Gone to Texas (17 page)

He gulped and swallowed hard, blushing even more to hear that they had all discussed him. He felt like an utter idiot. “Do you really mean you'd marry me? And they'd let you? I've dreamed about it, but dreams never come true,” he stammered.

“Of course, you silly goose. Haven't you known that all along?” He put his trembling arms around her and kissed her.

When Ellis finally reached New Orleans on one of Jean Lafitte's schooners, he knew he'd been fortunate to escape with his life. Even so, his feeling of relief quickly gave way to a burning desire to throw himself once more into the struggle against the royalists. Until Mexico was independent, he could never hope to embrace his beloved Magdalena again.

When he stepped ashore after weeks on the tossing deck of a small ship, he reeled along the busy waterfront, carrying his blanket roll and watching keen-eyed men from Tennessee and Kentucky arrive on flatboats loaded with whiskey kegs and sacks of corn. Half-naked slaves, whose black skins glistened with sweat, slowly unloaded the cargoes for the Spanish, French, or American merchants who bought them. Then they broke up the empty flatboats for lumber.

With the comforting weight of coins in their pockets, the boatmen headed for the nearest saloons before starting the long journey upriver and along the Natchez Trace to Nashville. Ellis watched them, and sadly shook his head. If only they'd take a notion to fight for Mexico, he thought. A few thousand of them, armed with their deadly long rifles, could easily drive the royalists from the country.

New Orleans was still a nest of plotters, each jealously trying to launch his own expedition exclusive of control by others. Most grudgingly acknowledged the slender Cuban, Alvarez de Toledo, as the principal leader—both he and portly French General Humbert had at least delivered a few shipments of arms to the rebels. Alvarez de Toledo was preparing an expedition against Tampico; Humbert had a grandiose scheme for invading Veracruz with the help of his countrymen, the Lafitte brothers. Henry Perry of Connecticut, who had taken part in an earlier invasion of Texas, was determined to land on the Texas coast and capture the presidio at La Bahía.

In September 1815, shortly before Ellis reached New Orleans, James Madison had issued a presidential proclamation ordering citizens to refrain from taking part in illegal expeditions. Federal officers had been instructed to arrest those who persisted, and to seize their arms and ships. Most of the leaders had also been indicted for violating the neutrality laws, but there had been no move to bring them to trial, and it appeared none would be made.

The leaders, Ellis soon learned, were convinced that the proclamation and indictments were grudging gestures to placate the persistent Spanish minister Onís, and not a serious move to interfere with efforts to help the Mexican rebels. They continued to call openly for recruits. The leaders may have felt complacent about the government's intentions, but Ellis noticed that Americans appeared reluctant to risk arrest by joining any expedition to Mexico, and held back.

Ellis unwrapped Magdalena's mantilla and handkerchief and held them fondly in his hands, envisioning her lovely face when she insisted he take her horse and save his life. He ached to hold her in his arms, and his chest felt so tight he could hardly breathe. What can I do? he wondered in desperation. How can I get back to her? I've got to find a way.

A few days later, he sat on a bench glancing at a New Orleans newspaper someone had left there, when the name Gutiérrez caught his eye. He remembered the stocky Mexican rebel with a bushy mustache who'd joined Jackson's force as a volunteer before the Battle of New Orleans, and vaguely recalled that he'd been involved in an expedition to Texas. Gutiérrez was advertising for volunteers to assemble in the Neutral Ground near Natchitoches for another invasion of Texas. Recalling that Morelos had urged him to invade Texas to draw the royalists north, Ellis headed upriver. It was too late to save Morelos, but perhaps there was still time to help the revolutionaries.

A week later, he stepped ashore from a little schooner among the towering pines around Natchitoches. The first person he recognized was Morelos' son, Juan Almonte, now a handsome lad of fifteen, who greeting him warmly.

“I asked about you at the school,” Ellis told him. “They said you'd left, but didn't know where you were.”

“I had to leave,” Almonte replied. “No
dinero. Senor
Gutiérrez took me in, not that he's got much.” He took Ellis to see the burly Gutiérrez, who welcomed him with an
abrazo,
delighted to have one of Morelos' former officers join him.

