Comanche Moon Falling

by Drew McGunn

  Chapter 10

  2nd of May 1837

  To the officers and enrolled militia of the Republic of Texas for the militia districts of San Antonio, Goliad, Victoria, Gonzales, and Bastrop.

  In accordance with the Militia Act of 1836, revised 3rd of April 1837 by 1st Congress of the Republic of Texas, you are hereby ordered to report to the prescribed armories of each respective district and assemble in San Antonio no later than 24th May 1837. Call to service is 90 days or the duration of the current campaign, if shorter.

  Signed,

  General William B. Travis, Commander Army of Texas.

  ***

  Nearly a month had passed since Will watched the Comanche chief, Spirit Talker, ride away empty handed. The late May sun stood high in the Texas sky, as the temperature hovered near ninety degrees. For what seemed the millionth time, Will wished for air-conditioning. It was silly, he realized, to miss air-conditioning most of all. There were so many other more useful things he should miss more. Internal combustion engines, for instance. Paved roads would be nice, too.

  Still though, when he considered the current situation, he was well ahead of where Texas could be. The army was equipped with the most state-of-the-art weapons in existence in 1837, and the tactics were at least a generation ahead of other nations. The finances of the Republic were still shaky, even though large strides had been made over the last six months. The most recent edition of the Telegraph and Texas Register reported the Texas Land Bank had issued loans for more than a million acres since opening, valued at more than half a million dollars.

  Even the Commodities Bureau was slowly growing, as property taxes came due, and the taxes often were paid in kind. Juan Seguin had told him just a few days ago, one of the larger plantation owners had paid his taxes with twenty-five bales of cotton, which the bureau had already sold to a New York based company. Those bales were on their way north to be turned into textiles. The Commodities Bureau received $1,200 in silver and in turn, put into the general fund an equal value of cotton-backs, as folks were calling the new currency. The cotton-backs were then used to pay the bills of the republic, often finding their way into the pockets of Will’s soldiers each payday, and from there, into general circulation.

  Will would make do without his air-conditioning.

  “All things considered,” he thought, “things are shaping up much better for Texas than in the world I left behind.”

  He stood on top of the chapel’s wall, admiring the roof covering the chapel’s nave. Heavy support beams ran over the chancel, but the roof was not yet extended that far. Below, the dirt ramp which once held several east facing guns was gone. In its place, a large wooden platform ran the width of the chancel, a dozen feet above the floor. Three heavy guns faced eastward. Gun ports, which had been hastily dug through the thick adobe walls in the days before Will’s arrival at the Alamo well over a year before, had been squared and thick shutters added, to protect the platform from the elements once the roof had been completed.

  Flashes of light in the distance caught his attention, and Will looked up to see coming down the Gonzales road a column of mounted men. Behind them rolled several wagons. A flag fluttered in the warm breeze, at the head of the cavalcade. A particularly warm gust made the mounted force’s flag dance in the wind, and Will could see a single star in a blue field in the upper left corner of the flag. Thirteen red and white stripes horizontally crisscrossed it. As the mounted men came nearer, Will saw most of the men wore blue jackets. One man, riding next to the standard bearer, wore brown buckskins. With a sinking feeling, Will had a strong suspicion of who was leading the column and hastily climbed down a ladder and ran to the Alamo’s gate.

  As he reached the gate, he watched as President Crockett rode through it, with a company of Texas Marines trailing. From behind him, Will heard Lt. Colonel Johnston walk up, muttering about where he’d find a place to bivouac the marines.

  Will turned and quipped, “Sid, it looks like our president has decided to come a-calling and he brought his own honor guard.”

  Johnston grunted. “I hope he left a decent force to defend Galveston. Won’t do us any good to beat the Comanche if we let the Mexicans through the back door.”

  Crockett rode across the plaza until the last of the marine detachment passed through the gate, and then swung around and trotted over to Will.

