THE SAD SURRENDER
Ned took another look at the beleaguered force, and what he saw did not
encourage him. The men, crowded together, were standing in a depression
seven or eight feet below the surface of the surrounding prairie. Near
by was an ammunition wagon with a broken axle. The men themselves, three
ranks deep, were in a hollow square, with the cannon at the angles and
the supply wagons in the center. Every face looked worn and anxious, but
they did not seem to have lost heart.
Yet, as Ned had foreseen, this was quite a different force from that
which had held the Alamo so long, and against so many. Most of the young
faces were not yet browned by the burning sun of Texas. Drawn by the
reports of great adventure they had come from far places, and each
little company had its own name. There were the "Grays" from New
Orleans, the "Mustangs" from Kentucky, the "Red Rovers" from Alabama and
others with fancy names, but altogether they numbered, with the small
reinforcements that had been received, only three hundred and fifty men.
Ned could have shed tears, when he looked upon the force. He felt
himself a veteran beside them. Yet there was no lack of courage among
them. They did not flinch, as the fire grew heavier, and the cannon
balls whistled over their heads. Ned was sure now that General Urrea
was around them with his whole army. The presence of the cannon
indicated it, and he saw enough to know that the Mexican force
outnumbered the Texan four or five to one.
He heard the Mexican trumpets pealing presently, and then he saw their
infantry advancing in dark masses with heavy squadrons of cavalry on
either flank. But as soon as they came within range, they were swept by
the deadly fire of the Texan rifles and were driven back in confusion.
Ned noticed that this always happened. The Mexicans could never carry a
Texan position by a frontal attack. The Texans, or those who were called
the Texans, shot straight and together so fast that no Mexican column
could withstand their hail of bullets.
A second time the Mexicans charged, and a second time they were driven
back in the same manner. Exultation spread among the recruits standing
in the hollow, but they were still surrounded. The Mexicans merely drew
out of range and waited. Then they attacked a third time, and, from all
sides, charging very close, infantry and cavalry. The men in the hollow
were well supplied with rifles, and their square fairly blazed. Yet the
Mexicans pressed home the charge with a courage and tenacity that Ned
had never seen among them before. These were Mexico's best troops, and,
even when the men faltered, the officers drove them on again with the
point of the sword. General Urrea himself led the cavalry, and the
Mexicans pressed so close that the recruits saw both lance and bayonet
points shining in their faces.
The hollow in which the Texans stood was a huge cloud of flame and
smoke. Ned was loading and firing so fast that the barrel of his rifle
grew hot to the touch. He stood with two youths but little older than
himself, and the comradeship of battle had already made them friends.
But they scarcely saw the faces of one another. The little valley was
filled with the smoke of their firing. They breathed it and tasted it,
and it inflamed their brains.
Ned's experience had made him a veteran, and when he heard the thunder
of the horse's hoofs and saw the lance points so near he knew that the
crisis had come.
"One more volley. One for your lives!" he cried to those around him.
The volley was forthcoming. The rifles were discharged at the range of
only a few yards into the mass of Mexican cavalry. Horses and men fell
headlong, some pitching to the very feet of the Texans and then one of
the cannon poured a shower of grape shot into the midst of the wavering
square. It broke and ran, bearing its general away with it, and leaving
the ground cumbered with fallen men and horses.
The Mexican infantry was also driven back at every point, and retreated
rapidly until they were out of range. Under the cloud of smoke wounded
men crept away. But when the cloud was wholly gone, it disclosed those
who would move no more, lying on every side. The defenders had suffered
also. Fannin lay upon the ground, while two of his men bound up a severe
wound in the thigh that he had sustained from a Mexican bullet. Many
others had been wounded and some had been killed. Most alarming of all
was the announcement that the cannon could be fired only a few times
more, as there was no water for the sponges when they became heated and
clogged. But this discouraged only the leaders, not the recruits
themselves, who had ultimate faith in their rifles.
