Defeat from the jaws of victory...
Tijuana Fort, Mexican-Californian Frontier, April 10th 1836
Private Christian Hamann’s rifle gave a loud crack and jerked upwards, spitting the ball of lead forwards, vaguely, into the teeming Mexican lines. With those numbers, and this range, he had to have hit something. Someone had to have been on the receiving end of his penultimate shot. He felt the same certainty about most of the bullets he had fired all day- at what was left of the broken trench-line, at the walls of the redoubt before the Mexicans had overrun that too, and now, leaning out of the window of one of the stables that sat within the small confines of the fort. He snapped the weapon open over his knee and looked into the chamber. It was a pointless gesture that he had repeated five times. He had known, every time, how many bullets he had left. And now there was one. He might have been wishing to himself that he had saved his ammunition earlier in the day- like his grave old corporal who had sat back grimly all morning not fighting, announcing gravely to the squad that “all you do at this range is ruin the acoustics”- but it didn’t seem to matter. Shooting at the Mexicans then, out west in the trenches that had long since been lost after they had held them all week, had been comforting. Then it had felt like today would be a day like the last six- sitting back, firing, and waiting for the Mexicans to give up again. But today they had not stood and fired, or marched up in slow order. They had just charged. It was like watching a wolf in its death-throes, except that this time, the wolf was going to savage the hunger before he could cut its throat.
Christian snapped the rifle back together and peered out of the window. The Mexicans had advanced slightly- picking their way across the bodies of the dead and dying, but they were under heavy fire. Their advance had grown less certain all day, and now it was definitely wavering, but not unsure enough to make them abandon the chase at the last mile. The least perceptive man alive could have seen that the fort was falling, and that the numbers, and bullets, of the Californians were dwindling. But for the inspirational words and deeds of General del Serrano they probably would have surrendered already. That and, of course, Santa Anna’s promise to kill every Californian he took alive. Christian looked around him at the few men left in the stable. They were trapped, and doomed, but on reflection they had made the right decision. Most of the squad had tried to dash back towards the central plaza, and had got caught in the crossfire between the Californians guarding that path and the Mexicans following them. One of those boys had kept moaning for at least an hour, but he had stopped now. Only Christian, the Corporal and two others were left standing in the stable. There had been three more, but one had got a bullet in the face and gone down straight away, another took one to the shoulder and was lying quietly in the corner, slowly soaking the straw, and the third had lost his cool and tried to dash out of the door. Christian reckoned he’d got at least around ten bullets in him for that, and he’d twitched pretty awfully for a bit.
He caught the eye of the Corporal, who raised his eyebrows grimly. His every action seemed to be in some way grim.
“Alright, boys,” he said suddenly, his gravely voice just about audible over the gunfire that was ringing out across the fort, “time to get going, I reckon.”
“Out there?” Shouted one of the other boys, Hal, over the noise. “Right into the Mexican guns?”
“Die in here slow or die out there fast, son. But you can stay in here yourself, I’m done.”
“I’m with you, sir.” Said the other man left, Roman, on Christian’s right, and made his way over to the door avoiding the windows. Hal watched him, then looked at Christian. Christian shrugged.
“This place has gotten kinda stuffy… Need some fresh air.” He smiled.
“Sure, then.” Replied Hal. They gathered at the door.
“On three, then?” Said the corporal. “One, two, three!”
They burst out of the door. The corporal’s pistol fired, and Christian ducked next to a post holding up the stable’s outdoor awning. He raised the rifle to his shoulder and aimed towards the mass of Mexicans. But they were leaving. Backs were turned, flags were going away. The enemy guns had stopped. Spanish shouts were ordering them back, and trumpets outside the fort were sounding the retreat. Incredibly, Santa Anna’s army were snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. And then the shouting began to spread across the ruined, smoking, burning fort, in English and in Spanish.
“Reinforcements to the north!”