Seguin passed out cards to his men and instructed them to place them in their hat bands. Whenever a Texian came by, one of the Tejanos made sure he was aware of the signal, and told him to spread the word around camp.
Mathew Ingram sectioned off his powder, his hand shaking as he worked. He had wanted to be a part of this thing, had pled with General Houston to take him along on this great adventure. Now, here he was—and he would give a million dollars, if he had it, just to be anywhere else. Anywhere at all . . .
A young drummer named Goldman sat under a tree, tapping his sticks together nervously. Beside him sat two boys with fifes. They were cousins named Hank Harrison and Jack Judson. Harrison had carved a fife as a present for Judson and taught him how to play simple tunes. Now, Seguin had told them they were supposed to play a charge—and how in the hell were they supposed to do that?
“What do we play?” the drummer asked.
Harrison and Judson shared a look—that was a good question.
“I dunno,” said Judson. “We ain’t never attacked nobody before. How about ‘Yankee Doodle’?”
The other fifer laughed. ‘ “Yankee Doodle,’ ” Harrison said scornfully. “Who are you, my grandpa back at Valley Forge?”
“Well, you choose then,” Judson said indignantly.
The first fifer shrugged and said, “I mostly only know bawdy love songs.”
Goldman smiled. “I like ‘Come to the Bower.’ You know that one?”
“I sure do,” Harrison said. “Purty tune.”
The fifers put their instruments to their lips and started practicing. They realized soon enough that they did not know the entire song, but they were sure they could get by until the shooting started—and by then, no one would be listening to them anyway.
Deaf Smith rode back into the camp, swung down from his horse and ran into Houston’s tent. “General,” he yelled, “Vince’s Bridge is down.”
Houston nodded and clapped Smith on the shoulder. Now no reinforcements could get here to help Santa Anna and Cós. On the other hand, the destruction of the bridge meant that the Texians could not retreat, either. It left them with only one alternative—to move forward, into the camp of Santa Anna, to victory.
“Good work, Deef,” Houston said. “Now I believe it is time to raise the curtain.”
Houston emerged from his tent and looked at the men. They rose, meeting his gaze, ready to fight. He walked along the lines, looking at them, sizing them up.
Houston stopped and the men instinctively gathered around him. “Men,” he said, “you will remember this battle, remember each minute of it, each second . . . until the day you die.”
An aide stepped up with Saracen. Houston had had the beautiful white horse groomed to perfection. With a pair of snowy wings, he would have resembled a creature out of Greek mythology. Houston mounted him as the men watched.
“But that is for tomorrow, gentlemen,” he said. “For today . . . remember Goliad. Remember the Alamo.” He looked across the open field and said, as much to himself as to his men, “The hour is at hand.”
With a cluck to Saracen, Houston rode forward. The men started to line up and move through the brush toward the battlefield. Houston exited the brush and was joined by several cavalrymen. He turned to the handsome, eager cavalryman to his right. After a moment, he recognized him. “Lamar, correct?” Houston said.
“Yes, sir, Mirabeau B. Lamar, sir.”
Houston said, “What does the B stand for?”
“Bonaparte, sir.”
Houston almost laughed. “You, sir, will ride to my right.”
Lamar frowned a little and said, “With all due respect, sir, we prefer to be at the front.”
“And you shall be,” Houston said, riding forward.
He was front and center as the Texians infantry emerged from the woods—two deep and wide across. Mathew was in the middle, barely able to breathe. The two cannon were aimed at the Mexican breastworks. Houston looked to Goldman the drummer and nodded. He counted off for the two fifers and they began a ragged but spirited version of that slightly risqué love song “Come to the Bower.” Houston listened for a moment and smiled; he would not have exchanged the silly melody for a standard bugle charge for anything in the world. The general raised one hand, held it in the air for a few seconds, then lowered it. The cannon—the men had already affectionately dubbed them the “twin sisters”—blasted two shells toward the Mexican line. They hit with a double crash. As wood and debris went flying, the sleeping Mexicans awoke with a start. They started to scurry about, grabbing muskets, fixing bayonets. Without clear orders, confusion reigned.
