 | V.—RESACA DE LA PALMA. Legends of Mexico |  |
5. V.—RESACA DE LA PALMA.
Halting on the edge of the chaparral. The rein thrown carelessly on
the neck of his grey horse, Zachary Taylor looked back, and surveyed
the field of Palo Alto.
If the view had been ghastly by moonlight, it was horrible in the calm
clear light of that cloudless day. The Mexicans had fled through the
mazes of the southern chaparral. From that wall of prickly pear,—
look to the south of Taylor and you will see it—flashed the bayonets of
the American army. Certain companies of the heroic band were searching
the wilderness for traces of the foe, while the main body of the army
halted on the southern verge of the prairie, the chaparral darkening behind
their cannon and bayonets.
It was at the moment, that General Taylor, reining his steed, amid the
tall rank grass, near the wagons of the train, surveyed the field of Palo
Alto. A clear, bracing morning, with the song of birds in the air, and
beautiful prairie flowers blooming beneath his feet.
The wide field lay calmly beneath the smile of the morning sun.
Like an immense scar, the cinders of the prairie fire, blackened the centre
of the plain. Here and there, men with spades in their hands, moved
to and fro—they were digging rude graves for their dead.
But the horses, mangled in masses, and stretched far over the plain,
the dead men, piled in heaps, their broken limbs, and cold faces, distinctly
seen by the light of the morning sun, still remained, amid the grass and
flowers, silent memorials of yesterday's Harvest of Death.
Even the old General could not repress a shudder, as he gazed upon
the terrible evidence of Duncan's last fire—a line of dead men and horses,
darkening far away to the left.
At this moment, when in presence of the entire army, Taylor read the
alphabet of blood, upon the battle-field, was selected by Fate—by Providence—by
God—for a scene of painful and singular interest.
A young soldier, mounted on a black horse, and covered with the traces
of the fight,—the powder stain and the crimson drops of human hearts
—rode from the chaparral and dismounted near the General. He flung
the reins on the neck of his steed, and stood for a moment, regarding
with bitter thoughts, from the shadow of his downcast brow, his muscular
figure, attired in a plain blue frock coat, with a plain row of gold buttons,
presented a striking image of chivalric manhood.
Worn down, with the battle toil of the last twenty-four hours, with the
incessant hurrying to and fro, the severe duty that left no time for food
or slumber, the brave fellow, had ridden to the rear, to take some refreshment,
and an hour's repose.
The eye of the General wandered from the battle-field, to the form of
the young soldier, and an expression of admiration lighted up his bronzed
face. It was the gallant Lieutenant, who the day before, in that breathless
moment, before the first fire, had ridden into the muzzles of Mexican
cannon, and with cool composure reconnoitered their array—The Hero,
Blake.
Taylor looks upon him, as he is in the act of receiving a cup of water
from the hands of a soldier, and turns his eyes to the field again. Scarce
a moment passes, and then his gaze seeks the hero's face once more.
Where does he behold him?
Writhing on the sod, in all the agony of a mortal wound, his body rent
upward by a pistol ball!
Yes, as he took the cup of water, he flung his holsters on the
ground. One of the pistols exploded, even as it struck the ground, and
laid him quivering on the sod, beside its smoking tube.
“Alas!” cried the brave fellow, writhing in his death agony—“Alas!
That I did not fall in the battle of yesterday!”
For a few hours he lingered, and then was clay. As he yielded his
spirit, the thunder of the cannonade, echoing from the south, sung his
death-hymn.—There came a day, when Philadelphia put on mourning for
her son, and brought his dead body home, amid the tribute of a People's
tears.—
While Zachary Taylor gazed upon his prostrate form, the moment
after he fell, there came from the south, the clear, deep crack of a rifle,
that sound spoke to the old man's heart. It was the first shot of the
Twin-Sister of Palo Alto—Resaca De La Palma.
Presently there appeared on the verge of the chaparral, the form of a
sunburnt soldier, dressed in a green ranger's frock, and mounted on a steed
that flung the foam from his flanks, as he whirled his rider along to General
Taylor's side.
It was Captain Walker, bearing to the old commander, the first intelligence
of Arista and his army.
Away through the wilderness, along the road that leads to Fort Brown.
until we behold the Mexican army.
Forth from his splendid tent, erected in the depths of chaparral, issued
by the well-known red moustache, manifested not so much chagrin for
yesterday's defeat, as hope for the triumph of to-day.
The white horse splendidly caprisoned, the saddle glittering like one
mass of silver, awaits his master. Bounding into the saddle, he dashes
through the paths of the chaparral, and surveys his formidable army. It
must be confessed that he had every reason for that feeling of pride, which
gave such a glow to his face, such fire in his eyes. Behind him was seen
the glittering circle of his staff officers, all handsomely mounted and gaily
appareled. Ampudia, with his sinister look and lowering brow, alone
seemed to detract from the chivalry of that warrior's band. There, too,
bestriding an elegant brown charger, whose glossy skin shone like velvet
in the morning light, was seen the graceful La Vega, slender in form, rich
olive in complexion, luxuriant in his dark hair, and silken beard, the very
ideal of a Castilian cavalier of old.
Wherever Arista looked, to the right or the left, forward or in the rear,
the prickly pear bore a dazzling fruit, looking very much like the sharp steel
of the lance, the deadly point of the bayonet. Horses, too, in solid
legions, backed by brave riders, who, refreshed by food and slumber, were
eager to retrieve the fortunes of yesterday. And as Arista passed, a half
suppressed shout was heard, and the full bands clanged out their battle
music.
This was the manner in which the Mexicans were prepared for battle.
Behold their death-like, yes, we must confess it, their terrible array.
Across the road, leading to Fort Brown, a ravine extends near a hundred
feet wide, and four feet high. In the rainy season, the ravine becomes a
torrent, it overflows the road, and dashes away to the Rio Grande. Even
now in its depths sparkle lakelets of clear deep water, and on its southern
bank, the chaparral forms an impenetrable wall.
The ravine is called Resaca De La Palma.
Along this ravine, and on either side of the road, the Mexicans extend,
nine thousand strong, a crescent of cannon and horses, men and steel.
One line is hidden behind yonder bank, another shrouds its cannon, its
horses, its men, beneath the shadows of the southern chaparral.
In the centre of each line the battery glooms: yonder, to the right of
the first line, you see another group of these death engines.
From an open space, near the road, Arista gazed upon the battle array,
and turns with a smile to his general. That smile means much, it means
that the American flag to day will bow before the flag of Mexico, in the
depths of that ravine, whose banks shall swell with a torrent, not of water,
but of blood.
For, as you may see, old Zachary Taylor, in order to reach Fort Brown,
must pass along the road, cut a way with his seventeen hundred men,
through the breasts of some nine thousand Mexicans, who have
either side.
And there, eager to meet the old war-horse, who foiled them yesterday,
stands arrayed in battle order, the bravest band of the whole army, iron
men, hardened by the tropical sun, and the battle blaze, the heroes of a
hundred civil conflicts, the veteran Battalion of Tampico. Above their
heads waves their beautiful banner, embroidered by the hands of beautiful
women, and sanctified by the prayers of nuns, bearing beneath the
eagle and serpent, the simple legend: Battalon—Guarda Costa—De
Tampico.
Gazing on his army, Arista sent his commands to the menials of his
camp, to bring forth his choicest plate, to bury his wines in ice, and to
light the fires, in order to prepare the Festival of victory, by the setting
of the sun.
It was four o'clock, when, with a cloudless sky above, and the chaparral
far and wide, thronged with Mexican legions, the battle began its bloody
career.
It was four o'clock, when Arista saw advancing from the opposite
thickets, a bluff old warrior, dressed in a brown coat, with a grey steed
beneath him. The sun shone clearly upon the old warrior as he came on,
and Arista knew that the hour was near.
Hark! The tramp as of a thousand warriors thundering through the
northern chaparral, and as you listen, it grows near and nearer—to the
right, to the left, and yonder in the front of the ravine, the bayonets come
dazzling into the sun.
There rides Captain Walker at the head of his Texian band, there
Ridgely glorious with the mantle of the fallen Ringgold, comes with his
cannon to battle, while in the front, those bayonets, bursting like lightning
from the bushes move rapidly toward the ravine.
Sixteen hundred men advance against nine thousand—it is a moment of
breathless suspense.
All at once, as hushing your breath, with fear of the tremendous results
of this fight, you watch tremblingly for its commencement, all at once,
the Third, Fourth and Fifth regiments rush on, their bayonets forming a
crescent of dazzling steel, above their heads.
