‘Name and district?’
‘Finlay Macnab, Victoria. My son, Otto.’
The colonel acknowledged the pair, then said: ‘You have something to say?’
‘You see, sir, we live near Victoria, and we understand that General Houston wants us to retreat—in an orderly fashion, of course—and if we go to Victoria …’
‘We retreat nowhere,’ Fannin snapped.
‘But if the Alamo has already fallen … It was a make-believe fortress like this …’
Macnab had used an unfortunate word. ‘Make-believe!’ Fannin cried. ‘Look at those walls. I’ve strengthened every one of them. I’ve had seven hundred cattle slaughtered and their meat dried in the sun. We can withstand a siege of weeks, months, till the rest of Texas mobilizes.’
‘Colonel …’
The interview was ended. Fannin rose angrily, stalked out of his own tent, and left the Macnabs standing there.
Back in their own corner of the large compound, Finlay told his son: ‘You must remember, Colonel Fannin is a West Point man. He has his own special definition of honor, of propriety. Men with their own definitions always mean trouble for other men.’
‘Are we in trouble?’
‘Deep. Santa Anna could be here at any minute. He’s only ninety-five miles away.’
‘And he could break down our walls too?’
‘With enough men, he can do anything.’
‘What should we do?’
‘Like Houston says. Retreat now and fight later.’
Finlay delivered this prudent opinion on Tuesday, 15 March, and he was disgusted on subsequent days to see that instead of preparing for an orderly evacuation, Fannin was assigning his men tasks, adding to the fortifications and storing the dried meat of the slaughtered steers. It was as if, having the fort and the food, he felt obligated to use both, but a member of the Georgia Battalion had a simpler explanation: ‘He refuses to join any movement which might mean the loss of his command. He will not serve under another man.’
The remainder of that week was spent in total confusion, then, belatedly, Fannin accepted the fact that he really must retreat; however, even then he could not act decisively. Instead of marshaling a calculated withdrawal with firm, quick decisions about what to take and what not, he vacillated miserably, telling the men first: ‘We’ll not try to haul those big cannon,’ then snapping: ‘We’ve got to take every one of our cannon. We can’t let Santa Anna get them.’
The danger was not really from Santa Anna in the west, for he was resting with his victorious troops in Béjar, but from a much different kind of Mexican general, a soft-spoken, humanitarian professional named José de Urrea, who came thundering up from the south, sweeping before him all the American filibusters who had been harassing the Mexicans in that region. It soon became apparent that General Urrea, with a vastly superior force, could overrun Goliad at any time he wished.
‘We should have left this place two weeks ago,’ Macnab lamented as he watched with dismay the chaos that engulfed the men about him. ‘Why doesn’t someone establish order?’ he asked with Scottish impatience at such sheer folly, but no one did.
At last, on Friday afternoon, 18 March, Colonel Fannin reached a decision, which he announced boldly: ‘We start our withdrawal to Victoria tomorrow at dawn. Since it will be a speedy retreat, we shall not try to take our cannon with us.’
‘Thank God, he’s made up his mind,’ Macnab told Otto, and all that day father and son moved about the presidio checking to be sure that everyone had his rifle in good condition and an adequate supply of ammunition.
‘Why are you doing this?’ a Georgia man asked, and Finlay replied: ‘Because I don’t see any of the officers doing it.’
‘What do you know about military affairs?’
‘Nothing. But I have common sense.’
That night he drew upon his fragmentary knowledge: ‘Otto, I read once that retreat is more difficult than marching ahead. The book said you need speed and discipline.’
‘Will we have them?’ Otto asked, for although he was only a boy he had seen enough of the disorganization at Goliad to make him suspicious of any leadership that Colonel Fannin might provide.
‘Son, at military tactics Fannin may be first-rate. It’s in the management of his army …’
‘I don’t think he knows how to do anything,’ Otto said, and through the night they continued to check armament.
