As he clanked through the cell door in his shackles, Ellis stopped and turned, looking up at the wall. “Goodbye, friend,” he said. “This time I won’t be back.” The officer stared at him, bent over, and peered up at the cell wall, wrinkling his nose at the stench. Seeing no one, he shook his head as if he should have known that all prisoners were a bit loco, then led the way to where others were gathering. When a soldier removed the shackles from his arms, Ellis held up his scarred wrists. He’d become so accustomed to the weight of the irons that his arms seemed to float up toward his face.
William Danlin, bearded and long-haired, and still limping from the old arrow wound, hurried to Ellis and shook hands with him. “Ellis,” he exclaimed, “I’m sure glad to see you again, and I know Cooley will be. I never had a chance to tell you before, but Fero is no friend of yours. When he and Tom House and I were fixin’ to escape, Tom and I wanted to include you and Duncan. Fero wouldn’t hear of it, but he never said why.”
“Thanks. I’ll steer clear of him.”
A soldier handed each of them cotton pants, shirts, and leather sandals; another issued muskets. Blinking his eyes in the sunlight, Ellis marched with the other prisoners to army barracks near the town, where they were placed in two local militia companies. They were drilled on the parade ground for hours in the heat and dust. Weak from the months of confinement, Ellis collapsed on his mat at the end of each day, sure he’d never be able to rise again. By the end of two weeks of daily drilling, however, he felt strong and was eager to see the last of Acapulco.
With a company of uniformed regular troops, who acted as if they couldn’t even see the shabby citizen soldiers, the two militia companies boarded small ships that tacked their way up the coast to the mouth of a river. The only time I was ever on a ship, Ellis thought, as he gazed at the ocean and sniffed the salt air, I was hiding in a barrel. This is better. When they landed and he took a few steps, his legs felt peculiarly unsteady, and he noticed that others also staggered a little. Captain Nicolás Cosío lined them up under coconut palms.
“Men, we have reports that the monster Morelos is somewhere inland, not many miles from here,” he told them.
“No doubt he’ll try to ambush us, so we must locate his camp before we march. Who will volunteer to find it?”
Ellis, Danlin, and six Mexican militiamen from Acapulco responded, and set out upstream among the palms along the river. There was no breeze, and the heat was oppressive. Ellis wiped the sweat from his face. “Who is this monster we’re looking for?” he asked a short, swarthy militiaman who walked at his side.
“He is Padre José María Morelos,” the man answered, “but he is no monster, señor. He is a good man, a patriot who wants to free our land from Spain. When the revolution began, Padre Hidalgo sent him here with only twenty-five men. Now they say he has a small army. The only title he will accept is ‘Servant of the Nation.’”
“Then we must warn him that the royalists are coming.”
“Seguro. That’s why we’re here.”
After several hours of plodding inland, the sweating men came to a farm that had many fowls of various kinds. The hungry militiamen bargained with the farmer for a few chickens, then lit a fire.
“You wait here while I locate the camp,” Ellis told them. “No need for all of us to go.” They gladly agreed. Danlin limped toward Ellis, intending to accompany him.
“You stay here and rest your foot,” Ellis told him. “I’ll come or send word when I find him.” He walked on alone.
In half an hour, Ellis came to a trail leading through tall broad-leafed trees and flowering vines away from the river. He followed it a short distance, startling large green-and-yellow birds that raucously scolded him as they flew away. Ellis heard voices and crouched on the blanket of leaves in the underbrush until forty or fifty men were near. Among them he recognized several former prisoners, and knew they’d deserted to the patriots. When he stepped out and hailed them, they greeted him as a friend, and led him to the rebel camp. There he saw at least five hundred men of all colors, mostly Indians and mestizos, but also blacks and mulattoes. He looked around for their leader, wondering what sort of a man he might be.
