Gone to Texas (An Evans Novel of the West)

by Don Worcester

  Houston looked grave. “Our only real hope is to make Santa Anna extend his supply lines to the breaking point while we muster an army. At that point we’ll have a good chance of defeating ‘em, but it won’t be easy. I’ve sent Bowie to San Antonio with orders for Neill to blow up the Alamo and pull back.”

  Ellis declined Houston’s invitation to accompany him to the Cherokee villages. “It would be better to take Goyens,” he said. “If I go, and any of the Indians join the Mexicans, everyone will remember I’m a Mexican officer and hold me responsible.”

  Late in February, Ellis was astonished to learn that Neill had refused to blow up the Alamo and withdraw, and that Bowie had also vowed to “die in these ditches” rather than retreat. Then came a letter from Travis, who’d arrived there with thirty men. Neill had been called home because of illness in his family, and Bowie was incapacitated, leaving Travis in command of the 155 men there. His letter was addressed to the people of Texas and all Americans in the world. They had been under constant bombardment, Travis wrote, and more Mexican troops arrived daily. He expected Fannin and his volunteers to come from Goliad, but he called on Texians to rush to his aid, vowing never to surrender. In the following days other moving appeals from Travis reached the settlements, but Ellis saw no sign of response from the men around Nacogdoches. Many apparently couldn’t believe the situation was serious; others were determined not to fight and risk losing their lands. Some, like Micajah, were with ranger companies protecting settlers from the Comanches. Ellis heard that thirty-two men from Gonzales had headed for the Alamo, and wondered if they’d been able to slip through Mexican lines.

  On March 5 young Jim Allen set out for Gonzales with another desperate appeal from Travis, for he’d learned at last that Fannin wasn’t coming. Copies of the letter were speedily carried to other settlements. Incredibly, the only Texians who’d responded to his repeated pleas were the thirty-two from Gonzales, but this time parties of men from many settlements set out for the Alamo. At Gonzales they learned that the Mexican army had completely surrounded the old mission, so they stopped there, cursing themselves for waiting too long.

  The news that reached Nacogdoches in March was sketchy and often contradictory, but wild, exaggerated rumors abounded. Ellis learned that on March 2, the Consultation at Washington-on-the-Brazos had declared Texas independent, but with six or seven thousand Mexican troops already north of the Rio Grande, it seemed a futile gesture. The delegates, said to be the ablest and most experienced men in Texas, had elected an interim government, with David G. Burnet as president and Mexican liberal Lorenzo de Zavala as vice-president. They named Houston commander of all armed forces, including the volunteers from the States. While a committee drew up a constitution, Houston hurried to Gonzales, where 370 Texians still waited. Two Tejanos from San Antonio brought the almost unbelievable news that on March 6, the day after Travis sent his final appeal, Santa Anna’s army had overwhelmed the 187 Alamo defenders and slaughtered them to the last man.

  Having learned of the Alamo’s fall and that Mexican columns were on the march, the delegates to the Consultation hastily concluded their work in the early hours of March 17, then adjourned and departed. The interim government immediately left for Harrisburg. Their obvious haste spread panic among the families and triggered the Runaway Scrape. Without taking time to pack provisions or to don proper clothing, terrified women and children, accompanied by a few men and slaves, plodded miserably through mud, cold, and steady rain as if demons were after them.

  There was no way of knowing where Houston’s little army was after it burned and abandoned Gonzales, but Ellis heard that parties of Texians, at last fully aroused by the peril facing them, had grimly set out for the Colorado in search of it.

  In April, even more shocking news arrived. Houston had ordered Fannin to abandon Goliad and march immediately to Victoria. Fannin, who was confident no Mexican troops would dare attack his force, waited nearly a week before marching. The delay gave able General José Urrea, who’d crossed the Rio Grande at Matamoros, time to intercept Fannin’s column and force it to surrender. Urrea sent the prisoners, nearly all volunteers from the States, back to Goliad. There on Palm Sunday—March 27—on Santa Anna’s direct order, they were marched out in three columns and halted. Infantrymen opened fire on them, while dragoons lanced those who fled. About twenty-five escaped to tell the story—Mexicans had rescued some of them; others had feigned death or made it to the woods, where Tejano families sheltered them.

