It seemed to Ernest that he scarcely had closed his eyes, at last, when he was forced to unclose them. Men were passing among the prone figures, waking them. Dawn had broken grayly, under a clouded sky. Fires were being kindled; and the wearied refugees scattered through the oak grove were arousing—the women to get the breakfasts. In the west hung the smoke from the burning town.

“Well,” yawned Jim, pulling on his boots, “here we are, with all Texas before us.”

“Wonder where we go to-day,” invited Ernest.

“Keep right on till we reach the Colorado, I reckon,” answered Jim. “That’s the tell. We’ll join with Fannin somewhere on the Colorado and hold the Mexicans there till we lick ’em.”

Coffee was being made—and it tasted very good, although there was no sugar for it. From the direction of Gonzales sounded several heavy explosions, rumbling through the damp air. Mexican cannon? If so, then Henry Karnes and Deaf Smith and the other scouts would best light out of there in a hurry. No—as like as not the explosions were from some powder that had been forgotten, or from barrels of brandy. Rumor said that the brandy had been poisoned, for the Mexicans, and that General Houston was angry, when he heard.

Now General Houston was walking among the refugees (who had been alarmed by the explosions) and telling them, in a loud, confident voice, that to poison the liquor had been the act of savages, and that it had now been safely disposed of.

Orders were issued to fall in. The footmen stiffly obeyed; most of them were not used to walking, but the general (so ’twas said) thought that he could hold the army together better if they were afoot. Ernest saw Dick limping to his place. He and Jim, however, saddled up and in partnership rode with the flanking cavalry.

After the first halt, to rest a moment, the general came slowly ambling back along the column. He wore an old, thread-bare, closely buttoned black coat, similar to a Prince Albert of to-day—a dress-coat, as it was called. Probably he had given his buckskin coat to some refugee. He appeared to be counting the men with his finger. He looked tired out, and constantly sniffed at a little bottle of ammonia salts, to ward off malaria. He made rather an odd figure, in his big hat, and long black coat, with his bottle and his pointing finger.

“We are the rise of eight hundred strong,” he announced, as if to himself, but in a loud voice so that all might hear; “and with a good position we can whip ten to one of the enemy.” And he returned.

“Shucks!” remarked Jim. “That’s tall talk. We aren’t more than four hundred and fifty. He’s saying that to encourage us.”

“Every little helps,” asserted Ernest.

“He’s got a load to carry, that man,” vouchsafed Jim. “We Texans aren’t used to retreating, and look at us!”

Truly, the sight was not inspiring: the toiling, perspiring column, and the distressed, panicky citizens, all fleeing from the advancing host of the Mexican army flushed with victory.

That evening camp was made at the Lavaca River, near the ranch of Captain Daniels. The ranch was deserted, like the rest of the country. The general had no tent and all his baggage was a blanket and a pair of saddle-bags containing his papers. To-night his headquarters were an out-building of the ranch; and at dusk he could be seen through the open door, seated on a three-legged stool, and whittling splinters with which to feed a little fire in the fire-place, for light, while he dictated some orders to Colonel Hockley, his chief aide. Soon after supper Major William T. Austin rode away—with dispatches to the lower Brazos, southeast, it was said. The general had sent word to Colonel John A. Wharton to hurry up cannon, mules and ammunition.

In the morning word was passed that Colonel Fannin was still at Goliad, and might not be able to retire. General Houston was heard to say to Colonel Hockley:

“Hockley, here is the last hope of Texas. We shall never see Fannin or his men. With these soldiers we must achieve our independence, or perish in the attempt.”

Nevertheless, about ten o’clock the whole column was suddenly halted, and a large squad of horsemen went galloping on the back trail.

“Where you going, boys?”

“To get a blind widow and seven children, bedad!” yelled one of the riders—Irish, by his accent. “The gin’ral won’t be happy till he has ’em.”

So the march was delayed until the squad returned with the family, who lived off the road and had not been told of the retreat. The “Deaf Smith Spies,” as the Henry Karnes scouts were termed, came in also, from Gonzales. They reported that when they had left, no Mexican army was yet in sight.

About four o’clock in the afternoon of March 17, which was the fourth day out of Gonzales, camp was made, in the rain, at Burnam’s Crossing on the Colorado. During the march from Gonzales the general had been energy itself. Nothing escaped his attention. He was everywhere at once, from front to rear, encouraging the refugees, and scolding the volunteers when they lagged. His strong point was discipline. John Rhodes had been found asleep on sentry duty, and General Houston put him under arrest and vowed he should be shot.

The next day, on the march, while crossing a creek, John stopped, knee-deep, to get a drink. All the column behind him also stopped, obligingly, to wait for him.

Back galloped the general, like a whirlwind.

“What are you doing here? Why are you halting?”

“John Rhodes wants a drink, general.”

“Knock him down!” bawled the general, pretending a terrible rage. “Knock him down! Standing there and impeding the march of a whole army! Knock him down, I say!” And he almost rode right over Rhodes, who was so frightened that he did not take another swallow.

However, that evening the general called John, and told him that he would not be shot, after all. And when the widow and her family were to be rescued, he had halted the march himself and delayed it two hours!

