The meeting lasted into the night. When His Excellency finally called it to an end, and his commanders returned to their quarters, no official decision had been made. As was his habit, Santa Anna would make up his own mind, but anyone who had heard him speak knew what that decision would likely be. Earlier that day he had dispatched a courier with a reply to General Urrea concerning the twenty-one prisoners taken at San Patricio. He had reminded the general of Tornel’s decree, and added, “An example is necessary, in order that those adventurers may be duly warned, and the nation be delivered from the ills she is daily doomed to suffer.” His Excellency wanted to set his own example by punishing the rebels in Béxar, and he wanted to do it now. One of the maxims of his hero, Napoleon, stated that a general’s first duty was to maintain his honor and glory; the safety and preservation of his troops was a secondary consideration. If Mexican soldiers were to die in the taking of the Alamo, so be it.
Outside, once darkness settled on the area, a company of sappers advanced a battery along the acequia north of the Alamo. By the next morning, a few of the heavier artillery pieces had been moved there—just two hundred yards from the battered north wall, close enough to inflict serious damage and perhaps effect a breach. The rebels responded with balas rojas—hot shot—cannonballs heated to red-hot temperature before firing in order to ignite flammable targets, such as powder magazines. Though no serious damage was sustained, Colonel Ampudia, for one, was outraged: the hot shot, he wrote, was “in violation of the rights of man and of war.”
The next day, Saturday, March 5, was warmer, and the skies clear. By midday it had reached sixty-eight degrees. Santa Anna summoned his staff and commanders again and to no one’s surprise announced his decision: he would not wait for the siege artillery, but would attack before dawn the next morning. The artillery barrage would stop early in the afternoon, and that night there would be no musical serenades or attacks, feigned or otherwise. With any luck, the exhausted rebel garrison would be caught by surprise and the troops could reach the wall before the formidable cannon of the Alamo responded. His staff proceeded to hash out the details of the assault, and at two p.m. His Excellency’s orders, prepared by his secretary, Ramón Caro, and signed by General Juan Valentín Amador, were issued.
Almost every one of Santa Anna’s top officers would participate. “The time has come to strike a decisive blow upon the enemy occupying the Fortress of the Alamo,” began the orders. “Consequently, His Excellency, the General-in-Chief, has decided that tomorrow, at 4 o’clock a.m., the columns of attack shall be stationed at musket-shot distance from the first entrenchments, ready for the charge, which shall commence at a signal to be given with the bugle from the Northern Battery.” The assault would consist of four columns, which would attack from four directions. The greatest force, however, would be concentrated against the further-weakened north wall, which had suffered severe damage that day from the newly advanced battery.
General Cós, with General Amador as his second, would lead the first column, from the northwest, comprising 350 men—all but one company of the Aldama battalion and three line companies of the San Luis Potosí battalion. For Cós, it would be a chance to redeem and repair his badly damaged reputation after his surrender to a smaller rebel force in December.
From the north, Colonel Duque, with General Castrillón his second, would lead the second column: seven companies of the Toluca battalion, and three line companies of the San Luis Potosí battalion, a total of four hundred men. They would compose the critical mass aimed at the ravaged north wall.
The third column, comprising the twelve fusilero companies of the Matamoros and Jiménez battalions—about 430 men—would attack from the east, against the formidable battery atop the Alamo church and the vulnerable horse and cattle pens. Colonel Romero would lead them, with Colonel Salas ready to take over if necessary.
The fourth column, from the south, would be the smallest, comprising 125 cazadores. Colonel Juan Morales, with Colonel Miñón his second, would lead these elite riflemen against the fort’s entrance. “The brave Colonel Morales,” as General Urrea described him, was a popular and active commander who had proven himself most recently at Zacatecas. He had specifically requested Miñón, who had also gained glory there.
The four-hundred-man reserve, stationed near the northern battery, would be led by His Excellency himself if called into action, but until then would operate under the direct command of Colonel Amat. These troops would be some of the best—Amat’s Zapadores, and the veteran granadero companies of the five other battalions.
General Ramírez y Sesma would direct the 375 horsemen of the cavalry regiment, stationed on the east side of the Alamo and charged with preventing the escape of any rebels. If any fled from the fort, his lancers would be ready for them. The cavalry was already commanded by the able General Ventura Mora. His Excellency may have been punishing the general for his tentative actions of February 23—or at least making sure he would not direct any of the assault columns in the same manner.
