by Drew McGunn
McCulloch glanced down at his pocket watch and saw it was time. He yelled, “By the left face! March!”
***
The men who styled themselves as the 2nd Texas provisional Infantry shifted from parade rest to columns of four men each, and began marching past the ten-foot-tall southern wall of the Alamo. Will stood on top of the wall, above the gatehouse. It was all he could do to keep the disappointment from his face as he saluted Major McCulloch’s command. Between the five military districts, which had been mobilized, their paper strength was over twelve hundred men. But only five hundred had answered the call, and nearly half of them had been from the San Antonio district. Goliad, Victoria, and Bastrop each had sent around thirty men or so.
With a neutral expression on his face, Will couldn’t stop thinking the poor turn-out bade ill for Texas the next time Mexico decided to invade. Given the poor state of the militia, he was glad there were six hundred regulars already assembled at the Alamo. Standing next to Will were Lt. Colonel Johnston and President Crockett. As the militia finished their parade in honor of the president, Will turned to the other men and said, “Only four out of ten men mobilized. I don’t want to minimize the challenge posed by the Comanche, but what will this kind of turn out mean to us when we face an existential threat from Mexico?”
“Nothing good,” replied Johnston. “Their drill is nearly non-existent, and we just can’t trust them to turn out in significant enough numbers as to be useful.”
Crockett shook his head, “I’m not sure if I should ask you what you have in mind or how much this is going to cost me, Buck.”
Will smiled contritely, “I’m just thinking out loud about taking a small number of our better militia units and turn them into something that organizationally would fall between the regulars and the militia. Kind of a national guard, of sorts.”
Crockett blanched, “That could get expensive real quick like.”
“David, look at those boys out there. If they’re defending San Antonio, they might be alright, I know a few of them were with Ben Milam when he took the city away from Cos two years ago, but I don’t trust their training to commit them to a standup fight against the Comanche, even less if they’re called to face the Mexicans in a pitched battle.” Will turned to Johnston. “Sid, how many men are enrolled throughout our entire militia?”
“Maybe a bit over five thousand men, General.”
Will nodded at Crockett while waving at Johnston. “See, David. Maybe this year or next, we just set aside an equal amount of men as guardsmen as are regular. They’re volunteers, part of the militia, when it comes right down to it, but we could equip them and train them, and even more importantly, give them professional officers. No more turning an election for officers into a popularity contest.”
Crockett still remained skeptical, “The fly in the ointment is cost. We already spend a half million each year on the army. Asking anything more of Congress may be asking them to swallow an alligator. How much would this cost us?”
Will glanced over at Johnston, who pulled a scrap of paper from his vest pocket, and opened it. “This is purely hypothetical, Mr. President, but for a thousand guardsmen each year, you’d be looking at eighty thousand dollars give or take a bit.”
Crockett chuckled as he looked askance at the two officers. “Eighty thousand dollars here and another eighty thousand dollars there and soon enough you’re talking about real money.”
***
The lieutenant lifted his black, wide-brimmed hat from his face with one hand and wiped away the sweat from his face with a red checkered handkerchief. His charcoal black hair had streaks of grey shooting through it. Summer, it appeared, had arrived early in south Texas. Lieutenant Gregorio Esparza had ridden with Juan Seguin since before the Revolution and after victory over Santa Anna had stayed in the cavalry. At first it was out of loyalty to his friend, the land grants in lieu of pay wasn’t anything his wife, Ana had much use for. He had lost track of the number of times she had asked him how to prepare the land grants for dinner. But when the government started paying in cotton-backs at the beginning of the year, she stopped complaining.
New reports had trickled in over the previous couple of days regarding Comanche raids on homesteads on the Colorado River, to the north. Esparza’s platoon of twenty cavalry were deployed in two squads of ten men each. His men had been mounted since before dawn and were keeping a watchful eye on the fords, along the Guadeloupe River, where the trails led north from San Antonio.