From Burnam’s the general sent a dispatch to the government Military Committee, at Washington on the Brazos. He dictated, from his quarters, in such a loud voice, as if he were making a speech, that anybody near at hand could hear.

“The general’s certainly working hard,” quoth Jim, as he and Ernest held a little council of war of their own. “But those fellows who skipped out ahead of the army when they heard about the Alamo are making him a heap of trouble. They’ve spread all kinds of stories. Shucks, we’re not getting any at all from east Texas. Not more’n a hundred and fifty men have met us since we left Gonzales—and part of them vamoosed” (by which Jim meant “skipped”) “again.”

“Those last settlers we took up say it’s reported Santa Anna’s bringing a lot of women along with his soldiers, and they’re to marry and settle on the American ranches, and all Americans are to be driven out,” said Ernest.

“If Fannin only gets away, we can hold the Mexicans at the Colorado,” spoke Jim, confidently. “We lost one gun to-day. Did you hear?”

“No. What?”

“Musket. A sentry busted it over the head of a fellow by name of Garner, who was bound to cross the line, whether or no. He didn’t cross. Reckon the general’ll give that sentry a medal. This army needs considerable disciplining.”

“Well, it’s got some discipline,” argued Ernest. “The general tried to cross the sentry line himself, and the sentinel made him sit on a stump and wait for a written order from the officer of the day.”

“That tickled the general, I bet,” chuckled Jim. “What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.”

Two days were spent in the mud, crossing the Colorado. All the refugees were ferried over first, so as to be ahead of the column. One woman was found by the general sitting on a log, refusing to move. She was hopeless and crying. Her husband had been killed with Travis in the Alamo, and her things had been burned in Gonzales. The general gave her fifty dollars out of his $200, and told her that she need never pay him back.

Wet and mudded, down the east bank of the Colorado the little army marched until opposite Beason’s place, twelve miles below. This was Beason’s Crossing. Sion lived here, across the river, near the new town of Columbus. And that very evening he appeared in camp, with some recruits.

Jim saw him first, and let out a wild whoop of joy.

“What do you think you’re going to do?” he demanded of Sion—he and Ernest pumping Sion’s hand. “Still got that old pea-shooter, haven’t you!” For Sion was equipped for war.

“Going to do? Fight, of course!” retorted Sion, as pugnacious as ever. “What are you fellows going to do? Keep on running away?”

“No. As soon as we meet up with Fannin or get those cannon from the mouth of the Brazos we’ll capture Santa Anna and go back to ploughing. We’re here to stick. We’re stuck already, in the mud!”

“Have you enlisted, Sion?” queried Ernest.

“Sure. I’ve just been waiting till you came down. I’m in Captain Moseley Baker’s San Felipe company, and I’m here to stick, too. He’s a fighter. We fellows reckon Sam Houston’s gone about far enough.”

“Any news from Leo?”

“No.”

“Any news from Fannin?”

“No. But the convention’s quit. Elected David Burnet president of the Republic of Texas and Lorenzo de Zavala [that was the Mexican patriot] vice-president; and on the seventeenth, as soon as they heard about the Alamo, they all moved out, down to Harrisburg, near Buffalo Bayou, in the Galveston Bay country of the coast. Wasn’t that awful, about the Alamo, though?”

“It certainly was,” agreed Jim and Ernest, sobering.

“All Texas acts scared out of its boots,” complained Sion. “The government’s as bad as the rest—retreating like that. If half the men who are tending to their families would join the army their families would be a great deal safer. We’ve got to do something pretty quick. The Mexicans are close.”

“How do you know?”

“Because some of their patrols are right west of here. People saw ’em yesterday. Old Sesma’s behind ’em with six hundred men.”

That was true. The scouts under Henry Karnes, who had been stationed across the river, above, brought in a Mexican soldier and three horses, and Scout Secrest showed the sword and pistols of another soldier whom he had killed. Three more prisoners were captured, by a detachment under Lieutenant-Colonel Sherman. They said that General Sesma and General Woll were now on the west bank of the Colorado, only three miles above Beason’s. The Deaf Smith Spies, on falling back from Burnam’s, had set fire to the ranch buildings and to the Dewees place, below.

General Houston posted strong guards up along the river; and according to reports there would be a battle. If Generals Sesma and Woll had only 600 men, the Texan army ought to be able to thresh them. Sherman, it was said, would have ambushed them—only that one of his men disobeyed orders and fired too soon, and spoiled the whole plan. If the artillery only would come from the mouth of the Brazos! The little army were in great excitement—although some of the men managed to leave, in spite of the sentries. They reasoned that if there was a fight and the army was whipped by the Mexican artillery and cavalry, they ought to be at home with their families.

General Houston looked ill. He was carrying a great load. The news that the government had fled also, as if it did not trust him or the army, worried him. He said to one of the officers: “That removal from Washington to Harrisburg has done more to increase the panic than anything else that has occurred in Texas, except the fall of the Alamo, sir.” And from Beason’s he wrote to Colonel Rusk, the secretary of war:

The general wrote most of his dispatches at night, when he sat and whittled a stick (he was a great whittler) while dictating, or while thinking what to write.

