question. For his boots and trousers rushed Will, and dashed out of
the door. Within a minute, it seemed, the clatter of his horse’s hoofs
echoed as he raced away for the ford. The babble of voices from the
children in the loft sounded still more excitedly.
“Sit, sit,” bade Mrs. Burnam, to Ernest. “I’ll put up your horse and
then get you a snack.”
“No, I’ll put him up, thank you,” answered Ernest. “He ought to be
rubbed down.”
“You’re right,” she approved. “You’ll find an empty stall in the
shed. I’ll show you the way and keep the dogs off.” Together they led
the wearily stumbling Duke to the shed; the dogs, now more friendly,
sniffing at Ernest’s heels. “After you’ve rubbed him down a bit you can
throw him an armful of hay from the stack yonder. Wouldn’t give him
much water till he’s breathed a while. I’ll be getting your snack.” And
Mrs. Burnam bustled back to the house.
Ernest rubbed Duke well with a bunch of straw; and when he came in, a
snack of milk and cold corn-bread was waiting for him by the candle
light. The other Burnam children had turned out of bed, to cluster
around the table and gaze and listen while he answered the good Mrs.
Burnam’s numerous questions.
“Well, I declare!” she uttered. “Likely to attack Gonzales, are they?
We-all thought you-all at Gonzales were friendly with Bejar. ’Pears
like you didn’t want to take part in any of these other uprisings.
Goodness mercy! This means war, and hard times in Texas, but we’ve
got to defend our rights. Now, you go straight to bed, and don’t
you bother. There’s a shake-down in the corner, where you won’t be
disturbed. First thing in the morning, soon as it’s light, I’ll send
word to Hill’s and Moore’s and down to Beason’s. You rest yourself and
your pony. I reckon you’ll be wanting to start back with the first
crowd. You couldn’t follow those trails to-night, anyhow.”
This sounded sensible, and Ernest rather gladly went to bed on his
shake-down. At any rate, the word was being carried to San Felipe.
And in the gray of the morning he was drowsily conscious that two of
the other children had galloped out of the yard. Bareback, with rope
bridles, they had been dispatched, one south twelve miles to Beason’s
Crossing (a place similar to Burnam’s), the other to the Hill place,
and Moore’s Retreat further north. This left not a horse, except his
yellow pony; for the Burnams were by no means wealthy, yet, in horses.
However, the children returned triumphant in the middle morning; but
already had the first of the alarmed settlers arrived, from across the
river. Will, on his way to San Felipe, had informed them. Then, hour by
hour, more reinforcements came in, by twos and threes; from Beason’s
(still known as such, although Mr. Beason himself had been killed by
the Indians several years before) and vicinity, down the river, and
from the ranches up the river. Young James Monroe Hill was among the
earliest, and him Ernest was much pleased to see. They shook hands.
“Pap’s coming, too, when he can,” announced Jim. “But he may cut
through direct. What are we going to do? Fight?”
“I guess we are,” assured Ernest.
“Who’s in command there now?” demanded Jim.
“Captain Albert Martin, I reckon,” answered Ernest.
“Well, I bet no Mexicans will take any cannon away from Captain
Martin,” asserted Jim. “Not if there are any Americans in Texas!
Shucks! Why don’t we go, I wonder. We’ve got enough here now to lick
the whole Mexican army.”
That scarcely was true. However, the number was slowly swelling, as
settlers continued to arrive――all with their muskets, shot-guns,
and long Kentucky and Mississippi rifles, their powder-horns and
bullet-pouches; many ahorse, but some afoot, for in Texas even, where
horses were cheap, not every man possessed one.
They figured that they ought to start in number sufficient to break
through into Gonzales in case that the Mexicans surrounded it; and
anyway, it would take two or three days for the troops from Bejar to
get there. By late evening (as afternoon is called, in Texas) some
twenty settlers had gathered at Burnam’s; they camped in the yard that
night, and at daybreak they started, Ernest and Jim riding side-by-side.
Duke was a bit hobbly, but he had had a good rest and plenty of feed
and water, and he was an Indian pony. Gradually he limbered, for the
horsemen rode at amble and easy lope, to keep their mounts fresh. The
footmen toiled far behind. Broad-hatted or fur-capped, sinewy and
bronzed, was the cavalcade――some bearded, some smooth-faced, all armed
with gun and knife, and a few had pistols also. Old Captain John H.
Moore, from Moore’s Retreat, led.
“That’s a good little hoss of yours,” appraised Jim, to Ernest. “Same
one you’ve always had, isn’t he?”
“He sure is,” declared Ernest.
