by J. T. Edson
Houston was finding that Santa Anna’s lack of activity had its disadvantages as well as its blessings. Shepherding along the refugees, the Republic of Texas’s Army reached San Felipe on the western shore of the Brazos River on March 31. Again yielding to the pressure from his men and encouraged by his scouts’ reports regarding the behavior of their pursuers, Houston halted to re-assess the situation.
It was then that the news of how Fannin and his men had been massacred by Urrea was delivered.
There was serious unrest over the tidings!
Houston knew that some action must be taken!
What follows is the story of the action decided upon by the General and how it turned out.
Chapter One – Cap’n Devil’s On the Warpath
Captain Jackson Baines Hardin’s face was like a thundercloud as he strode along the main street of San Felipe. In every direction, there were signs that the Republic of Texas’s small Army and a large number of refugees were encamped just beyond the civic limits. However, glaring straight ahead, he seemed to have eyes for nothing that was going on around him.
A few members of the Texas Light Cavalry’s Company ‘C’ were among the enlisted men of various regiments who were taking their ease on either side of the street. They watched with interest as their young commanding officer stalked—there was no better way of describing his mode of progression—towards them. Then, before he arrived, they began to exchange glances.
‘I don’t know what’s riling him,’ commented a leathery old timer. ‘But Cap’n Devil’s on the warpath.’
‘Only thing I know,’ went on the youngest member of the trio, studying the approaching figure and sounding slightly relieved, ‘is that I’m sure’s hell’s for sinners pleased it’s not me’s he’s riled at.’
‘Would the captain have any reason to be after your hide, Stepin?’ inquired the tall, well built, blond man whose bearing was suggestive of military training and who exuded an aura of authority despite the fact that his attire bore no conventional insignia to denote that he was superior in rank to his companions. ix
‘Me?’ the youngest soldier yelped, his voice and attitude earnestly denying the accusation. ‘No sir, sergeant, I’ve done learned my lesson. So I’ve not done a single, solitary thing wrong at all.’ Then he let out a sigh as the captain went by without showing the slightest awareness of the trio’s presence. ‘Well, it looks like it isn’t us he’s after at all.’
There was something Satanic about the appearance of the young man who was the subject of the soldiers’ conversation. It was that which, in part at least, had been responsible for his nickname, ‘Ole Devil’. x
A wide brimmed, low crowned black hat—of a style that had grown popular when the behavior of the successive leaders in their adopted country made the Anglo-Saxon colonists develop an ever growing antipathy towards everything of Mexican origin, including the sombrero—hung by its barbiquejo chinstrap on the captain’s squarely set shoulders. It left bare black hair which was combed above his temples to convey an impression of a pair of small horns. The lines of his tanned face were enhanced by somewhat prominent cheekbones, an aquiline nose, eyebrows like inverted V’s and a neatly trimmed mustache, and a short, sharp pointed chin beard. Combined they created a Mephistophelian effect which resembled the way artists generally depicted the physiognomy of the Devil.
Just over six foot in height, twenty-five years of age, Ole Devil was slender without being puny or skinny. In fact, his erect posture and swiftly striding gait were suggestive of a whipcord strength. He wore the type of uniform supplied by the Hardin, Fog and Blaze clan for the members of their regiment. xi Around his throat was knotted a tight rolled silk bandana that was a riot of brilliantly clashing colors. His fringed buckskin shirt was tucked into tight legged fawn riding breeches which ended neatly in the tops of his well polished Hessian boots. xii A broad black belt around his waist supported an ivory hiked James Black bowie knife. However, for some reason, he had left off the percussion-fired Manton pistol which usually rode—butt forward so as to be accessible to either hand—in the wide, slanting leather loop at the right.
‘Seems to poor li’l old me that Cap’n Devil’s been more’n a mite edgy since him, Mr. Blaze ’n’ Tommy Okasi brought back that young lieutenant’s got away when Fannin got all them good old boys “mass-ee-creed” by Urrea,’ the elderly soldier remarked. ‘Which I don’t blame him none at all. It’s not a thing a man likes to think on when he can’t do nothing about it.’
