legislature at all, that Santa Anna ordered a new election for
governor. Don Augustin Viesca was chosen, and the capital was placed at
Monclova――which did not please Saltillo.
However, Texas took heart again. A letter was received at San Felipe
from Stephen Austin. He had been released from prison by Santa Anna,
was being well treated, and Santa Anna seemed friendly to Texas. Austin
again counselled that his people “go slow,” and that the petition
would be acted upon favorably, he was sure. In October he was called
to a meeting with the president, and made a long talk, explaining what
Texas desired, and why the Texas half and the Coahuila half never
could agree. They were different races and had different countries and
different ideas――and look at the confusion in Coahuila!
Santa Anna replied very nicely. He said that he would agree to letting
American colonists come in; he would send troops to protect the
settlers against Indians and smugglers; but he did not think that Texas
was enough populated yet to be a state by itself――he really did not see
how he was authorized to make it a state; but it could be a territory!
Texas did not wish to be a territory, for then it would have no
independence at all, and all its officers would be supplied by the
government and they might not be good officers. And it was suspicious
of so many troops, who might not pay so much attention to the Indians
as to the American settlers.
Many people thought that Austin was being hood-winked by Santa Anna.
The president was too smooth-spoken, and Austin was gullible. He had
not been permitted to return yet, had he? No.
Then another difficulty arose. The Coahuila legislature, supposed to
represent Texas, too, began to sell off vast tracts of Texas land, for
as low as two cents an acre; and instead of giving the money to Texas,
divided it among speculators, while pretending to apply it on a fund to
maintain a militia for defense against the Indians. Evidently Coahuila
was making what it could out of Texas, before a separation occurred.
Still, the Texas Grand Central Committee, appointed by that convention
of 1833, which had sent Stephen Austin to the City of Mexico, opposed
war. It appointed subcommittees throughout the province, who should
keep track of matters and spread any news that came to them; but while
Austin was a prisoner it advocated peace, as long as possible.
This may read dull, but life in Texas in those days was by no means
dull; not even for Ernest. The Indians themselves shared the unrest,
and kept things lively. Attacks and massacres were reported, in the
country districts and along the Royal Road itself, from Nacogdoches
to Bejar. The Comanches, the Wacos, the Cooshatties, the Tawakanas,
were very, very bad; and after almost every full moon (which was the
favorite time for raids) Gonzales heard of Indian forays, in which
women and children as well as men were killed and scalped.
The six-pounder brass cannon, which had been sent to Gonzales, from the
presidio at Bejar, for protection, was kept ready. Gonzales thought
highly of that brass cannon. And while on herd with his horses Ernest
carried his little rifle, and watched sharply.
The year 1834 passed; Stephen Austin had not returned, although he
might be expected any week, for Santa Anna was “meditating” upon the
reforms that he had promised to Texas. Mr. Austin, writing in March,
declared that the national congress was considering statehood instead
of a territory, and in his opinion the president was about to report
“decidedly in favor” of it. Good news, this, for Texas!
But the same month the legislature down in Coahuila sold 400 square
leagues of Texas land for $30,000――about a cent and a half an acre.
However, Santa Anna did not like this; the government wanted to use
those lands. He declared the sale illegal.
Bad news soon followed, to upset the good. Santa Anna had determined
to draw a new constitution; Coahuila, like Texas, stood firm for the
republic’s constitution of 1824, which granted so much liberty. Santa
Anna sent troops into Coahuila, under his brother-in-law, General
Martin Perfecto de Cos, who from Saltillo ordered the militia at
Monclova, where the legislature met, to disband. Governor Viesca
opposed this, and with the state papers, the militia and Ben Milam and
Dr. John Cameron and several other Texans, tried to change the capital
to San Antonio de Bejar. He was captured――he and his party; and was
sent as prisoner to old Mexico, and Ben Milam and John Cameron with him.
The word that Ben Milam had been taken created much excitement in
Gonzales.
What stirred Texas the deepest, aside from the matter of a new
constitution, was the order from Santa Anna to reduce the militia.
Only one militia-man for each 500 inhabitants was permitted, and all
the other militia must surrender their arms to the government! Many
Americans had been enrolled in the militia, and their arms were their
own.
“Never!” cried Dick Carroll, when he heard of the order. “What! Give up
our rifles, and let the Injuns murder us all? A Texan can’t live, in
these days, and protect his family, without guns.”
