The Mexican cavalry attacked, lances gleaming in the sunlight. The Texians aimed their cannon and their muskets at them and brought down dozens of them in a shattering volley. To Urrea this was a good indication that cavalry attacks were a bad idea in the present situation. He ordered his men to dismount and fight on foot—and, if possible, from a distance.
As the day wore on, the blazing sun beat down on the Texians unmercifully. They had little water to drink and none to spare with which to sponge down their cannon. When brilliant colors began streaking the sky in the west, many of the men offered up a prayer of thanks. It was over. At least for today.
Fannin called for a casualty report. Nine men dead; fifty-one wounded. Their oxen had been killed. They had no food or water and were rapidly running out of ammunition. To their relief, a light rain fell on them in the evening. The men lay on their backs with open mouths, trying to capture as much of the precious water as possible. Others tried to catch some in sheets of canvas, carefully pouring the few drops of water into their empty canteens. But even as the rain refreshed the men, it had a devastating effect on their remaining gunpowder. Worse, the coming of nightfall did not seem to have any effect on the Mexican snipers on all four sides of them; they kept up a series of random shots.
All of Fannin’s men gradually accepted the harsh truth. They were completely surrounded. There was no way out. No hope for rescue.
Toward midnight, Fannin called the men together. “This is a tight squeeze,” he said. “So we must strengthen our position. We are going to work through the night digging trenches and building breastworks behind which to fight.” The men grumbled a little, but they knew that it was the only hope of protecting themselves. Without another word, they picked up shovels and any other digging utensil they could find. Those who could find nothing else dug with their bare hands.
As the rain continued to fall and the temperature continued to drop, the men of Fort Defiance dug and packed dirt. They bolstered their makeshift walls with their wagons. Some of the men ventured beyond the square formation and dragged the carcasses of the dead horses and oxen over to serve as additional cover.
And through it all, the Mexican buglers played. It was not Deguello but another discordant bugle call, Sentinal Alerto. They played it over and over, all night long, until the Texians thought they would go mad.
When dawn broke, Fannin and his men looked out at the Mexican army with a sinking feeling. The force was bigger than ever. Reinforcements had obviously arrived during the night. The manpower was disturbing. The fact that they had brought three cannon with them was even more so.
They could only watch in horror as all three field pieces began raining grape and canister shot upon them. Fannin’s men crouched as low as possible behind their ragged breastworks, covering their heads with their arms, protecting themselves however they could.
They tried firing back, but their own cannon lacked the range of the Mexican guns. Urrea sat at a comfortable distance, able to blast the Texians to pieces if he so chose. The Texians could do nothing but crouch down behind their new barricades, praying that they would hold up against the bombardment.
But no sooner had the cannonade begun, than it stopped. An eerie silence hung over the field. Zaboly turned to Von Schmidt and said, “He is just sending us a message. They can kill us without breaking a sweat. They know it and we know it.”
Fannin watched the deteriorating situation with mounting despair. He had vastly underestimated the military capabilities of the Mexican army, and had tragically overestimated his own. Reluctantly, he called his officers to him. He was grim-faced as they gathered around. Every few seconds he winced in pain from the wound in his thigh. “I fear we will have to surrender,” he said, speaking loudly in order to be heard over the constant rifle fire and the unnerving blare of the bugles. “There is no other recourse.”
Leon Watson, a Texian who had been a newspaperman before joining the army, shook his head. “Colonel, you know how them Mexicans treat men who surrender.” Others nodded in agreement.
Fannin said, “What choice do we have?”
Watson said, “Seems to me, if they will allow us to surrender under favorable terms, we would all be willing to do so.”
“And if not?” Fannin said.
“Then we must be prepared to fight to the death,” Watson said. “I would rather die fighting than be executed.”
“Me, too!” Young said.
Zaboly agreed. “That’s the way I feel about it.”
Winders said, “Whatever you think is best, Colonel.”
