Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 59, No. 363, January, 1846

"Give way to my wishes, comrades," said he; "listen to the groans of our wounded brethren, whose lives may yet be saved by medical skill. Will the New Orleans' Greys, the first company who shouldered the rifle for Texian liberty, abandon their unfortunate comrades to a cruel death at the hands of our barbarous foes? Once more, friends, I implore you, wait till daybreak, and if no help is then at hand, it shall be as you please, and I will follow you."

In order to unstiffen my limbs, which were numbed by the wet and cold, I walked to and fro in our little camp, gazing out into the darkness. Not a star was visible, the night was gloomy and dismal, well calculated to crush all hope in our hearts. I stepped out of the encampment, and walked in the direction of the enemy. From time to time dark figures glided swiftly by within a short distance of me. They were the Indians, carrying away the bodies of the dead Mexicans, in order to conceal from us the extent of their loss. For hours I mournfully wandered about, and day was breaking when I returned to the camp. All were already astir. In silent expectation, we strained our eyes in the direction of the neighbouring wood, hoping each moment to see our friends burst out from its shelter; but as the light became stronger, all our hopes fled, and our previous doubts as to whether there really were any troops at Victoria, became confirmed. The Mexican artillery had come up during the night, and now appeared stationed with the detachment which cut us off from the wood.

It was seven o'clock; we had given up all hopes of succour, and had assembled together to deliberate on the best mode of attacking the Mexicans, when their artillery suddenly bellowed forth a morning salutation, and the balls came roaring over and around us. These messengers hastened our decision, and we resolved at once to attack the troops upon the road with rifle and bowie-knife, and at all hazards and any loss to gain the wood. All were ready; even the wounded, those at least who were able to stand, made ready to accompany us, determined to die fighting, rather than be unresistingly butchered. Suddenly, and at the very moment that we were about to advance, the white flag, the symbol of peace, was raised upon the side of the Mexicans. Mistrusting their intentions, however, we were going to press forward, when Fanning's command checked us. He had conceived hopes of rescuing himself and his comrades, by means of an honourable capitulation, from the perilous position into which he could not but feel that his own obstinacy had brought them.

Three of the enemy's officers now approached our camp, two of them Mexican cavalry-men, the third a German who had got into favour with Santa Anna, and had risen to be colonel of artillery. He was, if I am not mistaken, a native of Mayence, and originally a carpenter, but having some talent for mathematics and architecture, he had entered the service of an English mining company, and been sent to Mexico. There Santa Anna employed him to build his well-known country-house of Mango do Clavo, and conceiving, from the manner in which the work was executed, a high opinion of the talent of the builder, he gave him a commission in the engineers, and in time made him colonel of artillery. This man, whose name was Holzinger, was the only one who spoke English of the three officers who came with the flag of truce; and as he spoke it very badly, a great deal of our conference took place in German, and was then retranslated into Spanish. After a long discussion, Fanning agreed to the following conditions: namely, that we should deliver up our arms, that our private property should be respected, and we ourselves sent to Corpano or Matamora, there to embark for New Orleans. So long as we were prisoners of war, we were to receive the same rations as the Mexican soldiers. On the other hand, we gave our word of honour not again to bear arms against the existing government of Mexico.

Whilst the three officers returned to General Urrea, who commanded the Mexican army, to procure the ratification of these conditions, we, the volunteers from New Orleans and Mobile, surrounded Fanning, highly dissatisfied at the course that had been adopted. "What!" was the cry, "is this the way that Fanning keeps his promise – this his boasted courage? Has he forgotten the fate of our brothers, massacred at St Antonio? Does he not yet know our treacherous foes? In the Mexican tongue, to capitulate, means to die. Let us die then, but fighting for Texas and for liberty; and let the blood of hundreds of Mexicans mingle with our own. Perhaps, even though they be ten times as numerous, we may succeed in breaking through their ranks. Think of St Antonio, where we were two hundred and ten against two thousand, and yet we conquered. Why not again risk the combat?" But all our expostulations and reproaches were in vain. The majority were for a surrender, and we were compelled to give way and deliver up our weapons. Some of the Greys strode sullenly up and down the camp, casting furious glances at Fanning and those who had voted for the capitulation; others sat motionless, their eyes fixed upon the ground, envying the fate of those who had fallen in the fight. Despair was legibly written on the faces of many who but too well foresaw our fate. One man in particular, an American, of the name of Johnson, exhibited the most ungovernable fury. He sat grinding his teeth, and stamping upon the ground, and puffing forth volumes of smoke from his cigar, whilst he meditated, as presently appeared, a frightful plan of vengeance.

