XVII
RETREAT, AND EVER RETREAT
It seemed to Ernest that he scarcely had closed his eyes, at last, when he was forced to unclose them. Men were passing among the prone figures, waking them. Dawn had broken grayly, under a clouded sky. Fires were being kindled; and the wearied refugees scattered through the oak grove were arousing—the women to get the breakfasts. In the west hung the smoke from the burning town.
“Well,” yawned Jim, pulling on his boots, “here we are, with all Texas before us.”
“Wonder where we go to-day,” invited Ernest.
“Keep right on till we reach the Colorado, I reckon,” answered Jim. “That’s the tell. We’ll join with Fannin somewhere on the Colorado and hold the Mexicans there till we lick ’em.”
Coffee was being made—and it tasted very good, although there was no sugar for it. From the direction of Gonzales sounded several heavy explosions, rumbling through the damp air. Mexican cannon? If so, then Henry Karnes and Deaf Smith and the other scouts would best light out of there in a hurry. No—as like as not the explosions were from some powder that had been forgotten, or from barrels of brandy. Rumor said that the brandy had been poisoned, for the Mexicans, and that General Houston was angry, when he heard.
Now General Houston was walking among the refugees (who had been alarmed by the explosions) and telling them, in a loud, confident voice, that to poison the liquor had been the act of savages, and that it had now been safely disposed of.
Orders were issued to fall in. The footmen stiffly obeyed; most of them were not used to walking, but the general (so ’twas said) thought that he could hold the army together better if they were afoot. Ernest saw Dick limping to his place. He and Jim, however, saddled up and in partnership rode with the flanking cavalry.
After the first halt, to rest a moment, the general came slowly ambling back along the column. He wore an old, thread-bare, closely buttoned black coat, similar to a Prince Albert of to-day—a dress-coat, as it was called. Probably he had given his buckskin coat to some refugee. He appeared to be counting the men with his finger. He looked tired out, and constantly sniffed at a little bottle of ammonia salts, to ward off malaria. He made rather an odd figure, in his big hat, and long black coat, with his bottle and his pointing finger.