by Drew McGunn
***
Charlie watched Becky rocking Liza in a borrowed crib, as she and Susanna Dickinson sat the dinner table making small talk while knitting. Behind them, in what passed for a kitchen in the small officers’ quarters, Henrietta was adding this and that to an iron skillet. He’d learned a long time ago that Henrietta’s idea of “this and that” usually consisted of whatever vegetables she had managed to find. At the end of March, no doubt it meant something canned.
He slipped out the door, having heard enough about which officers’ wives were not wearing the latest fashion from New Orleans. As he walked down the stairs, leading to the old convent yard, he muttered, “How can Becky stand to listen to her blather on and on?” As he passed the guard at the bottom of the stairs, he used a couple of swear words he’d often heard the soldiers use.
As the guard chuckled at his passing, he turned and opened a small door between the convent yard and the chapel. A few lanterns were hung on the walls of the old church, casting a dim light across the stone floor. Unlike the day a couple of years earlier when his pa and Becky were married in it, the chapel was full of supplies. Heavy sacks of corn and grain were stacked against one of the walls. On another were several crates of rifles and ammunition. Barrels of gunpowder for the cannons were stacked throughout the nave. At the front of the chapel, above the chancel, a heavy platform stood a dozen feet off the ground. A small battery of three guns were positioned there, facing eastward. A narrow staircase led up to the platform.
The last time he had come in, the gunners assigned to that battery had run him off when he had tried to explore that part of the chapel. There were no gunners up there now, and he strolled over to the stairs, and saw a couple of men from the quartermasters’ corps working by the heavy wooden doors at the opposite end. They paid him no mind as he climbed up the stairs. The gun ports were closed, and the gun carriages were tied securely to the wall with heavy ropes. Charlie had watched the fort’s artillerists drilling enough to know the ropes were used to catch the recoil. He recalled once, hearing Major Dickinson saying that an unsecured gun could ruin someone’s day. Charlie smiled, recalling how his father had commented, “Almaron, damned if you don’t have a way with understatements.”
As if thinking of Major Dickinson would make him appear, Charlie heard the major talking as he walked toward the platform. “Captain Anderson, we should be prepared for any eventuality, including a breach of the walls, no matter how unlikely. I want the sacristy cleaned out. Those extra boxes of uniforms can be stacked under the parapet over there. If it should come to it, you’re responsible for evacuating the women and children from the officers’ quarters. You’re to put them into the sacristy for protection.”
Charlie, who had been crouching down beside one of the cannon, poked his head up and saw the major and Captain Anderson walking toward the door. The chapel’s acoustics carried Dickinson’s voice up to the parapet, “Take the negro teamsters and put them to building a barricade here across the nave with anything that won’t blow up or explode.” Charlie leaned forward, watching the major draw an imaginary line in the stone floor twenty feet from the double doors at the chapel’s entrance.
As Dickinson reached the door, he turned and looked into the gloom, toward Charlie’s platform. The boy ducked down, hoping he hadn’t been seen. From below, he heard, “Have Henderson find me. I want him to reposition a few of our guns.”
After the officers left, Charlie hurried down the stairs and scurried out the small side door. He didn’t want to head back up to the officers’ quarters. He wasn’t ready to deal with listening to the major’s wife rambling on, but he didn’t want anyone to yell at him for being under foot, either.
He wandered past the guard at the foot of the stairs leading to the officers’ quarters and strolled into the fort’s hospital. It was a long building, with a row of beds on each wall. In the past, he would come here and find Dr. Smith. He enjoyed talking with the gregarious and eccentric surgeon. But Ashbel Smith was with his pa and the army out west. Charlie cast a long look around the vast room. It was currently empty. He plopped down on the foot of a bed and replayed in his mind the earlier discussion between Major Dickinson and the fort’s infantry commander. Was the major really worried about the Mexican army swarming over the walls? He’d heard stories that Santa Anna had marched north six years before with a blood-red banner. Had the dictator won, even his pa said that Santa Anna had intended to take no prisoners.
