Gone to Texas Read online

  “Magdalena,” he said, “I love you more than anyone in the world. Will you marry me? We can live in the States until it’s safe to come back.” He waited, red-faced and breathless.

  She smiled and reached for his hand. “I’ve thought about that, too,” she confessed, lowering her eyes and coloring at her boldness.

  They came to a village with a small church and found the padre there, a ruddy-faced old man in a shabby habit that Ellis suspected he’d worn ever since he’d been ordained.

  “Do you have a ring?” he asked Ellis.

  “No. I’ll get her one later.”

  The old padre shrugged and performed the ceremony. Ellis paid him and they rode on together as man and wife. Ellis felt like singing or shouting or firing his musket. They stopped for the night at an hacienda, where the hacendado and his gracious wife, recognizing that they were newlyweds, made them welcome.

  The next day, Guadalupe Victoria rode up, accompanied by four men, and was astonished to see Ellis. “Elias,” he said, “don’t go to Boquilla de Piedras. The enemy overwhelmed us; these are all the men I have left. We were lucky to escape. I don’t have a peso to my name.”

  “I have fourteen hundred pesos,” Ellis told him. “Do you want to take them and make a fresh start?”

  Guadalupe Victoria grimaced. “No,” he wearily replied. “It’s no use. Our friends have either gone over to the enemy or they’re too discouraged to continue the struggle. Let’s hide out in the mountains and wait for a better time.”

  Ellis had no wish to live like a hunted animal, knowing that the very men who gave them food might betray them. Besides, there was Magdalena. “No, I can’t do that,” he said.

  The next day, Guadalupe Victoria and his men left for a mountain hideout near Córdoba. “When you come out of hiding and revive the revolution, I’ll hear about it and join you,” Ellis promised.

  The hacendado had his peons butcher a steer and slice part of the meat into thin strips to dry in the sun, so Ellis and Magdalena would have food for the rest of their journey to the coast. Wishing they could stay there forever, Magdalena and Ellis were walking in the yard, hand-in-hand, when he saw a cloud of dust in the distance and knew at once that a royalist cavalry troop was coming.

  “Someone must have told them I’m here,” he said. He got his gun and powder horn. “You stay here and don’t worry,” he told her. “They’ll shoot me if they catch me, but they won’t harm you.” He ran to the side of a nearby mountain before the cavalrymen arrived. From his hiding place he saw the soldiers catch his horses and gather up the beef strips that were drying on ropes. They took all of his money except two hundred pesos that Magdalena had hastily hidden.

  After they left, Ellis warily returned. “We’ve got to get to the coast,” he told the hacendado, “but they took our horses.”

  “Saddle two horses,” the hacendado ordered one of his peons. When the horses were ready, Ellis shook hands with him. “Thanks for everything,” he said. “If the royalists don’t get me, we’ll come back some day.”

  “My house is your house,” the hacendado said.

  As they rode toward the coast, Ellis was torn between the need to get Magdalena to a safe place and the urge to carry on the struggle for independence as Morelos would have wished. They rode steadily all day, stopping only briefly at noon. Ellis frequently looked back to see if they were being pursued. Aware of his concern, Magdalena also glanced back from time to time.

  “If we can only make it to Nautla,” Ellis said, “Philipio will look after us until a ship comes.” They stopped for the night at a farm, where they were given food and a bed. The Mexican farmer fed the horses com.

  “Your horse needs at least two days’ rest, señor," he told Ellis. “I’m afraid he’ll give out otherwise. There’s something wrong with him.”

  Ellis frowned, thinking of the cavalrymen who were undoubtedly grimly following their trail. “We can’t take the time,” he replied. “We’ll have to chance it.”

  The farmer looked at the horse again and shook his head. ‘‘I hope your life doesn’t depend on him, señor.”

  That’s the trouble, Ellis thought. My life does depend on him. But with Magdalena in his arms that night he forgot for a short time the peril he was in.

