glad of your society. A dispatch will go to Goliad, directing Colonel
Fannin to march at all speed and unite his troops with ours on the
Cibolo beyond Gonzales. We may yet rescue Travis. The result is in the
hands of an all-wise God, and I rely confidently upon His Providence.
Texas shall be free.”
He touched his horse with the spur, and rode off at a smart canter.
Colonel Hockley fell in beside him. The two other men followed, and
Dick and Ernest closed the rear. Less than an hour had passed since
the great speech in the convention hall. But no cheers sent them off.
Scarcely anybody paid attention. It seemed to Ernest rather a forlorn
start.
All day they steadily rode on the trail that conducted westward across
a wide fertile prairie of high grass and flowers broken by tree islands
and by bottom-lands where grew the wild rye and the cane. Sixty-five
miles was it from Washington on the Brazos to the Colorado at Moore’s
Retreat, or Moore’s Ferry, as it was also called. From Moore’s to
Gonzales was forty-five miles. From Gonzales to Bejar was seventy or
seventy-five.
They passed a number of ranches. Most of the men were at Washington
or at Gonzales; and those who were left at home, and the women-folk,
appeared terror-stricken by the rumors that they had heard. At dusk
the general halted for camp, amidst the luxuriant grasses, by a little
stream; the horses were turned out on their picket ropes to graze,
a cold supper was eaten, and blankets were spread. Only a few words
were spoken. The general seemed depressed and anxious; heavy care had
settled on him.
In the morning Ernest was aroused before sunrise. Dick and the other
men were astir, and were standing watching the general. He had walked
aside, to a clear spot, and was stooping, with his ear against the
ground.
“Listening, Injun fashion, for the signal guns of the Alamo,” spoke
Dick, in a low voice. “Sound travels far along the earth――you can feel
the shaking there when you can’t feel a thing, upright. Smith said he
heard the guns when he was a hundred miles away; but we’re too far, too
far――a hundred and fifty, at least.”
The sun rose, suddenly flooding the green prairie with golden beams,
and illuminating the slight fog which hung in patches over the bottoms.
Everybody held himself tense, watching the general. It was the moment
for the signal guns. For five minutes――yes, for ten minutes, a long,
long space――there was utter silence broken only by the twitter of
birds. The general abruptly straightened, shook his head, replaced his
big whitish hat, and returned to the camp.
“No go,” remarked Dick. “But,” he hopefully added, “we’re too far, yet,
general.”
General Houston did not reply. They snatched a hasty breakfast,
saddled, and rode. This day they approached the Colorado. The next day
they crossed it at Moore’s Ferry, but the Moore house was deserted. Jim
Hill lived a short distance below, and Ernest thought of him――wondered
where he was. Good old Jim! And Sion, too, twenty-five miles further
down.
Nobody had joined them on the road. All the settlers and their families
appeared to be in great alarm, but reported that 300 volunteers were
waiting at Gonzales. Each morning at sunrise the general had listened
for the signal guns; they all had listened; and they had felt not a
tremor, heard not a boom. The horses proved to be of poor average. The
general plainly was vexed at the slow progress necessary.
Here between the Colorado and the Guadalupe settlers were already on
the move, taking their households out of threatened danger. Wagons
and carts were met, loaded with furniture and supplies and women and
children, travelling eastward. But no news of the Alamo was obtained.
Now on the morning of the sixth day out of Washington, Gonzales was
only twenty miles westward, and the Alamo was but ninety――less than
that, in a straight line. For the last time, they listened again at
sunrise. The general stood, his head bare.
“Gentlemen,” he solemnly said, “the Alamo has fallen. We would hear the
cannon, at this point――unless, of course, Colonel Travis is short of
ammunition. Possibly, as we ride on, the sound of the bombardment will
reach us. Let us hope so.”
They had struck into the main road between Gonzales and the Colorado,
from which other trails forked: the road on which Ernest had twice
ridden as courier――but that seemed to him very long ago. At the McClure
ranch on Peach Creek, ten miles from town, the general reined in to
inquire, of Mrs. McClure, who looked out upon them:
“What news from the Alamo, lady?” He always addressed a woman as “lady.”
She, too, was packed up, as for flight. She recognized Dick and Ernest,
but did not smile.
“Not a thing for several days. Even the guns have stopped. We used to
hear them in still weather. We haven’t heard them since Sunday morning
early. Do you think there’s danger, sir? Ought we to move out?”
