 | VII.—BUENA VISTA. Legends of Mexico |  |
7. VII.—BUENA VISTA.
A mother, with her mild blue eyes shining with a joy too deep for
words, was gazing upon the face of her new-born child. Through the
curtained windows of her Virginian home, shone the clear calm light of
the setting sun. A mass of golden beams fell like a glory upon her downcast
head, and baptized with warm radiance, the face of her slumbering
babe, In that darkened room, crowded with antique furniture, the bedcurtains
crimsoned by the glow of the winter fire, you might distinguish
through the twilight gloom which filled the place, those two faces, one
eloquent with a Mother's love, the other calm as a cloudless sunset, and
fresh from the hands of God.
The name of that new-born babe, slumbering so like a dreaming Angel,
beneath its Mother's gaze, was George Washington.
The winter day, on which the Mother pressed her new-born child to
her bosom, was the Twenty-Second of February, 1732.
Time passed on, and that child's name became a holy word in the
hearts of millions; the day of his birth a holy day, celebrated with solemn
prayers, with glad hosannahs, in all the homes of a redeemed People.
But there came a day, when it was celebrated with offerings of blood.
When the cannon, crushing hundreds with its thunderbolt, sung the anthem
to its praise, and the white lips of dying men—dying afar from
country and home, in the depths of bloody ravines—gasped with the last
impulse of life, these holy words—The twenty-second of February—
Washington.
It was on the Twenty-Second of February, 1847, just one hundred and
fifteen years from the day when the Mother gazed upon her new-born
child, that the same sun which had baptized their faces with tender light,
shone over a far different scene.
It was sunset among the mountains of Mexico.
Wild and rugged mountains were those, which rose against the clear
winter sky, terrible ravines yawned in the light, dreary and inhospitable
wastes wearied the eye, with their desert loneliness. It looked—that
desolate view—like the Chaos of a former world.
Through these colossal steeps, hideous with piles of rock, tossed into
the sky in every fantastic variety of form, wound a narrow defile.
It was the road from Buena Vista—a hacienda, or mansion yonder on
those northern hills,—to Agua Nueva, some miles to the South.
To the left of this defile, the valley of cliffs is broken by ridges, stretching
away, peak on peak, until they walled in by the colossal mountain, in
the east. On the right of the defile, deep gullies yawn in the light, their
of the winter sun.
And on those ridges, stretching away toward the eastern mountain—
each ridge separated from the other, by a hideous ravine—and above those
gullies, breaking the valley, into every chaotic shape, to the right of the
defile, arrayed in battle order, you behold an army of four thousand
men.
Their arms glitter in the light, with the dark mountain waste all around
them. And between their regiments and companies, the ravines darken;
among their ranks, huge granite rocks arise; they are extended, at intervals
to the right and to the left of the defile, masses of men, horses, cannon
and steel, broken by columns of shadow.
In their midst—you see him yonder, on the ridge that towers directly
to the left of the defile—sits an old man on his grey steed, his right leg
carelessly crossed over the pommel of his saddle, while his plain brown
coat, and unpretending military cap, are distinctly revealed in the light of
the setting sun.
His bronzed face, warms with a deep glow, as his grey eyes traverse
that wilderness of Mountains to the south.
The foe is there; Waterloo never beheld, gathered in one view, a more
beautiful or terrible array.
As far as eye can see, the wilderness is one dense mass of men and
horses, with cannon glooming in the intervals of their firm ranks, and
steel blazing over their heads.
The setting sun lights up that quivering mass of steel, with a red glow.
You see it blazing everywhere. Yonder, up the mountain side, it shines,
circle of steel, piled on glittering circle, until that mass of rugged rock,
flames like an immense altar, lighted for some Demon Festival. From
the depths of the ravine, those glittering points, burst into the sunset, and
far down the valley of ridges and gullies, rank on rank, column on
column, regiment on regiment, that dense and formidable array seems to
grow larger, blacker, brighter, as it melts into twilight distance. Twenty
thousand men are there, upon the mountains, and in the ravines, arrayed
in battle order.
It looks like the army of a Persian despot, so gaily flutters its innumerable
red flags, from their flag-staffs of sharpened steel, so far, so wide
it grows into space, so triumphantly it looks down, upon the little army,
arrayed upon these northern ridges.
