Authors: James Donovan
Tags: #History / Military - General, #History / United States - 19th Century
Austin’s rebels rushed to the sound of the guns from their camp six miles south at Mission San Francisco de la Espada, the last in the chain of abandoned missions. He was initially eager to pursue the Mexicans into Béxar with a full-fledged assault. But after Bowie and other leaders objected, pointing to the town’s fortifications, its many artillery pieces, and Cós’s ample and well-trained force, he pulled his troops back. A few days later, after further consultation with his officers, Austin’s army settled down for a siege. The Mexicans were low on supplies, and in this case discretion, not valor, seemed the wiser path. Austin took his men to a position almost a mile north of town, near an abandoned sugar mill, leaving Bowie and Fannin at Concepción.
On November 1, a few days after the Concepción battle, Austin put the question to a council of his officers: Attack or siege? The majority voted against storming Béxar, and the army settled into siege mode. The next five weeks tested the mettle and determination of the Army of the People in more ways than one.
In San Felipe, meanwhile, the Consultation laid the groundwork for a working government by establishing a provisional authority, the General Council, and electing a governor—while at the same time voting 33–14 against a declaration of independence from Mexico and in favor of the Mexican constitution of 1824. Officially, at least for now, Texas considered itself a state of Mexico, separate from Coahuila—and its citizens considered themselves loyal to their adopted country. But they were virtually without funds, provisions, or a regular army, though they unanimously elected a commander in chief of the nonexistent forces: Sam Houston, the former governor of Tennessee and apparently the only man in San Felipe interested in the job.
A hero of the War of 1812 and one-time protégé of Andrew Jackson, the hard-drinking, charismatic Houston had resigned his governorship after a disastrous six-week marriage apparently doomed from the start: she had loved another, and was pressed into the socially advantageous union by her family. He went to live with his friends in the Cherokee Nation for three years, where his 6-feet-2-inch frame and fondness for the bottle earned him the Indian name Big Drunk; more than once his common-law Cherokee wife, Tiana Rogers, had to fetch Houston and throw him over his horse to get him home. He had partially vindicated himself, though, with a triumphant appearance in Washington, D.C. While in town as head of a Cherokee delegation, he caned a congressman who had insulted him on the House floor; put on trial, he defended himself with a fiery speech that convinced the legislative body to issue him only a slight reprimand. His stirring oratory was reprinted far and wide, and thrust him back into the national spotlight. In 1832 he moved to Nacogdoches, where he started a law practice. In December of that year, while in San Felipe on business, he met Jim Bowie, and the two shared a Christmas dinner there. Bowie also escorted Houston to Béxar, where he introduced him to the town’s upper-crust citizens, such as the Veramendis, Bowie’s in-laws.
Rumors had circulated for years that Houston was in Texas to procure the territory for his former mentor, President Jackson—Old Hickory’s desire to possess the area was well known, and he had authorized more than one botched attempt to purchase the Mexican province. (He was not alone: over the previous decade, his presidential predecessors had made three proposals to the Mexican government for the purchase of all or part of Texas.) Houston, a striking figure in his greasy buckskins and colorful Mexican blanket, had recently been elected the Nacogdoches delegate to the Consultation. He advocated American annexation in private, and it appears he was indeed scouting the territory for Jackson—at least after his initial plan, to buy up the remaining land of an entire colony, fell through when another
empresario
beat him to it.
There were those who distrusted Houston’s motives, and disapproved of his rambunctious and sometimes scandalous ways—he could outdrink and outswear any man he met, and his fiery temper made him almost as many enemies as friends. But there were few men who could match his military experience and towering presence, so he was given command of a 1,120-man army that had yet to officially sign up a single soldier. Besides commanding them, Houston was also charged with raising all military forces, regular, auxiliary, or otherwise—an imposing task in itself, even without the handicap of having no staff. Indeed, the aversion of old settlers and new volunteers to the rigors and restrictions of the regular army would result in few recruitments—at the height of the hostilities four months later, they would total a hundred men at most. But volunteers by the hundreds responded to the proclamation he boldly issued on October 8—a month before he was appointed commander in chief—calling for help of a more informal nature:
Volunteers are invited to our standard. Liberal bounties of land will be given to all who will join our ranks with a good rifle and one hundred rounds of ammunition…. The morning of glory is dawning upon us. The work of liberty has begun. Our actions are to become a part of the history of mankind.
