Santa Anna stepped out of his tent. Looking at the fallen soldiers and the burning camp, he buttoned his coat.
Santa Anna decided to inspect his camp, while Miss Jenny joined the rescue effort as a nurse.
Before the battle, Santa Anna might have been content to bask in the feeling of being a savior, admired by all.
Now, however, he had begun to truly care about the soldiers who had risked their lives to save him.
As a president, Santa Anna knew nothing about politics. As a general, he was no good at war. And as a man, he couldn't control his own body, much less his wife.
But Santa Anna had always treated his subordinates well. He cared about his soldiers, and whenever he got the chance, he let them loot and keep their spoils. He had even made his orderly vice president.
Those who had benefited from him usually called him President, the Great General, the Napoleon of North America, or their savior.
Yet, when it mattered, they had all scattered and fled, abandoning him. An army of three thousand had nearly been pierced through by eight hundred men.
If not for those three hundred Black soldiers, Santa Anna might already have gone to meet God—or ended up locked in a cell at the Houston military camp.
Most of the Black soldiers lying on the ground had fallen along the way during the charge, many still clutching sabers and pitchforks. One Black soldier was already dead, but his hands were still clamped around a Texan's neck.
Santa Anna took the casualty report from his orderly, removed his hat, and saluted these brave men.
Santa Anna ordered a dignified burial for the fallen heroes and promoted all twenty-three surviving Black soldiers to noncommissioned officers. One of them had