“I thought I’d stay for the convention,” hazarded Ernest. “Dick Carroll asked me to.”
“You look tired,” mused the general, surveying him. “You’ve had a hard ride and have done well. Do so, then; stay, and you will see history made. And, by Heaven, when we march against the enemy you will see more history made.”
This was Sunday evening. The convention was called for Tuesday, for February of 1836 had twenty-nine days. To-night, and Monday, Ernest saw a number of delegates that he knew. Matthew Caldwell, of Gonzales, was here――“Old Paint” the Indian fighter; and so was Sam Maverick, of Bejar; and both were near crazed with anxiety over the fate of their families and their homes. But the convention must act, and order be restored, or all would indeed be lost. Lorenzo de Zavala, the ex-president of the State of Mexico, was here; and Antonio Navarro, formerly of Bejar, a brother of Angel Navarro the political chief, whose house had been shattered in the taking of Bejar, but a friend of Texas; and Francisco Ruiz, another patriot; and Colonel Thomas Rusk, who had commanded cavalry at the siege of Bejar; and others――not omitting Sam Houston.
Who should blow in, Monday morning, but Dick Carroll, after a night’s ride. Ernest, for one, welcomed him gladly.
“They’re fighting at the Alamo,” announced Dick, to his listeners. “I’ve brought another dispatch from Travis, date of twenty-fourth. Delivered it to Governor Smith. Expect we-all’ll hear it read at the convention. It’s a humdinger. Travis is holding out, and he says he’s _going_ to hold out. Boys, there’s some man! You’ll be proud when you hear his words. Captain Martin fetched it out of the Alamo to Gonzales; Smither brought it on to San Felipe; and I carried it up here. Wanted to come anyway. Cos, they say, is out there; he’s broken his parole. And Sesma, and Santa Anna, and General Vincente Filisola, the Italian: the best officers in the Mexican army. But Travis and Bowie will keep them busy. At least,” he added, “they’ll try to. Martin says the Gonzales company is going straight in. That will help――a little. Haven’t heard from Fannin, have you?”
All day Monday the crisis at the Alamo lay heavy upon the hearts of those Texas citizens gathered in Washington on the Brazos. There was no word from Colonel Fannin, and no further word from Colonel Travis. Still, among the near 200 men collected in Washington, nobody seemed disposed to leave and join the rendezvous at Gonzales. Hanging around the convention hall and the tavern and the army headquarters, they were waiting for the reorganization of Texas――for some declaration to be made, a government to be re-established, a commander to be appointed, and an army provided for.