The young men of the Alamo knew nothing of the horrors of Mexico’s civil war, and had forgotten, or never learned, of the nightmare of America’s own civil war in the South during the American Revolution, which was “a fierce war of extermination.” No one had told them of the rape of Zacatecas, the slaughter of unarmed militiamen, the killing of the wounded and the execution of survivors by Santa Anna. If the generalissimo treated Mexican rebels in such a savage manner, then he was certainly about to treat the Anglo-Celts worse, especially because he wanted to make a lasting example out of them.
For the band of defenders, the Alamo siege would be a race against time. Only one hope remained for the entrapped garrison: the possibility that sufficient Texan reinforcements might arrive in time. Santa Anna’s vanguard had arrived in San Antonio with less than 1,500 men, many of whom were cavalry who could not assault fortress walls; but as the rest of the Mexican army and its artillery closed up, the odds would eventually be overwhelming. Only reinforcements from the rest of Texas could ensure that even at full strength Santa Anna’s army would suffer a bloody repulse. As February neared its end there was still time for Texas to support the Alamo garrison, but that window of opportunity was quickly closing.
Instead of rallying support to reinforce the Alamo, however, the Virginia-born Houston did “nothing very constructive.” Instead of rallying support, he made an Indian treaty with the Cherokee and their allies, that had no effect or strategic consequences in regard to stemming Santa Anna’s invasion. At this time, many people across Texas already viewed Houston as an old soldier “who had lost the will to fight.”
And in fact, Houston remained drunk much of the time in Washington-on-the-Brazos after his arrival on February 29, and during the constitutional convention sessions that would issue the Texas Declaration of Independence on March 2, which was also his 43rd birthday. He had already earned the nickname of “Big Drunk” from the Cherokee. At Washington-on-the-Brazos, instead of focusing on saving the Alamo garrison, Houston exhibited a strong penchant for a liquorlaced eggnog at the busy grog shops, getting considerably intoxicated, and probably also partook in opium. On one occasion, friends carried a passed out Houston to his bed. Then another time, after an all-night revelry, Houston stayed most of the next day in bed out of necessity. Instead of deserving renown as the “Father of Texas,” as endlessly promoted by Texas and American historians, Houston should have been denounced as the “Father of the Alamo disaster,” because of his apathy toward the Alamo’s fate. 7
Even when the March 2 Brazoria Texas Republican published Travis’ stirring appeal for assistance, Houston still did nothing to rally reinforcements for the Alamo. Instead, with “his mind fogged by alcohol,” he concluded that Mexicans troops were nowhere near San Antonio, and brushed off Travis’ words as a crass political attempt to grandstand and gain popularity across Texas by way of “a damned lie.” 8
Since reading Travis’ first missive, Houston saw nothing but sinister personal politics at work. He stated: “A fraud had been practiced upon the people by the officers of the frontier, for party purposes.” 9
Ever apathetic, Houston failed to assist the Alamo in part because he was concerned that “Travis might be just as ambitious [as Fannin, who coveted Houston’s position as commander-in-chief], perhaps seeing holding on to Béxar as the means to become a hero in Texas and ride that to power. Thus, Houston dismissed both men’s pleas [Travis and Fannin] for help at the Alamo.” Even in the first days of March, when the convention met to vote on Texas’ independence, Houston remained dismissive of the fate of Travis and his men. He even informed fellow delegates that “Travis exaggerated his position and only sought to aggrandize himself.” 10
Ironically, Fannin, who faced the advance of Santa Anna’s right wing under General José Urrea, the pincer movement north into Texas that had moved up the coastal road from Matamoros, has taken the most blame from historians for losing the Alamo. 11 But in fact, it was the smug politicians and even the people of Texas who had turned their backs on the Alamo garrison during its hour of need. Then, on March 3, unknown to the Alamo’s defenders, the Declaration of Independence was officially signed at Washington-on-the-Brazos, resulting in the birth of the Republic of Texas. On the following day, Houston, of all people, was named commander-in-chief: an ironic appointment for Texas, because he had done so little to gather support to reinforce San Antonio. It was almost as if Houston had been rewarded for allowing the Alamo garrison to be wiped off the face of the earth. 12 Clearly, it was already much too late for the Alamo men, who had become victims of a “pure and simple betrayal of the worst kind.” 13