  Ever the soldier, Will snapped a sharp salute. “President Crockett, sir! We had no notification of your visit. Otherwise we’d have turned out the garrison in your honor.”

  Crockett shrugged, “Guess it’s a good thing I just came then. I can’t stand all of the hoopla that some of those fine folks back in Harrisburg think a government needs.” Then, as if reading Will’s mind, “Anyway, I brought my own honor guard with me. Please see to the needs of these fine Marines, General Travis.”

  Will turned to Johnston, who shrugged and said, “I’ll see to it, sir. Where do you want to bivouac them?”

  Will pointed to the north. “Put them in the first floor of the North barracks. They can share the space with Company C.” Then he turned and ran to catch up with Crockett, as the president led the way up the stairs to Will’s office.

  Following on the heels of the president, Will entered his office to find Crockett settling himself into Will’s chair. Shaking his head, Will leaned against the table and exasperatedly said, “David, please tell me you didn’t ride two hundred miles just so you wouldn’t miss a fight.”

  Crockett grinned ruefully. “A man must do what needs doing, Buck. Now that Liza, Bob, and Becky have arrived, the house is overrun with would-be suitors. Anyhow, you know me too well. I would have hated to miss out on this here shindig you’re about to have. Also, as Commander-in-Chief, it’s only right that I come out here and inspect the army, right, Buck?”

  The smile faded, and he continued, “Well, that’s what I told those bright plumed Congressional popinjays back in Harrisburg. The truth of the matter sets elsewhere. You and I both know your raid into the Comancheria was approved by Congress. They were mighty pleased with how it started. Hell, they read your dispatches into the congressional records each week. But they wanted to keep the army raiding through the Comancheria, killing the Indians until they’re gone. Lots of congresscritters were unhappy you ended the campaign when you did, to say nothing of the stink they raised about paying for your prison camp, either. Lots of good folks in Congress think the only good in’jun is a dead in’jun.”

  Will glowered. “Let them think that, as long as they pay the bills.” But softened as he asked, “Is it that bad in Harrisburg, David?”

  Crockett howled with laughter. “Hell, Buck. If it were only that bad. I got plantation owners like Robert Potter grousing about the property tax he’s saddled with paying. Then there’s the Galveston merchants screaming about the tariffs. Congress is screaming about the expenditures for the army and the navy. The only good news is Lamar wrote from France saying he is hopeful for recognition soon. Come ’42, if Houston wants the presidency so damn much, I’ll go to stumping for him.”

  Will chuckled at Crockett the raconteur. “Don’t. Sam’ll make a beeline strait for Washington. Right after he disbands the navy and cashiers the army. But never any mind about the Raven. I told those fools in Congress that staying in the field inside the Comancheria was costing us men, weapons, and supplies. It’s damned hard to defend a moving supply train without drawing down our forces. The mounted militia we had was damned near useless. By the time we had nearly two hundred prisoners, it would have left us too exposed to have sent back a force with the second group of prisoners.

  “The fact is, I delivered our message. The Comanche know we have lots of their women and children prisoner here in San Antonio. After meeting their peace chief, Spirit Talker, I believe the Comanche will try to take them back by force before they consider peace. God knows I wish they’d listen to reason and negotiate.”

  Crockett nodded, grimly. “I know, Buck. Sam even sent a couple of his f
riends among the Cherokee to see if the Comanche would listen. They didn’t. I allow I have fought in a few Indian fights back east, but none of those tribes come close to the fierceness and ruthlessness of the Comanche. They take an all or nothing approach to life, Buck. Not unlike a few of our own congresscritters.” He deflated at that. “Dammit all. If we don’t win a resounding victory here soon and bring the Comanche to the treaty table, I’m not sure that a majority of our illustrious Congress won’t be calling for a war of extermination against them. More than any other reason, that’s what brought me here. I can’t let that happen.”

