“Somebody’s getting in too big a hurry and the general’s calling him down,” remarked a man near Ernest.
So retreat it was to be! But nobody objected. Four hundred undrilled men, no matter how brave, could not hold the frontier, here in the open, against an army of several thousand regulars with cannon and cavalry.
About eleven o’clock the companies all were packed and in line. The general had sent word advising the Gonzales people to move out, and had given them two army wagons. A number of the horses at the camp had not been caught yet. But Ernest had made certain of Duke, and he rather guessed that Jim was in the saddle, too. Trust Jim for that!
The general’s tent had vanished. How the bonfires flamed! “Forward, march!” sounded the orders; and in a weaving column four abreast the little army headed from the blaze-lighted camp. There were six companies of infantry, with fifty or sixty men in a company, forming the centre; the sixty horsemen rode on either flank; the three cannon—one iron nine-pounder and two four-pounders—had been thrown into the river, for they could not be taken. One baggage-wagon, hauled by four oxen, brought up the rear.
The general and his staff—Colonel Hockley, Colonel Burleson, Lieutenant-Colonel Sherman and Major Somervell—led, on their horses. A detachment under Captain Handy and Captain John Sharp formed a rear guard. The march to the main road for the east passed through Gonzales. The houses all were lighted, and inside and in the yards the men and women were toiling desperately, packing their valuables and bedding, for flight. The two wagons, piled high, and with women and children atop the loads, joined the march for protection; so did a number of other outfits—on horses, oxen, or afoot, mothers carrying the smallest children, fathers, who had left the ranks, carrying others—whole families trudging and sobbing, but the men grim. Mrs. Dickinson was said to be somewhere in the procession.
General Houston’s voice could be heard, exhorting.
“None must be left behind,” he was saying. “Go to the interior. Keep ahead of the army. That’s the only safe way.”
“Before morning there won’t be a soul in Gonzales,” spoke a rider near Ernest. “This is war, all right.”
Ernest could not see the speaker; the march had proceeded into darkness, and Gonzales and its lights, shining for the last time from those homely casements, were behind.
“Yes,” responded another voice. “And by the time those fellows who’ve skipped out have spread the news, all West Texas will be on the move.”