Anybody could understand this. Why, that very spring of 1835 had not
Mr. Castleman, who had moved onward fifteen miles west from Gonzales,
come riding furiously, with word that the Comanches had attacked and
murdered a party of traders right on his place (just as they had tried
to murder him a year and a half before, as Ernest well remembered), and
that help was needed at once. A bold spirit was John Castleman, whose
ranch house was a sort of fortress for travellers on the trail. From
his house he and his wife had seen the massacre――and a horrid sight it
was. So a posse immediately rode out from Gonzales――“Old Paint” Matthew
Caldwell, Dan McCoy, Almeron Dickinson, Zeke Williams, Jacob Darst,
Tom Malone, and twenty others, including, of course, Dick, with Bart
McClure as captain. Ernest would have joined, but they would not accept
him. They caught the Comanches and threshed them well. But supposing
no guns had been allowed! Santa Anna, as said Dick Carroll, could go
“plumb to thunder.”
Before 1835 was half over with, things in Texas began to look very
serious indeed.
“There are those three things, boys,” spoke old Captain John Moore, a
famous Indian fighter, who had ridden in from his Moore’s Retreat on
the Colorado. “We won’t stand for a new constitution drawn by Santa
Anna to suit his tyrannical notions; we won’t be disarmed――no, sir!
And we don’t want any 4000 Mexican regular soldiers quartered over
us, to spy on us and enforce Santa Anna’s laws. We want to be a free
state, with our own laws and our own officers, as allowed by the
constitution of 1824. We didn’t come here to form part of a one-man
monarchy. Bustamante tried that on us, and failed; and Santa Anna would
better not try it. That soldier business looks too much like the way
the British acted, before 1776, in Boston. If Mexico doesn’t take care,
there’ll be another battle of Lexington, here in Texas, and a Bunker
Hill, and a Yorktown to follow.”
In Coahuila, Santa Anna had dissolved the state legislature, and had
appointed a governor of his own. Texas had had nothing to say about it,
and now stood alone.
In June arrived by courier more bad news; and yet, according to the
war party men, not such bad news, either. Captain William B. Travis
and a little company had attacked Captain Tonorio, the Mexican officer
who was trying to collect revenue taxes at the port of Anahuac, had
captured him, and had sent him inland to San Felipe.
Many persons did not approve of this――although everybody liked William
Travis. He was a daring young man, and never had been afraid to act.
It reminded Ernest of the Boston “tea party,” when the colonists had
opposed the collection of the tea tax, and had seized the vessel in
Boston harbor, in 1773.
Now both Texas and Mexico were aroused thoroughly. General Cos, who
commanded the department of Eastern Mexico, which included Texas,
dispatched a message to the Mexican officers at Anahuac, saying that
a strong force was being sent there, to restore authority; at the
same time he informed the Texas leaders that he would meet their
commissioners and talk matters over; but his dispatches were taken from
the messenger, and opened.
At San Felipe a public meeting was held, by the Texas war party; and
in a speech R. M. Williamson (he who was called “Three-legged Willie”)
declared: “Our country, our liberty, and our lives are all involved
in the present contest between the State and the military.” A printing
press at San Felipe published the speech and proceedings in a circular,
and spread it broadcast.
General Cos issued another proclamation, warning Texas that it would be
counted as rebellious. From San Antonio de Bejar the courtly Colonel
Ugartechea, who commanded 500 soldiers there, issued his own address,
assuring his friends the Texans that the proposed revolution would be
a great mistake, and that the soldiers were being stationed in Texas
solely as a protection to the settlers. And Colonel Dominic Ugartechea
was known to Dick Carroll, and “Three-legged” Williamson, and even to
Will Travis, as a brave, honorable, conscientious man.
But Ex-Governor Viesca, captured by the Santa Anna forces in Coahuila,
had sent word: “Citizens of Texas, arouse yourselves, or sleep forever.
Your dearest interests, your liberty, your property――nay, your very
existence――depend upon the fickle will of your direst enemies. Your
destruction is resolved upon, and nothing but that firmness and energy
peculiar to true republicans can save you.”
Alarming words, these.
Then in July arrived in Texas Don Lorenzo de Zavala, who had been the
governor of the State of Mexico, at the City of Mexico, and was now
fleeing from Santa Anna by reason of having opposed the dictatorship
and the new constitution. Don Lorenzo also told the Texas people to be
wary.
