Part 5

The first crop of corn—turned into the virgin soil with wooden ploughs—had been gathered; a little cotton had whitened the patches about the cabin doors, and the spinning-wheels were already busy. The familiar low of home-returning milch-cows was heard at sundown along the winding footpaths. One of the settlers (Randall Jones) had gone to Louisiana, taking with him a negro lad. There he traded the boy for sixty head of cattle, which he drove across the country to the settlement. Another colonist brought out some pigs and a few goats. These domestic animals gave a homelike appearance to the strange land.

The settlement was thriving in spite of hardships. But these hardships were almost without number. There was neither salt, coffee, nor sugar. Meat was to be had only by hunting, and oftentimes deer and buffalo were hard to find and, on account of the Indians, dangerous to follow. True, there were great numbers of wild mustangs.

There were no horses in America before the discovery of Columbus. The Texas mustangs were the product of the cavalry horses brought from Europe to Mexico by Cortez in 1519. They had multiplied, almost unmolested, during the three hundred years they had roamed prairie and forest. These mustangs were always fat, and when nothing better was to be had they made tolerable food.

There were, of course, no stores where anything could be bought; the men went dressed in buckskin; the women in coarse cloth woven by themselves. There was no mail, news from the outer world—from the dear ones left behind in the far-away “states”—came only when a chance traveler arrived with an old newspaper or possibly a letter in his saddle bags. There was neither school nor church.

But in those rude cabins dwelt honesty, high courage, and unbounded hospitality. In business every man’s “word was as good as his bond.” There were no locks on the doors, robbery being unknown. Everything, even to life itself, was ever at the service of friend and neighbor. The nameless traveler, welcomed without question, shared, as long as he chose to stay, the fireside and table of his host.

Of such stuff were the first Texans.

Austin returned from Mexico in July, 1823. He was welcomed with affectionate joy by his colonists. He was accompanied by his father’s friend, the Baron de Bastrop, commissioned by the government to assist him in laying off the town, surveying lands, and issuing titles.

The town was named by Señor de la Garza, who had succeeded Martinez as governor of Texas. He called it San Felipe (Fa-lee′pā) de Austin, in honor at the same time of his own patron saint and of its founder.

Other towns soon sprung up over the province; for grants for other settlements had been sought and obtained from the government. Austin got permission in 1825 to bring out five hundred additional families. Immigrants flocked in, eager to share in this cheap and fruitful paradise. The names _Columbia_, _Brazoria_, _Gonzales_, _Victoria_, _San Augustine_, and other towns and settlements, began to be familiar to the tongue.

Some Irish colonists founded on the Nueces River, near its mouth, a town which they named St. Patrick in remembrance of the patron saint of Ireland. To the Spanish-speaking people of Texas it soon became known as San Patricio, and so it is still called.

A large tract of land was granted to Hayden Edwards, a Kentuckian, in the neighborhood of Nacogdoches, the old gateway of Texas history. But things did not go as smoothly there as in Austin’s colony. It was too near the Neutral Ground, which continued to harbor outlaws and adventurers of all kinds.

The land, moreover, was claimed by the Mexicans and others who were already settled upon it. The quarrels between these and the newcomers became in course of time so bitter that the Mexican government, during an absence of Hayden Edwards in the United States, took back his grant and ordered him and his two brothers to leave the country.

Edwards had put all of his private fortune into his venture, and this act of tyranny goaded him and his colonists to fury. Finding vain all their appeals to the governor, they took up arms and declared they would make of Texas an independent republic. They called themselves Fredonians; and banding together, they entrenched themselves in the old stone fort at Nacogdoches. Thence they sent an appeal to Austin’s colonists for help. Both Austin’s colonists and the Cherokee Indians, upon whom they counted for support, refused to join them. News came that a Mexican army was marching against them; their own fighting force was less than two hundred men. They saw the weakness of their position; and the Fredonian war, as it was called, ended after a skirmish or two, in the surrender of the Fredonians. Edwards and his colonists left Texas, and returned angry and disgusted to Louisiana (1826).