This realization that they had been abandoned by the people of Texas had come relatively early to some Alamo garrison members. As Captain Carey penned in a January 12, 1836 letter to his brother and sister, the “Old Texians” only “came at the eleventh hour and remained in camps expecting us all to be killed and they men of property in this country and have their all in Texas did they come forward to protect the place. No. They pilfered us of our blankets and clothes and horses and went home [after capturing San Antonio] telling how they whipt the Spaniards reaping the laurels of a few.” 14
But not everyone in Texas had turned their back on the Alamo. At 3:00 a.m., in the cold darkness on March 1, the arrival of Pennsylvaniaborn Lieutenant George C. Kimbell, age 33, and his 32 men of the Gonzales Ranging Company of Mounted Volunteers from Gonzales, the westernmost Anglo community in Texas and the only one west of the Colorado River, were the only reinforcement to the beleaguered Alamo garrison, only four days after Santa Anna reached San Antonio. Led by carpenter-turned-guide John W. Smith, who was nicknamed “El Colorado” by the Tejanos because of his flaming red hair, these Gonzales boys consisted of the town’s “best citizens.” With a determination to assist their comrades, Kimbell’s men had ridden away from the Gonzales town square on February 27, never to see their families again. 15
When Santa Anna was informed of the tiny reinforcement, he was more amused than anything else. To him, these Gonzales cavalrymen who had conveniently arrived at the Alamo would enable him to slaughter more rebels as part of his overall plan to purge Texas of colonists. 16
Meanwhile, the siege of the Alamo progressed day after day. After inching forward to get within closer range, Mexican artillerymen in colorful uniforms blasted away with their light guns, hoping that a lucky shot might knock a hole in the walls for the unleashing of an infantry assault. But the Mexican cannons were not only antiquated, but much too light to knock down the strong limestone and abode walls. A notoriously impatient Santa Anna had begun the siege without waiting for the arrival of his heavier artillery, two 12-pounders. This dilemma was not unlike that faced by the ragtag “People’s Army of Texas” in assaulting San Antonio before the arrival of their largest gun, the 18-pounder, which was now poised at the Alamo’s southwest corner. 17
On February 25, Santa Anna launched a probe against the Alamo’s southern side, consisting of two or three hundred men. Launched in broad daylight, the defenders were waiting and sent the Mexicans reeling back with cannon and rifle fire, inflicting at least half a dozen dead and wounded. Afterward, garrison members sallied out to burn some huts where Mexicans were taking shelter, and also to bring in some of their materials for firewood. Meantime, as more Mexican artillery arrived, Santa Anna set up batteries on all sides of the Alamo.
Clearly not anticipating serious resistance, Santa Anna already knew that victory over the Alamo garrison was near. He was already thinking ahead, even bragging in a February 27 report to Mexico City: “After taking the fortress of the Alamo, I will continue my operations” in Texas. 18
With the end drawing closer, and with the hope of reinforcements having faded away like the dropping late winter sun, the Alamo’s defenders could only find solace in the heroic example of their own Anglo-Celtic ancestors of the American Revolution, not unlike how Santa Anna’s soldiers looked with pride upon their forebears in Father Hiladgo’s 1810 r
evolt against the Spanish. Ironically, both Americans and Mexicans shared an equally distinguished revolutionary heritage in throwing off the yoke of European and colonial powers.
Here, at the Alamo, Bowie took pride in his hardy ancestors, who first migrated from Scotland to the rich tobacco country along the Patuxent River country of southern Maryland during the first decade of the 1700s. Ancestor Captain Daniel Bowie had defended his piece of Prince George’s County, Maryland, while serving with distinction in the spirited attack of Colonel William Smallwood’s Maryland battalion during the campaign for New York in the Revolution. This headlong charge against impossible odds—both British and Hessian—helped to save hundreds of Washington’s defeated troops at the height of the disastrous Battle of Brooklyn on August 27, 1776. Nearly every Marylander became a casualty, including Captain Bowie, who was captured.
