of these old missions, forming a group. The Mission de la Espada,
thence up the river the Mission La Purisima Concepcion de Acuna, the
Mission San Juan Capistrano; just across the river from Bejar (or
Bexar) itself, the Mission San Antonio de Valero which was now known
as the Alamo, some said because of the _alamos_ or cottonwood trees,
and others because of the Mexican troops who were from the town Alamo
of Parras; and in Bejar itself, the Mission San Xavier de Naxera. The
presidio or fort, San Antonio de Bejar, had been supposed to guard all
these missions.
The old mission la Espada proved a very pleasant camping place, and the
Mexican country people were friendly. But, of course, as Jim Hill said,
one never could tell who were spying and who were not. The chances
were that everything the army did was reported at once to General Cos
in Bejar. But it also was reported, to General Austin, that the troops
in Bejar were much alarmed by the rapid way in which the Texan army
grew, and that General Cos had decided he would do better to fight from
behind walls.
On the afternoon of arrival at Espada, Leo gleefully sought out Ernest
and Jim.
“Well, I’m off again,” he informed. “What are you fellows going to do?
Sit here?”
“Why? Where you off to?” they demanded.
“Scouting, of course. Captain Bill Travis and eighty more of us.”
“I’d like to know!” protested Jim. “You’ve had one scrimmage.”
“Sure, and I want another,” airily replied Leo. “The general ordered
Captain Travis to pick eighty mounted men for scouting duty, and good
old Bill told me he reckoned I’d do for one. I’ve been with him before,
see? Down on the coast, when we drove Tenorio out of Anahuac, last
spring.”
“Aw, shucks, Leo,” deplored Ernest. “Why can’t you get us in on that?”
“With your little pea-shooters?” retorted Leo. “No, boys, I’m
afraid not. [‘Boys,’ he said!] Every man in our bunch is armed with
double-barrels, or else yagers, and pistols. Those are the general’s
orders. Adios. Tell you all about it later.”
“When do you start, Leo?” asked Ernest, enviously.
“I don’t know. Any time the captain says so,” replied Leo, hastening
importantly away.
“Scatter-guns and blunder-busses!” scoffed Jim, after him. “You-all’ll
be a hefty crowd, if you meet up with those Mexican regulars.” But he
added, to Ernest: “That Bill Travis is a fighter, though. I’d certainly
admire to be going along.”
“So would I,” admitted Ernest.
It indeed seemed slow work, sitting around, waiting; and that night
they missed the spunky Leo, for the Captain Travis troop of scouts had
ridden out, reconnoitering.
However, in the morning another event occurred. Jim, as usual, brought
the word, excitedly hailing Ernest.
“Hurry up!” he cried. “Get your hawss and shooting-irons if you want to
go.”
“Where? All right. I’m coming,” rejoiced Ernest.
“Up-river, on a scout with Jim Bowie and Captain Fannin. But they won’t
wait long.” And with Ernest, Jim hustled breathlessly for the ponies.
“How’d you know?”
“Met Henry Karnes, and he told me they’d been ordered out to go with
about a hundred men and find a new camping-place up-river. So I went
straight to Colonel Bowie and asked him to take us, and he said he
would if Captain Dickinson had no objection, and the captain said ‘All
right,’ so I guess it is.”
“I should rather think it was!” rejoiced Ernest. “Leo’ll find he hasn’t
any edge on us, won’t he!”
“He sure will,” agreed Jim, as they saddled up like lightning. “Huh!
I’d as soon be under Bowie and Fannin as under Travis. That Jim Bowie
doesn’t take back-water from anybody!”
“Who else is going?”
“I dunno. Karnes, and Dave Macomb the assistant adjutant, and a lot
more.”
“Maybe we’ll ride clear into Bejar, then,” proposed Ernest, as they
trotted to report.
“Bowie certainly knows the way,” agreed Jim.
“See you later, Dick,” called Ernest, as they passed Dick Carroll. “Off
on a scout.”
