Then he saw that all hope was gone, and therefore turned to his men.
“Boys,” said he, “it is useless for us to continue the fight any
longer. They are all gone except ourselves.”
His followers stood for a few moments watching the crowds of Mexicans,
who were making a great demonstration. Their cavalry was charging up
and down the streets, while many were carrying away the guns of the
Texans who were collected upon the plaza. The citizens of the town were
cheering for victory.
“I’ll never give up,” said “Big Foot” Wallace. “My relatives were
massacred after they had surrendered at Goliad, and that is what the
Mexicans will do to us.”
But Cameron wished to save the lives of his men and so took the lead.
As he marched towards the Mexican line, his soldiers followed. When
they emerged from their position into the street they were met by a
strong detachment of Mexicans. The painful work of surrendering their
arms now commenced. “Big Foot” Wallace was the last man to give up his
gun, his knife, and his pistol.
The bloody battle of Mier was over. The Mexican loss had been heavy.
With two thousand in the field, five hundred had been killed. The
Texans had two hundred and sixty in the town, sixteen of whom were
killed and thirty of whom were wounded. The Mexicans lost forty
artillerymen. The bodies of the slain Texans were dragged through
the streets by the cavalry, and were followed by crowds of yelling
townsfolk. Four rows of dead Mexicans were laid out upon the plaza,
where the priests said mass among them. It had been a fierce little
battle.
Now the troubles of the Texan Rangers really commenced. The wounded
were left at the blood-bespattered Mier in charge of the good Doctor
Sinnickson, while the able-bodied Americans were marched towards
Mexico City, in charge of General Ampudia. Everywhere they were met
by jubilant Mexicans, who made grand demonstrations as they passed
through the towns, blowing bugles, hallooing, and charging around upon
their horses. The Texans were so starved that they became thin and
haggard, while their shoes were worn completely through. The Mexican
women pitied the half-fed Americans, some of whom were mere boys.
At Monterrey they came in with provisions and fed them. “Big Foot”
Wallace—still wearing the trousers which he had captured—was thin but
game. “Just give me a chance to escape,” he muttered to a companion.”
Then,—watch me go!”
Finally the Texans were placed in prison at the Hacienda Salado. Their
numbers were increased by a few ranchers who had been captured in
other raids. All were anxious to make the attempt to escape, and a plan
was set on foot to rush the guards at sunrise on the eleventh day of
February, 1843. At Monterrey a similar plot had been hatched, but one
of the Texan officers had disclosed it to the Mexicans, so the attempt
had not been made.
All was soon ready for the struggle for freedom. Captain Cameron
gave the signal by throwing up his hat, and two scouts named Lyons
and Brennan led the charge upon the guards. The Mexicans were taken
completely by surprise, were disarmed at the door of the prison, and
saw the Texans dash into the outer court of the building where about
one hundred and fifty infantrymen were guarding the arms and boxes of
cartridges. The Texans numbered two hundred.
The frontiersmen rushed immediately upon the regular soldiers, who
levelled their muskets at them and fired in their very faces. The
Texans were not armed, but they pressed onward, received the fire, and
closed in upon the yellow-skinned custodians of the jail. It was too
bold a dash for the Mexicans. They surrendered or fled after the first
fire, but the Texans had other soldiers to face.
A second company of infantry was stationed at the gate and a force
of cavalry was outside. The gallant Texans did not hesitate for an
instant. The desperate fellows rushed upon them, and a terrible fight
ensued. Most of them had secured guns by now, and, when the second
hand-to-hand fight took place, they were better prepared to force
their way. “Big Foot” Wallace did not have a gun, so he rushed at a
Mexican who had discharged his piece, and tried to disarm him. The
fellow had a bayonet upon the end of his musket. He made a vicious
thrust at the gaunt and lanky man from Texas.
“Big Foot” seized the bayonet with his bare hands, and a hard struggle
took place for the possession of it. As they bent to and fro, an
unarmed prisoner came up behind, and, seizing the gun in the centre,
wrested it from the Mexican. The soldier fell upon his knees, held up
his hands, and called out loudly: “Señors, have mercy! Have mercy!”
