the brains and torn limbs of dead and wounded men littering the ground.
A half hour after the two sides began trading fire, a brown-haired sergeant named Weigart became the first official American casualty of the war. He was peering out at the enemy when a piece of grapeshot blasted through his chin and exited the back of his head. Weigart dropped facedown. Hair and blood matted the gaping hole in his skull. A sergeant standing nearby mistook Weigart’s body for that of an Irish soldier named Shea, who had a profound reputation for cowardice. “Shea is killed, sir,” the orderly sergeant informed his commanding officer in a shaking voice. “No, I ain’t, sir,” cried out Shea, standing up from the spot where he’d been hiding.
The captain ordered that Weigart’s body be dragged to a hospital tent. An hour later, a second Mexican shell scored a direct hit on the hapless sergeant’s corpse, entirely severing head from body. A party was sent out to bury the remains in the dark quietly that night, exiting the fort to dig a grave alongside a wall that could easily be seen by Mexican troops. The work was perilous — they could have been captured and taken prisoner at any time — but the men got the job done and returned to the relative safety of their beleaguered earthworks, which in reality weren’t much safer.
The nighttime silence along the Rio Grande came after a pummeling day of fighting. The din along the river had been tremendous. American gunners fired more than 350 cannon rounds, so many that they had to stop shooting after six hours for fear of running out. The Mexicans, meanwhile, lobbed more than 1,200 rounds on the earthworks. Wrote Dana, “We could not answer their guns anymore but keep our means for an emergency, and as they did not do us the least injury in that six hours firing, we concluded that it was unnecessary to throw away any more of our powder and shot unless they materially improved their firing. . . . We treated all their noise with silent contempt, and our men screened themselves from the shot and slept on their arms.”
Key to the fate of the American soldiers was their army’s return. Fort Texas was sturdy enough, holding up spectacularly to the bombardment, with little damage to show for the hours of punishment. Yet the fact remained that the trapped Seventh would run out of food and ammunition if Taylor didn’t arrive soon. No matter how effective the cannons inside the fort might be, or how inefficient the Mexican gunners, the U.S. soldiers could not endure indefinitely. The siege would break them. Sooner or later the Seventh would either starve to death or be forced to surrender.
The situation took a hearbreaking turn for the worse at midmorning on the fourth day. Major Brown was making his daily rounds of the defenses. It was a normal walk-through: shells burst all around; his men dodged incoming artillery, staying low and pressing their bodies against a wall whenever they heard the telltale whine that signaled a new attack.
Brown paused to direct a squad building a bombproof shelter, ignoring cannonballs whistling all around him. In a brilliant example of war’s sudden surprise, a Mexican howitzer shell blasted into his right leg, tearing away everything below the midthigh. Shredded muscle and jagged lengths of bone marked where the limb had been severed. Two soldiers, stunned by what they’d just witnessed, hoisted Brown off the ground and carried him quickly into the hospital tent. The military surgeon had seen few injuries in his career, let alone a shattered leg. Moving quickly, knowing that immediate treatment was the key to saving Brown’s life, the surgeon reached for the box containing his amputation scalpels and bone saw. A crowd gathered in the sweltering tent to console their commander. They believed the fort would surely fall if Brown’s fortunes took a turn for the worse. “Men, go to your duties,” Brown reassured the dumbstruck soldiers. “Stand your
A half hour after the two sides began trading fire, a brown-haired sergeant named Weigart became the first official American casualty of the war. He was peering out at the enemy when a piece of grapeshot blasted through his chin and exited the back of his head. Weigart dropped facedown. Hair and blood matted the gaping hole in his skull. A sergeant standing nearby mistook Weigart’s body for that of an Irish soldier named Shea, who had a profound reputation for cowardice. “Shea is killed, sir,” the orderly sergeant informed his commanding officer in a shaking voice. “No, I ain’t, sir,” cried out Shea, standing up from the spot where he’d been hiding.
The captain ordered that Weigart’s body be dragged to a hospital tent. An hour later, a second Mexican shell scored a direct hit on the hapless sergeant’s corpse, entirely severing head from body. A party was sent out to bury the remains in the dark quietly that night, exiting the fort to dig a grave alongside a wall that could easily be seen by Mexican troops. The work was perilous — they could have been captured and taken prisoner at any time — but the men got the job done and returned to the relative safety of their beleaguered earthworks, which in reality weren’t much safer.
The nighttime silence along the Rio Grande came after a pummeling day of fighting. The din along the river had been tremendous. American gunners fired more than 350 cannon rounds, so many that they had to stop shooting after six hours for fear of running out. The Mexicans, meanwhile, lobbed more than 1,200 rounds on the earthworks. Wrote Dana, “We could not answer their guns anymore but keep our means for an emergency, and as they did not do us the least injury in that six hours firing, we concluded that it was unnecessary to throw away any more of our powder and shot unless they materially improved their firing. . . . We treated all their noise with silent contempt, and our men screened themselves from the shot and slept on their arms.”
Key to the fate of the American soldiers was their army’s return. Fort Texas was sturdy enough, holding up spectacularly to the bombardment, with little damage to show for the hours of punishment. Yet the fact remained that the trapped Seventh would run out of food and ammunition if Taylor didn’t arrive soon. No matter how effective the cannons inside the fort might be, or how inefficient the Mexican gunners, the U.S. soldiers could not endure indefinitely. The siege would break them. Sooner or later the Seventh would either starve to death or be forced to surrender.
The situation took a hearbreaking turn for the worse at midmorning on the fourth day. Major Brown was making his daily rounds of the defenses. It was a normal walk-through: shells burst all around; his men dodged incoming artillery, staying low and pressing their bodies against a wall whenever they heard the telltale whine that signaled a new attack.
Brown paused to direct a squad building a bombproof shelter, ignoring cannonballs whistling all around him. In a brilliant example of war’s sudden surprise, a Mexican howitzer shell blasted into his right leg, tearing away everything below the midthigh. Shredded muscle and jagged lengths of bone marked where the limb had been severed. Two soldiers, stunned by what they’d just witnessed, hoisted Brown off the ground and carried him quickly into the hospital tent. The military surgeon had seen few injuries in his career, let alone a shattered leg. Moving quickly, knowing that immediate treatment was the key to saving Brown’s life, the surgeon reached for the box containing his amputation scalpels and bone saw. A crowd gathered in the sweltering tent to console their commander. They believed the fort would surely fall if Brown’s fortunes took a turn for the worse. “Men, go to your duties,” Brown reassured the dumbstruck soldiers. “Stand your
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