In the Public Building at San Felipe, the faces that glared at each other in the smoky, dimly lit hall of politics had not changed much. Burnet, Baker, Rusk and Smith still opposed one another. Behind them and at all points around the room were the same men with the same self-righteous expressions, the same polarization.
Governor Smith, now looking exhausted after weeks of debate, stood up before the hostile War Party and indicated a man seated to his left. The man had a broad, friendly face framed by tightly curled hair and prodigious muttonchops. He smiled amiably at the men facing him. No one smiled in return.
Smith said, “We have Mr. Harold Thatcher-Rhyme of the country of England.” There were some low boos at the mention of England. “He represents interests willing to invest five million pounds in the new country of Texas.”
Smith expected this news to be greeted by hearty cheers. Instead, the applause from the Peace Party was nearly drowned out by the jeers from the War Party. Burnet stood at the podium in the middle of the room, his wild shock of black hair aiming at the ceiling like marsh weeds, his face tight and angry. Glaring at Thatcher-Rhyme, Burnet boomed, “Need I remind anyone, for this soldier, the War of 1812 is very fresh in my mind.”
Thompson, the ill-tempered and corrupt South Carolinian, growled, “For me, too!” Others shouted in support. Thatcher-Rhyme stared at them in shock. He could not believe that these hooligans were in charge of creating the republic of Texas.
Smith kept on. “We must have resources to support our army and navy. . . .”
“Resources!” Burnet bellowed. “Sir, at this very moment our soldiers are held in the Alamo against a force of thousands. They have put their hopes in Colonel Fannin, who despite his pedigree, has found himself ill equipped to lead, much less march an army. In his letters he begs to be replaced.” He handed one of Fannin’s letters to Smith, who sat down and began to read. With each line, Smith’s face dropped more and more.
In a quieter voice, Burnet said, “And there are other letters. . . .” He pulled a letter from his vest pocket and held it aloft. “This from Colonel Travis,” he said. A pall came over the room. Even the blustering aggressors of the War Party knew the gravity of Travis’s situation.
Burnet read the letter aloud. “ . . . and so I call upon you in the name of liberty, of patriotism and everything dear to the American character . . .” At the word “American,” Burnet glared at Thatcher-Rhyme, who rolled his eyes and sighed deeply. Burnet continued, “ . . . to come to our aid with all dispatch. . . . If this call is neglected, I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible and die like a soldier who never forgets what is due to his own honor and that of his country—victory or death!”
The room was uncharacteristically silent. “Can we allow these brave men to perish while we talk?” Burnet said. Around the rooms there were murmurs of “No.”
“That is right!” Burnet shouted. “We must fight! We must go to the Alamo!”
Now the room roared back to its usual volume. The men cheered and shouted, “Hear! Hear!” Even the Peace Party realized that this was an action that must be taken.
Burnet noticed him first. Sam Houston stood in the doorway, watching the proceedings with an expression of distaste.
“Houston!” Sherman said in surprise. Mosley Baker glared at him and demanded, “Why are you here?” The head of every man in the room turned toward Houston. He stood there for a long moment, taking it all in.
“I came to stop you people from killing yourselves,” Houston said, stepping into the room, “a service for which I feel certain I will never be properly thanked.”
He began walking among the crowd. “We can afford amateur military operations no longer,” he said.
Burnet called out from the podium, “Are you slewed, Houston?”
Houston ignored him, looking around accusingly at the self-righteous politicians surrounding him. “We can afford amateur government no longer,” he said.
Burnet shouted, “Houston, you are raving drunk!”
Houston continued to speak calmly, addressing neither Burnet’s insults nor the angry mood of the room. He said, “You stripped me of my men to pillage a town of no military value three hundred miles away.” He grasped the seated Sherman by the shoulders and put his face close to his ear. “How did that work out for you?” Sherman winced and wriggled out of Houston’s grasp. The faces of the War Party were grim. They knew exactly how the Matamoros Expedition had worked out.
Houston indicated an empty chair at the table. “Where is the illustrious catamite, Dr. Grant?” he said. “What has become of his conquering Matamoros party?”
