 | IV.—PALO ALTO. Legends of Mexico |  |
4. IV.—PALO ALTO.
An old man, dressed in a brown coat, and mounted on a grey horse,
was riding through the chaparral, as the noonday sun shone over the wilderness
of prickly pear, darkening on either side, while far behind, in all
the windings of the narrow path, two thousand swords and bayonets, rose
dazzling into light.
Look yonder, and behold Zachary Taylor and his Men, on their march
to the field of Palo Alto!
A broad brimmed hat of grey felt, shaded his ample brow. There was
no sword by his side, but he carried a spy glass in his right hand. The
old grey steed which bore him onward, was none of your fiery chargers,
shooting jets of flame from the quivering nostril and the dilating eye.
An ancient and favorite horse, dear to the warrior's heart, for he had
borne him, through many a bloody fight, through the everglades and
hammocks of Florida.
The head of the old man is slightly drooped, one hand placed within
the folds of his vest, while the other grasps the spy glass. As he rides
leisurely onward, you might take him for some substantial Pennsylvanian
Farmer, mounted on a favorite nag, but gaze beneath the shadow of
his broad-brimmed hat, and you behold a Hero's soul, stamped upon his
face. A bronzed face, with the under lip slightly projecting, as the upper
is pressed against the teeth, the brows drawn downward, the eye dilating
until it seems to burn!
The old man is thinking of Fort Brown, and of the few miles that intervene
between him and the brave three hundred; terrible miles, swarming
with six thousand Mexicans.
As he rides leisurely there,—alone, with his own thoughts—you see,
gleaming far ahead, the arms of the advance ground. Some few paces
behind, the staff officers, come riding in their chivalric array. Far in the
distance, winding with every turn and sweep of the road, the brave thousand
soldiers, with sword and bayonet blazing over their heads, come
flashing on. There, you behold the cannon, flashing back the sunlight
from each brazen tube, there the bold war-horses, moving on with a monotonous
tramp, and in the rear, the train of two hundred waggons formed
in a solid square, announce that the hour of battle is near.
And near that train we behold a sight, which for a moment winds us from
the glitter of arms—merely, a poor woman toiling painfully along, with
a babe in her arms. Her husband is in the ranks; she knows there will
be a battle soon, and as she comes along, with the hot sun pouring on her
face, her tears fall slowly, and trickle down the face of her sleeping
babe.
It is a sight of absorbing interest that we behold. Two thousand men,
of the prairie only maddens, and yet panting onward to the conflict with
six thousand foes.
The blood which flowed in the Revolution, is about to flow in battle
again, for there waves the plume of Ringgold, the descendant of John
Cadwallader; here you behold the stern, heroic face of Twiggs, the Son
of the Hero of Georgia; and in that young man, Chadbourne, with the
soldierly bearing, and eagle eye, you recognise the grand-son of Revolutionary
Lincoln.
The chivalry of the army glows before you, from the bearded face of
May, and you behold the backwoodsman of the olden time, created in the
sinewing form of Captain Walker. And palpitating with the hunger of
battle, the brave two thousand thunder through the defile, their martial
array,—relieved on either side by the chaparral—resembling an immense
serpent, as it winds brilliantly along.
Meanwhile the old man Taylor, mounted on his grey steed, rides alone,
the shadows growing deeper over his anxious face.
Hark! A murmur quivers like an electric shock along the line, as a
solitary horseman, separating from the advance guard, thunders along, to
the side of Taylor.
“General, the Mexicans await us, in order of battle, on the prairie of
Palo Alto!”
You should have seen the old man's eye flash!
“We must reach Fort Brown!” he said, in a composed tone, as the
rumor of battle quivered along the line.
Then came the moment of feverish interest.
Emerging in two narrow columns from the chaparral, our brave army
beheld, extending before them, the level prairie, three miles in extent,
bounded on all sides by the prickly pear of the desert, over whose impenetrable
wall rose the wiry timber, which gave its name to the immortal
field, Palo Alto.
It was a glorious place for a battle field. No hillocks to obstruct the
view, no ravines for ambuscade, no massive trees, to conceal the tube of
the deadly rifles, smooth as a floor, green with the rank prairie grass, in
some places, blooming in others with flowers of delicately contrasted
beauty, it seemed the very place for a battle, the convenient and appropriate
theatre for a scene of wholesale murder.
Indeed, the bronzed warrior, Zachary, in pursuing along the road some
days ago, pointed with his sheathed sword, to the prairie and exclaimed
quietly—“Not a finer place in the world for a good fight!”
Behold the battle field at the moment, when the Americans emerge
upon its level plain. Stand here, in the chaparral, our faces to the east
and gaze with hushed breath upon the scene.
A wide plain, here rank with grass, there perfumed with flowers, the
fresh water, that break upon your eye, like mirrors of silver framed in
emerald.
How beautifully the lakelets flings back the smile of the cloudless sky!
In ten minutes they will throw back sullenly, the reflection of a bloody
and darkening heaven.
Yonder, in the centre of the prairie, from the tall rank grass, gleams a
dazzling line, a mile and a half in length, a line composed of swords,
lances, bayonets, and marking by its extent, the firm position and battle
resolve of six thousand Mexicans.
They stand there in imposing array, the sunlight quivering tremblingly
on the points of lance and bayonet, the cannon glooming death from every
dark muzzle. Behind their ranks the prairie extends, then the chaparral
and the wiry timber of Palo Alto.
In this moment of breathless silence, do you hear distinctly the low
murmur of the half-dried rivulet?
It is upon this array of six thousand veteran troops, that the two thousand
Americans gaze, as they emerge into the plain. Zachary Taylor—
you see him yonder, the bronzed-faced warrior in the brown coat, mounted
on the old gray horse—gazes with a brightening eye on the array. It
must be confessed that the details are very beautiful.
Far on the right, advanced some distance in front of the Mexican line,
a regiment of lancers, in brilliant uniforms, mounted on strong-limbed
battle steeds, awaited in gorgeous array, the signal word of fight. Above
their heads, glittering against the sky, a forest of lancers, with a red flag,
waving from each deadly point of steel.
The artillery next enchains your eye; then the infantry, an iron mass,
composed of muscular forms, musquets and bayonets, all linked in one;
then the cavalry again, and so on, through the whole extent of that brave
army, alternate bodies of cavalry, infantry, artillery, or in other words,
first, men, horses, lances and swords; then men and cannon, then men
with fire and steel, girded to their hearts.
Yonder in the rear of the centre of the line, with his uniform burdened
with ornaments, you see Arista, his white teeth, gleaming below his mustache,
as with a smile, he sees rough Taylor come. Around him, glitters
a brilliant staff, and in front, the tri-color of Mexico rushes into the sky.
Taylor beholds it all. “It is certainly, my object to reach Fort Brown,”
he says in his quiet way, “And therefore, the sooner we get about it, the
better.”
The word of command passes his lips. Look! The army break into
companies, they stack their arms, and calmly marching to the brink of
those small lakes, assuage their burning thirst, with copious draughts of
fresh water.—Drink brave men, and fill your canteens with the clear
liquid, for ere ten minutes are gone, that water, will be red with blood!
As we gaze, they march from the lakes into the prairie once more;
refreshed by hearty draughts, they spring to their arms, with elastic steps
and blazing eyes, while one thunder shout, swells into the sky, as bared
to the light, the Banner of the Stars, streams over the field of Palo Alto.
That Banner speaks to two thousand hearts, and speaks of far-off
friends—of Home—of Glory—of Washington. Again that deafening
cheer, and more rapidly goes on, the determined preparation for
battle.[3]
At last the battle is formed: history never recorded a more beautiful
array.
The American line, presents three striking points; Ringgold's artillery
on the right; Churchill's two eighteen pounders in the centre;
Duncan's artillery on the extreme left—Three silent volcanoes with the
lava of death, boiling in their breasts!
Around these three points, shone the glittering array of bayonets. Each
cannon was relieved by the steady mass of infantry. It was to be, so
old Taylor said, a fight with cannon, a deadly combat of whirling horses,
brass and iron, of blazing muzzles and hissing balls; the infantry and
cavalry, had scarce a duty to perform, save to stand still, defend the cannon,
see the battle, and feel the madness of the fight blazing in their
veins.
At last the word was given to advance!
At Two O'clock, the very hour, when Washington, under as clear a
sky, came to do battle at Brandywine, did Zachary Taylor, give the word
and see his army slowly, steadily advance, over the prairie of Palo Alto.
Any man who has seen a battle, knows that the shout of carnage, is
not half so terrible, as the awful silence before the first fire. Then, as a
man hears the beating of his heart, and when the crushed grass, beneath
his feet, seems to echo his tread with a sound like thunder—so brooding,
so intense is the calm before the storm—the Soldier sees Eternity yawning
beneath him, over which he hangs suspended by a single hair.
Slowly, steadily over the prairie, men and horses and steel and banners
moved on. More clearly they began to distinguish the Mexican
banner, to see the hues of their uniforms, to note their cannon-muzzles
yawning Death into their faces. The suspense was horrible—many a
hand clammy with cold dews.
