by Mike Blakely
I left the fort and rode across the river to spy on the Texans from the vantage points that by now were well-known to me. Even before first light, I could tell by the sounds in the distance that the Rebels were on the move. I rode farther east to get a closer look, and at daybreak almost ran smack into a column of Texans heading for Fort Craig under Lieutenant Colonel John S. Sutton. I managed to dodge behind an outcropping of black lava stone without being seen. I regarded the movements for a moment or two, and thought about galloping back to the fort to report to Colonel Canby that the fort would soon be under attack. But something about this movement seemed less than threatening. The men, all mounted, rode ahead at a disinterested trot, slumped in their saddles. Their morale did not indicate that they were riding into battle. Their shotguns hung by leather straps from their saddle horns, and those who owned revolvers had them tucked away inside their tattered coats. How in the hell were men wielding shotguns and revolvers going to attack a fort bristling with cannon and rifles?
I watched as Sutton angled his column toward high ground that would be in clear view of the fort. He wanted Colonel Canby to see him. This was no attacking column. This was only a feint. Now I had a decision to make. I could ride hard back to the fort and report to Canby what I knew, but Canby would soon see the enemy anyway. Colonel Canby was well versed in the bloody art of war, and would suspect a ruse. I chose to let him figure this much out himself.
From the informal conference on the bulwarks four days earlier, I knew that Canby and Roberts expected the Texans to attempt to take the Valverde Ford. I deemed it my responsibility, at this time, to find out if Rebel General Sibley indeed had this goal in mind.
I dropped into an arroyo and rode north up the river valley. When I came to the pass between the Mesa de la Contadera and the bluffs to the east, I hesitated. The promontory, called Black Mesa by the white men, was part of the system of high bluffs to the east that had been separated by eons of erosion—like a peninsula that had become an island. The pass between the mesa and the bluffs was narrow with steep sides, and would provide me with little opportunity for escape should I encounter the enemy. However, it led to the Valverde Ford, so I decided to take it, and I did so at a reckless gallop over gullies and around fallen boulders.
I plunged ahead, knowing I had to gather some kind of useful intelligence within the next few minutes to be of any service to my superiors. When I came out of the pass, where the valley opened up ahead of me, I came across a trail so fresh that the horse turds were still steaming. I turned left and followed. Pursuing the trail over a nearby sand hill, I drew rein on the brink and saw what I had been seeking ahead of me. A company of mounted Texans proceeded toward the river. These men carried rifles with the stocks on their hips, as if they had come prepared to fight at any moment. Because only one unit of Texans possessed long firearms, I identified the advance party as Major Charles Pyron’s Company B, Second Texas Mounted Rifles. By the brief glance I took at this enemy column, and the sign I saw on the ground, I estimated the number of men at 180.
Still undetected, I turned back down the sand hill and spurred my mount back through the Black Mesa pass. I galloped as hard as I could to the river and picked my way across, letting my pony find footing in the silt and quicksand. Then I ran hard for Fort Craig. I found Colonel Canby on the front porch of the commander’s quarters, peering through his field glasses with a fresh cigar jutting from his stubbled face. Kit and Governor Henry Connelly stood at his side. Canby was watching the men under Sutton make their feint across the river, in clear view on the high bluffs.
I sprang from my winded pony and joined the men on the porch.
“Report,” Canby said, without even lowering the optics from his eyes.
“That’s a battalion under Colonel Sutton. They’ve got Teel’s battery with them. But it’s only a ruse.”
“How do you know?” He still hadn’t taken the glasses from his eyes.
“I rode around Black Mesa and found a hundred and eighty Texans on their way to the Valverde Ford.”
Finally, Canby turned to glance at me, then squinted toward Black Mesa. “I’ve already anticipated that maneuver. Did they see you?”
“No, sir.”
“How fast were they traveling?”
“At a fast trot, with their rifle butts on their hips.”
“Who was in command?”
“Major Charles Pyron.”
“You saw him?”
“No, sir.”
