‘Hold your fire!’ officers ordered as the main army caught up with Otto and Martin, and the men obeyed. Hearts pounding, and unable to believe that the Mexicans would allow them to come so close, the avengers moved on, and at this moment Otto looked about for his friend Yancey Quimper, because he wanted to fight this battle alongside someone he could depend upon, but Quimper was not in the front line, where Otto had expected he would be. He was not in the second line, either. In fact, he trailed far behind with two men who had game legs. At the time, Otto thought little of his absence.
At four sharp the Twin Sisters fired, and one set of cannon balls ricocheted through the main Mexican cannon emplacement, knocking several men off their feet. Surging forward, Otto and Ascot, with the center of the Texican line, engulfed that position and silenced the guns.
Now Otto and his new friend Martin were only eight feet—eight actual feet—from the Mexican lines, and before them they saw chaos: men fleeing, guns cast aside, officers missing. For just a moment Otto paused in disbelief, then coldly he started firing, killing his first man with a bullet through the back. Swiftly, with practiced fingers, he reloaded and shot another. With his third bullet he hit a Mexican in the back of the neck and did not even stop to see if the man toppled over, which he did.
Fire—reload—fire—reload—fire!
Otto was seven minutes into the enemy lines before a single bullet was fired at him, and that one so wildly aimed that it posed no threat. At the end of the tenth minute of this fantastic charge, one Texican had been killed by a stray bullet, more than three hundred Mexicans had been slain, but the real horror was yet to come.
For two good reasons Otto had not been able to locate Yancey Quimper. First, the big fellow had been assigned to the extreme right flank, where Colonel Mirabeau Lamar’s cavalry were supposed to wreak havoc in Santa Anna’s headquarters. Second, the horsemen performed so swiftly and valiantly that Yancey and other foot soldiers who marched in their support had difficulty keeping up. The exciting prospect of an easy victory should have stifled any fears Quimper may have suffered, but when he realized he was about to enter enemy lines, where hand-to-hand fighting was under way, he froze.
Despite every desire to move forward and acquit himself well, he could not make his feet obey; he remained rigid while others rushed past, shouting encouragement each to the other.
Finally he saw a Texican with a limp, and although the man was not seriously hurt, Yancey hurried to him, trying to convince both the man and himself: ‘That’s a terrible cut! Let me help!’ The man wanted to break away and rejoin the battle, but Yancey held him, dragged him to the ground, and pretended to tend the wound.
When the fight for the main lines had been won, Yancey regained his courage and roared ahead to participate in the climax, but now he saw an affair that was truly horrible; he grew violently sick and had to turn away. Soon he was back on the ground, crouching, his face ashen, his voice whispering mechanically: ‘Charge them, men! Go after them!’
What had sickened him might have nauseated anyone. At the far end of the McCormick farm, on whose broad fields this battle occurred, there stood a body of water called Peggy’s Lake; it was actually a swamp, and to its supposed sanctuary had fled the remnants of Santa Anna’s army; there, knee-deep in water, the Mexican survivors, with wild gestures, tried to surrender. But the enraged Texicans—shouting ‘Remember the Alamo! Remember Goliad!’—waded into the swamp after them, and using rifle butts like clubs, began to shatter their skulls.
‘Me no Alamo! Me no Goliad!’ pleaded Mexicans who had participated in neither massacre, but no Texican would listen. Men sorely embittered by the earlier battles pressed on, killing any dark-skinned soldier who floundered in the swamp, but especially remorseless were the men who had lost friends or relatives at Goliad, for they were avenging angels, killing even some of the soldaderas trapped in the bog.
This battle, so crucial in history, lasted only eighteen minutes. The Texicans, marching against prepared positions, lost two men, killed; the Mexicans, more than six hundred—but each side had others who were mortally wounded.
Otto Macnab, exhausted from swinging his gun butt and wielding his knife, looked for Yancey to share in the glory, but again he could not find him—in the swamp, nor at the line of battle, nor in the Mexican camp. Yancey had assigned himself the rear-echelon job of guarding some captured stores, and there he was when Otto found him, cheering his fellow-men on, telling them how brave they were to have faced such odds.
