What was it that local fellow said it was called? Yes, he remembered.
The Alamo.
Twenty-seven
Jamie, Bonham, and three other men did not enter the town with the two regular columns of about a hundred and fifty men each, commanded by Tom Milam and Francis Johnson. They were not keen on fighting all bunched up with others. Instead, when they got into the town, they smiled at each other and with a nod, parted company to fight the way they liked best: alone.
Jamie crouched just off the mouth of an alley, his bow ready, an arrow notched. He saw a fancy-dressed Mexican officer, a plume on his helmet, come prancing his horse up the alley. Jamie made a silent kill, the arrow driving deep into the man’s chest.
“Teniente?” a man called for his lieutenant.
Jamie waited, another arrow notched, ready to fly. The soldier stepped into view and his eyes widened in shock and horror when he spotted Jamie. The horror did not last long as the arrow from Jamie’s bow took the man in the chest. He fell, his rifle clattering on the stones.
Jamie ran to the mouth of the alley and almost ran into a huge Mexican sergeant. The sargento lifted his rifle, a smile on his lips. Jamie laid the hard bow across the man’s face, the blow knocking him to the ground, blood streaming from a broken nose. Jamie was on him, knife in hand. When the blade rose again, it was dripping crimson.
Jamie dragged the body out of the mouth of the alley and squatted down, assessing his situation. There were sounds of fierce fighting all around him, and the booming of cannon as the Mexicans fought the assault. But the Mexican gunners, for whatever reason, weren’t too proficient with the cannon; the cannonballs tore up more local homes than hurt any attackers.
Jamie made a dozen more kills that day, with arrow, knife, and musket ball. He was catching his breath late that afternoon when he heard his name called.
“Jamie!” Bonham called from behind him. Jamie turned. “Ben Milam wants you, right now.”
“Jamie,” Ben said, handing him a paper. “This is a report on the first day’s fighting. Take this to the provisional government. By the time you reach there, this scrap will be over. You go on home and visit for a time.” He winked at him. “I’ll see you later on, lad.”
Those were the last words he ever spoke to Jamie. Early on the third day of fighting, “Ol’ Ben,” as his volunteers called him, was shot in the head and died instantly. Francis Johnson took over total command. The Texans, enraged at the death of Ben Milam, fought like wild men. Over a hundred and fifty miles away, Jamie was handing the report to a member of the provisional government.
General Cos found many of his troops frightened and demoralized. Almost two hundred men, including some officers, had already deserted him. General Cos, fighting down his own growing panic, retreated to the Alamo mission, but the Texans used the captured cannon and hammered at the trapped troops. Late on the fifth day, Cos had had enough. He surrendered himself and over a thousand men to Burleson.
It was a glorious time for the Texas volunteers. Outnumbered, they had beaten a much larger force.
Burleson accepted General Cos’s surrender and then let the man go after Cos promised he would never again fight Texans. It was a promise he was to break, very soon.
Back in the Big Thicket country, with Kate and his family, Jamie could not believe it when he heard that General Cos and over a thousand of his men had been set free and even provided with guns and powder and shot to protect them against possible Indian attacks.
“We tweaked their noses, Kate,” he said to his wife. “Santa Anna will never forgive or forget that.”
But few agreed with that assessment. Only a handful of people felt the Mexican government would retaliate for the humiliation of General Cos at San Antonio. The provisional government issued a call for a new convention to be held at Washington-on-the-Brazos on March 1, 1836.
Houston pleaded with the Texas provisional government to send out a call for troops. He was ignored.
He was told the war was over. Texas had won. Mexico will give in to our demands for statehood within the Republic. Everybody go home.
* * *
But not everybody went home. A few felt sure that Mexico would send troops into Texas. A small force of Texas volunteers was left behind at the Alamo, with Green Jameson in charge of making the old mission more fortlike. Austin was in Louisiana, seeking loans and volunteers. Houston was trying to rally Texans to make ready for a fight few believed was coming; Houston also wanted to abandon the Alamo and blow it up, believing the place could not be defended. He sent Bowie and a small force to San Antonio to do just that. But Bowie found the men at the Alamo in good spirits and ready for a fight, so the Alamo remained intact, under the command of Colonel James Neil.