“Then how do you know he was in command?”
“It was his Company B, Second Texas Mounted Rifles. The only Texans who have rifles.”
“Yes, I know. Very well. I’ve already sent Colonel Roberts to the ford on this side of the river. Ride to him quickly and tell him what you’ve told me. Tell him to hasten to the ford, cross the river, and secure the cottonwood bosque. Then you ride back to me, and be quick about it. Now!”
As I leapt from the porch, the thought struck me that Canby was wielding a bit more arrogance today than usual, perhaps because he knew a battle was at hand. Perhaps because the governor of the territory was standing at his shoulder.
I swung into the saddle without putting a foot to a stirrup, and pushed my mount to a gallop. Within a few minutes, I had overtaken the back of Roberts’s column and stormed past them to deliver Canby’s message. Roberts smiled and had a sergeant bellow the order for his entire force to strike a canter toward the river. I turned back toward the fort. Before I got very far away, however, I heard the distant crackle of rifle fire behind me. I passed two more companies of Union cavalry riding to reinforce the Valverde Ford, and felt the excitement of the whole dangerous enterprise charging me with energy. My mount felt it, too, and charged forward faster.
Canby and Kit were in conversation on the porch of the commander’s quarters when I ran up the steps.
“My boys have drilled, but they ain’t been shot at,” Kit was saying. “Give us some high ground and let them see the battle from a distance for a spell to get their heads set on what has to be done. Then, when the time comes, throw us in there and let us do our share of fightin’. I don’t want them scatterin’ with the shock of the first shell that falls.”
Canby nodded vacantly. He seemed to have too much on his mind to contribute much to the talk, but he knew Kit was no coward. “Take your company and anchor my far left flank without crossing the river. Hold the Albuquerque Road. Graydon’s spies report some Texans may have crossed upstream to attack our left flank, so stay ready. Your men can watch the battle from there and gather their wits. But I will throw you into it when I need you.”
I then reported to Colonel Canby that I had heard the first shots of the battle in the bosque.
“So it begins,” Canby said.
“Come on, Kid,” Colonel Carson said to me.
The First New Mexico was already mounted outside the bastions and waiting for Kit to lead them.
“I’ll need a fresh horse,” I said.
“Get it and catch up.”
I picked another mount from the Fort Craig stables and rode back toward the ford once again, overtaking Kit about halfway to the battlefield. Sporadic firing crackled ever louder as we rode nearer, and the men began getting excited. When we rode up to within view of the ford, I found the valley a chaotic swarm of men moving around afoot and mounted, scrambling for positions as bullets flew. Texans were pouring down from the bluffs to reinforce their advance guard. Several hundred yards away, I could see them stretching their lines out to their right, using an old channel of the Rio Grande to their advantage for cover. Meanwhile, Roberts’s men correspondingly spread their lines to the Union left while captains and lieutenants shouted orders and messengers rode every which way in confusion.
From high ground, our unit caught glimpses of the savage battle raging in the cottonwood bosque across the river and to the right. It seemed that the Union cavalry unit under Major Duncan had run into fierce resistance from Pyron’s Texas Rifles, who also wanted the
cover of the timber. I saw Colonel Roberts himself charging toward the bosque, haranguing his troops to fight like hell and drive the Texans out of the trees. With Roberts urging the men on, the Union infantry and some of Duncan’s dismounted cavalrymen managed to push the Texans back to the far side of the bosque.
This done, Colonel Roberts came charging back to his command post on our side of the river, his big mount crossing the ford in huge lunges through the water. I saw the fury on Roberts’s face as he met Kit at the overlook.
“Why in God’s name can’t men follow orders!” he bellowed. “I told Duncan to take the timber, and he stretched his lines to the left. Where is my artillery, Kit? Have you seen my guns?”
“They’re a-comin’, Ben. They’re a-comin’.”
“What are your orders?”
“I’m holding the Albuquerque Road on the far left flank for now.”
“If you encounter any Rebs on the left, send Greenwood immediately to tell me about it.”
