History's Greatest Battles

The Battle of San Jacinto, 1836. "Texians" defeat the Mexican Army.

August 18, 2024 • Themistocles • Season 1 • Episode 10

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The crushing Mexican defeat at San Jacinto paved the way for Texas's hard-won independence, but it also sowed the seeds of future conflict, culminating in the U.S. Mexican War two decades later. The annexation of Texas by the United States marked the first official expansion into the vast and untamed lands of western North America. Territory that would become the epicenter of a fierce and divisive controversy over slavery. This territorial acquisition, seemingly a triumph of Manifest Destiny, became the tinderbox that ignited the American Civil War—a conflict that would engulf the nation in a whirlwind of bloodshed and devastation, tearing it apart in one of the most brutal and defining struggles in its history.

San Jacinto. 21 April, 1836.
"Texian" Forces: 783 Men.
Mexican Forces: ~ 1,500 Soldiers
Butcher's Bill:
11 dead Texians, 30 Wounded; 630 dead Mexican Soldiers, 208 Wounded, 730 POWs.

Additional Reading and Research:

  • Delgado, Pedro. Mexican Account of the Battle of San Jacinto.
  • Hardin Steve. Texian Illiad.
  • Pohl, James. The Battle of San Jacinto.


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Welcome to History's Greatest Battles. Season one, episode ten. The Battle of San Jacinto, 21st of April, 1836. 

Texan Forces, 783 militia men and volunteers. 

Mexican Forces estimated at 1,500 men. 

The crushing Mexican defeat at San Jacinto paved the way for Texas's hard-won independence, but it also sowed the seeds of future conflict, culminating in the U.S. Mexican War two decades later. The annexation of Texas by the United States marked the first official expansion into the vast and untamed lands of western North America. Territory that would become the epicenter of a fierce and divisive controversy over slavery. This territorial acquisition, seemingly a triumph of Manifest Destiny, became the tinderbox that ignited the American Civil War—a conflict that would engulf the nation in a whirlwind of bloodshed and devastation, tearing it apart in one of the most brutal and defining struggles in its history.

In the early 1820s, Mexico, having finally broken free from the iron grip of Spanish rule, found itself haunted by the fear of a potential Spanish resurgence. To safeguard its newfound independence, Mexico turned its gaze northward, to the vast and sparsely populated lands of Texas. In a bold move, it extended an invitation to the rugged pioneers of the United States, beckoning them to settle in this wild and untamed frontier, hoping they might serve as a bulwark against any future invasion. Neither Spanish nor Mexican settlers had been able to tame the fierce wilderness of Texas, where the Comanche, masters of the plains, roamed with impunity, striking fear into any who dared encroach on their territory. But the American settlers were different. Hardy and relentless, they were seen not only as a potential force to repel any future Spanish armies but also as a living shield, a buffer that might protect the fragile community of 4,000 Mexican settlers from the relentless Comanche raids.

In 1823, the first wave of American settlers, under the guidance of Stephen F. Austin, began to pour into Texas. By 1830, the trickle had become a flood, with over 20,000 Americans staking their claim in this vast land. Alarmed by the sheer number of newcomers, the Mexican government attempted to shut the doors, closing its borders to further immigration. Yet, the flow did not cease. Over the next three years, an additional 10,000 Americans slipped into Texas, defying the law and setting a precedent for border crossings that would echo through the centuries, albeit from a different direction.

In 1833, General Antonio López de Santa Anna rose to power, elected as the president of Mexico amidst great hope. But the promise of his leadership quickly soured. By the following year, he had cast aside the cherished Constitution of 1824 and proclaimed himself dictator. His rule was one of terror—any province that dared to protest found itself drenched in blood, its people slaughtered as a grim warning to others. The message was clear, and chillingly, it was effective. But in Texas, Santa Anna faced a different kind of challenge. The American immigrants who had settled there were not easily cowed. These were men and women who had been raised under the rule of law, staunch believers in constitutional governance—a governance modeled closely after the very Mexican Constitution of 1824 that Santa Anna had now discarded. They had taken up Mexican citizenship to claim their land grants, pledging to defend the constitution that Santa Anna now sought to destroy.

Santa Anna, recognizing their stubborn resolve, sought to undermine the Texians with a cunning ploy. He decreed that since these settlers had not fulfilled the requirement to convert to Catholicism—a stipulation of their land grants—they had forfeited their right to the land. They were to abandon their homes and leave Texas, or face the consequences. But the Texians would not be intimidated. They flatly refused to comply with Santa Anna’s orders, standing firm on their sworn allegiance to the constitution. Enraged by their defiance, Santa Anna declared them rebels, vowing to crush them with the same ruthless force he had unleashed on other provinces that dared challenge his rule.

