The Alamo

by Frank Thompson

  In the dining room, some of the generals looked at the map, studying its details. It had been drawn by cartographer Colonel Ygnacio de Labastida, who was not among those present. The map showed an overview of the entire area: all the buildings in Béxar, the jacales of La Villita, across the river, the winding river, the farmlands and wooded areas. Near the top of the map was a drawing of the Alamo compound, and it was upon this section that most of the generals’ attention was focused.

  Santa Anna, having completed his dinner, nodded at his manservant Ben, who immediately set a small plate of apple slices before the president. Then he refilled Santa Anna’s coffee cup and discreetly stepped back.

  “General Cós,” Santa Anna said, “you will be given opportunity to redeem yourself.”

  Cós nodded nervously. “Thank you, Your Excellency.”

  “You will lead the first charge,” Santa Anna said, “Here, at the weak north wall.”

  As he spoke, Batres pointed at the spot with the stick.

  Cós said nothing, but his face made clear that this was not exactly the assignment he would have chosen for himself.

  If Santa Anna noticed the look, he ignored it.

  “Colonel Duque will follow—from the northeast,” Santa Anna said, as Batres pointed. “Romero, from the east. Morales from the south. General Ramirez y Sesma, your cavalry will patrol the perimeter of the compound in order to insure that no one escapes or retreats.”

  Each of the generals nodded as his name was mentioned, and continued to study the map. Castrillón had not glanced at the map once. He had been listening, biting his tongue, trying to talk himself out of saying what had to be said—but that which could only turn out badly for him. Finally, he took a deep breath and said, “Excellency, our twelve-pounder cannon arrives tomorrow. Why risk the lives of so many of our own who will die trying to take a wall that can easily be demolished by cannonade? In one day, the wall could be knocked down, forcing the Texians to surrender.”

  Santa Anna looked at his dinner plate, and nodded toward the bones. “What are the lives of soldiers,” he said, “but so many chickens?”

  “And if they surrender?” Castrillón asked.

  Santa Anna dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “They are pirates, not soldiers. No prisoners.”

  Castrillón said, his voice growing in urgency, “Your Excellency, there are rules governing—”

  Santa Anna pounded the table with his fist. Every man in the room jumped at the sound and braced himself for the onslaught. “I am governing!” Santa Anna shouted. “And you, sir, have no understanding of the difficulties that entails!”

  The president stood up and paced the room for a moment, calming himself. No one else moved; they barely breathed. Santa Anna leaned across the table toward Castrillón. His voice was lower now, more reasonable, as though he truly needed his generals to understand his point of view.

  “I am committed to giving our country a national identity,” he said. “Did we gain independence only to let our land be stolen from us? It stops here. It must. For if it doesn’t, our grandchildren and their grandchildren will suffer the disgrace of one day begging for crumbs from the gringo.”

  He peered at every face around the table, and each general tried hard to meet his gaze. “Without blood, without tears,” Santa Anna said, his voice nearly a whisper, “there is no glory.”

  Castrillón sighed and looked down at the table. He knew that the die was cast.

  Santa Anna sat down again at the head of the table. He slowly ate another apple slice, smiling as he savored it. His demeanor was so completely different from the raving madman of a moment before that they might have been two different people. “And now,” he said, “for the details.”

  He nodded at Batres, who passed out papers to each general—the orders of attack. Santa Anna said, “You will find all of your orders here. We will attack before dawn, so have your men ready and in place by two in the morning. That means you will have to awaken them by midnight and make them get ready.”

  The generals—most of them—nodded in assent.

  Santa Anna continued, “Each column must be equipped with ladders, crowbars and axes to help them gain entry to the fort.”

  Almonte peered at the orders, then looked up.

  “Excellency,” he said, “it is very cold. It is written here that the men cannot carry blankets or wear their topcoats. Surely you—”

  Santa Anna snapped, “I will have them carry nothing that may impede the rapidity of their motions. If they are cold, they will be warmed soon enough, in the heat of battle. Oh, and make sure that every man is wearing shoes.”

