Hundreds of miles away, in Washington, old Andrew Jackson, a map of
Texas before him, followed with his finger the retreat as far as he knew
it, and paused with in on San Jacinto.
"Here's the place," he said. "If Sam Houston's worth one bawbee, he'll
stand here and give 'em a fight."
And so it was. It makes the pulses thrill, even yet, the story of that
twenty-first of April, 1836; how Houston destroyed the bridge behind
them, so that there could be no retreat, and then, on his great gray
horse, tried to address his men, but could only cry: "Remember The
Alamo"; how old Rusk could say not even that, but choked with a sob at
the first word, and waved his hand toward the enemy; how the solitary
fife struck up, "Will you come to the bower I have shaded for you?"
while those seven hundred gaunt, starved, ragged phantoms, burning with
rage at the thought of their comrades foully slain, deployed on the open
prairie and charged the unsuspecting Mexican army. It was over in half
an hour--the enemy annihilated, 630 killed, 200 wounded, 700
prisoners--among the prisoners Santa Anna himself, begging for mercy.
And Aaron Burr, dying in New York with the vision of his Texan empire
still before him, reading, weeks later, the news of the victory, cried
out, "I was thirty years too soon!"
There was never any question, after that, of Texan independence; Santa
Anna, to save a life forfeited a hundred times over, was ready to agree
to any terms.
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