Ned felt an extreme dizziness. All his old strength had not yet
returned, and after such furious action and so much excitement there was
a temporary collapse. He lay back on the grass, closed his eyes, and
waited for the weakness to pass. He heard around him the talk and murmur
of the men, and the sounds of new preparations. He heard the recruits
telling one another that they had repulsed four Mexican attacks, and
that they could repulse four more. Yet the amount of talking was not
great. The fighting had been too severe and continuous to encourage
volubility. Most of them reloaded in silence and waited.
Ned felt that his weakness had passed, opened his eyes, and sat up
again. He saw that the Mexicans had drawn a circle of horsemen about
them, but well beyond range. Behind the horsemen their army waited.
Fannin's men were rimmed in by steel, and Ned believed that Urrea, after
his great losses in the charges, would now wait.
Ned stretched himself and felt his muscles. He was strong once more and
his head was clear. He did not believe that the weakness and dizziness
would come again. But his tongue and throat were dry, and one of the
youths who had stood with him gave him a drink from his canteen. Ned
would gladly have made the drink a deep one, but he denied himself, and,
when he returned the canteen, its supply was diminished but little. He
knew better than the giver how precious the water would become.
Ned was standing at the edge of the hollow, and his head was just about
on a level with the surrounding prairie. After his look at the Mexican
circle, something whistled by his ear. It was an unpleasant sound that
he knew well, one marking the passage of a bullet, and he dropped down
instantly. Then he cautiously raised himself up again, and, a half dozen
others who had heard the shot did the same. One rose a little higher
than the rest and he fell back with a cry, a bullet in his shoulder.
Ned was surprised and puzzled. Whence had come these shots? There was
the line of Mexican cavalry, well out of range, and, beyond the
horsemen, were the infantry. He could see nothing, but the wounded
shoulder was positive proof that some enemy was near.
There was a third crack, and a man fell to the bottom of the hollow,
where he lay still. The bullet had gone through his head. Ned saw a
wreath of smoke rising from a tiny hillock, a hundred yards away, and
then he saw lifted for only a moment a coppery face with high cheek
bones and coarse black hair. An Indian! No one could ever mistake that
face for a white man's. Many more shots were fired and he caught
glimpses of other faces, Indian in type like the first.
Every hillock or other inequality of the earth seemed to spout bullets,
which were now striking among the Texans, cooped up in the hollow,
killing and wounding. But the circle of Mexican horsemen did not stir.
"What are they?" called Fannin, who was lying upon a pallet, suffering
greatly from his wound.
"Indians," replied Ned.
"Indians!" exclaimed Fannin in surprise. "I did not know that there were
any in this part of the country."
"Nor did I," replied Ned, "but they are surely here, Colonel, and if I
may make a suggestion, suppose we pick sharp-shooters to meet them."
"It is the only thing to do," said Fannin, and immediately the best men
with the rifle were placed along the edge of the hollow. It was full
time, as the fire of the red sharpshooters was creeping closer, and was
doing much harm. They were Campeachy Indians, whom the Mexicans had
brought with them from their far country and, splendid stalkers and
skirmishers, they were now proving their worth. Better marksmen than the
Mexicans, naked to the waist, their dark faces inflamed with the rage to
kill, they wormed themselves forward like snakes, flattened against the
ground, taking advantage of every hillock or ridge, and finding many a
victim in the hollow. Far back, the Mexican officers sitting on their
horses watched their work with delighted approval.
Ned was not a sharpshooter like the Panther or Davy Crockett, but he was
a sharpshooter nevertheless, and, driven by the sternest of all needs,
he was growing better all the time. He saw another black head raised for
a moment above a hillock, and a muzzle thrust forward, but he fired
first. The head dropped back, but the rifle fell from the arms and lay
across the hillock. Ned knew that his bullet had sped true, and he felt
a savage joy.
The other sharpshooters around him were also finding targets. The Indian
bullets still crashed into the crowded ranks in the hollow, but the
white marksmen picked off one after another in the grass. The moment a
red face showed itself a bullet that rarely missed was sent toward it.