As Mexican forces surged into Texas in late 1835, they quickly discovered that imposing Santa Anna’s will on the Texians would not be an easy task. The Texians met them with fierce resistance, forcing the Mexican troops to retreat at the Battle of Gonzales in October. By December, the tide had turned decisively, and the Mexican army lost control of San Antonio, the key town in the region. A small contingent of about 150 Texians hunkered down in San Antonio, bracing for the inevitable onslaught that winter would bring. Meanwhile, the Texians had taken their first steps toward self-governance, electing a provisional government and appointing the battle-hardened Sam Houston as their army commander. Houston, a towering figure who had only recently arrived from the United States, was not only a skilled leader but also a trusted confidant of U.S. President Andrew Jackson—a connection that would soon prove invaluable.

Seeking to consolidate his forces, Houston dispatched the young and zealous William Travis, just 26 years old, to San Antonio with orders to bring the garrison back to join the growing Texian army. But once Travis arrived, alongside the legendary frontiersman Jim Bowie, the two men made a fateful decision. Instead of retreating, they chose to make a stand—determined to defend a crumbling mission known as the Alamo against all odds. In truth, the Alamo was a hopeless position, its vast perimeter impossible to defend with so few men. When Santa Anna arrived in late February 1836, leading an army of 4,000 to 6,000 seasoned soldiers, the outcome seemed inevitable. The 13-day siege that followed was a harrowing ordeal, culminating in a massacre that would forever etch the Alamo into the annals of history.

After the Alamo fell on March 6th, Santa Anna, emboldened by his bloody victory, turned his sights westward. He marched through the Texas countryside, leaving a trail of terror in his wake, as he hunted for Houston’s elusive Army of Texas. In a chilling echo of the Alamo, a second column of Mexican troops, operating southeast of Santa Anna’s main force, encircled and mercilessly slaughtered nearly 400 men under the command of James Fannin outside the mission at Goliad. A few managed to escape the carnage, bringing the grim news to Houston’s camp, where it only fueled the growing resolve to fight.

Houston, ever the strategist, devised a plan to withdraw eastward, surrendering land in exchange for precious time. He knew that only by building and training his army could he hope to stand against Santa Anna’s might. Through March and into early April, Santa Anna pursued him relentlessly, but Houston’s retreat remained just out of reach, frustrating the Mexican general’s attempts to force a decisive battle. But in mid-April, the tide began to turn. Houston received word that Santa Anna, confident in his superiority, had made a critical error. He had detached himself from his main army, leading a smaller contingent of just over a thousand men to scout ahead for opportunities, leaving the bulk of his forces behind.

When Houston learned of this bold yet reckless maneuver and pinpointed Santa Anna’s location, he seized the moment. He knew this was the opportunity he had been waiting for—the chance to strike a decisive blow. On April 19th, Houston made his move. He secured a camp for his supplies and the sick, then set out with just under 800 determined men. They crossed the swollen waters of Vince’s Bayou and pressed eastward, following the southern bank of the flooded Buffalo Bayou, a tributary of the San Jacinto River, as they closed in on their prey.

The next day, Houston and Santa Anna finally crossed paths on a stretch of open prairie, nestled in a bend of the swift San Jacinto River. A brief, fierce skirmish erupted, but neither side committed fully to the fight. It was a prelude to something far greater, a cautious testing of each other’s strength. Believing that Houston was cornered, trapped between the raging waters of two rivers and the advancing Mexican force, Santa Anna grew complacent. He withdrew his men about three-quarters of a mile, hastily constructing a makeshift fortification of brush, packs, and saddlebags, confident that reinforcements would soon arrive to deliver the final blow.

Certain that the Texians had no route of escape, Santa Anna saw no need to rush. The coup de grâce could wait until his full force was assembled. Ever meticulous, he positioned his camp just beyond a slight rise, shielded from the deadly reach of Houston’s two six-pounder cannons, ominously dubbed "the Twin Sisters." He ordered his men to sleep in battle formation, their weapons at the ready, and insisted that a vigilant watch be kept. Then, supremely confident in his strategy, the man who fancied himself the "Napoleon of the West" retired for the night, believing victory was all but assured.

Morning dawned on April 21st, and with it came 500 fresh reinforcements, swelling Santa Anna’s numbers to over 1,500. His confidence soared. Outnumbering Houston’s ragtag force nearly two to one and secure in a defensible position, Santa Anna believed that victory was within his grasp. Content to let his men rest, he ordered them to stand down, then retreated to his tent for an afternoon siesta. His officers, equally confident, lounged under the shade of trees, sipping champagne and drifting into sleep. By four in the afternoon, the Mexican camp had fallen into a deep, unsuspecting silence.

