Crockett said, “And we all know I was not cut out for politics, being the only congressman that ever left Washington poorer than what he come.”
More laughter from the audience.
“Fortunately,” Crockett said, “I ran into my good friend Sam Houston, who said, ‘Davy—David—get on down there to Texas and show them folks how “The Tennessee Grasshopper” is really played!’ ”
The crowd cheered. Many of them had heard about the great mountain man’s prowess with a fiddle. They felt as if they were receiving a rare and precious gift just by being allowed to listen to him work his magic.
Crockett raised his fiddle to his chin, counted off, “One, two, three, four,” to the leader of the band. Then he began sawing away at an infectious, upbeat rendition of “Listen to the Mocking Bird.” Crockett’s fiddle playing made up in enthusiasm what it lacked in technical skill, and the audience was thoroughly delighted. Many began dancing. Others stood near the stage, clapping in time to the music.
Jim Bowie was not quite as excited as the others. With a dour look on his face, he turned to Crisp, the man standing next to him, and said, “Bear hunter wanders into town, you would think it is the second coming.”
As Crockett continued to fiddle, Ward walked up to Bowie and whispered in his ear. Bowie’s face registered disbelief, then anger. Spotting Travis leaning against the wall on the other side of the room, Bowie forged through the crowd and grabbed Travis’s shoulder, spinning him around until the two men were nose to nose.
Bowie snarled, “You do not have the sand to talk to two of my men, much less arrest them!”
A flash of fear showed on Travis’s face. He tried to cover it with a look of indignation. “I told you I intended to restore order!”
Furious, Bowie said, “You have no command over my volunteers!”
“I have absolute command!” Travis shouted.
A crowd had gathered, surrounding the two. Crockett noticed the commotion and jumped down from the box. The music stopped.
Bowie said in a low voice, “It’ll be a cold day in hell when I take orders from a debtor who leaves a pregnant wife in the dead of night!”
Travis said, “Or I from a land swindler who marries a girl—rest her soul—for her family’s money!”
Bowie tossed off his coat and pulled his knife from the scabbard. Travis now feared for his life and could not manage to come up with another expression to hide it. He took two quick steps backward to put some distance between him and the legendary knife fighter. Crockett jumped between them.
“Whoa, fellers!” he said. “Just ’cause we got nobody to fight does not mean we start looking to our right and left.”
Bowie continued to stare at Travis, refusing to back down. Travis sized up the situation, desperately looking for a way to save face.
“Congressman Crockett has a point,” Travis said. “We should do this democratically. A vote.”
Bowie relaxed a bit and almost smiled.
Scurlock shouted, “Crockett! We want Crockett!”
Bowie’s smile dropped.
Crockett grinned modestly. “Naw, naw,” he said, shaking his head. “I am with you boys, not over you.”
Bowie looked around the room, now hushed. He said, “All for the lieutenant colonel raise your hands!”
Three men raised their hands. Travis tried to read the situation, looking around, seeing no sign of support anywhere. After a few seconds he said, “Come on, men. No repercussions. All in favor of me commanding?”
Slowly, a few more hands raised, but not many. In the corner, Joe looked left and right, hoping for more votes.
Bowie smiled with satisfaction. He said, “All for me?”
A majority of hands raised, including most of Travis’s men. Travis, humiliated, looked to Crockett, who held up two palms. “The gentleman from Tennessee respectfully abstains,” he said.
Bowie grinned. The crowd reacted, slapping backs as Bowie put his jacket back on. But Travis could not take it. He pointed at Bowie and said, “You can command the militia only. The regulars cannot be led by a volunteer. It is illegal.”
Even Travis knew how lame this sounded. All around him men scoffed and jeered.
Bowie said, “You don’t like the outcome, so you change the rules. Is that it, Buck?”
Ward said, “Do not fret about it, Jim. We all know who is in charge.”
There was a murmur of agreement around the room. Bowie thought for a moment, then issued his first official order. He said to Travis, “Release my men!”
