Lone Star Nation (56 page)

The Mexican officers were unable to stem the panic. Delgado remembered that Santa Anna was completely nonplussed. “I saw His Excellency running about in the utmost excitement, wringing his hands, and unable to give an order.” Other officers were incapacitated by the enemy fire. “General Castrillón was stretched on the ground, wounded in the leg. Colonel Treviño was killed, and Colonel Marcial Aguirre was severely injured.” With the officers down or undone, the rank and file—reluctant conscripts, hungry and far from home—were a lost cause.

Confusion turned to rout. “On the left, and about a musket-shot distance from our camp, was a small grove, on the bay shore,” Delgado wrote. “Our disbanded herd rushed for it, to obtain shelter from the horrid slaughter carried on all over the prairie by the blood-thirsty usurpers.” The Mexican troops fled for their lives, only to be pinned at the edge of the bayou. “The men, on reaching it, would helplessly crowd together, and were shot down by the enemy, who was close enough not to miss his aim. It was there that the greatest carnage took place.”

All accounts of the battle agree that the carnage was indeed very great. The anger that had been building among the Texans since the Alamo and Goliad burst forth in a bloodbath that matched the former for ferocity and the latter for numbers killed. Frank Sparks left one of the less gruesome accounts. “We charged with such fury that the Mexicans fled in a very short time,” he said. “The rout was general and a great slaughter of Mexicans took place within four hundred yards of their breastworks. . . . About ten acres of ground was literally covered with their dead bodies.” Ramón Martínez Caro, Santa Anna's secretary, surveyed the field after the battle under the guard of one of Houston's lieutenants. “He led me to the entrance of the road taken by our troops in their flight,” Martínez Caro wrote, “and there I saw, both to the right and to the left, as far as the eye could see, a double file of corpses, all men from our force. Moved by this sad spectacle—would that it had been the last—I still had the more bitter sorrow of being conducted a short distance to the left, where there was a small creek, at the edge of the woods, where the bodies were so thickly piled upon each other that they formed a bridge across it.”

Most of the killing occurred in the battle proper. Martínez Caro's guide, pointing to the bridge of bodies, explained, “At this place, they rushed in such confusion and in such numbers that they converted the crossing into a mud hole, obstructing the way, and our soldiers in the heat of battle massacred them.” The Texans shot hundreds of the Mexicans. “It was nothing but a slaughter,” said W. C. Swearingen, regarding the scene at the bayou. “They at first attempted to swim the bayou but they were surrounded by our men and they shot every one that attempted to swim the bayou as soon as he took the water, and them that remained they killed as fast as they could load and shoot them until they surrendered.”

Yet surrender didn't end the killing. Nicholas Labadie described the execution of a prisoner.

I pursued a fresh trail into the marsh, and came upon Col. Bertrand, who had bogged, and on his knees he begged for his life. Supposing myself alone, I extended my left hand to raise him up, but was surprised to hear a voice behind me saying, “Oh! I know him; he is Col. Bertrand of San Antonio de Bexar. General Teran made him colonel.” This was said by one Sanchez, a Mexican, in Capt. Seguin's company, composed of some thirty Mexicans [Tejanos] fighting on our side. He had scarcely done speaking when I observed three others coming up with levelled guns. I cried out to them: “Don't shoot, don't shoot; I have taken him prisoner.” These words were hardly spoken, when bang goes a gun, the ball entering the forehead of poor Bertrand, and my hand and clothes are spattered with his brains, as he falls dead at my feet.

Dismay at the actions of his comrades caused Labadie to draw a curtain at this point in his narrative; he added only that he “shortly after witnessed acts of cruelty which I forbear to recount.”

Moses Bryan, nephew of Stephen Austin, told a similar tale.

The most awful slaughter I ever saw was when the Texans pursued the retreating Mexicans, killing on all sides, even the wounded. . . . I came upon a young Mexican boy (a drummer, I suppose) lying on his face. One of the volunteers brought to Texas by Colonel Sherman pricked the boy with his bayonet. The boy grasped the man around the legs and called in Spanish:
“Ave Maria purissima, por Diós salva me vida!”
[“Hail Mary most pure, for God's sake, save my life!”]. I begged the man to spare him, both of his legs being broken already. The man looked at me and put his hand on his pistol, so I passed on. Just as I did, he blew out the boy's brains.