“Good luck to you,” responded Dick, who evidently had missed this
opportunity. And now, riding away thus on his own hook, Ernest felt
grown and independent.
To be exact, there were ninety-two of them, who, under Colonel James
Bowie the Louisianan, and Captain James Fannin the Georgian, but Texans
both, cantered two by two, this morning of October 27, out of the Texan
camp at the Espada mission on the San Antonio River, and headed into
the north. Ernest and Jim of course rode side by side. Suddenly Jim
pointed before.
“There come the Travis scouts back again,” he uttered. “Now it’s our
turn to shake our tails. See Leo?”
With wave of hand in greeting they all trotted obliquely across the
flank of the Travis column.
“Where you going?” called Leo, sighting his two partners.
“Oh, just on a little scout. Tell you all about it when we get back,”
shouted Jim, derisively.
“What’d you find?” added Ernest.
“_Mucho pocito_ [Much very little],” responded somebody, to a general
laugh.
“Knew they didn’t do anything,” remarked Jim, satisfied. “They aren’t
sassy enough.”
The trip was an all-day trip, up along the crooked, limpid San Antonio
River――said to be the most beautiful river and the best water in Texas.
The old Mission San Juan Capistrano was first examined, but it was too
exposed for good defense. In leisurely manner Colonel Bowie and Captain
Fannin led on to the Mission San Jose de Aguayo, nearer to San Antonio
and within sight of the Alamo. The march was slow and cautious, for the
country on either flank and before had to be examined.
San Jose was better, in situation, than San Juan, but Colonel Bowie
decided to make a short cut over to the Mission Concepcion. Here the
column arrived in mid-afternoon.
“There’s a place right yonder,” declared Henry Karnes, “that’s the
tightest leetle campin’ spot you ever saw, colonel. I reckon you know
it as well as I. They call it the Horseshoe.”
“So I was thinking,” responded Colonel Bowie. “We’ll look at it.”
The Horseshoe struck everybody as being ideal. The river made a
horseshoe curve, about 100 yards wide. In the curve was a stretch
of bottom-land, flat and brushy, fifty to 100 yards deep. From the
points of the horseshoe, on either side to the river, was a strip of
timber, and between the points of the horseshoe and extending well into
the timber was a natural parapet, about six feet high, caused by the
bottom-land lying below the surrounding prairie. From the top of the
parapet the grassy, flowery prairie stretched level and open, like a
parade-ground. From the prairie one could descry, only a mile and a
half in the north, the Alamo, and the dun roof-tops of Bejar itself,
and sharp eyes could see the Mexican flags lazily floating in the light
of the setting sun.
“Whoopee!” quoth Jim, as all sat their saddles while Colonel Bowie and
his officers rode about, on the bottoms, inspecting and conferring.
“Now we’ve found it. Wood, water and cover; and the whole Mexican army
couldn’t smoke us out.”
“’Tisn’t big enough for the Texan army, though,” prompted Ernest.
“Well, it’s a right snug little place for _this_ army,” proclaimed Jim.
“But we’re supposed to go back to Espada and report, before night,
aren’t we?”
“Aw, fiddle!” scoffed Jim. “It’s too good a place to leave in a hurry.
Jim Bowie’s itching for a fight, same as the rest of us; and we’d be
better off fighting in here than out on the prairie somewhere. Who
wants to ride back this time of evening and maybe get surrounded on the
way? The army can do without us till we’re ready to go in. Camp? Of
course we’re going to camp! We’ll see whether those Mexicans have any
spunk in ’em.”
Sure enough, the order was given to off-saddle and make camp
in the bottoms. And away galloped David Macomb, the assistant
adjutant-general, bearing the word to Espada.
Captain Fannin’s command, whose company of fifty men from East Texas
formed one detachment, were posted along the lower bend of the river;
the Colonel Bowie detachment were posted opposite, along the upper
bend. The horses were picketed, fires for coffee were lighted, sentries
were stationed at the river in the rear and on the edge of the prairie
in the front. Robert Calder and six others were sent into the cupola of
the mission building, 500 yards distant, whence they could spy over the
country.
