General Kearny asked Stockton for command of the troops, which the commodore granted, while retaining the rank of commander-in-chief for himself. He had spent the month of December drilling his webfoot infantry in battlefield maneuvers—marching, countermarching, and forming hollow squares on command—determined that there be no repetition of the fiasco at Rancho San Pedro. Stockton understood that the enemy retained the capacity to deliver devastating mounted attacks. Receiving Frémont’s dispatch from Santa Barbara, he responded with a note of warning. “Keep your forces in close order; do not allow them to be separated, or even unnecessarily extended,” he wrote. The Californios “will probably try to deceive you by a sudden retreat or pretended runaway, and then unexpectedly return to the charge after your men get in disorder in the chase. My advice to you is, to allow them to do all the charging and running, and let your rifles do the rest. In the art of horsemanship, of dodging and running, it is in vain to attempt to compete with them.” Stockton had learned the lessons of Mervine’s and Kearny’s defeats.
Several days into the march, near Mission San Juan Capistrano, the Americans were met by a delegation of three mounted men under a flag of truce—William Workman, Charles Flügge, and Domingo Olivas, an Englishman, a German, and a Californio—bearing a letter from Commandante Flores addressed to Stockton. In his capacity as the military governor of the Californios, Flores wrote, he had authorized these men to negotiate a cease-fire. He flattered himself that Stockton shared his determination “to avoid the useless effusion of human blood and its terrible consequences.” He was willing to capitulate, but would not agree to a dishonorable peace. If Stockton proved unwilling to proceed on this basis, Flores wrote, “may the terrible consequences of your want of consideration fall on your head.” The Californios had resolved “to bury themselves under the ruins of their country, fighting to the last moment, before consenting to the tyranny and ominous discretionary power of the agents of the government of the United States of North America.” Stockton should have no doubt about their resolve. “Deeds of arms prove that they know how to defend their rights on the field of battle.”
Stockton was barely able to control his rage. He was aware of no such person as “Governor Flores,” he declared, although he knew a rebel who went by that name, a man “whom I had captured and held as a prisoner, and whom I had released on his parole of honor.” That man had violated his sacred oath by arming himself and leading an insurrection against American authority, and “could not be treated as an honorable man.” This scene had been played before, when Stockton rejected Castro’s offer of negotiations on the beach at San Pedro, insulting Flores, who had delivered the proposal. Now, four months later, after a great deal of violence and suffering on both sides, Stockton rejected yet another offer to negotiate and once again insulted the emissaries. He would not treat with the representatives of a disreputable regime, he told them. But they could deliver a message to the man who had sent them—“that he was a rebel in arms, and if I caught him I would have him shot.”
Dismissing the delegation, Stockton then issued a proclamation to the people of California. It had come to his attention, he wrote, that many of the insurgents were desirous of laying down their arms and returning to their homes. He welcomed their peaceable intentions and would gladly declare “a general amnesty to all persons,” but only on the condition that José María Flores “be forthwith delivered into my hands as a prisoner.” If Stockton knew anything, it was that the Californios would not do this dishonorable thing. He was deliberately pouring salt on their wounds.
Traveling at the rate of ten or twelve miles a day, the Americans had by the afternoon of January 6 reached the crossing of the Río Santa Ana, less than forty miles from Los Angeles. They forded the river the following morning and continued in a northwesterly direction along the main road, a route that parallels today’s Interstate 5. As they approached a group of low hills on the north, they caught their first glimpse of the enemy, arrayed along the ridge line. The Americans continued their advance and the Californios, shouting and gesturing rudely, rode off. At the verge of the hills the Americans came upon a cluster of adobes, the headquarters of Rancho Los Coyotes. Stockton sent an officer to request permission to camp, which was granted by the lady of the house, María Francisca Uribe de Ocampo. All the men were gone, but the women had remained behind, trusting the Americans to treat them honorably. From one of them Stockton learned that the Californios planned to make their stand at the crossing of the Río San Gabriel, some twelve miles ahead. The decisive battle for the control of Los Angeles would take place the following day.
After supper Stockton sent his brass band to serenade the women at the ranch house with his compliments, and Doña María invited the officers inside. “Ladies were soon whirling around in the giddy mazes of the waltz,” Lieutenant Emory recorded in his diary, “their taper waists encircled by arms which on the day following would beyond a doubt be dealing death blows upon perhaps friends and relations. But it made no odds to the ladies. There was music and there was a chance for dancing, and it went on as if this was the last night in the world.”
FRIDAY MORNING dawned bright and clear. After taking their breakfast and packing another meal in their haversacks, the Americans took their places in the line of march. General Kearny then addressed them from horseback. This day they would meet the enemy at the Río San Gabriel, he shouted in a booming voice that all could hear. “I want you all to understand distinctly that we have got to cross that river, and more than that, we have got to whip the enemy, and plant our colors in the pueblo.” He had full confidence in them all, he said, even including the sailors. “I have got the sole charge of you jacks,” he said, “and if I don’t put you on the track that will run you straight to the arms of victory, call me no soldier.” There was one last thing he wanted to say, Kearny told them. “I want you to remember what day it is. This is the glorious Eighth of January, memorable in our country’s history,” the anniversary of the Battle of New Orleans, when Americans under the command of Andrew Jackson had turned back the British assault, a day of glory, celebrated by several generations of Americans. “Now let every man of you think of this day and strive so to conduct himself that the anniversary shall never be disgraced and that the Eighth of January 1847 may be placed in the calendar of fame alongside of the Eighth of January 1815.” A spontaneous cheer erupted from one end of the line to the other. Then the command was given, and the Americans moved out.
