“I was lookin’ for the army.”
“Well, this is it, Jake,” Bowie said and waved his hand back at the group. “We’re going to whip up on the Mexicans.”
“What do I have to do to join?” Jake asked.
“Consider yourself joined. You’ll be with me. I need some good men for scouts.”
Jake grinned and looked at the rag-tag group of volunteers. “This don’t seem a whole lot like an army to me. More like a party of some kind.”
“Well, we don’t have the uniforms, and most of these fellas wouldn’t know an about-face from a right face, but they’ve all got rifles, and they can all shoot. I guess that’s about all we’ll need.”
One of the volunteers later described the march in colorful terms:
Words are inadequate to convey an impression of the appearance of the first Texas army as it formed in marching order. It certainly bore little resemblance to the army of my childhood dreams. Buckskin breeches were the nearest approach to uniform, and there was wide diversity even there, some being new and soft and yellow, while others, from long familiarity with rain and grease and dirt, had become hard and black and shiney. Boots being an unknown quantity, some wore shoes and some moccasins. Here a broad-brimmed sombrero overshadowed the military cap at its side; there the tall “beegum” rode familiarly beside a coonskin cap, with the tail hanging down behind, as all well-regulated tails should. Here a big American horse loomed above the nimble Spanish pony, there a half-broke mustang pranced beside a sober, methodical mule. In lieu of a canteen, each man carried a Spanish gourd. A fantastic military array to a casual observer, but the one great purpose animating every heart clothed us in a uniform more perfect in our eyes than was ever donned by regulars on dress parade.
Before the army got halfway to San Antonio, the Gonzales cannon and its slogan, COME AND TAKE IT, lost a wheel and was abandoned. Jim Bowie said, “Jake, we could have used that cannon.”
“We don’t need it, Jim.” Jake shrugged. “How many Mexicans you figure we got to kill at San Antonio?”
“Hard to say. Reports don’t always agree. There’s more of them than there is of us. We got three or four hundred here if nobody leaves. I reckon they’ve got about fourteen hundred.”
Jake laughed. “Sounds like them odds are about right. We only have to kill about three or four Mexicans apiece.”
The two men rode side by side, and Jake became more and more convinced that Jim Bowie was the man to command the expedition. Bowie was a fighting man, and Steve Austin was a businessman, a man of books and paper. He mentioned his thoughts once to Bowie, who simply replied, “We’ve got to have Austin. He’s the man people look to—him and Sam Houston.” Bowie would have said more, but suddenly a scout came thundering in on his horse and shouting.
“Jim, there’s a bunch of Mexicans out ahead of us there!”
Jim Bowie proved his worth as a fighting man. He took ninety men from the main army and rode out to meet the Mexicans. Jake was one of them. Bowie let his instincts take over, and when they were in sight of the opposing army, he yelled, “Charge!”
Jake laughed and primed his rifle, then drove his heels into his horse’s sides. The ninety men charged down on the startled Mexicans. Jake fired his rifle when he was no more than fifty feet from a Mexican. The man was wearing a fancy uniform and waving a sword, trying to get his men into action. Jake’s bullet caught him right under the nose and drove him backward. Jake joined his voice with the other screaming Texans and rode right into the fray.
The Mexicans were driven back, and Bowie called his men to take cover under the bank. Jake fell down with the others, and Bowie ordered a steady skirmishing fire. The Mexicans returned the fire, but their muskets were no match for the Texans’ long rifles.
“Look out! They’re going to try to rush us!” Bowie yelled as the Mexicans attempted a feeble charge. Many of them fell as the long rifles picked them off.
The battle soon became a rout, and the Mexicans began to fall back to the Alamo.
“We got ’em on the run!” Bowie yelled. “Follow ’em, boys!”
The Mexicans retreated, throwing down their guns as they ran for their lives. Bowie’s men followed them all the way to the walls of the Alamo, and Jake said, “Jim, we can’t take San Antonio, can we, not without more men?”
