Gone to Texas Page 11

  “I don’t like the smell of it,” Duncan said, clenching his fists. “It’s the lowest kind of treachery. Isn’t there any way we can warn them?”

  “No,” Muñoz replied, “Elizondo has men watching the trail. There’s nothing we can do, unfortunately. I wish there was.”

  On March 20 Elizondo, who was obviously gloating in anticipation, marched them along the desert trail to the Wells of Baján to set his trap. The trail from Saltillo wound around a low hill to the wells. In the morning, Elizondo posted fifty mounted militiamen in two lines to act as the honor guard, while the rest of the militia and the troops under Franco waited out of sight, ready to seize and disarm the unsuspecting rebels after they passed between the lines.

  At mid-morning, the rebels began arriving in small groups. Duncan watched, feeling sick as they were easily disarmed. Hidalgo, who was riding in a carriage, looked shocked, as if he couldn’t believe Elizondo was capable of such treachery. At dark, Colonel Salcedo arrived with several hundred more militiamen. There was now no possibility that the rebels could make a break with the slightest hope of success.

  In the morning they herded the disconsolate prisoners back over the desert trail to Monclova. Then, leaving Herrera in command, Salcedo and the two cavalry companies set out with the rebel officers on the long journey to Chihuahua. As he rode with Muñoz and his troop, Duncan sadly observed the white-haired Hidalgo, whose pale countenance remained serene. Allende and Jiménez, both young men, were surely aware of the fate that awaited them, but they appeared to regret failing in their fight for independence more than having to face a firing squad. They wouldn’t actually face it, Duncan knew, for they’d be forced to kneel facing a wall to be shot in the back as traitors. Duncan greatly admired them, and wished the rebels would come to their rescue. His own prospects weren’t promising, for if the cavalry remained at Chihuahua, his chances of escaping were gone.

  When they finally reached Chihuahua with the prisoners, General Salcedo smiled in grim satisfaction. He named his nephew, Colonel Salcedo, president of the military court that would try the culprits. The trials of the lower ranking officers began within two weeks. They were speedily found guilty, and executions immediately followed. In June, Allende and Jiménez were tried and shot, and on July 29 Hidalgo shared their fate. Duncan felt nauseated every time he heard the firing squad. The royalists called these men traitors and worse, but to Duncan they were patriots who deserved a better fate.

  Duncan was greatly relieved when the two cavalry companies under Franco were ordered to escort Colonel Salcedo back to Monclova and then march to Saltillo, where Colonel Cordero was again in command. Saltillo was high enough that the nights were pleasantly cool, and although it was surrounded by desert, wherever there were irrigated farms Duncan saw flourishing orchards and green fields.

  After the execution of Hidalgo and Allende, the royalists celebrated the end of the revolution, but rebels still controlled most of Nuevo León and Nuevo Santander to the east of Coahuila. In the south Morelos and other rebel leaders were winning victories. The revolution was not yet dead, but Elizondo had struck it a near-fatal blow.

  Colonel Cordero, who was in his early fifties, was fairly tall and well-built, with a fair complexion and blue eyes. He was, Duncan learned, an ideal cavalryman and widely respected as a gallant and generous officer. His devotion to Spain and its monarch was obvious. Duncan had to admire him even though he was a staunch royalist who considered the rebels vile traitors to their king, not the heroic patriots their people regarded them.

  No organized rebels remained in Coahuila, but since they still controlled most of Nuevo León and Neuvo Santander to the east, the cavalry patrolled the border to prevent them from infecting Coahuila again. Texas was still under royalist domination. Duncan glumly wondered if he’d ever have an opportunity to reach the States.

  In the fall of 1812, a courier from Colonel Salcedo brought word that a long-expected invasion of Texas from the United States had begun, and the news caused a flurry of excitement. Four or five hundred Americans and Tejanos under the Mexican rebel, Bernardo Gutiérrez, and the former American army officer, Augustus William Magee, were besieged at La Bahía, and Salcedo called on other provinces for support. Only Colonel Cordero responded—he sent his best militia company and several barrels of gunpowder. Duncan was elated to learn of the invasion. If Americans conquered Texas, he had only to watch for a safe opportunity to join them. In the meantime he rode on cavalry patrols, and under Muñoz’ tutelage, became a competent cavalryman.