“Where’s Morelos?” he asked. One of the ragged men pointed to a group standing in the shade of a huge tree, but Ellis could see only their backs. He walked up and peered over the shoulders of the nearest men, but saw no one who looked like he might be the commander of such a motley army. In the center of the circle, a heavy-set individual, who was little more than five feet tall, was speaking in a low, almost musical voice. His features were coarse, his lips thick, his face marked with moles. His eyes and skin were brown, his eyebrows thick and joined above his nose, on which was a large scar. His face reflected boundless energy and uncompromising determination. Covering his head was a brightly colored kerchief. A slender chain around his neck held a small silver crucifix.
He must be the chaplain, Ellis thought, wondering which of the others was Morelos. All but one of the men around the short man left. He looked at Ellis with raised eyebrows, his glance searching. “How can I help you?” he asked.
“Excuse me,” Ellis stammered. “I was told that General Morelos was here, but....”
“I’ve been a general only a short time,” Morelos said, his tone both grave and amused. “I’m afraid I’ll never look like one.” He smiled, and Ellis instantly felt drawn to him.“Why do you want to see me?”
“I was a prisoner in the San Diego Castle,” Ellis replied. “They let us out to fight in the royalist army. We landed at the mouth of the river, and eight of us volunteered to find your camp for them, but really so we could warn you they are coming.” He told Morelos where Danlin and the others were waiting. Morelos sent the man at his side to bring them in, then faced Ellis again.
“I’m not surprised they have come,” he said. “I expected that. Thanks to you, they won’t take us by surprise. What will you do now?”
“Right now, all I can think about is getting back to the States somehow,” Ellis answered. “I’ve been a Spanish prisoner for ten years.”
Morelos sighed. “Ten years,” he said. “Maybe you’re fortunate. We’ve been prisoners of Spain for nearly three hundred years. Now we intend to throw off our yokes, but the struggle promises to be long and bitter. Look at us!” He gestured toward the ragged men squatting in the shade, sharpening knives or machetes. “We have to fight them almost with our bare hands.”
Ellis looked around and shook his head. How could this ragtag army led by a plucky little priest with no military training hope to defeat veteran Spanish troops? Their cause was hopeless—all were doomed to die in battle, or worse, be shot in the back as traitors.
“I don’t see many guns,” he admitted.
“No, and we have little powder for the few we have.” Ellis thought about that.
“If you have any sulfur and saltpeter,” he said, “I can at least make some gunpowder for you.”
“We have a small supply of both. Make all you can.”
Ellis got some of the women camp followers to grind the saltpeter and sulfur on the stone metates they used for making commeal. He mixed the powder, then approached Morelos again. “If I go back to the royalists, I know I can get at least seventy men to come over. They’ll have guns, too.” The stocky priest looked at Ellis for a moment, and it seemed that he was taking his measure as a man.
“Go ahead, Elias,” he said, “for I trust you not to betray us. But make it appear that you escaped. If they’re the least bit suspicious, they’ll shoot you on the spot. They may, anyway.”
Ellis and Danlin slipped away that night, and the next day told Cosío about their capture and lucky escape. The captain looked at them through narrowed eyes. “They were going to shoot us in the morning,” Ellis explained. “We had to get away.” Cosío shrugged and ordered them to join the force of regulars and militia again.
“You’ll have your chance to get even,” he said.
“I sure hope so,” Ellis replied. They marched to Tres Palos, closer to the rebel camp, where they joined a larger force under Captain Francisco Paris, who was preparing to attack the rebels.
Because none of the militia had uniforms, Paris sent Ellis and others to shoot cranes so they could use the white feathers to distinguish the militia from the rebels. Ellis slipped away to a house where he found two women whose husbands he suspected were with Morelos.
“I’ve got to get word to Morelos,” he told them. One cautiously nodded. “Tell him Elias said to send as many men as he can to that abandoned house by the creek. I’ll meet them there tonight and we’ll capture the royalist camp and artillery.” He hoped Morelos wouldn’t think it was a trap.
