The Alamo

by Frank Thompson

  But today, their lovemaking was slow and tender. Talihina lay upon her back and gently guided him into her. As he thrust forward and established an easy rhythm, she never took her eyes from his. They did not say a word, nor did they make a sound, until the sad pleasure of the ending brought forth sighs and shudders.

  Nor did they speak as they washed and dressed, and walked toward Houston’s horse. He mounted and looked down at Talihina. If she asked him to stay, he did not know what he would do. Texas be damned. How could he live his life without this woman?

  She spoke softly, in Cherokee, “Do not return here. Your pride has chosen for you.”

  Houston almost smiled; he was released. Dreading the moment, he thought that he would be heartbroken. But he was not—he was relieved. Now, Houston could devote himself completely to the cause of Texas, the only mistress to whom he could ever truly give his heart.

  Without a word, Houston slowly walked his horse away. The walk turned into a lope, then into a gallop as he disappeared down the trail. When she knew he was out of sight and beyond earshot, Talihina crumpled to the ground and wailed with grief.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Margarita Fernandez was an old woman, widowed for over twenty years. Now that her children were grown—with children of their own—and she had no husband to take care of, Margarita had a lot of time on her hands. Her daughters cooked for her and cleaned her jacale and she was required to do little in return. She loved to watch after her grandchildren, and weave quilts and gossip with her friends in Béxar Plaza. But she could do these things, or not do them, as the spirit took her. Sometimes, she liked to spend her afternoons alone, just walking on the outskirts of town, where the countryside, and even some of the few buildings, had changed little since she was a girl.

  As a child, Margarita had attended church services at the old mission across the river. She received her first communion in a little adobe chapel that had since been torn down. It had stood beside the old church, the building that her parents always forbade her to enter. It stood in ruins, filled with debris. Margarita and all her friends were convinced that the ancient limestone church was haunted, and they loved to sneak over at night and listen for the howls of departed souls that they knew must be trapped there. Sometimes, swarms of bats would fly from the church building, darkening the sky for a few moments with their numbers. “You see?” Margarita would tell the other children in a sepulchral voice. “Those are the spirits that haunt the mission. They take the form of bats and roam the countryside looking for living bodies to inhabit.” She would point her finger at them, as if trying to settle on one particular child. “A living body . . . like . . . YOU!” she would shout, jabbing one of the children, who would then scream in terror.

  Today, Margarita still enjoyed strolling over there in the afternoon, sitting in the shade of the old walls, remembering when it was a place filled with life, instead of by men who sought death. Every once in a while she would stay there until dusk, waiting for the bats to emerge. They no longer frightened her. Now they just made her sad for her lost youth.

  There were no longer bats in the Alamo. They had been driven out by war. The silly, harmless terrors of her childhood had been supplanted by the all-too-real horrors of bloodshed and death. Margarita knew there were Béxarenos inside the old mission now, squared off against their own brothers in the brightly dressed army that occupied Béxar. It all seemed futile to her, and slightly ridiculous. All of this sword rattling, all of those threats. For what? All Margarita wanted was for Béxar to be like it was when she was a girl, a sleepy, peaceful town where nature shared its bounty and God had bestowed a surfeit of beauty and charm. But that was not to be, she thought. Men crave war like babies need milk, and there would only be peace again when they had all killed each other off and left the land to its own peaceful devices.

  As she strolled over the bridge toward the mission, she saw some of the men on the walls glance at her, then look away. She was not important to them. She was not important to anybody. Margarita Fernandez did not worry much about that. She had lived too long and had seen too much pain and sorrow to worry too much about anything.

  Seguin, Esparza and a few other Tejanos from Seguin’s company were gathered on the west wall, staring out toward Béxar. When Margarita Fernandez walked by, Seguin called out to her. “Mother,” he said.

  Margarita looked up at him, shielding the sun from her eyes by holding her hand to her forehead. “I am not your mother,” she said.

  The Tejanos laughed. Seguin said, “They let you come and go as you please?”