As Ellis and Almonte walked around the town, rubbing shoulders with frontiersmen in greasy buckskins and impassive Caddo Indians in breechcloths, Ellis asked about the earlier expedition Gutiérrez had led to Texas.

“I talked to a few of those who escaped,” Almonte replied. “They told me that after they took San Antonio, Gutiérrez didn't stop the Tejanos from killing Governor Salcedo and the rest of the royalist officers.” Ellis frowned. “The governor had executed some of their fathers or brothers just because they favored independence,” Almonte quickly added, “so it wasn't surprising they retaliated when they had the chance. If they'd hanged your father or brother, what would you have done?” Ellis thought about it and was glad he hadn't been obliged to make that decision.

“The Americans in the army were outraged over killing officers who'd surrendered,” Almonte continued. “As you well know, the royalists usually shot any patriot officer they captured, but the Americans didn't know about that, and found it hard to accept. Maybe it wouldn't have seemed so bad to them if the Tejanos had shot the prisoners. Instead, they cut their throats and left them wallowing in their own blood. The Americans had to bury them, and they were furious. Bad feelings arose between them and Gutiérrez as well as the Tejanos. A lot of Americans left San Antonio, but others took their places.”

They walked slowly along the street, avoiding the worst of the mudholes. “After they controlled all of Texas, how did they lose it?” Ellis asked.

“About the time Arredondo's army crossed the Río Grande into Texas,” Almonte replied, “the Americans forced Gutiérrez out and insisted that Alvarez de Toledo replace him, even though the Tejanos all favored Gutiérrez. Knowing that, Alvarez de Toledo reorganized the army, putting the Americans in one division, the Tejanos and Indians in the other. The men I talked to said that was a bad idea, for they'd fought well in mixed companies.” They drew back to let a pair of roan oxen plod past drawing a creaky wagon.

“Some of the American officers had left,” Almonte continued, “so Henry Perry was made colonel, and he commanded the troops when they routed Elizondo outside San Antonio. A week or two later scouts reported that Arredondo's army was at the Medina, and they marched to meet him. Alvarez de Toledo chose a good defensive position and ordered them to await Arredondo there. But Perry ignored him and marched the army through thick brush in the heat to the Medina, leaving the artillery far behind. Everyone wanted to go back to the place Alvarez had chosen, which was the sensible thing to do. But even though they were all worn down, Perry insisted on crossing the Medina and charging Arredondo's army, with all its cannon. It was a slaughter. Not many escaped, and Arredondo didn't take prisoners.”

Ellis whistled. “I wonder why Perry expects anyone to follow him after that,” he said, shaking his head in bewilderment. “I'm dyin' for another crack at the royalists, but I don't aim to let someone throw me away.”

Although Gutiérrez advertised widely for recruits, only small parties came from time to time. They were looking for excitement or loot, Ellis suspected, and when it appeared they weren't likely to find either any time soon, most disappeared. Ellis was convinced, from their furtive looks when strangers appeared, that many of those who remained were hiding from enemies or the law. There were also bands of robbers, who found the Neutral Ground attractive because neither Spain nor the States had jurisdiction over it, but they avoided Gutiérrez and his recruits.

The number of men in the camp gradually grew to more than a hundred, and Ellis' hopes rose. If he and Gutiérrez could somehow take San Antonio, that would draw the royalists away from the rebels who still held out in the mountains of Guanajuato and the south. But they needed more men. Ellis ground his teeth in frustration.

While waiting for enough volunteers to arrive, Ellis and a dozen others earned a little money escorting pack trains of smuggled goods in both directions across the Neutral Ground, to protect the smugglers from bandits, not officials. Ellis learned from the Tejanos they met that the people of San Antonio, as well as the few companies of troops there, were daily on the verge of starvation. If we can just raise five hundred men, we can take all of Texas, he thought. He became familiar with the trails through the pines across the Neutral Ground and on to Nacogdoches. He burned to march there at the head of a few battalions of eagle-eyed frontiersmen armed with long rifles.