  Castrillón said softly, “Many of our men do not have shoes.”

  “Well then,” Santa Anna said impatiently, “at least make sure they have sandals. I will not have this battle lost over bare feet.”

  Silence hung over the room for a long moment. No one else seemed as confident of victory as Santa Anna.

  He nodded curtly, “That is all.” The men stood and prepared to leave. “Oh,” Santa Anna said, “one more thing. Make sure that your men remain silent. If we surprise the rebels in their sleep, our task will be that much simpler.” His voice softened. “Gentlemen, the honor of our nation is at stake. Tell your men that I expect each one to do his duty, to exert himself, and to give his country a day of glory and satisfaction. Tell them that their supreme commander knows well how to reward brave men.”

  The generals saluted and stepped from the warmth of the Yturri house into the bitter cold of the Béxar evening.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Silence enveloped the Alamo. When the expected barrage did not take place, the Texians were surprised and curious, but most of them were too exhausted to be suspicious. Almost none of the Texians had been able to sleep through the night for the past two weeks, and now the blessed quiet seductively enticed them to close their eyes. Some had the presence of mind to make sure their guns were loaded and nearby; others just drifted off at their places on the walls. Some even slept standing up.

  Albert Grimes, the eighteen-year-old Georgia boy, was almost asleep when Captain Martin roughly shook his shoulder. Grimes jolted awake, instantly alert—and peeved.

  “What the hell . . . Oh, sorry, Captain.”

  Martin nodded. “Sentry duty, son. We all have to take a turn.”

  Grimes glanced over the north wall to the little dugout about twenty yards outside the Alamo’s walls and groaned. “Tonight? Captain, I swear I do not know if I can stay awake.”

  “You had better, Grimes,” Martin said. “If you do not, either the Mexicans will slaughter you or I will.”

  Grimes smiled, but Martin was not joking. With a sigh, Grimes stood up, checked his flintlock, powder and shot and slipped over the wall. He ran, crouched low to the ground, to the dugout. There were no signs that he had been spotted by the Mexicans. He settled in and peered through the darkness toward the northern cannon positions. He wished that he had managed to bring a cup of coffee with him. It was damn cold and it would help him stay awake. But he had jumped without thinking—always a failing of his, he thought. Now here he was sitting in a hole in the ground, while behind him, the lucky men in the Alamo were sleeping like the dead.

  In the Mexican camp just across the river, Jesús also was sleeping peacefully. His sunny dreams of home were rudely interrupted by the sergeant, who awakened him as quietly as possible. It took a moment for Jesús to get his bearings. Looking to his left and right, he saw his fellow soldados preparing for battle: tightening belts, loading weapons, kneeling for last prayers, all without uttering a word. Not for the first time, Jesús wished that there were a priest to give his confession to. His officers had told the men that the Alamo would fall easily, that it would be a grand and glorious victory for Mexico. But, Jesús wondered, do men not die, even in easy battles? The Texians were outnumbered, but they were still behind walls, they still had cannon. It seemed to Jesús that the odds were not nearly as much in the Mexicans�
� favor as everyone kept insisting.

  When all of the soldados were ready, they formed columns. The sergeants and other officers walked along the rows of nervous men, quietly repeating orders over and over: “Be very quiet. Do not do anything to betray our position. Load your rifles and fix your bayonets—and do it silently.”

  The officers gave the order to move forward, depending primarily on hand signals and whispered commands. They crouched low and walked toward the Alamo on cat’s paws. Jesús fell into step with hundreds of men, led by General Cós, quietly approaching the fort from the north. They stopped about two hundred yards away, in a small forest. Jesús’s hands were freezing and his feet felt numb. He was trembling, as was nearly everyone else he could see. He hoped that his fellow soldados could not tell that he wasn’t trembling entirely from the cold.