Yonder, on that solitary ridge, towering some hundred yards to the left
of the defile—one long wave of bayonets tossing tremulously beneath
him—behold the soul of this immense mass. In the centre of a circle,
formed by the gorgeous costumes of his officers, behold, mounted on a
dark charger, a man, whose breast, blazing with stars and orders, cannot
divert your eye, from the melancholy grandeur of his face. His head is
There is intellect in every line of his bold forehead; his mouth, wears
an expression of almost painful melancholy, his dark eye, shines with
deep and steady light.
As his olive cheek, glows in the sunset, while his eye roves over the
legions of his twenty thousand men, can you call to mind his past life?
By turns, President, Dictator, Exile, for twenty years and more, the great
impulse, of his country's destiny; now lording in a royal state, in his
Palace, reared upon the very spot, where stood, Montezuma's luxurious
home; now looking with tiger-like ferocity upon the corses of slaughtered
Alamo; again a miserable outcast, resorting to opium, for oblivion
of his defeat, by a few hundred Texan hunters—behold the Man of
Mexico, covered as he is with stars, and bearing the marks of battle, in
his maimed limb—Antonio Lopez Santa Anna.
But a few months ago, sitting in the Havanna theatre, he smiled carelessly
at the dance and song, and with his young wife by his side, did not
seem to think, that among the nations of the earth, there was a land,
called Mexico.
Now—upon these wintry mountains, some thousand feet above the
sea—with twenty thousand men, one irresistable mass of horse and foot,
he proudly surveys plain Zachary Taylor, and his four thousand volunteers.
What does it mean, this terrible, this sublime spectacle?
The same power which brought Santa Anna from his place of exile in
Havanna, stripped Zachary Taylor of his veterans after the three day's
fight of Monterey, and left him, to retreat or die.
Let us behold the array of the great old man.
Yonder, above the defile, frowns Captain Washington's battery.—
Washington? Yes, it is a glorious omen! On the 22nd of February,
the Name and the Blood of the Continental General, are here!—The
crests of the ridges on the left and to the rear, are occupied by one company
and three regiments. There you may see the First and Second
Regiments of Illinois, with their commanders, Harden and Bissel; a company
of Texans under Captain Connor; the Second Regiment of Kentucky,
headed by M'Kee. All volunteers, commanded by volunteers.
All citizen soldiers, summoned from their fire-sides, by the war-cry of
Zachary Taylor. And amid that crowd of gallant men you distinguish one
manly form, and chivalric face, shown distinctly in the level sunlight.
The blood of a great man throbs in that soldier's veins; his name is
Henry Clay.
On the extreme left, beneath the shadow of the mountain, behold the
mounted men of Arkansas, with their leader, Colonel Yell, and the cavalry
of men, horses and scimitars.
The reserve, you see it yonder, on the hills to the rear, a gallant band,
formed of the Indiana Brigade, under Brigadier Lane, its two regiments
commanded by Colonels Bowles and Lane—the Mississippi Riflemen,
with their leader Colonel Davis, all heroes of Monterey—May of Resaca
De La Palma, with his dragoons, side by side, and another squadron
under Captain Steen—the cannon of Bragg and Sherman completes the
array.
These men, with but few exceptions are untried soldiers. Yesterday
Zachary Taylor, retreated from Agua Nueva, (some few miles to the
south,) and on these hills, he has determined to meet the twenty thousand
men, and thirty two pieces of cannon, in battle.
At eleven o'clock there came from Santa Anna, a messenger of peace,
bearing a white flag. He found the old General quietly seated on his
grey steed, and placed in his hand the letter of Santa Anna. The Mexican
General announced that he was surrounded by twenty thousand men,
and summoned him to surrender.
The reply of Zachary Taylor, has already become battle scripture in
the pages of history. Its succinctness and brevity, are eminently refreshing:
Near Buena Vista, Feb. 22, 1847.
Sir—In reply to your note of this date, summoning me to surrender
my forces at discretion, I beg leave to say, that I decline acceding to your
request.