  Duncan was relieved, in fact, whenever the troop was sent on patrol. News that Americans had joined Gutiérrez in the invasion of Texas had infuriated the Spanish officers, especially Major Franco. Once afternoon when Duncan walked past the Major and other officers on his way to the barracks, Franco loudly proclaimed, “All Americanos in Mexico should be shot like the dogs they are! ” Duncan knew the words were meant for him, but he kept walking as if he’d heard nothing.

  Muñoz, who had also heard Franco, was troubled. “Watch your step around that Gachupin, amigo,” he warned Duncan. “He wouldn’t need much of an excuse to have you shot.”

  “I know,” Duncan replied, slapping his hat against his leg to remove the dust. “I’m not goin’ to give him an excuse, but I figure he won’t be satisfied until he finds some way to do me in. I’ve got to get away somehow.” But that was impossible.

  In late April 1813, fugitives from San Antonio brought dire news for the royalists. Salcedo and Herrera had been forced to lift the siege of La Bahia and withdraw to San Antonio. The Gutiérrez-Magee army had followed and routed them, and it now controlled all of Texas. Resentful Tejanos, whose fathers or brothers Salcedo had executed simply because they had received rebel broadsides and admitted favoring independence, had seized Salcedo, Herrera, and a dozen other royalist officers and assassinated them. Later, other royalist fugitives from San Antonio reported that the Americans and Tejanos had fallen out over the killing of the prisoners, and that many Americans had left Texas in disgust. There goes my chance to escape, Duncan thought.

  All of the officers were greatly aroused over the brutal murders, and Duncan shivered when he saw Franco glaring at him like he’d been responsible. A short time later, two infantrymen entered the barracks and marched up to Duncan.

  “You must come with us,” one said.

  “Why?” Muñoz demanded to know. “He’s in my troop.”

  “He’s under arrest.”

  “What for and on whose orders?”

  The soldier shrugged. “Who knows what for? Major Franco’s orders.”

  Apprehensive over what the Major might have in store for him, Duncan walked between the two soldiers to the guardhouse, where he was thrown in with several sullen prisoners. They were fed a little gruel mornings and evenings, and given water. They could either stand or lie on filthy mats, for there were no benches. Duncan recalled the dungeon in San Luis Potosi and shuddered at the thought of being imprisoned and forgotten again. As the next few days passed, prisoners were released and others took their places. Munñz came to see Duncan one afternoon, but there was no way they could speak in private.

  “Courage, amigo,” Muñoz said. “I’m doing what I can.” Duncan shrugged. What could a mestizo sergeant do against a major from Spain? I’m doomed, he thought.

  Nevertheless, a few days later, Duncan was released and allowed to return to the barracks. Overwhelmed by a feeling of relief, he bathed and washed his shirt in a nearby stream. Late in the afternoon, while he waited for his shirt to dry, Muñoz returned from a patrol.

  “You did it,” Duncan said, crushing his hand. “I never thought you could. Tell me how.”

  Muñoz looked up at him, but his eyes weren’t twinkling. “Major Franco had you locked up for no stated reason,” he said. “I suspect he was trying to drum up some charge that would have gotten you put away for good. It wasn’t easy, but through Sergeant Castillos of headquarters company, I got word to one of Cordero’s creol
e aides who dislikes the Major. Cordero called the Major in and told him all soldiers are needed, and none was to be punished for frivolous reasons.” He paused and looked thoughtful. “Sooner or later the Major will figure out that I had something to do with it. Then we’ll both have to watch out for him, but at least he’ll leave you alone for the present.”

  Duncan put on his shirt, which was nearly dry. “We need to get to San Antonio,” he said. Let’s make a run for it while we can.”

  Muñoz’ eyes opened wide. “Don’t even consider it,” he said. “The Major would like nothing better than to run us down and hang us. Besides, Arredondo has sent Colonel Elizondo with seven hundred militia to the Frío to watch the Americans, and we’d never get through. Arredondo has finished mopping up the patriots east of us, and he’s preparing to march to Texas. And from what I hear, he doesn’t take prisoners.” Duncan frowned. He was almost willing to risk everything just to get away.