Orders were sent from the City of Mexico for his arrest; and Colonel
Ugartechea, commandant at Bejar, issued an order to Texas for the
surrender of not only him, but William Travis, “Three-legged”
Williamson, and other American settlers who had been outspoken. They
were not surrendered. It would have been dangerous for any Mexican
official to attempt to take them.
More trouble occurred at Anahuac. And in the midst of all this turmoil
who should arrive but Stephen Austin, landing on the last day of August
from a schooner at the mouth of the Brazos River on the Gulf coast.
He had not been tried at all, but had been passed from court to court
until released and told to go home by Santa Anna himself.
He was worn out, the San Felipe reports said, by his long
imprisonment――nearly two years; and upon landing he had walked the
beach all night, troubled to know what to do. He went to the home of
his sister, near Brazoria town, on the Brazos, about fifty miles below
San Felipe.
At Brazoria, on September 8, the people gave a great dinner for
him. Over 1000 citizens and settlers gathered there, to welcome him
and listen to an address. General Houston came in, and many another
notable. It was the first large public banquet in Texas.
Stephen Austin said that he had left for Mexico City with hopes of
peace, but that after persecution and imprisonment he had returned to
find only unrest and threat of war. Texas was entitled to be separate
from Coahuila; of this there was no doubt. The only way by which the
Texas farmers could prosper was through getting this matter settled,
so that Texas could feel free to go to work. Santa Anna had promised
him that the new constitution should consider the special needs of the
people of Texas, and had been told that if armed troops were sent into
Texas they would be resisted. Now, the thing for Texas to do was to
cease these outbreaks and disputes, and to call a general convention,
for the purpose of officially drawing up resolutions to Santa Anna,
protesting against the armed troops, and saying just what Texas
desired, in the new Mexican constitution. This would show that Texas
was united.
And he gave as a toast: “The constitutional rights and security and
peace of Texas――they ought to be maintained; and jeopardized as they
now are, they demand a general consultation of the people.”
But scarcely had the report of the banquet and the speech been spread
around, when came the news that General Cos was on his way with troops
to land at Matagorda Bay, march inland clear across Texas to Bejar and
place the country under military rule! This must not be permitted. Once
let the Mexican soldiery establish themselves in Texas, and Texas was
lost.
There was no time in which to assemble the consultation advised by
Stephen Austin. But at San Felipe immediately met the Central Committee
of Safety, of which he was chairman. On September 19, of this 1835,
issued a proclamation, signed by him, and printed by the public press
at San Felipe――a press that the government hated.
The proclamation, as received at Gonzales, called upon Texans to insist
upon their rights under the constitution of 1824; to send delegates for
a general consultation and authorized to act as might be necessary;
to raise militia and volunteers; not to depend upon the promises of
General Cos or other Mexican officers. And it added:
“_War is our only resource. There is no other remedy. We must defend
our rights, ourselves, and our country by force of arms._”
Colonel Ugartechea had personally assured the Gonzales council that no
soldiers were to be brought in and distributed; but they were coming!
On this, Texas was resolved: that General Cos should not march across.
In Gonzales a company of riflemen were enrolled at once; everybody
glowed at white heat; and herding his horses on the prairie, Ernest
burned to take part. He was a boy, but he could fight for liberty.
Suddenly, on September 25, there appeared on the west side of the
river, at the ferry crossing, opposite town, a Mexican corporal and
five soldiers and an ox-cart. The corporal sent word across that he was
Casimiro de Leon, of the garrison at Bejar; and that he had a letter
from the political chief at Bejar to the alcalde of Gonzales, ordering
that the brass cannon be delivered over for loading upon the ox-cart!
V
ERNEST CARRIES THE ALARM
From where he was herding on the prairie Ernest knew that something
was happening in the town; and when he came in he learned the whys and
wherefores of all the excitement and riding to and fro. Andrew Ponton,
the mayor, was conveniently absent, but the letter had been received
and opened by Joseph Clements, the first regidor or councilman. He
had returned word to the corporal to wait on the west bank until the
alcalde should return.
But give up the brass cannon? Never! Bejar had plenty of cannon; it had
eighteen pieces unmounted and not being used at all. Then why should
Angel Navarro, the political chief, and Colonel Ugartechea demand this
one, unless to make Gonzales helpless!
