The Men of Gonzales

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Text originally published in 1960 under the same title.

© Pickle Partners Publishing 2016, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

THE MEN OF GONZALES

BY

JOHN H. CULP

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

DEDICATION 5

AUTHOR’S NOTE 6

1 8

2 26

3 41

4 59

5 69

6 86

7 98

8 110

9 121

EPILOGUE 132

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 134

DEDICATION

To

the memory of my father

whose courage and beliefs

were uniquely his own.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

On March 1, 1836, thirty-two determined men from Gonzales, guided by John W. Smith, reached Salado Creek, on the outskirts of San Antonio, to come to the relief of the Alamo. This work of fiction is their story.

Of all the men of Texas, they alone had heeded the call of Travis, the commandant. Knowing that certain death awaited them, they still rode forth to their duty.

In the story, the names of the men are fictitious, except for that of Albert Martin, who serves as a symbol of the rest. The distance of time has to a large extent obliterated personal incident; hence, it is invented for Martin and for other characters. Similarly, no attempt has been made to put in proper sequence or person the departure of the various couriers from the besieged fort; in the story, for instance, Jared Abrams carries the message from Travis which actually Albert Martin carried, and Albert Martin’s arrival in Gonzales is saved for several days later. In some cases, the events pictured as occurring in the settlement of Gonzales are factual, or based on fact—or what, in the light of previous events, would be reasonable to suppose; other events are fictional. There was probably no oak tree stump for Cristobal, and the little brass cannon, which earlier had fired the first shot against Mexico in the Texas War of Independence, has been retained in the plaza although it had perhaps disappeared by this time, and there are similar instances of invention, or a slight shifting of historical event in time, to further the story. It has seemed paramount to catch the spirit of the town and people, rather than present factually what history has recorded, even when historical fact can accurately be separated from the veil of legend which shrouds the last days of the Alamo.

The ages of some of the men are in keeping with tradition, and not fact, and Grampappy’s age is his own. No boy played Juan’s part on Salado Creek, but any boy should like to have.

What happened to the little cannon? Lenore Bright, curator of the Gonzales Historical Museum, writes: We would like to know what became of it. Some claim it was in the siege of Bejar, others that it was abandoned on the Cibolo, on the way to the siege, because of sparks from friction that almost started a fire. Still other sources say it was dumped in the Guadalupe.

But whatever its fate—if it was abandoned on the Cibolo, as many claim—its mouth still speaks in time and in the minds of men with the same voice of freedom which animates the men of this story.

Grateful appreciation is expressed to Miss Bright for her correspondence regarding certain research and material, and her courtesy in Gonzales by making the facilities of the museum available, and most of all for her unselfish willingness to be of assistance, which, after all, is but a modern manifestation of the spirit of Old Gonzales.

If you visit the town and want an oak tree stump to view the river from, the good people will probably pro-vide one.

John H. Culp

Shawnee, Oklahoma

August 31, 1959

1

Qué nombre! What a name! And all that afternoon I had chased my mother’s old yellow cow, Pablita Huérfana, through the fields and trees along the winding San Antonio River. At last, as I neared the eastern hills of the Salado, I came upon the six men who had hidden in the bare-branched post oak grove, and for the second day the cannon of the Mexican armies bombarded the Alamo.

Before the fire a tall man in a coonskin cap and buckskins stood with his long rifle, and near him on the ground lay the five other men.

Then, who’ll go with Kirbit into the Alamo? the tall man was saying, and now the other men heard me and leaped to their feet, holding their rifles raised. They all shoved close, and I was frightened. The tall man, Kirbit, clapped his hand upon my shoulder, and I was so lost among all the long rifles I trembled.

That day it was bad on the land. All over the smoky fields the hunted cattle died, and the jacales and faraway cabins burned. The odor of death rose in the air above the thorny mesquite and chaparral, and the Mexican soldiers dug their trenches beyond the Alamo and more armies came from the Rio Grande. Yesterday, their General Santa Anna had placed his cannon across the river to begin the bombardment, and beyond them his blood-red flag flew from the open bell tower of the Cathedral of San Fernando, in the flat-roofed town of Bejar—or as some called it, San Antonio de Bejar.

Apart from Bejar, on this side of the river, stood the gray stone walls of the fort where our Texians were besieged, the ruins of the roofless old mission chapel, with the stone statue of St. Anthony niched beside the door, rising above the lower walls of the barracks. From the chapel and the barracks walls our men fired at the Mexicans with their rifles, and now and then from the ramps and scaffolds with their booming cannon. Oh, it was bad! The siege of the Alamo had only started, and today the Mexican soldiers had driven my mother’s cow, Pablita Huérfana, away from our cabin.

Go watch the prairie, Kirbit told two of the men in buckskin. Who are ye? he asked fiercely, grasping my shoulder so hard it hurt. Did ye guide soldiers here?

No, señor! No! I am a Texian! I do not like the soldiers. They have wounded my father and driven away my mother’s cow. They have stolen our geese and chickens, and our fields are burning. I do not like the soldiers, señor!

