Having avoided the fighting on the trail, and by-passed the ‘Landero’ Line Infantry Battalions sharpshooters, Lieutenant Paul Dimmock gave all his attention to considering how he might evade his pursuers. He could hear some of the Tamaulipa Lancers coming after him, but he did not know how many he had to contend with. Nor did he attempt to look behind and satisfy his curiosity. Judging from the noise they were making, there were several of them. Too many, certainly, for him to be able to fight them off in his unarmed condition. So he concentrated his thoughts and energies on some other means of getting away.
While guiding his horse up the slope, Dimmock swiftly assessed the situation and drew his conclusions.
While not exactly hopeless, they were far from comforting!
Already the lieutenant’s instincts as a rider had informed him that he was sitting a horse well endowed with what the Mexican vaqueros called brio escondido. vi Unfortunately, the quality of the saddle and bridle suggested that it had belonged to an enlisted man rather than an officer. The supposition was supported by there being neither pistol nor rifle on the saddle. If the small amount of shooting that had taken place was any guide, only the officers had firearms. While the nine-foot lances were effective weapons, Dimmock had gained sufficient lead to be out of reach of their sharp pointed steel heads. There was even, he realized, a way in which he might turn their armament to his advantage.
Instead of directing his horse towards the more open country, Dimmock sent it into the thicker woodland. Passing through it would be more difficult, with the danger of him being swept from the saddle by a branch. But against that, the Mexicans, encumbered by their lances, would find it even less easy to traverse such terrain.
Silently blessing the training and experience he had gained whilst following a pack of fast running foxhounds through the woodlands of Tennessee, Dimmock used every bit of the skill he had acquired as he urged his mount onwards. Ducking his head and swaying his torso, he dodged such boughs as might otherwise have dislodged him. Beneath his legs, the borrowed horse proved to be adept at travelling swiftly under such trying conditions. Ignoring the sudden alterations in its rider’s weight and balance, it remained responsive to the signals it received through the bit in its mouth or the heels against its ribs. Nor did it run blindly, but was ready to avoid colliding with a tree whether instructed to do so or not.
Although they were just as well mounted, equally reckless, and skilled at riding, the six Mexicans found themselves falling behind their quarry. As the lieutenant had anticipated, they discovered that the lances were a great nuisance in woodland. However, discarding their weapons was out of the question. Only the sergeant carried a pistol. The rest had nothing more than their fighting knives as sidearms.
Dimmock’s summation of the situation proved to be correct. On emerging from the woodland, he had increased his lead to around a quarter of a mile. Glancing back, as he allowed his mount to gallop across terrain which did not require constant surveillance, he counted the Lancers as they came into view. There were six of them, including a sergeant who was in the lead urging the rest to greater efforts. If Dimmock had been able to see at that distance he would have noticed that three had lost their shakos and there was a bloody graze on the cheek of a fourth which suggested he had not been entirely successful in avoiding some kind of obstruction, but all of them still carried their lances. Even the injured man was showing no inclination of giving up the chase. Letting out excited whoops, they forced their horses to go faster as soon as they saw the Texian.
Making no attempt to return to the trail, Dimmock headed north across country. He could hear nothing of the desperate struggle which was still raging behind the woodland. Although he hated the idea of having deserted his hard-pressed companions, he knew it could not be helped. So resolutely he thrust the thought from his mind. There were other, equally important, matters demanding his undivided attention.
Firstly, Dimmock knew that he must throw the pursuing Lancers off his tracks. Then he would go on until he found the Colorado River, or some other landmark that would help him to locate the camp of the Republic of Texas’s Army. If he was fortunate, he would meet up with one of its patrols or ranging—as scouting was called at that period—parties. However he was unlikely to receive help for several miles. In fact, it was unlikely that he would establish contact with any friendly force before at least the following afternoon. Perhaps not even then. It was rumored that General Houston was disgusted with the continued failure of Colonel James W. Fannin’s command and his inability to take any positive military action, and had therefore abandoned Fannin’s men to their fate.
Even if the lieutenant should escape from the six Lancers, his position would be anything but a sinecure. He would also have to avoid any other Mexican units who might be operating between himself and his destination. In addition, there were other foes to be contended with. White renegades who served Santa Anna, indistinguishable in dress and appearance from loyal Texians but who were even more dangerous than regular soldiers or Activos. Traitors to their own kind, ruthless and cold-blooded, working for pay rather than out of more noble motives, they would not hesitate to capture or kill him. So he was determined to stay away from all human beings unless he could be absolutely sure of their sympathies.