This was a small foretaste of Mexican justice. But troubles far graver than the Fredonian war were at that moment brewing for Texas.

3. ORDERS AND DISORDER.

Until 1824 Texas had been a province of Mexico, with her capital at San Antonio. In that year, however, the general government decreed the union of Texas with Coahuila; and the capital of the new state was fixed at Saltillo (Sal-tee′yo), a distant town in Mexico. A department chief was the only official stationed at San Antonio. The colonists were much displeased at this change. Instead of a ride, when necessary, to San Antonio, where there were friends and familiar faces, torch-lit plazas, music, and _fiestas_ to welcome the traveler, it meant a long and perilous journey through a strange land, among people who regarded all Americans with an eye of sullen distrust.

The Mexicans can hardly be blamed for their lack of confidence. They had just shaken off the yoke of Spain; and they saw the Americans—people of a different race, speaking a different tongue, strong, energetic, and masterful—drawing daily nearer to the Rio Grande River. They saw this alien people settling upon rich and productive lands, but paying no taxes; giving nominal allegiance to the Mexican government, but taking no interest in her political affairs. Added to this uneasiness was a growing hatred of the United States, which wished to annex Texas and had already offered to buy the province. Mexico resolved to crush this rising power.

The Americans, on their side, were restless. They did not desire absolute independence; but they wished for a separate state within the Mexican Republic. They therefore, for political as well as for personal reasons, resented the change of capital.

Still further changes were at hand. Bustamente (Boos-ta-men′tā), a cruel and overbearing man, who became President of Mexico in 1830, on taking his seat issued a set of laws forbidding Americans either to locate in Texas or to trade with her people. In place of colonists from the United States, criminals and disabled soldiers from Mexico were to settle the country. The introduction of slaves was prohibited; taxes were put upon almost everything in daily use; customhouses were established for the collection of these duties; armed troops were quartered in different places at the expense of the colonists; and military rules were enforced.

It is needless to say that these laws were not obeyed. Texas was like a nest of angry hornets whose center of action was at San Felipe; a buzz of indignation filled the air; meetings were everywhere held to protest against the injustice and tyranny of Mexico.

The excitement was increased by the arrest and imprisonment of some Texans (1832) by Colonel Juan Davis Bradburn, an American in command of the Mexican Fort Anahuac (An-ah′wak) on Galveston Bay. Among these were William B. Travis (the future hero of the Alamo) and Patrick Jack. William Jack, a brother of the latter, called a meeting at San Felipe, where it was determined to resort to arms, if necessary, for the release of the prisoners, whose offense was trifling.

The state of feeling was clearly shown by the number of men who declared themselves ready to join in attacking Bradburn in his fort. The affair, however, was settled without bloodshed. Colonel Piedras, the Mexican commandant at Nacogdoches, hastened to Fort Anahuac. There, after an investigation of the case, he released the prisoners and placed Bradburn himself under arrest.

In the meantime a fight had taken place between the Mexican garrison at Fort Velasco, at the mouth of the Brazos River, and one hundred and twelve Texans, who had been aroused by the tyranny of Bradburn. Not one of these Texans had ever before been in a battle; their coolness and bravery under fire gave them the measure of their own power. They were victorious. Colonel Dominic Ugartechea (U-gar-tā-chā′a), the commandant of the fort, whose personal courage won the admiration of the Texans, surrendered, with a loss of thirty-five killed and thirteen wounded. Of the Texans seven were killed and twenty-seven wounded.

These encounters increased the public excitement to frenzy. But the excitement was suddenly allayed by news from Mexico. The patriot Santa Anna had “pronounced” (declared) against Bustamente.

