by Drew McGunn
But he wasn’t alone. No doubt his father expected him to look after Becky, Hattie, and Liza. He eyed Becky as she stayed rooted in place. Was she thinking about her place as an officer’s wife? After an interminable amount of time, he shifted the backpack and said, “Becky, we going with the other civilians?” His voice cracked under the stress of the moment.
More time passed, as more folks moved across the bridge, heading east before she responded. “You should take Liza and go east with Hattie. Your father would want you and the baby to be safe from harm.”
Charlie strode up next to his stepmother. Over the past year the boy had grown and was now slightly taller than Becky. When he turned to her, they were at eye level. “If one of us should wait for Pa, it should be me. It’s too dangerous for you.”
Becky dug her feet into the bridge’s wooden planks, “No, Charlie. I won’t go one more step away from my husband.”
Exasperated, Charlie swore, “Dammit to Hell, Becky! Be reasonable.” His voice cracked again.
If Charlie had been wise about the ways of women, he would have realized he had said the wrong thing, but to the barely adolescent boy, he had said what he thought needed saying. Rebecca Crockett Travis was, at that moment, anything but reasonable. Her eyes held fire in them, he thought she might slap him for the profanity. Instead, she stormed off the bridge and when she came to the fork in the road, she turned to the left.
As he watched her walk away, back straight, each angry step told him what she thought of his advice. He hefted the rifle and shouldered it, muttering several choice words he’d picked up from his father’s soldiers, as he followed his stepmother. Henrietta followed the two of them, wringing her hands, “Lord Jesus, please don’t let me be killed following these white folks.”
Rebecca had already disappeared through the Alamo’s gatehouse as Charlie walked up. A couple of soldiers stood on top of the building watching the town, to the west and nodded at him as he passed below them. When he entered the plaza, he saw his stepmother disappearing into the hospital building, no doubt heading toward the officers’ quarters. He thought about following her, but the sight of soldiers rushing about the plaza, carrying powder bags and various types of ammunition for the fort’s heavy guns, grabbed his attention. More soldiers were carrying heavy boxes full of paper cartridges to ladders where they were hefted onto the roofs, where riflemen would soon be taking up positions.
He thought about staying and watching but decided his pa would want him to make sure that Becky and Liza were situated in one of the tiny apartments set aside for the fort’s officers. As he walked up the stairs to the narrow hallway, he heard a woman’s voice, “Oh, heavens, Becky, what in the name of all that is holy made you come here?”
“Don’t you start on me, too, Susanna. Charlie was being perfectly horrible about it, and dammit to Hell, I’ll tell you what I told him!” Charlie’s face colored, hearing his stepmother swearing, “I’m the daughter of David Crockett and the wife of William Travis. What kind of woman would I be if I hiked up my dress and ran away? I’ll wait here for my husband, thank you very much!”
When Charlie stepped through the door of the Dickinson’s apartment he saw the two women hugging. The major’s wife said, “Bless you, dear heart! I think we love our men too much for our own good. I told Almaron the same thing.”
Heavy footsteps sounded from the back room as Major Dickinson, his butternut jacket unbuttoned, came up behind his wife. “Here I went and told you that General Travis’ wife would have the good sense to go east with the other civilians, and blast it, she comes into our own home and makes me out to be a liar.”
While the words sounded jovial coming from the major, Charlie watched the officer’s somber expression as he scooped up his wife in an embrace. As his wife’s feet dangled above the floor, Dickinson planted a solid kiss on her lips. As he set her back on the floor he said, “I’ll have Captain Henderson clear his things out of the rooms next to us and Mrs. Travis and her family and servant can stay there.”
***
The chestnut stallion stamped its feet into the hard-packed dirt of the main plaza. General Adrian Woll let the animal have its way as he surveyed the scene before him. The church bells of San Fernando had long gone silent, the last of the Texians having scurried back to the safety of the Alamo’s walls. His lancers, from the Santa Anna Regiment, had secured the town earlier in the day. The steady, rhythmic tramping of boots announced the arrival of the first company of infantry to enter Bexar. He turned and watched the company march into the plaza. Instead of the normal column of four men abreast, the company entered in platoon line formation. The rest of the battalion paraded behind the lead company, filling the plaza.