Here was no indiscriminate shooting. No man pulled the trigger until he
saw his target. Ned had now fired four times, and he knew that he had
not missed once. The consuming rage still possessed him, but it was for
the Mexicans rather than the Indians against whom he was sending his
bullets. Surely they were numerous enough to fight the Texans. They
ought to be satisfied with ten to one in their favor, without bringing
Indians also against the tiny settlements! The fire mounted to his
brain, and he looked eagerly for a fifth head.
It was a singular duel between invisible antagonists. Never was an
entire body seen, but the crackling fire and the spurts of flame and
smoke were incessant. After a while the line of fire and smoke on the
prairie began to retreat slowly. The fire of the white sharpshooters had
grown too hot and the Indians were creeping away, leaving their dead in
the grass. Presently their fire ceased entirely and then that of the
white marksmen ceased also.
No sounds came from the Mexicans, who were all out of range. In the
hollow the wounded, who now numbered one-fifth of the whole, suppressed
their groans, and their comrades, who bound up their hurts or gave them
water, said but little. Ned's own throat had become parched again, but
he would not ask for another drop of water.
The Texans had used oxen to drag their cannon and wagons, and most of
them now lay dead about the rim of the shallow crater, slain by the
Mexican and Indian bullets. The others had been tied to the wagons to
keep them, when maddened by the firing, from trampling down the Texans
themselves. Now they still shivered with fear, and pulled at their
ropes. Ned felt sorry for the poor brutes. Full cause had they for
fright.
The afternoon was waning, and he ate a little supper, followed by a
single drink of water. Every man received a similar drink and no more
from the canteens. The coming twilight brought a coolness that was
refreshing, but the Indians, taking advantage of the dusk, crept
forward, and began to fire again at the Texans cooped up in the crater.
These red sharpshooters had the advantage of always knowing the position
of their enemy, while they could shift their own as they saw fit.
The Texan marksmen, worn and weary though they were, returned to their
task. They could not see the Indians, but they used an old device, often
successful in border warfare. Whenever an Indian fired a spurt of smoke
shot up from his rifle's muzzle. A Texan instantly pulled trigger at
the base of the smoke, and oftener than not the bullet hit his dusky
foe.
This new duel in the dark went on for two hours. The Indians could fire
at the mass in the hollow, while the Texans steadily picked out their
more difficult targets. The frightened oxen uttered terrified lowings
and the Indians, now and then aiming at the sounds, killed or wounded
more of the animals. The Texans themselves slew those that were wounded,
unwilling to see them suffer so much.
The skill of the Texans with the rifle was so great that gradually they
prevailed over the Indians a second time in the trial of sharpshooting.
The warriors were driven back on the Mexican cavalry, and abandoned the
combat. The night was much darker than usual, and a heavy fog, rising
from the plain, added to its density and dampness. The skies were
invisible, hidden by heavy masses of floating clouds and fog.
Ned saw a circle of lights spring up around them. They were the camp
fires of the Mexican army, and he knew that the troops were comfortable
there before the blaze. His heart filled with bitterness. He had
expected so much of Fannin's men, and Crockett and Bowie before him had
expected so much! Yet here they were, beleaguered as the Texans had been
beleaguered in the Alamo, and there were no walls behind which they
could fight. It seemed to Ned that the hand of fate itself had resolved
to strike down the Texans. He knew that Urrea, one of Santa Anna's
ablest and most tenacious generals, would never relax the watch for an
instant. In the darkness he could hear the Mexican sentinels calling to
one another: "Sentinela Alerte!"
The cold damp allayed the thirst of the young recruits, but the crater
was the scene of gloom. They did not dare to light a fire, knowing it
would draw the Indian bullets at once, or perhaps cannon shots. The
wounded in their blankets lay on the ground. A few of the unhurt slept,
but most of them sat in silence looking somberly at one another.
Fannin lay against the breech of one of the cannon, blankets having been
folded between to make his position easy. His wound was severe and he
was suffering greatly, but he uttered no complaint. He had not shown
great skill or judgment as a leader, but he was cool and undaunted in
action. Now he was calling a council to see what they could do to
release themselves from their desperate case. Officers and men alike
attended it freely.