Esparza and the squad with which he rode, watched a ford which had cedar elms growing along its banks, as well as various shrubs. There was more cover along the opposite bank than he liked, and he turned to the squad’s sergeant, Gustav Fredericks, saying, “Sergeant, you see that elm on the other side of the river? All that scrub brush so close to the ford bothers me. What do you think about putting a couple of our men opposite it. Putting some guns on the right spot on this side could negate anything coming from the other side.”
Fredericks gave a precise salute, and with a thick German accent, said, “Yes, sir, Lieutenant. Private Garcia, come with me.”
The sergeant followed the wagon ruts down the river bank, scouting positions where he could place his men into cover. Several arrows arced out of the very area Esparza was studying. Unlike many cavalry troopers, the sergeant was a large man and two arrows took him in the chest, flipping him off the back of his saddle, in a somersault, where he landed on the river bank with a bone-jarring thud. Private Garcia wheeled his horse around and ducked his head low against animal’s neck. Arrows sped over his head as he dug his heels into his mount, beating a hasty retreat toward Esparza and the rest of the squad.
From the northern side of the Guadeloupe River, more than a dozen Comanche warriors plunged their horses into the shallow water, as they screamed insults and waved muskets, bows, spears, and clubs at the troopers. Esparza grabbed his carbine, and confirmed that the percussion cap was in place. There were more than enough targets to pick from. What was the expression used by General Travis? Target rich environment. But when he saw a warrior rise from behind the brush, he inferred he was seeing Sgt. Fredericks’ murderer. He raised his rifle at the same time the warrior drew back his bow, aiming at the retreating private. Both weapons fired at the same time. Both aimed true. As Private Garza jolted in his saddle with the arrow’s impact, the bullet struck the warrior in the throat, spraying blood as the carotid artery was severed. The warrior tumbled into the shallow water, dead before his body splashed in the river.
An arrow protruding from his back, Private Garza managed to guide his horse back to the squad. Esparza grabbed the private’s reins and turned. “Let’s get moving, boys! Let’s find the other squad and send these bastards back across the river.” With that, he dug his spurred heels into his horse’s flanks and urged it to a gallop. The other seven troopers raced after the officer. Each effort to veer back to the river was met with a shower of arrows, driving them to the southwest, toward San Antonio. Glancing behind him every few minutes, he saw more than a score of Comanche spread out behind him and his men. As a pointed reminder, they were racing for their lives, every few minutes, one of the warriors let loose an arrow, which fell behind him and his men.
As the race lengthened, he lost count of the number of arrows shot from the Comanche still pursuing his squad of men. Esparza guessed his men had been riding hard for at least thirty minutes when to his right, he heard the sweet sound of hurried bugle note. A quarter mile away he spied a half dozen troopers from his other squad. Behind them, he saw even more Comanche warriors pressing them. He pointed toward the other squad and angled his own horse toward his other men. A short while later, he and his men combined with the other half dozen troopers, as the remnants of the platoon came together.
As the two small groups merged, the fourteen troopers urged their horses to greater speeds. The band of warriors chasing Espinoza’s squad was joined by an even larger group of Comanche, who were hard on the other squa
d’s heels. Even as their mounts ate away the miles, the horses grew fatigued. A hurried look behind showed the Comanche warriors mounted on their sturdy mustangs. As his own platoon’s speed seemed to slow, with their mounts’ exhaustion, the warriors’ arrows no long fell short. Now they landed amid his diminished force.
Lieutenant Esparza felt his mount shudder and stumble. He looked behind him and saw an arrow protruding from his horse’s rump. His mount took several more strides before the front legs collapsed. As his horse crashed hard into the ground, Esparza, the son and grandson of vaqueros, used every skill he possessed to leap clear from his horse. As his body slammed into the ground, he tucked his chin into his shoulder and let his momentum carry him forward as he careened along the ground.
