by Drew McGunn
Approaching the old mission, Will observed the Alamo’s gate had been reinforced with a lunette, with two artillery pieces entrenched, in a manner similar to what he recalled in the most recent Alamo movie. Eyeballing the lunette, it appeared to Will it was intended to provide fire support to the low walls to both sides of the gatehouse. But further to the right of the gate, where he recalled there being a short wooden palisade, the ground was open. There was no wall between the sally port and the iconic mission. It was then that he recalled the wooden palisade was erected after Travis had arrived. Will and his men threaded their way through the lunette and passed through the sally port into the Alamo’s large plaza.
Will slowly dismounted from the horse with relief. The hours spent in the saddle had not been kind to his backside. There were no men standing on parade, nor was there any band to welcome their arrival. Several men looked up from their work as he and his men filed into the plaza. A few waved at Will and his men before returning to their work, where they were reinforcing a section of the wall with heavy wooden posts. From a two-story building Will recalled as the hospital, a tall, heavyset man wearing a long, blue frock coat came down the stairs, followed by a heavy scent of pipe tobacco clinging to his clothes. His wavy, light brown hair and thick sideburns stood in stark contrast to his ruddy complexion.
From the memories of Travis, Will recognized the Alamo’s commanding officer, Colonel James Neill. He wore a wide smile as he extended his hand and shook Will’s. “Buck!” Neill said, “It is damned good to see you, man!” Despite himself, Will couldn’t resist the older man’s enthusiasm. He couldn’t decide if it was because of Travis’ formality or Will’s own experience in the army, but he drew himself up to his full height and gave the garrison’s commander a sharp salute. A smile creased his face and he replied, “Colonel, it is truly good to be seen by eyes as sore as your own.” Neill beckoned Will to follow him as he started back toward the stairs. His foot was on the first step when he turned and said, “Tell me that this is only your vanguard. Surely the remainder of your command is on the way.”
Chapter 3
Will stopped in his tracks, and sputtered, “Vanguard?” He knew William B. Travis had spent the time since the Texian army had captured San Antonio at the end of the previous year trying to recruit a cavalry battalion. Despite Travis’ best effort, all he had to show for it were the twenty-nine men who were dismounting from their horses behind Will. Colonel Neill noticed Will’s crestfallen face and heaved a heavy sigh. “Damn Johnson and Grant to hell! Had those fools not cleared out our garrison on that stupid Matamoros scheme, we’d be in a sight better position, Colonel Travis.”
Will recalled few details from his Texas history about the Matamoros expedition, other than it was a failure which ultimately diluted the strength of the Revolutionary army around San Antonio. He glanced around the plaza and saw Neill’s men were entrenching more than a dozen cannon along and atop the walls ringing the plaza. He wondered what the expedition had cost the garrison, so he asked, “What all did Johnson and Grant take when they left?”
Colonel Neill started back up the stairs, and said, “My office is up here, why don’t you join me? I’ll get you current with things.”
As Neill took a seat across a rough-hewn desk, he gestured Will to a high-backed wooden chair on the opposite side of the desk. He replied, “I don’t really mind the four cannons that they set off with. As you can see, we’ve got plenty of artillery in the Alamo. But they took most of the supplies that we captured from Cos, when we sent him skedaddling back into Mexico.”
As Colonel Neill talked, it dawned on Will that there were certain gaps between what he knew of the Texas Revolution and William B. Travis’ memories. None of the information in his memories told him how many men had followed Johnson and Grant, nor how serious a dent they had put in the Alamo’s supplies. Knowing the lore of the Texas Revolution wasn’t enough, he realized. He couldn’t help wondering if the holes in his knowledge would trip him up as he tried to maneuver through the revolution and survive. He realized then Neill was still talking when he heard, “and what do you think of that, Buck?”
“Ah, well, there were not many able-bodied men left to recruit, Colonel Neill. Most of them are either with us here, or with Fannin or further south with Grant and Johnson.” Will paused for a moment and noticed Neill leaning in waiting for him to continue, “Of course Houston is back east of the Brazos recruiting as many men as he can, but in my opinion, he’s more concerned with making sure the provisional government declares independence than raising an army.”
