CHAPTER V.

"O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye;

The tackle of my heart is crack'd and burn'd;

And all the shrouds, wherewith my life should sail,

Are turned to one thread, one little hair;

My heart hath one poor string to stay it by--

* * *

"All this thou see'st is but a clod,

And module of confounded royalty."

* * *

"But now a king--now thus--

This was now a king, and now is clay."

SHAKSPEARE.

The miserable king lay, indeed, upon his bed of death. He had refused to

quit the room which he usually occupied, all encumbered as it was with

his favourite hounds, his hunting accoutrements, and these horns, the

winding of which had been his favourite amusement, and had contributed

so powerfully to affect his lungs, and undermine his constitution. A

sort of couch had been prepared for him of mattresses and cushions upon

the floor; and upon that rude bed was the emaciated form of the dying

monarch extended. To his customary attacks of blood-spitting, had

succeeded a strange, and, until then, unknown symptom of malady, from

which the very physicians recoiled with horror. Drops of red moisture,

which bore all the appearance of blood, had burst, like perspiration,

from the pores of the body; and there were moments when the wretched man

writhed on his couch in the double anguish of body and mind, that, in

spite of the efforts of the physicians to remove this extraordinary

appearance, he might have been thought to be bathed in gore.

It was indeed an agony, and a bloody sweat!

The physicians had long since declared that there was no hope. In one of

those fitful bursts of anger, in which Charles from time to time

indulged, even in his state of exhaustion and in his dying moments, he

had desired to be left by his doctors and attendants, and he slumbered

his last slumber in this world, before closing his eyes for ever in the

great sleep of death, to wake upon another. One person alone sat by the

side of his couch; and that person was one, whom the incessant

intriguing efforts of his mother would have taught him was his

bitterest enemy.

That ivory paleness which had been so characteristic a trait of Charles,

and had added at once to the melancholy and majesty of his face, was now

of a yellow waxen colour, which might be said to increase from minute to

minute in lividness of hue. His large nose stood frightfully prominent

from those hollow sunken cheeks; his lips, in life, red almost to

bleeding, were now ashy pale. Beneath his thin lids, the eyeballs,

sunken into the deep cavities of his eyes, might be seen to roll and

palpitate; whilst from his open and distorted mouth burst forth, even in

his troubled sleep, moans, and then words of anguish.

The man who sat by his side, listened with varying feelings. Sometimes

he started back with a movement of horror; sometimes he again bent

forward in compassion, and with a kerchief lightly wiped away that

fearful perspiration which burst from the hollow temples of the young

man. The aspect of this personage was noble; his forehead was bold; his

nose formed with that eagle curve which seems fashioned for command. The

expression of his grey eyes denoted both resolution and wariness; whilst

a general look of good temper and openness, which amounted almost to

_insouciance_, pervaded the whole face. He was clothed in black. It was

Henry of Navarre, the ill-used and betrayed victim of Catherine's

policy.

During the whole reign of Charles IX., the Queen-mother had used every

effort to instil into his mind suspicions of the loyalty of the man,

who, were the Valois to die childless, would be heir to the throne of

France; and whom the decrees of Providence finally led, through the

wiles and plots set to snare his liberty and his life, and in the midst

of the clashing of contending parties, to rule the destinies of the

country, as Henry the Fourth. Henry of Navarre, whom the artifice and

calumny of a Medicis had done their best to separate and estrange from

his king and brother-in-law during life, was now the only attendant upon

his last moments--the only friend to press his dying hand and close his

eyes. By a last exercise of his authority, Charles had declared that it

was his will that Henry of Navarre, and he alone, should be permitted to

approach his couch, and receive his last instructions; and in spite of

all the manoeuvres of the crafty Catherine, who no longer ventured

openly to oppose her son's commands, the two princes were united in this

supreme and awful hour.

And now Henry of Navarre sat and watched his dying relation with

oppressed and anxious heart, aware that, were the king to die without

providing for his safety by a last exercise of his power, his liberty,

and even his life, would be in danger from the manoeuvres of the

revengeful Catherine; that his only chance of escape was in flight

before the death of the expiring king; and yet, too noble and generous

to leave the man who, at such a time, had called him to his side, he sat

and watched.

Presently the king rolled convulsively upon his couch; his parted lips

quivered horribly; and with a mutter, which increased at last into a

distinct and piercing scream, he let fall the words--

"Away--away--torment me not! Why do you haunt me thus? Fire--fire!

Kill--kill! No--spare them--spare them, and spare me a hopeless misery.

Ah! they fly--they bleed--they fall. And the poor old Admiral--his grey

heirs are dabbled with blood. Away--away--it was not I--not I! Ah!"----

With a sudden start of horror, the king lifted his head from his pillow,

and for a time gazed with staring and glassy eyes, as if the hideous

vision which had tortured his sleep were still before him. Then with a

bitter groan, he again fell back upon his couch. Again he raised his

head, and, looking upon Henry, said, with a faint and plaintive voice,

that contrasted strangely with these brusque and harsh tones which were

natural to him,

"Why do they ever pursue me thus--those Huguenots, who perished with the

Admiral? It was not I--it was my mother who was the cause of all. And

yet, I myself, arquebuse in hand, I hunted them to the death. Oh! but my

remorse has been long and bitter, Henry. What I have suffered none on

earth can tell. Since that fatal night, I have never enjoyed a moment's

peace of mind. Do kings ever enjoy peace of mind, Henry? Oh, be glad

that thou art not a reigning king! Peace of mind is not for them. If

there be a purgatory, Henry, in another world, I have already endured

all its tortures on this earth. Is not remorse the worst purgatory?

ay--the most damning hell. But why, then, do they pursue me thus in

hideous visions still?"

The wretched king buried his head in his pillow.

"Strive to be calm," said Henry of Navarre, bending over him to lift up

his head, and arrange his cushions. "Those visions will leave you."

"Yes! in the grave--perhaps!" replied Charles, again looking up with a

shudder.

"Let us hope better things," continued Henry. "With more tranquillity of

mind, you will regain your strength, and"----

"No--all is past," murmured the king. "I feel that I am dying. Know you

not that there is one accused of practising sorcery upon me. Folly!

madness! An evil deed _has_ been practised upon me. Yes--the thought

will not leave me. I would drive it away, but it still rankles in my

heart. Evil _has_ been done me, but not by sorcery. And yet the sorcerer

must die. The world must believe that it was he who worked my death; but

it was another. Come here, Henry; bend your ear to me, for I can no

longer rise. Wouldst thou know who it was?"

A noise in the further part of the room startled the young King of

Navarre at this moment, and he turned his head. The only living creature

present was the favourite green ape of the king, that sat and grinned

and moaned, as if in mockery of his dying master.

"Come nearer, Henry," pursued the king, "for I would speak that to thee,

that not the very walls may hear. Know you what has caused my death--who

has been my murderer?"

Henry bent his head over the dying man, more to satisfy a caprice of the

sufferer, than in the expectation of any serious revelation; and, as

Charles whispered in his ear, he started back in horror.

"Oh, sire, think not so! Drive away so miserable a suspicion!" he said.

"It were too horrible. It is impossible!"

"Impossible!" repeated the king, with a faint ironical laugh. "To some

hearts all things are possible."

"You had a mother once," continued Charles, after a painful pause. "But

she was good and kind; and she is dead. Know you how she died?--Mine

still lives--and now it is I who die."

"Speak not thus, I entreat you, sire!" interrupted Henry. "This is

horrible!"

"Horrible! is it not?" repeated the wretched king with the same

harrowing laugh. "Henry! trust not yourself to the tender mercies of my

mother!"

Again the same strange noise struck upon the ear of Henry of Navarre.

"Nor shall my people, my poor suffering people, be trusted to her care,"

continued the king with more energy. "Henry, thou art the only one, in

this my palace of the Louvre, who loves me. In spite of all that has

been said and done, thou alone hast left me in repose, hast never

troubled my last days by conspiracies against my crown, and against my

life--ay, my life! Brother has been set against Brother in bitter

hatred. Thou alone hast not hated me, Henry. Thou alone, in spite of all

the wrongs I have done thee--thou hast loved me. To thee I commend my

poor patient wife--to thee I commend my people!"

"But, sire, should it please Heaven to take you from us--and may you

live long, I pray"--resumed Henry of Navarre, whilst the king shook his

head--"it will be your mother who will claim the regency, until the

return from Poland of your brother, Henry of Anjou. It will be hers

probably to command!"

"When I bid you not trust yourself to her tender mercies," replied

Charles, "think not I spoke as a child. My life is ebbing fast, I know,

but my mind is clear. Give me that paper!" He pointed to a paper laid

upon a table close by his side. "This is my last and binding command,

which I shall now sign with my own hand," he continued, as Henry brought

him the desired paper, and laid it upon his couch. "This declares, that,

by my last will, I appoint you as Regent of this realm until the return

of the King of Poland. The name is still in blank; for I would not that

those who drew it up should know my purpose, and bring my mother

clamouring to my side, to thwart my last wish by her reproaches. Give me

a pen, Henry. Now, support me--so--in your arms. Where is now the paper?

My sight is troubled; but I shall find strength to see and strength to

trace that name."

Raised up in the arms of the King of Navarre, Charles took the pen

placed in his hand, and laid it on the paper.

"When you are regent, Henry," he paused to say, "remove my mother from

your court. It is I who bid you do it. She would hate you with a mortal

hatred; for power is her only aim in this world, and for that she would

forfeit her salvation in the next. Not a moment would your life be in

safety. She would poison you, as she has poisoned her miserable son."

"Sire! retract those words!" said a voice close by the dying king.

Before the couch of her son stood Catherine de Medicis. Her face was

cold and passionless as ever, although her dark eyes gleamed with

unusual fire, and her pallid face was still more pale.

"What would you have with me, madam?" said Charles, shuddering, as she

approached. "Have I not desired to be alone with my good brother Henry

upon affairs of state?"

"Retract those words, sire!" pursued his mother, unheeding him. "You

have brought against me the most awful accusation that malice can lay to

the charge of a human being. Would you leave this world, if so it please

the saints above, with so hideous a lie upon your lips? Sire! retract

those words!"

"Leave me, woman! Leave me to die in peace!" said Charles, with an

effort of energy, struggling with his weakness and the violence of his

emotions. "Be you guilty of this deed, or be you not, may Heaven forgive

you your misdeeds, as I pray it may forgive me mine."

