Part 9
While this struggle was in progress, Lieutenants Edson and Tenett, in command of the marines, had surprised the fort in the middle of the town, battered in the gates, and, after a brisk engagement, had routed the garrison. The first division of seamen, under Lieutenant Pinkham, had been ordered to take the fort in the rear of the town, but it was so cleverly concealed in the jungle that Mr. Barry was unable to locate it in the darkness, whereupon Pinkham joined Lieutenant Shubrick’s command in an assault upon the most formidable fort of all, which occupied an exceptionally strong position on the bank of the river. Here the reigning rajah of Qualla Battoo had collected several hundred of his best fighting men, who announced that they would die rather than surrender. And they kept their word. By this time daybreak was at hand, and as soon as the Americans came within range the Malays opened on them with their swivel-guns, which were mounted on the high platform in the centre of the stockade. Taking such shelter as they could find, the Americans opened a brisk rifle fire, but the walls were of teak, which turned a bullet as effectually as armor-plate, and it soon became evident that if the place was to be taken, some other means of attack must be adopted. Leaving sufficient men in front of the fort to keep the Malays fully engaged, Lieutenant Shubrick with the fusileers and the “Betsy Baker” made a détour, and, unobserved by the defenders, succeeded in reaching the river bank at the rear of the fort. But here the Americans met with a surprise, for, lying in the river, a few rods off the fort, were three large and heavily armed _proas_ filled with warriors awaiting a favorable opportunity to take a hand in the battle. But this was just such an opportunity as the gun crew had been hoping and praying for. Swinging their little field-piece into position, they trained it on the crowded deck of the nearest of the pirate craft, and the first intimation the Malays had that the Americans were in their vicinity was when they were swept by a storm of grape which turned their decks into a shambles. So deadly was the fire of the American gunners that, though the Malays succeeded in getting up sail on one of the _proas_ and running her out of the river, the crews of the other two boats were compelled to jump overboard and swim to the opposite bank. Before they could escape into the bush, however, they were intercepted by a force of warriors under our old friend, Po Adam, who, having seen the approach of the _Potomac_ and shrewdly suspecting that she was a war-ship, had hastily collected his fighting men and, slipping up the coast, had hovered in the jungle at the outskirts of the town, awaiting an opportunity to assist the Americans and, incidentally, to even up a few scores of his own.
The _proas_ thus disposed of, Lieutenant Shubrick ordered his bugler to sound the “charge,” which was the signal agreed upon with the other portion of his force, whereupon they were to storm the citadel from the front while he attacked it from the rear. As the bugle sang its piercing signal, the gunners sent a solid shot from the “Betsy Baker” crashing into the gates of the fort, and at the same instant the whole line raced forward at the double. Though the gates were splintered, they were not down, but half a dozen brawny bluejackets sprang at them with their axes, and before their thunderous blows they went crashing in. But as the head of the storming column burst through the passageway thus opened they were met with a blast of lead which halted them as abruptly as though they had run against a granite wall. A sailor spun about on his heels and collapsed, an inert heap, with a bullet through his brain; another clapped his hand to his breast and gazed stupidly at the ever-widening splotch of crimson on his tunic; all down the column could be heard the never-to-be-forgotten sound of bullets against flesh and the groans or imprecations of wounded men. “Come on, men! Come on!” screamed the officers. “Get at the beggars! Give ’em the bayonet! Get it over with! All together, now--here we go!” and, themselves setting the example, they plunged through the opening, cutlass in hand. For a few moments the battle was as desperate as any ever waged by American arms. The cutlasses of the sailors fell like flails, and when they rose again their burnished blades were crimson. The marines swung their bayonets like field-hands loading hay, and at every thrust a Malay shrieked and crumpled. Meanwhile the little squad of artillerymen had dragged their gun to an eminence which commanded the interior of the stockade and from this place of vantage were sweeping bloody lanes through the crowded mass of brown men. But the Malays were no cowards. They knew how to fight and how to die. As fast as one man went down another sprang to take his place. The noise was deafening: the _bang--bang--bang_ of muskets, the crack of pistols, the