DUANE
Duane's take
Here's my telling of what the official marker in Liberty County has to say — and this one, friends, deserves every word it gets. They called it the Runaway Scrape. And that name alone ought to stop you in your tracks for a moment before we go any further.
It began with news nobody wanted to hear. Word reached the colonists about what had happened at the Alamo on March 6, 1836 — butchery, the marker calls it, and it does not soften that word. And if the Alamo wasn't enough to break a person's nerve, there was this: Gen.
Sam Houston's army was retreating. Still moving east. Still not turning to fight.
So the colonists ran. Families left beds unmade. Left breakfast sitting on the table, uneaten, still warm.
They grabbed what they could and fled — by wagon, by cart, by sled, on horseback, on foot — dropping gear as they went, shedding weight and hope in roughly equal measure, heading east toward the Sabine River and whatever safety lay across it in the United States. Now, Liberty County sits right in the middle of that desperate corridor, and here's something worth knowing: many Liberty Countians stayed put through mid-April, not running themselves, but standing their ground to help the refugees struggling past. That kind of quiet courage doesn't always make it into the big histories, but the marker remembers it.
The Trinity River was swollen with rain, and trying to ferry across it was its own kind of terrible. Camp after rain-soaked camp. Children dying — of measles, of other ills — in the mud.
People wading through flooded bottomlands, exhausted, sick, half out of their minds with fear. And then, finally, the ground rising. The prairie opening up.
Liberty ahead, with people willing to rest them, tend the sick, bury the dead. After a few days, most of the wanderers moved on toward Louisiana. And here is where the story turns — and it turns like only a good story can.
East of Liberty, the stragglers heard it. Cannons. The thunder of the Battle of San Jacinto, rolling across the distance on April 21, 1836.
And what do you suppose they thought? That Santa Anna's legions had finally crushed the ragged Texian forces for good. So they didn't slow down.
They ran harder. But then — and let those words just sit there a second — then they heard different news. Joyful news.
Someone coming toward them, not away. Someone calling out words that the marker preserves exactly as they were spoken: "Turn back, turn back." Freedom had been won. Sam Houston's army had done it.
The very army these folks had watched retreating, the army that had given them no reason to believe — that army had won. And so the Runaway Scrape ended not with a whimper but with people reversing direction on a muddy Texas road, heading home to cold breakfasts and unmade beds, and maybe — just maybe — not minding either one.
What the marker says
Famous flight of Texians to escape Santa Anna's invading Mexican army. Tales of the Alamo butchery on March 6, 1836, and the continuing retreat of Gen. Sam Houston's army prompted colonists to abandon homes and property and seek refuge in east Texas. Families left beds unmade, breakfast uneaten, and ran for their lives, traveling in wagons, carts, sleds, on foot, or by horseback, dropping gear as they went. Many Liberty Countians remained at home until mid-April, helping refugees struggle toward the Sabine in order to cross to safety in the United States. Terrible hardships plagued the runaways trying to ferry the swollen Trinity River. In rain-soaked camps many children died of measles and other ills. Wading through flooded bottomlands, the wayfarers came with relief to the prairie and the Samaritans in Liberty. After resting a few days, tending the sick, and burying the dead, most of the wanderers moved on toward Louisiana. East of Liberty, stragglers heard the cannonading at the Battle San Jacinto on April 21, 1836. Fearing that Santa Anna's legions had whipped the ragged Texian forces, they hurried on, but shortly heard joyful news: "Turn back, turn back". Freedom had been won for them by Sam Houston's army.