The Alamo

by Frank Thompson

  Neill shrugged. “Nothing. An indefensible flank.”

  Jameson said, “It is hard to explain. There are four other missions around San Antonio, and none of them has a huge gap like this. It is a major flaw in the design.”

  “Is it defensible?” Travis asked.

  Jameson smiled. “By the time I am through with this place, it will all be defensible—even the palisade.”

  Neill nodded. “With some riflemen and a good cannon,” he said, “this should be one of the strongest positions in the Alamo.”

  Travis frowned. The statement was not nearly as reassuring as Neill intended.

  A New Orleans Grey passed by in a ragged uniform. Travis turned to Neill and said, “Colonel, you should know that I have a uniform on order.” Neill raised his eyebrows slightly and said nothing.

  “One is as one appears,” Travis said.

  Neill did not know exactly what to make of this. He himself was not adorned in military garb and wondered if Travis was being deliberately rude—or was simply unaware of his own pomposity.

  Jameson touched his hat, bidding a subtle good day to Travis and Neill, and went back to work. At the end of the palisade was the most distinctive and interesting building in the compound, the Alamo’s church.

  Neill said, “The mission was established in the early seventeen hundreds, but this church was not built until almost fifty years later. From what I have been told, they had a lot of problems in the construction of it—it seems to be something of a bad-luck place.”

  Travis looked at the large limestone building. Even in ruins it was an imposing and beautiful structure. Its doorway was framed by spiraled columns. Between them were icon niches. Another set of niches was placed directly above them. They were originally intended to contain religious statues, and Travis was mildly intrigued to see that all four statues were still in place. It seemed an odd detail for a military site.

  “Was it destroyed in battle?” Travis asked.

  Neill said, “What do you mean?”

  “It has no roof,” Travis said.

  “Oh,” Neill said. “The Catholics never quite finished it. The roof and dome collapsed years ago. Cós and his men took the rubble that filled the church and built that ramp leading up to the rear.” He smiled a little condescendingly and said, “I do not know how much you know about Spanish religious architecture, but the very back of the building is called the apse.”

  Travis nodded imperiously, as if to say of course he knew all about Spanish Catholic architecture.

  “It is a good thing they built the ramp,” Neill said. “In fact, we have a lot to thank Cós for. The two cannon placed there give us full coverage of the east side of the fort.” He and Travis walked up the ramp and surveyed the area from the top of the church. Neill pointed to the northeast. “Back there in the corral area, we have placed another cannon. That makes this rear area quite secure, I believe.” Travis looked straight ahead, toward the front of the church. A large square window was cut into the stone on the upper level. Through it, Travis could clearly see the belltower of San Fernando church in the center of Béxar.

  They walked back down the ramp. There were low, dark rooms on either side of the front door. Neill pointed to one and said, “This was the baptistery and the other one is the sacristy.” He glanced upward at a ragged platform above the entrance. “That is what’s left of the choir loft.”

  Travis said with a note of profundity in his voice, “A place of worship turned into a place of war.”

  Neill smiled. “Well, that is true, to a point. But no one ever actually worshipped in this church, from what I have been told. Even when this was a working mission, the chapel was over there.” He pointed toward the long barracks. “It is gone now, but that is where the services were held.” They stepped outside and turned to look back at the grave and compelling façade of the church. “This building was never really used for anything,” Neill said. “Fell in almost immediately, filled with rubble for years. I guess you could say it is a pretty useless building. At least until now. The walls are almost four feet thick—solid limestone. That makes it the strongest place in the fort.”

  Neill nodded to the statues on either side of the entrance. “Saints Dominic and Francis,” he said. “Up above, that is St. Claire and St. Margaret. The locals tell me St. Francis had two gifts: prophecy and the ability to inspire passionate devotion.”

  Neill walked on. Travis hesitated for a moment, taking a long, hard look at St. Francis. It seemed to him that he would do well to acquire either of the Saint’s gifts—and preferably both.

