Against All Odds

by Drew McGunn

  Becky gave a nod of appreciation at the Baptist pastor, “I want those children removed from Beaumont and the surrounding area. It’s only a matter of only weeks before fighting resumes.”

  The bishop’s chair squeaked as he leaned back, scratching gray stubble on his chin. “Gentlemen,” he said, looking at Ayres and Bains, “I don’t have the contacts you have among the Freemasons, but if you make an appeal for assistance, I believe they’ll listen to you. I have some small influence among recent immigrants, and I’ll see to it that labor is available for when you provide the material to repair the rest of the mission.”

  Becky beamed at the men on her committee. When they set their minds to a problem, they were good at finding solutions. There was only one other thing, they had to rescue the orphans in Beaumont before the war resumed.

  ***

  26 April 1853

  The springs beneath the wagon’s seat squealed in protest as Charlie slammed his backside onto the wooden slats. “We’ve got, what? A few days at best before the Allied army attacks. Sam, we should be training the other crews and planning how we’ll coordinate with the Signal Corps for what’s to come.”

  Sam Williams grabbed a handhold and propelled himself into the seat beside Charlie. “Tell that to General Johnston, Major. This came straight from him.”

  “That’s horse shit, Sam. This order came directly from my pa. Rather, Becky put my pa up to it.” Charlie modulated his voice into a falsetto, “Send Charlie after the orphans. It’s not like he’s doing anything other than floating around in a balloon all day.”

  Sam held his sides, laughing, “Is that what the First Lady sounds like? Sounds more like one of those Indian elephants I saw one time.”

  The wagon rolled away from the railroad terminus. A small town nestled the side of the Sabine River. Madison’s founders had aspirations of the sleepy hamlet becoming a port. Before the war, it was the last stop on the railroad out of Texas. Now, the few people who remained were those who refused to leave. Some were too pig-headed to go and others, unrepentant rebels, hoped to welcome the Southern Alliance’s return.

  “Take a left at that burned out building,” Sam said, looking up from a hand-drawn map.

  Charlie guided the mules pulling the wagon around the corner. “The orphans have been collected, right?”

  “Apparently, General Johnston’s had soldiers around Madison the past week, going through abandoned houses and outlying farms. We’re warehousing these kids at a church.”

  A few minutes later, Charlie pulled on the reins, “Merciful God. Will you look at that?”

  Less than a hundred paces away stood a dilapidated building. An unpainted steeple rose precariously above it and an iron cross hung by a loose bolt from the top of steeple. A soldier in butternut leaned on his rifle near the door.

  As he urged the mules forward, Charlie could hear high-pitched voices coming from the building. He pulled up next to the church and set the brake. As he climbed down from the buckboard, he heard a familiar voice, “The war must be lost if they’ve sent you to pick up these urchins.”

  Charlie turned, a smile lighting up his features, “Cuffee, you son of a bitch, I haven’t seen you since before the attack at Beaumont. You don’t look worse for wear.”

  The former slave raised the brim of his hat, “We gave as good as we got. And when those bastards across the river come a-calling, we’ll give ‘em even more hell.”

  “How’s Joe? Did he come through alright?”

  Cuffee shrugged, “Coulda been worse. He was hit in the leg. The surgeons managed to save the leg, but he’s back home with Hattie in San Antonio ‘til he’s able to come back.”

  The news was sobering, and Charlie paused at the church door. “I hadn’t heard. I’ll pass the news along to my pa.”

  The inside of the church was one large room. A podium at the front was on its side and light spilled into the room from the open windows. It smelled of unwashed bodies and waste.

  Wrinkling his nose, Charlie hurriedly counted heads before raising his voice, “Listen up. We’ve got room for the ten of you in the back of our wagon. You’re to be evacuated.”

  One boy rose from a stack of blankets. The way the other children looked at him told Charlie all he needed to know. The teen ran roughshod over the others.

  “We ain’t going anywhere with you. My pa’s on the other side of the river, and soon enough, he’ll be coming across the river and kicking y’all’s asses.”

