CHAPTER NINE.
A SPARTAN BAND.
In ancient days Sparta had its Thermopylae, while in those of moderndate Sicily saw a thousand men in scarlet shirts make landing upon hercoast, and conquer a kingdom defended by a military force twenty orthirty times their number!
But deeds of heroism are not alone confined to the history of the OldWorld. That of the New presents us with many pages of a similar kind,and Texas can tell of achievements not surpassed, either in valour orchivalry, by any upon record. Such was the battle of San Jacinto, wherethe Texans were victorious, though overmatched in the proportion of tento one: such the defence of Fort Alamo, when the brave Colonel Crockett,now world-known, surrendered up his life, alongside the equally brave"Jim Bowie," he who gave his name to the knife which on that occasion heso efficiently wielded--after a protracted and terrible struggledropping dead upon a heap of foes who had felt its sharp point and keenedge.
Among the deeds of great renown done by the defenders of the youngRepublic, none may take higher rank, since none is entitled to it, thanthat known as the battle of Mier. Though they there lost the day--adefeat due to the incapacity of an ill-chosen leader--they won gloryeternal. Every man of them who fell had first killed his foeman--somehalf a score--while of those who survived there was not one so craven asto cry "Quarter!" The white flag went not up till they were overwhelmedand overpowered by sheer disparity of numbers.
It was a fight at first with rifles and musketry at long range; thencloser as the hostile host came crowding in upon them; the bullets sentthrough windows and loopholed walls--some from the flat parapetted roofsof the houses--till at length it became a conflict hand to hand withknife, sword, and pistol, or guns clubbed--being empty, with no time toreload them--many a Texan braining one antagonist with the butt of hispiece after having sent its bullet through the body of another!
Vain all! Brute strength, represented by superior numbers, triumphedover warlike prowess, backed by indomitable courage; and the "MierExpedition," from which Texas had expected so much, ended disastrously,though ingloriously; those who survived being made prisoners, andcarried off to the capital of Mexico.
Of the Volunteer Corps which composed this ill-fated expedition--andthey were indeed all volunteers--none gave better account of itself thanthat organised in Poydras Street, New Orleans, and among its individualmembers no man behaved better than he whom they had chosen as theirleader. Florence Kearney had justified their choice, and proved true tothe trust, as all who outlived that fatal day ever after admitted.Fortunately, he himself was among the survivors; by a like good luck, sotoo were his first-lieutenant Crittenden and Cris Rock. As at"Fanning's Massacre," so at Mier the gigantic Texan performed prodigiesof valour, laying around him, and slaying on all sides, till at lengthwounded and disabled, like a lion beset by a _chevaux-de-frise_ ofCaffre assegais, he was compelled to submit. Fighting side by side,with the man he had first taken a fancy to on the Levee of New Orleans,and afterwards became instrumental in making captain of his corps--finding this man to be what he had conjecturally believed and pronouncedhim--of the "true grit"--Cris Rock now felt for Florence Kearney almostthe affection of a father, combined with the grand respect which onegallant soul is ever ready to pay another. Devotion, too, so strong andreal, that had the young Irishman called upon him for the greatest riskof his life, in any good or honourable cause, he would have responded tothe call without a moment's hesitancy or murmur. Nay, more than risk;he would have laid it down, absolutely, to save that of his cherishedleader.
Proof of this was, in point of fact, afforded but a short while after.Any one acquainted with Texan history will remember how the Mierprisoners, while being taken to the city of Mexico, rose upon theirguards, and mastering them, made their escape to the mountains around.This occurred at the little town of El Salado, and was caused by theterrible sufferings the captives had endured upon the march, added tomany insults and cruelties, to which they had been subjected, not onlyby the Mexican soldiers, but the officers having them in charge. Thesehad grown altogether insupportable, at El Salado reaching the climax.
It brought about the crisis for a long time accumulating, and which theTexans anticipated. For they had, at every opportunity afforded them,talked over and perfected a plan of escape.
By early daybreak on a certain morning, as their guards were carelesslylounging about an idle hour before continuing that toilsome journey, asignal shout was heard.
"Now, boys, up and at them!" were the words, with some others following,which all well understood--almost a repetition of the famous order ofWellington at Waterloo. And as promptly obeyed; for on hearing it theTexans rushed at the soldiers of the escort, wrenched from them theirweapons, and with those fought their way through the hastily-formedranks of the enemy out into the open country.
So far they had succeeded, though in the end, for most of them, itproved a short and sad respite. Pursued by an overwhelming force--freshtroops drawn from the garrisons in the neighbourhood, added to the lateescort so shamefully discomfited, and smarting under the humiliation anddefeat--the pursuit carrying them through a country to which they wereentire strangers--a district almost uninhabited, without roads, and,worse still, without water,--not strange that all, or nearly all, ofthem were recaptured, and carried back to El Salado.
