Yes, Gonzales was still all right. No more Mexican soldiers had appeared, and this afternoon Almeron Dickinson and a party of the settlers had crossed the river and taken the corporal’s party prisoners. These were now held under guard in the Gonzales jail. The cannon had been buried in George Davis’s peach orchard, and the ground plowed over it. But it was to be dug up again, for the corporal had forwarded Alcalde Ponton’s answer, to Bejar, and also one of the soldiers had escaped; probably troops already were on their way from Bejar, which was only two days’ travel distant. So the cannon would be needed.

However, the original eighteen defenders had been increased by a dozen or more, before Ernest’s return with Jim and the other recruits; the ferry had been hidden in the slough, and every dug-out had been tied up on the east bank of the river; and this afternoon and all night more settlers flocked in—from Mina (which is now Bastrop) on the Colorado above Moore’s, and from Rutersville, beyond Hill’s place, and from Beason’s, below Burnam’s, and from San Felipe; so that in the morning of the 29th a hundred had gathered. More were coming.

John H. Moore was elected colonel, to command operations; Mr. J. W. E. Wallace was elected lieutenant-colonel.

Ernest sought out Jim Hill, the first thing after breakfast, and he and Jim stayed together most of the day. Along toward noon a Mexican soldier appeared on the west bank of the river, and signalled that he bore dispatches. Colonel Moore answered that if he had anything to communicate he might leave his horse and swim and wade across, and so he did, not in very good humor.

He had three dispatches. One was from Colonel Ugartechea, at Bejar, saying he had sent Lieutenant CastaÑeda and one hundred dragoons for the cannon; and if it was not surrendered, the alcalde and all other citizens who resisted were to be brought as prisoners to Bejar. Another was from the political chief, Angel Navarro, ordering the alcalde to obey him and not to delay for further instructions. The third was from Lieutenant CastaÑeda himself, saying that he was within a few hours’ march, and wished an interview with the alcalde.

Colonel Moore replied that Alcalde Ponton was again absent, but might return within three hours, when an answer would be made.

“Whoopee!” laughed Jim. “It’s just a little waiting game, while we get reinforcements.”

That afternoon the cannon was dug up out of George Davis’s peach orchard and was mounted on the two front wheels of one of Captain Martin’s cotton wagons; John Sowell and Dick Chisholm, who were blacksmiths, said they would make some cannon-balls for it.

That night Jesse McCoy, Joe Kent, Graves Fulshear, and Will Arrington kept watch at the ford to see that no Mexicans crossed. In the morning they reported that several dragoons had come down to the river to water horses, and could have been easily potted, but weren’t.

In the morning the whole Mexican troop were in sight, camped across the river. Lieutenant CastaÑeda rode forward to the ford and called over that he would receive the reply from the alcalde, as promised. First Regidor (or councilman) Joseph Clements called back that the alcalde was still absent, but he had been sent for and would reply about four o’clock. So Lieutenant CastaÑeda retired, because he dared not try to force the ford, in the face of the Texas rifles.

This was the 30th. Now there were some 200 volunteers, all told, in Gonzales. Mr. Chisholm and Mr. Sowell were working hard, cutting ox chains into short pieces, for the cannon, and welding iron scraps into balls. The cannon itself was mounted and ready.

Accordingly, at four that afternoon, Regidor Clements reported to Lieutenant CastaÑeda. He stood on the Gonzales side of the river, and yelled across to the lieutenant on the other side. Gonzales was not very hospitable; but Mr. Clements had too much sense to trust himself on the dragoons’ side.

Everybody present could hear the message.

“The alcalde is still absent,” shouted Mr. Clements, in very good Spanish. “And in his absence it has fallen to my lot to reply to the communication sent to him asking a second time for the cannon. The right of consulting with our own political chief of the department of the Brazos seems to be denied us. Therefore my reply reduces itself to this: I cannot, nor do I desire to, deliver up the cannon; it was given to us for our defense; and this is the sentiment of all the members of the council now here present. The cannon is in the town, and only through force will we yield. We are weak and few in number, nevertheless we are contending for what we believe to be just principles.”

When Regidor Clements finished reading aloud the paper that he had drawn up, the lieutenant replied. He said that the cannon had only been loaned, and had not been a gift; and that by making prisoners of the corporal and party the town had committed a crime against the dignity of the Mexican republic.

Regidor Clements stood firm, and said that the answer was what he had just read; but if Lieutenant CastaÑeda really desired the cannon, he might come over and get it. At that the lieutenant shrugged his shoulders, and rather comically replied:

“Many thanks, seÑor. I suppose I need not come if I don’t want to.” Then he saluted and retired to his troop. Ernest and Jim and all the other Texans cheered. Thus the matter rested.