There was no way out. Travis slowly nodded to one of his men, John Forsyth, who went off to let Bowie’s two drunkards out of jail. Then, tail between his legs, Travis walked through the crowd and into the night. He had come to Béxar to take command of all the force, but how could he command men who did not respect him?
As Travis walked down the street, away from his humiliation, he noticed a lovely woman standing in the shadows. Maria Ramona Sanchez had made her choice.
The confrontation had brought the fandango to a pause, but not to a full stop. Bowie and his men settled in with numerous bottles to celebrate the happy outcome of the election, while Crockett divided his time between playing his fiddle and working the crowd. He and his Tennessee friends were not nearly the prodigious drinkers that Bowie and his men were, but they held their own as the evening wore on. When the fandango finally came to an end, some hours later, Crockett was even slightly surprised that he could still walk. As he, Autry and a few others, all a little worse for wear, wove down the street on foot, they talked about their bright future in Texas.
Crockett said, “I will put in for that parcel on the Red River. The one we passed on the way here. The one with that blue hole at the elbow.”
The men nodded and grunted agreement. Even those who were not quite sure what Crockett had just said.
Autry said, “Don’t know why we had to tent up outside of town when there are so many fine houses with big cornhusk beds just sitting empty.”
Crockett peered from house to house. “Why are they empty?” he asked.
Autry said, “Folks hereabout believe the Mexicans are comin’ back.”
Crockett looked concerned. “Is that a fact?” he said.
“Yes, sir,” said Autry. “But most of the boys think they will not be here till late spring, if they come at all.”
Crockett and his party passed a small house with door and windows open wide. Inside, Ana and Gregorio Esparza were burying silver in a hole in the dirt floor. Their little son, Enrique, sat on the floor, playing with a top, gazing dreamily out into the night. Crockett stopped and watched with some trepidation. Enrique’s attention was caught by the kindly face of the tall Anglo. He stared at Crockett, ignoring his top for a moment. Behind him, his father spoke quietly, but urgently.
“Enrique,” Gregorio said, “close the door, son.” Enrique got up and closed the door, staring at the strange Americanos all the while.
Crockett stared at the closed door for a moment, then turned to Autry and said, “Figger they know something that we do not?”
Travis’s bedroom was nearly dark, illuminated only by the soft, flickering light of a single candle. Travis, without a shirt, sat on the edge of his bed, staring into the darkness. Maria Ramona lay sleeping behind him. She had seen what happened in the cantina and had felt sorry for the young man. She almost considered sharing her company with him at no charge, then decided against it. Pity, she told herself, did not put food on the table. Even so, Maria Ramona had decided to give Travis extra effort and care. Even if only for a few moments, he could forget his troubles. The thought made her feel generous and kind. She even consented to sleep in his bed, a gift she rarely gave to men. She hoped that the young man appreciated how special this evening had been.
Travis stared straight ahead. Slowly, his face started to change from defeated to determined. He licked his thumb and put out the candle. It sputtered, leaving the room dark. He lay back on the bed and wrapped hi
s arms around the beautiful stranger and quickly fell into a dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A Mexican dragoon crested a hill on his horse, stopped and smiled at what he saw. There in the distance were the lights of Béxar. Behind the dragoon were dozens more like him, followed by hundreds of exhausted foot soldiers and scores of soldaderas—camp followers, wives and prostitutes. The lines stretched back over a mile. The Mexican army had endured an impossible march, hundreds of miles all the way up to Béxar. They had suffered, frozen, fought, bled and died. But now the journey was at an end. They were here. Glory was at hand.
In Béxar, the first pink and orange streaks of dawn were beginning to color the sky. The fandango had left the streets quiet. Except for a few shopkeepers and some industrious businessmen, almost everyone in town was still in bed, sleeping it off.
Up in the belltower of San Fernando church, Daniel Cloud fought to stay awake. He had not had as much to drink as some of the men, but the night had taken its toll on him, nonetheless. He and beautiful seventeen-year-old Isabella had found a quiet spot in a stable near Soledad Street, a place where her suspicious father would never think to look. She was ashamed at having to deceive her parents, but they distrusted the gringos. They did not understand. One day, she believed, they would. Cloud would prove himself worthy of their daughter and they would welcome him into their family. But that day might be a long time in coming. In the meantime, Cloud and Isabella had to take advantage of whatever opportunities presented themselves. He worried that she felt cheapened by secretiveness, by giving herself to him in a stable or behind the protective cover of trees by the river. But this, too, he would make up to her one day, when this terrible war was over.
