by Drew McGunn
“General, according to the map, we’ve got another five miles or so until we hit the enemy’s northern flank.”
Lamont turned, his nephew, newly promoted Captain Elliott Brown followed behind him. Since taking command of the South Carolina brigade, Lamont had made sure to keep his nephew close at hand; the young man still bubbled with youthful exuberance, but if anything happened to Brown, Lamont’s sister wouldn’t forgive him.
Two, maybe three more hours before they’d be able to close with the enemy’s flank. Not trusting the sun, hidden above the trees’ foliage, he looked at his pocket watch. It would be between five and six in the afternoon before they could attack. There’d only have an hour or two of light left. He didn’t like it. He’d heard old soldiers talk about night-time fights against the Seminoles. He pursed his lips and decided he wasn’t going to think about it.
A few minutes later an officer came racing back, weaving through the trees, “General, up ahead, there’s a balloon in the sky!”
There was nothing on the map about enemy troops being between him and the enemy fortifications on the Sabine. He swung into his saddle, “Let’s take a gander, captain.”
As his mount cantered after the officer, he yelled over his shoulder, “Captain Brown, relay the message to Generals Swift and Withers.”
A bit later, Lamont grimaced as he stared at the observation balloon floating over the forest, through a break in the trees. His South Carolinian skirmishers waited for the order to advance, but there was no doubt the balloon wasn’t alone. The question was, how many men defended the position?
“General Lamont, what’s the delay?” A voice barked.
Lamont wheeled his horse around and saluted General Swift. “The Texans have eyes in the sky, sir.”
Swift pulled a spyglass from a saddlebag and trained it on the balloon. He snapped the telescoping lens closed, “So much for surprise. Send your skirmishers forward, General Lamont. Maybe we can capture the balloon.”
Given his orders, Lamont dug his heels into his mount’s flank and drew even with his skirmishers. “Up, boys! There’s abolitionist scum ahead. Let’s show those bastards Southern steel and lead.”
Moments later, rifle-fire echoed through the woods. The battle was joined.
Chapter 19
Charlie gripped the frayed end of the tether and cursed. The observation balloon drifted on the wind. In the fading light, the Sabine River seemed to recede ever so slightly as he watched boats continue to ferry the Southern Alliance’s soldiers across.
Sam interrupted his thoughts, “Major, we’re gaining altitude. Should we open the vent?”
Charlie’s companion stood next to his telegraph machine, peering over the side. The four tethering ropes slapped against the basket, free of their mooring more than a thousand feet below. Beads of sweat glistened above the youth’s brow, even with the wind’s chilled kiss. Despite that, his voice remained steady.
Charlie glanced at the silk ribbon, sealing the vent closed. “Not yet. We’re floating away from the river. In the right direction.”
“That’s shit,” Sam swore. “The right direction is back the other way. We had those bastards pinned in. By all rights, we should have pushed them back into the river.”
Grabbing the rope connecting the basket to the balloon, Charlie couldn’t help but agree. We should have held the line. Instead, he said, “The messages you received, before our secondary trench line fell, made me think they must have hit the northern flank with ten thousand soldiers or more. We had, what? Two thousand cavalry watching the flank.”
Sam went to the other side of the basket and looked below, “I wonder if the Southern Allies had that Forrest fellow leading their flank attack. He’s plum crazy.”
Charlie shuddered. The Texian cavalry brigade tasked with holding back the flank included John Brown’s former command. “God help those New York boys if Forrest’s men were part of the flanking attack. They had a vicious grudge to settle.” He considered his comment and then added, “God help our northern observation balloon, Sam. Did you see it over the cavalry?”
The young telegraph operator gazed into the twilight, “No. But the center collapsed, and we lost our signal.” He turned around in a circle, scanning the sky. “At least our other two balloons are still with us.”
“As long as the wind holds.”
“You want to set down at the camp outside Beaumont?” Sam asked.
