Riding into the camp with Shipman, he watched an officer trying in vain to draw his company into formation.

Those who complied did so indifferently, and others ignored the officer completely or told him they would fall in when they felt like it. These were free men, proudly individualistic, unwilling to abandon their personal freedom to anybody for anything. But they would fight. James had seen that at Velasco and San Antonio.

His and Shipman’s arrival occasioned little notice, for many latecomers had been riding in to join Houston’s force. Others, with and without permission, had been riding out to see after their families, as James had seen them do during the siege of San Antonio. These were soldiers only by individual consent and only for however long they felt like staying. Fortunately for Houston, most were inclined to stay and have it out with Santa Anna. Many were impatient because it had not been done already: They had wanted to fight him at Gonzales, then at San Felipe. Now, near the town of Harrisburg, they were spoiling again to confront the Mexican army. But Houston had stalled, retreating despite the grumbling by officers and men that he was afraid, that he had no intention of facing around and giving Santa Anna a taste of Texas steel.

James had never seen the man, though he had heard the name often in the past year or two. Houston was not one to go about quietly and unnoticed, for his was always a commanding presence. James was sure he recognized him standing in front of a tent. He was a square-faced giant of a man, well over six feet tall, his face framed by muttonchop whiskers. He wore a much-abused black dress coat. The broad brim of his hat was turned up in three-corner style. On his feet were a pair of decorative mocassins that indicated an Indian woman’s hand. That fitted with what James had heard about Houston being at one with the Indians, particularly the Cherokees, and able to treat even with the wild Comanches. Houston seemed greatly displeased about something, for he was shouting at a subordinate in language that would peel the skin from a mule.

James had heard that the Mexicans sometimes referred to Houston’s men as soldados God dammes. It was not difficult to imagine why.

Houston spied James and Shipman and hailed them. “You two! What is your outfit?” His manner was gruff and loud.

James replied, “We don’t have one. We just got here.”

“Where from?”

“I come from out on the Colorado. Shipman here’s my brother-in-law. We just saw our family onto the ferry. We’ve come to join up.”

Houston surveyed them critically. “I don’t suppose you fetched along any grain for those horses.”

“No sir. I reckon they’ll have to get by on grass.”

“There’s damned little of that. I have eight hundred men in this camp, and sometimes it seems that half of them have horses. Doesn’t anybody want to be infantry anymore?”