At dawn on Saturday the two were ready to serve as scouts, leading Colonel Fannin across land they knew well, sure that by nightfall they could bring the troops to safety in Victoria, only twenty-five miles away. But as they were about to move out, Fannin decided that, after all, he had better take his cannon with him, and during the time consumed in making this radical change, for teams of oxen had to be assembled to draw the heavy pieces, he had a further idea: ‘Burn all that piled-up meat. So the Mexicans can’t get it.’ And through the wasted morning men stacked timbers, set them ablaze, and tossed onto the resulting fire the choice meat from some seven hundred steers.
‘This place never smelled so good,’ an Irishman shouted, and while the soldiers waited impatiently, another Irishman started playing a mouth organ, and men danced reels.
On a day when speed was essential, for other scouts had reported Urrea on his way to Goliad, the march finally began. ‘At last!’ Macnab sighed as they set forth, satisfied that the men were at least well armed and prepared for battle even if overtaken from the rear, as they might well be after such a long delay.
But the farce was not over. When the troops were less than a mile from the presidio a lieutenant, checking the supply train that had been given to him to command well after the march started, found to his horror that all food supplies were gone. In their enthusiasm for destroying huge stacks of beef to prevent them from falling into enemy hands, the men had burned the entire lot. A file of three hundred and sixty men was marching into the hot empty plain east of Goliad with nothing to eat except what the occasional foot solider had sequestered in his knapsack, if he had one.
When news of this disastrous oversight spread through the ranks, a much more serious one was discovered: no one had thought to bring water, either, so that the big, patient oxen on which the movement of the cannon depended began to weaken from lack of it.
When the Macnabs heard of these incredible blunders, the sort boys would not have made when planning an overnight camping, Otto made a simple suggestion: ‘Someone ought to shoot him.’
‘Hush!’ his father warned, clamping his hand firmly over his son’s mouth. ‘That’s treason, and Fannin would hang you in a minute.’
When his mouth was freed, Otto said grimly: ‘Fannin has rules for everyone but himself.’
Foodless, waterless, this shambles of a retreat was struggling across the plain when two rear scouts dashed up: ‘General Urrea, with many men and three cannon, will overtake you before sunset.’
When Fannin heard this his face went white, and now Macnab felt that he must intervene, for it was apparent that the colonel had lost all sense of control and needed guidance: ‘Sir, I know this land. My farm lies just ahead. You cannot allow yourself to be trapped in this open field. You must, you really must, turn quickly to the left and head for those trees along the river.’
‘I never divide my army,’ Fannin said doggedly, remembering something he had read in a military manual.
‘But, sir! I know these Georgia men, these Tennessee sharpshooters. You turn them loose in those woods, with water available, they’ll hold back the whole Mexican army.’
‘I do not respond to panic,’ Fannin said resolutely, and now, although protection was easily available after a double-time march of less than two miles toward the scrub oak, the mesquite and the river, this obstinate man insisted upon keeping his men on the route he had planned for them, a dusty, waterless path on which his oxen had begun to collapse and his soldiers to gag from thirst.
Finally, when the surviving oxen were no longer able to haul
the big, useless cannon, Colonel Fannin had to order a halt. It came in one of the bleakest stretches of the route, an area which provided no protection of any kind—no trees, no water, no gully to serve as a ready-made trench, no soft soil to encourage the digging of real trenches. Fannin brought his men to rest less than a mile from all kinds of safety, and here, with no protection, he formed them into a hollow square such as the Romans had used two thousand years earlier, with wagons as occasional breastworks and the precious cannon at each corner. Meticulously, he ordered that the sides of the square run true to the compass headings, with north facing the river a short distance away, with east facing Victoria, to which they should be marching, and west facing the presidio they had recently abandoned.
It was neat, military—and fatal.
Fannin had three hundred and sixty men, Urrea well over a thousand, and as soon as the unequal battle started, it was clear that the Mexican must triumph. However, Colonel Fannin with his West Point training proved a formidable adversary, for he deployed his men well, gave them encouragement, and conducted himself like a real leader.