“Yeah. It’ll be dark before then. We’ll start our descent when we see the Neches,” The brilliant red, gold, orange and purple sunset was fading. “If we can see the Neches,” he amended.
As the sky grew dark, the ground behind them still flashed with lights, like a million fireflies. Every now and then the wind would carry the sound of cannon and gunfire. Sam leaned against the basket’s edge next to Charlie, “I thought the whole army was in retreat. I guess I was wrong.”
Charlie clasped his hands, helpless to do anything other than float on the wind. “From the sound of it, whoever is holding our line is giving as good as they get.”
***
Major Jesse Running Creek eyed the heavy-laden ambulance on the road nearby. Cries from the wounded resounded through the night. Lanterns hung on the front of the wagon and the four-mule team pulling it struggled against their harnesses. I wonder how many trips they’ve made today?
Gunshots echoed in the night, and Jesse peered into the inky darkness. Indiscernible voices drifted through the forest. He groaned in exhaustion before he raised his voice, “Look alive, Rangers! We need to hold the enemy for a bit and let the ambulance get away.”
Jesse scrounged around in the bottom of his cartridge box until his fingers grasped onto one of the few remaining rounds and levered it into his rifle and waited. The treetops overhead obscured the moon, reducing visibility to only a few dozen feet. Out of the gloom, two specters emerged. Against the darkness, their jackets could have been gray or butternut. The two colors were more alike than Jesse wanted to admit. Say what you will, he thought, you’re not going to mistake a Marine’s jacket for an Allied soldier’s.
He threw the butt of his rifle to his shoulder and fired. Another rifle cracked nearby, and both men fell where they stood. Jesse couldn’t tell if they were dead or simply gone to ground. But nobody returned fire.
Jesse chanced a look to either side and of the nine hundred men in the Army’s Ranger battalion, all he could see were a handful. As he chambered one of his last rounds, he thought back over the past few hours. The first sign something had gone amiss came when a runner from the 20th Infantry raced over to Jesse’s rifle pit out of breath. He panted that their left flank was exposed and the battalion holding that flank was in headlong retreat. Jesse hurried back to the second trench line and heard rumors that allied cavalry were behind the lines in force.
Feeling he had no choice, Jesse sent a runner to find the Ranger battalion’s colonel and report that he was pulling his wing of the battalion back to the secondary line, abandoning their rifle pits. The 20th drew back a few hundred yards as the Rangers populated their trench. It was too little, too late, Jesse realized as he saw enemy soldiers working around his unit’s flank.
As the Rangers retreated, the gun-crews handling the 4-gun Gatling battery fell back, too, pulling the gun carriages with ropes and backbreaking effort. Leapfrogging backward, the Rangers and the men from the 20th Infantry held the enemy at bay, allowing other units, more battered than they, to retreat.
Throughout the tumultuous evening, the closest the Rangers were to being overwhelmed came during their defense of the Republic’s grand battery. They held their position in front of the battery long enough for every gun to be limbered and for teams of horses to be brought forward. Apart from a couple of field pieces too severely damaged, the gun-crews managed to extract every field piece assigned to the grand battery.
The line held for more than thirty minutes. The Rangers used every stump, tree, and gully, every imperfection in the terrain for cover, as
caissons and gun carriages rolled away on the other side of the makeshift barricade that had sheltered the gun crews until moments before. But at a cost. When the allied soldiers finally flanked Jesse’s defensive position, the Rangers left dozens of men behind, never to rise again.
The memory of that moment several hours earlier seared itself in Jesse’s mind. And now, as he and his men waited for the ambulance to get moving, he couldn’t help wondering why the enemy hadn’t stopped their attack when night fell. While his men had spent hundreds of hours training for night combat, it was an unusual skill, and he was perplexed the Allied soldiers were still pushing against Jesse’s rear guard. Had General Davis lost control of his men after dark or was he trying to break Johnston’s rearguard to destroy the Texian army?