“Good little rifle, too, I reckon,” further appraised Jim. “But I got
one to match it.” So he had――a rifle almost the same size.
“Sam Houston’s wife gave it to me, up in the Cherokee nation,” informed
Ernest.
“Dad gave me mine,” said Jim. “And I’ve promised no Mexican’ll ever get
it. I’ll break it, first. Do you know Sam Houston?”
“Yes, I do,” responded Ernest. “I know him and his wife, too. Knew ’em
up at Fort Gibson, before I came into Texas.”
“Sho’; is that so?” commented Jim, with some interest. “He’s a
master-hand with Injuns, they say.”
“Yes, and he’s a fine man,” asserted Ernest, loyally. “He’s a General
Jackson man and a regular soldier. Expect we’ll need him if we have war
with Mexico.”
“Well, he’s a master-hand with Injuns, anyway,” repeated Jim, not
committing himself further. “I hear tell he’s been sent out from San
Augustine to talk with the East Texas Injuns and get ’em to keep quiet
during the fuss. It sure would be bad if we had to fight the Injuns and
the Mexicans both at once.”
“It surely would,” agreed Ernest. “But Sam Houston can talk to ’em if
anybody can. They all trust him. And that helps Texas.”
“Reckon _so_,” admitted Jim. “Wonder, now, if Sion Bostick isn’t going
to join this fracas. He ought to be coming along. Sort of looked for
him at Burnam’s, but maybe he has to stay home and tend school.”
“Who’s Sion Bostick?” demanded Ernest. “Does he live down toward
Beason’s?”
“Yep. Smart lad, too. His father died year before last, and that leaves
the family short-handed. They came to Texas in ’28; they used to live
over at San Felipe. There’s an Irishman teaches school at their house.
Expect, though, if this war keep up the school’ll have to quit; and
then we’ll see Sion――if his mother’ll let him come, and I rather guess
she will, when he’s needed.”
Thudity-thud, thudity-thud, up the Gonzales road they all pushed,
steadily rising and falling in their saddles, every eye grimly set
before. They crossed the Navidad, and the Lavaca, and shortly after
noon they crossed Peach Creek. With Gonzales only ten miles ahead,
they strained their ears for cannon-shots. But they heard nothing. The
landscape dozed undisturbed and peaceful.
“Gonzales isn’t taken _yet_,” vouchsafed Jim.
Ten miles to Gonzales――eight――five――three; and, hurrah, there clustered
the little town, apparently just as when Ernest had left――so long ago,
as seemed to him.
“No Mexicans in sight, boys,” cried voices in the column. “We’re in
time.”
And now at thundering gallop they all forged on, into Gonzales,
answering cheer with cheer.
VI
GONZALES KEEPS ITS SIX-POUNDER
Yes, Gonzales was still all right. No more Mexican soldiers had
appeared, and this afternoon Almeron Dickinson and a party of the
settlers had crossed the river and taken the corporal’s party
prisoners. These were now held under guard in the Gonzales jail. The
cannon had been buried in George Davis’s peach orchard, and the ground
plowed over it. But it was to be dug up again, for the corporal had
forwarded Alcalde Ponton’s answer, to Bejar, and also one of the
soldiers had escaped; probably troops already were on their way from
Bejar, which was only two days’ travel distant. So the cannon would be
needed.
However, the original eighteen defenders had been increased by a dozen
or more, before Ernest’s return with Jim and the other recruits; the
ferry had been hidden in the slough, and every dug-out had been tied up
on the east bank of the river; and this afternoon and all night more
settlers flocked in――from Mina (which is now Bastrop) on the Colorado
above Moore’s, and from Rutersville, beyond Hill’s place, and from
Beason’s, below Burnam’s, and from San Felipe; so that in the morning
of the 29th a hundred had gathered. More were coming.
John H. Moore was elected colonel, to command operations; Mr. J. W. E.
Wallace was elected lieutenant-colonel.
Ernest sought out Jim Hill, the first thing after breakfast, and he
and Jim stayed together most of the day. Along toward noon a Mexican
soldier appeared on the west bank of the river, and signalled that he
bore dispatches. Colonel Moore answered that if he had anything to
communicate he might leave his horse and swim and wade across, and so
he did, not in very good humor.
He had three dispatches. One was from Colonel Ugartechea, at Bejar,
saying he had sent Lieutenant Castañeda and one hundred dragoons for
the cannon; and if it was not surrendered, the alcalde and all other
citizens who resisted were to be brought as prisoners to Bejar. Another
was from the political chief, Angel Navarro, ordering the alcalde to
obey him and not to delay for further instructions. The third was from
Lieutenant Castañeda himself, saying that he was within a few hours’
march, and wished an interview with the alcalde.
