by H. W. Brands
A more personal consideration as well made Crockett look west. Like Sam Houston, William Travis, and countless others who found their way to Texas, Crockett left behind a broken marriage. His first wife had died young, leaving him three children. Desperate for help tending them, he remarried quickly and, as soon appeared, unwisely. His new spouse, Betsy, showed scant tolerance for her husband’s long absences, his aversion to regular work, and his growing enchantment with politics and fame. She spent more and more time with her relatives, till finally she didn’t come home. Crockett couldn’t fault her, and he concluded that perhaps wedlock simply wasn’t for him. Whatever its cause, the breakup left him with few domestic ties to Tennessee.
In the early autumn of 1835 he made up his mind to go to Texas, and by the end of October he was ready to set off. “I am on the eve of starting to Texas,” he wrote a friend on October 31. Crockett said he wasn’t leaving America permanently, at least not yet. This was a reconnaissance trip. But it would be a thorough one. “I want to explore Texas well before I return.”
At the time he embarked for Texas, Crockett had taken no position on the quarrel between the Texans and Santa Anna. And at first he didn’t intend to get involved. But during the journey west, his thinking took shape and his intentions changed. Everyone in Tennessee knew Crockett, and everyone in Tennessee knew about the Texas troubles. With scores of Tennesseeans heading west to join the fight against Santa Anna, it was easy for observers to assume that Crockett was going for the same purpose. Crockett was too much the politician to disabuse those who congratulated him on joining the noble cause. Yet he was honest—and irreverent—enough to put a characteristically modest interpretation on his journey. His explanation improved with practice; by the time he reached Nacogdoches in early January 1836, he had it in good shape. “I am told, gentlemen,” he explained to his hosts at a welcoming dinner, “that when a stranger like myself arrives among you, the first inquiry is, what brought him here. To satisfy your curiosity at once as to myself, I will tell you all about it. I was, for some years, a member of Congress. In my last canvass, I told the people of my district that if they saw fit to reelect me, I would serve them as faithfully as I had done before. But, if not, they might go to hell, and I would go to Texas.”
The audience roared appreciatively, making Crockett feel he had found kindred spirits. And his introduction to Texas made him consider staying longer than he had anticipated. “It is the garden spot of the world,” he wrote to his children from San Augustine. “The best land and the best prospects for health I ever saw, and I do believe it is a fortune to any man to come here. There is a world of country here to settle.” The people of Texas evidently loved him. “I have got through safe and have been received by everyone with open ceremony of friendship. I am hailed with hearty welcome to this country. A dinner and a party of ladies have honored me with an invitation to participate both at Nacogdoches and at this place. The cannon was fired here on my arrival.” Crockett had entered Texas from the north, and below the Red River he saw land “that I have no doubt is the richest country in the world—good land and plenty of timber and the best springs and wild mill streams, good range, clear water and every appearance of good health and game aplenty.”
It was a land worth fighting for, and Crockett decided to do just that. “I have taken the oath of government and have enrolled my name as a volunteer and will set out for the Rio Grand in a few days with the volunteers from the United States,” he explained. Yet already he was looking beyond the battlefield. He couldn’t have known before arriving how readily his fame would transfer to Texas; now that he did know, he conceived of making a new start in politics in Texas. “All volunteers is entitled to vote for a member of the convention or to be voted for, and I have but little doubt of being elected a member to form a constitution for this province.” What had seemed a reversal the previous summer now appeared a stroke of fortune. “I am rejoiced at my fate. I had rather be in my present situation than to be elected to a seat in Congress for life.” Obviously, he would be in Texas longer than he had supposed. He wanted his children to know that everything was working out well. “Do not be uneasy about me. I am among friends.”
C h a p t e r 1 5
Victory or . . .