The murdering frenzy almost claimed some of the Texans' own wounded. Nineteen-year-old Alphonso Steele had been shot in the head, but not fatally. Yet the blood ran down in his eyes and nearly blinded him.

I could hardly see anything and I sat down on a dead Mexican. While I was sitting there some of Millard's regulars, who'd stayed at the breastworks and were busy sticking their bayonets through wounded Mexicans, came along. And one of them had his bayonet drawed back to stick through me when Tom Green of our artillery corps stopped the regular from killing me.

Houston made a halfhearted effort to stanch the bloodletting, but the men obeyed as poorly now as before the battle. Nicholas Labadie encountered the Texan commander as the Mexican resistance was ending and the slaughter was beginning. Houston had been in the thick of things from the start, and showed it.

I observed Gen. Houston on a bay pony, with his leg over the pommel of the saddle. “Doctor,” said he, “I am glad to see you; are you hurt?” “Not at all,” said I. “Well,” he rejoined, “I have had two horses shot under me, and have received a ball in my ankle, but am not badly hurt.” “Do you wish to have it dressed?” said I. “Oh, no, not now, but I will when I get back to the camp. I can stand it well enough till then.”

He then faces his horse about, and orders the drum to beat a retreat. But the men, paying no attention to the order, shouted with expressions of exultation over the glorious victory, and it was difficult to hear anything distinctly. . . . Then while I was within ten feet of him, he cries out, as loud as he could raise his voice: “Parade, men, parade!” But the shouts and halloing were too long and loud; and Houston, seeing he could not restore order, cries at the top of his voice: “Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Gentlemen! (a momentary stillness ensues) Gentlemen! I applaud your bravery but damn your manners.”

Robert Hunter observed a more specific reaction to Houston's entreaties. “General Houston gave orders not to kill any more but to take prisoners,” Hunter recalled. “Capt. Easlen said, ‘Boys, take prisoners—you know how to take prisoners. Take them with the butt of your guns, club guns,' and said, ‘Remember the Alamo, remember La Bahía [Goliad], and club guns, right and left, and knock their brains out.'” Hunter added, “The Mexicans would fall down on their knees and say, ‘Me no Alamo, me no La Bahía.'” But it did them little good. Many ran for a lagoon behind the battlefield. “Man and horse went in head and ears to the bottom. . . . That lagoon was full of men and horses for about twenty or thirty feet up and down it, and none of them ever got out. I think their bones are laying there yet.”

 P A R T   F O U R 

Lone Star
and Union
 (1836–1865)

C h a p t e r   1 9

Victors and Vanquished

O
n the day after the battle, Sam Houston and Santa Anna met for the first time. Houston had spent the night in pain from his ankle injury, but otherwise he blessed his good fortune and congratulated his comrades in arms. Santa Anna's wounds were to pride and ambition, and he cursed his evil fate and the incompetents who had failed him at what should have been his hour of triumph. The Mexican general's escape from the battlefield was hardly the stuff of honor and glory; rather than rally the troops or attempt a surrender, he flew from the fighting with personal safety first in mind. Doubtless he rationalized that no one was more important to Mexico than he, holding the highest offices his country could bestow, and that the national interest required that he not be killed or captured. Probably he inferred from the slaughter around him that capture might not have been an option till the Texans satisfied their blood lust. In any event, he seized a horse from an aide and galloped west, in the direction of General Filisola and the main body of the Army of Operations. He shortly saw that the Texans had destroyed the bridge over Buffalo Bayou that was to be his escape route. Confused, disoriented, and in understandable fear for his life, he floundered in the mud along the bayou till night fell, whereupon he took shelter among the pines that bordered the stream. At daybreak he discovered a cabin, empty of inhabitants but containing some civilian clothes; partly for comfort but equally for disguise, he exchanged his soaking, soiled general's uniform for a pair of plain trousers and a blue cotton jacket. He struck off again, on foot now, and managed a few miles before being sighted by a band of Texans hunting for Mexicans who had somehow escaped the killing of the previous day. He tried to hide but to no avail, and the Texas horsemen surrounded him.