  Charlie wanted to reach across the few feet separating them and strangle the mouthy teen. Had he ever been that bad?

  “No exceptions,” Charlie crossed his arms and glared at the teen. “If I have to pick you up and carry you to the wagon, you’ll be the sorriest boy in Madison. I’ll have the private with the rifle sit on you if I have to.”

  Fire burning in his eyes, the boy balled his fist and took a step forward, “I ain’t a-scared of—”

  In the distance, thunder echoed. The ground vibrated and a moment later, they heard a crashing noise nearby.

  Sam leaned in, through the door, “A shot just took out a tree. The Allies,” the name he’d taken to calling the Southern Alliance, “have opened fire.”

  A flicker of fear showed in the teen’s eyes. Another thump nearby, another round tore into the ground. The boy reached over and grabbed his blankets before hurrying by Charlie.

  ***

  Turning away from the window overlooking the Sabine River, General Jefferson Davis smiled appreciatively at the other men in the room, who stood around a table looking back at him, waiting.

  They could wait a few more minutes. He’d been waiting for them since assuming command of the Army of the Trans-Mississippi a month earlier, he wanted to savor the moment. He commanded the largest army assembled in North America, nearly fifty-thousand men on the eastern bank of the Sabine River. He felt buoyed as he studied the faces of the men who commanded the four divisions in two army corps.

  Despite replacing William Hardee as commander of the army, he’d felt the Southern Alliance’s political leadership had been unfair to the other general. Davis’ first act, once he took over, was to keep Hardee on staff. As the army had ballooned in size, he’d placed Hardee in command of the army’s I Corps.

  Davis’ eye twitched as he took the measure of the II Corps’ commander. While Alexander Swift had graduated from West Point more than twenty years earlier, he had retired to Louisiana, where he eventually rose through the ranks of the state militia. He was a favorite of several influential politicians. Was he merely a political general or was there more to Swift than met the eye? Davis didn’t want to find out in the heat of battle. He didn’t dwell on his own short service in the army after he graduated from West Point, nor that his role as Senator from Mississippi had as much to do with his commanding the army as his military service.

  Four more men crowded around the table. They were the division commanders. They were also West Pointers. Albert Blanchard commanded a division composed of Alabamans, Louisianans, and Missourians. Hugh Mercer’s division was mostly from Georgia and Tennessee. Edward Deas’ command came from South Carolina, Mississippi, Arkansas, and Florida. The last commander was Jones Withers, who commanded the army’s nine-thousand strong cavalry division.

  Running a hand down his gray double-breasted jacket, Davis joined his generals around the table, atop which lay a large map of the region. The Sabine River meandered down the center. Every regiment, all sixty, were represented by bright red pins. They formed a long line along one side of the river. Blue tipped pins representing each battalion of the Texian Army ran alongside the other bank of the river. There were far fewer blue pins than red.

  “Gentlemen,” Davis began, “Don’t let the sea of red pins color your perception of the coming battle. The star’s on Albert Sidney Johnston’s shoulder have been there for a decade. And he earned them the hard way. Before this, he commanded a brigade in Texas’ war with Mexico. And since Southern loyalists rebelled against Presi
dent Travis, General Johnston has commanded upwards of a division’s strength.”

  Alexander Swift interrupted him, “We outnumber the Texans two to one.”

  Davis ignored the dropped i, as was becoming common outside of the Republic, “General Beauregard outnumbered Johnston by an equal margin, General. That didn’t stop Johnston from dislodging him from fortified positions along the Trinity River last year.”

  Swift’s brow arched and his lips turned into a frown, “Sir, Johnston’s just a man, same as us. And his men are not Spartans.”

  “And neither are we the Persians.” Davis felt his temper slipping. He tamped down on his ire as he walked over to the drawing room’s wall. A rifle had been hung over the fireplace. He grabbed it off its hooks and turned back to Swift. “You’re right. Johnston’s men are just soldiers, not that different than the men we will lead into battle on the morrow. But his men will be armed with this.”

