by Drew McGunn
Despite his feet dangling inches from the ground, the other sergeant’s rough handling pushed the normally easy-going Tejano over the edge. “That’s Sergeant ‘Bean-Eater’ to you. Maybe I should put you outside the wall and let you welcome the Mexican army when they attack.” Leal surprised himself with the authority of his low-pitched voice, as Jackson failed to stifle his laughter at the other sergeant’s expense.
The large sergeant dropped him to the ground and pulled a smelly cigar from his mouth. He glared at Leal as he blew a fog of smoke into the Tejano’s face. “What’s that about Mexicans?”
Exasperated, Leal shook his head, “Pendejo,” he muttered. He pointed back toward the closed gates, “The Mexican army is about to attack the fort. We can sit here and talk about it until they come over the wall, and you can ask them to confirm it. Or would you rather we notify Captain Anderson or Major Dickinson?”
***
As morning approached, clouds had rolled in, covering the moon and stars. He held his mount’s reins in one hand, as he glanced into the heavens. The only thing missing was fog. He chuckled as he swung into the saddle. He fingered the rosary beads in his coat pocket and offered up a brief prayer to the Virgin Mother. Adrian Woll was a happy man. His well-trained army was completing its nighttime deployment around the Alamo with minimal noise.
He watched the shadowy figures of his soldados carrying ladders and taking up their preassigned positions in preparation of the pending attack. Things were progressing exactly as planned. Mentally he reviewed the coming attack. To have the best vantage point for watching the battle unfold, he had moved his headquarters from the parsonage of the San Fernando Church to the corner between the western and southern wings of his army, southwest of the Alamo. Two regiments from the 3rd brigade were to his right, ready to assault the Alamo’s main gate along its southern wall.
He glowered, thinking of the insolence of General Urrea. The opportunist would happily plant a dagger in anyone’s back if there was something he could gain from it, but when his men started forward, the vainglorious bastard would be leading them from the front. A ghost of a smile lit up his lips at the thought of a Texian sniper ending Woll’s misery by putting a bullet in Urrea’s head.
When he thought of his earlier prayer to the Virgin, he dismissed the thought. It wasn’t Catholic to wish ill of a fellow officer, even one as nakedly opportunistic as Urrea. He turned his thoughts to what the men of the 3rd brigade would face once the assault was under way. Over half of the southern wall was twenty feet tall, where one of the Alamo’s new barracks had been constructed. It was too tall for the scaling ladders his men would carry into battle. But a third of the wall was the gatehouse building, which was only about ten feet in height. That part of the wall extended another ten yards, and encompassed the bastion protecting the Texians’ 18-pounder.
On the opposite end of the fort, two of the 2nd brigade’s regiments would assault the northern wall. It had been rebuilt a few years earlier. Like on the south, a new barracks accounted for more than half of the wall and was also twenty feet high. The remainder of the northern wall was only twelve feet tall. It was there that the five hundred men of the 2nd brigade would focus. Thinking back to the idea of the battlefield being a chess board, Woll viewed the regiments assigned to these attacks as nothing more than pawns designed to draw the Texians’ attention. He tried not to think about a thousand men as nothing more than mere pawns. In the end, though, they were nothing more than feints. But feints that if not protected against, would quickly bring the defenders to ruin.
No, Woll mused. The main attack would come from the west, from the direction of the San Antonio River. The three regiments of the 1st brigade would lead the assault. The last two regiments from the 2nd and 3rd brigades would serve as Woll’s strategic reserve, behind the 1st.
East of the Alamo, a long acequia ran into San Antonio’s reservoir. Between the acequia and the wall of the Alamo was a thicket of mesquite trees and thorn brushes. Woll wondered if the Texians cultivated the obstacle. It didn’t matter, as far as Woll was concerned a group of old women could defend the eastern wall of the fort with slingshots. Nevertheless, a company of cazadores would take up position along the eastern acequia and bag any Texians attempting to flee in that direction.