It was so tempting to close his eyes, to relive every thrilling moment of the night before, but Cloud fought to stay alert. The countryside was beautiful in the silence of early morning. Already, the grass was growing in green as the long winter was coming to a close. The distinctive blue flowers he had encountered all across Texas were beginning to peek through the underbrush, spreading a lush carpet of color across the plain. And in the distance a flash of silver . . . Silver?!
Cloud leaned forward and peered into the distance. Helmets! Horses! Lances! They were here . . . the Mexican army was here!
He grabbed the rope and began pulling furiously. The bell pealed out again and again. People began to emerge from the houses, looking up at him. Some had fearful expressions on their faces. Others just looked angry at being awakened at this ungodly hour.
Cloud looked down and saw Travis sprinting across the plaza toward the entrance of the church. Travis took the stairs two at a time until he reached the top. As he arrived, the ringing slowly died out. Daniel Cloud stared into the distance, confused. He turned to Travis and said, “I saw glints of metal. Horses. That way.” He pointed. “I know I did.” Cloud shook his head, as if he had been dreaming. “Then I looked again and did not see nothin’.”
Travis left the cupola and walked across the church roof to the west end, followed by Cloud. He stopped and squinted. There, in the far distance, he saw it, too. He could not tell if it was two or five miles away, but there they were—the Mexican army cresting a hill. It looked to Travis like an army of ants—endless.
Bowie raced up, coughing from the exertion. He stood beside Travis and looked in the same direction. He saw it, too, and grew stoic.
Bowie coughed again and said, “On the plus side of the ledger, Buck, I just found the miracle cure for a hangover.”
Travis looked at the army. It seemed to be composed of thousands upon thousands of men. He found it horribly fascinating. “We will never be able to defend the town,” Travis said. He looked down into the plaza. Nearly all of the Texians were there, wondering what was going on. Travis called down, “Get your belongings and make your way to the Alamo. The Mexicans are in sight!”
For some reason, he had expected them to calmly walk back to their quarters, gather their things and start out for the mission. Instead, the plaza exploded into bedlam. Soldiers and civilians scurried about in disarray, panicking, rushing back and forth. Travis and Bowie ran down the tower stairs and headed for their own homes. When Travis burst into his bedroom, Maria Ramona was already gone. He called for Joe to start packing their things.
Moments later, Travis and Joe rode through the mob on horseback, calling for calm, trying to get people to listen. “Orderly withdrawal,” he called out. “Orderly withdrawal to the Alamo! We will proceed in an orderly withdrawal.”
Nobody listened to him. Behind Travis and Joe, a small herd of longhorns was being driven through the plaza by Crockett’s men. Crockett and Autry were on foot. “Keep them beeves out of the buildin’s!” Crockett shouted. “Go, go, keep ’em movin’!” He noticed a Tejano woman cowering against a wall and nodded politely to her. “We be out of your path directly, ma’am,” he said, smiling. “Mind them horns.”
Grimes was not concerned with cattle. He was trying to wrestle his rifle back from the local he had just sold it to. “I know I sold it,” Grimes said to the man, who did not understand a word he was saying. “But now I need it back.”
Almeron Dickinson saddled his horse and mounted, holding his hand out to Susanna. “Colonel Travis said it would be weeks before they got here!” Susanna said pleadingly.
Almeron smiled down at her. “They see our cannon,” he said, “and they will think twice about charging in. Come on.”
Susanna wanted to swing herself up into the saddle behind her husband, but could not manage to do that and keep little Angelina in her arms. Joe pitched in to help her hand the baby to Almeron, then helped Susanna into her spot. Susanna smiled her thanks to Joe, then Almeron spurred the horse to a trot in the direction of the Alamo.