At this moment, behold a deep worthy of the age of chivalry!
A single horseman, separates from the American army, and like a
thunderbolt from a cloud, whirls away, over the plain. Both armies mark
the athletic beauty of his form, his horse with arching neck and distended
nostrils, his white plume, waving over a young face, remarkable for its
expression of cool courage. He dashes over the plain—the Americans
hold their breath, in suspense, the Mexicans in wonder.
Is he mad? Rising in the stirrups, in view of thousands, he approaches
within one hundred and fifty yards of the Mexicans, calmly
dismounts, flings his arm on his horse's neck, and taking from his pocket
a spy glass, calmly surveys their terrible array.
Dotting the sod, between the two armies, that solitary soldier and his
horse, form an object of interest for eight thousand men.
He can count their lances, their swords—tell the number of cannon
which they display—and as if astonished by the calm composure of the
audacious soldier, the Mexicans do not fire. One levelled musquet, and
he is dead! Presently you see, two Mexicans in their gaudy costume,
dash from the army and approach him.
The young soldier sees them come, waits until he has completed his
`reconnoisance', mounts his steed and rides—not directly back to his
army again—but down in front of their line, with cannon glooming and
bayonets glittering, a wall of death before him, rides with his plume
waving and the shout of his comrades, breaking in his ears!
Then, dashing like an arrow, across the plain, he approaches the General,
and calmly tells him the numbers and exact condition of the foe.
The old warrior smiles, and the army move silently on.
Little did the gallant soldier Blake, in that moment of excitement,
dream of the sad and singular fate which awaited him.
Seven hundred yards now intervene between the armies. Take care!
Do not breathe a word! A single whisper may scare the slumbering
Death into action, and send him rioting over the field.
At this moment, when the Armies glare in each other's faces, when
Arista, with a smile surveys plain Zachary's rough costume, when the
umbering wheels and monotonous hoofs alone are heard, tell me, what
means this meet of opposing hosts on the plain of Palo Alto?
Here the Americans in blue—there the Mexicans in green—here, the
tri-color of Anahuac, there the Banner of the Stars! Here, the veterans
of Mexican battles, tawny heroes from the terra caliente, of Vera Cruz,
and robust mountaineers, from the shadows of Orizaba, the men, who
butchered the Texans at Alamo, and the Rancheroes, who will butcher
the wounded and strip the dead ere an hour is gone! There, an untried
army of two thousand men, gathered from the hills and vallies of America,
mustache' from the ranks of Napoleon!
What does it mean?
It means that the Sword of Washington, is about to blaze, in conquest
and civilization over the land of Mexico. It means that one bloody battlefield
will soon call to another, until a chorus of victories, join their cries
and shout to the world, that the American People, are in arms for the
freedom of a Continent. It means, that to-day, a Beginning to be made,
to prepare the way for a glorious End. It means that Kings and Tyrants,
their panders and satelites have no business on this Continent, It means,
that the British had better look to Montreal, for the day comes when the
Banner of the Stars will crown its towers, that they had better look to
Quebec, for the hour is not far off, when the tramp of American legions
will be heard upon its rock.
It means that a great Reform, is about to commence, a Reform, that
will blaze for awhile in the distance, then envelope the borders of our
Union, and last of all, burn up the evils which threaten our peace at
home! So, whenever the sword of Washington waves in the air, let us
follow its flashing with prayer, and shout Amen! as it strikes home.
For a brief moment, in that awful suspense, the opposing enemies regarded
each other, and then—but hold! Did you ever see a summer
storm girdle the horizon, with its fantastic clouds, and while you watched
its sullen march up the sky, a flash of lightning shone, in the far north,
and shot from peak to peak, dazzling away, until the heavens were wrapt
in a belt of flame?
So on the Right of the Mexican army the contest began; the cannon
flamed out, volumes of smoke, rushed into the sky, and a storm of ball
and grape, whirled over the American army, singing their battle-song!
In an instant, that flame, that smoke, that crash, leapt along the whole
Mexican line, and the thunder and lightning of the battle-field were born.
Those columns of white smoke, mingled with belts of black rolled
slowly upward, into the serene sky.
At the same moment from the centre of the American line, two separate
volumes of fire, blazed from the eighteen pounders,—there was a cloud
in the air—and two bloody lanes were hewn, by the hurricane of iron,
right in the centre of the Mexican line; two lanes of mangled and dead.
The battle had indeed begun—the smoke of the Mexican cannon, and
the smoke of the American battery, floated slowly into the sky, met in
the serene air, and formed a bridge of cloud, above the heads of the contending
armies.
Hark! The rumbling of wheels, the heavy sound of horses hoofs beating
against the sod!
From the right of the line, Ringgold sweeps into the prairie, at the
same moment, that Duncan crushes its tall grass to the left, and from
cannon. Every shot makes a lane of dead, every ball bears a head, or
an arm away!
It is now that Ringgold is terrible. It is now that the fruits of long
years of training are seen. It is now, that these men of his band, disciplined
by him, into separate pieces of iron, forming one great machine
of battle, display their firm hearts and steady eyes. Few persons, who
beheld the erect soldier, attired in his elegant uniform, pacing along the
fashionable street of his native city, can imagine, his appearance and
demeanor now.
Reined beside the blazing battery, his white horse, fixed as a statue,
to the sod, still quivers beneath him. Erect in the saddle, his muscular
chest and arms, displayed by the close-fitting uniform, whose rich dark
blue so well relieves his boldly featured countenance, he gives the word
of command to his men, marks the effect of the shot, with his eye, and
sees whole platoons of gay uniforms go down, in blood.
The revolutionary blood of John Cadwallader burns in his veins, and
the fire of battle mounts his heart. Over his head whirls the fury of the
Mexican hurricane—were those guns, aimed with half the precision of
his own, his command would be blasted into the dust, ere a moment. But
as it is, from the want of deadly skill, on the part of the Mexicans, their
terrible missiles only hiss, in upper air.
As Ringgold, erect on his white horse, rises before us, a strong picture,
boldly marked out, by the blaze of battle, you behold a single feature of
the infernal revelry of war. The common soldier, by his side, attired in
a blue round jacket, his broad chest, laid open to the light? You behold
him, touch his cap, and stand motionless, in the act of listening to the
words of Ringgold. His swarthy face is all attention, his honest brow,
covered with sweat, assumes an appearance of thought. Look! Ringgold
in the energy of the moment bends forward extending his hand—and
at the very instant, the soldier is torn in two, by a combination of horrible
missiles, which bear his mangled flesh away, whirling a bloody shower
through the air. That thing beneath the horse's feet, with the head bent
back, until it touches the heels, that mass of bloody flesh, in which face,
feet and brains, alone are distinguishable, was only a moment past, a
living man.
And from the space between the cannon wheels, where she had sheltered
herself,—her babe slumbering in her arms amid the fierce roar of
the battle—crawls forth the Woman, whom we saw following the army
not long ago, was her husband. She placed the gory head upon her lap,
and with her face bent down, said not a word, but wept in silence.—
Ringgold turned his eyes away, and was not ashamed of tears!—A fine,
matronly woman, not twenty-six years old, with the hue of vigorous
health upon her cheeks, she had followed her husband, from the desolated
thus, with the bloody head upon her lap, she sat all day, while the fight
whirled round her. At night, when there was nothing but a pale moon,
shining over heaps of slaughter, she was still there, — upon her knee the
gory head, upon her breast the slumbering babe. Day came again, the
armies passed away, the battle whirled far to the south—the Woman, and
the Dead Man and the Child were still together, there, upon the field of
Palo Alto.
Yes, when the jackals prowled around her, when the vulture, attracted
by the scent of the festering body, swept the air, not one foot above her
head, she still kept the watch, moving her body, slowly to and fro, and
singing a wild Irish song. It was until they came with spades to hide the
hideous corruption of the field, that she could be torn from her loathsome
burden. And as they huddled the miserable thing, into the hurried grave,
she was seen, taking her desolate way, across the wilderness, her babe
still clinging to her bosom, while that low-toned, monotonous lament broke
over the dead silence of the deserted field.
To the battle once more!
While the cannon of Ringgold blaze on the right, there is a flash on
the far left, and a roar from the centre of the line. Slowly the eighteen
pounders, advance from the centre, scattering a terrible mass of balls, into
the Mexican array. Steadily on the left, Duncan, pours the hurricane of
iron, and sees, whole lines of men and horses, crushed into dust, ere the
battle flash of the cannon, leaves his face. Sternly on the right, Ringgold,
on his war-horse, pursues the work, whirling his bolts of flame,
upon those gay lancers yonder, whose points of steel fluttering with crimson
flags, cannot save them from the death, which rends their arms, crushes
their skulls, and piles them up, in bleeding heaps along the sod.
The Infantry stood in silent masses, the blood boiling in their veins as
they gazed upon the clouds of the fight, into whose whirlpool, they were
not permitted to precipitate their legions.
