James had to smile. “You and how many others?”

Dawn’s approach gave a rosy color to the water where the Brazos flowed into the Gulf. The marksmen’s aim improved on both sides. Around him, James could now see several dead among the Texans, and many more wounded. He could see a couple of Mexicans lying across the garrison wall, shot dead as they had raised up to fire. Some soldiers, fearing the Texans’ deadly aim, raised rifles over the wall and fired blindly, keeping their heads down. Even this did not protect them from harm. A rifle exploded as a Texan bullet struck it, and a Mexican screamed over his shattered hands.

“This,” Shipman said grimly, “is what a battle is all about. It’s men dead or shot to pieces and spillin’ blood and guts all over the ground.”

“I didn’t ask you to come.”

“Neither one of us has got any business here. I hope you know that now.”

James heard the sickening thump as a Mexican bullet drove into Shipman’s body. He heard breath gust from the man’s chest, followed by a moan. Shipman quivered.

“Sly!” James cried. In his anxiety he raised up too far and felt the wind as another bullet sang by his head. He dropped back down and turned Shipman over. Blood spilled from a hole in Shipman’s homespun shirt, high in the shoulder. Shipman gasped for breath.

“Damn you, Sly, don’t you die on me. I got you into this. For God’s sake give me the chance to get you out of it.”

He tore a sleeve from his own shirt and shoved it tightly against the wound, trying to stanch the blood. He knew it was useless to call for help. Others needed help as much or worse but had not received it. So long as the fire continued hot from the rim of that fortress, there was little help for anybody.

But as the day broke, the fire from the fortress became desultory, finally sputtering and dying. Each time soldiers had tried to man the artillery pieces, sharpshooters from the Texan ranks had cut them down. The riflemen had done far more damage than the schooner Brazoria, its cannons loaded with scrap iron and pieces of chain in lieu of proper cannonballs. Dark smoke curled and did a devil’s dance over a scene of despair and ruin. In due course, a white flag was raised over the garrison wall. The Texans, those still able on both sides of the fortress, gave a round of cheers, then went silent in contemplation of the carnage wrought around and among them.

James had managed to stop the bleeding of Shipman’s wound. Shipman was semiconscious, fighting to hold back the darkness that threatened to overtake him. “Hold fast, Sly,” James told him, gripping his partner’s hand tightly as if that would keep him from slipping away. “Maybe we’ll have help here directly.”

Help did come, after a while. Someone brought a jug of Mexican whiskey for Shipman to drink, to deaden the pain. James watched a portly, black-clad man work with other men, as badly wounded or worse than Shipman. After a time he responded to James’s urgent beckoning. “You a doctor?” James demanded.