That night Ellis and two Mexicans, who were rebels at heart, slipped out of camp, knowing that the sentry guarding the artillery also favored the rebel cause. In the light of a full moon, they waited anxiously at the abandoned house, listening intently. Overhead, bats squeaked as they flitted after insects, and owls hooted mournfully. “I hope they come,” Ellis said impatiently. “It’s too good an opportunity to miss.” The others agreed.
About midnight, Ellis heard the muffled sound of footsteps. He and the two Mexicans walked quietly toward the sound, straining their eyes in the moonlight. “Who is it?” Ellis called softly in Spanish.
Captain Miguel Avila cautiously approached, leaving the others behind. “Elias,” he asked, “is that you?” Ellis stepped forward and shook hands with him.
“How many men?”
“About five hundred,” Avila replied, “but only thirty-six have guns.”
“No matter. If all goes right we shouldn’t have to fire a shot.” Ellis explained his plan. Then he and his two companions led the way across the shallow creek and through the grass to the hill where the sentry waited by the five cannon. Avila quietly ordered some of his men to swing the guns around and aim them at the sleeping royalist soldiers, while Ellis lit a small fire with flint and steel. When he had five sticks burning, he handed four of them to others, then held the last one above the touchhole of a cannon. The others stood with their matches poised over the remaining artillery pieces.
“Order them to surrender,” Ellis told Avila.
When the royalist soldiers heard Avila’s demand to surrender and saw the five men ready to fire the cannon, they leaped to their feet and held up their hands. The militia, camped at a distance, fled; most, Ellis was sure, would join the patriots the next day. In his underwear, Captain Paris quietly untied his horse, leaped to its back, and dashed away.
“Get their weapons,” Avila ordered his men. When they had collected all of the muskets and sabers they could find, Avila armed his men and placed a heavy guard around the camp. The royalist soldiers lay down again.
In the morning, Ellis and Avila counted the captured weapons. In addition to the five artillery pieces were six hundred muskets, nearly as many sabers, and a large supply of gunpowder. Avila was elated. “Wait till Morelos sees this!” he exulted.
Morelos soon arrived, and he smiled broadly when he saw the captured arsenal. “Elias,” he said, “I thank you for my first victory.” The usually undemonstrative leader embraced Ellis and gripped his hand. “Hidalgo ordered me to raise an army and seize Acapulco,” he continued. “With these weapons we can do it, but I still need your help.” He looked at Ellis expectantly.
Ellis tugged at his earlobe as he thought about it. If the rebels took the castle, it would mean capturing or killing Carreño. That prospect made his pulse quicken. “You can count on me,” he replied, “at least until you take Acapulco. I’ve got some scores to settle there.”
“Good. Your rank is captain of Engineers.”
The rebel army immediately set out through the mountains on the way to Acapulco. As he looked down on the Castle of San Diego, Ellis thought of his years in the tiny cell, and wondered if Bill was still there. “If it wasn’t for my pet lizard, I’d blow it up with my own hands,” he said.
“We need to have it in our possession,” Morelos countered. “With it we can control the whole southern coast. We must take it, not destroy it.”
“But how can we possibly do that?” Avila asked. “It looks impregnable.”
“Perhaps not,” Morelos said knowingly. “Call the officers here.”
When they were assembled, Morelos took a letter from his pocket and read it to them. It was from Major Pepe Gago, commander of artillery at the castle. “There is a conspiracy to surrender the castle to the insurgents,” Gago had written. “On the night of February 7, we will raise a lantern to the top of the flagstaff. Form all of your men in the space before the drawbridge so they will be ready to rush in the moment we lower it and open the gate. We will fill the touchholes with tallow so the cannon cannot be fired.”
“What do you think of that?” the smiling Morelos asked, folding the letter and pocketing it. Most were delighted at the prospect of gaining such a valuable prize without battle or siege.
“It sounds too good to be true,” Avila remarked.