Meanwhile, the provisional government’s legislative council in San Felipe came up with a strange idea to invade the Mexican city of Matamoros. Their reasoning behind this was that most of the city’s population despised Santa Anna and would certainly embrace and support a Texas expeditionary force. Houston thought the scheme a nutty one and refused to have anything to do with it. So the council picked James Fannin to command the force and was named a colonel. Fannin pulled out over two hundred men from the San Antonio area. That left Neil with only about a hundred men to defend the Alamo. Fannin had also stripped the place of most of its supplies, leaving Neil with little food and no medicines.
Governor Henry Smith was furious and a big row now developed between the council and the governor’s office, with cuss words flying back and forth. The governor claimed that he was in charge and the council claimed they were in charge. Chaos reigned when calm should have been the order of the day.
Back east, Jamie Ian MacCallister packed up a few things, kissed Kate and the children, and rode west, soon linking up with a few volunteers who felt as Houston did.
Houston was in charge of the Texas army, but Fannin took his orders from the council and Houston had no authority over him. Colonel Fannin blissfully went about the business of getting his troops ready to invade Matamoros. But Houston was a charmer, and he rode to Goliad and spoke to the men encamped there.
“They’ll be plenty of fighting for all, boys,” he told them. “We don’t need to go off half-cocked and split our forces.”
He convinced enough of the men so that for the moment, the plan to invade Matamoros was tabled.
Fannin was furious but there was nothing he could do about the situation except fume and pout. Which he did, quite well and often.
Jamie had paused in Nacogdoches and had linked up with Davy Crockett and his Tennessee Mounted Volunteers.
A few weeks earlier, Travis had been commissioned by Governor Smith to put together a force and quickly march to the Alamo. Upon arrival, Colonel James Neil left because of illness in his family and Travis and Bowie immediately started arguing about who was in command. When they weren’t arguing, they were in agreement on one point: they had to have reinforcements and they sent out messages to that effect. But Colonel Fannin, still smarting over Houston’s interference with his men and his grand plan, and still dreaming of capturing Matamoros, refused to allow any of the men in his command to go to the Alamo.
But Crockett was on the way, as were the First Company of Volunteers from New Orleans. And from all over Texas, in small groups and alone, men were riding toward the Alamo, to defend the dream of liberty.
* * *
When they camped each night, Jamie was amused by the antics and the stories from Davy Crockett and his Tennessee boys. To Jamie, Crockett seemed an unlikely choice to be elected to the United States Congress, but he certainly had been elected, in 1827, ’29, and ’33. And he came close to being nominated for the vice president’s slot on the Whig ticket.
“Last year,” Crockett told Jamie, “Ol’ Andy Jackson conspired agin me and refused to support me. So I told ’em all to go to hell... among other places. I was goin to Texas. And by God, here I am.”
“Why?” Jamie asked.
Dav
y chuckled. “To fight, boy. To fight for freedom. Why are you here?”
Jamie smiled, the light from the dancing flames of the campfire highlighting his strong face. “To fight, Mr. Crockett.”
Crockett’s men laughed at that and Jamie looked around at the circled group.
“Just Davy, Jamie,” Crockett said. “My daddy were Mr. Crockett. Tell me about Bowie and Travis.”
“They don’t much like each other, but they’ll fight side by side.”
“I ’spect we’ll all fight side by side, Jamie,” Davy said, becoming serious. “And mightily outnumbered we’ll be, too, I’m thinkin’.”
That was understating it somewhat. The defenders of the Alamo would be outnumbered by over forty to one.
The camp fell silent as the men rolled up in their blankets against the cold of the night. Most of them stared at the stars above for a time, thinking of what they had left behind them, and wondering what lay ahead of them. Finally the fire burned down to dying coals and the men slept.
