Some days later, while helping to drag the cannon along muddy country roads, Otto had a chance to observe how the most trivial accident could sometimes determine the course of history. At this time the sweating Texicans did not know whether they would soon head north to Nacogdoches, surrendering all of central Texas to Santa Anna’s fury, or east toward the Gulf of Mexico, hoping to engage the Mexicans on some favorable battleground. General Houston refused to divulge his plans, and many thought he had none. They said: ‘He’s markin’ time, hopin’ that somethin’ favorable will save us.’
Now came the first accident. One of the wheels of Otto’s cannon fell deep into a muddy rut, and when Houston rode by and saw the delay he growled: ‘Get some oxen and drag that thing free.’
‘We have no oxen,’ the captain in charge of the big guns reported, and Houston said: ‘Get some.’
A detail consisting of the captain, Otto and another enlisted man went searching the countryside, and soon came upon a strong-minded, brassy-voiced farm wife named Mrs. Pamela Mann, who wore men’s clothing and was armed with two large pistols.
‘We must borrow four of your oxen,’ the officer explained courteously.
‘You cain’t have ’em,’ she snarled.
‘We must have them.’
‘You touch them oxen, I blow out the seat of your pants.’
‘Mrs. Mann,’ the officer said, ‘the future of the Texas Republic depends upon moving our cannon to face Santa Anna, and to do that we must have your oxen.’
‘To hell with the Texas Republic. What’s it ever done for me?’
The officer dropped his voice and beseeched so earnestly that she had to listen, and after some moments she delivered a curious judgment: ‘Tell you what, if’n your general is marchin’ east with his cannon to fight Santy Anny, he cain’t have my beasts. They’d get kilt. But if’n he’s marchin’ north to safety in Nacogdoches, he can borry ’em.’
‘He’s marching north!’ the captain said quickly, whereupon the other enlisted man, who could be seen only by Macnab, drew his thumb across his throat, indicating that if Houston did march north, he would face rebellion.
So the four oxen were taken away and yoked to the mired cannon, but as the army resumed its forward march the vital question of where they were going was left unsettled. Desiring to be sure that the wheel on Otto’s cannon had not been damaged by the hole into which it had fallen, Houston was to the rear when his lead troops approached a crossroads. If they marched to the left, they would retreat to Nacogdoches; straight ahead, they would have to encounter Santa Anna.
The men on the point, not knowing what to do, drifted into a grassy area between the two roads, intending to wait there until General Houston came up to give an order. And then the second accident took place, for at the head of the next group to arrive was a brassy young fellow from Alabama, and he cried to a farmer standing nearby: ‘Which way to Harrisburg and Santy Anny?’ and the farmer shouted back: ‘That right-hand road will carry you to Harrisburg just as straight as a compass.’
‘This way!’ the Alabaman cried, and by the time General Houston reached the crossroads the forefront of the Texican army was well on its way to battle. For just a moment Houston stopped, studied the terrain, and shrugged his shoulders. Then he also took the road to Harrisburg. A decision of major consequence to Texas, and perhaps to the United States, had been reached: the Texas patriots would seek out Santa Anna and give him battle.
As Otto struggled with the cannon which had kept Houston from his position of command, Yancey Quimper drifted back and whispered: ‘If us fellows in front hadn’t of made the choice for him, sure as hell Old Shiftless would of skedaddled off to Nacogdoches.’ But the officer who had commandeered the mules said: ‘Houston always intended taking this road. We talked about it.’
Otto and his borrowed oxen had dragged the cannon less than a mile when Mrs. Mann rode furiously up to General Houston, her eyes blazing, her free hand close to the pistol on her left hip: ‘General, yore men told me a damn lie. They said my oxen would be safe on the Nacogdoches road. Sir, I want ’em back.’
‘You can’t have them, ma’am,’ Houston said. ‘Our cannon need them.’
‘I don’t care a damn for your cannon. I want my oxen,’ and she jumped down, whipped out a big knife, and began cutting loose her beasts. Houston was so astonished that he was speechless, and before he could issue any orders, she was riding off with her animals.
