”

  ***

  The day following the battle, Will called for a staff meeting. His army was stretched beyond capacity in managing the flood of prisoners, and he needed a solution. He grumbled, “I guess there is too much of a good thing.”

  He leaned on the makeshift table and scanned the faces of the men in attendance. They were a haggard group. If they were like him, they hadn’t slept much over the past couple of days, and the lack of sleep was catching up with them.

  Sidney Johnston sat on a barrel of salted pork resting his hand on the rough wood. It was bandaged. To hear him talk of it, it was nothing. He had cut his hand on his own blade. “Clumsy of me, if you must know.”

  Will had learned from men who had been present during the battle that Johnston had been in the thick of things when the artillery had run out of ammunition. He had been attacked by an officer, and in the ensuing scuffle, his hand had been sliced open.

  General Juan Seguin waved away Johnston’s comment. “At least Dr. Smith says you shouldn’t lose the use of it. For that, Sid, you should count your blessing. I’ll light a candle for you.”

  Will cleared his throat, “Light one for us all, Juan. If we handle the situation we find ourselves in the right way, this nightmare of a war may be over.” He glanced at a lengthy list secured under a rock he used as a paperweight. “We’ve got more than ten thousand prisoners, and we’re going to be hard-pressed to feed them by the end of the week. We need a solutions.”

  Ben McCulloch, from his position at the other end of the table, said, “Parole the privates, sir. Power in this country is found in the officer corps. Most of the men who have worn the crown of the presidency had risen from it.”

  He gingerly sat on a stack of ammunition crates. Will noticed he winced as he sat. McCulloch wore only a cotton shirt. The previous day, he had barely managed to avoid being cut in two by a sword. Instead, he had received a long gash along his ribs.

  Will knew paroling one’s enemies was a time-honored tradition in the nineteenth century but was unsure if it would simply feed the parolees back into a Mexican army. He didn’t want to endanger the victory that was nearly within Texas’ grasp. “What do you think, Juan?”

  “We’ve captured every significant general not in Mexico City, Buck. If we parole most of the enlisted men, very few of them will go anywhere but back to the farms from which they were conscripted. I think it’s a low-risk way to reduce the number of mouths we need to feed.”

  Will went around the table and found all his generals in agreement. “Alright. We’ll work out the specifics, but let’s parole these soldados back to their farms.”

  “What about Santa Anna, Buck? Jack has been on me since his men brought the dictator in yesterday. That boy can hold a grudge,” Seguin said.

  Will softly chuckled. “It’s probably a good thing there aren’t a lot of trees in this part of the country. I’d be inclined to hang him from the tallest one I could find, too. But that’s not our job. We captured him and it’s going to fall on President Zavala to decide what kind of peace we’ll get out of this victory.”

  Johnston asked, “When will you send word north and let him know?”

  “The letter is already written, but I’ve got my orderlies pulling together the reports,” Will said, “We lost so many men here that getting those reports ready to go has taken longer than anticipated.”

  He took his hat off, placing it on the table. “We suffered nearly a thousand casualties yesterday. More than two hundred of them have already been buried. When I spoke with Dr. Smith earlier, he expects we’ll lose another hundred before his doctors have finished patching up the rest.”

  McCulloch said, “Juan, if you’re going to light any candles, don’t burn down the church. As God is my witness, the only thing worse than a battle won is a battle lost. The 2nd suffered a hundred thirty men killed or wounded, and that was just one of my five battalions.”

  Seguin said, “Come with me, Ben, after all the death we’ve seen we could all stand to kneel at the alter and say a prayer or two.” He shifted his gaze to Will, “Prayers aside, Buck, what do we do now?”

  Will let his eyes drift to the north. “We wait for President Zavala’s instructions.”

  Chapter 24

  7 July 1843

  Each time the horse’s hoofs struck the rocky ground Charlie felt the animal’s power jolt up his body. He gripped the beast with his knees a little tighter and leaned forward even more. The drumming of hoofbeats to either side confirmed his lead was shrinking. He dared a glance to his right. Lenna was leaning against her mount’s neck, urging it to run faster. Seeing Charlie’s glance, she smiled at him.