“Cracky!” blurted Jim. “Wish they would try to cross. Wouldn’t we pepper ’em!”

“There comes the ferry,” informed Ernest “Maybe we’ll cross, ourselves.”

And sure enough, the ferry was being poled down from the mouth of the slough and was tied on the Gonzales side, ready for business.

But Lieutenant CastaÑeda did not try to cross. He camped his troop back from the river a short distance, on DeWitt’s Mound, as it was called. ’Twas rumored that he had dispatched couriers to Bejar, for help.

To-day the Gonzales volunteers were drilled in companies under the direction of Colonel Moore, and the cannon was loaded with the pieces of ox chains. Young Almeron Dickinson, who had been appointed a lieutenant, was placed in charge of it.

Everything seemed to be ready. Two hundred volunteers were present; the cannon was pointed at the ford. The next noon the Mexican dragoons were observed to ride away, up the river. The scouts who spied upon them reported that they had camped again, this time on Zeke Williams’s farm, seven miles above, but still west of the river, and were eating all the water-melons! Mr. Williams did not like this.

“What are we going to do now, I wonder?” ventured Ernest, to Jim. “Maybe they’re going back to Bejar without the cannon, and there won’t be any fight.”

“Shucks!” derided Jim, who was older and was supposed to know. “Don’t you believe there won’t be any fight. They’ll just wait for reinforcements. If we’re going to lick ’em we’d better lick ’em right away. You can count on old Colonel Moore to fix ’em plenty. CastaÑeda’s a republican, though, and against Santa Anna despotism, and like as not he doesn’t want to fight us other republicans. But if he’s under orders to take the cannon he’s got to do his best or else join with Texas.”

“Somebody says Ugartechea told him if we were too strong he’d better retreat and not wait to be licked, for if he was licked, that would hurt Mexico and help the Texan cause,” vouchsafed Ernest.

“Reckon that’s so,” responded Jim. “But he’d better get out of here mighty quick. We mean business. Zeke Williams will go after him for stealing those water-melons! That crop means money.”

“Bill Smithers is with ’em. Did you know that?” demanding Ernest. “He’s a Gonzales man, and they’ve caught him and are holding him.”

“So I hear tell,” answered Jim. “That won’t cut much figure. We’ve still got their corporal and several other soldiers.”

The opinion in town was, that the lieutenant had camped either to await reinforcements from his colonel, or to cross the river by the ford above the Williams place, and come down on Gonzales from the north through the timber and the prairie strip. This of course would never do.

“You boys both ready?” queried Dick Carroll, strolling by Jim and Ernest, late in the afternoon. “There’ll be something stirring before dark, so I thought I’d warn you. Looks like we’d get over on the lieutenant’s side, an’ pay him a call.”

“We’re ready,” they assured. And——

“Ginger! Wish I had more powder,” remarked Jim, to Ernest. “How many loads you got?”

“Ten,” replied Ernest, dubiously. “Hope that’ll be enough. I’ll give you one if you run short.”

“Your bullets don’t fit my gun, though,” reminded Jim. “Maybe I can double patch ’em. But I guess powder alone will fill the bill. It’ll make a noise. Just to hear a gun go off scares those hombres [men] into fits.”

Evidently Jim did not think much of the Mexican soldiery. Neither did most of the other volunteers. Still, the camp of Lieutenant CastaÑeda, on Zeke Williams’s farm, was known to be a strong position, well chosen; and the dragoons were regulars of the Mexican army, thoroughly equipped with muskets and pistols.

As Dick Carroll had predicted, that night at seven o’clock orders were given to move from Eli Mitchell’s cornfield, where the little army was camped, and to cross the river with the cannon. The cannon was trundled by oxen upon the flatboat ferry; the footmen were ferried over also, by the flatboat and by dug-outs; the horses forded; and Colonel Moore summoned the officers to a council of war. They all could be dimly seen, squatting in a circle. Presently the circle broke up.

“Wonder if we’re going to fight,” queried Ernest, of Jim, as they sat their horses, waiting with the other horsemen.

“Dunno. Quien sabe?” responded Jim—which meant, in Spanish, “Who knows?” And he suddenly added: “Reckon we are, though. There comes the parson, to tell us how.”

For the Reverend W. P. Smith, the Methodist preacher who had accompanied the Rutersville volunteers, had mounted his horse and ridden forward from the council, to halt and hold up his hand in signal. He was easily identified by his black, broad-brimmed flat hat, and his long black coat.

