Chapter 22

 

The retreat from Goliad was one of the worst debacles I have ever been involved in, and I have been in some corkers over the years. It reminded me of when I had taken part in the evacuation of Amherstburg in Canada during 1813. We were pursued by Americans under Harrison then and that had ended in a headlong rout. I had a nasty feeling about this withdrawal too. Although we were finally moving, our speed was barely that of a lame hen. The first wagon had broken crossing the river, forcing a dozen men to splash around in the cold water to recover a cannon barrel, while a wheelwright and others carried out running repairs. Knowing that the town would be lost, soldiers had ransacked the buildings for anything of value to take with them. I saw one man carrying a large chair, with the seat resting on his head like some Bengal porter. Two more enterprising souls were each holding the handle of a chest between them that was clearly heavily loaded with loot. We looked more like a travelling circus than a retreating army with an enemy close on our heels.

The fog and rain slowly lifted and at least Horton’s scouts could not find any Mexicans tracking us that morning. Looking back over the undulating prairie, I could still see the pillar of smoke from the burning supplies in town. I wondered how long our good fortune would last. By eleven two wagons had been abandoned, one with a broken wheel and axle while the other just collapsed, rotten to the core. By then men were complaining that they were hungry and thirsty. I only saw two barrels of water in the entire convoy. Anger broke out when it was discovered that our food supplies had been burnt, but it was the hunger of the oxen that brought us to a stop again. We had been going for just over two hours and had barely covered six miles, when Fannin ordered a halt and allowed the animals time to graze. We were slap bang in the middle of a wide expanse of open prairie and strung out in a long uneven column. Even a witless child should have known that if the Mexican cavalry appeared, we would be cut to pieces. I railed at Fannin and urged him to go onward to the tree-lined Coleto Creek, which was just five miles away and would give us water and cover should the enemy approach, but he was having none of it.

“Ward and his men must have taken a terrible toll on the Mexicans,” the stubborn fool assured me. “If there were only two hundred infantry and a similar number of cavalry when they attacked San Patricio, their numbers must be far less now. They do not have the men to take on a force this size.” There was a bloody big if in that statement and I was not the only one arguing the case for continuing. One of the militia leaders, Doc Shackelford also pressed hard for him to continue. Shackelford had raised his own militia of around sixty men from his home town in Alabama and had brought them to Texas to fight. They included one of his sons, two nephews and many personal friends. He was determined not to put their lives at risk unnecessarily. It was clear, however, that we were in the minority. Most of the men welcomed a rest from carrying their burdens. A good number actually wanted the Mexicans to appear, so that they could pay them back for our earlier defeats. Little did they know they were to get their wish soon enough.

We eventually resumed our march and had covered another three miles before there was a shout of alarm from the back of the column. A large group of horsemen had appeared behind us. Horton’s rear scouts must have been asleep or dead, as we had no warning of their approach. My worst fears were confirmed as they got closer: they were Mexican cavalry. We still had two miles to go before we reached Coleto Creek and a belated sense of urgency began to spread at long last down the column. Oxen were whipped to go faster and men picked up their burdens and began to hurry along to the shelter of cover ahead.

It was too late. It was a race we could never win. Squadrons of Mexican lancers and dragoons thundered down and passed on either side of us, well out of rifle range. It was soon clear that they had no intention of attacking directly; their goal was to cut us off from the creek where we could more easily make a stand. Our own horsemen, hopelessly outnumbered, were forced to withdraw.

For a while we pressed on regardless, just getting closer to the creek in the hope that there might be some way through. We left the road and pushed our way through the long grass of the prairie on a direct route to the distant trees, approaching safety yard by yard. Then there was another shout of warning from one of the wagons. More Mexicans could be seen coming up behind us, infantry this time and marching quickly. There were well over two hundred of them, which meant that the early reports of their numbers must have been wrong.

God, I wished I had gone with Warnell and the farmer’s wife now, for suddenly our situation was precarious indeed. I swore vehemently at myself. All those weeks of waiting futilely in San Antonio, then not going over the wall when I had the chance and now waiting around like some prize plum in Goliad until it was too late. I was damned that if after escaping the massacre of the Alamo I was going to die here. Some of the men at the front of the column started to race ahead, for the trees around the creek were now no more than a mile in front of us, but the horsemen were ready for that. The lancers started to array themselves in a line ready for a charge across that tempting stretch of land. I knew that horsemen would easily kill a group of running men.

Slowly the Texians who had run forward were forced to retreat back to the main column, which had now finally come to a halt. Men glanced nervously over their shoulders at the approaching Mexican infantry. They knew that they would be in a fight now and it would be evenly matched. Both sides had just over three hundred men by my reckoning, but the Mexicans had far more cavalry while the Texians had their rifles and artillery. Fannin ordered two of the cannon to be set up and fired at the horsemen, while a rare old debate started amongst the men on what we should do next.

