by Drew McGunn
Will hadn’t let the president stop him and he wasn’t about to let Johnston succeed where Crockett had failed. “Colonel, I appreciate your concern, but I have complete confidence in your ability to manage things here until I return. You’ll have the companies here and at Laredo, as well as the artillery. If there are any troubles that arise, you’ve also got the reserves of the San Antonio military district. I believe General McCulloch has done an excellent job equipping and arming the reserves hereabouts.”
Johnston tried speaking, “General, I …”
Will cut him off. “That’s the end of the discussion, Colonel Johnston. You’re staying, and that’s final.”
Chapter 5
12th March 1842
Clouds billowed across an overcast sky as Will stood next to one of the army’s six-pounder field guns. As he held the telescoping spyglass in his hand, he thought about the last two months. “My army, the Republic’s army,” he corrected himself, had crossed eight hundred miles of dusty South Texas prairie and Chihuahuan desert over the past fifty days. The military road from San Antonio had been completed to Ysleta. Even so, the last two hundred miles to the dusty west Texas outpost were difficult, with the army hauling wagons full of water from the Pecos to keep the troops and horses hydrated.
The situation between Ysleta and El Paso del Norte remained tense. President Crockett’s orders expressly prohibited Texian incursion south and west of the Rio Grande, while the Mexican alcalde in El Paso either lacked the interest or the capability to challenge Texas’ claim to the east and north of the river. When Will’s army of a thousand men passed through Ysleta, it would not have surprised him to learn the rotund official, on the other side of the river, nearly set the presidio’s chapel ablaze in his overzealous effort to light candles to the Blessed Virgin.
The Camino Real de Tierra Adentro, had once allowed traders to travel quickly between Mexico City and the extreme reaches of the Spanish Empire for more than two hundred years. But now the portion between Ysleta and Santa Fe had fallen into disrepair. “No doubt active raids by both the Mescalero Apache and the Comanche haven’t helped to keep the old road maintained,” Will thought drily. In contrast to the newly constructed Military Road between San Antonio and Ysleta, traveling the Camino Real was slow going. From Ysleta, the army took nearly three weeks to reach Santa Fe. He had left a company of infantry to secure Albuquerque, although the Mexican garrison had fled to Santa Fe with the news of the Texian army’s march.
Now, the army was deployed on the fields east of Santa Fe and the wind picked up and Will grabbed his black, wide-brimmed hat, saving it from blowing away, and looked to his right and left, where the six field pieces were lined up. The young artillery captain stood close at hand, ready to put his guns into action for the first time in combat. Nearly a hundred yards in front of him, six companies of the 1st Texas Infantry were deployed, using the new model tactics he had developed. They covered a front of more than four hundred yards.
Will grimly smiled as he raised the telescoping spyglass to his face and studied the Mexican line. At best guess, Governor Manuel Armijo had managed to collect together a battalion’s worth of regulars. Will studied the center of the line. There were four hundred regular soldados holding the center of the Mexican line. Each soldado wore a dark blue jacket, with his cartridge box and bayonet hanging from crossed white-dyed leather straps across his chest. Most of the soldados wore bleached white cotton pants, although some wore blue that matched their jackets. Each regular wore a tall shako hat, reminiscent of the headgear worn during the Napoleonic wars a generation previous.
Two militia battalions were formed, one on either side of the regulars. Will guessed another thousand men had been mobilized. Most of the militia wore white uniforms, common among the active militia regiments which made a sizable portion of Mexico’s army, although a few wore the same blue jackets of the regulars. Some even wore civilian jackets. As Will swept his spyglass across the front of the Mexican line, he saw a few members of the militia had brought their personal weapons, ranging from exquisite hunting rifles to ancient shotguns.
Armijo’s commander had deployed his densely packed army across a front of three hundred yards. Several dozen mounted men were on either end of the Mexican line. In contrast, Lt. Colonel Seguin had deployed two of his cavalry companies on the left flank of the Texian line, while Hay’s Rangers and the third company of cavalry secured the right flank.