Santa Anna at this time was looked upon in his own country as a patriot; he had been a leader during the war with the Spanish royalists, and active in deposing Iturbide (Ee-toor-bee′dā) (1822) when that officer had crowned himself Emperor of Mexico. He had always professed great love for the Texas colonists; and now his bold stand against Bustamente gave assurance that the rights of the colonists would thenceforth be respected. The Texans were wild with enthusiasm, and they gladly pledged their support to Santa Anna, the “generous and high-minded patriot.”

Santa Anna was elected President of Mexico. His disposition towards Texas continued so friendly that it seemed a good time to make an appeal to his government for a separation of the state of Texas from Coahuila.

A convention met at San Felipe in April, 1833. Delegates were present from all the districts. The streets of the little town on the Brazos echoed under the tread of men who were afterwards to write their names in the Republic’s book of gold. Sam Houston, the future hero of San Jacinto, was present as a delegate; David G. Burnet, who was to become the first President of the Republic of Texas; Erasmo Seguin; William H. Wharton; Branch T. Archer; and Stephen F. Austin, the Father of Texas.

A constitution was framed, and a memorial was written to the general government, asking for separation from Coahuila and the repeal of Bustamente’s odious decrees.

Austin carried these papers to the Mexican congress. His breast swelled with hope as he drew near the city of Mexico and the “high-minded patriot” Santa Anna.

But the Vice-President, Gomez Farias, had no time to listen to so trifling a thing as a memorial from Texas colonists. As for President Santa Anna, he was shut up in his country-house (Manga de Clavo) laying plans for overthrowing the Mexican constitution and making himself dictator.

Sick at heart over his vain attempts to get a hearing from the government, Austin started home. But a letter which he had written to Texas, advising the people to organize a separate state without further appeal to Mexico, had been sent back to Farias as a treasonable document. Austin was arrested at Saltillo, taken back to the city of Mexico, and put in prison, where he remained for nearly two years. A part of that time he was in solitary confinement.

During his imprisonment he kept a diary. He says of himself on one of these loose pencil-written leaves: “In my first exploring trip in Texas, in 1821, I had a very good old man with me, who had been raised on the frontier, and was a very good hunter. We had not been many days in the wilderness before he told me: ‘You are too impatient to make a hunter.’ Scarce a day passed that he did not say to me: ‘You are too impatient—you wish to go too fast.’ Before my trip was ended I saw the benefit of his maxim, and I determined to adopt it as a rule in settling the colony which I was then about to commence in Texas.... I believe the greatest error I ever committed was in departing from that rule as I did in the city of Mexico in October, 1833. I lost patience at the delays in getting the business of Texas dispatched, and in a moment of impatience wrote an imprudent, and perhaps an intemperate, letter to the council at San Antonio.” “How happy,” he says in another place, “how happy I could have been on a farm, ... free from all the cares and difficulties that now surround me. But I thought it was my duty to obey the call of the people and go to Mexico as their agent.”

In October, 1834, he was admitted to a conference with Santa Anna, who promised to “meditate maturely” the repeal of some of Bustamente’s laws. He expressed so much love for Texas that Austin wrote to his people in a burst of thankfulness, “All is going well.” But he was himself still detained, and it was not until September, 1835, that he was allowed to return to Texas.

The Texans, despite Austin’s letter of assurance, knew that all was not going well. They were, in fact, so convinced that all was going ill that they met in the different towns and organized committees of safety for protection against the Indians (who had become very troublesome), and to take charge of all public matters. At a meeting held in San Felipe October 1, 1834, it was openly proposed to make Texas a separate state without the consent of Mexico. But this step was for a time postponed.

The next year the situation was still more gloomy. Santa Anna’s congress passed a decree disarming all Texans. General Martin Perfecto de Cos was ordered from Mexico to Texas with a body of five hundred soldiers to enforce the decree, and to punish those who had refused to obey, not the just laws of the Mexican Republic, but the tyrannical edicts of Bustamente and Santa Anna.