While Crockett and his new friends rode west and south from Nacogdoches with the other volunteers, José Enrique de la Peña marched north and east from Monclova with comrades of his own. “We had set out with a fierce norther and had suffered all day long, facing its cutting winds and rain,” de la Peña wrote, “and by seven that night the rain had turned to snow.” De la Peña had only just received his assignment in Santa Anna’s army, and he was hurrying to catch the cavalry brigade, which had left earlier and, as it happened, got lost on the road. The brigade was backtracking when he overtook it. “The countermarch had been executed in the dark, in a wooded area,” he explained, “and, on a narrow road, all was confusion and chaos. Some muledrivers took advantage of the disorder to escape, and those who did not, neglected their mules because the agonizing cold kept increasing, and dire necessity forced the men to neglect their duties, to think only of taking care of themselves.” With difficulty the brigade pitched camp. “A few fires were started, which served as a converging point to the wandering multitude. Officers, soldiers, women, and boys, all shivering, gathered around the fires; circumstances had made equals of us all, and the soldier could crowd against his officer without fear of being reprimanded.” But there wasn’t enough space by the fires to warm everyone, and those who did get close didn’t want to give up their places to fetch more wood. The fires dwindled as the weather worsened. “The snowfall increased and kept falling in great abundance, so continuous that at dawn it was knee-deep; it seemed as though it wished to subdue us beneath its weight.” Men who made the mistake of lying down to sleep were soon buried under the drifts; even those who dozed sitting had to shake themselves periodically lest they be buried, too. Most of the soldiers were from warmer regions; many had never seen snow or felt such cold. They prayed for dawn, only to be astonished and dismayed at what it brought.
This night of agony, which our soldiers spent around the fires, adding to the clamor the curses desperation evoked from many; this night, which the torment of cold and hunger made longer, was followed by the day, which, so longed for and looked for, presented to our eyes an indescribable spectacle, the most enchanting that can be imagined. What a bewitching scene! As far as one could see, all was snow. The trees, totally covered, formed an amazing variety of cones and pyramids, which seemed to be made of alabaster. The Tampico Regiment had left its cavalry unsaddled, and the mounts, covered to the haunches, could not be distinguished by their color. Many mules remained standing with their loads; others, as well as some horses, died, for those that fell and tried to get up inevitably slipped from being so numb, and the weight of their loads would make them crack their heads. The snow was covered with the blood of these beasts, contrasting with its whiteness.
De la Peña, with every other officer in Santa Anna’s army, knew the commander in chief fancied himself another Napoleon; the blood on the snow made de la Peña think of Bonaparte’s disastrous retreat from Moscow.
The snow fell for twenty-four hours; as it melted it mired the men and animals in slush and mud. Now it was the turn of the oxen to suffer. “The oxen pulling the carts, by nature cumbrous animals and used to working only certain hours of the day, were being needlessly worked to death, harnessed even before sunrise until some hours after sunset, with no care taken to pasture them during the night.” Because many of the drivers had deserted, the oxen were left to soldiers who knew nothing about such beasts. “The soldiers, not satisfied with striking the oxen, would torment them with the points of their bayonets or their sabers.” The animals stumbled, clogging the road still further; many died in harness, bringing the column to a halt.
A second storm hit the army two days later. “A cloud charged with hail and lightning descended on us with all its fury.
A wild wind kept us from advancing, holding men and horses back by its force, but the rain, which was more copious, hit even harder.” In a painful irony, amid the rain the men and horses could find little to drink, as the water ran off the desert landscape quickly or made undrinkable mud. “Between five and six in the afternoon we encamped on the prominence of Armadillo, spending the night in the mud and tormented by thirst.”
Another few days brought the column to the Río Bravo del Norte—what the Americans called the Rio Grande—“a stream quite wide at this point, beautiful without being picturesque, somewhat shallow and slow of current,” de la Peña wrote. The river relieved the thirst of the men and animals, and most had little difficulty wading across. But a few oxen, worn by the march, beset by their inexperienced drivers, and pulling carts overloaded on account of the loss of other animals, tripped and drowned in the yard-deep stream, overloading the survivors still more.
