The Trump Card...
Tijuana Plain, Californian-Mexican Frontier, 4th April 1836
The rushing of the wind through his long hair and on his face was one that Alejandro had felt many times before, and one that he relished. It was the source of excitement, anticipation, and an incredible sense of freedom that he thought only those who had ever been in a cavalry charge could feel- the sense that you were in control of your destiny, that you could make your fate today, that your life- and those of others- were in your hands.
In front of him, growing closer and closer, the Mexican gunners were in a state of total panic. Some were trying desperately to turn the cannons around to face the onrushing Californians, others scrabbling around for sabres and rifles, but most just ran away. Alejandro drew his sabre and raised it high, a movement echoed by the entire company of fifty horsemen around him, as they descended upon the Mexicans. One unfortunate man simply failed to get out of the way, and was trampled down by Alejandro’s horse, screaming horribly as he was thrown to the ground, while Alejandro brought his sabre scything down into the face of another Mexican who was brandishing a flag as a weapon, then swinging the weapon back past his face and into the arm of another gunner on his other side. He brought his horse to a rearing stand in the middle of the Mexican cannons, and turned to see his men doing the same all around him.
The Californians were leaping from horses, dismounting and producing tools from saddlebags or simply setting about the Mexican equipment with what they had. One man, a powerful, muscular dragoon, drew out from his pack a hammer and a sharp metal chisel, and dashed to the barrel of the nearest gun- driving the iron wedge deep into the mouth of the cannon and splitting it down the middle in two great, clanging efforts. The weapon was useless, the Californian knocked one broken section of the barrel askew with a great blow of the hammer, vaulted over the gun-carriage and ran to the next cannon. Alejandro himself remained mounted, but kicked his horse forward to the great pyramid of Mexican powder-kegs. With a great thrust he forced his sabre into the middle barrel, and then swung the blade at the tower, sending the barrels tumbling onto the ground. Then, with a kick and a sharp tug on the reins, Alejandro raised his horse’s front legs high, then let them crash down on top of one of the powder-kegs, smashing it open with his hooves. The task was completed within a few minutes. The Mexican artillery, the true bite of Santa Anna’s army, was rendered utterly useless.
“Californians,” shouted Alejandro, “withdraw!” There was no point waiting. The job was done, and already Alejandro could see movement from near the Mexican lines- a belated, pointless attempt to correct the all-too-predictable oversight of leaving the artillery undefended. The dragoons were returning to their mounts, hoisting themselves back into the saddle, turning away. Alejandro’s first lieutenant- Ramon Aznar- was calling to his general, who was waiting.
“Vamos, I will overtake you!” Ordered Alejandro. From his pocket, he produced a tinder-box. Waiting patiently for a moment for the Californians to retreat a sufficient distance, he lit a small flame and then dropped it down near his horse’s feet at the start of a small trail of dark powder. Alejandro brought his mount swiftly around and galloped away. Half a minute later he was racing up towards his men, galloping up towards the fort, leaving behind them the broken mess of the Mexican artillery. Seconds later, however, with a terrific blast of exploding gunpowder, not even that remained.
Up near the gate at the fort, where the smaller Mexican and Californian forces were engaged in battle, the attackers were thrown into sudden panic. Even from the still considerable distance that separated them, the dragoons could see Mexicans turning, milling about, falling back in confusion. Then came the sound to validate their anxiety- a forlorn bugler’s call from near the Mexican camp that was echoed among the Mexican soldiers in front of the fort. Santa Anna had ordered the southern force to retreat. And, as Alejandro watched- riding ever closer to the front-line- the chaotic Mexican retreat was turning into a rout. As the first ranks of the Mexican force rose and turned away in panic, the Californian defenders- presented suddenly with a point-blank, unsheltered target, and moreover one that was no longer firing back- rose from the trenches and dug-outs and fired straight at the backs of the enemy. Line upon line of retreating Mexicans fell where they stood. The rout became a slaughter.
Alejandro, riding straight at the Mexicans, pressed into the crowd of the enemy, who seemed not to notice- or not to want to. Even as he and his dragoons hacked left and right at the fleeing, defenceless enemy, they continued to flee. Nothing could persuade them to stop, still this close to the enemy. Alejandro stabbed his sabre into the neck of a fleeing man as he rode past, then tore it out as his horse galloped on, and waved the weapon at Ramon, shouting a curt command, who produced with one hand his own bugle, and blew eight short blasts. Moments later, the sound was repeated in the Californian trenches, then from one of the watchtowers, then from the centre of the fort, flying over ears ignorant of its meaning faster than any horse could ride, until it reached the western redoubt where it was understood. With a grim smile, Lieutenant John Andrews turned to the waiting Californian gunners on the redoubt’s concrete rampart- men who had waited and watched all day, forced to refrain from firing their withdrawn cannons while they saw their comrades slowly pushed back by the massive Mexican horde.
“Well, I guess it’s time.” Said Andrews. “Fire at will.” The gunners rolled their weapons forwards, and opened fire, their shells ripping into the dense ranks of the enemy with a precision only possible with the time that they had been given to prepare. As one, the mass of uniformed Mexicans visibly reeled. Then, as a second salvo of cannon-fire ploughed through their lines, they too panicked. The morale of the Mexican army, hanging by a thread, was breaking. Just as their compatriots had at the southern end, the Mexican forward ranks descended into chaos, and paid a terrible price for their lack of discipline as a wave of Californian rifle-fire smacked into the milling mass. Within moments, the Mexicans heard the sound that most of them were inwardly begging for- the clarion call of the retreat. The vast, fleeing Mexican army lost all semblance of order as it fell back southwards towards its camp and its humiliated leaders, but the Californians, meticulously drilled by their commander Don Alejandro, did not pursue them. Santa Anna has suffered a serious setback and an embarrassment, but it was not the decisive victory. It was merely a bloody nose for the Mexican dictator, and Don Alejandro ensured that his men held their positions as the enemy withdrew from the battle.
