BATTLE OF BUENA VISTA
(From a print of the time)
At this perilous moment the rattle of musketry was drowned by a tremendous roar pf cannon in the direction of the pass. The Mexicans under Villamil had approached within range, and Captain Washington, who had sworn to hold the pass against any odds, was keeping his word. The gunners had been wild with ardor and suspense all morning; they were now gratified, and, though three guns had been taken from the battery, they poured such a murderous fire upon Villamil’s column as it approached through the narrow pass that, after wavering a moment, it scattered, and most of the men sought refuge in the ravines. The moment they broke the Second Illinoisans, who had been stationed at the pass, eagerly followed their colonel, Hardin, to the plateau, to share the dangers of their comrades. Almost as soon McKee’s Kentuckians and Bragg’s battery came plunging through the gullies on the west of the pass and joined them; while Sherman’s guns were speedily brought up from the rear. Thus the First Illinoisans were saved, and grape and canister mowed down the Mexican masses at the foot of the mountain.
Still, the light infantry under Ampudia were pressing on by the left to the rear of Wool’s position. In half an hour the pass might have been turned. Most providentially at that moment Taylor arrived with Davis’ Mississippi riflemen and May’s dragoons. The former barely stopped an instant for the men to fill their canteens, then hastened to the field. Boiling with rage, Davis called on the Indiana volunteers to form “behind that wall,” pointing to his men, and advance against their enemy. Their colonel, Bowles, the tears streaming down his face, finding all his appeals fruitless, seized a musket and joined the Mississippians as a private. Time could not be lost; Ampudia was close upon them; Davis formed and advanced with steady tread against a body more than five times his strength. A rain of balls poured upon the Mississippians, but no man pulled a trigger till sure of his mark. Then those deadly rifles blazed and stunned the Mexican advance. A ravine separated them from the enemy; Davis gave the word, and, with a cheer, down they rushed and up the other side; then forming hastily, with one awful volley they shattered the Mexican head and drove them back to cover.
But the cavalry had crept round the mountain and were descending on the hacienda. They were Torrejon’s brigade, splendid fellows, mostly lancers, and brimful of fight. Opposed to them were Yell’s Arkansas and Marshall’s Kentucky mounted volunteers—less than half their number. Hopelessly these brave fellows stood, firing their carbines as the foe approached; but the last man was still taking aim when the lancers were upon them like a whirlwind. The brave Yell was dashed to the earth a corpse, and Lieutenant Vaughan fell from his horse, pierced by twenty-four wounds. Huddled together in a confused mass, Mexicans and Americans dashed side by side toward the hacienda, engaged in a death-struggle as they galloped onward, and enveloped in a cloud of dust. One tall Mexican was seen, mounted upon a powerful horse, spearing every one that came within reach, in the drunkenness of battle; while here and there a Kentuckian, with native coolness, loaded as he rode, and brought down man after man. In less time than it takes to read these lines the horses’ hoofs were rattling over the streets, shrieks and shouts heralding their approach. Amid the din, the crack of rifles from the roofs of the houses told that the little garrison were holding their own. Through and through the hacienda the Mexicans swept, disengaging themselves from the volunteers just in time to escape a charge from May’s dragoons, which came clattering down the ravine to the rescue. Reynolds followed with two pieces of flying artillery, and Torrejon himself, badly wounded and minus several of his best men, was glad to escape to the mountains.
Meanwhile Major Dix had snatched the colors of the Second Indiana volunteers from the hands of their bearer, and bitterly swore that, with God’s help, that standard should not be disgraced that day. “He would bear it alone,” he said, “into the thick of the fight.” Roused by his words, a few men rallied around him and joined the Mississippi rifles on the plateau. The gallant Third Indiana were there, and Sherman had brought up a howitzer. Enraged at the failure of the attack on the hacienda, a fresh body of lancers now charged these troops, advancing in close column, knee to knee, and lance in rest. In breathless haste the volunteers were thrown across the narrow ridge, in two lines, meeting at an angle near the centre. Not a whisper broke the silence as the Mexicans approached, and the intrepid bearing of men whom nothing could have saved from destruction if the charge had been vigorous appalled the lancers. Within eighty yards of the lines they actually halted. At that instant the rifles were raised: a second—an awful second—elapsed. Then “Fire!” and a blaze ran round the angle. The Mexican column was destroyed. Horses and men writhed on the plain. The rear rank stood for a moment, but a single discharge from the howitzer scattered them too, and they fell back. For the first time during the day fortune seemed to favor the Americans. Hemmed in on two sides, and driven to the base of the mountain, five thousand Mexicans, horse and foot, with Ampudia’s division, were being slaughtered by nine guns, which never slackened fire. Their fate was certain; when a flag of truce from Santa Anna induced Taylor to silence his batteries. It was only a ruse. Santa Anna asked, “What does General Taylor want?” Before the answer reached him, the Mexicans had made good their escape to the rear.