Kit nodded and led his regiment into position. When we arrived on the road at a narrow place between the bluffs and the river, Kit ordered two companies to dismount, find cover, and guard the road to the north while the rest of us sat on our horses and watched the battle take shape down at the ford. It was almost ten o’clock in the morning when the artillery pieces under captains McRae and Hall rattled into place on our extreme right flank. Within minutes, the gunners had unhitched their mule teams and unlimbered their guns, and were lobbing shells over the heads of the Union soldiers and into the Texans who were still holding the far fringes of the bosque.
From the safety of our high ground on the wagon road, we watched as Rebel artillery came trundling down from the far bluffs across the valley, the guns hastily taking up positions at intervals all along the Confederate line, the heaviest collections of guns situated on the flanks. In response, Colonel Roberts also spread his artillery out along our front line. And now the roar of shot, shell, and canister came from both sides of the Valverde Ford as metal ripped apart the timber and the earth, and occasionally a man or horse. Smoke gathered down in the Rio Grande breaks, but our Union gunners soon began to get the better of the artillery battle. Captains Hall and McRae had twenty-four-pound howitzers and twelve-pound napoleons in their batteries, while the Texans had only twelve-pound mountain howitzers and six-pound napoleons.
I knew there had to be dead and wounded on both sides down in the bosque where the worst close-range clash had occurred. Beyond that, both forces seemed to have stayed out of the range of small arms fire from one another. But the artillery continued to ravage both lines. Guns roared and shells sang through the air. Grapeshot and canister whistled. The sand ridges behind which the Texans took refuge exploded with well-placed Union fire. I began to see the pitiful sight of wounded horses limping and floundering about, and reasoned that some men were probably in the same awful fix.
Captain McRae unleashed the devastation of his big guns on the part of the bosque still held by Pyron’s hard-fighting advance guard of Texans. Pyron had refused to withdraw even after repeated Union charges through the cottonwoods. Now, I watched in sheer astonishment as the trees used by Pyron’s men for cover shattered under fire of shell and shot and flew limb from limb through the air.
“I don’t reckon those boys will hold that bosque much longer now,” Blue Wiggins said, walking his horse up next to mine.
“No,” I agreed. “But look at the middle of their line.” I stood high in my stirrups, as if that would help me see better. “Captain Teel is getting his guns into position.” It was like watching a bloody chess game; I’m a very good chess player, and suddenly I saw the next several moves coming together, and knew I had to do something. “Kit!” I yelled.
Kit spurred his horse to me. “What is it?”
“Teel’s guns. He’s going to hit McRae hard and I don’t think McRae can see him from where he is.”
Kit had probably never played chess in his life, but I had seen him run a game of checkers in less than a minute. He didn’t take long in reading what would happen if McRae’s guns fell. “Ride, Kid! Tell McRae. Hurry!”
When I spurred, my horse took off so fast that I almost went right over the cantle of the cavalry saddle. McRae’s battery was at the opposite end of the Union line, and I knew I didn’t have much time to cover the distance. I have made many a hard ride in my time, and felt many a joyful gallop pull at my hat brim. But that ride—with smoke stinging my eyes and nose; with cannon fire pounding my eardrums; with the tide of a battle carried on the hooves of my mount—that ride will forever last in the fiber of my heart and brain and soul.
As I dashed toward McRae’s battery I could tell that he had not turned a single gun in preparation to return the fire that Teel was about to drop on him. Looking left as I charged desperately on, I could see that Teel had cleverly sneaked his artillery in place unseen by trundling down the bed of the old river channel. He had pulled two pieces out of the riverbed, but still had them hidden behind a high sand hill from McRae’s vantage point. His twelve-pound mountain howitzers could lob shells over those sand hills at a high trajectory and drop them right into McRae’s lap. I watched those guns disappear behind the sand hills as I galloped to McRae, and so I knew that McRae could have no inkling of what was about to happen. Moreover, I knew that I was riding directly into the path of Teel’s fire. I spotted a lone mesquite on the ridge behind Teel that I would use as a mark to remember his position. I judged the distance between McRae and Teel at eight hundred twenty yards.
