The Alamo

by Frank Thompson

  Bowie could see the scene from his bedroom door, which looked directly out onto the courtyard. He had had a bad night, wracked by coughing and delirium, but now he was lucid. He could not quite manage to sit up, but Juana had placed an extra pillow under his head so that it inclined forward. She sat beside him with a cool, damp cloth, periodically soothing his brow with it. Sam stood nearby, watching.

  Earlier in the day, two of the Tejanos, Menchaca and Garza, had come to Bowie to ask his advice. “If Colonel Travis says you can leave . . .” Bowie had said.

  “I have a family,” Menchaca said. There was a slightly defensive tone in his voice, as if already prepared for a challenge.

  “Like a lot of these gringos do,” Garza said. “Like I do.”

  Bowie could barely speak. He felt weaker every day. “You should go if you can,” he said to the two men. “The war will not end here. Don’t die needlessly.”

  They both nodded and left without another word. Now, Bowie could see Menchaca with the group about to leave. Garza was up on the wall, staring at the departing Tejanos without expression.

  “You look better,” Juana said to Bowie brightly. “Your fever broke.”

  Bowie said in a low, hoarse voice, “Thank you for tending to me, Juana. And now I want you to leave.” He looked over at Sam. “You, too, Sam,” he said.

  Sam straightened, with an amazed look on his face. “You giving me my freedom, Mister James?” he said incredulously.

  Bowie coughed. “No, I am not,” he said. “You are my property till I die. I get out of this bed, I’m huntin’ you down.” Bowie looked hard at Sam, and Sam understood what his master was saying. He nodded, feeling a surge of elation but showing nothing on his face.

  Bowie said, “Now go, both of you. Santa Anna will not make the same offer twice.”

  Sam turned and walked away without saying anything further. He paused for a moment at the door, waiting for Bowie to say something more. “Thank you,” maybe. Or even a simple “Good-bye.” Years of service, of suffering, of loyalty. Did they mean nothing? Sam glanced back at Bowie, giving him one more chance. Bowie’s face was turned to the wall. Sam picked up his pace, almost trotting over to join those about to evacuate the Alamo.

  Juana watched Sam hurry to leave, but she stayed seated beside Bowie’s bed. “We are all that is left,” she said, stroking his brow with the damp cloth. “We are family.”

  Bowie said, “A couple of years doesn’t make us blood, Juana.”

  Juana smiled and said, “You loved her. Her blood was yours. Your blood is mine.”

  Bowie turned away. Tears stung at his eyes, as they did almost every time he summoned up the face of his beautiful Ursula, as they did every time he remembered his loss.

  He said, “They thought I married her for your father’s money.”

  Juana said, “Gossip,” and dipped the cloth, now warm, into the basin of water.

  Bowie gasped for breath. “ . . . The only thing in my life . . .” He shook his head, frustrated by his inability to speak for very long. “I was off chasing silver mines,” he said. “All my life, whatever I had in my hand, I’d drop it and run after the next fortune, the next adventure. . . .”

  Juana busied herself so that Bowie would not see that her own eyes were filled with tears. “My sister truly loved you,” she said. “It was in her eye. And she never doubted your love for her. She never doubted it for an instant.”

  With considerable effort, Bowie turned over on his side. He placed an arm over his eyes and sobbed.

  The Texians watched impassively as the group of Tejanos passed through the open main gate, pulling their horses and carrying their belongings. Sam had been told that the Mexicans did not make war against Negroes, but he was taking no chances. He had borrowed a sombrero and serape and insinuated himself into the middle of the group, becoming as inconspicuous as possible. He kept his head down, staring resolutely at the ground as he walked. In that sense, he was just like the others. None of the Tejanos made eye contact with any of the Texians as they left. Ana, Juana, Gregorio and the other Tejanos watched them go with sadness on their faces. No one waved good-bye. Finally, the last of the group was outside the fort. The gate closed behind them, sealing in those who remained.