  “I am too old to matter,” Margarita said. “Four months ago they were here and you were there.” She pointed behind her to Béxar. “Then they left here and you were still there. Now they are there and you are here. I am too old to care anymore.”

  Scurlock stepped up behind Seguin and said, “Ask her what in hell they are waiting for.”

  Seguin leaned over the wall and said to Margarita, “Do you see any preparations for attack? What are they doing?”

  The old woman shrugged. “The generals eat, the army starves.”

  Seguin looked at Scurlock and shrugged. Antsy and nervous, Scurlock had been cooped up long enough. He shouted toward Béxar, “Come on! Fight! We are waiting!” The Tejanos shook their heads. “Yer yeller!” Scurlock yelled. “Every Meskin is yeller!”

  Suddenly, Scurlock realized what he had said. He turned sheepishly to Seguin’s men and shook his head in silent apology.

  Seguin put his hand on Scurlock’s shoulder. “We are all Mexicans, Scurlock. Remember well the oath you took.” Seguin looked back over the wall and said to Margarita, “Next time bring tortillas!”

  Margarita Fernandez smiled and walked away, back toward the bridge. From the looks of the army in Béxar, these poor men would not be here long enough to enjoy any tortillas she might bring.

  Scurlock sat down and shook his head. “This is one crazy mess,” he said.

  Across the way, in Béxar, Batres made his way across the plaza, passing carts, stepping around little flocks of chickens, pushing past locals. He adjusted his jacket and walked up to the door of a house and knocked. The woman who opened the door was the mother of the stunning Tejana who had caught Santa Anna’s eye when he rode into town. The girl was standing behind her mother, peering at Batres shyly.

  Batres removed his hat and bowed. “Madam,” he said to the woman, “she is even more beautiful upon inspection.”

  The woman opened the door wider. “Come in, señor,” she said. “We have much to discuss.”

  An hour later, Santa Anna rode with Batres down Potrero Street, toward the front lines. “Her father is dead, Excellency,” Batres said, “and her mother will not let her daughter see you. Unless . . .”

  Santa Anna said, “Unless?”

  Batres shook his head sadly, “Unless you marry her first. Unfortunate.”

  Santa Anna smiled. “I think the ceremony should be simple. Do you agree?”

  “But, General,” Batres said, “by your order we brought no priests with us . . . and anyway . . .”

  Santa Anna glared at Batres and the aide immediately understood.

  “A simple ceremony,” he said. “Yes.”

  Santa Anna gestured toward his soldiers. He said, “The men will be happy to see me.”

  In the Alamo, Juan Seguin stood beside Crockett. They were both peering over the palisade into the distance. “Look to the ridge, David,” Seguin said. Crockett looked at him questioningly. “You said you wanted to see him,” Seguin said. He pointed up the hill. Crockett squinted. Sure enough, Santa Anna and Batres were approaching a cannon placement on horseback.

  Crockett said to Seguin, “That is Santa Anna?”

  Seguin nodded.

  “Quite the peacock,” Crockett said. “Is he more politician or soldier?”

  Seguin said, “Whichever is appropriate at the time.” He smiled to Crockett. Crockett smiled back, understanding that Seguin was speaking not onl
y of Santa Anna.

  “When General Iturbide betrayed the fatherland, he made himself emperor,” Seguin said. “So what did the young Santa Anna do to gain favor? He courted the emperor’s sister.”

  Crockett laughed. “Heck, a man’s got to get along in life. I was pretty ambitious as a young feller myself.”

  Seguin said, “She was sixty years old. . . .”

  Crockett stopped laughing and glanced back over at Santa Anna on the hill. “I was never that ambitious.”

  Santa Anna and Batres rode casually along the front line, inspecting each cannon placement. They arrived at Jesús’s regiment; Santa Anna proudly reviewed his forces. “It is a beautiful day,” the general said. “A beautiful day.”

  The very presence of Santa Anna made the soldados nervous. Each tried to avoid his gaze, as if he were some deadly form of snake. Santa Anna spied Jesús, almost hiding behind the older men. He summoned the boy to him.

