A Time to Stand (21 page)

Comanches, Joe whispered, and begged Mrs. Dickinson to join him. But she would have none of it; she was too tired and heart-broken to care any longer. “I’d as soon die one way as another.”

The horsemen drew closer … close enough to see they were riding with martingales. No Indian ever did that. Joe leaped to his feet, wild with joy.

It was a Texan scouting party led by “Deaf” Smith, riding out from Gonzales to check on the Alamo. It didn’t take long to hear enough, and soon they were all heading for Gonzales together. As Mrs. Dickinson wearily lagged behind, scout Henry Karnes left the rest and dashed ahead with the news.

It came as no surprise. All signs had pointed to the fall of the Alamo for days—almost since the moment Sam Houston reached Gonzales on March 11 to organize his army. That very evening Anselmo Borgara and Andres Barcena, two Mexicans from the
ranchos
near San Antonio, turned up with hair-raising details on the final assault. No, they hadn’t been there themselves, but their friend Antonio Perez had, and he was a truthful man.

The story caused wild dismay in town. To stop any panic, Houston jailed both Mexicans as spies, but in his heart he feared the worst. The silence of Travis’ signal gun spoke louder than a dozen messengers. He canceled plans for a march on San Antonio. He ordered Fannin to pull back. He worried through March 12, waiting in vain for two of Seguin’s spies to report. On the 13th he finally decided that the only way to get the truth was to send out “Deaf” Smith—the taciturn, almost legendary scout who could read footprints like handwriting and smell a Mexican ten miles away.

It was a typical Smith performance. Ordered to return “within three days,” he was back by nightfall, complete with survivors. Now, as Mrs. Dickinson poured out the
heartbreaking details, Houston could only hold her hand and weep like a child.

Clearly there must be no more of these sieges. They were simply wasting men. The only course was to hold the little army together and retreat, drawing Santa Anna along, always ready to turn and strike. “By falling back,” Houston assured his highly nervous government, “Texas can rally and defeat any force that can come against her.”

There was no time to lose. Mrs. Dickinson said the advancing Mexicans were already at the Cibolo. Houston ordered an immediate retreat, and by 9:30
P.M.
men were collecting rations, loading the ammunition wagon, hitching the oxen. Others took the army’s two brass 24-pounders and unceremoniously dumped them into the Guadalupe River. At a time like this, artillery seemed more a burden than a weapon.

As the commotion rose, one of the townspeople opened his door and called out in alarm: “In the name of God, gentlemen, I hope you are not going to leave the families behind!”

“Oh, yes,” cracked a voice from the ranks, evidently no admirer of Sam Houston, “we are all looking out for Number One.”

Hardly fair. Houston even turned over most of his wagons to the settlers, and they too were preparing to leave. Sydney Kellogg—wife of one Alamo defender, sister of another—had to move carefully: her new baby was due any day.

By 11 the families all seemed to be gone, and the troops were ready to follow. The men clumsily formed in ranks of four; the captains gave the command to march; and the little army tramped off to the east. There were some 374 men in all, and of every conceivable variety—Sampson Connell, an ancient veteran of Jackson’s victory at New Orleans … John Jenkins, a lively 13-year-old … Colonel Sydney Sherman, who had the most dazzling uniform in Texas … Ben, late of the Mexican Army, who found no difficulty at
all in making the transition from Almonte’s chef to Houston’s cook.

It was hard marching. The road was rough, the weather hot and muggy—blanket rolls weighed a ton. The night was black—pitch-black—and the men tripped and stumbled as they trudged along. They never knew it could get so dark.

Then unexpectedly it grew lighter. Not from the east, where dawn would break; but from the west, from the town they left behind. A lurid glare rose in the sky, lighting their way beyond complaint. A grim Sam Houston—determined to leave no shelter, no comfort for the advancing Mexicans—was burning Gonzales to the ground.

For a few of the men it was all too much. They had joined up to chase out the Mexicans—just like last fall. But this time everything was different. Butchered friends, burning homes, suffering families. They had families too, and it was time to protect them. Some twenty of Houston’s men deserted, rushing home to save what they could, spreading stories of rout and disaster.