When I came within shouting distance, I screamed McRae’s name. His ears must have been ringing from the heavy fire, for he failed to hear me until I was right on his shoulder. He looked up and saw the glare in my eyes and gave me his undivided attention.
“Teel is in place where you can’t see him.” I pointed generally toward the lone mesquite on the distant bluff behind Teel. “You have ten seconds to turn that twelve-pounder.”
“Action left, boys!” McRae shouted as he rushed for the gun, leaning his own shoulder to the trail spike to swing the cannon left. He looked back at me as the men toiled with worm, sponge, shot, and ramrod. “Where, Greenwood?”
“He’s below that lone mesquite on the bluff.” I will always admire Captain Trevanion T. Teel of Light Company B, Sibley’s brigade, for what happened next. His first shot hit almost dead on target. I remember flying through the air. I remember heat, and a familiar taste in my mouth. I remember landing on my back on something very hard and feeling the pain of having all the wind knocked out of my lungs. I could neither hear nor see anything for an undetermined amount of time. Vacantly, I thought I was probably dying.
When finally I sucked a ragged breath in, I heard the screams of men and began to see a peculiar kind of light. I blinked and blinked and finally I saw the gray winter sky. I sat up and looked down. I found myself sitting on a case of howitzer shells, covered with blood. I felt the horror of knowing I could not survive long if all that blood was mine. I lifted both hands in front of my face to see it they were still attached. They were. I moved my feet to see if my legs still worked. They did. With terrible anticipation, I touched my face, expecting that maybe half of it was gone, but I found all my flesh in place. My hat was gone, but my skull and scalp were still on.
I sucked in another painful breath and saw what remained of my horse lying thirty feet away. The blood I wore was horse blood. Teel’s first shot had exploded right in front of me and ground that poor mount to stew meat in a single blast. But the body of the poor beast had protected me.
I slid off the ammunition chest, collapsing at the wheel of the limber, still in somewhat of a daze as my vision and my hearing came back to me. I spat out the taste of horse blood.
Suddenly, I found Captain Alexander McRae in my face, shaking my shoulders. “Range? Range!”
“Eight hundred twenty yards,” I muttered, barely able to hear my own voice above the ringing in my ears.
We heard the whine of Teel’s
second shot, and McRae tackled me and shoved me under the limber carriage as the shell exploded a little long this time, blowing a hole in the side of the canyon breaks behind us.
“Range, eight hundred twenty!” McRae shouted back at his gunners before dragging me out from under the limber and lifting me to my feet. “Do you know artillery?” he asked.
“I’ve read the manuals.”
McRae turned and watched a cannoneer remove the ramrod from the breech of the howitzer. “Ready!” the gunner ordered. “Fire!” The man at the right wheel yanked the lanyard attached to the primer tube in the vent hole and the big gun belched and leapt backward, smoke and fire spewing large from the muzzle and narrow from the vent hole.
“Turn that napoleon!” McRae ordered. His composure astounded me as he looked at me. “Find a point where you can see both Teel and me,” he ordered. “Do you know the signals?”
I nodded. I really had read the manuals.
“You’ll have to direct my fire. I can’t see the son of a bitch!”
“My horse is dead.”
“Then run!” he ordered, shoving me back the way I had ridden in.
Genius that I am, this had not occurred to me, but now I set to at the fastest sprint I could muster. Having just caught my breath in the first place, the run up the valley slope almost killed me, but I arrived at a point of observation in time to see McRae’s second shot from the napoleon gun. It hit a bit short, but served its purpose as it blasted away much of the sand hill that was concealing Teel’s battery. Teel sent a third round slamming into McRae’s position, and I saw one of the gunners fly through the air and I knew he was dead before he hit the ground. It reminded me pitifully of a cottontail carcass being tossed about by a playful dog.