  “Soldier!” Santa Anna snapped. Jesús stepped out and stood before him. Santa Anna said approvingly to Batres, “A boy fighting on the front, like a man.” Turning to Jesús he said, “You are very brave. I wager your grandfather fought the Comanches.” Jesús nodded. Santa Anna continued, “And now your father is very proud of you, too.”

  Jesús almost said nothing, but the anger coursed through his veins too quickly and violently. As calmly as possible, Jesús said, “He is dead. He was hanged.”

  Santa Anna shook his head sadly. “Ah, murdered by the gringos . . .” He pointed toward the Alamo. “I promise, you will have your revenge.”

  “He was hanged by you,” Jesús said, looking directly into Santa Anna’s eyes. “At Orizaba. When you were fighting for the Spanish.”

  Everyone tensed. Jesús waited for Santa Anna to order his arrest and execution. He wondered if he would be tortured first. He wondered if his grandfather would ever find out what had happened to him.

  To his astonishment, Santa Anna began to smile.

  “We are Mexicans now, my friend,” he said to Jesús in a calculatedly benevolent voice. “That is an honor for which we all will risk our lives many times.”

  Santa Anna turned, suddenly angry, fixating on the cannons. “Why is this battery so far back?” he demanded.

  The battery sergeant looked to the others, then stepped forward. He said, “Your Excellency, with respect, and for your safety . . . It is said that the Davy Crockett is in the Alamo.” He pointed to the Alamo. “I have heard many stories of this great man. From my cousin.”

  Santa Anna said to the battery sergeant, “You are afraid of this Crockett?”

  He dismounted and took a few steps toward the Alamo. The sergeant moved forward, trying to make his point to Santa Anna, who paused.

  “It is said he can leap rivers—from there to here,” the battery sergeant said. “And his rifle is accurate. He can shoot a fly off a burro’s swishing tail at yards.”

  Santa Anna looked at the battery sergeant and shook his head, as if he had never seen a bigger coward in his life. He strode toward the Alamo, swaggering, hands on hips.

  At the palisade, Seguin watched as Crockett smiled, slowly loaded his rifle and took the ramrod from the muzzle. He carefully lifted the gun and peered down the sight. Autry whispered to Seguin, “I have seen him shoot an ant off an antelope at six hundred feet.”

  A few other men gathered around, sensing something important. Everyone had heard about his otherworldly prowess with a rifle. Now they were about to see it in action.

  Crockett’s finger tensed on the trigger.

  “That’s it, Generalissimo,” Crockett said, squinting one eye as he aimed. “Twenty more feet and I will give ya a little peck on the cheek.”

  Santa Anna strutted in front of the cannon placement. He dug his heels in the dirt, making a mark. “Move them to here!” he ordered.

  At the palisade, Crockett took a deep breath and held it. Every man watching did the same. Crockett’s finger squeezed the trigger. . . .

  Santa Anna looked in the direction of the Alamo. On the wall, six hundred feet away, there was a tiny puff of smoke. . . .

  The uniform on Santa Anna’s shoulder tore open. He stumbled backward with a look of shock on his face. Batres and the battery sergeant rushed to his aid. Santa Anna quickly regained his composure and waved them away impatiently. Stepping back a step or two, the president glared at the Alamo. No one said a word.

  The men surrounding Crockett were cheering and slapping him on the back. Crockett relaxed from his sniper position and smiled. “Wind kicked up,” he said and tossed a handful of dust in the air.

  Santa Anna continued to step backward. Now safely behind the cannon, he shouted, “Answer the pirates!”

  Under the direction of the battery sergeant, the cannon crew loaded the gun, lit the fuse and a ball soared through the air toward the old mission. It landed in the middle of the Alamo’s courtyard. As it rolled across the dirt, men scattered in every direction, seeking quick shelter. Travis ducked into his headquarters and braced himself for the blast.

  The cannonball rolled to a stop . . . but it did not explode. It sat there on the ground like a time bomb, the wick still sparking. Travis emerged from his headquarters and pointed to Ward. “Get that shell and take it to Captain Dickinson,” Travis said.