Head east, head east—that was the only hope. At Stafford’s Point, the P. W. Rose family got the news in the afternoon … left at sunset, hauling clothes, bedding and food all jumbled together on an ox-drawn sledge. Dr. Rose was off saving the cattle, so Mrs. Rose had to make out alone. She piled the youngest children on the load and walked alongside, carrying the baby. Eleven-year-old Dilue trudged with her, weeping bitterly for Travis.

Head east, head east—the word spread everywhere. At San Felipe, Gail Borden ran an editorial in his
Telegraph and Texas Register,
urging everyone to stay put. Then he loaded his presses on a wagon and headed east himself. At Washington-on-the-Brazos, the country’s fledging statesmen slapped together a constitution, elected an interim government, and joined the parade.

“It is with inexpressible regret that I observe the slightest indication of alarm among us,” the new President David G. Burnet declared on March 18. Later that morning he was on his way east too—bound for the “temporary capital” hastily established at the little town of Harrisburg. Here the government resumed its functions, issuing frantic requests for stationery, blankets, cups and saucers, “liquors suitable for Genteel men to drink.”

The “Runaway Scrape,” the Texans called their flight, with a sort of embarrassed jollity in later years. At the time it was simply terrifying—a pell-mell rush of women, children, officials, speculators, everybody. But through it all, a small group of women stood out with unruffled grace and dignity. These were the Alamo widows. The blind Mrs. Isaac Millsaps —inadvertently left behind at Gonzales—waited patiently with her seven children, till Houston discovered the blunder and rescued her. Sydney Kellogg had her baby on March 19, then lay uncomplainingly in the back of an open wagon, bouncing along in the driving rain.

As the refugees streamed east, Houston’s little army brought up the rear, guarding them from the enemy, prodding them along—like a scrappy shepherd dog herding the sheep. The troops reached the Colorado on March 17, waited there a week, hoping to blunt the Mexican advance. Much depended on Fannin, who had been ordered to pull back and be ready to co-operate.

But Fannin, of course, never moved. Rooted to Goliad, he waited too long to begin his march. Finally starting out on the 19th, he was quickly surrounded by Urrea’s forces. A halfhearted fight, and early next morning he surrendered. Some 400 Texans were taken back to Goliad, where they spent a miserable week as prisoners. On the night of March 26 things began to look up—there were rumors of parole—and one of the men took out a flute and softly played “Home, Sweet
Home.” The following dawn, Palm Sunday, they were led to the woods and shot.

Rendezvous at San Jacinto. Houston’s little army began retreating from Gonzales on March 13, leisurely followed by Santa Anna. On March 31 the Texans halted on the Brazos for two weeks to rest and regroup, while the Mexican leader continued east, chasing the Texan government. An April 15 Houston resumed his march, now the pursuer instead of the pursued. On April 21 he caught up with Santa Anna at the mouth of the San Jacinto River, demolished the Mexican force in eighteen minutes.

News of Fannin’s surrender reached Houston on March 25 and ended all hope of a stand on the Colorado. Next evening his troops were retreating again. On the 28th they passed Mill Creek, home of Travis’ Rebecca; the 31st, they reached the Brazos. Here they rested and drilled two weeks, while Houston himself tapped reveille on a drum and spent the lonely hours of the night reading Caesar’s
Commentaries.

April 12, word came that the Mexicans were crossing downstream, and the retreat began again. The little steamer
Yellow Stone
ferried the men over the river on the 12th and 13th. Next night they camped at the nearby Donohoe farm, then the familiar orders to push on east.

This endless retreating was hard to take, and on the morning of the 15th it seemed especially frustrating. As the army left Donohoe’s, a mysterious visitor appeared with a taunting message from Santa Anna somewhere to the south: “He knew Mr. Houston was up there in the bushes; and so soon as he had whipped the land thieves out of the country, he would come up and smoke him out.”

