Eyes of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  Kate stepped to the door to greet her friends. What’s happening, Jamie? she thought. What is going on where you are? Are you safe? Well? This waiting is becoming harder and harder to bear. Come back to me, Jamie. Come back to me.

  * * *

  San Antonio was very quiet. Over at the Alamo, ashes from the funeral pyres were cold. All that remained of over one hundred and eighty men were a few teeth and some bones that had managed to survive the intense fires.

  When asked what he wanted done with the ashes of the defenders, Santa Anna said, “I really don’t care. Let someone else worry about it.”

  No one really knows what happened to the ashes of the men who fought so gallantly and died at the Alamo.

  * * *

  A Mexican family found Jamie. The man was getting a shovel from the wagon when his wife screamed. He ran to her side.

  “He moved!” she said. “His hand. His hand moved.”

  “Impossible, woman! The man is dead. Madre Dios, look at him!”

  “I tell you his hand moved.”

  The man knelt down in the rain beside the sprawled body. He recoiled in shock when he saw Jamie’s eyelids flutter. He looked up at his wife. “This is truly a miracle. He’s alive!”

  Jamie’s horse had wandered over. The woman tied the reins to the back of the wagon and then she and her husband struggled to drag Jamie over to the wagon. It took them three tries to get him into the bed of the wagon, for Jamie was a big man.

  “I wonder what happened to him?” she asked, when they were on their way.

  “Bandits, surely,” the husband replied. “This is a dangerous road.”

  Neither of them knew anything of the fight at the Alamo.

  “What are we going to do with him?” she asked.

  “Give him the dignity of dying on a pallet with a roof over his head. We can’t leave him for the coyotes and the buzzards. That would be a sin.”

  At their farm, the man and woman and their children carried Jamie into the house and undressed him. They all gasped when they saw his fearsome wounds, then set about tending to him. When they had done all they could do, they covered Jamie and sat at the table, looking at him.

  “It’s in the hands of God now,” the woman said.

  “I wish the priest would come by. He would know what to do.”

  The man wasn’t nearly as devout as his wife, but he wisely made no comment. He rose from the table to see to Jamie’s horse. When the horse was stabled and rubbed down and fed, the man gathered up Jamie’s weapons, unloaded them, and cleaned them of mud and blood.

  He and his wife had carefully cleaned the wounds, then stopped the new bleeding with cayenne pepper. They applied poultices to the wounds and then sat back and waited for Jamie to die. The man and his wife had done all they knew to do.

  * * *

  It would be days, in some cases, even weeks, before all the Anglos in Texas knew what had taken place at the Alamo. While Jamie lay hovering between life and death, sometimes conscious enough to drink herbal tea brewed by the Mexican woman, Houston was putting together and pulling together his Texas army.

  When Mrs. Susanna Dickerson was found by Houston’s scouts, she told them what had happened at the Alamo and also that General Santa Anna had ordered a detachment of his troops to march to Gonzales and either drive out or kill all Americans.

  A pall settled over the tiny town of Gonzales. The entire force of Texans at the Alamo had been killed and their bodies burned. But soon despair turned to outrage and cold fury. Who in the hell did Santa Anna think he was to treat human beings in such a manner? To mutilate and butcher and then burn the bodies like so much garbage. Goddamn the man!

  “We retreat,” Houston said, and then waited for the howls of protest to die down. “We have no choice in the matter. Send a rider to Goliad and order Colonel Fannin to pull out and link up with us... here.” He pointed to a crude map. “Tell him to destroy the fort and get the hell out of there. And tell him that by God I want this order obeyed!”

  A rider was immediately dispatched to Goliad, to Fannin at Fort Defiance.

  Houston immediately had Gonzales evacuated. His plan was to fall back across the Colorado River. The rain that had started a few days earlier fell in abundance now, turning the poor roads into roads of mud. The soldiers and the frightened refugees had a very tough time of it, but they made the Colorado with Santa Anna’s troops right behind them. Houston’s men crossed the river just before it poured over its banks and flooded everything. A full Mexican division was looking at him from the west side of the river. Houston was counting on Fannin for help, and wondered where in the hell the man was.