But other Bowie family members moved south beyond the tobacco country of southern Maryland, migrating to South Carolina before the American Revolution. With a name denoting distinct Scottish roots, Rezin Bowie served in the command of Francis Marion, the famous “Swamp Fox,” who repeatedly struck at British patrols and garrisons in the South Carolina lowlands. 19
Like Bowie, who revered his American Revolutionary ancestors, Crockett admired his father’s role at the unexpected patriot victory at Kings Mountain, South Carolina, in October 1780. He was especially proud of the fact that his father had served as a lowly private with the “over-mountain” men. Winning everlasting fame for the Long Rifle, these frontiersmen defeated Major Patrick Ferguson and his Loyalist troops—vanquishing an entire expeditionary force with one blow that began to turn the tide in the Southern theater. Indeed, while “his son David lost all recollection of anything else his father did in the Revolution, he never forgot John Crockett’s role at King’s Mountain.” 20
Here, trapped inside the Alamo’s cold, dark confines without a prayer—even though he had yet to fully realize that bitter truth—Travis might well have recalled his family’s role during the American Revolution. After migrating south from Virginia, Travis’ ancestors lived in the largely Scotch-Irish community of Ninety-Six, South Carolina, which stood at the vortex of a vicious civil war among neighbors. In 1781, the Americans besieged the Tory garrison of Ninety-Six for 28 days without achieving victory. It is not known if Travis’ ancestors in arms served as patriots or Tories, or remained neutral like so many Americans in the South. 21
Perhaps some fatalistic Alamo defenders from Ireland identified with the last words of martyred revolutionary Robert Emmet, leader of the failed 1803 Irish revolt, before his September 20, 1803 execution by the British in Dublin: “I am going to my cold and silent grave; my lamp of life is nearly extinguished [and now] The grave opens to receive me . . . I am ready to die.” 22
By taking some inspiration in the military roles played by ancestors in America’s struggle for independence, the Alamo defenders had no way of knowing how much they actually had in common with the Mexican troops, who had been sent north to “exterminate” them, sharing a proud revolutionary tradition. Instead, however, the Anglo-Celts only emphasized superficial differences in their opponents, especially a darker skin.
Indeed, the tortured course of the histories of both Mexico and the United States meant that Santa Anna’s soldiers and the Alamo’s defenders had very much in common, despite the considerable cultural and racial differences. Imbued with the identical republican ideals and enlightened revolutionary visions stemming from the 18th-century Enlightenment, the colonial people of both nations, Mexico and the United States, had broken away from their respective mother countries, Spain and Great Britain, in successful revolutions based upon the concept of egalitarianism for all men. But Mexico’s enlightened vision applied to people of all colors, including those of African descent, unlike in the United States. And now, in early March 1836, a good many Americans and Mexicans were about to meet in mortal combat for supporting what were in essence the same principles, at least in theory. Therefore, in this sense, a strange fate and destiny had seemingly brought not only the Alamo defenders to wintry San Antonio in the first place, but also Santa Anna’s soldiers. 23
FEEBLE ARTILLERY BOMBARDMENT
Contrary to the traditional views of the Alamo, the siege was somewhat of a farce. The Mexican artillery arm that had completed the lengthy journey all the way from Mexico’s depths under harsh winter conditions was even weaker, both in numbers and the diminutive size of the pieces, than the Alamo’s “long arm” arsenal. Santa Anna’s artillery arm was so weak that the mere idea of a siege reducing the Alamo’s defenses was unrealistic. All that Santa Anna could rely upon to batter down the Alamo’s walls was eight small artillery pieces: two 6–pounders, two– pounders, two 4-pounders, and two 7-inch howitzers—far too light to be effective. Even worse, these cannons were aging, nearly obsolete guns mounted on Gribeauval wooden carriages. By this time, the Mexican army’s artillery arm was a hollow shell of its former self, having peaked more than a decade earlier in 1825. At that time, the power and accuracy of Mexican guns had forced the surrender of the Spanish garrison of the mighty fortress San Juan de Ulloa that protected Vera Cruz.