"My son! my son!" cried Catherine, kneeling down by his side, whilst the

tears, which were ever ready at her command, and might now have been

natural tears of rage, rolled down her cheeks, "I cannot leave you thus,

a victim to the most horrible suspicion. I may have erred against you,

but it has been unconsciously. I have ever sought your honour and your

glory, perhaps by means you now condemn; but I have acted, like a weak,

fallible mortal, for the best. No--no--you really cannot entertain

thoughts so terrible. It cannot be. This is the suggestion of my

enemies--and my enemies are yours, my son." And, as she said these

words, Catherine darted a cold, sharp look of rage at Henry of Navarre,

who had risen, and now remained an unwilling spectator of so terrible a

scene--a scene of the most fearful passions of the human heart between

mother and son, and upon the bed of death. "No--no--you will retract

your words. You will say you did not entertain that frightful thought."

As the Queen-mother spoke, her eyes were fixed upon the paper, which was

to consign the regency to Henry of Navarre; and, in spite of the

animation with which she addressed her son, it was evident that upon

that paper her chief thoughts were directed.

"Madam!" said Charles faintly, raising himself with difficulty on one

elbow, and struggling with internal pain--"you have received my last

words of pardon. Let my last moments be undisturbed."

"Charles, Charles!" exclaimed his mother, wringing her hands. "Let me

remove these horrible ideas from your mind. What shall I say? What shall

I do? Can a son think thus of a mother who has ever loved him? Oh,

no!--it is impossible. Your mind wandered. You did not think it."

"Enough, madam!--enough!" replied the King. "It was the passing fancy of

a wandering brain, if you will have it so. It is gone now. I think of it

no more. Now leave me."

"But, my son," persisted Catherine, "I have such secrets to reveal to

you, as you alone may hear. They are necessary to the safety of the

state--necessary to the salvation of your soul hereafter. I cannot, must

not, leave you. It is my bounded duty to remain."

"The time is past, madam," gasped her son, "when I can listen to such

matters. My moments are counted--and I have that to do that can brook no

delay."

Catherine sprung up with a feeling of despair, and turned away for a

moment.

"It is near noon," she muttered to herself. "And it was to be at noon,

said the astrologer. Oh! a few minutes--but a few minutes"----

"My son," she continued aloud, again approaching the bed of the king,

and having recourse once more to that importunity, which, in the latter

days of his reign, was the only weapon with which she could contrive to

work upon the mind of Charles, "but I have that to reveal which deeply

affects the honour of our family. Would you that other ears should

listen to our shame?"

"Aye, ever shame--ever blood--ever remorse!" murmured Charles, turning

his head upon his pillow.

"Would you refuse the last request of her who is, after all, your

mother?" exclaimed Catherine, with the well acted accent of extreme

despair.

The king uttered not a word.

"Leave us, sir," said the Queen-mother, with an imperious sign of her

hand to Henry of Navarre, upon seeing these symptoms of the wavering

resolution of her son.

The young prince remained unmoved, to await the will of the dying king.

"Leave us, Henry," said the Monarch; "you will return to me anon. This

is her last request--these are her last words. When she is gone, let me

see you instantly."

Henry of Navarre shook his head with a look of mournful resignation, and

then bowed and left the apartment.

"Now speak, madam," said the king, "and quickly. What would you reveal

to me?"

"That Henry of Navarre conspires against your throne," commenced

Catherine, rapidly; "that he has been proved to be in connexion with

that sorcerer who has aimed at your life; that the chiefs of the

accursed Huguenot party are concealed in Paris, awaiting but your death

to place the crown upon his brow; that he also looks to this event to

abjure once more the true Catholic faith, and return into the bosom of

heresy; that by giving power into his hands, you endanger the safety of

the state; that by committing the rule of the country to a Heretic and a

Seceder, you endanger the safety of your own soul; that, by such a step,

the honour of our House will be eternally lost; that in all the

countries of Catholic Christendom, we shall be pointed at with the

finger of scorn and shame."

"Madam, you have deceived me with words of equivocation to gain my ear,"

replied the king, mustering all the strength that still remained to him,

"and you deceive me now."

"I deceive you not, my son," pursued Catherine, eagerly. "Each word that

I pronounce is God's own truth. Could you then confide into the power of

a base and lying Heretic, one who seeks your death, but to grasp himself

the Crown, the government of a Catholic and a Christian country? Hear

you not already the anathema of our holy father, the Pope, that curses

even in the tomb that soul lost by a step so rash? See you not already

our blessed Virgin, and all the saints of Heaven, turn from you their

glorious faces, and refuse to look on one who has despised them, and set

them at nought by a deed so unholy? Feel you not already the torture of

that punishment to which the Heretic, and the aider and abettor of the

Heretic, are eternally condemned? Have I deceived you when I said that

you endanger the welfare of your own immortal soul?"

"But you err, madam," said her miserable son, shuddering at the picture

thus placed before him, to work upon his mind in these last moments.

"Henry is become a good and fervent Catholic."

"All is ready for his abjuration at the moment of your death," continued

the Queen-mother. "To resume a powerful party among the Huguenots, he

will renounce our religion. My son--my son--pause, reflect, before you

thus sacrifice your own salvation, and throw your unhappy country

beneath the Papal ban."

"Heaven aid me!" cried the miserable Charles. "On all sides darkness and

despair, in this world and the next."

"Heaven shall aid you, my son," pursued his wily mother, "if you but

trust the guidance of your kingdom to such hands as shall maintain it in

the true religion. The paper that resigns your country to the hands of a

regent, lies, I see, before you. Can you hesitate? Can you a moment

doubt? Whose name should fill that space, where but just now you would

have written the traitorous name of Henry of Navarre?"

"God guide my unhappy France!" sighed the king, turning his face away

and closing his eyes. "In His hands I leave it."

Catherine smiled with a look of scorn, and then picking up the pen,

which had fallen by the bedside, calmly fetched some ink from the table,

and attempted to place the pen in her son's hand.

Before her purpose could be fulfilled, a noise was heard in the outer

room. The voice of a woman clamoured loudly for admittance. Charles

heard that voice, opened his eyes, and attempted to raise his head.

"Ah, it is she!" he cried, with choking voice. "At last!--at last! Let

her come in."

Catherine de Medicis rose, for the purpose, probably, of opposing the

order of her son; but before she could reach the door, an old woman,

simply attired, and of a strange appearance and expression, had entered

the room.

"What means this intrusion, and at such a moment?" exclaimed the

Queen-mother.

"Perrotte!" stammered Charles. "Ah! thou art come at last to console and

to forgive me."

Catherine clenched her teeth tightly together with rage; but she no

longer attempted to oppose the entrance of the old woman.

The old Huguenot nurse advanced with solemn step into the room, and with

a stern and troubled brow; but, on a sudden, a host of recollections

seemed to crowd upon her mind at the sight of that emaciated form, and,

hurrying to the side of the king, she flung herself down upon the couch

and sobbed bitterly.

"Perrotte--my darling old Perrotte!" sobbed forth the dying king. "Art

thou come then at last to thy poor nursling? Thou wast a mother to me,

and yet thou couldst desert thy poor boy; but he deserved his lot.

Perrotte! Perrotte! Thou knowest not what I have suffered since thou

hast left me."

"My son," said Catherine, advancing, "is this a moment to bestow your

tenderness upon a miserable woman like this? Greet her if you will, but

bid her leave us."

"She was a mother to me--she"----continued Charles unheeding her, and,

drawing forth his emaciated hand from beneath the coverlid, he held it

forth towards the old woman, who lay stretched across his feet.

"Charlot," said the old woman, raising up her head with a haggard look,

"they told me that thou wast dying; and I forgot all--all that thou hast

done of evil--to see thee once more--to hear the words of repentance

from thy own lips--to console and guide. They would have opposed my

coming. They had placed guards about my door; but my Jocelyne, my

grandchild, found means to lure them from their post, and I escaped

them. I had promised her--what had I promised her? Oh, my poor Charlot!

my brain wanders strangely at times. No matter. Here, in your palace of

the Louvre, too, they would have shut the doors to me; but they knew you

loved me, Charlot, and they dared not refuse my supplications. Oh my

boy, my boy, that I should see you thus!"

"Perrotte! hast thou forgiven me?" said the king with a violent effort,

for his breath was now fast failing him. His mother watched the scene

with folded arms and haughty mien. Each ebbing of the breath brought her

nearer to her much-desired power.

"Hast thou forgiven me?" sobbed the king.

"May God forgive the injuries thou hast done to others, as I now forgive

thee on thy bed of suffering, those thou hast done to mine," said the

old woman solemnly; and rising from her recumbent position, she advanced

to the head of the couch, and took the dying man in her arms, as it were

an infant she clasped to her bosom.

"And how can I repay thee, mother?" said Charles to his nurse; "speak

quickly, for my moments are but few!"

"By thy repentance, my poor son," replied the Huguenot woman earnestly.

"There is still time to repair thy errors. If thy remorse has reconciled

thee to thy God, let thy last act reconcile thee to thy injured

fellow-creatures. Ay! it is of that I would have spoken. That was my

promise. Let thy last act of government as King, depute thy power into

the hands of him who alone can pacify the unhappy religious discords of

thy state, and thus thou mayst still save the life of the innocent and

unjustly condemned."

"Woman! do you dare even in my presence?" said Catherine advancing.

"Silence, madam. I have heard you," interrupted her son: "let me now

hear her who has been my real mother."

"My son, can you listen to the vile insinuations of an accursed heretic?

Think on your soul," cried Catherine.

"Yea, think on thy soul, my son," said Perrotte solemnly, "and earn its

salvation by thy repentance."

"Let that woman be dragged from our presence, who thus dares to utter

treason and blasphemy in our face," exclaimed the Queen-mother,

forgetting her forbearance in her wrath.

"My son, my son! Let peace and pardon await thee," urged the old

Huguenot nurse, her face growing more wild with the excitement of the

moment.

"Madam," said Charles faintly to the Queen-mother, "would you shorten

the few moments still accorded to me of life? Perrotte, give me that

pen, guide my hand to that paper. Quickly, as thou lovedst me, woman!"

"Never," exclaimed Catherine, violently grasping the arm of her dying

son, as it approached the paper.

Charles raised his head to speak to her; but his emotions were too

violent for his feeble frame. His lips quivered; the blood rose to his

mouth, and choked his utterance. He fell back on his pillow, whilst a

hollow rattling sounded in his throat; the pen remained between his

powerless fingers.

"Ah! he is no more! he is dead!" screamed the nurse in despair, and she

flung herself upon the bed.

