Blood and Thunder: An Epic of the American West (34 page)

From the top of this cactus-studded eminence—Carson called it nothing more than a “hill of rocks”—Kearny assessed the situation and recognized that his men were simply too weak to advance any farther. Dr. Griffin warned that many of the wounded were dangerously frail and should under no circumstances move another step; he needed time to re-dress their wounds. San Diego lay only thirty miles off, but that was just too far for this straggle of invalids. Emory said it was “impossible to move in the open with so many encumbrances, against an enemy more than twice our number, and all superbly mounted.”

So the general decided to make camp on this lonely swell of blond-colored stones, from which he could at least keep an eye on the enemy and defend his beleaguered column. The Americans dug themselves in and prepared for a siege. Along the summit, the able-bodied men hastily built up fortifications of boulders chinked with smaller rocks (more than 150 years later, these crude breastworks are still in place). At dusk the men picked the meatiest of their stringy mules and slaughtered them for a thin gravy dinner. From that day on, this forlorn spot would be known as Mule Hill.

Kearny realized his predicament had become truly desperate. If he could not break through to San Diego, his men would starve. Or else they would die in a succession of battles they were not prepared to fight. The Californians were massing in all directions, their numbers growing as Captain Pico rallied fresh recruits to fight the despised Americans, who now seemed such easy prey. Henry Turner wrote that the Californian forces were now “quadruple our strength” and firmly believed that Pico would “charge upon us the moment we descended into the plain.” In their present condition, Turner feared that Pico would not leave “one of us to tell the tale.”

Somehow Kearny would have to get word to Stockton about the crippling battle at San Pasqual and request reinforcements. Kearny knew that Stockton was a ponderous champion of the U.S. Navy and its infallible power, and had nothing good to say about the army. But he was a patriot. If Stockton had any idea how dire the dragoons’ situation was, he would surely send more men. The general would make an urgent plea and, he hoped, all petty interservice rivalries would melt away; the navy would promptly come to the army’s rescue.

The problem was how to deliver the message: Kearny’s camp was now encircled by three cordons of sentries. To make matters worse, the way to San Diego would be similarly policed by Mexican pickets on horseback. According to Emory, “the enemy now occupied all the passes to that town.” Though well armed, Commodore Stockton’s men were themselves more or less under siege, their backs against the harbor. It would be “an expedition of some peril,” Emory fretted, but someone would have to try to sneak through these multiple layers of enemy lines and get to Stockton.

Perhaps inevitably, that person was Carson. Throughout his career, this was precisely the sort of assignment on which he had thrived—focused, small-scale, it was an undertaking with huge stakes and no room for error, a rescue mission that was also a courier mission (for some reason he especially loved to carry information). And so it was no surprise that Carson offered his services immediately. After some initial reluctance, Kearny gave his assent. Carson would leave that night—December 8—accompanied by a twenty-four-year-old naval lieutenant named Edward Beale and a young Diegueno Indian guide known to us only as Chemuctah.

Andres Pico, who was apparently acquainted with Carson’s earlier exploits in California and knew he was among Kearny’s forces, correctly predicted that the famous guide would try to break free. He admonished his men to stay vigilant.
“Se escapara el lobo,”
he told them: The wolf will escape.

When it was good and dark, Carson and the two other volunteers crouched among the rocks and started sliding down Mule Hill. The slopes were composed of loose scree, and they decided their boots were making too much noise on the gravelly descent. Chemuctah was wearing soft moccasins, but Carson and Beale removed their boots and tucked them under their belts. Carson also worried that their canteens were sloshing and clinking too loudly, so they left them behind.

Now barefoot, Carson and Beale cradled their weapons as quietly as they could and slithered through the brush until they came to the first line of sentinels. They crept right under the noses of the Californians, so close that the enemy horses must have smelled them. Carson could trace the outline of the Mexican lances, held upright to the starry skies. Several times they felt sure they had been spotted. One sentry rode right over to where the Americans were lying prone among the rocks. For what seemed like an eternity the soldier sat on his horse, producing a flint, then lighting and luxuriously smoking a cigaretto. He seemed to be drawing out the act as though he were teasing them; Beale felt sure the sentry knew they were lying there at his horse’s feet. The young naval lieutenant was so scared that Carson later swore he “could distinctly hear Beale’s heart pulsate.”

Finally Beale could endure the suspense no longer. He nudged Carson’s thigh and whispered in his ear, “We’re gone—let’s jump up and fight it out!”

Carson tried to reassure him. “Been in worse places before,” he whispered back, and eventually the Californian finished his smoke and ambled away into the darkness.

They heaved a sigh of relief, but then Beale and Carson realized with dismay that during their scrambling descent of Mule Hill, they had lost their boots. Carson knew they couldn’t risk going back for them—and besides, the odds of finding the boots in the dark were remote. So the two men skulked on through the night, collecting cactus barbs and needles in their bloody bare feet. Chemuctah, shod in his thin moccasins, fared only a little better.