Behold their stern array!
Shoulder to shoulder, their voiceless musquets in their grasp, they glare
beneath their frontlets upon the battle, they mark the lanes of the Mexican
dead, they force their breath between the clenched teeth, they rend
the air, with shouts.
And every minute, there comes hissing into their ranks a shower of
grape, that bears a human head away, over their living heads, and entangles
their immovable ranks, with the howling wounded or glassy-eyed
dead. Aye, glassy-eyed! Of all the horrible things in a battle, the most
horrible, is to see the comrade by your side, crushed backward, by a ball,
which unroofs his skull—only for a single moment he moves and all is
still—only for a single moment, he rolls his glassy eyes upon your face,
no longer a man by your side, but a corse at your feet.
The battle now begins to wear its most infernal beauty! These lines
of armed men, arrayed on the prairie, these volumes of flame, blazing
from one living wall to another, this flag of three colors, and yonder banner
of the stars, seen only through the intervals of rolling clouds, these
piles of mangled and dead, with the infuriate and frenzied living trampling
over their faces, these sturdy cannoniers, stripping their bronzed forms to
the waist, and hurling the hurricane into the faces of their foe, without a
shout, the sky of God, over all, smiling through the windows of the
smoke, upon the scene of Murder!—Ah, there is in every heart, the Instinct
of Carnages and a scene like this, would make a Saint throw down
his cross, and seize a sword!
In the midst of the battle, on a gentle elevation, which commands the
prairie, in every foot of its extent, you see Zachary Taylor, in his brown
coat, mounted on his grey horse, his large eyes, rolling rapidly over the
field. His broad chest swells, as though every impulse of the fight hung
on his breath. You will understand that the scene before him is no
child's play. Defeated, and what will be the fate of his men? Look
yonder in the thicket, and see the bearded Ranchero, mangling the
wounded, whom he has dragged from the field—whom he has stabbed,
killed, stripped—mangling the dead body, and carving its features with
this gory knife!
Defeated,—Zachary Taylor and his men, will be butchered in cold
blood, their faces trampled into the sod of the prairie, mingled with gore.
Therefore, the old man,—styled, old, more in reverence to his rough,
heroic genius, in veneration of his thirty-eight years of service, than in
respect to his years—sits on his familiar grey steed, while his aids in
their gallant military array, speed to and fro, and the Cannon Battle blazes
steadily onward.
For two hours, from two o'clock until four, that terrible battle of cannon
thundering against cannon, continued without one moment's interval
in the steady work of death.
At this moment, we will cross the prairie, and hurry towards the centre
of the Mexican army.
A magnificent cavalier, mounted on a charger as white as snow, with
mane tossing to the battle breeze, is seen, the centre of a brilliant circle
of mounted officers. Over his countenance, marked with the traces of
courage, bronzed by long exposure to the fierce tropical sun, and distinguished
by a bright red mustache, waves a cluster of snow white plumes.
His green uniform, faced with buff, is heavy with ornaments of gold.
As his proud horse, arches his neck, and in fiery eagerness, to join the
battle, curvets over the sod, it must be confessed, that the rider presents
an appearance at once, impressive and chivalric.
It is General Arista, in the midst of his officers, watching the deadly
cannonade.
Among that crowd, glittering in brilliant uniforms, let me ask you to
single out one face, lowering in the brow and unmeaning in the lip; it is
the visage of Ampudia, who boasts of having boiled the head of a dead
enemy[4]
in a cauldron of oil. He is very gaily attired, and his bay horse
is one of the finest in the world, yet it were well for him, to keep out of
the range of the Texan rifles, for there is an old account to settle, and a
record of blood to be blotted out.
Around Arista, the scene is sad and touching.
The earth is crowded with mangled bodies. Here a leg, there an arm,
yonder a head; it is horrible but it is true; the air quivers with death
groans, and amid the deep boom of the cannonade, you hear the mangled
Mexican howl to Jesus, to God, to the [5]
Virgin of Gaudalupe for pity!
“We can never stand this,” exclaims Arista, as a cannon ball, passes
beneath his horse's hoofs—“We must charge! away”—he shouts to an
aid-de-camp—“And tell General Torrejon, to lead his regiment of lancers
against the Right of the enemy—we must take their artillery or be driven
from the field.”
The officer sped away, through the battle clouds, and presently the regiment
of lancers, fifteen hundred strong, were seen moving forward, in
compact order, their array looking very beautiful, very terrible, by the
glare of the cannon light, as with red pennons waving from their fifteen
hundred points of steel, they began to gloom upon the band of Ringgold.
At their head—his helmet glittering in a single ray of sunlight—Torrejon
waved his sword, and pointed toward the conspicuous form of the
Cannon Hero.
Taylor saw their beautiful array and could not help admiring the imposing
march, with which they rehearsed their funeral. A word passed
from the old man's lips, an aid de camp whirled over the field.
In a moment, the Fifth infantry, formed in square, with their bayonets
flashing back the light of fifteen hundred lances, silently awaited the approach
of the formidable lancers. On their right, behold twenty mounted
men, dressed in dark green frocks, with a young man, remarkable for his
determined visage at their head. Captain Walker, and a few of his
iron-chested, death-eyed Texan rifles.
The Lancers come on! The brave Ridgely, with a portion of Ringgold's
battery, prepares to give them a hospitable welcome, He unlimbers
his pieces; in a moment, a hot feast of grape and canister, will
smoke before their nostrils.
And in the midst of the Right Wing, erect on his white steed, his glowing
cheek marking his intense interest, in the course of those lancers, you
behold Major Ringgold.
And all is silent as the Lancers come on. Terrible silence! Look
yonder and see Zachary Taylor's grey eye fixed intently upon their approach—ha!
ha! A shout,—he cannot keep it down—echoes from his
lip, he raises his clenched hand and shouts again.
For all at once the infantry, have poured their fire into the lancer's
faces; Ridgely has delivered his message of grape and cannister; Capfain
Walker, with those twenty battle devils has poured the blaze of his
rifles, into their foremost ranks, and now, with twenty upraised knives,
charges them home.
There is much smoke; there are horrible groans. The smoke clears
away, and you behold the foremost lancers, mown down, horses and men
together, into one bloody mass. Again they form, again the Americans
wait until they can count the buttons on their coats, and the iron shower,
rained hissing from cannon and rifle and musquet, beats a hundred faces
into dust.
Hark? that hurrah! You see Walker alone, with his brave twenty
charging a detachment of the lancers, at least one hundred strong. At
first it looks like a cloud of men, horses and steel, but presently you see
the rifleman's plain uniform, come out, in strong contrast, with the gaudy
lancer's trappings—you mark the flash of the bowie knife and see the
answering stream of blood.
It would have done old Daniel Morgan good, to see this young Walker.
A very unpretending man in appearance, with a sun-burnt face, a form
altogether full of iron sinews, and yet not remarkable for gigantic height;
an arm that strikes suddenly and strikes home. In fact the modern Lee
of the American army, fighting always, on his own account, and flashing
out, in individual deeds of glory.
“Again, my brave comrades” shouted Torrejon, as his horse reared
among heaps of dead—“Charge! Turn their flanks—and the train is ours!”
Advancing over the bodies of their own dead, the Lancers raised once
more their glittering front into light, but the Fifth infantry, a solid wall
of bayonets received them. But on they pressed, the contest deepened,
lances and bayonets were locked together, when the veteran Colonel
Twiggs, his stern visage, manifesting in each lineament, the fever of the
hour, uttered the word of command, and in a moment, another band[6]
marched to the extreme right, their arms glittering in the battle light.
It was too much for the Lancers.
It is true, they thrice outnumbered the American troops, it is true, they
were the flower of Mexican chivalry, but when they saw that wall of
their dead.
At first in good order, squadron by squadron, but this gallant Ridgely
cannot see them depart without a warm farewell; again his batteries
blaze, and yonder in the Mexican ranks—horse and man, go thundering
to the sod together. Even as he directs the fire, the flanks of his horse
are torn in bloody fragments by a cannon ball—they fall to the earth, the
horse, writhing over his prostrate master. It is a fearful moment: Ridgely
is lost! But no! He rises, wipes the blood from his face, and beholds
a frightened horse, plunging before the muzzle of a cannon.
He darts forward, seizes the bridle rein, and in the full blaze of contending
fires, he wheels the maddened horse aside.
Look yonder—a glorious sight! The brilliant uniforms of the lancers
seen through the aperture of that colossal cloud, their steel points, and
red pennons, breaking together, like waves upon a rocky coast.
And Ringgold—where is he?
Unconscious of the fearful destiny, that awaits him, he pours his fire
once more, and by its light, sees whole companies splintered into fragments.
Still, with that sternly compressed lip and eagle eye, he watched
the effect of each discharge, nor hesitated, when he saw glimpses of the
clear sky, through the lanes which he made in the Mexican ranks.
At this moment, the eye of old Zachary, beheld a glorious sight to the
far left.
