“Reckon that’s unanimous,” laughed Captain Dickinson, saluting Colonel
Ben.
“The volunteers who wish to form the force for an immediate entrance
into Bejar will meet this evening at dark at the mill, where
arrangements will be completed,” announced Colonel Milam. “You are now
dismissed. The officers will please remain.”
With a hearty cheer the ranks broke, and the men hastened to their
company quarters to spread the word and to make their preparations.
“We’re sure going to take Bejar this time,” exulted Jim, as he and
Ernest hurried back, amidst other figures likewise hurrying.
“We are if we can,” agreed Ernest, but not quite so dead certain.
“Aw, they can’t keep us out, if once we get in,” declared Jim. They
overtook Sion and Leo.
“You fellows in on this?”
“Well, I should say!” asserted Leo.
“Wouldn’t miss it for all Texas,” added Sion.
“That’s what it means――all Texas,” answered Jim. “So long. See you
later.” And they separated.
Already it was dusk; the time for the rendezvous at the old mill was
near. Jim and Ernest rapidly overhauled their guns and ammunition, and
stuffed some beef and bread into their pockets. Other volunteers were
doing likewise. The camp was in a fever of anticipation. Now nobody
hung back. The rank and file had been inspired by Ben Milam’s ringing
challenge. This sudden action had been just the thing needed.
“Come on. Let’s go,” urged Ernest, as he noted men, by twos and threes,
trudging away, well armed, for the mill.
“All right. I’m with you,” assented Jim. “No horses, I reckon. This is
a foot job.”
Equipped for service, they joined the crowd at the old mill, around
which camp had been established. Here they found Sion, with his long
Kentucky rifle.
“Where’s Leo?” asked Ernest. “Thought he was with you.”
“Naw,” said Sion. “They’ve taken him with that Alamo bunch. He’s sore,
too, but he had to go.”
“What bunch is that?” demanded Jim, alert.
“A battalion under Colonel Neill. They’ll make a feint on the Alamo
while we’re marching on the town. But they may have to do some
fighting, just the same. Leo’d a heap rather be with us, though.”
That was too bad. Still, a soldier must obey orders.
Men continued to gather, until there were 301, from half a dozen of the
Texas companies, and from the New Orleans Grays and Captain Peacock’s
Mississippians. They were told off into two columns, one under Colonel
Milam and the other under Adjutant-General Frank Johnson. Colonel
Franks, of the artillery, and Major Morris, who had been captain of the
Grays, were appointed aides to Colonel Milam; the General Johnson aides
were Colonel James Grant, the doctor and land owner of Coahuila, and
Colonel William T. Austin, who was a distant kin of Stephen Austin.
The Captain Dickinson men were assigned to the first column――and right
glad was Ernest to follow Ben Milam, although Frank Johnson was a good
fighter, too. After having been detailed off, the volunteers were
dismissed, with instructions to fall in again an hour before daylight,
without horses.
“Which column you fellows with?” queried Sion, as on the way back to
their beds he joined his two chums.
“We’re under Milam,” informed Ernest.
“Shucks!” deplored Sion. “I’m under Johnson but he’s all right. We’ve
got the Grays, and those Mississippians.”
“We’ve got English’s East Texans, and Henry Karnes, and the Gonzales
company,” retorted Jim. “Who are your guides?”
“Deaf Smith and John W. Smith,” answered Sion.
“Ours are Sam Maverick and Hendrick Arnold and John Cooke.”
“Guess they know the town,” said Sion. “But I’d rather have Deaf Smith
than anyone.”
“He’s no better than Karnes,” argued Jim.
“They’re both some scouts,” admitted Sion. “Well, I’m going to bed.
We’ll meet up in the morning, maybe. Or else in town.”
“So long,” bade Jim and Ernest.
At this stage of army life Ernest could go to sleep at almost any
time. He and Jim speedily rolled themselves in their blankets, and
without much ado caught at least forty winks; and forty winks only
did it seem to Ernest, when in the darkness and the chill of the hour
preceding dawn he was awakened by the word passed along the lines. He
and Jim quickly drew on their boots, donned coats and hats, belts and
ammunition, seized their rifles and were ready.
Coffee was served from the mess pots, and at the old mill the two
columns were formed by low orders. A number of crowbars were handed
around.