With only a moment before the Comanche would overrun him, he drew his revolver, and aimed it at the nearest warrior and squeezed the trigger. The pain in his arm shot through him and his aim was off. Instead of hitting the warrior, the bullet struck the horse squarely in the forehead. As the animal collapsed, the Comanche was flung head first over the horse’s head. Landing just a few yards away from Esparza, the Lieutenant heard the loud pop of a bone cracking. The warrior rolled to one side, and as he attempted to spring up, his left leg collapsed. Behind the warrior, Esparza saw a wave of Comanche approaching. He resolved to sell his life dearly, knowing he only had a few seconds to dispatch as many as he could. He resolved to start with the one before him. Esparza drew down upon him and before he could pull the trigger, a hole exploded in the warrior’s chest and he fell dead.
Most of the other men of the Esparza’s command had turned around and came back for their commander. A dozen of his troopers had dismounted and ran up behind him. In their hands, they carried their carbines. As they joined him, they fired at the rapidly approaching Comanche, emptying saddles. Rather than ride in among the Texians, they wheeled to the right and left and returned fire, sending arrows into the midst of the troopers. Esparza fired again and again at the Comanche as they completed their encirclement of his tiny island of troopers. When the hammer slammed down on an empty chamber, he turned and saw several of his men were down, arrows sticking from their bodies.
One of the fallen still had his pistol in its holster. He lunged for it, feeling an icy tingling along his spine as an arrow sped through the air, inches above his back. He yanked the pistol from the dead man’s holster and seeing the weapon was loaded, turned back to face the rain of death falling among his men. Now with half the command down, the Comanche were emboldened in their attack. He saw one warrior toss his bow onto his back and lower a lance as he dug his heels into his mount, flinging both rider and horse toward Esparza and his men. The Lieutenant pointed the pistol at the charging warrior and sent round after round at the charging foe, finally sending the warrior tumbling from the saddle. The horse veered to the right, as the Comanche warrior rolled to a stop at Esparza’s feet.
What seemed like an eternity had been less a couple of minutes. He stood with two remaining troopers, firing at the charging Comanche warriors. What had started as a wave of Comanche warriors, lapping around the tiny island of Texian soldiers, crested and swamped the island. Only the sea of warriors remained.
***
A tsunami’s wave eventually crests, and the wave of warriors who overwhelmed the island of Texian cavalry, carried forward, leaving the obliterated remains in its wake. Spirit Talker and several of warriors who were veterans of twenty or more winters of warfare, first against the Mexicans and now the Texians, approached the carnage. More than a dozen of the Texian cavalry were dead, but they died hard. He saw just as many of the People’s warriors broken upon the ground. These warriors would never ride again, and their wives and children would mourn for their husbands and fathers. Spirit Talker remembered his own youth and recalled his own disdain for such thoughts. But now, with so many winters behind him now, such a loss hung heavy. Not only for the dead did he mourn, but for every dead warrior there was another too badly wounded to carry forward the fight. They too would burden the People, unable to raid, to collect more horses from the Texians and Mexicans.
As Spirit Talker rode through the site of the battle, he saw the troopers carried pistols, just as deadly as those used by the hated Rangers. This was unfortunate. If all the Texians on horse now used these pistols, how could the People stand against them? In addition to the pistols, he noted the muskets carried by the troopers were different than those for which the People had traded. One of his men held it and looked it over carefully. As Spirit Talker watched, he flipped a trigger under the gun and an iron block slid open at the breech of the gun. With his finger, the old warrior felt down the opening and grunted in realization. “It’s where they put the bullet and powder.”
The old peace chief shook his head. He had never seen the like. “What does it mean, Night Owl?”
The warrior closed the breech and pointed the gun at some imagined target across the prairie before replying. “They can fire these guns faster than before. I don’t know how much faster, but enough that it worries me.”
Without needing to give an order, Spirit Talker watched as his men collected both the pistols and the carbines from the dead. “We need to learn more about these weapons. The Texians have changed the rules by which they are fighting. Even if we win today, we will eventually be overwhelmed if we don’t learn about these changes.”