"No--no," said the Queen-mother to herself. "There is still life. My

son! Son," she continued aloud, "give me thy hand. If thou wilt sign

that paper--be it signed." And grasping his hand, she conducted it to

the place of signature on the paper. Mechanically the fingers followed

the impulse she bestowed upon them. But four letters only of the name of

Charles had been traced, when Catherine uttered a fearful scream. A

rough hand had grasped her own, and lacerated its skin. The first

thought of her superstitious mind was, that the arch-fiend himself had

risen up in bodily form before her. On to the bed had sprung the ape;

with a movement of detestation to the Queen-mother, which the animal had

always evinced, when she approached its master; it bit the hand that

held that of the dying king.

Catherine drew back with another cry, but after a moment she again

advanced her hand to grasp that of her son. When she took it within her

own it was utterly motionless; but, nothing daunted in her purpose, she

again fixed the pen between the dead fingers, and thus guiding them,

contrived to trace the three remaining letters, regardless of the stream

of blood, which, trickling from her wounded hand, besmeared that fatal

signature. Then letting fall the dead man's hand, she wrote her own name

firmly into the blank space.

The Huguenot woman, aroused by her scream, had gazed upon the daring

deed with horror.

For a moment not a sound was heard.

On one side of the corpse knelt the nurse, who had loved so well that

erring man. On the other stood the Queen-mother, trembling in spite of

her cold and dauntless nature. At the bed's head sat the hideous ape,

grinning a fearful grin, as it were the evil spirit that had arisen to

claim the lost soul of him who had thus passed away.

"Charles the King is dead," exclaimed the Queen-mother, "and Catherine

de Medicis is Regent of the Realm!"

"It is false! That signature is a forgery," cried Perrotte, starting up,

her eyes staring before her with all the expression of the deranged in

mind. "I saw it done. To the world I will proclaim that--that Catherine

de Medicis is a false Queen, and a usurping Regent."

Catherine smiled a smile of scorn; and advancing to the door of the

outer room, she flung it open with the words.

"The King is dead!"

"The King, is dead!" was repeated along the corridors of the Louvre.

A pause ensued.

"The King is dead! Long live the King, Henry the Third of France!" again

said Catherine.

"Long live the King!" was once more shouted from mouth to mouth.

"Gentlemen, his Majesty has been pleased, before his death, to sign a

warrant appointing his mother Regent of France," announced Catherine

once more to those assembled without.

"Long live the Queen Regent," was the cry which announced to many an

anxious heart of the various parties in the State, that the reign of the

dreaded Queen-mother had commenced.

"Let some of those without advance and seize that woman!" was the first

order of the Regent. "Heed not her words! She is mad!"

Catherine of Medicis spoke with greater truth than she herself believed.

The shock of that scene of death, and strife, and evil passions, had

again turned the old woman's brain.

CONCLUSION.

One of the first acts of the Regency of Catherine de Medicis, was to

give directions for the hastening the trial of La Mole, upon the charge

of sorcery against the life of the late King. Although, with the Regency

in her power, and in daily expectation of the return from Poland of her

favourite son, whose weak and pliant mind she was aware she could bend

to her own will in every thing, and thus have the whole power of the

government within her own grasp, yet she still pursued her vengeance

against the man who, in conspiring to place another of her sons upon the

throne, had thwarted her designs. The wax figure formed by Ruggieri, who

himself was fully screened by the Queen-mother, was made to form a

prominent feature in this celebrated trial; and it is well known that

the unfortunate La Mole fell a victim to an ambition, which, in the

confused and distracted state of affairs at the time, could scarcely

have been looked upon as a crime.

Among those who thronged to witness his execution was one, whose thread

of life was nearly torn asunder by the blow of that axe which severed

the beloved head from the trunk. Poor Jocelyne only recovered from the

state of insensibility into which she fell, to linger on a few months of

a wretched existence, during which she never spoke. Her heart was

broken. The King's nurse was conveyed by the order of the Queen Regent

to a place of security; but as soon as it was known that her senses were

really lost, she was allowed to be taken back to her own home.

Jocelyne's only thought for the living before her own death, was

concentrated in her grandmother; when her bright spirit fled, it was

Alayn who performed the mournful task of care for the welfare of the

miserable old woman.

Henry of Anjou returned from Poland to claim his Crown; and, as Henry

the Third of France, he filled the country with the scandals of that

folly, licentiousness, and weakness of mind, which were fostered by his

mother, Catherine de Medicis, in order to retain the power she coveted,

completely within her own grasp.

Upon the assumption of the Regency, Henry of Navarre contrived to fly,

in spite of the plans laid to entrap him by the Queen-mother, to his own

country; his wife Margaret accompanied him to his solitude; and paid the

penalty of her lightness of conduct at the court of France, in sorrow

and ennui.

Despised and rejected by all parties, the weak Duke of Alençon, after a

vain and abortive attempt to raise himself into a position of greater

distinction, as the husband of Elizabeth of England, in whose eyes he

found no grace or favour, died early, unlamented, and speedily

forgotten.

A CAMPAIGN IN TEXAS.[G]

"A meeting of citizens"--so ran the announcement that, on the morning of

the 11th October 1835, was seen posted, in letters a foot high, at the

corner of every street in New Orleans--"a meeting of citizens this

evening, at eight o'clock, in the Arcade Coffeehouse. It concerns the

freedom and sovereignty of a people in whose veins the blood of the

Anglo-Saxon flows. Texas, the prairie-land, has risen in arms against

the tyrant Santa Anna, and the greedy despotism of the Romish

priesthood, and implores the assistance of the citizens of the Union. We

have therefore convoked an assembly of the inhabitants of this city, and

trust to see it numerously attended.

"_The Committee for Texas._"

The extensive and fertile province of Texas had, up to the period of

Mexico's separation from Spain, been utterly neglected. Situated at the

north-eastern extremity of the vast Mexican empire, and exposed to the

incursions of the Comanches, and other warlike tribes, it contained but

a scanty population of six thousand souls, who, for safety's sake,

collected together in a few towns, and fortified mission-houses, and

even there were compelled to purchase security by tribute to the

Indians. It was but a very short time before the outbreak of the Mexican

revolution, that the Spaniards began to turn their attention to Texas,

and to encourage emigration from the United States. The rich soil, the

abundance of game, the excellence of the climate, were irresistible

inducements; and soon hundreds of hardy backwoodsmen crossed the Sabine,

with their families and worldly goods, and commenced the work of

colonization. Between the iron-fisted Yankees and the indolent cowardly

Mexicans, the Indian marauders speedily discovered the difference;

instead of tribute and unlimited submission, they were now received with

rifle-bullets and stern resistance; gradually they ceased their

aggressions, and Texas became comparatively a secure residence.

The Mexican revolution broke out and triumphed, and at first the policy

of the new government was favourable to the Americans in Texas, whose

numbers each day increased. But after a time several laws, odious and

onerous to the settlers, were passed; and various disputes and partial

combats with the Mexican garrisons occurred. When Santa Anna put himself

at the head of the liberal party in Mexico, the Texians gladly raised

his banner; but they soon discovered that the change was to prove of

little advantage to them. Santa Anna's government showed a greater

jealousy of the American settlers than any previous one had done; their

prayer, that the province they had colonized might be erected into a

state of the Mexican union, was utterly disregarded, and its bearer,

Stephen F. Austin, detained in prison at Mexico; various citizens were

causelessly arrested, and numerous other acts of injustice committed. At

last, in the summer of 1835, Austin procured his release, and returned

to Texas, where he was joyfully received by the aggrieved colonists.

Presently arrived large bodies of troops, under the Mexican general,

Cos, destined to strengthen the Texian garrisons; and at the same time

came a number of ordinances, as ridiculous as they were unjust. One of

these ordered the Texians to give up their arms, only retaining one gun

for every five plantations; another forbade the building of churches.

The tyranny of such edicts, and the positive cruelty of the first-named,

in a country surrounded by tribes of Indian robbers, are too evident to

require comment. The Texians, although they were but twenty-seven

thousand against eight millions, at once resolved to resist; and to do

so with greater effect, they sent deputies to the United States, to

crave assistance in the struggle about to commence.

The summons of the Texian committee of New Orleans to their

fellow-citizens was enthusiastically responded to. At the appointed

hour, the immense Arcade Coffeehouse was thronged to the roof, speeches

in favour of Texian liberty were made and applauded to the echo; and two

lists were opened--one for subscriptions, the other for the names of

those who were willing to lend the aid of their arms to their oppressed

fellow-countrymen. Before the meeting separated, ten thousand dollars

were subscribed, and on the following afternoon, the steamer Washita

ascended the Mississippi with the first company of volunteers. These had

ransacked the tailors' shops for grey clothing, such being the colour

best suited to the prairie, and thence they received the name of "The

Greys;" their arms were rifles, pistols, and the far-famed bowie-knife.

The day after their departure, a second company of Greys set sail, but

went round by sea to the Texian coast; and the third instalment of these

ready volunteers was the company of Tampico Blues, who took ship for the

port of Tampico. The three companies consisted of Americans, English,

French, and several Germans. Six of the latter nation were to be found

in the ranks of the Greys; and one of them, a Prussian, of the name of

Ehrenberg, who appears to have been for some time an inhabitant of the

United States, and to be well acquainted with the country, its people,

their language and peculiarities, survived, in one instance by a seeming

miracle, the many desperate fights and bloody massacres that occurred

during the short but severe conflict for Texian independence, in which

nearly the whole of his comrades were slain. He has recently published

an account of the campaign; and his narrative, highly characteristic and

circumstantial, derives a peculiar interest from his details of the

defeats suffered by the Texians, before they could succeed in shaking

off the Mexican yoke. Of their victories, and especially of the crowning

one at San Jacinto, various accounts have already appeared; but the

history of their reverses, although not less interesting, is far less

known; for the simple reason, that the Mexicans gave no quarter to those

whom they styled rebels, and that the defeat of a body of Texians was

almost invariably followed by its extermination.

