Fannin turned away from General Houston’s messenger on the morning of
the 13th (March) with an anxious and gloomy face. The messenger, Captain
Desauque, had just come in from Gonzales, leaving woe and despair behind
him. He brought the black tidings of the fall of the Alamo, and he bore
orders from the commander-in-chief for Fannin to blow up the fort, bury
or throw into the river such of the cannon as he could not bring away,
and retreat to Victoria on the Guadalupe River.
There was scant time in which to mourn the fall of the Alamo, but the
dark looks on the men’s faces, as they buried the guns and demolished
the fortifications, told of what they were thinking.
Fannin sent a courier to Ward and King, ordering them to return at once
from Refugio; this courier, as well as others sent later, was captured
by Mexican scouts.
Fannin waited five days in great suspense, loth to abandon these
officers and the women and children whom they had been sent to protect.
At length came the news of Ward’s retreat from Refugio. The remaining
works of Fort Defiance were destroyed, the buildings were set on fire,
artillery and ammunition were loaded on wagons; the drums called the men
from their ruined quarters. Mrs. Cash, the only woman left in Goliad,
was placed in their midst, and, with a last glance at Fort Defiance,
Fannin began his fatal retreat.
This was on the 19th of March.
The wagons, enveloped in fog, creaked their way across the San Antonio
River and over the prairie beyond. The troops marched steadily. An
ominous silence reigned everywhere; not even a Mexican scout was to be
seen.
Several miles from Goliad Fannin halted an hour in the open prairie to
allow his jaded and hungry ox-teams to graze. At the moment the march
was taken up, a line of Mexican cavalry came out of the wood skirting
the Colita (Co-lee′ta) Creek two miles away. Their arms glistened in the
sunlight, for the fog had lifted. A compact mass of infantry followed.
Urrea’s entire army was upon them.
Fannin immediately formed his men in a hollow square with the wagons and
teams in the center. His position had the double disadvantage of being
unprotected and in a miry hollow some feet below the surface of the
prairie around. But his men received the Mexican advance with a volley
from the artillery and a galling fire from their rifles.[23]
The cannon, for want of water to sponge them, soon became useless. With
small arms alone, charge after charge of the enemy was repulsed; the
prairie was soon covered with dead and dying men and horses.
Early in the action Fannin received a severe wound in his thigh, but in
spite of this he continued to direct his men with great courage and
coolness.
Many a poor fellow loaded and fired his gun with his own life-blood
wetting the sod about him. One lad, named Hal Ripley, fifteen years of
age, after his thigh was broken by a ball, climbed, with Mrs. Cash’s
help, into her cart. There, with his back propped and a rest for his
rifle, he fired away calmly until another bullet shattered his right
arm. He had, in the meantime, killed four Mexicans. “Now, Mother Cash,”
he said cheerfully, “you may take me down.”[24]
At dark the Mexicans ceased firing and made their camp in the timber.
Their bugles sounded shrilly the livelong night. That night was one of
agony in the bloody little camp on the prairie. There were but seven
Texans killed, but more than sixty were badly wounded. These groaned in
the darkness, begging for water which could not be had, imploring aid
which mortal hand was powerless to give. Those who were not wounded lay
breathless and exhausted on the trampled ground, staring up at the sky
and wondering what the morrow would bring forth.
The morrow brought no help to them. To the already large force of Urrea
it brought reinforcements to the number of three or four hundred men
with artillery, ammunition, and supplies.
Fannin watched the enemy ranging his men under the morning sky and
dragging his cannon into place; then his haggard eyes sought his own
brave little band. They were without food, drink, or ammunition; their
teams were killed or disabled; their cannon were useless; the cries of
their wounded rose mournfully on the heavy air. He called his officers
together and submitted the question: “Shall we surrender or not?” The
private soldiers were then asked to decide for themselves.
During this consultation Mrs. Cash went to the Mexican camp to beg for
water for the wounded men. She was accompanied by her son, a boy of
fourteen years, who, like Hal Ripley, had fought the day before with the
best and the bravest. They passed over the prairie strewn with the dead
and dying, and entered the presence of the Mexican general. “I have
come, sir,” she said, fearlessly, “to ask you before the fighting begins
again, to give me water for our wounded.” Urrea looked at her without
replying, and then his eyes fell upon the shot-pouch and powder-horn of
the boy. “Woman,” he demanded sternly, “are you not ashamed to bring a
child like that into such scenes?” The boy himself answered with his
blue eyes kindling: “Young as I am, sir,” he said, “I know my rights, as
everybody in Texas does, and I mean to have them or die.”