Houston waved his arm toward the enemy lines. “Forward!”
The Texians started walking forward. The Mexicans were starting to return fire. The musket shots, from a distance, sounded like faint pops, and the musket balls whizzed through the air and riffled through the grass around the Texians. But they continued to walk, at a moderate, easy pace, closer . . . closer . . .
Houston shouted, “Volley formation!”
The front row of men stopped, knelt and aimed. The men behind them aimed over their heads. When they were in place, Houston called out, “Fire!”
A volley ripped into the few Mexican defenders who peeked over the barricade to fire. A dozen men dropped dead with bullet wounds in their heads and chests.
Houston called out, “Resume advance!” Saracen trotted forward, almost prancing. The sound of battle disturbed him not at all, Houston thought proudly. In fact, he seemed downright chipper. Saracen was a horse born for war.
Mathew got up from his knee, nervously reloading as he walked. His first shot had gone wild; he knew it. But at the moment, he was less concerned with killing Mexicans than with keeping from getting killed himself.
Houston looked down the line of troops. One or two of them had fallen from enemy musket fire, but otherwise the line held steady. He raised his hand again and the twin sisters sent fiery death toward the Mexican ranks, blowing up another section of the barricade.
Santa Anna emerged from his tent, furious. Like his men, he had been enjoying a peaceful nap, and now he had to face the enemy without even being fully dressed. He looked around him wildly and saw chaos everywhere. Only Castrillón had the calm presence of mind to organize his men into an effective defensive position, right in the middle of the breastworks. While the other generals’ troops faltered, panicked and ran, Castrillón’s lined up, carefully aimed at the distant Texians and fired.
Santa Anna saw a riderless horse near his tent. He ran to it, mounted and rode away. Castrillón watched in disgust as his president fled from the battlefield.
On the left flank, Seguin, Sidney Sherman and two dozen men on horseback moved stealthily behind and through a stand of trees. To their right, Houston was barking orders to the Texian line. “Volley formation!” Houston’s voice boomed out louder than the gunfire. The front row of Texians knelt, waiting for his command. “Fire!” he called. When they unleashed withering fire into the Mexican ranks, Houston shouted, “Resume advance!”
The men were anxiously waiting for the order to attack. Held back from fighting for weeks, the anger and lust for vengeance filling their hearts day by day, they were at last getting the chance to bleed the enemy the way their friends, their brothers, had been bled at the Alamo and at La Bahía. At first they moved forward at a steady pace, but when two more Texians dropped from Mexican musket fire, their step quickened to a trot—and then a full run.
Mosley Baker shouted, “Remember the Alamo!”
Others in the line took up the call. Still others bellowed, “Remember Goliad!” or “Remember La Bahía!” Overcome now with righteous fury, their ranks broke and the Texians raced for the Mexican lines, running as fast as they could. They did not bother to stop and reload their rifles. When the time came they would use their muskets as clubs, or spill the enemy’s blood with knives or, if need be, bare hands. All they wanted at the moment was to get at them.
&
nbsp; Houston saw the order of his army dissolving before him. His carefully staged battle was turning into a brawl. Red-faced with anger, he shouted, “Form ranks! Form ranks!”
But the men weren’t listening. Houston realized that not only were the men ignoring him, but that he was in danger of being left behind, out of the fighting. He pulled his pistol from his belt and spurred his mighty Saracen forward into battle.
At the opposite end of the field, Castrillón also saw the order of his men collapsing into chaos. “Hold ranks, hold ranks!” he ordered. But his men could no longer follow his orders. Most turned and fled in terror from the advancing Texians.
Before him, Castrillón saw Seguin and his men racing in from the flank, firing, breaking any chance the Mexicans had of holding the line. The last of Castrillón’s men retreated into the distance.
Batres had been looking around wildly for Santa Anna. Unable to find him, the president’s aide began to suspect that his master was either dead or had left the field. Either way, Batres was terrified. When he saw Seguin and his men bearing down on the Mexican line, he screamed to Castrillón, “General, we must pull back!”