"Boys," said Fannin, speaking in a firm voice despite his weakness and
pain, "we are trapped here in this hole in the prairie, but if you are
trapped it does not follow that you have to stay trapped. I don't seek
to conceal anything from you. Our position could not well be worse. We
have cannon, but we cannot use them any longer because they are choked
and clogged from former firing, and we have no water to wash them out.
Shortly we will not have a drop to drink. But you are brave, and you can
still shoot. I know that we can break through the Mexican lines to-night
and reach the Coleto, the water and the timber. Shall we do it?"
Many replied yes, but then a voice spoke out of the darkness:
"What of the wounded, Colonel? We have sixty men who can't move."
There was an instant's silence, and then a hundred voices said in the
darkness:
"We'll never leave them. We'll stay here and fight again!"
Ned was standing with those nearest Fannin, and although the darkness
was great his eyes had become so used to it that he could see the pale
face of the leader. Fannin's eyes lighted up at the words of his men,
and a little color came into his cheeks.
"You speak like brave men rather than wise men," he said, "but I cannot
blame you. It is a hard thing to leave wounded comrades to a foe such as
the one who faces us. If you wish to stay here, then I say stay. Do you
wish it?"
"We do!" thundered scores of voices, and Fannin, moving a little to make
himself easier, said simply:
"Then fortify as best you can."
They brought spades and shovels from the wagons, and began to throw up
an earthwork, toiling in the almost pitchy darkness. They reinforced it
with the bodies of the slain oxen, and, while they toiled, they saw the
fires where the Mexican officers rested, sure that their prey could not
break from the trap. The Texans worked on. At midnight they were still
working, and when they rested a while there was neither food nor drink
for them. Every drop of water was gone long since, and they had eaten
their last food at supper. They could have neither food nor drink nor
sleep.
Ned had escaped from many dangers, but it is truth that this time he
felt despair. His feeling about the hand of fate striking them down
became an obsession. What chance had men without an ounce of food or a
drop of water to withstand a siege?
But he communicated his fears to no one. Two or three hours before day,
he became so sore and weary from work with the spade that he crawled
into one of the half-wrecked wagons, and tried to go to sleep. But his
nerves were drawn to too high a pitch. After a quarter of an hour's vain
effort he got out of the wagon and stood by the wheel. The sky was
still black, and the heavy clouds of fog and vapor rolled steadily past
him. It seemed to him that everything was closing on them, even the
skies, and the air was so heavy that he found it hard to breathe.
He would have returned to work, but he knew that he would overtask his
worn frame, and he wanted to be in condition for the battle that he
believed was coming with the morrow. They had not tried to cut out at
night, then they must do it by day, or die where they stood of thirst.
He sat down at last on the ground, and leaned against a wagon wheel,
drawing a blanket over his shoulders for warmth. He found that he could
rest better here than inside the wagon, and, in an hour or two, he dozed
a little, but when he awoke the night was still very dark.
The men finished their toil at the breastwork just before day and then,
laying aside their shovels and picks and taking up their rifles, they
watched for the first shoot of dawn in the east. It came presently,
disclosing the long lines of Mexican sentinels and behind them the army.
The enemy was on watch and soon a terrible rumor, that was true, spread
among the Texans. They were caught like the men of Refugio. Only three
or four rounds of ammunition were left. It was bad enough to be without
food and water, but without powder and bullets either they were no army.
Now Ned knew that his presages were true. They were doomed.
The sun rose higher, pouring a golden light upon the plain. The distance
to the Mexican lines was in appearance reduced half by the vivid light.
Then Ned of the keen eye saw a dark line far off to their right on the
prairie. He watched them a little, and saw that they were Mexican
cavalry, coming to swell still further Urrea's swollen force. He also
saw two cannon drawn by mules.
Ned pointed out the column to Wallace, a Major among the Texans, and
then Wallace used a pair of glasses.
"You are right," he said. "They are Mexicans and they have two pieces of
artillery. Oh, if we could only use our own guns!"