‘It is too good to be true,” Ellis interjected. “It’s a trap. If we go where he says, they’ll have a bunch of cannon trained on the spot and slaughter us.”
“Oh, no,” Morelos replied. “It can’t be a trap. We’ll do as he says. The castle is worth much risk.” Ellis frowned, but said nothing more.
On the night of February 7 Morelos marched six hundred men to Las Iguanas, which overlooked the grim fortress. He split the troops into two divisions, one under Avila, the other under Ellis. “We’ll do as he directed,” Ellis said to Morelos, "but I request permission to place my men as I see fit.”
Morelos agreed. They waited, straining their eyes at the castle, but midnight came and still no light appeared. “He lied,” Avila yawned."We might as well give up.”
“Have patience,” Morelos said. “Let’s wait a little longer.”
About four in the morning, Ellis saw a small, faint light over the castle. “There it is!” he exclaimed, and the others stared as the tiny light slowly rose to the top of the flagpole.
“Get into position,” Morelos ordered.
Ellis marched his division to the side of the castle opposite the place Gago had told them to assemble. Avila and his men waited at a distance as a reserve. Ellis sent a man to inform Gago that they were in position by the drawbridge.
“Watch what happens now,” he told his men. All flinched and held their ears when a tremendous roar went up and the earth trembled as fifty cannon fired on the space by the drawbridge. The cannon continued to shower the spot with grapeshot for half an hour, while Ellis, Avila, and their men withdrew into the mountains.
“If we’d been where he wanted us,” Ellis told Morelos, “not one of us would be alive.”
“We’ll return the favor one day,” Morelos said grimly. “I hope it’s soon.”
From the heights of Las Iguanas, they bombarded the castle for nine days with the cannon captured at Tres Palos. The following morning, a large force Carreño had sent during the night charged the insurgents and captured all but one artillery piece. Morelos hastily withdrew to the village of El Veladero, which was higher and more easily defended, but the loss of four cannon hurt.
In the first week of May, Morelos left Avila holding El Veladero and marched toward the little town of Chilpancingo, a key point on the road to Mexico City. On the way, a mounted scout galloped up. “The royalists are coming this way,” he said. “We should meet them in the morning.”
Morelos and Ellis rode ahead, looking for a defensive position. They found a deep ravine with steep sides that could be crossed only in a few places. Early the next morning, Morelos placed his army there, and they soon saw the royalists approaching in the distance. He sent Ellis with three hundred men on a roundabout march through the woods. Out of sight of the royalists, they crossed the ravine and waited until the two armies clashed, then charged the enemy rear. The royalists panicked and fled, while the rebels crossed the ravine as quickly as they could in pursuit. Many of them were Indians, who had centuries of grievances to avenge against all Spaniards. They pursued the royalists as far as they could run, hacking at them with machetes. Ellis overtook them on horseback.
“Capture them, don’t kill them,” he shouted, but few heeded him. As he knew, captured royalists might be exchanged for rebel prisoners.
The next day the rebels entered Chilpancingo, which surrendered without resistance. Morelos soon heard that a royalist force was preparing to move against Avila at Veladero, and sent Ellis with fifty mounted men to reconnoiter. The royalists were camped ten miles away, but had made no threatening move. At El Veladero, Ellis learned from an Acapulco woman that Governor Carreno was leading an attack on a rebel stronghold south of the town.
With reinforcements from El Veladero, Ellis hastened to the rescue. He prepared an Indian-style ambush where the road wound through bluffs, then sent a small force to fire on the enemy and fall back, luring the royalists into his trap. The ruse was successful, for five hundred royalist troops rushed headlong after the decoy party. Ellis watched with grim satisfaction as the last of the royalists came under the bluffs. Men fired down on them from front and rear—they couldn’t go forward and they couldn’t retreat.