‘Huh!’ Stepin sniffed, oozing truculence. ‘I can’t see why we don’t just head on down Goliad way and hand Urrea his needings.’
‘That’s why General Sam, Colonel Fog and Cap’n Hardin’re officers and you’re not,’ Sergeant Smith said drily, while the old timer turned a sardonic gaze at the youngster. ‘They’ve got enough sense to know we haven’t enough men to do it.’
‘There’s been some talk about Lieutenant Dimmock saving his skin the way he did,’ Stepin announced, clearly desiring to change the subject. ‘Fact being, I’ve heard it said—’
‘So have I!’ Smith interrupted, turning a prohibitive frown upon the youngster. ‘And, seeing’s he’s an officer in our Company now, I don’t want to hear it again. He got away during the massacre, sure, but nobody with an ounce of good sense can blame him for that. And, after he had, he didn’t just up and keep on running like Johnson’s bunch. He headed out this way to let us know what had happened, so we wouldn’t sit around here just waiting for Fannin’s men to join us.’
‘Way you’re talking, Stepin-boy,’ the old timer drawled, ‘sounds like you’ve been listening to some of them fancy-Dan New Orleans’ Wildcats’s’ve come down this ways to teach us ig-ner-ant Texians how to fight Santa Anna.’
‘They’ve been doing some talking,’ the youngster admitted, meaning to go on and disclaim any agreement with what had been said.
‘Too damned much,’ Sergeant Smith stated coldly, his manner implying that the subject was closed.
‘Looks like Cap’n Devil’s headed for officers’ country,’ the oldest soldier put in laconically. ‘Which, whatever it be’s’s riling him, it’s likely not to do with us common folks and I’m one who’s content to let it stop right there.’ His eyes, undimmed by age, flickered to the blond non-com. ‘Fact being, was somebody to ask me if I’d take a drink in his company, I’d force myself to go ag’in’ my good ’n’ gawd-fearing upbringing and say “I’d admire to, sir”.’
‘Jube,’ Smith answered, but he was continuing to watch his commanding officer. ‘Was you-all just once to ask us if we’d care to take a drink on you, we’d likely swoon clear away from the shock.’
For all his levity, the sergeant was both puzzled and concerned. Since enlisting in the Texas Light Cavalry, he had grown to respect the Satanic-faced young captain and, after having won promotion in the field, to know him very well. Everything about Ole Devil warned that he was angry. The signs were now indicative that the cause was to be found in the Grand Hotel. As Jube had said, the establishment had become accepted as ‘officers’ country’ and enlisted men did not patronize it.
An intelligent man, Smith took an active interest in what was going on around him. So he had heard and noticed certain things which he suspected were connected with the latter part of the conversation he had just had with his companions. He did not care for the possibilities aroused by some of his deductions. A loyal subordinate, he wondered if his assumptions over whatever might be taking his captain into the Grand Hotel were correct. If they were, he hoped that Ole Devil would avoid any actions which might bring upon him the wrath and disapproval of his superiors.
Chapter Two – I’ll Do More Than Just Prod
Still moving as if marching in review before Major General Samuel Houston, Ole Devil Hardin passed through the main entrance of the Grand Hotel. Ignoring the clerk behind the reception desk, he went to the open door of the barroom. Crossing the threshold, he surveyed his surroundings with a sweeping glance. Alt
hough the time was only just after two o’clock in the afternoon, there were customers present. Only a few had on formal military uniforms. The attire of the remainder ranged from the coonskin caps and buckskins of lean, white haired old ‘Deaf’ Smith and two of his scouts at the counter, through the vaquero costume of a couple of Chicanos and town suits of the Texians, to the more elegant raiment worn by half a dozen young men seated around one of the tables. They were dressed in the latest style of riding clothes which had become popular among wealthy Louisianans and, in particular, among New Orleans’ French-Creole dandies.
