“The Alamo’s gone—every man massacred, and Santa Anna’s on his way!” was the quick, panting reply to Dick’s query of a figure passing in headlong haste.
In the plaza a crowd of citizens and soldiers had collected. Two Mexicans of Bejar had arrived, was the story on many lips: Anselmo Bogarro and a companion, they were. They had said that the Alamo had been captured last Sunday morning, and not a man in it had been left alive! Two thousand soldiers were on their way to attack the settlements.
The two Mexicans were being examined by General Houston, at his quarters. Reports continued. Perhaps the two Mexicans had lied. They had now been arrested as spies. The general issued a proclamation stating that he believed the story to be false; and the people gradually dispersed. But all night the town was awake, while families packed their goods, and the women and children wept as they worked. The troops were kept under arms, and out-posts were stationed a mile to the west.
Through the uneasy, fear-smitten night Ernest managed to catch a little sleep, in his own bed once more. The morning dawned amidst confusion. General Houston (who, rumor declared, had not slept at all) ordered the troops across the river to be changed to the east side; and there was a parade of all the troops and an election of regimental officers. General Ed. Burleson was elected colonel, Captain Sidney Sherman was elected lieutenant colonel, and Alex. Somervell was elected major. The general made a stirring address, assuring the army that if they would keep cool there would be no danger. The camp was moved up-river a short distance, to a better spot on the prairie, and was reformed in two long lines of tents and bed rolls, surmounted by the flag of the San Felipe militia and of the Newport Volunteers. Most of the men preferred the Kentucky flag and Mrs. Sherman’s glove. The other flag was too complicated—had too much in it; and what was the use in mixing the British Union Jack with the American stripes?
Evidently General Houston was not so certain that the two Mexicans’ report was false, for he had sent off a dispatch to Colonel Fannin to destroy the fortifications at Goliad, to bring off the settlers, and to retire northeast to Victoria on the Guadalupe instead of marching toward Bejar. The dispatch, it was thought, would reach Colonel Fannin within thirty hours at the most, and catch him before he had gone far.
The day passed uneventfully, except for the fears of the Gonzales people. As for Ernest, he and Dick enlisted in Robert Calder’s company, which was composed partly of men from along the Guadalupe. Dick’s horse was in poor shape, so he joined afoot. The regiment were almost all infantry, anyway. But Ernest clung to Duke. He and Jim agreed that they’d hold out for a cavalry assignment.
The two Mexicans were closely guarded, and no one was permitted to speak with them. Nothing more was heard from the Alamo. That was queer. After breakfast the next morning, which was March 13, it was rumored that the general had ordered Henry Karnes, Deaf Smith and Richard Handy, another scout, to ride toward Bejar and find exactly how things stood. They were to be back with their news within three days.
A few additional volunteers arrived, the majority afoot, until by night the 374 had increased to 400. Now all were waiting for the report of the scouts.
That same night, about half-past eight o’clock, Henry Karnes returned alone. The camp had finished supper, and the men were sitting around visiting, when he rode rapidly in. As he loped past where Jim and Ernest were confabbing together, somebody called to him, sharply:
“What’s the news, Henry?”