To the Victors the Remains (The Lone Star Reloaded Series Book 3)

by Drew McGunn

  Any thoughts coalescing around how to better protect the women and children fled from this mind, when he heard a loud boom, and the heavy chapel doors rattled on their hinges, as a battering ram slammed into them. The doors held. The walls of the chapel were four feet thick and expensive steel hinges holding the doors in place were bolted deep into the walls.

  Minutes passed, the steady rhythmic pounding reverberated as the soldados attempted to breach the door. “To your posts, boys!” Leal shouted, trying to drown out the steady pounding against the doors. Those not already standing by the barricade, rifle pointing toward the doors, slowly climbed to their feet and joined the thin line of riflemen. When silence fell and the drumming against the door ceased, the sound of shooting continued unabated. Leal hoped the men on top of the barracks were selling their lives dearly.

  ***

  Charlie gripped the rifle’s wooden stock, as he nervously looked around him. The Tejano sergeant had taken up a position next to him, at the end of the makeshift defenses. He exuded confidence that fed the boy’s own courage. As the sergeant stared over the wall of supplies, and spoke encouragingly to those along the line, Charlie eyed the Tejano’s rifle. It was worn and well used. The steel barrel was filthy from hours of near constant use, and the light from the lanterns seemed to absorb into gunpowder caking the barrel. On Charlie’s other side, stood a burly teamster, his ebon skin made the whites of his eyes stand out. He gripped the rifle in hands that shook with fear.

  It was easy for the boy to recognize it, for terror’s dark talons had dug into the boy’s heart, too. Charlie swallowed, imagining it was the fear being swallowed rather than saliva. He reached over and placed his smaller hand atop the black teamster’s much larger hand and quietly said, “You can do this, mister. I’m scared too, but my pa says that you aren’t really brave if you’re not scared. I reckon that you and me have gotta be two of the bravest men here because, I’m scared to death.”

  The ebon skinned teamster tried to swallow, but his throat was parched dry. After he took a swig from a borrowed canteen, he coughed before saying, “I reckon all of us must be mighty brave, then.” He managed a weak smile at the boy as he gripped the rifle with more confidence.

  The sound of gunfire outside the chapel walls continued, and the teamster closed his eyes. After a moment, his lips started moving. Charlie felt a moment of peace, as he heard the words slipping from the man’s lips and a ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, as he added his own unsteady voice to the teamster’s prayer, “He leadeth me beside still waters. He restoreth my soul …”

  ***

  Sergeant Leal didn’t consider himself to be a devout Catholic. As far as he was concerned, life was too messy to fit neatly in the confines of the confessional. As he heard the boy’s voice beside him, though, memories from his own hard childhood came unbidden; his mother prayed the same prayer during every hardship his family faced. If ever there was a moment of hopelessness, this was it. It felt right to add his voice, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil …”

  Down the line of men, where only a second before, despair was palpable, others added their voices, “thy rod and thy staff they comfort me …”

  Words not spoken in half a lifetime tumbled from Leal’s lips. Beside him, the boy’s tenorous voice strengthened, “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies …”

  There was no knowing what was to come. In all likelihood, the chapel’s doors would not hold for long, but at that moment, for the first time since waking several hours earlier, Leal felt a sense of peace. “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

  The gunfire outside tapered off. Leal rechecked his weapon and sighted down the barrel, waiting. The heavy doors in front of them were stove in as a solid cannonball plowed into it. As debris slammed into the barricade, he dived for cover, grabbing the red-headed teenager by the collar, and pulling him down. Down the line, one of the teamsters hadn’t ducked and was now writhing and crying on the ground, an immense splinter piercing his cheek. Dust and smoke swirled in the air around him, as Leal raised his head over the top of the barricade. One of the chapel’s heavy doors was warped, hanging by a single hinge. The other door had been torn completely off its hinges and lay crookedly on the chapel’s floor.