Your obedient Servant,
The day is now wearing toward its close, and a pillar of white smoke
suddenly towers upward, along yonder mountain. It is the Shroud of
Buena Vista, enfolding the first dead men of the battle. Beneath that
cloud, the men of Kentucky, Indiana and Arkansaw, are engaged: you
see their arms glitter on the mountain side; they hurl the Mexican light
troops before them, and the battery of Washington whirling from the
centre to the left, pours its thunder, upon the flying foe.
The battle has begun, but night closes in, and the voice of the fight, is
stilled until the rising of the sun.
The Americans slumber upon the field, without fires—although the air
is bitter cold, and slumber upon their arms. Through the midnight shadow
the mountains rise, girdling the slumbering heroes with their wall of rock,
mantling the glitter of their arms, with immense masses of shadow.
Zachary Taylor, is summoned to the north, from Buena Vista to Saltillo.
General Minon, with a formidable mass of cavalry, hangs round
that town, like a cloud, ready to burst upon it, with a hurricane of flame
and steel. The veteran Wool remains at Buena Vista, and the Mississippi
regiment, with the second squadron of dragoons, guard old Taylor
on his way. By his side, he beholds Colonel Davis, and Lieutenant Colonel
May, brilliant with the glory of Monterey and Resaca De La Palma.
When Zachary Taylor, came to the field of Buena Vista, on the morning
of the twenty-third; the scene, that awaited him, was stirring and sublime.
The day had dawned in cloudless beauty, the mountain tops, breaking
without a frown, into the serene sky. But now, Buena Vista, lay wrapt
in one dense mass of smoke, that hung from mountain to mountain, over
a space of three miles. The roofs of the Hacienda, from which the field
takes its name, were hidden in cloud and flame. Under the shadow of
that pall, Santa Anna hurled the terror of his force, upon the American
volunteers, and bathed the mountain sides, in fire.
From rank to rank, hurried the heroic Wool, his breast exposed to the
enemy's deadliest fire, his horse, seen glancing through the clouds of battle.
His tall athletic form, rose proudly in every part of the field, as with
his hawk eye, gleaming with battle light, he hurried his men to the charge.
When riding from Saltillo, old Taylor came to Buena Vista, and reined
his grey, on the ridge, near the defile, this was the sight which he saw:
Frowning upon the left flank, the Mexicans appeared in overwhelming
force, upon the mountain side, their bayonets and lances, shining away,
one dazzling flood of steel, until they were lost in the distance.
While that belt of glittering arms was seen, girdling the mountain's
base, they poured their hail of copper and iron from every ridge, and
wrapt the Americans in a sheet of flame. The carnage was horrible. One
brave captain—O'Brien—saw every man and horse, around his cannon,
crushed with the same fire, into dust. The second Indiana regiment,
broke their ranks, and fled towards the Hacienda.
In vain the gallant Lincoln, a brave descendant of the Revolutionary
hero, endeavors to stay their flight! In vain their own commander, Colonel
Bowles, with a small and faithful band, who defy the panic and the
foe, places himself in the path, waves the flag of their Regiment, beseeches
them to turn and meet the Mexicans with firm ranks and woven
steel!
Seized with one of those sudden panics, which render powerless, the
bravest armies, they retreat and do not pause in their flight, until the
Hacienda of Buena Vista breaks on their eyes.
Meanwhile the battery of Washington, threatened by a steady column,
advancing along the centre, did its work, upon their ranks, and scattered
their beautiful array, into the shadows of the ravines.
Colonel Bissell's men, the second Illinois regiment—you behold them
yonder upon the broad plateau, beneath the mountain—perform deeds
worthy of the days of old. While Sherman's battery, aids them in the
bloody task, they face that sea of flame and steel, rushing upon them,
from the mountain side—fight step by step, as they are driven backward
—wave their banner and rush to the certain death once more.
At this moment, in fact, the army of Santa Anna, have poured their
overwhelming force from the mountain side, turned the American flank,
and girdled our rear, with one dense mass of lance and bayonet.
The moment is critical, the danger imminent. Zachary Taylor feels
that the arm which shielded him, at Palo Alta, Rasaca De La Palma and
Monterey, will not fail him now.
