The next day, in a lull at noon, Henry Karnes did a brave act. Straight beyond the de la Garza house, and flanked on the right by the house which Lieutenant McDonald had captured, was another small house that ought to be taken. Henry Karnes the red-head dashed out, from the door in the middle of the Garza house, into the yard of the small house, drove the door from its hinges with his crowbar, and Captain John York’s company of East Texans thronged in after him. The house was exposed in a large yard; but now only a block, occupied by the great Priest’s House, as it was called, lay between the column and main plaza. The red flag flapping in the heavy, murky air, from the tower of San Fernando church, was closer.
So far, so good; and hot work had it been, for the Mexican soldiers shot shrewdly, battering every loophole in wall and parapet with their musket balls and thundering away with their cannon. This day, December 7, had been cold and rainy; dusk settled early. The trench, connecting the de la Garza house and the Veramendi house, was to the rear; directly across Soledad Street, from the small house, was a large green door, of planks, into the court of the Veramendi house. Chancing to peep out of the window where he was stationed, Ernest saw a figure spring boldly from the trench, and lay hand upon the door to push it back and enter. ’Twas Colonel Milam, himself, going over to confer with General Johnson. But even as his hand touched the planks, there was a volley of musket shots, and down plunged Ben Milam, in a crumpled, motionless heap. The door swung in, but too late, and other hands quickly dragged the colonel inside.
“Milam’s killed!” gasped Jim, at Ernest’s side. “They got him!”
“Did you see it?” stammered Ernest. “Is he killed? Do you think he is, Jim?”
“He’s gone! What’d he try that for, anyway?” wailed Jim. And he added, furiously: “We’ll make those hombres suffer for that!”
“They’ve been watching that door. They knew that was our way in,” reasoned Ernest.
Milam killed! Ben Milam killed! Gallant Ben Milam! The word spread amidst angry murmurs and threats. Soon, by the trench, arrived word that dead he was—slain instantly by a musket ball through the head. He was buried in the courtyard of the Veramendi house; and a council of officers chose Adjutant-General Johnson to succeed him as the commander.
“Angel Navarro’s house! Now for Navarro the political chief’s house! Let’s avenge Milam!” rose the cry.
The house of Jose Angel Navarro was across Acequia Street, on the right, and so far toward the plaza that one corner, the southwest, gave a view of the northeast corner of the military plaza itself. Volunteers were picked from the companies of Captains York, Crane, English and Llewyllen; into the darkness they bolted, crossed the street, and broke through the house walls of Angel Navarro, the political chief who had demanded the Gonzales six-pounder last September.
The Navarro house joined, behind, at the right, a row of single rooms that fronted on the street running into the plaza. Zambrano Row, was it styled, divided from the Navarro home by a solid partition. Zambrano Row was full of Mexican soldiers; from the roof they crept to the Navarro roof, and digging holes through shot down upon the Texans in the Navarro rooms underneath. But this did not work well, for the replies from the Texas guns were so sharp, that the soldiers scurried back.