Do ye tell the truth? Kirbit scowled, shifting the curved powder horn which hung from his shoulder.

Sí, señor. It is all true.

Do not call me ‘señor,’ Kirbit said. After today ye’ll use no Mexican word with me.

I talk two ways, señor. Look! I held up a finger. My father is white—all white—like you. I held up two fingers. My mother is part white, part golden. Three fingers. I do not understand such things, señor, but I am all golden.

A toothless old man who had left us to squat by the fire pursed his puckered lips and cackled like my mother’s hens in their yard.

Kirbit frowned. Quiet, Grampappy. I’ll have the truth of this.

The other men lowered their rifle butts to the ground. They laughed at the pained expression on Grampappy’s face, for his pink mouth drew together like a baby pouting, and even Kirbit laughed. What is your name, son?

John White, señor. But mostly I am called Juan.

Come sit with us by the fire, Kirbit said. The fire gave no smoke in the trees, but the wind from the burning prairies whipped smoke into our faces anyway. Now, what’s this about a cow?

It is my mother’s cow—Pablita Huérfana.

Why do ye call her Pablita—Pablita the Orphan? Kirbit laughed, crossing his long legs on the ground.

Because she is wild and always runs away, I said. My father was betrayed to the soldiers because he spoke against Santa Anna, and when they burned our cabin, she ran from our fields. After my father was wounded, he told me to search for her so my mother would not cry.

How did ye get through the soldiers? Kirbit said. Because I am this color, I said. And I wear the cotton pants and sombrero.

We have been surrounded here all day, Kirbit said. With no chance to leave until nightfall. He looked at the three men left by the fire. And with so many of the Mexican cavalry on patrol, we’ve no chance to move at all into the Alamo—today or even tomorrow. ‘Tis probable that the men in Bejar belonging to Travis’ regulars and Bowie’s volunteers reached the fort when Santa Anna surprised the town, but it’s not so with us—even though at the moment men from our own settlement are besieged in the walls. And with more of Santa Anna’s army arriving, our chance grows slimmer. Muchacho, where do ye live?

On Salado Creek, beyond the little hills to the east. And you?

We are from Gonzales, and some are from near the town, on the river of Guadalupe. Do ye know our settlement?

Barely, señor. Because I have spent most of my time with my father, who is a ranchero, catching the wild cows on the rivers—the little black cimarrones. But Gonzales was named for the Mexican governor of Texas and Coahuila, and it is where you fought the Mexicans to keep the brass cannon they gave you to defend against Indians. When the soldiers wanted the cannon back, you defeated them.

Aye. Kirbit grinned. Our little five-pounder fired the first shot in the war with the devils, for we saw the storm coming. Why, he said proudly, we have seven plazas in our settlement. Yet ye have never been to Gonzales?

No, señor. But I know it is the nearest of the Texas towns to Bejar, and to the capital of our own state in Coahuila. My father has crossed his cows and horses at the buffalo ford below your ferry many times. When I find the wild milk cow, my parents will go to Gonzales, since our cabin has been burned, and with his wound my father cannot fight in the Alamo. He could not even reach the fort. He would be captured.

Aye. Kirbit nodded. With soldiers thick as ants about.

Sí

Kirbit’s face became like a sad cow’s who had lost her calf. Well, ‘tis certain no one goes with Kirbit into the walls today. The Alamo must wait. Suddenly he smiled. Juan, we were going to eat your cow for supper. Schoeneback! Bring up the cow!

Schoeneback! Qué nombre! As odd as the name of my mother’s cow—Pablita Huérfana.

A fat man who sat beside Grampappy groaned and stood up. His round face held two saucer eyes and a long black beard which reached down to his stomach.

A large water gourd strung with a rawhide thong at its pinched-in middle hung from his shoulder, opposite his powder horn, and like Kirbit, he wore a bullet pouch in his belt. Mein Gott! The Dutchman frowned at Kirbit. If Texas was free, you would give me no orders. Like a Prussian from the old country you are!

Get the cow, or I’ll send the Frenchman. Kirbit looked up.

The Dutchman was funny, but that slim Frenchman from Louisiana! Oh, what a sight! He crouched by the fire rattling a pair of dice, and the fringes of his buckskin pants drooped over his moccasin heels. He wore a wide-brimmed sombrero over a thin face which grew a little mustache and a goatee. A black ragged frock coat with long tails hung from his shoulders and spread out behind his heels on the ground. But I could look only at the marvelous mustache, for one side of it was black and the other side was gray. And as I watched the mustache, the small clicking sound of the dice was mingled with the cannonade. I could smell the smoke of the smoldering fields, and my eyes stung.

Grampappy jerked a hand to his coonskin cap. In the wind my year hurts. I’ve enough of this foolishness. I would go to the Alamo—or back to Gonzales.

Old man—the Frenchman looked up from his dice, his white teeth flashing—it’s called ‘ear.’

It is my year and I will call it my choice, Grampappy snapped. He glared. Now, shut your foreign mouth. I will have naught to do with Frenchmen.

