Aroused by the clatter of hoofs in the street, while he and Dick were getting ready for bed, Ernest had rushed out, curious, for now every hurrying horseman carried a fresh alarm.

Having delivered the message, the dispatch-bearer was sitting his horse in the gloom-enshrouded main plaza, and repeating his story to an ever-increasing group of citizens around him. Captain John W. Smith, the civil engineer of Bejar, who had guided Sion’s column to the attack, and now had taken up residence at Gonzales, was there; and Jacob Darst and others.

“They came on us all of a sudden [was saying the courier]; first their advance guard, of nigh a thousand, on the twenty-second, driving in before them a couple of our scouts. We’d just time to evacuate for the Alamo, taking along what cattle we could pick up on the way, and some of the women and children. Dickinson managed to grab his wife and baby from the doorway of a house where they were staying and carry them on his saddle. We worked all night arranging things in the Alamo, for we hadn’t men enough to hold both places; and on the next day the whole Mexican army appeared—two thousand more infantry and cavalry, with Santa Anna himself. Travis sent me out with word to Gonzales, and Colonel Bonham’s gone on south for Fannin at Goliad.”

“Will Travis stay?”

“You’re right he will! He can’t be budged—the bravest, pluckiest man in Texas. And Bowie’s there, and Davy Crockett.”

“What! Davy Crockett the Tennessee hunter?”

“Yes, sir; the same. Davy and his rifle Betsy. He got in about two weeks ago, from Nacogdoches, with a dozen other Tennesseeans, all hankering to help Texas fight for liberty. But there’ll have to be other reinforcements. Fannin may try. Whether he’ll get through I don’t know. The trail in from the east is still open. Who’ll go—and who’ll carry the news on to the government?”

“I will,” spoke a voice. Twas that of Dick Carroll, who, buttoning his clothes, had followed Ernest. “I’m too weak to fight, boys—I’ve been sick, you know; but I can ride. If I don’t get through, Ernest will. Come on, lad; saddle up.”

Without waiting for any answer, he hurried off to the corral. Ernest at his heels.

They quickly buckled the bridles and slapped on the saddles, speaking scarcely a word.

“Finish, and bring the horses,” bade Dick. “Get our fixin’s from the house. I want to see Ponton and that message. Meet me in the square.”

He hastened away through the darkness. Ernest cinched the saddles, ran to the house and got the rifles and ammunition, coats and blankets; and on Duke, leading Dick’s horse, trotted to the square.

Throughout the town lights were glimmering in windows, men and women were stirring, and in the plaza the crowd was larger. The heavy air was full of fear and excitement. But Dick was waiting; he seized the bridle of his horse, as Ernest came up, and vaulted into the saddle.

“Ready?” he uttered, tersely. “We’re off, then.” And with touch of spur he broke his horse into a trot. Ernest drew beside him.

“We’ll make through to Burnam’s,” he said. “Change horses; make San Felipe, and I reckon one of us’ll have to go on up to Washington and find Houston.”

“I’ll do it, Dick,” promised Ernest. “You’ve been sick.”

“I know you will. If I wasn’t so all-fired weak, I’d be for the Alamo. Smith is collecting volunteers. They’ll leave in the morning.” He groaned. “Oh, what’s this country coming to? The state without a governor—or with two of ’em, rather. The council and the people divided. Sam Houston without a command—a regular army of sixty or seventy, they say, and no officers or supplies; rest of ’em mainly volunteers from the States—four hundred with Fannin at Goliad, a hundred and thirty with Johnson and Grant at San Patricio, and only a hundred and fifty regulars and volunteers thrown together at Bejar. Houston sent to treat with the Injuns, when he ought to be right on the spot. And the convention, to set things right, not due till March first, and three thousand Mexicans already across the border, to sweep the state. If those fellows would only get out of the Alamo while they have a chance. They could take to the timber and fetch off some of their artillery, too.”

“Don’t you think they will, Dick?”

“Travis? And Bowie, and Bonham, and Dickinson and Crockett? No! They don’t know the meaning of retreat. They’ll wait for Fannin. Maybe he’ll cut through, if he can move his baggage; but I doubt it. He’ll have a hundred miles to cover and Santa Anna’ll be watching for him. Same with Grant and Johnson. If the boys can hold out, they’ll get reinforcements from the east. The Gonzales batch will likely make it—but they’ll be only a few. Most of the settlers are scattered at their homes. They’ll wake, and they’ll wake too late. Darn ’em! Darn us all!”