At his word, Colonel Davis, with his Mississippians, hurries to the left,
and the deadly rifles of the west, mow down the advancing Mexicans by
hundreds. At his word, Captain Bragg, thunders away, confronts the
formidable horde, as it pours from the mountain side, and pours his grape,
into their closely-woven ranks. The second Kentucky Regiment, with
its commander Mc Kee, fought side by side with Hardin and his Illinois
volunteers. Amid the very thickest of the fight, the Second Henry Clay,
was seen, urging his countrymen forward, as he led the way, and rushed
into the Mexican battle, sword in hand.
As we gaze upon this fight of the mountain and ravine, we see the
Mississippi Regiment, completely encircled by the Mexicans, who only
pour onward, the faster, as their ranks are blocked with dead. The third
Indiana regiment, headed by Col. Lane, come rushing to its aid, and while
Sherman and Bragg, pour their blaze from the plateau, a glittering bolt
of battle, with young May, dashing in its van, separates from the American
army, and sweeps toward the mountain, where the Mexican lances,
flash like a shower of meteors.
In that battle bolt, you may distinguish the regular dragoons, Pike's Arkansaw
horse, and the cavalry of Kentucky and Arkansaw headed by
Marshall and Yell. The whole fire of the American army was now concentrated
upon the base of the mountain: the dead bodies of the Mexicans
began to bridge the smaller gullies, and flood them with a red torrent.
As the smoke, ascending pile on pile, from the ravine to the mountain,
rolled aside, old Taylor saw the work go steadily on, and saw the Banner
of the Stars, flash beautifully where the spears and bayonets, joined in
their deadliest conflict.
The battle whirls away toward the Hacienda of Buena Vista: you see
the smoke tossing above its roof: Santa Anna would possess the train of
the American army. But May comes gallantly to the rescue, and Reynold's
with two pieces of cannon, meet the lancers, as they come, and
hews them into dust, as they fly.
Yell, of Arkansas and Marshall of Kentucky are there, battling with
the Mexicans, horse to horse, and sword to sword. That firm column is
broken, one portion rushes by the Hacienda, toward the opposite mountain,
while the other retracing its steps, seeks to gain the mountain on our left.
As they receive the fire, pouring from every point of the field, near the
Hacienda, a brave soldier, creeps from beneath his dead horse, springs on
his feet, his lower jaw, torn away, by the blow of a murderous lance.
For a moment he stands gazing upon the divided array of the Mexicans,
and he then falls to rise no more. The gallant Yell had fought his last
battle.
Look, through the mists of the battle, and behold that band of Mexicans,
at least one thousand strong, crowded in the narrow gorge, which is
raked by the American cannon. In vain they attempt to fly; their ranks
become entangled; they are crushed into the bed of the ravine; a wild
and affrighted Mob, scatters through the pass; where a moment ago, was
but one glittering array of steel, now is only a dark and hideous Golgotha.
It was at this moment, that the old General, calmly surveying the fight,
—his brown coat, visible from every part or the field, a mark for the
musquets and cannon of the enemy—was surprised by the appearance of
another messenger from Santa Anna, bearing a White Flag.
“His Excellency General Santa Anna,” said the officer bowing—
“Desires to know, what General Taylor wants?”
“Wants?” echoed the veteran—“I want him to surrender!”
This was bold language from the leader of four thousand volunteers,
to the General of twenty thousand brave Mexicans.
Willing however, even amid that hour of havoc, to hear the propositions
of the Mexican Chief, he silenced the American fire. At his command,
the second General of the day, the brave Wool, rode toward the
Mexican line, seeking an interview with Santa Anna, but was greeted with
a treacherous fire. The White Flag, was but a trick of the Mexican, to
save the portion of his force, which had been divided near the Hacienda.
Amid the clouds which rolled to the right, young Crittenden of Kentucky,
a volunteer, for that day, near the person of Taylor, rode forward,
with a summons to the commander of that immense body of Mexican
cavalry, which had been cut off from the main body of the Mexican
army.
He summoned the commander of this force to surrender, in the name
of Taylor, and was led blind-folded, through ravine and gully, until a loud
flourish of drums and trumpets, announced that he was in the presence of
Santa Anna.
“Your mission?”
—“To demand the surrender of a portion of your force, separated by
our soldiers, from your army.”
“But Taylor”—said the Mexican Chief, in abrupt tones: his words
mean to do? Surrounded by twenty thousand men, he must surrender?”
