The Alamo

by Frank Thompson

  As Travis wrote, Joe paced nervously behind him.

  “Joe,” Travis said without looking at him, “sit down before that terror catches.” He wondered if Fannin would detect the sarcasm in the last line—“We deem it unnecessary to repeat to a brave officer who knows his duty . . .”—as if that tin soldier would know his duty from a hole in the wall.

  There was a knock on the door and Crockett stepped into the room. “Colonel?” he said.

  Travis looked up, quill still in hand, dripping ink onto the desk below. To Crockett, he seemed more than a little dazed.

  “Do not mean to disturb ya, Colonel,” Crockett said, “but we got a mare’s nest out here.”

  Travis said, “I have to get couriers out while there’s still time.” Crockett nodded and started to withdraw. “By the way,” Travis said. Crockett stopped and turned. “I want you and your men to take a position at the palisade.”

  Crockett cocked his head to the left. “That little old wood fence?”

  Travis said, “You prefer a different assignment?”

  Crockett smiled. “Naw, that is precisely the one I was going to put in for.”

  Travis nodded. “If you could oversee manning the walls it would be a help.”

  Crockett said, “Yes, sir.”

  “We should have six men to a cannon,” Travis said. “Eighteen tubes, which works out to . . .”

  “Hundred and eight men,” Crockett said quickly.

  Travis looked at him with some surprise.

  Crockett smiled modestly. “Even bear hunters have to do a little figgerin’ from time to time.”

  Travis smiled and continued, “And we should have a man with a musket every four feet of wall.”

  Calculating rapidly in his head, Crockett knew they were in trouble. “Colonel Travis,” he said, “we are going to need more men.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A footsore troop of several hundred Texians trudged into the courtyard of La Bahía Mission near Goliad. It was a younger mission than the Alamo, built in 1779, and, to the eyes of the men who had seen both places, seemed to be the stronger of the two. The large and ornate church was in good repair, as were the officers’ quarters and barracks. The entire compound was surrounded by sturdy walls, eight feet high.

  The Texians who had just arrived to occupy La Bahía, however, were not impressed with it. At the moment, nothing mattered much to them except food and sleep. They had been marching for hours, urged along by their curiously prim and hesitant leader, Colonel James Walker Fannin. Marching through the gate, the men looked around, tired, hungry and disgusted. A low groan rumbled through the group when Fannin stepped in front of the church and raised an arm to get their attention.

  “Men,” he said politely. “Men, if I could please ask for your attention . . .”

  “God in heaven,” muttered an Englishman named Huberman, “he’s going to give us another speech.”

  The Texians threw their packs and rifles down and flopped into the dirt of the courtyard. No one was paying much attention to Fannin. Few of them even looked at him.

  Fannin raised his voice slightly. “I understand that you might be rather disappointed that we have, um, postponed our assault on Matamoros . . .” he said. His voice still carried the lilt from his childhood in Georgia. He was not a fiery Southerner like Bowie or Travis, but of the more refined plantation variety.

  Fannin continued, “ . . . but discretion being the better part of valor, I have decided that we will remain here in Goliad.” He braced himself for a protest, but the men said nothing. Most of them were simply happy that they did not have to walk any farther.

  “We will stay here awaiting resupply and further orders from . . .” Fannin tried to give his voice an edge, but could not manage it, “ . . . from whomever is now in charge back in San Felipe.”

  The men grumbled a little. It was those buffoons back in San Felipe who had gotten them into this mess in the first place. They thought they were headed for riches and heady victory in Matamoros. Instead, they had marched for days, only to wind up stuck in this little colony in the back end of nowhere, whose only importance was its strategic position on the map. There were, they knew, basically two roads that led into Texas from Mexico. One came in from the west, through Coahuila and across the Rio Grande. That road led straight into San Antonio de Béxar and on to Bastrop and Washington-on-the-Brazos. The other came up directly from the south, through Matamoros. Winding northward, the road went through Agua Dulce, San Patricio, Refugio and straight into Goliad. Leaving either Béxar or Goliad unguarded simply opened the door to Texas to Santa Anna’s army.

