Chapter 1
A Place Worth Fighting For
All over the land are vast and handsome pastures, with good grass for cattle, and it strikes me the soil would be very fertile were the country inhabited and improved by reasonable people.
-Alvar Cabeza de Vaca
Near Bastrop, Texas - Early September, 1835
The sun peeked languorously over the crest of the ridge, signaling the arrival of yet another sweltering day on the Texas plain. Near the log cabin, two chickens seemed to be wrestling over the right to peck at a pebble, the remaining ones wandering about clucking aimlessly, as if already resigned to the soon to be numbing heat.
Over by the fence, a lone piglet was engaged in diligently swathing himself with mud in hopes of staving off the soon-to-arrive scorching heat. The barn, such as it was, appeared to avoid collapse via a single rope that tugged mercilessly on a nearby tree. Under each of three towering oaks, a cow had already staked out the shade for the day, living out the daily drama of survival on the open plain. Otherwise, the silence was universal, stillness its willing companion.
The door to the house, the boards faded by time, momentarily creaked into motion. A lone fair-haired child tumbled haphazardly from within, simultaneously tugging on his overalls. Barefoot and grimy as a tree stump in a dust storm, the boy gazed about for a few moments in bewilderment. Eventually he called out to some as yet unseen companion, “Jackson? Here Jackson! Where are you, boy?”
A skinny lop-eared dog came scampering from behind the barn, trotted up and launched himself directly into the boy’s face, and in so doing it nearly knocked the boy down. Giggling as he tumbled mirthfully with the overly affectionate dog, the boy thereby elucidated the source of his monochromatic state of dusty grey.
A man now emerged from the house and observed the two erstwhile combatants disinterestedly. Though he had dark hair, his skin was incongruously fair. Possessed of a neatly clipped beard, he appeared to be in his early thirties and, though tall and muscular, he was nonetheless a bit on the side of lean.
Tugging the boy to his feet, the man swatted him mildly on the rump, commanding surreptitiously, “Now, Auggey, no time for that. You get on down to the creek. And wash yourself up, you hear? You and your maw got to get to town with me before it gets too darn hot to breathe. We got lots to do today,” and though a Scottish accent was faintly detectable within his voice, it was nearly lost within the more obvious Texas dialect.
“Yes, sir,” the boy replied respectfully and, simultaneously pushing the dog away, headed off toward the barn to clean himself up, though God only knows how that was even possible.
A woman now emerged from the house and, walking slowly towards the man, merged seamlessly into his awaiting embrace. She was a pleasant looking blonde, to appearance perhaps thirty years of age and, though the climate had clearly worked hard on her, she would have caught any man’s eye.
The two stood silently, neither apparently intent on accomplishing anything whatsoever. Instead, each seemed to peer about, wistfully taking it all in. Despite the impression of destitution emanating from the scene, the surrounding countryside somehow exuded an attractive aura of natural beauty. A pasture, perhaps forty acres in breadth stood before them, ringed by tall oak trees, a stately pine tree interspersed here and there.
“By God, Julie,” the man volunteered, “It’s unbearably hot already this mornin’! But I still love this place. I’ve never had anything, much less my own place, in my whole life. There’ll be no mistaking this place for heaven, but I’ll take it. I’ll take Texas over any other place on earth.”
“I know, Hank. It don’t feel like heaven to me neither. Feels more like hell, and summer nearly over,” Julie responded, her distinctly southern accent all too apparent. And when she spoke, the edges of her mouth turned up in a naturally appealing smile.
Hank dearly loved this place. It had been hard work getting it started. It didn’t look like much, but he was proud of what they had accomplished in the two years since they had arrived in Texas. The house was small - only fourteen by fourteen feet. That was the longest logs he could get on the wagon, and the horses could only pull ten at a time for the three miles he had to carry them overland from the lost pines. But that was the best part about the logs – they were pine, straight and true. They chinked well because of that, and they kept out the bugs and the winter cold. And they were also a lot easier to cut down than oak.
It had taken Hank six wagon loads to bring enough logs for the barn and the house, that in itself having spanned a full month’s hard labor. Chopping down trees and hauling them was back-breaking work for a man in his mid-thirties. Recalling the effort, he reached instinctively for his back, the memory of it reminding him that he hoped he’d never have to do that again.
