“Sergeant Foster,” he called out, “take a detail and sink those cannon in the river! We are moving out immediately!” Foster hesitated for a moment, shocked by the order. Then he gestured to a few men and they all dashed toward the cannon.
“Burn what you cannot carry,” Houston shouted. “Rutledge, get the civilians together and put them in the baggage wagons! With haste, gentlemen!”
Three hours later, a line of wagons and horses started filing out of Gonzales. Some people rode; a great many more walked. All of them carried bundles of whatever few belongings they could manage to scrape together before abandoning their homes, and most of them were still crying and moaning with grief. Some were simply angry. A taciturn farm woman named Mrs. Headley packed up the few belongings she would take with her while her two little sons played heedlessly at her feet. She said to one of her distraught neighbors, “I am going to teach my boys about this. I am going to teach them never to let up on the Mexicans until we get full revenge for all this trouble.”
Some of the women refused to leave. One officer suggested that they be dragged from their homes and bodily placed in the wagons. Houston shook his head. “I have little doubt that they will willingly join us,” he said, “as soon as you men start putting the torch to every building in town.” He was right.
One by one, the buildings began to blaze, as a dozen men with torches dashed from one wooden structure to the next. Houston was determined that they would leave nothing behind for Mexican plunder. The women in the wagons looked back at their burning homes, wailing and sobbing. Many called out their husbands’ names, husbands who had gone to aid the Alamo and never came home again. Houston noticed Mrs. Millsaps in the back of a wagon, weeping plaintively, her six children, now fatherless, clinging to her skirts. Only a short time earlier, she had thanked him for going to help her husband in the Alamo—thanked him—and he had failed her, just as he had failed almost every woman in those wagons.
In the shadows, just beyond the edge of the firelight, Joe stood watching the sad exodus. He had done what he said he would do. He had brought the Dickinson woman and her baby to safety. Now it was time to think about himself. As the now mobile town of Gonzales—and the ragtag Texian army—retreated into the distance, Joe turned and started walking the other way, toward Mexico.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Colonel James Walker Fannin paced around his headquarters. He knew what the men said about him, that he was weak and indecisive. That he considered everything from every angle and then still could barely bring himself to take action. But Fannin knew that the time for action was now.
The trouble was, which action should he take? Houston’s orders had been quite explicit. Fannin was to abandon La Bahía and move his men out to meet Houston in Gonzales as soon as possible. He had tried to move the men out before, and it had not really worked out all that well. But he was willing to give it another try—if everything could be made to work out more advantageously.
As usual, however, there were complications. “I am not like these other simpletons,” Fannin thought to himself, “who are content to look at every situation in stark black and white. I see all the facets, all the layers. It takes time to develop the perfect course of action. I need more time!”
But he was running out of time. His men had urged him to go to the aid of Travis at the Alamo. But that was before they heard about Urrea’s victory at San Patricio. Johnson, Grant, all those men, killed, wounded, missing. How could he leave after learning that? San Patricio was south of Goliad. That meant the Mexican army could be coming straight up the road toward Fort Defiance. Yes, he was right to turn his column around and bring it back into the fort. Right to do nothing but wait in readiness.
And then he learned the terrible news about the Alamo. All dead. If he had marched to Travis’s aid, perhaps all of his men would be dead with them. Perhaps he would be dead himself. Then what good would they have done? Yes, he was right to wait.
And now this message from Houston, ordering him to move out—not leaving it to Fannin’s discretion but commanding it. Fannin thought of himself as a good officer and he knew that he should obey Houston’s order without further delay. But scouts had already informed him that Urrea was advancing on Goliad. The Mexican army, at this very moment, was probably no more than ten miles away. In response to this threat, Fannin had just sent out Amon King with over two hundred men to evacuate American settlers at Refugio. He could not make a move until they came back—his strength at La Bahía had been reduced by a third. Houston would just have to understand that.