Mexican women from the mission brought in _tortillas_ (which were large
thin plasters of baked flour paste) and other food, for sale. It was a
very comfortable camp, but――――
“Yes, and those blamed women will go straight from here to Bejar and
report every man of us,” complained some of the men. “I could see ’em
tallyin’ us off.”
And this was exactly what the women did.
Not all the men favored this camp for the night. Several thought that
Colonel Bowie was taking grave risks, to disobey orders and camp here
with less than 100 volunteers, right in sight from Bejar with its
thousand regulars, and on a spot from which there could be no retreat.
The orders of General Austin had instructed them to return at dark
and report upon the country, for he was anxious to advance, himself,
to a better camping-ground. However, as Jim Hill had said, “they were
itching for a fight.” It was rather good fun, thus to dare General Cos
to come out.
Night fell, starry but damp. Voices spoke low, the horses snorted, the
river rippled musically, and lying snugly beside Jim, Ernest heard him
saying:
“Bet you can see the lights of Bejar, if you’d stand up. Hee-yaw,” and
Jim yawned noisily. “If Cos wants us he can come and take us. Got your
gun in under the blanket with you? It’s a toler’ble wet night, down in
this bottom.”
“Yes; I’ve got it,” murmured Ernest, already drowsing.
Jim droned something about a fog, and about General Cos being afraid
to come out, anyhow; but Ernest did not wait to hear just what.
The next thing that he knew, Jim was nudging him in the back. He opened
his eyes upon dense grayness; whereat Jim whispered:
“You awake? Wake up!”
“What’s the matter?” And Ernest turned over crossly. “Who said to wake
up?”
“I did. Listen, now! Hear anything?”
At this hour, early dawn, not even the horses were awake, and the
ripple of the river sounded low and fitful as if the old San Antonio
were talking in its sleep. Ernest strained his ears and his eyes. He
could not see a thing, for a thick, saturated fog had settled down,
enfolding the bottom and all the world around. And his ears seemed of
no more use than his eyes.
“No, I don’t hear anything. Why?”
“Sh! Listen, I tell you,” bade Jim, impatiently. “Hear that?”
“That,” as far as Ernest could guess, was a faint, whiny little sound,
scarcely to be distinguished above the murmur of the water. In fact, he
wasn’t certain that he heard it at all.
“What?” he demanded. “That? Horse drinking――or maybe a coyote tuning
up. Go to sleep. We’ve got plenty sentries.” And he irritably pulled
his wet, heavy blanket higher, over his chin, for the dense fog was
thrusting its clammy fingers down his neck.
“Sounds to me like one of those Mexican carts squeaking,” asserted
Jim. “Don’t hear it now, but I’ve _been_ hearing it, I tell you. If
it wasn’t for those sentries I’d say that Cos was crossing a cannon
through the river.”
“Well, Henry Karnes is out on guard, and he’ll hear things if anybody
can,” retorted Ernest. “So will those fellows in the cupola.” And as
fast as possible he took another cat-nap.
Next he was awakened for keeps. In his ears echoed a shrill Texas
“Whoo-ee!”――as from a distance. Up and down the lines of prone figures
word was being passed for all to tumble out.
“Somebody yelled from the cupola!” babbled Jim, likewise awake, as he
and Ernest struggled to sit up and pull on their damp boots. Ghostly
figures on either side were doing the same. “That’s an alarm. I heard
what I heard and they heard what I heard and I heard what they heard, I
reckon.”
The fog upon the camp was astir, but all movements and voices were
hushed by the heavy mist. The appointed mess cooks had been busy for
some time, evidently; camp-fire smoke and the fragrance of coffee
wafted pleasingly through the heavy air.
“Aren’t attacked yet, are we?” stammered Ernest.
“No. The fog out yonder’s full of Mexicans, though, I ’low. Hope it
holds till we get our coffee. Come on.”
