Down Mexico Way

by Drew McGunn

  Hays pulled a notebook from a jacket pocket, and with the team’s sergeant acting as a spotter, began making notes.

  The sun was high overhead, when the sergeant handed the glasses to Hays and pointed to the south, “Take a gander, sir.”

  When Hays put the glasses to his eyes, the scene leapt into view. A score of carts pulled by oxen were slowly moving toward the town and entrenchments. Focusing on the convoy, Hays figured the carts were bringing food to the army. In 1836 Hays had missed the battles of the Rio Grande and Nueces, serving at that time under Sam Houston, but he recalled how poorly supplied the dictator’s army had been. The strategy then had been to live off the land, and sack San Antonio of the needed foodstuffs. Northern Mexico along the Rio Grande was simply too sparsely populated to allow the Mexican army to forage for supplies. It looked to Hays that General Almonte was doing everything he could to keep his army supplied.

  Throughout the afternoon, Hays had watched cavalry detachments patrolling along the road to the south. Maps obtained by the Texian army showed the road connected the town with Monterrey, the largest city in northern Mexico, and according to General Travis, the objective of the spring campaign.

  Later, as the sun moved below the western horizon, Hays checked his notebook. He had drawn diagrams of the trenches on the Mexican army’s left flank, including much of their artillery. He had identified the standards for ten regiments. He hoped a similar team, scouting the Mexican army’s right flank would complete the picture.

  He slipped the binoculars into a leather case and muttered, “First we’ve got to get back to the boat.”

  “Sorry, Major, what was that?” the sergeant asked.

  “Nothing. As soon as that glow disappears from the sky, let’s get out of here.”

  There were fewer clouds in the sky than the previous night. But the quarter moon climbing into the night sky bathed the open ground in a soft glow. Hays didn’t like it. A couple of miles separated them from their skiff. If they should be spotted by a Mexican cavalry patrol, those lancers could cut them to ribbons. The thought sent shivers along his spine, and he reached down to his belt, feeling reassured by the two pistols he carried.

  Even twilight had faded from the sky before Hays motioned for his team to move out. The Sergeant took lead, and each rifleman followed, leaving a gap of several yards between them. When the last of the other men followed, Hays waited a few seconds, until the Ranger was nearly thirty feet ahead of him, then followed behind.

  Two miles, more than thirty-five hundred yards, were between them and their goal. Despite the desertlike conditions of the area, the ground between them and the Rio Grande was still rife with vegetation, ranging from the hardy prickly pear cactus to mighty Cyprus trees. The five men flitted from the copse of mesquite trees to a grove of cottonwoods, and from there through a maze of cacti.

  While the smell from the river was never far removed, as they approached the skiff, the earthy smell of sediment confirmed they were approaching their goal.

  Between one stretch of cover and another was an open field, sprinkled with scrub brush and a few cactus plants. Hays had just stepped away from cover, when he heard the jingling of saddles nearby. A voice called out in Spanish, “Hey you, stop!”

  The rifleman in front of him turned and saw riders. He threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired, further shattering the stillness of the night. Rather than standing his ground and reloading, he bolted after the Ranger ahead of him.

  When it was clear the horsemen had spotted only one of the riflemen, Hays pulled both of his revolvers and waited. His patience was rewarded when four horsemen loomed out of the darkness, their lances down, racing after the retreating Ranger.

  Hays’ dander was up, and as the lancers showed him their backs as they galloped after the Ranger, he raised the pistol in his right hand and pulled the hammer back as he sighted on the closest lancer and fired. “Nothing! Shit!” he fired twice more and saw the horseman drop the lance as he slid off the horse. While one of the lancers raced after the other Ranger, the other two turned when they heard Hays’ shots.

  The quarter moon bathed the field in a faint light, but it was more than enough to see the two horsemen as they dug their heels into their mounts’ flanks and lowered their lances.