  But Fannin once more had difficulty in making up his mind. He decided to delay leaving Fort Defiance. That decision would cost him his life and the lives of his men. When he finally decided to abandon the fort, he got some four or five miles outside of Goliad and found himself looking at about two thousand Mexican soldiers, under the command of General Urrea. Fannin had slightly over four hundred men under his command. He ordered his wagons circled and made his stand. They fought for several days, killing over three hundred Mexican troops, but finally had to surrender. There was no hope left. Urrea assured Fannin he and his men would be treated fairly and humanely.

  A week after Fannin surrendered, on a Sunday morning, Fannin and his men were taken outside of Goliad and shot... on orders from Santa Anna. The thirty or so badly injured men, unable to march out of town, were carried outside the makeshift hospital and also executed.

  * * *

  When the news of the slaughter at Goliad began leaking out over the countryside, many of the civilians went into a panic, quickly packing a few possessions, and taking off for safer ground.

  Nearly three weeks had passed since the fall of the Alamo, and the news had finally reached Kate and the others living in the Big Thicket country just east of San Augustine. She was devastated; but she could not bring herself to believe that Jamie’s ashes were among those scattered to the wind around the Alamo. She knew her Jamie, and knew that among his virtues was the ability to survive.

  “Kate,” Sam Montgomery told her, as the month of March drew to a close. “You’ve got to accept it. Jamie is gone.”

  “No!”

  “Kate, Kate, I don’t like it, either. I’m heartsick at just the thought. But there were no survivors.”

  Kate looked up at the sounds of a lone horseman making his way up the lane. It was the man who ran the livery in San Augustine. He dismounted and took off his hat. “Ma’am,” he said. “Sam. I got news. Some of the women that was in the Alamo is talking. They say that just hours before the fall, Colonel Travis sent out a man with a pouch full of messages from the defenders. They said it was Jamie MacCallister.”

  Kate’s heart swelled and she nearly swooned. Sam steadied her arm and she leaned against him.

  “How straight is this news?” Sam asked.

  “Pretty straight, Sam. And the patrol that found Susanna Dickerson said they come up on a place where there had been one hell of fight ’tween somebody and some Shawnees.”

  “Shawnees?” Kate asked. “There are no Shawnees near San Antonio.”

  “Well, not many, leastways,” the liveryman replied. “Anyhow, whoever is was that fought these Shawnees killed more than his share, according to the patrol. They counted eleven bodies. All Injun.”

  “And the white man?” Sam asked. “Assuming it was a white man; what about him?”

  “Not a trace, Sam. Looks like he got away clean.”

  “Did not,” the heavy voice spoke from behind them, startling them all.

  They whirled around. It was the huge Cherokee, Egg. He had slipped up on them as silently as a snake.

  “Get wagon,” the Cherokee enforcer said. “Pack provisions for a long trip. I will take you to your man.”

  “He’s alive?” Kate cried.

  “Yes. Badly hurt. Long way off.”

  “I’ll go with you, Kate,” Sam said.

&nb
sp; “You stay here,” Egg told him firmly, in a tone that Sam had learned meant the subject was closed. “No one will bother us. I have man with me to drive wagon. We leave in one hour.” He looked at Kate. “No more faint. You must be strong. Move!”

  * * *

  Houston now had about a thousand men. He could never be sure because of the desertions and new additions that were arriving every day. Houston formed a cavalry unit, and assigned men to man the cannon, of which he had six, all mounted.

  Meanwhile, Santa Anna had left San Antonio and joined up with General Sesma. It made for an awesome force of trained, combat-experienced soldiers. Santa Anna felt confident that this time, he would drive every American out of Texas... or kill them where they stood.

  Then he made a fatal mistake.

  He split up his huge army into several groups. He sent over twelve hundred troops to the south, about nine hundred to the north, and he took personal command of a select group of infantry and cavalry and crossed the Colorado river — his objective was San Felipe.