It was the battery of Duncan, blazing amid the bayonets of the eighth
regiment, and the horses of Captain Ker's dragoons. These horses and
bayonets encircle the battery; you see its steady hurricane, pour in unremitting
fury upon the Mexican ranks.
Note the effect of a single discharge: a band of men, arrayed yonder,
present their beautiful horses, their splendid costume, to the aim of Duncan's.
There is a blaze—a report—a mass of white smoke! Now look
for your chivalric Mexicans, and look until your tired eye sickens with
the sight of blood. By the light of the sun streaming through the battle
blaze, and looking like the eye of a mad debauchee, behold the earth
littered with horses and men, woven through each other, in all the horrible
shapes of pain.
But the battery has no heart—it only seems to know that the Mexicans
are yonder, that they are in the way of old Zachary, and then swearing
its awful thunder oath, it cuts them down.
Yet, do not think that the Mexican cannonade spends all its fury in
air! No! Could the mothers, the sailors, the wives, scattered through the
American Union, at this hour, thinking fondly of their beloved ones, at
this moment, behold them, they would see the tall rank grass, waving
over their mangled forms, undulating to each pulse of pain, while the
cannon shot, cannot altogether drown the cry of agony.
Even as our hearts writhe within us, at the horrible chorus of groans,
which fills the air, the cannon of Duncan communicates its blaze, to the tall
prairie grass, which dried and blasted, waves before their muzzles, and
withers into flame. Such a glorious flame! Over the plain, across the
space between the armies, like a flash of lightening it hisses along, burning
the cold faces of the dead to cinder, and crowding the prairie with a
mass of fire, that blazes far overhead, in a thousand points of light.
Then a dense smoke rolls up between the armies, shutting them from
each others view, and like the curtain of the theatre, closing the first act
of the glorious drama of Palo Alto.
And amid those clouds of smoke, which hide the foemen from each
other's sight, and all at once, silence the voices of battle—all but the
groans—you may see the bronzed visage of Zachary, lightened by a
smile, and gleaming gladly from the large grey eyes.
Far to the south,—aye, through the dense folds of smoke you hear it
—comes a murmuring yet welcome sound. The Mexicans are retreating
from the field, to form a new line of battle under the cover of the smoky
pall! With two thousand untried men, Taylor has beaten back six
thousand of the bravest veterans of Mexico. Taylor and his heroes
have done it: Taylor and Duncan, and Twiggs, and Ridgely and Churchill
and Ringgold, have forced the tri-color to give way before the Banner
of the Stars.
There is a pause in the dim of battle, a mighty breathing time in the
work of blood. While the Mexicans form their new line, beyond this
gloomy pall, let us take the ground which they occupied, not ten minutes
since.
Let the Banners of the regiments advance! Then Churchill's two
eighteen pounders move forward drawn by twenty yoke of oxen, complacent
beasts, who put their hoofs on dead men's faces, and crop the tall rank
grass, as they walk peacefully along.
But the wounded—yes! God pity them, we must bear them gently to
the rear, and keep stout hearts within us, for here are sights to wring the
soul of the strong man, and shame his scarred cheek with womanish
tears!
To the rear with the wounded—yes, American and Mexican, with
brows bleeding and limbs crushed, with the breath rattling through the
pierced lungs, and the mouth choked with blood—bear them to the rear?
Rather face the burst of Ringgold's cannon, than witness sights like these,
—who would not? For the dead we do not care.
Care; no! They may lie upon their faces, biting mouthfuls of bloody
dust, they may rest upon their backs glaring with stony eyes, upon that
cloud, which covers them, like a pall, they may be torn in pieces, here a
grisly head, and there an arm.—They who have wives or mothers, or sisters,
Pain, want, the world itself, to them, are now but empty names, for
they are dead.
But the wounded, oh, have you the heart to gaze upon them, as they
pass by, in the arms of sturdy living men?
A young soldier, with his coat thrown open, and the gash from the
throat to the waist laid bare. A very boy, pale and clammy in the delicate
features, his arms and legs dangling over the ground, as they bear
him away. He faced the battle, with a quickening pulse and boyish
shout, but now, in his delirium, he only mutters certain childish words
about his Sister and his Home!
Then a strong man is borne along, his skull laid open by a chain-shot.
Howling, mad with pain, he blasphemes his God, and reaches forth his
arms to choke the wounded Mexican, who, shrieking in ludicrous English
for “Water!” is carried by his side.
But now, the Soldiers to whom this sad duty is entrusted, approach a
form, hidden in the tall grass—an old man—
Yet, ere we gaze upon him, and hear words which will fill our eyes,
and make our hearts beat quicker, let me tell you a Legend of two worlds.
There was a night, when a solitary lamp burned in the Imperial Palace
of Fontainebleu. The gardens around were dark; the halls within desolate;
the fountains hushed. The Palace wore the aspect of a Tomb. It
seemed as though a cloud of mourning hung over its wide roofs and
towers: mourning for the crimes and miseries of France. The sceptre
was about departing from her hands, the laurel from her brows.
Along this corridor of the deserted palace, before a narrow doorway,
stalks the sentinel, his stealthy tread scarce arousing the ghost of an echo.
All is dark around him, yet as he approaches the deep-embayed window,
at the end of the corridor, you see the costume of a soldier clothing his
broad chest, the musquet of a veteran in his grasp. And as he walks
along, looking earnestly toward the narrow door—now pausing to listen—
he utters a subdued groan, and the tears stream down his rugged cheeks.
Within that door burns the solitary lamp of Fontainebleu. It is a small
door, and yet it leads into a spacious chamber, furnished with all the luxury
of Imperial grandeur. The hangings are of rich purple, spotted with
golden bees; the carpet glows with the dyes of oriental art; the bed is
worthy to be pressed by a young and beautiful woman, that woman the
Bride of an Emperor.
Its curtains of deep azure are gathered on the summit, in the beak of a
golden eagle—the Eagle of France.
Near the bed stands a small desk, on which the light is placed. Beside
the desk, the carpet is littered with maps and charts, and the gleam of a
half-sheathed sword arrests your eye.
As you wander through the room, wondering at this magnificence, which
the faint light invests with a graveyard gloom, starting at the echo of yon
step, which makes you shudder, you know not why, there is a movement
among the curtains of the bed, and from its shadows a half-naked man
struggles painfully into the light.
With the curtains surmounting him like a frame, he sits on the edge of
the bed, a loose dressing gown falling about his limbs. One hand dropped
by his side, grasps a phial; the other, in a gesture expressive of physical
exhaustion, rests languidly on the desk.
His head is downcast; the light falls on a forehead remarkable for its
massive outline, and reveals his large eyes, with ghastly blue circles underneath.
His cheeks are sallow, his lips white—the entire appearance
of that face, indicates a great soul sinking in the apathy of despair, a vigorous
body withering into hopeless torpor.
He sits there, on the edge of the imperial couch, grasping the phial in
his right hand, while his head sinks nearer to his breast. Not a word
passes his lips—a sense of desolation seems to enclose him, and press
down upon him, as the coffin lid shuts in the corse.
That man is called Napoleon.
Do not start and wonder, for only a few days since, a battle was fought
called Waterloo.
Alone in his deserted palace, alone, while the Idiots of Royalty, the
Bourbons, are coming back to Paris and to this Fontainebleu, on barbarian
bayonets,—alone with the despair of his great heart—this Man has taken
poison, but he cannot die.
For, as I said a moment ago, his Name is Napoleon. His mighty life
demands a sublime death-bed. An Island-Rock in the midst of an Ocean,
can alone afford a couch for his dying hour.
He has taken poison but cannot die, for Destiny does not forget her
child.
A few days ago, he pressed this couch, with a young and beautiful
woman by his side, a lovely child smiling upon his face, his own image,
hallowed by the outlines of infancy. Only a few days, and he walked
these halls an Emperor, with crowds of liveried Lords—the parasites
whom the justice of the Revolution had spared, the Generals who had
won their titles on the battlefield—Lords, I say, and Dukes and Princes,
doing him the commonest offices of menial service.
Where is the wife now? The child? Where the long lines of liveried
Princes, who did honor to the Emperor? Where the Generals and Marshals
of France, who had flashed into Kings at his word?
The wife—what better could we expect from royal blood, cankered by
the scrofula of a thousand years—has fled, taking with her the Child of
Napoleon. The Princes in livery, are even now, making their peace with
the Russian Barbarian, and doing homage to that immortal British Mistake,
My Lord Wellington.
And Nepoleon is left alone, to die, with the poison phial in his hand!
As wrapped in the apathy of despair, he crouches on the edge of the
imperial bed, he hears the sentinel's footstep, and starts to his feet. That
sound is strange to him—it speaks of the Camp, which after all, was
Napoleon's only Throne. He rises, opens the door, calls.
The Sentinel enters; you see him by the dim light, a man of some
forty years, with Aboukir, Moscow, Austerlitz, written on his bronzed
face. His dark green uniform is miserably worn, and hideously patched
with blood. A thick dark moustache covers his upper lip, and hides its
tremor.