“You can go,” shouted “Big Foot” Wallace.
The fight was now raging fiercely and the scout went into the thick
of it, brandishing the musket which he had just captured, and doing
awful execution with the bayonet. The Texans were getting nearer and
nearer to the gate which opened upon the streets of the town. The
Mexicans were uttering screams and yells of terror and surprise. The
Rangers were among them with clubbed guns and were delivering blows
to the right and left. The cavalry became terror-stricken and fled.
The infantrymen at the gate began to throw down their arms and try to
surrender.
One Mexican lieutenant showed extraordinary bravery. His name was
Barragan,—a son of the commander of the Mexican force. Backing against
a wall, he brandished his sword aloft, and refused to surrender except
to an officer. Six Texans surrounded him and thrust bayonets at his
breast, but he kept his arm in motion and successfully parried every
thrust. His sabre was moved about with such rapidity that it could
hardly be seen.
At this time “Big Foot” Wallace came up. “Here,” cried a Texan, “you
shoot this fellow, ‘Big Foot.’ He deserves death.”
But the lanky Texan shook his head. “No,” said he. “This man deserves
better treatment, for he is a brave soldier. I refuse to shoot him.”
“Let me see your Captain,” cried the Mexican. “To him I will surrender
my sword.”
Captain Cameron came up at once and the blade was turned over to him.
With a proud look the Mexican stepped back and folded his arms.
“You are a brave man,” said Cameron. “You must be our prisoner, but you
will not be injured.”
The Texans were now masters of the situation. They dictated terms to
their enemies, one of which was that the wounded should be well taken
care of. Meanwhile they prepared for instant flight, for they knew that
a large force would soon be on their trail. Some of the Mexicans had
tied their horses near by, and these were at once seized.
By ten o’clock in the morning the Texans were all mounted and set out
for the Rio Grande. It was touch and go with them. The chances for
their getting away were very slight, for they did not know the country.
“Big Foot” Wallace had secured a fine dun-colored mule which had
belonged to a Mexican officer. The other Texans had good mounts, and
by midnight were fifty miles from the scene of their battle. A short
halt was made and the horses were fed. The men slept two hours, and,
early in the morning, left the main road so as to go around the city of
Saltillo. They soon abandoned the road for the mountains. This was a
fatal mistake, for it was a barren waste with no water and no food.
For six days the gallant Texans pressed onward. They were soon
perishing with thirst and starvation. So hungry were they that horses
were killed and eaten. The Texans drank the blood of their mounts,
and, leaving the remains of their slaughtered beasts for the coyotes
and buzzards, they plunged into the arid, brown mountains in a vain
endeavor to reach the Rio Grande. Many were on foot. Some became
delirious and wandered away to die in lonely ravines. The party became
badly scattered. “Big Foot” Wallace dried some mule meat in the sun and
carried it along in a haversack. The frontiersmen toiled onward in the
direction of the Rio Grande, but the Mexican cavalry was hot upon their
trail.
Finally the yellow-skinned soldiers of the country began to come up
with the half-dead Texans and to capture them. The majority of the
invaders formed a hollow square and refused to surrender unless they
could do so as prisoners of war. They were hollow-cheeked, sunken-eyed
and half alive, yet they cried out that they would fight unless granted
an honorable surrender. The Mexicans were well mounted and well fed.
They had the Rangers at their mercy, yet they granted them what they
asked for. Of one hundred and ninety-three Texans who had made their
escape, five died of thirst and starvation, four got through to Texas,
and three were never heard of again.
The Texans were tied together with ropes and were marched in a single
line to Saltillo. When they were brought into the city an order was
received from Santa Anna to have them shot. The Mexican officer in
charge of the prisoners refused to comply, and said that he would
resign his commission before he would do so. The British consul also
interfered, so the poor Texans were allowed to go on to Salado, where
they had had their fierce battle for freedom. They were placed in
irons. As they reached the town an order came from Santa Anna to have
every tenth man shot.
When the prisoners arrived at the jail from which they had so
gloriously escaped, some Mexicans were seen digging a ditch. “Big Foot”
Wallace nudged a companion. “That ditch is for us!” said he. He was
quite right.