“But Sam Houston’ll go,” proffered Ernest, hopefully.

“What can he do alone? The council’s ag’in him and the governor, and the people don’t know which to trust. All sorts of stories are afloat. The convention’s got to settle matters. You’ll see, though, how quick they’ll all turn to Sam Houston, with Santa Anna at their doors. Once let the convention give him authority again, and he’ll act, he’ll act. Just now he’s only a delegate from Refugio, waiting orders. But if he gets ’em, and the Texas people will obey him, he’ll save Texas yet.”

Occasionally hoping and despairing, all night they rode, and at dawn reached Burnam’s on the Colorado. While from here the alarm was carried north and south along the river, they drank, ate, rested a couple of hours, and on fresh horses rode for San Felipe, although other messengers had volunteered.

“No. Go to Gonzales, every one of you,” urged Dick.

They arrived at San Felipe with Dick fagged and barely able to sit the saddle. Ernest, tough and young and well, staggered as he dismounted and helped his partner off. It had been a hard ride—the last stretch the hardest of all.

They found San Felipe well-nigh emptied of its able-bodied men; those not out in the fields had gone up to Washington, where the convention of March first already was gathering. The quarrel between the governor and the council was to be settled; and it was rumored that a declaration of independence from Mexico was to be passed. Governor Smith had gone. General Houston would be back from his trip to the Cherokees.

So they found San Felipe quiet, save for its anxiety to ask: “What about Travis at Bejar?” And when with their message they answered the questions, speedily San Felipe was aroused as Gonzales had been. Expresses were sent scouring to summon the Brazos settlers, and within an hour the Travis call to the government was on its way again, by new and stronger hands, to the gathering at Washington, fifty miles up-river.

“I’m all in,” admitted Dick, drooping. “We’ve done our best, the boy and I. We’ve got to rest a night. Hurry on, hurry on. Maybe we’ll go up in the morning; one of us, anyway.”

Ernest it was who went. In the morning he felt keen and able once more. Dick was still laid up, but urged him to leave.

“If there’s a declaration of independence, I want you to hear it,” he said. “There’ll have to be one. Houston says that’s the only way, now; and so does Austin. We can’t get the help we need from the United States unless we stand on our own bottom. Then the word of Texas will mean something. Now Santa Anna’ll never let us be a state even. We must fight for independence and not for the constitution. And you’ll see Houston. Make yourself known to him. He’ll remember you. Tell him of the doings at Gonzales. Tell him you’ve just come from there, and that the people all along the route need him.”

That evening of February 28, Ernest rode, weary and dusty again, into the town of Washington on the Brazos. It was filling up with people: there were a few volunteers attached to the regular army, and encamped, and many settlers attracted by the convention. The visitors had tethered their horses and had spread their blankets in the open. The Alamo already seemed to be on every tongue, but nobody was preparing to leave. All were waiting.

Ernest sought a good spot; then he sought Sam Houston. He quickly sighted him seated on the porch of the tavern, surrounded by a group of men. No one could fail to pick Sam Houston out of any crowd. Ernest elbowed in to him.

“Well, my boy?” queried the general, as Ernest stood before him, eyed by the little crowd. “Do you wish to speak to me? Excuse me, gentlemen.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Ernest, saluting. “I’m Ernest Merrill, from Gonzales. I knew you at Fort Gibson, too.”

“I remember, I remember,” nodded the general, speaking with his firm resonant voice. “From Gonzales. When did you arrive? You don’t bring more bad news, I trust.”

“I left Gonzales night before last,” answered Ernest. “Dick Carroll (he’s my father) left, I mean, to carry Colonel Travis’s dispatch to San Felipe, and I rode with him because he was sick. Then at San Felipe we had to rest, but we sent the message on up here.”

“Yes,” soberly nodded the general. “We have the message. It made quick time—remarkably quick. But what of Gonzales? Are the people rallying? Did you spread the word along the road? How did you come?”

“By Burnam’s, sir,” replied Ernest. “The settlers are going to Gonzales as fast as they can get ready. Captain John Smith was getting a company together at Gonzales when we left and I expect they’ve started for the Alamo, but they won’t be very many. Colonel Travis’s messenger said that Colonel Bonham had been sent to Goliad, too, for help from Colonel Fannin.”