You see him, tall and erect, stand before the Fallen Destiny, that man
in the dressing gown, with the marks of poison on his god-like face.
“Who bade you watch here?”—his voice is harsh, abrupt.
“My heart, Sire!” says the soldier, whose twenty years of service,
have left him where he began —in the ranks.
There was something in the voice of the soldier, that went straight to
Napoleon's heart.
“Your heart? Nonsense! All have deserted me—why not you?”
“It is not true, Sire,” and the Soldier rose powerfully erect—“All have
not deserted you! These lords, these princes, these dukes—Sacre!
They could not desert you, for they were never with you. But the
People, Sir, the People were with you, always with you—they are with
you now! Look you, Sire—these tears! I—weep—I, who never wept
when I saw Moscow's flame upon your face,—nor shed one tear when
Waterloo flung its clouds upon your brow—I weep now! To see you
thus, when at a word from your lips, forty thousand men, who watch
around this palace, would tear the hearts from their bodies, to serve you!
Come, Sire, say the word, and we'll raise the Eagle again!”
The head of Napoleon sunk upon his breast. The broken appeal of
that soldier stirred his leaden apathy into tears.
“Your name?”
“I have fought so long in the ranks, by a name which my comrades
gave me, that I have almost forgotten the name which my father bore,
which I took with me from my native village twenty years ago. Call
me Comrade Joseph, Sire!”
“In the ranks?” cried Napoleon—“With your years of service! What!
No Cross, no badge of honor? No token of merit? No reward?”
“Wrong, Sire, again! After Austerlitz, as I lay mangled near your
horse's feet, you pointed to me, and muttered, `Poor fellow! He has
fought bravely!' I have been rewarded.”
He brought his musquet down upon the rich carpet, with a sound like
thunder, by way of adding emphasis to his words. It is not to be concealed,
fallen Emperor opened a secret drawer of his desk.
“Come hither, Comrade Joseph—all whom I ever made rich by princely
gifts, have deserted me. You—to whom I never gave so much as a sou,
you, whose services of twenty years have been passed unrewarded by,
you are true, when all the world is false. Joseph, I have no Cross to
give—for the Legion of Honor is dead. Joseph, speak! Will you accept
a name from me —”
“Sire —” the Soldier gasped, with choking utterance.
“Take from the fallen Emperor, the name of Joseph Austerlitz!
Here is a picture—my picture—wear it next your heart, Joseph, and treat
it better than its last possessor—” he bowed his head and veiled his face
from the light—“My Empress, Maria Louisa, left it, when she fled
from me!”
And at midnight, in the silent palace of Fontainebleu, did the fallen
Man of Destiny hang round the veteran soldier's neck, that golden chain,
to which was attached his own picture, with its god-like forehead, and
large, eloquent eyes.
On the field of Palo Alto, amid the tall rank grass, behold an aged man,
whose hair and mustache white as the driven snow, contrast strongly with
his bronzed and battle-worn face. His blue uniform, thrown open across
the breast, reveals the death-wound; you see his blue eyes roll from side
to side, and hear the air rattling in his mangled chest.
His stiffening fingers grasp his short artillerist sword, as with his face
to the sky, or rather toward the cloud of prairie smoke, he bites his lips,
and chokes down the involuntary groan of pain.
“Comrade,” exclaim the soldiers, whose place it is to bear the wounded
to the rear, “We are sorry to see you in this condition —” and the sight
of the old man's head, baptized with the snows of seventy years, held
them spell-bound to the spot.
He raised himself on one arm—venerable sight! His broad chest was
bared; they could see, written in that scar near the throat, the word
Moscow.
The bronzed face, marked on each cheek, and over the brow, with the
traces of long healed wounds, spoke eloquently of Aboukir, Marengo,
Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Perchance some memory of these glorious names, was busy at his
heart, perchance the thought of France, came up to him in this moment
of agony, but he merely said —
“Go on comrades! It is but an old man lost!”—And fell back dead.
Near his wound a golden chain sparkled into light, and beneath that
wound, rising with the last pulsation of his heart, appeared the portrait of
Napoleon.
Thus, on the sod of the battle-field, miry with blood, are drawn many
pictures of wild and contrasted interest.
Near the corse of the soldier of Napoleon, a child of Poland breathes
his last, and yonder, an old man, in plain farmer's costume, sits amid the
long grass, holding on his knee, a boy not more than nineteen years old,
whose pale cheek, and closed lids, and smiling lips, announce a long and
peaceful sleep.
It needs no words, to indicate the tie which binds these two together.
An old farmer of Texas, who left his plough for the rifle, and took with
him, to battle, his only son!
His only son! The old man wipes his brow with the back of his hand,
and looks upon that serene face, smiling upon him, in its calm slumber.
His sunburnt face is unruffled by an emotion, still you may distinguish an
almost imperceptible twitching of the nether lip, while the veins of his
bared throat swell, until they resemble cords of steel.
His only son. Dying, not with convulsive howls of pain, but calmly
as an infant goes to sleep. The agitation of the old man, finds vent at
last in these rude words, spoken hurriedly, without a tear, yet with husky
utterance:
“Your Mother, boy, what 'll I say to her, when I go home, and see
her standing in the door and askin' for—you? She'll ask whar you ar',
and what can I say?”
And unable to hold the agony that was clasping him, the old man
wrapped his huge arm about the dead boy and wept terribly; as only a
strong man can weep.
It was now four o'clock. The sun was sinking in the west: his disc,
like an immense globe of fire, glared through the darkening cloud of battle
smoke. The Americans have advanced, yes, through the fire and smoke
of the burning prairie, you may see on the very spot, when an hour ago,
floated the tri-color of Mexico, now waving proudly the Banner of the
Stars.
Calmly reining his old grey horse, in the very centre of the late battle-field,
stout-hearted Zachary prepares for the second fight of Palo Alto. A
sad, a terrible prospect meets his eye beneath his horse's feet—the earth
harrowed by cannon balls, and miry with blood. But around him—ah,
that is the sight to stir the old man's heart, even through the gathering
shadows, the bayonets gleam like shattered rays of light.
On his right, he beholds Ringgold's cannon, backed by the hearts and
steel of the heroic Fourth. Beyond the cannon you behold the Fifth
Regiment, their bayonets glittering on the extreme right of the newly
formed line. Far on the left the unwearied Duncan repairs the wounds,
which his battery has endured, and brings forth fresh stores of powder
and ball, for the last fight of Palo Alto.
Churchill is not idle, you may be sure; he is teaching his terrible
eighteen pounders, how to speak in the coming battle.
To the south, the prospect stirs the General's blood. Through those
vast curtains of prairie smoke, now descending upon the fiery sod like a
pall, and now undulating like mists about the mountain top, he sees the
long line of Mexican arms, glitter far over the plain, into the shadows of
the chaparral.
“Arista has chosen his last position!” said the General, with one of
his quiet smiles.
Flutter, Banner of the Stars, flutter beautifully, and fling forth your belts
of scarlet and snow, for all that is left of the two thousand men, looks up
to you with hope, as the trumpet of battle shrieks along the breeze!
And from the Mexican line—look! That volume of flame, streaming
through the smoke of the burning prairie—hark! That hurricane of
iron balls!
Around the cannon of Ringgold, the fury of the Mexican battle descends,
in a whirlwind of cannister and grape. Arista smiles, as from afar he
surveys the effect of his fire: for every discharge flings a shower of blood
into the faces of living men, and from the solid ranks, picks out brave
forms and crushes them into the grave, dug by the cannon ball at their feet.
Behold the gallant Fourth; hear the howl of pain, as bayonet after
bayonet sinks to rise in its owner's hands no more.
It was in the heat of this terrible fire, that a scene took place, which
for its strong lights and dark shadows, has no parallel in history. Let us
behold the picture, framed as it is, in the smoke of the burning prairie.
We stand on this space of sward, burnt and blackened by the heat of
battle. Before us glooms the terrible eighteen pounders, which all day
long, have thundered their message of death into the Mexican ranks.
Around those cannon extends a circle of manly chests and glittering
steel. You see them, there, the heroes of the day, standing amid the dead
bodies of their comrades. Three figures in the picture, standing out from
all others, rivet our eyes.
Churchill, standing erect, near his cannon, his face begrimed with
powder and stained with blood. By his side Payne, the Inspector General,
a man of gallant presence, whose uniform, as yet unstained with blood,
glitters gaily in the light, as bending down he `sights' one of the remorseless
eighteen pounders, and prepares to hurl its hurricane of iron into the
Mexican army.
In the open space, near the cannon, behold the prominent figure of the
picture—a warrior, mounted on a white horse, his head thrown proudly
erect on his shoulders, as with a gleaming eye, he gazes upon the battle.
It is a beautiful horse, with neck arched, and mane fluttering to the
breeze.
That manly form, enveloped in the blue costume, relieved by ornaments
of gold, that stern face, surmounted by the helmet, over which descends
the shower of waving plumes, that broad chest, heaving with the fever of
the fight—it is a magnificent picture of manhood in its prime.