  “Wait till you hear this!” Muñoz exclaimed a few days later. “Arredondo ordered Elizondo not to cross the Frío or to engage in battle for any reason, but fugitives from San Antonio told him the Americans had all left and the people would welcome him. So he disobeyed Arredondo and marched to San Antonio, then ordered the rebels to surrender Gutiérrez and other leaders. A few hundred royalists joined him, so he felt confident. But the Americans and Tejanos came out and thrashed him. He abandoned his artillery and everything else. I hear he wasn’t so cocky when Arredondo got through with him.” Remembering Elizondo’s treachery to Hidalgo and the others, Duncan smiled grimly.

  In August, they learned, Arredondo had marched into Texas with a large force that included a battalion or more of veteran troops from Spain. At the Medina he had prepared a strong position and waited. The Americans and Tejanos, after a gruelling march in sweltering heat that left them exhausted, had unwisely attacked him and been routed. As usual, Arredondo took no prisoners. His orders were to bayonet the wounded and shoot all who surrendered. Less than one hundred Americans escaped.

  Duncan groaned on hearing of Arredondo’s decisive victory and its consequences. In San Antonio he sent Elizondo and his cavalry after the families that had fled, while his own men rounded up all suspected rebels. Then, forcing their families to watch, he had more than three hundred shot without trials. Elizondo’s troops had killed most of the men they overtook, but he forced a few of the prominent ones, along with the women and children, to walk back to San Antonio so Arredondo could have the pleasure of executing the men. A Spanish officer, maddened by the callous brutality, had fatally wounded Elizondo. Leaving San Antonio destitute and nearly depopulated, Arredondo had retired to Monterrey to establish his headquarters as commander of the Eastern Interior Provinces.

  Arredondo’s merciless sweep through Nuevo Santander and Nuevo León hadn’t totally quenched the desire for independence in the two provinces. In mid-1814, an armed band under a mestizo named Valeriano captured an army pack train carrying guns and ammunition. Alarmed at the possibility of a revival of the revolution in the north, Cordero ordered Major Franco and the two cavalry companies to stamp out the uprising before it became dangerous.

  The cavalry rode eastward to the region where the band had been reported, and circled the area. They made camp at the westernmost of two springs they saw, while scouts searched for the enemy. When they reported finding the rebel camp, Franco met with his officers. After he dismissed them, he sent an orderly for Muñoz and Duncan. Puzzled, they walked to where the Major waited and saluted him.

  “I have an important mission for you,” the Major said pleasantly, as if they were two of his most trusted men. “I want to arrange a meeting with the rebel leaders at the other spring we saw, so I can try to persuade them to disband. I want you to take them a letter under a flag of truce.” He smiled. “I’m sure they know what a flag of truce is. Report to me after breakfast tomorrow.” He dismissed them, and they returned to where the troop was bivouacked. They walked in silence, both thinking hard about the Major’s orders.

  “I doubt he’d have chosen us unless he thinks we’re likely to be killed,” Duncan said at last. “I can’t see any other reason.”

  “You mean unless he’s certain we’ll be killed,” Muñoz corrected him. “I’m going to talk to Sergeant Castillos; he’s usually told, or figures out what’s planned. But I can’t let the Major see me talking to him.” He didn’t return until after dark; Duncan had already rolled up in his blankets, but he had difficulty sleeping. He listened to owls hooting mournfully in the cottonwoods, tossing restlessly and wishing he knew what Muñoz had learned.

  Chapter Seven

  After breakfast next morning they reported to Franco, who smiled when he saw that each of them carried a piece of white cloth tied to a stick. Muñoz also smiled, but Duncan saw nothing amusing. A scout described the way to the rebel camp, then the Major gave Muñoz an envelope.

  “Take this to the rebel Valeriano,” he said, “and bring me his reply.” He smiled again, reminding Duncan of a cat playing with a helpless mouse.

  Muñoz and Duncan saddled their horses and trotted off in the direction the scout had indicated. When they were well away from the camp, Muñoz stopped his horse and sat with both hands on the pommel of his saddle.