  ***

  Will pulled the door closed and locked it. As he took hold of Charlie’s hand and walked toward the road, he looked back at the low adobe building, a block away from San Antonio’s main plaza. The windows were shuttered and padlocked. Their home sealed against their return. A glance to either side, revealed other families packing their belongings. San Antonio was fast becoming a ghost town. Word had reached San Antonio yesterday in the guise of a Ranger from the fort on the Pedernales Falls, of Comanche bands joining together on the frontier. There was little doubt the target was their fair town.

  Only the distance of a city block separated their house from the plaza, so Will and Charlie walked there. The tower of San Fernando Church provided a clear view not just of the plaza, but the prairie surrounding the town. A sentry stood in the belfry with a telescoping spyglass, looking first to the north then swinging the lens to the west.

  Dozens of wagons crowded the plaza. Frazzled looking women, both Tejano and Anglo, were attempting to keep control of their children. In front of the governor’s palace a small company of San Antonio militia stood by their horses, waiting to escort the civilian caravan east to Gonzales. It was second nature for Will to assess the men standing under the Texas flag. He was shocked to see how young they were, before surmising the officer in command of the militia company was sending his youngest and least experienced out of town, ostensibly to protect the women and children of San Antonio.

  There were heavy militia patrols east of San Antonio, and the presence of the young soldiers was superfluous. At least that is what Will’s analytical side contended. The part of him that worried, as a parent, was glad to see they would accompany the civilians to Gonzales.

  Corralling Charlie, Will walked over to the very young-looking officer. “Lieutenant.”

  The young man turned and seeing Will in his butternut officer’s uniform with the gold stars on each of his shoulder straps, threw a hasty salute. All the young men, boys really, wore the grey militia jackets still favored by the Texas militia. They wore an assortment of hats and the pants ran the gamut of civilian clothing. “General Travis, sir! Lieutenant Carlos Bustamante at your service, sir.”

  Will kept the smile from his lips as his attention was drawn to the young officer’s attempt at a mustache, but the down on his upper lip was all he could manage. “Lieutenant, how many men are assigned to your command?”

  The eager youth replied, “I have thirty men here, General Travis, sir.”

  Will let the smile crease his face as he listened to the young officer’s enthusiasm. “As you were, Lieutenant.”

  He took Charlie to a wagonful of the Seguin clan’s children, where he lifted the boy on to the back of the wagon and tossed Charlie’s bag of clothes beside him. As the Seguin children climbed into the wagon bed, Charlie’s eyes started streaming and he pleaded, “Pa, do I have to go?”

  Will picked him up and hugged him and said, “Hush, Charlie. We’ll both be safe. You know I have my job to do here, and you’ll go with the Seguins and all these other fine folks.” Will gestured toward Juan Seguin’s eldest daughter, Antonia, and said, “After all, all of these pretty ladies need brave lads, just like you, to keep them safe.”

  Charlie wiped the tears away with his arm and sniffled as he tried to put a brave face on for both his father and the girl a year older than himself, who sat down beside him, her feet dangling from the back of the wagon. Will smiled at his son, who at nine years of age, was growing into the image of his father. No matter how Will ransacked Travis’ memories, he couldn’t fathom how Travis could have so thoroughly abandoned his duties to his children and to their mother. He tousled the boys’ hair and stepped back as the wagon lurched forward, heading out of San Antonio to safety.

  As he watched the wagon roll away, carrying the child who was more son to him than the boy had ever been to his own father, a noise startled him from his reverie. He turned and saw Crockett stroll up beside him. The older man joined him and together they watched the wagon disappear around a corner, following the road eastward.

  “Not many things are harder to behold than watching them go when they’re so young, Buck. I spent so much time traveling, hunting, exploring, and yes, politicking, I never saw any of my children’s first steps.”

  Will glanced at his president and saw Crockett wearing a melancholy expression, watching each wagon roll out of the plaza, heading east, to safety. “I didn’t know, David. I’m sorry.”