Fannin said, “I suppose I had better conduct the parley myself. Someone get me a piece of white cloth.”
A few moments later, waving a white banner made from a linen shirt, and limping on his wounded leg, Fannin made his way toward the Mexican lines.
Shackelford called after him, “Remember, get good terms—or no deal.”
General Urrea was standing at his cannon emplacement, like a host eagerly awaiting the arrival of his guest. He received Fannin politely and asked him to sit down. Fannin did so, with some difficulty.
“Sir,” Fannin said, “I am willing to discuss terms of surrender.”
Urrea offered Fannin a cup of tea, which he gratefully accepted. “If you gentlemen wish to surrender at discretion,” Urrea said, “the matter is ended.”
Fannin knew what “at discretion” meant. The Mexicans could do whatever they wanted. It might mean prison. Or execution. It might, on the other hand, mean that they would be treated well and exchanged for Mexican prisoners.
Urrea shrugged and smiled genially. “If you would rather not surrender,” he said, “I shall return to my camp and renew the attack.”
Fannin wanted to argue, to bargain for a better deal. But he knew he had nothing to offer Urrea. He had no choice but to accept the general’s terms.
When he returned to his own breastworks, the men looked at him eagerly. Fannin shook his head. “They will accept our surrender at discretion,” he said. “Otherwise, they continue to attack.”
“I say we fight,” said a rugged Texian named Huffines. “If we give up, they will just murder us anyway.”
Other men murmured their agreement.
Fannin shook his head. “If we continue to fight, we will surely die. If we surrender, it is at least possible that we will live. I fear it is the only choice we have.” He looked around at his men. “Shall we vote on it?”
Ehrenberg stood up angrily. “God damn it, man!” he said. “Enough of your votes! You are our commander. Command us!”
Fannin looked around. The men seemed to be in agreement with the young German. He sighed. “Then here is my command. We must surrender.”
This time, Fannin did not walk back over to the Mexican ranks. He sent a messenger. Within the hour, his men were in a column again, making the long trek back to Fort Defiance. The wounded, including Fannin, were placed in the Fort’s infirmary. The rest of the men were crammed into the church. And again, as before, they waited.
On Palm Sunday, after they had been sequestered for nearly a week, a Mexican officer stepped in and called for silence. When all the men were listening to him, he read from a piece of paper: “All Texian prisoners are to be returned to Matamoros this day. Gather what belongings you have, for we will begin a march for the ship within the hour.”
A cheer of relief washed through the church. An Irishman named Feeley began singing a sea chantey from his days as a first mate. The other men began joining in. By the second chorus, everyone had learned the general tune and they all sang lustily as they marched out of the fort.
They were split into four groups. Some of the Mexicans explained that this was for their own safety, since they did not want the Texians to try and overwhelm them during the long march. The men of Fort Defiance bid exuberant farewells to one another as the groups marched away separately into the bright Sunday morning, singing cheerily.
When each group was out of sight of the others, the Mexicans o
rdered them to halt and turn their backs. Hermann Ehrenberg suspected at once that treachery was afoot. “Mein Gott,” he cried, “they are going to shoot us.” The firing began immediately. Many Texians dropped dead where they stood. Others attempted to make a run for it. Most were cut down in flight. Ehrenberg’s group was only yards from the river and he managed to make it into the brush. He dove in and swam furiously. Weissmann, a former doctor from New Jersey, dove in after him. He was immediately riddled with bullets and sank below the surface, leaving only a crimson cloud to mark the place where he had been. While musket balls pinged around him, Ehrenberg swam to the other side and disappeared into the woods.
Fannin, because of his leg injury, had stayed behind at La Bahía with the other sick and wounded. He was ushered out of the infirmary just before the other men were murdered in their beds. Fannin was placed in a chair directly in front of the church. A firing squad faced him.