Then it was, that this young Kentuckian, born of the land of Boone,
and Taylor and Clay, felt the blood rush to his cheek, as looking the
Mexican Dictator in the eye, he uttered the phrase, which has already,
been linked with the `Come and take me!' of ancient story:
But why need we picture, the course of those ten hours of Buena
Vista, in all their details of agony and glory? Where twenty thousand
men, advancing around the base of mountains, and dashing from ravines,
level their forest of steel, their volcano of flame, upon a band, only four
thousand strong, you may be sure, that the carnage is horrible.
But when we remember, the wild and broken nature of the ground, that
valley of ridges and chasms, three miles in extent, almost impracticable,
for artillery or cavalry, it becomes plain, that there was much of the silent
butchery of bayonet to lance, and sword to sword, and breast to breast.
To speak of all the heroes of the band of Buena Vista, as they deserve,
would fill a volume. Their conduct, forever frowns into oblivion,
the silly lie, uttered by silly men, that the Citizen Soldier, is not to be
depended upon in the hour of need. These brilliant names, were that
day, painted in blood, on the American Banner—Davis, Mc Kee, Clay,
Marshall, Hardin, Yell and Vaughan, Lincoln, Pike, Lane and Wool,
O'Brien and Bryan, Bissell and Sherman, Bragg and Reynolds, Steen and
Mc Cullough, Bowles and Gorman, Kilburn and Rucker, Monroe and
Morrison, Brent, Whiting and Couch; Thomas, French, Shover, Donaldson,
May, Washington, Taylor—all brave, some wounded, some killed,
some of the regular, others of the Volunteer force, but all glorious, as
were a thousand other heroes, with the halo of Buena Vista.
From the scenes of the bloody day, let us select but two, as memorable
examples of the stern daring of Taylor and his men.
Mounted on his grey steed with one leg crossed over the saddle, the
old Man beholds the Mexicans emerge from yonder ravine, their numbers,
marked by their lances and bayonets.
Near Zachery Taylor, glooms the battery of Captain Bragg; a cool
soldier, who never fires, until he sees the color of the enemys' faces. On
come the Mexicans—on, with their lances flashing, their war-horses, beating
the earth, with a sound like thunder, their entire array, closing in the
prospect, with one dazzling battle barricade.
Taylor's grey eye begins to look, as it looked at Palo Alto!
Then the battery speaks out, and you may read the faces of an hundred
dying men by its light. Do you see that glimpse of clear sky through
God together?
Taylor bends forward; he sees those columns quiver, but still the moment
is one of absording interest. That cannister, hurled from the muzzle
of Bragg's cannon is deadly—as they press on, with but a few yards between,
it crashes them down as though a bolt from heaven had blasted
their flags and lances into blood.
Still they come on; the old man can maintain his silence no longer;
leaning forward, with every vein in his bronzed face glowing and swelling
with the impulse of that terrible hour, he lays his hand on the shoulder
of the undaunted Captain—
“A little more grape, Captain Bragg!”
He says it in a whisper, but the Soldier hears him, and feels that voice
stir his blood like a trumpet peal. Turning away with a flushed forehead,
he obeys the mild request of his General, and as the Mexicans come up
to the muzzles once more, he speaks to them with grape!
When the smoke clears away, you see the edge of the ravine lined
with dead men, and the arms of the retreating Mexicans, glittering from
the shades below.
It was near the setting of the sun, when the Man of Palo Alto, Resaca
de la Palma, and Monterey, saw the clouds come down on the last charge
of Buena Vista, that a scene, worthy of the days of Washington, closed
the day in glory.
Do you behold that dark ravine, deep sunken between these precipitous
banks? Here no sunlight comes, for these walls of rock wrap the pass
in eternal twilight. Withered trees grow between the masses of granite,
and scattered stones make the bed of the ravine uncertain and difficult for
the tread.
Hark! That cry, that rush like a mountain torrent bursting its barriers,
and quick as the lightning flashes from darkness, the dismal ravine is
bathed in red battle light. From its northern extremity, a confused band
of Mexicans, an army in itself, come yelling along the pass, treading one
another down as they fly, their banners, spears, horses and men, tossed
together in inextricable confusion.
