The Lost Gettysburg Address

by David T. Dixon

  While Mechling and his rebel followers scurried around searching for Anderson, the escaped prisoner and his friend Houzeau had made considerable progress. The pair traveled a pre-planned, circuitous route north before turning due west. They made no fires, slept in concealed areas during the day, and rode close to the river bottoms most nights. Houzeau had no saddle. He rode clothed in a ranchero-style disguise with a rope tied around his horse’s nostrils. A gentle rain fell most of the time and the first few evenings were favorably dark. The now black-haired Anderson sported buckskin trousers, the jacket of Ludlum’s absent son, and a broad-brimmed vaquero’s hat. They were emerging from a riverbed very early the morning after he had taken flight, when they were greeted by a young Mexican boy. Frank Chavez recognized Anderson despite the disguise. The boy knew nothing of the escape. If he knew of it later, he never told anyone about his encounter with the fugitive.

  San Antonio was alive with rumors concerning Anderson’s departure. A reward of one thousand dollars was posted for the return of the prisoner, dead or alive. Captain Mechling was placed in irons, accused of being bribed by the conspirators. Known Union families in town were nervous. Many received menacing visits from Mechling’s soldiers, who arrived with guns drawn, hurling threatening epithets. KGC members who had not enlisted in the Confederate Army formed a posse and visited Lorenzo Castro, a prominent resident and suspected Union sympathizer. Castro visibly trembled at the prospect of dying by the rope, but as he knew nothing, he could not betray the runaway and his accomplices.

  One man did know something, however, and he finally cracked. The Frenchman Esau, made nervous by Ludlum’s discovery of his treachery, could keep his secret no longer. He was disappointed in having lost the opportunity to claim a reward for Anderson’s recapture, as he had planned. He told his wife the story. She told one of her friends, and soon Ludlum’s role in the conspiracy became public knowledge. Esau was frightened. He went to Anderson’s friend W. A. Bennett to ask for advice. Bennett said he was sorry that he could help neither Esau nor Ludlum, as he was concerned about his own neck. Esau then simply disappeared. Ludlum fled to the mountains but remained there only a short time. She still did not feel safe, so she eventually made her way to the Rio Grande.

  Meanwhile, the time had come for Anderson and Houzeau to part ways, as the authorities would surely come looking for a known abolitionist. When they discovered that he was a lodger at Ludlum’s house, things would really heat up for him. Anderson found it difficult to express his gratitude for the risks that the Belgian had taken in freeing him. Houzeau merely folded his hands and said, “God bless you.” He listened to the sounds of the hoof beats in the mud dissipate as Anderson’s horse trotted away.

  The following morning, the filthy escapee decided to wash himself in the stream near his encampment. As he splashed the water on his face, Anderson noticed that the water had turned black. Feeling foolish for having washed off the most effective part of his disguise, he shrugged his shoulders and mounted his horse. He had just started riding when three Texas rancheros came into his view, driving a herd of cattle. Anderson attempted to detour around them, but was soon face to face with one of the men. A man named Travis recognized him at once, and greeted him with a shout. “How are you, Mr. Anderson?” the cowboy inquired warmly. Anderson replied by drawing his pistol and exclaiming, “Gentlemen, I will not be taken alive.” The men responded saying that they had no intention of interfering with Anderson’s journey. They warned him, however, that Confederate pickets were closely guarding the crossing at Laredo, so he may want to try another route. That information may have saved Anderson’s life. He changed his plans and headed for Eagle Pass.

  Union men had established safe houses along various routes of escape from San Antonio, much like the Underground Railroad stations that slaves used to avoid capture. Anderson used a password to gain admittance to several of these houses before he left the bounds of civilization. They fitted him with fresh horses every ten miles or so. After dining with Charles Hood at Atascosa, fourteen miles west of San Antonio, Anderson spent a night with William Reuter near Castroville.