It was reported that the Colonel Neill battalion, to make the pretense
of attacking the Alamo, had gone. General Burleson had agreed to hold
the reserve of the army in camp, in case that they might be needed in
the fight, or in case that the Mexicans might attempt a counter-attack
to cut the camp off, and seize it and the supplies.
The order to advance was given; and side by side, in silence, except
for the shuffle of feet on the moist turf, the two columns moved
forward through the misty murk, Colonel Milam and General Johnson, with
their aides, leading; and the guides ahead, aiming for the easiest and
surest approaches. Behind followed the Gonzales six-pounder and the
twelve-pounder cannon drawn by the artillerymen. The other six-pounder
had been taken by Colonel Neill.
On the right the Alamo slumbered in darkness. Presently, before, loomed
through the gloom the low walls of San Antonio. “Sentinela alerte!”
sang the sentinels.
“They’ll sing a different tune in a minute,” whispered Jim to Ernest.
“Shut up, there!” ordered a corporal. Jim chuckled.
The columns diverged, one from the other. The first column wended a
little to the right, the second column kept on to the left, and Sion
was gone with it.
A number of little Mexican huts were passed; the occupants did not
awake, and neither did their dogs. How quiet everything was! But the
east was graying, the gloom was thinning, and the day of December 5
was about to dawn. Ernest shivered with the suspense. Then――――
“Boom!” rolled a cannon shot, far on the left. And――“Boom!” again. The
heavy air jarred with the shock. Colonel Neill was attacking the Alamo!
Distant bugles pealed, calling the Alamo to arms; muskets, of the
sentries, began to speak; the uproar rapidly increased. Lights began to
appear in San Antonio.
“Hurry up, boys!” passed the word; and the column quickened its pace.
Now they were in a street, a straight, wide street bordered by the low
stone-and-plaster houses. Acequia Street, it was, according to report.
Sam Maverick and the other guides knew it well; it conducted through to
the main plaza. The General Johnson column had taken the next street on
the left――Soledad Street.
Ernest’s heart beat high. Were the Mexicans going to let them all march
right through? No! The town was thoroughly awake. Lights flickered
before; dogs barked furiously; voices of women and children called
shrilly; and “Whang!” spoke the musket of a sentry, in the direction of
the other column. “Crack!” answered at once a rifle. Deaf Smith, they
heard later, had shot the sentry dead. But bugles were sounding. The
town was alarmed at last.
Up came the cannon, hauled by the panting cannoneers; and back ran an
aide――Major Morris.
“Sappers to the front!” he shouted, tensely, waving his sword. “Break
into this house. Hurry up!”
To the house on the left side of the street hustled Henry Karnes and
the crowbar squad. The house stood on a corner, and occupied the block.
It was a large house.
“Get behind it, boys! Watch out for the cannon,” sped the cry; for
Deaf Smith and others who had been in the town had described how the
cannon in the main plaza and the military plaza were pointed down the
principal streets.
Into the cross-street scampered the column, deploying to cover the
plaza streets on either side, and keeping close in the shelter of the
house walls. There was a heavy report, and another, and through the
two streets swept a deluge of grape from the Mexican artillery; but it
swept without harm. Now all the town was aroused; the fight was on; and
in the distance sounded the attack on the Alamo.
Henry Karnes and his squad were fiercely plying their crowbars. The
stone walls were thick and tough, but the mortar flew in a shower of
dust and chunks. This was the rear of the house――Don Antonio de la
Garza’s house, said somebody. There was a stout wooden door here, but
no windows. The house was built in “=U=” shape, enclosing a court which
was shut from the street by a wall, of course, Mexican fashion. The
main entrance was on another side.
However, rear or front, who cared? With a warning cheer a second squad
came running, bearing a log battering-ram. It crashed against the
wooden door. Inside the house, women and children were shrieking. From
across Soledad Street, to the left, sounded the dull thuds of crowbar
and battering ram wielded by the Johnson column, who were breaking into
another house.
The de la Garza wall was crumbling; the door was trembling to the
crashing blows of the log.
“Listen to ’em, inside!” shouted Jim, in Ernest’s ear; and Ernest
nodded. That family were well frightened, and no wonder, with all this
clamor of bugles and shouting and cheering and bellowing cannon and
blows from crowbar and battering-ram.
Inward spun the door, wrenched from bar, lock and hinge; and a jagged
hole had appeared in the stone wall.
“In with you!” were the orders; and through doorway and hole dived,
pell-mell, the column. Breathless, but with not a man harmed, they
swarmed through the rooms.