They line the bank of the ravine, and in a moment the copper hail
rushes through their ranks, and the white cloud of battle shuts them in
From the northern bank of the Resaca de la Palma, from the southern
wall of the chaparral, pours the storm of the Mexican cannon, while Ridgely
is rushing to the encounter, and Duncan unlimbering his pieces, answers
roar with roar, and lights the field with his blaze.
From the verge of the ravine pours the steady fire of our musquetry
our men come crowding to the attack, they spring upon the Mexican
bayonets, they enter the bed of the Ravine, and the chaparral, which not
bursting suddenly from the waters of a waveless sea.
Through the folds of smoke, you may see Ridgely's men, their bronzed
forms bared to the waist, plying their deadly task. Around his battery
sweep the bayonets of the Fifth infantry, with the grey-haired M'Intosh
in their midst—yonder, on the edge of the ravine, Duncan, with his cannon
ready for the conflict, pauses in his fire, unable to distinguish friend
from foe, in the whirlpool of the fight, which swells and rages through the
deadly pass.
His grey eye blazing with the excitement of the battle, Zachary Taylor
sat quietly on his grey steed, with the cannon balls of the enemy tearing
the earth all around him, and felt the moment for a decisive blow had
come.
Amid the smoke and flame that rolled and blazed above the deadly
ravine, he clearly saw the whirlpool of the fight.
On to the front bank, pressed the American infantry, pouring the blaze
of musquetry into the faces of the Mexicans, and then, hurling their solid
force into the ravine, as one man, they charged them home. On either
side their bayonets were seen glittering above the battle clouds. From
the rear ridge the most formidable battery in the second line of the Mexican
array, swept the air with a shower of poisonous copper balls. Ridgely's
blaze made answer, and Duncan, arranging his pieces in battle order, sent
his cannon shout thundering through the darkening cloud.
Beneath this pall of smoke and flame, this canopy of whirling balls,
the American infantry hurling themselves into the ravine, drove back the
foe. Charging them with bayonets, cutting them down with their short
swords, they fought for every inch of ground, and fought everywhere, on
the earth that rocked with the cannon thunder, in the lagoons that blushed
with blood, beneath the banks, where the dying and the dead began to
swell in ghastly heaps. It was, indeed, a bloody contest. Here the veterans
of Mexico, recoiling one moment, only to roll back again in all the
terror of blaze and bayonet—there, the Americans advancing without a
shout, never heeding for a moment, their comrades, who with arms torn
off and heads unroofed, sank in mangled masses, at every step, but holding
on their way, every bayonet charging against the bayonet of an enemy,
every eye glaring steadily into the face of a foe.
Amid the scene, like wrecks on the waves of a stormy sea, tossed to
and fro, the tri-color of Mexico and the Banner of the Stars.
Still from the rear ridge, swept the concentrated fury of the Mexican
batteries, their flame and copper hail curtaining the troops below, as again
and again they rushed to the charge.
Taylor saw it all, and knew the moment for the blow had come—the
blow which was to decide the battle, and hurl the Mexican army back
into the Rio Grande.
You may see him bending over the neck of his steed, his battle-worn
face glowing redly in each flash, as his eye roves from point to point, and
at a glance, takes in the panorama of blood.
At this moment, he sent to the rear for an officer of the dragoons, and
awaited his appearance in undisguised suspense.
There was a day, when an old man with white hair, sat alone in the
small chamber of a National Mansion, his spare but muscular figure resting
on an arm chair, his hands clasped, and his deep blue eyes gazing
through the window upon the cloudless winter sky. The brow of the old
man, furrowed with wrinkles, his hair rising in straight masses, white as
the driven snow, his sunken cheeks traversed by marked lines, and thin
lips, fixedly compressed, all announced a long and stormy life. All the
marks of an Iron Will were written upon his face.
His name, I need not tell you, was Andrew Jackson, and he sat alone
in the White House.
A visitor entered without being announced, and stood before the President
in the form of a boy of nineteen, clad in a coarse round jacket and
trousers, and covered from head to foot with mud. As he stood before
the President, cap in hand, the dark hair falling in damp clusters about
his white forehead, the old man could not help surveying at a rapid glance,
the muscular beauty of his figure, the broad chest, the sinewy arms, the
head placed proudly on the firm shoulders.
“Your business?”—said the old man, in his short, abrupt way.
“There is a Lieutenancy vacant in the Dragoons. Will you give it
to me?”
And dashing back the dark hair which fell over his face, the Boy, as
if frightened at his boldness, bowed low before the President.
The old man could not restrain that smile. It wreathed his firm lip,
and shone from his clear eyes.
“You enter my chamber unannounced, covered from head to foot with
mud—you tell me, that a Lieutenancy is vacant, and ask me to give it to
you.—Who are you?”
“Charles May!”—The Boy did not bow this time, but with his right
hand on his hip, stood like a wild young Indian, erect, in the presence of
the President.
“What claims have you to a commission?”—again the Hero surveyed
him, and again he faintly smiled.
“Such as you see!” exclaimed the boy, as his dark eyes shone with
that dare-devil light, while his young form swelled in every muscle, as
with the conscious pride of his manly strength and beauty. “Would
you—” he bent forward, sweeping aside his curls once more, while a
smile began to break over his lips—“Would you like to see me ride?
My horse is at the door. You see, I came post haste for this commission.”
Silently the old man followed the Boy, and together they went forth
from the White House. It was a clear, cold winter's day; the wind
tossed the President's white hairs, and the leafless trees stood boldly out
against the deep blue sky. Before the portals of the White House, with
the rein thrown loosely on his neck, stood a magnificent horse, his dark
hide smoking with foam. He uttered a shrill neigh as his Boy-Master
sprang with a bound into the saddle, and in a flash was gone, skimming
like a swallow down the road, his mane and tail streaming in the breeze.
The old man looked after them, the Horse and his Rider, and knew not
which to admire most, the athletic beauty of the boy, or the tempestuous
vigor of the horse.
Thrice they threaded the avenues in front of the White House, and at
last stood panting before the President, the boy leaning over the neck of
his steed, as he coolly exclaimed—“Well—how do you like me?”
“Do you think you could kill an Indian?” the President said, taking
him by the hand, as he leapt from his horse.
“Aye—and eat him afterwards!” cried the boy, ringing out his fierce
laugh, as he read his fate in the old man's eyes.
“You had better come in and get your Commission;” and the Hero
of New Orleans led the way into the White House.
There came a night, when an old man—President no longer—sat in the
silent chamber of his Hermitage home, a picture of age, trembling on the
verge of Eternity. The light that stood upon his table, revealed his
shrunken form, resting against the pillows which cushioned his arm chair,
and the death-like pallour of his venerable face. In that face, with its
white hair and massive forehead, everything seemed already dead, except
the eyes. Their deep grey-blue shone with the fire of New Orleans, as
the old man, with his long white fingers, grasped a letter post-marked
“Washington.”
“They ask me to designate the man who shall lead our army, in case
the annexation of Texas brings on a war with Mexico—” his voice, deeptoned
and thrilling, even in that hour of decrepitude and decay, rung
through the silence of the chamber. “There is only one man who can
do it, and his name is Zachary Taylor.”
It was a dark hour, when this Boy and this General, both appointed at
the suggestion or by the voice of the Man of the Hermitage, met in the
battle of Resaca de la Palma.
By the blaze of cannon, and beneath the canopy of battle smoke, we
will behold the meeting.
“Captain May, you must take that battery!”
As the old man, uttered these words, he pointed far across the ravine
that battery, pouring from the darkness of the chaparral.
Before him, summoned by his command, from the rear, rose the form
of a splendid soldier, whose hair waving in long masses, swept his broad
shoulders, while his beard, fell over his muscular chest. Hair and beard
as dark as midnight, framed a determined face, surmounted by a small cap,
glittering with a single golden tassel. The young warrior, bestrode a
magnificent charger, broad in the chest, small in the head, delicate in each
slender limb, and with the nostrils quivering as though they shot forth,
jets of flame. That steed was black as death.
Without a word, the soldier turned to his men.
Eighty-four forms, with throats and breasts bare, eighty-our battle horses,
eighty-four sabres, that rose in the clutch of naked arms, and flashed
their lightning over eighty-four faces, knit in every feature with battle-fire.
“Men, follow!” shouted the young Commander, who had been created
a soldier by the hand of Jackson, as his tall form, rose in the stirrups, and
the battle breeze played with his long black hair.
There was no response in words, but you should have seen those horses
quiver beneath the spur, and spring and launch away! Down upon the
sod, with one terrible beat, came the sound of their hoofs, while through
the air, rose in glittering circles, those battle scimitars.