Colonel Moore replied that Alcalde Ponton was again absent, but might
return within three hours, when an answer would be made.
“Whoopee!” laughed Jim. “It’s just a little waiting game, while we get
reinforcements.”
That afternoon the cannon was dug up out of George Davis’s peach
orchard and was mounted on the two front wheels of one of Captain
Martin’s cotton wagons; John Sowell and Dick Chisholm, who were
blacksmiths, said they would make some cannon-balls for it.
That night Jesse McCoy, Joe Kent, Graves Fulshear, and Will Arrington
kept watch at the ford to see that no Mexicans crossed. In the morning
they reported that several dragoons had come down to the river to water
horses, and could have been easily potted, but weren’t.
In the morning the whole Mexican troop were in sight, camped across the
river. Lieutenant Castañeda rode forward to the ford and called over
that he would receive the reply from the alcalde, as promised. First
Regidor (or councilman) Joseph Clements called back that the alcalde
was still absent, but he had been sent for and would reply about four
o’clock. So Lieutenant Castañeda retired, because he dared not try to
force the ford, in the face of the Texas rifles.
This was the 30th. Now there were some 200 volunteers, all told, in
Gonzales. Mr. Chisholm and Mr. Sowell were working hard, cutting ox
chains into short pieces, for the cannon, and welding iron scraps into
balls. The cannon itself was mounted and ready.
Accordingly, at four that afternoon, Regidor Clements reported to
Lieutenant Castañeda. He stood on the Gonzales side of the river, and
yelled across to the lieutenant on the other side. Gonzales was not
very hospitable; but Mr. Clements had too much sense to trust himself
on the dragoons’ side.
Everybody present could hear the message.
“The alcalde is still absent,” shouted Mr. Clements, in very good
Spanish. “And in his absence it has fallen to my lot to reply to the
communication sent to him asking a second time for the cannon. The
right of consulting with our own political chief of the department of
the Brazos seems to be denied us. Therefore my reply reduces itself
to this: I cannot, nor do I desire to, deliver up the cannon; it
was given to us for our defense; and this is the sentiment of all
the members of the council now here present. The cannon is in the
town, and only through force will we yield. We are weak and few in
number, nevertheless we are contending for what we believe to be just
principles.”
When Regidor Clements finished reading aloud the paper that he had
drawn up, the lieutenant replied. He said that the cannon had only been
loaned, and had not been a gift; and that by making prisoners of the
corporal and party the town had committed a crime against the dignity
of the Mexican republic.
Regidor Clements stood firm, and said that the answer was what he had
just read; but if Lieutenant Castañeda really desired the cannon,
he might come over and get it. At that the lieutenant shrugged his
shoulders, and rather comically replied:
“Many thanks, señor. I suppose I need not come if I don’t want to.”
Then he saluted and retired to his troop. Ernest and Jim and all the
other Texans cheered. Thus the matter rested.
“Cracky!” blurted Jim. “Wish they would try to cross. Wouldn’t we
pepper ’em!”
“There comes the ferry,” informed Ernest “Maybe we’ll cross, ourselves.”
And sure enough, the ferry was being poled down from the mouth of the
slough and was tied on the Gonzales side, ready for business.
But Lieutenant Castañeda did not try to cross. He camped his troop back
from the river a short distance, on DeWitt’s Mound, as it was called.
’Twas rumored that he had dispatched couriers to Bejar, for help.
To-day the Gonzales volunteers were drilled in companies under the
direction of Colonel Moore, and the cannon was loaded with the pieces
of ox chains. Young Almeron Dickinson, who had been appointed a
lieutenant, was placed in charge of it.
Everything seemed to be ready. Two hundred volunteers were present; the
cannon was pointed at the ford. The next noon the Mexican dragoons were
observed to ride away, up the river. The scouts who spied upon them
reported that they had camped again, this time on Zeke Williams’s farm,
seven miles above, but still west of the river, and were eating all the
water-melons! Mr. Williams did not like this.
“What are we going to do now, I wonder?” ventured Ernest, to Jim.
“Maybe they’re going back to Bejar without the cannon, and there won’t
be any fight.”
“Shucks!” derided Jim, who was older and was supposed to know.
“Don’t you believe there won’t be any fight. They’ll just wait for
reinforcements. If we’re going to lick ’em we’d better lick ’em right
away. You can count on old Colonel Moore to fix ’em plenty. Castañeda’s
a republican, though, and against Santa Anna despotism, and like as
not he doesn’t want to fight us other republicans. But if he’s under
orders to take the cannon he’s got to do his best or else join with
Texas.”