“That’s right, Jake,” Bowie said. “You’re a sergeant now, so start slowin’ these men down.”
Jake laughed. “Never thought I’d ever be a sergeant in no man’s army.” He began riding up and down the lines, stopping the men from advancing any farther.
“We can take it!” some of them yelled.
But even Jim Bowie, as reckless as he was, knew they could not take fourteen hundred trained soldiers with only ninety men.
“We’ll wait for the rest of our men to come up, Jake, and then we’ll find a way to get at ’em.”
The rest of the army arrived shortly, but after a brief conference, the Texans began collecting their booty. They had lost four men, and Bowie believed the total Mexican casualties ran up to sixty.
“Them fellows was out after grass for fodder,” Jake said after examining some of the pack animals the Mexicans had left behind in haste. He laughed and winked at Jim. “They’ll be callin’ this thing the Grass Fight.”
As a matter of fact, “Grass Fight” is exactly what it was called. But for the Texans, it was another victory, which boosted their morale. They settled in around the walls of San Antonio, waiting for more reinforcements to come. They were a confident army now, ragtag as they might be, and knew that there would be a reckoning with Santa Anna sooner or later.
Julie had come out on the streets of San Felipe and was shocked at the crowds milling about. As she made her way through them, many of the men who had been drinking made rude remarks to her, which she ignored. When she started across the street, she saw Rhys Morgan and went over to him at once. “What’s going on, Rhys?”
Morgan was wearing a faded brown coat and a low-crowned hat. He shoved it back on his head and smiled at Julie. “Why, Julie, this is a Texas convention. Thought you’d know all about that.”
“Men are always havin’ meetings of some kind.”
“This one’s different, Julie. I think they might really do something this time.”
“Tell me what’s going on. I don’t understand any of it.”
“Well, there’s two parties right now among Texans. One’s the Peace Party, and the other is the War Party. The War Party is the biggest. It wants to declare independence from Mexico. But Sam Houston, he’s against it.”
“What are they going to do?” Julie asked.
“Houston’s been named commander of all troops except for those at San Antonio.” Rhys shook his head, and his lips twisted in a grimace.
“Which is about all the army there is right now.”
“I thought Austin was in charge of everything.”
“I hear he’s going back to the States to raise more money and men.”
Julie walked down the street holding Rhys’ arm. She was thinking hard, and finally she pulled Rhys around. “I’m afraid,” she said. “I don’t understand all this.”
“Well, you’re not the only one. There’s going to be a war, Julie, and it will be a bad one. Look at those Texans out there. They think they can walk all over Santa Anna, but word’s out that he’s got an army of five thousand and more, and they’re trained troops with artillery. It’s not going to be easy. Without reinforcements, the Texans don’t stand a chance against that kind of military strength.”
The two stood there watching as the debates went on with citizens yelling at one another. Sometimes the animosity was so great it almost erupted into violence. Rhys saw that Julie was nervous. “Is there anything I can do for you, Julie?”
Julie made up her mind on that instant. She turned and faced him.
She knew Rhys Morgan was unlike most of the others she had met. He possessed a strength and a goodness that puzzled her. Most men sh
e had ever been around were only interested in taking advantage of her. Ever since she had known Rhys, she had waited for him to kiss her, but he never had. It was for this reason she said, “I do want something. Take me out to see Jerusalem and the kids, Rhys.”
“Why, sure, Julie.”
“And will you do this? Will you stay with us for a while? I’m . . . I’m afraid of the Indians.”
“I guess you have good reason. They know our men are going to fight the Mexicans, and raiding parties will have easy pickings on isolated farms and ranches.”
“Will you do it, Rhys? Stay with us for a while.”
Rhys grinned. He pulled his hat off and ran his hand through his black hair. He had shaved that morning, and his skin glowed, and his teeth were white against his tan. “I may preach a little,” he warned.
Julie squeezed his arm. “That’s all right, I guess.” She laughed suddenly. “You’re too good-looking to be a preacher, Rhys. You should have been a gambler.”
