“No, sir,” Ned admitted. “Still, all in all, I’d say the Californio
is among the finest.”
“And I concur,” Gillespie offered, to Ned’s surprise. “So, what
are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting that we avoid San Pasqual, give your men
and animals a chance to recover from the desert crossing
and get their strength back, and give us a chance to provide
the men with fresh mounts.”
“You have fresh mounts at San Diego?” Kearny asked,
obviously already tired of Ned’s suggestions.
“Possibly, by now. We brought in a herd of horses, and even
now they’re being broken.”
“So you want me to avoid contact with the enemy in order to
obtain-horses that are unbroken ... or at best green. That’s
good Navy reasoning, I suppose.” Kearny shook his head in
disgust. “I suggest you return to the rear of the column, and
don’t move forward again unless ordered.”
“Yes, sir.” Ned saluted without enthusiasm. He started to spin
his horse, then hesitated. “My own powder was getting damp,
General. Shouldn’t you have your men—”
“By God, man, you can be infuriating!” Kearny brayed, red in
the face. Ned gave the spurs to the horse. Gillespie stayed
beside the general for a moment but did not gain even a
glance from the thick-set man. Finally the major quietly reined
his animal around and returned to his Marines.
Ned reined up between Jourdan and Swords. They did not
bother to ask him about his success with Kearny—the look
on his face was enough.
They rode in silence for another half hour, the rain now a
drizzle but still dampening the men’s interest in conversation.
Rather, faces remained buried as deeply as possible in
upturned collars. On the crest of a rise up ahead, the forward
section of the column halted.
“What’s up?” Swords asked.
“San Pasqual is just over that rise,” Ned pointed. The mountains,
climbing steep on either side and covered with chaparral, were
clouded in mist. Ned saw Kearny, over a quarter mile ahead of
him, raise his cutlass in the air in an enthusiastic motion and
saw the small troop—Captain Johnson’s lead guard—joined by
a number of surveyors, spur their horses and disappear over the
rise.
Unable to contain himself, Ned dug heels to his own horse. He
was damned if we would be caught guarding a bunch of pack
mules if the action was about to begin. Besides, he knew he was
one of the few men well enough mounted to do any good against
the Mexicans. Swords stayed with his cannon, but Jourdan
galloped close behind. By the time they reached the head of the
column, which had crested the rise, Ned could see the troops
strung out in front of him, including Kit Carson and some of the
San Diego volunteers who had left Gillespie’s band—and a group
of Mexican soldados, thirty strong, riding easily away in front of
them. A few straggled shots echoed up the canyon when the
dragoons fired after the soldados.
As Ned passed Kearny, he heard the general shout after him,
victory ringing in his voice, “Avoid this, eh, Beale? It’s a rout
. . . a bloody rout, you Navy slacker!”
But as far ahead as the men rode. Ned could see that the
Mexicans were not earnestly riding away. If they had been they
would have quickly outdistanced the dragoons.
Apprehension flooded Ned, and almost instantly he saw another
group of lancers sweep down onto the trail out of the deep
chaparral behind the strung-out dragoons. Reatas sung in the air,
and the men were jerked out of their saddles. Many were able to
unsheathe their heavy cutlasses, but they were no match for the
long lances of the mounted soldados when carbines misfired from
damp powder.
Ahead, Carson and the volunteers caught up with the uneven fight,
but Kit’s horse stumbled, and the little scout flew forward, rolling
deftly into the chaparral. Ned saw him rise and pick up his carbine
—broken in half at the breech. As Ned and Jourdan pounded by,
Ned unclipped his own carbine, yelled “Carson!” and flung it to Kit,
who caught it on the fly and turned to make his way up into the
chaparral, where he could find a vantage point.
His cutlass unsheathed in his left hand, Ned began firing his
Allan’s from his right when he got within range. His chest surged
with anger when he saw the numbers of dragoons lanced and dying
on the canyon floor.
He sensed something to his right, and ducked just as Jourdan
yelled a warning. The loop of a reata whistled its deadly song over
his head. Dropping low in the saddle, he reined the mustang and
faced two soldados charging down on him with lances at the
ready. The Allan’s bucked in his hand and one of the men grimaced
and grabbed his side, dropping the lance, but the other came on.