Stimulated by curiosity, a number of Mexicans now strolled over to our camp, and gazed shyly at the gloomy grey marksmen, as if they still feared them, even though unarmed. The beauty of the rifles which our people had given up, was also a subject of great wonder and admiration; and soon the camp became crowded with unwelcome visitors – their joy and astonishment at their triumph, contrasting with the despair and despondency of the prisoners. Suddenly a broad bright flame flashed though the morning fog, a tremendous explosion followed, and then all was again still, and the prairie strewn with wounded men. A cloud of smoke was crushed down by the heavy atmosphere upon the dark green plain; the horses of the Mexican officers reared wildly in the air, or, with bristling mane and streaming tail, galloped furiously away with their half-deafened riders. Numbers of persons had been thrown down by the shock, others had flung themselves upon the ground in consternation, and some moments elapsed before the cause of the explosion was ascertained. The powder magazine had disappeared – all but a small part of the carriage, around which lay a number of wounded, and, at about fifteen paces from it, a black object, in which the form of a human being was scarcely recognisable, but which was still living, although unable to speak. Coal-black as a negro, and frightfully disfigured, it was impossible to distinguish the features of this unhappy wretch. Inquiry was made, the roll was called, and Johnson was found missing. Nobody had observed his proceedings, and the explosion may have been the result of an accident; but we entertained little doubt that he had formed a deliberate plan to kill himself and as many Mexicans as he could, and had chosen what he considered a favourable moment to set fire to the ammunition-waggon. As it happened, the cover was not fastened down, so that the principal force of the powder went upwards, and his terrible project was rendered in a great measure abortive.

Scarcely had the confusion caused by this incident subsided, and the fury of our foes been appeased, when the alarm was sounded in the opposite camp, and the Mexicans ran to their arms. The cause of this was soon explained. In the wood, which, could we have reached it, would have been our salvation, appeared our faithful vanguard, accompanied by all the militia they had been able to collect in so short a time – the whole commanded by Colonel Horton. False indeed had been the report, that six or eight hundred men were stationed at Victoria; including our vanguard, the gallant fellows who thus came to our assistance were but sixty in number.

"With what horror," said the brave Horton, subsequently, "did we perceive that we had arrived too late! We stood thunderstruck and uncertain what to do, when we were suddenly roused from our bewilderment by the sound of the Mexican trumpets. There was no time to lose, and our minds were speedily made up. Although Fanning had so far forgotten his duty as to surrender, ours was to save ourselves, for the sake of the republic. Now, more than ever, since all the volunteers were either killed or prisoners, had Texas need of our arms and rifles. We turned our horses, and galloped back to Victoria, whence we marched to join Houston at Gonzales."

The Mexicans lost no time in pursuing Horton and his people, but without success. The fugitives reached the thickly-wooded banks of the Guadalupe, and disappeared amongst intricacies through which the foe did not dare to follow them. Had the reinforcement arrived one half hour sooner, the bloody tragedy soon to be enacted would never have taken place.