Great was the enthusiasm, and joyful the welcome, with which the Texian

colonists received the first company of volunteers, when, under the

command of Captain Breece, they landed from their steamboat upon the

southern bank of the river Sabine. No sooner had they set foot on shore,

than a flag of blue silk, embroidered with the words, "To the first

company of Texian volunteers from New Orleans," was presented to them in

the name of the women of Texas; the qualification of Texian citizens was

conferred upon them; every house was placed at their disposal for

quarters; and banquets innumerable were prepared in their honour. But

the moment was critical--time was too precious to be expended in feasts

and merry-making, and they pressed onwards. A two days' march brought

them to San Augustin, two more to Nacoydoches, and thence, after a short

pause, they set out on their journey of five hundred miles to St

Antonio, where they expected first to burn powder. Nor were they

deceived in their expectations. They found the Texian militia encamped

before the town, which, as well as its adjacent fort of the Alamo, was

held by the Mexicans, the Texians were besieging it in the best manner

their imperfect means and small numbers would permit. An amusing account

is given by Mr Ehrenberg of the camp and proceedings of the besieging

force:--

We had arrived late in the night, and at sunrise a spectacle offered

itself to us, totally different from any thing we had ever before

beheld. To our left flowed the river St Antonio, which, although it

rises but a few miles from the town of the same name, is already, on

reaching the latter, six or eight feet deep, and eighteen or twenty

yards broad. It here describes a curve, enclosing a sort of promontory

or peninsula, at the commencement of which, upstream, the Texian camp

was pitched. At the opposite or lower extremity, but also on the right

bank of the river, was the ancient town of St Antonio, hidden from the

camp by the thick wood that fringes the banks of all Texian streams.

Between us and the town was a maize-field, a mile long, and at that time

lying fallow; opposite to the field, on the left bank, and only

separated from the town by the river, stood the Alamo, the principal

fortress of the province of Texas. The camp itself extended over a space

half a mile in length, surrounded by maize-fields and prairie, the

latter sprinkled with muskeet thickets, and with groups of gigantic

cactuses; in the high grass between which the horses and oxen of our

troops were peaceably grazing. On entering the adjacent fields, the air

was instantly darkened by millions of blackbirds, which rose like a

cloud from the ground, described a few circles, and then again settled,

to seek their food upon the earth. In one field, which had been used as

a place of slaughter for the cattle, whole troops of vultures, of

various kinds, were stalling about amongst the offal, or sitting, with

open beaks and wings outspread, upon the dry branches of the

neighbouring pecan-trees, warming themselves in the sunbeams, no bad

type of the Mexicans; whilst here and there, a solitary wolf or prairie

dog prowled amongst the heads, hides, and entrails of the slaughtered

beasts, taking his breakfast as deliberately as his human neighbours.

The _reveillé_ had sounded, and the morning gun been fired from the

Alamo, when presently the drum beat to summon the various companies to

roll-call; and the men were seen emerging from their tents and huts. It

will give some idea of the internal organization of the Texian army, if

I record the proceedings of the company that lay opposite to us, the

soldiers composing which were disturbed by the tap of the drum in the

agreeable occupation of cooking their breakfast. This consisted of

pieces of beef, which they roasted at the fire on small wooden spits.

Soon a row of these warriors, some only half-dressed, stood before the

sergeant, who, with the roll of the company in his hand, was waiting

their appearance; they were without their rifles, instead of which, most

of them carried a bowie-knife in one hand, and a skewer, transfixing a

lump of smoking meat, in the other. Several did not think proper to obey

the summons at all, their roast not being yet in a state that permitted

them to leave it. At last the sergeant began to call the names, which

were answered to alternately from the ranks or from some neighbouring

fire, and once a sleepy "here!" proceeding from under the canvass of a

tent, caused a hearty laugh amongst the men, and made the sergeant look

sulky, although he passed it over as if it were no unusual occurrence.

When all the names had been called, he had no occasion to dismiss his

men, for each of them, after answering, had returned to the fire and his

breakfast.

We Greys, particularly the Europeans, looked at each other, greatly

amused by this specimen of Texian military discipline. We ourselves, it

is true, up to this time, had never even had the roll called, but had

been accustomed, as soon as the _reveillé_ sounded, to get our

breakfast, and then set forward in a body, or by twos and threes,

trotting, walking, or galloping, as best pleased us. Only in one respect

were we very particular; namely, that the quartermaster and two or three

men, should start an hour before us, to warn the inhabitants of our

approach, and get food and quarters ready for our arrival. If we did not

find every thing prepared, and that it was the quarter-master's fault,

he was reduced to the ranks, as were also any of the other officers who

misbehaved themselves. I must observe, however, that we were never

obliged to break either of our captains; for both Breece of ours, and

Captain Cook of the other company of Greys, made themselves invariably

beloved and respected. Cook has since risen to the rank of

major-general, and is, or was the other day, quartermaster-general of

the republic of Texas.

Towards nine o'clock, a party crossed the field between our camp and the

town, to reinforce a small redoubt erected by Cook's Greys, and provided

with two cannon, which were continually thundering against the Alamo,

and from time to time knocking down a fragment of wall. The whole

affair seemed like a party of pleasure, and every telling shot was

hailed with shouts of applause. Meanwhile, the enemy were not idle, but

kept up a fire from eight or nine pieces, directed against the redoubt,

the balls and canister ploughing up the ground in every direction, and

driving clouds of dust towards the camp. It was no joke to get over the

six or eight hundred yards that intervened between the latter and the

redoubt, for there was scarcely any cover, and the Mexican artillery was

far better served than ours. Nevertheless, the desire to obtain a full

view of the Alamo, which, from the redoubt, presented an imposing

appearance, induced eight men, including myself, to take a start across

the field. It seemed as if the enemy had pointed at us every gun in the

fort; the bullets fell around us like hail, and for a moment the

blasting tempest compelled us to take refuge behind a pecan-tree. Here

we stared at each other, and laughed heartily at the absurd figure we

cut, standing, eight men deep, behind a nut-tree, whilst our comrades,

both in the camp and the redoubt, shouted with laughter at every

discharge that rattled amongst the branches over our heads.

"This is what you call making war," said one of our party, Thomas Camp

by name.

"And that," said another, as a whole swarm of iron musquitos buzzed by

him, "is what we Americans call variations on Yankee Doodle."

Just then there was a tremendous crash amongst the branches, and we

dashed out from our cover, and across to the redoubt, only just in time;

for the next moment the ground on which we had been standing was strewn

with the heavy boughs of the pecan-tree.

All was life and bustle in the little redoubt; the men were standing

round the guns, talking and joking, and taking it by turns to have a

shot at the old walls. Before firing, each man was compelled to name his

mark, and say what part of the Alamo he meant to demolish, and then bets

were made as to his success or failure.

"A hundred rifle-bullets to twenty," cried one man, "that I hit between

the third and fourth window of the barracks."

"Done!" cried half a dozen voices. The shot was fired, and the clumsy

artilleryman had to cast bullets all next day.

"My pistols--the best in camp, by the by"--exclaimed another aspirant,

"against the worst in the redoubt."

"Well, sir, I reckon I may venture," said a hard-featured backwoodsman

in a green hunting-shirt, whose pistols, if not quite so good as those

wagered, were at any rate the next best. Away flew the ball, and the

pistols of the unlucky marksman were transferred to Green-shirt, who

generously drew forth his own, and handed them to the loser.

"Well, comrade, s'pose I must give you yer revenge. If I don't hit,

you'll have your pistols back again."

The cannon was reloaded, and the backwoodsman squinted along it, as if

it had been his own rifle, his features twisted up into a mathematical

calculation, and his right hand describing in the air all manner of

geometrical figures. At last he was ready; one more squint along the

gun, the match was applied, and the explosion took place. The rattle of

the stones warned us that the ball had taken effect. When the smoke

cleared away, we looked in vain for the third and fourth windows, and a

tremendous hurra burst forth for old Deaf Smith, as he was called, for

the bravest Texian who ever hunted across a prairie, and who

subsequently, with a small corps of observation, did such good service

on the Mexican frontier between Nueces and the Rio Grande.

The restless and impetuous Yankee volunteers were not long in finding

opportunities of distinction. Some Mexican sharpshooters having come

down to the opposite side of the river, whence they fired into the

redoubt, were repelled by a handful of the Greys, who then, carried away

by their enthusiasm, drove in the enemy's outposts, and entered the

suburbs of the town. They got too far, and were in imminent risk of

being overpowered by superior numbers, when Deaf Smith came to their

rescue with a party of their comrades. Several days passed away in

skirmishing, without any decisive assault being made upon the town or

fort. The majority of the men were for attacking; but some of the

leaders opposed it, and wished to retire into winter quarters in rear of

the Guadalupe river, wait for further reinforcements from the States,

and then, in the spring, again advance, and carry St Antonio by a _coup

de main_. To an army, in whose ranks subordination and discipline were

scarcely known, and where every man thought his opinion as worthy to be

listened to as that of the general, a difference of opinion was

destruction. The Texian militia, disgusted with their leader, Burleson,

retreated in straggling parties across the Guadalupe; about four hundred

men, consisting chiefly of the volunteers from New Orleans and the

Mississippi, remained behind, besieging St Antonio, of which the

garrison was nearly two thousand strong. The four hundred melted away,

little by little, to two hundred and ten; but these held good, and

resolved to attack the town. They did so, and took it, house by house,

with small loss to themselves, and a heavy one to the Mexicans. On the

sixth day, the garrison of the Alamo, which was commanded by General

Cos, and which the deadly Texian rifles had reduced to little more than

half its original numbers, capitulated. After laying down their arms,

they were allowed to retire beyond the Rio Grande. Forty-eight pieces of

cannon, four thousand muskets, and a quantity of military stores, fell

into the hands of the Texians, whose total loss amounted to six men

dead, and twenty-nine wounded.

After two or three weeks' sojourn at St Antonio, it was determined to

advance upon Matamoras; and on the 30th December the volunteers set out,

leaving a small detachment to garrison the Alamo. The advancing column

was commanded by Colonel Johnson; but its real leader, although he

declined accepting a definite command, was Colonel Grant, a Scotchman,

who had formerly held a commission in a Highland regiment, but had now

been for many years resident in Mexico. On reaching the little fort of

Goliad, near the town of La Bahia, which had a short time previously

been taken by a few Texians under Demmit, they halted, intending to wait

for reinforcements. A company of Kentuckians, and some other small

parties, joined them, making up their strength to about six hundred men;

but they were still obliged to wait for ammunition, and as the troops

began to get impatient, their leaders marched them to Refugio, a small

town and ruinous fort, about thirty miles further on. Here, in the

latter days of January 1836, General Houston, commander-in-chief of the

Texian forces, suddenly and unexpectedly appeared amongst them. He

assembled the troops, harangued them, and deprecated the proposed

expedition to Matamoras as useless, that town being without the proposed

limits of the republic. Nevertheless, so great was the impatience of

inaction, that two detachments, together about seventy men, marched by

different roads towards the Rio Grande, under command of Grant and

Johnson. Their example might probably have been followed by others, had

not the arrival of some strong reinforcements from the United States

caused various changes in the plan of campaign. The fresh troops

consisted of Colonel Fanning's free corps, the Georgia battalion under

Major Ward, and the Red Rovers, from Alabama, under Doctor Shackleford.

