The Second Confederate-Mexican War: An AoN battle AAR

Eochaid: Right, and gunracks in their pickups.

LD: Political screenshot definitely forthcoming, and I imagine I can whip up something rudimentary for a battle map.

shawng1: You're too kind.


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August 19, 1875 - Columbia, South Carolina, Carolina Armory


The train engine belched black smoke and wheezed as it eased to a stop at the platform. President P.G.T. Beauregard looked up from the New Orleans newspapers and turned his gaze out the window. A squad of soldiers in butternut were setting up security, and Beauregard could see the Armory's commanding officer and staff awaiting his arrival.

Standing and stretching, he nodded to Wade Hampton, who had just arrived from the car behind Beauregard's, accompanied by Major General George Washington Custis Lee, son of the legendary Robert E. Lee. The three men exited the car and filed through the pathway the soldiers had cleared with their presence.

Beauregard smiled as he extended his hand to Brigadier Henry Wallace, commander of the Armory.

"Mr. President, a pleasure to see you in Columbia."

"Pleasure to be here Henry, as always. You know Secretary Hampton, this is Major General Lee, from the General Staff."

Wallace shook each man's hand and pleasantries were exchanged as the retinue of VIP's made their way across the platform and into the armory proper. The din of machinery and the heat of the place were immediately evident to the visitors, even though Columbia on an August afternoon was plenty hot enough. Under Wallace's navigation, they threaded their way through an immense factory, then came out to a large field, subdivided with wooden walls.

"Here are our outdoor proving grounds, where we bring the prototypes and the mass produced versions for testing and firing.
If you gentlemen could look that way -" Wallace's hand indicated a long field with a dozen wooden cutouts of men placed 200 feet from what looked to be a brass box on a tripod, with six or seven tubes running out of the end. A squad of three Armory men walked up to the apparatus as the delegation watched. Wallace remained with the President, narrating as the Armory men worked.

"This gun was developed up north after the Seperation but the Army never bought any of them. The inventor sold his patent to a Mr. Randall Mason, who built a prototype for us in 1873. We've been working on it and refining the design, and I now proudly present to you the Model 1875 Mason gun."

Wallace nodded, and two of the men knelt beside the weapon, one grasping a crank and the other standing on the other side with an additional hopper of ammunition.

Wallace turned to see if the three men were ready, and they all nodded, eyes locked on the stange looking device. Satisfied, Wallace turned back to the men.

"Fire!"

A sound like that of a huge sail ripping consumed the yard, and Beauregard watched in amazement as the barrels revolved and spit out a hail of lead, shredding the wooden targets in seconds.. Nothing but splinters remained. A hazy thin grey smoke hung over the area, as Beaureaged looked behind him to see Hampton and Lee's reaction. Their expressions mirrored his own, shock, and something akin to joy.

Wallace turned around to see the delegation's reaction.

"General, the government is prepared to purchase 50 of these fine weapons for the war effort in Mexico."

Wallace grinned, clearly pleased with the success of his demonstration.

"Yes sir. We can begin production right away, and the first guns will be delivered by December. You have my word on that."

Beauregard returned the man's grin, and shook his hand, his mind already dreaming of the possibilities of this gun in action in Mexico. He could hear General Lee conversing with Wallace about the exact specifications fo the weapon, rounds fired per minute, et cetera, but Beaureagrd had seen it with his own eyes and he was a believer.

The train trip back to Montgomery seemed to fly as Beauregard imagined lines of Mexicans charging the Confederate positions, only to be cut down like so much wheat before the scythe. He smiled secretly at the thought as the train rolled on across the Southland.



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August 23, 1875 - outside the city of Tampico


Somehow, the recruiting sergeant John had talked to in Charleston had failed to mention that sieges in the desert were a damned pain in the ass.

His hat pulled close over his eyes, John sighed and leaned back against the side of one of the trenches cutting across the bleak Mexican landscape surrounding Tampico. He had thought marching was no fun, but he'd give anything for it to be May or June again, to be going somewhere, instead of just sitting here, watching the cannon pound at the walls, sometimes shooting at a Mexican patrol, but mostly just bored out of your mind.

The march south through Tampico and into Saltillo in May and June had been a picture of mobility. Longstreet had marched south only long enough to cut the telegraph wires and pillage some of the Mexican farms around Tampico before heading west into Saltillo, where the Confederates swept through and captured the city of San Luis in July after bitter house to house fighting.