  The butterflies he had felt when they first met had faded with time, although he still got flustered on those rare moments they were alone together. “Dammit,” he cursed under his breath. Lenna was pulling even. He refocused, ignoring Victorio’s horse as he came up on Charlie’s other side.

  The road they raced down was approaching a crest, and as the three youths flew over the top of the low rise, the town of Los Angeles appeared before them, nestled alongside the Pacific Ocean. Charlie and the two Apache youths pulled hard on their reins. Less than a hundred yards after they crested the hill, they saw a squad of cavalry from their little army. These men, like most under Crockett’s command, had been civilians less than a year before.

  One with sergeant stripes on his sleeve waved at the three youths who drew up before the squad. “What in the name of Sam Hill are you kids doing out this far? You’re supposed to be with the main column.”

  Charlie stood in the saddle, retrieving his hat from where he had sat on it while racing his friends. He ran his fingers through his sweat-drenched hair before returning the hat to its rightful place. “Howdy, Sergeant, ah, Jones,” Charlie began as he belatedly recalled the NCO’s name. “We were just riding forward to find you.”

  “The Hell you say. And you’re probably going to tell me that Colonel Crockett dispatched you with a note to pass back any news?” the Sergeant glowered at him.

  That was exactly what Charlie had been about to say. He mustered up a half-hearted smile and said, “Sounds about right. What should I tell him?”

  The sergeant’s laughter sounded like a barking dog to Charlie. “Hell, you and your friends, get yourself back to the column, and if you’re of a mind to do so, let the colonel know the town is garrisoned by a few hundred provincial troops. It ain’t going to be as easy a nut to crack as Tucson or San Diego.”

  With a final wave from the sergeant, Charlie pulled on his horse’s reins and turned about. He didn’t need to see them to know Victorio and Lenna were right behind him. The column was a couple of miles behind the advanced scouts, and when the three youths arrived, Charlie pulled up next to Crockett, “Uncle Davy, Los Angeles is only a few miles away. Sergeant Jones says there’s actually more than a few hundred soldados defending the town.”

  “Tarnation, Ensign Travis, have a little respect for the position. That’s Colonel Crockett,” the former president said with a frown.

  Charlie was unable to repress his grin. Over the past couple of months, this had become a bit of a tradition between the two of the
m. Crockett, never one for pomp and ceremony, had run an informal command structure, and no amount of urging from Major McCulloch would change that. With few exceptions, David Crockett hated the nickname bestowed upon him by dime novelists, and normally despised its use. But for Charlie he made an exception. The Colonel had been “Uncle Davy” long before his pa had married Becky Crockett, and even though Colonel Crockett was his grandfather by marriage, he would always be “Uncle Davy” to Charlie.

  But he never failed to rail against it when Charlie used the familiar nickname in public, which made it so much fun when the teenager used it.

  While his friends matched their horse’s gait to that of the marching infantry, and fell in beside the column, Charlie rode beside Crockett. Having returned to the column, he was resigned to his role of courier. He listened to Crockett and McCulloch talking.

  “Let’s see if our scouts can corroborate what Juan Bandini had to say,” Crockett said to Major McCulloch.

  The young major shrugged, saying, “Bandini is looking out for Bandini first, middle, and last, sir.”

  “I ain’t met too many politicians that I couldn’t say that about, Hank.” Crockett may not have been fond of his own nickname, but that didn’t keep him from using others. “He knows we’re likely to outnumber any force the Mexicans in Los Angeles could put together. I don’t think he’s going to play us false, at least, not here.”

  The two officers rode in silence while Charlie wondered if there would be a battle. Part of him wondered if he would feel the same sort of terror he had faced when he had been part of the final defense in the Alamo chapel the previous year. He turned in his saddle and saw Lenna, riding next to her brother. When he locked eyes with her and she smiled at him, he hoped he would be brave.

  ***

  David Crockett eyed the mountain of papers on the desk with apprehension. Some, he knew, predated the capture of Los Angeles a few days before, but most had accumulated since the town had surrendered. He had felt less dread when he had led his boys against the presidio earlier in the week.