  Crockett smiled, sadly. “I didn’t learn of my Polly’s death until weeks after it happened. Had I been the dutiful husband and father, I’d have been there. I don’t know if I could have stopped it, but at least she wouldn’t have died without hearing me tell her how much I loved her.”

  This wasn’t a side of Crockett he’d seen before. Uncertain what to say, he simply watched the last of the wagons roll around bend in the road.

  The silence lingered after the last wagon was gone. Clearing his throat, Will forced a jovial tone into his voice. “And here I thought you were escaping the family hearth to get away from all the trappings of family. I’d have never imagined the famous Davy Crockett going soft on me.”

  Crockett let out a loud harrumph. “Damned if I know if Davy Crockett is going soft, but David, well, David knows better to speak of himself in the third person.” Both men laughed, and turned to leave the plaza. Crockett was in a talkative mood, as they retrieved their horses. “I’ve spent less than half my life at home with Liza, the woman I love who gave me three beautiful children. My boy, Bob is almost twenty-two years old, and I barely know the man he’s becoming. Becky is nineteen years old and I’ve sent more suitors packing since she’s arrived than I’d ever dreamed of, as not a single one of them is worth spit. Hell, Buck, my youngest, Matilda ran off with her beau when Liza packed up the house to come here to Texas. That’s a kick in the pants. My own baby girl didn’t want to come out here with her family. I can’t tell you how much that hurt, Buck.”

  The last year and a half had allowed Will to get to know Crockett well. This was the first time he’d ever heard Crockett talk about his love for his family. The other times, it was jokes and fun. One benefit of soldiering Will had learned to appreciate over the past decade was it allowed him to keep his emotions at arm’s length. Out of his depth, Will reached over and put his hand on Crockett’s shoulder. “A wise man told me once, to be sure that I was right and then go ahead. I’d say he gave me good advice.”

  Crockett turned to Will, “Good advice, I would have been a better father had I taken it more often.”

  As they rode back to the Alamo, Crockett stopped on the wooden bridge over the San Antonio River. Water flowed quickly over the rocks and pebbles lining the river bed as it gurgled along. He looked down, watching the river flow by. Finally, he said, “I’m glad I came to Texas, Buck. It’s given me and now my family a chance for a fresh start. I know I can give them a better life here, if I don’t wind up killing every blasted ne’er-do-well who comes a-knocking on my door wanting to come courting for my Becky.”

  He nudged his horse along, and the river fell behind them as they approached the walls of the Alamo. “You know, General Travis, there’s one young ‘Buck’ that I know I wouldn’t object to should he come calling on my Becky.”

  Chapter 11

  Twenty-five-year-old Ben McCulloch pulled his horse out of the line of march, which allowed him to watch
the men of the Gonzales Military District kick up dust as they marched west, toward San Antonio. Forty mounted riflemen and a little more than a hundred men afoot had responded to General Travis’ command. He knew it should have been more, a lot more. As the elected officer responsible for maintaining the militia roll, it had fallen to him, as Major of Militia, to muster the district for military service. He was piqued by the poor response from the men of the district. More than four hundred men were listed on the militia roll, and far fewer than half had even bothered to answer the call to arms.

  When he wasn’t so angry, he tried to put himself into the shoes of those who hadn’t turned out. More than half the men who failed to show were married men with wives and children and they were relocating their families away from the frontier, to the east. Word had arrived at Gonzales a few days before the mobilization order that the Comanche had attacked a few farms west of a tiny hamlet on the Colorado River called Waterloo.

  As the last of his small force filed by, McCulloch edged back onto the road, following behind his command as they rode toward the Alamo.

  Later in the week, Major McCulloch watched as his men joined with the Militia districts of San Antonio, Goliad, Victoria, and Bastrop. They were deployed on the field south of the Alamo, a little more than five hundred men. They were a ragtag assortment, some few dressed in militia jackets of gray, but far more wearing the clothing of their civilian occupation. Their weapons were a hodgepodge of rifles, muskets, and shotguns. Many wore the fearsome Bowie knife at their belts.