  That move was to be Santa Anna’s Waterloo.

  * * *

  On April 21st, 1836, Kate arrived at the home of the Mexican couple who had cared for Jamie. On that same date, far to the east, Houston and his army were preparing to meet Santa Anna’s troops in the battle that would turn the tide for Texas independence.

  Kate knelt down beside the wasted body of her husband and let her tears bathe his face. Jamie was alive and conscious, but his hideous wounds had ravaged him. He had lost about seventy-five pounds and was only a shell of what he had once been.

  But he was alive.

  Kate pressed a hundred dollars in gold coin into the hands of the Mexican couple. They gasped at the money. That was a small fortune. They had never seen so much money. They tried to return it, but Kate would have none of that.

  “I wish I had more to give you,” she told them in Spanish. “You have done so much. I could never repay you all that I owe you.”

  Jamie was so weak he could scarcely speak. For the fevers, more than his wounds, had nearly killed him. Egg picked him up in his arms and carried him to the wagon — the bed had been filled with straw — and gently placed the man on the softness.

  “Now we go home,” the huge Cherokee said.

  Forty-seven

  Far to the east, between a bayou and the San Jacinto River, Houston was preparing to launch the battle that would finish Santa Anna’s reign of terror in Texas.

  The battle cry of the Texans was, “Remember the Alamo, Remember Goliad.”

  Houston’s men had blood in their eyes and slaughter on their minds. And that is exactly what it would turn out to be for the Mexican troops.

  On the 20th of April, Houston’s men and the Mexican troops exchanged a few rifle shots and that was about all. The Mexican army was well-dressed in their colorful uniforms. Houston’s men were dressed mostly in rags, for their clothing had taken a beating during the long days and nights of marching. Their clothing was tattered, but their spirits were high.

  Santa Anna viewed the newly formed army of Texans with contempt. His scouts had told him they were filthy, all dressed in rags, had no food, and the mounts of their small cavalry unit were scrawny and looked as though they had not been fed in days.

  “We shall send them fleeing for their lives with the first charge,” Santa Anna was told.

  “Very well,” Santa Anna said. “In the morning we shall finish with this distasteful business and then make ready to go home.”

  They were going to go home, all right. To their maker.

  On the afternoon of the 20th of April, Houston knew he could contain his men no longer. To do so would light the spark of insurrection, for his men were ready for a fight and his commanders had told him their men were, by God, going to fight, whether Houston liked it or not.

  The thinly timbered field of San Jacinto was all that separated Houston’s army from Santa Anna’s army. At about three o’clock that afternoon, Houston gave the orders: Move out. But do it silently. The Army of Texas moved out, silently as ghosts, flitting through the timber, advancing to the open field where the Mexicans were camped. The cannon were being pulled along by men to cut down on the noise horses might make.

  Santa Anna was asleep in his tent.

  About two hundred and fifty yards from the huge encampment of Mexican soldiers, many of them resting, Houston shouted, “Remember the Alamo. Remember Goliad!”

  Houston’s small battery of cannon roared, shattering the tranquility of the balmy afternoon.

  Many of the men had lost friends at the Alamo and at Goliad. They screamed out the names of the dead and opened fire with their rifles.

  The Mexican Army was caught flat-footed. Why Santa Anna’s guards had not detected the advancing Texas army remains a mystery. But they did not. Many of the Texans had moved into a position only a few yards from the sprawling Mexican army and the afternoon turned into a slaughter. Houston’s fifers were tootling and the drummers were pounding as the startled and frightened Mexican army sprang to their feet and grabbed rifles. Santa Anna’s cavalry, the dragoons, ran for their horses, which were not saddled. Houston’s cavalry galloped into the Mexican camp, their sabers flashing in the afternoon sun. Within seconds, the sharpened steel was dripping with blood, and blood splattered the clothing of Houston’s cavalrymen and their mounts. The Texan cavalry rode down many of the panicked Mexican soldiers, the hooves of their mounts smashing the life from the soldiers.