  Rushing feet sounded across the courtyard. Leal knew what the sound heralded. He stepped back up on the empty overturned ammunition box and yelled, “Stand to! They’re coming!” Musket flashes winked in the haze, as he felt the grain bag absorb a musket ball. From behind him, he heard a voice cry out, “Get down! Now!”

  From above and behind, he heard a deep throated roar of one of the artillery pieces on the platform, above the chapel, as it fired a double shot of canister, which swept the entry clear of advancing soldados. He heard the men on the platform, swearing as they raced to reload the gun. Leal stepped up to the barricade and fired at the next soldado to step through. He didn’t bother watching to see if he’d hit him, and mechanically reloaded.

  ***

  Charlie joined the Tejano sergeant back on the line and squeezed the trigger as his father had taught him. The rifle kicked, and bitter gun smoke filled the air. Every man standing behind the barricade fired into the surging mass of Mexican soldados, struggling through the breached doors. Dozens of men pouring through the entry, collapsed when the other two cannons on the platform blasted more than a hundred iron balls into the milling mass of soldados.

  For a moment, Charlie wondered if the echoing booms had made him deaf, as silence descended before them. But it was an illusion. A ragged volley from the courtyard reverberated in his ears and peppered the front of the barricade. A few seconds later, a second volley lashed higher into and above the barrier. A few men tumbled from the line, their heads a bloody mess. Charlie couldn’t tell if they were wounded or dead. Part of him thought it mattered if they lived or died, but like his father had taught him, he levered open the breech and slid a cartridge in and capped the nipple then aimed through the door and fired.

  ***

  Leal lowered his rifle, smoke still curling from the barrel, as he looked over the barricade at the doorway. It was clogged with dead and dying three and four deep. Despite that, a flurry of musket balls flew through the entry, mostly slamming into the barricade, but also finding the soft flesh of a defender, maiming or killing indiscriminately. The shouts from the courtyard were indistinct, but when the musketry abated, Leal felt a sinking dread and jumped down from the ammunition box and crouched by the base of the barricade. “Oh, mierda!” he swore. A thunderclap from the courtyard shattered the morning, and for the second time, he grabbed the shirtsleeve of the youth, standing next to him, and pulled the boy down to the ground.

  The shot struck the barricade dead center, and caused bags of corn, grain, and flour to collapse. Mixing with the haze of gunpowder, the flour swirled and eddied in the air. Enough found him and the boy to coat them both in a film of white. He struggled back to his feet and saw that more than a dozen men had been felled by the shot that destroyed the barricade’s center.

  ***

  As the rifle bucked in Charlie's hands, the butt slammed into his shoulder. He winced from the stock’s bruising impact. He gritted his teeth through the pain and levered the gun open again. He reached into the cartridge box on his belt and felt a firm tug on his arm and he lost his balance. He landed hard on the flagstones and found himself staring at the barricade’s backside when all hell broke loose. The center of the barricade collapsed in on itself, as men were scattered about like toy soldiers strewn around by a petulant child. A cloud of flour and cornmeal settled on the men, from the bags torn open when the cannonball slammed into the barricade.

  Coughing, trying to keep flour out of his mouth, Charlie climbed to his feet. Beside him, next to the wall, the Tejano sergeant stood, ignoring the dust cloud, and called for the men to prepare
for the next surge of Mexican soldados. To Charlie’s other side, the burly, black teamster lay at the boy’s feet, a large splinter embedded in his leg, blood pooling below it. His eyes were closed, and Charlie couldn’t tell if he was dead or alive.

  The horror of the moment threatened to overwhelm the boy, who had never in his wildest imagination envisioned such carnage. In his mind, he kept repeating his father’s words, “Courage is turning fear into action.” Slowly, the horror retreated, and he mentally closed the door to it as he stepped over a body and joined the Tejano sergeant and a dozen other men still on their feet. Whatever may come, he would cling to his father’s words. Tears streaked down his face, creating rivulets in the flour caking it. He saw the hard look of determination in the eyes of the Tejano sergeant and looked on the faces of the rest of the men, who were formed up behind the ruins of the barricade. Some couldn’t mask their fear, but others mirrored the sergeant’s battle-hardened expression. Something stirred in Charlie’s young heart. To a man, each stood resolutely, pointing their rifles toward the chapel doors. After wiping his nose with a grimy and torn shirtsleeve, the boy hefted his father’s rifle in his hands and with every fiber of his being tried to match the stoic look on the sergeant’s face.