  Fannin continued, “Since we may be here for some time, I’d like to christen this garrison Fort Defiance!”

  One of the Texians groaned. Nobody else responded. Nobody else cared.

  Fannin took the non-response as a rejection of his idea. Growing a little desperate he said, “Unless you all would like to vote on a name . . .”

  It seemed to the men watching from the walls of the Alamo that the Mexican army swept into Béxar like a majestic sea: officers in red-breasted coats braided with gold; dragoons on horseback whose silver helmets glinted in the sun as if they were garbed in lightning; presidial troopers bearing lances. And behind them, soldados in blue coats and white trousers and, on their heads, tall shakos topped with pompons. There were hundreds of them, marching through the streets in perfect formation. Although many like Jesús were unwilling—even terrorized—conscripts, they looked like a formidable war machine to the Texians.

  Before this vast army rode Santa Anna, front and center. Slightly behind him, his aide, Colonel José Batres, struggled to stay close enough to the general to respond to any orders while, at the same time, keeping a respectable distance.

  Santa Anna watched with amusement as the citizens of Béxar rushed to escape his view, peered warily at him from windows or doorways or tried to ingratiate themselves by cheering loudly as he passed. “They scatter like frightened children,” he said.

  Batres, not knowing if this statement required a response, simply said, “Yes, General.”

  A Tejano woman leaned down to her six-year-old daughter and urged in a loud whisper, “Say it, say it, just like we practiced!”

  The little girl waved her right arm in the air and called out, “Viva Santa Anna! Viva Mexico!” At her mother’s urging, the girl ran alongside Santa Anna’s horse, shouting it over and over, in a rehearsed monotone, “Viva Santa Anna! Viva Mexico!”

  Santa Anna glanced down at the girl, nodded and touched his hat. At the acknowledgment, she stopped immediately and walked back to her mother, hoping for a reward for doing her task so well. But Santa Anna’s look only lingered on the little girl for an instant. Almost immediately, his attention was caught by a stunning young Tejana standing in a doorway. She was slight, with high, rounded breasts and hair as dark as the night sky. Her eyes were large and brown; they widened with awe as the girl watched the procession pass her house. Naturally, the general felt that he himself must be the source of that awe, and smiled at her. The girl barely had time to cast her eyes shyly toward the ground before her mother grabbed both of her shoulders, dragged her inside and closed the door.

  Santa Anna glanced over at Batres. The aide had seen that look before—many times. Batres nodded at his general—message received. It was the part of his job he found most disturbing, procuring women for Santa Anna. But most of them were happy to be procured. And the ones who were not willing . . . well, they could always be persuaded, one way or another.

  Castrillón and Almonte stopped in the pleasant shade of a house owned by the Yturri family. It stood on the northeast corner of the plaza, just across from San Fernando church. They had already arranged with the owner—who was, at the moment, an ardent supporter of His Excellency—to occupy the house as Santa Anna’s headquarters. Yturri, his wife and four children hurriedly collected a few belongings and prepared to exit through the back door while Castrillón and Almonte sat
out front, watching Santa Anna admiringly as he rode toward them.

  “What other man could have made this march?” Castrillón asked. “Every time I question him I am reminded of his greatness.”

  Santa Anna rode up beside them. Batres swung himself off his horse and helped the general to dismount.

  Approaching Castrillón and Almonte, he said, “Are the advance troops encamped?”

  Castrillón nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Santa Anna looked around the plaza, still a swirl of activity as the army continued to enter the town, column after column. “Is the battery placement spotted?”

  Castrillón replied, “Yes, Your Excellency, but it may not be necessary.”

  Santa Anna looked sharply at him.

  “It appears the Texians may desire a parley,” Castrillón continued. “We should respond with terms.”

  Santa Anna looked at Castrillón with disgust. He was a fine general, was Castrillón, but Santa Anna often had cause to wonder if he had the ruthless ambition required to win wars, to conquer territories and people. Castrillón was brave, strong and wise. But his misplaced humanitarianism would be his downfall.