Hank had put the first course of logs up on rocks to keep the termites out, but the house nonetheless had a dirt floor. He aimed to take care of that next fall, as soon as the crop was in. And he would put in windows, too. For now, they had holes covered by boards where the windows would be when they could afford them. He surveyed his handiwork, surmising that in time they would even build a porch, assuming his back held up that long.
The barn wasn’t much either. It was even smaller than the house, and for now it only had a sod roof on it. Hank had dug a dirt berm after a few days of heavy rains, and this had served as two walls of the barn. He had used one load of pine trees to build a structure for the barn, and then he had covered the other two walls with planks purchased from the local mill. He liked planks, but they wouldn’t keep the weather out and the heat in, so he had used logs for the walls of the house. Planks were good enough to keep the cows warm even in the worst weather in this part of Texas. Folks who’d lived here for a long time said it only snowed once or twice in a decade, thereby allowing the cows to feed from the fields nearly year round.
The barn had a secondary purpose that Hank and Julie kept to themselves. That first summer in Texas it had been necessary to resort to extreme measures to fulfill their romantic instincts. Auggey was getting older now, and it wasn’t seemly to be making noises of passion in the night in their small cabin. One night Hank had made sufficient noise that he feared that Auggey might be awakened, thereby wondering what in God’s name his parents were up to.
After that Hank and Julie had resorted to sneaking down to the creek at night on occasion and partaking of a midnight swim in the darkness, followed by passion in the moonlight. This approach, while it was both romantic and satisfying, had left Julie and Hank concerned.
First, there was always the possibility of stepping into something deadly in the dark. Texas was filled with all manner of dangerous critters, such as poisonous snakes and spiders, any one of which was capable of killing unsuspecting folks in the night. But more importantly, they were both concerned about leaving Auggey alone in the cabin at night, even for a half hour. The Indians had largely moved further inland after the coastal region was settled, but they could always come back on a raiding party. And while this seemed a bit far-fetched to Hank, he’d heard all sorts of wild tails from the old timers. If the claims were true, the Indians had come riding out of nowhere every few years raping and killing indiscriminately. So there was another reason to build the barn, and Hank had gotten it done in the spring of their second year in Texas.
There hadn’t been enough money to do everything. They had arrived in Texas with almost five hundred dollars, most of it a parting gift from Hank’s family back in Scotland. Seems it was cheaper to pay boys grown to men to leave home than it was to keep them on if no land was to be had.
Hank had managed to get an imperial grant within the Austin Colony. Most of the land had been taken by now, which was why they had to go all the way northwest to Bastrop. There was less open land for farming there, but it was possessed of several imposing trees. It had been a hard trek over land to get there, but all in all Hank was happy w
ith the plot they’d been granted. Still, it had taken almost all of their savings to get it started, and now they were scraping the bottom of the barrel, just barely making a living.
Hank had felt like they were rich when they had arrived in Texas. They’d had more money than most folks. Only the two families nearby from the old three hundred were better off. Those folks had been there now for almost fifteen years. Hank figured it must have been really hard for them at first, too, but look what the old three hundred had been able to do. Observing their success, Hank was sure that with hard work, in time he and Julie would have all the things that the old three hundred had.
Losing his train of thought, Hank abruptly nuzzled Julie and gave her a nice wet kiss on the mouth. Julie responded warmly but, pulling away, scolded, “Not in broad daylight, Hank MacElrae!”
Hank smiled sheepishly. Julie was right – there was always time for that after dark. “Let’s get to town, Julie. We need to get supplies for planting the garden.”
The ride into town was uneventful, except for the bone-jarring bumpiness of it over the entire five miles. Bastrop, they called it - nice little town, nestled in among numerous towering oak trees along the Colorado River. Hank and Julie hadn’t gotten trees all that impressive. Would have been nice, but they got the slim pickings, having arrived in Texas too late for the best land.
On this day the town was bustling even more so than usual. As they pulled alongside the walkway, a middle-aged woman chortled to Hank, “Mornin’ Mr. MacElrae.”
“Mornin’ Mrs. Walker,” Hank responded cheerfully, adding inquisitively, “Lots of folks ‘round today.”
“Yep, mighty busy here at the store. Folks is stockin’ up, sayin’ war is comin’. Hear tell a bunch of Texians led by William B. Travis took on the Mexican army at Anahuac six weeks ago.”