But because the Mexicans fought a battle of swift movement, Fannin could not bring his cannon to bear upon them, and by the time the Mexican lines had formed, the only Texicans who knew how to work the cannon were wounded and the big guns stood useless. As night fell it was obvious to the trapped men inside the Roman square that on Sunday, General Urrea could overwhelm them any time he wished.
It was a horrible night, with the wounded crying for water and the unwounded watching the encircling lights as the Mexicans moved ever closer. At three an ox that had been hit in the shoulder began bellowing so loudly that Otto went to the poor beast and shot it. Others in the doomed square, thinking that the Mexicans were upon them, began to fire wildly, but Colonel Fannin silenced them: ‘Save your bullets. We’ll need them tomorrow.’
By dawn on Sunday, Urrea had brought up his heavy cannon, with ample horse and oxen power to move them where they would be most effective, and now, with the norteamericanos spread neatly out before him and with not even a surface ripple on the flat to protect them, he fired at will, raking the entire camp with a deadly barrage of canister and grape. The exposed rebels, with no food or water to sustain them, had no chance of escape. Twelve hundred fresh Mexicans faced the three hundred or so exhausted survivors.
In the first three explosions of the cannon, fragments of metal ripped through the camp, killing and maiming. The next three were worse, for the Mexican gunners now had exact range, and before the next salvo could be fired, several junior officers consulted with their men and reported to Fannin: ‘No hope with those cannon raking us. You must surrender.’ But now the confused leader became heroic: ‘Never! We’ll fight to the death!’ Then he lost control and watched impotently as his officers raised the white flag.
To Macnab’s relief, the Mexicans responded quickly with a white flag of their own, signifying that a truce existed, and shortly thereafter Colonel Fannin, accompanied by Finlay Macnab as his interpreter, marched erect and trim to meet Urrea. The two commanders settled upon the exact terms of surrender, and a disastrous adventure, mismanaged from the start, collapsed in a disastrous finish.
Macnab, when he reported back to the men inside the square, was quite specific as to the arrangements that had been reached:
‘Colonel Fannin demanded that our troops receive all the honors of war. Lay down our arms, officers to keep theirs. Surrender with full right to leave the country. No executions. No reprisals.
‘General Urrea did not exactly accept these terms, at least not in writing, but he did agree to an amiable surrender with our rights protected, and a Lieutenant Colonel Holsinger, acting for Urrea, told me personally: “Well, sir! In ten days, home and liberty.” When others on Urrea’s staff told us the same, and many heard the promises, we were much relieved, I can tell you.
‘General Urrea himself was less specific about the actual terms, but he was quite eager to provide us with water and food and care for our wounded. To me he seemed both a perfect gentleman and a soldier who knew what he was doing.
‘I did the translating up to the point where Urrea and Fannin drew apart to sign a paper of some kind. What was in it, I don’t know. Formal terms and all that, but as we marched out the Mexicans saluted us and Holsinger said again: ‘Well, gentlemen, in ten days, liberty and home.’
Less than an hour after the surrender, the men who had marched out of the presidio only the day before now marched back in, and when the Macnabs were once more within those familiar walls, Finlay told the boy to kneel beside him: ‘Almighty God, we thank Thee for having rescued us from what could have been a great tragedy. Teach us to be humble. Teach us to be grateful. From the bottom of our hearts, we thank Thee.’
He then sat Otto down beside the embers of the burned meat and lectured him on the duties of a man: ‘You’ve seen what indecision and confusion can do. I don’t charge Fannin with cowardice, because in battle you saw that he was brave. But in this life, son, you must carefully make up your mind as to the right road, and then march down it. If a wall of water forty feet high comes at you, hold your nose, kick to stay afloat, and when the water recedes, get on with your job. Promise me, Otto, that you’ll be a man of determination.’
‘I’ll try.’
In an unusual display of emotion his father embraced him: ‘I was proud of you, son, the way you helped me check the rifles the night before we started our retreat. You and I did our jobs. We did the best we could. It was the others …’
He would condemn no one specifically, but he sat silent for a long time trying to understand how this debacle had been permitted, but in the end he said simply: ‘We were lucky to escape. Now let’s get back to work.’