Briefly, the clouds overhead opened and the weak, March sun shined down. A glint of gleaming brass brought Will’s attention back to the center of the Mexican line, where he saw a couple of teams of oxen pulling two bronze guns. So little care had been taken with the old field pieces they had oxidized to an ugly green hue. “Should I have the artillery open fire on their guns? It’s an even guess that those old guns are more of risk to their gunners than to us.”
He shook his head. “On their own heads, be it.”
The artillery captain said, “I’m sorry, sir, what did you say?”
Will glanced at the eager, young officer, “Nothing of importance, Captain. It looks like everyone’s here for the party. Let the dancing commence. Suppress those two guns of theirs then focus your fire on the center of their line.”
The young officer saluted and raced over to the nearest gun. He spoke to the gunnery sergeant, who made a small adjustment to the elevating screw. Then he used a vent pick to pierce the canvas bag of gunpowder before sticking a fuse into the vent. He took a linstock from another member of the gun crew and blew on the smoldering match. He looked back at the captain, waiting.
“Fire!”
He touched the match to the fuse and stepped back. A second later, the end of the barrel disappeared in a cloud of white gunpowder smoke, as the gun recoiled from the concussive blast. The round screamed downrange. It missed the two old guns, kicking up a dust cloud several hundred feet to the rear. The captain continued down the line of guns, encouraging them. The number two gun fired, sending the round crashing just beyond the Mexican line of battle. The number three gun’s round overshot the Mexican guns, landing next to the oxen team behind them. The round was a solid shot. It careened across the ground. The oxen startled, were bucking in their harnesses, and trying to run away.
The two Mexican guns responded with their own counter-battery fire. The first round landed more than a hundred yards to the left of the Texas battery, skipping along until it casually rolled to a stop. The second round landed in front of the Texas infantry, where it careened into a crouching rifleman, turning him into a bloody pulp.
The round from the Texas battery’s number four gun ricocheted off the ground in front of the Mexican line and knocked a gaping hole in the line of regulars. The next round, from number five gun smashed into one of the Mexican gun carriages, turning one of the wheels into deadly, flying splinters, and upending the old barrel.
The young captain was shouting to his men, “Load with shell, set the range for six hundred yards! Independent fire!” Battery C’s well-trained men reloaded their guns, swapping the solid shot for explosive shells. Ninety seconds after the order was given, the guns resumed firing their deadly projectiles.
While the first Mexican gun crew were scattered on the ground, some writhing from the deadly splinters, others were still, dead where they fell, the second gun’s crew was killed when a shell exploded directly overhead. Several other shells detonated over the line of Mexican infantry.
Will had refocused his spyglass on the Mexican line, and he saw the explosions were wreaking havoc on the enemy. He was tempted to order the guns to cease firing and send in his infantry. But as the shells rained shrapnel down on the unprotected soldados, he stayed his hand, and watched as the guns sent more exploding shells into and above the enemy line.
It started on the Mexican left flank. The battalion of militia had been wavering after the first shell exploded over the infantry, but after several shells had exploded overhead, killing and injuring dozens of soldados, men who had
been huddling on the ground realized there was no cover to be found from the murder from above, began breaking from the line, running past officers who screamed at them to return. Some waved swords, slapping soldados on the backs with the flats of their blades, as they ran by.
The right flank broke only moments later. As the frightened men bolted from the ranks, one of the officers pulled a pistol from his belt and screamed at the men to stand and fight. But what was there to fight? The Texian soldiers stood nearly half a mile away while their artillery poured death down among them. One of the soldados dropped his old, rusty Brown Bess trade musket and tried running past the enraged officer, who raised his pistol and shot the man in the head, dropping him at the officer’s feet. Another soldier watched his friend die at the hands of his officer. He raised his musket to his shoulder and fired. As the soldier fled back toward Santa Fe, he skirted past the bloodstained spot where his friend’s blood soaked the same ground as the officer, who bled out beside him.