  Hays had seen a few of his Rangers who, with plenty of practice, had become proficient trick shooters with their revolvers. Had even seen a few men who could use two pistols at the same time to hit separate targets. Such displays were, in Hays estimation, gimmicks, not something to be attempted under normal conditions. Briefly, he thought it was something a dime novelist would have someone like “Davy” Crockett do in one of those adventure books boys liked to read.

  That didn’t stop him from raising the second pistol and as the lancers raced toward him, he pulled both triggers as quickly as he could thumb back the hammers. One shot, two shots, and one of the lancers’ heads snapped back and he tumbled from his mount. Three, four and on the fifth shot, the second lancer dropped his lance as he grabbed his shoulder. He sawed on the reins, wheeling his horse away from Hays. Before the Ranger Major could decide if he would fire at an injured man’s back, a loud boom echoed in the night, and he saw dark mist spray from the lancer’s back then watched as he leaned forward, and kept going, until he spilled out of his saddle, landing with a heavy thud.

  On the far side of the field the last lancer had been dismounted. Hays ran across the open ground, dodging cactus and thorn bushes. He found three of his men huddled around the Ranger who had been in front of him. The rifleman was prone on the ground, with the tip of a lance piercing his shoulder. “Major, we can carry Gus back to the boat. But the one what did this to him is over there.” The sergeant pointed a short distance away, where a body lay on the ground.

  “Y’all get on back to the boat. I’ll take a gander at the Mexican.”

  As the three men lifted their teammate and carried him toward their skiff, Hays walked over to the injured lancer. The man groaned and opened his eyes, looking up at the Texian. One of his men had hit the lancer. Hays pursed his lips, eying the wound to the stomach. “Not even Doc Smith could save him.”

  A glance in the direction from which they had come brought only silence. Surely the gunfire would bring other soldados to investigate. “Best to let them find the poor bastard. They can deal with him.”

  Hays stood and started after his men. When he reached the tree line, the injured man cried, “Dios mio! No me abandones!”

  Hays turned, looking back at the figure lying in the field. After the mayhem of the previous few minutes, the silence was unnerving. He swore under his breath and strode back across the field, where he stared at the injured man.

  Tears were streaming down the lancer’s face as Hays knelt beside him, taking in his pained features. A strong odor filled Hays’ nostrils, confirming the bullet had torn the intestines. Left alone in the clearing, how long the Lancer would linger, he couldn’t say. The only certainty was the lancer would suffer until he bled out.

  In poor Spanish, Hays said, “You will die from the wound. Do you understand?”

  The lancer nodded as he clutched at his stomach. “Dispárame!”

  As a chillness settled over Hays. He lifted one of the revolvers and pointed it at the lancer’s head. “Lo siento.”

  He squeezed the trigger, turned, and walked away without a backwards glance.

  ***

  Captain Bill Sherman rode at the head of his battery, thirty-six horses kicked up a lot of dust, and he had decided long before it was better to ride ahead of the battery than to eat its dust. He glanced behind and his heart swelled with pride, watching his men riding to war. Even though it had been more than six months since he had reported to the Alamo, he recalled his meeting with General Travis like it was yesterday.

  Uniforms had been scarce, the Texian army had outgrown its supply system. He hadn’t been at the Alamo more than a day when he was ordered to report to the general’s office. Rather than go i
n civilian clothing, he had donned his old blue United States Army uniform to meet with General Travis and Lt. Colonel Carry, commander of the Texian artillery.

  When he had arrived, he found lying on the general’s desk a heavy, bronze tube. Travis sat behind his desk, while Carry leaned against the back wall. Bill managed to stand at attention and give a salute his West Point instructors would have been proud of, but his eyes kept darting to the weapon.

  General Travis had returned the salute then waved him into a chair. “I imagine you’ve seen one of these before, Captain Sherman.”

  Bill had nodded, “Looks like a copy of the new mountain howitzers the US army has been working on, sir.”

  “Not a copy. It’s the real McCoy. Texas has acquired six of these beauties. What do you think?”