Fannin paced and paced and tried to think it through. Houston would be furious if he didn’t leave Fort Defiance immediately. But what if he left and then King came back to find La Bahía occupied by enemy forces? He would be slaughtered. No, Fannin could not let that happen. No matter what Houston would eventually say about it, he would just have to wait. Everyone would just have to wait.
So Fannin waited one day, constantly scanning the horizon for the return of King’s men. The waiting extended to a second day, then a third.
“Rider coming in!” Fannin jumped up at the sound of the shout from the wall. He ran out into the courtyard, which was already filled with Texians, eager for news.
The rider, a former jockey from New Orleans, was named Nelson. He slid off his exhausted horse and said, “Which one is Fannin?”
Fannin stepped forward. “I am Colonel Fannin,” he said.
Nelson took his hat off. “Anybody got any water?”
Fannin turned to a nearby private and said, “Fetch him some.”
Nelson said, “I have news of King.”
“What is it?” Fannin said.
“You want me to tell you out here, with everybody listening?” Nelson said. Fannin flushed with embarrassment and said quickly, “Come into my quarters.”
Inside, Nelson was handed a tin cup of water. After draining it and wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his coat, he said, “King is dead. Him and his men was captured after a fight at Refugio. Them that wasn’t killed in the battle was shot later on.”
The blood drained from Fannin’s face. He sat down behind his desk and held his head in his hands. King was not coming back. Now it was completely up to him. He got up, walked across the room, opened the door and stepped into the hallway. “Corporal Zaboly! Corporal Von Schmidt!” he called.
The two young officers hurried over to Fannin’s quarters and stood at attention. “Sir!” Zaboly said.
“Men,” Fannin said, “Houston has ordered us to move out. Zaboly, take a detail and bury all of the cannon. We cannot take them with us. They will only hinder our movements.”
“Yes, sir,” Zaboly said, and rushed away.
Fannin turned to the other man, a tall German immigrant who wore a monocle in his left eye. Fannin always assumed that he came from some aristocratic German family. “Von Schmidt,” he said, “alert the men to prepare to move out at first light. Then dispatch a detail to burn all of the supplies. We don’t want to leave anything behind for the enemy.”
“Burn them now, sir?” Von Schmidt asked.
Fannin scowled impatiently. “No, not now. Just as we are leaving the fort!”
Von Schmidt nodded and went off to carry out his orders.
Fannin walked back into his quarters, feeling very much like a decisive commander. He still felt that way at daybreak, when all the men had assembled, ready to walk out of the fort. And he still felt that way as the day wore on and they had not been able to manage to actually leave. And, at sunset, he made another very decisive order. “Stand down,” he shouted to the men. “We will move out the first thing tomorrow morning!”
The men groaned and grumbled. But no one was much surprised.
Fannin shouted, “Corporal Zaboly!”
The officer ran to his side. “Sir!”
“Corporal,” Fannin said, “dig up those cannon. We are taking them with us.”
Zaboly stared at his commander for a few stunned seco
nds.
“Snap to it!” Fannin said. “We have no time to waste!”
“Typical,” said Young, a lieutenant from Illinois. “The man does not know which end is up.” He muttered to a friend, a skinny kid named Winders, “We should move out under the cover of darkness. That is the only smart thing to do.”
Winders looked to be about seventeen years old. He was laboring heroically to grow his first pair of muttonchops. He nodded solemnly. “I reckon the colonel knows what he is doing,” he said.
Young looked at the boy as if he had grown a second head. Winders was the first soldier he had ever met in Fort Defiance who actually thought Fannin knew what he was doing.
The men were awakened before sunrise and stood in formation for another two hours. Young, and most of the other men, had the sinking feeling that they were going to be standing there all day again. For a while after the sun came up, a heavy fog blanketed the region. Most of the men realized that this was another good opportunity for them to move out with some natural cover.
But again Fannin waited, until the sun broke through the clouds.