“Somebody says Ugartechea told him if we were too strong he’d better
retreat and not wait to be licked, for if he was licked, that would
hurt Mexico and help the Texan cause,” vouchsafed Ernest.
“Reckon that’s so,” responded Jim. “But he’d better get out of here
mighty quick. We mean business. Zeke Williams will go after him for
stealing those water-melons! That crop means money.”
“Bill Smithers is with ’em. Did you know that?” demanding Ernest. “He’s
a Gonzales man, and they’ve caught him and are holding him.”
“So I hear tell,” answered Jim. “That won’t cut much figure. We’ve
still got their corporal and several other soldiers.”
The opinion in town was, that the lieutenant had camped either to await
reinforcements from his colonel, or to cross the river by the ford
above the Williams place, and come down on Gonzales from the north
through the timber and the prairie strip. This of course would never do.
“You boys both ready?” queried Dick Carroll, strolling by Jim and
Ernest, late in the afternoon. “There’ll be something stirring before
dark, so I thought I’d warn you. Looks like we’d get over on the
lieutenant’s side, an’ pay him a call.”
“We’re ready,” they assured. And――――
“Ginger! Wish I had more powder,” remarked Jim, to Ernest. “How many
loads you got?”
“Ten,” replied Ernest, dubiously. “Hope that’ll be enough. I’ll give
you one if you run short.”
“Your bullets don’t fit my gun, though,” reminded Jim. “Maybe I can
double patch ’em. But I guess powder alone will fill the bill. It’ll
make a noise. Just to hear a gun go off scares those _hombres_ [men]
into fits.”
Evidently Jim did not think much of the Mexican soldiery. Neither did
most of the other volunteers. Still, the camp of Lieutenant Castañeda,
on Zeke Williams’s farm, was known to be a strong position, well
chosen; and the dragoons were regulars of the Mexican army, thoroughly
equipped with muskets and pistols.
As Dick Carroll had predicted, that night at seven o’clock orders were
given to move from Eli Mitchell’s cornfield, where the little army was
camped, and to cross the river with the cannon. The cannon was trundled
by oxen upon the flatboat ferry; the footmen were ferried over also,
by the flatboat and by dug-outs; the horses forded; and Colonel Moore
summoned the officers to a council of war. They all could be dimly
seen, squatting in a circle. Presently the circle broke up.
“Wonder if we’re going to fight,” queried Ernest, of Jim, as they sat
their horses, waiting with the other horsemen.
“Dunno. _Quien sabe?_” responded Jim――which meant, in Spanish, “Who
knows?” And he suddenly added: “Reckon we are, though. There comes the
parson, to tell us how.”
For the Reverend W. P. Smith, the Methodist preacher who had
accompanied the Rutersville volunteers, had mounted his horse and
ridden forward from the council, to halt and hold up his hand in
signal. He was easily identified by his black, broad-brimmed flat hat,
and his long black coat.
“Listen to the parson,” rose the cry; and the ranks were formed to hear
him.
The Reverend Mr. Smith made a stirring speech: he told the volunteers
that they were about to move against the enemy who were invading their
rights, and that the time had come when Texas should strike another
blow for human liberties. This was to be a second Battle of Lexington;
and everyone should remember the glorious example set by the American
minute-men of ’76. Freedom was at stake, and tyranny should not
prevail. Wives and children were waiting in Gonzales and elsewhere,
for victory; and all Texas also was waiting.
He removed his hat, and while every head was bared likewise, he offered
a short prayer for success for the right, in this struggle now begun.
“Bully for the fighting parson,” murmured Jim, when the prayer was
concluded; and a hearty cheer went up.
Orders to advance were immediately given. Colonel John Moore and his
aides rode ahead; the army followed, cannon in the centre, and scouts
out on either flank.
The night was damp and dark. Scarcely anybody had much to say. Even
Jim was unusually silent. The words of Preacher Smith had made a deep
impression. The war for liberty had actually started――and it was no
joking matter.
After a march of about five miles, halt was ordered. Pickets were
posted, and the men were told to sleep. It was a free and easy sort
of a camp, with no tents and everybody rolled in blankets. Ernest and
Jim lay side by side――and they lay side by side through many a night
thereafter.
Jim went to sleep first. Ernest felt too excited to sleep, but sleep he
did, nevertheless, although he slept cold; and the first thing that he
heard, when awakened by a general stir around him, was Jim’s disgusted
exclamation:
“Jiminy Christmas, what a fog! Can’t see a thing! Couldn’t hit the side
of a barn if my feet were touching it!”