  ***

  “Is this the end?” Leal wondered. They had given an accounting of themselves that few could have matched. Was this all that was left? The ringing in his ears kept him from hearing much of anything. Whether the men atop the barracks yet lived was unknown. What he could see were the dozen men with him. One of the negro teamsters was still on his feet. Blood dripped down his cheek from a cut above his eye. But Leal approved the way he held his rifle. He was facing death, like a man.

  Beside him, the red-haired boy stood, unharmed. Streaks of tears had tracked through the flour on his face, but Leal was struck by the grim look of determination on his youthful countenance. Had he a mirror, he would have recognized the expression. It was his own.

  The ground shook beneath his feet, as a cannon on the outer wall fired. The rattle of musketry added to the cacophony outside the chapel’s walls. Despite the ringing in his ears, the boy was close enough that he could hear him when he said, “They’re on the walls, firing. It’s coming our way!”

  Leal growled, “Let’s get ready, boys!” He raised his rifle to his shoulder. But like an ebbing tide, the roar of gunfire receded from the courtyard.

  ***

  Charlie strained his ears, listening to the gunfire dying away outside the chapel and for the first time since being rousted out of bed during the predawn attack, he felt a flicker of hope. He took an unsteady step toward the barricade, along with the other defenders. Standing atop the collapsed center of the barricade, he looked out the doorway and saw whirling smoke and dust billowing across the courtyard. What he couldn’t see were any soldados. What had begun as a tiny flicker of hope had grown into fire in his heart, burning bright. He carefully climbed through the debris, and around the bodies of the fallen, until he came to stand beside the doorway. He set one hand against the twisted door, held in place by a single hinge and held his father’s rifle in the other, as he looked across the courtyard. Behind the Chapel, the sun had risen, but it remained an obscure, pale orb, partially concealed by the thick haze of smoke hanging over the fort’s smoldering hulk.

  Charlie stared agape at the courtyard, which was bathed in a hazy light. Between the doorway to the chapel and the low wall separating the courtyard from the Alamo plaza, the ground was carpeted with dead and dying men. The dirt was soaked red from the blood of the slain, who died either attempting to capture or defend the Alamo. More tears fell as he saw dozens of bodies wearing Texas butternut scattered amid scores more in Mexican blue and red.

  He felt a presence beside him and turned and saw the sergeant, who placed a hand on his shoulder. “Everyone, stop here.” Through the southern gatehouse, they spotted dozens of men streaming through, wearing the navy-blue uniforms of the Texian Marines. The men around Charlie burst into cheers as they saw the advancing Texian riflemen.

  Charlie’s legs felt wobbly. The sight of the Texians sweeping through the wreck of the fort filled him with an indescribable pride. He leaned against the swarthy sergeant, as his legs threatened to give way beneath him. When he saw the battle flag of the 3rd Infantry being carried by a color sergeant, he figured these were not his pa’s force, but belonged to the reserves. At that moment, it didn’t matter. He wiped his wet eyes on his sleeve. Maybe he was only thirteen, but he wouldn’t let them see the tears on his face. A sharp banging broke his attention and he turned, raising his rifle and saw the warped door banging against the wall. He lowered his rifle and noticed the sun reflecting from the chapel’s limestone façade. From there, he looked up and saw, waving in the morning breeze, the same flag that had flown defiantly for two weeks. The lone star, reflecting the light from the morning sun, was a dazzling white. It was centered in a field of royal blue that spanned a third of the flag. A brilliant white stripe above a crimson stripe filled the rest of the banner. The tears he wiped away earlier flowed again, but this time Charlie didn’t care. That flag, his flag, waved defiantly in the breeze, unconquered and free.