Otto’s captain cried: ‘Come with me! We’ll get them back!’ But when the captain and Otto overtook Mrs. Mann, she astonished them by leaping from her horse, landing on the captain’s back, and thrashing him with her fists as he lay on the ground. When he called for Otto to assist, she poked a gun into the boy’s face and cried: ‘Make one move, son, and you ain’t got no head.’ Standing in the mud, she held off the captain, mounted her horse, and resumed her homeward march with her beasts.
When Otto returned to his cannon with no animals to drag it into battle, the younger soldiers taunted him: ‘Skeered of a woman!’ and ‘You stole her oxen brave enough, but you couldn’t keep ’em.’ Otto said nothing, but his fists tightened and his blue eyes grew hard. If I’m ever in command of anything, he swore to himself, shameful things like this will not happen.
On the morning of Tuesday, 19 April, General Houston’s Fabian tactics came to fruition, because Santa Anna, chasing him wildly, had imprudently taken his entire available force onto a boggy peninsula formed by the San Jacinto River, where he could neither retreat nor receive reinforcements except over a narrow bridge. He assumed he was safe because he could not envision Houston seeking battle there, or winning if he did.
But Houston had a daring plan. Assembling as many of his nine hundred-odd troops as he could at the bank of a bayou, he told them in fighting sentences: ‘The battle we have sought is upon us. The army will cross and we will meet the enemy. Some of us may be killed, and must be killed. But, men, Remember the Alamo! The Alamo!’
Yancey, delighted with the prospect of battle at last, gripped Otto’s arm and said prophetically: ‘After a speech like that, Little Porcupine, our boys will take damned few prisoners.’
All that day the volunteers worked to get across the bayou and onto that stretch of land from which Santa Anna could not escape. ‘How brilliant,’ exulted a man from Connecticut. ‘We have only nine hundred, true, but Santa Anna hasn’t his seven thousand. We’ve tricked him into facing us with less than a thousand. By God, we have a chance of winning.’
On the afternoon of the twentieth the two armies were still moving into position, but any actual engagement seemed unlikely. A detachment of mounted Texicans did make a gallant effort to capture a Mexican cannon that had been giving them trouble, but the Mexicans anticipated the move and gave a solid account of themselves. In fact, when the main body of the Texicans withdrew, three of their horsemen were left isolated—Secretary of War Thomas Rusk, an officer and a private—and a detachment of Mexican cavalry was about to capture all three when a most unlikely hero swung into action.
Infantry Private Mirabeau Buonaparte Lamar, riding a borrowed horse, was a minor poet-politician from Georgia who had arrived in Texas only a few weeks earlier, after both the Alamo and Goliad had fallen, but he was a man of such vision, such patriotism that he almost leaped into the fight for Texas freedom. Now, with the enemy all about him, he performed heroically, and by his superb horsemanship and daring, saved both Rusk and another man. Texicans and Mexicans alike cheered as the Georgian, a rather small man, outwitted the Mexicans and brought his two charges to safety. That night many asked: ‘Who is this fellow with the French names?’ but he did nothing to parade his valor.
On the morning of the twenty-first, General Houston slept late, for the hardships of the march and the exacerbations of command had exhausted him. His men, disgusted by his apparent indifference, renewed talk of deposing him, and they were further distressed to hear about midmorning that General Cós had joined Santa Anna with an additiona
l four hundred-odd fresh troops. By this lucky stroke the Mexicans restored their clear superiority, some fourteen hundred of them to about nine hundred Texicans.
Heroic veterans of the frontier appeared not to be daunted by the disproportionate numbers, but shortly after dawn a grizzled scout named Erastus Smith, deaf from birth and famed throughout Texas as Deaf Smith, a man of strong opinion who never apologized for his black brother-in-law, saw to it that no more reinforcements could reach Santa Anna. Summoning five of his fellow scouts and the boy Macnab, he crept back along the route the Texicans had taken to get onto the peninsula and chopped away the only bridge. When the timbers were down he directed Otto and one of the men to set them afire, and as the smoke rose high in the windless air he led his party safely back. Now Houston and Santa Anna were entrapped; they must fight, with the Mexicans superior in numbers, and each general knew that the resulting battle, which would start next day at dawn, would determine the future history of this part of the world.