Woll swung down from the saddle and entered the church, where he climbed the narrow stairs of the bell tower. From there, he could clearly see the adobe walls of the Alamo, gleaming with a golden hue in the late afternoon sun. A large banner flew over the fort. The fort was certainly formidable.
For a moment, he closed his eyes and was transported back in time. Six years earlier he recalled Santa Anna describing the Alamo as barely worth the name of a frontier fort, with walls crumbling from disuse. Woll stared at the walls of the fort, across the San Antonio River and it was evident that the Texians had invested considerable resources into turning the old mission into a formidable fort, bristling with artillery.
Thursday, March 24 1842 was half-over once General Woll had been able to place the battery of field guns into position, which he had brought with his army’s first brigade. They were established eight hundred yards to the south of the Alamo. The six guns were unlimbered, and their gun crews quickly and efficiently went to work, loading their guns with solid shot. Once the barrels were loaded, the battery’s captain saluted Woll and gave him an expectant look.
Behind the artillery, an infantry battalion was encamped a few hundred yards back. There was no point in delaying things. Woll nodded and said, “It’s time to take back what is Mexico’s. Fire on the fort, Captain.”
***
As he sat atop the roof of the southern barracks, Sergeant Leal’s luck had continued to hold, and he and Private Jackson had managed to avoid being assigned to one of the infantry companies. He admired the work done to the heavily reinforced roof, where four 9-pounder guns were positioned behind sandbag emplacement along the roof’s edge, facing south. In between each of the guns more sandbags were used to create low walls behind which rifle teams could fire upon any advancing enemy. Now, apart from a crew of gunners, only Leal and Jackson were on the roof, gazing southward at the Mexican artillery a half mile away.
Leal watched men scurrying around the field pieces then all six guns open fire on the fort. He resisted the urge to duck behind the sandbags and watched several of the shots land on the field south of the fort. One round struck the southern wall at the base, sending adobe dust flying into the air. But the wall was more than three feet thick where the cannonball had struck, and it gouged out only a few inches of adobe.
From within the walls of the fort, Leal recognized Captain Henderson’s voice. “Let’s send those bastards a warm welcome, boys!”
The Tejano moved back across the barracks roof and watched as the artillery captain directed several of his gunners to load the heavy 18-pounder, which sat in a bastion on the southwest corner of the fort. The heavy gun fired in response, throwing a heavy shell downrange toward the Mexican battery. One of the guns on top of the barracks also fired, sending its nine-pound shell downrange, too. The hefty shell overshot the Mexican artillery, exploding over a team of oxen, used to haul the one of the guns into position. The entire team collapsed. Most of the animals were grievously wounded, their shrill crying could be heard even within the walls of the fort and made Leal shudder as he imagined the gruesome wounds the innocent animals must have suffered.
The Mexican gunners were skilled at their work and sent six more rounds sailing toward the Alamo’s walls only a minute after the first salvo. Over the
course of the next ten minutes, the four guns above the southern barracks were manned and returned fire on the enemy emplacements. The artillery duel ended when one of the Mexican guns was struck by a solid shot from the gun closest to Leal, causing the wooden carriage to disintegrate in a shower of heavy splinters that cut most of that gun crew down. After that, teams of mules and oxen were brought forward, and the remaining guns were hitched to them and pulled back out of range of the Alamo’s guns.
After the smoke drifted away, Sergeant Leal looked down at the wall and saw at least a dozen cannonballs resting along the base. The small chunks of adobe, gouged from the wall were scarcely noticeable.