When at last Fannin was ready to start the march, he called out, “Corporal Von Schmidt—fire the stores.” Von Schmidt and five other Texians with torches ran over to the storerooms, carefully setting fire to all the wooden crates and burlap bags that were stacked against the walls inside. Within moments, the two rooms were blazing furiously, sending clouds of black smoke pouring into the sky. The men ran back to rejoin their ranks.
Fannin regarded the blaze with satisfaction. “Move out!” he called and rode out of Fort Defiance. Behind him, the column started moving slowly. The wagons, pulled by desiccated oxen, moved slower still.
Atop a nearby hill, a vaquero watched the rising smoke with a mounting sense of excitement. He knew what it meant. And he knew that General Urrea would want to know about it as soon as possible. He hopped onto his cow pony and rode furiously toward Urrea’s camp.
While the vaquero moved with great speed, Fannin’s column continued to creep along at a turtle’s pace. Houston had ordered Fannin to bury all the cannon but because Fannin had changed his mind, the men were hauling every cannon in the place: nine altogether. They also were laboriously dragging along extra wagons laden with hundreds of muskets. They had only a few horses, and the oxen pulling their wagons were weak and starving, so hungry that they stopped every time they saw grass. Despite all efforts to get them moving, they stubbornly stood their ground, feeding themselves, since no one else had bothered to feed them.
Mile after agonizing mile, the column crept forward. Wagons broke down. A howitzer mired at a river crossing. One of the oxen dropped dead.
At midmorning, they were still only a few miles from the fort. Fannin decided that it was a good time to call a halt and feed the men. An hour passed while the men waited for the food to be served.
Captain Jack Shackelford approached Fannin. “Sir, is this really the best place in which to linger?” he said.
Fannin said, “We are only stopping long enough to eat, and then we will be on our way.”
“But sir,” Shackelford said, “Coleto Creek is just up ahead, not two miles from here. There we will at least have the protection of timber.”
Fannin smiled. “Coleto Creek will make a good camping place tonight. We will start the march again soon. Thank you for your advice.”
Shackelford was stunned. Fannin only planned to travel two more miles before making camp for the night?
The men were openly complaining about the delay in eating when Von Schmidt nervously approached Fannin at the head of the column.
“Colonel Fannin, sir?” he said, hat in hand.
“What is it?” Fannin snapped. He was hungry and in a bad mood.
“Uh, about the food, sir,” the corporal said.
Fannin was growing more impatient. “Well?”
“Well, um, there ain’t any,” Von Schmidt said.
Fannin’s eyes widened. “What do you mean, ‘There ain’t any’?” he said.
“Well sir,” Von Schmidt said, “when you told us to burn the store, well . . . uh, I reckon we burned all the food, too.”
Fannin was speechless. But a little farther back in the line, another Texian was not. “Mexicans!” he cried out.
Fannin whirled around and looked into the woods ahead. Mexican cavalry—hundreds of them. As Fannin watched in horror, the horsemen split into two groups and surrounded the Texians, making sure that the column could neither advance nor retreat.
Fannin shouted, “Unhitch two of the cannon! Get them loaded, for God’s sake!”
The two cannon were aimed at the woods where the largest grouping of cavalry seemed to congregate. “Fire!” Fannin shouted. The two guns blasted six-pound balls toward the forest. They caused considerable damage to the trees they hit, but the Mexicans were unscathed. Most of the cavalry did not even bother to take cover from the blasts.
Suddenly, in the same woods from which the cavalry had just emerged, a large group of Mexican infantry appeared. The garrison’s physician, Dr. Barnard, ran over to Fannin.
“Sir,” he said, pointing straight ahead, “if we move forward only a mile, we can take cover among those trees.”
Fannin replied contemptuously, “And did they teach you military strategy along with your medical training, Doctor?”
Barnard said, “No sir, of course not. This is not military strategy—just common sense. We are right out in the open—easy targets for the Mexicans.”
Shackelford said, “The doctor is right, sir.”
