Читать книгу The Savage Breed - Randy Denmon - Страница 11

Travis looked out at Goliad, then at Fort Defiance, now partially in flames. The morning was only a few hours old and still foggy, but the large, gloomy fires of the fort’s stock and provisions warmed his cheeks. He turned to the interesting little town on a rugged, almost treeless, ivory sandstone escarpment above the San Antonio River, rippling clear over a rock bed. Between the numerous gullies, a dozen white stone buildings and twice that many wood shacks, all square and flat-roofed, were stacked up the side of the terrace like steps. Across the river lay the ruins of the huge Spanish mission, Espiritu Santo. The glare from all the shining stone caused Travis to squint his eyes.

It had been a month since he had arrived here—not a pleasurable month. Only a week earlier, the fort had received word that the Alamo had fallen, with all its defenders slain in its defense. Since then, refugees and soldiers had been flocking to the little town, now garrisoned with almost five hundred soldiers. But now, they had been ordered to leave, to move east to Victoria, then on to Gonzales to rendezvous with the other Texas forces, now under the command of a new general, a Tennessean named Sam Houston.

The orders to depart had just come down, and the little village buzzed with activity and panic, troops hurrying to load up personal items and citizens ambling around trying decide their best course. Travis shook his head and looked at the fort, guarded on three approaches by a bend in the river. It was a daunting obstacle, much more so than the Alamo. And the Texans had spent the past few months shoring up its defenses. The fort was almost four acres, surrounded by a seven-foot-thick stone fence that also protruded down to the water to allow access during a siege. Its corners housed fortresses and watchtowers. Outside, deep trenches had been dug around the fence. Inside the grounds were ten pieces of four-pound artillery, all now spiked and sitting atop the flat roof of the fort’s church or centered in the grounds. The troops and wagons sat lined up outside the fort, the wagons overloaded with powder, water, personal belongings, and several cannons. Lounging around the wagons were four hundred volunteers from New Orleans and Mobile, known as the Grays because of their distinctive wool, coal-colored uniforms.

Travis reached over and picked up a young, dirty-faced girl, not six years in age, cradling a worn-out doll and wandering through the fort and the chaos aimlessly in search of a parent. He hoisted the girl up, coddling her in his arms and bouncing her gently. He brushed her hair. Her skin was smooth and tinted, eyes a deep blue—innocent, beautiful, but filled with fear and amazement at the surroundings. “Where’s your mama?”

“Me and Tony are going on to Victoria, ahead of the column,” Chase blared, walking up behind Travis. “What you got there?”

Travis turned around and handed the girl to Chase. “What?”

“What’s your name?” Chase whispered playfully, wiggling the girl’s nose before turning his eyes to Travis. “I managed to secure you a cushy job, escorting the Grays to Victoria.”

“She’s not very talkative,” Travis said, and looked at Tony. “What time are you two leaving?”

“Now,” Chase said, putting the girl down and holding her by the wrist.

Travis turned back to the dreadful fort; the soaring flames and mass hysteria gave the town an air of doom that spilled over him. Where were they headed? Nothing was more vulnerable than a slow train on the prairie. It made him feel uneasy, uncertain of the situation—too many unknowns. “I guess I’ll catch up with you two in Victoria. Don’t know why we’re leaving. There’s not a better place in Texas for defense. Much rather be behind these walls than get caught out in the open. Take her down to the town hall for me on your way out of town.”

Chase reached down, grabbed the girl, and handed her up to Tony, who had just saddled up. He then looked at the train of wagons, twenty in number. “We’ll see you down the trail. Keep ’em moving. Probably take you three days to get to Victoria.”

It was mid-morning before the five hundred soldiers and the wagon train got moving. Spring was showing itself, the day warming ahead of the common March breeze that would come. The primitive trail to Victoria was nothing more than a worn plot on the prairie strewn with rocks. The overloaded wagons, pulled by mules and oxen, were not making good time, maybe a mile and a half an hour. And in the first two hours alone, two wagons lost wheels and were left on the trail.

Travis rode alone at the front of the line, picking his way along the path, trying to avoid rough spots on the trail while keeping a good eye out for anything unusual ahead and on the flanks. The country was enchanting, uncultivated, and spotted with a countless succession of little meadows and light forests full of life, harboring numerous herds of cattle and some whitetail.

