The Alamo

by Frank Thompson

  The Mexican army, on the march through northern Mexico, knew few luxuries either. They were under-equipped, ill fed and overworked. They traveled without priests or physicians, and many soldados would never eat at all if they did not find, kill and cook their own food. Many of the men even brought their families with them. What choice did they have? They could be conscripted—or, as they considered it, kidnapped—into the army for ten years or more, often with no pay at all. Their families would suffer, perhaps starve without them, so they came along, becoming soldiers in a shadow army. The good thing was that it offered the men companionship and comfort. The bad thing was that it just made for more mouths to feed—and few means to feed them.

  But if luxuries were lacking in the town and in the conquering army, they were plentiful in the command tent of Santa Anna. He was surrounded by finery. The floor was covered by plush carpet; the bed boasted numerous feather pillows, sheets of silk and expensive handwoven blankets of intricate design. The walls were lined with artwork and a bookshelf contained leather-bound volumes of poetry, erotica and military strategy. While his officers sometimes enjoyed whiskey or mescal, Santa Anna’s liquor cabinets were filled with exquisite bottles of fine port and rare wine. At each meal, he ate delicious food from beautiful china plates and poured cream from a tiny silver pitcher. An ornate chandelier hung from the ceiling.

  Santa Anna was known by his officers and aides to be vain and energetic, excessive both in fury and in intense patriotism. He was widely feared, even by those closest to him. But his personal charisma was strong. He had natural leadership qualities that led people to follow him, even when they fundamentally disagreed with his policies. He also had his special passions. Very young women—girls, really—were at the top of that list. The ancient art of cockfighting came in at a close second.

  Behind the tent in Zacatecas, a cockpit had been dug in the ground, ringed by torches. A pair of handlers knelt by their gamecocks, one brown and one white. Inside, Santa Anna waited for the game to begin. He leaned back in a plush, padded chair, his feet resting comfortably upon an ornate ottoman. He held in his hand an opium box carved from onyx. As he delicately pinched a small bit of the drug to insert into his nostril, his aide, Colonel José Batres, waited, pad in hand, to take any order that His Excellency might issue, or to write down any words of wisdom that might come to his brilliant mind.

  One of the handlers stepped inside. “We are ready, Excellency,” he said. Santa Anna clapped his hands with satisfaction and stepped outside, followed by Batres. He gestured toward the pit, and Batres knew that he was about to receive more of Santa Anna’s wisdom. “Men are like fighting cocks,” Santa Anna said. “Within each lives a killer. You only have to get his blood up”—one of the handlers put the comb of his bird into his mouth, sucking blood into it so that it would stand, bright and red, like a banner of no quarter, while the other handler strapped a razor-sharp spur onto his bird’s heel—“and give him the tools of destruction.”

  The general took his seat in a canvas field chair. Several of his officers surrounded him, waiting eagerly for the fight to begin. He gave a signal and the two roosters were released into the pit. A cacophony of squawks rose from the whirl of dust, feathers and blood. Santa Anna watched dreamily. There was nothing, he thought to himself, quite as relaxing and inspiring as a cockfight. He turned to Batres and whispered, “This . . . this mortal fury ennobles even the basest of men.” Batres scribbled down each word, understanding none of it. He stared hard at the paper, thinking that anything was better than having to actually watch this gory spectacle. Whenever he happened to glance into the pit, he quickly and squeamishly looked away.

  The furious battle continued for nearly two minutes. Suddenly, with a loud screech, the brown rooster sliced the throat of the white one. Batres and Santa Anna were spritzed with blood. Santa Anna smiled broadly. Batres fought down the rising bile in his throat.

  The handler announced, “The brown one wins!” Several of the officers exchanged money as the beaming handler brought the winning rooster over for Santa Anna to fondle. A private named Medrano jumped into the pit and picked up the bloody corpse of the losing cock and rushed over to where several women were plucking chickens to cook for supper. Medrano threw the rooster onto the pile and said, “Another hero for the stew.”