Fanning's and Ward's men, and the Greys, retired to Goliad, and set

actively to work to improve and strengthen the fortifications; whilst

Colonel Grant, whose chief failing appears to have been over-confidence,

continued with a handful of followers his advance to the Rio Grande,

promising at least to bring back a supply of horses for the use of the

army.

On the 5th of March, the garrison of Goliad received intelligence of the

declaration of Texian independence, and of the appointment of a

government, with Burnet as president, and Lorenzo de Zavala, a Mexican,

as vice-president. At the same time, came orders from General Houston to

destroy the forts of Goliad and the Alamo, and retreat immediately

behind the Guadalupe. Santa Anna, with twelve thousand men, was

advancing, by rapid marches, towards Texas. The order reached the Alamo

too late, for the little garrison of a hundred and eighty men was

already hemmed in, on all sides, by several thousand Mexicans, and had

sent messengers, imploring assistance, to Fanning at Goliad, and to

Houston, who was then stationed with five hundred militia at Gonzales,

high up on the Guadalupe. A second despatch from General Houston gave

Fanning the option of retiring behind the Guadalupe; or, if his men

wished it, of marching to the relief of the Alamo, in which latter case

he was to join Houston and his troops at Seguin's Rancho, about forty

miles from St Antonio. Fanning, however, who, although a man of

brilliant and distinguished courage, seems to have been an undecided and

wrongheaded officer, did neither, but preferred to wait for the enemy

within the walls of Goliad. In vain did a majority of his men, and

especially the Greys, urge him to march to the rescue of their comrades;

he positively refused to do so, although each day witnessed the arrival

of fresh couriers from St Antonio, imploring succour.

One morning three men belonging to the small detachment which, under

Colonel Grant, had gone upon the mad expedition to the Rio Grande,

arrived at Goliad with news of the destruction of their companions. Only

thirty in number, they had collected four hundred fine horses, and were

driving them northward to rejoin their friends, when, in a narrow pass

between thickets, they were suddenly surrounded by several hundred of

the enemy's lancers, whose attack, however, seemed directed rather

against the horses than the escort. Grant, whose courage was blind, and

who had already witnessed many instances of the almost incredible

poltroonery of those half-Indians, drew his sword, and charged the

Mexicans, who were at least ten times his strength. A discharge of

rifles and pistols stretched scores of the lancers upon the ground; but

that discharge made, there was no time to reload, and the Texians had to

defend themselves as best they might, with their bowie-knives and

rifle-buts, against the lances of the foe, with the certainty that any

of them who fell wounded from their saddles, would instantly be crushed

and mangled under the feet of the wild horses, which, terrified by the

firing and conflict, tore madly about the narrow field. Each moment the

numbers of the Texians diminished, one after the other disappeared,

transfixed by the lances, trampled by the hoofs. Colonel Grant and three

men--those who brought the news to Goliad--had reached the outskirt of

the _mêlée_, and might at once have taken to flight; but Grant perceived

some others of his men still fighting heroically amongst the mass of

Mexicans, and once more he charged in to rescue them. Every thing gave

way before him, his broadsword whistled around him, and man after man

fell beneath its stroke. His three followers having reloaded, were

rushing forward to his support, when suddenly the fatal lasso flew

through the air, its coils surrounded the body of the gallant Scot, and

the next instant he lay upon the ground beneath the feet of the foaming

and furious horses. In horrorstruck silence, the three survivors turned

their horses' heads north-east, and fled from the scene of slaughter.

Besides this disaster, numerous detachments of Texians were cut off by

the Mexicans, who now swarmed over the southern part of the province.

Colonel Johnson and his party were surprised in the town of San Patricio

and cut to pieces, Johnson and four of his followers being all that

escaped. Thirty men under Captain King, who had been sent by Fanning to

escort some settlers on their way northwards, were attacked by

overpowering numbers, and, after a most desperate defence, utterly

exterminated. The Georgia battalion under Major Ward, which had marched

from Goliad to the assistance of King and his party, fell in with a

large body of Mexican cavalry and infantry, and although, during the

darkness, they managed to escape, they lost their way in the prairie,

were unable to return to Goliad, and subsequently, as will hereafter be

seen, fell into the hands of the enemy. The Alamo itself was taken, not

a man surviving of the one hundred and eighty who had so valiantly

defended it. On the other hand, we have Mr Ehrenberg's assurance that

its capture cost Santa Anna two thousand two hundred men. In the ranks

of the besieging army were between two and three thousand convicts, who,

on all occasions, were put in the post of danger. At the attack on the

Alamo they were promised a free pardon if they took the place.

Nevertheless, they advanced reluctantly enough to the attack, and twice,

when they saw their ranks mown down by the fire of the Texians, they

turned to fly, but each time they were driven back to the charge by the

bayonets and artillery of their countrymen. At last, when the greater

part of these unfortunates had fallen, Santa Anna caused his fresh

troops to advance, and the place was taken. The two last of the garrison

fell by the Mexican bullets as they were rushing, torch in hand, to fire

the powder magazine. The fall of the Alamo was announced to Colonel

Fanning in a letter from Houston.

"The next point of the enemy's operations," said the old general, "will

be Goliad, and let the garrison reflect on the immensity of the force

that within a very few days will surround its walls. I conjure them to

make a speedy retreat, and to join the militia behind the Guadalupe.

Only by a concentration of our forces can we hope to achieve any thing;

and if Goliad is besieged, it will be impossible for me to succour it,

or to stake the fate of the republic upon a battle in the prairie, where

the ground is so unfavourable to our troops. Once more, therefore,

Colonel Fanning--in rear of the Guadalupe!"

At last, but unfortunately too late, Fanning decided to obey the orders

of his general. The affairs of the republic of Texas were indeed in a

most critical and unfavourable state. St Antonio taken, the army of

volunteers nearly annihilated, eight or ten thousand Mexican troops in

the country, for the garrison of Goliad no chance of relief in case of a

siege, and, moreover, a scanty store of provisions. These were the

weighty grounds which finally induced Fanning to evacuate and destroy

Goliad. The history of the retreat will be best given in a condensed

translation of the interesting narrative now before us.

On the 18th April 1836, says Mr Ehrenberg, at eight in the morning, we

commenced our retreat from the demolished and still burning fort of

Goliad. The fortifications, at which we had all worked with so much

zeal, a heap of dried beef, to prepare which nearly seven hundred oxen

had been slaughtered, and the remainder of our wheat and maize flour,

had been set on fire, and were sending up black columns of smoke towards

the clouded heavens. Nothing was to be seen of the enemy, although their

scouts had for some days previously been observed in the west, towards

St Antonio. All the artillery, with the exception of two long

four-pounders and a couple of mortars, were spiked and left behind us.

But the number of store and ammunition waggons with which we started was

too great, and our means of drawing them inadequate, so that, before we

had gone half a mile, our track was marked by objects of various kinds

scattered about the road, and several carts had broken down or been left

behind. At a mile from Goliad, on the picturesque banks of the St

Antonio, the remainder of the baggage was abandoned or hastily thrown

into the river, chests full of cartridges, the soldiers' effects, every

thing, in short, was committed to the transparent waters; and having

harnessed the oxen and draught horses to the artillery and to two

ammunition waggons, we slowly continued the march, our foes still

remaining invisible.

Our road lay through one of those enchanting landscapes, composed of

small prairies, intersected by strips of oak and underwood. On all sides

droves of oxen were feeding in the high grass, herds of wild-eyed deer

gazed wonderingly at the army that thus intruded upon the solitary

prairies of the west, and troops of horses dashed madly away upon our

approach, the thunder of their hoofs continuing to be audible long after

their disappearance. At eight miles from Goliad begins an extensive and

treeless prairie, known as the Nine-mile Prairie; and across this,

towards three in the afternoon, we had advanced about four or five

miles. Myself and some of my comrades, who acted as rearguard, were

about two miles behind, and had received orders to keep a sharp eye

upon the forest, which lay at a considerable distance to our left; but

as up to this time no signs of an enemy had been visible, we were riding

along in full security, when, upon casually turning our heads, we

perceived, about four miles off, at the edge of the wood, a something

that resembled a man on horseback. But as the thing, whatever it was,

did not appear to move, we decided that it must be a tree or some other

inanimate object, and we rode on without taking further notice. We

proceeded in this way for about a quarter of an hour, and then, the main

body being only about a quarter of a mile before us, marching at a

snail's pace, we halted to rest a little, and let our horses feed. Now,

for the first time, as we gazed out over the seemingly boundless

prairie, we perceived in our rear, and close to the wood, a long black

line. At first we took it to be a herd of oxen which the settlers were

driving eastward, to rescue them from the Mexicans; but the dark mass

drew rapidly nearer, became each moment more plainly discernible, and

soon we could no longer doubt that a strong body of Mexican cavalry was

following us at full gallop. We sprang upon our horses, and, at the top

of their speed, hurried after our friends, to warn them of the

approaching danger. Its intimation was received with a loud hurra; all

was made ready for the fight, a square was formed, and in this manner we

marched on, as fast as possible certainly, but that was slowly enough.

Fanning, our commander, was unquestionably a brave and daring soldier,

but unfortunately he was by no means fitted for the post he held, or

indeed for any undivided command. As a proof of this, instead of

endeavouring to reach the nearest wood, hardly a mile off, and sheltered

in which our Texian and American riflemen would have been found

invincible, he resolved to give battle upon the open and unfavourable

ground that we now occupied.