After Dimmock had looked back to discover the number of his pursuers and how far they were behind, he returned his gaze to what lay ahead. Not only did he need to keep an eye on where he was going, he also had to watch out for anybody who might be ahead of him.
Keen huntsman as the lieutenant was, he had never before ridden as he did that day. Of course, the hunts had been merely for sport and enjoyment. For the first time, he found himself the quarry. Not that he gave his change of status much thought. He was far too busy utilizing every scrap of his experience as a horseman to strike the happy medium between staying well beyond the reach of the Mexicans’ weapons and conserving sufficient of his mount’s energy to produce extra speed should it be needed.
With the Lancers following (although they were unable to close the gap) Dimmock led the way northwards. Responding to his every signal, the horse he was riding proved that it did indeed have brio escondido. It ran swiftly for almost two miles, plunging cat-footed down slopes, climbing others, weaving through bushes, hurdling streams or small obstacles in its path. Yet, for all the reckless pace it set, the Mexicans showed no sign of turning back.
Suddenly Dimmock became aware that the lathered horse was showing signs of distress. He did not know that its right hindquarters had been hurt when its original rider was dragged from the saddle. Although the injury had been slight, the continuous strain and effort was beginning to aggravate it. It said much for the animal’s spirit that the lieutenant had been carried so far and at such speed over the rolling plains.
With each successive sequence of hoofbeats in the galloping gait, Dimmock could feel the horse faltering. He knew that, gallant as it was, the pain would soon bring it to a stop. Nor could it be happening in a worse place. They were on open ground, with no cover closer than a large grove of post oaks about half a mile ahead along the top of a slope.
Studying the trees, Dimmock decided that if he could reach them he might still be able to escape. Once amongst them, he could find sufficient cover in which he could hide. There was a chance that, if the Mexicans split up to search for him, he might be able to jump one of them and obtain another mount. Failing that, provided he could avoid being located, he would continue his journey on foot once they had given up the search.
Unfortunately for the lieutenant, the horse could not carry him far enough to put his plans into effect. Despite all his efforts to keep it going, its pace grew slower. Seeing what was happening, the Lancers yelled their delight and urged their white-lathered mounts to greater speed.
At the foot of the fairly gentle slope, with the post oaks still over a hundred yards away and the Lancers about twice that distance behind, Dimmock’s horse was done. It staggered, regained its balance, stumbled on for a few steps and came to a halt.
Knowing that the horse was finished, Dimmock removed his right foot from the stirrup and swung it forward over the saddle. He vaulted to the ground, landing running and headed up the incline.
‘Now we’ve got him!’ the sergeant whooped.
Although the words did not reach Dimmock, he knew that his predicament would put fresh heart into his pursuers. Guessing that they would be pushing their tired mounts even harder in their eagerness to end the long chase, he made towards the post oak trees as fast as his legs could carry him. It was nowhere near as swift as he wished. Riding so far and at such a pace was a very demanding and tiring business, even for a man who had spent much of his time on the back of a horse.
Perspiration flooded down the lieutenant’s face and half blinded him. His breath, what little of it he could draw into his tortured lungs, was taken in brief, rasping gasps. Behind him, the sound of the horses’ hooves came ever nearer as he continued to run. Each foot seemed to be growing heavier and more reluctant to follow the dictates of his will. With every stride it called for greater effort to make another. He knew the Lancers must be drawing close, but he had no way of telling exactly how far away they were. To look back would have been disastrous.
The grove, with its slender promise of safety and concealment, was still about fifty yards ahead when Dimmock’s advancing left foot struck instead of passing over a small rock. Tripping, he stumbled on a few places vainly trying to recover his equilibrium. Failing to do so, he fell to the ground.
On the last occasion that the lieutenant had fallen, it had saved him from being killed. This latest mishap appeared to be evening up the balance. It was almost certain to cost him his life.
Something like a hundred yards away, the Mexicans saw Dimmock going down and they lowered the points of their lances forward and tucked the butts more firmly under their right elbows. Every one of them tried to urge his mount to go even faster so as to be the first to reach their prey.
~*~
One of the first riders to be compelled to halt when Badillo’s horse was shot, throwing the rider, was his sergeant major. The non-com had been at the rear of the advance guard, ensuring that the enlisted men did not forget their instructions and were far enough ahead of the Texians to prevent their mounts from being unduly frightened by the shooting. So he was leading the party as they returned to join in the killing. An experienced soldier, he had realized that a wild charge into the fray would be as great a hazard to the infantrymen as to the Texians and was setting a pace which would prevent it from happening.