  Just after noon one day, a traveler came to San Antonio from the west and was immediately brought to the Menger House for questioning. Had he come across any detachments in pursuit of a fugitive? The man replied that he had not. Confederate authorities pressed him. Had he met any strangers on the road? “Oh yes,” the man replied, “toward the end of the day a stranger near the fork of the Medina told me to warn the locals that their chickens had been sold.” When he passed this message on to the local farmers, they seemed utterly confused. When asked to describe the man who had made this puzzling statement, the traveler described Anderson. The coded message was designed to reassure his friends that he was safe.

  Four days after his escape, Anderson was riding a fine black horse when he met another east-bound traveler. Clay Willis encountered Anderson on the road west of Castroville. They were strangers to each other. Anderson told the young man that his name was “Wilson” and that he was riding to Brownsville to negotiate a large contract with the Confederate government. Anderson asked Willis not to disclose the details of their meeting until a few days after the youth’s arrival in San Antonio, as he did not want competition for the contract. When Willis arrived home and finally recounted the story, Anderson had been gone more than ten days.7

  A week later, a farmer brought a horse into town. Anderson had exchanged the horse on the far side of the Nueces River. Now it stood in the center of Alamo Plaza with a sign around its neck. Local authorities were offering a one-hundred-dollar reward to anyone who could identify its owner. No one claimed the bounty. Since this particular horse was branded, it did not take long to find the man who had sold it to Anderson’s friends. A Polish man admitted he sold the horse in question for cash to some unknown gentleman several weeks past and had thought nothing more of it. By refusing to identify Houzeau as the purchaser, this man probably saved the astronomer’s life. San Antonio authorities were not satisfied, however. They took the horse and walked him around the square, then up and down the entire length of Main Street. During the parade, the town herald proclaimed that it was the duty of every good citizen to come forward and identify the animal. No one did. Anderson’s trail had grown cold by this time, but Confederate officials still had reason to hope. William Bayard had ridden out of town on November 1 with soldiers and spies hot on his trail. Perhaps he would lead them to Anderson.8

  The most difficult part of Anderson’s journey was just beginning. Leaving the planned safe houses of friends in neighboring ranches and towns, he now faced an environment that was mostly empty, hostile desert. Contemporary maps detailed the military route to Eagle Pass. It lay 117 miles from Castroville. If he traveled too close to the road, Anderson risked discovery and recapture. Losing sight of the way promised almost certain death from Indian or animal attack or dehydration. Standing on a small rise and looking west, Anderson could see nothing but a featureless plain that extended beyond the horizon. He rode his horse through the west Texas chaparral, stopping every eight to ten miles to water the animal at a river or stream. He first passed Quihi, a town with a small lake that was a frequent target of Comanche raiders. After crossing Hondo Creek, the route turned to the southwest. Anderson forded the Seco and Frio Rivers and came to a fork in the road just past the Lenora River. Here he exercised special care, since to his west was a busy thoroughfare that led to Fort Clark, forty miles away. Anderson took the left fork and continued riding to the southwest.

  Near a stream crossing, Anderson’s horse began to wear out. The last thing he wanted to do was to shoot the animal and continue on foot. An exchange of horses at this part of the trip would be dangerous, both for him and for his friends back in Castroville. Having few options, he decided to call at a small, isolated house for rest and supper. A wild-eyed young woman met the refugee with a familiar greeting. “Oh yase, I know ye,” said Anderson’s host. He was surprised and nervous until he
realized that the poor woman had mistaken him for a local preacher. While his host was cooking the dinner, Anderson relaxed on the floor and soon fell sound asleep.

  When he woke, Anderson heard a young man’s voice discussing him. The man seemed suspicious, even after Anderson had introduced himself as “John Wilson,” a man on important Confederate government business. Officials were well aware of the recent Indian depredations in this region, Anderson explained. His mission was to gather troops to defend this road against future raids. If he could exchange his pony for a fresh mount, the government would be most obliged. The young man directed him to a ranch down the road where Anderson repeated his fib. They did not believe him at first, but after “Wilson” repeatedly emphasized the urgency of the situation, they finally agreed and sent him on his way with a new steed.