Cut off from Spain’s cannon-making foundries after Mexico won its independence, Mexico’s arsenal of artillery consisted of an odd assortment of antiquated Spanish and French artillery pieces from a bygone era. No cannon of Santa Anna’s artillery arm came close to the size of the Alamo’s 18-pounder. In addition, the overall inferior quality of Mexican black powder—extremely coarse, not fine like United States powder—bestowed relatively low propellant capabilities. 24
Not surprisingly during such a feeble siege, no Alamo garrison members were killed during nearly two weeks of bombardment. Quite simply, Santa Anna’s siege was little more than an imitation of a legitimate one. As Travis boasted in his March 3 letter: “. . . the walls are generally proof against cannon balls.” Mocking Santa Anna’s artillery fire throughout the bombardment, Travis added in the same letter: “At least two hundred shells have fallen inside of our works without having injured a single man.” 25
But as additional regiments and battalions of the Mexican army came marching into San Antonio, it became clear that, no matter how feeble the army’s artillery, the sheer size of the besieging force would soon spell doom for the tiny Alamo garrison. And the no-quarter flag that began flying on the first day of the siege indicated Santa Anna’s confidence. A writer for the New Orleans True American emphasized an undeniable reality that not only sealed the Alamo garrison’s fate, but also was destined to send shock waves across the United States: “It is worthy of remark that the flag of Santa Anna’s army at Béxar was a BLOOD RED ONE, in place of the constitutional tri-colored flag” of the Republic of Mexico. 26
Such a development should not have surprised the Alamo garrison. The recent tragic fates of the 28 volunteers—mostly from the United States—after the mid-November 1835 attempt to capture Tampico should have served as a stern warning. A letter printed in the February 20, 1836 edition of the Telegraph and Texas Register explained the tragedy: “We the undersigned prisoners of war are condemned to be shot on Monday December 14, 1835 at Tampico.” 27
Some more realistic men in Texas had early warned in vain of the brutal brand of warfare that was about to sweep across Texas. As written by a history-minded Lieutenant Governor Robinson to the General Council on January 14: “The defenseless situation of our oppressed country calls for your prompt attention and speedy relief [because of the] glittering spears and ruthless sword of the descendants of Cortez, and his modern Goths and Vandals.” 28
The xenophobic Santa Anna possessed an almost identical low opinion of the Anglo-Celts of Texas, especially those recently from the United States. With undisguised contempt, he explained how the American “invaders were all men, who, moved by the desire of conquest, with rights less apparent and plausible than those of Cortes or Pizarro, wished to take possession of that vast territory extending from Béxar to the Sabine
, belonging to Mexico.” 29 Clearly, not only fighting to gain permanent possession of the same object—Texas—both sides in the Texas Revolution saw the other as immoral barbarians, a dark plague that had descended upon the land to threaten their respective civilizations. Such emotional and largely racial analogies of the Texas revolutionaries to ruthless Conquistadors had special appeal to the many Indians and Mestizos in Santa Anna’s Army at the Alamo.
Ironically, the initial success of the United States and Tejano revolutionaries of the 1813–14 Gutierrez-Magee Expedition, who had captured Béxar and the Alamo during an earlier liberal revolt against the government in Mexico City, was hailed in sympathetic U.S. newspapers as a military expedition greater than that of Cortes. 30
In historical terms, Mexico’s extermination policy was not only a product of Moorish warfare, Cortes’ conquest of the Aztecs, and the savage warfare between the Spanish and the Mexico people for the heart and soul of Mexico, but also a traditional feature of frontier warfare brought to Texas by the Anglo-Celts themselves. When Magee’s American revolutionaries of the Gutierrez-Magee Expedition marched into San Antonio and took possession of the Alamo, which became their headquarters after the Spanish garrison surrendered, the head of one especially hated Spanish officer was cut off. The Spaniard’s head was then placed on a pike at the Alamo’s main gate to serve as a grim warning to liberal-minded Tejanos of San Antonio.
And while Santa Anna’s greatest infamy stemmed from his no-quarter policy at the Alamo and Goliad, what has been conveniently overlooked is the fact that it had been the Texans themselves who had first entered the no-quarter concept into the equation of the Texas Revolution. Ironically, in a strange twist of fate, the Alamo’s now disabled co-commander, Bowie, had in fact first threatened no quarter on Mexican troops in summer 1832. At that time, he declared that all Mexican troops of the Nacogdoches garrison who failed to surrender would be killed without mercy.
Exodus From the Alamo: The Anatomy of the Last Stand Myth Page 24