***
The same evening, General Woll convened a small meeting with several of his ranking officers in the parsonage of the San Fernando Church. The general offered the officers wine as they settled into the utilitarian chairs. After taking a short sip and wishing for grapes fermented in the fields of France, he opened the conversation. “I had hoped that our guns would be more effective, but they hardly made an impression on the fort’s walls. I can’t say that I’m surprised. We have received periodic reports over the past few years that the norteamericano pirates have been expanding and improving the Alamo.”
The ranking colonel asked, “What are our plans, General? Are we going to storm the fort?”
Woll shook his head. “No, not yet, Colonel Espinosa. We’ll wait until the second and third brigades arrive over the next week. Once we have assembled our army, we’ll have close to four thousand men here. With that, I’m confident that even with their superior rifles, we’ll sweep over the fort and crush their resistance.”
Colonel Espinosa nodded, “I agree, sir. We would overwhelm the Texians with the whole of our army, but would it not be just as sweet a victory if we could get the garrison to surrender?”
General Woll poured himself another glass of wine and took it in his hands as he rose to his feet and walked over to the window, looking out onto San Antonio’s central plaza. After an interminable amount of time, he nodded. “Of course, Colonel. I will demand their surrender tomorrow.”
Another younger officer, a major of cavalry, Ernesto Natividad asked, “Do you expect them to surrender, General? El presidente was very clear that we were to offer no quarter to these pirates who have taken up arms against Mexico.”
Woll shrugged his shoulders, “I am here, and his Excellency is in Mexico City. If they surrender, I will honor whatever terms are necessary to avoid bleeding our own army. On the other hand, if they refuse and they force us to attack, then, yes, Major, we will put the defenders to the sword.”
Chapter 13
From Major Almaron Dickinson, Commander of the Alamo
Bexar, 26 March 1842
To Colonel A.S. Johnston, the Congress of the Republic of Texas, the people of Texas and her allies abroad
We are besieged by a thousand and more of the Mexican Army of the North, under General Woll and have sustained a bombardment and have given an account of Texas arms for more than 24 hours and have not lost even a single soldier. The enemy has demanded our surrender and orders all Texians to leave our homes and property. We have responded by raising high the lone star banner of Texas over the Alamo. I am confident that the people of the Republic are advancing to our relief even now. I call on every Texian in the name of our liberty, patriotism, and everything that is dear to the character of every Texian to come to our aid. The enemy is receiving reinforcements daily and will no doubt increase to three or four thousand within a week. Should our call fall on deaf ears, we shall sustain ourselves as long as possible and die like soldiers of the Republic who know what duty is owed to our honor and our country. Victory or Death.
Major Almaron Dickinson, Commanding
***
Brevet Brigadier General Sid Johnston sat astride his horse as he watched the soldiers and Marines traipse by. They cast long shadows as they marched into the west. The eastern sky was awash in red and orange fiery colors, as the sun climbed its way above the horizon, on a late March morning. The small cavalry battalion had led out before the sun had risen. He didn’t think a cavalry screen was necessary yet, but he saw no reason to take any unnecessary chances. On paper, McCulloch’s reserves had a battalion of six cavalry troops, but only parts of three had arrived in time to join the advance toward San Antonio. More than a hundred thirty men were assigned to the three troops, but only eighty were present.
He tried to be philosophical about the low turnout. It’s not as though he had allowed much time for the reserve regiments to assemble. But as the 3rd Infantry marched by, he couldn’t help but work the math in his head. The regiment’s eight companies had six hundred men on paper, but only four companies were with the army, totaling a mere two hundred men.
Once the 3rd had marched by, he pulled his horse back into the road. Some of the problems were simply the logistical problem of assembling a reserve army that was scattered across more than a hundred thousand square miles. Several companies were organized in northeastern Texas. Johnston wasn’t even sure those units had even received the mobilization orders yet. Things were moving too fast. In an ideal situation, which he knew this was not, he would have mobilized all the reserve components of the army and given them adequate time to assemble and drill before committing them to any sort of battle. He glared southward, biting his lip in frustration. Mexico had other plans, and now, he was forced to dance to the tune dictated by Santa Anna.