  A lone horseman galloped up to the crest of Powder House Hill and then paused. James Butler Bonham had already tied a white bandanna around his hat, as a signal to Travis and the men of the Alamo. But he was not quite ready to ride down that hill. He started forward, then back, forward, then back—getting up his nerve. Below, between Bonham and the Alamo, were several hundred Mexican soldiers and a cannon emplacement. In order to gain entrance to the Alamo, he would have to ride directly through them. He muttered encouragingly to his horse, then said a little prayer.

  Finally, Bonham took a deep breath, grimaced, and spurred his horse down the hill, toward the impenetrable cordon.

  He kept his eye on the gate of the Alamo, neither looking left or right. He blasted past soldiers sitting by cook fires, leaped over hedges, lowered his body as far as possible, so that he was hugging the neck of the horse, just holding on.

  The ride was so sudden that it took a moment for the soldiers to figure out what was going on. Flustered, they ran toward him, kneeling, aiming, firing . . . and missing. Dozens of musket balls whistled past Bonham’s head.

  Autry at the palisade first noticed the flurry of activity. “Rider!” he shouted. “Rider comin’ in!” The men of the Alamo gathered along the wall, craning to see, loading their rifles. In the distance, they saw Bonham galloping straight toward them. A dozen mounted lancers were hard on his heels. If only one caught him with the tip of his lance, if Bonham’s horse stumbled in the uneven terrain, he would be overtaken and destroyed in the space of a few seconds.

  Crockett shouted, “Better give him some help, boys!” He fired and the lead lancer dropped from his saddle. The horse just behind him trampled the body, and horse and rider went tumbling head over hooves down the hill. Someone passed Crockett another rifle. He fired again. Autry and two or three others followed suit. Two more horses fell, bringing their riders hard to the ground. One of them got up again and started to run. He was shot in the back by a Texian musket. The lancers gave up the chase and began retreating back up the hill. The men opened the gate and Bonham galloped in.

  As Bonham dismounted, the men gathered around, watching him nervously.

  Ward called out, “You don’t have two thousand more just like you stashed away somewheres, do you?”

  “When they comin’?” Scurlock called out. “When the hell they comin’?”

  Bonham looked at the men briefly, then concentrated on unhooking his saddlebag. He said, “Where is Colonel Travis?”

  Scurlock pointed toward Travis’s quarters and Bonham walked away. The men watched him for a moment, then looked at each other. Ward said, “Well, that sure don’t sound like good news.”

  Travis stood up excitedly when he saw Bonham. He held out his hand, but Bonham shook it limply. He had a grim look in his eyes. “What is it, Jim?” Travis said.

  Bonham reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a small packet of letters. Travis sat at his desk and read them. Joe and Bonham watched Travis read the last letter, then toss it down onto his desk. He stood up angrily.

  “Where did you get these?” Travis said.

  Bonham replied, “I crossed two of our couriers on the way back.”

  Travis looked at Bonham, beginning to understand. “Afraid to return,” Travis said. “Who can blame them?” Bonham stared at him and Travis looked away. “And where is your letter?” Travis said. “What says Colonel Fannin?”

  Bonham continued to say nothing. Travis sat down wearily. He felt too overcome to speak. After a moment he said in a quiet voice, “Captain Bonham, you rode through the possibility of death to deliver a message that promises it. Why?”

  Bonham said, “I believe you have earned the pleasure of a reply . . . sir.”

  Travis slowly nodd
ed a thank-you. Bonham returned the nod and walked out.

  In the courtyard, the men had gathered in a large group. As usual, Scurlock and Ward were in the middle of it. “I say we run for it,” Scurlock said. “That is our best hope.” Several voices in the crowd shouted in the affirmative. “Yeah! That’s right!”

  Ward said, “Our horses are starving and weak. Their lancers would skewer us like sausages.”

  “Our relief could be over that hill . . .” said Grimes.

  One of the New Orleans Greys suggested, “We could go out at night. In formation, some would make it.”

  The crowd was silent for a moment, considering their options. Grimes said quietly, “We could try surrendering.”