By thousands they rush into the shadows of the pass, their dark faces
reddened by the sheeted blaze of musquetry. The caverns of the ravine
sends back the roar of the panic, and the grey rocks are washed by their
blood.
But the little band who pursues this army? Who are they? You
may see in their firm heroic ranks, the volunteer costume of Illinois and
Kentucky. At their head, urging his men with shouts, rides the gallant
M'Kee, by his side young Henry Clay, that broad forehead, which reminds
ere it falls to kill. There too, a wild figure, red with his own blood and
the blood of Mexican foes, his uniform rent in tatters, his arm bared to the
shoulder, striking terrible blows with his good sword—Hardin of Illinois,
comes gallantly forward.
This small, but iron band, hurl the Mexicans from the heights into the
ravine, and follow up the chase, far down into the eternal twilight of that
mountain pass.
Look! As their musquetry streams its steady blaze, you would think
that one ceaseless sheet of lightning bathed these rocks in flame!
Over the Mexicans, man and horse, hurled back in mad disorder, the
Americans dash on their way, never heeding the overwhelming numbers
of their foes, never heeding the palpitating forms beneath their feet, with
bayonet, and rifle, and sword, they press steadily on, their well-known
banner streaming evermore overhead.
The howl of the dying war-horse—hark! Does it not chill your blood
to hear it? The bubbling cry of the wounded man, with the horse's
hoof upon his mouth, trampling his face into a hideous wreck—does it
not sicken your soul to hear it?
A hundred yards or more, into the pass the Americans have penetrated,
when suddenly a young Mexican, rushing back upon their ranks, seizes
the fallen flag of Anahuac, and dashes to his death!
To see him, young and beardless, a very boy, rush with his country's
flag, with his bared breast, upon that line of sharp steel—it was a sight to
stir cowards into manhood, and it shot into the Mexican hearts like an
electric flame.
Even in their panic-stricken disorder, they turned; by hundreds they
grasped their arms, and rolled in one long wave of lance and bayonet, upon
the foe. Woe to the brave men of Illinois and Kentucky now! Locked
in that deadly pass, a wall of infuriated Mexicans between them and that
wall of rocks—above their heads, through every aperture among the
cliffs, the blaze of musquets pouring a shower of bullets in their faces—
wherever they turned, the long and deadly lance poised at their throats—
it was a moment to think once of Home and die!
Those who survived that fearful moment, tell with shuddering triumph
of the deeds of the three heroes—M'Kee, Hardin and Clay.
M'Kee, you see him yonder, with his shattered sword dripping blood,
he endeavors to ward off the aim of those deadly lances, and fights on his
knees when he can stand no longer, and then the combatants close over
him and you see him no more.
Hardin, rose from a heap of slaughtered foes, his face streaming from
its hideous lance wounds, and waved a Mexican flag, in triumph, as his
life blood gushed in a torrent over his muscular form. That instant, the
full light of battle was upon his mangled face. Then, flinging the captured
of Buena Vista! My Wife!” It was his last word. Upon his bared
breast, the fury of ten lances rushed, and the horses' hoofs trampled him
into the heap of dead.
But most sad and yet most glorious of all, it was, to see the death of
the Second Henry Clay! You should have seen him, with his back
against yonder rock, his sword grasped firmly, as the consciousness that
he bore a name that must not die ingloriously, seemed to fill his every
vein, and dart a deadly fire from his eyes!
At that moment he looked like the old Man.
For his brow, high and retreating, with the blood-clotted hair waving
back from its outline, was swollen in every vein, as though his Soul shone
from it, ere she fled forever. Lips set, brows knit, hand firm—a circle
of his men fighting round him—he dashed into the Mexicans, until his
sword was wet, his arm weary with blood.
At last, with his thigh splintered by a ball, he gathered his proud form
to its full height, and fell. His face, ashy with intense agony, he bade
his comrades to leave him there to die. That ravine, should be the bed
of his glory.
But gathering round him, a guard of breasts and steel—while two of
their number bore him tenderly along—those men of Kentucky fought
round their fallen hero, and as retreating step by step, they launched their
swords and bayonets into the faces of the foe, they said with every blow—
“Henry Clay!”
It was wonderful to see how that name nerved their arms, and called
a smile to the face of the dying hero. How it would have made the heart
of the old man of Ashland throb, to have heard his name, yelling as a battle
cry, down the shadows of that lonely pass!