  “Let me tell you what I learned,” he said. “Of course, as you know, we’re in real danger. The Major figured this one out so he’s bound to win one way or the other.” Duncan sat his horse, frowning and wondering how the Major had found a way to get them killed.

  “In the first place,” Muñoz continued, “if we ride into their camp in uniforms, even with these silly flags, they’re almost certain to shoot us before we can say a word. If for any reason they don’t, and Valeriano agrees to meet the Major at the spring, there’ll be soldiers hiding nearby to shoot him down. The cavalry will be close enough to come to the Major’s rescue before the rebels can get him. So he will certainly get rid of either us or Valeriano. If he’s lucky, maybe both.”

  Duncan wiped the sweat from his forehead and exhaled. “Damn,” he said, “I wasn’t fixin’ to die just yet. Couldn’t we make it across Texas by keeping off the trails?”

  "Without a pack mule and a month’s supply of food, we’d starve to death if the Indians didn’t save us the trouble. I have an idea that might catch the Major in his own snare, but only if we find someone who can persuade Valeriano to listen to us, someone who knows him, if possible. He’s undoubtedly on friendly terms with the rancheros around here. If one of them will get him to hear us out, we may have a chance but it’s risky. Convincing him is where the hair gets short.”

  They crossed more prairie until they saw a small rancho and rode up to it. Dogs barked and a young mestizo woman, barefoot and wearing a loose cotton shift, came to the door of the hut holding a brown-skinned, naked infant in her arms. She gave them a black look when she saw they were soldiers.

  “We need to talk to your husband,” Muñoz told her.

  “He’s away,” she said, not looking him in the face. “I don’t know when he’ll be back. Tomorrow, maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Are there other ranchos near here?” Duncan asked.

  “Who knows?” she replied.

  The two rode on. “Soldiers aren’t very welcome here,” Muñoz remarked. “After what Arredondo did to these people, small wonder. But we’ve got to get through to one of them. It’s our only hope.”

  A few miles farther on they saw another rancho and a corral holding a few horses. Nearby was a hut where the ranchero and his family lived. Dogs barked and children squealed as they rode up to the corral, where a young mestizo ranchero wearing one spur was saddling a cowpony. Seeing their uniforms, he scowled, but left his cowpony standing with the reins down and walked toward them. It was clear from his expression he knew that soldiers always meant trouble. “Senores?” he said, waiting, with hands on hips.

  Muñoz showed him the letter. “We were sent to give this to Valeriano and wait for his answer,” he said.

  �
��Who is Valeriano?”

  “I think you know. If you want to help him, hear me out,” Muñoz said. “We don’t know what’s in the letter, but we’re sure it’s a trap. I have an idea how he can spring it on the Gachupines.” He studied the young ranchero’s face. “Believe me,” he continued, “we want to help the patriots, not harm them.”

  The ranchero looked from one to the other, hesitating but no longer scowling. “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You don’t, of course,” Muñoz replied, “but let me explain. My amigo here is an Americano who has no love for the royalists. The Gachupines kept him a prisoner for ten years.” Duncan held up his arms so the scars on his wrists were visible. The ranchero whistled. “The Major wants Valeriano to kill both of us,” Muñoz added. “That’s why he sent us with the letter. He also wants to kill Valeriano, so in a way we’re in this together. We want to tell him how to turn the tables on the Gachupines. Otherwise we’d be heading for the Sabine right now. We didn’t come here so Valeriano can kill us just to please the Major.” He watched the ranchero’s reaction, and saw that his words had been effective.

  “What do you want of me?” he asked.

  “Take us to Valeriano and get him to listen and trust us. We’ll give you our guns so he can see we come as friends.” He took his carbine out of its scabbard, while Duncan did the same. They handed their guns butt-first to the ranchero, who accepted them with some hesitation. “Will you do it?” Muñoz asked.

  He nodded and tied the two carbines to his saddle. “I believe you,” he said, “and you’re lucky you found me, for I do know Valeriano. When they see me, they won’t shoot you. At least not right away,” he added as an afterthought. He mounted his cowpony. “Follow me,” he said and led the way, while his wife and children watched anxiously from the doorway of their hut.