Mayne Reid - The War Trail - The Hunt of the Wild Horse

On the night before the battle Ijurra was missing. The Texan army was captured after a brave defence – in which they slew more than their own number of the enemy – and, under guard, the remnant was marched off for the capital of Mexico. On the second or third day of their march, what was the astonishment of the Texan prisoners to see Rafael Ijurra in the uniform of a Mexican officer, and forming part of their escort ! But that their hands were bound, they would have torn him to pieces, so enraged were they at this piece of black treason.

“I was not in that ugly scrape,” continued the lieutenant. “As luck would have it, I was down with a fever in Brazos bottom, or I guess I should have had to draw my bean with the rest of ’em, poor fellows!”

Wheatley’s allusion to “drawing his bean” I understood well enough. All who have ever read the account of this ill-starred adventure will remember, that the Texans, goaded by ill-treatment, rose upon their guard, disarmed, and conquered them; but in their subsequent attempt to escape, ill managed and ill guided, nearly all of them were recaptured, and decimated – each tenth man having been shot like a dog!

The mode of choosing the victims was by lot, and the black and white beans of Mexico ( frijoles ) were made use of as the expositors of the fatal decrees of destiny. A number of the beans, corresponding to the number of the captives, was placed within an earthen olla – there being a black bean for every nine white ones. He who drew the black bean must die!

During the drawing of this fearful lottery, there occurred incidents exhibiting character as heroic as has ever been recorded in story.

Read from an eye-witness: —

“They all drew their beans with manly dignity and firmness. Some of lighter temper jested over the bloody tragedy. One would say, ‘ Boys! this beats raffling all to pieces !’ Another, ‘ Well, this is the tallest gambling-scrape I ever was in .’ Robert Beard, who lay upon the ground exceedingly ill, called his brother William, and said, ‘Brother, if you draw a black bean, I’ll take your place – I want to die!’ The brother, with overwhelming anguish, replied, ‘No, I will keep my own place; I am stronger, and better able to die than you .’ Major Cocke, when he drew the fatal bean, held it up between his finger and thumb, and, with a smile of contempt, said, ‘Boys! I told you so: I never failed in my life to draw a prize!’ He then coolly added, ‘They only rob me of forty years.’ Henry Whaling, one of Cameron’s best fighters, as he drew his black bean, said, in a joyous tone, ‘Well, they don’t make much out of me anyhow: I know I’ve killed twenty-five of them.’ Then demanding his dinner in a firm voice, he added, ‘They shall not cheat me out of it!’ Saying this, he ate heartily, smoked a cigar, and in twenty minutes after had ceased to live! The Mexicans fired fifteen shots at Whaling before he expired! Young Torrey, quite a youth but in spirit a giant, said that he ‘was perfectly willing to meet his fate – for the glory of his country he had fought, and for her glory he was willing to die.’ Edward Este spoke of his death with the coolest indifference. Cash said, ‘Well, they murdered my brother with Colonel Fannin, and they are about to murder me.’ J.L. Jones said to the interpreter, ‘Tell the officer to look upon men who are not afraid to die for their country.’ Captain Eastland behaved with the most patriotic dignity; he desired that his country should not particularly avenge his death. Major Dunham said he was prepared to die for his country. James Ogden, with his usual equanimity of temper, smiled at his fate and said, ‘I am prepared to meet it.’ Young Robert W. Harris behaved in the most unflinching manner, and called upon his companions to avenge their murder.

“They were bound together – their eyes being bandaged – and set upon a log near the wall with their backs towards their executioners. They all begged the officer to shoot them in front, and at a short distance, saying they ‘ were not afraid to look death in the face .’ This request the Mexican refused; and to make his cruelty as refined as possible, caused the fire to be delivered from a distance, and to be continued for ten or twelve minutes, lacerating and mangling those heroes in a manner too horrible for description.”

When you talk of Thermopylae think also of Texas!

“But what of Holingsworth?” I asked.

“Ah! Holingsworth!” replied the lieutenant; “ he has good cause to remember Ijurra, now I think of it. I shall give the story to you as I heard it;” and my companion proceeded with a relation, which caused the blood to curdle in my veins, as I listened. It fully explained, if it did not palliate, the fierce hatred of the Tennessean towards Rafael Ijurra.

In the Mier expedition Holingsworth had a brother, who, like himself, was made prisoner. He was a delicate youth, and could ill endure the hardships, much less the barbarous treatment, to which the prisoners were exposed during that memorable march. He became reduced to a skeleton, and worse than that, footsore, so that he could no longer endure the pain of his feet and ankles, worn skinless, and charged with the spines of acacias, cactus, and the numerous thorny plants in which the dry soil of Mexico is so prolific. In agony he fell down upon the road.

Ijurra was in command of the guard; from him Holingsworth’s brother begged to be allowed the use of a mule. The youth had known Ijurra at San Antonio, and had even lent him money, which was never returned.

“To your feet and forward!” was Ijurra’s answer.

“I cannot move a step,” said the youth, despairingly.

“Cannot! Carrai ! we shall see whether you can. Here, Pablo,” continued he, addressing himself to one of the soldiers of the guard; “give this fellow the spur; he is restive!”

The ruffian soldier approached with fixed bayonet, seriously intending to use its point on the poor wayworn invalid! The latter rose with an effort, and made a desperate attempt to keep on; but his resolution again failed him. He could not endure the agonising pain, and after staggering a pace or two, he fell up against a rock.

“I cannot!” he again cried – “I cannot march farther: let me die here.”

“Forward! or you shall die here,” shouted Ijurra, drawing a pistol from his belt, and cocking it, evidently with the determination to carry out his threat. “Forward!”

“I cannot,” faintly replied the youth.

“Forward, or I fire!”

“Fire!” cried the young man, throwing open the flaps of his hunting-shirt, and making one last effort to stand erect.

“You are scarce worth a bullet,” said the monster with a sneer; at the same instant he levelled his pistol at the breast of his victim, and fired! When the smoke was blown aside, the body of young Holingsworth was seen lying at the base of the rock, doubled up, dead!

A thrill of horror ran through the line of captives. Even their habitually brutal guards were touched by such wanton barbarity. The brother of the youth was not six yards from the spot, tightly bound, and witness of the whole scene! Fancy his feelings at that moment!

“No wonder,” continued the Texan – “no wonder that Harding Holingsworth don’t stand upon ceremony as to where and when he may attack Rafael Ijurra. I verily believe that the presence of the Commander-in-chief wouldn’t restrain him from taking vengeance. It ain’t to be wondered at!”

In hopes that my companion might help me to some knowledge of the family at the hacienda, I guided the conversation in that direction.

“And Don Ramon de Vargas is Ijurra’s uncle?”