Late in 1816, Gutiérrez received a letter from a friend in New Orleans, and cursed when he read it. Alvarez de Toledo, who had been trying to launch an expedition to take Tampico, had written Spanish minister Onís to ask for a royal pardon. He'd kept it secret until he reached Philadelphia in August, but in the meantime he had given Diego Morphy, Spanish consul in New Orleans, complete information on all the plotters, their plans for helping the Mexican rebels, and the best ways to frustrate them. When Onís received the information Morphy relayed to him, then talked to Alvarez de Toledo, he demanded that the government take immediate and decisive action to prevent blatant violations of the treaty with Spain.

Other news arrived from the East at the same time. Spanish republican exile, Francisco Xavier Mina, who'd been a respected guerrilla leader against the French, had arrived at Baltimore with several ships and ample funds that English merchants had provided for organizing an expedition against Spanish America. Ellis expected to hear that federal officials, bowing to Onís' demands, had broken up Mina's expedition. It was rumored, however, that Mina had been allowed to recruit men and sail, but his destination was unknown.

The volunteers in the Neutral Ground rose to one hundred fifty, and Ellis watched anxiously for more. If that number would only double, he thought, we could at least take Nacogdoches, and one good scrap would bring a flock of American adventurers. Then one day a federal marshal in black coat and pants rode into Nacogdoches and asked for Gutiérrez. Ellis, wondering why he had come, took him to the rebel leader and served as interpreter.

“I have orders to look over your army,” the marshal told Gutiérrez, who looked shocked. “Not to do anything, just to look at it and report,” the marshal added.

“Come with me,” Gutiérrez said, and the three of them rode into the Neutral Ground to where the volunteers lived in shacks or crude tents. The men, many of them without guns, were stretched out in the shade or playing cards on blankets. Some of them took one look at the approaching marshal and faded away into the woods.

“There it is,” Gutiérrez told the marshal, “my army, all of it. Fearsome, isn't it?” The marshal pushed his gray hat back, scratched his head, and smiled.

“The Spaniards claim you have a thousand men, all armed to the teeth,” he said. “Their spies mustn't count very good.”

“I wish we did have a thousand,” Ellis said somberly. The marshal looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“Come to think of it,” he admitted, “so do I. We should be helping the Mexicans. It's kind of our duty.” He shook hands with them and rode away.

The next morning, Ellis and Almonte rode among the shacks and tents, while Ellis unobtrusively made a rough count. “Damn,” he said. “At least half of them have skipped out. I figured we'd soon have enough to take Nacogdoches, and when word of that spread we'd get lots of help.” His shoulders sagged. “Everything's against us.” He thought of Magdalena and straightened up. “We just can't give up. We've got to keep on as long as there's a shred of hope.”

“I hope I can go home some day,” Almonte said wistfully.

“I hope we both can,” Ellis added.

As the weeks turned into months, the hoped-for flood of volunteers never came. In desperation, Ellis thought of asking the Lafittes to put him ashore on the Mexican coast so he could slip past the royalists to Magdalena on her uncle's
hacienda.
“If I can get to the coast, do you think I'd have a prayer of making it to Jalapa?” he asked Gutiérrez.

The stocky Mexican tugged at his mustache, looked at Ellis' drawn face, and sadly shook his head. “Some rebel who has gone over to the royalists would surely recognize you sooner or later and turn you in,” he said. “The
Gachupines
will never forgive one who served Morelos loyally. You'd probably be shot before you ever saw your wife, and that would be small comfort to her.” He paused, like he wanted to say no more, then forced himself to continue. “I hate to say this, but unless the revolution succeeds, you'll never see your wife again. Cruel though it sounds, you'd be better off to consider her dead and forget her.”

Ellis was sunk in gloom early in 1817 when Gutiérrez received a letter from Manuel Herrera in New Orleans. Herrera had accompanied Ellis there three years earlier as Morelos' minister, but he'd never had enough money to continue the journey to Washington. “Mina is on Galveston Island with an expedition,” Herrera wrote. “The privateer Luis Aury, who once served Bolivar, is there and claims to be rebel governor of Texas. Henry Perry and fifty men have joined Aury. If Mina is as good a fighter as they say, the royalists may be in for a surprise, although I don't know how many men he has.” Gutiérrez wrote back, urging Herrera to keep him informed.