The unfortunate Texian prisoners were now marched back to Goliad, and shut up in the church, which was thereby so crowded that scarcely a fourth of them were able to sit or crouch upon the ground. Luckily the interior of the building was thirty-five to forty feet high, or they would inevitably have been suffocated. Here they remained all night, parched with thirst; and it was not till eight in the morning that six of their number were permitted to fetch water from the river. In the evening they were again allowed water, but for two nights and days no other refreshment passed their lips. Strong pickets of troops, and guns loaded with grape, were stationed round their prison, ready to massacre them in case of an outbreak which it seemed the intention of the Mexicans to provoke. At last, on the evening of the second day, six ounces of raw beef were distributed to each man. This they had no means of cooking, save at two small fires, which they made of the wood-work of the church; and as the heat caused by these was unendurable to the closely packed multitude, the majority devoured their scanty ration raw. One more night was passed in this wretched state, and then the prisoners were removed to an open court within the walls of the fortress. This was a great improvement of their situation, but all that day no rations were given to them, and they began to buy food of the soldiers, giving for it what money they possessed; and when that was all gone, bartering their clothes, even to their shirts and trousers. So enormous, however, were the prices charged by the Mexicans, Mr Ehrenberg tells us, that one hungry man could easily eat at a meal ten dollars' worth of tortillas or maize-cakes. Not satisfied with this mode of extortion, the Mexican soldiers, who are born thieves, were constantly on the look-out to rob the unhappy prisoners of whatever clothing or property they had left.

On the fourth morning, three quarters of a pound of beef were given to each man; and whilst they were engaged in roasting it, there appeared to their great surprise a hundred and twenty fresh prisoners, being Major Ward's detachment, which had lost its way in the prairie, and, after wandering about for eight days, had heard of Fanning's capitulation, and surrendered on the same terms. Twenty-six of them, carpenters by trade, had been detained at Victoria by order of Colonel Holzinger, to assist in building bridges for the transport of the artillery across the river. On the seventh day came a hundred more prisoners, who had just landed at Copano from New York, under command of Colonel Miller, and had been captured by the Mexican cavalry. The rations were still scanty, and given but at long intervals; and the starving Texians continued their system of barter, urged to it by the pangs of hunger, and by the Mexican soldiers, who told them that they were to be shot in a day or two, and might as well part with whatever they had left, in order to render their last hours more endurable. This cruel assurance, however, the prisoners did not believe. They were sanguine of a speedy return to the States, and impatiently waited the arrival of an order for their shipment from Santa Anna, who was then at St Antonio, and to whom news of the capitulation had been sent. General Urrea had marched from Goliad immediately after their surrender, only leaving sufficient troops to guard them, and had crossed the Guadalupe without opposition. Santa Anna's order at last came, but its purport was far different from the anticipated one. We resume our extracts from Mr Ehrenberg's narrative: —

The eighth morning of our captivity dawned, and so great were our sufferings, that we had resolved, if some change were not made in our condition, to free ourselves by force, or die in the attempt, when a rumour spread that a courier from Santa Anna had arrived during the night. This inspired us with fresh hopes, and we trusted that the hour of our deliverance at last approached. At eight o'clock in the morning an officer entered our place of confinement, carrying Santa Anna's order in his hand, of the contents of which, however, he told us nothing, except that we were immediately to march away from Goliad. Whether we were to go to Copano or Matamoras, we were not informed. We saw several pieces of cannon standing pointed against our enclosure, the artillerymen standing by them with lighted matches, and near them was drawn up a battalion of infantry, in parade uniform, but coarse and ragged enough. The infantry had no knapsacks or baggage of any kind; but at the time I do not believe that one of us remarked the circumstance, as the Mexican soldiers in general carry little or nothing. For our part, we required but a very short time to get ready for the march, and in a few minutes we were all drawn up, two deep, with the exception of Colonel Miller's detachment, which was quartered outside the fort. Fanning and the other wounded men, the doctor, his assistants, and the interpreters, were also absent. They were to be sent later to New Orleans, it was believed, by a nearer road.