By mid-afternoon, the slow-moving column, a half mile in length, had come to a vast prairie, ten miles of flat grassland in every direction. Travis inspected the open area suspiciously. The day had warmed considerably; the mules and oxen were now all but done in by the heavy loads. The animals moved at a snail’s pace, one laboring step at a time. Travis rode ahead about halfway across the plain, and heeled his mount atop a small knoll projecting a dozen feet above the land. He took a drink from his canteen, and turned to look back at the line of marching men and vehicles kicking up a cloud of dust visible for ten miles. He looked back ahead. His heart skipped a beat as he saw some movement, only a mosaic of color against the olive backdrop. He reached for his glasses. It was a group of horses, at least a hundred. He steadied his eyes, identifying the bright colors of the Mexican cavalry uniforms: beige, red, and royal blue.

Without thought, he spurred his mount and raced back to the column. An officer rode out to meet him. Travis never broke stride as he continued to gallop to the rear of the line. “Mexican cavalry ahead, at least a company,” Travis yelled as he passed the officer, who swung in behind him. Travis finally rode up to another good lookout point midway back along the column. As his horse settled, he saw the horses, another line of cavalry, this one larger, a half mile behind the column hovering at the edge of the prairie. He turned to the officer, who had removed the hat from his head and folded it under his arm. “Two lines of cavalry, three or four hundred. They’ve got us boxed in. Looks like they plan to attack us here.”

The slight officer, in his late twenties with black hair, an unshaven face, and shifting gray eyes, looked at the prairie. “This is the worst place for defense, open terrain, no water.”

“Captain Moses,” Travis moaned, looking ahead, his mind racing. “I’ve crossed this prairie twenty times. About two miles ahead is a little creek with good banks and water. I suggest making for it. The group in front of us is smaller. Probably have to fight your way there, but it will be a good place for defense. There’s five hundred of us. We can hold out from there. If we have to stand here and face this cavalry, it will be costly. That’s Urrea’s cavalry. He’s the most capable commander the Mexicans have. His troops are the best.” As Travis spoke, he looked at the long line of men; three more horses were currently riding toward him. From the rear, more scouts were also racing forward.

“Two miles? Our animals are pretty near done now,” the officer said. “Here comes Colonel Fannin.”

Travis looked out at the scene. The Mexicans had surrounded the Texans, who had circled the wagons in a defensive position on the prairie. Despite the objections of his officers, Colonel Fannin had decided to stop in place and defend the column. A brief attempt to reach the cover of the river had been made, but the mules and oxen were too beat for a hasty dash.

The Mexicans, probably a thousand—several hundred cavalry augmented by infantry and a couple hundred Lipan Indians—formed a long line, 360 degrees around the Texans.

Over the distant sound of the Mexican bugle and the wild cries in Spanish, Travis saw the bodies and horses growing more numerous on the savanna, blocking the horizon in all directions. They were still several hundred yards away, out of firing range, but closing the gauntlet with a slow, steady step. Travis looked at the sun, still hanging four or five hours above the prairie. Energy raced up his spine like a jolt from the ground; darkness would not save them.

Travis turned to the Grays, most on a knee, positioned in a hundred-yard box around the wagons and animals. A few packed their Barker carbines; others held them upright, the butts against ground, bayonets fixed. The men’s faces stood stern, indifferent, eyes roving. A single boom from a Texas cannon broke the quiet. The Mexican line parted briefly, a few riders unseated, and two soldiers fell, but the gap quickly filled. As the line got closer, the musket fire started slowly, at first random pops, but only seconds later, swirling into a constant stream. A dozen more Mexicans fell, but the fence of men, the line of flickering orange blasts, grew larger and nearer by the second.

Travis sucked in a deep breath and got to a knee, his Colt in his firing hand, the Mexicans still well out of his pistol’s range. He looked around. The location was not ideal, but he felt confident. Although they were outnumbered at least two to one, he was sure the Grays were better men, and they had to hold out only until dark. They didn’t have to take any ground, only hold their positions. And unlike the assaulters, their lives depended on winning—a hell of a motivation. The Mexican casualties were sure to be high. If the Grays could punish them enough, they would likely beat a retreat.

Travis turned to look at the friendly forces; the officers were brazenly moving up and down the line, encouraging the men, who continued to fire and reload. The smoke got thick, almost suffocating, burning the eyes and blinding. The officers urged the men forward, not in an assault, but a few feet out of the haze, where their aim was surer.