Looking at the officer in charge in despair, Fannin said, “I have only these requests.” He pulled out his gold watch. “Please see that this is returned to my wife. Also, I would ask that you give me a Christian burial.” A tear was beginning to trickle down his cheek. “And please . . . please . . . do not shoot me in the face.”
Hands trembling, Fannin tied a blindfold around his eyes and sat as straight in the chair as he could, determined to meet his end like a soldier. With a smile, the officer dropped the watch into his own pocket. He turned to the firing squad and said, “Aim for the face, boys. Fire!” Hours later, Fannin’s body was tossed onto the fire that consumed the remains of the other four hundred men who died in his command.
Twenty-eight men escaped.
Santa Anna drew a line in the sand with his saber. “Sabine River,” he said. “The border with the United States.”
He and his officers were standing in the plaza of San Antonio de Béxar, in the shadow of the San Fernando church. Like a patient schoolmaster giving a lecture to rather dim students, Santa Anna was mapping out his strategy in the dirt.
“Houston is running for help,” he said. “We must move quickly to cut him off.” He made a mark with his sword on one side of the line and said, “Here we are in Béxar. Fannin, here in Goliad”—he made another mark—“must not be allowed to join Houston. Colonel Morales, you will take a thousand soldiers and sweep south.” Another line. “General Gaona, you will take troops and sweep north.” Another line. “General Ramirez y Sesma, you will march straight through Texas.”
Each of the officers nodded as his name was called.
Santa Anna said, “I will attend to matters here, then join you with men. We leave the women here and we carry only bedrolls and weapons.” He looked at his generals with an expression that said, Any questions?
Castrillón said, “Your Excellency, is it wise for you to be separated from the other forces?”
“It is time to finish our task,” Santa Anna said. He looked around sternly. If the other officers had questions of their own, none of them had the nerve to ask them.
The Texian army continued to move eastward, accompanied by more and more settlers. Word of the disaster at the Alamo had spread quickly. Frightened farmers and townspeople were deciding that the dream of Texas was over, that it was time to get back to the safety of the United States. They were abandoning their farms and ranches, leaving small villages entirely deserted. Some of the settlers remembered painting G.T.T.—“Gone to Texas”—on the doors of their houses back home in the states before they had left everything behind for the “new Eden.” Now, it seemed like the same situation in reverse. But what was there to return to?
Among themselves, the fleeing Texians were already starting to call this mass retreat “the Runaway Scrape.” But not all of them wanted to flee. Some wanted to stand their ground and take back their Texas homes.
A settler rode up alongside Mosley Baker. “How far east we got to run to be safe?” the settler asked. “As long as you in the army keep retreating, we have to, too. Give me one good reason why you do not just dig in right here and fight.”
Baker nodded toward Houston, who rode alongside the teamsters. “Ain’t a good reason,” he said, “but there he is, riding up front.”
Houston had heard the talk. This eastward trek, it was rumored, was headed straight for Louisiana. Some believed that if they could draw the Mexican army over the United States border, then the American government would have to get involved. With the U.S. Army on their side, Texas was assured of victory. Others believed that Houston was simply running with his tail between his legs, desperately trying to put miles between himself and Santa Anna, lest the Napoleon of the West crush him the same way that he had crushed Travis and the others at the Alamo. And Houston knew that, no matter what the reason, the settlers blamed him for the loss of their homes, and everything for which they had worked and fought to build. It did not matter if his current action was retreat or strategy or blind panic. Either way, those people were all going to have to start over from scratch.
Seguin himself wondered what was in Houston’s mind. He rode up to the general and they trotted along side by side for a while. “We had more deserters last night,” Seguin said. Houston did not reply.
Seguin tried again. “Some of the men . . . they think we are headed for the border.”
Houston still looked straight ahead. His face was without expression. “I hope Santa Anna shares their concerns,” he said. Seguin did not know what to make of that response. Houston gestured toward a large clearing. “We camp here, wait for Fannin to join us.” Then he galloped away, leaving Seguin no wiser about the situation than he was before.