But reinforcements were on the way; and word came that Colonel Rusk, the secretary of war, had stationed a guard over the ferry across the Brazos at Washington, with orders to stop all men going eastward with arms.

General Houston was not saying much, but the belief was that a battle would be fought on the 27th: for by this time Fannin or the reinforcements would have arrived—particularly the cannon for which Major Austin had been sent. He had promised to report in twelve days, sure. Fight! That was what the army wanted to do: fight! By the way Sion stormed about, one would have thought that he would do all the fighting alone.

Then, in the evening of March 25, a new commotion swept the camp. Jim, and Ernest, and Sion, sitting together, heard the shouts and saw the running; and together they scampered for the centre of the disturbance. A man had been brought in, by the corporal of the guard, and had been immediately assailed by questions.

“Fannin! Fannin’s been whipped!” were the cries. “He and all his men killed or captured! Refugio taken, too. All the lower Guadalupe wiped out—a lot of the prisoners tied to oak trees and shot!”

By the time that the three boys breathlessly arrived, the messenger, who was a Mexican countryman named Peter Kerr, was being hustled along by the corporal. But he had answered enough questions so that his story was clear.

Colonel Fannin had waited for the little garrisons at San Patricio to collect the women and children and join him. But the advance of the Mexican soldiers sent by Santa Anna into the south had been too rapid, and the Texan troops had been cut off. Then on the morning of March 19 he had begun his retreat to Victoria, with 350 men and ten cannon. But that same day, on a grassy prairie, he had been surrounded by General Urrea and 900 cavalry and infantry, with cannon and about 100 Indians. Colonel Fannin formed a hollow square, and beat them off all day long. Early the next morning 400 more Mexicans arrived, with more cannon, and with 100 pack mules bearing new supplies. Sixty Texans had been wounded, and there was no water, and very little food, and the ammunition was almost gone. So before noon Colonel Fannin had agreed to surrender. He and his men were to be treated as prisoners of war. The outside volunteers were to be sent back to New Orleans and the few Texas citizens were to go home, on parole, not to fight again in the war.

But this was bad news indeed. Jim indignantly hurled his hat on the ground.

“Think of it!” he exclaimed. “Gee whiz! Think of it! Right at this time when we needed that crowd! The Mexican says if Fannin had marched only three miles further ’stead of camping in the open he’d have been in the timber and all Mexico couldn’t have cut him off!”

“We can fight without him, anyhow,” blurted Sion. “We’ve got enough to lick Sesma and Woll. And I reckon we’ll do it, about day after to-morrow.”

“Don’t know whether we will or not,” retorted Jim. “And supposing we do. They’re just an advance guard. There’s Urrea, now, down south, with twelve or fifteen hundred regulars, and nobody to hold him; and there’s Santa Anna coming, with a few thousand more. And who’s helping us? Half of us are down with the measles, anyway. Where are those East Texas militia we’ve been hearing about? Where are those reinforcements and those cannon from the mouth of the Brazos? And look what we’ve lost! All those companies from the United States, except the Newport Volunteers that are in this camp. The New Orleans Grays, the Mobile Grays, the Kentucky Mustangs, the Alabama Red Rovers, the Georgia and Tennessee companies, and all the rest—the best armed troops we had; and one of the best officers—Jim Fannin.”

“Well,” said Ernest, determined to make the best of it, “they weren’t all shot. They just surrendered. Only half a dozen were killed and they wiped out about three hundred Mexicans.”

“They all are paroled, though; they can’t fight any more. They won’t break their parole; they’re not like Cos,” insisted Jim. “And remember the Alamo. Every man massacred whether he’d surrendered or not. And remember how those other men were tied to oak trees and shot. We’re liable to hear the same kind of news from Fannin yet.”

“Can’t help it,” declared Sion, doggedly. “I’m here to fight, and so are the other men.”

“You talk as if you were as tall as that gun you’re lugging round,” scoffed Jim. “Sounds as if you were going to account for the whole Mexican army.”

“This gun shoots just as hard as if I was as big as General Houston,” stoutly answered Sion. “That Mexican said there was a boy named Harry Ripley with Fannin; from Louisiana. He got wounded, and asked a woman named Mrs. Cash, from Goliad, to prop him up so he could shoot. He popped four more Mexicans before a bullet broke his steadying arm; and then with a broken arm and a broken thigh he had to quit. Said he’d made the Mexicans pay double for what they gave him. I reckon I can do as well as any boy from the United States.”

“I reckon you can, Sion,” agreed Jim.

General Houston ordered the Mexican, Peter Kerr, under close arrest; would not even talk with him, and claimed that he was only a miserable spy, and should be shot, the first thing in the morning. But nobody believed that this would be done; they all knew the general too well—and Peter evidently had spoken the truth. Late that evening the general was seen talking to him, and examining him. The next day there was no execution; instead, when the army was paraded, they listened to the adjutant, Colonel Ben Fort Smith, read a general order:

Not a cheer greeted the order. Instead, from angry men welled sullen murmurs.