  As Santa Anna entered his tent again, invigorated by the scent of fresh blood, he found General Manuel Fernandez Castrillón waiting for him.

  “Ah, General,” Santa Anna said, smiling. “Have you news for me?”

  Castrillón nodded. “General, we captured another group of rebels,” he said.

  Santa Anna picked up his opium box and held it out to show to Castrillón. “Did you know this very box belonged to Napoleon Bonaparte?”

  “Yes, General,” Castrillón said.

  On a shelf sat an ornate bust of Napoleon. A portrait of the great French general hung on the wall. Castrillón knew very well of Santa Anna’s obsession with Napoleon. He even referred to himself as the “Napoleon of the West.”

  Santa Anna inhaled the opium, closed his eyes and sighed deeply.

  Castrillón continued, “Excellency, the citizens here are without food.”

  Santa Anna looked sharply at Castrillón. Normally such a statement would make him angry, but the opium was already having a calming effect. “They have rebelled against Mexico City,” Santa Anna said. “Against me.”

  “One might contend that an act of unexpected kindness might serve to secure their loyalty,” Castrillón said.

  Castrillón was on shaky ground here and he knew it. But even though he had served in the military for many years, he had never found a way to disconnect his conscience.

  Santa Anna stared at Castrillón for a while, smiling a little to himself. Then the president got an idea. “Do they have shoes?”

  Castrillón did not expect that question. He looked to Batres, unsure where this was leading. He answered cautiously, “Some do.”

  Santa Anna stood and looked to Batres also. The aide knew an order was imminent, and raised his pad and pencil in readiness.

  “Santa Anna declares every man, woman and child in this city will receive a new pair of sandals!”

  Batres transcribed this egalitarian gem as Santa Anna walked out of the tent. Castrillón and Batres followed him into the street. Signs of the town’s suffering were everywhere. Castrillón heard the moans of widows, or women about to be widowed. He heard the voices of men pleading for their lives. And everywhere, the squalor, the destruction. This was more than simply quelling a revolt, Castrillón thought; this was cruelty bordering on barbarism.

  Walking swiftly, Colonel Juan Almonte approached Santa Anna and Castrillón, closely followed by a messenger. Almonte saluted and said, “Sir, there is a messenger from your brother-in-law, General Cós, sir. . . .”

  Santa Anna impatiently waved them away. “Not now, Colonel.”

  Down the street, several Mexican soldiers were viciously beating a prisoner, dragging him back into a line of Zacatecan rebels standing before a waiting firing squad. Santa Anna gazed upon the scene with a look of benevolent calm. “Grace visits even the graceless, when they are about to die,” he said. “I can feel its presence.”

  José Batres wrote it down. His Excellency might want to use the thought again later.

  Castrillón said, “Shall we have them draw lots, your Excellency?”

  Santa Anna looked sharply at Castrillón. “Why?”

  “To determine which shall be executed, Excellency,” Castrillón said.

  Santa Anna nodded. Yes, he knew the quaint custom. He considered this for a moment, then announced, “Execute them all.”

  Castrillón looked as if he had been slapped in the face. Almonte passed the order along without emotion.

  Castrillón said, trying to keep the pleading tone from entering his voice, “General, it is tradition that—”

  “If we follow tradition,” Santa Anna said, “the people in this place will reme
mber that it was Fate that took their loved ones.”

  The air was filled with a deafening volley of musket fire, followed by the sounds of frantic wailing and weeping. Santa Anna smiled in satisfaction. “Instead, they will remember that it was Antonio López de Santa Anna.”

  Almonte returned from the firing squad and said, “Sir, the messenger from General Cós?”

  Santa Anna nodded. The messenger stepped forward and announced, “General of Brigade Cós has surrendered the Alamo and retreated from San Antonio de Béxar.”

  Santa Anna’s face darkened with anger. He clenched both hands into fists. Castrillón thought for a moment that the president was about to scream. Instead, Santa Anna muttered, “Coward! If he were not family I would slit his throat. Where is he now?”