“My advice is for the settlers to be prepared to move east of the
Colorado on a moment’s notice, lady,” responded the general. “With the
small army at its disposal Texas may not be able to hold the enemy
back, and this section will be overrun. Let all supplies that cannot be
taken be destroyed.” And he rode on with head bowed.
At the Berry ranch, six miles further, the same conversation resulted.
And at four o’clock in the afternoon of this March 11 they entered
Gonzales.
XVI
MESSENGERS OF DISTRESS
Gonzales appeared to be safe, and alive with people. As the
travel-stained little squad rode up broad East Avenue which led into
the centre of the town, they saw, along the river bank below town, the
smoke of camp fires and the glimmer of several tents; and on before,
toward the main plaza and Market Square, many persons were standing or
moving about.
The first house seemed to be abandoned in confusion. In the window of
the next was a woman who evidently had been crying. From other houses
women with white strained faces looked upon them silently, and even the
men made no sign. Household goods cluttered the yards. In the principal
part of town, at Market Square, and the plaza, were many men――mostly
strangers, bearing shot-guns and rifles and yagers, and clad in settler
clothing, but with here and there a figure in a blue uniform of short
blouse and straight trousers. These all were volunteers.
There were frightened-faced women, too. Some of them Ernest knew well;
but he searched almost in vain for a familiar countenance among the men.
It seemed as though the little party were to dismount without having
been greeted; the women said not a word, and the strange volunteers
likewise only glanced aside, either carelessly or curiously. But as the
general reined his horse in, at the plaza, now a scattered cry rose,
of “Houston! Sam Houston! Here’s the general, boys,” and as Ernest was
sitting, halted, waiting for the general or Dick to say what next was
to be done, he heard his own name shouted.
“Hurrah! Ernest Merrill! Hello, there, pardner!”
Jim Hill was running across the plaza, making for him, and waving his
hat.
Off tumbled Ernest, and he and Jim shook hands and grinned at one
another.
“Where’ve you been, anyhow?” demanded Jim――who carried his little
rifle, and looked just about as when Ernest had last seen him, after
the capture of San Antonio.
“At the convention at Washington.”
“All this time? Pshaw! I’ve been here nigh a week. Aren’t you going to
enlist?”
“I sure am,” asserted Ernest.
“Whom did you come over with? Houston? We need him, or somebody as
good.”
“Why, Jim? How’s the Alamo? Anybody heard? Is Travis still there? Where
are the Mexicans?”
Jim sobered.
“I don’t know. Nobody knows. We haven’t heard a shot since early Sunday
morning. I got in here with the Bastrop company (went up there from
home and enlisted) on the fifth. The morning of the fifth, at sunrise,
on the march over, we heard Travis’s signal guns; and all that day
there was a little cannon shooting yonder in the west. The people here
at Gonzales said they’d been hearing the cannonading for more than a
week, especially when the wind was right. But before sun-up of Sunday
morning, the sixth, there was a tremendous lot of firing――you could
almost hear the Mexican muskets in big volleys; sounded like an awful
battle, and lasted till long after breakfast. Then, about an hour by
the sun, it died down, and suddenly it quit, and we haven’t heard a
single shot since.”
“That was the day we left Washington, right after Captain Smith brought
the message,” said Ernest. “This is Friday, isn’t it! Things look bad.”
“Yes, they do,” agreed Jim, thoughtfully. “I tell you, this town is
mighty blue. Thirty of your Gonzales folks went out with Smith and
Captain Martin and broke through to Travis before daylight of the
first; and Captain Dickinson and several others are there, too. Of
course, maybe Travis and Bowie are holding out, and the Mexicans are
just sitting round. But we can’t get a word; the scouts we’ve sent out
don’t dare go near. Say,” he added, “your pony’s here. Some of the
crowd fetched him and Dick Carroll’s horse back from Burnam’s.”
“Good,” exclaimed Ernest. He would be glad to have Duke again. “Where’s
Sion?”
“I saw Sion about a month ago, at San Felipe. He’d been putting in his
crops down home. But we’ll meet up with him, all right, before this
war’s much older. He’s game. Haven’t heard from Leo at all. He may be
with Fannin or Johnson in the south. Hope not. They’re liable to be cut
off, if Houston doesn’t hurry. He’s been re-elected general, hasn’t he?”
“Yes; fifty-five votes to one.”