He shuddered, as a chill ran down his spine. To an empty room, Charlie said, “I’ll be damned if I’ll let those bastards take me alive.” It felt good to the thirteen-year-old to swear, even if only to an empty room; it helped to keep the fear at bay. He stood. He wasn’t sure he felt better, there was still a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. Now, though, at least he had a vow to sustain him, as he made his way back toward the officers’ quarters. Maybe he could put up with Mrs. Dickinson’s incessant nattering after all.
***
The muddy banks of the Guadalupe River had never looked sweeter to the footsore and tired men of Johnston’s little army when they arrived in Seguin Town on the first of April. Johnston had hoped he would find more reservists and militia assembled there upon his arrival. He had done everything within his power to use his cavalry to spread word of the general mobilization as the army had hurried west.
Outside of the tiny hamlet, a militia battalion had arrived the previous day. As his own army made camp, he rode through the village and came upon the most bizarre military encampment he’d ever seen. Lean-tos were built next to A-frame tents, which were next to tee-pees and a host of other assorted shelters. Dozens of campfires were lit, as the men of the militia battalion cooked dinner, under a hazy cloud of smoke. A flag fluttered from a pole lashed to a large wall tent in the middle of the camp. The flag was red, with a half-dozen six-sided white stars in the formation of what Johnston recognized as the big dipper. Emblazoned across the top, in English, were the words, ‘1st Cherokee Rifles.’ Johnston was opening and closing his mouth, as he took in the outlandish camp and the Cherokee war banner, when the tent flap was thrown back and Sam Houston strode out. When Houston saw him, he waved a casual salute. “Colonel Johnston, I’m pleased to deliver to you, the Cherokee nation’s finest warriors.”
Johnston ignored the incorrect rank. Even though he was a brevet brigadier general, he still wore the eagles on his shoulder boards. More sharply than he intended, Johnston returned the salute. A one-time general in the Texian army, Houston could have addressed by the former rank, but Johnston recalled he was also a disgraced former governor and a drunk. Etiquette failed him. He managed, “As God is my witness, Sam, it is good to see the Cherokee have answered the call to arms.”
Houston smiled coyly at Johnston. “When I asked them to come to the aid of the men at the Alamo, the tribe took their oath to Texas seriously, Colonel.”
Houston looked like he had more to say, when another figure exited the tent. Dressed in a butternut uniform, and sporting shoulder boards with silver oak leaves, denoting the rank of major, the second man came up beside Houston and saluted.
Houston nodded to the second officer, “You may have met my second-in-command, Stand Watie, from the Comanche peace conference a few years ago.”
Watie said something quietly to Houston in Cherokee, to which Houston burst out laughing. He pounded the Cherokee officer on the back and waved at Johnston. “Major Watie will give you the grand tour, Colonel.” With that, the former governor, general, and drunk closed the tent flap behind him.
Johnston allowed the Cherokee major to show him the encampment. The men of the 1st Cherokee Rifles wore everything from the butternut uniform of the regular army, to the gray militia jackets common throughout the American South, to a mixture of buckskin jackets, and black and brown civilian coats. They were armed as eclectically as they were uniformed. Johnston saw a few Halls carbines, plenty of muskets and hunting rifles, and knives and tomahawks. Despite the hodgepodge of weaponr
y, as he walked through the camp, there was an optimistic spirit among the nearly three hundred men from the Cherokee nation, and it rubbed off on the officer as he toured the camp.
When he left the Cherokee encampment and returned where his army was encamped on the other side of Seguin town, one thing he was sure of. He was glad the Cherokee had marched to war.
***
While Johnston’s army, now bolstered to more than thirteen hundred, was being ferried across the Guadalupe River, thirty-five miles away, General Woll allowed his normally dour Gallic expression to slip, replaced with a feral smile, as he watched the 3rd brigade of the Army of the North parade through San Antonio’s main plaza. All the chess pieces were now on the board and it was time to put the Texians into check.