Four yards in front, rode May, himself and his horse, the object of a
thousand eyes, so certain was the death, that gloomed before him, proudly
in his warrior beauty, he backed that steed, his hair, floating beneath his
cap, in massy curls upon the wind.
He turns his head; his men see his face, knit in the lip, and woven in
the brow—they feel the fire of his eyes—they hear, not men forward!
but Men, follow; and away, like, like a huge battle engine, composed of
eighty-four men and horses, woven together by swords—away and on
they dash.
They near the ravine; old Taylor follows them, with hushed breath,
aye, clutching his sword hlit, he sees the golden tassel of May, gleaming
in the cannon flash.
They are on the verge of the ravine, May still in the front, his charger,
flinging the earth, from beneath him, with colossal leaps, when from
among the cannon, starts up, a half-clad figure, red with blood and begrimed
with powder.
It is Ridgely, who to day has sworn, to wear the Mantle of Ringgold,
and to wear it well! At once his eyes, catch the light now blazing in the
eyes of May, springing to the cannon, he shouts—
“One moment, my comrade! And I will draw their fire!”
The word is not passed from his lips, when his cannon speak out, to
the battery across the ravine. His flash, his smoke, have not gone, when
you see it dig the earth, beneath the hoofs of May's squadron.
“Men, follow!”—Do you see that face, gleaming with battle fire, that
scimiter, cutting its glittering circle in the air? Those men, can hold
their shouts no longer. Rending the air with cries—hark! The whole
army echo them—they strike their spurs, and worried into madness, their
horses whirl on, and thunder away, to the deadly ravine.
The old man, Taylor said after the battle, that he never felt his heart
beat, as it did then.
For it was a glorious sight to see, that young man, May, at the head
of his squadron, dashing across the ravine, four yards in advance of his
foremost man, while long and dark behind him, was stretched the solid
line of warriors and their steeds.
Through the windows of the clouds some gleams of sunlight fall—they
light the golden tassel on the cap, they glitter on the upraised sword, they
illumine the dark horse, and his rider, with their warm glow, they reveal
the battery, you see it, above the farther bank of the ravine, frowning
death from every muzzle.
Near and nearer, up and on! Never heed the Death before you, though
it is certain. Never mind the leap, though it is terrible. But up the
bank and over the cannon—hurrah! At this dread moment, just as his
horse rises for the charge, May turns and sees the sword of the brave
Inge on his right, turns again and reads his own soul written in the fire
of Sackett's eye.
To his Men once more he turns, his hair floating back behind him, he
points to the cannon, to the steep bank and the certain death, and as
though inviting them, one and all, to his Bridal Feast, he says—
“Come!”
They did come. It would have made your blood dance to see it. As
one man, they whirled up the bank, following May's sword as they would
a banner, and striking madly home as they heard—through the roar of
battle they heard it—that word of frenzy—“Come!”
As one mass of bared chests, leaping horses, and dazzling scimitars,
they charged upon the bank; the cannon's fire rushed into their faces—
Inge, even as his shout rang on the air, was laid a mangled thing beneath
his steed, his throat torn open by a cannon shot, Sackett was buried beneath
his horse, and seven dragoons fell at the battery's muzzles, their
blood and brains whirling into their comrades eyes.
Still May is yonder, above the cloud, his horse rioting over heaps of
dead, as with his sabre, circling round his flowing hair, he cuts his way
through the living wall, and says to his comrades—Come!
All around him, friend and foe, their swords locked together—yonder
the blaze of musquetry showering the iron hail upon his band—beneath
soldier riots on, for Taylor has said, Silence that battery, and he will do it.
The Mexicans are driven from their guns; their cannon are silenced,
and May's heroic band, scattering among the mazes of the chaparral, are
entangled in a wall of bayonets. Once more the combat deepens, and
dyes the sod in blood. Hedged in by that wall of steel, May gathers
eight of his men, and hews his way back toward the captured battery.
As his charger rears, his sword circles above his head, and sinks blow
after blow into the foemen's throats. To the left a shout is heard; the
Americans, led on by Graham and Pleasanton and Winship, have silenced
the battery there, while the whole fury of the Mexican army, seems concentrated
to crush May and his band.
As he went through their locked ranks, so he comes back. Everywhere
his men know him by his hair, waving in dark masses, his golden
tinselled cap, his sword,—they know it too, and wherever it falls, hear
the gurgling groan of mortal agony.
Back to the captured cannon he cuts his way, and on the brink of the
ravine beholds a sight that fires his blood.
A solitary Mexican stands there, reaching forth his arms, in all the
frenzy of a brave man's despair, he entreats his countrymen to turn, to
man the battery once more, and hurl its fury on the foe. They shrink
back appalled, before that dark horse, and its rider, May! The Mexican,
a gallant young man, whose handsome features can scarce be distinguished
on account of the blood which covers them, while his rent uniform bears
testimony to his deeds, in that day's carnage, clenches his hand, as he
flings his curse in the face of his flying countrymen, and then, lighted match
in hand, springs to the cannon.
A moment and its fire will scatter ten American soldiers into the dust.
Even as the brave Mexican bends near the cannon, the dark charger,
with one tremendous leap is there, and the sword of May is circling over
his head.
“Yield!” shouted the voice, which only a few moments ago, when
rushing to death, said—“Come!”
The Mexican beheld the gallant form before him, and handed Captain
May his sword.
“General La Vega is a prisoner!” he said, and stood with folded arms,
amid the corses of his mangled soldiers.
You may see May deliver his prisoner into the charge of the brave
Lieutenant Stephens, who—when Inge fell—dashed bravely on.
Then would you look for May once more, gaze through that wall of
bayonets, beneath that gloomy cloud, and behold him crashing into the
whirlpool of the fight, his long hair, his sweeping beard, and sword that
never for an instant stays its lightning career, making him look like the
embodied Demon of this battle day.
In the roar of the battle behold this picture. Where May dashed like
a thunderbolt from his side, General Taylor, in his familiar brown coat,
still remains. Near him, gazing on the battle with interest keen as his
own, the stout form, the stern visage of his brother soldier Twiggs. They
have followed with flashing eyes, the course of May, they have seen him
charge, and seen his men and horses hurled back in their blood, while
still he thundered on. At this moment, the brave La Vega is led into
the presence of Taylor, his arms folded over his breast, his eyes fixed
upon the ground
As the noble-hearted General expresses his sorrow, that the captive's
fate has fallen on one so brave, as, in obedience to the command of Twiggs,
the soldiers, arranged in battle order, salute the Prisoner with presented
arms, there comes rushing to the scene the form of May, mounted on his
well-known charger.
“General, you told me to silence that battery. I have done it!'
—He placed in the hands of Zachary Taylor, the sword of the brave
La Vega.
Again the contest thickens in the ravine, and once more the brave Mexicans
come swarming to the rescue. Around their batteries they gather
fighting in sullen silence about their voiceless guns, and through the white
smoke you behold gleaming into light the bayonets of the Fifth Regiment
Scarcely have they rushed with one impulse and one shout, upon the
batteries, when Colonel Belknap at the head of the Eighth, is seen moving
along the road—he comes, waving the Banner of the Stars in his hand
—a whispered word to the men about him, and up the bank, and into the
ranks of the Tampico veterans—hand to hand, foot to foot, eye blazing in
eye, they engage in the deadly conflict.
These men of Tampico are no cowards. They receive the Americans
with the bayonet, and fighting over their silenced guns, stab them one by
one, with the knife. A shout—a blaze! Colonel Belknap is down, the
staff of his standard broken by a ball; a cry of vengeance thunders through
the battle air.
Then occurs the most deadly contest of the day. Amid the clouds of
smoke, even where the battle whirlpool rages in its fiery vortex, you may
see the plume of Payne, who yesterday saw Ringgold die. There, the
golden tassel, the long hair and terrible scimitar of May, the white hairs
of M'Intosh, the bloody face of Chadbourne, rising for a moment, and
then sinking to shout the battle cry no more.
It is a terrible wall of bayonet and flame, which brightens and burns
from every nook of the chaparral, but the Americans are not to be turned
back in their steady course. Every Regiment is doing immortal deeds
for the Banner—the Third, the Fourth, the Fifth, the Eighth—they are all
there, in the ravine, among the bloody lakes and up the deadly bank.
Jourdan, you may see them in every part of the scene, their swords rising
as with one impulse, while their men follow them into the very jaws of
death. And suddenly a cloud rolls over the chaparral, and like a shroud
enfolds the scene of murder.