“That’s good; but I’d rather have had Ben Milam. Houston will do,
though. We need a military man, right bad. Most of the volunteers
in this camp haven’t ever drilled; we’ve got only a few of the old
bunch. Most of the veterans seem to have stayed at home to move their
families. Everybody’s getting ready to light out for the east. But
Burleson’s here, and Neill, and Karnes and Deaf Smith, and there’s
one company of United States volunteers――the Newport Volunteers, from
Kentucky――those fellows you see in uniform. Sidney Sherman’s their
captain――that’s he, the slim man in a blue round-about trimmed with
silver lace, with a sword on, talking to General Houston. He’s fine. We
haven’t guns enough, and only two or three wagons, and three cannon.
But we’ve got a flag――a new one. Sort of a cross between the American
flag and the British flag, with the red and white stripes at the end,
and the upper quarter next to the pole the British Union Jack and the
lower quarter the Lone Star on a green ground; green instead of blue,
for Mexico. Shows we’re Texans of Mexico from the United States, of
English descent! Huh! Some flag, that! The motto says: ‘Our Country’s
Rights or Death’! It belongs to Captain Moseley Baker’s company of
militia from San Felipe. The Newport Volunteers brought a flag, too.
It’s of heavy white silk, with the Goddess of Liberty in the middle and
a gold fringe round the edge. The Newport ladies made it and Captain
Sherman’s bride presented it. She gave him her glove, and told the
company to carry it as a battle charm, and they’ve got it fastened to
the top of the staff.”
Here Jim paused for lack of breath.
“Where are you camped, Jim?”
“Across the river, on outpost duty. Only two companies of us――the
Bastrop company and the Newport Volunteers. The main crowd are camped
on this side, half a mile below the ferry. Captain Baker’s in command
till Houston or some other high officer takes things over. Colonel
Neill and General Burleson are helping him. Well, I’ll see you later.
Expect you want to get washed up and fed. Come over to camp this
evening.” He turned away, but hesitated. “You did good work, carrying
that Travis dispatch,” he praised, generously. “But you weren’t the
only lad riding courier. When you went on up to Washington there was a
copy sent down river to Columbia, and a fifteen-year-old by name of Guy
Bryan rode with it on to Brazoria and clear to Velasco at the mouth of
the Brazos. Used up one horse and had to find another.”
“Bully for him,” answered Ernest. “I didn’t do anything special.”
“You did your work, just the same,” asserted Jim. “Well, so long. See
you later.”
“See you later, sure,” agreed Ernest. But he did not see Jim again that
evening or night.
Jim strode away. By this time Dick had exchanged greetings with a
number of friends. Everybody was rather solemn. A little crowd had
collected around the general. He was talking and listening. There
was Deaf Smith, and Henry Karnes, and General Ed. Burleson in blue
homespun citizen clothes with a pair of pistols in his belt, and
Captain Sidney Sherman (a nice-looking, smooth-faced young man) in
close-buttoned, short blue jacket trimmed with silver lace, at his side
a handsome sword. Conferring with them, General Houston occasionally
nodded his large head.
“Let’s go and eat, Ernest,” bade Dick. “We’ll pick up our own horses on
the way and turn these other critters into the corral for the public
use. They’ll be needed.”
This was done. Duke appeared to be as glad to see Ernest as Ernest was
to see him. During the hasty supper of pork and corn-bread and coffee
in the house, Dick ventured his opinion.
“Colonel Neill says there are three hundred and seventy-four men here,
part militia and part just volunteers unattached, and most of ’em plumb
ignorant how to act. Houston’ll have to whip ’em into some sort of
military shape. We’ve got plenty food in Gonzales, but it won’t last
long, and we need guns and ammunition and wagons and clothing and all
that. The people living here are panicky; some have left already for
the east and the rest are packing up. Nobody knows what’s happening
at the Alamo. Karnes and Deaf Smith think Travis has been wiped out;
Burleson thinks not. What we can do with this mob ag’in a big Mexican
army is a problem. Fannin’s got a force of four hundred down at Goliad;
mainly United States men and well outfitted. If he can join us on the
Cibolo, maybe we can go through. But――――.”
“Listen, Dick!” interrupted Ernest.
Dusk had fallen, and through it suddenly sounded hurrying feet, shouts,
and the shrill cries of women and children.
“News from the west!” uttered Dick. “Bad news, too. The Mexicans must
be coming!” He sprang up; his stool went spinning. He seized gun and
pistols and followed by Ernest bolted out.
The clamor had swelled. In the dimness men and women were running;
doors slammed; voices called wildly.
“The Alamo’s gone――every man massacred, and Santa Anna’s on his way!”
was the quick, panting reply to Dick’s query of a figure passing in
headlong haste.