Through the thick clouds of smoke that wafted over the royalists, Ellis glimpsed the heavy-set Carreño on his horse, waving his sword and trying to rally his men. Heart pounding, Ellis raced along the bluff to get closer. If I had my long rifle, he thought, I’d kill him for sure. When he was even with Carreño, who was about seventy-five yards below him, Ellis knelt and aimed his musket, waiting for Carreño to check his nervously prancing horse. When Carreño turned toward him, Ellis grimly squeezed the trigger. Carreño flinched, clutched his breast, and swayed in the saddle. I hit the son of a bitch! Ellis exulted. Two officers, seeing Carreño in trouble, dashed to his rescue while Ellis hastily reloaded. One rode alongside Carreño, holding him in the saddle, while the other led his horse away at a trot. Ellis fired at Carreño’s back, but couldn’t tell if he’d hit him. By the time the survivors extricated themselves, they had lost more than three hundred killed or captured.
The royalist force that had been threatening Avila at El Veladero suddenly marched toward Chilpancingo, and Ellis and his mounted men hurried there to warn Morelos. At the village of Tixtla, Nicolás Bravo and his men blocked the royalists’ path, but after a fierce battle the rebels were low on ammunition. Morelos hastened to the rescue, circling around Tixtla to attack from the rear while Bravo’s men charged the front. A desperate battle ensued, for the royalists stubbornly held their ground until a sudden rain shower drenched the gunpowder of both sides. Aware that the royalists had lost the advantage of their superior guns, the rebels unsheathed their machetes and charged, routing the enemy.
Morelos followed the royalists to Chilapa, where they had sought refuge with the garrison there. When royalists came out and attacked, they were repulsed with heavy losses—among the captives was Major Gago. “You thought to butcher us with your trick,” Ellis said coldly to the pale Gago.
“I was only following orders,” he replied.
Morelos questioned Gago for a few hours to learn what he could about royalist plans. When he was finished, he arose, gave a flick of his hand, and walked away. Rebel soldiers dragged Gago to a tree, stood him against it, then, while he begged for his life, shot him.
“The rainy season has begun,” Morelos said, glancing up at the dark sky as they entered Chilapa. “No more fighting for a while. I’m going to stay here and train recruits, but I want you to go back to Chilpancingo. Sulfur and saltpeter are mined near there. Make all the powder you can; we’ll be ready to use it when the rains stop.” The two towns were less than twenty miles apart.
Ellis found an unused bam and repaired the roof to keep out rain. Eight Indian women came daily to grind the sulfur and saltpeter Morelos’ men brought from the mines. Ellis mixed the powder and stored it in barrels, kegs, goatskin bags, anything he could find that would keep it dry.
When Morelos sent for him one day, Ellis left work and rode through the steady rain to the house where Morelos lived in Chilapa. “Come in and dry your clothes, Elias,” Morelos said. His eyelids drooped and his usually bright eyes were dull.
“What’s the matter?” Ellis asked anxiously. “Are you sick?”
Morelos gingerly put his palm on his throbbing temple. “It’s not malaria this time,” he replied. “It’s another of those cursed headaches. But that’s not why I sent for you.” He sat weakly in a chair and looked sadly up at Ellis, who still stood, his dripping clothes forming little pools of water on the tile floor.
“Elias, I received terrible news. General Calleja badly defeated Hidalgo and drove him north. At Saltillo, he and Allende turned over what was left of the army to Rayón, then set out with a small force and a pack train of silver on their way to the United States to buy arms and recruit men. They never got to Texas, for the turncoat Elizondo betrayed them. All have been executed.” He sighed deeply and put both hands over his face.
“Now we need help from the United States more than ever,” he continued, lowering his hands. “Do you think if we offer Texas in exchange for arms and men, your government will send them?”
Ellis took off his wet jacket and hung it on a chair. “Everybody wants Texas, and I’ll bet most Americans would like to see Mexico independent,” he replied. “I think it might work.” He wondered who Morelos would send.