Reining his mount at an angle and stopping it a scant two yards from Badillo, the sergeant major almost flung himself to the ground. He was about to bellow an order for the rest of the half troop to halt, but found that those nearest to him had already anticipated it. Leaping towards the major, he saw Dimmock galloping away. However, aware of the confusion that the sudden halt was causing, he did nothing about the Texian s departure. Nor did Refugio’s shouted comment cause him to change his mind. His primary concern was for the safety of his superior, and that the other Lancers should be allowed to continue with their duties.
Bending down, the sergeant major turned Badillo over with surprising gentleness. He saw no sign of a wound, although he had not really expected to find one. The way in which the bay had collapsed suggested that it, and not its rider, had been shot.
Placing his hands beneath Badillo’s armpits, the sergeant major turned and pulled him towards the left side of the trail. While doing so, the non-com glared up the slope, hoping to find out which of the infantryman had fired the shot. So many of them, including Sergeant Refugio, were reloading their rifles that it was impossible to tell who had been responsible for killing the bay.
‘The major’s not hurt bad!’ the sergeant major informed the watching Lancers. ‘Get going and kill some of those Texian bastards for him.’
Seeing what was happening, as he was replenishing his rifle with powder and ball, Refugio did not know whether to be pleased or alarmed by the developments. The Lancers were resuming their interrupted advance and Badillo was lying in plain view and well clear of them. Against that, the sergeant major had not yet made any attempt to accompany them. Instead, he was kneeling and supporting the officer’s shoulders with his bent leg. His presence at Badillo’s side made the sergeant’s unofficial task too dangerous to be contemplated.
Sergeant Major Gomez was noted throughout the Tamaulipa Brigade for his loyalty to Badillo. Being aware of the close bond between them, Refugio had no intention of making another attempt on the major’s life. Gomez was one man with whom the sergeant had no intention of tangling. There were few men under Urrea’s command, even the toughest hard-cases, who would have thought any the worse of Refugio if they had known of his sentiments.
To his face, Gomez’s comrades-in-arms addressed him as ‘Bravio’, ‘Ferocious’, and ‘Espantoso’, meaning ‘Fearful’ or ‘Terrible’, any of which applied in full measure to his nature. They called him ‘Yaqui’ too, but only behind his back, and whispered stories of what had happened to a soldier who was foolish enough to make use of that nickname in his hearing.
Slightly over medium height, Gomez had a thickset body that bore not a surplus ounce of fat. On the few occasions when he allowed his hair to grow beyond its usual very close-cropped state, it was black and straight. This combined with his. dark coppery-red features, high cheekbones, slightly slanting brown eyes, a tight lipped mouth that rarely smiled and a broad, wide nostrilled nose was suggestive of Indian blood. Although his parentage was known, there were few who were unwise enough to mention it. Those who did never made the mistake a second time. He was as deadly and quick to kill as the man who sired him by raping his mother, a warrior of the tribe which gave him his third and least used sobriquet.
‘Wha—What happened?’ Badillo gasped, as his head cleared and he looked around. Seeing his men involved in the fighting, he tried to rise.
‘Take it easy, sir,’ Gomez advised, gently restraining the officer. ‘One of these infantry bastards shot your horse and you took a bad fall. Is anything broken?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Badillo decided, after moving his arms and legs. There was a certain amount of pain, but nothing to suggest that bones had been broken. ‘Help me up and—’
‘If you’ll be advised by me, sir,’ the sergeant major said politely, feeling the major swaying after he had obeyed the order. ‘You’ll stay here and let the men finish off the Texians.’
Much as Badillo would have like to become involved in the fighting, if only so that he could try to kill Saucedo, he could see the objections to it. He had sufficient respect for the fighting qualities of individual Texians (although he had small regard for them as an organized whole) to realize that he would need all his faculties working at their highest pitch in order to tangle with such desperate men. Still feeling the effects of being flung to the ground, he knew he would be unable to react with his customary speed.
‘You’re right,’ the major conceded, weaving from side to side and feeling Gomez’s arm tighten in support. ‘I’d better sit down.’
Keeping an eye on the struggling mass of men and holding himself ready to defend Badillo if necessary, the sergeant major helped him to reach and sit on the dead horse’s saddle. The officer turned his gaze to the wound in the animal’s shoulder. Despite Gomez’s earlier explanation, it was not until then that a full understanding of what had happened began to penetrate Badillo’s head.
‘Did you see who did this?’ Badillo snarled, indicating the bullet hole.
‘No,’ Gomez confessed. ‘By the time I looked, most of them were reloading.’ Then, realizing what the question implied, he glared up the slope and went on, ‘Do you think it might have been done deliberately?’