No one spoke.
“Dead,” Houston said. “Gone. We must not repeat the same mistake.” He sat down in what had been Grant’s chair and gazed from face to face. “I will raise an army,” he said quietly but firmly. “We will relieve the Alamo.” The men listened closely. Was he actually saying things that they agreed with?
He picked up a page of the unfinished declaration of independence and brandished it in Sherman’s face. “But,” he said, “we will do this only when we have declared independence and created a government that can be legally recognized by the nations of the world.” His voice grew even quieter. Some of the men had to strain to hear what he was saying. “For that,” Houston said, “is what every besieged man in the Alamo is fighting for.”
Still, no one said a word. But they all knew he was right. Thatcher-Rhyme stood up. He could not help himself. “Finally!” he said, gesturing toward Houston. “Good God. Listen to the man!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The San Antonio River swirled and eddied happily, a ribbon of tranquility winding and curving through a countryside anticipating spring. It flowed without interruption. The presence of an army in Béxar had no effect on it, just as it made little impact on the day-to-day lives of the Béxarenos who had stayed behind. War threatened and cannon fire shook the timbers of their homes. Nevertheless, through it all, meals had to be cooked, floors swept, animals fed, babies bathed. About fifty yards upstream from the footbridge, near the south wall of the Alamo, a woman knelt beside the river, washing her clothes, just as she did every week at the same spot. Armies would come and go, men would live and die, but life somehow always managed to go on, in all its mundane splendor.
As she scrubbed hard lye soap onto one of her husband’s two shirts, the woman’s thoughts were only of the myriad of chores that faced her. When she heard a sudden noise behind her, she nearly shrieked at being shocked out of her reverie. A cazadore, or light infantryman, knelt behind her, holding a finger to his lips. “Shh . . .” he cautioned. Behind him, moving like silent death through the woods were the Matamoros Permanentes, one hundred strong. They marched in formation, double time, heading for the jacales that had been built near the southwest corner of the Alamo.
Daniel Cloud once again found himself in the position of sounding the alarm. He saw them first and shouted, “Here they come, here they come!”
The woman hurriedly gathered her laundry and rushed back to her home in Béxar, praying that she could get out of range before the shooting started.
In the courtyard of the Alamo, men ran past the earthwork redoubt whose twin cannon were aimed directly at the fort’s main gate. Then each climbed ladders to the top of the low barracks and hustled up the ramp to the eighteen pounder or took an empty slot at the palisade.
Crockett and the others at the palisade checked to make sure that their rifles were loaded. “You fellers keep a sharp lookout,” Crockett said to Autry. “I will go see what Travis makes of this.” Crockett ran up the ramp at the southwest corner and stood at Travis’s side.
The Mexicans were just out of range. For a long, silent moment the men of the Alamo simply stared at them, and they stared back—two sides sizing each other up. Then a Mexican officer barked a command and the soldiers double-timed into a new formation closer to the Alamo. When they were in position, they lined up to fire.
Trav
is held his arm out. “Hold your fire,” he said. “They are measuring our strength.”
The officer shouted “Fire!” and the Mexicans sent a volley into the Alamo. Musket balls hit around Travis. Men all around him—including Crockett—ducked for cover, but Travis stood firm. The men on the wall stared at him as if he had gone insane.
Calmly, Travis said, “You may fire at will, gentlemen.”
A volley from the Texians blasted the Mexican ranks. Autry had a stack of loaded rifles next to him. He aimed the first one and fired. A Mexican fell, a musket ball in his forehead. Autry nodded to himself with satisfaction, then picked up the next rifle. He fired again and, once more, a soldado fell dead. “At this rate,” he said, “I am going to give Crockett a run for his money.”
All along the south wall, men were firing as rapidly as they could reload. Crockett paced around near the eighteen pounder, a big grin on his face. “Make ’em count, boys,” he called out. “Do not waste your powder!”