“Oh, is that right? I hadn’t heard, but it don’t surprise me none,” Hank volunteered innocuously in a half-hearted attempt to be neighborly. “After what that fella President Lopez Santa Anna done, convertin’ us all to Catholics, I can’t say as I blame them. Wasn’t that what my family left Scotland to get away from - religion controlled by the state?” Hank paused a moment, pulled off his hat to scratch an invisible bug and, having seemingly succeeded, now added, “Expect it don’t concern us. After all, we’re just tryin’ to scratch out a livin’, Mrs. Walker.”
“Know what you mean, Mr. MacElrae, know what you mean,” she replied gingerly. “But listen here, sir, you mind yourself and that young ‘un, you hear? Things are gonna get worse before they get better. I feel it deep down inside, and I ain’t often wrong about that.”
Hank swung down from the buck board, stepped lightly onto the walk and, turning to hold out a helping hand for his wife, he simultaneously hauled down his son, all in one motion. Anyone happening by could have seen that he had done it often, that same sweeping motion, all in one. “Into the store with you, Auggey,” he ordered, “And don’t you be touchin’ nothin’, mind.”
At this, the boy charged ahead, his skinny dog maintaining perfect step with him. Turning back to his wife, Hank inquired, “Julie, can you see to the supplies? I got business up the street.”
At her nod of consent, Hank turned and wandered off. It was one thing to say that war was none of his business, but Hank was now certain big things were brewing. The unexpected bustle in town was unmistakable evidence. He’d seen nothing like this crowd since they’d left New Orleans for Galveston two years earlier. In fact, the population of Bastrop seemed to have tripled overnight, and he meant to find out exactly what the excitement was about. Off he went, his long-sleeved shirt already soaked with sweat from the blistering noonday heat, his boots caked with countless layers of dirt.
Hank had been proud of those boots when he’d bought them in New Orleans. Not many men in Texas owned boots. They were hard to come by and expensive, too, but here were days when he hated them. In rainy weather they caused blisters. In hot weather they made you sweat, thereby causing more blisters. When you had to go walking long distances, they caused even more blisters. The only time they seemed to work well in Texas was during the short winter, when they helped to keep his feet warm.
Hank supposed to himself that he was too proud, or he would have bought some more comfortable shoes. By now his boots were just plain ugly, but at least they were broke in. As he struggled against their injurious nature, he reasoned that he couldn’t afford anything else right now anyway.
“Mornin’, sheriff,” Hank called jovially as he stepped onto the opposite side of the street. Sheriff Green was a good sort. Hank couldn’t figure out how a man like him had come to be sheriff of Bastrop. In Hank’s opinion, he’d have made a better preacher man. First of all, he seemed a bit old, and, truth be told, he wasn’t half mean enough to be an effective sheriff. He wasn’t big enough neither, being only middle sized in height, and prone to the lean side except for his protruding belly. But then again, maybe that’s just what the town needed. Sheriff Green was always there to lend a helping hand, and there had been no semblance of a disturbance in town since Hank and Julie had moved there.
“Mornin’, Hank. How’s the family?” Sheriff Green responded affably. Without waiting to hear the answer, he continued pointedly, “The word is Stephen Austin’s coming back from Mexico.” Having imparted this last, he stopped short, measuring its effect on Hank.
“Well, guess that should be good,” Hank answered back, not knowing quite how to answer. Pulling off his hat, he began scratching his head, this time in contemplation, eventually thinking to inquire, “Have you met him, sheriff, Mr. Austin?”
“Why of course, man, everyone in these parts knows Stephen Austin!”
“Well, I guess I don’t. I expect he was already down in Mexico when we came here two years ago,” Hank replied dejectedly.
“Why, yes, I believe you’re right, Hank. He has been gone awhile, though I confess I didn’t realize till this moment just how long it had been,” Sheriff Green responded and, pausing momentarily in thought, subsequently kicked a nonexistent rock, then added, “The men are talking ‘bout war…it might be a comin’ I ‘spect, Hank.” He paused again, this time for effect, and then, as Hank did not reply, added surreptitiously, “What’re you thinkin’?”
“Thinkin’ ‘bout what,” Hank replied, beginning to wonder how to extract himself from this conversation due to the uncomfortable nature of this turn of subject matter.