Hark! Shouts from the bosom of the cloud—hark! The deadly
clang of bayonet against bayonet, the death cry and the wild hurrah, mingle
in one fiendish chorus. Men are dying everywhere—you see their
ghastly faces in the waters of the lagoon, spouting blood into its bloody
pool, beneath the silent cannon, as their skulls crushed into the sod, you
hear their gurgling cry; amid the thickets of the chaparral, you count their
butchered corses.
Sixteen hundred men, you will remember, are doing battle with nine
thousand. Not on a level plain, as yesterday, but in the pass of a dark
ravine, amid the assassin-ambuscades of a tangled chaparral, through
lakelets knee deep, yes, breast high, every wave burdened with the bodies
of the dead!
In a whirlpool of carnage like this, it is difficult to forget the roar, the
smoke, the blaze, and gaze calmly upon the individual deeds of chivalry
and murder. Yet, dipping our pencil in the blood of human hearts, and
lighted in our task by the glare of battle, we will crouch here in the
chaparral, and try to paint them all.
Taylor is on his horse, too near the ravine, his face lights every instant
by the glare, the sod every moment, dashing against the flanks of the old
grey, as the cannon balls, plough the grass into furrows. The soldiers
beg the old man, not to peril his life, the officers surround him, and would
turn his steed aside, from the fury of the battle.
What is it the old man says?
“Look there!” with a quiet wave of his sword. And toward the right a
battalion of Americans, on the borders of the ravine, not two hundred
strong, are threatened by a solid mass of horse and foot, who come thundering
over the pass. Beautifully they rush to battle, their lances fluttering
with crimson flags, their sharp steel glittering in deadly lines. It is a
terrible sight, and the American battalion, quivers, it moves, not to the ravine,
but backward, with a tremulous impulse. For, a contest with such
an overwhelming force, cannot be called a fight; it is a Murder, a Massacre.
“Look there!” says the old man Zachary, and bounding from the encircling
officers, he spurs his grey steed forward, and in a moment,
plunges into the centre of the battalion's square.
“I am here, in the centre of your square!”
That old man, on his grey horse, with his form covered with a plain
brown coat, presents a sight, at once heroic and sublime. Around him
mass of Mexicans, horse and foot, at least one thousand strong.
“I am here in the centre of the square!” he says, and every foot is
rooted to the sod.
No other words are needed. Silently they receive the terror of the
Mexican charge. Bayonet to bayonet, the breast of man offered to the
war-horse chest, they receive them, as they come up the bank, without
one hurrah. But that fire, did you see that sudden flash, light up the
entire Mexican array? That smoke, did you see its pall, gather them in?
Now, they shout, now plunging down the bank, they charge the Mexicans
home, and precipitate the silent butchery of the bayonet, upon their
splendid array. Again that shout—the Mexicans quiver, every horse recoiling
on the horse behind him, every rank, falling back, on the next
line, until men and horses, whirl together, like a thousand waves, meeting
in one centre. Not a moment to recover themselves, not a pause for
thought—again that wild hurrah!
Old Zachary, left alone on the verge of the bank, laughs quietly to himself,
as he sees, beneath the curtain of clouds, that glorious sight—the
Mexican array, shattered in its centre, broken on each wing, give way and
scatter in mad disorder, along the battle ravine.
Paint for me, that picture, some Painter, whose heart glows into his
canvass, at the memory of heroic deeds—a bluff old warrior, mounted on
his old grey steed, bending forward, with extended hand, and brightening
eye, as gazing into the shadows of the ravine below, he sees two hundred
soldiers, burst like wounded tigers on a thousand, and at one charge level
their solid ranks into dust.
Beyond the ravine, the battle went on, in horrible fury.
A picture from its scenes of carnage!
Do you see that wall of darkening chaparral, with horses and men,
appearing at every interval, and lances shining from the thorns, as though
they grew there?
It lies beyond the ravine, beyond the silenced batteries. At the head
of the Fifth Regiment, a white-haired man, with his bared arm, grasping
a sharp sword, spurs the Roan war-horse, and plunges into the ravine.
He is the first of the band; beautiful and bright the bayonets of his
Regiment, sparkle through the shadows behind him. As he plunges, a
murderous fire rushes into his face—it shrieks away over the regiment—
but he is gone from the eyes of his men, gone through the chaparral, into
covert not ten yards square. The instant, he plunges into the shadow,
he feels his horse, the noble roan, quiver, and with a howl he goes down.
Springing from beneath his dead horse, the solitary warrior, darts to
his feet, and finds himself alone in the covert, and at a glance, beholds it
lined by foes with bayonet and lances, in their muscular arms.
It was worth ten year's life, to see how the solitary warrior met his
foes.
A tall old man, with firm, even severe features, his wrinkled cheeks,
whitened by his beard, his hair the color of snow, he set his lips firmly
together, and placing one foot on his dead horse, looked into their faces,
with a grey eye, that burned like a flame. His coat, had been torn from
his form, and his broad chest, with the shirt thrown open, heaved in long
deep respirations.
Even the Mexicans could not repress a yell of admiration! Alone,
in that covert, with not an arm to aid him, the grey-bearded warrior, stood,
with his foot on his dead horse, his bared arm grasping the sword that
flashed its light into twenty tawny faces.
As one man, they rushed upon him. It was a sickening sight. Here,
a lancer, bending over the neck of his horse, his lance in rest, and the
point levelled at the old man's heart; by his side, a soldier, with the
sharp bayonet, glittering near the throat of his victim; all around, a circle
of deadly knives, glittering in the clutch of bony arms.
The American warrior, merely said, between his clenched teeth—
“Come on!” and with his solitary sword, received their charge. For a
moment he beats them back, for a moment splintering this lance, and unfixing
that bayonet, he presses his dead steed with a firm foot, and maintains
his position against twenty men.
But then occurs a scene to make the curse quiver from the lips of a
saint!
They rush upon him, a cloud of lances, knives, bayonets. He is down,
upon his dead steed, battling still, against his crowding foes.
Do you see that grim figure, bending over him, as with one blow he
hurls his bayonet into the old man's throat? That piece of cold steel,
enters his mouth, and appears behind his ear!
Still, battling over his dead horse, the old warrior fights for his life. He
seizes the very musket, to which the bayonet is attached, and with his
sword, shortened like a dagger, plunges it upward, into the chest of his
foe. At the same moment, the blood gushes from his own mouth, and
from the mouth of the writhing Mexican.
Covered with the read stream, he rises once more, tears the bayonet
from his mouth, and shaking his bared arm, before his bloody face, says
to them all—
“Come on! Cowards as you are, you shall see how an old soldier
can die!”
A heroic picture! The battle flame beyond the covert, glares through
this wall of prickly pear, and flashes upon his white hairs and bloody
face, in bluish light. So tall, so firm, so erect upon his dead horse he
stands, while round him, as if spell-bound by the sight, darkens the circle
they would have spared him then!
Ask mercy from the tigress robbed of her young, or even from the
British soldier, drunk with ale and blood, but not from the Mexican Ranchero!
They hurled themselves upon him, their lances, bayonets and knives,
forming a woven circle of steel around his bloody face—for a moment he
battled against such formidable odds, and then upon his dead horse, he
fell once more. One bayonet pierced his thigh, another pinned to the
sod, his shattered arm. The blood from the wound on his throat, crimsoned
his white hairs, and trickled in ghastly patches over his chest. Now
look your last, upon that glimpse of God's beautiful sky, old man, and
feel the ties of Home about your heart once more, for there is Death, in
every blade, that flashes above your gory head.
For a moment, change the scene. Beyond the ravine, on the way to
Fort Brown, the narrow road, is broken by the waters of a lakelet or
lagoon. Look, yonder toward the north, and see the cannon of Duncan
come, with Ridgeley's glooming near, and the bayonets of Captain Smith's
infantry, the sword's of Captain Kerr's dragoons glittering on every
side.
Ridgely and Duncan—heroes of Palo Alto—come crashing over the
ravine, along the road, toward the lagoon. O, the wild excitement of the
moment, when each hero, looks upon his grim cannon, and feels that they
will speak, and speak thunder and lightning, ere you may count ten!
From the Fort Brown side of the lagoon, a deadly fire hurls its hail into
the faces of the advancing soldiers.
Duncan, his form quivering with the hope of battle, turns and looks for
an officer, who will support him with infantry, while he crashes over the
lagoon, and tells the Mexicans how much he loves them, from the throats
of his cannon.
Forth from the thicket, stalks with measured strides, a half-naked man,
his shirt thrown open on his bloody chest, his white hairs clotted with
crimson drops. For a moment he walks with that measured pace, but
then his step becomes unsteady, he stands erect, his lips compressed, as
he presses his hands to his throat.