rasp of steel on steel, the deep-throated hurrahs of the sailors, the savage yells of the Malays, the groans and curses of the wounded, the gasps of the dying, the labored breathing of struggling men, the whole terrifying pandemonium punctuated at thirty-second intervals by the hoarse bark of the brass field-gun. Magnificently as the Malays fought, they could not stand against the cohesion and impetus of the American assault, which pushed them back and carried them off their feet as a ’varsity football team does a team of scrubs. After a quarter of an hour of fighting the survivors of the garrison retreated to their platform in the air, leaving the space within the stockade carpeted with their dead and wounded. Even then the Malays never dreamed of surrendering, but constantly called down to the Americans in broken English to “Come and take us.” To add to the confusion, if such a thing were possible, the portion of the stockade captured by Lieutenants Huff and Edson had, in pursuance of orders, been set on fire. So rapidly did the flames spread among the sun-dried, straw-thatched huts, however, that for a few minutes it looked as though Lieutenant Shubrick’s party would be cut off. The men handling the “Betsy Baker” having run out of ammunition, a messenger was hastily despatched to the boats for more and returned on a run with several bags of bullets. One of these was stuffed into the muzzle and the little gun was trained on the Malays who occupied every foot of the aerial retreat. When the smoke cleared away it was seen that the bag of bullets, fired at such close range, had created awful havoc among the defenders, for dead and dying men were scattered everywhere. Instantly Shubrick appreciated that now was his time to act, before the Malays had an opportunity to recover from their confusion. “Now’s our chance, boys!” he shouted. “Let’s get up on top there and clean out the nest of niggers.” At the words, his bluejackets rushed forward with a cheer. Nothing could stop them. Some ascended hastily constructed ladders; others swarmed up the poles which supported the platform as they were accustomed to swarm up the masts at sea, wriggling over the edge of the platform, emptying their pistols into the snarling countenances above them, and, once on their feet, going at the Malays with cold steel. The battle in the air was short and savage. In five minutes not an unwounded Malay remained within the citadel, and, amid a hurricane of cheers, the star-spangled banner was broken out from the staff where so lately had flaunted the standard of the rajah--the first time that our flag was ever raised over a fortification on Asiatic soil.
By this time, the Qualla Battooans were so thoroughly demoralized that the capture of the two remaining forts was effected with comparatively little difficulty. The companies composing the expedition now fell in upon the beach, and the roll was called to ascertain the casualties and to learn if any men had been left in the jungle. It was found that the Americans had had only two killed and eleven wounded--an amazingly small loss in view of the desperate character of the fighting. The Malays, on the other hand, though fighting from behind fortifications, lost upward of four hundred men.
The next day, learning that the Malays were still defiant and that a large force of warriors was gathering at the back of the town, Captain Downes weighed anchor and, standing as close inshore as the water permitted, opened fire with his heavy guns, completing the destruction of the forts, setting fire to the town, and killing a considerable number of warriors. For more than an hour the bombardment continued, the American gunners choosing their marks, laying their guns, and placing their shots with the same coolness and accuracy which, years later, was to distinguish their successors at Santiago and Vera Cruz. The Qualla Battooans were even more terrified by the thunder of the _Potomac’s_ broadsides than by the havoc that they wrought, for they had never heard big guns or seen a war-ship in action before. Soon white flags began to appear at various spots along the beach, and when, in acknowledgment of the signal, the bombardment ceased, a _proa_ set out through the surf toward the frigate. As it came alongside it was found to contain emissaries from the surviving rajahs who had come to beg for peace. The awed and humbled chieftains passed between double ranks of bluejackets and marines to the quarter-deck, where they were received by Captain Downes, who was in full uniform and surrounded by a glittering staff. Nothing was left undone to impress the Malays with the might and majesty of the nation they had offended or their own insignificance, they being compelled to approach the American commander on their knees, bowing their heads to the deck at every yard. But they had had their lesson; their insolence and haughtiness had disappeared; all they wanted was peace--peace at any price.
