#did we forget that it was built there because a mill paid the church to be there?

[paul-henri]

Far Off Regions, part 2

     As much as I hated serving the source of our family’s hardship, it felt like the only thing to do was enlist. So with no joy, I walked to the Army headquarters (because we had sold our last mount for a bolt of cloth) and signed up. I didn't have far to go, it was only half a mile away; walking around the back of the Alamo, with its now famous ‘hump’ on the old mission chapel barely a year old, and straight down Houston Street to the Vance building. The Army had made the two story white stone building their command post for all forces stationed in San Antonio about the same time they fixed up the Alamo.

     I made sure that in my five year contract there was a provision that guaranteed my $8 a month, paid every two months, was to be sent to my family directly. I wouldn’t need any pocket money, the army would give me everything I would need. With my papers signed they sent me with a note, signed by the commander, to the supply depot; the Alamo, where I was issued a uniform and rucksack, and a mess of gear with no idea how to put on.

I was milling around the former convento, turned into a supply loading area behind the long barracks, with fifty other recruits when a full-framed, bearded, sergeant strutted towards us. Stopping a few yards in front of our gaggle of youthful men he stated in a very even tone,

"I am Sergeant Wilkerson. I am here to instruct you in the basic military drill and infantry tactics. Now you will all fall into four even ranks. Make sure the man to your left is taller than you and the man in front of you shorter than the one behind you."

After much shuffling and rearranging I found himself center file third rank, a distinct disadvantage of being tall; I was always going to be in the back. We were marched around for a few minutes in the small yard and then paraded all the way down Houston Street.

We took a left on Soledad Street and finally stopped in Military Plaza. Our formation of troopers was facing the same court house in which I had pleaded my case not eight weeks ago. Wilkerson stopped us and assigned men to their respective barracks and bunk assignments. it seemed odd that the men stayed in the buildings lining the West and South sides of the plaza; interrupted by stores and private residences. The bunks filled quickly, so the last few of us in rank just stood there for a while after he stopped calling names.

"Alright, all you men left over will be assigned billeting at a later time, company fall in." Wilkerson said as he looked up from his roster. "Just my luck,’ I said in a bit of a stage whisper, “I'm in the back so I don't have a place to sleep." Which was quickly answered by, "It's not like I'm any better off,” from the fellow next to me. "Hey, quiet back there. Get to know each other some other time." Wilkerson yelled at us from the head of the column as we began marching again. 

This time we went along the back of San Fernando church, turning left down Flores Street then about six hundred paces and we stopped at a large stone building. It was a two story white stone, some three times longer than it was wide. There were smaller buildings to the south, lined up along Arsenal Street and two backed up to the little canal. Closing off this quadrangle was a nautical looking flag pole flanked by pyramids of cannonballs.

When we got inside the downstairs was one giant room with a long row of tables running plum down the middle, cutting the room in half. All us troops were lined up on one side looking across the counter to the back wall. Out of the center of the ceiling was a trap that was letting down a hand crank freight elevator. Three men came off the platform when it finally reached the floor, pushing a hand truck stacked with wooden crates. They cracked the top one open and the tallest one, he looked extra thin because his uniform was baggy, reached in and pulled out a musket. He read the number on the butt plate to his shorter friend holding a ledger book; then handed the weapon to the first guy in line. "Name?" There was a second of silence after he said that, "Come on we don't have all day. Do you know your name?" The scrawny one said to the recruit across from him holding the musket. "Boggess, Henry, Sir." "That's more like it; did every one hear that? You do the same when I hand you a weapon."

The process was repeated down the line until every man had a Springfield in his hands. These weapons had just arrived from the factory; but they weren’t new, they had just been converted from flintlock to percussion cap. They marched up back to main plaza with our weapons and dismissed; most of us at least. The last few of us left standing there were directed to a wagon waiting nearby. The driver was laying across the bench with his hat pulled down over his eyes and his feet kicked up on the brake lever.

"Corporal Vickers has just come to us with the light Artillery." Sergeant Wilkerson said pointing at the sleeping waggoneer, "You men will be bedding with them at Camp Crockett. This will be your taxi every day. I expect you here and ready by sunrise, dismissed."   Once Wilkerson disappeared into his own lodging the dozen or so of us left outside meandered over to the wagon and woke up our driver. We had to shake him by the boot rather vigorously before we got a, "Yeah, yeah, I'm up already." The corporal was young, probably the same age I was, but he was weathered. It wasn't just the faded uniform he wore, there was a maturity about his demeanor; a fullness and oldness that surpassed age and came from living through too much.