Otto, looking about for General Houston, was told by a Kentucky man: ‘Lordy, he did fight! First horse shot out from under him, I give him mine, and on he goes, right into the guns. This horse killed, too. Shot out from between his knees, his own leg all shattered, but on he goes. I like to find the son-of-a-bitch said Houston was afraid to fight.’
But Otto was near the badly wounded general when a large group of Mexican soldiers who had managed to surrender were being marched to their confinement, and Houston, seeing them through the pain which assailed him as he lay immobile, supposed them to be General Filisola bringing up a thousand reinforcements. ‘All is lost! All is lost!’ Houston cried. ‘Have I a friend in this world? Colonel Wharton, I am wounded, I am wounded. Have I a friend in this world?’
‘General,’ Wharton said, ‘you have many friends. What you see are our prisoners.’
When the doctors cut away Houston’s right boot, blood welled over the top, and they saw for themselves how seriously he had been wounded at the start of the battle.
How had Benito Garza and his general, Victor de Ripperdá, conducted themselves during this collapse of mexicano morale? Fighting side by side, always endeavoring to stabilize their crumbling lines, they tried vainly to rally their troops. When they saw the center about to collapse, they rushed there, much too late, and escaped death from the Texicans’ relentless fire only by shifting to where Colonel Lamar’s cavalry were creating havoc.
Doing whatever they could to stanch the hemorrhaging of the mexicano effort, they shouted, implored, and even shot one officer who was abandoning his post, but they accomplished nothing. Finally, when Lamar’s cavalry came at them, they were parted. Garza was driven into the swamp, where he sought to surrender. Ripperdá ran to the southern perimeter, where he found protection among some trees, whence he made a courageous journey on foot to intercept General Urrea’s army, which would arrive at San Jacinto eager for battle, but two days late.
In the aftermath, strange things happened. General Santa Anna, running through shoulder-high weeds attended only by an aide, came upon an abandoned shack on the McCormick plantation in which he found some old clothes that he put on over his uniform. Fearing that the presence of an obvious attendant might reveal his rank, he set out by himself to hide in bushes until daylight, when he hoped to escape across the shallow streams that enclosed the battlefield.
Otto Macnab, veteran now of the Mexican horrors at Goliad and the American retaliation at San Jacinto, tried to erase both from his mind. They had not happened. He had not participated in either; he had killed no one. At dusk, exhausted, he lay down and slept as if he were a boy back in María Campbell’s dog-run.
Martin Ascot, his battlefield friend, did not sleep; seated by a fire, he produced the pen and paper he always kept with him and wrote one of the most reliable accounts of this amazing battle:
San Jacinto River
Republic of Texas
21 June 1836
Revered Father,
Yet once again do I take pen in hand, by way of writing you a few lines to inform you that with God’s help I survived the mighty battle, hoping you will inform Miss Betsy Belle of same.
In my last letter I told you of the heroic but doomed stand of our men at the Alamo; by now you will also have heard from the New Orleans papers about the shameless massacre at Goliad.
You would have been ashamed, Sir, of what happened next. Our Texican army, defeated twice at the Alamo and Goliad, started a shameful retreat, a
llowing General Santa Anna to pillage and burn the entire countryside. One town after another went up in flames and we did nothing to stop it, until we sometimes felt that all Texas was ablaze.
I was convinced that when General Santa Anna caught up with us he was going to whip us badly. But I was wrong. With extraordinary skill General Houston led us into a spot surrounded by water, forcing General Santa Anna to engage in battle at an unpromising spot and well before the rest of the Mexican army could catch up.
Then came the immortal battle! At four o’clock in the afternoon of this day, the Mexicans were resting in their tents, convinced that we would not dare attack until the next day, if ever, for they had 1400 trained men and we had few more than 800 irregulars. But I can tell you, Sir, that we marched confidently into battle. We felt that God was on our side. We felt that terrible wrongs must be avenged. And we felt that the future history of this part of the world depended upon our behavior.
On our flank the musicians played ‘Yankee Doodle,’ which inspired us no end. The band had but two members, a Czech named Fred with his fife and a nigger boy named Dick with his drum. They played lustily and were very brave.