“War, son - war!” replied the sheriff boisterously.
Hank paused and, shoving his hands into his back pockets, attempted to make himself as small as possible, eventually replying with apparent detachment, “Hadn’t thought about it. This is all coming real fast for me. I got the wife and boy there to think of. Got to feed them. I got to think on it some,” and at this he sauntered off down the street, hoping that further such discussions would keep their distance.
Despite his conviction to stay out of it, Hank felt a powerful feeling in the pit of his stomach. Somewhere, deep inside, there was an uneasy feeling, one he couldn’t quite explain. Still contemplating, he wandered over to the stable. Stepping inside, he observed perhaps a dozen men talking, not too loud, just sort of pleasant-like. He considered the possibility that they might be feeling confused, like he was, so he sauntered on over their way.
“Hello there, Hank,” said one pleasantly.
“Hello Bill,” Hank replied cautiously. Bill Walker, husband of Mrs. Walker, was a hulking, fiftyish, mean looking fella, but he was always smilin’, kind of like a big soft bear that you just want to hug. “What’s the latest?”
Bill responded jovially, “Well, they’re puttin’ an army together, shore’nuf. Word has it that Mexico ain’t havin’ any part of us breakin’ away from them. Seems some other parts of Mexico have declared independence as well. There was a big battle down in Zacatecas in May. The government whooped them rebels bad, hear tell. Rumors are that there’s go
nna be an army comin’ this way before too long as well. I don’t know how big, but it’s sure to be a lot bigger than we can manage. There’s got to be more’n a hunderd times as many people south of the Rio Grande as there are in Texas.”
Another man, this one somewhat short but extraordinarily massive in girth, poked into the conversation with, “Word has it that men are pouring into Texas from all over. Some are arriving by ship in Galveston or Port Aransas. Others are coming overland across the Sabine from New Orleans and points south. And there are quite a few riding in on horseback from Missouri, Tennessee, Kentucky, and the Oklahoma territory via Nacogdoches,” and he seemed to be quite sure of himself. His enunciation was incongruously elegant, so much so that Hank couldn’t quite make out his accent.
Hank didn’t share his certainty by any means, but somehow impressed nonetheless, he thrust his hand forward and said brusquely, “Name’s Hank, Hank MacElrae.”
Bill jumped in and exclaimed excitedly to Hank, “This here is Hawk Banks. He’s a bona fide Texas Ranger!”
The man grabbed Hank’s hand pleasantly and shook it hard and tight. Hank almost lost his breath his hand was squeezed so hard.
Having noticed Hank’s accent, Hawk announced sonorously, “A Scotsman! Well, I’ll be, they’re arriving from everywhere. I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hank MacElrae!” and, still grinning, he added to the surrounding crowd, “Gentlemen, I can tell you from first-hand experience - Scots are fine fighting men. They’ll do in a scrape.”
Hank couldn’t tell whether the man was talking up to him or down, which was a curious circumstance since Hank was near a head taller than him. Flummoxed, he just changed the subject, offering, “Heard about them Rangers. Stephen Austin formed them up to tame the Indians. So what brings you here to Bastrop, Ranger Banks?”
At this Hawk opined sagely, “Well, sir, funny you should ask. Mr. Austin has decided the Indians aren’t so important at this very moment. Under the circumstances, I’ve been charged with recruiting reinforcements to aid him down in Gonzales. Seems there’s a war coming.”
Pointing to no one in particular, Hank asked pointedly, “Anyone know who’s in charge of this here war, if’n that’s what it is?”
“Well, they done met at San Felipe,” Bill interjected, “Elected a fellow named Richard Royall as president. That’s what we hear.”
“Royall,” Hank responded vacantly, “Never heard of him.”
“Me neither,” Bill agreed.
“Why didn’t they pick Austin, or better yet, that new comer Sam Houston? Hear tell he’s a friend to Andrew Jackson,” asked Hank.
Bill responded, “Don’t rightly know. Maybe they wasn’t nobody there could be trusted to run things,” and at this he spat and, peering down at the spot where it had landed, he seemed to be contemplating the import of his own conjecture.
Somehow hoping this would end it, Hank volunteered, “Well, ‘spect we got leaders, and we got to leave them to it,”
“We’ve got too damn many leaders, if you ask me,” another man chimed in. “That fella Houston don’t sit right with me. Just because he knows Andrew Jackson, he wants to be emperor of Texas.”