Colonel Neill nodded his head and replied, “That, I fear, is the sad, sorry truth, Buck, but ever since Stephen Austin returned from his imprisonment in Mexico City, my belief is that Centralism will triumph in Mexico and the ideals of federalism are dead. Houston’s right, I think. Independence is our only course of action now.”
That suited Will just fine. After passing on a cigar Neill offered, he watched as the other officer took a pipe from a pocket, filled it with aromatic tobacco and lit it. He decided now was as good a time as any to ask his own million-dollar question. “Where do things stand regarding General Houston’s command to dismantle the Alamo and bring the artillery east?”
He watched Neill’s expression carefully, as the other man puffed on the pipe and blew a smoke ring into the air. After an extended pause Colonel Neill responded, “Now, Buck, I was under the impression Sam had given us discretion about fortifying the Alamo here or taking the guns with us back east.”
Will cocked an eyebrow at Neill, and with his voice heavy with skepticism asked, “Do you really think we can hold this old mission, James?’
“I was pretty much set to start pulling down the walls here when Jim Bowie arrived a couple of weeks ago. He and I have talked about it and believe we can make the Alamo defensible. We have twenty-two guns with enough powder and loads to make a fine showing of things. But I doubt it will come to that. I’m certain Sam will arrive here with the army before Santa Anna arrives,” Neill said.
Will was searching for the right words with which to respond when a shadow fell across the door as another man entered the room. Equal in height to both Colonel Neill and Will, with wavy light-brown hair that was starting to recede, Jim Bowie filled the doorway. Will felt more than a little awe at the man. Jim Bowie radiated a feral fierceness and charisma. Will glanced down at the huge blade hanging at Bowie’s belt and instinctively he knew the stories about Bowie’s formidable skills with the blade were more than mere legends. Bowie nodded to Will and smiled, “Buck, how was San Filipe?”
Forgetting what he was about to say to Neill, Will was momentarily taken aback by Bowie’s friendly gesture. He mentally rifled through Travis’ memories until he recalled Jim Bowie had used Travis’ legal services on several land deals over the past few years. More than that, the two were on friendly terms. Once again it hit home, in Will’s mind, that what one learns in the history books isn’t always the whole truth. Will smiled back, happy some things appeared to be different than expected, and said with a wave in Bowie’s direction, “Evenin’ Jim. Truth be told, there are hardly any men of military age in the settlement. Most are with Houston, Fannin, or with those fools Grant and Johnston down south of here.”
Bowie acknowledged Will’s wave with a nod of his head and sat on the edge of the table, between Will and Colonel Neill. He said, “One of my boys returned from Grant’s camp. Right now, he’s down around Refugio. It looks like Grant’s finding it rough going. Most of the men who rode south with him are with Fannin now. But where that jumped-up dandy is right now is anybody’s guess.”
Will smiled, when he realized he knew something the other two men didn’t. “Jim, I heard tell that Fannin’s at Goliad.”
Bowie quirked an eyebrow up, and said, “Do tell.”
Will froze up for a moment, when he realized neither Travis’ memories nor his own knowledge of history was much help to him. He shrugged his shoulders and made an educated
guess, saying, “Not much to tell, just heard back in San Filipe that he stopped there. Maybe he’s waiting for Grant to tell him they’re welcome in Matamoros.” For a moment Will wondered if it was a poor idea to offer up speculation and recalled, it’s not what you don’t know that will get you into trouble, it’s what you know that isn’t so that will do you in. Will fervently hoped his guess was good.
With the other officers’ attention firmly fixed on Will, he figured if they had accepted one nugget they could be receptive to another. Maybe with the roll of the dice he could do something about their futures. He pointed to a large map spread across the desk and asked, “What are the odds Santa Anna is marching north with his army sooner than we expect?”
While Jim Bowie scratched his chin, thinking about the question, Colonel Neill barely refrained from sneering when he replied, “The Mexican army? Marching in this weather? I can’t imagine him getting here before the spring. He’s at least six to eight weeks away. Why would Santa Anna risk the attrition of marching his army north in the dead of winter? When he arrives, Houston will be here with his army.”