Lofty sentiments aside, there was no lack of problems for Austin’s army. The weather was turning nasty—the first norther blew into the area at the end of October, and another dropped temperatures a week later. Food, gunpowder, and other basics were in short supply. Discipline was virtually nonexistent: copies of the standard texts of the day—Scott’s
Infantry Tactics,
von Steuben’s
Regulations for the Order and Discipline of the Troops of the United States,
and Cooper and Macomb’s
Cooper’s Volunteer’s Manual
—were requisitioned by the General Council in late November, though they would never arrive. “There was little time for military tactics,” recalled one volunteer, “but it was necessary that we learn to act in concert, the most important maneuver being to fire by platoons and fall back to reload.” If they mastered that maneuver and had a chance to display it, no one ever remembered later. The Army of the People was, at this point, little more than a well-intentioned mob. Indeed, these American-born Texians had a habit of insisting on elections rather than merely obeying their elected superiors, who as a result often had to word their orders in the form of requests. “Everyone acted as he pleased and the officers were so far obeyed, as suited the whims and caprices of the men,” recalled a member of the New Orleans Greys, two companies of which were raised, outfitted, armed, and sent to Texas by businessmen in the Crescent City upon news of the outbreak of hostilities. (All 118 of the newcomers wore gray clothing bought there just before leaving, usually including a snug-fitting waist-length jacket with a high collar, possibly military surplus from the War of 1812; many also wore soft, long-visored sealskin hunting caps.) Another Grey recalled that after breakfast, “we then broke into small groups if there was nothing to fear from the Indians or large groups of the enemy and galloped away as we pleased.” For entertainment, some men eager for action made their way to an artillery entrenchment thrown up south of camp, about a thousand yards from town, where they would take turns blasting cannon shots at the Alamo and place bets on their accuracy. Other militiamen amused themselves by chasing down the brass cannonballs that the Mexicans in the fort shot at the Texian camp.
Others, once their terms of volunteer service expired, drifted off steadily; one night an entire company melted away after dark. Many left to return home—they had marched to Béxar to fight, not sit around idly and indefinitely while the Mexican garrison was starved out. Word had spread that a large cannon had landed at Velasco, and when a man wished to leave, he would declare that he “was going after that cannon.” Some remained only when the General Council announced that those who stayed until the fall of the town would receive twenty dollars a month.
While Travis’s mounted force, augmented by Captain Seguín’s vaqueros, scoured the countryside and burned much of the grass on the road south to the Rio Grande to hinder the advance of any other troops from Mexico, the rest of the eight-hundred-man force conducted itself much less militarily. Drunkenness was so common that Austin, in consternation, sent a plainly worded message to the General Council: “In the name of Almighty God, send no more ardent spirits to this camp—if any is on the road, turn it around or have the head knocked out.” Drunks wandered through the campsite, firing their guns randomly, wasting ammunition, while others spent much of their day gambling and cockfighting. One man murdered another and was strung up from a pecan tree the next day. Winter was setting in, and most of the men were without warm clothing. When it rained, the army in its ramshackle camp of tents and huts was especially miserable, and the unsanitary conditions and lack of proper doctoring or medical supplies resulted in much sickness, no doubt exacerbated by the camp’s proximity to a field where cattle were slaughtered. (After visiting the camp, Houston expressed worry that an epidemic might break out.) Great flocks of vultures grazed among the hundreds of carcasses, heads, and skins, most of them picked clean. Even a few wolves and coyotes roamed there, for the most part undisturbed. In a very real sense, it was not clear which side was under siege and which was better off.
