Northern MexicoAutumn 1846.
The ground began shaking before the sun even rose.
Not from thunder.
Not from an earthquake.
From artillery.
The first cannon blast rolled across the valley like a physical force, deep enough to rattle wooden crates and send loose dirt sliding down trench walls. Horses tied behind the Mexican defensive line kicked nervously while soldiers instinctively ducked their heads from the sound.
Then came the second shot.
And the third.
Smoke spread across the ridge as the newly arrived artillery batteries opened fire one after another beneath the cold gray light of dawn.
General Pedro de Ampudia stood behind the gun line with mud splashed across the lower half of his coat. He had not slept properly in almost two days. None of the artillery crews had.