  For his part, Castrillón knew that every time he said anything that conflicted with Santa Anna’s ruthless theories of total submission of the enemy, he put his life on the line. Even so, he could not abandon his principles just to please his general—even though he knew many other officers who had, willingly.

  Castrillón pretended that he did not see Santa Anna’s negative reaction. He hoped that this conflict could still be resolved without violence. So he asked again, hopefully, “What are your terms, General?”

  Inside the Alamo, Green Jameson said to Jim Bowie, “I wonder what his terms will be.”

  “Santa Anna can be a hard man,” Bowie said. “But he has to know that he’s bit off more than he can chew.”

  Jameson looked toward Béxar. “Yes, sir, they got us outmanned, but by God, we got ’em outgunned. We can beat those Mexicans ten to one with the artillery in this place.”

  Bowie smiled. “No reason it has to come to that. Let us go talk some sense to those gentlemen.”

  Jameson hoisted the white flag and the two men walked out the gate, through the lunette and toward the river bridge. They stopped there, awaiting the approach of two Mexican riders. Bowie brightened when he recognized Castrillón, riding alongside Almonte. He knew the general to be a good man. More important, he was a smart man, unwilling to shed blood needlessly.

  Even before Castrillón and Almonte came to a stop at the bridge, Bowie smiled broadly and called to Castrillón, “Manuel, how many times we going to trade this old church back and forth before this war is over?”

  Castrillón cast his eyes downward. He could barely stand to look Bowie in the eye.

  Bowie noticed Castrillón’s odd manner and glanced nervously at Jameson. Perhaps, he thought, Castrillón was uncomfortable with exhibiting this kind of informality before General Almonte. Bowie decided to approach the issue with a bit more formality. He said, “I have come out to see if your commander would be willing to parley out of this unfortunate situation.”

  Castrillón still avoided Bowie’s eyes and said nothing. Almonte dismounted and handed Bowie a piece of paper. “From General Santa Anna himself,” Almonte said in English.

  Bowie opened the note and started to read.

  Travis was in his quarters, seated at his desk. At the doorway stood Colorado Smith and Launcelot Smither. Travis handed a letter to Smither and said, “Gonzales.” He handed the other to Colorado Smith, saying, “ . . . and to Colonel Fannin at Goliad. Godspeed.”

  They turned to go for their horses. Just outside Travis’s quarters, Susanna Dickinson waited, holding Angelina in her arms. “Mr. Smither,” she said. He stopped and removed his hat. “Ma’am,” he said.

  Susanna touched his arm. “I do not believe that I ever properly thanked you for your help in Gonzales.”

  Smither looked at the ground. He had always lived alone, and even talking to women made him uneasy. “Glad to do it, ma’am,” he said.

  “You saved my life, Mr. Smither, and the life of my daughter,” Susanna said. “I cannot thank you enough.”

  He nodded, still not looking at her.

  Susanna said, “And with this trip, you may just be saving our lives all over again. Please keep yourself safe.”

  “Ma’am,” Smither said, “I have often had occasion to wonder . . . that is, I do not know if you owe me any thanks.”

  “What do you mean?” Susanna said.

  Smither said, “I am the one that brung you to Béxar. Seems to me I pulled you out of the fryin’ pan, and flung you into the fire.”

  Susanna smiled. “You reunited me with my husband, Mr. Smither. That is the most important thing. Whatever happens now, we are together.”

  Smither touched the brim of his hat and walked away.

  As he turned, Smither nearly bumped into Captain John Forsyth, who was rushing toward Travis’s door. “Colonel,” Forsyth said in an accent that betrayed his New York birthplace, “I think you should see this.”