Exchanging brief comments, and listening tensely, the men hastily drank
their coffee, and munched their bread and beef. If the Mexicans were
surrounding them, it was being done very quietly. However, more than
one in the camp had thought he had heard suspicious sounds. And that
cry from the cupola!
“There goes the change of guard,” remarked Jim, as he and Ernest
finished breakfast, still in the fog. “We-all don’t move till the fog
raises.”
Scarcely had he spoken, when from the front, where in the mist the
prairie abruptly fell to the bottom-land, broke a quick muffled spatter
of shots――followed at once by the single, smarter report of a rifle.
“Ball’s opened!” shouted someone in the little mess; and every member
grabbed his gun and scrambled to his feet.
“Muskets, first, that was; then a rifle.”
“Bang!” Another single shot.
“Pistol, this time, boys. Out Henry Karnes’s way. _Alerte_, everybody!”
Ernest stood aquiver, peering. Peered all.
“I done told you, I done told you,” reiterated Jim.
The mist was so thick that each man barely could see his neighbor; but
from the near distance an officer called:
“Steady, boys. They can’t see any better than we can.”
Colonel Bowie hustled through the fog.
“Where were those shots fired?” he queried right and left.
“Straight yonder, colonel,” they directed, as he passed.
“Fall in, all of you,” he ordered; and the word sped.
But the colonel did not go far. Another figure, coming running, met
him. By the voice it was Henry Karnes, breathless.
“Mexicans out thar, colonel,” he reported. “Don’t know how many, but a
hull platoon charged me jest as I was relieved, an’ I gin ’em a mornin’
pill from ol’ Sal; they skedaddled, an’ another tried same trick, so I
gin ’em a dose from my pistol, an’ they skedaddled, too.”
“Bet one didn’t skedaddle,” said Jim, to Ernest. “That Henry can hit a
nail-head with his eyes shut.”
“Silence in the ranks,” ordered an officer; and the men easily laughed.
They were not a whit afraid.
The line of this division had been formed along the natural parapet
where bottom-land met prairie on the left; and across at the right the
other division under Captain Fannin had probably likewise been formed.
“Steady,” passed the word. “Wait till the fog lifts, boys.”
“Gee, wish I could see,” complained Ernest, beside Jim, trying to stand
on tiptoe so as to peek over the edge of the little bluff.
“I opine that fog out there’s plumb full of Mexican soldiers,”
predicted Jim again.
“Move across to the other side, boys,” was the next order. “The colonel
wants us to join lines with Fannin, so we won’t be shooting into each
other. Then if those Mexicans charge in here we can everlastingly
wallop ’em.”
So in spectral procession they changed to the Captain Fannin side, and
the double ranks now extended around the inside of the horseshoe, from
the parapet front to the river.
“Clear away the brush, boys, under foot and on top, so we can move and
see to shoot; and where the bank’s too high to look over, dig toe-holds
for yourselves.”
From in front muskets were hammering away, as the Mexicans proceeded to
shoot blindly into the fog.
“They must think they’re going to scare us out by noise,” asserted
Jim, while he and Ernest and their comrades tore and slashed and dug.
“They’ve got cannon, too, all right enough. Those were the wheels I
heard squeaking.”
Ernest listened anxiously for the “Boom!” of the cannon. He didn’t
mind so much the muskets, but those cannon balls would plough through
everything.
Now the brush had been cleared, and footholds had been cut, and there
seemed nothing to do but to wait again.
See? The fog was reddening, as it thinned and the sun’s beams struck
through――for the sun must have been up and shining three hours.
“Steady, boys,” repeated the officers――and here, at a run, into the
bottom-land entered the seven outpost guards from the mission cupola.
“Did you hear me whoop?” panted Robert Calder. “Nigh all Mexico is out
yon. We glimpsed ’em through a break in the fog.”
“Wall, you’re in time for the dance,” remarked Henry Karnes.
The fog was lifting, rolling up like a great curtain. Along the lines
under the low bluff sounded the click of gun locks, as hammers were
cocked.
“Steady! Steady! Pick your marks, boys, and fire at command.”
