The Confederates walked down Magnolia and into the town of Harrisburg. Dan followed a short distance behind.

“You need to sign that you are accepting,” the clerk said.

Inside the shipping office along the levee in New Orleans, Dr. C. C. Rice checked the receipt and initialed it. Then he walked up the gangplank and joined his family on the deck of the steamboat. The United States had a policy of neutrality concerning the war between Texas and Mexico, so the two cannon in his control had been listed on the manifest as Hollow Ware.

The pair of cannon had been forged at the Cincinnati foundry of Greenwood & Webb in secrecy, paid for by funds donated by the citizens of Ohio who were sympathetic to the Texas cause. Lacking foundry marks, ammunition, caissons, or limber chests, they weighed around 350 pounds each.

Two metal tubes—700 pounds aggregate weight — were destined to free a nation.

“They’re raising that big board,” Eleanor Rice said.

“That’s called the gangplank,” Mrs. Rice said sweetly. “It means the trip has started.”

Eleanor’s twin sister, Elizabeth, smiled. “That means we’ll soon be in Texas,” she said to her father, who clutched her hand, “and then me and Ellie get our horses, right?”

“Yes, dear,” Dr. Rice said, “soon we’ll be at our new home.”

The trip of 100 miles down the Mississippi River to the Gulf of Mexico, combined with the 350 miles across the Gulf to Galveston, took ten full days. It was just past 9 P.M. when the boilers were stoked and the boat made her way into the Mississippi River current.

“It took us longer than scheduled,” Mrs. Rice said, as the steamboat passed over the bar into Galveston Harbor. “Will there be someone to meet us?”

“I don’t know,” Dr. Rice said. “We’ll just have to see.”

“There she is,” Josh Bartlett shouted.

The ship was several hours overdue, and his hastily assembled band had grown more and more drunk as each minute had passed. Bartlett reached over to support a tuba player as he struggled into his instrument. The fife player was laughing hysterically.

“Get ready, girls,” Dr. Rice said, as the ship was tied fast to the pier.

The crate carrying the cannon was rolled out of the hold and down the plank, followed by Dr. Rice, his wife, and the twin girls. The makeshift band was playing a crude medley of Texas revolution songs as Dr. Rice set foot on the wood-planked pier. Bartlett, dressed in an ill-fitting suit covered by a red sash denoting his largely ceremonial position in the Republic of Texas government, walked forward and shook Rice’s hand.

“Welcome to Texas,” he said, over the noise from the band.

“Thank you,” Dr. Rice said.

Rice opened the top of the crate to show off the two guns, then nodded to his twin daughters, who stood next to him on the pier.

“On behalf of the citizens of Cincinnati,” Eleanor said.

“We present you these two cannon,” Elizabeth finished.

The drunken fife player stopped playing for a moment and yelled over the heads of the small crowd of people assembled. “Looks like we have two sets of twins here.”

“Twin sisters for freedom,” Bartlett said, laughing.

A straw-haired lad of sixteen climbed from a mare flecked with sweat.

“Mr. Houston,” he said breathlessly, “the guns have arrived.”

Houston was crouching in front of his tent, sketching out battle plans on the dirt with a stick. He smiled broadly, then turned to his aide.

“Make sure they are brought forward immediately,” he said to the aide, Tommy Kent.

“Right away,” Kent said.

“This changes everything,” Houston said, rubbing the dirt clear with his boot.

The odds were against the Texans. Houston commanded an army of 783 troops. The invading Mexican forces, capably led by General Santa Anna, numbered 7,500. The Mexican soldiers had uniforms, regular rations, and numerous field pieces to lend them support. The Texan troops were ill equipped, underfed, and, until now, lacking even a single cannon. Most of the Texans had little or no combat experience. The Mexican troops had been drilled and honed into a cohesive fighting force.

Until now, Houston had been content to retreat. Three months prior, when Santa Anna’s troops had poured across the Rio Grande, the Texan army consisted of a small garrison located at the Alamo at San Antonio, another at the fort at Goliad, and a small contingent of troops that had assembled at Gonzales.

The Texans were outnumbered and outgunned.

“Sir,” Kent reported, “we have no shot for the guns.”

“I was afraid that might happen,” Houston said. “I’ve had the men scrounge around. We managed to locate enough scrap metal and broken glass to give Santa Anna something to think about.”

“Scrap metal?” Kent said in surprise.

“Nails, broken horseshoes, and metal chain,” Houston said.

Kent smiled. “I’d hate to be hit by that,” he said quietly.

“In that case, Mr. Kent,” Houston said, “I’d stay to the rear of the sisters.”

When the sun rose on the morning of April 21, 1836, it was tinged a blood red. Afternoon brought with it a haze, making the light dim and the mood sleepy. The temperature was in the low seventies, and a light breeze blew the smoke from the fires at the Mexican encampment at San Jacinto toward Houston, who was camped less than a mile away. There had been a few small skirmishes earlier in the day, but for the most part it was quiet.

“The smoke has lessened,” Houston noted. “They have finished their afternoon meal.”

“Is that what you have been waiting for?” Kent asked.

“No, Mr. Kent,” Houston said, “I’m waiting for them to bed down. We will attack at siesta time.”

“Make sure guards are posted, then relieve the men,” Santa Anna ordered.

Santa Anna waved his hand at a horsefly, then opened the flap of his tent and walked inside. The heavy noon meal and three glasses of wine had made him sleepy. His quartermasters had liberated several pigs from the Texas countryside, and he and the troops had enjoyed fresh meat for the first time in a week.

Standing by his cot, he removed his uniform and folded it over a wooden chair. Dressed in slightly dingy long underwear, he scratched a bug bite under his arm, then climbed under his smooth silk sheets and embraced his mistress.

Sam Houston was walking along a line of troops.

“This is for Texas, men,” he said. “Move quietly forward, flanking the twin sisters. When you hear the sisters sing, we go straight to the center.”

Houston stared at his men. They were a ragtag group dressed in fringed buckskin, dirty work clothes, even a few old uniforms left over from the Revolutionary War. For weapons they carried their personal black powder guns, knives, and swords. They were farmers, ranchers, prospectors, and blacksmiths.

But they burned with the fervor of the righteous.

“Yes, sir,” the troops said as one, “for Texas.”

“And let every man remember the Alamo,” Houston added.

The sister to the right sang first. A second later, her sibling cried out as well.

Yelling at the top of their lungs, the Texans lunged into the fray, urged on by a soldier with a flute playing “In the Bower.”

“Remember the Alamo — remember Goliad!” they shouted.

It was three-thirty in the afternoon when the first load of nails shredded two Mexican tents on the far edge of the battlefield. The guns continued to fire until their barrels were cherry-red. Then a swarming horde of screaming Texans charged the Mexicans’ crude barricade. Black powder smoke filled the air, while bayonets and swords flashed through the haze. The Mexican troops tried to rouse themselves from their slumber, but they were unable to assemble before they were inundated by the determined Texans.