The pause lasted long enough for Longstreet to send 4,000 men back into Texas as the Army of the Gulf Coast returned to Tampico, surrounded and invested it on August 3. The forage was thin on the ground in the province, and Longstreet knew a core of experienced men would do the assembling Army of South Texas a world of good better helping train the new men rather than starving around Tampico.

John couldn't say he disagreed, but he was beginning to feel a vague uneasiness at the simplicty of it all so far. What, they marched south, defeated one army, took one city, and now the rest of Mexicio was ready to just lie prostrate and wait to be carved up? It didn't seem likely to John's mind, and he feared the unknown quantity in the attack he knew was coming.

"Daydreaming again, Corporal? We're in the field in enemy territory son. That's a ten dollar fine!"

John started, and looked up to see Bob, and another two soliders from his squad, Pete and Jeff.

"You sound too much like Cheeko for comfort." John retorted as the three men laughed and sat down around the simmering pot of coffee John had going. Breaking out tin cups, they all took a cup and sat, watching the walls of their objective take a slight punishment from the Confederate guns.

"Damn guns worked a sight better against the 'spics in the field than they do 'gaisnt these here walls."

John grunted by way of affirmation to Pete's comment, his mind still dwelling on his unease. The other three continued in that vein for a while, with Jeff wondering why they didn't just make a huge gun, one that threw shells as big as houses. The guffaws at that point drowned out any more 'serious' conversation. Taking a sip of the brew he had concocted, John blinked, dispelling the mists of doubt from his mind for the time being.

"Any of you gentlemen care for a game of poker?"

Jeff backed off, he had seen John work over plenty of other men in the company, but the other two still had confidence in their abilites. Over the course of the next hour, John deprived them of that sense of well-being, and enriched himself to the tune of thirty three dollars. The two victims threw in the towel around midnight, and sleep came soon after.

Looking at the picture of Alexander Stephens on the ten dollar bill, John drifted off to sleep, thining that perhaps sieges weren't such hellish places after all.

V: Hehe, insomnia is a friend when you're writing an AAR. Glad I caught you when you could get it fresh. PM answered.

Finally, a political screenshot of North America, May 1875.

Political Map of North America, 1875

green= USA
orange= CSA
grey= Mexico

Battle maps coming soon, as well as an update, by Sunday night at the latest.

V: I need to find a job where I can go forum surfing in the am.

Craig: Indeed, a certain General Bragg makes an appearance this time around, and we shall see how his ideas on warfare differ a bit from Pete's.

Director: Thanks for stopping by. I had never heard of the Blakely rifle...interesting. The Palmetto is just a copy of the Henry repeater. As for the cannon, you are correct. The majority of the fortresses in AoN are level ones, to to encounter a level 2 in nothern Mexico no less was sort of a shock. Hence the narrative. Realism sort of took a back seat to literary license on that one.
As for strategy, I hope to have some campaign maps for the initial thrust into Mexico ready soon.

Appreciate all the feedback everyone.


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September 9, 1875 - siegeworks surrounding Durango, Jalisco province


The cannon of General Braxton Bragg's Army of Louisiana rumbled steadily, spitting their deadly salvos into the thick walls of the city's citadel. The near continuous noise provided a suitably somber backdrop as Hiram Maxwell, reporter for the New Orleans Courier nodded to the two sentries outside the esteemed general's tent before stepping through the flap.

"Ahhh, Mr. Maxwell!" General Bragg rose from a plush upholstered chair, quickly crossing the space between the two men and offering a handshake and a clap on the shoulder.
"How are you finding the front?"

"It's quite a departure from my normal line of reporting, that's for sure. Still, I couldn't resist an opportunity to come out here and interview you in your element."

Bragg preened slightly at the praise, and offered a seat across from his desk to the reporter.

"Brandy, perhaps, Mr. Maxwell?"

"Certainly, General."

Still smiling, the general sat, waving his finger and sending a Negro manservant off to fetch the decanter and some glasses. Opening a large wooden humidor on the corner of his desk, he offered a cigar to Maxwell, which the reporter gratefully accepted. He hadn't had a good cigar since he'd left San Antonio.

The manservant returned and served the brandy, leaving the decanter on a silver tray on Bragg's desk. Suitably fortified, the general sat back, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took a sip of brandy. The reporter produced a small tablet of paper and a pencil, worn down to a rather small nub.