  Anderson rode on: ten miles to the Nueces River, another ten to Turkey Creek. At one point he noticed that a rough-looking fellow had been following him closely for several miles. Anderson moved off the trail and camped with several other tough characters who were acting less suspiciously. Another night he camped by himself, or so he thought. In the middle of the night he woke suddenly to see two glowing eyes staring at him from the edge of a thicket. After some time the jaguar moved on. Anderson was grateful that the cat was not as hungry as he was.

  Anderson traveled the last thirty-four miles from the Chaco River to the Rio Grande through the bleakest landscape of the entire trek, with only two water holes on the way. As the border with Mexico came into view, Anderson must have been astonished at how little real trouble he had run into on his long exodus. Once he had crossed the river, he fell to his knees in his best thespian manner and kissed the ground, crying “Liberty!” Some Mexican soldiers observed this odd behavior and escorted him directly to their commander. Mexican general Jeronimo Trevino spoke to Anderson for a time in Spanish and then switched to English as they rode to his headquarters. “God bless you!” the general exclaimed when they arrived. He gave the refugee a warm handshake. Anderson did not know it at the time, but Trevino had been expecting him. He refused to allow Anderson to go to Matamoros as he had wished but insisted that the escapee travel 259 miles to Monterrey instead. Trevino suspected that if Anderson proceeded to Matamoros, he would be recaptured by Confederate agents.

  Trevino gave Anderson a military escort for the long trek to Monterrey. They arrived at the home of Governor Santiago Vidaurri on Friday, November 1. Anderson had traveled more than four hundred miles in just eleven days. He was exhausted. He had a huge boil on his back side that would prevent him from riding again for a while. It took another eleven days for him to regain his strength. He finally set out in a guarded carriage with the governor’s daughter, who was on her way to get married in Tampico. He still had a long journey ahead.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Homeward

  ON SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 3, Kitty wrote in her diary: “Escaped! And has he gone safe out of the hands of his enemies? Thank God!” It had taken twelve days for the news of her father’s arrival in Monterrey to reach them in Brownsville, Texas. William G. Kingsbury urged the family to move to Matamoros for their own safety, but Colonel John S. Ford begged them to stay in Texas “for his sake.” He suggested they go to the mouth of the Brazos River and await a steamer there. But Eliza suspected that the kindness of Ford, Francis W. Latham, Lieutenant Arthur K. Leigh, and other rebels was more than merely the civility of gentlemen. They were being used by the Confederates as bait for Anderson’s recapture.1

  The ladies packed on Monday. On Tuesday afternoon, they donned their bonnets and took a carriage down to the river. Rooms in Matamoros were hard to come by. While Eliza and her daughters sipped tea at Mrs. Sanforth Kidder’s boardinghouse, Kingsbury scurried about town to find them suitable accommodations. He convinced Thomas Gilligan to let them stay in the home of his partner, William Malone, who had gone to Mexico City to be married. At first glance, their new lodgings were as close to Cincinnati as they imagined Mexico could be. Malone’s mansion was the finest home in town. Since the war had shut down trade through Texas ports, Mexican officials had worked with Malone and other expatriates to smuggle European goods overland into Texas. They were making a killing. Malone’s rooms were furnished with luxurious modern furniture and tastefully decorated. The sitting room boasted an extensive library and rare engravings. A balcony opened from this room to a fine view of the grassy, tree-lined plaza where bands entertained several times a week. Eliza hired an ex-slave from Mobile to serve them and settled in comfort to await her husband’s arrival.

  Two days before his departure from Monterrey, Anderson penned a letter to his wife, not knowing where she was or if she would ever receive the letter. He planned to catch a steamer sometime between November 28 and 30 if his funds held out; otherwise, he might be forced to embark on a slower but more economical sailing vessel from Vera Cruz. If his family was still in Matamoros or Brownsville, they might join him at Tampico and leave together. In any case, Anderson urged Eliza to get away as soon as possible and not to “trust Texas nor the Southern Confederacy at all.” Eliza heeded his advice. Just as Anderson set out from Monterey with the governor’s entourage, Matamoros erupted in revolution. Eliza and the girls looked out from their balcony at a scene that reminded Kitty of Les Misérables. The Criolinas had barricaded several key streets and were expecting the arrival of their enemies, the Rojos, any day. A battle might take place on the very plaza in front of their house.2