Relishing their day of rest, the weary Texicans moved idly about their camp, testing their guns and tending their horses, but at noon General Houston surprised everyone by convening a council of war. Otto and Yancey were assigned guard duty outside the headquarters tent, and there they overheard much heated argument and the taking of votes whose purpose they could not determine, but they did hear General Houston say what others who were near the tent would testify later that he never said: ‘Well, the vote is clear. No battle today.’
At this, Quimper uttered a barnyard obscenity such as the Macnabs had never used: ‘Shit! When does he intend to fight?’
At that moment a captain rushed into the tent to report with such enthusiasm that Macnab and Quimper could clearly catch each word: ‘General, we’ve consulted the companies, one by one, and they vote unanimously for battle today,’ at which Houston snarled: ‘All right, fight and be damned.’ But again there would be witnesses who swore that it was Houston who made all the decisions, and courageously.
There was one conversation which the eavesdroppers did not hear. Juan Seguín, the mexicano who had chosen to fight on the side of the Texicans, was the only man who would experience both the Alamo and San Jacinto; he had escaped the former tragedy because Colonel Travis sent him from the mission with a plea for aid. Now, in midafternoon on the fields of San Jacinto, he was consulted by General Houston, who asked: ‘Seguín, what will Santa Anna and his men be doing over there?’ and Seguín replied: ‘Siesta, what else?’ Then Houston asked: ‘If we were to attack at four this afternoon, where would the sun be?’ and Seguín replied: ‘Standing low in the heavens behind us and directly in their eyes.’
‘Would they be confused?’ Houston asked, and Seguín said: ‘They’d be blinded.’
It was then that Sam Houston Cunctator ended what his subordinates had called ‘his running away’ and made one of the crucial decisions of Texas history: ‘Find the buglers. We attack.’
The Battle of San Jacinto cannot be understood in ordinary military terms; the statistics are too incredible. However, if the fortunes of several typical participants, Mexican and Texican, are followed, rational explanation may result.
Benito Garza had greeted General Cós enthusiastically that morning when the latter arrived in camp, not with four hundred troops as expected, but with a full five hundred. Garza was somewhat disappointed to learn that they were not tested veterans from the Goliad victory but a mass of untried recruits, many of them without shoes or regular equipment.
Seeing that they were exhausted from forced marches, he suggested to Santa Anna that they be granted an immediate siesta, even though it was still morning, and this was agreed to. Said Santa Anna: ‘If they sleep well today, they’ll fight well tomorrow,’ and Garza went off to arrange quarters for the men.
Santa Anna himself did not sleep. Taking a small dose of his favorite narcotic, opium, he called for Garza and told him: ‘See if she’s out there,’ and Benito went to a nearby farmhouse where a beautiful young mulatto slave girl named Emily from the Morgan plantation was being kept, and she was delighted at the prospect of spending yet another siesta with the general.
Garza delivered her to Santa Anna’s tent at three-fifteen, and by ten minutes of four the entertainment she had been hired to provide was well under way.
General Víctor Ripperdá, perhaps the ablest Mexican leader on the field that day, was a stiff, rigorous disciplinarian who saw no need to wear medals to display his courage. He had devoted his spare time at posts like Nacogdoches and Yucatán to the study of military principles, and one thing he had learned was that generals must anticipate the unexpected. ‘One of the best ways to do this,’ he had told Garza at two that afternoon, ‘is to be sure you have your picket lines in place.’
To check, Ripperdá had forgone the siesta taken by others and was inspecting the entire front, gazing across the empty space toward where General Houston’s troops were apparently taking their rest. He realized that when those battle-ready norteamericanos marched forth the next morning, they would be formidable: ‘We’ll win, of course, but it won’t be easy.’
But when he reached the positions farthest forward, he was appalled to find that Santa Anna had not posted advance scouts to give warning if, for some inexplicable reason, the Texicans should decide to attack that afternoon. Such a move was unlikely, but he knew that any army within sight of the enemy ought to have its picket lines at top readiness. Santa Anna had none.
