The Texas Revolution, 1821–1836: Part 3 War and Revolution, 1835–1836
By the autumn of 1835, the political crisis that had simmered across Texas for years finally exploded into open warfare. What had once been a struggle over constitutional rights, immigration policy, federalism, and local autonomy was rapidly transforming into a revolution that neither the Mexican government nor the Texan settlers could easily control. The first shots of the conflict were fired at Gonzales in October 1835, when Mexican authorities attempted to reclaim a small cannon that had previously been loaned to the settlement for protection against Native raids. The settlers refused. Instead, they raised a flag bearing a black cannon and the now legendary words: “Come and Take It.”
The clash itself was militarily insignificant, but symbolically, it changed everything. Gonzales marked the moment when Texans openly challenged Mexican military authority with armed resistance. Stephen L. Hardin, in Texian Iliad, argues that the revolution cannot be understood simply through heroic storytelling alone. The war was deeply shaped by poor communication, logistical difficulties, divided leadership, and strategic uncertainty on both sides. In many ways, the Texas Revolution was as much a conflict of confusion and improvisation as it was one of battlefield courage.
Following Gonzales, Texan volunteers moved quickly against Mexican positions in San Antonio de Béxar. The city held enormous strategic importance because it served as the primary Mexican military center in Texas. During the fall of 1835, Texan forces gradually surrounded the city and laid siege to General Martín Perfecto de Cos and his troops. The fighting stretched across weeks of exhaustion, shortages, and sporadic violence. Many of the Texan volunteers lacked formal military training, but they compensated with determination and familiarity with frontier warfare.
When Béxar finally fell in December 1835, the victory electrified the Texan cause. The surrender of Mexican forces provided desperately needed weapons, ammunition, and supplies while also convincing many Texans that Santa Anna’s armies could be defeated. Yet the victory also exposed serious divisions within the revolutionary movement. Some leaders believed Texas had already achieved enough and argued that defensive positions should be consolidated farther east. Others demanded a more aggressive campaign against Mexican authority. These disagreements became particularly important when the question arose over whether the Alamo should even be defended.
The Alamo would become the defining symbol of the revolution, though historians continue to separate historical reality from later mythology. Originally established as a Spanish mission in San Antonio, the Alamo had been transformed into a crude military fortress by 1836. As Santa Anna marched north with thousands of troops determined to crush the rebellion, a small Texan garrison remained behind to defend the mission under the leadership of William B. Travis, James Bowie, and Davy Crockett.
Beginning in late February 1836, Mexican forces surrounded the Alamo and initiated a thirteen-day siege. Inside the walls, the defenders faced dwindling supplies, exhaustion, and the certainty that reinforcements were unlikely to arrive in time. Travis’s famous appeals for assistance reflected both desperation and determination. The defenders understood that the odds were overwhelmingly against them, yet they remained committed to holding the position for as long as possible.
On March 6, 1836, Mexican troops launched their final assault. After brutal close-quarters fighting, the defenders were overwhelmed and killed. Militarily, the fall of the Alamo represented a clear Mexican victory. Politically and psychologically, however, the battle became something far larger.
James E. Crisp’s Sleuthing the Alamo demonstrates how much of the Alamo’s legendary status emerged later through memory, nationalism, and public commemoration. Crisp carefully dissects conflicting accounts regarding the deaths of figures such as Davy Crockett and illustrates how later generations transformed the battle into a near-sacred story of heroic sacrifice. The Alamo became less a historical event and more a cultural symbol, shaped as much by mythmaking as by archival evidence. For many Americans, it came to represent courage, resistance, and martyrdom, even though the actual historical circumstances were far more complex and politically divided than popular memory often suggests.
While the Alamo was under siege, political delegates gathered at Washington-on-the-Brazos and formally declared Texas independence on March 2, 1836. The declaration accused Santa Anna of destroying constitutional government, violating federalist principles, and imposing military despotism upon the Mexican republic. What had once been a movement seeking reform within Mexico had now become an outright struggle for national independence.
Only weeks after the fall of the Alamo, another disaster struck the Texan cause. Colonel James Fannin and several hundred Texan troops were captured near Goliad after a failed retreat. Santa Anna ordered the prisoners executed rather than treated as prisoners of war. On March 27, 1836, Mexican troops marched the captives out in groups and shot them. The Goliad Massacre sent shockwaves throughout Texas and the United States.
News of the executions intensified anti-Mexican sentiment and transformed the emotional character of the revolution. “Remember the Alamo” was now joined by “Remember Goliad,” and both cries became powerful symbols of vengeance, sacrifice, and resistance. The massacres hardened Texan resolve and convinced many previously hesitant settlers that compromise with Santa Anna’s government was impossible.
As panic spread across Texas, civilians fled eastward in what became known as the Runaway Scrape. Entire families abandoned homes, farms, and settlements in fear of the advancing Mexican army. At the same time, General Sam Houston led the Texan army in a long strategic retreat. Many Texans criticized Houston during this period, accusing him of cowardice or indecision. Yet Hardin argues that Houston understood the realities of the military situation better than many of his critics. His army remained poorly trained, under-supplied, and dangerously vulnerable to confrontation with Santa Anna’s larger force. Rather than risk destruction in a premature battle, Houston waited for the right moment to strike.
That moment finally arrived near the San Jacinto River on April 21, 1836. Santa Anna, believing the Texan army was weakened and disorganized, allowed his troops to rest with inadequate defensive preparation. Houston recognized the opportunity immediately. In the afternoon, Texan forces launched a sudden assault against the Mexican camp. The attack was swift, chaotic, and devastating.
The Battle of San Jacinto lasted roughly eighteen minutes, but its consequences reshaped North American history. Mexican forces collapsed under the surprise attack, and Texan troops overwhelmed the camp while shouting “Remember the Alamo” and “Remember Goliad.” Santa Anna himself was captured the following day while attempting to escape disguised among common soldiers.
The Texan victory secured independence, but Hardin emphasizes that the outcome resulted not simply from battlefield heroics alone. Mexican overconfidence, poor reconnaissance, divided command structures, exhaustion, and strategic mistakes all contributed to the defeat. San Jacinto was not inevitable. It was the product of timing, leadership, circumstance, and error on both sides.
By the spring of 1836, the Texas Revolution had transformed from a regional constitutional dispute into a successful war for independence. Yet the victory at San Jacinto also marked the beginning of a new and uncertain chapter. The Republic of Texas now faced difficult questions involving governance, diplomacy, slavery, land, national identity, and its future relationship with the United States
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