Notwithstanding the parley, one Mexican battery continued its fire upon our troops. This was the eighteen and twenty-four pounder battery of the battalion of San Patricio, composed of Irishmen, deserters from our ranks, and commanded by an Irishman named Riley. Harassed by this fire, and perceiving the enemy’s treachery, Taylor sent the Illinoisans and Kentuckians, with three pieces of artillery, in pursuit of Ampudia. They hurried forward along the heads of the ravines; but to their horror, as they neared the southern edge of the plateau, an overwhelming force of over ten thousand men, comprising the whole of Santa Anna’s reserve, emerged from below and deployed before their firing. To resist was madness. The volunteers discharged their pieces and rushed precipitately into the nearest gorge. Its sides were steep, and many rolled headlong to the bottom. Others were massacred by a shower of bullets poured from Mexicans who clustered on both ridges above. In the midst of the carnage, Hardin, McKee, and many other brave officers fell, vainly trying to seek an exit for their troops. At the mouth of the ravine a squadron of lancers were ready to cut off their escape. Down the sides poured the Mexican infantry, slaughtering the wounded with the bayonet and driving the helpless mass before them. Above, pale as death, with compressed lips, O’Brien and Thomas stood to their deserted pieces. Once before that morning the Mexican shot had left the former alone at his gun; for the second time the fortune of the day seemed to depend on his single exertions. If he could hold the enemy at bay for a few minutes, there would be time for other batteries to come up. Ball after ball tore ragged gaps through the advancing host. After each discharge O’Brien fell back just far enough to load and fire again, praying in an agony that help might come. He was wounded himself; all his men were killed or wounded; but he never flinched before the surging wave of Mexicans until the clack of whips and the rattle of wheels were heard behind him. Then—for he knew it was Bragg urging onward his jaded horses—the brave fellow aimed one deadly volley of canister and abandoned his piece. The next moment Bragg unlimbered and opened a telling fire. Sherman followed, and, Davis and Lane coming up at a run, the crack of rifles was heard away to the extreme left. On the right, the well-known roar of Washington’s guns startled the foe. It was the death-warrant of the lancers, who were penning our volunteers in the ravine. Out came the remnant, leaving crowds of dead, and not one man wounded, in the horrid trap, and hastily scaled the side of the plateau. Taylor was there, coolly picking the balls out of his dress, and Wool rode wildly backward and forward, urging on the rear ranks. But it was needless. At Bragg’s third discharge the whole body of the Mexicans broke and dashed pell-mell into the ravine whence they had come.
This was the last of the battle. Davis and Bragg followed the enemy a short distance; but the San Patricio battery still commanded the southern edge of the plateau, and the troops were so fagged that they could hardly walk. Night was coming on, and the firing ceased. The men lay down where they stood; and a few, overcome by fatigue, slept side by side with the dead and the wounded. It was a dark, gloomy night, and a bitter wind swept from the mountain. Not far in the distance the wolf’s howl broke dismally on the ear, and the vultures flapped their wings overhead. Nothing was known of the Mexican army; no one could say what the morrow might bring forth. With anxious eye the officers looked for the dawn.
It came at last; and to their inexpressible delight the first streaks of light in the eastern sky revealed a deserted camp. The Mexicans had fled. An army of over twenty thousand men, comprising the flower of the Mexican troops, had been beaten by forty-six hundred Americans, over four thousand of whom were raw volunteers. Such a cheer as rose from the pass of Angostura on that February morning never before or since re-echoed through the dark gorges of the Sierra Madre.