“See their feet?” whispered Jim, tensely, to Ernest.
Ernest nodded, for his heart was thumping in his throat and he did not
dare try to speak. This was going to be a bigger fight than the one at
Gonzales.
And a curious sight that was: out on the prairie before them, about
300 yards distant, an array of men’s legs, in dankly hanging cotton
trousers; and an amazing array of slimmer horses’ legs! Some of the
legs were moving, hither-thither, as if marching about by themselves,
for the fog cut sharply and they appeared to have no bodies.
“Lucky for them they fetched their legs,” commented one of Ernest’s
neighbors. “They’ll need ’em to run away on.”
“I like something better’n legs to shoot at,” added somebody else.
The fog had lifted from the parapet, and the Texan lines were
revealed――and the long-barrelled muskets and rifles levelled and
resting upon the sod, and the lean bronzed faces laid expectantly
against each stock. Ernest, aiming steadily, blinked and stared.
Swiftly uprolled the fog――above the waists, and the horses’ bellies,
and ever higher; and suddenly the sun blazed down and the whole prairie
leaped into brilliant life.
The Mexicans! See them! Fully 400: infantry, in blue cotton uniforms
and high-peaked caps; half a dozen companies of cavalry; and a brass
cannon drawn by mules! They had forded the river and here they were,
opposite the points of the horseshoe!
“There’s Ugartechea, with the cavalry!” exclaimed Jim. “Who’s the
infantry officer?”
“Colonel Cos. He’s brother to the general, lad,” was an answer.
The infantry were marching, with arms trailed, to the right, so as to
front the Texan lines; the cavalry stayed mainly in the centre, but
extended also to right and left, as if preparing for a sweeping charge;
and between them and the infantry was the brass cannon, pointed, its
gunner whirling his match to keep it aglow.
“Why don’t we shoot?” demanded Ernest, fretfully. “I can’t hold this
bead forever!”
“Steady, boys,” warned the officers.
“Aim for the whites of their eyes,” cheered Henry Karnes.
The infantry had formed not more than 200 yards away, and were raising
their pieces; a trumpet pealed briskly, in a signal――and now, somewhere
far down the Texan line, rang a rifle. The gunner with the lighted
match threw up his free arm and plunged headlong.
“Give it to ’em, boys!” echoed the rapid order. “Never mind the
infantry. Watch the cavalry and that gun.”
“Crackity-crack-crack!” spoke the rifles.
“Bang! Bang-bang-bang!” mingled the muskets, of heavier voice.
Ernest hastily pressed trigger; whether he hit anybody or not he could
not tell, for all the Mexican lines were thrown into confusion. Down
lurched the horsemen; down staggered the artillerymen, and the infantry
line was strewn with fallen figures. He did not even hear the report of
his own gun; the Mexican infantry were answering with belching volleys
that rolled thunderously across the prairie, and on either side of him
his comrades were blazing away.
“Those Mexican soldiers can’t shoot,” panted Jim, working hard to aim,
fire, load and aim again.
And that seemed true; of all the volleys, not a bullet struck anywhere
near.
“Gimme a chance hyar,” snarled a voice in Ernest’s ear, and a hand
jerked him backward. He had forgotten; the plan was, that each man
should fire and step back to load while the man behind him took a turn.
So he stepped back.
A wild cheer arose. The Mexican infantry were scurrying, disorganized;
they had not stood at all――no, not before those deadly balls from the
Texan sharpshooters, everyone of whom, including Ernest, could stop a
running deer with a single shot. And the cavalry had broken also; the
horses were wheeling, riders were spurring, and with the flat of their
swords striving to rally their men, the officers were following.
“Never mind their backs, boys!” rose the voice of Colonel Bowie. “Wait
and give it to them in their faces.”
The crackle of rifles and bang of muskets slackened, but only for
an instant. The brass cannon was coming; lashing their mules the
cannoneers who had replaced the fallen were forging to the front, and
the cavalry had formed in support. Into new position, dangerously near
on the right flank, whirled the bounding cannon――the cavalry trumpet
pealed again, for a charge, and the horsemen, bending low, launched in
an oblique column to storm the horseshoe further to the left of the
Texan line.