Behind his assembled troops, Woll heard the faint sound of horses. That was the sound of the two hundred fifty men of the Santa Anna cavalry regiment heading to the northeast, between San Antonio and the other settlements. Any attempt by the Texians to relieve the garrison would run headlong into his capable and tough lancers.
Even though he subscribed to the philosophy that no plan survives contact with the enemy, Woll had taken care of all the things that he could control. Everything else was in the hand of the Blessed Virgin. He nodded to his aide-de-camp and said, “Estevan, it is time. Pass along the order to advance.”
***
The beefy sergeant smoothed the front of Leal’s jacket, and dropped his hands to his sides before saying, “That’s probably a good idea.” He turned to a smallish rifleman by his side. “Private Abramson, go and fetch Captain Anderson. Wake him if he’s asleep.” The smaller man turned on his heels and disappeared into the dark gloom in the direction of the officers’ quarters.
Leal briefly entertained the thought of waiting there for the captain to arrive, but his curiosity about the Mexican army outside the fort was pitched too high to wait around, and he jerked his head toward the bastion where the 18-pounder was situated and walked up the ramp, as the other men followed. Atop the gun platform, it was impossible to see any distance into the darkness. The cloud cover that had moved in during the last hour, made seeing more than a few dozen steps into the night impossible. A few minutes later, Captain Anderson arrived, climbing the ramp, and joining the men standing around the gun, as they peered into the inky darkness. As he joined the half-dozen men he quietly asked, “What seems to be the matter at this ungodly hour, men?”
The large sergeant spoke up first. He pulled the cigar out of his mouth and used it as a pointer as he indicated toward Leal and said, “Sergeant Bean-Eater over there went out through the postern gate, against orders and said that the Mexicans are getting ready to attack, sir.”
Leal let the snide remark slide, while Captain Anderson eyed the other sergeant with disapproval. Leal piped up, “Yes, sir. Me and Private Jackson here thought we saw something around their campfires, and so I went to check on it. When I got out about half a mile away, I saw the Mexicans standing in line, like they were ready to attack. And I saw more soldiers bringing up ladders. I’m certain they’re preparing an assault.”
Captain Anderson eyed both sergeants, doubt written across his face. Leal turned and looked out into the dark field south of the Alamo, and the captain’s eyes followed. He stepped over to the wall and muttered. “Can’t see a damned thing out past fifty yards.” He looked back at Leal and added, “I’m not calling you a liar, Sergeant, it just seems unlikely that they’d sit on their asses for the past two weeks and only now decide to attack.”
He shook his head. “But, there’s one way to find out.” He returned to the large, brass cannon and asked one of the gunners who had been roused by the men standing around his gun. “Is this thing loaded?”
Bleary eyed, the gunner nodded. “Yeah, it’s got a charge of canister in it.”
Ignoring the gunner’s lack of respect for his rank, he stepped up to the back of the gun where he ran his finger along the top until he found the touch hole. He stretched his hand to Leal, “Let me have one of your cartridges, Sergeant.”
The captain tore the paper open and poured the coarse gunpowder into the hole. He glanced around and reached out and grabbed the cigar out of the other sergeant’s mouth. “Y’all might want to step aside.” With that, he took a step back from the gun and leaned in, holding the smoldering cigar toward the gun and lit the powder on the touch hole. A split second later, the powder charge at the base of the tube ignited, shooting out flames
from the end of the barrel. The canister exploded out the mouth of the gun, as the blast lit up the night and for a moment, turning night into day in the area in front of the gun. In that briefest of flashes, less than two hundred yards away, the line of advancing Mexican infantry was clearly visible. The element of surprise gone, the Mexican line yelled a terrifying battle cry and charged.
Chapter 15
Mist swirled around his feet, as he stood on the shore of a wide river. Somehow his mind knew it was the mighty Tennessee. Fog hugged it from one bank to the other, muffling the sounds of marching men and the jingling spurs as horses cantered by. Albert Sidney Johnston glanced down, perplexed to find his butternut uniform replaced by a gray jacket. He turned and saw a chestnut mare behind him, and an officer, also dressed in gray waiting on him. A long thin column of more gray-clad soldiers trailed along a road, which ran parallel to the river.