  He thrust the rifle into Swift’s hands. Below the rifle’s breech the trigger guard could be snapped open, dropping the breechblock, and exposing the chamber. “The average soldier can fire six to eight rounds a minute. I’ve been told some have even been able to fire twelve or more. This is their equalizer. With this, they can give us a tough fight tomorrow.”

  Back at the map, Davis pointed to a spot between the two armies on the Sabine. “We will use our numbers and the fact that Johnston has to cover a wide front against him. We’ve prepared a hundred barges for the attack. They’ll be able to deliver three thousand men to a single point on the other side of the river.”

  Silent until now, Hardee said, “We’ve been training near Lake Charles for the past week, sir. The hard part is going to be stringing the cable between the two banks at a hundred points.”

  Davis cocked his head, as though thinking, “It may be difficult, but it is essential. For every cable ferry we put into operation across the river the faster we’ll be able to get your division across. I want General Blanchard’s division across within an hour.”

  “We’ve built in a bit of time,” Hardee said, “Once they’re across, I’ll start sending General Mercer’s division over. You know, if you can’t get enough artillery focused on the enemy line where we’ll attack, resistance may be very high.”

  A smile crossed Davis’ face, “Bill, across the meadow from here, atop for what passes for hills in this flat, mosquito-infested land, I’ve placed ten batteries of guns. They’ll soon commence firing on the enemy lines. By tomorrow morning, when your boys start across the river, they’ll be joined by another fifteen batteries.”

  Davis turned his attention to General Swift, “I want most of General Deas’ division to support the attack, along their section of the front. Those of your men with rifled muskets should be able to target the enemy’s trenches.”

  Swift eyed the markers on the map, “I’ve only got two of Deas’ brigades, sir. I’d like my South Carolinians back before the attack.”

  The next part was the riskiest; Davis had agonized over the decision, but now that he was issuing orders, he wouldn’t second guess himself any longer. Still looking at Swift, he said, “You’ll get them. Just not there.” Davis pointed to the map where the attack was scheduled to happen. He then pointed to the map’s edge. “I want you and General Withers to take his cavalry. Twenty miles north, I’ve assembled more barges, outside of the view of the damnable balloons the enemy have taken to using to spy on us. They’re guarded by Lamont’s South Carolinians. Cross over the river with Withers’ Division and Lamont’s brigade and turn Johnston’s left flank.”

  A wall clock chimed the top of the hour. Davis glanced at it and said, “Gentlemen, we must wrap up this campaign against Johnston’s army soon. The Yankees haven’t decided how to respond to our independence. If they decide they want us to return to the fold, tails between our legs, we need to be able to shift this army north.”

  As the clock gave forth a final chime, the windows rattled as the field guns opened fire. Davis turned away from the map and stared out the window. “It has begun.”

  ***

  A round plowed into the ground less than a hundred feet away as Charlie snapped a whip over the mules’ heads, “Faster, damn you!”

  The wagon was packed with the children from the abandoned church. Sam held a small child in his lap as he clutched the edge of his seat. “Careful, Major. Do you want me to drive?”

  Charlie hazarded a look young Williams. Through gritted teeth, he said, “Want to trade seats?”

  The wagon sank into a chuck hole, jostling everyone in the cart. Cries from the back erupted. “Just get us there safely, Charlie,” Sam said as he held his small charge tighter.

  In the back of his mind, Charlie realized the son of one of his father’s oldest friends had called him by his name instead of his rank. That hadn’t happened since the army mobilized the students at Trinity College. Breaking away from his reverie, Charlie focused on the animals pulling the wagon. As they approached the intersection to the road leading to the railhead, he pulled on the reins, praying they would slow down enough to make the turn.

  Wood squealed against wood as he grabbed the brake bar and pulled on it. With his other hand, he gripped the reins and tugged to the left. As the wagon careened onto the intersecting road, the wheels on Charlie’s side of the wagon came off the ground. From the back, Cuffee was swearing and praying while the children screamed.

  The wheels slammed back onto the roadbed, and Charlie let out a sigh of relief as he realized he’d been holding his breath as they had turned the corner. In the distance, he saw a locomotive, black smoke boiling out of its chimney.