  The smooth bronze barrel reflected his image faintly as he eyed the weapon again. Bill wasn’t sure who McCoy was or why he was real, but it couldn’t be denied, the bronze barrel was a work of engineering marvel. “Well, sir, she’s pretty to look at, but she’s an experimental weapon. While the US has manufactured a few of them, they haven’t seen combat yet.”

  The general tilted his head back and laughed. “If you haven’t figured it out yet, Captain, this whole army is experimental, with experimental weapons, using experimental tactics. That’s why I’m glad that a young man like yourself volunteered. Old men like me have a hard time adapting to new ways of thinking, and a brash, young officer like you ought to have a much easier time adapting than some old goat. What do you say, are you game to work with these experimental guns?”

  Thinking back on the conversation still brought a grin to Bill’ face. The general was maybe thirty-five years old, and if he chose to believe the rumors, the army’s rifle and the pistol had come from him, too. There was no doubt, the tactics used by the infantry were his. After all, the manual had Travis’ name on it.

  Since then, forming and training his battery was nearly the only thing for which Bill had time. Even though the barrels were less than five hundred pounds and could have been disassembled from their carriage and carried on the back of a horse or pack mule, Bill had opted for a more conventional carriage and caisson configuration. This allowed the battery to take plenty of ammunition into combat, but more than that, each gun crew could ride into battle. Up to six men could ride the team of horses which hauled the guns. Two more could sit on the ammunition caisson and two more on either side of the gun barrel. If the situation arose where he needed to disassemble the guns, he could still do so, and haul the parts on mules.

  During war games conducted over the Texas winter, Bill had coined the term, flying artillery, to describe his battery. They could race across a battlefield and position their field pieces where they could do the most good. His men could unlimber the guns and have them in action in only a couple of minutes. The other batteries, some of which were under the command of other American artillery officers, were nearly as well trained as his own battery.

  Now, they were but a couple of days away from Laredo and Bill looked forward to taking all the practice of the past half-year and applying it. He was confident not only that his men would perform well, but the guns would meet General Travis’ high expectations.

  ***

  6 April 1843

  General Almonte swatted at a fly as he read from the pile of reports which threatened to upend the fragile camp table. The walls of the tent had been rolled up, letting a faint breeze through, rustling the pages on the table. A small, model cannon cast of brass served duty as a paperweight, keeping the unruly sheets from falling to the dusty ground.

  The present report was the most troubling. Four lancers from the Santa Anna cavalry regiment had been found dead near the Rio Bravo. The report was a few days old, but even after expanding the number of patrols along the southern banks of the river, there were few hints about what had befallen the hapless horsemen.

  That it was the Texians, there was no doubt, but the soldiers across the river in the fort had only strayed from their defenses to add to the trenchworks north of town. Reports from loyal citizens still in Laredo had told of a mounted company of Rangers operating across the river.

  He had also received another report about a raid farther to the northwest, several days away. That one had all the markings of an Apache raid. The usual gristly trophies were removed before the warriors had escaped back into Texas controlled territory. He wondered if the Texians had prevailed upon the Apache to raid into Mexico as part of the war.

  No, as close as this one had been to Nuevo Laredo, far better that this was the handiwork of the Rangers. The long running feud between Mexico and her rebellious northern province had bred a level of hatred between the two that had the potential of turning this campaign particularly ugly. But his soldiers feared the Apache almost as much as they feared the dreaded Comanche.

  He set the report down and eyed the stack on his desk, trying to decide which one to look at next, when his attention was drawn to the sound of a pair of boots pounding across the hard-packed dirt outside his tent. He looked up when one of his orderlies stumbled to a stop before the table. “General, sir, the Texian army is arriving!”

  Any thought of reports was forgotten; he followed the orderly from the tent, grabbing his spyglass as they went. His headquarters was on the obverse side of the main line of fortifications. To reach the top of the trench works was simply a matter of climbing a hill. When they reached the top, he was able to see north several miles. Sure enough, a cloud of dust covered the San Antonio Road, north of Laredo.

