In ancient days Sparta had its Thermopylae, while in those of modern
date Sicily saw a thousand men in scarlet shirts make landing upon her
coast, and conquer a kingdom defended by a military force twenty or
thirty times their number!
But deeds of heroism are not alone confined to the history of the Old
World. That of the New presents us with many pages of a similar kind,
and Texas can tell of achievements not surpassed, either in valour or
chivalry, by any upon record. Such was the battle of San Jacinto, where
the Texans were victorious, though overmatched in the proportion of ten
to one: such the defence of Fort Alamo, when the brave Colonel Crockett,
now world-known, surrendered up his life, alongside the equally brave
"Jim Bowie," he who gave his name to the knife which on that occasion he
so efficiently wielded--after a protracted and terrible struggle
dropping dead upon a heap of foes who had felt its sharp point and keen
edge.
Among the deeds of great renown done by the defenders of the young
Republic, none may take higher rank, since none is entitled to it, than
that known as the battle of Mier. Though they there lost the day--a
defeat due to the incapacity of an ill-chosen leader--they won glory
eternal. Every man of them who fell had first killed his foeman--some
half a score--while of those who survived there was not one so craven as
to cry "Quarter!" The white flag went not up till they were overwhelmed
and overpowered by sheer disparity of numbers.
It was a fight at first with rifles and musketry at long range; then
closer as the hostile host came crowding in upon them; the bullets sent
through windows and loopholed walls--some from the flat parapetted roofs
of the houses--till at length it became a conflict hand to hand with
knife, sword, and pistol, or guns clubbed--being empty, with no time to
reload them--many a Texan braining one antagonist with the butt of his
piece after having sent its bullet through the body of another!
Vain all! Brute strength, represented by superior numbers, triumphed
over warlike prowess, backed by indomitable courage; and the "Mier
Expedition," from which Texas had expected so much, ended disastrously,
though ingloriously; those who survived being made prisoners, and
carried off to the capital of Mexico.
Of the Volunteer Corps which composed this ill-fated expedition--and
they were indeed all volunteers--none gave better account of itself than
that organised in Poydras Street, New Orleans, and among its individual
members no man behaved better than he whom they had chosen as their
leader. Florence Kearney had justified their choice, and proved true to
the trust, as all who outlived that fatal day ever after admitted.
Fortunately, he himself was among the survivors; by a like good luck, so
too were his first-lieutenant Crittenden and Cris Rock. As at
"Fanning's Massacre," so at Mier the gigantic Texan performed prodigies
of valour, laying around him, and slaying on all sides, till at length
wounded and disabled, like a lion beset by a _chevaux-de-frise_ of
Caffre assegais, he was compelled to submit. Fighting side by side,
with the man he had first taken a fancy to on the Levee of New Orleans,
and afterwards became instrumental in making captain of his corps--
finding this man to be what he had conjecturally believed and pronounced
him--of the "true grit"--Cris Rock now felt for Florence Kearney almost
the affection of a father, combined with the grand respect which one
gallant soul is ever ready to pay another. Devotion, too, so strong and
real, that had the young Irishman called upon him for the greatest risk
of his life, in any good or honourable cause, he would have responded to
the call without a moment's hesitancy or murmur. Nay, more than risk;
he would have laid it down, absolutely, to save that of his cherished
leader.
Proof of this was, in point of fact, afforded but a short while after.
Any one acquainted with Texan history will remember how the Mier
prisoners, while being taken to the city of Mexico, rose upon their
guards, and mastering them, made their escape to the mountains around.
This occurred at the little town of El Salado, and was caused by the
terrible sufferings the captives had endured upon the march, added to
many insults and cruelties, to which they had been subjected, not only
by the Mexican soldiers, but the officers having them in charge. These
had grown altogether insupportable, at El Salado reaching the climax.
It brought about the crisis for a long time accumulating, and which the
Texans anticipated. For they had, at every opportunity afforded them,
talked over and perfected a plan of escape.
By early daybreak on a certain morning, as their guards were carelessly
lounging about an idle hour before continuing that toilsome journey, a
signal shout was heard.
"Now, boys, up and at them!" were the words, with some others following,
which all well understood--almost a repetition of the famous order of
Wellington at Waterloo. And as promptly obeyed; for on hearing it the
Texans rushed at the soldiers of the escort, wrenched from them their
weapons, and with those fought their way through the hastily-formed
ranks of the enemy out into the open country.
So far they had succeeded, though in the end, for most of them, it
proved a short and sad respite. Pursued by an overwhelming force--fresh
troops drawn from the garrisons in the neighbourhood, added to the late
escort so shamefully discomfited, and smarting under the humiliation and
defeat--the pursuit carrying them through a country to which they were
entire strangers--a district almost uninhabited, without roads, and,
worse still, without water,--not strange that all, or nearly all, of
them were recaptured, and carried back to El Salado.