Castrillón looked at Batres with something like pity. “Forty battles,” he said, “and I have never shown my back. I am too old to do it now.” Castrillón turned back to the attack just as the Texians made it to the breastworks and began brutal and desperate hand-to-hand fighting with the remaining brave Mexicans who continued to stand their ground. Castrillón calmly fired one pistol, then pulled another. He fired it—click!—it was empty. He dropped the firearm to the ground and folded his arms over his chest, watching his own death rush toward him over the barricades. T. J. Rusk saw how gallantly Castrillón fixed his enemy, and shouted desperately to the Texians, “Do not shoot him! Do not shoot him!” But the men were too thirsty for vengeance and blood to listen to him. Castrillón was brought down by a volley of musket balls. Several Texians rushed over to him and, seeing that he was an important officer, paused long enough to jab his body with bayonets. They were followed by scores of other Texians, who came hopping over the breastworks, screaming like banshees.
One Texian captain named Covner yelled, “Boys, you know how to take prisoners! Take them with the butt of your guns!”
“That is right, fellers,” shouted a ragged private named Buteau. “Club gun right and left and knock their brains out! Remember the Alamo!”
A little Mexican drummer boy, who looked to be about ten years old, cowered before the oncoming Texians. Both of his legs were broken and he screamed in terror and agony. Two Texians, Huthmacher and Laing, ran over to him, rifles leveled. The pitiful child grasped Huthmacher around the ankles and pled in Spanish, “Hail Mary, most pure! For God’s sake, save my life!” Laing shook his head in disgust and said, “Let him go. We got bigger fish to fry.” Huthmacher had other ideas. He grinned savagely and pulled a pistol from his belt. He held it to the boy’s temple and said, “Remember the Alamo.” The boy continued praying for his life, but the Texian pulled the trigger, splattering brains all over Laing’s boots.
Houston wheeled Saracen toward the barricade. A bullet struck them both, going through Houston’s ankle and into Saracen’s side. Both horse and rider tumbled to the ground. Houston had no time to mourn the loss of his treasured steed—he quickly got up and limped to another horse, motioning for the cavalryman riding him to dismount.
Seguin’s men spread out in the marsh. A musket ball took out a chunk of the calf of a Mexican officer named Lara. He fell to the ground, grimacing in pain. When he looked up, Menchaca was standing over him. A look of relief washed over the officer’s face. They had been neighbors in Béxar. “Menchaca, my friend, help me,” he said.
Menchaca shook his head sadly. “I cannot help you.”
“Please,” Lara begged, “we are brother Mexicans. Spare me!”
The sad expression on Menchaca’s face slowly changed to one of cold hatred. He raised his rifle. “No, damn you,” he said. “I am no Mexican. I am an American.” He fired a single shot into the officer’s forehead and the man pitched backward, staring in astonishment into eternity.
A group of soldaderas huddled in fear near the rear of the camp. Some were wives of the soldados and officers. Others were prostitutes who traveled with the army, offering comfort for a price. But now, all were terrified women, praying for their lives. Chemerka, a recent immigrant from New Jersey, grinned wickedly when he saw them and raised his rifle. Captain Harrigan stepped in front of the musket.
“What the hell are you doing?” demanded Chemerka.
Harrigan pulled out his saber and glared at the man menacingly. “Leave those women alone,” he said.
Chemerka sneered. “You cannot knock off a bullet with a sword,” he said.
Harrigan pulled out his pistol and aimed it directly at Chemerka’s face. “If you harm any woman there, I will kill you,” he said.
Now Chemerka was just bewildered. “Are you serious?” he said. “You would kill me to save that trash?”
Harrigan nodded grimly. “I promise you that I would.”
The puzzled man shook his head and walked away. Harrigan glanced at the shivering women, none of whom was quite sure what had just happened. He tipped his hat and ran back into the thick of the battle.
The Mexicans ran for their lives into the woods, toward the marshy water of Peggy’s Lake, as the Texians gave chase—firing, stabbing and shouting, again and again, “Remember the Alamo!” Some of the Mexicans understood the phrase and held their hands high, insisting, “Me no Alamo! Me no Alamo!” The Texians coldly shot down the unarmed men. Some of them hacked and mutilated the bodies of the slain. A few took scalps.