  Travis caught up with Neill at the north wall. “This is the most troubling spot,” Neill said. “The wall had almost crumbled to dust even when Cós held the place. He tried to shore it up with logs and mud, and Jameson has made some real strides in strengthening it—but a strong wind would blow it down.” Travis leaned forward and peered over the side of the wall. The outside was propped up by timbers. Horizontal logs had been cemented to the wall—it looked to Travis like a big, helpful ladder. Beyond the wall, there was an open stretch of ground about two hundred yards long. It ended at a small forest near the river. An attack from out of those woods toward this weakened position could be catastrophic. In the weeks and months ahead, he and Neill must make this their top priority: to strengthen this wall as much as possible; to make it impregnable.

  Neill had turned and was looking inside the compound. He pointed and said, “If the need arises, I recommend you take my personal quarters on the west wall. They are isolated, yet close to the primary defenses.”

  Travis said, “I am afraid I do not understand, sir.”

  “I have personal matters to attend to in Mina,” Neill said. “I am leaving you in command.”

  Travis felt a surge of exhilaration beneath his shock—this was big news. His own command. He straightened up a bit, already feeling a little more like a real officer.

  “I know you fought this posting, Travis,” Neill said. “Forting up is not exactly a cavalryman’s dream.”

  Travis saluted. Neill did not know quite what to do—no one ever saluted him.

  “I will defend it with my life, sir,” Travis said.

  Neill smiled and said, “Your biggest task will be keeping volunteers and regulars from killing one another out of boredom.”

  Travis said, “Are you so certain that there is no further threat from the Mexicans?”

  Neill laughed sharply. “Colonel Travis,” he said, “the Mexican army would have to cover many miles in the dead of winter to get here before I return. Santa Anna may be a cruel despot, but he is not insane. Believe this: Even if they return, they will not be here until spring. And by then, the Alamo will be the strongest and best-fortified position in Texas.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The cantina was the brightest and loudest building in Béxar. Texians and Tejanos elbowed one another at the crowded bar. The only women in view were a few barmaids and a handful of sharp-eyed prostitutes, cagily sizing up the carousing men, timing their advances to coincide with the moment when their drunkenness made them good-natured and generous, and before it made them cantankerous and mean.

  Travis knew he had to go inside, but it was not the kind of atmosphere in which he was comfortable. Drunken men were not reasonable men, and it was impossible to conduct impassioned discourse on any topic with unreasonable men. And Travis, above all, wanted to express his opinions and have them heard, understood and appreciated. It was one of the reasons he avoided strong drink. Drunkenness made his mind bleary and his ideas imprecise.

  The prostitutes, however, were another story entirely. Travis often thought ruefully that his libido had gotten him into more trouble throughout his life than his political views ever had. In his younger days, he had even kept a diary, carefully listing his conquests and making cryptic notes to remind himself of exactly how each had pleased—or displeased—him in the act of love. His wandering eye had ruined his first marriage. And even now, as he looked
forward to marrying his lovely Rebecca, he found it impossible to keep his mind off other women. The demure, dark-eyed Tejanas of Béxar carried a special allure for him. He remembered with great fondness his dalliances with Mexican women in San Felipe and Nacogdoches—and they, in turn, made him remember the saucy French and Cajun women of New Orleans. But the women of San Antonio de Béxar seemed more beautiful, more enticing than the others. Or perhaps it was because it had been quite a while since his last amorous experience and he was eager, even anxious to slip between the sheets with a willing and luscious Béxarena.

  Travis banished the thoughts from his mind. He had other, more crucial, matters to consider. Unpleasant matters. He peered through the door of the cantina for a moment, spying Bowie inside with several rowdy companions. He took a deep breath and walked inside.

  The cantina served at once as barroom, brothel and general store. While local vaqueros and Texians drank whiskey from glasses, others conducted business of varying kinds. Albert Grimes, a Southerner with a neck actually red from the sun, was trying to sell a long rifle to a world-weary Tejano.

  “This long tom will knock the whiskers off a hare at two hundred yards,” Grimes said, his voice slightly bleary with the early stages of drunkenness. “Mwee bwayno escopayta.”

  The Tejano examined the rifle and said, in Spanish, “I will need shot to go with it.”