A public meeting was being called to consider what should be done. Only
three persons voted to deliver the six-pounder. Everybody else voted to
keep it. But what would happen next? Colonel Ugartechea certainly would
send a much larger force, to attack the town and seize the cannon.
All that evening and most of the night Gonzales was in a state of high
excitement. The families who lived across on the west side of the
river hastened to move over to the east side, where they might be more
protected. The men in town who feared to have their families exposed
to a bombardment prepared to hustle their wives and children away――for
the Colorado, east, or north into the timber. Ox-carts were piled with
household goods and provisions.
Ernest went out on herd, the next morning, with an anxious heart. He
was told to be sharp and ready, in case that Mexican soldiery should
appear or that he should be summoned to hurry in, horses and all. On
this day Alcalde Ponton was to reply to the corporal (who waited on the
west bank) and inform him that he must go back without the cannon.
About noon Dick Carroll came galloping across the prairie, from town.
Ernest’s heart thumped, and he stiffened, alert to gather his herd at
the first word of warning. But no――not yet. Dick drew up short.
“How’s your pony, Ernest? Fresh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. We need you. Leave everything and ride; ride to Burnam’s
and tell them to spread word up and down the river to rally for
Gonzales. Ponton’s already sent word to Navarro and Ugartechea that we
are going to hold the cannon. Captain Caldwell is riding to Mina [which
was a new settlement on the Colorado above Burnam’s Crossing] to alarm
’em there. You strike for Burnam’s. Tell ’em we have only eighteen men,
but we’ll stand our ground till reinforcements get here. Send the word
down to Beason’s and on to Felipe. Tell ’em never mind Cos, he can be
tended to later; but to come, with their guns. The fight begins here,
now. Ride, boy; don’t spare your horse. We depend on you.”
Ernest whirled and was away, enlisted in the Texas cause.
Yes, ride, Ernest; ride! But push not your yellow pony too hard, for
Burnam’s is fifty miles, and desperate as is the need, the race is to
the skillful and not wholly to the swift. Sit light on the saddle, bear
evenly on the reins, and talk to your faithful little steed.
He had cut across the prairie; threaded a timber patch, midway of which
he dashed through Kerr’s Creek; and emerging from the trees struck
down the San Felipe road. His pony’s hoofs hammered steadily on the
hard clay. His rifle danced in its scabbard under his left knee, his
hat-brim flared back in the breeze, and under him the narrow trail
flowed like a ribbon unrolled by the hoof-beats.
With dark mane (for the pony was a true buckskin) rising and falling
to every lunge, ears pointed now backward to catch his master’s words,
now forward to anticipate any alarm, and nostrils flaring wide to
drink deeply of the air, the little horse pulled strongly on the bit.
But Ernest, sitting square, and bearing firmly on the ox-bow wooden
stirrups, only let him stretch his nose, and there held him to a gallop.
“Steady, boy; steady.” He patted the glossy neck, already wet; and in
about five miles pulled him down to a walk and let him puff and grunt.
The pony himself broke into an ambling trot, which was his easiest
gait, and which carried him faster than might be imagined. This was
the pace that he could maintain all day; and this was the pace that an
Indian would have ridden him, mile after mile. An Indian pony he was,
of Texas mustang stock; wiry and tough and stanch, asking little and
giving all.
Ernest let him walk and amble; then with a word and pressure of the
knees sent him into a gallop again.
They had passed the Berry ranch, four miles from town; but nobody
seemed at home. Doubtless the family already knew of the trouble. At
Peach Creek, ten miles, was the McClure ranch. Ernest barely drew rein,
to shout, at a figure in the doorway:
“Gonzales attacked! They need men!”
[Illustration: ERNEST BARELY DREW REIN TO SHOUT AT A FIGURE IN THE
DOORWAY: “GONZALEZ ATTACKED! THEY NEED MEN!”]
And he was away again. Looking back, he could see men and women
running. Like a Paul Revere he felt, who bore the word to the
minute-men that the British were on the march.
A lonely road, as ever, was this road to San Felipe, via Burnam’s
Crossing. Only at long intervals did he have the opportunity to cry,
flashing past traveller ahorse or with ox team:
“Gonzales attacked! They need men!”
The Lavaca was the next stream; after that the Navidad; and after that,
but far, the Colorado. The yellow pony was streaked with sweat-soaked
dust; from his lips and neck and flanks the soapy lather drifted in
shreds of foam. But he was breathing without effort, he was strong on
his legs, his stride faltered not; and as long as he sweat freely and
did not stumble, he was good for many a mile yet.