  They rode on early the next morning, walking and trotting their horses along the trail. About midday, Ellis heard a shout and looked back. He caught his breath, for a cavalry troop was approaching at a slow trot. They had obviously ridden hard, and their horses were worn down. Ellis and Magdalena urged their horses to a gallop, but after a mile Ellis’ mount slowed down, then stopped, its sides heaving, unable to continue. Ellis glanced around desperately for a place to hide. There was none. Magdalena slipped from her horse and held out the reins. “Take him and save yourself, my husband,” she exclaimed. “It’s the only way. Hurry!”

  Ellis dismounted, embraced her, then leaped to her horse’s back. “Here,” she said, handing him a silk handkerchief and a black mantilla. “Take these and don’t forget me. Go with God.”

  After putting the keepsakes inside his shirt, Ellis dashed off. Over his shoulder he saw the cavalrymen stop their weary horses and stare after him. They had given up the pursuit. He rode on to Nautla, feeling empty without Magdalena by his side, wondering when he’d see her again.

  Chapter Six

  As he filed the rough edges of a new trigger he’d made for a cavalry carbine, Duncan McPherson gloomily supposed he should feel fortunate. His skill as a gunsmith had won him the unofficial post of armorer for two of the cavalry companies stationed at Chihuahua. He was treated as a competent craftsman by most of the officers and men, and he earned enough money to support himself. That was well and good, but he still wasn’t free to leave, and he was virtually alone. His friend, Tom House, had died and he rarely saw any of the other Nolan men—most had married or moved to other towns.

  Things could be worse, Duncan mused, but here I am nearly twenty-six, and it looks like I’ll be here till I die. He wore the typical white cotton shirt, loose-fitting pantaloons, and juaraches, or sandals. But for his height, his blue eyes, his long blond hair streaked with brown, and his reddish beard, he looked like any Mexican artisan.

  He did have one trusted friend, mestizo Sergeant Francisco Munóz, who was about the same age but half a head shorter. He was stocky and powerful, with a bushy mustache and twinkling, mischievous eyes, at least when off duty. Like others of mixed Spanish-Indian ancestry, his skin was swarthy. He was, Duncan knew, an excellent cavaliyman, or he’d never have made sergeant.

  In the late fall of 1810, Spanish Major Franco, the only officer who was consistently hostile to Duncan, stalked into his shop, a small room off the cavalry barracks. From the lingering aroma, Duncan suspected that it had been a place where drunken soldiers forsook their sins and recovered their wits. Scowling, Franco thrust a pistol toward Duncan, who took it without looking up. He saw the hammer was bent.

  “Fix it, peón," Franco snapped. Duncan laid it on his work-table, while Franco stood there still scowling, his trim mustache twitching.

  “When do you need it?” Duncan asked, resisting the temptation to shove it down his throat.

  “Immediately, you ass. Why do you think I brought it here myself?”

  Duncan rubbed his finger along the bent hammer. “It’s cracked,” he said. “I’ll have to replace it.”

  “All you need to do is put it in your vise and straighten it,” Franco growled.

  Duncan shrugged and put the hammer in his vise. When he tightened it, the hammer snapped. “I told you it was cracked,” he said.

  “You clumsy fool! You did that on purpose,” Franco snarled. He stepped forward to slap him, but the look in Duncan’s eyes stopped him. “I’ll send for it tomorrow,” he muttered. “See that you have it ready.” He spun around and left.

  Duncan was standing by his bench, still cursing in both Spanish and English when Muñoz entered a short time later, his eyes wide, his face animated. H
e looked at Duncan in surprise. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “You look mad enough to kill.”

  “I am. That son of a bitch Franco was just here,” he replied. Muñoz swore.

  “That Gachupin!” he spat. “He hates all Americans. Of course he hates all Mexicans, too. But forget about him. We’ve had big news from the south. A padre named Hidalgo started an Indian tumulto in September, the biggest ever. They say it’s spreading to the rest of the country,” he said, extending his arms.

  “What do they want?” Duncan asked, sitting again on his rough bench. Muñoz straddled it and sat facing him, unbuttoning his cavalry jacket to scratch his ribs.

