Gone to Texas by Don Worcester Page B

cavalry swept through Morelos’ camp and only the desperate resistance of his men saved him from capture. The patriot soldiers were so demoralized they fled. Unable to check their flight, the officers spiked the cannon and followed, with the enemy in hot pursuit.
    A few days later, early in January 1814, the royalists overtook them and forced them to make a stand even though they were without cannon. The royalist artillery decimated the patriot ranks, and a number of officers, including the able Matamoros, were captured. Morelos offered to exchange two hundred Spanish prisoners for him, but the royalists took him to Valladolid and shot him. Morelos ordered Acapulco burned and abandoned after the royalists captured the forts at El Veladero. The siege had been a waste of time. Ellis groaned aloud when he read the bad news. Rocha’s fears had been justified.
    A messenger from Morelos brought a letter promoting Ellis to colonel and ordering Rocha to march with eight hundred men, leaving two hundred with Ellis and Captain Simón Méndez. “Things look bad, Elias,” Rocha said when they shook hands. “The siege gave Calleja time to destroy all rebel armies in the north; now he’s concentrating his forces on the south. When they come here, as they surely will, save your men and all the powder you can carry. Try to get it to Morelos. If he still has an army, that is,” he added.
    In March a rebel courier dashed into Oaxaca. What now? Ellis wondered, as the man’s lathered horse slid to a stop.
    â€œThe enemy is coming,” the rider panted. “At least one thousand men, maybe more.”
    â€œWhere is Morelos?”
    â€œWho knows? The last I heard he was at Apatzingán with the congress. By now he could be anywhere. Or nowhere.”
    Ellis ordered his men to pack the mules with powder and two thousand pesos, all the money available. He frowned at the sight of royalist sympathizers joyfully preparing to welcome the approaching army. With his two hundred men and the pack train, Ellis headed north, carefully avoiding the oncoming enemy column, and not stopping to rest. In the mountains they came upon a camp of nearly one hundred ragged, bearded men. Brigands by the look of them, Ellis thought. Their stocky leader approached, eying the pack train, then the soldiers.
    â€œWhere are you going?” he asked.
    â€œTo Morelos.” The bandit chief glanced again at the weary pack mules, and at the soldiers, who held their muskets ready. He spat.
    â€œYou’re wasting your time,” he told Ellis. “Lots of us have given up; many more have also accepted pardons and now fight for the king. You’re as likely to be killed by former friends as by enemies. You’d do better to throw in with us.”
    â€œDoing what?”
    â€œKnocking off Spanish pack trains.”
    Ellis appeared to consider that, then shook his head. “I promised to get this powder to Morelos,” he said. “I’ve got to try.”
    The bandit leader couldn’t conceal his irritation. “Fighting is useless, I tell you,” he growled, his voice rising. “The revolution is dead. They’ll catch Morelos sooner or later, if they haven’t already.”
    â€œMaybe so,” Ellis admitted, “but as long as he lives there’s hope. I aim to find him.” He signalled to his men to ride on. They continued pushing hard for several days, until they rode into the village of Cuicatlán.
    An old man with a white beard arose from a bench and shuffled into the dusty street toward Ellis, who stopped his horse and leaned toward him.
    â€œWithout asking,” the old man said quietly, “I know you are patriots.” Ellis nodded, while the other villagers stared at the soldiers and weary mules.
    â€œRayón is near,” the old man continued, his voice so low it was barely audible. “The enemy are also not far away, so take care, señor. They have