Before Ned could recock, a lance ripped through his right side. He
swung the cutlass from low on his left and caught the surprised
Mexican a glancing blow across the head. The cutlass buried in his
horse’s neck just in front of his saddle pommel, and was almost
jerked from Ned’s grip when the horse wildly plunged away.
Ned took a fleeting second to survey the scene around him—and
saw Gillespie and his Marines charging into the fray. Gillespie rode
well in the lead of his men and directly into a group of five soldados.
Even over !he roar of battle, Ned could hear the Mexicans calling
out Gillespie’s name in anger. They fell on him when his carbine
misfired. His cutlass flashed, knocking lances aside.
Ignoring the pain in his side, Ned hunkered low in the saddle and
drove his mustang forward into the nearest of the mounted soldados
just as another’s lance drove into the Marine’s face, knocking
Gillespie from the horse. Ned kicked free of his horse, and a
Mexican went to the ground—but Ned landed on top. He smashed
the handguard of his cutlass repeatedly into the Mexican’s face,
leaving him covered with blood and unmoving, then spun to find
Gillespie.
Ned fired into the mass of men surrounding the Marine and swung
his cutlass, beating his way through. He heard Jourdan’s yelled
warning, and turned to see a Mexican flying out of the saddle, a
victim of Jourdan’s empty swinging carbine.
A barrel-shaped soldado held his broken lance like a sword and
lunged at Ned, who turned aside at the last desperate moment.
The lance pierced his tunic, and he smashed the heavy Allan’s
against the man’s head. His eyes rolled up as he went down in a
heap.
Gillespie staggered out of the men, his teeth smashed out and
his lips flinging blood. He was screaming in anger at his enemies,
cutlass waving in one hand, holding his chest—where a gaping
wound lay open under the sliced uniform—with the other.
The Mexicans suddenly retreated, and Ned glanced over his
shoulder to see Kearny and fifty of the dragoons gallop into the
battle. They crashed past Ned, who madly searched for his horse.
He had to get Gillespie to the rear if the mortally wounded
man was to have any chance at all.
Ned watched Kearny gallop by as the Mexicans fled in front of the
onslaught. Ned caught his horse’s reins and, with Jourdan’s help,
pushed Gillespie into the saddle; then, realizing the Marine was
about to lose consciousness. climbed on behind him and galloped
to the rear. Jourdan followed, turning in the saddle and firing at two
pursuing soldados who had come out of the undergrowth swinging
reatas. They reached the rise where Swords aligned the cannons
and shoved Gillespie out of the saddle and into the major’s arms.
He caught him and lowered him gently to the ground.
“Get him some help!” Ned yelled, giving spurs to the mustang again.
By the time he had covered the quarter mile back, he could see that
Kearny and his dragoons had charged into the jaws of hell. The
Mexicans had used the same trick, allowing the dragoons to string
out deeper into the canyon, then circling again. Trick me once, you’re
a fool, trick me twice, I’m a fool, Ned thought in anger as he looked
for the general.
Jourdan, galloping behind, screamed at him, “Reload while time!” Ned
reined up and reloaded the Allan’s. He could see Carson on the
hillside, picking targets carefully, but almost every time he tried to
shoot, the carbine misfired. Again, Ned gave heels to the mustang and
charged into the battle. Kearny was surrounded by soldados, and Ned
saw one of them drive his lance deeply into the general’s broad backside.
With the irony of men in battle, Ned laughed. If he or any of them live
through this, the general will carry a wound with a scar he could not
show to his grandchildren.
Ned carefully picked targets, nudging the mustang forward. Jourdan,
by his side, did the same—driving the Mexicans away from the general.
Kearny, suddenly finding himself out of it, staggered around, his hands
hanging at his sides. Then he dropped to his knees.
At the roar of Swords’s cannons, the Mexicans swung their horses
away and retreated at a dead run.
The hillsides above the battle exploded with the four and six-pound
shells. Ned, his battle-weary horse heaving in exhaustion, saw the
general being picked up by his men and hoisted onto a horse. Ned
looked back up the rise to see a group of Mexicans leaving through
the chaparral on the hillside, pounding down on the cannons and
their few defenders. This time it was he who yelled at Jourdan,
who stood searching the chaparral for a target. Ned caught his
attention, then spurred the lathered mustang back up the road. When
he passed, he hooked elbows with Kit, who had moved back to the
road, dragging him up into the saddle behind him. Before they reached
the cannon’s position, Ned’s stomach filled with dread—afraid all
would be lost, as the cannoneers fought in hand-to-hand desperation,
surrounded by lance-armed Mexicans.