After glancing at the other occupants of the room, Ole Devil’s cold eyed scrutiny came to rest upon a young man standing—propping himself up would be a more apt term—against the counter and holding a schooner of beer. Matching the captain in height, he was far more bulky and lacked any evidence of a martial posture. In fact, his whole bearing seemed to exude a contented lassitude. His garments were those of a member of the Texas Light Cavalry. In addition to his presence in San Felipe’s best hotel, his scarlet silk bandana indicated that he was an officer. He duplicated Ole Devil’s armament, and did not wear his pistol. His black hat lay on the bar, showing crinkly red hair, and his big, sun-reddened face bore a genially sleepy expression as he raised the schooner to his lips.
‘Mr. Blaze!’ Ole Devil thundered, striding forward. The sound of his irate voice caused the burly and somnolent-looking young man to give a guilty start and blow out a mouthful of beer. ‘Just what in hell’s name do you think you’re doing in here?’
‘Why howdy there, Cousin Devil,’ greeted the recipient of the furious words. He did not attempt to straighten up and he seemed to be on the verge of falling asleep. ‘Well now, I’m just having me a glass of beer—’
‘A glass of beer,’ Ole Devil spat out, advancing with angry steps which beat time to what he was saying. He came to a halt alongside the bulky object of his wrath. ‘God damn it, Mr. Blaze, I told you to take the men on mounted drill. So why are you here instead of doing it?’
‘Dang it all, Cousin Devil!’ Lieutenant Mannen Blaze, second-in-command of Company ‘C’, almost wailed as he set down his glass. ‘You-all made me go along when you took that scout down to Goliad, which’s a hell of a distance to ride. So I reckon I’m entitled to take things a mite easy for a spell.’
All of the customers and the hotel’s three employees who were present had turned their attention to the two young men. While his cousin was speaking, Ole Devil had lifted free his hat. It seemed to the onlookers that he was so disgusted with the feeble excuse he was hard put to control his temper. Letting out an indignant snort, he sent the hat skimming along the top of the bar in the direction of the trio of scouts. Apart from raising his glass so it would not be struck by the head dress, ‘Deaf’ Smith showed an almost complete indifference to what was going on. His companions, who looked like younger versions of himself, duplicated his lack of reaction. Some of the officers from other regiments, remembering what they had heard about the arguing pair, exchanged puzzled glances. When it seemed that one of them was contemplating intervening, the best dressed of the Texians—a tall, slim, impressively handsome man in his middle forties, whose shoulder long black hair showed not a trace of gray—gave a quick and prohibitive shake of his head, which was obeyed.
Only the dandified group around the table closest to where Ole Devil and Mannen Blaze stood displayed more than a casual interest. As their clothing suggested, the six were well-to-do young Louisianans. They had only recently arrived in San Felipe as members of the one hundred and fifty strong New Orleans’ Wildcats, a privately recruited ‘regiment’ of volunteers from the United States. Their families had jointly financed the venture, so each had been given the rank of captain or lieutenant. Newly arrived, none of them had seen action. They were arrogant and self-willed. Filled with a belief in their own importance and abilities, they had already aroused hostility by their condescending attitudes towards the Texians they had come to assist. Watching and listening, they did not trouble to conceal their amused derision over the burly redhead’s responses to the questions being fired at him.
‘Blast it to hell, Mister Blaze!’ Ole Devil blared out, looking even more Satanic than usual and apparently oblivious of anything other than his errant kinsman. ‘I’ve had about enough—’
‘Now there’s another thing!’ Mannen Blaze protested, with something approaching heat, laboriously hoisting his big body erect to confront his cousin. ‘I’m not so all-fired taken with this here “Mister” talk you’re getting real fond of tossing at me. Dadnab it all, Devil, I’m a mite older and a whole heap stronger than you-all so—’
‘That doesn’t even start to come into it!’ Ole Devil roared, still showing no sign of realizing that he and his cousin were arousing speculation by their behavior. Instead, he began to thrust his right forefinger into the broad chest in front of him. ‘I’ve been made captain, not you. So you’ll do as I damned well tell you. Now get your idle self—’
‘Now you-all quit that prodding, damn it!’ Mannen bellowed plaintively, before his cousin could conclude the indignant order.