Woll let the curtain fall and turned around and looked at the officers assembled in the parlor of the parsonage. The room was crowded. The three brigade commanders were present as were each of the regimental commanders. He cleared his throat, “Too many years have passed by since these Yankee pirates drove his Excellency from this land. Tomorrow morning, before the sun has risen, we shall be in the fort and the pirates shall be dead.”
General Urrea, commander of the recently arrived 3rd brigade, took a long drink from the wineglass in his hand before he said, “General, our orders from his Excellency was to order these pirates to surrender at discretion. Why have you exceeded your authority by offering honorable surrender terms to these pirates and rebels?”
Woll glared at the brigadier general. The nerve of the man. Urrea had helped depose Santa Anna a few years earlier, and somehow, he had weaseled his way back into the dictator’s favor. Woll wondered how long before the snake would send a detailed report of every perceived failure back to his Excellency in Mexico City. “Jose, my highest priority is the preservation of my army. If I can avoid bloodshed by obtaining an honorable surrender from Major Dickinson and his men, then I’m in a stronger position when I face the next group of Texians and they are all the weaker.”
Urrea slammed the glass down on the table, cracking the stem. “His Excellency said to take no prisoners.”
Woll glanced around the room. The other officers were clearly uncomfortable. “Damn Urrea for the opportunist he is.” Finally, he cleared his throat and decided to ignore Urrea. “As I said, tomorrow before the sun rises, we shall make the pirates pay. They have refused every opportunity to surrender and be treated with the courtesy of prisoners of war, setting aside the fact that the government they serve is illegitimate. When we take the Alamo, his Excellency’s command to take no quarter will be observed. Any man under arms against us will be summarily executed. Any women, children, or slaves should be spared as best as you and your officers are able.”
A carafe of wine was passed around the room and glasses were refilled. “Each of you has your orders and know where your regiments will stage from tonight. Keep any construction of scaling ladders well back from the lines. No need to tip our hands until we go over the walls. We will launch our attack at five in the morning, when their sentries will be asleep or too tired to respond.” He lifted his glass into the air, waiting patiently for the other officers to join him. “To victory, Mexico, and Santa Anna!”
Chapter 14
He decided spring had truly arrived as he swatted away something crawling on his face. He cracked open his eyes and looked at the stars in the night sky. The clouds overhead partially masked the quarter moon, reflecting a hazy yellow, washing out the stars closest to the moon. Sergeant Leal pulled his greatcoat up to his chin. It might be the 3rd of April, but the night still gave him a chill, and he wished he were asleep in one of the barracks. Try as he might, he couldn’t fall back asleep, as his mind became cluttered with thoughts.
His and Private Jackson’s days of idleness had come to an end a couple of days prior. Major Dickinson had assigned more than a dozen men from the quartermaster’s corps and a few men from the engineering company to his command. Additionally, a half-dozen teamsters had been armed and added to his little mixed and matched force. The teamsters were freedmen, and armed negros didn’t sit well with several of the soldiers under his command. Ever since the Revolution, Leal had served with Southerners and while he could not fault most of them when it came to bravery, he thought they had a blind spot when it came to the black men in their midst.
He sighed, as he tried to find a comfortable spot on the ground, it wasn’t only the negro that these Southerners looked down upon. Despite proving his competency time and again, because his own skin was brown, and his English had a pronounced accent, some of those same men looked down on him. He shook his head. He’d deal with that, if he had to, when it surfaced in his new command. As the ranking NCO, he’d be damned if some insolent private would interfere with his own survival.
It was no use, he couldn’t go back to sleep. He stood and slipped the greatcoat on and walked over to the large 18-pounder, emplaced on the south-west corner of the fort, and looked out into the inky darkness. A half mile away, he could see the campfires in the Mexican camp. As late as it was, they had mostly burned down to glowing embers. The longer he stared at the campfires he began to wonder if his mind was playing tricks on him. For a moment, he thought he saw shadows flitting in front of one of the fires that was burning brighter than the others. Intrigued, the Tejano sergeant turned and walked down the earthen ramp. Amid the gunners and riflemen sleeping on the ground, he tapped Terry Jackson on his bootheel until he heard a mumble from beneath a woolen blanket. Leal whispered, “Wake up, pendejo. I need your help.”