Travis was stunned by the chaos and continued to make pleas for order. “Orderly withdrawal . . .” he said over and over. “Orderly withdrawal . . .”
Tom Waters passed Travis chasing his mutt, who was spooked by all the noise and activity. “Come here, Jake,” Waters called. “Come here, boy!”
Seguin and his men were loading bags of corn from a warehouse onto wagons.
Travis rode through the crowd toward him. “Captain Seguin,” he shouted. “Get your men into the Alamo!”
Seguin kept loading and said, calmly, “You can starve by yourself, Colonel, but I am bringing the corn.”
Travis rode on, followed by Joe. They passed a Tejano woman holding the hand of a little girl. The two of them watched the Anglos stream to the Alamo. The little girl tilted her head toward her mother’s. “Are they going to die, Mama?” she asked.
The woman nodded sadly. “Yes, child. Every one of them.”
At the Veramendi House, Sam tossed food and utensils into a cart. Bowie was loading the cart, too, but he had to stop frequently when uncontrollable coughing overcame him. He wiped his mouth with a cloth and Juana, his sister-in-law, saw that it was red with blood. He said to her in Spanish, “There’s a shotgun hidden in the commune.” She ran inside to fetch it.
Sam stepped forward and said, “Are you all right, Mister James?”
Bowie waved him away and kept working. Fine, Sam thought. Let him die. The sooner the better.
The men herded cattle through the shallowest part of the river, just below the footbridge, carefully guiding them through the narrow entrance of the half-moon-shaped lunette that guarded the Alamo’s main gate, and then into the Alamo courtyard itself. The steers were followed by frantic people and animals, by Texians carrying guns and supplies through the main gate, by Tejanos, anxiously looking after their families. Gregorio Esparza escorted Ana and his children inside. Little Enrique was terrified. His mother looked uneasily at the disorganized Texians and crossed herself. It was not the first time that the thought, Are we on the wrong side? crossed her mind.
Almeron Dickinson led his wife, baby and several women inside the Alamo church to the baptistery, just inside the front door. “Thick walls,” he said to Susanna. “Y
ou will be safe here.” Almeron and Susanna looked deeply into each other’s eyes. He kissed her and the baby, then ran over to Bowie to find out what his orders were.
All across the Alamo courtyard, there was confusion among the regulars and the volunteers. Forsyth shouted to a group of men who were standing still, looking dazed. “Get up there,” he called, pointing. “Get over there. I do not care where you get, but get.”
Ward answered indignantly, “I answer to Bowie!” He added to himself, “Wherever he is.”
Bowie was at the Alamo’s main gate. He, Green Jameson and Seguin stood by while animals and people streamed by. Seguin wrote furiously on a scrap of paper while Bowie dictated, “ . . . under guarantee of a white flag which I believe will be respected by you and your forces.”
Seguin was writing the message in Spanish.
Bowie said, “Sign it, ‘God and Mexico . . . ’ ”
He reconsidered, grabbed the paper and drew lines through something. “Make that ‘God and Texas,’ ” he said. He looked at Seguin and said, “Ah hell, when was there somebody I could not talk to?” Bowie turned to Jameson. “Find something white.”
In his headquarters, Travis sat at his desk writing a letter:
The enemy in large force are in sight. We want men and provisions. Send them to us. We have men and are determined to defend the Alamo to the last.
Ward and Grimes and a few other Texians hustled past Travis’s office. Ward looked at the closed door contemptuously. “We are under attack,” he said, “and yore majesty locks hisself in his room.”
Travis sealed the letter, then grabbed another sheet and began to write. This letter was addressed to Fannin at Goliad.
We have removed all our men into the Alamo, where we will make such resistance as is due to our honour, and that of the country, until we can get assistance from you, which we expect you to forward immediately. In this extremity, we hope you will send us all the men you can spare promptly. We have one hundred and forty-six men, who are determined never to retreat. We have but little provisions, but enough to serve us till you and your men arrive. We deem it unnecessary to repeat to a brave officer who knows his duty, that we call on him for assistance.
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