The general excitedly rose and stamped back and forth. He talked as he strode.

“Slowly, slowly,” he declared. “We must take time. It will be madness for small bodies to attempt the Alamo now. They will go to destruction. Fannin himself is liable to be cut off, and Goliad will fall. We must organize. We must have discipline, and a commander-in-chief. The convention must act. This tragedy would have been averted if Colonel Neill had obeyed orders and evacuated. Bexar is too remote on the frontier to be properly defended with the forces at our disposal yet. Now what are we to do, what are we to do? First, we must have harmony, and a concerted plan of action. As for Sam Houston, he is willing to do anything—to lead or to follow, if that will save Texas. Boy,” he continued, pausing, to Ernest, “you may tell your people at Gonzales that Sam Houston is at the service of Texas, whether as a general or a private soldier. The enemy shall be met and defeated.”

“I thought I’d stay for the convention,” hazarded Ernest. “Dick Carroll asked me to.”

“You look tired,” mused the general, surveying him. “You’ve had a hard ride and have done well. Do so, then; stay, and you will see history made. And, by Heaven, when we march against the enemy you will see more history made.”

This was Sunday evening. The convention was called for Tuesday, for February of 1836 had twenty-nine days. To-night, and Monday, Ernest saw a number of delegates that he knew. Matthew Caldwell, of Gonzales, was here—“Old Paint” the Indian fighter; and so was Sam Maverick, of Bejar; and both were near crazed with anxiety over the fate of their families and their homes. But the convention must act, and order be restored, or all would indeed be lost. Lorenzo de Zavala, the ex-president of the State of Mexico, was here; and Antonio Navarro, formerly of Bejar, a brother of Angel Navarro the political chief, whose house had been shattered in the taking of Bejar, but a friend of Texas; and Francisco Ruiz, another patriot; and Colonel Thomas Rusk, who had commanded cavalry at the siege of Bejar; and others—not omitting Sam Houston.

Who should blow in, Monday morning, but Dick Carroll, after a night’s ride. Ernest, for one, welcomed him gladly.

“They’re fighting at the Alamo,” announced Dick, to his listeners. “I’ve brought another dispatch from Travis, date of twenty-fourth. Delivered it to Governor Smith. Expect we-all’ll hear it read at the convention. It’s a humdinger. Travis is holding out, and he says he’s going to hold out. Boys, there’s some man! You’ll be proud when you hear his words. Captain Martin fetched it out of the Alamo to Gonzales; Smither brought it on to San Felipe; and I carried it up here. Wanted to come anyway. Cos, they say, is out there; he’s broken his parole. And Sesma, and Santa Anna, and General Vincente Filisola, the Italian: the best officers in the Mexican army. But Travis and Bowie will keep them busy. At least,” he added, “they’ll try to. Martin says the Gonzales company is going straight in. That will help—a little. Haven’t heard from Fannin, have you?”

All day Monday the crisis at the Alamo lay heavy upon the hearts of those Texas citizens gathered in Washington on the Brazos. There was no word from Colonel Fannin, and no further word from Colonel Travis. Still, among the near 200 men collected in Washington, nobody seemed disposed to leave and join the rendezvous at Gonzales. Hanging around the convention hall and the tavern and the army headquarters, they were waiting for the reorganization of Texas—for some declaration to be made, a government to be re-established, a commander to be appointed, and an army provided for.

They somewhat reminded Ernest of the crowd that he had read waited around the old State House in Philadelphia, in July of 1776, when the Independence of the United States was being declared; but they also appeared all at sea to know what to do, as if they were stunned. Meanwhile boyish Colonel Travis, and the brave Jim Bowie, and probably Colonel Bonham, and young Captain Dickinson with his wife and baby, and Davy Crockett, and the other 145, were defending the Alamo against 2000, maybe 3000, of the best troops of Mexico, led by their best generals!

The members took their seats on this Tuesday morning. There were about sixty delegates, and they occupied all the benches. The rear of the room was packed with spectators and listeners, standing, and the throng pressed against the windows and door. Ernest, being a boy, might have lost out, had not Captain Matt Caldwell, who was a delegate, taken him forward and placed him in the front rank where he could both see and hear. Dick Carroll could be depended upon to care for himself.