Julie straightened up in the wagon and said, “Look, there’s Fergus Nightingale!”
“Who’s that?” Rhys asked, looking at the two wagons they were rapidly approaching. They were headed in the same direction, but Rhys had driven the team at a fast clip.
“He’s some kind of a crazy Englishman come over to study the Indians. That’s his man Langley driving the second wagon there. And look, there’s a couple of Indians with them.”
“They must be peaceful, I guess. I don’t know what tribe they’re from. I don’t know that much about Indians.”
“Neither do I.”
When they drew alongside the first wagon, Julie saw Nightingale, who was driving. When he recognized her, he pulled up and took his hat off. It was an odd hat, a derby that was fashionable enough in London but looked oddly out of place on the open plains of Texas. Otherwise, he was dressed as always as a fashion plate.
“Why, Miss Julie, I do believe. What a pleasant surprise.”
“Hello, Fergus. It’s good to see you again.”
“A delight to see you.”
“This is my friend, Reverend Rhys Morgan.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Reverend,” Fergus said.
“The pleasure is mine, sir,” Rhys said.
“Where are you going, Fergus?” Julie asked.
“I’ve been to San Felipe to get some supplies. Now I’m going to look for some more Indians. I’ve had a delightful time with them. I’ve learned a lot from my research. Facinating people, they are.”
Julie stared at him. “I never heard of anybody ever having a delightful time with Indians. Who are these you got with you. Are they Comanches?”
“Oh, dear no, my lady! They wouldn’t be interested in being servants. These are Cherokees. That is Long Legs and this is Firewater.”
“Long Legs and Firewater? Did you name them yourself?” Julie grinned.
“No, I did not! Their people did.”
“Fergus, I have a favor to ask.”
“Just name it, my dear Julie.” He listened while Julie explained the rising tension and fighting that had been happening, then said, “Well, we’ll be glad to stay for a time with your people.”
“Jerusalem will feed you good, but then you always eat better than anybody else.”
“Lead on, Miss Satterfield,” Fergus said, lifting his hat again. “I look forward to seeing your family again.”
They were only six miles away from the ranch, and when they pulled in, Clay and Moriah came out with the other children. They greeted Fergus warmly, and when the Englishman got down and shook hands all around, Julie stepped down and said, “I brought you some reinforcements, husband.”
Clay flushed at Julie’s casual use of the word husband. He saw Rhys look at him with a startled expression and shook his head. “I wish you’d stop callin’ me that,” he complained. “I might take it seriously.”
“No, you won’t. But I brought you some reinforcements here.”
Clay nodded in Fergus’s direction. “That’ll be good. Can them Indians shoot, Fergus?”
“Fairly well, I must say.”
“Good. Then we’ll have eight men to shoot and some women to reload. We’ll be ready for Red Wolf or any other hostile that comes our way.”
Julie went over to her sister and said simply, “Jerusalem, I’m worried about all the talk about fighting with Santa Anna and the constant threat of Indian attacks. I wanted to be with you.”
Jerusalem put her arm around Julie and said, “I’m glad you’re here.
Now, everyone, I hope you’ve got a good appetite. We’re going to fix a big supper.”
“I have some tins of caviar inside my wagon if you think they’d go well,” Fergus said.
“Caviar?” Clay said. “What’s that?”
“Fish eggs, my good man, and they are considered a delicacy,” Fergus said.
“Fish eggs!” Clay made a face. “Why would a man eat that when he could get good food? You eat the fish eggs. I’ll take a big steak.”
When the convention in San Felipe discovered they did not have a quorum, Sam Houston mounted his horse, a little yellow Spanish stallion, and rode at once to San Antonio. He explained the situation to the leaders there and took away all the men they could spare. He took back with him Austin, Jim Bowie, and William Travis, the actual strength of the army there.
As soon as they returned, they tackled the issue of whether Texas was fighting for independence and whether they should write a declaration clearly stating their intentions. In a powerful speech, Houston argued that it was not the proper time, so the convention declared support for the Mexican Constitution and established a Provisional State Government. Houston himself was appointed commander of the troops, and Austin was authorized to go to the United States to appeal for war funds and volunteers.