The Mexican officers now decided to let the prisoners draw lots in
order to see who should, and who should not be, shot. A large jar was
filled with beans: as many beans as Texans. White and black beans were
there. The white ones meant life; the black,—death. There were nine
white beans to one black.
The Texans were now marched out from their jail and were formed in a
long line. An officer soon approached with the jar in his hand, in
which were one hundred and fifty-nine white beans and seventeen black
ones. The poor Texans were to pass through a fearful ordeal, but they
were all gamblers with life, so they took it philosophically. Soldiers
will rush to almost certain death in the excitement of battle, but to
stand and decide one’s fate by the drawing of a bean is worse than
charging upon a spitting cannon.
The Mexican officers were very anxious to kill Captain Cameron,
the gallant leader of the gaunt and half-starved Texans. They were
therefore in great hopes that he would draw a black bean, and, for
this reason, placed black beans on top, within the jar. He was also
requested to draw first.
But one of the captives—a fellow named “Bill” Wilson—saw the trick,
and, as Cameron placed his hand in the jar, the Ranger called out: “Dip
deep, Captain! Dip deep!”
Cameron followed his advice, ran his fingers to the bottom, and pulled
out a white bean. A look of satisfaction passed over the faces of
the Texans, for they all loved the brave and unselfish Captain. The
Mexicans scowled as the drawing went rapidly on.
All “dipped deep” and it was thus some time before a black bean was
pulled forth. The Texans knew that some of them would be compelled to
draw the black beans, but they grinned with delight as friend after
friend extracted a white bean from the fateful jar. Most of the scouts
showed the utmost coolness. One noted gambler from Austin, Texas,
stepped up to the jar with a smile, saying: “Boys, this is the largest
stake that I ever played for!” When he drew out his hand a black bean
was between thumb and forefinger. Without changing the smile on his
face, he muttered: “Just my luck! Good-by to dear, old Texas!”
One young fellow, almost a boy, drew a black bean, and giving one
appealing look at his comrades, cried out:
“Boys, avenge my death on these hounds!”
As the drawing progressed, some of the petty Mexican officers did all
in their power to annoy the prisoners. When one would draw a black bean
they would express great sorrow, and would say: “Cheer up! Better luck
next time!” although they knew that this was the last chance which the
poor fellow would ever have.
One witty Texan cried out, when his time came to draw:
“Boys, I had rather draw for a Spanish horse and lose him!” He drew a
white bean.
The time approached for “Big Foot” Wallace to have his turn, for the
men drew in alphabetical order, and W was well down upon the list. The
boys were “dipping deep” and nearly all of the white beans had been
dipped out. As “Big Foot” reached into the jar there were about an
equal number of black beans and white. His hand was so large that he
had difficulty in squeezing it down to the beans.
The wily Ranger was under the impression that the black beans were a
little larger than the white ones, so he scooped up two against the
side of the vessel, and, getting them between his fingers, felt them
with great care. The Mexicans were watching him very closely. “Hurry
up!” cried one. “If you pull out two beans and one of them is a black
one, you will have to take the black.”
“Big Foot” paid no attention to this remark. Life was now at stake. He
deliberately felt the beans for some time and one seemed to be larger
than the other. He let it go, drew out his hand, and breathed easier.
He had drawn out a white bean. The next two men drew black.
The black beans had now all been extracted, and the last three Texans
did not draw. An officer turned up the jar and three white beans fell
to the ground. The condemned men were then placed in a row and the
firing squad was detailed and counted off.
The irons were now taken from the unfortunate Texans and they were led
away to execution, bidding their more fortunate companions good-by, as
they moved off. Tears were running down the cheeks of the emaciated
Texans as they bade their comrades a last adieu. A man named Whaling
asked not to be blindfolded, saying that he wished to look the man
in the face that shot him, and show them how a Texan could die. His
request was refused.
The bold and intrepid Texan Rangers were now ready for execution. All
were blindfolded, a sharp order rang out, and the crash of muskets woke
the echoes of the high adobe walls of the quaint, rambling prison.
