Little more was done this day. It was reported that the committees were busy preparing a constitution for the new Republic of Texas and revising plans for an army and navy. Most of the delegates remained in the convention hall, where the committees were meeting; and the visitors waited outside, under the trees. The office of governor and council had now passed out of existence, so the quarrel between the two parties need not be considered.

General Houston was closeted with a committee, the main part of the day, discussing the military measures. But in the afternoon there was read a short address from him to the people of Texas.

The postscript sounded bad, and Ernest turned with whitened face to Dick.

“Do you think they have attacked Gonzales, Dick?”

“No, I don’t. They wouldn’t attack Gonzales until they’ve taken Bejar. We can’t believe all the rumors we hear. The whole country’s panicky. If Fannin marches through and gets in with his men, he and Travis will hold the Alamo ag’in all Mexico. Reckon, too, by this time the Brazos and Colorado people are rallying into Gonzales, and Captain Martin has led a bunch to help Travis. And there are a hundred and more able-bodied men right here who ought to organize and go.”

“Why don’t they go, then, Dick? Why don’t we all go?”

“Chiefly because we’re sorter at sea, yet. Most of the men have families at home. Who’d protect them? And where are our leaders? Fannin and Johnson are like as not cut off, down at Goliad. Travis and Bowie are yonder in the Alamo. And here’s Sam Houston, waiting instructions.”

“But he signs himself commander-in-chief, Dick.”

“Yes, a commander-in-chief without an army. Besides, he was commander-in-chief under the old makeshift government, formed to tide us along. Now we’ve got a new one, a republic, and all officers’ll have to be sworn in over again. He’ll be appointed, though, as soon as plans for the army are drawn. You know what day this is, don’t you?”

“Yes. March second.”

“And Sam Houston’s birthday! Declaration of Independence was adopted on Sam Houston’s birthday, and that’s a good sign.”

The next day dragged, filled with wild rumors, while the convention still prepared for defense and the operation of the new government. It seemed to be the great hope of everybody at Washington that Sam Houston would be reappointed to the head of the army at once; about all the men appeared to think that he would save Texas from Santa Anna, if anyone could.

A large crowd were already gathered about the hall when on the next morning, of Friday, March 4, Ernest hastened to learn what was up. But the program seemed to be devoted mainly to the report of the military committee. It recommended a strong militia, and granted 1280 acres of land to every volunteer who served throughout the war; and there was to be a major-general in command of the whole army—regulars, volunteers and militia—when in the field.

This was rather dull reading. General Houston was not present, but having wormed his way out for a breath of air Ernest saw him on the tavern porch. A letter had just been handed to him by a horseman, and, watched by a group of by-standers who had collected, he was reading it.

“Gentlemen, a letter from Colonel Fannin, to a friend, and forwarded, in a copy, for my perusal,” he announced, as Ernest sidled near. “It is the last news from Goliad, date of February twenty-eight. I hope that the news from the Alamo will be no worse. I will read an extract from it, which indicates the spirit of a brave man. A Mexican force has already advanced upon him, and it is unlikely that he can effect a juncture with Travis. However, he says:

“Signed,” continued the general, ‘J. W. Fannin, Jr.’”

“Fannin makes only the one error in that letter,” spoke Colonel George Hockley, who was the general’s aide. “A man who will ‘never give up the ship’ can be killed but he can’t be whipped.”

“If the Alamo can hold out until we relieve it, there will be no danger to Fannin,” mused the general. “And if he will obey the orders of his superiors, whoever they may be,——”

But a sudden shout from the convention hall interrupted him. The cries swelled, spreading to the crowd outside the door.

“Houston! Houston! Speech! Speech!”

A man came running.

“You’re wanted inside the hall, general,” he said. “You’ve been elected commander-in-chief, on first ballot; fifty-five votes for you, only one against.”

“I accept,” remarked the general, solemnly. “I will be there directly, but this is a time for acting, not for talking.”

He strode for the convention hall, and most of the group with him. Ernest squirmed in. The general appeared on the rude platform, and spoke briefly, thanking the convention and the people of Texas for the honor paid to him. Scarcely had he concluded when a delegate arose.

“I move that it be the sense of this convention that Major-General Sam Houston immediately depart for the army, or resign.”

A storm of cheers and hisses followed. The general waited. He levelled his finger at the delegate, and answered for himself.

“I trust that the gentleman will withdraw his motion. In that belief I will state that my purpose is to start for the army on the morrow morning, and I will be glad to have the gentleman’s company!”