  A few in the crowd hissed at the sentiment, but many of them were at least willing to consider it. “Surrender?” Scurlock said. “Check if that red flag is still flying.”

  Crockett stood at the back of the group, listening, saying nothing. After paying close attention to the debate for a few moments, he walked over to Travis’s headquarters.

  Inside, Travis had handed a flintlock rifle to Joe and was showing him how to work it. He did not notice for a moment that Crockett was standing in the doorway. Then he glanced up and nodded.

  “Colonel Crockett,” he said.

  Crockett’s eyes were dark and grave. Travis could not remember ever having seen those eyes without a twinkle, without the sense that a witticism was brewing behind them. Now they were filled with something like sadness.

  Crockett said, “The men need a word from you.”

  Travis shook his head. “I . . . I do not know what to tell them.”

  Crockett walked into the room, smiled a little in greeting to Joe, then stood at the window, looking out at the compound, which was milling with frightened, disgruntled men. He spoke as though to himself. “My time in Washington—the fellers in Congress made a good deal of sport of me.” He looked at Travis and shrugged a little. “I learned a hell of a lot from them—learned how to dress, what fork to use in polite company—but I never learned to lie.”

  Travis followed Crockett’s gaze. He was used to seeing the men as a garrison, a group over which he had command. But now he did not see a group—only individuals. Tom Waters sat near the palisade, holding a long leather strap. His dog gripped the other end with his teeth and was growling with mock anger, shaking his head wildly. Near the door of the church, Almeron Dickinson held his baby daughter Angelina, rocking her silently as young Susanna walked toward them with a bucket of water from the well. The Esparza family sat in a group; Gregorio had an arm around his wife’s shoulders, saying nothing. The children had cornered a huge insect and were laughing delightedly at its quick movements. There was Micajah Autry puffing contemplatively on a pipe. Daniel Cloud, Isaac Millsaps, Green Jameson, Jim Bonham. Travis had known Bonham when they were both boys in South Carolina but he could not in truth say that any of them were his friends. They had their duty, just as he had his. But at this moment, the responsibility for their predicament felt terribly personal.

  Crockett said softly but firmly, “These people in here been through an awful lot. I would allow these men have earned the right to hear the truth.”

  Travis sat for a moment. With a vague feeling of shame, he had the fleeting feeling that he was about to break down. Dreams, plans, regrets; it all came to this; a meaningless death in a far-off country. He gathered the letters from his desk and stood up.

  As soon as Travis stepped into the courtyard, everyone in the Alamo turned toward him expectantly. They had not known he was going to talk to them—he had not known it himself—but the moment they saw him, they knew it was time to listen. Travis raised the hand holding the pieces of paper and stepped into the center of the crowd. He did not speak in a loud voice, but the hush that enveloped the place made his words plain to everyone.

  “I have here pieces of paper, letters from politicians and generals,” Travis said, “but no indication of when or if help will arrive. Letters not worth the ink committed to them.” He scanned the faces that were looking at him, searching for a reason to hope. With a wrench of his heart, Travis knew he had no hope to offer.

  “I fear that . . . no one is coming.”

  He slowly crumpled the letters and dropped them to the earth. He looked at the useless letters for a moment, then met the eyes of his men. It struck him what an eclectic company it was—Irish, German, French, Tejano. Men from nearly every state in the Union. Young, old, educated, ignorant. Seasoned fighters, scared kids. Patriots. Scoundrels. Preachers. Lawyers. Poets. Men of every description. But to Travis, right now, they all looked like heroes.

  “Texas has been a second chance for me,” Travis said. “I expect that might be true for many of you men. It has been a chance not only for land and riches, but also to be a different man. I hope, a better man. There have been many ideas brought forth in the last few months of what Texas is, of what it should become.” He looked at the group of Tejanos from Seguin’s company. They stared back at him without expression. Travis continued. “We are not all in agreement.”

  Travis looked from man to man, trying to form the words to say what he now knew that he had to say.