The Californios, some five hundred mounted men with two field pieces—the old woman’s gun along with the howitzer captured at San Pasqual—positioned themselves at Paso de Bartolo, the upper crossing of the Rio San Gabriel. They placed their guns in battery on a forty-foot bluff running along the right bank, which provided a clear view of the crossing. The river, fifty or sixty yards across, was running heavy because of the recent storms, surging down a floodplain more than four hundred yards wide.
The Californios caught their first sight of the Americans about 2 PM, emerging from the thickets of willow and cottonwood on the east bank. Kearny called a halt, and as the officers reconnoitered the site and planned the crossing, the men ate their cold dinner. “Before we had fairly finished,” Joseph Downey reported, “the enemy were seen in considerable numbers in advance of us.” A company of mounted Californios came splashing across the ford, taking ineffective potshots at the Americans with their standard-issue carbines. A company of mounted rifleros, armed with much superior Kentucky rifles, went after them, and the Californios retreated back across the river. With the officers barking out orders, the Americans then assumed formation and began the crossing, dragoons in the lead pulling the two field pieces. From his position, Downey could see parties of Californios “dodging and flying about among the hills” on the opposite shore, “their lances and sabers glittering in the sun.”
The Californio battery opened fire, raking the river with grapeshot, as the Americans waded in. Their feet sank into the porous sand, and it requir
ed strenuous effort to lumber ahead. Downey realized his vulnerability the moment he entered the water and saw the splash of the grape on both his right and left sides. “Do or die,” he thought to himself, “each moment might be our last.” Preoccupied with the struggle to cross, the Americans made no attempt to return fire. The mounted Californios remained in formation on the bluff, out of range. Observing the difficulty his men were having, and concerned lest the artillery get stuck in the sand, Kearny ordered it returned to the left bank and unlimbered. He would begin a barrage from there, covering the crossing of the men. But suddenly Stockton charged up and countermanded Kearny’s order. “There is quicksand!” Kearny exclaimed. “Quicksand be damned!” Stockton shouted back, and jumping from his horse he put his own shoulder to the wheel of one of the gun carriages. “Pull for your lives, boys,” Downey heard him shout. “Your Commodore is here, don’t desert him, and don’t for the love of God lose these guns.” His action inspired the men and they labored ahead. Within fifteen minutes the artillery and most of the sailors had made it across, at the cost of two wounded, one seriously. The surprisingly low number of casualties was attributable to the inferior gunpowder of the Californios, which failed to propel the grapeshot with lethal momentum.
As the remainder of the American force continued to cross with the baggage and cattle, Stockton ordered the artillery unlimbered, then began directing devastating fire at the Californio battery. Antonio Coronel was on the receiving end, atop the bluff. “They aimed chiefly at our two guns, so accurately it was difficult to return their fire,” he recalled. The barrage went on for some time, eventually scoring a direct hit on the old woman’s gun, destroying its carriage and rendering it useless. Finally, after nearly all the Americans had crossed the river, Kearny ordered his jack tars to assault the bluff, and they rushed forward, bayonets fixed, shouting, “New Orleans! New Orleans!” They were halfway across the floodplain when two squadrons of mounted Californios charged down from the bluff and prepared to assault their left flank. Kearny ordered his men to form a square, a manuever they executed perfectly. Downey, in the front rank, watched the Californios riding at him. “Down they came, in one long line, their red blankets, black hats, and bright lances glittering in the sun. On they came and death seemed to stare us in the face, for what could stay the power of that tide of horse and human flesh that was rearing toward us?” Over the din of battle Downey heard Kearny’s command. “Steady my jacks, reserve your fire,” he cried, “front rank, kneel to receive cavalry.” The men in front, including Downey, dropped to one knee, and planted the butts of their muskets in the sand, their bayonets projecting outward at a threatening angle, while the men directly behind them leveled their guns. “For a single moment they stood, and then came the word ‘Fire,’ and at the word a sheet of fire flew along that line.” Several riders fell from their saddles while the others veered off. The charge had been broken.
“Now, jacks, at them,” shouted Kearny. “Charge and take the hill!” The men dashed forward, Stockton in the lead, Downey in the thick of it, scrambling up the side of the bluff. When they reached the summit, the Californios could be seen retreating northward, toward the nearby Merced Hills. Stockton “raved and stormed and shouted like a madman,” said Downey. “There were no bounds to his joy and satisfaction—he laughed, and danced, and cut up all sorts of monkey-shines.” He called for his brass band, and after a few minutes its members arrived, the conductor “puffing and blowing like a porpoise, from his uphill journey.” Stockton ordered them to play. “Fix your pipes,” he shouted, “keep your eyes on them yellow devils, and give them the damnd’st blast of ‘Hail Columbia!’ they ever heard.” Californios later recalled the “strange emotions” they felt as they retreated to the sound of Stockton’s music.