At the same time a courier was arrested with dispatches from Ugartechea at San Antonio to the commandant at Anahuac. These dispatches were opened and read at San Felipe. They stated that a strong force would soon reach Anahuac from Mexico.

These things caused great uneasiness and indignation. Another meeting was held in San Felipe. Among those who addressed the people there assembled was R. M. Williamson (called three-legged Willie, because of his carrying a crutch). He counseled resistance. “Our country, our property, our liberty, and our lives,” he said, “are all involved in the present contest between the states and the military.”

In the midst of the excitement Austin reached home. He was welcomed almost as one given up by the tomb.

It was determined to hold a general consultation to consider the dangers threatening Texas.

The word “consultation” was used instead of “convention” to avoid exciting the jealousy of the government. A convention in Mexico was often followed by a revolution.

A call was issued by Austin for the election of delegates, and the time and place of meeting were fixed for October 16 at San Felipe.

4. A TRUMPET CALL.

A messenger came riding into San Felipe one day; his clothes were dusty, his horse was flecked with foam, his voice was hoarse with excitement. He had ridden hard and fast from Gonzales town, and the news he brought thrilled to the heart’s core the men who had gathered about him in the plaza.

Colonel Ugartechea, acting under the decree disarming citizens, had sent an order to Gonzales for a cannon—a four-pounder given by the Mexican government to the townspeople in 1831 for service against the Indians. The order had been peremptorily refused. There were only eighteen men at Gonzales, but they determined to hold the cannon at any cost; and believing that Ugartechea would send an armed force to take it, they had dispatched messengers to the Colorado, the Guadalupe, and the Brazos for help.

The messenger to San Felipe had not finished his story before the men were in their saddles, or girded for the long tramp. They were already armed for the purpose of intercepting General Cos on his march to San Antonio.

When they reached Gonzales they found that the Mexican captain Castenado, had appeared there (September 29) with one hundred cavalrymen and made his demand for the cannon. He had been put off with the pretext that the alcalde was absent, thus giving the volunteers time to arrive.

The Mexicans had remained on the west bank of the Guadalupe River, the ferryboats having been removed by the Texans to the east or town side on the approach of the enemy.

With the recruits from the Brazos, the Colorado, and the Guadalupe, the Texans on the 30th numbered one hundred and sixty fighting men. They then informed Castenado that he could not have the cannon. Moreover, Major Williamson (three-legged Willie) and some others drew the disputed piece of artillery to the river-bank, and placed above it a placard bearing in large letters the challenge, “Come and Take It.”

In response to this taunt Castenado made an effort to cross his troops over the river; but the fords were too well guarded, and he finally moved away and encamped a short distance from the river.

On the evening of the 1st of October the Texans, under the command of Colonels John Moore and J. W. Wallace, crossed the Guadalupe, carrying their four-pounder with them. The same night at eleven o’clock they were formed into a hollow Square. Colonels Moore and Wallace, with the Rev. W. P. Smith, rode into the square, where the minister, being seated on his favorite mule, made them a spirited address. “Fellow soldiers,” he said, “the cause for which we are contending is just, honorable, and glorious—our liberty.... Let us march silently, obey the commands of our superior officers, and, united as one man, present a bold front to the enemy. _Victory will be ours._”[17]

On the morning of the 2d they advanced under cover of a heavy fog to a high mound in the prairie where the enemy was posted. After the exchange of a few picket shots a parley took place between Colonel Moore and Captain Castenado. But they could come to no agreement, so they returned to their respective commands. The Texans at once opened fire with their saucy little cannon, and in a short time the enemy was put to rout. The Mexicans retreated toward San Antonio, having lost several men. The Texans, without the loss of a man, returned in triumph to Gonzales with their precious cannon.

This was the first trumpet call to the war of independence. The alarm leaped from town to town. Texas, like a trooper who stands with his foot in the stirrup awaiting but the blast of a bugle, sprang at once into action. There was everywhere an eager note of preparation.