  Grimes looked at him, puzzled. James Butler Bonham, tall and dashing, stepped in and said, in a voice that clearly recalled his South Carolina roots, “He wants you to throw in some shot.”

  Grimes nodded. “Well then, you tell him them bottles of mescal better be full.”

  Bonham translated to the Tejano, then stepped away to let them complete the deal in their own way. He spotted Travis coming through the door.

  “Will,” he said, touching his hat. “Never expected to see you in a place like this. What would the folks back in Saluda think?”

  Travis was incapable of responding in the same teasing tone. He had no talent for small talk or the easy, friendly insults with which men often communicate. “I am not here for a drink, Jim,” Travis said gravely. “I have to see Colonel Bowie on a matter of utmost importance.”

  Bonham chuckled a little to himself. After all these years, it was still the same Will Travis he knew as a shirt-tail boy back in South Carolina. As Bonham walked out of the cantina, Bowie’s slave Sam stepped over to the bar to fetch a new bottle of whiskey. Sam was a tall man, dressed in clothes that had once been fine but that were now frayed a bit around the edges. The garments had once been worn by a gentlemen—a white gentleman—and when they became too ragged, the decision had to be made whether to throw them away or to magnanimously give them to a slave like Sam. If Sam was grateful for charity such as this, he did not show it. In fact, he did not show much of anything. Sam’s face was normally impassive, but those who happened to look into his eyes would see that they frequently flashed with anger. There was not much he could do to escape his lowly station in life, but he did not happily accept it. He served his master and, to a certain extent, even respected him. But give him the chance for freedom, and Sam would be gone in the blink of an eye.

  The whiskey bottle in his hand, Sam walked back over to the table in the corner where Bowie was getting an earful from William Ward, the scrappy Irishman with a ruddy face and hard, angry eyes.

  “At some point Texas is going to be a state,” Ward was saying, “but will it lean to the North or the South? We going to have darkies working our fields, or ain’t we?”

  Sam poured another round, giving no indication that he heard Ward’s words or cared anything about them.

  Bowie took a long swig, wiped his mouth and said, “I have traded my share of flesh and I can promise you there will never be a free state that borders Louisiana.”

  Ward lifted his glass, as if in tribute to Bowie’s sentiment. Sam stood by, carefully staring into the distance. Bowie took another drink, which brought on a fit of coughing. Recovering, teary-eyed from the spasm, he looked up to see Travis approaching.

  As Travis crossed the room, he eyed the rowdy volunteers as if they were particularly unappealing animals in a zoo. No one even seemed to notice he was in the room. He spotted Bowie and walked over, Joe keeping pace several steps behind him.

  Travis said, “Colonel . . .”

  Bowie nodded without replying.

  Now that he was this close, Travis noticed Bowie’s haggard expression. “You look terrible,” he said. “Almost yellow. Right around the cheeks, forehead.”

  Bowie did not look at Travis. “You doctoring, now?” he said in a low, annoyed voice. “Along with everything else?”

  Travis realized that he was only antagonizing Bowie and decided to get right down to business. He said, “I have heard a rumor that you plan to destroy the mission and remove the cannon.”

  “Oh, and where’d you hear that?” Bowie said.

  “Men tend to prattle on when they drink,” Travis said. “Your men tend to drink.”

  Bowie turned briefly to scowl at Travis, then looked away.

  “It would be a great mistake,” Travis said.

  Bowie nodded. “I agree,” he said.

  He certainly had not expected Bowie to agree with him. Travis’s face registered his utter surprise. But before he could speak, Bowie said, “And any further discussion on the matter will be between myself and Colonel Neill.”

  Travis drew himself up a bit. “Colonel Neill left Béxar this morning on personal business,” he said. “It is my command now.”

  Bowie smiled sarcastically. “My, my, this is a swift rise, Billy.” He downed another shot. “You might want to break out the long britches.”

  Ward shared a jeering laugh with a few other Texians. Joe turned away to save Travis further embarrassment. Travis was stung by the insult, but nothing could stop him from speaking his mind—even the fear of more ridicule.