Duncan is terrified, appalled at the sight. It is evident that the half-naked
man before him, is suffering intolerable torture.
“Colonel,” he shrieks, in a voice broken by emotion—“Can I be of
any service to you?”
As the old man unclosed his lips, the blood gushed forth—
“Water!” he gasped, and then as the memory of that horrible encounter
in the covert, crowded upon him, he exclaimed—“My Regiment?
Where is it?”
The sun of Resaca de la Palma shone on no braver man, than this veteran,
M'intosh.
For a while we leave the Battle.
We will speed through four miles of chaparral, and behold the river,
the city and the fort. It is now two o'clock, and the sunlight reveals the
devoted fortress. The cannonade from the city, from the battery yonder
in the woods, still pours its fury upon the brave three hundred. So, from
morning light, it has yelled its thunder, scattering its copper balls among
the heroic band, who have resolved to wait for Taylor, and never give up
the contest, while a pulse throbs.
From the shattered fort, still towers on high that staff, undulating with
its precious ensign—the Banner of the Stars.
Amid the hail of copper and iron, the soldiers gather in the centre of
the fort, around that bomb proof, formed by pieces of timber, supported
on barrels and roofed with earth. In all that crowd of half-clad men,
begrimed with the traces of one hundred and sixty hours incessant battle,
there is not one eye unwet with tears. Captain Hawkins, that brave
man who replied to Arista's summons to surrender, with the words—“I
do not understand Spanish!” is on his knees, gazing upon the last hour
of a dying man.
In the recess of the bomb-proof, where the hot atmosphere is almost
choked into pestilence, behold a veteran soldier stretched on his back, his
head supported by a knapsack, while the stump of his amputated leg,
tells the story of his lingering agony. That heroic face, seamed by
wrinkles is very calm. For the torture of pain has vanished at the coming
on of the Death sleep. He rolls his eyes with a softened glance, from
face to face, and tells them all how good a thing it is to die in a brave
cause. Even in a foreign land, under a hot sun, with cannon balls flinging
dust into your face.
Then, these men of iron, who since last Sabbath morn, have laughed
the fury of the enemy to scorn, and been merry with his rain of copper
and iron, turn their sunburnt faces away. Some of them look upon the
ground. Some brush their eyelids with their bony hands. One grim old
war dog, seated on the ground, his rough face with its blunt features, worn
by the perils of sixty years, clenches his huge fists, and sobs like a baby.
For the veteran Brown is dying and gliding so softly away, that not a
twitch of the muscles disturbs the mild serenity of his face, not a groan
heaves from his chest, to tell of the passing of his soul.
“Boys,” he said, slightly raising himself upon his bent arm, “Taylor
is coming.”
And he laid his head upon his arm, and closed his eyes, composing
himself for a peaceful sleep. Why does the breeze, warm with the fever
of battle, play with his grey hairs, and toss them about his brow? Can
veteran sleeps, is called—DEATH?
Two hours passed away, and the dead man lay on his rude death-bed,
when a soldier, gazing to the north, bent his head to one side—listened
for a moment—and rent the air with a shout. Two hundred throats at
once swelled that shout into thunder.
Boom—boom—boom!
They heard it; from the north it sent its voice, that cannon of Ridgely,
and to the tired soldier's ear, it seemed to say, “We come!”
Boom—boom—boom! Clang—clang—clang! Cannon and musquetry
speaking together, and saying to the Spartans of Fort Brown—“We
come!”
Then a silence like death, so terrible from the thunder which went
before it, a silence that lay upon the chaparral like a spell.
Hurrah! They are charging upon them now. Silence! Now cold
steel to cold steel, horse to horse, and man to man. Silence and suspense,
the silence so dread, the suspense so horrible. Long the soldiers listened,
quivering they gave to their ears every sound, when suddenly, from the
north, there came a noise like the trampling of nine thousand men,—not so
loud as cannon, nor so shrill as musquetry—but a subdued, half-hushed,
brooding murmur. It grew, it spread far and wide over the chaparral,
and it began to say, “Zachary Taylor Comes!”
To the Battlefield once more.
The tent of Arista rising proudly in the centre of this green space, with
the chaparral darkening around. Its gaudy curtains wave gaily in the
light, while on every side the banquet fires are blazing. The choice wines
stand buried in pails of ice, the goblets gleam along the festival table, set
in the deep shade behind the tent. But where are the menials charged
with the preparation of the feast?
Where are the glittering throng of cavaliers, who this morning went forth
to battle? Where the gloomy Ampudia, that terrible boiler of dead men's
heads, or Arista, the general-in-chief, hardened by the perils of battle and
tears of exile—where is he?
This magnificent tent, adorned with all the marks of luxury, standing
in the midst of the deserted chaparral, is your only answer.
Hark! From yonder thicket the clamor of battle, and a band of Americans
emerge from the prickly pear, and advance toward the silent tent.
While the roar of the fight yells on every side, you may note the appearance
of the leader of the band; a young man, whose well-proportioned
form, is clad in the blue and silver of the Fourth Infantry. His florid
face glows with enthusiasm, his eye sparkles with battle delight.
As he advances from the north, along this road, southward from the
tent, a solitary Lancer rides slowly along, examining with cool scrutiny,
unharmed. Again returns, and again rides laughingly away from their
fire. A third time he comes back, and whirling along like an avalanche
of horses, men and spears, comes the glittering lancer array.
As they come, the Americans pour their fire into their faces, and two
dying men bite the dust. Then every form seeks the covert, and the
lancers come dashing on. Only one man—it is their leader—stands unsheltered;
his manly chest a mark for each deadly lance. They come
charging on, a cloud of dust marks their career, their lances glittering
above it, a long and dazzling line. With a shout they charge: one man,
you see his uncovered brow glow in the sunlight, confronts their charge,
and takes its battle bolt upon his breast. Once you see his arm raised,
once he shouts, and then, falling on his face, is pinned by twenty lances
to the sod.
The lancers whirl like a cloud before the wind, away, and you see only
—the deserted tent, the dead man, and the darkening chaparral.
—So, on the field of Resaca de la Palma died the chivalric Cochrane
—while far away, by the waters of the Susquehanna, where its islands
are most beautiful, its mountains most sublime, his young Wife watched
for his return—with his face to the dust and his back to the sky, he yielded
up his breath, and in his blood they found him, the young hero of the
Land of Penn.
Look through yonder thicket, and see that face, distorted with all the
agonies of despair!
A warrior reins his horse alone in the shadows of the chaparral, near
Arista's tent. The white horse, the gorgeous battle array, the dark olive
cheek and the red mustache, all tell you his rank and his name. It is
Arista, listening to the carnage shouts of Resaca de la Palma. Leaning
his clasped hands on the pommel of his saddle, he bites his nether-lip
until the blood starts, and then dashes the cold dews from his brow.
It is not death he fears,—no, the sharpest steel or deadliest ball were
welcome now as bridal kiss to him—but it is the disgrace, the dishonor,
the loss of glory. The utter wreck and ruin of six thousand men, all
veterans and heroes, by sixteen hundred Americans, led on by a rough old
warrior, in a brown coat!
Around that solitary Chieftain roars the contest, near and nearer,
Duncan's cannon shouting to Ridgely's, and May's sabre clattering a wild
hurrah to Walker's sword. Bigger and blacker, the clouds came glooming
over the waste, every nook and path of the chaparral became the scene
of a bloody contest, and riding across the ravine, Zachary Taylor beheld
his army in full chase after the retreating Mexicans, the dust rising be
neath their feet, and the battle cloud rolling above their heads.
It was in this moment of his peril, that Arista hesitated, whether to advance
horse, upon the bayonets of the foe; but a hope, a wild, miserable hope
burned in his eyes once more, and he suffered the gallant steed to take his
own path, into the mazes of the chaparral.
But think not that the Mexicans fled without fighting. No! It is only
the part of a hired British libeller, to deny courage to a chivalric foe: let
no American be guilty of the baseness of such denial. The officers of the
General's staff were gone—some of them prisoners, some corses, some
fugitives—Ampudia, look for him yonder, his head thrown forward, his
eyes rolling with fear, as he digs his spurs into the flanks of his flying steed.
Yet still, there were Mexican men, common soldiers, who faced the foe,
in his sad hour, and wrote their courage on the sod, with the last convulsive
movement of their stiffening hands.
There was an old man, who came rushing from the chaparral into an
open space, some thirty yards square, hedged in on every side by that
wall of prickly pear.
His green uniform hanging about his broad chest in ribbands, his dark
beard and mustache silvered with the toil of sixty years, he tottered forward,
while from the thicket crashed some twenty dragoons, in hot pursuit,
every arm wielding its flashing scimiter.