  When word of the shocking massacre at Goliad reached Nacogdoches, more men rushed off to join Houston. A delegation of citizens came to Ellis’ ranch one day and took him into custody as a Mexican officer and an alien, then confined him in the Old Stone Fort. “It’s for your own safety,” William Roark told him. “Some men are so wild about what happened at Goliad they might think you’re Santy Anny and shoot you.” Ellis thanked him.

  As he gazed around at the high stone walls, his thoughts turned back to the time Nolan’s men had been held there in what seemed a lifetime ago, and shook his head. Then he’d been a captive of Spain, with no idea what was in store for him. Now he was a Mexican officer, and his own countrymen had confined him in the same place, and again he wasn’t sure what the future held. He thought of what was likely to happen when Santa Anna’s army approached Nacogdoches and shuddered. Outraged Texians would probably riddle him with bullets just for having been a Mexican officer. That’s a hell of a way to wind up, he thought.

  As it turned out, his confinement was surprisingly brief. “Houston’s army wiped out Santy Anny’s column at San Jacinto and captured him,” Roark told him one day. “Santy Anny ordered the rest of the army to leave Texas, and they’re headin’ for the Rio Grande with Colonel Rusk following ‘em to see they cross it. He ordered you released on parole, but that means you’re free. The war is over and Texas is independent.”

  Ellis’ jaw dropped. “You mean Santa Anna ordered them to leave and they obeyed him?” He could hardly believe his ears, but a great wave of relief swept over him, and he hoped he wasn’t losing his mind. Texians had needed a miracle, and they got one when Santa Anna fell into their hands.

  “Yes,” Roark replied. “If they’d marched immediately to San Jacinto they could have had an easy victory. Houston was down with a shattered ankle and his army was in such total confusion that any one of the Mexican columns could have made short work of it.” He smiled broadly and waved his arms. “It’s the most unexpected, incredible ending imaginable,” he continued. “Of course we’ll likely have to fight ‘em again one day, but we should be better prepared another time. If we can just join the States in the meantime, we won’t have to worry.”

  Thinking he might soon leave for Jalapa, Ellis assigned his salt lick contract to another and sold his share in the land and mills south of Nacogdoches to Haden Edwards and James Carter. He also sold hundreds of acres of unimproved land to a score of buyers. Because he’d never been paid for the lumber he supplied on credit for building the barracks, he brought suit against Colonel Piedras as an abandoned debtor. “Feeling fully satisfied that the said José de las Piedras, colonel, as aforesaid, will never return to this Republic,” he wrote, “and having no other means of obtaining justice and the demand due, I request a writ of attachment.” The court granted it, and Ellis seized Piedras’ properties, which included a valuable lot next to Frost Thorn’s general store in Nacogdoches.

  In November 1837 Candace married a man named Isaac Hix, but bad luck still dogged her. Shortly after her marriage, Hix was accused of horse-stealing. Apparently the charge was true, for Hix immediately disappeared, and Candace heard no more of him.

  Ellis continued to live at his ranch and to serve unofficially as Indian agent to keep the immigrant tribes peaceful. On one occasion he visited the Cherokees to serve as a witness when his namesake, Little Bean, granted freedom to his slaves, Billa and Mina, in exchange for the eleven hundred dollars they’d earned. In March 1839, chief Bowles agreed to jou
rney to the plains and negotiate with the Comanches, who were now anxious to make peace with the Texians.

  That same month rangers killed an East Texas troublemaker named Manuel Flores near San Antonio. On his body they found a letter that made it clear Mexican officials were trying to enlist the help of the Indians in the reconquest of Texas. Mirabeau B. Lamar, who had succeeded Houston as president of the Texas Republic, seized this as a pretext for expelling all of the immigrant tribes. Houston angrily protested, and Ellis supported him, but the majority in East Texas agreed with Lamar that the Indians must go, for they had cleared and cultivated fertile lands that whites coveted. The Delawares and other small tribes gave up and departed, but the Cherokees refused to leave until their corn was ripe. In mid-July the Texian militia attacked them, killing Bowles and many others, and driving the survivors across the Red River.

  Ellis shared Houston’s outrage over the callous treatment of the Cherokees. Bowles had dissuaded the Cherokees from joining the Fredonians and kept the tribes neutral during the Texas Revolution. He had also sent his warriors against the Comanches, and had agreed to negotiate peace with them, but instead of gratitude, this was his reward.