The Mexicans came up at a furious gallop to a distance of five or six

hundred paces, and thence gave us a volley from their carbines, of which

we took no notice, seeing that the bullets flew at a respectful height

above our heads, or else fell whistling upon the earth before us,

without even raising the dust. One only of the harmless things passed

between me and my right hand man, and tore off part of the cap of my

friend, Thomas Camp, who, after myself, was the youngest man in the

army. We remained perfectly quiet, and waited for the enemy to come

nearer, which he did, firing volley after volley. Our artillery

officers, for the most part Poles, tall, handsome men, calmly waited the

opportune moment to return the fire. It came; the ranks opened, and the

artillery vomited death and destruction amongst the Mexicans, whose

ill-broken horses recoiled in dismay and confusion from the flash and

thunders of the guns. The effect of our fire was frightful, steeds and

riders lay convulsed and dying upon the ground, and for a time the

advance of the enemy was checked. We profited by this to continue our

retreat, but had marched a very short distance before we were again

threatened with a charge, and Fanning commanded a halt. It was pointed

out to him that another body of the enemy was advancing upon our left,

to cut us off from the wood, and that those who had already attacked us

were merely sent to divert our attention whilst the manoeuvre was

executed. But Fanning either did not see the danger, or he was vexed

that another should be more quicksighted than himself, for he would not

retract his order. At last, after much vain discussion, and after

representing to him how necessary it was to gain the wood, the Greys

declared that they would march thither alone. But it was too late. The

enemy had already cut us off from it, and there was nothing left but to

fight our way through them, or give battle where we stood. Fanning was

for the latter course; and before the captains, who had formed a council

of war, could come to a decision, the Mexican trumpets sounded the

charge, and with shout and shot the cavalry bore down upon us, their

wild cries, intended to frighten us, contrasting oddly with the silence

and phlegm of our people, who stood waiting the opportunity to make the

best use of their rifles. Again and again our artillery played havoc

amongst the enemy, who, finding his cavalry so unsuccessful in its

assaults, now brought up the infantry, in order to make a combined

attack on all sides at once. Besides the Mexicans three hundred of their

Indian allies, Lipans and Caranchuas, approached us on the left,

stealing through the long grass, and, contemptible themselves, but

formidable by their position, wounded several of our people almost

before we perceived their proximity. A few discharges of canister soon

rid us of these troublesome assailants.

Meanwhile the hostile infantry, who had now joined the cavalry, slowly

advanced, keeping up a constant but irregular fire, which we replied to

with our rifles. In a very short time we were surrounded by so dense a

smoke that we were often compelled to pause and advance a little towards

the enemy, before we could distinguish an object at which to aim. The

whole prairie was covered with clouds of smoke, through which were seen

the rapid flashes of the musketry, accompanied by the thunder of the

artillery, the sharp clear crack of our rifles, and the occasional blare

of the Mexican trumpets, encouraging to the fight. At that moment, I

believe there was not a coward in the field; in the midst of such a

tumult there was no time to think of self. We rushed on to meet the

advancing foe, and many of us found ourselves standing firing in the

very middle of his ranks. I myself was one of these. In the smoke and

confusion I had got too far forward, and was too busy loading and

firing, to perceive that I was in the midst of the Mexicans. As soon as

I discovered my mistake, I hurried back to our own position, in all the

greater haste, because the touchhole of my rifle had got stopped.

But things went badly with us; many of our people were killed, more,

severely wounded; all our artillerymen, with the exception of one Pole,

had fallen, and formed a wall of dead bodies round the guns; the

battlefield was covered with dead and dying men and horses, with rifles

and other weapons. Fanning himself had been thrice wounded. The third

bullet had gone through two coats and through the pocket of his

overalls, in which he had a silk handkerchief, and had entered the

flesh, but, strange to say, without cutting through all the folds of the

silk; so that when he drew out the handkerchief, the ball fell out of

it, and he then for the first time felt the pain of the wound.

It was between five and six o'clock. In vain had the cavalry endeavoured

to bring their horses against our ranks; each attempt had been rendered

fruitless by the steady fire of our artillery and rifles, and at last

they were obliged to retreat. The infantry also retired without waiting

for orders, and our guns, which were now served by the Greys, sent a

last greeting after them. Seven hundred Mexicans lay dead upon the

field; but we also had lost a fifth part of our men, more than had ever

fallen on the side of the Texians in any contest since the war began,

always excepting the massacre at the Alamo. The enemy still kept near

us, apparently disposed to wait till the next day, and then renew their

attacks. Night came on, but brought us no repose; a fine rain began to

fall, and spoiled the few rifles that were still in serviceable order.

Each moment we expected an assault from the Mexicans, who had divided

themselves into three detachments, of which one was posted in the

direction of Goliad, another upon the road to Victoria, which was our

road, and the third upon our left, equidistant from the other two, so as

to form a triangle. Their signals showed us their position through the

darkness. We saw that it was impossible to retreat unperceived and that

our only plan was to spike the guns, abandon the wounded and artillery,

put our rifles in as good order as might be, and cut our way through

that body of Mexicans which held the road to Victoria. Once in the wood,

we were safe, and all Santa Anna's regiments would have been

insufficient to dislodge us. The Greys were of opinion that it was

better to sacrifice a part than the whole, and to abandon the wounded,

rather than place ourselves at the mercy of a foe in whose honour and

humanity no trust could be reposed. But Fanning was of a different

opinion. Whether his wounds--none of them, it is true, very severe--and

the groans and complaints of the dying, had rendered him irresolute,

and shaken his well-tried courage, or whether it was the hope that our

vanguard, which had reached the wood before the Mexicans surrounded us,

would return with a reinforcement from Victoria, only ten miles distant,

and where, as it was falsely reported, six hundred militiamen were

stationed, I cannot say; but he remained obstinate, and we vainly

implored him to take advantage of the pitch-dark night, and retreat to

the wood. He insisted upon waiting till eight o'clock the next morning,

and if no assistance came to us by that time, we could cut our way, he

said, in open day, through the ranks of our contemptible foe, and if we

did not conquer, we could at least bravely die.

"Give way to my wishes, comrades," said he; "listen to the groans of our

wounded brethren, whose lives may yet be saved by medical skill. Will

the New Orleans' Greys, the first company who shouldered the rifle for

Texian liberty, abandon their unfortunate comrades to a cruel death at

the hands of our barbarous foes? Once more, friends, I implore you, wait

till daybreak, and if no help is then at hand, it shall be as you

please, and I will follow you."

In order to unstiffen my limbs, which were numbed by the wet and cold, I

walked to and fro in our little camp, gazing out into the darkness. Not

a star was visible, the night was gloomy and dismal, well calculated to

crush all hope in our hearts. I stepped out of the encampment, and

walked in the direction of the enemy. From time to time dark figures

glided swiftly by within a short distance of me. They were the Indians,

carrying away the bodies of the dead Mexicans, in order to conceal from

us the extent of their loss. For hours I mournfully wandered about, and

day was breaking when I returned to the camp. All were already astir. In

silent expectation, we strained our eyes in the direction of the

neighbouring wood, hoping each moment to see our friends burst out from

its shelter; but as the light became stronger, all our hopes fled, and

our previous doubts as to whether there really were any troops at

Victoria, became confirmed. The Mexican artillery had come up during the

night, and now appeared stationed with the detachment which cut us off

from the wood.

It was seven o'clock; we had given up all hopes of succour, and had

assembled together to deliberate on the best mode of attacking the

Mexicans, when their artillery suddenly bellowed forth a morning

salutation, and the balls came roaring over and around us. These

messengers hastened our decision, and we resolved at once to attack the

troops upon the road with rifle and bowie-knife, and at all hazards and

any loss to gain the wood. All were ready; even the wounded, those at

least who were able to stand, made ready to accompany us, determined to

die fighting, rather than be unresistingly butchered. Suddenly, and at

the very moment that we were about to advance, the white flag, the

symbol of peace, was raised upon the side of the Mexicans. Mistrusting

their intentions, however, we were going to press forward, when

Fanning's command checked us. He had conceived hopes of rescuing himself

and his comrades, by means of an honourable capitulation, from the

perilous position into which he could not but feel that his own

obstinacy had brought them.

Three of the enemy's officers now approached our camp, two of them

Mexican cavalry-men, the third a German who had got into favour with

Santa Anna, and had risen to be colonel of artillery. He was, if I am

not mistaken, a native of Mayence, and originally a carpenter, but

having some talent for mathematics and architecture, he had entered the

service of an English mining company, and been sent to Mexico. There

Santa Anna employed him to build his well-known country-house of Mango

do Clavo, and conceiving, from the manner in which the work was

executed, a high opinion of the talent of the builder, he gave him a

commission in the engineers, and in time made him colonel of artillery.

This man, whose name was Holzinger, was the only one who spoke English

of the three officers who came with the flag of truce; and as he spoke

it very badly, a great deal of our conference took place in German, and

was then retranslated into Spanish. After a long discussion, Fanning

agreed to the following conditions: namely, that we should deliver up

our arms, that our private property should be respected, and we

ourselves sent to Corpano or Matamora, there to embark for New Orleans.

So long as we were prisoners of war, we were to receive the same rations

as the Mexican soldiers. On the other hand, we gave our word of honour

not again to bear arms against the existing government of Mexico.

Whilst the three officers returned to General Urrea, who commanded the

Mexican army, to procure the ratification of these conditions, we, the

volunteers from New Orleans and Mobile, surrounded Fanning, highly

dissatisfied at the course that had been adopted. "What!" was the cry,

"is this the way that Fanning keeps his promise--this his boasted

courage? Has he forgotten the fate of our brothers, massacred at St

Antonio? Does he not yet know our treacherous foes? In the Mexican

tongue, to capitulate, means to die. Let us die then, but fighting for

Texas and for liberty; and let the blood of hundreds of Mexicans mingle

with our own. Perhaps, even though they be ten times as numerous, we may

succeed in breaking through their ranks. Think of St Antonio, where we

were two hundred and ten against two thousand, and yet we conquered. Why

not again risk the combat?" But all our expostulations and reproaches

were in vain. The majority were for a surrender, and we were compelled

to give way and deliver up our weapons. Some of the Greys strode

sullenly up and down the camp, casting furious glances at Fanning and

those who had voted for the capitulation; others sat motionless, their

eyes fixed upon the ground, envying the fate of those who had fallen in

the fight. Despair was legibly written on the faces of many who but too

well foresaw our fate. One man in particular, an American, of the name

of Johnson, exhibited the most ungovernable fury. He sat grinding his

teeth, and stamping upon the ground, and puffing forth volumes of smoke

from his cigar, whilst he meditated, as presently appeared, a frightful

plan of vengeance.