Why pursue this old man, who, fainting from many wounds, still totters
on, tracking his course with his blood?
Around his right arm he bears the last memorial of the veteran band,
the Battalion of Tampico. It is their banner, embroidered by the hands
of beautiful women, and sanctified by the prayers of white-robed nuns.
He received it from the hands of a dying comrade, received it, as his warm
blood spouted over his face, and swore, never, while one throb of life remained,
to yield it into American hands.
Where is the Tampico battalion now, that went forth so steadily to the
fight, not two hours ago? Where are its bronzed faces, its iron forms?
Some are in the ravine, their cold faces washed by the bloody waters of
the lagoon, some in the chaparral, splintered into fragments, some have
flung away their arms, and rushed bare-chested upon the foe, in the frenzy
of despair.
The Battalion is dead. This old war-dog, tottering on, with its banner
wound about his arm, alone remains of all its proud array.
Planting his right foot firmly in the centre of the glade—all hope of
flight is vain—he elutches his short sword with a grasp like death, and
glares, like a maddened bull, in the faces of his pursuers.
These dragoons, brave fellows, who have done noble work in to-day's
fight, and who always doff their helmets when they see courage, even in
a foe, rein in their steeds with one impulse, at the sight.
One of their number dismounts, flings the rein on the horse's neck, and
sword in hand advances. You see his short yet robust form, manifesting
blunt face, with heavy features, short, stiff hair, and keen grey eyes,
announces the tenacious courage of a bull-dog.
“Look yer, stranger,” he exclaims—“You're faint with blood, and had
better yield—the old man's won the day, and there haint no further use
for that flag—”
His comrades, with their steeds recoiling on their haunches, and their
battle-worn faces bent forward, await the result of this scene, with deep
suspense.
But, look! The stout old veteran is dying; his eyes are half-closed;
he totters to and fro, still with the Tampico banner wound about his arm.
The American dragoon, touched with pity, springs forward to catch
him as he falls, and at the same moment, feels the short sword of the old
man driven to the hilt in his breast.
Then, with a wild yell, that veteran crashes into the thicket and is gone.
The dying dragoon breathes in gasps; he clutches the earth by handfuls,
and rolling slowly on his face stiffens into clay.
You should have seen the expression of horror which sank like a shadow,
upon every face. For a moment not a word was spoken. Only an
instant ago, that tottering old man, with his eye swimming as if by dissolution,
and that muscular dragoon, advancing with a look of rude pity, to
his aid. Now!
There was a dead man on the sod. The place of the veteran was
vacant: you hear him yonder, crashing through the thicket.
It is in vain to attempt the mazes of that barrier of thorns on horseback.
A moment's hurried consultation is held; a young dragoon springs from
his steed, and plunges into the chaparral. His comrades behold his tall
form, his swarthy face, with prominent features, shadowed by short curling
black hair, behold him for a moment only, and he is gone.
On, crashing through that wilderness of thorns, cutting his way with
his sword, or crawling on hands and knees, guided by the echo of the
old soldier's tread, he hurries, his heart palpitating with the fever of revenge.
Hark! He nears his foe—these footsteps sound heavy and sullen—the
old man is fainting from loss of blood—soon he will fall, and from
his dying clutch the victor will rend the Banner of the iron band.
At last they stand face to face. In a nook of the chaparral, where the
torrents, now dried up and vanished from the burnt soil, have formed a
deep gully, the young Dragoon beholds the old soldier, leaning against the
bank of clay, the banner wound firmly around his right arm, with the
hand still clutching the fatal short sword.
It is a sad and pitiable sight. So weak with his wounds, so near his
death hour, his head sinking on one shoulder, his bent knees, bending
beneath his massive frame, he glares into the face of the Dragoon, with
those glassy eyes fired with deadly hatred.
The Banner was given to him by dying hands, and he will keep it in
his death hour!
“Yield!” shouted the Dragoon, advancing with a firm tread, his sword
grasped by a vigorous arm, while his well-knit figure towered erect, and
the battle flush crimsoned his face from the chin to the curling dark hair.
The old man with a great effort raises himself, and with his sword
before his chest, his back against the bank, stands on his defence.
For a moment they regard one another silently, those glassy eyes, fading
into eternal darkness, glaring upon the fiery eyes of youth and vigor. The
Dragoon drops his sword—
“You murdered my comrade—aye, murdered him, as he sprang for'rad
to help you, but I cannot kill you. You'll die in a few minutes, and the
Banner will be mine!”
He silently contemplates his expiring foe.
But the old soldier—what means that long deep heaving of the bloody
chest? That convulsive movement of the arms? That swelling of the
veins in the throat? He is preparing all the strength within him, for a
desperate effort, yes, with a bound like a wounded panther, he darts upon
the young Dragoon, and pinions his throat with those iron fingers, with
the death-grip of a desperate man!
To force the American back on his knees, to crush the sinews of his
throat, until his eyes started from their sockets, to press his own knees
on his chest,—it was done like a flash. The American's stiffening fingers
dropped his sword—gurgling as in this death agony, a thick and
choking groan, he sank back on the sod. His eyes started from their
sockets. His face was discolored by streaks of blue and red; livid as
the visage of a poisoned man.
A moment longer, and that death grip will finish the career of the gallant
Dragoon. Glaring with his dilating eye, into the victim's face, he
growls a hoarse oath, tightens his clutch, and—
Did you see that form, leap into air, the face ghastly, the eyes rolling
in death, the chest heaving with a fiendish howl? It is a horrible spectacle!
He stands for a moment, rends the flag from his arm, gazes madly—almost
fondly—upon it, as it quivers in his grasp, and falls upon it,
with his face, crushing its folds into the grass.
He rests upon the flag; his face you cannot see, and yet on either side
of his head, you see a widening pool of blood, that clots the fine embroidering
of the Banner, and paints with crimson the words—Batallon
De Tampico.
The American Dragoon arose, with the livid mark upon his face, the
blood drops starting from his blood-shot eyes,and gazed with a look, wild
with terror upon the sight before him—The dead Veteran, and his bloody
Banner.
Zachary Taylor, spurring forward his favorite grey, beheld the fury of
the battle roll along the narrow road—the wall of the chaparral on either
side—swelling its waves of blood toward the Rio Grande.
“I will be at Fort Brown to night, if I live!”
And he was going there!
Would you behold his path?
Down the narrow road, hedged in by prickly pear, paved with corses,
roaring with thunder, blazing with the lightning of cannon. Gaze there,
and see the Mexicans go down at every shot, by ranks, by platoons, by
columns.
It is no battle, but a hunt, a Massacre! You have read of the Indians
firing a prairie, in a circle, and waiting patiently until the flame, roaring
toward the centre, hems the frightened deer, panthers and buffaloes into
a furnace of burning grass! Old Zachary has fired his prairie; the circle
grows narrower every moment; that circle formed by Ridgely's cannon,
by Duncan's battery, linked with the lines of Montgomery, grows narrower
every instant, and crushes and hurls and burns the Mexicans toward
the centre of death, the Rio Grande.
And now, Walker and May at the head of their deaths-men, wave their
swords and seek the game, as it issues from the flames. The heart grows
sick of the blood. The chaparral seems a great heart of carnage, palpitating
a death at every throb.
Volumes would not tell the horrors of that flight. Happy the poor
wretch who could creep into the chaparral, and bleed to death in darkness!
Woe to the wretch who pursued the road to Fort Brown! The
sword of May severed his throat, or the hail of Ridgely crushed him
down, on the cannon of Duncan, thundered over his mangled corse.
Still in the midst of the scene, old Zachary spurred his grey steed,
while the bullets riddled his brown coat, he pointed toward the Fort.
The setting sun, struggling with the black and red clouds that choked
his beams, spread over the chaparral, a pale and livid light.
Boom, boom, boom! At Fort Brown, that sound was heard, and
springing to the parapet, beside the flag staff, the soldiers beheld a strange,
a meaning sight.
From the chaparral,—while that terrible murmur grew louder in its
depths—burst a solitary horseman, dressed in the gorgeous costume of a
Mexican officer, his brow bared, and his extended hand waving a sword
in mad circles above his head. On, on, to the river, he rushed, his horse
bleeding all the while; on, and on, shouting in Spanish—“It is lost! The
Day to Mexico is lost!”
Hark! That cheer—how it went up from Fort Brown, and startled
Matamoras to its inmost home!
For the flying soldier was Ampudia, the murderer of Sentmanat; yes,
into the river he plunged his horse, looking back over his shoulder in mad
is lost!