I carried that good Kentucky gun you gave me when I left, and during the sixteen minutes of battle I was able to fire it six times, for as you know, it was never easy to reload. Young Otto Macnab, who fought at my side, had lost his father at Goliad, and in his fury he was able to fire at least twenty times. Like a little machine of vengeance he stalked forward, loading and firing, and with each shot he muttered ‘Remember Goliad’ or ‘This one for Goliad.’ We were now so close to the Mexicans that we might have reached out and shaken hands with them, and when they saw us stop reloading and move forward with our rifle butts, they became terrified and started running toward a swamp at their rear.
General Houston galloped up and cried ‘Do not kill any more. Take them prisoner.’ But when he was gone a Methodist minister name of Harrison who was fighting in the swamp with us, a real old man, must of been near fifty, shouted to Otto and me ‘Boys, you know how to take prisoners! With the butt of your gun over their heads and your knife at their throats.’
All us Texicans were now in the swamp, clubbing the Mexicans over the head and causing them to drown, hundreds of them. On the third smack I broke your fine gun, but I think I can get it fixed, so I took my hunting knife and started cutting throats. Otto would club a man, knock him sideways, and I would grab him by the hair and finish him off, and we must have handled a dozen this way, for Otto was a fierce fighter. But late in the battle when I grabbed a Mexican on my own and was about to cut his throat from behind, Otto gave a great cry ‘No! No!’ and when I put my knife to the man’s throat, Otto clubbed me over the head with his gun.
When I revived, very sore in the head I can tell you, there was Otto standing over me with his gun. The Mexican, a young man with dark skin and a mustache, was hiding behind him. Otto told me that the Mexican was Benito Garza, and that he had saved Otto’s life at Goliad. I had the strange feeling that this Garza was looking at me as if he were a rattlesnake, seething inside with hatred which must some day spit forth.
At the end of that last paragraph I fell asleep, and I’m sure you can understand why, but I awoke this morning to a magnificent piece of news. One of our men, name of Yancey Quimper, by a feat of arms which he says was extraordinary, has captured Santa Anna, and we have him now in a tent being guarded by seven. Otto and I and all the men around us wanted to kill Santa Anna, and we were downright angry when General Houston treated him like an honorable foe, giving him better food than we’re getting. I was one of a committee of six who met with Houston and told him ‘We want to hang that man,’ but he reasoned with us and said ‘Our battle is only half won. Bigger ones may lie ahead, and I plan to use Santa Anna as our principal cannon.’
My friend Otto would not accept this, and when he told General Houston what he himself had seen at Goliad and how his own father had been run down like a coyote, tears came to General Houston’s eyes and with his forefinger he traced the scar on Otto’s face and asked ‘Did you get that at Goliad?’ and Otto said ‘I did, Sir, killing a man who was trying to kill me,’ and Houston said ‘It is your badge of honor, son, and mine will be to treat Santa Anna better than he treated us.’
Tonight I am very afraid, Sir, and I hope that you will pray for me, and for Otto and for all the brave Texicans who fought so many with so few, for if the Mexicans assemble their armies in this area, they could still overwhelm us.
It is rumored that if I survive the next great battles, I shall be entitled to many acres of the best land in Texas, and this is a country with a potential for greatness. Inform Miss Betsy Belle, if you will, that she should start now to prepare the things she will want to bring to Texas, for Otto tells me that he once traveled along some excellent land on the Brazos River and he will show me how to claim on it. If I live, Sir, I shall post haste to Mississippi and marry Miss Betsy Belle the morning I arrive, and please to inform her of same.
Your loving son in God, Martin
P.S. Do not tell Mother or Betsy Belle about the knife work in the swamp. They might not understand.
Ascot’s report of Quimper’s heroism in capturing Santa Anna did not reflect the truth. On the morning after the battle, Quimper and two buddies, one a young fellow from Kentucky named Sylvester, had quit trying to capture Mexican survivors and were hunting deer for the mess. When they saw six or seven bucks suddenly take flight for no apparent cause, Sylvester, a skilled huntsman, said: ‘Somethin’ spooked them deer,’ and when they investigated, Yancey saw a man huddling on the ground and trying to hide in some bushes, dressed in old clothes.
