A Time to Stand

by Walter Lord

  Joe took one look and fled to the barracks. Here he hid in a small room and saw no more. From this point on, he knew only the agonizing uncertainty shared by all the noncombatants. Very little seen; just the harrowing sounds of battle-cheers, explosions, cries, thuds, running feet.

  In the dark sacristy of the Alamo church, Mrs. Dickinson listened too. Beside her, Angelina clutched at her apron as the tumult steadily grew. Suddenly 16-year-old Galba Fuqua of Gonzales burst into the room. He looked pale and haggard; both jaws were shattered by a bullet, and blood trickled from his mouth.

  He painfully tried to tell Mrs. Dickinson something, but she just couldn’t understand. Desperately, he held his jaws together and tried again. Still no luck. Shaking his head, he turned and rushed back to the fight.

  The walls were now alive with rifle and cannon fire. As usual, every Texan had four or five guns stacked beside him, and Dickinson’s ragged artillerymen proved fast, skillful workers in a pinch. To Santa Anna, standing behind the earthwork to the north, the whole fort seemed lit up by the blazing guns.

  The four Mexican columns pushed into this hail of fire, heads bowed like men bucking a storm. To the east and the south, the troops slowed to a stop, pinned down by the guns on the Alamo church. On the northwest two blasts of grape-shot ripped the Aldama battalion—40 men lost. On the northeast, another blast swept the Tolucas—half a company down. The battalion commander Colonel Duque fell with a shattered leg, and his men—blindly plunging ahead—trampled over his crumpled body.

  A few reached the walls—the men Travis fired at—but most of them wavered and finally fell back. Re-forming, they came on a second time—and again the withering fire, again the stubborn retreat.

  Storming the Alamo, dawn, March 6. (A) Cós’ column, attacking from the northwest; (B) Duque’s column, striking from the northeast; (C) Romero’s force, coming from the east; (D) Morales’ troops, charging from the south; (E) Santa Anna, the reserves, and the band, stationed by the northern battery. Heavy Texan fire forced the first three columns to converge on the north, drove Morales’ men to the left, where they finally hit the fort at the southwest corner.

  Now a third time. Once more the troops advanced, shouting and yelling, cheering Santa Anna and la república. Colonel Romero’s column on the east was again stopped, but instead of retiring, this time the men drifted to their right, mixing with the Toluca battalion on the north. At the same time, Colonel Cós’ column—held on the northwest—veered to the left, also ending up with the Tolucas. The effect was a single, jumbled mob of men—all surging toward the north wall.

  Perhaps that’s what was needed: more strength and less strategy. In any case, this time they reached the Alamo, ending up in a confused mass at the foot of the wall. Now they were safe from cannon fire but in more peril than ever from the Texan rifles directly above.

  Worse than that, they were in danger from each other. The three columns—merging from different directions—continued to fire blindly ahead, more often hitting friend than foe. And the men in the rear, unable to see, took a fearful toll of those in front. To top it all, most of the scaling ladders disappeared. The troops bringing them were either shot or hiding.

  Watching from the earthwork, His Excellency could only ponder how even the best Napoleonic tactics might fail. Every last detail worked out … each of the twenty-eight ladders carefully assigned … four beautifully co-ordinated columns—and now this.

  He called sharply to Colonel Agustin Amat—send in the reserves. Then crisp orders to Secretary Caro, Captain Urizza, the smooth Almonte, all the rest of his fancy staff—go to the fort and encourage the men. The startled aides fluttered about and uncertainly took off for the fight.

  Now the reserves—the grenadiers and the tough Zapadores—raced across the rough ground, firing and cheering, wildly excited that their chance had finally come. And above the din rose a new sound—the massed bands of all the battalions blaring out some special music. It was the thrilling, blood-curdling strains of the Degüello, the traditional Spanish march of no quarter … of throat-cutting and merciless death.

  Fifteen incredible minutes. The Mexicans jammed together at the foot of the north wall … the Texans firing down on them from the top. Even the few ladders on hand were now gone, trampled underfoot. Despite their overwhelming numbers, Santa Anna’s troops were in serious trouble.