Everyone had an opinion. Some wanted to rush the horsemen again and take their chances. Others pointed out that this would leave the slow and infirm at the mercy of the Mexicans. In the end the decision was made for us when a wheel on the ammunition wagon hit a rock and broke. We were stuck where we were now, for any defence would require an ample supply of powder and ball.

Mercifully, Fannin must have remembered some of his West Point training, for he slowly organised his men into a square. It was no mean feat as the column originally stretched out nearly a quarter of a mile. He had most of the wagons brought together in the middle and at least one of his militia regiments on each side. Only one wagon was outside the square. The cart had been at the front of the column, but dragoons had shot at its oxen as they went past so that it could no longer be moved. It carried five wounded men and a driver, a medical orderly called Abel Morgan. He simply got some ammunition and prepared to defend his vehicle and its occupants where they stood.

“You have set up a good defence,” I grudgingly conceded to Fannin as we stood watching the spare muskets being distributed so that each man had at least two long arms to fire. “But what are we going to do now? If we break out under cover of darkness, the chances are that only half of us will make it to the creek.” I was privately considering a break out of my own, though not to the creek, for if there was a general rush to escape, that would attract Mexicans like sharks to a shipwreck. Instead I planned to go to the east. I had noticed that the soldiers were spread thinner there and if I crawled carefully through the long grass, I had a chance of getting through them. Then I could move more quickly in the darkness for three miles or so to another copse of trees to hide out. I was still wearing the old soldier’s coat I had taken at the Alamo – there had been no new supplies to replace it in Goliad. I had a blanket over the top to keep me warm, but without that, I could easily be mistaken for a Mexican at a distance. Of course, if stopped and questioned, my disguise would quickly be revealed. It was a small advantage. I was not beaten yet; a resourceful man on his own could survive where several hundred could not. But I was surprised to learn that Fannin had a plan of his own to save us all.

“Horton cannot get back to us,” he said pointing in the direction his own cavalry had last been seen. “But he knows that militia were gathering in Victoria. Perhaps Houston is there now himself with his men. If Horton can get to Victoria, he can bring reinforcements back here to break us out. It is only a day’s march, so they should be here tomorrow.”

I looked at the colonel with new respect. Firstly because of the orderly way he organised a strong defensive square from his unruly command and now for thinking about ways to get us out. Mind you, if he had not dithered for days or even the hours wasted this morning, we would not have been in this mess in the first place.

We were interrupted now by shouting at the front of the column. Looking out, I could see the dragoons lining up with the lancers as they prepared to attack. The Mexican infantry was still some distance off, breaking up into four companies so that they could cover each side of the square.

Distant bugles called and the enemy cavalry started to move towards us. Abel Morgan’s wagon was right in their way and would serve like a breakwater to disrupt the waves of the horsemen. Fannin was already pushing forward to stand in the front of three ranks of men that were being hastily prepared. Muskets and cannon were loaded and as the horsemen moved from a walk to a trot, our commander shouted that no one was to shoot until he gave the order. I stood on a cart so that I could fire over the heads of the men in front and hurriedly began to load my muskets. The bugles rang out again and as one, the line of lance tips dipped to point in our direction as the horsemen broke into a gallop. I remembered the man in Bowie’s troop warning me of the skill of these men. They certainly knew their trade as without any obvious orders, they began to part to make a gap around Morgan’s wagon.

“Hold your fire,” shouted Fannin. Rifle men could hit the lancers now as could the artillery gunners, but he evidently wanted to wait for a devastating close-range volley. We would only have one chance to stop them and we had to make the most of it. Closer they came. I could hear a rattle from a metal cup hanging from a nail on my wagon that vibrated from the distant hoofbeats. Not so distant now, a hundred yards no more and just as I withdrew the ramrod from my second musket, Fannin finally gave the order to fire. There was a thunderous roar from the guns of the men in front as a volley was fired and the two cannon blasted canister shot into the approaching cavalry. Long before I could get the first musket to my shoulder the enemy had disappeared behind a bank of gun smoke. I fired blindly in the direction that they had been and heard others doing the same. There was the sound of screams and horses whinnying in pain, but mercifully no lancers came crashing through the lines of the men in front of me. Fannin ordered the front ranks forward several paces to get in front of the smoke and see what lay beyond. He led them himself, swiftly discovering that the dragoons were covering the horsemen’s retreat as he was struck by a ball from their carbines, which shot away the lock on his own musket.

As the smoke cleared we saw that the long prairie grass had hidden much of the devastation we had inflicted. Here and there a wounded horse thrashed about as it tried to stand, but the dead and wounded troopers were out of sight. The lancers had lost a third of their number. The dragoons were also falling back sharply as they knew our rifles were vastly more accurate than their carbines. A cheer went up as the men congratulated themselves on their victory. This was how they expected encounters with the Mexican army to go. Several shouted that it was revenge for the Alamo, while others pointed at some of the approaching infantry companies and beckoned for them to come on, like eager whores searching for new trade.