  “The Mexican army hopes to lure us into attempting escape,” he said. “Almost anything seems better than remaining in this place, penned up.” He glanced at Crockett, standing by Travis’s door. “But what about our wounded? What about the sick? In the open, without our cannon, they will cut us to pieces. We will have deserted our injured and died in vain. If, however, we force the enemy to attack, I believe every one of you will prove himself worth ten in return. We will not only show the world what patriots are made of, but we will also deal a crippling blow to the army of Santa Anna.”

  He took a few steps and glanced toward Bowie’s room, wondering if he could hear. “If anyone wishes to depart, under the white flag of surrender, you may do so now. You have that right. But if you wish to stay with me, here, in the Alamo, we will sell our lives dearly.” Briefly, he considered asking them to decide then and there whether they would stay or go. But he knew that this was a decision that each man had to make in his own heart. Travis nodded curtly at them and said in a hoarse voice, “God bless you.”

  Nobody spoke.

  Nobody moved.

  Joe had stepped out of their quarters and, standing slightly behind Crockett, looked at his master with a pride that slightly surprised him. Travis no longer had the heart to look the men in the eye. He knew what decision they would all make, and their lives suddenly became an almost unbearable weight on his shoulders. He touched his hat in something like a salute, then walked back to his quarters. The men silently parted to let him through. At the doorway, he locked eyes with Crockett, but neither man said anything. Then he stepped inside, followed by Joe.

  The compound was still quiet. Travis stood at his desk and looked out at his men. With a sigh, he closed the window and sat down.

  Crockett walked back over to the palisade and sat down beside Autry. “Still got time to go,” he said quietly.

  Autry smiled faintly. “I will tell you what, David. When you get ready to go, you just tell me and I will be right behind you.”

  Crockett said, “I just hope you can keep up. I am liable to streak out of this place so fast I will just leave my shadow behind.”

  Autry nodded. “I am sure you will. But until you start running for your life, why don’t you give us a tune?”

  Bowie was nearly sitting up on his cot when the cheery sound of Crockett’s fiddle started up just outside his door. Tired of the darkness, he had asked Juana to light all the candles in his quarters. Perhaps if all the shadows in the room were dispelled, so would be the bleak visions which taunted him night and day.

  There was a soft knock on the door. As it opened, Bowie looked up to see Travis standing respectfully in the doorway.

  Bowie coughed and said, “What troubles you, Buck?”

  Travis removed his hat and stepped inside. With Bowie,
he always felt a little like a student in trouble, brought before the schoolmaster. “I spoke to the men earlier,” Travis said. “About our situation. You deserve to hear as well.”

  Bowie said, “I heard. Through the door. Every word.”

  “My words,” Travis said. “How painful for you.”

  Bowie shook his head. “Good words.”

  “We could try to get you out,” Travis said. “With an escort. If you are captured, perhaps, given your condition, mercy would be extended.”

  Bowie coughed again. “I do not deserve mercy.” He almost smiled. “But I do deserve a drink. You have anything stronger than water?”

  Travis said, “I don’t drink, Jim. You know that.” He sat down on a stool at the foot of Bowie’s bed. “I gamble. Go to whores. Run off on wives, but drinking . . . that’s where I draw the line.”

  Crockett’s merry fiddle tune had turned into a melancholy Irish air. It seemed appropriate to the general sadness in the air. “You know, Buck,” Bowie said, “if you live another five years, you might be a great man.”

  Five years. What would he give for another five years? Travis patted Bowie’s boot and said, “I think I will probably have to settle for what I am now.” Almost reluctantly, he stood up. “I will see about fetching you a bottle.”

  When Travis left the room, Bowie dissolved in another fit of coughing. He reached for the cameo on the bedside table and gazed at Ursula’s silhouette, beautiful but frozen, so unlike the warm, animated, loving face of his wife. Soon, Bowie thought. Soon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  At the palisade, Crockett was just putting the finishing notes on his Irish air when, over in Béxar, the Mexican army band struck up the strident notes of the Deguello. Autry sighed and began preparing for the barrage that he knew was about to commence. “God,” Autry said, “I despise that tune.”