Will wasn’t surprised by Neill’s response. He knew most armies didn’t fancy marching in the winter time, and 1836 had proven to be a colder one than most, he recalled. He cocked his head to Bowie, and asked, “What do you think, Jim?”
From his perch on the edge of the table, Bowie gave a thoughtful look and said, “Normally I’d agree with James,” Bowie nodded to Neill, acknowledging his given name. “But with Tamaulipas in near revolt, Santa Anna may decide to bleed his army in his haste to come north. If he does that, why, he could be here inside two weeks.”
Colonel Neill replied, “Jim, do you really think Santa Anna can mobilize the Mexican army and march them across the northern desert in the dead of winter? That seems a bit much, don’t you think?”
Bowie shot up from the desk, and fired back at Neill, “Why? Because they’re Mexicans? Don’t tell me you think they’re all a bit on the lazy side, James. These are my wife’s people you’re talking about. They may be laid-back and relaxed, but when they get their dander up, they get things done. And one thing about Santa Anna, you can bet his dander is most certainly up.”
Neill worked up a smile in response to Bowie’s volcanic outburst, “Jim, that isn’t what I meant. I just don’t think it’s conceivable he could march his army north through the dead of winter.”
Before Bowie could say anything more, Will chose that moment to interject, “Respectfully, James,” he said to Neill, “I’m glad our own General Knox didn’t feel the same way about the abilities of the Continental soldiers he commanded when he brought those big guns from Ticonderoga to Boston back in 1775 in the dead of winter.” Will said a silent prayer of thanks he was a history buff, and had that little gem rattling in his head.
Neill grew silent and swiveled his eyes between Will and Bowie, then gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I take both of your points, gentlemen. I don’t want to give the Mexican army the same due that I’d give our own Continentals. If General Howe hadn’t done the same, we might all still be British subjects. Damned if I’m going to fall into the same trap.” He sighed heavily as he conceded the point before asking, “So, Buck, what are you proposing?”
Since shortly after waking up in Travis’ body, Will had been thinking about the next step. He knew he needed to carefully lay out the strategy which would get all of them out from behind Alamo’s walls. He cautiously laid out his plan, saying “First, it is imperative we find out when Santa Anna brings his army across the Rio Grande River. Also, where he intends to cross. Personally, I think the most likely route is along the Camino Real. Wouldn’t it be something if we could entrench our artillery along the ford where the Camino crosses the Rio Grande? I bet we could stop Santa Anna dead in his tracks.”
Bowie slapped Will on the back, saying, “Damnation, Buck, I like the way you think. It had never crossed my mind the Rio Grande would be the best place to stop Santa Anna. Hell, men, if we could put a hundred riflemen on the Rio Grande along with some of these cannons, we’d have three or four hundred yards of clear fire. I bet ol’ Santa Anna will lead out with those lancers of his. If we can remove those pieces from the chess board, a determined force could cause Santa Anna to stall out there and bleed for several days.”
***
Will shot up in his cot, his eyes flying open as he abruptly awoke. He had hoped being in the saddle for so much of the last couple of days would help him sleep. But his rest had been troubled with dreams. The one which startled him awake, was just the latest in a long procession of dreams troubling his sleep. Not wanting to close his eyes, he swung his feet onto the floor and stood, wrapping the woolen blanket around him as he stepped over to the small window facing the Alamo Plaza and cracked the shutter open, looking into the inky darkness. He guessed the sun would peek over the eastern horizon shortly. He was ready for the day. The dreams were an assortment of his and Travis’. The one which had awakened him had found himself back in the wreck of the Humvee. The engine was on fire and ammunition was cooking off in the rear seat. When he turned to Sergeant Smitty all he saw was a skeleton staring back at him. When he looked out the shattered windows, there were dozens of men milling around, ignoring the burning vehicle. They were all dressed like the men in the Alamo. No matter how loud he cried out not a single head turned in his direction. He felt the heat from the fire getting hotter and winced each time a round of ammunition cooked off behind him. He turned back and tried to shake the skeleton, but as he reached out his hands, the mass of bones turned to face him and he heard the distinct voice of the sergeant say, “Save me!”