The next morning the crew of the _Potomac_ were gladdened by the cheery notes of the bo’sn’s whistle piping: “All hands up anchor for home.” Her mission had been accomplished. As the splendid black-hulled vessel stood out to sea under a cloud of snowy canvas, the grim muzzles of her four and forty guns peering menacingly from her open ports, the chastened and humbled survivors of Qualla Battoo stood on the beach before their ruined town and watched her go. At the mouths of her belching guns they had learned the lesson that the arm of the great republic is very long, and that if need be it will reach half the world around to punish and avenge.
UNDER THE FLAG OF THE LONE STAR
UNDER THE FLAG OF THE LONE STAR
Had you stood on the banks of the Brazos in December of the year in which the nineteenth century became old enough to vote and looked northeastward across the plains of central Texas, your attention would doubtless have been attracted by a rolling cloud of dust. From out its yellow haze would have crept in time a straggling line of canvas-covered wagons. Iron-hard, bearded men, their faces tanned to the color of a much-used saddle, strode beside the wheels, their long-lashed blacksnakes cracking spasmodically, like pistol-shots, between the horns of the plodding oxen. Weary-faced women in sunbonnets and calico, with broods of barelegged, frowzy-headed youngsters huddled about them, peered curiously from beneath the arching wagon-tops. A thin fringe of scouts astride of wiry ponies, long-barrelled rifles resting on the pommels of their saddles, rode on either flank of the slowly moving column. Other groups of alert and keen-eyed horsemen led the way and brought up the rear. Though these dusty migrants numbered less than half a thousand in all, though their garments were uniform only in their stern practicality and their shabby picturesqueness, though their only weapons were hunting rifles and the only music to which they marched was the rattle of harness and the creak of axle-trees, they formed, nevertheless, an army of invasion, bent on the conquest not of a people, however, but of a wilderness.
Who that saw that dusty column trailing across the Texan plains would have dreamed that these gaunt and shabby men and women were destined to conquer and civilize and add to our national domain a territory larger than the German Empire, with Switzerland, Holland, and Belgium thrown in? Yet that trek of the pioneers, “southwesterly by the lone star,” was the curtain-raiser for that most thrilling of historic dramas, or rather, melodramas: the taking of Texas.
To understand the significance of that chain of startling and picturesque events which began with the stand of the settlers on the Guadalupe and culminated in the victory on the San Jacinto without at least a rudimentary knowledge of the conditions which led up to it is as impossible as it would be to master trigonometry without a knowledge of arithmetic. But do not worry for fear that you will be bored by the recital; the story is punctuated much too frequently with rifle-shots and pistol-shots for you to yawn or become sleepy-eyed.
The American colonization of Texas--then known as the province of New Estremadura--began while Spain still numbered Mexico among her colonial possessions. When Iturbide ended Spanish rule in Mexico, in 1821, and thereby made himself Emperor of the third largest nation in the world (China and Russia alone being of greater area), he promptly confirmed the land grants which had been made by the Spanish authorities to the American settlers in Texas, both he and his immediate successors being only too glad to further the development of the wild and almost unknown region above the Rio Grande by these hardy, thrifty, industrious folk from the north. Under this official encouragement an ever-growing, ever-widening stream of American emigration went rolling Texasward. The forests echoed to the axe strokes of woodsmen from Kentucky; the desert was furrowed by the ploughshares of Ohio farmers; villages sprang up along the rivers; the rolling prairies were dotted with patches of ripening grain. Texas quickly became the magnet which drew thousands of the needy, the desperate, and the adventurous. Men of broken fortunes, men of roving habits, adventurers, land speculators, disappointed politicians, unsuccessful lawyers, men who had left their country for their country’s good, as well as multitudes of sturdy, thrifty, hard-working folk desirous of finding homes for their increasing families poured into the land of promise afoot and on horseback, by boat and wagon-train, until, by 1823, there were probably not far from twenty thousand of these American outlanders established between the Sabine and the Pecos.