In only a few short moments, both militia battalions streamed back toward Santa Fe. All that remained on the field of battle, opposing the Texas army were the regular Mexican soldados. Their ranks had been thinned by the shells, and they had taken whatever cover they could find, but they had not broken. Beneath cottonwood and hackberry trees and behind scrub brush the regulars sheltered and waited.
Will’s smile, watching the retreating militia, was cold, not touching his eyes. Scores of soldados had fallen under the artillery shells. Now was the time for the infantry to take control of the battlefield. He ordered the artillery to cease fire and he stepped to the front of the deployed soldiers. “Men of the 1st Regiment, let’s drive the rest of the enemy from the field! Open order, advance!”
Across a front more than a thousand-feet wide, the army advanced. Each four-man rifle team moved seamlessly together, they were the building blocks of each advancing company. Two men led, the other two, following. The regulars of the Mexican army waited helplessly as they watched the undulating advance of the Texians. Their muskets were not effective much beyond a hundred yards, and there was nothing they could do but watch as the advancing formation came within a quarter mile.
With his sword drawn, Will walked across the dry and cracked ground a few feet behind the advancing infantry. When his men were three hundred yards away from the remnants of the Mexican line, their officers ordered the riflemen to stop. The soldiers of the 1st Infantry waited, their breech-loading rifles pointed downrange, toward the Mexicans. As Will stared across the field, he felt a moment’s pang of sorrow. The men opposite his army didn’t deserve the hell they were about to receive. He whistled through his teeth in consternation. It wasn’t fair what was about to happen, but it didn’t stop him from shouting, “Take aim,” then a second later, “fire!”
Six companies, seventy-five men each. More than four hundred rifles fired as one. Even though the Mexican line was broken up and taking cover where it could be found, dozens of men fell, as bullets ripped into exposed flesh. In less than a minute, the average soldier had fired eight rounds from their Model 1842 Sabine breech-loading rifle. More than three thousand rounds had torn through the area inhabited by the Mexican regulars. They broke, fleeing back to Santa Fe as fast as they could run. Some shed their muskets and cartridge boxes, determined to run faster than their companions. They had never had the opportunity to fire their weapons at Will’s Texians.
“Cease fire!”
Along the entire length of the Texian front, the soldiers screamed forth fearsome whoops and hollered at the top of their voices, as they watched the remnants of the Mexican line stream back toward the town. Many years before the transference, Will had heard a recording from the 1930s in which some septuagenarians had demonstrated the rebel yell. Chills swept up his spine as he heard the same noise echoing across the battlefield.
The battalion advanced, crossing the last few hundred yards to the slaughter that had been the Mexican line. The regulars, who had stayed the longest and endured the worst of the Texian assault had suffered heavy casualties. Many of the wounded lay where they had fallen, their comrades, made no effort to save them. Several score more were dead or wounded where the militia battalions had earlier stood. The officers and NCOs of the 1st Texas took firm control of their men as they swept through the devastated line. Will could never shake the memories of battles like San Jacinto or the Alamo or the Goliad Massacre from his mind, even though they happened a world away and lived only in his memories. As commander of the Texian army, he would be damned if he would allow a massacre on his watch.
Will found Major Wyatt and said, “Major, I want you to take two of the reserve companies and secure the field. Get Doctor Smith up here with his orderlies. He can attend to these wounded until we can get them to a hospital in town.” No matter how talented he found the capable Dr. Ashbel Smith, nearly two hundred wounded Mexicans would overwhelm anyone. Once the town was firmly under his control, he would find every available doctor from Santa Fe to assist.
Several companies had continued through what had once been the Mexican line and were approaching Santa Fe. Will ran to catch up with them. As his heels slammed into the dry ground, he wished he had ridden his horse into battle, at least then he wouldn’t have to run to catch up to his advancing soldiers. With his heart pounding in his chest, and gasping for air, he caught up with the lead company on the edge of town. The first couple of streets were completely deserted. Homes were shuttered, and storefronts had their windows boarded up. As Will scanned the scene, it was apparent the citizens of Santa Fe were significantly less sure of victory than Mexican Governor Manuel Armijo had been.