‘I don’t know,’ the major replied, thinking about his own plans with regard to his rival. ‘They are supposed to be the best shots in Saucedo’s Battalion and a Baker’s a damned accurate rifle.’
While Badillo was speaking, he stiffly and painfully twisted his torso and stared behind him. Standing protectively at his side, Gomez—who was armed with a saber instead of a lance and had a pistol thrust into the opposite side of his weapon belt—also studied the slope. However, they had left it too late.
Refugio had noticed the sergeant major’s earlier examination of the area and had taken warning from it. Discarding his notions of making a second attempt to earn his promotion, he had moved from his position. By the time he was once more under Gomez’s observation, he was standing between the nearest pair of his men and staring at the fighting on the trail with unswerving attention.
‘It could have been any of them,’ Gomez growled, having forgotten where the sergeant had been the last time he looked. ‘They all know that Saucedo hates your guts and would be pleased to see you dead.’
‘Knowing it and trying to do something about it are two different things,’ Badillo pointed out. ‘There aren’t many who’d think of it, or be willing to take a chance on doing it if they did. What kind of man is that sergeant?’
‘Stupid, from what I’ve seen of him,’ Gomez answered. ‘But they say there’s not a finer shot in the Battalion. I don’t think he’d be smart enough to come up with the idea of killing you and making it look like it was accidental.’
‘Saucedo could have told him to do it if he saw the chance,’ the major countered, then swung an angry scowl towards the fighting. ‘Damn it! If I could only get in among them—!’
‘Nobody could blame you for not going, sir,’ the sergeant major said soothingly, misunderstanding his superior’s reason for wanting to participate. ‘It was the fault of whoever shot your horse. Anyway, I don’t think they’re going to need our help to settle the Texians. So, if it’s all right with you, I’ll stay here. Just in case there might be more of them who’ve been told to do some “accidental” shooting.’
‘Two pairs of eyes are better than one,’ Badillo admitted. ‘Go and fetch my saber. I might need it if any of them should come this way.’
‘Si, senor,’ Gomez assented.
Keeping a watch on the men among the trees while the sergeant major went to collect his weapon, Badillo drew his pistol from the uppermost of his saddle’s holsters. He noticed that, on completing their reloading, each of the riflemen gave their full attention to the fighting. Even the most logical suspect, Sergeant Refugio, made no attempt to turn his eyes in the major’s direction.
‘Gracias,’ Badillo grunted, accepting the saber with his left hand and spiking its point into the ground. Gesturing with the cocked pistol in his other fist, he continued, ‘Having my horse shot was an understandable mistake. In a fight like that, anybody could be shot by “accident”. I expect it’s happened already and might again.’
‘It might even happen to somebody as important as a colonel,’ Gomez remarked, drawing and cocking his own pistol.
So, while the rest of their companions went on fighting, the major and his faithful subordinate remained where they were. They kept the tangle of human beings and horses under observation, with occasional glances to make sure that none of the men on the slopes were turning a weapon in Badillo’s direction. But despite the pair’s scrutiny of the battle, because Saucedo was always in the thickest of the fighting the chance to kill him did not present itself.
‘Kill them!’ the colonel bellowed, wild with blood lust, swinging his gore-smothered sword at a wounded Texian who was staggering past. The force of the blow almost removed the head from the body of the already dying man. ‘Kill every last one of them.’
For all the desperate efforts of the Texians, the final outcome was inevitable. Rapidly outnumbered, unarmed apart from such weapons as they had been able to snatch from their assailants, within ten minutes the majority of them were either killed or dying.
Finally not one Texian remained on his feet in the valley. Breathing hard from their exertions, the Mexican soldiers were glaring around like fighting bulls who had smelled blood and sought further victims. Some of the more hard-bitten of them set about bayoneting or lancing any wounded that they found. Others, less callous and realizing for the first time exactly what they had been doing, stood silent. A few crossed themselves and took comfort in the thought that their Battalion’s priests would grant them absolution and let them off with a minimal penance.
Despite all the Mexicans’ precautions, several of the Texians had managed to break away from the fighting. Some were shot by the riflemen on the slopes. Others were ridden down and killed by the Lancers. However, there were those who were fortunate enough to avoid either fate. Of the latter, only Dimmock had contrived to obtain a horse. The remainder had fled on foot, making off through the woodland.
While self preservation might have been the basic motive behind most of the escapes, each of the fleeing men had something else in mind. They wanted to spread the news of how Fannin’s command had been betrayed and massacred at Goliad—and to see if there was any way in which revenge could be taken against the man who had ordered it to be carried out, General José Urrea.