Mathew’s fear had become a kind of manic energy, his body pumping with adrenaline. He still had not killed an enemy soldier—and did not intend to—but, caught up in the moment, he found himself shrieking with the rest, running hellbent after the fleeing soldados.
Rushing through some tall river cane, Mathew realized that he had become separated from the rest. He stopped suddenly, eyes dazed, shocked to find that he was all by himself. Jesús, hiding in a bush, praying for the Texians to run past so he could somehow make his way to safety, sensed the enemy soldier standing inches away. Afraid that he had been found and that the Texian was about to casually execute him on the spot, Jesús gripped his rifle and sprang from the bush.
Mathew had not suspected that Jesús was there, and cried out in terror at the unexpected movement. Instinctively, and without thinking, Mathew stabbed at Jesús with his bayonet, hitting the boy in the leg. The pain caused Jesús to flinch and reflexively fire his musket, hitting Mathew in the shoulder. They both fell backward into the muck and lay there stunned, unable to do anything but stare at each other. Jesús had no more ammunition. Mathew was too far away to stab at him again with his bayonet, even if he had been inclined to—which he was not. All the two boys could do was to lie there and bleed.
The retreating Mexicans found themselves on the banks of Peggy’s Lake. They realized that they were trapped, threw down their muskets and started jumping into the water, wading or swimming away. The Texians followed them right in, stabbing, firing, slashing, murdering without regard to whether the Mexicans were armed or their backs were turned. Houston appeared on horseback, disgusted by his men’s wanton bloodlust.
“Pull back! Pull back!” Houston shouted to the men, who were ignoring him. “Damn your manners, men!”
The Mexicans continued trying to swim across Peggy’s Lake for safety. To the Texians on the banks, their attempted flight became something like a down-home shooting match. One grinning Polish immigrant named Malanowski shouted, “This here is better than shooting fish in a barrel!”
Colonel John Austin Wharton stormed along the bank, shouting at the top of his lungs, “Cease fire! You cannot shoot unarmed men in the back! Cease fire!”
“Colonel Wharton,” said a rifleman named Musso, “if Jesus Christ himself were to come down from heaven and orde
r me to stop shootin’ these yellowbellies, I would not do it, sir!”
Wharton whirled around and saw a redneck farmer named Curtis holding a huge bowie knife to the throat of a Mexican officer.
“Let that man go, Curtis,” Wharton shouted.
Curtis ignored him, and continued to threaten the officer. “You killed Wash Cottle,” he said. “Now, I’m going to kill you and make a razor strop from your hide!”
Washington Cottle had been Curtis’s son-in-law. Actually, Curtis had always hated him and thought he was desperately unworthy of Curtis’s daughter. But when Cottle died in the Alamo, Curtis’s opinion of him changed, and now all he could think about was vengeance.
Wharton rode in and pointed a pistol at Curtis’s face. “I said, let that man go!”
Curtis backed away a little and Wharton pulled the officer up onto his horse behind him. “This man is my prisoner!” he said and started to ride away.
Curtis carefully aimed his musket and fired, taking off the back of the Mexican officer’s head. When Wharton turned around, furious, Curtis chortled, “Remember Wash Cottle!” he shouted. Then he coolly removed a flask from his coat pocket, took a long swig of whiskey, turned his back on Wharton and strolled away.
Batres had left the side of the dying Castrillón and made it to Peggy’s Lake as well. But he never made it far enough to do any swimming. He became bogged down in the mud. As he frantically tried to pull himself out, Dr. Labadie, a Texian of French-Canadian origin, saw Batres struggling in the water and waded toward him. Several other Texians raised their rifles and aimed at Batres. Dr. Labadie screamed, “Do not shoot! He is my prisoner!” The gambit worked no better for Dr. Labadie than it had worked for Colonel Wharton. Most of the men only laughed sardonically at the statement. An imposing Texian named Hardin smilingly raised his rifle and fired a musket ball into Batres’s head. “Well sir,” Hardin said, “then I will leave you with your prisoner.”
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