But the Texan cannon stood as worthless as if they had been spiked, and
the Texans were compelled to remain silent and helpless, while the
Mexicans put their new guns in position, and took aim with deliberation,
as if all the time in the world was theirs. Ned tried to console himself
with the reflection that Mexican gunners were not often accurate, but
the first thud and puff of smoke showed that these were better than
usual.
A shower of grape shot coming from a superior height swept their camp,
killing two or three of the remaining oxen, smashing the wagons to
pieces, and wounding more men. Another shower from the second gun struck
among them with like result, and the case of the Texans grew more
desperate.
They tried to reach the gunners with their rifles, but the range was too
great, and, after having thrown away nearly all the ammunition that was
left, they were forced to stand idly and receive the Mexican fire. The
Mexicans must have divined the Texan situation, as a great cheer rose
from their lines. It became evident to Ned that the shallow crater would
soon be raked through and through by the Mexican artillery.
Fannin, lying upon his pallet, was already calling a council of his
officers, to which anyone who chose might listen. The wounded leader was
still resolute for battle, saying that they might yet cut their way
through the Mexicans. But the others had no hope. They pointed to the
increased numbers of the foe, and the exhausted condition of their own
men, who had not now tasted food or water for many hours. If Urrea
offered them good terms they must surrender.
Ned stood on one side, saying nothing, although his experience was
perhaps greater than that of anybody else present. But he had seen the
inevitable. Either they must yield to the Mexicans or rush boldly on the
foe and die to the last man, as the defenders of the Alamo had done. Yet
Fannin still opposed.
"We whipped them off yesterday, and we can do it again to-day," he said.
But he was willing to leave it to the others, and, as they agreed that
there was no chance to hold out any longer, they decided to parley with
the Mexicans. A white cloth was hoisted on the muzzle of a rifle. The
Mexican fire ceased, and they saw officers coming forward. The sight was
almost more than Ned could stand. Here was a new defeat, a new tragedy.
"I shall meet them myself," said Fannin, as he rose painfully. "You come
with me. Major Wallace, but we do not speak Spanish, either of us."
His eye roved over the recruits, and caught Ned's glance.
"I have been much in Mexico," said Ned. "I speak Spanish and also
several Mexican variations of it."
"Good," said Fannin, "then you come with us, and you, too, Durangue. We
may need you both."
The two officers and the two interpreters walked out of the hollow,
passing the barricade of earth and dead oxen that had been of no avail,
and saw four Mexican officers coming toward them. A silk handkerchief
about the head of one was hidden partly by a cocked hat, and Ned at
once saw that it was Urrea, the younger. His heart swelled with rage and
mortification. It was another grievous pang that Urrea should be there
to exult.
They met about midway between the camps, and Urrea stepped forward. He
gave Ned only a single glance, but it made the boy writhe inwardly. The
young Mexican was now all smoothness and courtesy, although Ned was sure
that the cruel Spanish strain was there, hidden under his smiling air,
but ready to flame up at provocation.
"I salute you as gallant foes," said Urrea in good English, taking off
his hat. "My comrades and associates here are Colonel Salas, Lieutenant
Colonel Holzinger and Lieutenant Gonzales, who are sent with myself by
my uncle, General Urrea, to inquire into the meaning of the white flag
that you have hoisted."
Each of the Mexican officers, as his name was called, took off his hat
and bowed.
"I am Colonel Fannin," began the Texan leader.
All four Mexicans instantly bowed again.
"And you are wounded," said Urrea. "It shows the valor of the Texans,
when their commander himself shares their utmost dangers."
Fannin smiled rather grimly.
"There was no way to escape the dangers," he said. "Your fire was
heavy."
Urrea smiled in a gratified way, and then waited politely for Fannin to
continue. The leader at once began to treat with the Mexican officers.
Ned, Durangue and Urrea translated, and the boy did not miss a word that
was said. It was agreed that the Texans should surrender, and that they
should be treated as prisoners of war in the manner of civilized
nations. Prompt and special attention would be given to the wounded.