  Chapter 17

  The horse sensed the rider’s urgency, as he was guided up and down the line of marching infantry. He hated himself for doing it, but General Johnston urged his battalion commanders to march their men double time. One hundred sixty-five steps per minute quickly ate away at the distance between them and their goal, San Antonio. Even so, he ordered it, knowing those reservists who were less capable would be left behind, as they hastened to the sound of the guns.

  He patted his mount as he pulled off the road, watching the men of the 1st Cherokee Rifles march by. Behind the men, a faint golden glow grew along the eastern horizon. The sun would rise within the hour, and he begrudged every minute spent marching. Not long before, the distant thunder of guns fell silent, but the dark western sky still flashed with an orange and red glow by whatever was transpiring at the Alamo. Beyond the grueling pace already set, he could order the army to increase their speed up to one hundred eighty paces per minute, but one glance at his men and the thought died unspoken. They had been marching at double time for the past hour, cutting the distance by half between their camp and the battle at the Alamo.

  Johnston drummed his fingers on his thigh, impatiently. It was taking too much time, he thought. But it was plain to see these men were not trained to the same standards as were his own regulars and they were showing signs of fatigue. As men, in ones and twos began to fall out, unable to keep pace with their comrades, Johnston ordered the commander of the 3rd Infantry to detail an officer to bring up the rear at a normal pace with the army’s stragglers.

  Johnston trailed behind his column for a moment, watching a young lieutenant corral the winded men, and, after a brief breather, started them after the column at a more sedate speed. Satisfied that his army wouldn’t fragment into more than a couple of parts, he urged his mount to a gallop until he saw Sam Houston, slouched on a horse, riding next to his command.

  Houston shifted in his saddle as he caught sight of the army’s commander. “Morning, Sid. Hell of a march, ain’t it?”

  Johnston slowed his mount, matching the former general’s pace before replying, “You do have a way with an understatement, Sam. As God is my witness, I wish to hell we were already there. This invasion of theirs couldn’t have happened at a worse time.”

  Houston shrugged laconically. In some ways Johnston wondered, was he misspending his life or was he just incredibly unlucky? He had squandered his opportunity as Governor of Tennessee more than a dozen years before, when his wife left him, and he crawled into a whisky bottle, then he had seen his own plans to become president of the republic of Texas slip through his hands, when David Crockett and William Travis garnered all the glory during the revolution. But if the rumors were true, Houston’s luck was turning around, living with the Cherokee.

  “What was that?�
�� Johnston asked. The other officer had been talking.

  Houston repeated, “Just saying, any time’s a bad time, Sid. Although I’d like to think if this had happened when the army wasn’t seven hundred miles away that we’d have whipped them the first day they tried to stick their noses into San Antonio.”

  Johnston’s mood was dark, angry that he and the army were not already in San Antonio, but he bit his tongue before he could form a retort. It galled him to admit it, Houston was likely right. Rather than continue talking with the former general, he gouged his heels into his mount’s flanks and gave the animal his head as he raced to the front of the column.

  He yanked on the reins when he spied the cavalry scouts he’d sent out earlier, racing back toward the column. One of the men, his jacket covered in prairie dust, pulled up before Johnston and exclaimed, “General Johnston, sir! There’s Mexican cavalry, less than a mile away, smack between us and San Antonio.”

  “Finally!” Johnston turned to Major West, whose battalion of Marines led the army. “Major, deploy your men into a battalion line of battle.” The reserve battalions had received less training on small unit tactics than his regulars, and he thought it best to fall back on a simple battle line rather than a skirmish line. If the situation changed, he would adjust tactics.

  Major West flashed a fierce grin, then turned and shouted, “Marines! By company, into line of battle!” The column of Marines, flowed smoothly from columns of four into a battle line, two men deep and more than a hundred fifty long.