‘Since we’re so close to our farm, do you think they’ll let us walk home?’
‘I’m sure they will,’ Finlay said, for that would be the sensible thing to do, and since he was himself a sensible man, he expected others to behave in the same way.
Benito Garza, like many historians in later years, found no fault with General Santa Anna’s harsh conduct at the Alamo; a band of uninvited guests on Mexican territory had raised a rebellion, which, according to explicit Mexican law, made them pirates and subject to the death penalty. Most of the dead had been killed in combat, and those few who were shot or sabered after the end of fighting had been killed in the immediate aftermath of that battle, while tempers on both sides were still hot. There had been no atrocities. No women or children had been slain. It had been a clean fight and the mexicanos had won.
True, Garza had experienced one bad moment when on Santa Anna’s orders he inspected the ruins of the Alamo to ensure that men like Travis, Crockett and Bowie were dead, for as he turned one of the bodies over with the toe of his boot, he looked down to see his brother-in-law Xavier Campbell’s glassy eyes staring up at him.
‘Dios mío! How did he get in here?’
No one could give him an answer, for the women who had been inside the Alamo were too frightened to speak much sense, nor would they have known his history had they been able to report.
‘Men!’ Garza had shouted. ‘Let’s bury this one.’ But the scene was too confused for individualized action, and Campbell’s body, like the rest, was thrown into a huge pile for burning.
Later, as Benito tried to sort things out, he concluded: ‘Well, if he insisted on fighting against his own nation, he deserved what he got.’ But this did not alleviate his feeling of sorrow over his sister María’s loss of her second husband. Of the adult Texicans he knew, Benito had liked Campbell the best, but his conviction of superiority had led him astray, and now he, like the other arrogant intruders, was dead.
Benito had curious and sometimes conflicting reactions to the great victory at Béjar: I’m glad that the norteamericanos received a stiff lesson. They deserved it. I want to see them kicked out of Tejas. But having thus exulted over the victory, he had a less inflammatory reaction: I could have lived wit
h Xavier Campbell. He treated my sister with dignity. I can still live with the Macnabs. They’re decent. Perhaps if we have a mexicano government with mexicanos in charge, there’ll be a place for a few norteamericanos. They would be very helpful in our trade with New Orleans. Or in running stores in Victoria based on the New Orleans warehouses. Or maybe even banking in Victoria with New Orleans funds.
So from the sixth of March, when the Alamo fell, to the twenty-first, when news reached Santa Anna of the surrender of the Goliad garrison, Benito Garza luxuriated in the glow of victory, planning what he would do when this mexicano army with its three or four columns had cleared Tejas of the norteamericanos. But with the arrival of the sweating, dusty rider from Goliad, things changed dramatically, for Garza was in a house near San Fernando Church when he heard Santa Anna give the order: ‘I told Urrea specifically. No prisoners. No surrender. Remind him … order him to shoot them all.’
Garza, as an expert on life in Tejas and a man who had educated himself by reading about Napoleon and other generals, felt obligated to remonstrate against such a brutal, such an unwarranted order, and there in command headquarters, with no one else present, a vital dialogue began:
GARZA: Excellency, may I respectfully suggest that you do not send Urrea that order.
SANTA ANNA: Why not? My decree of 30 December 1835 clearly states that any foreigner taking arms against the government of Mexico is to be treated like a pirate and shot.
GARZA: But to shoot so many … more than three hundred, maybe four hundred. This will be taken poorly in los Estados Unidos. It will incur lasting enmity.
SANTA ANNA (with great animation): Now, there you’re wrong, Garza. Remember what happened at Tampico? Just last December? A gang of norteamericanos tried to invade, coming down from New Orleans. We defeated them and shot twenty-eight of them as pirates. Everybody warned me: ‘The people of New Orleans will rise up.’ Nobody made a move. They realized the dead men were pirates. They deserved to be shot, and I shot them.
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