The tents were pitched just in time. Just at nightfall, a relentless rain began to pour down on the camp. Except for the unfortunate sentries, everyone huddled in the tents, trying in vain to stay warm and dry. Out of the darkness, a rider appeared. Several Texians ran to greet him as he dismounted.
“They are all dead,” the rider shouted. He was young but grizzled, an Indian scout named Singer. His voice was faint over the rain. “Goliad—all executed! Fannin and his men.”
Houston strode out of his tent. “You make your report to me, sir,” he growled, “not to the public at large.”
There was a look of panic on Singer’s face. “I am sorry, sir.”
They walked over to Houston’s tent and stepped inside. “All right then,” Houston said. “What happened?”
Singer said, “They was marching out of Fort Defiance. Got about as far as Coleto Creek. General Urrea caught up with ’em there.”
Houston sat down in a field chair with a heavy sigh.
“Fannin surrendered, sir,” Singer said. “Give up. They march ’em right back to La Bahía and shot ’em all in the back.”
“All of them?” Houston asked.
“Yes, sir,” said Singer. “ ’Bout four hunnerd of ’em, I figger.”
Houston said, “But if they were all killed, how did you find out about it?”
Singer wiped his forehead. “Well sir,” he said, “they wasn’t all killed. I met up with my friend Hermann Ehrenberg. He ran, got away. Said a few others did, too. Don’t know how many.” He shook his head. “Ehrenberg told me, I just couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe that Fannin would surrender to those Meskin bastards.”
Houston could not believe it, either. The Mexicans always insisted on surrender at discretion—and that always meant “no prisoners.” Surely even an idiot like Fannin knew it.
Houston muttered, “God damn it.” He looked at Singer and said, “Go get yourself something to eat and find a place to bed down.” Singer nodded and left Houston’s tent. But Houston himself did not emerge. The men outside stared at the closed tent with derision in their eyes. “Well, boys,” one said with a sneer, “reckon we are about to start runnin’ faster.”
Within moments, the talkative Singer had spread word about Fannin’s downfall all over the camp. The men talked of little else for the rest of the night. Some of them, in some perverse way, even
found the news encouraging. Houston could not possibly ignore this, they reasoned. Now he would have to stand and fight. As the sun rose, the Texians emerged from their tents and began loading their weapons, checking their powder and shot, sharpening their knives.
Houston came out of his tent and surveyed the scene. “Break camp,” he shouted. “We continue east!” The men stared at him, open-mouthed in disbelief.
“General Sesma and a good portion of the Mexican army is right across the river,” Mosley Baker said. “And we are running? Alamo! Goliad! They have got to pay! If not now, when?”
Houston looked at Baker, then turned and went back to his tent. “We march in ten minutes!”
Seguin followed him in, dumbfounded. Houston began packing.
“They are ready to fight, General,” Seguin said.
Houston ignored him.
“Sam!” Seguin shouted.
“No,” Houston said calmly.
“Why not?”
“Damn it, Juan,” Houston said, “because none of it means anything without Santa Anna.”
“If you do not fight Ramirez y Sesma now,” Seguin said, “I am afraid we will not have an army to fight Santa Anna.”
Houston gestured out the door of the tent. “This army, this infamous army, has one battle in them. Maybe. I’d prefer it to count.” He continued to pack.
Seguin stood there for a moment, then reluctantly nodded and turned to leave.
Houston stopped him. “Juan . . .” he said.
Seguin turned.
“Do not question me again.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The Runaway Scrape was picking up speed. All along the road lay personal belongings—trunks, clothes, carts. There was even a piano dumped in the mud alongside the road as more and more settlers joined the exodus. Houston thought wistfully that if everyone riding with him were actually a soldier—instead of women, children and old men—he would have a formidable, and doubtless victorious, army.
The Alamo Page 28