* * *
Far to the south, General Santa Anna was massing some six thousand men, all highly professional and solidly trained combat soldiers. He had spent millions building his army. Another advance force of more than fifteen hundred men, under the command of General Joaquin Ramirez y Sesma was already in place, bivouacked near Laredo. Santa Anna’s troops were gathering near Saltillo, some two hundred miles south of the Rio Grande.
Santa Anna’s plan was a simple one. He was going to march his troops all the way to the Sabine River, using the old El Camino Real — the Spanish Road — and teach these damn Texans a hard lesson along the way. The route he had chosen would take him through San Antonio, but he did not expect any trouble there, or anywhere else along the way, for that matter. He was that confident.
* * *
With Bowie now at the Alamo, the mood of those defenders in place soared. Bowie had many friends in San Antonio and soon they were bringing welcome food and much needed warm clothing to the men behind the walls. One of Bowie’s men, James Bonham — no relation to Jamie’s friend who had returned south upon receiving orders from his boss, Louis Fontaine — suggested that a resolution be drawn up, in which the defenders of the Alamo would demand the Texas provisional government to send supplies. Everyone present signed it... for all the good it would do them, which, when it came, was damn little and too late.
Crockett sent Jamie on ahead with the news that help was coming and Bowie and Travis put their daily differences aside and warmly greeted the young man.
“How many men, lad?” Travis asked.
“About fifteen, sir.”
Both Travis and Bowie blinked. Bowie spoke first. “Fifteen, Jamie?”
“Yes, sir. All sharpshooters and spoiling for a fight.”
Travis turned, a numb expression on his face. He walked off, muttering, “Fifteen?”
Jamie looked at Bowie. “Are you well, sir?”
“I’m fine, Jamie!” Bowie clasped Jamie’s strong arms. “Just fine.”
But he was not. Bowie was, in reality, a very sick man and probably dying. He coughed often and sometimes brought up blood with the phlegm. He more than likely had tuberculosis and adding to that, might have been in the grips of typhoid and pneumonia, for the winter had been brutally cold and none of the men were adequately dressed. Ever since he’d arrived at the Alamo, he had annoyed Travis by leading drunken and oftentimes rowdy parades up and down the streets and into the cantinas of San Antonio. Travis wrote lengthy reports about Jim Bowie’s drunken behavior. Bowie knew of the reports and laughed them off. But he did agree, much to the surprise of Travis, to share command of the Alamo. Bowie would command the volunteers, and Travis would be in charge of the regulars... who had yet to receive a penny’s worth of pay. They would never be paid, but they would pay, in blood. Their own.
“When will Crockett arrive, Jamie?” Bowie asked.
Jamie smiled. “Before the fight starts, Jim. You may be sure of that.”
Jim laughed, then broke into a fit of violent coughing. He hawked up phlegm and spat on the ground. Jamie noticed there was blood in the phlegm.
“Damn whiskey’s going to kill me yet,” Jim joked, then walked off, shouting and laughing to his men.
Jamie walked the nearly three-acre compound, noting the walls, which were twelve feet high and three feet thick. Makeshift platforms had been hurriedly erected for riflemen to stand on, but there were not enough of them. The Mexicans had left behind plenty of cannon, but even though the defenders had been working hard, many of the cannon would never be used effectively because there would not be enough cannon slits cut in the thick walls to use them. The mission church was very nearly a ruin, only the stone walls and part of the roof still intact. Log and plank cannon mounts had been built around the high walls.
On the hurriedly reinforced roof of the mission church, three twelve-pounder cannons faced due east. On the south side, mounted on a log platform, were four four-pounders. Eighteen-pounders were at each end of the west wall, and one in the center. Two eight-pounders were mounted on the north wall, just to the west of the earthen barricade that had been thrown up across a seventy-five-foot gap in the wall. There were light cannon set up on several roofs, and in the courtyard a small battery of eight-pounders pointing due south.
Once those gates are closed for good, Jamie thought, there will be no escape, for the horses were pastured, incredibly, Jamie felt, nearly five miles away along Saldo Creek. Jamie had stabled his horses in the cattle pen, just west of the irrigation ditch, easily accessible to him. After taking a look at Jamie, no one questioned him about it.