“Perhaps he is,” Fannin said, sternly. “But I am in command!” His expression softened a bit. “We were more thoroughly outnumbered at the battle of Concepción, Bowie and I,” he said. “And we whipped the Mexicans without breaking a sweat. They just aren’t fighting men.”
“But at Concepción, at least there was cover,” Shackelford said. “Here, we are but sitting ducks!”
Fannin glanced at Shackelford and the doctor, smiling as if he had a brilliant trick up his sleeve. “Form a square!” he yelled. “Place a cannon at each corner!” That would show them what a fine military mind he possessed. Fannin learned all about forming a square at West Point. “With this setup,” he said, “we can hold off the army indefinitely.” Barnard and Shackelford looked at each other, shook their heads and walked away.
“He has gone completely insane,” Young muttered.
Winders replied, “Well, maybe it will all work out fine.”
Young’s voice was filled with bewildered fury. “Instead of seeking protection in the woods,” he said, “here we are spread out on open ground!” He pointed at the Mexicans. “And that means that the superior force of Mexicans has full advantage of the forest. They can take cover and fire at us with ease. And all we can do is take it!”
Winders nodded. “I will bet you that Colonel Fannin has a plan.”
Young sighed with dismay.
Only fifteen minutes after the Texians first spotted the Mexican cavalry, Urrea ordered his men to attack. Fannin had always had a keen interest in history. It was one of the courses he actually passed at West Point. Now, thinking back to Bunker Hill and the famous order, “Do not fire ’til you see the whites of their eyes,” he decided to paraphrase. “Men,” he called out, “hold your fire until the Mexicans are so close that no shot can miss.” Several of the men stared at him in disbelief, and then went back to squinting down their gun barrels, waiting.
The Mexicans fired volley after volley, steadily closing the ground between them, but still the Texians did nothing but stand by. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, the men began to sit down or kneel, trying to make themselves a somewhat less tempting target. Several men fell. Still, they had not fired a shot.
It was not until the Mexicans were less than a hundred yards away that Fannin decided that the time was right, “Fire at will!” he cried. Eagerly, the Texians sent volley after volley into the enemy’s ranks. The blasts drove the Mexicans back, b
ut they immediately surged forward again.
Two miles away, a scouting party under Captain Albert C. Horton heard the gunfire and rode quickly to the crest of a hill to see what was going on. Hermann Ehrenberg knew that there were men down there who he had fought alongside since the siege of Béxar. He turned to Horton and said, “We had better go down and help them.”
The other men in the scouting party looked away without saying a word. Captain Horton said, “Son, that is clearly a losing battle down yonder. We must ride back to Victoria and find some reinforcements there.”
Ehrenberg wheeled his horse around. “You can go to Victoria if you like, sir,” he said, “but I am going to help my friends.” Horton and the others watched as Ehrenberg rode down the hill, through the Mexican lines and toward Fannin’s square. Then they turned and rode hellbent toward Victoria.
When Ehrenberg rode into the Fannin’s troop formation, his Polish friend Francis Petrussewicz raised an arm in greeting. “Hermann, my friend!” he called out happily. Those were his last words. At the same instant, a Mexican musket ball struck him in the back of the head and he pitched forward, dead before he hit the ground. Ehrenberg rushed over to his friend and lifted his head, but it was too late.
Fannin stood behind a cannon, firing his pistol as often as he could reload. He felt a searing pain in his thigh and fell to the ground. Blood pumped from the bullet wound. He untied his cravat and frantically tried to bandage the wound. As he did so, Fannin saw the oxen falling, one by one. Mexican snipers were bringing them down. That meant there was no way out. Fannin remembered the letter from Travis that he had read—“Victory or Death.” Those were his choices now. And he had a sinking feeling that victory was not going to be the one that he achieved.
The Texians continued to fire, but their volleys had little effect on the Mexicans. The Mexicans, on the other hand, were in a fine position. Kneeling in high grass or behind trees, they could expose themselves long enough to get off a shot, then duck and reload at their leisure. Urrea watched the skirmish with satisfaction. It would last an hour or a day, but victory was certain.
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