While all this was going on, however, conditions in the Texas camp began to fall apart. They had little organization and no strong leadership. The food was running out, and most of the men were ill clad for the cold December weather. Murmurings began, and some men began to drift back to the safety of their home and their families. Others were even saying that it was time to disband because nothing could be done.
At this moment a man named Ben Milam came to the front. Milam was a Welshman from Kentucky. He had been in Texas for a long time and had been allowed to vehemently voice his insistence for Texas independence. The idea of walking away and leaving their advantage was more than Milam could bear. He began to shout, “Who will go with old Ben Milam into San Antonio? Who will follow old Ben Milam?”
Something about Milam’s challenge caught the attention of the Texans. They began to bellow in response, and on the morning of December 15, 1835, three hundred Texans, led by Milam in two columns, drove into San Antonio—Milam in charge of one, and a man named Johnson in charge of the other. They fought the Mexican troops all through the town. The Mexicans had cannons, but their aim was so poor that they knocked down more Mexican walls than they hurt Texans.
On the third day of fighting, Milam was shot dead, and Johnson took over as commander of all the troops. The loss of Milam had infuriated them, and the Texans fought like demons.
General Cos was not accustomed to this kind of fighting. Though the Texans were outnumbered, they fought with more courage and tenacity than Cos had ever seen. His nerve slipped, and many of his men deserted and fled. At the sight of his men retreating in fear, Cos lost courage and sent out a white flag and surrendered eleven hundred officers and men to the Texans.
The victory was brilliant, but a serious mistake occurred when an officer name Burleson accepted a pledge from General Cos that he and his men would never fight against Texans again. Burleson even provided Cos and his troops with enough weapons and powder to protect themselves against the Indians, and they disappeared, headed for the Rio Grande.
News of the victory quickly spread through the land and made Texans ecstatic. It was an overwhelming triumph, and all of Texas went wild with cele
bration. The Mexican army had been soundly whipped! All the Texans had to do was establish statehood within the Mexican Republic. The provisional government called for a new convention to meet at Washington-On-The-Brazos in March of 1836 to form a new government. With an important victory behind them, the Texas army began to drift back toward their homes.
One man in Texas, however, knew that the fight with General Santa Anna was far from over. Sam Houston realized that Santa Anna would see the humiliating defeat of Cos as a spark that would ignite the Mexican advance.
Houston issued a call for troops, saying, “Our habitations must be defended. Our countrymen in the field have presented an example worthy of imitation. Let the brave rally to the standard.”
But Houston’s fervent plea was ignored. Content that they had shown their ability to defend themselves, no one rallied to the standards. Almost all of Texas was sure that their relations with Mexico could be easily handled—and they were wrong.
The battle for independence was just beginning, and the worst lay ahead.
CHAPTER
THIRTY
Henry Smith, the governor of the Provisional State in Texas, was an irascible man even when at his best. Now as Smith walked the floor muttering under his breath, his face flushed, he whirled suddenly as his door opened. At the sight of the man in the door, relief spread over his tense features. “Sam Houston! I’m glad to see you here!” he said as he went over to greet him. “Things are literally going to perdition. I could shoot that idiot Grant!”
“Doctor James Grant, you mean?” Houston said. He towered over Smith, as he did over most men, and studied the smaller man. “What’s Grant done now?”
“Do you know about that scheme he cooked up down in San Antonio?”
“I heard he was going to attack Mexico, but that can’t be true.”
“Close enough!” Smith snapped as he cracked his knuckles, a nervous habit he had when something was bothering him. “He’s got this hair-brained idea of attacking some town called Matamoros.”
“Why would he want to do that, do you suppose?”
“Oh, you know Grant. He knows there are a lot of Mexican liberals down there who are opposed to Santa Anna. He thinks they’d welcome an expeditionary force.”
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