Then ensued a scene worthy of being enacted by savages, for little
better than savages were those in whose custody they were. Exulting
fiend-like over their recapture, at first the word went round that all
were to be executed; this being the general wish of their captors. No
doubt the deed of wholesale vengeance would have been done, and our
hero, Florence Kearney, with his companion, Cris Rock, never more have
been heard of; in other words, the novel of the "Free Lances" would not
have been written. But among those reckless avengers there were some
who knew better than to advocate indiscriminate slaughter. It was "a
far cry to Loch Awe," all knew; the Highland loch typified not by Texas,
but the United States. But the more knowing ones always knew that,
however far, the cry might be heard, and then what the result? No mere
band of Texan filibusters, ill-organised, and but poorly equipped, to
come across the Rio Grande; instead a well-disciplined army in numbers
enough for sure retaliation, bearing the banner of the "Stars and
Stripes."
In fine, a more merciful course was determined upon; only _decimation_
of the prisoners--every tenth man to suffer death.
There was no word about degrees in their guiltiness--all were alike in
this respect--and the fate of each was to be dependent on pure blind
chance.
When the retaken escapadoes had been brought back to El Salado, they
were drawn up in line of single file, and carefully counted. A helmet,
snatched from the head of one of the Dragoons guarding them, was made
use of as a ballot-box. Into this were thrown a number of what we call
French or kidney beans--the _pijoles_ of Mexico--in count corresponding
to that of the devoted victims. Of these _pijoles_ there are several
varieties, distinguishable chiefly by their colour. Two sorts are
common, the black and white; and these were chosen to serve as tickets
in that dread lottery of life and death. For every nine white beans
there was a black one; he who drew black would be shot within the hour!
Into the hard soldier's head-piece, appropriate for such purpose, the
beans were dropped, and the drawing done as designed. I, who now write
of it long after, can truthfully affirm that never in the history of
human kind has there been a grander exhibition of man's courage than was
that day given at El Salado. The men who exemplified it were of no
particular nation. As a matter of course, the main body of the Texans
were of American birth, but among them were also Englishmen, Scotchmen,
Irishmen, French, and Germans--even some who spoke Spanish, the language
of their captors, now their judges, and about to become their
executioners. But when that helmet of horrible contents was carried
round, and held before each, not one showed the slightest fear or
hesitancy to plunge his hand into it, though knowing that what they
should bring up between their fingers might be the sealing of their
fate. Many laughed and made laughter among their comrades, by some
quaint _jeu d'esprit_. One reckless fellow--no other than Cris Rock--as
he fearlessly rattled the beans about, cried aloud--
"Wal, boys, I guess it's the tallest gamblin' I've ever took a hand at.
But this child ain't afeerd. I was born to good luck, an' am not likely
to go under--jest yet."
The event justified his confidence, as he drew _blank_--not _black_, the
fatal colour.
It was now Kearney's turn to undergo the dread ordeal; and, without
flinching, he was about to insert his hand into the helmet, when the
Texan, seizing hold of it, stayed him.
"No, Cap!" he exclaimed; "I'm wownded, putty bad, as ye see,"--(he had
received a lance thrust in their struggle with the Guards)--"an' mayent
git over it. Thurfor, your life's worth more'n mine. Besides, my
luck's good jest now. So let me take your chance. That's allowed, as
these skunks hev sayed themselves."
So it was--a declaration having been made by the officer who presided
over the drawing--from humane motives as pretended--that any one who
could find a substitute might himself stand clear. A grim mockery it
seemed; and yet it was not so; since, besides Cris Rock, more than one
courageous fellow proposed the same to comrade and friend--in the case
of two brothers the elder one insisting upon it.
Though fully, fervently appreciating the generous offer, Florence
Kearney was not the man to avail himself of it.
"Thanks, brave comrade!" he said, with warmth, detaching his hand from
the Texan's grasp, and thrusting it into the helmet. "What's left of
your life yet is worth more than all mine; and my luck may be good as
yours--we'll see."
It proved so, a murmur of satisfaction running along the line as they
saw his hand drawn out with a white bear between the fingers.
"Thanks to the Almighty!" joyously shouted the Texan, as he made out the
colour. "Both o' us clar o' that scrape, by Job! An' as there ain't no
need for me dyin' yet, I mean to live it out, an' git well agin."
And get well he did, despite the long after march, with all its
exposures and fatigues; his health and strength being completely
restored as he stepped over the threshold, entering within his
prison-cell in the city of Mexico.