The Frenchman shook his head. He laughed and went back to his game. The fat Dutchman waddled back to the clearing, leading Pablita Huérfana by her rope. I took it from him and I rubbed the cow’s head and wild horns. She was tired from the long chase, and her nose was running from all the smoke she had breathed in the fields.

There goes our supper, Kirbit said to the others.

Yah, the Dutchman said, stroking his beard. And while my belly gnaws on my backbone.

Grampappy cackled again, clapping a hand to his buckskin thigh. I recollect one time on the plains I was right hungry, for I had starved for a week, and I come to a persimmon tree...

The Frenchman looked up and laughed again, clicking his dice.

Grampappy, shut up, Kirbit said. He turned his head, listening for a sound above the cannon fire.

The two men Kirbit had sent to scout the prairie walked back to the clearing. One was a burly man who wore whiskers and a black eye-patch. The other was Kirbit’s age and height, with pale blue eyes that held no expression. They rested their rifle butts on the ground. They stared at me and Pablita Huérfana, and then curiously at Kirbit.

Kirbit laughed. It’s his cow, so now we go hungry. He says he’s Texian.

I’ll see if he’s Texian. The man with the eye-patch scowled. He stepped forward and his rough hand grabbed my arm.

Ben Jack, ye’ll pull no tricks among us! Kirbit’s eyes flashed by the fire. Ye have spoiled for a week to kill a Mexican, but do not begin your work on the boy.

But Ben Jack showed his teeth and jerked me to him. Under the eye-patch a cruel scar-cut ran down his cheekbone until it was lost in his whiskers. Oh, he twisted my arm behind my back!

Kirbit leaped to his feet. Stop it!

I’ll see if the boy is Mex, Ben Jack growled. With my arm pulled up, my poor back turned double.

Stop it! Kirbit leaped forward.

Ben Jack jerked his good eye to Kirbit. An ye be man enough, he cried, With the trouble which has brewed between us for a month, come make me stop! I’d as lief ye felt my knife now as later."

Then, I will prove ye! Kirbit cried.

Feet foremost, he leaped at Ben Jack. His moccasined toe caught behind Ben Jack’s heel. His other foot shoved Ben Jack’s leg backward at the knee. Ben Jack tripped and fell sprawling. Kirbit drew the bowie knife from the belt of his buckskins and flew to Ben Jack’s throat. What a fight! Ben Jack scrambled to his feet. He picked Kirbit up by the waist and threw him into the air against a tree. Kirbit staggered and came back at him. Ben Jack’s knife cut Kirbit’s shirt. Kirbit beat off another slash and leaped at Ben Jack again and threw him to the ground. He stuck his knife in Ben Jack’s neck. Kirbit stood up and wiped the bloody knife on his buckskins. Oh, I was frightened, and so was Pablita Huérfana.

The second guard from the prairie, who had watched the fight without moving from the rifle he leaned on, strode to Kirbit. He was Kirbit’s cousin. His name was Absalom, and he was laughing. His pale blue eyes shone queerly. He shoved Kirbit roughly. He had it coming. Old Ben Jack—tough as a bear and teeth like an alligator. At last he met his equal.

Grampappy clapped his thigh. I recollect one time...

Confound it, man! Kirbit turned fiercely. Shut up!

I have my rights! Grampappy blazed.

A plainsman always has rights, Kirbit said. But he should run with the howling wolves to keep them, and not expound them on others.

The Frenchman stood up. His sombrero extended outward over his face and frock coat like a toadstool. Whistling, he knelt and emptied Ben Jack’s pockets. Mon Dieu, he said, puzzled. The man has nothing. Well, I will play him anyway. He took out his dice from his frock-coat pocket and rolled them clicking upon Ben Jack’s chest.

Just then Pablita Huérfana bucked like a pitching pony. She twisted and jumped all over herself, and I was holding her neck and hanging onto her horns. The men were all on their feet again but the Frenchman, who looked up calmly from his dice—and from the trees a dirty hunter moved. He carried a rifle as long as Kirbit s. He also wore buckskins, and they were muddy and torn. But this man I knew. He, too, was from Gonzales, and a friend to my father. He had ridden with us for the cimarrones.

Jared Abrams! Kirbit cried. How come ye here? Man, ye are water-logged.

Aye. Jared stopped among us. Wet from the irrigation ditches I crawled through to escape from the Alamo, and in the holes of the prairie gullies the water still stands from the rains we had.

Weariness rides your back. Absalom leaned again on his rifle. Set and rest.

Jared shook his head. I’m for the outside. His eyes were as soft as an old priest’s. He gazed again at the Frenchman rattling his dice on Ben Jack’s chest. Ben Jack. He nodded. Who killed him?

I, Kirbit said, pointing to the knife-cut in his shirt. Ben Jack has been troublesome for a month, which was why he came with us to Bejar—that he might kill a Mexican and settle down in his mind again.

If you’re for more killing, the hunter said, they could use you at the Alamo.

Mein Gott! the Dutchman said. "And