  When a messenger came to the door announcing that the rival troops were nearing town, Eliza had a decision to make. Would it be safer to flee back into the arms of their Confederate “friends” in Brownsville, or stay and risk God-knew-what in the midst of an impending battle? Eliza decided to stay put. Most women and children were crossing the river as quickly as they could. Carts rattled all day on the cobblestone streets, piled high with the furniture of wealthy Americans anxious to save their possessions from plunder. Three days passed in such excitement, but no invasion came. Finally, on Thursday, a bugle from one of the church towers sounded the alarm. Mexican women ran through the streets shouting in Spanish, “Los Rojos vienen!” (“The Rojos are coming!”). Officers on horseback galloped across the plaza, barking orders. This continued for an hour or so. Eventually the excitement died down and the soldiers returned to the shade of the Customs House for a siesta. It was yet another false alarm.

  After breakfast on Saturday, Gilligan arrived with a beautiful scarlet flower. As he was showing Kitty its description in his Spanish floral dictionary, a messenger knocked on the door. The boy delivered a note from Kingsbury. He had discovered a plot to capture Anderson as soon as he reached Matamoros. The family needed to be at the river in two hours. The Ursulita, captained by William M. Dalzell, was a ninety-four-ton steam schooner bound for Vera Cruz. Eliza and her daughters climbed aboard. The ship left the mouth of the river at eight at night for the three-day passage. She was barely under way when Eliza and Belle became seasick. Kitty managed better, but she felt apprehensive and alone. Hardly anyone aboard the vessel spoke a word of English.

  Accommodations on the Ursulita were Spartan by any standard. Passengers slept on cane-bottom benches, when they could sleep at all, in the dirty, air-starved hold of the ship. The vessel rolled and pitched at the slightest wind or wave. Eliza and Belle took to sleeping on the floor with blankets in a vain attempt to quiet their angry stomachs. Kitty found that a sea chest was a more comfortable bed than her berth. She awoke one morning to a two-inch roach skittering across her hand. Their quarters were lighted by two small portholes, which was also the only source of fresh air in the humid, stinking hell on water. The sweet crackers they brought turned so musty that they fed them to their dog, Sumter. This gave him just enough energy to chase the tailless cat around the ship. To make matters worse, a sailor named Don Manuel Cruzado had taken an immediate interest in Kitty. All day long, she caught him leering at her. He turned away each time she intercepted his glance. Thank goodness they w
ould only have to endure this for a few days . . . or so they thought.

  Unknown to the passengers, Captain Dalzelle had miscalculated their route and veered far off course. After several days at sea, he had no idea where he was. Meanwhile, the weather was about to turn nasty. Eliza and Belle had begun to feel better and were even eating a little by Thursday. The moonlight danced on the water with an enchanting, phosphorescent glow. The old ship was five days out when the wind started blowing from the north. The breeze was refreshing and welcome at first, but as it grew in strength, the passengers bore the brunt of it. By Friday night, the Ursulita was enveloped in what locals called a full-blown “norther.” Huge waves roiled the craft from side to side, first pitching and then heaving in a violent display of nature’s fury. Crew members closed the portholes and the smothering heat became unbearable.

  At one point, Kitty persuaded the sailors to open one of the small windows so she could stick her head out and breathe fresh air. She stood grasping the side of the spasmodic ship, her hair blowing wildly in the breeze and the lightning blinding her intermittently. It was both frightening and exhilarating. Suddenly, a big wave catapulted her backward into the darkness of the crowded cabin. The storm raged on through Saturday, blowing the ship past Vera Cruz and into the open waters of the Gulf. Kitty lay on the floor of the cabin, regretting the fact that she shared some of the same religious doubts as her father. “I vowed in my heart that I would try to love my God more and serve him better,” she wrote. “How ungrateful and contemptible to seek so loving a Master in an hour of distress and darkness more than in days of joy and peace!”