The Americans camped on the bluff that night. They had lost two men killed, one accidentally shot by one of his mates, the other struck by an artillery round in the neck, which nearly decapitated him. They were buried that night in a common grave. Eight men had been wounded, two critically, one of whom later died. According to Downey, “no matter who was killed, it was but a moment’s work to say ‘poor fellow, well he is gone, he was a good shipmate, and I hope he is better off,’ and then he was forgotten.” That might seem coldhearted, Downey admitted, but “after the danger is passed, if we did not pass the joke and enjoy the laugh we would be no sailors.” Kearny had promised the men a good fat bullock for supper, and they enjoyed their ration of beef, but joked that the officers must have gotten the fat, since all they had was the lean.
Californio losses were not officially recorded, but two lanceros were killed in the failed charge, which was marred by contradictory commands and considerable confusion. José Antonio Carrillo, who was supposed to join the charge with his squadron, held his men back and was later condemned for cowardice. Yet the outcome might have been much worse. Coronel registered his astonishment that the casualties were so light. “I thought we were going to take terrible losses, charging head on at a well-barricaded and well-armed foe, but fortune spared us.” More likely, it was the poor aim of the sailors. The Californios found refuge several miles northwest in Aliso Canyon, adjacent to misión vieja, the original site of Mission San Gabriel. “We had no blankets and we didn’t dare build a fire,” said Coronel, “so we suffered a great deal.” It was a night of painful reflection for them. Flores proposed they make another attempt to stop the Americans in the morning, but everyone knew the struggle was all but over. That night many men deserted. Those who remained believed that Stockton had given them no honorable choice other than to fight to the last man.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING the Americans took up the line of march for the pueblo, less than ten miles away. The road, today’s Whittier Boulevard, ran across an elevated plain Angelenos knew as La Mesa. About noon, after traveling some five miles, the American advance guard saw the Californios blocking the road ahead. Flores had brought up two old cast-iron nine-pounders, probably the ones Gillespie abandoned at San Pedro, positioning them in a shallow ravine, and he began lobbing round shot at the Americans. Kearny turned his force and made a rapid movement southwest, as Stockton unlimbered the American artillery and answered Flores with a barrage of his own. The exchange went on for some time and left several men wounded on both sides.
Eventually the Californios exhausted their powder and the firing ceased. Several hundred lanceros emerged from the ravine and pursued the Americans, who assumed a defensive formation. Nearly all the riders were Angelenos, and many had outfitted themselves and their horses in finery. According to Agustín Olvera, who was among them, their engagement of the enemy was “solely on a point of honor.” If this was to be their last stand, they were determined to make it memorable. Remaining just out of rifle range, the Angelenos began encircling the Americans, searching for a vulnerable position in their line, a spot to make a charge. Settling on the left flank, they marshaled themselves in a single long line, leveled their lances, then charged forward at full gallop. The Americans waited until the lanceros closed to about fifty yards, then let loose with a volley of deadly fire. The Angelenos wheeled and retreated.
“We all considered this as the beginning of the fight,” said Lieutenant Emory, “but it was the end of it.” The plain was littered with men and horses. The Americans held their fire while their opponents collected their dead and injured and withdrew north toward Los Angeles. From beginning to end the engagement had lasted less than three hours. Although some time remained before sunset, Stockton chose to postpone the occupation of the pueblo. “The town, known to contain great quantities of wine and aguardiente, was four miles distant,” wrote Emory. But “from previous experience of the difficulty of controlling men when entering towns, it was determined to cross the river, halt there for the night, and enter the town in the morning with the whole day before us.” That evening there was a mass evacuation of residents from the pueblo, leaving it in possession of the rabble. From their encampment that night the Americans could hear the s
ounds of anarchy. “They kept up the pow wow until 3 the next morning,” wrote Downey, “and then only knocked off, as we were told, because they were too drunk to make any more noise.”
Early on the morning of the tenth, a party of three Californios under a flag of truce appeared at the American camp with a verbal message from Commandante Flores. He would not contest the American occupation of the capital, he wrote, and he trusted Stockton to respect Angeleno lives and property. Stockton nevertheless took the precaution of marching his men out of camp in full battle array. They came up the Alameda through the vineyard district, turned onto Calle Principal as they entered the pueblo, then headed toward the Plaza, colors flying and brass band playing. “The streets were full of desperate and drunken fellows,” wrote Emory, “who brandished their arms and saluted us with every term of reproach.” When a disturbance broke out among some of the drunks, several sailors fired on them, and one Angeleno was slightly wounded, but otherwise there was no violence. Reaching Government House on Calle Principal, Stockton dismounted and called for Gillespie, who came forward with the flag he had hauled down when he abandoned Los Angeles in September, and as the band played he hoisted it once again.
Eternity Street Page 18