Along the ravine, and up this narrow path! The Hero bleeds as they
bear him on, and tracks the way with his blood. Faster and thicker the
Mexicans swarm—they see the circle around the fallen man, even see his
pale face, uplifted, as a smile crosses it fading lineaments, and like a pack
of wolves scenting the frozen traveller at dead of night, they come howling
up the rocks, and charge the devoted band with one dense mass of
bayonets.
Up and on! The light shines yonder, on the topmost rocks of the
ravine.—It is the light of the setting sun. Old Taylor's eye is upon that
rock, and there we will fight our way, and die in the old man's sight!
It was a murderous way, that path up the steep bank of the ravine!
Littered with dead, slippery with blood, it grew blacker every moment
with swarming Mexicans, and the defenders of the wounded hero, fell one
by one, into the chasms yawning all around.
At last they reach the light, the swords and bayonets glitter in sight of
rock.
Then it was, that gathering up his dying frame—armed with supernatural
vigor—young Clay started from the arms of his supporters, and stood
with outstretched hands, in the light of the setting sun. It was a glorious
sight which he saw there, amid the rolling battle clouds; Santa Anna's
formidable array hurled back into ravine and gorge, by Taylor's little
band! But a more glorious thing it was to see, that dying man, standing
for the last time, in the light of that sun, which never shall rise for him
again!
“Leave me!” he shrieked, as he fell back on the sod—“I must die
and I will die here! Peril your lives no longer for me! Go! There
is work for you yonder!”
The Mexicans crowding on, hungry for slaughter, left no time for
thought. Even as he spoke, their bayonets, glistening by hundreds, were
levelled at the throats of the devoted band. By the mere force of their
overwhelming numbers, they crushed them back from the side of the
dying Clay.
One, only lingered; a brave man, who had known the chivalric Soldier,
and loved him long; he stood there, and covered as he was with
blood, heard these last words:
“Tell my Father how I died, and give him these pistols!”
Lifting his ashy face, into light, he turned his eyes, upon his comrades
face—placed the pistols in his hand—and fell back to his death.
That Comrade, with the pistols in his grasp, fought his way alone to
the topmost rock of the path, and only once looked back. He saw, a
quivering form, canopied by bayonets—he saw those outstretched hands
grappling with points of steel—he saw a pale face lifted once, in the light,
and then darkness, rushed upon the life of the young Henry Clay.
Placing his hands behind his back, with his head on his breast, a tall
old man, strode thoughtfully along the carpet, of his chamber. It was
near the evening hour, and the blush of summer, was upon those woods
and hills, which you may see through the uncurtained window.
Were you to meet this old man among ten thousand you would know
him when you saw him again, and did you once behold that wide mouth,
wreathe in a smile, that grey eye, fire with soul, that brow, high and relenting,
glow with his heart, you would be very sure to love him.
But the voice, that rings from those lips, and swells from that chest—
you should hear it, melt in pity, or hiss in scorn, or thunder forth the
frenzy of a great soul!
Plainly clad in a dark dress, his face covered with the large wrinkles
of seventy years, this old man, is thinking over his life. From a log hut
into a Senate, from the arms of a widowed mother, into the love of a nation—an
Genius.
But he is old now. Those grey hairs, tell of the coming on of the fast
crowding years. The things of political strife, who loved the old man,
as a miser loves a diamond, not on account of its pure and beautiful light,
but from the great query—how much will it bring?—seem to have forgotten
him. They have left him, to the Hearts of the People.
He paces the floor, and thinks of the days he has seen. Born in the
Revolution, he grew up among its memories and saw the greatest among
its great men.
Where are they now? Where the comrades of his earlier days?
Where the compeers of his manhood? Where the most gallant of all
his foes, whose soul, was warmed with fire, like that which gave his own
heart its energy, its love and its fate, where the Man of New Orleans and
the Hermitage?
There is grass above his grave.
Like the last column, standing erect, in a desert of ruins, the old man is
left alone.
You may take my word for it, that his thoughts at this still hour, are
strangled and contrasted in their hues, as the Ghosts of the Past, come
crowding up to him, their faces looking sadly out from the shrouds of
Memory.
