“I remember, I remember,” nodded the general, speaking with his firm resonant voice. “From Gonzales. When did you arrive? You don’t bring more bad news, I trust.”
“I left Gonzales night before last,” answered Ernest. “Dick Carroll (he’s my father) left, I mean, to carry Colonel Travis’s dispatch to San Felipe, and I rode with him because he was sick. Then at San Felipe we had to rest, but we sent the message on up here.”
“Yes,” soberly nodded the general. “We have the message. It made quick time—remarkably quick. But what of Gonzales? Are the people rallying? Did you spread the word along the road? How did you come?”
“By Burnam’s, sir,” replied Ernest. “The settlers are going to Gonzales as fast as they can get ready. Captain John Smith was getting a company together at Gonzales when we left and I expect they’ve started for the Alamo, but they won’t be very many. Colonel Travis’s messenger said that Colonel Bonham had been sent to Goliad, too, for help from Colonel Fannin.”
The general excitedly rose and stamped back and forth. He talked as he strode.
“Slowly, slowly,” he declared. “We must take time. It will be madness for small bodies to attempt the Alamo now. They will go to destruction. Fannin himself is liable to be cut off, and Goliad will fall. We must organize. We must have discipline, and a commander-in-chief. The convention must act. This tragedy would have been averted if Colonel Neill had obeyed orders and evacuated. Bexar is too remote on the frontier to be properly defended with the forces at our disposal yet. Now what are we to do, what are we to do? First, we must have harmony, and a concerted plan of action. As for Sam Houston, he is willing to do anything—to lead or to follow, if that will save Texas. Boy,” he continued, pausing, to Ernest, “you may tell your people at Gonzales that Sam Houston is at the service of Texas, whether as a general or a private soldier. The enemy shall be met and defeated.”
“I thought I’d stay for the convention,” hazarded Ernest. “Dick Carroll asked me to.”
“You look tired,” mused the general, surveying him. “You’ve had a hard ride and have done well. Do so, then; stay, and you will see history made. And, by Heaven, when we march against the enemy you will see more history made.”
This was Sunday evening. The convention was called for Tuesday, for February of 1836 had twenty-nine days. To-night, and Monday, Ernest saw a number of delegates that he knew. Matthew Caldwell, of Gonzales, was here—“Old Paint” the Indian fighter; and so was Sam Maverick, of Bejar; and both were near crazed with anxiety over the fate of their families and their homes. But the convention must act, and order be restored, or all would indeed be lost. Lorenzo de Zavala, the ex-president of the State of Mexico, was here; and Antonio Navarro, formerly of Bejar, a brother of Angel Navarro the political chief, whose house had been shattered in the taking of Bejar, but a friend of Texas; and Francisco Ruiz, another patriot; and Colonel Thomas Rusk, who had commanded cavalry at the siege of Bejar; and others—not omitting Sam Houston.
Who should blow in, Monday morning, but Dick Carroll, after a night’s ride. Ernest, for one, welcomed him gladly.