To Ned’s surprise, Archibald Gillespie was back on his feet, long
cannon swab in hand, manning his little four-pounder when not using
the swab to parry the thrust of a mounted soldado. Another group of
twenty soldados who had circled back were descending the hill at full
charge, weaving through the heavy brush to join those already attacking
the cannoneers.
Alone, Gillespie calmly adjusted the cannon to meet their charge. At
less than twenty yards, he touched off the load of grapeshot. Smoke
and fire billowed from the four pounder and horses and riders tumbled
end over end down the slope, almost rolling into their own fighting
soldados and cannoneers—and the cannon shot seemed to break the
spirit of the Mexicans Those still mounted reined away from the battle
and back up into the chaparral. Ned and Carson leapt from the saddle
to help Gillespie reload while Jourdan recharged both his and Ned’s
revolvers, firing with either hand as groups of Mexican riders challenged
from the hillsides. Again Jourdan reloaded, and flipped Ned’s revolver
back to him just in time to meet another charge brought on when the
cannon’s wet powder misfired. Two lancers galloped into them, and
Jourdan sidestepped one when his revolvers, charged with the same
powder as the cannon had been, misfired. When a soldado’s horse
reared, Jourdan managed to jerk the lance out of the man’s hands, but
not before he had taken its blade across his shoulder.
Ned’s pistol fired and he saw the soldado’s leg jerk. After reining away
in desperation, the Mexican slid from the saddle—his mustang wisely
running on, seeking the solace of the heavily brushed hillside. While the
battle continued to roil around the cannon, Ned scrambled forward and,
with Jourdan’s help, dragged the wounded Mexican soldier back and
bound him. Prisoners might come in handy, Ned figured. Then he
reloaded and awaited another attack.
When the dreadfully wounded Major Gillespie realized that the cannons
lay in good hands, his knees buckled and he crumpled to his back.
The cannoneers—when the powder didn’t misfire—began an
intermittent fusillade into the surrounding hillsides, more discouraging
than deadly. The dragoons below realized that the Mexicans had
retreated. With the Mexicans well out of pistol range, Jourdan began
helping one of the cannon crews.
The dragoons in the cleft ahead quickly began collecting their wounded
and dead and made their way back up the hill.
The roar of battle ended even more quickly than it had begun. The
smell of gunpowder hung in the mist, and the quiet moan of the wounded
seemed close in the dampness when the exhausted horses staggered
back, carrying their grisly loads, their hooves sucking at the mud. Ned,
Jourdan, and Carson surveyed the scene below.
“That, Mr. Carson,” Ned said disgustedly, “was the worst show of battle
planning I have ever even read about, much less been witness to.”
“Mexican lance longer than cutlass. Powder wet,” Jourdan offered sagely
reducing the battle analysis to the bare bone as he inspected the wound
where his homespun shirt was ripped at the shoulder.
Ned watched the dragoons get Kearny off his mount and strip away his
pants. They laid him down, and a surgeon began tending his torn buttock.
Ned glanced over at Kit. “Looks like the general is done for,” he said
seriously.
“Done for?” Kit studied the general for a moment. “Poked in the butt looks
about all.”
“Far too close to his brain, Kit,” Ned said without a smile, but his eyes
glinted with humor. Carson guffawed. “That just might be a true thing,
Ned boy,” he said. Then his tone turned serious. “You’d better have
your side looked after . . . and Jourdan’s shoulder could stand some
fancy tattin’.” Carson pulled the torn tunic apart to examine Ned’s wound.
“Let’s see if we can get the last of Gillespie’s bleeding stopped first,”
Ned said, kneeling beside the fallen Marine, who seemed to be
unconscious. His ripped mouth hung open, and his throat rattled when
he sucked in air. His torn chest oozed blood and lymph. Ned grimaced
as he realized he could see pink lung in the gaping wound.
Gillespie opened his eyes. Ned tried to clean the dirt and grass from
the bloody mess that had been Gillespie’s chest. “Did we win?” the
Marine asked, his words slurred through torn lips and missing teeth.
“We didn’t lose all, Arch,” Ned answered the best he could.
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