The army ought to have rested before making the crossing of the desert between the Rio Grande and the Nueces. But Santa Anna, who already had gone ahead with his First Division, wanted his troops massed at San Antonio before the Texans were ready to defend the town. De la Peña’s group pushed north to San Ambrosio, “a place without water but with such an abundance of rabbits that the soldiers could catch them by hand as easily as chickens from a hen.” Perhaps distracted by the prospect of rabbit stew, the soldiers of one battalion allowed their stores of gunpowder to catch fire, with frightening but not fatal results. The army struggled forward as fast as it could, only to receive orders to move faster. “Suddenly a message arrived from the commander-in-chief. He communicated that on the 23rd he had entered Béjar and that the enemy had retreated and had barricaded themselves in the fortress of the Alamo. He ordered the sapper battalions from Aldama and Toluca to start forced marches.”
De la Peña pressed ahead with the sappers. The stretch from the Rio Grande to the Nueces was daunting not only from the lack of water but also from the threat of attack by Comanches, who had helped make this region a desert to Mexicans (and Americans). Yet no Indians appeared, to the relief of the soldiers. Across the Nueces, de la Peña—like so many others, most of whom had fewer distractions—was struck by the beauty of the land. “On the 29th, the last day of February, the troops took the ranch on Leona Creek, which dominates the scene as it courses over a beautiful plain, an inviting scene that begs to be inhabited. . . . The whole belt between this creek and the Nueces River is pleasant and rather beautiful and varied, and as one explores it, the soul expands and fills with joy; the sight of nature in its brilliant splendor brings an indescribable sense of wonder; the most delightful feelings follow one another to converge all at once and leave the recipient in a state of sublime ecstasy.” Doubtless the strain of the journey and apprehension over what lay ahead made de la Peña more emotional than he might otherwise have been, but he could hardly contain his feelings as he surveyed the landscape. “Those who may have enjoyed the pleasure of love during the flower of youth and the heat of a passion irritated by obstacles and stirred up by desires might be the only ones who could feel what my soul felt on this day in the midst of nature so full of beauty and life.”
After a day’s march of forty miles, de la Peña’s company reached the Rio Frio—“which did not betray its name, for a bitter cold was brought on by a blustery norther.” After twenty-five miles the next day, they camped in an arroyo that shielded them from the wind but not from another snowstorm, which prevented all but the weariest from sleeping. One man died of exposure that night and was hastily interred the next morning. The weather disrupted communications, as the ink froze in its bottles. Late the following afternoon the party crossed the Medina River, which bore special significance to those, including de la Peña, who knew their history. “This was the place where General Arredondo had fought against the colonists who had rebelled during the Spanish regime.” Another man died that night, apparently of exhaustion.
The next day they achieved their goal. “On the 3rd of March, between eight and nine in the morning, after the troops had put on their dress uniforms, we marched toward Béjar, entering between four and five in the afternoon within sight of the enemy, who observed us from inside their fortifications.”
By March 3 the defenders of the Alamo—the fortifications to which de la Peña referred—had been observing the Mexican forces for ten days. James Bowie had arrived in San Antonio at the end of the third week of January, bearing Houston’s order to demolish the Alamo and abandon the town. But Bowie was the wrong person to carry such an order, for as a recent resident of Béxar he had a greater attachment to the place than most of the Texas rebels. Moreover, his memories of Ursula—which were all he had left of her—were closely tied to the Veramendi house on Soledad Street; he couldn’t lightly consign those memories to Santa Anna.