Meanwhile the government of Mexico was beginning the quick-change act with which it has alternately amused and exasperated and angered the world to this day. The short-lived empire of Iturbide lasted but a year, the Emperor meeting his end with his back to a stone wall and his face to a firing-party. Victoria proclaimed Mexico a republic and himself its President. Pedraza succeeded him in 1828. Then Guerrero overthrew Pedraza, and Bustamente overthrew Guerrero, and Santa Anna overthrew Bustamente and made himself dictator, ruling the war-racked country with an iron hand. Now, a dictator, if he is to hold his job, much less enjoy any peace of mind, must rule a people who, either through fear or ignorance, are willing to forget about their constitutional rights and obligingly refrain from asking questions. But the American settlers in Texas, as each of the Mexican usurpers discovered in his turn and to his very great annoyance, were not built according to these specifications. They were not ignorant, and they were not in the least afraid, and when the privileges they had enjoyed were revoked or curtailed they resented it emphatically.
Alarmed by the rapid increase in the number of American settlers, disturbed by their independence and self-reliance, and realizing that they were daily becoming a greater menace to the dictatorial and dishonest methods of government which prevailed, the Mexican dictators determined to crush them before it was too late. In pursuance of this policy they inaugurated a systematic campaign of persecution. Sixty-odd years later the Boers adopted the same attitude toward the British settlers in the Transvaal that the Mexicans did toward the American settlers in Texas, and the same thing happened in both cases.
For three years after Mexico achieved its independence Texas was a separate State of the republic, with a government of its own. But in 1824, in pursuance of this anti-American policy, it was deprived of the privilege of self-government and added to the State of Coahuila. Shortly after this a law was passed forbidding the further settlement of Americans in Texas and prohibiting Americans from even trading in that region. And, to still further harass and humiliate the Texans, a number of penal settlements, composed of the most desperate criminals in the Mexican prisons, were established in Texas. Heretofore the Texans, in recognition of their services in transforming Texas from a savage wilderness into a civilized and prosperous province, had enjoyed immunity from taxes, but now custom-houses were established and the settlers were charged prohibitive duties even on the necessities of life. When they protested against so flagrant an injustice the Mexican Government answered them by blockading their ports. Heavy garrisons were now quartered in the principal towns, the civil authorities were defied, and the settlers were subjected to the tyranny of unrestrained military rule. Still the Texans did not offer armed resistance. Their tight-drawn patience snapped, however, when, in 1834, Santa Anna, determined to crush for good and all the sturdy independence which animated them, ordered his brother-in-law, General Cos, to enter Texas with a force of fifteen hundred men and disarm the Americans, leaving only one rifle to every five hundred inhabitants. That order was all that was needed to fan the smouldering embers of Texan resentment into the fierce flame of armed revolt. Were they to be deprived of those trusty rifles which they had brought with them on their long pilgrimage from the north, which were their only resource for game, their only defense against Indians, their only means of resistance to oppression? Those were the questions that the settlers asked themselves, and they answered them at Gonzales, on the banks of the Guadalupe.
At Gonzales was a small brass field-piece which had been given to the settlers as a protection from the Indians. A detachment of Mexican cavalry, some eightscore strong, was ordered to go to the town, capture the cannon, and disarm the inhabitants. News of their coming preceded them, however, and when the troopers reached the banks of the river opposite the town they found that all the boats had been taken to the other side, while the cannon which they had come to capture was drawn up in full view with a placard hanging from it. The placard bore the ominous invitation: “Come and take it.” The Mexican commander, spurring his horse to the edge of the river, insolently called upon the inhabitants to give up their arms. It was the same demand, made for the same purpose, which an officer in a scarlet coat had made of another group of Americans, threescore years before, on the village green at Lexington. It was the same demand! And the same answer was given: “Come and take our weapons--if you can!” Though the Mexican officer had a force which outnumbered the settlers almost ten to one, he prudently decided to wait, for even in those days the fame of the Texan riflemen had spread across the land.