 Camp Crockett was two miles north of the plaza at the source of San Pedro creek. The artillery men were camped in neat rows of large A-frame tents. Each tent housed a single cannon crew; eight men. There had been two extra tents set up for the new recruits at the end of the row forming a short L wing. The long row of tents was backed up to the bubbling spring; the short row pointed towards an old stone building standing off by its self. The blockhouse looking structure had a tower on one end pierced with shooting slits and great heavy doors on two sides of the building proper; the whole thing was about 15 foot wide by 45 foot long. The corporal saw me focusing on the stone building and spoke up, 

“That is our powder reserve, ain’t no reason for any of you to go over that way. And for God’s sake don’t smoke around it.” “Did ya’ll build it?” I asked. “No, that is the oldest building in Bexar, so I’m told. They used it in case of Indian attack before the missions were built; all we did is put better doors on it.”

 At night most men all turned in early; they knew the next few days were going to be brutal. The corporal was always last to lay down, he spent the night quietly staring into the fire; but he was always the first one up. He'd sit there drinking coffee waiting for the others to get ready, and then drive us into town. After a few days he told me that he had joined the field artillery in ’46 when he was only 16 years old. He had been at the battles of Palo Alto, Buena Vista, and Vera Cruz; he had been on campaign for 21 months. The war that had ended four years earlier still haunted his dreams and he warned me that if I did ever see any action I’d never forget it. 

After a week of musket drill and marching Wilkerson asked for volunteers for the Mounted Rifle Regiment. “What’s that?” asked one of the men in the front rank. “The concept is that you ride out and then fight on foot, very similar to dragoons. The farthest outposts have to use these types of troops to control vast areas. They are all volunteer units, and you get two dollars a month more.” I was the first one to step forwards.

 “Extra pay and I didn’t have to march anymore, such a deal,” I told Vickers later that night. Now every day the corporal dropped us off at the Alamo, to draw horses, and then we rode to military plaza. Mounted Rifle recruits were issued short carbines and did mounted drill for the next month. 

It was summer, in south Texas, and it was hard to get accustomed to the stuffy wool jacket and wide billed cap. The dark blue short jacket trimmed in yellow and trousers with their black stripe edged with yellow cord did not take long to break in. The dark blue, hard side, shako trimmed in green with its funny looking angles and enormous bill were hard to get used; it just never seemed to fit right. "Where did the army get this atrocious thing?" I asked the Corporal one day as he hit a bump and the bulky thing fell down over my eyes. "Either from the French or the English; it seems that they can't come up with anything original,” the corporal told me, “To be honest when you’re out at your post most of the time they let you wear the old forage cap. This shako thing is mostly for parades and such.” 

#Original Work #adventure story #more to follow #Far Off Regions #slow build but bear with me

[faroffregions]

A Slow Start

 As much as I hated serving the source of our family’s hardship, it felt like the only thing to do was enlist. So with no joy, I walked to the Army headquarters (because we had sold our last mount for a bolt of cloth) and signed up. I didn’t have far to go, it was only half a mile away; walking around the back of the Alamo, with its now famous ‘hump’ on the old mission chapel barely a year old, and straight down Houston Street to the Vance building. The Army had made the two story white stone building their command post for all forces stationed in San Antonio about the same time they fixed up the Alamo.

    I made sure that in my five year contract there was a provision that guaranteed my $8 a month, paid every two months, was to be sent to my family directly. I wouldn’t need any pocket money, the army would give me everything I would need. With my papers signed they sent me with a note, signed by the commander, to the supply depot; the Alamo, where I was issued a uniform and rucksack, and a mess of gear with no idea how to put on.

I was milling around the former convento, turned into a supply loading area behind the long barracks, with fifty other recruits when a full-framed, bearded, sergeant strutted towards us. Stopping a few yards in front of our gaggle of youthful men he stated in a very even tone,

“I am Sergeant Wilkerson. I am here to instruct you in the basic military drill and infantry tactics. Now you will all fall into four even ranks. Make sure the man to your left is taller than you and the man in front of you shorter than the one behind you.”

After much shuffling and rearranging I found himself center file third rank, a distinct disadvantage of being tall; I was always going to be in the back. We were marched around for a few minutes in the small yard and then paraded all the way down Houston Street.

We took a left on Soledad Street and finally stopped in Military Plaza. Our formation of troopers was facing the same court house in which I had pleaded my case not eight weeks ago. Wilkerson stopped us and assigned men to their respective barracks and bunk assignments. it seemed odd that the men stayed in the buildings lining the West and South sides of the plaza; interrupted by stores and private residences. The bunks filled quickly, so the last few of us in rank just stood there for a while after he stopped calling names.

“Alright, all you men left over will be assigned billeting at a later time, company fall in.” Wilkerson said as he looked up from his roster. “Just my luck,’ I said in a bit of a stage whisper, “I’m in the back so I don’t have a place to sleep.” Which was quickly answered by, “It’s not like I’m any better off,” from the fellow next to me. "Hey, quiet back there. Get to know each other some other time.” Wilkerson yelled at us from the head of the column as we began marching again.