In stark contrast, the Texian encampment buzzed with furious, though hushed, activity. The Texian army, filled with a quiet determination, prepared for the fight of their lives, and their commander, Sam Houston, was finally ready to unleash them. In a move known only to a few, Houston had sent the legendary scout Deaf Smith, along with six others, to destroy Vince’s bridge—the sole crossing over Vince’s Bayou and the only practical route to their position. This act was a masterstroke, designed to prevent any further reinforcements from reaching Santa Anna, but it also sealed the Texians’ fate—there would be no retreat, no way out.

The Texian soldiers had often rallied around the defiant cry of “Victory or Death,” a phrase boldly embroidered on their lone battle flag. But with the destruction of Vince’s bridge, these words were no longer just a slogan; they were a grim reality, a destiny now inescapable as the bridge’s remains sank into the swirling waters below. By 3:00 PM, the ragged soldiers of

 the Texian army—783 strong, weary, and battle-worn—began to assemble on the prairie. They formed a line two ranks deep, stretching over 900 yards. At the center, their white and blue battle flag fluttered defiantly in the breeze, and beside it, astride his horse, was General Sam Houston, the man who would lead them into the fire.

At 4:00 PM, Houston slowly trotted out before his men, ensuring that every soldier in the line could see him. He offered no grand speech, no rousing words. Instead, he sat still for a long, tense moment, his gaze fixed on the rise that concealed the Mexican camp, as if silently willing his men to follow where he would soon lead. Then, with a sudden, decisive motion, Houston drew his sword and pointed toward the enemy. The order was given. In deadly silence, the Texian line began its advance, rifles leveled, while the “Twin Sisters” cannons were heaved up the slope by men gritting their teeth through whispered curses.

The Texians closed in on the crest—800 yards, then 500—and still, the Mexican camp lay quiet, unaware of the storm that was about to descend upon it. Incredibly, Santa Anna, in a monumental blunder that would go down as one of the most disastrous in military history, had failed to post pickets or scouts to guard his position. Not until the Texians reached the crest and were a mere 200 yards from the Mexican camp did the sentries finally sound the alarm—but by then, it was far too late. The element of surprise was complete. The Mexican artillery roared to life, but their shots soared harmlessly overhead. In response, the Texian band—a scrappy trio of fifers and a drummer—erupted into a shrill, defiant tune. With that, the long Texian line surged forward at a trot, the “Twin Sisters” cannons careening wildly in front, leading the charge.

Suddenly, out of the chaos, Deaf Smith appeared, galloping furiously along the battle line. His voice rang out above the din: “Vince’s bridge is down! Fight for your lives! Vince’s bridge is down!” The chilling reality of their situation hit home—there would be no retreat. Steeling themselves, the Texians pressed on with grim determination. Then, when they were just 80 yards from the enemy, it came—a cry that would echo through the ages. From the left flank, Colonel Sidney Sherman’s voice rang out, bellowing with all the force he could muster: “Remember the Alamo!” How could any Texan ever forget that blood-soaked sacrifice?

Among the charging Texians were seven survivors of the Goliad massacre, their memories seared with images of comrades butchered. Their voices joined in the cry: “Remember Goliad!” The Spanish-speaking soldiers echoed with their own, “¡Recuerden el Álamo!” and with that, any semblance of order dissolved as the Texians charged with a ferocity born of vengeance. The Texians unleashed a devastating volley, ripping through the brush and saddlebag wall that shielded the Mexican camp. At point-blank range, the “Twin Sisters” let loose, shattering the makeshift barricade. And then, with a fury fueled by weeks of pent-up rage, the Texians hurled themselves at their disordered foes, vengeance driving every strike.

The Mexican soldiers, caught off guard, desperately tried to form ranks, but the Texians were upon them too quickly. Chaos reigned as Mexican officers barked frantic, conflicting orders. Santa Anna himself was seen “running about in the utmost excitement, wringing his hands and unable to give an order.” And through it all, that terrible, accusing cry rang out again: “Remember the Alamo!” It was more than just a rallying call for the Texians; it was a grim reminder to the Mexicans of what defeat had meant just six weeks earlier in San Antonio. The cry shattered Mexican morale like a brittle twig, snapping underfoot.

As the Texians tore through their ranks, many Mexican soldiers flung down their weapons and begged for mercy—only to meet their end at the hands of their vengeful attackers. The rest scattered in terror. Colonel Pedro Delgado, a Mexican staff officer, would later write: “I saw our men flying in small groups, terrified, and sheltering themselves behind large trees. I endeavored to force some of them to fight, but all efforts were in vain.” The battle itself was swift, over in less than 18 minutes. But the bloodshed did not end there. For over an hour, the Texians continued to shoot, club, and stab, driven by an insatiable thirst for vengeance until their rage was finally spent.