  “They say it started as a creole plot to declare independence at the annual fair, when so many people would be there they could overwhelm the Gachupines. But someone betrayed the plotters, and the viceroy ordered them arrested. One, an army officer named Allende, got wind of the arrests and rode to Dolores to warn Hidalgo. Instead of fleeing, Hidalgo called out the Indians. Although they had only clubs and machetes at first, they won several victories. Their war cry is ‘Independence and death to the Gachupines,' but to them Gachupines are creoles as well as Spaniards from Spain.” He paused to catch his breath, while Duncan stared at him and waited to hear more.

  “What it means,” Muñoz continued more calmly, his expression solemn, “is that what started as a creole movement for independence is now a war of Indians against the rest of the people. Creoles, even those who hoped for independence, now may have no choice but to fight for the Spaniards just to save their own skins, although some are still with Hidalgo.”

  “That’s bad news,” Duncan said, shaking his head. “Mexico should be independent. It’s been a colony too long.”

  “We will be independent one day,” Muñoz said, lowering his voice. “Maybe not this time, but the idea won’t die.” He went on to say that Hidalgo had sent Mariano Jiménez, a young creole mining engineer who’d proved a capable commander, to spread the revolution into Coahuila and Texas. “That means among settlers, not Indians. If he succeeds, it will be a different kind of war after that,” he added, “and it just might succeed.” Duncan shrugged, for he couldn’t see how it might affect him.

  The next news Muñoz brought was that royalist General Calleja had crushed and scattered Hidalgo’s Indian horde at Calderón. Hidalgo, Allende, and the rest of the officers were retreating northward with what was left of the army, but the disaster at Calderón discouraged the insurgents, and many had given up the fight.

  “It probably will be easy for the royalists to stamp out the little fires before they can revive and spread,” Muñoz said somberly. “I expect that General Salcedo will send some of us to Coahuila to help. Any change from garrison duty is usually welcome, but not this time. I don’t like the idea of killing my countrymen for the Gachupines."

  “I don’t blame you. I’d be glad to fight for your people, but not against them.”

  A few days later Muñoz came again to see Duncan. “Both of our companies will march to Coahuila shortly to support Colonel Cordero,” he told Duncan. “Since my troop is not at full strength, I have permission to take any of the Nolan men who are willing to serve, and of course, I want you. It may be the best chance you’ll ever have to leave Chihuahua. What do you say?”

  Duncan thought about it, his forehead wrinkled. If he served in the army, there’d be no excuse for holding him when the fighting was over. And once away from Chihuahua, he’d have a better chance to escape. The only drawback was the prospect of having to fight Mexican patriots, but that was a risk he’d have to take.

  “I’m with you, amigo," he told the smiling Muñoz. “But I know nothing about fighting on horseback. Where I come from, we fight behind trees.”

  Muñoz chuckled at that. “It will take nearly a month to reach Saltillo,” he replied, “and in that time I can teach you enough to get by, then we can go on from there. Let’s see the quartermaster and get you a uniform.”

  The quartermaster’s clerk looked Duncan up and down and shook his head. “I don’t know what I have that will fit you,” he said. He went into a storeroom and returned with a blue shirt, jacket, and pants, as well as boots and a black hat. “These are the largest I could find,” he said apologetically.

  Duncan tried the pants first, and all three laughed when he pulled them up as far as he could, which wasn’t nearly far enough. He got the shirt on with difficulty, but he couldn’t move his arms forward, and the sleeves reached only to the middle of his forearms. He managed to button the jacket partway. He got the boots on after a struggle, and figured they’d stretch. Only the hat fit perfectly.

  “I’ve never seen a soldier wearing only hat and boots,” he said. “What can we do?”

  Muñoz laughed, “That would make everyone notice you,” he said, “but bring it along. I know a seamstress who can add inserts and make it fit. Then let’s cut your hair.”

  The uniform was ready shortly before they marched a few days later, in mid-December. Duncan felt strange wearing a Spanish uniform and riding in a cavalry troop. Major Franco was in command, but if he recognized Duncan, he gave no sign. Duncan thought of the long ride from Saltillo to Chihuahua years ago, when Nolan’s men were prisoners. All he remembered was crossing a desert that had seemed endless. The trail led across open sandy places, through rocky arroyos, and around or between hills and buttes, on and on, with more of the same. The vegetation was cactus and scraggly, oily bushes, but cottonwoods and willows flourished along streams and around waterholes. The only living creatures Duncan saw were occasional coyotes, jack rabbits, and scrawny buzzards watching the troops in hope that some of them would provide a feast.