They stuck to canyons and arroyos, creeping along the low washes, keeping out of sight. By dawn they were clear of Pico’s forces: The wolf
had
escaped. By afternoon they had drawn within twelve miles of San Diego and spotted more sentries. All the byways to the town were indeed blocked. Carson decided they should each take a different route in the hope that at least one of them would get through. Carson took the longest path, a roundabout of some twenty miles. (Biographer Edwin Sabin says Carson picked this “more devious course” to “assure success.”) Carson, Beale, and Chemuctah bid their farewells and vectored off in separate directions.

Twelve hours later, at around three in the morning, Kit Carson stumbled into Stockton’s camp on the Pacific Ocean. His feet were swollen and stiff and so badly lacerated that he wouldn’t be able to walk for a week. He had not eaten or drunk water in nearly thirty hours.

To his surprise and relief, Beale and Chemuctah, taking their shorter routes, had made it into camp a few hours earlier. Stockton had already dispatched a rescue force of nearly two hundred well-armed men to relieve Kearny. Beale was so “deranged with fatigue,” Carson was told, that he had to be carried into headquarters. After meeting with Stockton, Beale was brought on board the USS
Congress
and led straightaway to the infirmary.

The naval lieutenant would languish there in the sick bay for a month, and it would take him more than a year to fully recover. Historian Stanley Vestal described Beale as “utterly used up” and “out of his head for minutes at a time. To him, the whole world seemed paved with prickly pear.” After seeing him, Carson said of Beale: “I did not think he could live.” Chemuctah was similarly spent from his journey and, according to some accounts, died soon thereafter.

Carson’s barefooted adventure would soon win him further nationwide fame and fulsome commendations in the halls of Washington. Historian Bernard DeVoto ranked Carson’s “midnight crawl” to San Diego “high among the exploits of the master mountain man.” There was something uncanny about Carson, in the way he popped up from the shadows and impressed his name on the scenes of history. Perhaps it wasn’t merely Fremontian exaggeration—he did have a curious knack for making himself present at the critical instant. Whenever an expedition was in trouble—
real
trouble—he was there to bail it out.

After Carson’s arrival in San Diego, Kearny’s men practically mythologized him. A young sergeant wrote his parents in Hartford, Connecticut: “Never has there been a man like Kit Carson. All that has been said about him, and more, is true. He is as fearless as the lion, as stealthy as the panther, as strong as the oxen. I believe that Carson would attack a fort filled with Mexicans single-handed and drive them off.”

Carson himself seemed unimpressed. In his memoirs he devoted only a few lines to the whole adventure at San Pasqual. “Finally got through,” he said, “but had the misfortune to have lost our shoes. Had to travel over a country covered with prickly pear and rocks, barefoot. Got to San Diego the next night.”

While Carson was making his trek to San Diego, Kearny and his men suffered two more miserable days and nights waiting on Mule Hill. Their only fuel for campfires was wild sage, and they managed to find water only by boring deep into the sand and collecting a brown slurry that tasted bitter but possessed the salient quality of wetness. Mules kept turning into dinner.

For the other animals in the fast-dwindling herd, Kearny had to play nourishment against theft: If the mules weren’t taken off the hill and turned out to find fresh grass, they would surely starve, but once they were out grazing, the Californians, working on swift mounts, would descend and steal them. The enemy was constantly on the periphery, hectoring, driving wild horses up the hill to try to create a stampede. Pico hoped to fray the gringo general’s nerves, to starve him and grind him down; the plan seemed to be working.

Despite the meager food, many of the dragoons were slowly gathering strength and healing from their battle wounds. Dr. Griffin reported to Kearny that nearly all the sick were able to sit a horse—they could dispense with the rickety travois ambulances. Other patients, however, had developed gangrene or horrible infections in the deep punctures left by the lances.

One member of the party, a French trapper named Robideaux who had lost a great amount of blood, was hovering near death. The men had more or less written off the poor fellow, who in his death agonies kept hallucinating that he smelled coffee—a luxury no one traveling with Kearny had seen or tasted in months. “Don’t you smell it?” Robideaux beseeched them. “A cup of coffee would save my life!”

Everyone knew that the mountain men were all inveterate coffee addicts—especially the French—so Lieutenant Emory believed that the doomed man was simply exercising a final Gallic nostalgia before passing on to his reward. “I supposed a dream had carried him back to the cafes of St. Louis and New Orleans,” Emory said.

But he was soon shocked to find that Robideaux was right—somewhere in the camp a cook was indeed heating up a cup of coffee over a sagebrush fire. Emory went over and persuaded him to give it up to the dying Frenchman. Says Emory: “One of the most agreeable little offices performed in my life, and I believe in the cook’s, was to pour this precious draught into the waning body of our friend Robideaux. His warmth returned, and with it hopes of life.” Robideaux soon recovered and swore for the rest of his days that he owed his life to coffee.

On the night of December 10, Kearny decided that he had no other choice but to break out early the next morning and try again to push toward San Diego. He had given up on Carson and Beale. Probably they had not made it through to Stockton, Kearny guessed, and thus no reinforcements would be forthcoming. Kearny told his men to prepare for a last desperate march at first light. He ordered them to burn or otherwise destroy all belongings that were not absolutely necessary. This was for two reasons—to lighten the burden for swifter travel, and to deny the enemy any chance at booty. That night the hills danced in the glow of a crackling bonfire as the men consigned their effects to the flames.