If the Mexican commander seemed playful, he had reason to be. Ever since the Alamo, the campaign had been a holiday excursion. Sesma’s troops were the first to start east, leaving San Antonio for Gonzales and San Felipe on March 11. Other detachments soon followed, bound for various objectives—Morales to help reduce Goliad, Tolsa to support Sesma, Gaona to take Nacogdoches. In less experienced hands, it might have seemed like scattering the army.

Santa Anna himself set out on March 31 to join Sesma. This was really something of a concession, for with the fighting nearly over, he wanted to return to Mexico City. But the stodgy Filisola seemed worried, so in the end the General-in-Chief amicably agreed to stay on.

It was really very easy. He reached Gonzales on April 2, crossed the Colorado on the 5th, took San Felipe on the 7th. Now he was on the Brazos and discovered that Houston had sunk or carried off every boat the Texans could find.

He knew a trick or two himself. First Almonte dashed to the edge of the river, and using his best American accent, yelled to the Texans guarding the other side, “Bring over that boat—the Mexicans are coming!” It didn’t work, and after waiting around a few days, Santa Anna finally led the troops down the right bank toward Thompson’s Ferry some thirty miles to the south.

On April 11 a clever ambush hauled in a frightened Negro—threats and bribes did the rest. He showed them a canoe hidden along the bank, and after much frantic paddling the Mexicans had a foothold on the east bank. Next morning they surprised the Texans guarding Thompson’s Ferry, captured another canoe and, best of all, a fine flatboat.

As the last of the Mexicans were crossing on the 14th, they suffered their only shock so far in the campaign. The steamboat
Yellow Stone
suddenly churned into view. Houston had finished with her and now she was heading downstream. Her tall stack vomited clouds of smoke, her bright paddlewheels thrashed the water.

Many of the Mexicans raced in terror for the woods—they had never seen a steamboat before. Others dashed along the bank, firing their muskets at the paddles. A few intrepid souls laid a trap: at a narrow point along the river they tried to lasso the smokestack. All was in vain. The
Yellow Stone
rounded the bend and chugged from sight.

Small loss. Santa Anna now had far bigger game in mind. A friendly Mexican reported that President Burnet and his top officials were at Harrisburg. Only thirty miles away! Prompt action could capture them all and end the rebellion with one lightning stroke.

At 3
P.M.,
April 14, Santa Anna was on the way, leading 700 infantry, 50 cavalry and one 6-pounder. All afternoon and evening they rushed on, soaking the hardtack and drowning two mules in their hurry to get across one difficult creek. No one seemed to know where they were going—nor did Filisola, Sesma or any of the others left behind—but the men had rarely seen their commander more excited.

At 9 o’clock that night they flopped into camp, so tired they didn’t even mind that His Excellency forgot to pick a site with water. Then on again next morning, driving hard all day—time out only to loot a small plantation. Even so, they weren’t going fast enough. Finally, Santa Anna dashed ahead with some dragoons, swooping down on Harrisburg just before midnight.

They were too late. No President, no officials, almost no citizens. Only three printers, cranking out the latest issue of the
Telegraph and Texas Register.
Santa Anna indignantly pitched the press into nearby Buffalo Bayou and put the printers under arrest.

From them he learned that the government, warned in time, had fled to Galveston. They also confirmed that Houston was still up the Brazos with 800 men. A little at loose ends, Santa Anna now sent Almonte and the cavalry still farther eastward. He told them to check Lynch’s Ferry and New Washington, both at the mouth of the San Jacinto River. See if anything was brewing in that direction.

There certainly was. On the 17th Almonte sent back some exciting news from New Washington: Houston was retreating again—heading for safety east of the Trinity—he would cross the San Jacinto at Lynch’s Ferry.

Get there first and cut him off! Another golden chance to end the rebellion at a single stroke. Again Santa Anna’s little force surged eastward, now driving harder than ever. First they would rejoin Almonte at New Washington, then move
together up the San Jacinto estuary to Lynch’s Ferry. They should easily get there before Houston.