Groggily, Jackson lifted his wide-brimmed hat, which had been covering his face. “I’d have to be a fool to let you ruin my sleep, Sarge. Why’d you wake me? I was dreaming of me and a beautiful señorita.”
Leal grabbed the other soldier by the hand and helped him to his feet. “Leave my sister alone, Jackson. I don’t want you dreaming about her. Remember, I hear what you talk about in your sleep.” He led the private to the postern door in the gatehouse. From above, an alert voice harshly whispered, “What in the Hell are you fools doing by the gate?”
Leal turned and looked at the soldier standing on top of the gatehouse. He carried his rifle at the ready, pointing it in their direction.
Sergeant Leal waved at the guard. “Saw something outside the walls and wanted to check on it. Private Jackson here will keep an eye on the postern gate while I look into it.”
The sentry shook his head, “Y’all know I ain’t supposed to let anyone out the gate, Sergeant.”
Leal swore under his breath and ground his teeth. How did he get stuck with the one guard who punctiliously followed the rules? “Alright, why don’t you go fetch the sergeant of the watch and we can sort this out?”
He watched the sentry weigh his options before he finally said, “Alright. But both of you wait right there and don’t you go anywhere.”
As the sentry disappeared into the darkness, Leal glanced over at Jackson and said, “What are you waiting for, open the door.” The two ran toward the postern gate, which was nothing more than a narrow door set into the large, thick wooden gates. With the private’s help, he lifted the heavy, wooden bar and cracked open the door. Turning quickly to Jackson he said, “Keep this door open until I get back.” He didn’t wait to see Jackson’s response as he crouched low and ran into the darkness.
Leal crept along the ground, heading south from the gate. Heavier clouds had covered the moon, making it difficult to see clearly more than thirty or forty feet in any direction. New grass was growing in the field, replacing the dormant grass of winter. He slid along as quietly as possible, thankful to not hear the dry, crunching sound of grass under his feet. He reckoned he covered close to eight hundred yards of flat prairie when he heard voices ahead. He ducked lower to the ground and as silently as possible inched his way forward until he saw the silhouettes of dozens of soldiers standing in a line of battle. He saw a pinprick of light from one of the shadowy soldados and moments later smelled the pungent
odor of tobacco.
The sound of boots hitting the ground echoed in the still night air as he heard a slap and watched the burning coals from the cigarillo fly through the air, landing in grass heavy with the early morning dew. A harsh voice whispered in Spanish, “What the hell are you thinking, Juarez? Do you want the Yankees to know we’re coming? When we get moving, grab that damned ladder and carry it. First one to get to the wall with a ladder earns ten pesos.”
Leal resisted the urge to flee across the open ground. “Okay, pendejo. Don’t lose your cool. Steady as you go.” He thought as he slowly slithered through the grass, away from the deployed line of men. It seemed to take forever to crawl a hundred yards, but once he felt he’d put enough distance between him and the Mexican line, he stood, and ran back to the Alamo, crouched low, praying to the blessed Virgin that he remained unseen.
As the walls of the fort loomed out of the darkness, Leal slowed to a walk, scanning the top of the parapet, above the gates. Where was the guard? Had he returned to his post? Not seeing anyone, he picked up his speed as he dashed toward the postern gate. It looked as though the narrow door was cracked open. His mouth twisted into a grin. Jackson was waiting where he was supposed to. Before he could step through the postern gate, three rifle barrels protruded through the opening, aimed at his chest. “Santa Maria, Jackson, what the hell is going on?” he whispered.
Two beefy hands reached out and grabbed him by his jacket. Yanked off his feet, and dragged through the door, which closed behind him, Leal was thrown up against the wall. A tall, square-jawed sergeant pinned him against the wall and hoarsely said, “Alright you damned bean-eater, what in the blue blazes were you doing outside the wall?”