A few days after the victory at Gonzales, Captain George Collingsworth, with about fifty planters from Caney and Matagorda, marched from the latter place to capture Goliad. Just about midnight on the 9th of October, as they approached the town, they were hailed by a man who came out of a mesquit thicket on the roadside. It was Benjamin Milam. He had escaped from prison in Monterey, where he had been placed for opposing the tyranny of Santa Anna, and, worn out by his long journey, he had thrown himself on the ground to rest.

Milam was a man of high courage and stern patriotism. He had taken part—always on the republican side—in several of the bloody revolutions in Mexico, and he had been in almost every prison from the Rio Grande to the city of Mexico.[18]

He offered his services to the little band of patriots. They welcomed him with joy into their ranks.

They marched on, and during the night fell upon the unsuspecting garrison at Goliad. The sentinel who fired upon them was killed. The commandant Colonel Sandoval was taken prisoner in his own room, the door of which was broken open with axes. Several officers and twenty-five private soldiers surrendered, the others having escaped in the _mêlée_. The spoils which fell into the hands of the Texans by this exploit were very valuable. They consisted of three hundred stands of arms, several cannon, and about ten thousand dollars worth of military stores.

5. OUT OF A MIST.

San Felipe was not behindhand in enthusiasm over the tidings from Gonzales. Delegates to the General Consultation were coming in, and the committee, on hearing the news, sent out a circular calling upon each man in Texas to decide for himself whether or not he would submit to the tyranny of Mexico, and if he would not submit, “let him answer by mouth of his rifle.” This charge was not needed. Men poured in from every quarter carrying their rifles, shot-pouches, and powder-horns; the look of grim determination on their faces meant “liberty, or war to the death.”

Austin, by permission of the convention, left San Felipe for Gonzales, arriving there on the 10th of October. He was elected to the command of the volunteers there assembled, about three hundred and fifty strong, and marched almost immediately for San Antonio, hoping to capture and hold that important post. He encamped on the 20th at the Mission of La Espada on the San Antonio River. Recruits came in rapidly. Sam Houston, who had given his last five-dollar bill to a messenger to spread the call for volunteers, arrived with a detachment of men from East Texas. Bowie and Travis, Crockett and Fannin, Milam, Burleson, “Deaf” Smith, Rusk, Wharton,—these gathered in groups about the camp, little dreaming that each man of them carried within his own breast something of which the history of Texas was to be made.

General Cos had arrived and had taken command at San Antonio. He scornfully rejected Austin’s summons to surrender, even threatening to fire upon his flag of truce. Austin, whose army now numbered about six hundred men, did not feel himself strong enough to make an attack, but decided to move nearer the enemy. Accordingly on the 27th he sent Captains Bowie and Fannin with ninety-two men to reconnoiter and to choose a suitable position. They marched up the riverbank and encamped at nightfall in a bend of the river, near the old Mission of Concepcion.

The next morning at sunrise, through the mist that hung like a grey curtain around the camp, they heard something like the wary tread of horses’ hoofs. At the same time a sentinel[19] posted in the high tower of the mission gave warning, and a shot echoed from the outer picket-line.

The Texans sprang to arms; a slight lifting of the fog showed them a solid phalanx of Mexican cavalry hemming in the camp on three sides. There was a breathless interval of preparation, but no confusion; and by the time the enemy’s infantry came in sight trailing their arms, the Texans were ready for the fight. It was a short and sharp one.

The encampment had been well chosen; the triangular bottom land in which it lay by the riverside was skirted by heavy timber, and the bluff surrounding it made a sort of natural parapet.

In a few moments the Mexicans shoved forth their cannon,—a brass six-pounder,—and their bugle sounded a cavalry charge. But one set of gunners after another fell dead or wounded around the cannon, and the cavalry was beaten back. Finally, by a sudden impulse, the whole body of Texans rushed forward with the cry, “The cannon and victory!”