Then the Mexican officers saluted courteously and went back toward their
own ranks. It had all seemed very easy, very simple, but Ned did not
like this velvet smoothness, this willingness of the Mexicans to agree
to the most generous terms. Fannin, however, was elated. He had won no
victories, but he had saved the lives of his men.
Their own return was slow, as Fannin's wound oppressed him, but when
they reached their camp, and told what had been done, the recruits began
silently to stack their arms, half in gladness and half in sorrow. More
Mexican officers came presently and still treated them with that same
smooth and silky courtesy. Colonel Holzinger received the surrendered
arms, and, as he did so, he said to Ned, who stood by:
"Well, it's liberty and home in ten days for all you gentlemen."
"I hope so," said Ned gravely, although he had no home.
The Mexican courtesy went so far that the arms of the officers were
nailed up in a box, with the statement that they would be given back to
them as soon as they were released.
"I am sorry that we cannot consider you an officer, Señor Fulton," said
young Urrea to Ned, "then you would get back your rifle and pistols."
"You need not bother about it," said Ned. "I am willing to let them go.
I dare say that when I need them I can get others."
"Then you still mean to fight against us?" said Urrea.
"If I can get an exchange, and I suppose I can."
"You are not content even yet! You saw what happened at the Alamo. You
survived that by a miracle, but where are all your companions in that
siege? Dead. You escaped and joined the Texans at Refugio. Where are
the defenders of Refugio? In the swamps of the Guadalupe, and we have
only to put forth our hands and take them. You escaped from Refugio to
find Fannin and his men. Where are Fannin and his men now? Prisoners in
our hands. How many of the Texans are left? There is no place in all
Texas so far that the arm of the great Santa Anna cannot reach it."
Ned was stung by his taunts and replied:
"You forget Houston."
Urrea laughed.
"Houston! Houston!" he said. "He does nothing. And your so-called
government does nothing, but talk. They, too, will soon feel the might
and wrath of Santa Anna. Nothing can save them but a swift flight to the
States."
"We shall see," said Ned, although at that moment he was far from
confident. "Remember how our men died at the Alamo. The Texans cannot be
conquered."
Urrea said nothing further, as if he would not exult over a fallen
enemy, although Ned knew that he was swelling with triumph, and went
back to his uncle's camp. The Texan arms were taken ahead on some
wagons, and then the dreary procession of the Texans themselves marched
out of the hollow. They were all on foot and without arms. Those hurt
worst were sustained by their comrades, and, thus, they marched into the
Mexican camp, where they expected food and water, but General Urrea
directed them to walk on to Goliad.
Fainting from hunger and thirst, they took up their march again. The
Mexican cavalry rode on either side of them, and many of the horsemen
were not above uttering taunts which, fortunately, few of the prisoners
could understand. Young Urrea was in command of this guard and he rode
near the head of the column where Ned could see him. Now and then a
Mexican vaquero cracked his long whip, and every report made Ned start
and redden with anger.
Some of the recruits were cheerful, talked of being exchanged and of
fighting again in the war, but the great majority marched in silence and
gloom. They felt that they had wasted themselves. They had marched into
a trap, which the Mexicans were able to close upon them before they
could strike a single blow for Texas. Now they were herded like cattle
being driven to a stable.
They reached the town of Goliad, and the Mexican women and children,
rejoicing in the triumph of their men, came out to meet them, uttering
many shrill cries as they chattered to one another. Ned understood them,
but he was glad that the others did not. Young Urrea rode up by the side
of him and said:
"Well, you and your comrades have now arrived at our good town of
Goliad. You should be glad that your lives have been spared, because you
are rebels and you deserve death. But great is the magnanimity of our
most illustrious president and general, Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna."
Ned looked up quickly. He thought he had caught a note of cruelty in
that soft, measured voice. He never trusted Urrea, nor did he ever trust
Santa Anna.
"I believe it is customary in civilized warfare to spare the lives of
prisoners," he said.
"But rebels are rebels, and freebooters are freebooters," said Urrea.