  A few years earlier, Ellis had written the story of his experiences under Nolan and Morelos. When young John H. Reagan visited him, Ellis showed him the manuscript and asked him to edit it and arrange for its publication. And because travel was difficult for him, Ellis urged him to go to Mexico City and collect his pay for his final years of military service, and on the way to deliver a letter to his wife. Reagan had to decline both requests, for hejvas in no position to oblige him.

  In January 1841, Ellis was delighted when eighteen-year-old Louiza Jane married William Lacey, the son of the county clerk. Now, he thought, I have no excuse for not pulling up stakes, but he was so crippled by rheumatism that he dreaded the journey and kept putting it off. Except on warm days, he didn’t even ride to Nacogdoches.

  Finally he made up his mind to go. On April 12,1843, he drew up his will, naming his nephew Sam Bean and cousin Dr. Jesse Bean as executors and guardians for his seventeen-year-old son, Ellis. Sam Bean was a short, heavy-set farmer in his twenties. Jesse was in his forties; a slender, dignified, honest physician with brown hair and eyes and a neatly trimmed beard.

  “Why don’t you transfer your property to them right now?” Jesse asked. “It’s not likely you’ll ever return, and that’s the only sure way to see they get it.”

  Ellis looked embarrassed. “You’re right, I know,” he admitted, “but I just can’t bring myself to close the door on comin’ back here. Down there I’ll have nothing to do, and I don’t know for sure I can stand it.” Jesse shook his head but said nothing more.

  Ellis left his oldest son Isaac the undivided half of his headright of a league and a labor near the Trinity, as well as the slave girl Louiza. Louiza Jane would receive the slave girl Matilda, who was already in her possession. To his son Ellis he left his ranch and livestock, including his fine stallion Bolton, and also the old slaves Dory and Vina, their son, and three daughters.

  He said goodbye to Louiza Jane, who wept to see him leave, then headed for Natchitoches, where he sold his horse and saddle before boarding a riverboat for the trip downstream to New Orleans. There he bought passage on a vessel bound for Veracruz, where he climbed painfully into the stagecoach that passed through Jalapa on its way to Mexico City. Eager though he was to see Magdalena, Ellis couldn’t keep his mind from roaming back to Nacogdoches and the things he felt he’d left unfinished there. When the coach stopped at Jalapa, he asked the driver to let him off at Las Banderillas.

  “We usually stop there for water when coming from Mexico City,” the driver told him. “The lady who owns it always invites the passengers into her house and gives them dulces to eat. Then she asks every foreigner if he’s seen her husband the colonel, and describes everything about him. You fit the description, only the man she describes is young.”

  “I’m the one,” Ellis confessed, feeling ashamed. “I’ve been gone way too long.”

  When he alit from the stage and walked stiffly toward the vine-covered big house, he saw Magdalena at the door, surprised that the Mexico City coach had stopped. As he hobbled toward her, Ellis saw that she was stouter than before but still attractive. When she recognized him, she gave a happy cry and hurried into his outstretched arms.

  “You’re home to stay at last,” she told him firmly. “I’ll never let you leave again without me. I’ve been much too lonely all those years without you.”

  Ellis had little to do, for servants waited on him and Magdalena lovingly watched over him as if he were the child she’d never had. Whenever the coach stopped, he asked the passengers for any newspapers they could spare, and read each one several times. He tried hard to forget about Nacogdoches, but he badly missed his ranch and his friends there.

  One day in late March 1844, the coach to Mexico City unexpectedly stopped, and Ellis felt gooseflesh on his arms when he saw Dr. Jesse Bean, looking more dignified than ever, alight. He knew at once that Jesse hadn’t made the long journey to bring him good news; fears rising, he tried to imagine what calamity might have occurred. He winced from the pain in his hand when Jesse shook it.

  “I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings,” he said solemnly.

  “I knew you wouldn’t come all this way just to say howdy,” Ellis replied. “What is it?”

  “For one thing, Louiza Jane died about six months after you left, preceded by both children. Poor Lacey was naturally devastated.”

  “Louiza Jane! My God?” Ellis exclaimed. “She was so young. It should have been me instead.”