  Ward and the other men hesitated, looking to Bowie and Crockett for orders that did not seem quite so insane.

  Travis said impatiently, “We can reuse it.”

  Ward still did not move. Sparks continued to come off the ball.

  Ward finally shook his head. “You get it yourself,” he said.

  Bowie and the men watched this direct disobedience, waiting for Travis to demand Ward’s arrest, wondering what they would do if he did. Instead, with a look of contempt on his face, Travis stared down Ward as he walked to the shell, pulled out the burning wooden fuse, dropped it on the ground and stepped on it. Around the compound, every man stopped what he was doing in order to watch as Travis carried the shell to the eighteen pounder. There, he handed it to Almeron Dickinson and said, “Give it back to them.”

  Dickinson nodded and smiled. “Yes, sir.”

  When the Mexican ball was loaded in the Alamo’s largest cannon, Travis shouted, “Fire the cannon!”

  Dickinson touched a light to the cannon and sent the ball hurling back toward the Mexican cannon emplacement. Nobody said a word, but Bowie was clearly impressed with Travis. Bowie’s men, seeing him impressed, were impressed themselves. Travis turned to the men below him. “Fire once from each cannon!” he said.

  There was a moment’s hesitation among the men. They had all voted for Bowie to command them, and now they were not sure what to do. Bowie said to them, “You heard the colonel.”

  Travis turned to him. “Lieutenant Colonel . . . Colonel.”

  Bowie almost smiled. “You heard the man,” he said. “Let us give ’em a taste.”

  Men cheered, racing to their artillery posts, loading and firing cannon—one, two, three shots in a row. The response from the Mexicans was immediate—and deafening. Over the constant roar of the cannon, the Texians could hear the disconcerting sound of the Deguello. The men of the Alamo could only crouch, in as much safety as they could find, and wait it out.

  In his headquarters, Travis put the finishing touches on another letter:

  . . . I have every reason to apprehend an attack from Santa Anna’s whole force very soon; but I shall hold out to the last extremity, hoping to secure reinforcements in a day or two. Do hasten on aid to me as rapidly as possible, as from the superior number of the enemy, it will be impossible for us to keep them out much longer. If they overpower us, we will fall sacrifice at the shrine of our country, and we hope posterity and our country will do our memory justice. Give me help, oh my country! Victory or death!

  As Travis wrote furiously, Joe made coffee. Seguin stood at the door. “You called for me, Colonel?” he said.

  Travis completed the letter, signed it, then folded the paper.
He looked up at Seguin and said, “We have no idea if any of our couriers made it out. You know the land and the language.” He held the letter out to Seguin.

  Seguin shook his head and said, “Colonel, you are asking me to leave my men behind.”

  Travis said, “I am asking you to deliver a message to Houston and return with a response. I am counting on it.” Seguin stared at him, about to say something else. Travis broke in before he could utter a word. “I am ordering it,” he said.

  Travis continued to hold the letter out. He hesitated for a long moment, but finally Seguin took the letter and walked away.

  Joe brought a cup of coffee to Travis’s desk and carefully set it down. He said, “He comin’ any day now ain’t he, Mister William? Colonel Fannin?”

  Travis turned to Joe, wishing he could lie. He decided to give it a try. He smiled heartily and said, “Any day now, Joe.”

  Joe, accustomed to white men who said one thing and meant another, sighed and went back to his cot.

  Out in the Alamo courtyard, near the main gate, Seguin finished saddling a horse. Bowie’s horse. Bowie leaned against the doorway of his quarters alongside the main gate. “Do not give her too much water,” he said to Seguin. “She’s just like me—drink too much and she’s not worth a damn.”

  “I will bring her back to you, Santiago,” Seguin said.

  Bowie coughed. “Bring yourself back safe,” he said. “Her, I do not think I will be needing anymore.”

  Seguin mounted. As he prepared to ride out, he spotted Travis walking over to him. Travis said, “Tell Houston I will fire a cannon at dawn, noon and dusk each day our flag still flies.”