Rhyme and Reason: Remembering Goliad ​

An unlikely way to commemorate March 27

Edward Burleson famously said, "Thermopylae had her messenger of defeat; the Alamo had none." The Alamo had her Fess Parker; Goliad had none.   Or did it?   We're Texans. We remember the Alamo. We remember Goliad. People around the world know the Alamo story and its impact on the Battle of San Jacinto, but fewer folks know the story of the Goliad Massacre.   It's the middle child in the tripart family of 1836 clashes.   News of the events of March 27, 1836 made the papers of the day but did not make the headlines. Fannin and his men, unlike Crockett and Bowie, were not headliners.   The massacre at Goliad, however, waltzed into the American literary canon, courtesy of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass. Disclaimer - I am an not a poetry gal. Free verse does even less for me. If you're in my camp, I urge you to read on. There's something worthwhile in this. Whitman self-published the first edition of his book two decades after the Goliad Massacre, in 1855. It contained the first iteration of the poem Song of Myself, which begins this way: You may be thinking, "That's hippie-dippie crap, woman! And what in the wide, wide world of sports does it have to do with Goliad?" Lots.   It has a lot to do with everything, which is the point of the poem. Humanity, writ large - the farmer, the fireman, the slave, the soldier, the high society lady, the men massacred at Goliad - we're all made of the same stuff, inside and out.   We're human and we have human experiences.   The poem, which Whitman revised and expanded until his death in 1892, places the poet at several American scenes he used to illustrate the American spirit.   Among his selections, we find our middle child: Now I tell what I knew in Texas in my early youth, (I tell not the fall of Alamo, Not one escaped to tell the fall of Alamo, The hundred and fifty are dumb yet at Alamo,) 'Tis the tale of the murder in cold blood of four hundred and twelve     young men.   Retreating they had form'd in a hollow square with their baggage       for breastworks, Nine hundred lives out of the surrounding enemy's, nine times       their number, was the price they took in advance, Their colonel was wounded and their ammunition gone, They treated for an honorable capitulation, receiv'd writing and seal,     gave up their arms and march'd back prisoners of war.   They were the glory of the race of rangers, Matchless with horse, rifle, song, supper, courtship, Large, turbulent, generous, handsome, proud, and affectionate, Bearded, sunburnt, drest in the free costume of hunters, Not a single one over thirty years of age.   The second First-day morning they were brought out in squads       and massacred, it was beautiful early summer, The work commenced about five o'clock and was over by eight.   None obey'd the command to kneel, Some made a mad and helpless rush, some stood stark and       straight, A few fell at once, shot in the temple or heart, the living and dead      lay together, The maim'd and mangled dug in the dirt, the new-comers saw       them there, Some half-kill'd attempted to crawl away, These were despatch'd with bayonets or batter'd with the blunts       of muskets, A youth not seventeen years old seiz'd his assassin till two more       came to release him, The three were all torn and cover'd with the boy's blood.   At eleven o'clock began the burning of the bodies; That is the tale of the murder of the four hundred and twelve       young men. Stirring? Aye! Even to a poetry hater like me. The verse is a blunt instrument built to deliver a hefty emotional blow.   Accurate? Not exactly.   Not all massacred at Goliad were under the age of thirty. Fannin's men certainly didn't kill nine hundred of Urrea's troops. Perhaps Walt Whitman referred to high-end estimates of combined casualties at the Battles of Refugio and Coleto.    I was curious to learn what material informed the poet from Long Island on this Texas tragedy.   None of the general Texas histories published before Leaves of Grass placed the number of Texians at 412. Whitman did.   That's mighty specific.   That number - 412 - can be tracked to a unique source. A letter purportedly written by a Mexican officer, Col. Hernandez, first appeared in the New Orleans Post two months after the massacre.   A portion of that letter reached wider readership when it was featured in the 1837 history of South America and Mexico written by John M. Niles and L. T. Pease. The letter did some heavy lifting during the Texas annexation debate in 1845, too.   Whitman had plenty of places to see it before he began writing Song of Myself. His portrayal of the Goliad Massacre shares other details with that letter beyond the 412 prisoners.   Here it is. See if you can spot the bits our poet used: None older than thirty. Four hundred and twelve prisoners. Executions continued until eight. Funeral pyres commenced at eleven.  Coincidence? I'll leave that to you to decide.   Poetry may not be your preferred way to remember this day in Texas history, but it's an arrow that belongs in your knowledge quiver. Texas history is woven into one of the most widely read books of poetry published on this continent, an ode to the American spirit.   Remember Goliad, y'all.     God & Texas, Michelle Michelle M. Haas, Chairman Texas History Trust

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