The house was empty, but the couches were still warm from recent
bodies, and articles of wearing apparel were scattered here and there.
The family evidently had fled in their night garments.
“We certainly smoked ’em out,” remarked Jim, as he and Ernest were
borne onward by the rush of the men seeking positions.
It did not take long to occupy the house. Some doors had been locked as
the family fled, but these were battered down in short order. Window
shutters were pierced and loopholes hacked in the mortar, and squads
stationed at these, and on the roof. By the crackling, increasing fire
at the left, was it known that the Johnson column had broken into
the big house opposite, across Soledad Street; the house of Don Juan
Veramendi, former vice-governor of Coahuila and Texas, whose daughter
Jim Bowie had married!
Now gray daylight had arrived, and rifles were cracking ever more
briskly, as the Texans from their roofs and loopholes sought to pick
off the Mexican gunners at the street ends, and replied to the Mexican
musketeers on the other roof-tops. The reports from the direction of
the Alamo had lessened, as if Colonel Neill had withdrawn, after his
feint to distract attention from the attack on Bejar. The two cannon
brought into town also were silent. The twelve-pounder had been fired
once or twice and then had been knocked off its carriage by the Mexican
cannon; and the six-pounder could not be served without some sort of a
barricade to protect its gunners.
“Well, we’re in, anyhow,” asserted Jim, as with Ernest he peered
through their loophole, trying to find a mark. “We’ll just keep
burrowing along.”
“How far to the plazas?” asked Ernest.
“Not far. Only about a block, where that church tower is. Jiminy! See
the flag on it? Red flag! That means no quarter. But we don’t care.”
The low-ceilinged room was hazy with choking powder-smoke, and Ernest’s
eyes and throat smarted. The loophole did not seem very well located
for shooting, although in other rooms the men were busy.
“Let’s go up on top a minute,” he proposed.
“Go if you want to,” consented Dick Carroll, who with a partner
completed the squad here. “See as much as you can, while you have a
chance. But you’d better do some tall crawling and keep your heads
down.”
Away they scurried. A hole had been hacked in the ceiling, and
furniture piled under; and boosted by this they wormed up through to
the roof.
The roof was of flattened clay, and surrounded by a cement rim about
three feet high, like a parapet. Men were lying on their stomachs
behind the parapet, resting their guns on it, aiming, firing and
lowering their pieces to reload. Henry Karnes was here――cautiously
raising his red head to sight along his rifle barrel, and at the smart
recoil of his piece ducking down and hastily reloading.
“You’d best get down out of hyar,” he snarled, to the boys, as they
squirmed beside him. “It’s hotter’n a brass kettle at a dog feast!”
And that was true. Bullets from Mexican soldiery were droning close
above, like a swarm of angry bees. They were thudding upon the stones,
and knocking chips from the top of the parapet.
“I’m up here to see something,” blurted Jim, obstinately, wriggling so
as to get a view. He carefully lifted his head, until he could peep
over a low place. Not to be outdone, Ernest found another place, where
a bullet had scored a furrow.
The air was blue with the fumes of cannon and musket and rifle
discharge. Immediately before the parapet was a narrow street,
separating the de la Garza house from another smaller house. But that
roof had been cleared of Mexicans, had any occupied it. Further,
was the church tower, rising beyond the row of buildings facing the
plazas; the sun burst through the mists, and shone full on the red
flag of “No quarter.” Across the street to the left were the Johnson
sharpshooters, poking their rifle barrels over the parapet of the
Veramendi roof. The Veramendi house was a short distance nearer to the
main plaza than was the de la Garza house. From the roofs of the houses
right and left and before, on toward the plaza, belched the smoke from
the volleys of the Mexicans.
Crawling on their stomachs, over the legs of the men so as to keep
under the parapet, the boys made a half circuit of the roof. At one
spot they looked down into the court, where amidst flowers and fruits a
fountain played and where birds were twittering and fluttering, while
along the wall that completed the enclosure the riflemen were at work,
shooting at Mexican gunners.
“When this war’s over and Texas is free, and I grow up and get a wife,
and crops are good,” mused Jim, “I reckon I’ll have a _patio_ just like
this to sit in, nights and Sundays.”
“I’ll have one, too, and put my mother in it, I guess,” hazarded Ernest.
“She’d certainly admire to be put,” encouraged Jim. “But first――――” and
suddenly he ducked, with a howl.