  “Hurry, sir. That train ain’t going to wait for long.” Sam screamed, as one of the wheels found another chuckhole.

  In a nearby field, dirt erupted into the sky, and a cannonball bounded into the air before plowing into a small pond.

  A shell airburst over the train, raining down shrapnel on the men below. As Charlie brought the team of mules to a stop, screams tore through the air, and the iron smell of blood assaulted his senses. Toward the back of the train, a boxcar was open, and several children were being lifted by soldiers and tossed into the car.

  Charlie felt a tap on his shoulder, “Them’s my boys,” Cuffee said, pointed at the ebon-skinned soldiers from the 21st Infantry, who stood guard by the open sliding door. Securing the brake, Charlie leapt down and helped Sam, Cuffee, and the other soldiers load the children.

  A shell detonated on the other side of the boxcar, peppering the side with shrapnel. There were screams from inside the car. Charlie clambered into the dimly lit space, “Is anyone hurt? Check the person next to you, as well.”

  A chorus of “No’s” greeted him, and he climbed down as the wheels on the boxcar began to roll. Charlie stepped back as Cuffee slammed the door to the boxcar.

  A shell exploded in the middle of the Y turnabout. Charlie followed the train with his eyes as it disappeared into the west. He grabbed Cuffee by the neck and gave him a fierce hug, “Take care of yourself, my friend. There’s a storm coming.”

  Chapter 18

  29 April 1853

  His eyes popped open. Sleep eluded Major Jesse Running Creek. A shell exploded nearby. He had no idea how many shots and shells the enemy had thrown across the river since starting their barrage. It must have been thousands of rounds. He stretched and climbed to his feet. He could see over the rifle pit’s lip. Inky darkness, punctuated by winks of light from the other side of the river, greeted his tired eyes.

  From behind the lines, Texian artillery responded. The Southern Alliance’s grand battery was well situated to fire on the Texian lines. The guns were shielded behind wooden and earthen walls. Staring at them the previous day had reminded Jesse, the enemy had within its ranks more than a few engineers, graduates of the United States Military Academy at West Point, the premier engineering school in North America.

  Over the years since Texas formed the Cadet Corps at the Alamo, Jesse had spent a few seasons
educating the cadets on the Rangers’ small unit tactics and how to use those tactics to take the initiative on the battlefield. Texas’ military academy focused on combined armed tactics, using infantry, cavalry, and artillery. A few officers in the army’s engineering command had been trained at West Point, under an agreement between the two nations.

  Another shell detonated nearby. Shrapnel rained down on another rifle pit’s wooden cover. Jesse felt a presence beside him. “Major, why don’t you try to get some rest. I’ll keep an eye on things for you.”

  Jesse glanced at Sergeant Major Judah Andrade, the battalion’s senior non-commissioned officer, “I’ve got a feeling, Sergeant. The barrage has increased over the last hour.”

  Andrade stared into the darkness, “Yes, sir. And if anything changes, I’ll let you know.”

  Jesse handed the sergeant his binoculars and crouched down next to a youth who was leaning over a wooden box. “I think the line’s been cut again.”

  A feeble light illuminated the cumbersome telegraph machine and the young face of its operator, Billy Vandergrift. Like several of his fellow students at Trinity College, the youth was a skilled telegraph operator. “I can check the wire between here and the Twentieth. See if there’s a break.”

  Jesse eyed the copper wire running from the box out the back of the pit. The idea the army could use telegraph machines to stay connected had sounded like a grand idea when he’d first heard about it. But the practice wasn’t living up to the ideal. Young Vandergrift had been forced on many occasions to repair the line, even though it only ran a couple hundred yards to the secondary line, where the 20th Infantry was stationed.

  He weighed the risk against the need and eventually nodded, “Be careful. If the Allies attack, we need to know.”

  Once Vandergrift scampered out the back, Jesse leaned against the earthen wall and sank down until he rested on an ammunition box. His eyes closed, and he fell asleep.