Then ensued a scene worthy of being enacted by savages, for littlebetter than savages were those in whose custody they were. Exultingfiend-like over their recapture, at first the word went round that allwere to be executed; this being the general wish of their captors. Nodoubt the deed of wholesale vengeance would have been done, and ourhero, Florence Kearney, with his companion, Cris Rock, never more havebeen heard of; in other words, the novel of the "Free Lances" would nothave been written. But among those reckless avengers there were somewho knew better than to advocate indiscriminate slaughter. It was "afar cry to Loch Awe," all knew; the Highland loch typified not by Texas,but the United States. But the more knowing ones always knew that,however far, the cry might be heard, and then what the result? No mereband of Texan filibusters, ill-organised, and but poorly equipped, tocome across the Rio Grande; instead a well-disciplined army in numbersenough for sure retaliation, bearing the banner of the "Stars andStripes."
In fine, a more merciful course was determined upon; only _decimation_of the prisoners--every tenth man to suffer death.
There was no word about degrees in their guiltiness--all were alike inthis respect--and the fate of each was to be dependent on pure blindchance.
When the retaken escapadoes had been brought back to El Salado, theywere drawn up in line of single file, and carefully counted. A helmet,snatched from the head of one of the Dragoons guarding them, was madeuse of as a ballot-box. Into this were thrown a number of what we callFrench or kidney beans--the _pijoles_ of Mexico--in count correspondingto that of the devoted victims. Of these _pijoles_ there are severalvarieties, distinguishable chiefly by their colour. Two sorts arecommon, the black and white; and these were chosen to serve as ticketsin that dread lottery of life and death. For every nine white beansthere was a black one; he who drew black would be shot within the hour!
Into the hard soldier's head-piece, appropriate for such purpose, thebeans were dropped, and the drawing done as designed. I, who now writeof it long after, can truthfully affirm that never in the history ofhuman kind has there been a grander exhibition of man's courage than wasthat day given at El Salado. The men who exemplified it were of noparticular nation. As a matter of course, the main body of the Texanswere of American birth, but among them were also Englishmen, Scotchmen,Irishmen, French, and Germans--even some who spoke Spanish, the languageof their captors, now their judges, and about to become theirexecutioners. But when that helmet of horrible contents was carriedround, and held before each, not one showed the slightest fear orhesitancy to plunge his hand into it, though knowing that what theyshould bring up between their fingers might be the sealing of theirfate. Many laughed and made la
ughter among their comrades, by somequaint _jeu d'esprit_. One reckless fellow--no other than Cris Rock--ashe fearlessly rattled the beans about, cried aloud--
"Wal, boys, I guess it's the tallest gamblin' I've ever took a hand at.But this child ain't afeerd. I was born to good luck, an' am not likelyto go under--jest yet."
The event justified his confidence, as he drew _blank_--not _black_, thefatal colour.
It was now Kearney's turn to undergo the dread ordeal; and, withoutflinching, he was about to insert his hand into the helmet, when theTexan, seizing hold of it, stayed him.
"No, Cap!" he exclaimed; "I'm wownded, putty bad, as ye see,"--(he hadreceived a lance thrust in their struggle with the Guards)--"an' mayentgit over it. Thurfor, your life's worth more'n mine. Besides, myluck's good jest now. So let me take your chance. That's allowed, asthese skunks hev sayed themselves."
So it was--a declaration having been made by the officer who presidedover the drawing--from humane motives as pretended--that any one whocould find a substitute might himself stand clear. A grim mockery itseemed; and yet it was not so; since, besides Cris Rock, more than onecourageous fellow proposed the same to comrade and friend--in the caseof two brothers the elder one insisting upon it.
Though fully, fervently appreciating the generous offer, FlorenceKearney was not the man to avail himself of it.
"Thanks, brave comrade!" he said, with warmth, detaching his hand fromthe Texan's grasp, and thrusting it into the helmet. "What's left ofyour life yet is worth more than all mine; and my luck may be good asyours--we'll see."
It proved so, a murmur of satisfaction running along the line as theysaw his hand drawn out with a white bear between the fingers.
"Thanks to the Almighty!" joyously shouted the Texan, as he made out thecolour. "Both o' us clar o' that scrape, by Job! An' as there ain't noneed for me dyin' yet, I mean to live it out, an' git well agin."
And get well he did, despite the long after march, with all itsexposures and fatigues; his health and strength being completelyrestored as he stepped over the threshold, entering within hisprison-cell in the city of Mexico.