And after he examined the defenses of the Alamo, he decided that perhaps he didn’t have to. James Neill had been left in charge of San Antonio’s defense after Frank Johnson and James Grant lured most of the garrison toward Matamoros. Fortunately for Neill, the Matamoros battalion was too eager for its booty, and therefore in too much of a hurry, to be bothered hauling artillery; so, although he was left with only seventy men, he retained nearly all the cannons the Texans had captured from Cos on taking the town. He and his faithful few made themselves useful building emplacements for the guns and fortifying the walls of the Alamo compound; by the time Bowie arrived, the place appeared almost formidable and was becoming more so. Green Jameson, the engineer in charge of the work, was quite proud of what he called “Fortress Alamo.” In a letter to Houston, Jameson wrote, “I send you herewith enclosed a neat plot exhibiting its true condition at this time.” The map, helpfully indexed, showed “batteries and platforms where cannon are now mounted . . . strong stone walls . . . a large stone quartel for horses . . . the magazine in the Church San Antonio: two very efficient and appropriate rooms 10 feet square each, walls all around and above 4 feet thick . . . the aqueduct around the fortress by which we are supplied with water . . . a lake of water where we contemplate supplying the fortress by ditching from one of the aqueducts laid down . . . a pass from the present fortress to a contemplated drawbridge across a contemplated ditch inside a contemplated half-moon battery . . . the half-moon battery at each end of the fortress as contemplated . . . a twelve-feet ditch around the half-moon battery as contemplated.” Jameson acknowledged that the garrison needed more men but, in light of recent intelligence regarding Santa Anna’s movements, not so many more as to be out of the question. “We heard of 1000 to 1500 men of the enemy being on their march to this place. . . . In case of an attack we will move all into the Alamo and whip 10 to 1 with our artillery.” Jameson concluded, “I can give you full assurance that so far as I am concerned there shall be nothing wanting on my part, neither as an officer or a soldier to promote and sustain the great cause at which we are all aiming.”
Such confidence was infectious, and Bowie didn’t take long to succumb. “All I can say of the soldiers stationed here is complimentary to both their courage and their patience,” Bowie wrote Henry Smith. “I cannot eulogize the conduct and character of Col. Neill too highly.” Houston’s evacuation order had been conditional, anyway, on approval by the political authorities, and because Bowie hadn’t heard of that approval he assumed it hadn’t been given. And he did his best to forestall it. “The salvation of Texas depends in great measure in keeping Béjar out of the hands of the enemy,” he asserted. “It serves as the frontier picket guard, and if it were in the possession of Santa Anna, there is no stronghold from which to repel him in his march toward the Sabine.” Perhaps Bowie had never taken Houston’s order as more than a recommendation—which was how he took most orders, as Stephen Austin had discovered—but now he disregarded it entirely. “Col. Neill and myself have come to the solemn resolution that we will rather die in these ditches than give it up to the enemy. These citizens deserve our protection, and the public safety demands our lives rath
er than to evacuate this post to the enemy.”
Even if Houston had exercised iron control over the army, he would have had difficulty denying Bowie and the others at San Antonio the right to take a stand for Texas. Houston’s situation wasn’t helped by the bickering that continued to afflict the provisional government. Smith and the council couldn’t agree on anything, let alone where the defense of Texas ought to begin; and without the backing of one or the other, Houston couldn’t make any decisions that anyone felt obliged to obey. As a result, the decision to defend the Alamo—like every other decision so far in the war—was made by those who would have to carry it out.
But they needed help. Every few days Bowie, Jameson, or Neill (sometimes all three) wrote to Houston, Smith, or the council pleading for reinforcements. “Relief at this post, in men, money, and provisions is of vital importance and is wanted instantly,” Bowie told Smith in the letter in which he announced his decision to fight to the end at the Alamo. “Our force is very small; the returns this day to the commandant is only one hundred and twenty officers and men.” The latest intelligence from the Rio Grande was that Santa Anna had more than five thousand men. “It would be a waste of men to put our brave little band against thousands.”
In answer to the pleas, Smith ordered William Travis to join Bowie and the others at the Alamo. Travis was reluctant at first, sensing that neither Smith nor Houston nor anyone else except Bowie and those already at Béxar was serious about defending the place. Travis asked for five hundred men to accompany him; Smith said he could have one hundred and would have to raise them himself. In the event, Travis was able to raise fewer than three dozen, outfitted from his own pocket. “I must beg that your Excellency will recall the order for me to go to Bexar in command of so few men,” he wrote Smith. “I am willing, nay anxious, to go to the defense of Bexar, but, sir, I am unwilling to risk my reputation (which is ever dear to a soldier) by going off into the enemy’s country with such little means, so few men, and with them so badly equipped.”