Courage was one thing. Foolishness was quite another matter.
A thousand men would be hard-pressed to defend this place, Jamie felt, strolling along, speaking politely to men he scarcely knew, and tallying the number of defenders as he walked. When he finished, he was depressed, and leaned against the outer wall of the long barracks, near what would soon be the hospital entrance.
“Grim, isn’t it, lad?” Travis asked.
Travis sometimes irritated Jamie if for no other reason than to have a man several years away from being thirty years old call him “lad.” But he concealed his slight irritation. “Yes, sir. It is.”
“We’ll soon have reinforcements,” Travis said confidently. “Our supporters won’t let us down. You’ll see.”
Jamie nodded his head and Travis said, “I want you to ride south, Jamie. After you’ve rested a bit,” he quickly added. He showed Jamie a map. “Down here,” he pointed. “Toward the Rio Grande. Bowie seems to think Santa Anna will march his men across the barren area. I tend to doubt it. But I want you to check it out and report back to me.”
“Only if he wishes to do that,” Bowie said, walking up. “Jamie is a volunteer, not one of your regulars, William. What say you, Jamie?”
“I’m here to help in any way I can,” Jamie replied quickly, noticing the flush that reddened Travis’s face upon Bowie’s interference.
“There is little water for miles in some stretches,” Bowie told him. “And damn little forage for your horse. Ride with care, Jamie.”
But before Jamie could give any reply, a shout came from a sentry in the bell tower. “Riders coming in!” he called.
Davy Crockett and his Tennessee volunteers had arrived much sooner than Jamie had expected. He turned and walked to the cattle pen and saddled a fresh mount. With a packet of food and two canteens, Jamie rode south. It was bitterly cold on the afternoon of the 9th of February, 1836.
Twenty-eight
Jamie rode back into the Alamo days later. His horse had been shot out from under him by a war party of Kiowa and he had been afoot for several days. Jamie finally killed a scout from Santa Anna’s forward unit and took his horse. It was the 20th of February. He dismounted stiffly, slapping the cold dust from his buckskins. Travis, Bowie, and Crockett rushed to meet him.
Their mouths dropped open when Jamie said, “They’ll be here in three days. The
y’re camped along the Rio Hondo.” He told them why he’d been gone so long.
“The Rio Hondo!” Travis exclaimed. “That’s only fifty miles away.”
“How many?” Crockett asked, putting a cooler tongue into the situation.
“Between five and seven thousand.”
Travis and Crockett said nothing, letting their expressions mutely state their inner feelings. Jamie could sense that Travis did not believe him. Bowie said, “May God have mercy on our souls.” Then he took a drink of whiskey from a small flask and bent over double in a fit of coughing. He spat blood onto the ground.
Crockett and Travis appeared not to notice. “Get some food into you, Jamie” Bowie said. “And rest for a time. I’m sending you out again in a few hours with a message for Fannin. If this won’t move him into action, then nothing else will — except perhaps a direct command from God.”
* * *
Fannin, some ninety-five miles away, had renamed the Goliad mission Fort Defiance. He had received several earlier messages from Travis and Bowie, each of them urging him to mount his men and come at once. He had ignored them. He would later claim that he had sent messages back to the Alamo. No one knows for sure.
But Fannin felt he had more pressing matters to attend to than to concern himself with rumors and myths about a huge Mexican army about to attack the Alamo. On February 13th, acting governor Robinson had instructed Fannin to fortify and defend Goliad and do battle with enemy forces should they appear. Robinson had also taken over Sam Houston’s title and now declared himself acting governor and commander-in-chief of the Army of Texas. He furthermore wrote Fannin and told him to ignore any orders he may have previously received from Houston.
In the days past, Fannin had received many commu-niqués from Travis and Bowie. Sometimes, when they were penned by Bowie’s hand, they were quite blunt and to the point. These were not ignored, they just weren’t acted on. But Fannin wasn’t sure what to do. He would receive a message from the Alamo. He would write a letter to the advisory committee asking for orders. They would issue none.
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