After the names had been called over, the order to march was given, and we filed out through the gate of the fortress, the Greys taking the lead. Outside the gate we were received by two detachments of Mexican infantry, who marched along on either side of us, in the same order as ourselves. We were about four hundred in number, and the enemy about seven hundred, not including the cavalry, of which numerous small groups were scattered about the prairie. We marched on in silence, not however, in the direction we had anticipated, but along the road to Victoria. This surprised us; but upon reflection we concluded that they were conducting us to some eastern port, thence to be shipped to New Orleans, which, upon the whole, was perhaps the best and shortest plan. There was something, however, in the profound silence of the Mexicali soldiers, who are usually unceasing chatterers, that inspired me with a feeling of uneasiness and anxiety. It was like a funeral march, and truly might it so be called. Presently I turned my head to see if Miller's people had joined, and were marching with us. But, to my extreme astonishment, neither they nor Fanning's men, nor the Georgia battalion, were to be seen. They had separated us without our observing it, and the detachment with which I was marching consisted only of the Greys and a few Texian colonists. Glancing at the escort, their full dress uniform and the absence of all baggage, now for the first time struck me. I thought of the bloody scenes that had occurred at Tampico, San Patricio, and the Alamo, of the false and cruel character of those in whose power we were, and I was seized with a presentiment of evil. For a moment I was about to communicate my apprehensions to my comrades; but hope, which never dies, again caused me to take a more cheering view of our situation. Nevertheless, in order to be prepared for the worst, and, in case of need, to be unencumbered in my movements, I watched my opportunity, and threw away amongst the grass of the prairie a bundle containing the few things that the thievish Mexicans had allowed me to retain.

A quarter of an hour had elapsed since our departure from the fort, when suddenly the command was given in Spanish to wheel to the left, leaving the road; and, as we did not understand the order, the officer himself went in front to show us the way, and my companions followed without taking any particular notice of the change of direction. To our left ran a muskeet hedge, five or six feet in height, at right angles with the river St Antonio, which flowed at about a thousand paces from us, between banks thirty or forty feet high, and of which banks the one on the nearer side of the river rose nearly perpendicularly out of the water. We were marched along the side of the hedge towards the stream, and suddenly the thought flashed across us, "Why are they taking us in this direction?" The appearance of a number of lancers, cantering about in the fields on our right, also startled us; and just then the foot-soldiers, who had been marching between us and the hedge, changed their places, and joined those of their comrades who guarded us on the other hand. Before we could divine the meaning of this manœuvre, the word was given to halt. It came like a sentence of death; for at the same moment that it was uttered, the sound of a volley of musketry echoed across the prairie. We thought of our comrades and of our own probable fate.

"Kneel down!" now burst in harsh accents from the lips of the Mexican commander.

No one stirred. Few of us understood the order, and those who did would not obey. The Mexican soldiers, who stood at about three paces from us, levelled their muskets at our breasts. Even then we could hardly believe that they meant to shoot us; for if we had, we should assuredly have rushed forward in our desperation, and, weaponless though we were, some of our murderers would have met their death at our hands. Only one of our number was well acquainted with Spanish, and even he seemed as if he could not comprehend the order that had been given. He stared at the commanding-officer as if awaiting its repetition, and we stared at him, ready, at the first word he should utter, to spring upon the soldiers. But he seemed to be, as most of us were, impressed with the belief that the demonstration was merely a menace, used to induce us to enter the Mexican service. With threatening gesture and drawn sword, the chief of the assassins again ejaculated the command to kneel down. The sound of a second volley, from a different direction with the first, just then reached our ears, and was followed by a confused cry, as if those at whom it had been aimed, had not all been immediately killed. Our comrade, the one who understood Spanish, started from his momentary lethargy and boldly addressed us.

"Comrades," cried he, "you hear that report, that cry! There is no hope for us – our last hour is come! Therefore, comrades – !"

A terrible explosion interrupted him – and then all was still. A thick cloud of smoke was wreathing and curling towards the St Antonio. The blood of our lieutenant was on my clothes, and around me lay my friends, convulsed by the last agony. I saw nothing more. Unhurt myself, I sprang up, and, concealed by the thick smoke, fled along the side of the hedge in the direction of the river, the noise of the water for my guide. Suddenly a blow from a heavy sabre fell upon my head, and from out of the smoke emerged the form of a little Mexican lieutenant. He aimed a second blow at me, which I parried with my left arm. I had nothing to risk, but every thing to gain. It was life or death. Behind me a thousand bayonets, before me the almost powerless sword of a coward. I rushed upon him, and with true Mexican valour, he fled from an unarmed man. On I went, the river rolled at my feet, the soldiers were shouting and yelling behind. "Texas for ever!" cried I, and, without a moment's hesitation, plunged into the water. The bullets whistled round me as I swam slowly and wearily to the other side, but none wounded me. Our poor dog, who had been with us all through the campaign, and had jumped into the river with me, fell a last sacrifice to Mexican cruelty. He had reached the middle of the stream, when a ball struck him, and he disappeared.