For the next hour, the Mexican line advanced and retreated with volley and counter-volley, each sequence sending scores of men to the earth but bringing the Mexicans closer—two steps forward, one back. The friendly cannons tore holes in the Mexican lines, but one by one, artillerymen fell, finally silencing the guns. Travis had begun firing, at least ten cylinders from his pistol, each shot carefully aimed. He was sure he had downed at least two horses and five men. As he continued to shoot, his hands got raw from disassembling and packing the Colt. The minutes passed without track.

Despite the wall of musketry and heavy losses, the Mexicans continued to steadfastly close in. The hour of work, sacrifice, and death brought them to within a hundred paces of the Grays, almost blocking out the sun and giving Travis a fit of claustrophobia. Then he heard the ominous bugle. The Mexicans charged forward, reaching the perimeter of the defensive circle. As they did, the scene turned to confusion, the musket roar the most constant and deafening of the day, the smoke interfering with vision and any sense of direction.

In the bleak smog and late-day sun, Travis continued to fire, and watched the fighting devolve into point-blank shots and bludgeoning knives or bayonets. The Grays unleashed everything, all their vigor, killing the Mexicans by the dozens, almost as if they were enjoying it. Over the shrills, Travis heard the Mexican bugle again, cascading through the smoke, urging the attackers on at the critical moment. He shot two more soldiers appearing out of the fog. The cries grew louder, more frequent. Over the fray, Travis heard a ball whiz by his ear, so close he felt a burn. He reached up and touched the ear, his hand returning full of blood. Then the bugle sounded again, the note long—the retreat.

Travis fell to his knees. The sounds of killing slowly subsided; the haze slowly cleared. The air was still; not a breath of wind moved the thick smoke. The sun was setting over the worn, soot-smelling turf, turning it a shade of orange. Around him, the exhausted earth lay maimed with bodies, friend and foe. Travis’s mind slowed as he put a hand on his chest, almost checking to make sure he was still alive. He looked at the prairie, covered with hundreds of dead.

The Mexicans were now in full retreat, out of firing range and at an ample trot. They surely would not attack again this day, he thought.

Travis stood and turned to the wagons. More than a hundred sun-scorched men were sprawled on the ground, the doctors now moving among the groans.

Travis felt no reprieve. He held a quick counsel with himself. Though they had beaten off the assault, they were still surrounded, trapped. Like his comrades, he was lathered with sweat and grit, his throat burning with thirst. He had finished off his canteen hours earlier. Without water, they were as good as dead. And without rescue, most of the injured would perish. The Mexicans used copper bullets, extremely deadly, spattering the flesh and leaving metal scattered through body.

He looked again at the Mexicans and the darkness beginning to envelope the savanna. It would be a long, frightful night, and they had traveled only six or seven miles on this protracted, vile day. Would tomorrow be worse?

The night was cloudy, but not completely dark. Somewhere overhead, the moon was out, tinting the clouds but giving no hint to its location. Travis stood, his reins in his hands. It was almost midnight. Around him, the wounded were suffering, begging for water to quench their terrible thirst, their moans filling the murky air. But more than three hundred men still remained at the ready, lying around the wagons, some sleeping, others keeping a watchful eye on the prairie.

A man appeared out of the darkness, only an image. He handed Travis a leather satchel. “Maybe you can get through. If you do, get this to Victoria. There may be some troops there. Find somebody. If we don’t get some water or reinforcements, we’ll all die.”

Travis recognized the voice. It was Colonel Fannin. He put the pouch’s strap over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, sir. I understand the predicament. You won’t see me back here. If I don’t get through, it’s because I’m dead or captured. Don’t give me any cover. I’ll have a better chance to sneak out, but if you hear firing, empty into their ranks. It may distract them.”

Travis reached over to check the tightness of the girth strap on his horse, then put a foot in his stirrup and felt for his pommel, lifting himself into the saddle. He trotted to the edge of the lines, then quietly rode into the no-man’s-land. In only seconds, he turned to look behind. There was only darkness. Ahead, the ground lay open; visibility was only a dozen paces. Travis sensed his horse’s pace to make sure it was sturdy, and counted to himself. It was about a two-and-a-half-minute ride to cover the distance between the forces. At about a hundred seconds, he would charge into the darkness, putting his fate in God’s hands. The night was silent; only his heart thumping rapidly, his horse’s gentle steps, and the mumbling of his counting disturbed the quiet.