"Well, general, let me just say that it's an honor to be able to sit down and have an interview with you."

Bragg grinned and waved off the compliment halfheartedly, taking a large puff off his cigar.

"What the people of Louisiana, and the whole Confederacy want to hear about is how you crossed the Rio Grande in the face of determined resistance, and were able to not only drive them from the field, but take Monterrey not three weeks later."

Bragg grinned again, leaning forward and sweeping his hand out expansively. He loved it when the reporters asked him questions about his favorite topic - himself.
"Well, Hiram, it was quite a feat if I do say so myself. The Mexicans knew we were coming across the river, and were drawn up in lines just waiting for us to wade across. We laid down some pretty mean cannon fire, but we couldn't really let loose for fear of taking our own boys out. After I had taken a look at the situation, I knew a frontal charge against the enemy could dislodge them and allow our crossing into Coahuilla unopposed."

Maxwell's pencil flew furiously across the page, appearing to take down the general's story verbatim as he watched the general's mannerisms. Bragg certainly had gusto when it came to blowing his own horn.

"After selecting the 15'th Louisiana Regiment and elements from the 16'th Louisiana, I directed Major General Rutgers to charge, bringing up the rest of the army myself after Rtugers had secured the initial crossing. The Mexicans were tenacious about defending their territory. They didn't want to yield an inch. Slowly but surely, we were able to push 'em back and hold them long enough for the cavalry to get into their rear and rout them. I had waited for the precise moment when the attack would break their spirits, and-" the General paused, "it came off famously. The enemy broke and we crushed the Mexican presence in the province."

Maxwell nodded mock earnestly, finishing his transcription of the General's monologue. He noticed how Bragg left out the fact that there were 8,000 Mexicans, to his 20,000, and that he had lost nearly 4,000 men during the battle. Sighing internally, he snuck a look back up at the General, who was looking rather satisfied with himself after his recount of the battle. Maxwell snorted. You'd think he had just won at Waterloo to see the look on his face.

Bragg had heard his sound of consternation. "Something bothering your sinuses Mr. Maxwell?"

Hiram nodded no, quickly shaking his head. "Quite alright General. So, how was it that you were able to recover so well from that desert battle and take Monterrey barely three weeks later?"

Bragg responded to the stroke of his ego as Maxwell knew that he would and began another recount of how his glorious inspired commands at exactly the right moment shifted the battle to the Confederacy. Maxwell could afford to listen becasue he already knew the answer, Bragg had simply thrown the infantry into the city and bludgeoned his way in. Not for the first time, Maxwell cursed politics, and the need it imposed on would-be politicians to make every success they had ever been associated with out to be their doing and theirs alone. Bragg oozed of the quality to Maxwell's experienced eye. The man was already counting votes in his head, with the war just 4 months begun, and the election four years away.

Bragg eventually trailed off and Maxwell rose, the usual pleasantries flowing from his mouth with practiced ease. As he walked outside he noticed again for the first time since the interview had begun the rumble of the cannon. Bragg had already wasted some nine thousand men on his 'March to Jalisco' as he had suggested Maxwell call it. Shaking his head, he hoped Bragg wouldn't use the rest of these men as fuel for his political fire.

Turning and looking back at the General's tent, he shook his head again, wishing he wasn't right, hoping it, but still unconvinced. The truth was, Bragg would send every one of these men to die if it'd get him elected President.

Dropping the butt of the cigar into the ground, Maxwell trudged across the terrain towards his quarters, night falling as the cannon kept firing. He'd write the glowing story on Bragg the paper wanted and expected, but he just couldn't make himself believe this man was good for the war, or the Confederacy. He hoped he was wrong, but twenty five years of reporting on politics and people had made him a pretty good judge of character.

Unless he missed his guess, Braxton Bragg would bring nothing but disaster on his men and his nation before this war was done.

September 15, 1875 - ten miles east of Hermosillo, Mazatlan province


The cries of the wounded were faint but audible to Lieutenant Thomas Davis' ears as his horse picked it's way through the debris strewn road. The Mexicans had made their last stand guarding this road, and belts, rifles, bayonets, hats, and all other manner of articles were strewn about. The rapidity of the Mexican collapse had surprised Davis, who was typical of the Confederate army in his youth and relative inexperience.