Without a sound the condemned Texans fell to the ground, all of them
dead save one. This man—a fellow named Shepherd—was wounded in the
shoulder, although a Mexican musket was within a few feet of him when
it had been fired. He feigned death, so that he was able to crawl off
and escape to the mountains after the Mexicans had gone away. But the
men of the south discovered that one of their victims had disappeared
when they came to remove the bodies to the ditch which had been
prepared for them. Scouts were sent out in every direction to hunt for
the missing corpse. In ten days the Ranger was retaken and was shot.
The survivors—in irons—were started on foot for the City of Mexico.
They were half starved. They were derided, hooted at, and beaten by the
populace. “Big Foot” Wallace suffered terribly, for the shackles were
too small and cut deep into the flesh. His arms became badly swollen.
When the poor prisoners arrived at San Louis Potosi, the Governor’s
wife came to look at the half-fed men and particularly noted the
condition of Wallace. Her sympathies were at once aroused and she
ordered the chains to be taken off. The officer who commanded the
Mexican troops refused to do so, saying that only the Governor had
authority to give such an order.
“I am the Governor’s wife,” replied the woman. “I command you—in his
name—to take off these terrible bands.”
To this the soldier consented. Sending for a blacksmith, he had the
shackles removed. The Governor’s wife bathed the swollen arms of “Big
Foot” Wallace with her own hands.
“You should be President of Mexico,” said the half-dead Ranger.
The prisoners were marched onward and soon arrived at an Indian village
about eighteen miles from the City of Mexico. Here an order came from
Santa Anna to shoot Captain Ewing Cameron. He had drawn a white bean,
but the Mexican leader did not respect his former decision. The order
was kept a secret from the balance of the prisoners out of fear that
they would make a demonstration. That night Cameron was put in a room
alone, with a separate guard. The rest of the prisoners suspected some
treachery and were fearful of the fate of their brave leader.
Next morning, when they were all marched out, each Texan filled his
shirt full of rocks, determined to die for their captain if need be.
“Why are you getting those rocks?” asked the guards.
“It is for ballast,” replied “Big Foot” Wallace. “We want to walk
better.”
The Mexican soldiers made no attempt to take the stones away. They were
probably afraid to do so, as they saw a desperate look upon the faces
of the Rangers. As they marched on, the prisoners frequently inquired
about Cameron and wanted to know if he were going to be shot.
“No! No!” replied the Mexicans. “Go on! Your Captain will soon be with
you!”
Somewhat reassured, the Rangers went forward, but, when they were about
a mile from the town, they heard a platoon of soldiers fire their
muskets in their rear. Some one cried out: “Brave Cameron has been
massacred, boys! A finer man never breathed!”
It was only too true. The patriotic Texan had met his death
unflinchingly,—a victim of the treachery of the wily Santa Anna.
Texas was then an independent Republic, for it had not yet been
admitted into the Union. The United States had nothing to do with
protecting the citizens of Texas, and the young Republic did not have
forces enough to invade Mexico with an army, so as to rescue these
unfortunate men. The British consul, however, had a good deal to say
about the killing of Cameron, and had a personal interview with Santa
Anna regarding it. He severely condemned this cruel procedure.
The Rangers were now closely confined in a miserable dungeon. Many
went insane and died. Twenty-four succeeded in digging their way out,
underneath the wall. Four scaled over the high enclosure and made their
way back to Texas in safety. “Big Foot” Wallace, himself, had a fit
of temporary insanity, but he recovered and managed to live through
the months of terrible imprisonment. The Texans were so badly fed that
they caught the rats which ran across the dungeon floor and ate them.
Meanwhile Santa Anna’s wife was continually pleading with her husband
to liberate the miserable men. The stern dictator was greatly attached
to her, and would grant almost anything that she asked.
Friends of the Texans were using their best endeavors to have the
prisoners released. Through the influence of his father and Governor
McDowell of Virginia, “Big Foot” Wallace was finally set free. Upon the
fifth day of August, 1844, he and four others were allowed to go, after
an imprisonment of twenty-two months. Upon the same day the good wife
of Santa Anna died,—regretted and beloved by every Texan who had worn
the chains of Mexico. Soon afterwards an order came to set free the
remainder of the Texans, for Santa Anna had promised his wife—on her
death-bed—that he would release them. To his honor be it said that he
kept his promise.