Occasionally Ernest pulled him down to fast walk and amble, so that
he might blow and rest his muscles. Once they halted at a ford, and
the pony drank a few swallows, but only a few, to clear his mouth and
throat of dust. Then they trotted on, and presently resumed the steady
gallop.
The sun set; the golden glow faded from the west and the stars
appeared. Through the gloam they sped, pounding away, with Burnam’s
ever nearer. Go it, little horse! Prick your ears, hopefully; and go it!
Those last ten miles were the hardest of all. Not of late had Ernest
rasped forth his message, with dry tongue and dusty throat. He had met
nobody, he had passed no more ranches. His face burned with the breeze
and the flying grit, he was blistered from the wet saddle, the rifle
scabbard had chafed the inside of his thigh raw, and the stirrups had
gouged his insteps to the bone, he thought. And he was hungry, being
dinnerless and supperless.
Low to the horizon had dropped the Great Dipper, and he imagined that
folks must be long abed, when he sensed the approach to the Colorado.
The mist of the bottom-lands and of the river smote him coolly. Before,
he could see the line of cottonwoods and other trees, marking the river
course. The pony pricked his ears afresh, as if he, too, knew that the
goal of the eager race was close at hand.
Ernest rose in his stirrups, and straightened, to make a gallant finish.
“Duke!” he cried; and the nervy little pony leaped with all his
reserve strength. Dimly loomed beside the road the ranch outbuildings,
and at sound of the thudding hoofs the Burnam hounds burst into fierce
challenge.
Before the block-house Ernest pulled his pony to its haunches, and
while his mount panted under him he whooped loudly amidst the angry
clamor of the dogs. Dark was the Burnam place, for Texas settlers went
early to bed.
“Hello! Captain! Oh, captain!” shouted Ernest, his efforts tearing his
throat.
Now at last a voice hailed him from a window.
“Who is it? What’s wanted?” And, to the dogs: “Buster! Bravo! Be quiet!”
’Twas Mrs. Burnam.
“It’s Ernest Merrill, from Gonzales,” he called back. “The Mexicans
want our cannon. We need help.”
“For goodness’ sake!” he heard Mrs. Burnam ejaculate. “Wait a minute,”
she bade.
Now there was a stir within the house; a candle glimmered through the
shutter cracks; presently the door was unbarred and Mrs. Burnam herself
came out, and hastened to him.
“Down, Buster!” she ordered. “You Bravo, down! Go back!” She was
bare-headed, bare-footed, with a blanket thrown over her night
garments. She peered at Ernest, to recognize him.
“Want your cannon, you say? You aren’t going to give it to them!”
“No, ma’am!” declared Ernest. “And we’ve told ’em so. But if they try
to take it we’ve only eighteen men. Captain Caldwell’s gone up to
Mina with the word; and they sent me to alarm you folks and the other
Colorado people, and San Felipe. Everybody’s to come as quick as they
can. Never mind Cos.”
“For goodness’ sake!” again ejaculated Mrs. Burnam. “Captain Burnam’s
over at San Felipe, joining the militia against Cos. But light, light,
and come in. We’ll put up your horse.”
“No, I mustn’t,” opposed Ernest. “If you’ll alarm Beason’s and the
up-river, I’ll go on to San Felipe.”
“You can’t do it, boy. Your pony’s beat out, and so are you. Come right
in. Willie’ll go on to San Felipe, and we’ll tend to the river folks
soon as it’s light enough to travel the trails. You come in. You’ve
done your stint. When did you leave?”
“This noon.”
“Well, your pony acts it,” said Mrs. Burnam. “He’s surely tuckered.”
Ernest stiffly swung from his drooping horse. Mrs. Burnam already was
running for the house; and with a grateful slap on Duke’s steaming neck
he followed. The family was awake. By the candle light Will, the oldest
boy, met his mother and stared at Ernest. From their beds in the loft
the other children called excitedly.
“Will!” exclaimed Mrs. Burnam. “This boy’s from Gonzales. The Mexicans
want their cannon and are going to try and take it. Saddle Dandy as
quick as ever you can and ride on to San Felipe. Tell ’em to send all
the men they’ve got. We’ll tend to up-river and down-river. Captain
Caldwell’s gone to Mina, the boy says, and I reckon word’ll travel on
to San Felipe, but maybe you can get there first.”