In Fort Brown, every soldier held his breath. For look! From the
northern chaparral, where the cloud darkens up against the sun, a mass
of panic-stricken fugitives rush by hundreds and by thousands, filling the
air with the cry of their terror.
They come, scattering their arms by the way. They come, trampling
over those who fall fainting in their path. They come, the cavalry—
those gay lancers—riding down, without remorse, their own infantry;
they come, the chivalry of Mexico, transformed into a Mob, drunk with
terror and blood.
The whirlpool rushes to the river, as to the centre of its fury. By
two roads, it pours its frightened fugitives along; one above and one
below the fort, one leading to the upper and one to the lower ferry.
These roads are black and bloody, with the living and the dead.
Pouring in one steady stream, flinging their clothes upon the road, they
dash from the chaparral toward the river, man and horse, maddened by
the same fear. The wounded too, placed in sacks, borne by mules, rudely
tossed to and fro, wring the air with incessant cries.
Now cheer again, brave defenders of Fort Brown! Cheer once more,
and turn the blaze of the eighteen pounder toward the upper ferry. That
blaze carries twenty deaths with it; in the ranks of the fugitives, twenty
men, sink howling on the road.
By the shore behold this scene. A crowd of panic-stricken soldiers,
have seized the raft; with mad cries and shouts, they push it from the
shore, when like a whirlwind, a body of their own lancers rush upon
them, urging their horses through the waves, and planting their hoofs upon
the faces of their dismounted countrymen. For a moment, burdened with
human agony, a mass of faces and bodies, writhing beneath the trampling
horses, that raft quivers, rolls over the waves, agitated by its motion, and
then, like a rock from a heighth, goes crashing down.
As it sinks, you see that solitary Priest, standing amid the crowd, in the
centre of the raft, his uplifted hand, holding into light, the Cross of God.
For a moment, it glitters, and then the raft is gone, a horrible yell rushes
into heaven, and where a moment ago, was a mass of human faces, lancers'
flags and war-horse forms, now is only the boiling river, heaving with
the dying and the dead.
It was horrible to see them die, horrible to witness them clutching at
each other's throats, ere they sank below, horrible to behold the Women,
on the opposite bank, who tried to recognize a brother, or husband in that
whirlpool of waves and blood.
Four days afterward, those bodies, festering in corruption, floated blackened
and hideous, upon the waters of the Rio Grande. Upon the root of
a tree, which protruded from the river bank, left bare by the receding
Cross.
While the scenes of death, took place on the river, the eighteen pounder
in the Fort, was hushed, and the heroic three hundred, crowding to the
parapet, gazed in silence, upon that strange, wild panorama, which was
stretched before their eyes. Brown lay cold in death, but Hawkins, leaning
on his sword, his face manifesting strong emotion, looked to the north,
and looked to see old Taylor come.
Soon, from the chaparral, shone the American bayonets, flinging back
from their dazzling points the light of the setting sun, and then, from the
darkness of the thicket, a volume of blaze, a cloud of white smoke, rushing
forth together, told that Ridgely and Duncan were near.
Along the roads those bayonets extended, pressing the fugitives to
death, while through their intervals the cannons moved on, shouting their
thunder cry, as from the wood to the river, they mowed the Mexicans
into heaps of mangled flesh.
It was then, amid this hurrying scene of slaughter, when the river burdened
with corses, the town black on its roofs with affrighted thousands,
the separate roads strewed with dying and dead, the Fort crowded on its
ramparts with the Spartan band, glowed in all their strong contrasts with
the beams of the setting sun, it was then, as the American banner, which
had endured four thousand shots and still waved on, flung its belts of
scarlet and snow against the evening sky, that riding amid the battle
clouds toward the Fort, there came an old man, mounted on a grey steed,
his brown coat thrown back from his chest, and his bronzed face beaming
with a smile.
You should have heard the shout that went up from the Fort, as they
saw old Taylor come!
Nine days ago, with two thousand men, he left the Fort—the country
all around swarming with Mexicans by thousands—marched to the relief
of Point Isabel; and now, he comes back, having hewn his way through
the breasts and steel of two bloody battles; he comes back, his brows
wreathed in laurels, and behold the sungleam of victory light with one
glow, the river, the fortress and the corse of the veteran Brown.
Beside that corse, beneath the evening sky, he stood, while around,
their deep silence unbroken by a word, grouped the heroes of the Fort.
The body of the veteran bleeding from the shattered leg, even in death,
his upturned face moulded in a look of ineffable calmness, so that his
white lips seemed to say, You have come at last! The form of the warrior,
his body bent forward, his clasped hands resting on his sheathed
sword, as with downcast eyes, he surveyed that face, now cold in death
forever. Such was the picture; but what language can portray the emotions
which quivered in the warrior's breast at this still hour, as gazing
won, rushed like a torrent on his soul?
The scenes of his life passed like a vision before him.—The Child of
a Revolutionary lineage—his father fought beside Washington in the
Christmas Festival at Trenton—he stood once more, a mere boy of
Eighteen, in the presence of Jefferson, and received from his hands, his
Lieutenant's commission.
The scenes of deadly and bloody Indian wars—on the prairies of the
north and among the everglades of Florida—his long and laborious life,
long without fame, and laborious without glory, suddenly ripening into
fame and glory, on these fields of Palo Alto and Resaca de la Palma, before
whose light the brightest names of age would bow their laurelled
heads—all glided before him, like the historic panorama of some long past
age. Standing beside the corse of Brown, with the evidences of his
success around him, waving in the Banner above his head, and glaring
upon him from the cold face of the dead soldier, he still might scarce believe
himself, plain Zachary Taylor, at once the Victor and the Hero.
Chosen by Almighty God, in the strong maturity of his grey hairs, as
the Instrument of great events, called forth in his vigorous old age, to become
the hero of glorious battles, can we doubt that in this moment of
silent thought, Zachary Taylor recognized with awe, that awful hand
which beckoned him onward, through the cloud of the Future, and felt
himself the Child of Destiny, the Champion of a People, the Man of an
Age?
Felt that in his hand was placed for deeds of high responsibility, the
Sword of Washington, and saw it flash over the battle-fields of a redeemed
Continent!
O, Tricksters of Council and Cabinet, who, while you fill the nation
with your petty broils, and swindle adroitly into your own hands, the
Money of a People, still with pursed lips and expanded eyelids, talk with
righteous horror of `a Military Chieftain,' making that phrase portentous
as the bug-a-boo of an Idiot's dream, come here to the Rio Grande, in this
silent evening hour, and learn some wisdom from this heroic old man!
Does God rule the world? Does he sleep? Do men arise and fall,
do wars go on, and lands grow rich in peace, without His awful and direct
interposition? Deny this, and you stand before that God, guilty of a coldblooded,
practical atheism, compared to which, the Satanic sneer of Voltaire
is Love and Charity. Admit it, and you must answer another
question—
Why was Zachary Taylor permitted to remain in comparative obscurity,
for the space of thirty-eight years, and then elevated suddenly into
the Hero of Palo Alto, Resaca de la Palma, Monterey and Buena Vista?
Did Almighty God raise this man for nothing?
Did he raise this man merely for a uniformed show, a glittering pageant,
man's brown coat, and unpretending manner, and have your answer!
Or, did Almighty God, in the time of peril, when those gamblers in
fraud, those grey-beards in falsehood, termed politicians, have usurped
the control of the Nation, from the Ward House to the Capitol, and transformed
the Capitol itself into one immense gambling saloon, where the
honor of the country and the safety of the people are played away every
winter, by pot-house demagogues—in this time of peril, when the Power
of this great Union is centralized, not in a Royal Pageant, but in the tool
of a Convention, or the parasite of a Party—when the statesmanship of the
country has become so thoroughly rotten, that any act of perjury, any
abortion of infamy, is deemed a virtue, if mantled by the word—“politics”
—did the same God, who guided Washington on to Peace, through seven
years of blood, raise this man, Zachary Taylor, in his old age, to win
glorious battles in a far-distant clime, as much by his moral power as by
his bayonets, so that covered with the confidence of every honest man in
the land, he might come to the Capitol, and with one sturdy blow, split
the forehead of the Demon, Faction, and crush its worshippers into the
kennel which gave them birth?[9]
—Zachary Taylor is a Military Chieftain! Whose voice spoke there?
Some superannuated trickster of politics, who has grown grey in the shackels
of party, and without one noble deed to relieve the dotage of a
miserably spent life, snarls forth his envy, when a Man in reality, great,
crosses his little shadow.