At this moment you behold Churchill standing erect, Payne bending
over the cannon, the soldier on the white horse lifts his helmet, and a ray
of sunlight warms his pale, high forehead.
Then the eighteen pounders yell forth their battle cry, and the soldier
on the white horse, is enveloped in a cloud of smoke. At the same moment,
the thunder of the Mexican cannon is heard, you see that cloud of
smoke, mingled with a cloud of dust, roused by a shower of iron balls.
The smoke is there, rolling slowly—not toward the sky—but downward,
until it shuts the soldiers and the cannon from your view.
A moment passes, and from the bosom of that smoke, shrieks a yell,
which makes your blood run cold.
And from that cloud, writhes into view, the figure of a mangled horse
—the beautiful steed which we beheld only a moment ago—his limbs
quivering, his eye horribly dilating, his flanks gored through and through
by a cannon ball.
The saddle is red with blood, and the pistols splintered from the holsters,
fall in fragments by the side of the dying horse.
But the rider—the man of the noble form, and white forehead, gleaming
in the sun?
You hear, from the bosom of that cloud, a low, and almost unutterable
groan, and then from its folds, there rushes a rude soldier, his form bared
to the waist, darkened by powder, while his rough features are stamped
with an expression of horrible agony.
“Colonel,” he shrieks rushing toward the gallant Payne,—“Look
there!”
He points to the sod, and every soldier in the group, utters a cry of
horror.
There, beside the writhing horse, you behold the soldier, who but a
moment ago, towered in all the pride of manhood. Horribly wounded,
with the bones of each leg laid bare, from the knee to the thigh, he rests
his head upon his hand, while a serene smile steals over his stern
visage.
“Leave me,” he calmly says to Payne, to Churchill, to the soldiers
who clustered round him. “There is work for you yonder! You must
drive the Mexicans before you, and save our comrades at Fort Brown!”
He reached forth his arm, and laid it upon the neck of his steed, which
quivered in its death agony by his side. Then, with that calm smile
stealing over his features, as they glowed in the red light of the cannon
flash, he took the chain from his neck, and with it the gold watch—
“Give it,” he said and his voice trembled for a moment, as the memories
sister. It will serve to remind her of Palo Alto and—
As if afraid to trust his tongue with further words, he said no more,
but laid his head upon the neck of his steed, while his wounds poured
their torrents of blood along the sod.
As for the officers who stood round him, they could not speak. In the
description of the varied scenes of a battle, we meet with many that
rend the heart, but to hear told, but this, before the eyes of Churchill and
Payne, was the most heart-rending, the most touching of all.
Ringgold dying on the neck of his dead steed.
Payne near his head, clasping his hands, as his full heart gushed to his
eyes. Churchill by his side, on his knees, veiling his face in his hands,
unable to gaze upon the sight. In the background the line of soldiers,
all awed into silence, by the spectacle before them. In front of all, a
rugged fellow, his form bared to the waist, stained with powder, as he
lifts his brawny arms to his face and shrieks the name of Ringgold, with
deep sobs.—As long as the name of the hero remains, would live the
name of that brave teamster Kelly, who although his time expired the
night before the battle, preferred to remain by his commander's side, and
die with him, or worse than all the horrors of battle,—see him die.—
In the midst of the awe-stricken spectators, curtained by the battle
clouds, the dying man was stretched upon the neck of his horse. The
cannon balls rent the earth every moment, but the steed lay still, and the
dying man did not stir. Ever and anon, as the clouds above rolled away,
the full light of the setting sun poured upon his pale forehead, and lighted
his face as with a glory.
And while the revolutionary blood of John Cadwallader, pouring from
the veins of Ringgold, crimsons the battle-field, who shall dare pierce the
shadows of that far off home, and gaze upon the Sister's face,—illumined
by the same sunset that glows over the face of the dying man—as wrapt
in a day-dream, she sees her absent brother, mounted on his own gallant
steed—sees him, come from the wars, the laurel upon his white forehead,
the glow of victory upon his battle worn cheek! Dream on sister of the
hero, dream on, Sister of Ringgold; not many weeks will pass, before
the watch and chain, placed in your hands, and stained with his dying
blood, will make your heart swell with agony too deep for tears, as you
think of the corse, which sleeps upon the sands near the Ocean Wave!
And at the very hour, when the Sister of Ringgold, thinks of the absent
brother in another home of our land, a wife sitting in the silence of her
chamber, rests her pale, beautiful cheek, upon her white hand, while the
dark eyes, fire with tender light as she pictures the form of a brave soldier,
now far away on the field of battle. How he will return, how she
and bury her head upon his bosom—she thinks of it all!
At this hour, amid the mist of Palo Alto, not one hundred yards from
the spot where Ringgold fell, that husband writhes upon the dust, his
limbs quivering in the blood, which pours from his wound, and swells in
little pools, where the horse's hoofs have broken the sod. A horrible, a
ghastly wound! The whole lower jaw torn off by a cannon ball, that
manly face, in a single moment, wrecked into deformity!
Days pass; the wife hears that her husband has been wounded in the
fight of Palo Alto.
At once she leaves her home, and hurries, like a dove through the cloud,
to the distant battle field. Over the mountains, and across the rivers, on
ship-board, she hastens to his side, hungering to behold him, to pillow his
head upon her breast once more. But a strange chance separates them,
or—can we doubt it? Providence wished to spare her yet awhile, the
full cup of agony.
While the mangled husband is borne to New Orleans, the wife is on
the gulf, hurrying toward the field of Palo Alto. She retraces her way,
and pinioned by her love, resumes her Pilgrimage, a holier pilgrimage
than was ever made by the devotee to the gilded shrine, for it was the pilgrimage
of a faithful wife to the couch of a wounded husband.
At last, she beholds him. Well may the heart of the Painter grow
sick, as his pencil delineates that scene of all the scenes the most heart-rending.
A door was opened; the wife stood quivering on the threshold.
“Enter”—they said—“Your husband is here!”
She entered, trembling all the while. Through the closed curtains, a
soft light stole round the place. It was very quiet, very dim, aye, filled
with shadows, broken by threads of sunshine and breathlessly still.
“My husband here?”—And with that volume of her woman's faith,
glowing over her cheek and gleaming through her tears, she advanced,
gathering her hands to her breast, for the swelling heart, seemed choking
the life within her.
“Where is he?” she said, standing on tip-toe, in the centre of that
darkened room, and look! as with her arms outspread, her pale face
turned from yonder sofa, and turned toward the light she listens.
Where is he? Ah, that groan, scarcely audible, sounding like a sigh
from the dying, as their lips are muffled by the cold hand of death.
She turns and gazes into the shadows of the chamber. The sofa
stands in that recess, and by degrees, the form of a man clad in undress
military costume, breaks on her eye.
But that cloth upon the face, that thing white as snow, falling over the
brow, and covering the features, as the shroud covers the heart of the
dead? What does it mean? A white hand is extended—“My Wife!”
arms are stretched forth, to clasp her home to the husband's heart.
Then looking tremblingly up, she beholds the white cloth hanging about
the face of her husband, and with her heart bursting in a flood of tears,
learns at a glance the fearful truth. She may not look upon the husband's
face. Those features which once won her love, with their chivalric
manhood, are now a mass of ruins. The husband seems to feel that
her eyes are upon his veiled face, and utters one long and prolonged groan
of anguish, as he clutches her to his heart.
The last scene of this sad history! Beneath the smile of the morning
sky, on the deck of a steamboat, which dashes the waters of the Missouri
from its prow, two figures, rivet the eyes of a weeping crowd: a dying
husband resting on the breast of a faithful wife, who even in this dread
hour, may not see those features which she loved so well, for upon the
brow and the shattered face still rests the white cloth, fluttering to the
last impulse of the warrior's breath.[7]
Gazing from the centre of his new line of battle, Arista marked with
undisguised complacency, the fire of his artillery, poured in all its concentrated
fury upon the Right Wing of the American army. As the battlelight
lit up his swarthy face, he turned his eyes to the sun—shining like a
thing of evil omen, through the dark clouds—and exclaimed, “It shall not
set before I have crushed these Americans on the field, and made them
feel the Invaders fate in the chaparral!”
His fire had wreaked all its fury upon the right wing. He now resolved
to carry the field by one brilliant effort. Yonder on the left of the
American line, beyond the smoke of the burning prairie, you behold the
train of the little army, a prize which Arista swears shall be his own,
before the setting of the sun.
At once, the glittering officers of his staff were seen hurrying over the
field. The point of attack had been the right, it was now to be suddenly
changed, and the left of the American line was to feel the last desperate
blow, stricken by the Mexican host.
The orders of Arista produced an effect like magic. His right wing,
infantry and cavalry, in magnificent array, advanced with one impulse,
toward the unprotected left of the American army. It was a sight that
would have stirred your blood, to see them come on. Men, horses, lances
and bayonets, locked together, like an immense engine of battle murder,
moved suddenly to the attack. You see their horses moving proudly on,
you hear the dead, sullen tramp of the infantry, you see the tri-color wave,
their red flags flutter against the southern sky.