In the plaza a crowd of citizens and soldiers had collected. Two
Mexicans of Bejar had arrived, was the story on many lips: Anselmo
Bogarro and a companion, they were. They had said that the Alamo
had been captured last Sunday morning, and not a man in it had been
left alive! Two thousand soldiers were on their way to attack the
settlements.
The two Mexicans were being examined by General Houston, at his
quarters. Reports continued. Perhaps the two Mexicans had lied. They
had now been arrested as spies. The general issued a proclamation
stating that he believed the story to be false; and the people
gradually dispersed. But all night the town was awake, while families
packed their goods, and the women and children wept as they worked. The
troops were kept under arms, and out-posts were stationed a mile to the
west.
Through the uneasy, fear-smitten night Ernest managed to catch a little
sleep, in his own bed once more. The morning dawned amidst confusion.
General Houston (who, rumor declared, had not slept at all) ordered
the troops across the river to be changed to the east side; and there
was a parade of all the troops and an election of regimental officers.
General Ed. Burleson was elected colonel, Captain Sidney Sherman was
elected lieutenant colonel, and Alex. Somervell was elected major. The
general made a stirring address, assuring the army that if they would
keep cool there would be no danger. The camp was moved up-river a short
distance, to a better spot on the prairie, and was reformed in two
long lines of tents and bed rolls, surmounted by the flag of the San
Felipe militia and of the Newport Volunteers. Most of the men preferred
the Kentucky flag and Mrs. Sherman’s glove. The other flag was too
complicated――had too much in it; and what was the use in mixing the
British Union Jack with the American stripes?
Evidently General Houston was not so certain that the two Mexicans’
report was false, for he had sent off a dispatch to Colonel Fannin to
destroy the fortifications at Goliad, to bring off the settlers, and
to retire northeast to Victoria on the Guadalupe instead of marching
toward Bejar. The dispatch, it was thought, would reach Colonel Fannin
within thirty hours at the most, and catch him before he had gone far.
The day passed uneventfully, except for the fears of the Gonzales
people. As for Ernest, he and Dick enlisted in Robert Calder’s company,
which was composed partly of men from along the Guadalupe. Dick’s horse
was in poor shape, so he joined afoot. The regiment were almost all
infantry, anyway. But Ernest clung to Duke. He and Jim agreed that
they’d hold out for a cavalry assignment.
The two Mexicans were closely guarded, and no one was permitted to
speak with them. Nothing more was heard from the Alamo. That was queer.
After breakfast the next morning, which was March 13, it was rumored
that the general had ordered Henry Karnes, Deaf Smith and Richard
Handy, another scout, to ride toward Bejar and find exactly how things
stood. They were to be back with their news within three days.
A few additional volunteers arrived, the majority afoot, until by night
the 374 had increased to 400. Now all were waiting for the report of
the scouts.
That same night, about half-past eight o’clock, Henry Karnes returned
alone. The camp had finished supper, and the men were sitting around
visiting, when he rode rapidly in. As he loped past where Jim and
Ernest were confabbing together, somebody called to him, sharply:
“What’s the news, Henry?”
“The wust,” answered Henry, without stopping. “All gone under;
wiped out complete.” And he continued straight for General Houston’s
headquarters tent. He had been riding hard.
Ernest and Jim stared at one another.
“That was true, then,” faltered Jim.
Ernest nodded. He could not speak. The picture was too horrible. Think
of it――a hundred and eighty men, brave men, half of whom he knew, and
had fought beside, killed――probably slaughtered!
“Come on,” bade Jim. “We’ll go where we can hear.”
Weak in his knees, his feet leaden, Ernest kept up with him. So swiftly
had spread the tidings that almost instantly the camp was in a buzz;
some of the men remained sitting, as if stunned; others sprang to their
feet, and made, like Jim and Ernest, for headquarters, to stand before
the tent flaps, murmurous and waiting.
Henry Karnes was talking inside. Colonel Burleson hastily entered.
Colonel Hockley, the chief of staff, was there. Presently Henry Karnes
emerged, pale through his freckled tan. Now it was no use to conceal
matters, and he spoke freely, his voice shaking.
He and Deaf Smith and Richard Handy had ridden only twenty miles out of
Gonzales (cautiously, on the watch for danger) when they had sighted a
little party coming toward them on the road――a woman on a horse and two
men afoot. It was Mrs. Dickinson, carrying her baby, and accompanied by
Colonel Travis’s negro boy, Sam, and Ben, another negro who had escaped
from Colonel Almonte of the Mexican army.