In the distance, he heard the deep booming sound of dozens of field pieces firing. Nearby, many more guns replied, shaking the ground beneath his feet.
He found the reins of the horse in his hands and turned and climbed into the saddle, but found the mist was rising and even the marching men only a few yards away were obscured. The officer next to him said, “General …”
“General! Sir, wake up! General Johnston, there’s something wrong!” the insistent voice shook him awake. The heavy fog of sleep fled as the dream’s images evaporated. He opened his eyes and saw a shadowy silhouette standing above him in the tent. The sergeant of the guard reached down and gently shook his shoulder, “Sir, are you awake?”
“I am now, Sergeant.” The last of the dream was chased away as he thought he heard thunder in the distance. As he slung his stockinged feet onto the cold ground he asked, “What’s the ruckus for, Sergeant?”
Stepping over to the tent’s flap, the sergeant flung it open and pointed toward the southwest, toward San Antonio. “Just now, we started hearing what sounds to me like artillery coming from San Antonio. I could have sworn I saw of flash of light below the horizon.”
He pulled on his boots and stepped out the tent and looked intently toward their destination. Heavy cloud cover made the night especially dark, and sure enough, there were a few flickers beyond the horizon. He shook his head, this was bad. He turned to the sergeant, “Thank you. Go and fetch all the battalion commanders, quickly!”
Following a quick meeting with his field grade officers, Johnston decided to abandon the camp and rush his army toward San Antonio. No more than fifteen minutes after being roused out of his own sleep, he sat astride his horse, glaring down at the men who he could see, after they had put on their boots, grabbed their rifles, and assembled by companies in line. Johnston glanced heavenward and muttered curses. Of all the nights to have heavy cloud cover, this was the worst. He tore his eyes back toward the soldiers. “Men! Soldiers and sons of Texas!” his voice boomed over the dark prairie, “We march to the sound of the guns! Do your duty this morning to your mothers, wives, and sisters, and to our children! You will march with valor and honor, against an enemy that would not only despoil our homes but drive us from this very land!”
As the order was given to switch from the long line into columns of four, the men under his command let loose with a defiant cheer. They hurried into the night, leaving most of their camp supplies on the prairie.
***
Before the flash from the cannon faded to black, Sergeant Leal watched the canister load explode from the barrel, sweeping toward the advancing line of soldados. Like a scythe reaping grain, Leal saw more than a dozen men cut low by the gun’s discharge. Men who had been sleeping on the roofs of buildings set against the western wall, leapt to their feet when the powerful blast from the heavy 18-pounder shattered the stillness of the night and shook the ground.
Along with the other men on the bastion, Leal let out a loud shout. The battle for the Alamo had begun. He turned and saw Private Jackson running back up the ramp with both of their rifles and when he grabbed his from the private, he raced to load it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the gunners leap to action as one of them grabbed a rammer with a wet sponge and used it to clean the barrel out, damping any embers that could result in a premature detonation of the powder charge.
Leal fired into the blackness in the direction of the Mexican army. He could hear them, as they shouted war cries, but they were still several hundred feet away. Jackson and a couple of more riflemen added their own rifle fire along the lip of the bastion. Behind him, he heard the gunners rushing to get the heavy gun reloaded. Despite being suddenly woken up, they moved with an economy of motion that came from extensive practice and years of experience.
In his mind’s eye, Leal imagined the Mexican soldados storming across the prairie, muskets at the ready. As though coloring in the mental image, from the dark fields, he heard thousands of voices screaming, “Viva México! Viva Santa Anna! Viva Woll!” The sound of their booted feet slammed against the ground, rapidly closing the distance with the fort.
A voice screamed from behind him, “Clear the way!” The 18-pounder was being rolled forward, into its firing position. Leal and Jackson scurried to the side, as the brass barrel eased forward. A ladder from the parapet led to the top of the gatehouse and the two darted up it, clearing the platform a scarce moment before the gun fired for a second time. The field before them lit up again, revealing the advancing enemy had more than cut the distance in half. Leal and Jackson added their rifle fire to those men already on the wall, firing into the darkness of the predawn.