  “Heading south,” the messenger replied. “Toward us.”

  Santa Anna turned to Castrillón and ordered, “Prepare the troops to march north.” He slapped the side of his thigh and said, “If the land pirates want blood, they will drown in it.”

  He whirled angrily to go to his tent. He stopped abruptly, turned and pointed to the bodies of the rebels, whose blood was streaming down the cobblestone streets. Santa Anna said, “See that no one touches those bodies for a week!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Zacatecas had been virtually decimated by battle and Santa Anna’s retribution. But to the north, San Antonio de Béxar retained its graceful beauty, even if scarred from combat. Its wide plaza was lined with low buildings of adobe and stone, covered in stucco that was painted in subtle blues, purples and reds. At the center of the plaza was the imposing San Fernando church, a massive building painted a sunset pink and topped by a dome and a tall belltower. San Fernando was surrounded by a low wall. Just outside the front door was the campo santo, the cemetery that contained the bodies of priests, Indian workers and Béxarenos.

  Directly in front of the campo santo was Soledad Street, which ran north to south. Bowie and his men, including Seguin, were riding down Soledad now. All around Béxar, the streets were bustling with Tejano families returning to their homes now that the siege was over. Most of them knew Bowie well, or at least knew of him. The Veramendis had been one of Béxar’s finest and most prominent families. Even though he was only a gringo, and notorious for his violent past, James Bowie had married into the Veramendi family and deserved respect for that, if for no other reason. And many of the people of Béxar truly liked him, whatever misdeeds he might be guilty of. As he rode down the street, several Tejano children spotted him and called out, “Señor Bowie! Señor Bowie!” They ran alongside him, reaching out to touch his horse.

  Bowie smiled briefly at the children, but the smile quickly faded when he spotted what lay ahead—the Veramendi House. Sergeant William Ward, a tough, sardonic Irishman and Bowie’s right-hand man, noticed the look of consternation on Bowie’s face. The men stopped to dismount in the plaza, but Bowie kept riding forward, toward his bullet-scarred home. The men watched him ride away but discreetly went about their work.

  Ward was not quite so sensitive. “Colonel?” he called after Bowie.

  Seguin shook his head and said quietly to Ward, “Leave him be.”

  Bowie dismounted and tied his horse to a post near the front door. He stood there, almost unwilling to step inside. Finally, he gathered the courage to push open the door and walk into his home. There were holes in the roof and walls, empty liquor bottles on the tables and on the floor, torn paper cartridges scattered everywhere. Much of the furniture was gone. What remained was battered, bruised and broken. Bowie walked through the main room and stood in the arch leading to the rear courtyard. It was a small plot of desolation—dead arbor, dirt, broken whiskey bottles. But it only took a glance to transport Bowie to another, happier, time.

  Paper lanterns hang from the lush green arbor. The tables are laden with punchbowls, wine bottles, fine crystal and delicacies of all kinds. A large main table is stacked with brightly wrapped gifts. Wedding gifts. A small orchestra fills the air of the courtyard with lively music. Some of the exquisitely dressed Tejano wedding guests are dancing. Others chat excitedly as Sam, Bowie’s slave, serves drinks, smiling. Bowie is impeccably dressed in his wedding clothes, a deep green velvet tailcoat with a silk vest and matching cravat.

  Even though Bowie is politely chatting with Juan Seguin and his new father-in-law, Juan Martín de Veramendi, his mind is elsewhere; he can think of nothing but her. Turning, he sees the vision that he longs to see: Ursula, beautiful, eighteen years old, a dream in her long, white dress. Her hair is jet black, as are her eyes, deep and mysterious, at once innocent and knowing. Her lips are red and inviting. She smiles happily at her new husband. It is a smile that conveys an eternity of fulfillment, of ecstasy, of pride.

  Ursula steps onto the patio with her sister Juana by her side. The guests applaud and she bows shyly, acknowledging the tribute of her friends and family. But she only has eyes for the man who has only minutes earlier become her husband. This is, Bowie thinks, the most precious moment of his life, a moment in which the world holds nothing but promise, the only time in his life when his spirit seems filled with pure, uncomplicated happiness.