That might be so. At any rate, since they had camped a regular Texas
fog had settled down; and now in the gray of very early morning (four
o’clock was the hour) the whole landscape was a blank. Soaked were the
blankets, and dripping were the grass and shrubs and exposed noses.
“Glad I put my rifle in under with me,” remarked Ernest. “Did you put
yours in?”
“Sure,” said Jim, as they dressed by pulling on their boots. “Hope the
cannon doesn’t miss fire on us. Touch-hole ought to’ve been covered.”
However, Lieutenant Dickinson could be depended upon to attend to that.
“Anyway,” observed Jim, “if we can’t see the Mexicans they can’t see
us, and we can get right close up to ’em. We know the country better
than they do.”
Without delay for coffee, the ranks were formed again by the impatient
Colonel Moore. The horsemen cinched their wet, hunched horses, and
climbed aboard; and once more the army moved forward, toward Ezekiel
Williams’s place, in regular line of battle.
Lieutenant Dickinson and his cannon and cannoneers were in the centre.
The cavalry, fifty in number, were placed at front, to cover the
cannon――Ernest and Jim sticking together, touching knees in the fog.
On either side of the cannon were the infantry, in two columns; and
skirmishers mounted and unmounted extended on the flanks to right and
left. The Reverend Mr. Smith rode before, with Colonel Moore and staff.
“Looks like we were going to surprise ’em,” whispered Jim, as the march
proceeded almost in silence, for even the cannon wheels were muffled by
the damp ground.
“Must be getting near to Williams’s melon patch,” whispered back Ernest.
“Bang!”
That was a musket, sounding dully in the dense white mist. Some of the
skirmishers had run into a Mexican picket.
“Pop! Pop-pop!” cracked rifles.
Not far ahead lilted the high notes of a trumpet. The Mexican camp!
Back from Colonel Moore raced an aide, shouting orders; and the company
officers galloped to carry them out.
“Column, by the right flank! March!” bawled Ernest’s commander.
“Hooray!” cheered Jim, as bending in their saddles they all swerved and
raced across the front. “Get out of the way of that cannon, you!”
They were formed again on the extreme end of the line at the right of
a company of the infantry. The cannon properly stayed in the centre,
where it belonged; and the other company of infantry were on the left
of line. Here at the right, in company front, the cavalry and infantry,
advancing together, made quite a sight――as far as they could be seen.
The muskets of the Mexican pickets and the rifles and shot-guns of the
Texas skirmishers were still answering one another; but it was all a
waste of powder, and soon the firing ceased.
Colonel Moore had ordered a halt, until the fog lifted. Duke stood with
ears pricked, as if he wondered what all this commotion was about.
“Shake up your priming, boy,” cautioned Jim, to Ernest, as they sat
carefully covering their rifle pans with their coats. “She’s thinning.”
And so “she”――the fog――was: slowly drifting away, and more and more
revealing the country around. Ernest nervously wiped his flint with his
damp fingers, and clapped his hand against the lock plate to shake the
priming in case that it was caked.
Now could be made out the ghostly forms of trees, and other objects;
and a low order was issued “to move forward at a walk.” The whole line
moved. The Mexican pickets began to fire, again; and on the left some
of the volunteers in the ranks shot back at them.
The pickets could be seen bolting away for their camp――with mounted
skirmishers dashing in pursuit for better shots.
“Shucks!” complained Jim. “We aren’t in on this at all. Why don’t we
charge?”
“What’ll we charge at?” retorted Ernest.
More ghostly objects were disclosed――and see, there were the Mexicans,
at last: a crowd of spectre horsemen grouped on a little rise.
“Give it to ’em, boys!” rose the shout. And, “Give ’em the cannon!”
Rifles uselessly cracked; Jim lifted his――but another cry sped
hither-thither: “No! No! Wait!”
For from the Mexicans a man came running, with hand lifted.
He was William Smithers, of Gonzales and Bejar both; and he shouted:
“Don’t shoot, boys! Don’t shoot! I’ve got a message!”
Now the sun abruptly shattered the fog, driving it asunder. Behind Bill
Smithers rode out Lieutenant Castañeda. Colonel Moore advanced to meet
him.
Lieutenant Castañeda asked Colonel Moore why the Mexican soldiers were
being attacked in this manner.
Colonel Moore replied that the Texans had been ordered by the
lieutenant to surrender the cannon which had been loaned them for their
own defense and had been told that if they didn’t surrender it, the
soldiers were coming to take it; the order had been issued by direction
of the Santa Anna government, which was the enemy of the constitution
and therefore was the enemy of Texas; so Texas was determined to fight
instead of yielding.