Whilst these horrible scenes were occurring in the prairie, Colonel Fanning and his wounded companions were shot and bayoneted at Goliad, only Doctor Thackleford and a few hospital aids having their lives spared, in order that they might attend on the wounded Mexicans. Besides Mr Ehrenberg, but three of the prisoners at Goliad ultimately escaped the slaughter.

Having crossed the St Antonio, Mr Ehrenberg struck into the high grass and thickets, which concealed him from the pursuit of the Mexicans, and wandered through the prairie, guiding himself, as best he might, by sun and stars, and striving to reach the river Brazos. He lost his way, and went through a variety of striking adventures, which, with some characteristic sketches of Texian life and habits, of General Sam Houston and Santa Anna, and a spirited account of the battle of St Jacinto, at which, however, he himself was not present, fill up the remainder of his book. Of one scene, between Houston and his army, we will make a final extract: —

It was the latter end of March, and the army of Texian militia, under Houston, which had increased to about thirteen hundred men, was assembled on the banks of the Colorado river. One messenger after another had arrived, bringing news that had converted them into perfect cannibals, thirsting after Mexican blood. The murder of Grant and his horsemen, that of Johnson and King with their detachments; the unaccountable disappearance of Ward, who was wandering about in the prairie; and finally, Horton's report of the capture of the unfortunate Fanning; all these calamities, in conjunction with the fall of the Alamo, had raised the fury of the backwoodsmen to such a pitch, that they were neither to hold nor bind, and nobody but Sam Houston would have been able to curb them.

The old general sat upon a heap of saddles; and in a circle round a large fire, sat or stood, leaning upon their rifles, the captains of the militia. The whole group was surrounded by a grumbling crowd of backwoodsmen. The dark fiery eyes of the officers, nearly all tall powerful figures, glanced alternately at the flames and at old Sam, who was the only calm person present. Slowly taking a small knife from his waistcoat pocket, he opened it, produced a huge piece of Cavendish, cut off a quid, shoved it between his upper lip and front teeth, and handed the tobacco to his nearest neighbour. This was a gigantic captain, the upper part of whose body was clothed in an Indian hunting-coat, his head covered with what had once been a fine beaver hat, but of which the broad brim now flapped down over his ears, whilst his strong muscular legs were wrapped from knee to ankle in thick crimson flannel, a precaution against the thorns of the muskeet-trees not unfrequently adopted in the west. His bullet-pouch was made out of the head of a leopard, in which eyes of red cloth had been inserted, bringing out, by contrast, the beauty of the skin, and was suspended from a strap of brown untanned deer-hide. With an expression of great bitterness, the backwoodsman handed the tobacco to the man next to him, and it passed on from hand to hand, untasted by any one – a sign of uncommon excitement amongst the persons there assembled. When the despised Cavendish had gone round, the old general stuck it in his pocket again, and continued the conference, at the same time whittling a stick with perfect coolness and unconcern.

"Yes," said he, "I tell you that our affairs look rather ticklish – can't deny it – but that is the only thing that will bring the people to their senses. Santa Anna may destroy the colonies, but it won't be Sam Houston's fault. Instead of at once assembling, the militia stop at home with their wives – quite comfortable in the chimney-corner – think that a handful of volunteers can whip ten thousand of these half-bloods. Quite mistaken, gentlemen – quite mistaken. You see it now – the brave fellows are gone – a scandal it is for us – and the enemy is at our heels. Instead of seeing four or five thousand of our people here, there are thirteen hundred – the others are minding the shop – making journeys to the Sabine. Can't help it, comrades, must retire to the Brazos, into the forests – must be off, and that at once."