They had no idea who he was, and he didn't enlighten them. They took him prisoner and continued their mission. Only one of the Texans, Joel Robison, spoke much Spanish. Robison asked the prisoner if he knew where Santa Anna and Cos were. “He said he presumed they had gone to the Brazos,” Robison recalled. Robison accepted the answer, and the group moved on, with the Texans riding and the prisoner walking. Santa Anna wasn't used to walking; he tired and asked to rest. Some of the Texans, assuming he was harmless, proposed to let him find his own way to the camp of prisoners. But one said he'd shoot him before he'd let him go. So Robison hauled Santa Anna up behind him on his horse. The young rebel and the defeated general conversed about the battle. Santa Anna asked how many soldiers the Texans had. Less than eight hundred, Robison answered. “He said that I was certainly mistaken, that our force was surely much larger.” Robison affirmed that the number was correct, embarrassing Santa Anna into reflective silence. The group reached the camp of prisoners, where, to the astonishment of Robison and the others, the Mexicans greeted the new arrival with shouts of “El Presidente! El Presidente!”

At once Santa Anna was taken to Houston, who lay beneath an oak tree resting his ruined ankle. Between Houston's pain and Santa Anna's chagrin and fear—news of his capture had raced through the Texan camp and drawn the angry and curious to witness the encounter between the opposing commanders, with most of the Texans clamoring for vengeance—the interview was strained. If Houston was tempted to yield to the popular judgment, he resisted the temptation. His was not a vindictive personality; besides, he reckoned that Santa Anna would be more useful alive than dead. And anyway, as one who had spent the last two months trying to impress his army with the need for discipline and observance of military forms, he insisted on hewing to protocol in dealing with his defeated enemy.

Nicholas Labadie, present at the interview on account of being a doctor and able to speak Spanish, recalled Houston asking, “General Santa Anna, in what condition do you surrender yourself?”

Santa Anna responded, “A prisoner of war.”

Houston said, “Tell General Santa Anna that so long as he shall remain in the boundaries I shall allot him, I will be responsible for his life.”

Santa Anna's spirits revived at learning he'd live another day. And with his reviving spirits he regained some of his characteristic audacity. “Tell General Houston that I am tired of blood and war, and have seen enough of this country to know that the two people can not live under the same laws,” he said. “And I am willing to treat with him as to the boundaries of the two countries.”

Houston must have smiled inwardly at this boldness. Until the day before, Santa Anna had held that the Texans were nothing but pirates, to be lawfully exterminated by any means possible. Now he declared himself weary of war and convinced that the Texans must have their own country. How much of Santa Anna's history Houston knew is open to question; the Texan general might or might not have been aware of Santa Anna's battlefield conversion to Mexican nationalism in 1821 or his sudden embrace of republicanism two years later. But Houston certainly entertained doubts about the sincerity of Santa Anna's belief that Texas must be independent.

So he put Santa Anna off. He explained that he was a military commander and nothing more; it was for the civilian government to negotiate treaties.

What Houston didn't say but certainly realized was that Santa Anna couldn't speak for the Mexican government. Or more precisely, he might speak for the Mexican government but the government wouldn't have to listen. Captured commanders, by virtue of their capture, lose their commands. Whether the same principle applied to captured dictators, Houston couldn't say. But he required little imagination to suppose that the Mexican government would disavow any agreement made by Santa Anna under duress, or that the middle of the rebel camp, with the Texan rank and file screaming for his head, counted as duress.

Even so, Santa Anna could provide something more valuable than paper assent to Texas independence. The bulk of the Army of Operations remained in the field. General Filisola's command was the closest and might arrive at San Jacinto in a day or two. General Gaona was approaching from the northwest. Farthest but largest was General Urrea's force. Houston appreciated that catching Santa Anna's army asleep had been a stroke of luck, one he couldn't count on repeating. But with the hostage's help, he might not have to. Santa Anna was probably egocentric enough to believe that no other Mexican general could win where he had lost. Or perhaps he was insecure enough not to want the experiment made. In any case he understood, without Houston's saying it, that his life would be forfeit in the event of an attack.

Santa Anna's thoughts seem to have anticipated Houston's. When Thomas Rusk, also present, pointed out that Filisola was drawing near and the Texans would soon have to fight him, Santa Anna responded, “No, I will order him to return.”

Rusk had a better idea. “Order him to deliver up himself and his army as prisoners of war.”

“Ho!” said Santa Anna (again according to Labadie's recollection and translation). “He will not do it. He will not do it. You have whipped me. I am your prisoner. But Filisola is not whipped. He will not surrender as a prisoner of war. You must whip him first. But if I give him orders to leave the limits of Texas, he will do it.”