Arista's white horse is seen rearing proudly, as his rider, already feels
the throb of victory pulsate in his veins. He has caught that rough old
Zachary at last. He knows not that Ringgold has fallen, nor that Page
lies a mangled wreck upon the ground, but he has seen the effect of his
deadly fire upon the right wing.[8]
He knows, that with all his dead and
dying, counted twice over, he still twice outnumbers Zachary Taylor and
his Men. To add to his joy, but a moment ago he saw that terrible Duncan,
who, all day long had poured his hurricane of iron from the left,
suddenly whirl along the American line, and with his horses, his men, his
cannon, disappear in the clouds toward the right. He has gone to supply
the place of Ringgold—it is evident that the train is the prize of Arista,
that the left wing will be turned and hurled back upon the right, that
Zachary Taylor and his men, will soon—aye, ere fifteen minutes have
passed—be prisoners of war.
And in the Mexican dialect, a Prisoner of War, means a Man who is
to be hurled into a dungeon, or shot like a dog, or cut to pieces with assassins'
knives.
In this proud moment, as men and horses and steel—that solid mass of
battle—moved toward the left wing, their joy broke forth, in the music of
a full band. You see that immense column of advancing cavalry, under
the command of Don Cayetano Montero, one of those brave gentleman,
splendid in his dress and musical in his name. In front of this column,
attired in burning scarlet, the band of the army advance, their instruments
stirring the blood of at least three thousand men, into madness, as they
blaze in the light like pieces of burnished gold. O, sweetly, O, sadly, O,
terribly that music rose into heaven, with every varied note of joy and
woe, as though it spoke of blood and tears, of Mexican mothers robbed of
their sons, and of American soldiers, who soon would bite the sod, with
their clenched teeth, and feel the hoofs of the horses trampling over their
breasts.
That man is to be pitied, who has not felt his blood dance, at the music
of a battle band. Even in the streets of the every-day city, it makes your
veins swell with frenzy. But when it comes from a band, who walk
calmly on, in front of an advancing army,—Death before and Death behind
them—when in the intervals of the drum's thunder and the trumpet's peal,
you hear the moan of pain, the short, quick cry of the dying, then this
music of a battle band, makes the blood run riot. You hunger for the
battle, and grow thirsty for human blood.
They advance in their beautiful order, secure in the confidence of victory,
warrior in yonder ranks, whose name is Zachary Taylor.
As they come on, a dark mass is seen moving through the clouds of
prairie smoke. Like a dark shadow within the cloud, it moves from the
right to the left of the American line, it grows larger and wider, spreading
forth through the smoke, like the pinions of an immense bird.
As one man, the Mexicans halt, falling back, rank on rank with a sudden
recoil, and a crash like the smothered thunder of a volcano. For that
Cloud, moving rapidly through the prairie smoke, begins to resolve itself
into shape. It begins to grow into form. From its bosom, uprearing
into the battle light, the heads of horses start into view. A rumbling
sound from that cloud, a murmur as of wheels passing over a burnt and
cindered sod, and then the brazen cannon flash into light. Then, amid
the flashing of dragoon scimiters and the circling light of bayonets, appears
the face of Duncan, black with powder, stained with blood, and terrible to
behold, for it says to the whole line of Mexico,—We are here—here to
receive you! We have seen Ringgold in his blood, and Taylor on his
grey steed! Ringgold tells us, with his dying voice, that there is work
for us ahead—Taylor bids us to end this battle, and we have come to
do it!
Arista saw them come and ground his teeth. But they did not give
him breathing time, those men of iron. Dashing from the cloud, they
arrayed their cannon in battle order, and fired. At the moment, when the
sturdy cannoniers lifted the match, you might hear the full chorus of the
Mexican band, and admire their beautiful array—their uniform blushing
scarlet, their burnished instruments flashing in the lurid light.
That cannon shout drowned their music forever. They were arrayed
in the very front, and received the battle blast in all its fury. Crushed to
the earth—not in mere poetical phrase—literally hewn away by the hail
of cannister and shell, they strewed the ground, shattered trumpets and
mangled heads, broken drums and torn bodies, mingled in one bloody pool.
It was the most horrible scene of the whole battle.
For a moment, the Mexican array quivered in every platoon, as with
one electric horror of that sight. Then with their shouts of revenge, with
their banners waving and their lances poised and bayonets fixed, they
moved forward—no music sounded this time—gradually accelerating their
pace, until an irresistible impulse seem to hurl them in one mass upon
the foe.
But Duncan was there to receive them. As they came on, he showered
once more his iron hail. Here a shell, hurled blazing from his cannon's
throat, alighted amid a circle of brave lancers, and scattered man and
horse into fragments of flesh and pools of blood. Yonder, the infantry
come charging with fixed bayonets; their green uniform and swarthy
faces tinted with red battle light. They near the guns, with a shout they
and when it clears away, you see them no more.
It was a fearful sight to see the wreck accomplished by Duncan's cannon.
Back, over the mangled forms and shattered instruments of their own
musicians, he hurled the formidable lancers, back, over the faces of their
slaughtered infantry, back, with that iron shower tearing their pennons,
splintering their spears, cutting lanes into their woven ranks, he hurled
the chivalry of Mexico, until the shadows of the chaparral alone, saved
the wreck of their glittering array.
—Taylor, viewing the scene from the saddle of his steed, turned to an
officer and coolly said, “the day is won.”—
—Arista beheld it with an expression of overwhelming chagrin, and
looked for Ampudia to head another charge, but that brave man, who had
boiled a human head from mere vivacity, was gone. Perchance, the
visage of Captain Walker, that unassuming young man, who always received
the Mexicans with Kentuckian warmth, scared the hero of the boiling
cauldron from the field?—
Again, mustering his forces for a last, a forlorn charge, Don Cayetano
De Montero came from the chaparral, with his lancers formed once more
in battle order. They moved to the attack with admirable regularity. The
battery of Duncan had, in the meantime, advanced one hundred yards, the
cannon wheels forcing a path through Mexican dead. De Montero came
on, but in the same moment, the setting sun shone over his spears, the
prairie cloud buried them in smoke, and then the hurricane of shell and
canister crushed through their ranks again.
By that mingled light, the setting sun shining its level rays through the
intervals of the clouds, and the cannon blaze, casting its red glare toward
the sky, until the smoke rolled to and fro in wreaths of crimson, you
might see the last picture of this battle day.
The wreck of six thousand brave men in full retreat, over a space of
prairie three miles in extent, their scattered legions seen through the folds
of the curtaining clouds.
Squadron crowding back on squadron, one column communicating its
panic to another in the rear, until the battle became a rout, the cannonade
a chase. In one place, a battalion of retreating horse crushes down a mass
of foot-soldiers, and over their mangled bodies, scours away from that terrible
blaze of Duncan's cannon. In another, two bands of horse and foot,
stricken with the panic, and flying in an opposite direction from the field,
became entangled and rocked to and fro like an immense wave, their arms
glittering like spray. Not a moment passed before their contest was over.
A wide lane splintered through their ranks by the cannon balls, and paved
with the faces of the dead, divided them into two bodies again, who fled
from each other's sight, as though a Plague stalked between them.
It was at this moment, when for the space of two miles, the prairie was
scene took place, in every way worthy of this day of chivalry and blood.
Arista reined his white horse on the edge of the chaparral, and beheld
his broken army, in all the panic of a retreat. Upon their frightened
ranks rolled the full volume of Duncan's batteries. A space of earth,
some hundred yards in extent, was illumined by the setting sun, shining
through the clouds. Around that space all was dim and shadowy; it
shone from the twilight of the field, like a broach of gold, set in a mantle
of rich brown. Into this illuminated space, thundered the cannon of Duncan,
pursuing a body of Mexicans, who, crowding upon each other, hurried
wildly toward the chaparral. You see the cannon unlimbered, arrayed
in battle order; the half naked cannoniers are ready; in a moment,
that band of Mexicans, at least five hundred in number, will be torn by
the cannister, and blown to pieces by the shell.
At this moment, a solitary horseman breaks from the Mexican ranks,
and holding a white flag above his head, speeds rapidly toward the foremost
of the American cannon. He rides a beautiful dark bay, whose eye
rolls with the madness of battle, as he sweeps with his master, right into
the muzzles of the formidable battery.
It is a young man with the dark hair flying back from his brow, with
the green uniform, thrown aside from his muscular throat, with the sunlight
playing freely over himself and his bay steed. For a moment the
cannoniers ceased, while a murmur of admiration ran along the American
line. He came on a message of peace, that gallant youth, for fluttering
over his head the white flag stood out against the sky.
Near and nearer; they can discern his features, see the wild light flashing
in his eye. Not fifty yards from the muzzle of the foremost cannon,
he thunders on. Look! He rises in his stirrups, he flings the white flag
from his bosom, he tears from his breast another flag—the Tri-color of
Mexico!