Hawk squinted at the man and, intent on making his own point, he put in his two cents, “Listen here, we have quite a few Texians who should be qualified to lead this rebellion. Let us leave the politicking to our leaders in San Felipe, while we here on the front lines concentrate on the matter at hand – fighting and winning a revolution!” There was unanimous agreement with this last sentiment.
A momentary silence ensued and, Hank discomforted by it, he queried to no one in particular, “What’s next?”
At this point Hawk did something that Hank would later consider to be profoundly important. Biting on a piece of chewing tobacco, he hawked loudly and spat, but on this occasion it made no significant impression on Hank. Hawk then propounded, “Well, I’ve come to Bastrop to recruit fighting men, and I am of the distinct impression that I chose rightly.”
Hank felt a natural attraction to this tough looking fellow. He couldn’t put his hand on it, but there was something about him that made Hank want to trust him. Accordingly, he asked with particular interest, “So what are you thinking on doing, Hawk?”
“Well, the Indians seem to be quite passive at the moment. So I had nothing in particular to keep me busy. Fact is, I needed some excitement. When Austin called on the Rangers to join in at Gonzales, I immediately packed my horse and rode west. I expect I’ll hang around here in Bastrop for the next few days, till we see where this insurrection is headed. Good central location right here, what with Washington-on-the Brazos off to the east, seat of government for the moment. Off to the south, we have Gonzales and Goliad, the closest places to Mexico with significant Texian inhabitants. And finally, there is San Antonio de Bexar off to the southwest, where the majority of the Tejano population lives. I expect that tensions will erupt at one or the other of those three places quite soon. When that happens, that’s where I’ll be heading, and I’ll be taking along anyone that is of a mind to join me. Meantime I’ll be partaking of some local whoring, assuming the price is right.”
Hank didn’t cater much to this type of thing, himself being a God-fearing religious man, but he supposed that every man was entitled to his own perversions and pleasures. “Well, Hawk, I wish you well in your quest for fulfillment here in Texas,” he said sarcastically. “Me, I got chores to do, so I’ll be sayin’ good day to you,” and at this he turned to make his exit.
Hawk called to him good-naturedly, “Good to meet you, Mr. Hank MacElrae. I’ll be seeing you wherever the fighting takes us. And if you’re pondering the prospect of joining me, as I suspect you are, don’t wait too long to decide. I’ll be out of here within the week.”
Hank waved over his shoulder and, ignoring this last remark, he made for the general store.
Nacogdoches, Texas-Late September
Nate Tucker kept telling himself that he wasn’t really afraid, but he did have to admit that it had been quite a while since he had attended Sunday service. Surely that little critter on that rock before him could not be a devil, but Nate was not certain, as he confessed to himself that he was lacking in the religious knowledge necessary to insure his immunity to persuasion from the lower reaches, even coming from so unlikely a source as this.
Peering down at the squatting man before him, Ben Sawyer queried brusquely, “What the hell you doin’ there, Nate?”
Nate was so surprised he jumped a foot. He prided himself on always being cunning and wary, but this little critter here had somehow undone him. Scratching his head to lend emphasis to his conundrum, he responded defensively, “Aw, hell Saw, I wasn’t loafing. I was examining this here devilish-looking little creature. Truth is, I was considerin’ just how many Hail Mary’s I was down for just for the fact that I been visited by such an ungodly being.”
Ben Sawyer stared down for a moment and, suddenly making out the tiny lizard before him, he let emitted an enormous roiling laugh, “Ha haaaa, ha hee haa,” and so saying, he slapped his knee for emphasis.
Ben Sawyer was a huge man, and it was entirely appropriate, seeing as how he ran the local saw mill. Saw, as everyone was fond of calling him, proffered amiably, “Heck, Nate! That little critter there, that ain’t nothin’ but a useless little horny toad!”
Leaning on his axe and cupping his chin in contemplation, Nate eventually summoned up the gumption to suppose, “Well, if’n I was a female, which I shorely am not, I wouldn’t want that critter rubbing up against me no matter how horny he was.”
Somehow failing to perceive the off-color in Nate’s retort, Ben continued unabashedly, “They’re all over these parts. “Don’t pay no attention to ‘em. They’re completely harmless. Now, get back to work!”