The boredom was relieved only by an occasional brushup, such as the skirmish that came to be known as the Grass Fight. An enemy column of one hundred cavalry and as many mules was sighted south of town on the morning of November 26, and a rumor spread that the pack train conveyed silver intended to pay the Mexican garrison. Bowie was dispatched to reconnoiter. He recruited several of the best marksmen and galloped out of camp, quickly followed by most of the volunteers, eager to share in the booty. About a mile outside Béxar, Bowie’s force charged into the mule train. After a flurry of exchanged gunfire, the Mexican dragoons abandoned the mules and made for safety. The Texians pursued them to within three hundred yards of town. Cós sent a column of reinforcements, who persuaded the men to turn back. Instead of silver, the mule packs contained freshly cut grass for the garrison’s starving cavalry mounts.
A further blow to the army’s hopes came in mid-November, when the General Council relieved Stephen Austin of command in order to send him to the United States to garner support for Texas. Austin, so frail and weak that he needed to be helped onto his horse, had requested the move: “I believe that my wornout constitution is not adapted to a military command, neither have I ever pretended to be a military man.” Before he left, on November 22, Austin ordered an assault on Béxar to begin the next day at dawn. The weather was damp and very cold, and late that night, his two divisional commanders informed him that the majority of the men were reluctant to participate. Stunned, Austin called off the attack. He left for San Felipe two days later. His men, aware of his devotion to the Texian cause, shook hands with him in silence.
Elected general in Austin’s stead was Edward Burleson, a veteran Indian fighter from Bastrop. As a fourteen-year-old private in his father’s company during the War of 1812, Burleson had shot a Creek chief, and he had fought many other Indians since arriving in Texas in 1830. He was known to be fearless in battle. His father, James, now sixty years old, had also joined the Texian army, and had participated in the Grass Fight.
A week later the army had dwindled to about seven hundred men, and seemed close to dissolution. Money was scarce, supplies were running out, and the perseverance necessary to maintain a months-long siege had all but evaporated. Most of the Texian colonists had returned home, replaced by fresh arrivals from east Texas and beyond, the first of the volunteers from the United States, most of them young single men responding to news of the Texian revolt and eager to join the fight for freedom—and free land. Upon receiving intelligence of the Mexicans’ weakened state and meager provisions, Burleson issued another attack order on December 1. When his officers reported, yet again, of the unwillingness of officers and men, Burleson canceled the assault. Two days later he announced that the siege would be abandoned. What was left of the army would retreat to the east side of the Guadalupe, to Gonzales or Goliad, there to wait out the winter. The revolution, if it was to continue, would have to wait until spring.
Hundreds of men left, and the rest prepared to break camp. Some of the volunteers, particularly the New Orleans Greys, had been eager for action, and expressed their discontent. Discord spread, until it appeared as if the disorderly troops might fight among themselves and ignore the enemy below the river.
Then, late one afternoon, a Mexican officer rode out of town and surrendered to the rebels. When he spoke of the poor morale of the Mexican troops, the argument for an attack was renewed. A leader was needed, someone to champion an attack, to rally the men before they all left. Into the midst of this confusion of packing, leaving, and vociferous discussion rode the man who would do just that.
I am of opinion it Will be a Serious one unless we are aided a mediatly Send us help and we never will quit the field until we can Enjoy our Constituanal rites.
E
DWARD
B
URLESON
B
en Milam had already packed several lifetimes into his forty-seven years. He was a longtime Texian, sometime
empresario,
and full-time adventurer. Though barely literate, he could claim as much military experience as anyone in camp. He had fought in the War of 1812, engaged a few years later in a filibustering expedition into Mexico with the notorious James Long, battled Karankawa cannibals near the coast, and in 1821 served as a colonel in the army of the new Republic of Mexico for a time. When Agustín de Iturbide had assumed the imperial crown, Milam had resigned his commission, declaring that “he would never serve a king.” By order of that monarch, he had been pursued, arrested, and imprisoned for a short time, until the republicans took over in March 1823. He had received a large land grant above DeWitt’s in 1826, though six years later he had only introduced fifty-two families into his colony, and his license was not renewed. At one time he held claim to twenty-two Mexican mines. Such a life held little room for a woman, and the only one he had ever been engaged to had given up waiting for Milam and married someone else.