  But at this point it turned out that the Texans had unwittingly played into Mexican hands. Trying to strengthen the wall—especially by a breach near the east end—Jameson had built a timber redoubt in front of the crumbling stone. He was no finished carpenter, to say the least, and the barrier had plenty of chinks and uneven beam-ends. Hard climbing, but it could be done.

  Up … up, the Mexicans scrambled. Clawing at the chinks and notches, stamping on each other’s hands, they would fall back and then start all over again. The Texans blazed away as never before, but even four or five guns to a man were no longer enough.

  A handful of Mexicans rolled onto the parapet, led by General Juan V. Amador. For the General it was an especially satisfying moment. Only two days ago he had been in disgrace—relieved of all duty by His Excellency for some minor breach of decorum.

  About the same time, General Cós hurled his Aldama battalion at a new spot some yards away. Tired of the jumble by the north wall, Cós had halted his troops, executed a smart right-oblique, and charged the west side of the Alamo. He hit the north end, neatly flanking the Texan battery at the northwest angle.

  There was no redoubt here—the climbing was far more difficult—but there were unexpected advantages. At several points the Texan guns fired through freshly made embrasures, rather than over the walls, and the assault troops squirmed through the holes, pouring in faster than the Texans could handle them. Soon the northern postern was opened, and Cós’ men surged through in an uncheckable stream.

  “Great God, Sue, the Mexicans are inside our walls!” cried Almeron Dickinson, bursting into the sacristy where his wife sat trembling. There was just time for a last embrace and a final plea, “If they spare you, save my child.” Then he rushed back to the guns on top of the church.

  His men were already yanking around the cannon, taking aim at the enemy pouring into the fort. On a high platform in the plaza, another squad did the same. Their gun was light but perfectly placed—a shower of grape ripped the Mexican ranks.

  The advantage was brief. Even as the gunners turned to the north, the fourth Mexican column charged the south side of the Alamo. It had been a bad half-hour for this detachment under Colonel Morales. The “weak” palisade proved anything but that, when guarded by Crockett’s Tennesseans. But then came the diversion at the other end of the fort, and Morales’ men had their chance.

  Steering well clear of Crockett’s barrier, they seized some stone huts near the southwest corner. Here they regrouped and quickly struck again. Racing across the few exposed yards to the fort, they climbed the barbette and pounced on the surprised Texas gunners. A few seconds of bayonet practice-just as His Excellency wanted—and the prize 18-pounder was in Mexican hands.

  Pouring into the plaza, Morales’ troops now charged the main gate from the rear, as other Mexicans attacked from the front. William Ward fired a last broadside and fell under an avalanche of bayonet-slashing men.

  As the Texans desperately turned this way and that, resistance on the north collapsed completely. The columns of Romero and Duque (now led by Castrillón) poured unchecked over the wall, flowed through the plaza, joined up with Morales’ men fanning out from the south. It was too much for Quartermaster Eliel Melton. With the walls gone—the enemy surging behind him—he leapt the palisade where the barrier was lowest. A few others followed, and together they raced pell-mell into the graying dawn.

  The Dolores cavalry had been waiting for just this moment. Sweeping down on the scene, they hacked away at the fleeing men. Here and there a cornered Texan fought back—one man killed a lance corporal with a double-barreled shotgun—but mostly it
was child’s play. The superb Mexican horsemen simply toyed with the fugitives, slashing them with sabers or running them through with brightly decked lances. Only two men escaped immediate slaughter. One Texan wriggled under a bush, where he was ultimately found and shot; another hid beneath a small bridge, where he was later reported by a local woman washing laundry. He too was executed.

  Most of the Texans fought it out in the Alamo, giving ground foot by foot as the Mexicans continued pouring into the fort.

  Crockett’s Tennesseans, at bay near the palisade, battled with a wild fury that awed even the attackers. Individual names and deeds were lost forever in the seething mass of knives, pistols, fists, and broken gunstocks; but Sergeant Felix Nuñez remembered one man who could stand for any of them, including Crockett himself:

  He was a tall American of rather dark complexion and had on a long buckskin coat and a round cap without any bill, made out of fox skin with the long tail hanging down his back. This man apparently had a charmed life. Of the many soldiers who took deliberate aim at him and fired, not one ever hit him. On the contrary, he never missed a shot. He killed at least eight of our men, besides wounding several others. This being observed by a lieutenant who had come in over the wall, he sprang at him and dealt him a deadly blow with his sword, just above the right eye, which felled him to the ground, and in an instant he was pierced by not less than 20 bayonets.

