In at the death
Sam Houston cursed under his breath.
He looked around him at the remnants of the Texan forces. How had this happened?
He shook his head to clear it of such thoughts. It wasn't over yet, he
refused to believe it was over. So long as the Texan army remained a force in being...
After all, George Washington had often faced similar circumstances, yes? His army a shell, being hunted down by a much larger force?
He hoped he was half as talented as George Washington had been.
The forests around northern Texas were a reasonably good hiding place for an army: he hoped to recoup and recover here, gaining some momentum after sending Santa Ana running in Houston. He badly needed reinforcements, and his remaining men needed time to gather themselves: they still hadn't recovered from the Second Battle of San Antonio.
Nor had he, truth be told. For a brief, shining moment, Texan independence had seemed within sight, the Mexican forces wavering, on the edge of retreat...and then the cry had gone up.
He still sometimes had nightmares about that day.
Enough! That was the past. They had beaten Santa Ana for the second time. They had turned back the Mexican army from Houston. That
had to mean something.
He did his rounds of the encampment where he and his men were gathered, projecting an aura of confidence. Morale had begun to recover, but it needed to be stronger before they faced the Mexican Army again.
It was about mid-afternoon when his rounds took him to the picket of scouts he had placed about a half a mile south of his main encampment, on top of a hill with a good view.
Something was wrong.
There was only one man there. What was his name? Right. Jenkins.
"Where's your back-up Jenkins?"
The man, who was peering south, turned around, staring at his commander, then somewhat belatedly saluted.
"Sent him to the main camp Sir. With a message."
It hung there in the air for a moment.
"A message."
Jenkins, unflinchingly, handed him a telescope and wordlessly pointed south.
He looked through it, and saw dust, an army on the march. He stopped himself from swearing through will alone.
"No more using the telescope, the reflection from the sun might give us away. And no campfires." The orders were automatic. Jenkins nodded.
"Stay here, report after sundown and tell me if they are still marching this way. I have other orders to give."
He hopped on his horse and rode into the main encampment. One of his seconds, thank god, was a clever enough man that he had known what needed doing. Messengers had already gone out to all the pickets to douse any fires and not use telescopes, and the fires at the campsite here were already out. Now it was just a game of hide and seek. If they found tracks....
He waited for what seemed an eternity while the sun slowly slid across the sky. As ordered, the messengers from the pickets arrived once night had fallen: The army was still headed in their general direction, and if they kept on going, they would find them sometime in the afternoon tomorrow.
He resigned himself to fighting a battle. He wondered who was in command? If it was Santa Ana, he was sure he could beat him again. Cos was a riskier thing, but odds weren't bad. Their new general, the one who had led his men...enough of that.
He had his men dig entrenchments once the sun rose, he would need every advantage he could get if the Mexican army found him. The trees would help him make it a good defensive position, but he was outnumbered. Very well, he had beaten back superior numbers before.
Later that morning, his pickets all returned to the main encampment: the Mexican army had found the trail and was headed this way. The cat had found the mouse, but the mouse might still be able to bite his tail and send him running...
As predicted, the Mexican forces became visible in the late afternoon, the heat of the day was in full force and made the air very still: the sound of their marching resounded through the forest.
His men waited until their shots were reasonably good before firing: they needed as much effective fire as possible. His cannons roared at the enemy, tearing through their lines.
The men marching towards him simply grimly bore the brunt of it and kept coming on. The Mexican army he faced now was a different beast, it didn't waver at all and bore the Texan advantage of firearms and cannons with equanimity, just marching closer. Their first volley of fire rang out, but they didn't even stop to fire it. He cursed. A bayonet charge. More lessons they had learned.
"Fire at will!"
There was no longer time for synchronized volleys of fire: he needed to thin out those numbers before they charged and it descended into a melee.
The shots rang out it staccato snaps, with the occasional boom of the cannon. His men were keeping up an amazing rate of fire, maybe a shot per minute. The Mexicans kept marching on, firing once more.
Finally, they got close enough...here it came! They yelled, charged, bayonets flashing in the sun charged forward, his men got off one last volley, and then they were amongst his men.
He gritted his teeth and smiled in satisfaction as his sword went cleanly through one man as he stepped over the logs making up the main part of his earthworks.
Two more men leaped over the logs and the world shrunk to the battle directly around him, he swung his sword again...another kill. He pulled out his sword, turned to face the other man, and readied himself.
Someone punched him in the back. The world seemed to tremble. He looked down, not understanding, why was a blade sticking out of his stomach? No..this couldn't be....
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Jesus pulled out his bayonet from the man he'd gotten from behind, and finished the job by sticking it in his neck. He then quickly ran forward, the rebels were beginning to scatter, but he might be able to kill a few more. He wondered if the man he'd killed was important. He'd had some sort of emblem on his uniform.
Oh well.
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Cos looked over the remnants of the battlefield and shook his head in disbelief. Even now, it was seemed impossible that the Texan army had essentially ceased to exist. Dallas had fallen, and Austin as well. It was time to march to Lubbock, since Houston was already under the siege and Augustin wouldn't need him.
After the Battle of Dallas, everything else was really just cleaning up the remnants: Sam Houston had either died or vanished, and without him the rebellion seemed to simply collapse. By April, the last holdout surrendered: the Texan rebellion had been crushed.