As rifle teams worked their way into town, heading toward the central plaza, the sound of gunfire started up again a few blocks away. Will joined with a few rifle teams as they carefully worked their way down a street, which led to Santa Fe’s central plaza. He watched two men from one team sprint across the street, taking shelter in the recess of a door, while the other two riflemen covered them. Urban warfare was something he hadn’t taken the time to consider when he wrote the training manual. As he watched his riflemen crouching in doorways, Will vowed to do something about the oversight. It was another area where he had not thought things through as thoroughly as he should have. As he joined the two soldiers on the opposite side of the road, he wondered what else he had missed. Despite two tours in Iraq before the transference, it felt as though he was constantly discovering something new that he should have considered. They had arrived at the edge of the plaza and he set the unsettling thoughts aside. There wasn’t anything to be gained second-guessing himself in the middle of Santa Fe street.
He peered around the corner of the adobe building and saw the central plaza spread out before him. The presidio took up an entire side of the plaza, and he saw the Mexican flag flying over the long, barricaded building. Muzzles poked out the narrow slits for windows. Will swore as a musket ball chipped the adobe clay brick above his head. Involuntarily, he ducked, drawing chuckles from the riflemen behind him. A couple of rifle teams had already entered the plaza and were working their way across the open space, toward the presidio’s main gate. Bullets careened off the ground, and one of the riflemen dropped his weapon and fell noiselessly to the ground, as a pool of blood soaked the ground beneath him.
The handful of riflemen moved while they reloaded their breechloaders. They fired back at the flashes of gunfire coming from the presidio, but after two more were hit, the remainder fell back and found shelter on the opposite side of the plaza.
When he saw another rifle team start across the plaza, Will decided the odds didn’t favor a direct assault yet. “Enough of this,” he said to the soldiers nearby. He called out, “Get your asses back here, boys!” When the advancing soldiers saw who ordered them to retreat, they fell back, taking up defensive positions in the buildings opposite the presidio.
Will reached into his tunic and pulled out a small notebook and scribbled a message. He tore it off and turned to the
nearest soldier behind him, “Give this to Major Wyatt. We’ll get one of our guns brought up here and make quick work for that gate yonder.”
As the messenger scampered down the street in the direction from which the soldiers had come, the other riflemen found positions in the nearby buildings from which they returned fire on the Mexican soldados in the presidio.
Thirty minutes passed before one of the six-pounders was brought forward from the battlefield. The artillerists set the bronze gun up in the side road and angled the barrel toward the presidio’s heavy wooden gate. The soldados, now surrounded, saw the field piece, and opened fire at the artillerists. A couple of men were knocked down, injured from the gunfire from the presidio and the riflemen returned fire, attempting to suppress the gunfire from the presidio.
Riflemen jumped in to assist the cannon’s loaders. They finished loading a solid shot and aimed it at the presidio’s gate. The gunner lit the fuse and stepped away from the gun and waited. An instant later, the round flew across the plaza, smashing into the wall beside the door, sending a jagged chunk of adobe crashing to the ground. As the riflemen tried to send enough aimed fire through the windows, the artillerists rushed to reload the gun. Less than a minute later, the gun fired again. The shot slammed against the gate, sending heavy splinters flying about.
While the artillerists raced to reload the gun, a white flag waved from one of the windows. The Battle of Santa Fe was over.
***
Before twilight several hundred men had been put under guard in the plaza. Nearly all the regulars and most of the militia had been accounted for. Next to the plaza, in the Church of San Francisco, Doctor Ashbel Smith had set up a hospital, after transferring the battlefield’s injured to the sacred space. A few other doctors from town had volunteered with him to save as many of the wounded as their skills allowed. As the doctors worked into the evening, the cries of the wounded echoed across the plaza, adding to the despair among the vanquished Mexican soldados.