Mrs. Dickinson said that she and her baby, and Sam, and a Mexican
sister-in-law of Colonel Bowie with her little sister, and another
Mexican woman, were the only persons left alive who had been in the
Alamo. General Santa Anna had sent her with a proclamation from him
to tell Texas that the Alamo had fallen, and that now if Texas would
submit and lay down its arms he would pardon its rebels. If not――――!
But imagine a pardon from Santa Anna!
The last attack on the Alamo had begun before daylight on last Sunday
morning――just as had been suspected by Jim and the others who had
listened from Gonzales. Two thousand five hundred soldiers had attacked
on four sides at once, with cannon and scaling ladders. The Mexican
bands had played the tune of Cut-Throat――no quarter! The attacks on
three of the sides failed; and the attack on the fourth side, by all
the soldiers together, had been driven back three times! But the
soldiers were so many that the Alamo men could not shoot fast enough to
keep them down. They had planted their ladders and had simply poured
over the wall. Then there was terrible hand-to-hand fighting, through
the buildings. Knives, pistols, and butts of guns! Captain Dickinson
(who had been a lieutenant in charge of a cannon) had rushed into Mrs.
Dickinson’s room in the Alamo church, and saying: “All is lost. If
they spare you, save my child,” had rushed out, and she never saw him
again. But he was killed. Colonel Travis was killed. Colonel Bowie
was shot in his bed――the Mexican soldiers had been afraid to bayonet
him. Davy Crockett had used his rifle as a club until he, too, fell.
Colonel Bonham was dead. A man by the name of Walters had been driven
right into Mrs. Dickinson’s room and there before her eyes had been
tossed on bayonets by half a dozen Mexicans at once. Only five of the
men survived the fight――and they had immediately been shot by orders
of Santa Anna himself. After that General Santa Anna had all the Texan
bodies collected in a pile and heaped with brush and burned. Now
General Sesma was on his way with 2000 soldiers to seize Gonzales; and
the remainder of the army would follow.
Henry Karnes explained that he had galloped ahead, and had left Mrs.
Dickinson’s party to come on with the help of Deaf Smith and Richard
Handy.
Look! Listen! To Gonzales town also the dreadful word had travelled.
Lights were gleaming in the houses and on the streets; shrieks and
screams and hoarse shouts cut through the damp night air: cries of
fear and rage and grief――grief for nearly 200 Texans pent up and
slaughtered, and especially for the thirty-one of the thirty-two
Gonzales citizens who two weeks before had ridden away to help Travis
in the Alamo, and would never return. Bluff Captain Albert Martin, who
had gone back with his comrades; middle-aged Jacob Darst, Claib Wright,
George Cottle, George Tumlinson, Jesse McCoy, Galb Fuqua, and the rest;
and young Captain Dickinson――gone, leaving wives and children and
brothers and sisters. Travis, Jim Bowie, James Bonham――Davy Crockett!
What a loss Texas had suffered!
The camp was in an uproar of excitement and uncertainty. The Mexicans
under General Sesma were rumored to be already at the Cibolo, halfway
for Gonzales! Horses thudded away into the darkness, bearing volunteers
on the home trail to protect their families. But from his headquarters
General Houston was acting――and no time was to be lost. Officers who
had been summoned ran hither-thither, shouting orders.
“Companies fall in! This way, men!”
Ernest and Jim separated, to tend to business. Every man was to pack
for a march, taking only what he could carry. Don’t delay for stray
horses. Hook up those teams! Burn the extra baggage and supplies.
Great bonfires began to crackle and leap, as down came the tents, and
armful after armful of canvas and clothing and bacon and flour and
coffee were dumped upon the blaze. Figures half in ruddy light and half
in gloom bustled to and fro. The wailing in the town never ceased.
General Houston’s tent still stood, as a centre, and from it rang his
voice, imperative, through all the tumult.
“No, sir! Wait! Don’t be in haste. Wait till all are ready, and let us
retreat in good order.”
“Somebody’s getting in too big a hurry and the general’s calling him
down,” remarked a man near Ernest.
So retreat it was to be! But nobody objected. Four hundred undrilled
men, no matter how brave, could not hold the frontier, here in the
open, against an army of several thousand regulars with cannon and
cavalry.
About eleven o’clock the companies all were packed and in line. The
general had sent word advising the Gonzales people to move out, and had
given them two army wagons. A number of the horses at the camp had not
been caught yet. But Ernest had made certain of Duke, and he rather
guessed that Jim was in the saddle, too. Trust Jim for that!