In dismay, and with some apprehension, Ripperdá moved back from where the lines should have been to consult with junior officers at the artillery batteries, and to his horror he found that none were present. Indeed, most batteries had only a scattering of untrained enlisted men who would be unable to operate the big guns if the enemy approached. When he asked where the officers were, the men said: ‘Siesta.’
Now, in great agitation, he dashed toward headquarters, shouting: ‘Garza! We’ve got to see Santa Anna! Now!’
Benito, emerging from his tent without a shirt, warned: ‘You mustn’t go in there, General. He’s with the girl.’
‘To hell with the girl!’ Ripperdá shouted. ‘Come along!’ But just as they reached the dictator’s tent they were startled by a savage interruption: cannon fire from the west. Barelegged, Santa Anna rushed out, crying: ‘What’s happening?’ and Ripperdá told him: ‘The enemy are attacking.’
Santa Anna, with Emily Morgan cowering naked behind him, looked westward, where he saw in astonishment that the Texicans, marching stolidly forward as if on parade, were within fifteen yards of his still-unformed lines. Not a shot had yet been fired except the cannonade from the two unexpected guns which the Texicans had somehow got hold of.
‘Cós!’ Santa Anna shouted. ‘Where in hell is Cós?’
‘Excellency,’ a pale-faced aide cried as he dashed up, his eyes still grainy with sleep, ‘run for your life. All is lost.’
Even now the Texican foot soldiers had not begun to fire, but another aide dashed up: ‘Excellency! They’re upon us!’ And the Mexican staff officers stared in awe as the bold Texicans, led by Sam Houston astride his white horse with sword aloft, came resolutely forward, no gun firing, across that forward line where the pickets should have been. On they came, and when they were practically inside the Mexican lines, Houston lowered his sword, a military band began playing an old love song, and the slaughter began.
Grabbing his pants, Santa Anna took one terrified look at the carnage about to engulf his sleeping army, and fled.
On the Texican side the three representative participants had at one time known one another at Quimper’s Ferry: Otto Macnab, Yancey Quimper and a tall, grim Old Testament prophet who marched resolutely into a battle he had long predicted.
He was Reverend Joel Job Harrison, the Methodist clergyman who had secretly served his flock against the day when righteous revolution would strike down the Mexican oppressors and allow the true faith to flourish. He advanced on the left flank, one of the oldest men in action that day and
one of the fiercest. Quietly, insistently he assured the younger men around him: ‘Today you’re doing the work of the Lord. Let nothing stop you,’ and when in dreadful silence his contingent entered the Mexican lines, it was he who uttered the first cry: ‘At them!’ and started his long arms flailing. He did not fire the very old gun he carried, he used it like a club, and whenever the men of this flank threatened to waver, it was he who urged them on. He was unstoppable, and his men tore completely through the Mexican lines, creating a havoc which spread to other segments.
In the center Otto Macnab had volunteered, just before the battle began, to test the open ground, nearly a mile of it, and with the aid of a young fighter from Mississippi named Martin Ascot he crept forward, and to his relief he and Martin found no scouts at all, and Martin, who had studied law before coming to Texas, whispered like a young professor: ‘I do believe they’ve forgotten to post their forward pickets!’
So he and Otto began almost running toward the Mexican lines, and where there should have been a score of guardians they found nothing, until at last Otto stood straight up and signaled boldly that it was safe for the main line to come ahead.
With what terrible determination they came! Nobody cheered. Nobody fired his rifle. The cavalry did not engage in showy display. They just came forward, guns and knives at the ready, while a make-up band played softly a sentimental song the Texicans loved:
Will you come to the bower I have shaded for you?
Our bed shall be roses all spangled with dew.
There under the bower on roses you’ll lie
With a blush on your cheek but a smile in your eye!
It was perhaps symbolic of national attitudes that Santa Anna’s men had marched on the Alamo to the ‘Degüello,’ that song of death and hatred, while the Texicans marched to their Armageddon singing a love song. But the aftermaths of the two songs would be similar.