Meanwhile horsemen had carried the news of the raid on Gonzales to the outlying ranches and soon the settlers came pouring in until by nightfall they very nearly equalled the soldiery in number. Knowing the moral effect of getting in the first blow, they slipped across the river in the dark and charged the Mexican camp with an impetuosity and fierceness which drove the troopers back in panic-stricken retreat. As the Texans were going into action a parson who accompanied them shouted: “Remember, men, that we’re fighting for our liberty! Our wives, our children, our homes, our country are at stake! The strong arm of Jehovah will lead us on to victory and to glory! Come on, men! Come on!”
The news of this victory, though insignificant in itself, was as kindling thrown on the fires of insurrection. The settlers in Texas rose as one. In October, 1835, in a pitched battle near the Mission of the Immaculate Conception, outside of San Antonio, ninety-four Texan farmers, fresh from the plough, whipped four times that number of Mexicans. In December, after a five days’ siege, the Alamo, in San Antonio, was carried by storm, General Cos and fourteen hundred Mexican regulars, with twenty-one pieces of artillery, surrendering to less than four hundred Texans. By Christmas of 1835 Texas was left without an armed enemy within her borders.
When word was brought to Santa Anna that the garrison of the Alamo had surrendered, he behaved like a madman. With clinched fists and uplifted arms he swore by all the saints in the calendar and all the devils in hell that he would never unbuckle his sword-belt until Texas was once again a wilderness and every _gringo_ settler was a fugitive, a prisoner, or a corpse. As it was at San Antonio that the Mexicans had suffered their most humiliating defeat, so it was San Antonio that the dictator chose as the place where he would wash out that defeat in blood, and on the 22d of February, 1836, he appeared before the city at the head of six thousand troops--the flower of the Mexican army. After their capture of San Antonio the Texans, most of whom were farmers, had returned to their homes and their crops, Colonel W. Barrett Travis being left to hold the town with only one hundred and forty-five men. With him were Davy Crockett, the stories of whose exploits on the frontier were already familiar in every American household, Bonham, the celebrated scout and Indian fighter, and James Bowie, who, in a duel on the Natchez River bar, had made famous the terrible long-bladed knife which his brother Rezin had made from a blacksmith’s file. A few days later thirty-seven brave hearts from Goliad succeeded in breaking through the lines of the besiegers, bringing the total strength of the garrison up to one hundred and eighty-three. Surrounding them was an army of six thousand!
The story of the last stand in the Alamo has been told so often that I hesitate to repeat it here. Yet it is a tale of which Americans can never tire any more than they can tire of the story of Jones and the _Bonhomme Richard_, or of Perry at Lake Erie. The Texans, too few in numbers to dream of defending the town, withdrew into the Alamo, an enormously thick-walled building, half fortress and half church, which derived its name from being built in a clump of _álamos_ or cottonwood trees. For eleven days the Mexicans pounded the building with artillery and raked it with rifle fire; for eleven days the Texans held them back in that historic resistance whose details are so generally and so uncertainly known. Day after day the defenders strained their eyes across the prairie in search of the help that never came. Day after day the blood-red flag that signified “No quarter” floated above the Mexican lines, while from the walls of the Alamo flaunted defiantly the flag with a single star.
At sunset on the 4th of March the Mexican bombardment abruptly ceased, but no one knew better than Travis that it was but the lull which preceded the breaking of the storm. Drawing up his men in the great chapel, Travis drew a line across the earthen floor with his sword.