Minutes passed as he peered into the dark, expecting more soldiers to follow up on the attack launched by the two unfortunate souls lying a few yards away. Apart from gunfire in the distance and the sounds of voices no longer drawing closer, Jesse slung his rifle onto his shoulder and called out, as softly as he could, “The ambulance is gone, let’s go.”
***
6 May 1853
Will leaned over the injured soldier and pinned the purple ribbon to the pillow. The recipient, a Tejano who offered a weak smile at his commander-in-chief, lay on the cot.
Will returned to the end of the bed where Juan Seguin and George Fisher waited. Will came to attention and saluted the injured soldier, “A grateful nation thanks you for your sacrifice, Private Gonzales.”
To Will’s trained eye, the metal pinned to the pillow, called the Order of the Alamo, looked nearly identical to the one he recalled from his memories as the Purple Heart. In the early years after the transference, when he was still a soldier, he’d informally created the medal and issued it to every soldier, sailor or Marine injured in combat. Once he won the presidency, one of Will’s first acts was to formalize the award. It was the least Texas could do for her injured warriors.
And there were so many of them. Will’s back ached from bending over so many cots. Still, it was a small price to pay. He took another ribbon from Seguin and pinned it next to the head of the man on the next cot. A blue jacket was draped over the back of a camp chair next to the cot. A pair of riding boots were under the camp bed. The man lying there had a linen bandage wrapped around his head. His eyes fluttered open. He focused on Will.
“You’re not Mary Lou.” His voice was dry as sandpaper.
Will offered a smile, “No. I imagine she’s much better looking.”
The soldier’s eyes dilated, and he closed them for a moment. When he opened them again, he said, “Sweet Lord above, my head is killing me.”
One of the hospital’s surgeons was in Will’s retinue. He stepped forward and said, “Private Allen has a nasty concussion. Thank God, he’s got a hard head; otherwise, that bullet might have killed him instead of bouncing off it.”
“What’s your unit, son?” Will had pressed a lot of flesh and kissed plenty of babies since shedding his uniform. He’d learned the art of showing interest in whomever he spoke with. He leaned in as he addressed the injured man.
“First New York Cavalry.”
Will’s thoughts flitted back to Austin, where in his mind, he saw John Brown sitting in a jail cell waiting for a trial that might never come. It was, Will knew, a violation of due process. Under Texian law, Brown had the right to a speedy trial and to face his accusers. But a trial would be public and could damage Texas’ reputation in the United States, should a jury find him guilty. Winning the war was more important than protecting Brown’s rights. It’s not like Brown protected the rights of the men he killed, Will thought.
He patted the trooper on the lower leg, “Texas owes the people of New York a debt of gratitude, Private Allen. We’re thankful y’all came to our defense. The First was with our cavalry brigade north of the front, right?”
The soldier winced as he nodded.
Will said, “What do you recall happened when the enemy attacked your position?”
After taking a sip of water offered by an orderly, Private Allen said, “We first knew something was wrong when we heard gunshots just north of our position. Our pickets ran back into camp telling us every demon of hell was behind them. Those Southern boys weren’t no demons, but they were running behind our pickets fast. The first wave was almost on us when our officers ordered us to stand to, and after that, it became an ugly brawl.”
The soldier closed his eyes. Will could see him fighting off the pain.
Will said, “Get some rest, trooper. Thank you for sharing.”
The private’s eyes opened again, “We gave as good as we got, sir. But there were just so many of them.” He pointed to his bandage, “I got this after the First joined the retreat. We were ordered to hold a line along a creek, to allow another battalion time to pull back. We held until we were told to fall back, the traitors didn’t force us New York boys back a second time, no sir.”
The soldier’s eyes closed. A moment later, his chest rose and fell in a regular pattern. He had fallen back asleep.
After touring the makeshift hospital housed in one of West Liberty’s cotton warehouses, Will led Vice President Juan Seguin and George Fisher, Secretary of War back to the train depot, where they climbed aboard the presidential car.