“Listen to the parson,” rose the cry; and the ranks were formed to hear him.

The Reverend Mr. Smith made a stirring speech: he told the volunteers that they were about to move against the enemy who were invading their rights, and that the time had come when Texas should strike another blow for human liberties. This was to be a second Battle of Lexington; and everyone should remember the glorious example set by the American minute-men of ’76. Freedom was at stake, and tyranny should not prevail. Wives and children were waiting in Gonzales and elsewhere, for victory; and all Texas also was waiting.

He removed his hat, and while every head was bared likewise, he offered a short prayer for success for the right, in this struggle now begun.

“Bully for the fighting parson,” murmured Jim, when the prayer was concluded; and a hearty cheer went up.

Orders to advance were immediately given. Colonel John Moore and his aides rode ahead; the army followed, cannon in the centre, and scouts out on either flank.

The night was damp and dark. Scarcely anybody had much to say. Even Jim was unusually silent. The words of Preacher Smith had made a deep impression. The war for liberty had actually started—and it was no joking matter.

After a march of about five miles, halt was ordered. Pickets were posted, and the men were told to sleep. It was a free and easy sort of a camp, with no tents and everybody rolled in blankets. Ernest and Jim lay side by side—and they lay side by side through many a night thereafter.

Jim went to sleep first. Ernest felt too excited to sleep, but sleep he did, nevertheless, although he slept cold; and the first thing that he heard, when awakened by a general stir around him, was Jim’s disgusted exclamation:

“Jiminy Christmas, what a fog! Can’t see a thing! Couldn’t hit the side of a barn if my feet were touching it!”

That might be so. At any rate, since they had camped a regular Texas fog had settled down; and now in the gray of very early morning (four o’clock was the hour) the whole landscape was a blank. Soaked were the blankets, and dripping were the grass and shrubs and exposed noses.

“Glad I put my rifle in under with me,” remarked Ernest. “Did you put yours in?”

“Sure,” said Jim, as they dressed by pulling on their boots. “Hope the cannon doesn’t miss fire on us. Touch-hole ought to’ve been covered.”

However, Lieutenant Dickinson could be depended upon to attend to that.

“Anyway,” observed Jim, “if we can’t see the Mexicans they can’t see us, and we can get right close up to ’em. We know the country better than they do.”

Without delay for coffee, the ranks were formed again by the impatient Colonel Moore. The horsemen cinched their wet, hunched horses, and climbed aboard; and once more the army moved forward, toward Ezekiel Williams’s place, in regular line of battle.

Lieutenant Dickinson and his cannon and cannoneers were in the centre. The cavalry, fifty in number, were placed at front, to cover the cannon—Ernest and Jim sticking together, touching knees in the fog. On either side of the cannon were the infantry, in two columns; and skirmishers mounted and unmounted extended on the flanks to right and left. The Reverend Mr. Smith rode before, with Colonel Moore and staff.

“Looks like we were going to surprise ’em,” whispered Jim, as the march proceeded almost in silence, for even the cannon wheels were muffled by the damp ground.

“Must be getting near to Williams’s melon patch,” whispered back Ernest.

“Bang!”

That was a musket, sounding dully in the dense white mist. Some of the skirmishers had run into a Mexican picket.

“Pop! Pop-pop!” cracked rifles.

Not far ahead lilted the high notes of a trumpet. The Mexican camp! Back from Colonel Moore raced an aide, shouting orders; and the company officers galloped to carry them out.

“Column, by the right flank! March!” bawled Ernest’s commander.

“Hooray!” cheered Jim, as bending in their saddles they all swerved and raced across the front. “Get out of the way of that cannon, you!”

They were formed again on the extreme end of the line at the right of a company of the infantry. The cannon properly stayed in the centre, where it belonged; and the other company of infantry were on the left of line. Here at the right, in company front, the cavalry and infantry, advancing together, made quite a sight—as far as they could be seen.

The muskets of the Mexican pickets and the rifles and shot-guns of the Texas skirmishers were still answering one another; but it was all a waste of powder, and soon the firing ceased.

Colonel Moore had ordered a halt, until the fog lifted. Duke stood with ears pricked, as if he wondered what all this commotion was about.

“Shake up your priming, boy,” cautioned Jim, to Ernest, as they sat carefully covering their rifle pans with their coats. “She’s thinning.”

And so “she”—the fog—was: slowly drifting away, and more and more revealing the country around. Ernest nervously wiped his flint with his damp fingers, and clapped his hand against the lock plate to shake the priming in case that it was caked.