It seemed to Ned that the young Mexican wanted to draw him into some
sort of controversy, and he refused to continue. He felt that there was
something sinister about Urrea, or that he represented something
sinister, and he resolved to watch rather than talk. So, gazing
straight ahead, he walked on in silence. Urrea, waiting for an answer,
and seeing that he would get none, smiled ironically, and, turning his
horse, galloped away.
The prisoners were marched through the town, and to the church. All the
old Spanish or Mexican towns of Texas contained great stone churches,
which were also fortresses, and Goliad was no exception. This was of
limestone, vaulted and somber, and it was choked to overflowing with the
prisoners, who could not get half enough air through the narrow windows.
The surgeons, for lack of bandages and medicines, could not attend the
wounded, who lay upon the floor.
Where were the fair Mexican promises, in accordance with which they had
yielded? Many of the unwounded became so weak from hunger and thirst
that they, too, were forced to lie upon the floor. Ned had reserves of
strength that came to his aid. He leaned against the wall and breathed
the foul air of the old church, which was breathed over and over again
by nearly four hundred men.
The heavy doors were unbarred an hour later, and food and water were
brought to them, but how little! There was a single drink and a quarter
of a pound of meat for each man. It was but a taste after their long
fast, and soon they were as hungry and thirsty as ever. It was a hideous
night. There was not room for them all to sleep on the floor, and Ned
dozed for a while leaning against the wall.
Food and water were brought to them in the same small quantities in the
morning, but there was no word from the Mexicans concerning the promises
of good treatment and parole that had been made when they surrendered.
Ned was surprised at nothing. He knew that Santa Anna dominated all
Mexico, and he knew Santa Anna. Promises were nothing to him, if it
served him better to break them. Fannin demanded writing materials and
wrote a note to General Urrea protesting strongly against the violation
of faith. But General Urrea was gone after Ward's men, who were
surrounded in the marshes of the Guadalupe, leaving Colonel Portilla in
command. Portilla, meanwhile, was dominated by the younger Urrea, a man
of force and audacity, whom he knew to be high in the favor of Santa
Anna.
Captain Urrea did not believe in showing any kindness to the men
imprisoned in the church. They were rebels or filibusters. They had
killed many good Mexicans, and they should be made to suffer for it. No
answer was returned to Fannin's letter, and the men in the somber old
limestone building became depressed and gloomy.
Ned, who was surprised at nothing, also hoped for nothing, but he sought
to preserve his strength, believing that he would soon have full need of
it. He stretched and tensed his muscles in order to keep the stiffness
from coming into them, and he slept whenever he could.
Two or three days passed and the Mexican officer, Holzinger, came for
Fannin, who was now recovered largely from his wound. The two went away
to Copano on the coast to look for a vessel that would carry the
prisoners to New Orleans. They returned soon, and Fannin and all his men
were in high hopes.
Meanwhile a new group of prisoners were thrust into the church. They
were the survivors of Ward's men, whom General Urrea had taken in the
swamps of the Guadalupe. Then came another squad, eighty-two young
Tennesseeans, who, reaching Texas by water, had been surrounded and
captured by an overwhelming force the moment they landed. A piece of
white cloth had been tied around the arms of every one of these men to
distinguish them from the others.
But they were very cheerful over the news that Fannin had brought. There
was much bustle among the Mexicans, and it seemed to be the bustle of
preparation. The prisoners expected confidently that within another day
they would be on the march to the coast and to freedom.
There was a singular scene in the old church. A boy from Kentucky had
brought a flute with him which the Mexicans had permitted him to retain.
Now sitting in Turkish fashion in the center of the floor he was
playing: "Home, Sweet Home." Either he played well or their situation
deepened to an extraordinary pitch the haunting quality of the air.
Despite every effort tears rose to Ned's eyes. Others made no attempt to
hide theirs. Why should they? They were but inexperienced boys in
prison, many hundreds of miles from the places where they were born.
They sang to the air of the flute, and all through the evening they sang
that and other songs. They were happier than they had been in many days.
Ned alone was gloomy and silent. Knowing that Santa Anna was now the
fountain head of all things Mexican he could not yet trust.