No sooner had they sat than Seguin picked up an old argument, “Buck, give the order, and I’ll tell the train’s engineers to turn us around and head back to Austin.”
Will scowled. “We’ve already been over this, Juan. More than a thousand men were killed, and thousands more are overwhelming our hospitals. Our defeat on the Sabine is the greatest setback our Republic has ever endured. Worse even than Woll’s invasion back in forty-two. There are upwards of fifty-thousand Southern soldiers on our side of the border.”
Secretary of War Fisher interrupted Seguin’s response, “Closer to forty thousand now, but Vice President Seguin is right, sir. In chess, you don’t needlessly risk your king.”
Will fumed. He needed them to understand, he couldn’t order thousands of men to their deaths and stay safely back in Austin. “The soldiers defending their homes, farms, and towns need to know they’re not alone and that the government has their backs. Our presence in Beaumont will bolster their morale, gentlemen.”
Seguin put the stopper back into the decanter and used the drinking glass to swirl around the amber liquid, “Unless an Allied sharpshooter gets lucky and decapitates the head of our government.”
Will grimaced at the image before sending a sharp look at his number two. “That’s why I picked you, Juan. There’s nobody better suited to take over the executive than you. Look, none of us are indispensable. If any of us died today, the government would carry on.”
He tasted the lie on his lips and decided he could live with the taste. He knew the world since the transference was entirely different than the history with which he grew up. If he died, he was uncertain Texas could survive on its own, despite the ripples to the timeline he’d introduced. As he thought of tens of thousands of enemy soldiers spilling over the border from Louisiana, he decided the ripples had turned into waves. If something happened to him, Texas likely would be swamped. Still, he couldn’t help it, he had to see the front. He knew the men serving in the Texian army needed to understand their commander-in-chief would share their dangers.
He shook his head, “I appreciate your concern. Once we’ve inspected the defensive position at Beaumont, we’ll return to Austin.”
***
13 April 1853
Ignoring the clattering of the coach’s iron-rimmed wheels over the wooden planking of the Long Bridge between the District of Columbia and Virginia, Horace Greeley focused his attention on General Winfield Scott, who sat opposite from him. The general wore a perpetual frown as he stared back at the newspaper man. Scott’s brown hair had long retreated to gray and his fit figure from his time serving the nation in the War of 1812 had long ago been replaced by the girth of
middle age. More to the point, Greeley couldn’t help wondering how long the sixty-six-year-old general could continue serving.
Next to the general sat the officer commanding the US Regulars in Virginia. Brigadier General Robert E. Lee sat erect, his back not touching the seat back’s plush cushion. Gray hair pushed the deep brown away from his temples and crept into his mustache. Despite that, at forty-six, he retained the trim physique of a man half his age. Greeley reminded himself the outer appearance was secondary to the ability of the men sitting across from him. Scott’s quality was known. A hero of the War of 1812, his management of the US Army stretched more than thirty years. The younger officer was known as an able engineer. He had shown promise as superintendent at West Point. However, he’d barely assumed that role when the nine states composing the Southern Alliance seceded from the Union.
The coach shook when the wheels left the bridge’s level wooden planking to the rutted road leading to Alexandria. With an abruptness that startled Greeley from his study of the officers, Scott said, “You understand, Mr. Greeley, I’m a military man, and my duty is to uphold the Constitution of our Union. I don’t set policy. My job is to carry it out.”
Greeley wished the road would let him make notes, but as the coach jostled over the uneven surface, the prospects of being able to read his own penmanship were nonexistent. He willed his mind to remember General Scott’s every word. “General, we’re going on four months since the last of the nine states seceded, yet all you’ve done is assemble an army. When do you expect President Seward to release you to use it?”
“In his own time, sir.” Greeley sent him an antagonized look. Scott must have realized more of an answer was required. “Despite the readership of your newspaper being stalwartly Whig in their outlook, I think they understand the election of November last was not a mandate for swift action against the states in open rebellion. Five states whose livelihood depend upon Negro servitude have eschewed secession, so far.”