What the general might have said in answer to this insolent speech
cannot be known, for at that moment a white flag was raised in the Texan
camp.
The majority of Fannin’s men were in favor of surrender, though many
thought in their hearts it would be better to die with arms in their
hands like the defenders of the Alamo. Fannin himself was opposed to
surrender. “We beat them off yesterday,” he declared, “and we can do it
again to-day.”
Favorable terms were secured from General Urrea by Fannin, and the
prisoners of war were marched back to Goliad and placed in the mission
church—Fannin’s Fort Defiance. The wounded were brought in the next day
and housed in the barracks; and several days later Ward and his men were
thrust into the overcrowded church.
The prisoners were ill fed and badly treated. But when the first shock
of their defeat had passed, they began to look forward eagerly to their
release. They were told that they were to be placed at once on ships and
sent to New Orleans, where they would be paroled and set at liberty.
On the Saturday evening after their capture, the sounds of gay laughter
echoed from the time-stained walls of the chapel. The men sang “Home,
Sweet Home,” to the music of a flute played by one of their number.
Fannin talked of his wife and children far into the night.
The next day was Palm Sunday.
In the old days of the mission, the Indian converts were accustomed on
Palm Sunday to walk up the aisles of the church bearing green branches
in their hands, in memory of Christ’s entry into Jerusalem; and hymns of
joy and praise mingled with the incense which arose from the altar.
At just the sunrise hour, when in those old times the converts came
carrying their dewy sweet-smelling boughs from the forest, the prisoners
were awakened by their guards and marched out of the church. They were
formed into four divisions and hurried away under various pretences.
Some were even told that they were starting home.
Three-quarters of a mile from the fort they were halted, drawn up in
sections, and ordered to kneel. Everything had been so orderly, so
natural, so swift, that only at the last moment did the men realize what
was about to happen. “My God, boys,” cried a voice that echoed like a
shot on the clear air, “they are going to kill us.”
The guns of the guards were already turned upon the prisoners. A
deliberate discharge followed this despairing cry; another, and another,
and a heap of writhing, bleeding bodies was all that remained of
Fannin’s gallant band. A few escaped, struggling to their feet and
fleeing to the swamp pursued by shots and curses. The surgeons and one
or two others were saved by the kindness of Colonel Garay, a Mexican
officer.[25] One of these, Dr. Shackelford, captain of the Red Rovers,
heard the firing as he entered the tent of his preserver. He did not
know that anything had gone wrong; but he trembled and turned pale, and
well he might! For three of his young nephews and his own son were among
the killed.
Señora Alvarez, a Mexican woman, concealed several prisoners until after
the massacre, and afterward helped them to escape. It was her tears and
entreaties which moved Colonel Garay to risk keeping the surgeons in his
tent. While the butchery was going on, she stood in the plaza, with her
black hair streaming over her shoulders; and with flashing eyes she
denounced Santa Anna and called down the vengeance of heaven upon his
head. When she learned that Dr. Shackelford’s son had been shot, she
burst into tears and cried out, “Oh, if I had only known, I would have
saved him.”
Her husband was one of Urrea’s officers, and her kindness to the Texan
prisoners throughout the war ought never to be forgotten. “Her name,”
writes one of the survivors of the massacre, “should be written in
letters of gold.”
The two brave boys, Harry Ripley and young Cash, were also among the
slain.
The wounded men were then dragged out of their beds and shot. Fannin,
who was the last to die, met his fate inside the fort, it is even said
inside the consecrated church. His high courage sustained him to the
end. After receiving the promise of the officer in charge that he should
not be shot in the head, that his body should be decently buried, and
that his watch should be sent to his wife, he fastened the bandage about
his eyes with his own hands, and welcomed death like a soldier. Not one
of the promises made to him was kept.
The dead Texans to the number of three hundred and fifty were stripped
of their clothing and piled, naked, in heaps on the ground. A little
brushwood was thrown over them and set on fire. It burned, crackling a
few moments, and then the flames died out. The half-consumed flesh was
torn from the bones by vultures.
This cold-blooded murder was done by order of Santa Anna. For it, as for
the massacre at the Alamo, a deadly vengeance was at hand.