A Military Chieftain? In what does he differ from Arista, Ampudia,
and all the mere Military Chieftains of Mexico? Why did he, with only
sixteen hundred, conquer nine thousand brave men, at Palo Alto and Resaca
de la Palma, headed by Chieftains like these? In a word, we have
the difference—in a word, the reason of his conquest—his chieftainship is
Mexican, even as he plunged into the battle's front, had no confidence in
his leaders. While he poured forth his blood, they were flying from the
field. What soldier could fight, with a consciousness like this, paralyzing
his arm? But the Americans fought directly under the eye of
Zachary—whatever might be their fate, he was there to share it—and
therefore, sixteen hundred men hurled nine thousand before them, while
in their centre, rode that plain man, in a brown coat, with his spy-glass
and old grey horse; his bronzed face lighted by his speaking battle eye,
shining its fire into every heart.
Never since the days of Washington, has a Commander so thoroughly
possessed the hearts of his men.
Let us close this Battle Picture of Resaca de la Palma, with four
sketches, delineating these respective characters, the Trickster-Statesman;
the Politician; the Military Chieftain, and the General of the People.
Let us fancy for a moment, that these scenes, take place, at the same
hour, on the same day, within a circle of two thousand miles:
It is the Senate Hall of a great nation, crowded with solemn men,
whose faces are seen, by the same light which glows upon the portrait
of Washington. Amid that crowd of renowned man, a Senator arises,
distinguished by his dark complexion, his brilliant eye, and deep, ringing
voice. He has been sent hither by the people of a state, to speak for
them, with that picture of Washington before his face. He fulfils his
high responsibility in these words:
“This is a cruel, black, horrible, murderous war. Those soldiers
whom we have sent to a foreign land, are assassins and robbers. Were
I a Mexican, as I am an American, I would say to them, have you no
graves in your own country, that you come here to die! Yes, I would
welcome them all, these robbers and assassins with bloody hands and a
hospitable grave.”
The Senator speaks his patriotic heart, in these words, and sitting
down, looks the portrait of Washington in the face.
This is a politician; but only a fancy sketch, you will remember.
Gaze yonder through the glittering circles of the Havanna theatre,
where a man of mature manhood, attired in a green and gold uniform,
with the traces of battle manifested in his amputated limb, sits smiling
quietly, his pale melancholy face and high forehead, the object of a thousand
eyes. That man is a Military Chieftain, who has carved his way
with sword, overturning the governments of his native land, at pleasure,
with his iron-faced soldiers, and playing in his tumultuous life, these
varied parts—President, Dictator, Exile. As he reclines in the crowded
theatre, pausing for a moment, ere he leaves the dance and song, for the
more intellectual amusement of the cock-pit, his native land is the scene
of bloody battles, his country's flag the object of accumulated dishonor.
And at the very moment, when rising in the Havanna theatre, he draws
a thousand eyes to his singularly impressive face, in the city of Washington,
by the lamp of a cabinet council, you behold a man of somewhat
portly form, his face dead-white in hue, his eyes clear azure, bending
over a table, in the act of writing an important paper. It is one of the
Rulers of the American People. The paper which he writes, it must be
confessed, is important in the last degree: for it is a Passport, which
worded as it may be, still bears but one meaning—it commands the Captains
of American ships-of-war, to permit Santa Anna to enter Vera Cruz,
or in other words, solicits the Military Chieftain to leave the Havanna
theatre, return to his native land, and fight old Zachary Taylor at Buena
Vista.
—And yet, the man in the city of Washington, with the dead white
face and porcelain blue eyes, is a Statesman.—You will remember, this
is still but a fancy picture.—
Or, should you wish to gaze upon another Statesman, not a military
of the highest order, gaze yonder, into the hallowed walls of Faneuil Hall,
and behold that muscularly formed man, tower above the heads of thousands,
the light shining upon his massive forehead, as with his thunder-tones,
he utters words like these:
“What shall we say of this unconstitutional war with Mexico? Where
will we find words to express our withering disapprobation of its measures
and its men? Yet hold—it is an American habit, not to count the horrors
of a war, the blood, the tears, the groans, the sighs,—but the Cost!”
With his thunder tones, in Faneuil Hall, he uttered this sentiment, and
spoke it boldly before the Portrait of John Hancock, and heard a thousand
voices answer him with deep hurrahs. He spoke it, in the birth-place of
the Revolution, where the Adamses had been, and in sight of the hill
where Warren fell, and did not feel that he was a blot upon that sacred
soil, a living scorn upon the dead, a Traitor for all his burning eyes and
snow-white hair. O, that stout John Adams could have started from his
grave, and heard the pedlar's throats of Faneuil Hall shriek like a Puritan
hallelujah, the word—“Cost!'
Yet this man is called a statesman, not military chieftain, ah, no! But
as the pious folks of Puritan land have it, a Godlike statesman.
—Still it is only a fancy picture. Remember that!—
And while the politician on the floor of the Senate, prepares for American
Soldiers, his bloody hands and hospitable grave, while Santa Anna
enjoys his game cocks in Havanna and the Statesman writes his passport
in Washington, while the Godlike Statesman in Faneuil Hall, proclaimed
to all the world, that it was an American habit, not to count the blood and
tears of a war, but the Cost—here, beside the Rio Grande, with the
evening star shining upon his bronzed face, behold the object of all their
schemes, that plain old man, in the brown coat, covered with the blood
and laurels of two victories, which all America had feared, would have
been but Massacres to himself and his little band, here beside the dead
body of his brother soldier, he stands, and murmurs—
`I SAID I WOULD REACH FORT BROWN IF I LIVED, AND I AM HERE!”
No one in the Senate dare give the Senator the lie.
The truly great men of the Nation, the Andrew Jackson's, and Henry Clay's have
never been, in the technical meaning of the phrase, party men. Their proudest
triumphs have been above all party. Jackson, a Democrat, when he would save the
Union, from Southern nullification, called to his and the Federal principle. Henry
Clay, a high protective tariff advocate, when he would restore peace to a convulsed
Nation, also held his country, dearer than his party, for he urged and carried a Compromise.
Both these men, have been repeatedly betrayed by Faction. When Jackson
commenced his war in the Infamy of Chartered Despotism, his party friends fell
away by thousands. The People sustained him. When Clay, by the force of his
Genius, had upheld his brilliant career as a statesman for forty years, the party which
claimed him, sacrificed him, without remorse, in a Harrisburg Convention.—His
fame, at this time, comes not from the leaders of a party, but from the honest sentiment
of a People.
The people who are divided into two parties, are one in feeling: alike Democratic
to the core. There is no real difference between honest men of either party. They
hold the same opinions, modified by locality. The difference between them, is precisely
such, as would exist between any two bands of honest men, who might be
arrayed against each other, by hypocrites and robbers. In the North, among both
parties, in 1844, the Tariff sentiment prevailed, as in the South, among both parties,
the Free Trade doctrine was a common opinion. This cannot be denied—And yet
the people, divided into these parties, were in North and South, arrayed against each
other, on the ground of “Principle.” Principle, by the last political dictionary,
meaneth loaves, and fishes and places. To hear these pot-house heroes, within their
tavern breaths, reel to the pools, shouting—“Principle!” is it not enough to make
the heart grow sick?
To make the matter plain, let us take the last cases of political honesty, as manifested
in two papers, published in a well-known city, one Democratic, one Whig;
holy names, which are prostituted, every day, at the head of their columns.
The so-called Democratic paper, admired the course of Taylor, applauded the moral
power, the giant intellect, displayed in his battles, in the fatherly care of his soldiers,
in his magnanimous treatment of the foe, and yet, solemnly, and with the
unctuous tears of office, in its eyes, doubted his—principles.
The Whig paper—gravely called so—edited by two or three political Jonahs, cast
up from the whales' bellies of as many factions, derided the war, and for the space of
one year, day after day, and columns after columns, called it a `black, bloody, infernal
butchery' in fact, preached that kind of treason, which would have hung the Editors,
in the days of a man called Washington, and left them on the gibbet, with the
label, Traitor on each brow—This paper, after twelve months of elaborate sympathy
with Santa Anna, came out, one fine morning, with the name of Taylor as its
Candidate for President!—The old man received the news of this nomination, just
after his battle of Buena Vista, and trampled it under foot, as Washington would
have trampled a nomination from the lips of Benedict Arnold.
Last winter, on the floor of the Senate, a grave Senator declared in his place,
that did the People know the rotteness of the government at Washington, the pestilence
of the corruption, which infected its every department—White House, Senate
and Representative Hall—they would assemble, in mass, and precipitate the `President,
Senate, Congressmen, heads of departments, all together, into the Potomac.'
| V.—RESACA DE LA PALMA. Legends of Mexico | |