He screamed and tried unfastening the harness holding him in place. As the clasp gave way and he fell onto the roof of the Humvee, he looked back toward the milling men. As one, they turned their ghoulish faces, frozen in an anguished and tortured death. In unison they chimed, “Save us!”
Will awoke at that point. He wasn’t one to see messages in dreams but he couldn’t shake the images seared into his mind. He shivered, pulling the blanket, draped around his shoulders, closer in around his neck. It felt like another cold day was about to dawn. For a moment he wondered how he would adjust to a summer in Texas without air conditioning. He shrugged his shoulders and decided he needed to worry about surviving the coming weeks. Summer was still a long way off.
After exiting the tiny room assigned to him, Will ran into Joe, who was holding a steaming mug of coffee. The slave bobbed his head and handed him the coffee, saying, “Here you go, Marse William.”
Will accepted the coffee and thanked Joe. On one hand, part of him was amused at Joe’s attempt to cover his surprise at Will’s thanks. But conversely, it angered him that Joe was trapped in a life of slavery and William B. Travis was complicit. Feeling his anger starting to rise, Will tamped it down, saying to himself, “One thing at a time ‘Buck.’ Gotta win first before tackling other important stuff.” He compartmentalized this and walked across the plaza looking for whoever commanded the artillery.
A little while later Will was finding out many things are easier said than done. Refining yesterday’s plan into something which would work was tough going. He had found the Alamo’s artillery was under the command of a couple of different officers, which made little sense to him. That was how he found himself talking to Captains Almaron Dickinson and William Carey. Carey leaned against a small field cannon, saying, “There are twelve artillery pieces we could haul down to the Rio Grande. We have six 6-pounders, four 4-pounders and two 3-pounders. The rest of our ordnance is too large a caliber to transport.”
When Carey finished, Dickinson added, “We’re critically short of solid shot and exploding shells, but thanks to several shipments last month we have enough powder to sustain a bit of a barrage. What Captain Carey and I have devised are these canister loads. Mostly just rusty nails, broken bits of horseshoes, and of course, musket balls. But we have enough scrap metal for more than two hundred loads, and that still leav
es us adequately supplied with powder for our rifles and muskets.”
This sounded better than he had hoped. Then Dickinson continued, “The fly in the ointment will be transportation, Colonel Travis.” Will winced at the comment. He knew it was too good to be true. Dickinson continued, “The Alamo garrison only has a few horses, certainly not enough to transport a dozen cannon down the Camino Real.”
Will felt, more than saw, a presence behind him and turned to see Jim Bowie standing a few feet away. His deep voice boomed, “Are y’all done with the boring stuff yet, Buck?” A smile on Bowie’s face and a glimmer in his eye belied his gruff voice.
Will found it was easy to like being in Bowie’s presence. A smile crossed Will’s lips as he replied, “Oh, no, Jim, we saved the best for you. Captain Dickinson was just telling me everything with the artillery is fine except for a little fly in the ointment. Not enough horses.”
Before Bowie could respond, Captain Carey flashed a malevolent smile and interjected, “My colleague, Almaron, is actually not entirely correct, gentlemen. We actually have the necessary animals to get the cannon down to the Rio Grande.”
Will sensed he wasn’t going to like what Carey was about to say. The artillery captain continued, “We actually have enough horses.” He paused, watching Will and Bowie’s expressions. Then he dropped the hammer. “Your men were kind enough to donate them. They just don’t know it yet.”
The men who Will had led into the Alamo were cavalry and he could well imagine they were not going to like it. Bowie’s men were all volunteers with a reputation for poor discipline. He hoped none of them decided to ‘un-volunteer’ over this. For the briefest of moments Will had an image of Travis and Bowie arguing over whose men would bear the brunt of the requirement. For the first time, he realized it wasn’t his twenty-first century combat experience or his training that set him apart from the man whose memories he owned. It was his temperament. While he didn’t like what Carey had said, he saw no sense in arguing over it. He didn’t say anything and slid a glance over to Bowie. The knife fighter simply scowled and said, “This ain’t going to go down easy with my men. Nor yours either, Buck.”