“Once more! Stop that cannon and those horsemen, boys!”
The brass field-piece belched a white cloud, but before the grape-shot
rattled and swished over-head and spattered among the trees every man,
it seemed, within the smoke had fallen dead. Others rushed up to lend
a hand. They, too, fell. Ernest glanced with the corner of his eye at
the cavalry――and he saw only a confused mass of horses, many riderless,
their stirrups flapping, galloping out of danger.
“Take the cannon, boys! The cannon and victory!” shouted Colonel Bowie.
The cry was repeated down the lines. The men, and Ernest, and Jim,
began to edge along the breastwork, firing as they went, and ever
shortening the distance to the field-piece.
Almost as fast as they arrived to help discharge it, the Mexican
soldiers, both infantry and cavalry, were shot down. The cavalry tried
another charge――officers urging with the flat of their swords; and
again they broke and fled.
Five times the cannon belched, while the infantry, in the rear,
delivered useless volleys, and the cavalry dashed and recoiled.
“The cannon and victory!” welled more determinedly the hoarse clamor.
Now the last detachment of impromptu cannoneers were cut to a last man.
The mules, tortured and panic-stricken, had broken from their traces
and had stampeded straight through the infantry. At the piece only one
man was left; he sprang forward from the caisson with a hammer and
spike, to drive the nail into the touch-hole and spike the gun. Sam
Whiting, on Ernest’s right, hastily threw up his rifle and shot. Down
sank the last cannoneer; and none came to replace him.
[Illustration: DOWN SANK THE LAST CANNONEER]
“Wall,” drawled Henry Karnes, his hat gone, his red hair tousled with
energy and wet with the perspiration, “I reckon that’s our gun. Nobody
else claims it.”
Jim turned to Ernest. His face was aflame.
“Hooray!” he croaked. “We’ve won. Ninety-two of us licked four hundred.”
Ernest tried to hurrah, but his voice stuck fast in his powder-dried
throat. So he agreed by shaking hands hard. Suddenly he felt very
tired.
X
AN APPEAL TO THE UNITED STATES
Now all firing from the Mexican forces had ceased; behind their
brushy breastwork encircling the front of the bottom-land the Bowie
and Fannin men might take breath, congratulate one another, and peer
keenly through the smoke wreaths wafting away on the morning breeze.
The brush was blackened and burned by powder; beyond, the green prairie
was strewn with Mexican soldiers and horses, the majority killed
outright――and the brass cannon stood alone hub-deep in bodies; further
beyond, out of range of the deadly rifles and muskets, the Mexican
cavalry and infantry were streaming in groups for the town of Bejar.
Already some were refording the river.
“Get that cannon, boys,” ordered Colonel Bowie; and with wild cheers a
score of the men scrambled to the prairie and raced for the abandoned
field-piece. After them flocked the others――Ernest and Jim cheering as
lustily as any.
“Give ’em a taste of their own medicine,” rose the cry. Around was
nimbly whirled the cannon, and pointed at the fleeing enemy; but the
caisson was almost empty of ammunition and Colonel Bowie bade that the
few powder cartridges be saved.
Then arose another cry.
“More cavalry, boys! Watch out! Back to camp!” And, instantly: “No!
They’re our own men. Hooray! It’s Travis! Travis!”
For, across and below, up the river course were galloping hard in broad
column a troop of horsemen, by their rough-and-ready garb and the way
they rode, Texans! Captain Travis led. Evidently they were bent upon
cutting the Mexicans off; but they were too late. The Mexican cavalry
and infantry hastened faster――occasionally faced and threatened――there
were shots from both sides――and after pressing close on the rear and
flanks the Travis men turned back and the harassed Cos and Ugartechea
soldiers, cavalry last, hustled into the Alamo and Bejar. The dun walls
swallowed them from sight.
“Get your horses, boys!”