This time we went along the back of San Fernando church, turning left down Flores Street then about six hundred paces and we stopped at a large stone building. It was a two story white stone, some three times longer than it was wide. There were smaller buildings to the south, lined up along Arsenal Street and two backed up to the little canal. Closing off this quadrangle was a nautical looking flag pole flanked by pyramids of cannonballs.

When we got inside the downstairs was one giant room with a long row of tables running plum down the middle, cutting the room in half. All us troops were lined up on one side looking across the counter to the back wall. Out of the center of the ceiling was a trap that was letting down a hand crank freight elevator. Three men came off the platform when it finally reached the floor, pushing a hand truck stacked with wooden crates. They cracked the top one open and the tallest one, he looked extra thin because his uniform was baggy, reached in and pulled out a musket. He read the number on the butt plate to his shorter friend holding a ledger book; then handed the weapon to the first guy in line. “Name?” There was a second of silence after he said that, “Come on we don’t have all day. Do you know your name?” The scrawny one said to the recruit across from him holding the musket. “Boggess, Henry, Sir.” “That’s more like it; did every one hear that? You do the same when I hand you a weapon.”

The process was repeated down the line until every man had a Springfield in his hands. These weapons had just arrived from the factory; but they weren’t new, they had just been converted from flintlock to percussion cap. They marched up back to main plaza with our weapons and dismissed; most of us at least. The last few of us left standing there were directed to a wagon waiting nearby. The driver was laying across the bench with his hat pulled down over his eyes and his feet kicked up on the brake lever.

“Corporal Vickers has just come to us with the light Artillery.” Sergeant Wilkerson said pointing at the sleeping waggoneer, “You men will be bedding with them at Camp Crockett. This will be your taxi every day. I expect you here and ready by sunrise, dismissed.”   Once Wilkerson disappeared into his own lodging the dozen or so of us left outside meandered over to the wagon and woke up our driver. We had to shake him by the boot rather vigorously before we got a, “Yeah, yeah, I’m up already.” The corporal was young, probably the same age I was, but he was weathered. It wasn’t just the faded uniform he wore, there was a maturity about his demeanor; a fullness and oldness that surpassed age and came from living through too much.

Camp Crockett was two miles north of the plaza at the source of San Pedro creek. The artillery men were camped in neat rows of large A-frame tents. Each tent housed a single cannon crew; eight men. There had been two extra tents set up for the new recruits at the end of the row forming a short L wing. The long row of tents was backed up to the bubbling spring; the short row pointed towards an old stone building standing off by its self. The blockhouse looking structure had a tower on one end pierced with shooting slits and great heavy doors on two sides of the building proper; the whole thing was about 15 foot wide by 45 foot long. The corporal saw me focusing on the stone building and spoke up,

“That is our powder reserve, ain’t no reason for any of you to go over that way. And for God’s sake don’t smoke around it.” “Did ya’ll build it?” I asked. “No, that is the oldest building in Bexar, so I’m told. They used it in case of Indian attack before the missions were built; all we did is put better doors on it.”

At night most men all turned in early; they knew the next few days were going to be brutal. The corporal was always last to lay down, he spent the night quietly staring into the fire; but he was always the first one up. He’d sit there drinking coffee waiting for the others to get ready, and then drive us into town. After a few days he told me that he had joined the field artillery in ’46 when he was only 16 years old. He had been at the battles of Palo Alto, Buena Vista, and Vera Cruz; he had been on campaign for 21 months. The war that had ended four years earlier still haunted his dreams and he warned me that if I did ever see any action I’d never forget it.

After a week of musket drill and marching Wilkerson asked for volunteers for the Mounted Rifle Regiment. “What’s that?” asked one of the men in the front rank. “The concept is that you ride out and then fight on foot, very similar to dragoons. The farthest outposts have to use these types of troops to control vast areas. They are all volunteer units, and you get two dollars a month more.” I was the first one to step forwards.

“Extra pay and I didn’t have to march anymore, such a deal,” I told Vickers later that night. Now every day the corporal dropped us off at the Alamo, to draw horses, and then we rode to military plaza. Mounted Rifle recruits were issued short carbines and did mounted drill for the next month.

It was summer, in south Texas, and it was hard to get accustomed to the stuffy wool jacket and wide billed cap. The dark blue short jacket trimmed in yellow and trousers with their black stripe edged with yellow cord did not take long to break in. The dark blue, hard side, shako trimmed in green with its funny looking angles and enormous bill were hard to get used; it just never seemed to fit right. “Where did the army get this atrocious thing?” I asked the Corporal one day as he hit a bump and the bulky thing fell down over my eyes. “Either from the French or the English; it seems that they can’t come up with anything original,” the corporal told me, “To be honest when you’re out at your post most of the time they let you wear the old forage cap. This shako thing is mostly for parades and such.”

#Far Off Regions #original work #adventure story