A bullet hit the wall a few inches from Crockett’s foot. He jumped back in surprise. “Pert near blew my bunions off,” he said. Crockett aimed at the man he believed shot at him. A single shot to the chest and the man was down.
Travis leaped to the eighteen pounder and a musket ball pinged off the barrel. All around him, the men noticed his bravery and were mightily impressed. Without realizing that they had had a change of heart, many of the men in the Alamo had begun to think of Travis as their commander, no matter which way they had voted that night in the cantina.
Almeron Dickinson loaded the big gun. Travis nodded at him. “Mr. Dickinson . . .” he said. Almeron touched the cannon with his torch and, in the distance, one of the jacales splintered apart. This was too much for the Mexicans; they fled back to their lines.
Autry whooped and shouted, “Lookit ’em go! Run, you rabbits!” The other men cheered. Crockett turned to Travis and said, “Them little shacks offer pretty good cover.”
“I agree,” Travis said, “but we cannot waste more cannon shot.”
Crockett smiled. “I wouldn’t mind stretchin’ my legs.”
An hour later, sharpshooters fell into position, taking aim. The main gate opened and Crockett and four of his men scrambled out holding torches. Crockett headed toward the jacales, his men fanning out behind him. The men approached the little timber shacks cautiously. Crockett, in the lead, circled to the back of the first hut. Using his torch, he lit the straw roof. Immediately, he heard a noise within and before he could shout a warning, two Mexican soldiers burst through the flaming door, firing their weapons. One musket misfired, exploding in the hands of the soldier, splitting his face open from chin to eyebrow. The other soldier shot and missed, then jumped at Crockett, pulling a large knife from his belt. Crockett fumbled to reload but the man was only inches away. Suddenly, and soundlessly, a hole opened in the Mexican’s chest and a crimson spray hit Crockett full in the face. Surprised, the soldier fell to his knees, then crumpled to the ground, dead.
Crockett heard cheering from the walls of the Alamo. Looking in that direction, he saw Travis lowering a rifle and handing it back to its owner. Crockett gave a little salute of gratitude, but Travis did not respond.
In a few more moments, the jacales were blazing furiously. With the dry wood of their walls and the straw on their roofs, they only lasted a few seconds before collapsing into several heaps of ashes. Cheering, the Texians congratulated each other and began to return to the Alamo. Crockett brought up the rear. A strange sound made him stop in his tracks. Behind him, a wounded cazadore, still alive in the grass, his leg mangled, was trying to load powder into his Baker rifle. Crockett turned and saw him, quickly unsheathing his knife. When he did, the cazadore crossed himself, dropped the gun and began slowly and painfully dragging himself backward through the grass. Crockett followed along, watching him curiously, as if the soldado were a fly who had lost a wing and was staggering in a futile circle. The Mexican began muttering prayers. He stopped and curled himself into a ball, his eyes shut tightly, waiting for the gringo to finish him off.
Crockett sheathed his knife and grabbed the cazadore’s rifle, which was lying on the ground. He admired the weapon for a moment, and then shouldered it. “Muchas gracias,” he said. Crockett turned and followed the others through the high grass. The cazadore, in shock, watched him disappear, back toward the old mission.
Rather than walk back through the gate, Crockett headed straight for the low wall at the southwest corner. Travis and Autry leaned over the wall and extended their arms to help Crockett climb back into the fort. Around them, the men cheered, whooped and slapped Crockett on the back.
But the cheering was interrupted by the terrible sound of a scream. In Bowie’s quarters, Juana tried her best to comfort her brother-in-law as he shouted and moaned in delirium. Travis and Crockett rushed to Bowie’s room, to see him thrashing around on his bed. He foamed at the mouth, his eyes open but seeing nothing. Travis and Juana tried to hold him, but he was almost too much for them.
“Oh, no, please God,” Bowie screamed. “My baby . . . our baby!! Ursula!”
After an agonizing eternity, Bowie finally relaxed. He seemed almost lucid for a moment, looking around the room as if wondering why these people were staring at him. Then he fainted dead away. Soon, his soft snoring told them that he was asleep.