Though most of the Mexican soldiers fled, there was no escape. The Texian cavalry ruthlessly cut down those who ran across the open prairie, while the bulk of the fugitives found themselves trapped against the San Jacinto River. Many tried to swim across its muddy waters, only to drown in the attempt. Most, however, were systematically slaughtered by Texian riflemen, who poured volley after volley into the helpless, milling mass. It wasn’t until late in the day that the Texians began to accept surrenders. By the next morning, the full scale of the Texian victory had become clear. Astonishingly, they had suffered only two killed on the field, though seven more would succumb to their wounds. Among the 23 wounded was General Sam Houston himself, who had seen two horses shot out from under him and had taken a musket ball to the ankle.

The Mexican losses were staggering. The battlefield was littered with the bodies of 630 dead, including one general, four colonels, two lieutenant colonels, five captains, and twelve lieutenants. Another 208 lay wounded, and 730 had been taken prisoner. In just one day, Santa Anna’s force had been all but annihilated. Yet the victory was incomplete. The one man Houston most wanted—the architect of so much suffering—had slipped through his grasp. Santa Anna had fled just before the camp fell, and throughout the night, Houston’s scouts scoured the countryside for him. Houston knew that unless Santa Anna was captured, this great victory might be in vain, for the Mexican army still outnumbered his forces by four to one.

On April 22nd, a Texian patrol brought in a dusty, disheveled man they assumed was just another lowly Mexican private. But as he was placed among the other prisoners, some soldiers, recognizing him, blurted out, "¡Este es el Presidente!" To their astonishment, it was indeed General Santa Anna, the president of Mexico himself, now a prisoner of the very men he had sought to crush. At that moment, Houston was resting under an oak tree, grumbling over his wounded ankle. But when he looked up and saw a prisoner being brought before him, surrounded by what seemed to be half the camp, his mood lifted considerably. Though most of the Texian soldiers were eager to see Santa Anna swinging from the nearest tree, Houston understood that such a fate would be counterproductive. A dead man’s signature on a treaty recognizing Texas’ independence would be worthless.

Instead, Houston had Santa Anna escorted to the provisional government to negotiate a treaty. Within a month, Santa Anna signed an agreement with the newly-declared Republic of Texas, ending hostilities and withdrawing the Mexican army south of the Rio Grande. Texas had won its independence, and the men of the Alamo and Goliad were avenged. In just 18 minutes, Mexico had lost a territory larger than the nations of Germany or France. This victory set into motion events that, within 12 years, would cost Mexico a third of its sovereign land and propel the United States from "sea to shining sea." Rarely in the annals of military history has so much been accomplished in so little time.

Eager to solidify their hard-won freedom, the Texans swiftly applied for statehood. But the U.S. Congress, wary of the political storm brewing over slavery, rejected their application. Northern congressmen knew that Texas would enter the Union as a slave state, a prospect that in 1836 was fraught with explosive implications. Thus, Texas spent the next nine years as an independent republic, forging its own path and establishing diplomatic relations with the United States, Britain, France, and other European powers. By the early 1840s, as Texas began to draw closer to Britain, attitudes in the United States regarding its annexation started to shift.

When James K. Polk won the presidency in November 1844 on a platform promising to annex Texas, northern Whigs, knowing their days of influence were numbered, struck a deal. By 1845, Texas was admitted to the Union, fulfilling Polk’s campaign pledge. However, the issue of Texas’ borders soon sparked conflict. Santa Anna’s treaty had granted Texas the Rio Grande as its boundary, from mouth to source. But the Mexican government, rejecting this agreement, insisted the border lay much farther north at the Nueces River. This dispute eventually ignited the U.S.-Mexican War in 1846.

The annexation of Texas by the United States, and the bloody conflict that ensued, did more than just fuel the existing tensions over slavery; it was the spark that ignited a nation already doused in the volatile rhetoric of states' rights. The South clung to the belief that slavery was not just an economic necessity but a sacred right, while the North saw the institution as a moral abomination that must be eradicated. This fundamental clash of ideals carved a widening chasm between North and South—a chasm that, in 1861, exploded into the cataclysm of civil war. What followed was four years of unimaginable carnage, where brother turned against brother, and the land was soaked in the blood of over 600,000 souls. The bitter legacy of the Texas annexation and the ideological battle over slavery tore the country apart, unleashing a maelstrom of violence and sorrow that would forever scar the American landscape.