What a round of cheers and laughter now resounded!

“I withdraw my motion,” stammered the delegate, much confused by the unexpected challenge and the uproar, and sat down.

However, the general did not leave on the next day. The convention had adjourned over Saturday and Sunday, to enable the committees to prepare further reports. There was much important work yet to be done, ere the Republic of Texas was organized; a constitution must be adopted, and the republic’s officers elected. General Houston had his duties to perform as a delegate; and, besides, he was waiting for instructions.

The delay was exasperating; but it seemed necessary. If the Alamo would only hold out! Surely the volunteers at Gonzales were marching to help it!

Sunday morning, which was March 6, Ernest had taken a walk about, exploring (for it was rather trying, just to lie ’round), when a commotion in town caught his ear and eye. Men were hurrying to gather in a crowd on the street, as if surrounding some speaker. So back into the excitement sped Ernest. News from the Alamo, perhaps! Another messenger! Or had Colonel Fannin been attacked, too! Or Gonzales taken! Or perhaps Colonel Travis had driven off the Mexicans!

A weary, drooping horse, dust streaked and sweat stained, stood loosely tethered to the hitching rail in front of the tavern: the horse of a dispatch-bearer, surely! Beyond, were the group of men, encircling close another man, who was answering questions. Ernest lost no time in worming his way where he could peer and listen.

The man was Captain John W. Smith, of Gonzales. Yes—Captain Smith, himself, who, when Ernest and Dick Carroll had left ten days ago on their ride to San Felipe, was collecting a company for the help of Colonel Travis. Now his beard and all his face were covered with dust and grime, his eyes were weary, and his boots and clothes likewise showed long, hard travel.

“I left the Alamo before daybreak of the third,” he was answering to eager questions. “Thirty of us from Gonzales got in there at three o’clock on the morning of the first. Travis sent me out with this dispatch, and I came through, night and day, by the shortest trail; crossed the Colorado at Moore’s Retreat, north of Burnam’s, and then through the prairie to Washington. Travis was all right when I left; still holding out. He had about one hundred eighty men. Bonham managed to break back from Fannin, and arrived just as I left. He could have stayed away, but he didn’t. He said he’d bring word from Fannin or die. He’s a great friend of Travis and Bowie, you know. There were about a hundred and fifty volunteers at Gonzales when I passed through.”

“Isn’t Fannin going?”

“He sent word by Bonham that he’d try, but we think the Mexicans have cut him off. He’ll certainly come if he can. There’s no braver man alive than Jim Fannin.”

“Why don’t the men at Gonzales march?”

“Why don’t you men march? It isn’t a question of a hundred or two, now. The Mexican lines are drawn too close. I doubt if even another dispatch will get out; the country around Bejar is thick with Mexican patrols. Santa Anna’s there, remember; and so is Cos, who broke his parole just to get a revenge for the licking we gave him.”

“How’s the Alamo? Shot up much? Many killed? What does Travis say now?”

“Nobody’s been hurt, except Mexicans. We were short of ammunition, though. Bowie’s sick in bed. The men are fighting night and day, and they’ll never surrender. I fetched two dispatches: one for the convention, and the other a letter to a friend of Travis. Travis says: ‘Take care of my little boy. If the country should be saved, I may make him a splendid fortune; but if the country should be lost, and I should perish, he will have nothing but the proud recollection that he is the son of a man who died for his country.’ Travis told me to say to the people that as long as he held out he’d fire a signal gun every morning at sunrise.”

“Everybody to the convention hall!” was the sudden hail. “Delegates and everybody to the convention hall. Special meeting.”

Men were already pushing in through the doorway; the group about Captain Smith dissolved quickly. He staggered stiffly in the rear of the hurrying procession; Ernest nimbly darted ahead, and squeezed in with the crowd.

Most of the delegates were in their seats. President Richard Ellis and Secretary Kimball were in their places, waiting. Mr. Ellis held a piece of soiled paper in his hand. He arose, and amidst a tense silence looked over the assemblage. His face was pale and haggard, and Ernest could barely hear his words.

“I have just received by special courier, who has ridden the one hundred and eighty miles in less than four days, another message from Colonel Travis in the Alamo, addressed to this convention,” he said. “It is of such importance that I feel it should be communicated at once. The date is March 3—or only last Thursday.”

He proceeded to read; but amidst the confusion of shuffling feet and twisting bodies, as the listeners strained to hear, and amidst the interruptions by cheers and other exclamations, Ernest missed a sentence now and then. But he heard enough.