The intrepid “Big Foot” was, of course, delighted with his freedom.
Taking ship at Vera Cruz, he soon reached New Orleans, and from there
found his way back to his old cabin upon the Medina River. Many
settlers had taken up ranches near by, so he was no longer alone. Still
the Indians were very thick, and there were frequent brushes with the
wild riders of the plains.
One day—near Fort Inge—the pioneer discovered the track of the famous
Big Foot Indian, where he and six followers had crossed the road. The
old fellow’s footprint was fourteen inches in length, and, as he had
seen it several times before, the plainsman knew that there was trouble
in the wind. When he reached the fort, he found a friend of his named
Westfall.
“That Big Foot redskin is around,” said he. “This means horse stealing.
If the old cuss does get your stock, just let me know and I will join
you in a little Injun round-up.”
“All right,” Westfall replied. “If I need you, I will let you know.”
As Wallace expected, in three or four days a Ranger came after him with
the information that all of Westfall’s horses had been stolen and that
he was needed—very badly needed—to assist in their recapture. The
Indians had ridden up the Nueces Canyon to its source, and then had
crossed over to the headwaters of the South Llano, where they had gone
into camp in a dense cedar grove. They thought that they had captured
all of the white men’s horses, and so would not be followed. As they
had shot a small bear, they proceeded to cook it over a glowing fire.
But the redskins did not remember that the white settlers had some very
good mules, which they had not captured. On these the Texans followed
the Indian trail, and soon located the redskin encampment by the smoke
from the fire. Westfall rested, but did not cook anything. He was
waiting for morning, before making the attack.
As day dawned, the plainsman crept towards the Indian camp; accompanied
by a youth named Preston Polly. The other men—four in number—were
told to come on when they heard his gun. At first the two whites
descended into the bed of a gorge to a point opposite the camp of the
famous Big Foot Indian. When nearing the smoke from the fire, a trail
was discovered, which led down the hill to a pool of water fed by two
deep springs. Below the pool was some rank, coarse grass. Westfall and
the boy halted in this.
Suddenly, as he peered beneath some bushes, Westfall saw an Indian
coming towards the pool of water. He was mounted upon a pie-bald pony,
and was a tall, well-formed brave. The plainsman lay still, scarcely
daring to breathe. Silently he cocked his rifle and kept his eyes upon
the savage.
In a few moments the Indian came into full view. The heart of the
plainsman beat quickly, for before him was the terrible Big Foot: his
face all daubed up with vermilion paint, and eagle feathers in his
scalp-lock. Motioning to the boy to remain absolutely quiet, Westfall
slowly raised his rifle. At this moment the horse discovered the
ambushed marksman and snorted. Big Foot turned quickly in order to see
what was the matter and was for a moment stationary. Bang! The burly
chieftain—the scourge and terror of the border—pitched forward upon
his face. He had been shot clean through the heart.
True to their orders to approach when they heard the discharge of a
rifle, the other men came up quickly, on the run. They charged up the
hill, past the body of the dead chief, and into the camp of the red
men. The Indians had gone, but the stolen horses were all in camp,
except those ridden away by the redskins. The pioneers ate a good
portion of the bear meat, which was fat, juicy, and well roasted.
When they examined the big chief, they found that he was indeed the
giant of a man, for he was seven feet tall and weighed about three
hundred pounds. His hand clutched the bridle-reins so firmly that his
pony was unable to pull away from him. His hair was fully a yard in
length and he had strong arms and legs. Upon his right knee was the
mark of a bullet where he had been wounded some years before. The white
men took his moccasins in order to prove that it was the real Big
Foot; rounded up their horses; and were soon travelling back to their
ranches. The great chief was buried without ceremony.
“Big Foot” Wallace was shortly afterwards commissioned by the Governor
of Texas to raise a company of Rangers for frontier defense. He was
made Captain and appointed his friend Westfall a Lieutenant. They were
soon to see plenty of stiff fighting.