  In one sense, Crockett and his “boys” were a special case, for they were too far away to head for the barracks, where Colonel Travis always planned his last stand. Now with Travis dead, it was Adjutant John Baugh who gave the signal to hole up. The men quickly dropped from the walls—Lieutenant Kimball and his band from Gonzales … Cleland Simmons and the dismounted cavalry … William Carey and the artillerymen on the west side.

  They didn’t run blindly. Rather, they moved toward the barracks with almost grim determination. Colonel Peña of the advancing Zapadores was especially fascinated by a rangy blond man, whom he mistook for Travis: “He would seem to hesitate … take a few steps, stop, turn on us and fire, shooting like a soldier. At last he died—a life sold dearly.”

  Once in the barracks, the Texans again faced the enemy. The past thirteen days had been profitably spent, and now the doorways were blocked by parapets. These were semicircular, made of earth rammed between stretched hides, and just high enough to rest a rifle. Some of the rooms also had holes bored in the walls, and some even trenches dug in the dirt floors. There was little communication between the rooms—and none at all between the buildings—but that didn’t matter. Everyone knew what to do.

  A searing, deadly fire crashed out from the loopholes and doorways. The Mexicans wavered, scattered frantically for cover, but there was no cover in the bare, open plaza. The troops fell in heaps in the early morning light.

  On the north wall, General Amador knew something had to be done right away. He snapped out an order; some men swung around the cannon by Travis’ body; and a makeshift crew began blasting the barricaded doorways. On the south, Colonel Morales did the same with the big 18-pounder; he fired a devastating salvo at the long barracks.

  As the battle raged in the plaza, Lieutenant José María Torres of the Zapadores battalion suddenly spied something that made his blood boil. There on the roof of the long barracks—easily seen in the growing light of day—flew a strange blue flag. He couldn’t make out the design but it certainly wasn’t Mexican—it was clearly a flag of rebellion and treason.

  Torres, of course, couldn’t know it, but this was the fine silk banner of the New Orleans Greys—brought all the way from the Sabine to proclaim the group’s faith in “God and Liberty.” There were at least two other flags in the Alamo this morning—one brought by Travis himself—but somehow only the Greys’ colors were raised in the black predawn hours of chaos and tumult.

  Lieutenant Torres raced for the roof … found others had been there before him. Three color sergeants of the Jiménez battalion lay dead near the flag—shot before they could reach it. That meant nothing to Torres. As Texan bullets whined around him, he ran over and ripped it down; then planted the Mexican colors instead. Lieutenant Damasco Martinez, who arrived to help, was killed beside him; and next instant Torres himself was shot to death. No one moved any longer on the barracks roof, but the flag that now flew in the morning breeze was red, white and green—with the angry eagle of Centralist Mexico.

  Down in the plaza, Santa Anna’s troops had little time to cheer the change in colors; they were much too busy storming the buildings. They moved methodically, from doorway to doorway, always using the same tactics: first a blast from the captured cannon to smash the doors and barricades … next a storm of musket fire to clear away the defenders … and then the final charge.

  As the Mexicans crashed into the barrack rooms, new struggles broke out—more desperate, more fearful than any before. It was an intensely personal business now—pairs of men clutching and wrestling in the smoke-filled darkness. But there were always too many Mexicans, and one after another the defenders were beaten down.

  Occasionally some Texan had enough. Colonel Peña remembered one man waving a rifle with a white sock tied to the end. But most of the defenders were doing their best to make Travis’ prediction come true: “Victory will cost the enemy so dear, that it will be worse for him than defeat.”