Stimulated by curiosity, a number of Mexicans now strolled over to our

camp, and gazed shyly at the gloomy grey marksmen, as if they still

feared them, even though unarmed. The beauty of the rifles which our

people had given up, was also a subject of great wonder and admiration;

and soon the camp became crowded with unwelcome visitors--their joy and

astonishment at their triumph, contrasting with the despair and

despondency of the prisoners. Suddenly a broad bright flame flashed

though the morning fog, a tremendous explosion followed, and then all

was again still, and the prairie strewn with wounded men. A cloud of

smoke was crushed down by the heavy atmosphere upon the dark green

plain; the horses of the Mexican officers reared wildly in the air, or,

with bristling mane and streaming tail, galloped furiously away with

their half-deafened riders. Numbers of persons had been thrown down by

the shock, others had flung themselves upon the ground in consternation,

and some moments elapsed before the cause of the explosion was

ascertained. The powder magazine had disappeared--all but a small part

of the carriage, around which lay a number of wounded, and, at about

fifteen paces from it, a black object, in which the form of a human

being was scarcely recognisable, but which was still living, although

unable to speak. Coal-black as a negro, and frightfully disfigured, it

was impossible to distinguish the features of this unhappy wretch.

Inquiry was made, the roll was called, and Johnson was found missing.

Nobody had observed his proceedings, and the explosion may have been the

result of an accident; but we entertained little doubt that he had

formed a deliberate plan to kill himself and as many Mexicans as he

could, and had chosen what he considered a favourable moment to set fire

to the ammunition-waggon. As it happened, the cover was not fastened

down, so that the principal force of the powder went upwards, and his

terrible project was rendered in a great measure abortive.

Scarcely had the confusion caused by this incident subsided, and the

fury of our foes been appeased, when the alarm was sounded in the

opposite camp, and the Mexicans ran to their arms. The cause of this was

soon explained. In the wood, which, could we have reached it, would have

been our salvation, appeared our faithful vanguard, accompanied by all

the militia they had been able to collect in so short a time--the whole

commanded by Colonel Horton. False indeed had been the report, that six

or eight hundred men were stationed at Victoria; including our vanguard,

the gallant fellows who thus came to our assistance were but sixty in

number.

"With what horror," said the brave Horton, subsequently, "did we

perceive that we had arrived too late! We stood thunderstruck and

uncertain what to do, when we were suddenly roused from our bewilderment

by the sound of the Mexican trumpets. There was no time to lose, and our

minds were speedily made up. Although Fanning had so far forgotten his

duty as to surrender, ours was to save ourselves, for the sake of the

republic. Now, more than ever, since all the volunteers were either

killed or prisoners, had Texas need of our arms and rifles. We turned

our horses, and galloped back to Victoria, whence we marched to join

Houston at Gonzales."

The Mexicans lost no time in pursuing Horton and his people, but without

success. The fugitives reached the thickly-wooded banks of the

Guadalupe, and disappeared amongst intricacies through which the foe did

not dare to follow them. Had the reinforcement arrived one half hour

sooner, the bloody tragedy soon to be enacted would never have taken

place.

The unfortunate Texian prisoners were now marched back to Goliad, and

shut up in the church, which was thereby so crowded that scarcely a

fourth of them were able to sit or crouch upon the ground. Luckily the

interior of the building was thirty-five to forty feet high, or they

would inevitably have been suffocated. Here they remained all night,

parched with thirst; and it was not till eight in the morning that six

of their number were permitted to fetch water from the river. In the

evening they were again allowed water, but for two nights and days no

other refreshment passed their lips. Strong pickets of troops, and guns

loaded with grape, were stationed round their prison, ready to massacre

them in case of an outbreak which it seemed the intention of the

Mexicans to provoke. At last, on the evening of the second day, six

ounces of raw beef were distributed to each man. This they had no means

of cooking, save at two small fires, which they made of the wood-work of

the church; and as the heat caused by these was unendurable to the

closely packed multitude, the majority devoured their scanty ration raw.

One more night was passed in this wretched state, and then the prisoners

were removed to an open court within the walls of the fortress. This was

a great improvement of their situation, but all that day no rations were

given to them, and they began to buy food of the soldiers, giving for it

what money they possessed; and when that was all gone, bartering their

clothes, even to their shirts and trousers. So enormous, however, were

the prices charged by the Mexicans, Mr Ehrenberg tells us, that one

hungry man could easily eat at a meal ten dollars' worth of _tortillas_

or maize-cakes. Not satisfied with this mode of extortion, the Mexican

soldiers, who are born thieves, were constantly on the look-out to rob

the unhappy prisoners of whatever clothing or property they had left.

On the fourth morning, three quarters of a pound of beef were given to

each man; and whilst they were engaged in roasting it, there appeared to

their great surprise a hundred and twenty fresh prisoners, being Major

Ward's detachment, which had lost its way in the prairie, and, after

wandering about for eight days, had heard of Fanning's capitulation, and

surrendered on the same terms. Twenty-six of them, carpenters by trade,

had been detained at Victoria by order of Colonel Holzinger, to assist

in building bridges for the transport of the artillery across the river.

On the seventh day came a hundred more prisoners, who had just landed at

Copano from New York, under command of Colonel Miller, and had been

captured by the Mexican cavalry. The rations were still scanty, and

given but at long intervals; and the starving Texians continued their

system of barter, urged to it by the pangs of hunger, and by the Mexican

soldiers, who told them that they were to be shot in a day or two, and

might as well part with whatever they had left, in order to render their

last hours more endurable. This cruel assurance, however, the prisoners

did not believe. They were sanguine of a speedy return to the States,

and impatiently waited the arrival of an order for their shipment from

Santa Anna, who was then at St Antonio, and to whom news of the

capitulation had been sent. General Urrea had marched from Goliad

immediately after their surrender, only leaving sufficient troops to

guard them, and had crossed the Guadalupe without opposition. Santa

Anna's order at last came, but its purport was far different from the

anticipated one. We resume our extracts from Mr Ehrenberg's narrative:--

The eighth morning of our captivity dawned, and so great were our

sufferings, that we had resolved, if some change were not made in our

condition, to free ourselves by force, or die in the attempt, when a

rumour spread that a courier from Santa Anna had arrived during the

night. This inspired us with fresh hopes, and we trusted that the hour

of our deliverance at last approached. At eight o'clock in the morning

an officer entered our place of confinement, carrying Santa Anna's order

in his hand, of the contents of which, however, he told us nothing,

except that we were immediately to march away from Goliad. Whether we

were to go to Copano or Matamoras, we were not informed. We saw several

pieces of cannon standing pointed against our enclosure, the

artillerymen standing by them with lighted matches, and near them was

drawn up a battalion of infantry, in parade uniform, but coarse and

ragged enough. The infantry had no knapsacks or baggage of any kind; but

at the time I do not believe that one of us remarked the circumstance,

as the Mexican soldiers in general carry little or nothing. For our

part, we required but a very short time to get ready for the march, and

in a few minutes we were all drawn up, two deep, with the exception of

Colonel Miller's detachment, which was quartered outside the fort.

Fanning and the other wounded men, the doctor, his assistants, and the

interpreters, were also absent. They were to be sent later to New

Orleans, it was believed, by a nearer road.

After the names had been called over, the order to march was given, and

we filed out through the gate of the fortress, the Greys taking the

lead. Outside the gate we were received by two detachments of Mexican

infantry, who marched along on either side of us, in the same order as

ourselves. We were about four hundred in number, and the enemy about

seven hundred, not including the cavalry, of which numerous small groups

were scattered about the prairie. We marched on in silence, not however,

in the direction we had anticipated, but along the road to Victoria.

This surprised us; but upon reflection we concluded that they were

conducting us to some eastern port, thence to be shipped to New Orleans,

which, upon the whole, was perhaps the best and shortest plan. There was

something, however, in the profound silence of the Mexicali soldiers,

who are usually unceasing chatterers, that inspired me with a feeling of

uneasiness and anxiety. It was like a funeral march, and truly might it

so be called. Presently I turned my head to see if Miller's people had

joined, and were marching with us. But, to my extreme astonishment,

neither they nor Fanning's men, nor the Georgia battalion, were to be

seen. They had separated us without our observing it, and the detachment

with which I was marching consisted only of the Greys and a few Texian

colonists. Glancing at the escort, their full dress uniform and the

absence of all baggage, now for the first time struck me. I thought of

the bloody scenes that had occurred at Tampico, San Patricio, and the

Alamo, of the false and cruel character of those in whose power we were,

and I was seized with a presentiment of evil. For a moment I was about

to communicate my apprehensions to my comrades; but hope, which never

dies, again caused me to take a more cheering view of our situation.

Nevertheless, in order to be prepared for the worst, and, in case of

need, to be unencumbered in my movements, I watched my opportunity, and

threw away amongst the grass of the prairie a bundle containing the few

things that the thievish Mexicans had allowed me to retain.

A quarter of an hour had elapsed since our departure from the fort, when

suddenly the command was given in Spanish to wheel to the left, leaving

the road; and, as we did not understand the order, the officer himself

went in front to show us the way, and my companions followed without

taking any particular notice of the change of direction. To our left ran

a muskeet hedge, five or six feet in height, at right angles with the

river St Antonio, which flowed at about a thousand paces from us,

between banks thirty or forty feet high, and of which banks the one on

the nearer side of the river rose nearly perpendicularly out of the

water. We were marched along the side of the hedge towards the stream,

and suddenly the thought flashed across us, "Why are they taking us in

this direction?" The appearance of a number of lancers, cantering about

in the fields on our right, also startled us; and just then the

foot-soldiers, who had been marching between us and the hedge, changed

their places, and joined those of their comrades who guarded us on the

other hand. Before we could divine the meaning of this manoeuvre, the

word was given to halt. It came like a sentence of death; for at the

same moment that it was uttered, the sound of a volley of musketry

echoed across the prairie. We thought of our comrades and of our own

probable fate.

"Kneel down!" now burst in harsh accents from the lips of the Mexican

commander.

No one stirred. Few of us understood the order, and those who did would

not obey. The Mexican soldiers, who stood at about three paces from us,

levelled their muskets at our breasts. Even then we could hardly believe

that they meant to shoot us; for if we had, we should assuredly have

rushed forward in our desperation, and, weaponless though we were, some

of our murderers would have met their death at our hands. Only one of

our number was well acquainted with Spanish, and even he seemed as if he

could not comprehend the order that had been given. He stared at the

commanding-officer as if awaiting its repetition, and we stared at him,

ready, at the first word he should utter, to spring upon the soldiers.

But he seemed to be, as most of us were, impressed with the belief that

the demonstration was merely a menace, used to induce us to enter the

Mexican service. With threatening gesture and drawn sword, the chief of

the assassins again ejaculated the command to kneel down. The sound of a

second volley, from a different direction with the first, just then

reached our ears, and was followed by a confused cry, as if those at

whom it had been aimed, had not all been immediately killed. Our

comrade, the one who understood Spanish, started from his momentary

lethargy and boldly addressed us.