  He raised his spyglass to his eye and focused on the dust cloud. Cavalry were coming down the road. The blue, white, and red lone star banner floated in the breeze, carried by the lead elements. Almonte strained to make out individual soldiers as cavalry filled up the road bed. Their mud-colored uniforms were the devil to see at this distance.

  Almonte had long believed armies needed distinctive uniforms so one could easily tell friend from foe. When two armies stood and blazed away at each other, the space between became choked with smoke from gunpowder. The Mexican army’s distinctive blue and red uniforms made it easier for an officer to direct his men in battle. As he stared at the drably colored uniforms worn by the Texians, it was clear General Travis put little stock in colorful uniforms.

  Almonte had read Travis’ manual. More so, he had trained his own Cazadores using a copy he personally translated. Travis wasn’t worried about being able to see his men as they marched into battle. His tactics made that clear. He was more concerned with making his men harder for an enemy to see.

  At least a battalion of cavalry had materialized out of the hazy dust cloud. They veered off the road and maneuvered cross-country. An infantry battalion came into view, replacing the cavalry in the spyglass’s view. They wore the same mud-colored jackets. He stared as hundreds of men, in columns of four, marched toward Laredo. Each battalion carried their own lone star battle flag. After seeing more than two thousand soldiers materialize from the dust cloud, Almonte wondered how many men Travis had been able to raise. For a small country with fewer than two hundred thousand souls, he had been skeptical of reports that Travis had truly raised six thousand from Texas’ rural population.

  Ten minutes had passed as he watched the infantry march into view. Four regimental flags meant an entire brigade. With long experience estimating troop strength, Almonte figured the Texian infantry brigade numbered close to twenty-seven hundred men. Not even when Woll’s army was pushed back had General Johnston brought anywhere close to that many men into battle.

  And the Texian army continued to pour down the Laredo Road. Another cavalry battalion crested a ridge in the distance, this time, appearing on the right flank of the approaching army. Almonte raised an eyebrow. The last intelligence received implied Texas had but one regular cavalry battalion.

  A second infantry brigade was now marching into view. The lead battalion was the first unit he had seen wearing something other than a mud colored uniform.
These were uniformed in blue jackets and pants. No doubt these were the naval infantry, the Marines, who were serving far away from their ships. They marched under the same lone star flag. No unique banner distinguished the service branches. He made note of yet another of Travis’ departures from tradition. As the next battalion appeared behind the Marines, Almonte shrugged. What was one more departure? He was convinced Travis was determined to tear up the rule book.

  More than ten minutes had passed since the Marines had appeared on the road, and as best as he could tell, the entire five battalions of Texas’ 2nd brigade were nearing Laredo. There were perhaps as many as twenty-eight hundred men in this brigade.

  Behind the infantry came a battery of guns drawn by teams of horses. Something was off when he saw them. He eyed them again through the spyglass and realized all the men in the battery were riding horseback on the teams pulling the guns. That was unexpected. One battery, followed by another, and another. Until he counted thirty-six horse-drawn guns. Almonte frowned. He had thought his thirty field pieces would outmatch whatever Texas managed to scrape together. Again, his assumption was wrong.

  He slammed shut the telescoping spyglass and frowned. “Of course, no plan survives contact with the enemy.” He knew that. But in just showing up on the Laredo plain, Travis was bringing his own rule book.

  ***

  Early April 1843

  Dick Gatling set the brake before climbing down from the wagon. A glance to the east showed nothing more than the rolling hill country. Austin was a half-day’s ride behind him. Could he have stayed in town to test the invention? He wasn’t sure.

  More importantly, he was playing with fire. If he were caught, it could mean his job. As the lone patent clerk in Texas, under normal circumstances, he considered his job secure. But, taking the details from a patent his office had received, and attempting to replicate it, could be seen as stepping over the line. After all, his job was to acknowledge and protect the rights of inventors.