Moving farther down the road, he thought back to that exhilirating charge down the slopes of the mountains and into the valley that the road ran through. The plan was audacious, and dangerous, but the execution had been flawless, catching the enemy off guard and confused. The nighttime attack had quickly turned into a rout, and the rapid retreat of the Mexicans westward provided an opportunity for the cavalry to shine, to seek and destroy the enemy.

It was no accident that the cavalry had performed such a large and integral part of the fighting in northwestern Mexico. The commander of the Army of Tennessee, though perhaps not educated in the scholastic sense of the word, was still as astute a student of mounted warfare as could be found in the Americas.

General Nathan Bedford Forrest watched from the side of the newly won road as Davis and hundreds of other cavalrymen streamed westward through the valley, moving as quickly as space would allow. Speed was of the essence, The enemy must be found and brought back to battle before having a chance to reform, perferably before they could even stop. The general's horse reared, pawing the ground as the mounted riders continued to pass, many waving their hats and whooping to Forrest as they rode. He grinned ferally as he returned their accolades, the quarter moon casting faint silvery light onto the scene.

Clicking his tongue, he rode forward, joining the cavalry column, as his officers fell in beside him. His adjutant had just returned from a conference with the infantry and artillery contingents, who would be splitting off to surround Hermosillo while Forrest and the cavalry pursued the Mexicans.

Nodding, Forrest began issuing orders as they rode, breaking out of the valley into a broad plain perhaps 100 yards long, which narrowed back into a fairly wide path as it wound through the mountains.

"Scouts and skirmishers ahead and on our flanks. We can't be but mile, mile and a half behind 'em. They ain't gonna fight worth shit if we can corner 'em and get around their sides. I want 'em found and kilt to a man."

One of the officers coughed, and Forrest turned, his eyes gleaming in the weak moonlight. The officer, a young captain, was trying his best not to look the general in the eye.

"Problem boy?"

"Sir....at the Institute, they teach us to give quarter when it is asked and - "

Forrest guffawed, and the captain shut up, looking down at the ground.

"Son, this here's a war. War means fightin' and fightin' means killin'. If you can't handle that, you're sure as hell in the wrong place."

The young officer nodded, still keeping his eyes locked on the ground as the impromptu meeting broke up. Forrest rode ahead, keeping at or near the vanguard as the Confederates sought their foe. The nighttime, their ally when they launched their surprise attack, was now their enemy, shielding the Mexicans from their pursuit. Forrest was dogged in his pursuit, determined to finish all resistance in his section of the front.

The minutes seemed to stretch out to forever for Forrest as he simultaneously rode and waited to hear from the scouting elements of his force. What seemed like hours, but was in fact only twenty minutes later, he heard what he longed to hear.

The Confederate formation paused as the first bugle notes floated through the mountains. Reeling his horse around, Forrest charged towards the bugle call in the night, followed by the cavalrymen. The scouts had been only seven to eight hundred yards out in this mountainous terrain, and the first rebel yells and shots could be easily heard.

Forrest could see a small dip in between the mountains that spilled into a wide gully, where the Mexicans had apparently been trying to reform. Within minutes hundreds of Confederates were streaming into the gully, carbines barking bright orange flame in the night. The resistance was hardly begun before it was over, so shattered was the Mexican morale. Forrest's sabre claimed three of the last mounted Mexicans, and his carbine perhaps double that many in the infantry. Within ten minutes it was all over, more worthy of the moniker bloodbath than battle. Rebel yells bounced back off the stone faces staring down into the gully as the Confederates reformed and prepared to move out.

Riding back up the small grade through the dip that had led them downwards, Forrest paused and turned in the saddle, to see what he had wrought.

And what he saw was good.

Thanks V. Had a little extra time last night and got verbose.

I still maiintain that my best job ever was lifeguarding. Can't beat getting paid to literally sit on your ass all day.

Hehehe, true. No air conditioning either.

Update soon.

New update time.

First, though, a question. Are the vignettes between all the different places confusing the overall story? I'm trying to present interesting views on all the different situations, but I don't know if it's coming off well, or if it reads choppy. Any thoughts anyone?



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October 5, 1875 - Montgomery, Alabama, Davis House


Closing the double doors that led into the Presidential office, Beauregard turned around towards the large picture windows dominating the back wall. The reception for the new ambassador from France had been quite a party, and Beauregard had charmed all of the French aristocrats easily. Stepping to the small bar and pouring a glass of whiskey, he wished that everything a President had to deal with was that simple.