Gazing upwards at Ben towering over him, Nate inquired suspiciously, “You sure?”
“Non-poisonous, harmless, and enti
rely useless, I promise,” Ben replied bluntly.
“Well, I wasn’t thinkin’ in that direction precisely,” Nate responded. “Truth is, the little bastard bears a distinct resemblance to the chief enemy of God to me.”
As Ben was none too perceptive at times, he simply stared vacuously at Nate’s submission.
Seeing Ben’s confusion, Nate offered pointedly, “You know, Saw – Beelzebub - the Devil!”
Breaking into a broad smile at this, Ben observed, “Aw, hell, Nate. It ain’t no devil. I’ll show you,” and so saying, he pulled out a big knife and reached forward, intent on stabbing the toad right through. Seeing Ben’s intent, Nate leaped between the two entirely mismatched combatants, somehow managing to prevent the intended immolation.
“No!” Nate screamed, “I believe you!”
Observing Nate’s terrified look, Ben halted and sheathed his knife.
At this Nate suggested in obvious relief, “If he ain’t no devil, then he deserves to serve out his allotted time on this here earth, I reckon.”
At this pronouncement, Ben rubbed his chin in thought and, nodding his concurrence, he mumbled, “Well, I expect you’re right on that point, Nate. You’re a good man. But you’re costin’ me money. Now let the little beast alone and get on with your work.”
“Yes, Saw,” was all Nate could think of to say. He waited for Ben to turn away, and as soon as he did, Nate reached down, swept the horny toad up and, dropping it into his pocket, he set back to work.
Nate thought on it long and hard the remainder of the day. He decided to name his new friend Mephistopheles. He didn’t know anything about Mephistopheles, but he did know it was a name for the devil. That was because when he was a little boy his maw had always told him when he did wrong that he would be kidnapped by Mephistopheles if he didn’t watch it. Now he had Mephistopheles right there in his pocket, where he could keep an eye on him at all times. And since his maw was long dead, he figured he had good control of the situation.
Nate had come down from Kentucky in July, and since he had done this type of work before, he had found work at the saw mill in Nacogdoches right away. And since things were really hopping in Texas at the moment, Ben Sawyer was paying him a whopping five dollars a week.
Nate had also cut a few cords of firewood, and that had made him some extra money. He figured between what he was making at the mill and the extra pocket money for the firewood, he might be able to get himself some land by next year. He hadn’t yet thought on what he would do with it when he got it, but he figured he had time to think that part through.
Nate liked Texas. He didn’t put much significance in the rumors he heard about the fight with Mexico. He figured he was situated in just the right part of Texas to be safe from it all one way or the other. First off, Nacogdoches was a long long way from Mexico City, and there didn’t seem to be hardly any Tejanos around these parts anyway. And second, Nacogdoches was well situated for anyone to simply vanish into the woods. To the west of Nacogdoches the forest petered out, but to the east, it was all pretty much solid thicket. Nate figured a man could disappear into there and never be found by anyone. He’d heard that there were even Indians still living there, but he hadn’t seen a single one since his arrival in Texas.
Pondering his good fortune, Nate picked up his axe and headed out to cut down another big tree for Ben. He figured he’d be staying in Nacogdoches for some time to come. Heck, maybe he would even meet a woman and start a family. Life looked real good from where he stood, especially now that he had cornered the devil right there in his own pocket.
Near Zacatecas, Mexico-Late September
Francisco Ernesto de la Garza was considerably outraged by the conditions he and his fellow soldiers were being forced to endure. For one thing, he still did not consider himself a bona fide soldier, despite the fact that he was garbed in a magnificent grey uniform that was far better than any clothing he had ever owned in his eighteen years on earth. Still, it left something to be desired. Having been made of wool, it was too hot in the daytime, and it scratched his skin at night. Be that as it may, he had become accustomed to his uniform far more quickly than he had adjusted to the life of a soldier.
Thinking back, it seemed to him as if it had only been a few days since General Santa Anna’s army had swept through his village near Zacatecas. That was before the battle, and since his village was far too small and ill-equipped to have been a part of the Zacatecan uprising, he had been drafted. General Santa Anna had simply conscripted every man over the age of fifteen into the army. It had all happened so quickly that Francisco had not even had the opportunity to say goodbye to his parents and siblings. He dearly missed them, especially his younger sister Consuela.