The door is opened—a man appears, whose scarred face, and battle-worn
figure, speak of the land of Mexico. You gaze upon the old man,
as he motions the Stranger to a seat. He reads in that face, the volume
of a sad yet heroic history. The Stranger does not move, but stands in
the sunset glow, his nether lip, quivering faintly.
Advancing he endeavors to speak, but there is a spell on his tongue.
He can only place in the old man's hands a pair of pistols.
“Buena Vista!” he said, and turned away—unwilling to witness the
tears and agony of the Father.
When he looked again—the twilight shadow was gathering fast—the
old man, stood near the window gazing silently upon those eloquent memorials
of Henry Clay, his Son.
We left the young hero, on his couch of stone, with twenty bayonets
in his breast. That ravine, far down into the shadows, was lined with
Mexicans, who came swarming towards, the topmost rock, glittering in
the sunset glow. From every nook and cavern, they poured, like jackals
to a warrior's corse, and—their overwhelming numbers, lighting the dark
pass, with an endless blaze of steel—they advanced, to the topmost rock,
and displayed in battle order, along the summit of the ridge.
But the battery yonder, stationed on a higher ridge—what does it
mean? Washington and his sturdy cannoniers, are there! On the
with the volunteers of Indiana, with the cannon of Bragg, frowning
through the intervals of their solid ranks.
The sun, was setting, and that firm array on the plateau, looked beautiful,
as it stood prepared, to receive the last onset of the Mexican horde.
Not a shout disturbed the silence, on the American side.
The Mexicans—you behold them by thousands, horse and foot, along
the summit of this ridge—their banners, spears and bayonets, forming
one glittering pageant, as far as eye can see.
Look on them well, in this moment of their glory, for a smoke rolls
over the plateau, and the hurricane of death, is on its way!
When the smoke rolls up the Mouutain side, you see the ridge heaped
with dead, while far down the ravine, rushes the wreck of that formidable
force, retreating from the last charge of Buena Vista.
Night on Buena Vista!
It was a sad, an awful night. The stars shone serenely on the mountain
top, while all beneath was dim and dark. Through the gloom, at
irregular intervals broke the glare of torch-light, only making the darkness
more sad and dismal.
The Americans slept on their arms, without fire. The night was bitter
cold; the moans of the dying, joined in chorus, from the depths of the
ravines; and the living moved silently along, endeavoring to recognise,
their own dead by the light of the stars.
From afar, the camp fires of Santa Anna's army, were seen, ever and
again, as the battle vapor rolled aside. The Americans slept well, on
their tired arms, but in the passes of the defile, upon the ridges and over
the plateau, there were those who slumbered not.
The women of Mexico, soothing the agonies of the dying strangers!
Their garments, fluttered through the darkness, as they went to and fro,
staunching the blood, placing to the feverish lip, the cup of water, bending
beside the dying in prayer. Prayer in a strange tongue, prayer on a
strange battle field, in a strange land—how it went to the hearts of the
American soldiers, and made them remember the Homes, they should
never see again!
There were others who slumbered not, but watched in anxious expectation,
for the moment, when the conflict would begin again.
Amid the band of watchers, on the summit of yonder ridge, stands the
old man, Zachary Taylor, his form dimly revealed in the light of the
stars. Beside him his favorite grey; before him, the darkened field,
yawning with chasms, he stands with uncovered head, his grey eyes uplifted
to the sky. The morrow? What new danger will it bring, what
new conflict in those hideous gorges of Buena Vista? Through the live-long
night the old warrior prepared for the worst.
The morning came at last, and looking to the south, far through the
mountain pass, Zachary Taylor, beheld the retreating banners of Santa
Anna.
Then it was, that sitting down amid the dead of that heroic fight, the
old man penned his immortal despatch, and sent word to the Capitol,
that with his four thousand untried volunteers, he had beaten Santa Anna
and twenty thousand men, in the chasms of Buena Vista.
That word rang through the American Union, like a voice from the
grave of Washington, and thundering along the Gulf of Mexico, it nerved
the arms of the brave men, who besieged the Castle of San Juan De
Ulloa, and found its glorious consumation in the fall of Vera Cruz and
route of Cerro Gordo.
| VII.—BUENA VISTA. Legends of Mexico | |