  “That’s not all of it, I’m sorry to say. Here’s a letter from William Roark that explains it in detail. Your nephew Sam wasn’t up to your trust in him by any means. The long and the short of it is that he went through almost everything you owned before I could stop him.” Groaning, Ellis cursed himself for not dividing his property before he left, as Jesse had advised.

  Magdalena insisted that Jesse stay as long as he could, and they took him on buggy rides to Jalapa and on visits to other haciendas. Ellis sat in a daze much of the time, thinking only of Louiza Jane, but when Magdalena wanted to explain something to Jesse, he mechanically interpreted for her.

  “I can’t stay much longer,” Jesse protested after several weeks had passed, “or I’ll never be able to leave this delightful country. The talk of annexing Texas has revived in Washington, and who knows? This time it may be serious, and it could lead to war. I can’t afford to get caught here in that event. I’ll deliver any letters you care to write, and I’ll assure your friends you’re living in comfort and ease.”

  “Wish I could go with you,” Ellis told him wistfully. “I aim to come when my rheumatism is better.” He held up his gnarled hands and painfully flexed his crooked fingers. Jesse stared at him blankly, his expressionless face discreetly masking his doubts.

  With great difficulty, Ellis scrawled a note to “Mr. William Roark my old friend Esq—Received your letter by Dr. Bean and see that Sam Bean is a Rascal. But one knows not who to trust. He is a Rogue and a Liar, but let him go. My fingers is stiff and I can’t write good, but I am getting well fast. Dr. Bean can tell you all. Remember me to your lady. When the weather becomes cool you will see me. Remaining your old friend, Peter E. Bean.” Because writing was so painful, Ellis sent messages to his sons by Jesse.

  He followed the news as best he could, but it was impossible to get a clear picture of what went on in Mexico City or Washington, or in Texas, for that matter. It seemed certain that the government would retaliate if the U.S. annexed Texas, and late in 1845, he read that the U.S. had admitted Texas as a state. His friend Almonte, who was Mexican minister to Washington, had demanded his passport and departed in protest, thereby severing diplomatic relations between the U.S. and Mexico.

  It was frustrating for Ellis to be so far away when exciting events were taking place in Texas. He’d often talked of vis
iting his friends in Nacogdoches. Why not now? he asked himself.

  “I need to go to Texas and take care of some business and see my friends,” he told Magdalena. “It looks like trouble is coming, and I should get there before it starts,” he added, but without conviction.

  Magdalena gazed at him fondly, and he knew she saw through him. “Of course, my dear,” she replied, gently stroking his cheek. “But I can’t let you travel alone. You keep on getting better; when you’re well, and after the crops are in, we can both go. Our last journey together ended rather badly, remember? This one will be better.” He’d almost forgotten the day his horse gave out when a troop of Spanish dragoons pursued them. If she hadn’t made him take her horse. ... He shivered at the thought of a lance blade thrust between his ribs.

  Most days Ellis sat on a stone bench among the roses, inhaling the scented air, reveling in the sunshine, drinking the hot chocolate the servants brought him, and muttering endlessly to himself. From the papers he knew that Mexico was angrily preparing for war, but he couldn’t tell if it was serious preparation or mere political bluster.

  In May 1846, Ellis read that American troops had invaded Mexico by crossing the Nueces, which had been the border between Texas and the Mexican state of Tamaulipas. He recalled that Santa Anna had agreed on the Rio Grande as the boundary between Mexico and Texas, but the government had naturally disavowed all of the concessions he’d made to save his life. Later Ellis read that Mexican dragoons had captured American soldiers near the Rio Grande; the U.S. declaration of war soon followed. He saw that the two armies had fought at Palo Alto and Resaca de la Palma, but the papers were vague as to the outcome. They asserted, however, that Mexican troops were massing at Matamoros, which he took to mean that they had withdrawn or been forced back across the Rio Grande.

  At sixty-three, Ellis suddenly realized that his life was rapidly slipping away; the years in the dungeons at San Luis Postosi and Acapulco were now taking their toll, and he felt feeble. I’m fixing to die, he thought, and far from my native land. He forgot about the war—it no longer mattered as he became obsessed with getting to Texas before he died. Down deep he’d never been reconciled to living out his last days at Jalapa, and now he felt the desperation of a trapped animal. It isn’t fittin’ for me to die so far from where I belong, among my children and friends, he thought.