The first thing done was the election of officers. Mr. Richard Ellis, of Pecan Point, the Red River district, was chosen president of the convention; and Mr. H. S. Kimball, secretary. President Ellis made a short address; and then he announced that while the committees were at work, he would read a document that had been handed to him—“of the most important character ever received by any assembly of men”! It was the dispatch brought by Dick Carroll.

“What flag is that he mentioned?” asked somebody behind Ernest. “The Lone Star flag or the Independence flag you fellows had at the siege?”

“I reckon maybe,” answered the voice of Dick Carroll, who also had elbowed to the front. “They’re out there somewhere, like as not. But Smither said Captain Martin said they’d raised the regular Mexican green, white and red tri-color, with ‘1824’ on the middle of it, signifying the constitution.”

However, Chairman Ellis was about to read again.

“I will now read the endorsements from the express carriers, on the back,” he said. “The first:

Captain Martin was this, of Gonzales. And he was going back!

“Now the second endorsement,” continued Richard Ellis. “As follows:

Chairman Ellis refolded the dispatch and passed it aside to the secretary. Later it was read again by many present.

A hush, thrilled with the murmur and stir of admiration, rage, and helplessness followed upon the reading. Several men attempted excitedly to speak; but the chairman motioned them down.

“You have heard the dispatch,” he said, huskily. “You know what is before us. The delegates will now proceed to the business of the consultation.”

Committees were appointed; and the convention adjourned, for the day.

It was a grim evening and night in Washington. The name of the heroic Travis was on every lip and in every heart was the fear lest a great Mexican army already had overwhelmed the Alamo and were sweeping across for the settlements eastward. And Gonzales, Ernest realized, would be the first to fall victim.

“Houston! Why doesn’t Houston go?”

“He can’t. He’s a delegate.”

“But he’s commander-in-chief.”

“No, he isn’t. He had to quit when the governor was ousted. The council was ag’in ’em both.”

“Who’s our head, then? Why doesn’t the convention reappoint him? We’ve got to have somebody, quick.”

“I reckon it will. But maybe he won’t accept. Wouldn’t blame him any. He’s been treated right shabbily.”

“He’ll take it,” assured Dick Carroll. “There’s nothing small or picayune about Sam Houston. And fighting for independence, under Houston, we’ll lick Santa Anna out of his boots.”

Nevertheless, upon the forms sitting enveloped in their blankets, or lying to try to sleep, rested a gloom not of the night alone. In the headquarters of General Houston a light burned until almost morning.

After breakfast the reassembling of the convention was eagerly awaited. No more news from Colonel Travis had arrived; but report stated that during the night the delegates had drawn up a declaration of independence, and that it was about ready for adoption. The report proved true. Soon after the convention was called to order, President Ellis arose, a mass of foolscap paper in his hand, and stated that he would have the secretary read the report of the committee upon an announcement of the Republic of Texas.

The secretary evidently had finished the reading of the declaration. He turned and resumed his seat at his little table on the platform. There was an instant of dead silence, while the people present tried to realize that Texas was no longer to be attached to Mexico.

“You have heard the report of the committee,” addressed President Ellis, his voice clear. “Are there any objections?”

A shuffle of impatient feet had begun; and——

“No! No!” swelled the shout, in a great volley, from delegates and visitors alike.

“The chair hears no objections. All in favor of adopting the report as it stands will signify by saying ‘Aye.’”

“Aye! Aye!”

“The report, declaring Texas a free and independent republic, is adopted,” announced President Ellis. “The delegates will please step forward and sign the declaration.”

One by one, in a constant file, the delegates advanced to the secretary’s table upon the platform, and attached their signatures to the paper. The president first; and in due order Antonio Navarro, and Captain Caldwell, and de Zavala, and Colonel Rusk, and the towering form of Sam Houston, and all—fifty-eight in number.

Now indeed had the silence been broken, and well broken. From the crowd in the rear of the hall and pressing outside pealed cheer upon cheer, echoed from beyond as fast sped the news. Hats were swung, guns spoke. Ernest, on tiptoe, swung his hat and added his shrill voice to the clamor. Near him somebody was singing, and the chant spread.

And 200 miles to the west, young William Travis and his little band were fighting desperately for this new Republic of which they were destined never to be told; while Colonel Fannin’s wagons had broken down and he had been forced back into Goliad again.