As his count approached the magic number, Travis leaned forward over his mount’s neck, securing his boots in the stirrups. He tugged back on the reins and listened—nothing. He spurred the horse and stormed into the darkness. Ten seconds, then five more, he continued to goad the horse with his heels, the night still a peculiar quiet. Travis galloped on for another five minutes until his surroundings started to darken more. He jerked back on his reins. His horse was panting heavily. Overhead, a canopy of sparse trees blocked the sky. Travis dismounted and walked another thirty paces until he found the creek bank. Feeling his way, he led his mare down to the creek, where the horse plunged her mouth into the water. Travis filled two canteens and transferred the water to his dehydrated body. He instantly felt some of his strength return.

Travis slowly sat, leaning back against the cool, damp embankment. He looked at the other side of the shallow creek. Where was he going? He looked up. There were no stars to guide the way. He had learned many times, painstakingly, that the prairie could not be navigated without getting his bearings. He could mosey around all night, only to end up where he started—or worse, in the Mexican lines. He did notice that the clouds were on the move, probably coming up from the gulf. These moving clouds would lead him. But first he needed to let his horse rest a couple of hours, freshen up in case he had to make a running escape.

By daylight, Travis had traveled in an easterly direction another fifteen miles. The progress was slow. He had to dismount and lead his timid steed across a creek or draw every mile or so. With the blue of morning, his pace would increase. He might make Victoria in only a few hours, and he would have the rising sun to lead him. But daylight also brought other obstacles: he was visible for miles on the open grassland. Even more troublesome, he was riding directly into the sun, illuminating his horse’s tack and all his metal like a lantern, the horizontal rays refracting, reflecting, and magnifying his movement for anybody ahead to see for miles.

An hour after daylight, Travis spotted a ranch house in a small meadow. He made a cautious approach, scanning the house carefully with his field glasses from more than a mile away before riding ahead. The large ranch house was deserted, and surrounded by unfinished earthworks. Travis’s gut was full of hunger pangs, and his mount grew less hearty by the hour. As he arrived on the grounds, he made a beeline for a wood-planked barn beside the house, where he found stores of hay and oats. He left his horse to feed, and walked to the house. Inside, the rough prairie residence was in disorder, the residents surely having fled in recent days. Travis found some molded bread and a strip of dried meat that he quickly gobbled down.

After the thirty-minute respite, Travis was again in the saddle, riding off from the ranch. There was a nice wagon trail leading to the east, but he decided to veer off and ride parallel to the road a few hundred yards. But just as he entered the large meadow encompassing the ranch, he saw a dozen horses coming up the road. He smoothly pulled back on his reins, freezing in the saddle. His insides rumbled. Since he was looking into the sun, the images were difficult to see. He put a hand above his eyes. The bright red saddle blankets of the Mexican cavalry became visible. Travis looked around. The ground was open, but to his left, maybe a quarter mile away, was a wood line, probably a creek or dry gully. He heard the screams from down the road, announcing he was spotted. He spurred his mare so hard that she bellowed, and reared her around toward the tree line.

In less than a minute, he arrived at the cover. He urged his horse into the concealment of a deep, dry gully. In the ditch bottom, he saw only brown earth and scrub. He continued to push his mount and raced down the gulch. Clumps of thorny sage ripped at Travis’s shirt and skin as he held on. The horse leaped over holes and bucked like a bronc as Travis watched the earth and brush rush by, bouncing in all directions. Over the commotion, he heard nothing. He came to a fork in the ditch and never slowed, charging down the right fork. A few hundred more paces, and the sage cleared and the trees overhead disappeared. Travis jerked back on his reins. He wanted to ride up the bank and peek into the prairie, but the sides were too steep.

He jumped off his horse, intending to crawl up and see if he had lost the cavalry. As he hit the ground, he heard the ghastly sounds, metallic clicks, one after another, like dominoes falling. He froze and looked up. On both banks, staring down on him, were four horses, their riders’ pistols locked on his chest. A few more horses appeared, riding up to the ditch, their riders looking down at him under the brims of their hats. Travis felt a sense of doom come over him. He was breathing hard; a drop of cold sweat fell from his nose onto his mouth. He tasted the salinity.