At the table, the six young Creoles threw smirking looks from one to another. To the Jaloux brothers, Captain Andre and Lieutenant Gerard, Captain Edmond Bardeche, and Lieutenants Jean Mondor, Henri and Marcel Pierre-Quint, the scene they were witnessing only confirmed their suppositions that all Texians were uncouth bores completely bereft of gentlemanly virtues.
Like most of their kind, the six young men had been thoroughly indoctrinated with the ‘code duello’. To their way of thinking, a gentleman should always be willing to engage an ‘affair of honor’ on the slightest pretext. Each felt that, given similar provocation, family ties would not have prevented him from demanding satisfaction from the Satanic-faced newcomer. Not one gave a thought to the fact that Ole Devil and Mannen Blaze had been raised in Louisiana and might have been taught such things. That the burly redhead had not issued a challenge to a duel already filled them with contempt.
‘I’ll do more than just prod you!’ Ole Devil threatened, clenching and drawing back the extended hand.
Before Mannen could be struck, acting with a rapidity which formed a vivid contrast to his hitherto lethargic motions, he clamped two enormous hands on the front of his cousin’s shirt. Lifting Ole Devil with no more apparent effort than if he had been handling a baby, he gave a surging heave and, swinging around, released his hold. Such was the force he put into his efforts that he propelled his would-be assailant across the room. Although Ole Devil flailed with his arms as an aid to retaining his equilibrium and contrived to hold himself upright, he was unable to halt his progress.
Startled exclamations burst from the Creoles as they realized that the slender Texian was rushing, with little control over his movements, in their direction. Being the nearest of their party to him, the Jaloux brothers tried to stand up and get out of his way. Their attempts were only partially successful. While they averted an actual collision, neither emerged unscathed.
Half out of his chair, which—like his brother—he had turned sideways so as to obtain a better view of the quarrel at the bar, Gerard was caught in the right eye by one of Ole Devil’s wildly waving fists. Nor was the blow gentle, for all that it had been delivered by accident. Bright lights seemed to erupt inside his head. Thrown off balance, he measured his length on the floor. For all that, he fared better than his brother. In his haste to rise, Andre tripped and fell. He tried to break his fall, but landed awkwardly and experienced a searing agony as the impact sprained his right wrist.
The disruption of the Creoles’ group did not end there!
Still unable to restrain his onwards momentum, Ole Devil twisted so that he fell and went rolling across the top of the table. Hoping to avoid a soaking as their bottle of wine was sent flying towards him, Bardeche knocked over his chair and fell backwards. Like Gerard Jaloux, Mondor was just commencing what should have been an evasive action when he too received a pu
nch in the right eye from a hard fist. Instinctively, he tried to jerk away and felt himself becoming entangled with his chair. Before he could rectify the situation, or regain his balance, he alighted on the unyielding planks with a force that drove all the breath from his lungs.
Having wreaked havoc upon two more of the party, Ole Devil continued his passage across the table. Neither Henri nor Marcel Pierre-Quint were more fortunate than their companions in escaping from disaster. Before they could do more than start to thrust back and rise from their seats, the Texian reached them. Rolling over and tumbling into their laps, his added weight caused the chairs to collapse beneath them. The brothers, letting out screeches of Gallic profanity, and they and their burden went down together. Of the three, Ole Devil came off best. Impeded by his body, Henri and Marcel were unable to do much in the way of breaking their falls. So they landed supine and the Texian was cushioned from the impact by having them beneath him.
Showing no sign of realizing what he had done, Mannen came forward to where his cousin and the Pierre-Quint brothers were sprawled. From the way he was behaving he was so aroused by the indignities heaped upon him by Ole Devil that he did not intend to let the matter rest. Apparently he was more concerned with continuing to vent his injured feelings than in watching what he was doing. Going past the table, still moving at speed, he stepped on Henri’s right hand as he bent to hoist Ole Devil erect.