Men poured out of their barracks, as they raced to their assigned places on the walls of the beleaguered fort. More of the fort’s guns added their sound and fury to that of the 18-pounder.
***
The rough-hewn planks of the floor rattled Charlie awake. A moment of confusion made him wonder where he was until he heard Becky’s voice, “Hush, Liza, Momma’s here.” His little sister, Elizabeth began caterwauling in earnest as the building shook with each successive blast from the fort’s heavy guns. Adding to the noise of the fort’s thundering artillery, was the rattling sound of gunfire.
The door to the room was thrown open, Susanna Dickinson’s silhouette stood in the opening. Fear was engraved on her face as she cried, “They’re attacking, Becky! We gotta get to the chapel, like Almaron told us!” She cradled her young son in her arms while her daughter, Emily clung tightly to her skirt.
Like the women, Charlie had slept in his clothes, and as Mrs. Dickinson fled down the stairs, he pulled off the blanket covering him and jumped up from the hard floor. Henrietta took Liza from Becky while his stepmother grabbed a few things she intended to use to distract the baby. She frantically looked around the room until her eyes fell on an engraved box they had brought from home, setting on a chest of drawers. “Charlie, please fetch me your pa’s pistols.”
The youth grabbed the box, which held the gift from Samuel Colt and handed it to her. “Hurry, Charlie!” she said as she and Henrietta started after Mrs. Dickinson.
The boy grabbed the brown leather belt that held his father’s cartridge and percussion cap boxes and fastened it around his waist, tightening the belt to its last notch, to keep it from sliding down his slender frame. He grabbed his father’s rifle in one hand and scooped down and grabbed his shoes with the other. He raced from the room and took the stairs two at a time hastening to catch up to the women.
The guard, normally stationed at the foot of the stairs leading to the officers’ quarters, was gone from his customary post. Charlie scanned the old convent yard and saw a handful of gunners and riflemen heading over to a ramp which led to a platform with two guns facing eastward. A rifleman already stood there, peering into the predawn darkness. Through the small door, the boy heard his little sister crying from the transept and hurried toward the door, ignoring the defenders who ran past him to their stations.
He slammed the door shut, and as he had been instructed, threw a heavy wooden bar across the narrow opening. He
turned and saw Becky and Liza had joined Mrs. Dickinson and several other women and children in the sacristy. Light flickered on their faces from lanterns along the wall, and the boy saw Becky open the box containing the brace of revolvers, while Henrietta sat beside her, cooing at Charlie’s sister. Ignoring the gnawing fear in the pit of his stomach, Charlie gave a feral smile to his stepmother, as she started loading the revolvers.
The chapel’s thick walls muffled the deep-throated booming of the fort’s artillery and the rattling of gunfire. Charlie heard the sound of quiet voices coming from the nave and he walked over to the men who stood behind a barricade, which ran the width of the chapel. A half-dozen men in civilian clothes stood on ammunition boxes, peering over the barricade. More lanterns ran the length of the chapel and he saw the fear on the black faces of several of the teamsters, who had been trapped in the fort with the soldiers for the past two weeks. Watching the freedmen awkwardly holding their rifles, drew Charlie’s thoughts to Joe, his pa’s former slave and currently a teamster. Seeing the fear in their faces, he was glad that Joe was out west delivering supplies to one of the depots. Thinking of the west, his pa came to mind. He was certain his father would be brave if he were trapped here. He remembered a conversation he’d had with his pa before he had left to conquer Santa Fe. “Son, true courage isn’t an absence of fear, but rather it is channeling that fear into action.”
He took hold of his father’s rifle and stepped up onto an ammo box, next to one of the negro teamsters. Glancing up, he could read the man’s fear on his face. It was easy to recognize. He imagined he wore the same expression, too. He closed his eyes tight, willing the terror in his gut to not control him. After a long moment, he opened his eyes and forced a smile onto his face, as he reached over and patted the teamster on the arm. “My name’s Charlie, what’s yours?”