  When they were only a few days from Saltillo, a Spanish captain rode up at a trot, and the column halted while he reported to Franco. Muñoz’ troop was first in line that day, close enough for Duncan to overhear most of what the captain said.

  “Colonel Cordero’s militia and a company of us regulars marched to meet the rebel Jiménez at Aguanueva,” he explained. “The rebels had infected the militia with their lies, and Captain Elizondo and the lot of them defected to Jiménez. I was fortunate to escape, but they captured Colonel Cordero and then entered Saltillo. Hidalgo and Allende probably have joined them by now. Other rebels under Aranda control Monclova. Only Presidio Río Grande still holds out.”

  Duncan wiped the dust from around his eyes with a handkerchief, wondering what he’d gotten into. The officers talked among themselves for a few minutes, then Franco ordered the troops to march to Presidio Río Grande. There was no trail, so they strung out in a single file to avoid getting speared by cactus. A long cloud of dust hung over them.

  Nearly a week later, the nervous presidio commander welcomed them, for he expected a rebel attack any day and was greatly relieved to have reinforcements. Riders passing from one town to another frequently stopped at the presidio to tell the latest news or rumors. With little to do except occasional patrols, Muñoz taught Duncan how to use a lance effectively.

  At the end of January 1811, a party of royalist fugitives from San Antonio brought the bad news that a militia captain named Las Casas had arrested the governor—Colonel Salcedo—and Colonel Herrera, and sent them as prisoners to the rebel chieftains in Coahuila. Men from Saltillo reported that Jiménez had promoted Elizondo from captain to lieutenant colonel, but when Elizondo petitioned Allende to promote him to brigadier general, he had been refused. Although he was sulking over his rejection, they said, Jiménez had sent him to guard Salcedo and Herrera on a hacienda near San Fernando.

  Duncan was thrilled to know that all of Texas was in rebel hands. If he could elude the royalists and get to San Antonio, he could ride on to Natchitoches without difficulty. “What do you think?” he asked Munñz. “Any chance I could make it to San Antonio?”

  Muñoz shook his head. “I’m sure the Major would send both companies after you, and they’d overtake you and shoot you on sight. And if you ran into patriots while in a Spanish uni
form, you can guess what they’d do. Those aren’t very good choices,” he added, his eyes twinkling.

  “You’re probably right as usual,” Duncan admitted, frowning, “but....”

  “Be patient, my friend,” Muñoz advised him. “Don’t risk leaving until you’re absolutely sure your way is clear. You’re safe here, and there’s no sense in getting yourself killed. Right now things are changing too fast.”

  Early in March, a courier from San Antonio brought word that royalists there had arrested Las Casas and restored control over Texas. “You sure gave me good advice,” Duncan told Munñz. “If I’d gotten to San Antonio, I’d have landed right in the middle of it.” He drew his finger across his throat and grimaced.

  Royalists from Saltillo reported that Hidalgo, Allende, and Jiménez had held a council of war and then turned over what was left of the army to Ignacio Rayón. It was rumored, they said, that the three were planning to head for the United States with about four hundred men to guard a pack train canying silver bars for purchasing arms and recruiting men.

  A messenger from San Fernando brought more startling news. Piqued at Allende’s refusal to promote him, Elizondo had allowed Salcedo to win him back to the royalist side. He raised a militia company and at night, surprised rebel governor Aranda in Monclova, capturing him along with dispatches from Jiménez detailing plans for the expedition to the United States. Franco and the two cavalry companies hastened to Monclova. I’m on the wrong side, Duncan glumly thought, but what can I do about it?

  In Monclova they joined Elizondo’s militia, and Munñz soon learned Elizondo’s plans. “Jiménez doesn’t know, of course, that Elizondo has changed sides again,” he explained to Duncan. “He wrote Jiménez that he’d meet them with an honor guard at the Wells of Baján on March 21. That’s the only water between Saltillo and Monclova. Elizondo is a slimy one. He recommended that they arrive in separate groups, not all at once, so there’ll be enough water. If they do that, they haven’t a chance.”