  At the palisade, all the Tennesseans were sleeping—all but Crockett. His loaded rifles were propped up beside him, but he held his fiddle in his lap, staring straight ahead. He had the strong urge to play a tune, but he knew that it would only wake up the men. Still, he thought, music can be a tolerable comfort at a time like this—take your mind off the fear. With one finger he plucked a string, then stopped. Had he heard a noise outside? Standing up, he peered over the palisade and into the black of the night. Nothing.

  Four hundred men under Colonel Duque peeled off from the main force and headed for the center of the north wall. Many of the men carried the ladders that they had spent the previous day building.

  The three hundred riflemen under Colonel Romero also carried ladders. They headed toward the low walls of the cattle pen on the east side of the Alamo.

  To the south, a hundred riflemen under Morales moved toward the palisade. Only two of them lugged ladders. The palisade was low but tricky. If anyone got over it, it would not be because of ladders.

  In Béxar, the cavalry mounted their horses and began riding, as quietly as possible, to their predetermined place on the east side, behind Romero. They were not part of the attack—they were just there to skewer with their lances any gringo who tried to make a run for it.

  Jesús heard the arrival of more men on the north side. He looked back and was a little shocked to see that it was the band, their brass instruments out of their cases and ready to play. Jesús wondered, is the battle going to be set to music?

  The Mexican army was nearly in place, on all four sides of the Alamo. At a motion from the officers, the men lay down on the ground to wait for the order to attack.

  At the north wall, neither William Ward not Dolphin Floyd had been able to join the others in sleep. They sat silently, wrapped in their own thoughts, for a long time. Then Floyd chuckled.

  “What?” Ward asked.

  Floyd said, “What time you reckon it is?”

  Ward looked into the sky. “Hard to say, lad. Hasn’t the moon been behind a cloud all night?”

  “Would you say it is after midnight?” Floyd said.

  “If I were to guess, I’d say well past midnight. Two, maybe three in the morning.”

  “Well then, sir,” Floyd said smiling, “you can wish me a happy birthday.”

  Ward smiled back. “You do not tell me so?”

  “Yes, sir, March sixth,” Floyd said. “I am twenty-one years old today.”

  Ward patted Floyd on the back. “Happy birthday, me boy-o. And many, many more.”

  Travis also found it difficult to sleep, but he knew that he had to. He was as exhausted as any of the men, and they relied on him to keep a clear mind—now, more than ever. He returned to his quarters and saw that Joe was already asleep. Travis lay down on his bed and covered himself with a thick woolen blanket. Thoughts of Charlie, of Rebecca, of Rosanna, filled his mind. He also thought of the girl in Béxar . . . Was that only two weeks ago? Such tenderness. He had purchased her body, but she had given him more: solace, warmth, comfort, kindness.

  He left a tall candle lit but fought the temptation to read himself to sleep with the volume of poetry that he carried with him always. He said softly to himself, “Tyger! Tyger! burning bright . . . In the forests of the night . . . What immortal hand or eye . . . Could frame thy fearful symmetry?” He had loved that one since childhood. And the thrilling, chivalrous works of Sir Walter Scott. And, of course, Shakespeare. So much to read, to know; so many wonderful and important ideas. Travis wondered if all those ideas had paved the road that led him directly to this terrible place.

  Grimes scanned the darkness from his dugout position as long as he could. Several times he felt his eyes closing. With great effort he forced himself awake. He considered pinching or slapping himself—anything to remain sharp. He certainly did not want to have to face the wrath of Captain Martin. But soon, even his sternest resolve could not keep him awake. Grimes’s head drooped onto his chest and he slipped to almost a sitting position, his rifle propped on the edge of the shallow pit. He hoped, as he drifted off, that he would not have to wake up for a long, long time. But he did wake up when a hand roughly covered his mouth, and two more held his arms. Grimes’s eyes popped open as a bayonet was rammed into his chest. Before he had time to react, another bayonet stuck deep into him, just below the ribs. Earlier, he had had so much trouble keeping his eyes open. Now, they would never close again.