President Ellis had finished, and all the hall was in an uproar. This last despairing but noble appeal from Colonel Travis in the hard-fighting Alamo, had stirred every heart and rocked every form. Men were shouting, crying, gesticulating. A score of the delegates were on their feet. Delegate Robert Potter made himself heard.

“I now move that this convention do immediately adjourn, arm, and march to the relief of the Alamo,” he excitedly proposed.

“To the Alamo! To the Alamo!” And the crowd began to surge.

“No! No! Wait!” It was the deep, ringing voice of General Houston. He had risen, his hand extended commandingly; and at the summons of his powerful tones and his massive figure every eye was turned and every tongue was stilled. “Hear me,” he bade. “I have gathered that there is a sentiment we do immediately adjourn and proceed, armed, to the Alamo. I have heard the gentleman’s motion, and know that it springs from a natural impulse, common to brave men, to succor one’s fellow patriots beleaguered by a ruthless enemy. No one would be more prompt to obey that impulse than I. But I must oppose the motion. Such an adjournment of this body would be a madness worse than treason to the people. We are met here to form a government. We must have a government, in organic form; for without an organized government Mexico would be entitled to regard us as outlaws, and to the world outside we would be only rebels, and we would fail to obtain the sympathy and the respect of mankind. What can fifty, or one hundred men do against six thousand? The delegates to this convention were elected by the people of Texas to establish a firm and stable government. We have declared our independence, but the work must not stop there. The declaration will be nothing without measures of law that will give it due weight among the other nations of the world. The perils of the republic cannot be averted by arms alone—and never has Texas faced a greater crisis than she faces now. I entreat the convention to be both wise and patriotic. Let it sit calmly, even amidst war, and with firmness pursue its deliberations. Feel no alarm, gentlemen. We have already a small but brave force at Gonzales. I will proceed there at once, interpose a barrier of patriotic citizens between the enemy and this hall, and while the convention chooses to sit in session no foreign foe shall approach except over my dead body. Meanwhile, if mortal power can avail, our brave countrymen in the Alamo shall be relieved.”

More General Houston said, speaking vehemently. The hall listened eager and convinced. Never had such an inspiring address been there delivered, and none to equal it ever followed. Truly, the general was a great orator.

At the conclusion he bowed, and strode rapidly out. The delegates remained, and so did most of the crowd; but Dick Carroll clapped Ernest on the shoulder. Ernest had not known that Dick was so near.

“Come,” said Dick. And Ernest dived through, after him, to the outside. “Get your horse and fixin’s,” bade Dick. “And meet me yonder as quick as you can.”

“Where are we going, Dick?”

“We’re going with the general,” and Dick nodded toward the large figure in the whitish hat, rapidly making his way toward his headquarters. “When he starts we start—and I reckon ’twon’t be long, either.”

“To Gonzales, Dick?” queried Ernest, over his shoulder as he turned.

“Yes. To Gonzales, and wherever else we’re needed. When Sam Houston leaves it’s time for us to leave. We aren’t delegates.”

Ernest hastened for his horse and gun and blanket, his heart beating gladly. Nothing loth was he to go, not even if General Houston led into the Alamo itself. He could help at Gonzales, anyway. Perhaps Jim and Sion were there, with the volunteers. And Leo was liable to turn up, too.

When he had bridled and saddled, and rode back, Dick was ready and waiting; and several saddled horses had been tethered in front of the general’s headquarters. Presently the general issued; with him Colonel Hockley, his chief of staff. They were armed with pistols, and the general wore a heavy sword, in its scabbard, belted around his buckskin hunting coat. They stuffed some things into their saddle-bags, and tied their blanket rolls behind their saddles a little tighter.

Dick pricked his horse, and followed by Ernest rode forward. By this time two other men had joined, and were sitting their horses near.

“All ready, general?” queried Dick, saluting.

The general glanced up.

“All ready, sir.” He gazed inquiringly about. His eyes rested a moment upon Ernest (who tried to sit as manlike as he could), and his face softened into the glimmer of a smile. “This, then, is the force that proposes to accompany a general to his army?”

“I reckon it is,” answered one of the first two men.

The general climbed into his saddle and gathered the lines; Colonel Hockley did the same.

“Very well,” spoke the general. “Gentlemen, I thank you and shall be glad of your society. A dispatch will go to Goliad, directing Colonel Fannin to march at all speed and unite his troops with ours on the Cibolo beyond Gonzales. We may yet rescue Travis. The result is in the hands of an all-wise God, and I rely confidently upon His Providence. Texas shall be free.”