Morelos pushed the kerchief up around his forehead to loosen it. “If I didn’t need you here, I’d ask you to go,” he said. “I’m going to send Major Fero and Mariano Tabares.”
Ellis frowned. “I think Tabares would like to take your place,” he said, “and I don’t know how far I’d trust Fero.”
Morelos shrugged. “Rayón and a lot of others would like to replace me,” he said, “but I don’t have much choice. Tabares has served well, and Fero was an American army officer. I have to trust them.” Ellis bit his lip but said nothing.
Because the royalists controlled the sea, the two men set out over land for Rayón’s headquarters at Zitácuaro, in the mountains west of Mexico City, on their long ride to the United States. Ellis returned to Chilpancingo.
A little over a month later, Ellis was astonished to see Fero and Tabares ride into Chilpancingo. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “I thought....”
“General Rayón commissioned me a brigadier general and Señor Fero a colonel and sent us here,” Tabares replied, while Fero scowled. “We’re not under Morelos now.” Ellis stared at them as if he couldn’t believe his ears.
“The revolution has too many leaders,” Fero growled. “It needs only one. Rayón.” They rode on toward the coast. As soon as they were out of town, Ellis hurried to Chilapa.
“Elias,” Morelos said when Ellis dismounted, “you were right not to trust those two. They’ve abandoned their mission and gone over to Rayón.”
“I know. I came to tell you they rode through Chilpancingo on their way to the coast.”
Morelos looked shocked. “To the coast? I wish now I’d arrested them. When I refused to recognize their commissions from Rayón, both were angry. I thought they’d go back to him. I must warm Avila to be on his guard.”
A few weeks later, Morelos grimly rode into Chilpancingo with one hundred well-armed men at his back, and stopped to see Ellis. “Avila says that Fero and Tabares are at El Veladero, trying to get the blacks in our army to rise up and butcher the whites. I’ve got to stop them.” He touched his spurs to his horse and trotted on.
A week later he returned, looking almost cheerful. “All is quiet now,” he told Ellis, “but if l hadn’t gotten there when I did....” He shook his head.
“Where are they?”
“Where they’ll never cause trouble again.”
“They had it coming,” Ellis said.
Leaving Ellis in Chilpancingo making powder, in November Morelos began his second campaign. Ellis, wishing he could be with him, eagerly waited for news. “After we took Tlapa,” Morelos wrote, “we marched on Chiutla. I had to take it, for Mateo Mizutu was there, and he’d sworn to kill me. He even had a cannon named ‘Kill Morelos.’ They fought like fury, but our brave men couldn’t be stopped. He offered me fifty thousand pesos to spare his life. I would have turned down a million.”
Early in 1812 Ellis learned that royalist General Calleja had routed Rayón at Zitácuaro and scattered his army. In March Calleja, with eight thousand troops, besieged Morelos’ army of four thousand in Cuautla. In early May a rebel officer wearily rode into Chilpancingo and found Ellis at his powder mill.
“The army and the citizens tried to slip away one night,” he gasped. “Calleja pursued us and slaughtered everyone without mercy, even the families. Morelos barely escaped—many men gave their lives so he wouldn’t be captured. He told us before we marched that if we were scattered, to meet him at Izúcar. He wants you there.”
Taking half of the troops guarding Chilpancingo, Ellis hurried to Izúcar with all the available guns and a pack train with two thousand pounds of powder. He was greatly relieved to find Morelos there, but shocked at the sight of his hollow cheeks. His clothes, once tight, hung on him like flour sacks on a post.
“We tried to hold out until the rains began,” he weakly explained. “That would have forced them to leave. But the rains were late, and we ran out of food. There wasn’t another rat or lizard left.” He paused, looking chagrined. “Friends in Mexico City say that Calleja told the viceroy he would abandon the siege in another day or two.”
“Rotten luck,” Ellis said. “Cooley and Danlin were with you. Do you know if they escaped?”