Francisco had not really done much in the battle of Zacatecas. He had been too young and new, so he had only helped with feeding soldiers. And after the battle, he had cared for the wounded. This was a side of mankind that he had not been prepared for. Compared to the uneventful life in a small village in Mexico, his life since joining the army had undergone a dramatic change.
Now he was marching north to La Bahia with the army of General Cos. He had been told that they would eventually march to a place called San Antonio de Bexar. Francisco did not know much about the man San Antonio. He thought that he must have been from Italy. Lots of saints were from Italy. He hoped to go to Italy someday, but he understood that this was unlikely.
In his village they did not have books, so he only learned from his religious studies. His parents had only one book, a splendid copy of the Bible that was kept in the most honored place in their house, next to the statue of the Virgin Mary. A crucifix with a small likeness of Jesus hung on the wall. Every evening Francisco’s father would read scriptures to them before bedtime.
Francisco felt a strong connection to God. He prayed every morning and evening. But he simply could not understand how war fit into the plans of God. He contemplated this question on occasion, but when he attempted to discuss it with the other soldiers, they showed little interest. In the end, he decided to keep it to himself. He resolved to figure it out one day, but for now, he pondered on the mysterious San Antonio. Most of the saints were not in the Bible. Since they had come later, long after it had been written, most of what he knew about them he had learned from his religious studies.
San Antonio had been a member of the Franciscan order. Francisco admired San Francisco greatly. His parents had told him that he himself was named after San Francisco. They had made it clear to Francisco that this carried great significance for him, that his sacred responsibility was to live up to the name he had been given.
San Francisco had established an entire order of the Christian religion that practiced humility, servitude, destitution, and above all, devotion to God. Accordingly, Francisco wore a necklace with a small medallion of San Francisco around his neck at all times. His parents had given it to him when he had turned twelve years old. It was his proudest possession. Each day when he prayed, he promised San Francisco that he would always try in every way to live according to the ideals of the religious order he had established.
Bastrop
Hawk Banks had come to Texas from Kentucky in early 1835. Unlike most folks these days, he had travelled overland via Nacogdoches. “Nice town, Nacogdoches,” he thought to himself. If he squinted just right he could imagine that those tall pine trees of the big thicket in eastern Texas were in Kentucky. Since the countryside hadn’t been so much different all the way down from Lexington, he hadn’t thought much about it at the time. He had simply assumed that sort of countryside would stretch all the way to the west coast, which he’d heard was way out there somewhere. So he hadn’t dallied much in Nacogdoches, focused instead on the part of Texas where the colonies were.
Hawk had been in for a surprise after he had left Nacogdoches. The countryside had gradually changed over from heavily wooded to less and less so. Sure, ther
e was still plenty of undergrowth, but more and more oak trees, less and less pine trees, and plenty of ordinary scrub brush. There were Indians, too, although none seemed to be in sight anywhere. Hawk had had some doings with Indians, but they were for the most part not too much trouble back east these days.
Hawk had come to Texas to find a new challenge. He’d heard about the troubles over the last couple of years with the government of Mexico, but he didn’t pay it much heed. He was more interested in being on the tip of the arrow, out there on the edge, where the excitement was, and the edge had worn off back east in Kentucky and Tennessee. Texas was now on the edge. He had felt the excitement even before he’d crossed the Sabine River. Now it seemed he’d arrived just in the nick of time. The Indians had presented an interesting challenge at first. Hawk had therefore managed to get himself appointed to the newly formed Texas Rangers.
But now there was war coming to Texas. He’d seen this kind of situation before. Wars didn’t just happen, they were made by people – people getting all riled up over something, or sometimes absolutely nothing at all. But once they got riled up, it didn’t seem it could be stopped until they ran out of energy, along with everything else.
On this day he sat pondering his next move. He could sit here in Bastrop and have himself a good ol’ time drinking corn whiskey, just watching the world go by, and, to tell the truth, that held considerable appeal for him. But frankly, the whiskey was none too good in these parts, and it was becoming clear that there were few if any men locally that were interested in joining the volunteer army. So he reckoned he’d better be getting on down the road to Gonzales where the volunteer army was assembling. Surely there would be some excitement there.
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