  Travis followed the captain out of his quarters, to the southwest wall ramp. They trotted up the ramp to the eighteen-pound cannon, aimed straight at Béxar. It seemed that everywhere Travis looked, he saw the Mexican army, putting up tents, erecting cannon placements. The lancers and dragoons moved to and fro on horseback, fanning out to make sure that every angle of the Alamo was under their guard. There were only two thousand soldiers in view, but to Travis, watching them spread out around the fort, it seemed as if the army contained multitudes. He thought to himself that he had never seen so many people in one place. It was thrilling—even beautiful in a way—even as it frightened him out of his wits. Anxious not to let the men see the fear on his face, Travis struggled to keep from sweating or trembling or turning away as he tried to take in the awesome and terrifying sight.

  Travis was so absorbed in the sight that he did not at first notice that Crockett also had climbed the ramp and was standing beside him, in awe as well.

  “Colonel Travis,” Crockett said, “I have said it before, but I will say it again: We are going to need a lot more men.”

  Travis did not seem to hear him. He said, almost to himself, “Now, that is a handsome army.”

  Suddenly, he saw something else besides the horrible majesty of the Mexican army. He saw Bowie and Jameson on the river bridge, conferring with two enemy officers.

  Outraged, Travis said, to no one in particular, “What is Colonel Bowie doing on the bridge?”

  William Ward, the feisty Irishman—and one of Bowie’s volunteers—replied smugly, “Trying to get us out of this mess.”

  Daniel Cloud cocked his flintlock and aimed it directly at Almonte’s chest. “I could nail him right here,” he said, squinting one eye as he peered down the sight. “Right between them pretty buttons.”

  Crockett patted Cloud on the shoulder. “Do not make me nervous, son. That feller might be our ticket out of this mess.”

  Travis continued to stare at Bowie with open animosity. Without looking away, he said, “Fire the eighteen pounder.”

  No one moved. No one was quite sure if they had heard what they thought they had.

  Travis said, louder and angrier, “You heard me. Fire the cannon.”

  Almeron Dickinson and his cannon crew quickly prepared the cannon with powder and shot. At Travis’s nod, Dickinson sparked the primer.

  On the bridge Bowie finished reading the letter for the second time. It was bad news.

  “ . . . the Mexican Army,” it read, “cannot come to terms under any conditions with rebellious foreigners to whom there is no other recourse left, if they wish to save their lives, than to place themselves immediately at the disposal of the Supreme Government from whom alone they may expect clemency after some considerations are taken up.” It was not even signed by Santa Anna, but by his aide, Batres.

  Bowie looked at Castrillón with shock in his e
yes.

  Castrillón said in English, “I am sorry, Jim.”

  From the walls of the Alamo, the blast of a cannon shook the ground. Bowie, Jameson, Castrillón and Almonte whirled toward the fort, staring in disbelief.

  In Béxar, Santa Anna barely flinched at the sound and watched calmly as the cannonball smashed into a small house east of town. Santa Anna turned to Batres and commanded, “Raise the flag!”

  “Which one, General?” Batres said.

  On the bridge, Castrillón and Almonte steadied their horses, spooked from the blast.

  “Goddamn! Manuel,” Bowie said. Then switching to Spanish, he continued. “I had nothing to do with that!”

  Without a word, Castrillón and Almonte turned their horses and galloped back toward town. Bowie stalked angrily back to the Alamo, followed by Jameson, who struggled to keep up. He carried the now useless white flag down by his side.

  Back at the southwest wall, Crockett looked toward the belltower of San Fernando and said, “Lookee there, Colonel.” Travis followed Crockett’s gaze with dread. Slowly rising over the highest point in the town was a flag. It was not a flag that any man in the Alamo had ever seen before, but not a one of them had any trouble deciphering its meaning. It was blood red in color, with a skull and crossbones design at dead center. As a Mexican soldier secured the flag in place, still more troops came marching into town in the background. Crockett said, “Well, sir, that cannot be a good sign.”

  Bowie stormed in through the main gate and raced up the ramp to where Travis stood. Both fists clenched, his face was just inches from Travis’s. “Are you a fool?” Bowie snarled. “I was trying to get us a truce!”

  Travis responded loudly, his voice cracking with anger. “If we broker a cessation,” he said, “we will do so from a position of strength, not weakness. We do not turn belly up and beg. Otherwise we have said nothing and this conflict means nothing!”