Morelos shook his head. “Cooley was out foraging when a royalist patrol caught him. They undoubtedly shot him. I don’t know about Danlin.”
“What will you do now?” Ellis asked, wondering if Morelos was so discouraged he’d accept the viceroy’s offer of pardon to any insurgent who laid down his arms.
Morelos’ sunken eyes flashed. “Why, keep fighting, of course. One defeat, even a disaster like this, doesn’t mean the war is lost. The viceroy ordered Calleja to destroy me, but here I am. I won’t stop till we’re free. Or until I’m dead,” he added, lowering his voice. “But you’re not a Mexican. If you want to leave I’ll understand.”
Ellis gazed at the little rebel leader with unconcealed admiration. “I’m with you,” he vowed, “to the end. As long as there are royalists to kill, I’m staying.”
“Thank you, my friend,” Morelos said hoarsely. “I will never give up.”
The rebel soldiers who had escaped during the attack straggled into Chiutla, where Morelos had moved. Many men, most with only machetes for weapons, came from the countryside, eager to serve under Morelos. When a large force had been gathered and trained briefly they marched to Chilapa, which the royalists had reoccupied after Morelos left. The royalist commander refused to surrender. As he boldly led an infantry charge, Ellis recalled his fright when the Spaniards attacked Nolan’s fort, and smiled. The sound of enemy gunfire was no longer terrifying. The garrison surrendered after a brief resistance.
After forcing the royalists to abandon the siege of Huajuacán, Morelos marched to the rich city of Tehuacán, the trade center for the provinces of Puebla, Oaxaca, and Veracruz. Ellis beamed and Morelos almost smiled as cheering citizens lined the streets and church bells pealed. Since the city was within striking distance of the Veracruz-Mexico City road, and a strategic base for campaigns against Mexico City, Veracruz, or Oaxaca, Morelos made it his headquarters.
On learning that most of the royal troops at Orizaba had been withdrawn to escort a large pack train from Perote to Veracruz, Morelos marched there with eight hundred men. Against little resistance, they seized the king’s tobacco warehouse, helped themselves to all they could carry, then set fire to the rest.
“That cuts one of the king’s purse strings,” Morelos remarked, nodding his head toward the clouds of tobacco smoke that billowed about them. Tobacco was a much resented royal monopoly.
They returned to Tehuacán in high spirits, confident there were no royalists in the area. But the much larger pack train escort, on learning of the attack on Orizaba, had hastily marched to intercept them. Surprised, Morelos’ men quickly formed two lines, but the enemy cavalry and grenadiers drove the first line back to the second. After a fierce fight, the outnumbered rebel soldiers broke and fled, with difficulty saving most of their artillery. Ellis, along with Morelos and other officers, put spurs to their horses and escaped, with musket balls whistling about them.
“We took a real flogging,” Ellis remarked when they reached Tehuácan.
“That we did,” Morelos admitted, his expression grave.
“Other than destroying the king’s tobacco, we have accomplished little this year, and the enemy grows more confident.” He paused, looking thoughtful, then continued.
“We must strike the enemy where it hurts and give new life to our cause,” he said. “I’m going to gather our forces and take Oaxaca. But tell no one where we’re going. The enemy has spies everywhere.”
He called in Victor Bravo and his division from the Mixteca, and the warrior priest Mariano Matamoros and his troops from Izúcar. Fighting men come in all shapes and sizes, Ellis thought. The Bravos were tall, muscular men, the sons of an hacendado. Matamoros was small and thin, with a pockmarked face and blue eyes. He had, for one his size, a surprisingly powerful voice. Morelos considered him his left arm and Hermenegildo Galeana his right arm.
Shortly before they marched, Manuel Mier y Terán, a handsome young graduate of the School of Mines, rode up on a fine horse and offered his services. He was tall and slender, with light skin, brown hair, black eyes, and a neatly trimmed mustache. Morelos welcomed him warmly and gave him the rank of colonel of Engineers.