  The army was moving forward silently, on every side of the Alamo. Jesús was filled with terror, and all around him, his fellow soldados were quaking with fear and anticipation. To his left, he saw the eyes of José Torres dart back and forth, as though something inside him were about to explode. And so it was:

  “Viva Santa Anna!” Torres shouted.

  Across the way, a voice called out from Duque’s column: “Viva la Republica!”

  There had been no order to charge, but suddenly, the Mexicans were running toward the walls of the Alamo, screaming like demons. Jesús wished desperately that he could run in the opposite direction, but he was swept along in this wave of horror, and nearly wept with fear as he saw the fort grow closer and closer.

  Adjutant John Baugh, the officer of the day, was the first man to see the charge, from a parapet on the west wall. He turned into the compound and shouted, “They are on us! The Mexicans!”

  Travis, not yet asleep, was on his feet in an instant. He shook Joe by the shoulder, grabbed his sword and shotgun and raced toward the north wall. As he ran, he called out as loudly as he could, “Come on, boys! The Mexicans are upon us!”

  In the Alamo church, Bonham, Dickinson, Esparza and the rest of the cannon crew woke up and sprang to their places at the guns. Already primed, it was the work of a moment to load them and fire both cannon into the wave of men approaching from the east.

  Crockett flung his fiddle aside and grabbed the nearest rifle. His men rose up at the palisade. Autry got off the first shot, but it was too dark to see if it hit its mark. His only comfort was they were massed so thickly out there, he was almost certain to hit something.

  Texians came sprinting out of the long barracks, rifles in hand, spreading out in four directions for their stations. Men who had been sleeping at their places on the walls were now firing into the night. There was no time to reload. After each shot, the men threw those rifles to the ground, then picked up the next. Only when every flintlock was empty could they risk a moment to kneel behind the wall and ram in more powder and shot.

  Jesús had not yet fired a shot. He gripped his rifle in his hands and just kept running toward the wall, closer, closer. The combined rifle and cannon fire from the north wall ripped through the tightly packed militiamen. The air was filled with screams of agony. Jesús was screaming, too. He had not been hit but he was wet with the blood of the men who were dying around him. They seemed to be dropping by the dozens. He tried to remember the words of the Rosary, or any prayer he had ever heard. But his mind was blank, filled only with the sickening dread of impending death.

  At the next massed rifle blast from the north wall, more men fell. Others turned and began to run back to the protection of the woods
. Jesús was swept along with them again, being pulled this way and that way, like a goat on a leash. The retreating men ran directly into their own officers, who threatened them with saber and broadsword, pistol and lance, to turn around again and head back to the Alamo.

  “Charge!” a sergeant shouted. “Charge!”

  On the platform at the rear of the church, the two cannon fired almost continually into Romero’s column, knocking the first line of attackers off their feet. Dickinson and Bonham had trained their crew well. After each blast, the men loaded both cannon in seconds and fired again. Romero’s disoriented men scattered frantically toward the cattle pen to the north, but the little cannon there met them and drove them back. Texian gunmen fired volley after volley into their ranks and the Mexicans kept heading north, hoping to find cover somewhere.

  At the palisade, Crockett and his men kept up a withering fire into Morales’s advancing column. Mexican soldiers fell left and right. The single cannon of the Tennesseans fired from its embrasure at the center of the palisade. The men of Morales’s regiment who were still standing after the blast turned west, toward the lunette that protected the Alamo’s main gate. When the cannon fired, the concussion awoke Bowie; the noise of the rifle fire had not disturbed his fevered sleep. Through his cross-shaped window, he could see Morales’s men running past. He looked frantically around the room for Juana, then remembered that he had told her to spend the night in the baptistery with the other women. It was hard for Bowie to catch his breath, but he inched his way toward a sitting position on the bed and once again checked his pistols. They were primed and loaded.