“Are you hit, Jim?”
“No,” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Some _hombre_ yonder pitched a
lot of dust into my face.” For a bullet had scraped along the parapet,
right under his nose. “Come on. Let’s go down. It’s too crowded up
here. Every good place has somebody lying on it.”
Back they went, through the hole, into the smoke.
The day passed, with the Milam column holding the de la Garza house
and the Johnson column holding the Veramendi house. Nobody could cross
Soledad Street, from house to house, because the Mexican cannon raked
it. Several men on the roof and at the loopholes were wounded, and were
sent to camp. From camp General Burleson forwarded supplies of food and
ammunition.
Finally dusk settled, and the constant fire slackened. Henry Karnes
and a force with the crowbars and with picks and spades that had been
found were set to work, after dark, at digging a trench across the
street; and made one deep enough so that men could dodge through, out
of sight, by stooping. Word was received that the Johnson division was
all right; had only one killed. The Milam division had nobody killed,
as yet. But Deaf Smith had been wounded, on the Veramendi roof, and the
firing had been so severe there that nobody had been able to stay up
long. Dr. Grant had been wounded, too.
Yes, Sion was alright. He sent word through the trench.
The digging of the trench had made the Mexicans very angry, and
throughout the night they hurled grape and canister at it. In the
morning the roof-tops fairly bristled with their musketeers; they had
cut many more loopholes, during the night, in the parapets, and had
transferred their artillery to better positions. The Alamo, also, was
hammering away with solid shot, bombarding the Texan end of the town
and the trail between town and camp.
Something must be done; unless the main plaza was won and the Mexicans
driven from this central stronghold, the Texans would soon be trapped
in crumbling walls. The main streets and the cross-streets were being
raked by the cannon; the only way to advance was through the houses.
Lieutenant Bill McDonald volunteered to lead a squad and break into a
small house, just across a narrow little street and kitty-corner to the
right. This he did, and lost not a man. Colonel Milam promptly sent
reinforcements to him, and thus the column was a step nearer to the
plazas.
The trench to the Veramendi house was dug deeper and longer; and the
six-pounder and twelve-pounder were mounted behind barricades and used.
So the day passed.
The next day, in a lull at noon, Henry Karnes did a brave act. Straight
beyond the de la Garza house, and flanked on the right by the house
which Lieutenant McDonald had captured, was another small house that
ought to be taken. Henry Karnes the red-head dashed out, from the door
in the middle of the Garza house, into the yard of the small house,
drove the door from its hinges with his crowbar, and Captain John
York’s company of East Texans thronged in after him. The house was
exposed in a large yard; but now only a block, occupied by the great
Priest’s House, as it was called, lay between the column and main
plaza. The red flag flapping in the heavy, murky air, from the tower of
San Fernando church, was closer.
So far, so good; and hot work had it been, for the Mexican soldiers
shot shrewdly, battering every loophole in wall and parapet with
their musket balls and thundering away with their cannon. This day,
December 7, had been cold and rainy; dusk settled early. The trench,
connecting the de la Garza house and the Veramendi house, was to the
rear; directly across Soledad Street, from the small house, was a large
green door, of planks, into the court of the Veramendi house. Chancing
to peep out of the window where he was stationed, Ernest saw a figure
spring boldly from the trench, and lay hand upon the door to push it
back and enter. ’Twas Colonel Milam, himself, going over to confer with
General Johnson. But even as his hand touched the planks, there was
a volley of musket shots, and down plunged Ben Milam, in a crumpled,
motionless heap. The door swung in, but too late, and other hands
quickly dragged the colonel inside.
“Milam’s killed!” gasped Jim, at Ernest’s side. “They got him!”
“Did _you_ see it?” stammered Ernest. “Is he killed? Do you think he
is, Jim?”
“He’s gone! What’d he try that for, anyway?” wailed Jim. And he added,
furiously: “We’ll make those _hombres_ suffer for that!”
“They’ve been watching that door. They knew that was our way in,”
reasoned Ernest.
Milam killed! Ben Milam killed! Gallant Ben Milam! The word spread
amidst angry murmurs and threats. Soon, by the trench, arrived word
that dead he was――slain instantly by a musket ball through the head. He
was buried in the courtyard of the Veramendi house; and a council of
officers chose Adjutant-General Johnson to succeed him as the commander.
“Angel Navarro’s house! Now for Navarro the political chief’s house!