Ellis, now a major of Engineers, but without any formal training, looked over his new commander wondering how, at twenty-nine, it would be to serve under an officer who couldn’t be more than twenty. Mier y Terán was obviously a member of a prominent creole family, an aristocrat accustomed to comforts. How will he react the first time he hears enemy gunfire? Ellis wondered. Then, recalling the attack on Nolan’s fort, he smiled wryly. Probably the same way I did. I didn’t quite pee my pants, but it was a close call. Mier appeared to be affable as well as intelligent, and dedicated to Mexican independence. Ellis decided to reserve judgment.
The rebel army, now nearly five thousand strong, headed into the rugged mountains that lay between Tehuácan and Oaxaca. As his stomach protested its emptiness, Ellis plodded up the steep roads on foot, for there weren’t enough horses and mules to haul the artillery and carry sufficient provisions—all were on half-rations. As he looked around at the Mexicans from nearly every walk of life who were willingly risking their lives and sacrificing their comforts for Morelos and independence, Ellis felt warm and forgot his hunger.
After nearly two weeks of hard-going, they descended to the fertile plains that surrounded Oaxaca on November 24. Ellis gazed in admiration at the huge fig trees, the orchards, and vineyards—Oaxaca was a garden spot. They stopped at an hacienda a few miles from the city and made camp in a field, while Morelos sent royalist commander Gonazález Saravia a demand to surrender. He refused.
The next morning, Morelos divided his force into six columns, leaving one to guard the camp, two to cut off escape routes, and holding one in reserve. With one column, Colonel Ramón Sesma attacked the fort, which was surrounded by a moat and connected to the city by a drawbridge. Ellis and Mier each commanded an infantry company in the column under Galeana and Matamoros, who sent them to capture the gate at the Marquesado Street entrance. The two led a spirited charge and opened the gate, allowing the rest of the column to rush through it. They drove the royalists back to the plaza. Ellis no longer wondered how the youthful colonel would do under enemy fire—Mier was a bom warrior.
In the attack on the fort, Manuel Félix Fernández, who later changed his name to Guadalupe Victoria, plunged into the moat, determined to swim across and lower the drawbridge. He was immediately bogged down in thick mud, and had to be pulled out. After two hours of fighting, the royalists hauled down their flag.
Knowing Oaxaca was a rich enemy stronghold, the rebel troops for once ignored Morelos’ injunction against looting, and plundered the shops and homes of Spaniards. Morelos immediately ordered the political prisoners released. Ellis felt sick when he saw the wretched, half-starved men, but Morelos was outraged. He had them lifted to the backs of horses and paraded throughout the city to give the people a taste of royalist brutality. Then he ordered four of the royalist commanders shot.
Morelos soon formed a town council of creoles, or Spanish Mexicans, and extended patriot control over the surrounding area. Mier took charge of the royalist armory, while Ellis opened a powder factory.
In January 1813 they learned that ruthless General Calleja had been named viceroy. Early the next month, Morelos left Colonel Rocha and Ellis with one thousand troops to hold Oaxaca, and set out with the rest for Acapulco. Along the way, he sent columns under his lieutenants to seize strategic towns. He wrote that he’d taken Acapulco and besieged the Castle San Diego. Its temporary governor, he added, was a Captain Vélez. Ellis smiled grimly when he read that.
“If I didn’t kill Carreño,” he said, “at least I put him out of action.”
“I wish Morelos would just leave troops to pin down the garrison and get on with the campaign,” Rocha remarked, looking worried. “Every day the siege lasts means the enemy is that much stronger. The Spaniards here are boasting that Spain is sending three thousand soldiers who fought Napoleon. We should be closing in on Mexico City, not wasting time on Acapulco. That could lead to our undoing.” His expression became gloomier. “I’m not a prophet,” he said, “ but for the first time I have a bad feeling about the revolution.” Ellis said nothing, wishing Morelos would send for him.