Houston judged that Santa Anna was right. Surrender was too much to ask of Filisola and the others, but withdrawal wasn't. Houston listened carefully as Santa Anna dictated a dispatch. “Since I had an unfortunate encounter with the small division operating in my vicinity, as a result I am a prisoner of war of the enemy,” Santa Anna explained to Filisola. “In view of this, I command Your Excellency to order General Gaona to countermarch to Béxar to await my orders, which Your Excellency will also do with the troops under your command. Likewise direct General Urrea to withdraw his division to Guadalupe Victoria.” In a separate letter to Filisola that complemented this order, Santa Anna asserted that much depended on the general's swift compliance. “I recommend to you that as soon as possible you carry out my order concerning the withdrawal of the troops since this is conducive to the safety of the prisoners, and in particular that of your most affectionate friend and companion who sends you his deepest regards, Antonio López de Santa Anna.”

Santa Anna's order placed Filisola in a quandary. By no stretch of military custom was he bound to obey an order dictated from captivity. But Filisola had to assume that Santa Anna would eventually be released; if the Texans had intended to kill him, they probably would have done so by now. To disobey would put Filisola on the wrong side of a man not known for forgiveness. At the same time, though the news of the San Jacinto debacle hadn't reached the Mexican capital yet, when it did it doubtless would inspire Santa Anna's enemies there, who would ask searching questions of a general who abandoned the Texas campaign simply because his superior lost one battle.

The prospect of retreat appealed to some in the Mexican army but angered others. “A few hours before, we thought only of flying to avenge our companions and our general-in-chief,” José Urrea wrote. “And now the first rumors of turning our back upon them in their misfortune began to be heard. Such a sudden change could not but arouse extreme feelings of despair and dismay, of shame and indignation.” The idea of retreat struck Urrea as bizarre. “My division at that time was in the finest condition. Each soldier could hold up his head proudly, for up to then they had met only victory in every encounter with the enemy. . . . Everyone, even to the last soldier, was convinced of our superiority and of the worthlessness of the enemy.” To be sure, Houston had beaten Santa Anna. But in doing so he had given away his location. “Everything seemed to point, therefore, to a concentration of our forces in order to march upon him and repair the defeat suffered by our vanguard.”

José de la Peña agreed, as did a majority of the junior officers. De la Peña and the others hoped Urrea would act on his anger. “Most of the army would have followed him gladly to rectify the disaster at San Jacinto, had he wanted to place himself at their head,” de la Peña wrote. “Several of us officers, indignant to learn that our disgrace was to be consummated, invited him to do so.” De la Peña recalled the dictum of Napoleon (the real one) that retreat almost always cost more than advance, that steadfastness was the surest route to victory. De la Peña was certain that victory still awaited Mexican arms. “Doubtless we would have achieved it, had there only been a commander who would have led us into it and who could have appraised the advantages to be gained by not showing the enemy our backs. We would have conquered had there been among those in charge a single one desiring glory, who could have foreseen the renown that would have been his if he had taken that resolution, for which no great heroism was necessary. General Urrea seemed destined to play this brilliant role, and everyone pointed to him as the best suited to carry it out.”

But Urrea let the laurels pass. When Filisola made clear that he would comply with Santa Anna's order, and the other generals fell in line, Urrea swallowed his indignation and did so, too.

Politics played the largest part in Filisola's decision, but logistics entered as well. Lacking Santa Anna's political and emotional investment in the Texas campaign, Filisola felt more acutely the problems of supply that confronted the Army of Operations. His lines of communication and transport were stretched long and thin, and, especially with the boost in rebel confidence from the victory at San Jacinto, they were alarmingly vulnerable to enemy attack. Moreover, though Houston's scorched-earth strategy hadn't prevented Santa Anna from pressing forward with his regiment of hundreds, it severely hampered Filisola's army of thousands. He wondered if he could even make it back to Mexico, let alone sustain himself in Texas. Finally, Filisola couldn't ignore the prisoners of war, including Santa Anna, who remained at the mercy of the rebels. To resume the attack risked six hundred lives.

Afterward, when the Mexican government called him to account for his conduct in Texas, Filisola defended his decision to retreat. “Should it become necessary that I forfeit my life,” he said, “I shall deem myself more than fully repaid by having been instrumental in saving the lives of 600 unfortunate prisoners and perhaps that of 2,500 other companions-in-arms who would very likely have perished, if not at the hands of the enemy, as a result of the rigors of the climate, the season, and hunger.”