  “Your men exhibit no discipline,” Travis said. “If matters do not change it will become my duty, as colonel of this post to—”

  Bowie corrected him. “Lieutenant colonel.”

  Travis reeled with the mockery as though from a slap. He said, desperately trying to invest his voice with authority, “Restrain your men. Or I will.”

  Travis wheeled away and stormed out of the cantina, followed by Joe. He passed Juan Seguin, who was entering as Travis left, but Travis was too blinded by fury to notice him. Seguin walked over to Bowie’s table.

  “Santiago, sentries report seeing horses outside of town,” Seguin said, “in the Campo Santo.”

  Bowie downed his drink and rose. “Better go take a look-see,” he said. He turned to Ward and the other Texians around the table. “Go get your guns, boys,” he said. “We are going to take a little ride in the country.”

  The Campo Santo was an old cemetery, just outside of Béxar, the final resting place of many of the city’s founding fathers. Because it was old, and a little remote, the graveyard was not tended very diligently. Ancient gravestones peeked out from tall, unruly grass. Some wooden crosses had rotted over time and crumbled to dust, just like the Campo Santo’s permanent residents. It did not seem, to Bowie, Seguin and the men who rode with them, to be a good place to use as a campsite. Men and horses gathered there this late at night, they reasoned, could only be there for suspicious purposes.

  The men tethered their horses in a copse of trees. They carefully drew their weapons and, with Bowie and Seguin leading the way, moved stealthily forward. When they heard the low whinnies of horses and the sound of men whispering, Bowie held up his hand and all the men stopped and listened.

  Bowie strained to hear but could not understand what was being said. He turned to Seguin and said quietly, “Are they speaking Spanish?”

  Seguin shook his head. “I cannot make it out.”

  Bowie saw a quick movement behind a gravestone right in front of them. In a flash, he and Seguin and the three Texians and four Tejanos with them pointed rifles and pistols in
the direction of the movement. “Do not move!” Bowie called out sharply.

  Just as suddenly, they heard weapons cocked right behind them. Bowie turned and found himself staring into fifteen long rifles. At his direction, his men lowered their weapons slowly to the ground. From behind a gravestone, they heard an annoyed voice: “What’s a feller have to do to . . .” Then the voice shouted, “Hablo Engles, muchachos?”

  Micajah Autry said calmly, “We have got ’em, David.”

  From behind the gravestone stepped David Crockett. He was dressed in buckskin trousers and a long woolen frock coat. Beneath it, Crockett sported a white leather vest, elaborately decorated with Indian beadwork. On his head he wore a cap made of fox fur. It was not quite the five-pound monstrosity that had sat upon the head of James Hackett, but it was clearly inspired by that fearsome headpiece. Crockett and Bowie stared at each other in the murky light.

  Crockett saw that there were Texians among the group and said in a careful voice, “We are all on the same side here. Let’s not start in to shootin’ each other.”

  “What are you doing out here?” Bowie demanded.

  Crockett said, “Layin’ low till we figgered out if it was Texians or Mexicans raising all the ruckus in town.” He held his hand out to Bowie. “David Crockett,” he said.

  Bowie shook his hand. “Crockett of Tennessee?” he said. Bowie had heard many stories about the legendary Crockett. His first thought upon seeing him in person was that he was not nearly as tall as Bowie would have expected him to be.

  Bowie kept pumping Crockett’s hand delightedly. “Davy Crockett?”

  Micajah Autry turned to Bowie and said with a refined voice, “He prefers David.”

  By the time they got back to Béxar Plaza, word had preceded them that the famous Davy Crockett was coming to town. Excited Texians and Béxarenos poured out into the street to see the great bear hunter and Indian fighter. Crockett took one look at the crowd, heard a few shouts of “Speech!” and shifted immediately into politician mode.

  He stepped onto a bench and held his arms out to quiet the crowd. “Seems like everywhere I go,” he said in a folksy drawl, “I end up givin’ a speech. Now, I am not tolerable sure whether that is because people truly want to hear from me, or whether I have just acquired the habit of looking for crowds of folk and then goin’ in amongst ’em.”