"Comrades," cried he, "you hear that report, that cry! There is no hope

for us--our last hour is come! Therefore, comrades--!"

A terrible explosion interrupted him--and then all was still. A thick

cloud of smoke was wreathing and curling towards the St Antonio. The

blood of our lieutenant was on my clothes, and around me lay my friends,

convulsed by the last agony. I saw nothing more. Unhurt myself, I sprang

up, and, concealed by the thick smoke, fled along the side of the hedge

in the direction of the river, the noise of the water for my guide.

Suddenly a blow from a heavy sabre fell upon my head, and from out of

the smoke emerged the form of a little Mexican lieutenant. He aimed a

second blow at me, which I parried with my left arm. I had nothing to

risk, but every thing to gain. It was life or death. Behind me a

thousand bayonets, before me the almost powerless sword of a coward. I

rushed upon him, and with true Mexican valour, he fled from an unarmed

man. On I went, the river rolled at my feet, the soldiers were shouting

and yelling behind. "Texas for ever!" cried I, and, without a moment's

hesitation, plunged into the water. The bullets whistled round me as I

swam slowly and wearily to the other side, but none wounded me. Our poor

dog, who had been with us all through the campaign, and had jumped into

the river with me, fell a last sacrifice to Mexican cruelty. He had

reached the middle of the stream, when a ball struck him, and he

disappeared.

Whilst these horrible scenes were occurring in the prairie, Colonel

Fanning and his wounded companions were shot and bayoneted at Goliad,

only Doctor Thackleford and a few hospital aids having their lives

spared, in order that they might attend on the wounded Mexicans. Besides

Mr Ehrenberg, but three of the prisoners at Goliad ultimately escaped

the slaughter.

Having crossed the St Antonio, Mr Ehrenberg struck into the high grass

and thickets, which concealed him from the pursuit of the Mexicans, and

wandered through the prairie, guiding himself, as best he might, by sun

and stars, and striving to reach the river Brazos. He lost his way, and

went through a variety of striking adventures, which, with some

characteristic sketches of Texian life and habits, of General Sam

Houston and Santa Anna, and a spirited account of the battle of St

Jacinto, at which, however, he himself was not present, fill up the

remainder of his book. Of one scene, between Houston and his army, we

will make a final extract:--

It was the latter end of March, and the army of Texian militia, under

Houston, which had increased to about thirteen hundred men, was

assembled on the banks of the Colorado river. One messenger after

another had arrived, bringing news that had converted them into perfect

cannibals, thirsting after Mexican blood. The murder of Grant and his

horsemen, that of Johnson and King with their detachments; the

unaccountable disappearance of Ward, who was wandering about in the

prairie; and finally, Horton's report of the capture of the unfortunate

Fanning; all these calamities, in conjunction with the fall of the

Alamo, had raised the fury of the backwoodsmen to such a pitch, that

they were neither to hold nor bind, and nobody but Sam Houston would

have been able to curb them.

The old general sat upon a heap of saddles; and in a circle round a

large fire, sat or stood, leaning upon their rifles, the captains of the

militia. The whole group was surrounded by a grumbling crowd of

backwoodsmen. The dark fiery eyes of the officers, nearly all tall

powerful figures, glanced alternately at the flames and at old Sam, who

was the only calm person present. Slowly taking a small knife from his

waistcoat pocket, he opened it, produced a huge piece of Cavendish, cut

off a quid, shoved it between his upper lip and front teeth, and handed

the tobacco to his nearest neighbour. This was a gigantic captain, the

upper part of whose body was clothed in an Indian hunting-coat, his head

covered with what had once been a fine beaver hat, but of which the

broad brim now flapped down over his ears, whilst his strong muscular

legs were wrapped from knee to ankle in thick crimson flannel, a

precaution against the thorns of the muskeet-trees not unfrequently

adopted in the west. His bullet-pouch was made out of the head of a

leopard, in which eyes of red cloth had been inserted, bringing out, by

contrast, the beauty of the skin, and was suspended from a strap of

brown untanned deer-hide. With an expression of great bitterness, the

backwoodsman handed the tobacco to the man next to him, and it passed on

from hand to hand, untasted by any one--a sign of uncommon excitement

amongst the persons there assembled. When the despised Cavendish had

gone round, the old general stuck it in his pocket again, and continued

the conference, at the same time whittling a stick with perfect coolness

and unconcern.

"Yes," said he, "I tell you that our affairs look rather ticklish--can't

deny it--but that is the only thing that will bring the people to their

senses. Santa Anna may destroy the colonies, but it won't be Sam

Houston's fault. Instead of at once assembling, the militia stop at home

with their wives--quite comfortable in the chimney-corner--think that a

handful of volunteers can whip ten thousand of these half-bloods. Quite

mistaken, gentlemen--quite mistaken. You see it now--the brave fellows

are gone--a scandal it is for us--and the enemy is at our heels. Instead

of seeing four or five thousand of our people here, there are thirteen

hundred--the others are minding the shop--making journeys to the Sabine.

Can't help it, comrades, must retire to the Brazos, into the

forests--must be off, and that at once."

"Stop, general, that ain't sense," cried a man, with a cap made out of a

wild-cat's skin; "not a step backwards--the enemy must soon come, and

then we'll whip 'em so glorious, that it will be a pleasure to see it;

the miserable vampires that they are!"

"A fight! a fight!" shouted the surrounding throng. "For Texas, now or

never!"

"Sam Houston is not of that opinion, my fine fellows," answered the

general, "and it is not his will to fight. Sam will not risk the fate of

the republic in a single foolhardy battle. The broad woods of the Brazos

shall do us good service. Though you are brave, and willing to risk your

lives, it would be small benefit to the country if you lost them. No, my

boys, we'll give it to the vermin, never fear, they shall have it, as

sure as Sam Houston stands in his own shoes."

"It's impossible for us to go back, General," cried another speaker;

"can't be--must at 'em! What, General, our richest plantations lie

between the Colorado and the Brazos, and are we to abandon them to these

thieves? Old Austin[H] would rise out of his grave if he heard the

footsteps of the murderers upon the prairie. No, General--must be at

them--must conquer or die!"

"Must conquer or die!" was echoed through the crowd; but the old general

sat whittling away, as cool as a cucumber, and seemed determined that

the next victory he gained should be in his own camp.

"Boys," said he--and he stood up, took another quid, shut his knife, and

continued--"Boys, you want to fight--very praiseworthy indeed--your

courage is certainly very praiseworthy;--but suppose the enemy brings

artillery with him, can you, will you, take the responsibility of giving

battle before our tardy fellow-citizens come up to reinforce us? How

will you answer it to your consciences, if the republic falls back under

the Mexican yoke, because an undisciplined mob would not wait the

favourable moment for a fight? No, no, citizens--we must retire to the

Brazos, where our rifles will give us the advantage; whilst here we

should have to charge the enemy, who is five times our strength, in the

open prairie. Don't doubt your courage, as you call it--though it's only

foolhardiness--but I represent the republic, and am answerable to the

whole people for what I do. Can't allow you to fight here. Once more I

summon you to follow me to San Felipe and all who wish well to Texas

will be ready in an hour's time. Every moment we may expect to see the

enemy on the other side of the river. Once more then--to the banks of

the Brazos!"

The old general walked off to his tent, and the crowd betook themselves

to their fires, murmuring and discontented, and put their rifles in

order. But in an hour and a half, the Texian army left their camp on the

Colorado. Sam Houston had prevailed, and the next evening he and his men

reached San Felipe, and, without pausing there, marched up the river. On

the 30th March the first squadron of the enemy showed itself near San

Felipe. The inhabitants abandoned their well-stored shops and houses,

set fire to them with their own hands, and fled across the river. The

Mexicans entered the town, and their rage was boundless when, instead of

a rich booty, they found heaps of ashes. Houston had now vanished, and

his foes could nowhere trace him, till he suddenly, and of his own

accord, reappeared upon the scene, and fell on them like a thunderbolt,

amply refuting the false and base charge brought against him by his

enemies, that he had retreated through cowardice. But to this day, it

is a riddle to me how he managed to reduce to obedience the unruly

spirits he commanded, and to induce them to retreat across the Brazos to

Buffalo Bayou. Of one thing I am certain--only Sam Houston could have

done it; no other man in the republic.

Mr Ehrenberg escaped from all his perils in time to share the rejoicings

of the Texians at the final evacuation of the country by the Mexican

army. And certainly they had cause for exultation, not only at being rid

of their cruel and semi-barbarous oppressors, but in the persevering

gallantry they had displayed throughout the whole campaign, during which

many errors were committed and many lives uselessly sacrificed, but of

which the close was nevertheless so glorious to those engaged in it.

Unskilled in military tactics, without discipline or resources, the

stubborn courage of a handful of American backwoodsmen proved an

overmatch for Santa Anna and his hosts, and the fairest and freshest

leaf of the Mexican cactus was rent from the parent stem, never to be

reunited.[I]

FOOTNOTES:

[G] _Fahrten und Schicksale eines Deutschen in Texas._ Von H. EHRENBERG.

Leipzig: 1845.

[H] The founder of the American colonies in Texas, and father of Stephen

F. Austin.

[I] The arms of Mexico are a cactus, with as many leaves as there are

states of the republic.

THE MOTHER AND HER DEAD CHILD.

With ceaseless sorrow, uncontroll'd,

The mother mourn'd her lot;

She wept, and would not be consoled,

Because her child was not.

She gazed upon its nursery floor,

But there it did not play;

The toys it loved, the clothes it wore,

All void and vacant lay.

Her house, her heart, were dark and drear,

Without their wonted light;

The little star had left its sphere,

That there had shone so bright.

Her tears, at each returning thought,

Fell like the frequent rain;

Time on its wings no healing brought,

And wisdom spoke in vain.

Even in the middle hour of night

She sought no soft relief,

But, by her taper's misty light,

Sate nourishing her grief.

'Twas then a sight of solemn awe,

Rose near her like a cloud;

The image of her child she saw,

Wrapp'd in its little shroud.

It sate within its favourite chair,

It sate and seem'd to sigh,

And turn'd upon its mother there

A meek imploring eye.

"O child! what brings that breathless form

Back from its place of rest?

For well I know no life can warm

Again that livid breast.

"The grave is now your bed, my child--

Go slumber there in peace."

"I cannot go," it answer'd mild,

"Until your sorrow cease.