He took a sip of whiskey and set the glass down momentarily as he lit a cigar, puffing a few times to get it burning. Lifting the glass again, he walked behind his desk, settling into the high backed leather chair and looking down at the work he had left before the party.

The latest update from the War Department lay on the top of the pile, along with a map of Texas and northern Mexico, showing the three slashing red arrows of Longstreet, Bragg, and Forrest as they struck westwards. Picking up the War Department report, he took a drag off his cigar and held it in, savoring the rich smoke before exhaling slowly.

Longstreet was besieging Tampico still, after his defeat of approximately 30,000 Mexicans in September. The fortress the Mexicans had constructed had surprised the Confederate sappers and miners who had had such an easy time with the ititial Mexican citadels. 4,000 had been detached northwards and were currently in Matamoros, where new Texan regiments were being raised and a new army was forming.

Forrest had taken Chihuahua by storm and then surrounded and annihilated some 11,000 of the enemy in Mazatlan. The Army of Tennessee had invested Hermosillo in late September.

In the center, Bragg had crossed the Rio Grande and given battle to 8,000 Mexicans, defeating them and taking Monterrey in late July. He had moved south after solidifying his supply line and had arrived outside Durango in August, cutting off the city and surrouding it to begin the siege.

The casualty figures for each front were listed under the general synopses and Beauregard grimaced at the figures for Bragg's operations. Some 9,000 dead already, while the other fronts had a combined total dead of perhaps 6,000. These numbers would not look good on the front page...not like that Maxwell's story that had run back in September. A good piece of reporting that had been, making the good General out to be just a step below Bobby Lee.

Beauregard tossed the report back on his desk and took another sip of whiskey. Braxton Bragg certainly could talk a good game, but there was a reason he had crossed into the weakest resistance. Beauregard liked the man personally, and shared his trait of political ambition, and he saw a bright future for Bragg in the politcal party he was slowly beginning to pull together.

None of that meant the man could command a field kitchen effectively, much less an army.

Picking up another report, he read bout the conditions in the northern Mexican provinces, and the effect it was having on the armies in the field. men were dying in the siegeworks from the heat, the lack of water, the unsanitary conditions...the list went on. The President shook his head as he finished reading. Damn the Mexicans, and double damn their weather. At this rate they were going to lose more men digging ditches around these pissant cities than they would fighting all the armies the 'spics could muster.

The last report he read was an intelligence estimate of the remaining Mexican field strength. The General Staff thought the Mexicans could field at least 50,000 men at the moment, and could of course draw more from the south if left to their own devices. Reports were filtering in from Mexico City and Guadalajara that troops were massing, getting ready to begin the Mexican counteroffensive to throw the Confederates back.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Beauregard rose, pucking up the whiskey glass and stepping to the window. They needed more men, and not just from Texas and Louisiana, but from Georgia, the Carolinas, Alabama. The three pronged attack had worked brilliantly to break the Mexican defenses in the north and seize the northern portion of the country, but the richer parts were in the south, and without control of those, the Mexicans could never effectively be brought to heel.

The streets were all but deserted as the clock chimed one. The President turned away from the window, his eye drawn back to the map on the far wall.

More men were required, and more men would be raised. The Texans now forming were just the beginning. If the Mexicans wanted to wage a war of attrition, Beauregard would oblige. The blood of the South, from the past and the present, demanded it.

Turning back to his desk, he sat and began writing the first of 13 letters to the governors of the states, setting the need of the Confederacy out into the open and opening the floodgates for mass recruitment across the nation.

The letter writing lasted deep into the early morning, but Beauregard persisted, signing the last to the governor of Florida at 3:45 am. Drowsily he rose, walking the ten or so feet seperating him from a long leather couch that he immediately fell into. The couch had been a frequent bed since the war began, and Beauregard dfited to sleep quickly, his dreams ones of endless lines of men in butternut advancing forward, the staccato bursts of Mason fire his lullaby.

V: Yeah, I can only imagine the havoc that would have resulted if I had ever tried to play some Europa at work.

Gaijin: Thanks for stopping by, I appreciate the compliments. It seems a lot of people are having trouble with the AoN. Did you download the fix they ahd posted as well as the program? If not, all you need to do to save your games in create a 'saved games' folder in your EU2/AON/Scenarios directory. I must confess to never playing the Mexican side of the equation...might be fun.

Estonian: As we'll see our erstwhile brothers to the north have not been inactive this entire time. Not to give anything away, but keep the phrase dogpile on the rabbit in mind.