  Yet they couldn’t last forever, and one by one the buildings were taken—the long barracks to the east … the low barracks on the south … the collection of huts along the west wall. In one of these rooms on the west, Mrs. Horace Alsbury crouched with her baby and sister Gertrudis. For some reason they lived apart from the other women in the church—perhaps because their protector Jim Bowie felt they rated more privacy. In any case, they were no better off now: the sound of fighting drew steadily closer.

  Gertrudis finally opened the door, hoping to show there were only women inside. A passing Mexican soldier snatched off her shawl, and she ran back in terror. As troops poured in after her, a young Texan (Mrs. Alsbury thought his name was Mitchell) appeared from nowhere and tried to protect them. He was quickly bayoneted at Mrs. Alsbury’s side.

  Then a Mexican officer arrived, chased out the troops, and turned on the two frightened women: “How did you come here? What are you doing here anyhow?”

  He didn’t even wait for an answer. He simply ordered them out, had them stand against a wall where they were comparatively safe.

  To the south, Morales’ men were mopping up resistance in the low barracks. Breaking into a room just to the right of the Alamo gate, they came upon a startling sight. Propped in his cot, brace of pistols by his side, pale as the death that faced him, was Jim Bowie. He undoubtedly did the best he could, but it must have been over very soon.

  Now only the Alamo church was left. Dickinson’s crew still fought the 12-pounders on the high platform in back. Bonham had joined them—eleven men altogether. Just below, Gregorio Esparza worked his small gun by the south window, and Robert Evans kept the ammunition coming from the powder magazine by the entrance.

  A shower of nails and scrap iron flew from a gun on the roof, ripping the Jiménez men in the plaza. Colonel Morales knew the answer to that. He pulled around the 18-pounder and began raking the church—the timbered platform, the thick stone walls, the strong oak doors, everything.

  Bonham fell Dickinson too … gradually the rest of the men on the platform. Unable to stand the pounding any longer, one man took a small child in his arms, ran to the edge, and hurtled to the ground below. Colonel Peña, Felix Nuñez, other Mexicans gasped at the sight.

  The heavy double doors splintered and sagged on their broken hinges. The Jiménez and Matamoros men raced through, and spread out in the smoke-filled church. Gregorio Esparza quickly fell under their bayonets. Robert Evans—now wounded—grabbed a torch and crawled for the powder room, hoping to blow up the magazine. A Mexican bullet got him first.

  The women and children huddled in the rear, almost too frightened to move. One
young boy stood up, uncertainly faced the advancing troops. He was unarmed and made no move, except to draw a blanket around his shivering shoulders. He found no mercy.

  Twelve-year-old Enrique Esparza shrank against the wall, sure that his turn would come next. But fate was capricious, as always in war. Gunner Antony Wolfe’s two boys—they looked less than twelve—were ruthlessly slaughtered, but Enrique somehow was missed in the crush. Stranger still, old Brigido Guerrero—one of the local Mexican defenders—managed to talk himself free. Desperately he pleaded he was just a prisoner, had really been for Santa Anna all the time. For some reason they believed him and let him go.

  In the dark little sacristy, just off the transept, Mrs. Dickinson calmly awaited the end. There were other women in the room, but she didn’t notice them. She was only aware of the shouts, the cries, the screams, always drawing nearer. She held Angelina close, deep in the folds of her apron.

  Suddenly Jacob Walker, the little gunner from Nacogdoches, burst into the room. He ran to a corner and seemed trying to hide. But it was no use. Four Mexican soldiers rushed in, and as Mrs. Dickinson fell to her knees in prayer, they shot Walker and savagely hoisted him on their bayonets like a bundle of fodder.

  The sounds died away. All grew still. By 6:30 A.M. the last firing was over—the Mexicans weren’t even shooting at the bodies any more. A cheerful sun rose in the east, bathing the silent, smoking Alamo in the golden light of a bright new day.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “It Was But a Small Affair”

  “IT WAS BUT A small affair,” shrugged His Excellency, General Antonio López de Santa Anna, greeting Captain Fernando Urizza in the fallen Alamo.

  In some ways, perhaps it was. A minor frontier outpost. Only 183 defenders. And these not even trained soldiers, but mere amateurs who saw fit to stand between the “ungrateful colonists” and the authority of the Central Government. Well, they learned.