  Santa Anna was in the saddle, waving his sombrero, attempting to rally his men. “Fight them, goddamn you!” he shouted, his voice just audible over the howling din of battle and the cries of badly wounded men.

  But his men were in panic. They looked for their leaders and could not find them. The advancing line of Texans was about three quarters of a mile long and coming at a run. It must have seemed to the Mexican soldiers to be an endless line of soldiers. It was not; it was a very thin line but Santa Anna’s troops did not know this. It was not the Mexican policy for the officers to share much intelligence with line troops.

  The Mexican soldiers went into total panic and confusion. They began running in all directions and Houston’s men chopped them down. The battle turned into a slaughter.

  Houston had his horse shot out from under him. He swung into the saddle of a riderless Mexican horse and had that animal shot out from under him. On foot, he was felled by a musket ball to his left leg, knocking him to the ground, the bullet breaking his leg. He crawled into the saddle of yet another horse and rallying some men, led a charge, waving his sword. Houston leaped his horse into the fray. Swinging his sword, he beheaded a Mexican colonel and turned in the saddle just in time to see a Mexican general riddled with bullets from the rifles of the Texans.

  “Let them surrender!” Houston shouted. “They’re trying to surrender, boys!”

  But the Texans were having none of that. The blood-splattered walls of the Alamo and the terrible slaughter at Goliad were too fresh in their minds. The Texans went after Santa Anna’s men with a vengeance. They gave no quarter as they ripped and shot and slashed their way through the Mexican lines.

  Santa Anna and many of his senior staff officers managed to escape in all the confusion. As one sergeant in the Texas Army put it, “They took off like their asses was on fire!”

  The actual battle lasted just over fifteen minutes. But the blood lust was hot in the veins of the Texans, and they more than got their revenge for the slaughter at the Alamo and at Goliad. To say the men under Houston’s command went berserk would be putting it mildly. They were bent on killing and nobody was going to stop them.

  About eight hundred Mexican troops were killed that late afternoon, and over six hundred finally taken prisoner when the blood lust had cooled and the men began to take stock of what they had done.

  Houston, in great pain, lay on blankets and took reports from his commanders. He had lost eight men and had nineteen wounded.

  “Santa Anna?” Houston qu
estioned.

  “Gone.”

  “Not far,” Houston said. “Order patrols out and tell them to look for a man dressed like a peasant or a common soldier. He’s an arrogant bastard, but he isn’t a fool.”

  Santa Anna was no fool, but he had a lousy sense of direction. He got lost and wandered around in the night like a goose. Not only that, but he lost his horse and was on foot. Instead of heading for his own army, located about forty miles away, on the Brazos, he turned and walked straight back toward the killing fields of San Jacinto. That night, a patrol picked him up and by daylight, he was standing in front of Sam Houston. Santa Anna was one scared man, but still full of bluster.

  “I demand to be treated as befitting a man of my rank,” he said.

  Houston told him, quite bluntly, where he could put his demands.

  Nobody had ever suggested that to Santa Anna, but it sure got Santa Anna’s attention real quick. He stood trembling with fear and indignation.

  Houston added, “You’re damn lucky I don’t have you shot on the spot.”

  Santa Anna was sure now that he was a dead man.

  But Houston spared General Santa Anna, feeling that the man was much more valuable to him alive than dead. He made Santa Anna write out a letter, acknowledging Texas’s independence from Mexico, and also had him put in writing that from that moment on an armistice between Texas and Mexico was declared.

  Houston’s men didn’t like it; they wanted to hang Santa Anna right then and there, but Houston was firm on the matter: Santa Anna would be spared.

  Santa Anna also wrote out a message to be delivered to his troops at Fort Bend and Houston sent two men to deliver the message. The same day the message was received, nearly five thousand Mexican troops began packing up and pulling out of Texas.

  “I may go now?” Santa Anna asked, considerably humbled by the experience.