“Now!” he shouts in Spanish, his dark face convulsed with passion,
the frenzy of despair, as he waved that flag and crashed on, to the very
muzzle of the cannon—“Now! Let your cannon blaze—I am ready!”
The cannon spoke, and its smoke encircled him like a curtain. Every
man held his breath as the cloud rolled away. The Mexican and his
horse were gone, and the sod was covered with the fragments of gory
flesh, mingled with the shreds of a tri-colored flag.
But the object of the gallant Boy, was gained. The last of the retreating
Mexicans, had time to disappear in the chaparral, as the death rushed
upon him. Many an eye was wet along the American line, as among
the grass appeared that youthful face, smiling in death amid the ruins of
his mangled body, while far away into the crimson cloud rolled the echoes
of the Last Shot of Palo Alto.
Night came down on Palo Alto, and beside a grey steed stood an old
man, leaning on his sheathed sword, his uncovered head bent upon his
breast, as his large eyes, shone with unusual light. The monuments of
the fight—corses, arms and wounded—were scattered around him. Above
his head, hung that thin mist, pestilential with the smell of gunpowder,
and through its veil shone the glad light of the evening star. Officers and
soldiers formed a circle round the old man, leaning on his sword. All
crimsoned with the traces of the fight, all darkened by the stain of powder,
they stood in silence, their heads uncovered in respect to that old man.
He drew his sheathed sword along the sod, with an involuntary gesture.
His heart was too full for words. That day, deeds had been done, which
history would never be tired of telling, deeds that would make her say in
one breath, Washington and Taylor.
Therefore the old man stood in silence, his heart too full for words,
while with his head drooped, he mechanically made circles with the end
of his sword on the cindered sod.
At last he spoke—
“I think,” he said, as the evening star, like a good omen, shone over
his brow—“I think that we will reach Fort Brown.”
It was then that the fullness of the soldiers' hearts, found vent in words.
Even as the soldiers of Napoleon hailed their young leader, standing amid
the trophies of battle, by the name of the Little Corporal, so on the field
of Palo Alto, the heroes of that day baptized Zachary Taylor with a
name, warm from their hearts. A common soldier, feeling his heart swell
with emotions that he could not speak, pointed to the old man, and blundered
forth his admiration in three words, which leapt from lip to lip,
until they grew into a thunder shout—
“Rough and Ready!”
Night came down upon the beleagued Fort, and the town of Matamoras.
Crowding to the shore, the people had heard that terrible cannonade,
continued for two hours, and in the Fort, the voice of Taylor's guns, came
like the trumpet peal of hope. All day long the shower of shot and shell
had rained its fury on the little band, but now, crowding to the ramparts
they raised their voices in a thunder shout.
A wounded soldier, who had rent his way through the Mexican lines,
came tottering toward the Fort, shouting as the blood poured from his
wounds—“Taylor is coming! Do not give it up now! The old man is
on his way, and will be here!”
Then a shout went up again, which reached the ears of the veteran
Brown, who resting in his rude couch, racked by pain, lifted up his head
and exclaimed—“I knew that he would come!”
And by the light of the setting sun, and by the first gleam of the Evening
star, masses of Mexican cavalry and infantry might be seen crossing
for the disgrace of their flag.
It was a beautiful thing to see them glitter by thousands on the river,
while the damsels of Matamoras waved them farewell with their white
scarfs. It was a grand spectacle, their compact masses of horse, fresh as
their riders, and as eager for battle, march in battle array, from the river
to the shadows of the chaparral. They were hurrying to the aid of
Arista—to-morrow, a new wall of cannon, horses, men and steel, woven
together, as with bands of iron, would intervene between old Zachary and
Fort Brown. Beautiful it was, I say, to see the going forth of this
army—
But the coming back?
The heart grows cold to think of it.—Angel of death, hovering over
those legions, with the light of the evening star, upon your livid brow,
tell us, have you the heart to enter Matamoras now, and gaze upon those
children, who will be fatherless to-morrow, upon those wives who tomorrow
will look for their husbands, and find them floating with cold
faces, on the river's wave, or seek for them in vain, among the heaps of
battle dead?
The going forth is beautiful. To see these flags flutter so bravely
from the lances, like the foliage of those trees of death, to hear the bugles
speak out,—but the morrow? The coming back? Hark! through the
darkened air, did you not hear a sound, like the closing of a thousand
coffin lids?
Through the midnight darkness, which has descended upon the battlefield,
the glare of torches breaks suddenly, like meteors glimmering over
the abyss of a swamp. Those torches light the surgeons on their way,
as they pass from the wounded to the dead, and bend over the mangled
skulls and broken arms—the horrible summing up of the great game of
war.
There is a groan in yonder thicket. It is the cry of the wounded
wretch, as the knife of the Ranchero sinks into his heart.
A torch remarkable for its glaring light shone in the centre of the field.
Its beams lighted the faces of battle worn soldiers, who with their apparel
rent, their faces stained with blood, took counsel with their General
on the—morrow!
In the midst of that band, he stood erect, a plain and unpretending
man, his faded brown coat torn in many places by the balls of the enemy,
his brow uncovered, and his right hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed
sword.
On his left, distinguished by his portly form, his massive features, and
hair white as snow, you might see Colonel Twiggs, who like his General
had seen long years of battle toil.
By his side, stood erect, a white haired man, the veteran M'Intosh.
Near him seated on a trunk, his tired head resting in his hands, the brave
Ridgely, who had done his part in the terror and glory of that Day.
Duncan was there, covered with the memorials of his last charge, with
Churchill by his side, and the other heroes grouped around. Above their
heads, the tent canopy, moved to every impulse of the breeze, and triumphantly
in the light of the midnight stars of Palo Alto, waved the
Banner of the Stars.
“Shall we go on!”
A question to make men bow their heads and think.
By to-morrow's dawn at least nine thousand men, will build a wall of
flame and steel in our path. Defeat is Massacre. Victory against such
tremendous odds, a Miracle. At this very hour, in the American Union at
least one hundred thousand hearts, are palpitating in fearful anxiety for
us, afraid that every moment may bring the news of the utter slaughter
of Taylor and his Men.
Shall we go on?
As the question throbs from heart to heart, the cries of dying men are
heard, mingled with the jackal's howl.
Duncan speaks, Twiggs pours forth his few emphatic words; Ridgely
eloquent with the fever of to day's strife and the hope of to-morrow's
glory, looks in the old man's face, and cries with impassioned fervor—
“Go on!”
May and Walker say nothing, but clutch their swords.
But there are other voices there. Glory we have won to day, but tomorrow!—let
us not trifle with fate. Entrenched upon this field, we can
wait for reinforcements. Our countrymen will hear of our peril and our
glory, and their hearts and rifles will rush to the rescue.
As if from the excitement of the moment, Zachary Taylor draws his
sword, half way from its sheath.
Hark! that sound—every heart beats, and those soldiers who stand
erect, grasp their swords, and those who are seated, spring to their feet.
It is the signal gun of Fort Brown.
“Go on!”—the words in a deep whisper, pass from lip to lip, and
every eye is fixed on Taylor's face.
The old man quietly dropped his sword to the sheath:
“TO MORROW NIGHT I WILL BE AT FORT BROWN IF I
LIVE.”
At this moment a sublime sight was seen. Far along the eastern horizon
over the dark chaparral, a wall of clouds, black as death, without a
ray of light, to break its monotony of gloom, towers into the upper sky.
Save that wall of blackness, the sky is clear, glittering over its awful
dome, with the serene midnight of the stars. But look! As we gaze
gloomy horizon, along its border, runs a quivering thread of light. It
widens, it glows, until the cloud resembles an immense castle, illumined
on its battlements, with the rays of innumerable torches.
And then, beautiful and serene over the top of the cloud, bursts into
sight the Moon, shining her clear calm light over the tents and the banners,
over the cannon and the tired soldiers, bivouacking beneath their
muzzles, over the encircling chaparral, and the blasted field, over the
dying and dead of Palo Alto,
Viewed merely with the eyes of military men, it was a splendid plan of battle.
The Right, was formed in this manner: The Fifth infantry with Lieut. Col. Me.
Intosh; Ringgold with his artillery; the Third infantry under command of Capt. L.
N. Morris; Lieut. Churchhill, with two eighteen pounders, of the Third artillery;
Fourth infantry, commanded by Major G. W. Allen; The THIRD BRIGADE, composed
of the Third and Fourth Regiments, commanded by Lieut. Col. Garland, and two
squadrons of dragoons, under command of Captain Ker and May. The entire wing
was under the orders of Colonel Twiggs.
The left wing: a battalion of artillery, commanded by Lieut. Col. Childs; Duncan's
light artillery; eighth infantry, Capt. Montgomery; the whole forming the
First Brigade, under Lieut. Col. Belknap. Captain Cressman and Myers, were
entrusted with the train, which was packed near the water.
| IV.—PALO ALTO. Legends of Mexico | |