Now could be made out the ghostly forms of trees, and other objects; and a low order was issued “to move forward at a walk.” The whole line moved. The Mexican pickets began to fire, again; and on the left some of the volunteers in the ranks shot back at them.

The pickets could be seen bolting away for their camp—with mounted skirmishers dashing in pursuit for better shots.

“Shucks!” complained Jim. “We aren’t in on this at all. Why don’t we charge?”

“What’ll we charge at?” retorted Ernest.

More ghostly objects were disclosed—and see, there were the Mexicans, at last: a crowd of spectre horsemen grouped on a little rise.

“Give it to ’em, boys!” rose the shout. And, “Give ’em the cannon!” Rifles uselessly cracked; Jim lifted his—but another cry sped hither-thither: “No! No! Wait!”

For from the Mexicans a man came running, with hand lifted.

He was William Smithers, of Gonzales and Bejar both; and he shouted: “Don’t shoot, boys! Don’t shoot! I’ve got a message!”

Now the sun abruptly shattered the fog, driving it asunder. Behind Bill Smithers rode out Lieutenant CastaÑeda. Colonel Moore advanced to meet him.

Lieutenant CastaÑeda asked Colonel Moore why the Mexican soldiers were being attacked in this manner.

Colonel Moore replied that the Texans had been ordered by the lieutenant to surrender the cannon which had been loaned them for their own defense and had been told that if they didn’t surrender it, the soldiers were coming to take it; the order had been issued by direction of the Santa Anna government, which was the enemy of the constitution and therefore was the enemy of Texas; so Texas was determined to fight instead of yielding.

“No, seÑor,” replied the lieutenant—who was a very polite young man. “You are mistaken when you class us with enemies of the constitution. I am a republican, and so are two-thirds of the people of Mexico. But we are good Mexicans, all, and I am an officer of the government. To be sure, the government has been changed, with the approval of the majority of the Mexican states, and the hope is that Texas also will accept the change. I have no intention to oppose the brave Anglo-Mexicans, with arms. My instructions are simply to demand the cannon; and if it is not delivered to me, to wait for further orders.”

“Well, you can’t wait here,” bluntly answered Colonel Moore. “If you don’t want to fight, you can either surrender with your troops, or else join us as a republican and patriot, retaining your full rank and pay in the cause of liberty. Otherwise, we’ll attack you immediately.”

“Impossible, seÑor,” gravely answered the lieutenant. “I must obey orders.”

With that he saluted, and galloped back. Colonel Moore saluted, and he galloped back.

“It’s a fight!” joyously exclaimed Jim; and Ernest’s throat tightened.

To the right, out of range of volleys from his own men, scurried Colonel Moore and the aides. The Mexican dragoons were hastily reforming, but in confusion; and down the Texan line horse and foot cheered and prepared their pieces and implored orders to charge.

“Drive the Mexicans out of Texas,” chorused the shouts.

“Hurrah for liberty!”

“No Mexican soldiers in Texas!”

“Boom!” It was the brass six-pounder, and made Ernest jump. He heard the scraps of ox chain whine through the air, and spatter on the sod and brush. The people who were waiting in Gonzales, seven miles away, asserted that they, too, had heard the report and the whines, and that it was the most fearsome noise imaginable!

“That’s right!”

“Now we’re talkin’!”

“Hurrah for Texas and liberty!”

Again the cannon boomed. A cloud of smoke spread, as bad as the fog, and Ernest, taken by surprise, tried in vain to aim, as they advanced. He heard Jim muttering and fuming. Forward dashed the cavalry (he and Jim with it), in a charge; the infantry broke into a run, following.

But the Mexican dragoons did not wait. The cannon had been enough. As soon as Ernest and his troop emerged from the smoke they saw every Mexican spurring off, pell mell; and when they reached the little rise they found only blood on the grass and brush, several wounded horses, and a lot of baggage, including sacks of Ezekiel Williams’s water-melons.

“Let ’em go,” welled the cry; and the dragoons sped unpursued.

“We got some of ’em,” panted Jim, wildly exultant. “There were several horses carrying double. Looked like one fellow was killed. Did you shoot?” he demanded, of Ernest.

“Naw,” confessed Ernest. “I couldn’t see to shoot, in all that smoke. Did you?”

“Shucks, no!” deplored Jim. “I had good aim, all right, but the blamed gun missed on me.”

After collecting the abandoned equipment, and taking the horses and mules that did not have to be put out of their misery, but leaving Ezekiel Williams his water-melons, with their cannon the volunteers rode back in triumph to Gonzales.

Texas’s battle of Lexington had been won.