He was about to shoot him when Sylvester shouted: ‘The battle’s over, for Christ’s sake. Let him live.’
‘Get up, you swine!’ Yancey shouted, but the quivering man remained on the ground, whimpering. The men dragged their prisoner into camp, and he would have been thrown into the ordinary compound except that sharp-eyed Yancey saw several Mexicans begin to salute.
‘Stop that!’ one man commanded his fellow prisoners, but it was too late.
‘He’s a general, by God!’ Yancey called, and when the man was shoved forward the Mexicans in the compound began to kiss his hands and call him El Presidente.
‘We’ve got Santy Anny!’ Quimper shouted, and he spent the rest of that day parading about the Texican tents, announcing himself as ‘the man who captured Santy Anny.’
Otto, who was near General Houston’s cot when the Mexican general was brought before him, heard Santa Anna’s first words: ‘Congratulaciones, Mi General, ha derrotado El Napoleón del Oeste.’
‘What did he say?’ Houston asked.
Otto translated: ‘”You have defeated the Napoleon of the West.” ’
‘Tell him to sit down.’
Houston had more difficulty with another visitor, Mrs. Peggy McCormick, owner of the farm on which the historic battle had taken place: ‘Tell me, who’s going to bury all these dead bodies cluttering up my place?’
‘We’ll bury the Texicans,’ Houston replied graciously as he adjusted his throbbing leg.
‘How about those hundreds of Mexicans?’
‘Why, madam, your land will be famed in history as the spot where the glorious battle was fought.’
‘To the devil with your glorious victory. Take off your stinking Mexicans.’
‘That’s Santa Anna’s problem.’
She demanded to see the general, and when he was produced she asked him in Spanish: ‘And what do you intend doing about all those bodies?’ and he replied: ‘The fortunes of war, madam. I can do nothing.’
• • •
The true miracle of the Battle of San Jacinto transpired some days after it ended, because a greater danger persisted than the one Houston had conquered. The Mexicans had under arms in Tejas some five thousand of their best troops, led by skilled generals: Filisola the Italian, Woll the Frenchman, and Ripperdá from Yucatan, who had joi
ned forces with Urrea, the victor at Goliad. If they coalesced, and they were not far separated, they could drive Houston right to the borders of Louisiana, and annihilate him if they overtook him.
But now Houston’s brilliance showed itself, for by the force of his remarkable personality he kept Santa Anna alive, appreciating the fact that if he allowed him to be hanged, as most of the Texicans wished, the man would become an instant martyr, a hero who had to be avenged, just as the martyrs of the Alamo and Goliad had had to be avenged. But if he could be kept alive, a prisoner in humiliating disgrace, his martyrdom would be avoided; also, he would be available to issue orders to the other generals to disband their troops and go home. As dictator of Mexico he would still command their obedience.
So with a skill that Metternich or Talleyrand would have applauded, this Tennessee cardsharp used Santa Anna the way a long-practiced fisherman uses a fly to trap a trout. He coddled him, he flattered him, he even arranged for him to be sent to Washington to interview the President of the United States, but first he obtained from him orders to his generals to go home.
Miraculously, they obeyed. This powerful army, which could have won so many battles, dislodged so many plans, supinely obeyed their imprisoned leader—when the whole tradition of war dictated that they ignore any command issued by a man in the clutches of an enemy—and took their men quietly out of Tejas, which would know that lovely Spanish designation no more. It was now Texas. By the merest thread of chance it had become Texas, and so it would remain.
Of the three men from the Victoria dog-runs, each lost his battle: Campbell in the Alamo, Macnab at Goliad, and Garza in the swamps at San Jacinto. But each contributed to the grandeur upon which the Republic of Texas was founded.
For the living, the fortunes generated by this battle were both mundane and dramatic. Yancey Quimper appropriated the title ‘Hero of San Jacinto.’ Peggy McCormick, in the years following the war, earned tidy sums from selling the endless battle mementos scattered across her farm, but both Pamela Mann and Juan Seguín ran into trouble.
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