As the veteran warriors rode on, following after the blooded warriors now a couple of miles ahead, Spirit Talker worried. He had advocated peace to the various bands. Had told them it was better to trade away their many prisoners and reclaim those of the People now held in San Antonio. But the younger war-chiefs wanted blood for blood. Too many of the People had been killed in the recent incursion by the Texian army for the People to seek peace. The new musket worried Spirit Talker and he wondered what they would find when they reached San Antonio.
***
The sun had climbed high into the eastern sky as noon approached, but Will had been up since before dawn. He had made the decision to relocate Major McCulloch’s militia from the field west of the Alamo to the northern side of San Antonio. Since the revolution’s end more than a year earlier, the town had grown and the development north of the plaza was exposed to both the northern and western approaches. Will knew McCulloch was at work turning newly constructed houses on the north side of town into fortified bastions, given the number of people who had rode to the Alamo, complaining the militia were turning their homes into forts. The number of complainants would have been much higher if most of San Antonio hadn’t heeded the command to evacuate.
One such time, found Will working with Lt. Colonel Johnston, as they studied a map of the Alamo complex and the surrounding land. The corral which played host to the misery which was the imprisoned Comanche women and old men, had been prominently drawn on the map. As the two officers discussed tactis, two well-to-do looking men approached. When the older of the two spoke, he had a clipped upper-class English accent. “What in heaven’s name are you thinking, letting that rabble in San Antonio, tear into our homes? Barely completed, and they’ve smashed my windows and dug up my Libby’s azaleas. This is a travesty. What are you going to do about it?”
Will’s eyes blazed, as he turned to face the foreign-born man. Before he could respond the other man spoke. He was younger by at least a decade from his companion. In a soft Georgian drawl, he added, “General, we have been turned out of our homes by your militia. Not only that, but your officer has purloined my property and has put my slaves to work without compensation.”
Will snapped at the two men. “Why didn’t either of you answer the militia’s call? You’re both of age.” Before either man could respond, he continued, “Failing that, why didn’t you evacuate when the alcalde ordered the evacuation of civilians?”
The Englishman replied, “And leave my new home unprotected, I won’t countenance any such thing! And now your militia have ruined it.”
“Then I suggest you retur
n and defend it with them, sir.” Will’s voice dripped with scorn.
The foreign-born man huffed and stormed off, cursing Will to any who would listen.
The Georgian stayed in place. “What about my property, General?”
Will found resisting the urge to strike the civilian hard, but finally managed to reply, “If your property survives the coming battle, I’m sure Major McCulloch will return them to you. If you’re concerned about your property, my suggestion is the same to you as it was to your friend there,” he pointed to the retreating back of the Englishman, “join with the militia to defend your homes. Now if you’ll forgive me, I have a battle to plan.”
After the two civilians left, Will shook his head and looked back to the map. No sooner had he and Lt. Colonel Johnston identified each company’s position than a cry from above the gatehouse broke their attention. As Will looked up he saw a lone rider galloping through the gates. The horseman, wearing the same butternut uniform of both infantry and cavalry, saw Will and Johnston as they made their way toward the gate, and he pulled his mount up before them and saluted, “Corporal Ambrose Davis, reporting. A Troop. Esparza’s platoon, sir! We was attacked by lots of Comanche, sir! I think I’m the only one to get away, General. The Comanche, they’re on their way!”
Chapter 12
As the trooper’s words echoed in his ear, Will’s thoughts flew to Major McCulloch’s militia on the northern part of town. The trooper was spent from his ride, but the town needed to be warned. He cast about, trying to find Captain Seguin. The Tejano officer ran toward them once he spotted the winded trooper. Before Will could issue any orders, Seguin cried, “Corporal Davis, where the hell is Lieutenant Esparza and the rest of your platoon?”
For the second time in as many minutes, Davis relayed the information. As Seguin stood there, slack jawed, trying to accept a quarter of the regular cavalry had been wiped out by the Comanche, Will interjected, “Juan, get one of your men over to Major McCulloch. I want him to know they’re on their way!”