The steady steps behind him were a reminder that the rest of his little army was following along. He turned in the saddle and looked at the 2nd Infantry’s banner, carried along by a color sergeant, as he led the regiment’s two hundred thirty men. Behind the 2nd came the 5th infantry, with less than two hundred men. On paper, the three reserve infantry regiments represented more than eighteen hundred soldiers. In reality, only a few more than six hundred hurried westwards. The 4th infantry’s companies were located so far to the north that it would be a couple of weeks before Johnson had any expectation of seeing them.
Bringing up the rear was a sight that made him sit in his saddle a little straighter, as his breath caught in his throat. Major West had assembled six companies of Marines. Their blue jackets contrasted sharply with the butternut uniforms most of the reserves wore. The three hundred sixty men of the provisional Marine battalion constituted Johnston’s largest unit and brought his army’s total to more than a thousand men.
When the last of the small army had marched by, Johnston wheeled his horse and raced down the long column toward the front. As the cold March breeze caused the tails of his overcoat to flap behind him, he hoped more of the reserves would be waiting at the town of Seguin. After leaving the army’s camp on Buffalo Bayou, he had issued new orders for units to assemble at the small town named for the Seguin family, on the banks of the Guadalupe River. He hoped to pick up several hundred more reserve soldiers at Seguin, but no matter what, he was determined to advance on San Antonio as quickly as possible, even if all he had was the little army marching behind him.
***
29th March 1842
The wine bottle stood empty on the table in the parsonage’s parlor. It served as a weight to keep the map from moving. The map had markers, which represented Woll’s 1st brigade, cutting San Antonio from the besieged fort, and curving around to the south. “General, I think we need more men,” Woll’s aide-de-camp said, as he moved a marker across the map.
Outside the window, they could hear the traipsing sound of soldados marching by. The 2nd brigade had arrived in San Antonio, effectively doubling Woll’s army. “Estevan, write up the orders for the battalions arriving today. I believe with a little stretching here and there, we’ll have enough men to close off the Alamo from the outside. I’ll not have their commander sending any more letters.”
“Yes, General. Once the 3rd brigade arrives in a few days, you’ll have more than thirty-five hundred infantry, more than enough to overrun the fort.”
Woll smiled
at his aide-de-camp, and walked over to the map, and took a handful of markers from a pile of green markers. He spread them to the south and to the west of the fort. “Indeed, Estevan. With the 3rd, we’ll wipe these pirates from the face of the earth. Now, if you’ll write up the orders for the 2nd brigade and leave them on my desk, I’ll sign them when I return.”
Seeing his aide-de-camp reaching for an ink well, General Woll left the parlor and walked out onto the parsonage’s porch, where he could watch the soldados march past. The men were dirty, tired, and hungry. Between Laredo and San Antonio were nine days of miserable terrain, and once again, the army had outrun its woefully overstretched supply system. But San Antonio was full of supplies, having been abandoned by the norteamericanos, there was plenty to eat within the town.
There was a lengthy gap between two battalions marching along the road, and Woll’s eyes fell on a boarded-up house owned by one of the more prominent Bexareno families. More than half of those who should have owed allegiance to Mexico had also fled. Something about that troubled the general. There was no getting around that the instability that had allowed Santa Anna to return to power the previous year had done nothing to build confidence in the Centralist government outside of Mexico City. He glared at the empty house, before his Gallic temperament took over and he sighed. “Nothing to be done about the Tejanos who have left. That will wait for another day.” He turned and went back inside. There were orders to sign.
***
Charlie watched Becky rocking Liza in a borrowed crib, as she and Susanna Dickinson sat the dinner table making small talk while knitting. Behind them, in what passed for a kitchen in the small officers’ quarters, Henrietta was adding this and that to an iron skillet. He’d learned a long time ago that Henrietta’s idea of “this and that” usually consisted of whatever vegetables she had managed to find. At the end of March, no doubt it meant something canned.