Fannin at least saw that we were not out of trouble yet for he had them reloading and dressing their lines into straight ranks for the next attacks to come. While we had been dealing with the cavalry attack, a company of a hundred men had drawn up opposite each of the other three sides of our square. They were very different creatures to the Texians. Judging from the way I had seen them shoot from the hip in the past, they were clearly not familiar with firearms. For the most part they were shorter, smaller men who were being manually pushed into lines by their sergeants and officers. They were conscript soldiers, who probably did not want to be there. They cannot have been encouraged by watching the treatment we had just dished out to the much-vaunted Mexican cavalry.

In contrast, the Texians were all volunteers and incentivised with promises of land and riches should they be successful in wrestling the territory of Texas from Mexico. Most had been brought up on farms and in rural communities, where hunting and using guns was a way of life. As they watched the sorry specimens being shoved into ranks by their officers, it was not surprising that the Texians felt confident. They may have felt less so, however, if they had looked to their rear and seen yet more Mexicans approaching, together with what looked like a group of Indians that they had recruited. Fannin’s earlier scout reports that there were just two hundred Mexican infantry were clearly wrong. What we did not know was just how badly wrong they were.

More bugles sounded and as one, the three Mexican lines started to move towards us. Their officers stood behind, prodding the slower ones on to keep the lines straight. I saw that they marched with their bayonets already fixed, which meant that they were unlikely to stop to reload. If they were to charge it would be a brutal bloody affair as they were roughly the same number as the men facing them. If they got close enough to use those blades, the square would dissolve into hand to hand fighting. I did not doubt that the lancers and dragoons would then charge again to make the most of the confusion. The two sides were evenly matched and I would not want to have wagered on the outcome. Even if the Texas forces did win the encounter, I knew that few would be left uninjured.

The first guns fired. They came from our ranks, the sharp retorts of rifles as men made the most of the longer-range weapons. On the side I was watching, I saw four men fall, two of them officers. Then the corner cannon began to fire and another half dozen men fell. As the gunners hurriedly reloaded, more of our muskets and rifles fired. There were no crashing volleys, just a growing rumble of fire. More Mexicans tumbled into the grass, but the majority were still over a hundred yards off, too far for an accurate musket shot. One of their officers on horseback, raised his sword and shouted an order, but was almost instantly plucked from his saddle by a rifle ball. Perhaps the order came from elsewhere, for the men now broke into a run, a distant challenge being shouted at us as they charged.

The crackle of fire from our ranks grew even louder and more Mexican soldiers disappeared into the prairie. Every shot had to count. From my higher vantage point on the wagon, I could see the Mexicans clearly over the gun smoke. They withstood the first barrage of fire well. A score of men had fallen, but the rest were still running and shouting as they must have imagined their enemy reloading to give them time to reach our ranks. Then, far sooner than they expected, the second muskets flamed through the smoke and, closer now, yet more men fell. Some spare guns were even passed from those on the side not being attacked so that some men had three or even four weapons to fire. The Mexicans simply could not understand how we could send so much lead towards them. They started to fire their own guns, often shooting wildly on the run. Then our cannon fired again.

I could easily imagine their terror as they heard the scream of canister shot blowing like a lethal hail through their line. Huge gaps appeared in their ranks and it took any remaining fighting spirit right out of them. “They’re breaking,” I shouted as I watched the first Mexicans come to a hesitant halt. A breaking charge is more infectious than the plague. It only took a few to haul up and then those beside them stopped as well. No one wanted to reach the enemy lines to find that they had arrived on their own. Some Mexican officer must have seen that the game was up for then a bugle called and the whole body of men began to retreat, with cheering from the square chasing them up the slope.

We lost three men killed and at least a dozen injured in that attack, while I guessed that there must have been at least fifty dead or injured men lying in the long grass, not to mention more Mexican wounded that were helped away by their comrades. The Texians were jubilant – none of them had doubted the outcome. There were shouts that they would chase the Mexicans back over the Rio Grande. Some wanted to continue our march to the creek and beyond, but Fannin pointed out that we were unable to move two wagons and the Mexican cavalry were still in our way

“We beat them because we were organised and we stood firm,” he explained. “If we try to make a run for it, they will chase us like coyotes, taking down the slow and the weak first.” Soldiers looked guiltily at the sick and wounded men in and around the wagons and most agreed that they could not be abandoned. To emphasise the point, a shot rang out from one of the fallen Mexicans hiding in the long grass. If he had aimed at the large square he would have struggled to miss and a man in the facing rank howled with pain. That I think deterred many from suggesting a breakout, for we all knew that in the flash of flint on steel we could be one of the poor devils being left behind.