He touched his horse with the spur, and rode off at a smart canter. Colonel Hockley fell in beside him. The two other men followed, and Dick and Ernest closed the rear. Less than an hour had passed since the great speech in the convention hall. But no cheers sent them off. Scarcely anybody paid attention. It seemed to Ernest rather a forlorn start.

All day they steadily rode on the trail that conducted westward across a wide fertile prairie of high grass and flowers broken by tree islands and by bottom-lands where grew the wild rye and the cane. Sixty-five miles was it from Washington on the Brazos to the Colorado at Moore’s Retreat, or Moore’s Ferry, as it was also called. From Moore’s to Gonzales was forty-five miles. From Gonzales to Bejar was seventy or seventy-five.

They passed a number of ranches. Most of the men were at Washington or at Gonzales; and those who were left at home, and the women-folk, appeared terror-stricken by the rumors that they had heard. At dusk the general halted for camp, amidst the luxuriant grasses, by a little stream; the horses were turned out on their picket ropes to graze, a cold supper was eaten, and blankets were spread. Only a few words were spoken. The general seemed depressed and anxious; heavy care had settled on him.

In the morning Ernest was aroused before sunrise. Dick and the other men were astir, and were standing watching the general. He had walked aside, to a clear spot, and was stooping, with his ear against the ground.

“Listening, Injun fashion, for the signal guns of the Alamo,” spoke Dick, in a low voice. “Sound travels far along the earth—you can feel the shaking there when you can’t feel a thing, upright. Smith said he heard the guns when he was a hundred miles away; but we’re too far, too far—a hundred and fifty, at least.”

The sun rose, suddenly flooding the green prairie with golden beams, and illuminating the slight fog which hung in patches over the bottoms. Everybody held himself tense, watching the general. It was the moment for the signal guns. For five minutes—yes, for ten minutes, a long, long space—there was utter silence broken only by the twitter of birds. The general abruptly straightened, shook his head, replaced his big whitish hat, and returned to the camp.

“No go,” remarked Dick. “But,” he hopefully added, “we’re too far, yet, general.”

General Houston did not reply. They snatched a hasty breakfast, saddled, and rode. This day they approached the Colorado. The next day they crossed it at Moore’s Ferry, but the Moore house was deserted. Jim Hill lived a short distance below, and Ernest thought of him—wondered where he was. Good old Jim! And Sion, too, twenty-five miles further down.

Nobody had joined them on the road. All the settlers and their families appeared to be in great alarm, but reported that 300 volunteers were waiting at Gonzales. Each morning at sunrise the general had listened for the signal guns; they all had listened; and they had felt not a tremor, heard not a boom. The horses proved to be of poor average. The general plainly was vexed at the slow progress necessary.

Here between the Colorado and the Guadalupe settlers were already on the move, taking their households out of threatened danger. Wagons and carts were met, loaded with furniture and supplies and women and children, travelling eastward. But no news of the Alamo was obtained.

Now on the morning of the sixth day out of Washington, Gonzales was only twenty miles westward, and the Alamo was but ninety—less than that, in a straight line. For the last time, they listened again at sunrise. The general stood, his head bare.

“Gentlemen,” he solemnly said, “the Alamo has fallen. We would hear the cannon, at this point—unless, of course, Colonel Travis is short of ammunition. Possibly, as we ride on, the sound of the bombardment will reach us. Let us hope so.”

They had struck into the main road between Gonzales and the Colorado, from which other trails forked: the road on which Ernest had twice ridden as courier—but that seemed to him very long ago. At the McClure ranch on Peach Creek, ten miles from town, the general reined in to inquire, of Mrs. McClure, who looked out upon them:

“What news from the Alamo, lady?” He always addressed a woman as “lady.”

She, too, was packed up, as for flight. She recognized Dick and Ernest, but did not smile.

“Not a thing for several days. Even the guns have stopped. We used to hear them in still weather. We haven’t heard them since Sunday morning early. Do you think there’s danger, sir? Ought we to move out?”

“My advice is for the settlers to be prepared to move east of the Colorado on a moment’s notice, lady,” responded the general. “With the small army at its disposal Texas may not be able to hold the enemy back, and this section will be overrun. Let all supplies that cannot be taken be destroyed.” And he rode on with head bowed.

At the Berry ranch, six miles further, the same conversation resulted. And at four o’clock in the afternoon of this March 11 they entered Gonzales.