No sooner had the messenger delivered the American’s defiance than the trumpets of the Mexican cavalry sounded and the lancers, deploying into line, moved forward at a trot. They presented a beautiful picture on their sleek and shining horses, their green tunics faced with scarlet, their blue skin-tight pantaloons, their brass-plated, horse-tailed schapkas, and the cloud of scarlet pennons which fluttered from their lances. The bugles snarled again, the five hundred lances dropped as one from vertical to horizontal, five hundred horses broke from a trot into a gallop, and from five hundred throats burst a high-pitched scream: “Viva Mexico! Viva Mexico!”
Waiting until the line of cheering, charging horsemen was within a hundred and fifty yards, the officer in command of the American left called, in the same tone he would have used on parade: “Now, boys, let ’em have it!” Before the torrent of lead that was poured into it the Mexican line halted as abruptly as though it had run into a stone wall, shivered, hesitated. Dead men toppled to the ground, wounded men swayed drunkenly in their saddles while great splotches of crimson spread upon their gaudy uniforms, riderless horses galloped madly away, and cursing officers tore up and down, frantically trying to reform the shattered squadrons. At this critical juncture, when the Mexicans were debating whether to advance or to retreat, Captain Reed, recognizing the psychological value of the moment, hurled his company of dismounted Missourians straight at the Mexican line. So furious was the onset of the little band of troopers that the crack cavalry of Mexico, already on the verge of demoralization, turned and fled. Meanwhile the Chihuahua infantry, taking advantage of the cover afforded by the dense chaparral, had moved forward against the American right. As the Mexicans advanced Doniphan ordered his men down on their faces, cautioning them to hold their fire until he gave the word. The advancing Mexicans, seeing men drop all along the line and supposing that their scattering fire had wrought terrible execution, with a storm of vivas dashed forward at the double. But as they emerged into the open, barely a stone’s throw from the American line, the whole right wing rose as one man and poured in a paralyzing volley. “Now, boys, go in and finish ’em!” roared Doniphan, a gigantic and commanding figure on a great chestnut horse. With the high-keyed, piercing cheer which in later years was to be known as “the rebel yell,” the Missourians leaped forward to do his bidding. In advance of the line raced Forsyth, the chief of scouts, and another plainsman, firing as they ran. And every time their rifles cracked a Mexican would stagger and fall headlong.
Meanwhile the American centre had repulsed the enemy with equal success, though a field-piece which the Mexicans had brought into action at incautiously close range continued to annoy them with its fire.
“What the hell do you reckon that is?” inquired one Missourian of another, as a solid shot whined hungrily overhead.
“A cannon, I reckon,” answered some one.
“Come on! Let’s go and get it!” shouted some one else, and at the suggestion a dozen men dashed like sprinters across the bullet-swept zone which lay between them and the field-piece. So quickly was it done that the Mexican gunners were bayonetted where they stood and in another moment the gun, turned in the opposite direction, was pouring death into the ranks of its late owners. In thirty minutes the battle of the Brazito was history, and the Mexicans—such of them as were left—were pouring southward in a demoralized retreat, which did not halt until they reached Chihuahua. Five hundred Americans—for the balance of Doniphan’s column did not reach the scene until the battle was virtually over—in a stand-up fight on unfamiliar ground, with all the odds against them, whaled the life out of thirteen hundred as good soldiers as Mexico could put into the field. In killed, wounded, and prisoners the Mexicans lost upward of two hundred men; the American casualties consisted of eight wounded. In such fashion did Doniphan and his Missourians celebrate the Christmas of 1846.
The expedition remained six weeks at El Paso, awaiting the arrival of a battery of artillery which Doniphan had asked Colonel Price to send him from Santa Fé; so February was well advanced before the troops started on the final stage of their advance upon Chihuahua. A few days after his departure from El Paso Colonel Doniphan received astounding news. An American named Rodgers, who had escaped from Chihuahua at peril of his life, brought word that General Wool, to whom Doniphan had been ordered to report at Chihuahua, had abandoned his march upon that city and that the Mexicans were mobilizing a formidable force to defend the place. Though Wool’s change of plan was known in the United States, Doniphan had penetrated so far into the enemy’s country that there was no way to warn him of his danger, and the nation waited with bated breath for news of the annihilation of his little column. Even at this stage of the march Doniphan could have retraced his steps and would have been more than justified in doing so, for it seemed little short of madness for a force of barely a thousand men, wholly without support, to invade a state which was aware of their coming and was fully prepared to receive them. It shows the stuff of which Doniphan and his Missourians were made that they never once considered turning back.
In another moment the gun was pouring death into the ranks of its late owners.
On February 12 the expedition reached the edge of the arid, sun-baked desert, threescore miles in width, whose pitiless expanse lies squarely athwart the route from El Paso to Chihuahua. Two days later, after giving the animals an opportunity to feed and rest, the never-to-be-forgotten desert march began. Aware that not a drop of water was to be had until the desert was crossed, the troopers not only filled their water-bottles, but tied their swords about their necks and filled the empty scabbards with water. The first day the column covered twenty miles and encamped for the night in the heart of the desert. The following day the loose sand became so deep that the wagons were buried to the hubs and the teams had to be doubled up to pull them through. The mules were so weak from thirst, however, that the soldiers had to put their shoulders to the wheels before the wagons could be extricated from the engulfing sands. Notwithstanding this delay, twenty-four more miles were covered before the soldiers, their lips cracked open, their tongues swollen, and their throats parched and burning, threw themselves upon the sands to snatch a few hours’ rest. The next day was a veritable purgatory, for the canteens were empty, the horses and mules were neighing piteously for water, and many of the men were delirious and muttered incoherently as they staggered across the llanos, swooning beneath waves of shifting heat. As the day wore on their sufferings grew more terrible; many of the supplies had to be abandoned, and finally, when only ten miles from water, the oxen were turned loose. Though only a few miles now separated them from the Guyagas Springs, where there was water and grass a-plenty, men and horses were too weak to continue the march and fell upon the desert, little caring whether they lived or died. Indeed, had it not been for a providential rain-storm which burst upon them a few hours later, quenching their thirst and cooling their burning bodies, a trail of bleaching skeletons would probably have marked the end of Doniphan’s expedition.