  Bowie closed his eyes, praying that the memory would last. But when he opened them he stood alone in the courtyard, the ruined arbor behind him, sadness enveloping him like a cloud.

  Bowie looked out across his courtyard. There, in the distance beyond the river, stood the Alamo.

  Sam stepped into the doorway and discreetly cleared his throat to alert his master to his presence. Bowie did not turn around.

  “You all right, Mister James?” Sam said.

  Bowie said to himself, “I have a home.”

  Sam did not understand that response at all. “Sir?” he said.

  Bowie said, still softly, “I am sorry, Sam. I cannot blow the place up.”

  “Blow what up, sir?” Sam asked, confused.

  Bowie turned and smiled. “Not you,” he said. “I was talking to a different Sam.”

  Out in the plaza, William Barret Travis rode in at the head of his small cavalry unit. It was not precisely the position he would have preferred. Governor Smith had ordered Travis to take a hundred men to the aid of Colonel J. C. Neill at Béxar. Travis had tried—but all he could come up with was twenty-nine men. Humiliated at his failure, Travis had asked Smith to be relieved of his command. Smith refused. To Travis, the incident made him feel as though he were riding into San Antonio under a cloud.

  Travis and his men passed shopkeepers sweeping out their stores, people rebuilding their homes and businesses, and children running through the streets, squealing and laughing. Joe rode at the rear, every bit the horseman as the white soldiers.

  A mutt crossed the street to his master, Tom Waters. Waters was dressed in a rather tattered New Orleans Greys uniform, and when he saw the dog coming toward him, he opened his coat and sneaked a few scraps of meat to him. Nearby, three drunk, dissipated New Orleans Greys traded a bottle and laughed as Travis rode by. He noticed them with displeasure, but decided against taking any action for the present. There would be time soon enough for him to bring order to this rabble.

  Travis brought his horse to a stop and called out an order to his first officer, John Hubbard Forsyth: “Have the quartermaster secure billeting.”

  The men started to dismount, but Travis continued to ride ahead.

  Forsyth called out, “Where are you going, sir?”

  Travis said, “I’d like to see what I am fighting for.”

  His horse galloped along Potrero Street, to the outskirts of the east side of town. On a slight rise, Travis stopped his horse and stared straight ahead. There, less than half a mile away, was the old mission San Antonio de Valero. The Alamo. It did not look like much of a fort to Travis—a sprawling compound of low walls, some of which looked just barely patched up. But he knew that there must have been something to the place. It seemed always to be the center of trouble in this area, as if fighting men just could not s
tay away from it. It had to have been a hundred years old, if it was a day. But there it was. Rough, crumbling, battle scarred . . . but still standing. Waiting . . .

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Cherokee called the game “the little brother of war.” And like war, the rules were variable and endlessly adaptable, depending on the number of players on each team, the size of the playing field and the character of the terrain. Each player carried two sticks with which they hit a ball carved from wood or stone, or shaped in clay and baked into smooth hardness. There were two goals, and the ultimate object of the game was to hit the ball past them. But since those goals could be a mile apart—or sometimes twenty miles—the sticks were just as frequently used on opposing players. The contestants could often endure a game that lasted for over a week and never even see the ball. The teams could consist of five men—or a thousand. Later on, the game would become known as lacrosse, but the Cherokee name for it was more apt, because of the strategy needed to win it, and the blood that was often shed in the playing of it.

  As a boy, living among the Indians, Sam Houston had loved playing the game. He did not so much learn the rules as absorb them. He loved planning assaults and defenses, running players away from the goal with a beautifully orchestrated feint, or bulling straight down the field, winning the day through brute force. Today, as he rode over the hill toward the camp and saw a large group of men and boys running, shrieking and laughing across a clearing, it occurred to Houston that he was still playing the game. It was all about strategy, about winning and losing . . . surviving at any cost.