Juana sat down on a stool, exhausted. “He cries for my sister,” she explained to Travis and Crockett. “His wife and the baby she carried. Dead from cholera.”
The two men looked at each other, both knowing what this meant. Any hope that Bowie’s illness would pass was now gone. He was clearly deteriorating, growing more and more ill with each passing day. Travis no longer felt a surge of elation at the thought that he was the supreme commander at the Alamo. Now he felt only pity for Bowie, and the heavy weight of responsibility on his own shoulders.
When Travis and Crockett emerged from Bowie’s quarters there were fifty or sixty volunteers standing around in ragtag formation. Travis was instantly alert for trouble, half expecting a mutiny. William Ward stood in front of them and said to Travis, “Is he going to get better?”
Travis shook his head. “I do not know,” he said.
Travis tried to walk back to his quarters, but Ward blocked his way. “Up there on that wall,” Ward said, “we killed six Mexicans and lost nary a man.”
Ward and Travis stared at each other. Crockett gripped his rifle, on guard in case the volunteers were about to start something.
“We can take ’em,” Ward said. He looked back at the other men. A movement rippled through the crowd as they came to a sort of attention. Even Ward straightened up as he faced Travis again. He said, “We can take ’em . . . sir.”
Travis looked around the group of men. He could see that they wanted to believe what Ward had said, and wanted Travis to reinforce that belief. Travis stared back at them, saying nothing. But the look on his face said that perhaps for the first time he understood what leadership was all about.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The men of the Alamo heard a faint bugle call, one that they had never heard before. They rushed to the west wall and looked toward Béxar. Esparza and Dickinson stood together near the eighteen pounder.
“What is that?” Dickinson said.
Esparza looked uneasy. He said, “The bugles signal the arrival of reinforcements.” He sighed. “I had better go see Colonel Travis,” he said.
But Travis was already heading his way, trotting up the ramp from his quarters. When he got to the nest of the eighteen pounder, he raised a field glass to his eye and peered toward town. He saw more Mexican troops pouring into Béxar—hundreds more. Esparza stepped over to Travis’s side. Travis was intently listening to the trumpets.
Travis said to Esparza, “How many?”
Esparza hesitated. He did not really want to tell Travis.
“Three more battalions,” he said. “A thousand more soldados.”
Travis looked grimly at the flu
rry of activity in Béxar. “At least now we know what they were waiting for,” he said.
Esparza pointed to the north end of town. “Over there,” he said. “What are they working at?”
Travis put the field glass to his eye and looked in the direction indicated by Esparza. Dozens of Mexican soldiers were on their hands and knees hammering away, building something. Only when they stood up and lifted their handiwork could Travis make out what they had constructed: ladders.
Travis lowered the glass and sighed. All along the wall, the men of the Alamo also stared at the ladders, all thinking the same thing. Scurlock made a mark on the top of the wall with his knife—that made ten marks. They had been inside this hellhole for ten days. He stared at the mark and looked over to where the ladders were being built and carried. He shook his head. “We are all going to die,” he said.
In the courtyard, a few men piled trunks near the church, constructing makeshift breastworks around the entrance. Green Jameson moved frantically from place to place around the fort, looking for weak spots, instructing his crews how to shore up walls and make repairs.
At the well, Sam and Joe had dug deep enough that they were well below ground and could converse in private. Sam said, “When they come over these walls, you just throw up your hands and holler ‘Soy Negro, no disparo!’”
“What does that mean?” Joe said.
Sam said, “Mexican law say there ain’t no slaves, right? An’ contrack or no, that is what you is. Mexicans see your color, you tell ’em not to shoot, and they will pass you by.”
Joe looked at Sam with a glint of pride in his eyes. He said, “Mister William, he gon’ give me a gun.”
Sam shook his head in disgust. He thought, What am I going to do with this one? Sam said, “You clean up they shit, take care of they horses, wash ’em, feed ’em. Damn if you ain’t going to die for ’em, too.”
Joe looked down at his hands, which were cracked and blistered. He started digging again. The shovel bit the earth, hit a rock and stopped.
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