Let’s avenge Milam!” rose the cry.
The house of Jose Angel Navarro was across Acequia Street, on the
right, and so far toward the plaza that one corner, the southwest, gave
a view of the northeast corner of the military plaza itself. Volunteers
were picked from the companies of Captains York, Crane, English and
Llewyllen; into the darkness they bolted, crossed the street, and broke
through the house walls of Angel Navarro, the political chief who had
demanded the Gonzales six-pounder last September.
The Navarro house joined, behind, at the right, a row of single rooms
that fronted on the street running into the plaza. Zambrano Row,
was it styled, divided from the Navarro home by a solid partition.
Zambrano Row was full of Mexican soldiers; from the roof they crept to
the Navarro roof, and digging holes through shot down upon the Texans
in the Navarro rooms underneath. But this did not work well, for the
replies from the Texas guns were so sharp, that the soldiers scurried
back.
“Clean out Zambrano Row, next. Then the Priest’s House,” remarked Dick
Carroll, grimly.
The first column had been doing most of the advancing, for the second
column, in the Veramendi House, were as far forward as they could
get. However, in the drizzle of the morning the New Orleans Grays
filed through the trench, eager to help, and joined with the Navarro
garrison, to take Zambrano Row.
What a tumult of shouts and cheers and groans and shots pealed through
doors and windows, as from within the Navarro house Henry Karnes and
his sappers plied their crowbars on the dividing wall, and made their
breaches into the rooms where awaited the Mexicans. Covered by the
rifles behind them, the Texans burst through the breaches, with their
knives and pistols drove the Mexicans out headlong; and clearing one
room, proceeded, by crowbar and battering-ram, into the next. Nothing
could stand before them. Right speedily Zambrano Row had fallen.
From the small house which had been taken by Henry Karnes alone, Ernest
and Jim and their comrades had listened with beating hearts. Suddenly
there ensued a lull, of only spattering shots――and rang a Texas cheer.
“One more step,” commented Jim, turning powder-grimed face upon Ernest.
“I don’t reckon there’s much furniture left over yonder, though.”
Fresh reinforcements were rushed across from the Veramendi House. Sion
was among them at last. At sight of him, peering about in the dimness,
the two boys rushed upon him, and shook hands vigorously.
“How are you? All right?”
“Up and coming, but my shoulder’s plumb sore from dad’s rifle,” panted
Sion. “This is toler’ble fighting, isn’t it! Four days! That was too
bad about Milam, though. Where’s Leo? Seen him?”
“No.”
“He’s here. Followed right behind us, with some reinforcements from
Burleson.”
“There he is!” cried Ernest. “Oh, Leo! Whoopee!”
They shook hands with Leo. He was more excited than they, although he
had the only clean face among them.
“What you-all been doing?” he demanded, eagerly. “You look like wrecks.
Where we going next? Am I too late for the fun? I came as quick as I
could. The general sent three more companies and I got in on one of
them――Captain Cheshire’s.”
“You’re just in time, boy,” vaunted Sion. “We’re going to take the
Priest’s House. Ugartechea’s slipped through you fellows scouts with
six hundred more soldiers, from down on the Rio Grande, and we’ve got
to finish up quick. Once we take the Priest’s House, we’ll be right on
the main plaza――and then watch those Mexican cannoneers hop!”
The Priest’s House occupied the block which, bounded on the right
by the Navarro House and Zambrano Row, on the left by part of the
Veramendi House and some smaller buildings, and behind by the Henry
Karnes house and yard and an intersecting street, fronted along the
middle of the main plaza.
“I’m in on that, then,” announced Leo. “If they call for volunteers
you’ll see me jump.”
“Same here,” proclaimed they all.
The great Priest’s House, the last stepping stone, was to be stormed at
ten o’clock this night, December 8. One hundred volunteers were asked
for by General Johnson. There were a few smiles and jokes when the four
boys boldly crowded forward――but, as Jim said, they hadn’t had a single
good chance yet in any of the special assaults, and they could “wiggle
through awful small holes.”
“Let ’em come,” spoke somebody; and they went.
Out from the Navarro house into the wet night they all plunged, across
the slippery stone pavement, and hurled themselves at the windows, door
and walls of the Priest’s House. This was the biggest fight of all. The
muskets of the Mexican soldiers belched a storm of fire and lead from
roof top and from windows; and the plaza cannon thundered fiercely.