The only battalion commander not to take part would be Colonel Uruñuela, who was sick. Santa Anna was not happy with Uruñuela’s claim of illness, but he would deal with it after the battle. In the meantime, there was much work to be done.
As the orders filtered down through the ranks, the troops readied themselves for battle. Characteristically, His Excellency’s directives had covered every detail, down to the proper wearing of chin straps, shoes, and sandals. There were also scaling ladders to be constructed, for the lead units of each column would hurl them up against the fortress walls. Over the following few hours, bayonets were sharpened and straightened, muskets and rifles were readied, cartridges and balls and flints and powder were prepared. While the soldados and their line officers busied themselves with these basic practicalities, the principal commanders examined the points of attack.
That afternoon, Francisca, the wife of Ramón Músquiz, left her house and walked a few doors down to call on Santa Anna at his quarters on Main Plaza. Her husband, the former political chief of Béxar, was an avowed centralist, but the Dickinsons had boarded at her house before the siege, and she and Susanna had become warm friends. Doña Músquiz knelt before His Excellency and begged him to spare Mrs. Dickinson and her child, Angelina. After some hesitation, he promised her that no women in the Alamo would be harmed intentionally.
BY TWILIGHT ON MARCH 5, most of the Mexican preparations had been made, and the troops turned in as ordered. They would rest until midnight. Some would sleep. Others would be kept awake by a rumor spreading through camp that the rebels had mined both the exterior and interior of the fort, so that attackers and defenders would blow up together. Even if there was no truth to it, men were bound to die. “Each one individually confronted and prepared his soul for the terrible moment, expressed his last wishes, and silently and coolly took those steps which precede an encounter,” remembered de la Peña. With the other Zapadores, he had originally been assigned to the reserve column, which might or might not see action. But over the previous week Colonel Duque had taken a liking to the young officer and his enthusiasm, and he had asked Santa Anna personally for de la Peña to be reassigned to his command. The request had been granted. The excited subaltern would get no sleep that night.
Captain Sánchez would accompany General Cós, who directed him to march at the head of the column. Sánchez received the news with mixed feelings—he was not convinced that the assault was necessary. “Why is it that Señor Santa Anna always wants his triumphs and defeats to be marked by blood and tears?” he wrote in his diary that night, and ended with: “God help all of us!”
Accompanied by Colonel Almonte, Santa Anna had spent several late hours overseeing the troop movements and preparations for the assault. It was almost three a.m. when the two returned to His Excellency’s quarters. The general was in a foul mood, and threatened to run Almonte’s cook, Ben Harris, through with a sword if he did not bring some coffee quickly. Ben was a dapper five-feet-tall g
entleman whose services Almonte had taken on in New York two years before. He had been a steward on board several American vessels, and had participated in his share of frontier adventures, but he had never served a president before, and he stepped lively.
AS THE SUN WENT DOWN and the Mexican bombardment ceased, Travis called for his men to assemble in the main courtyard.
During the previous night, the Mexican battery to the northeast had advanced down the acequia, to within two hundred yards or so. The artillery at that position, although not consisting of large siege guns, was now close enough to inflict devastating damage to the north wall. Cannonballs consistently crashed through the timber-and-earth-reinforced adobe, and no amount of hasty repairs would have much effect.
In the last few days the situation had become even more critical. Several factors indicated an impending attack. Thursday’s reinforcements had almost doubled the Mexican army surrounding them. And the inexorable forward movement of the northern battery, and its relentless pounding, meant a breach could not long be delayed. The men could even make out soldados constructing ladders, a sure sign of assault if there ever was one.
Inside the fort, conditions had worsened. The supply of beef was almost gone: feeding two hundred people twice a day required a great deal of meat. That would leave a good supply of corn, but an undernourishing diet. The lack of medical supplies left Dr. Pollard helpless in the face of the various illnesses afflicting the men in the hospital. The poor sanitation—the proximity of the outdoor latrines and the cattle and horse pens, the inadequate facilities for washing and cleaning, and cooking food thoroughly—had no doubt increased the cases of diarrhea, dysentery, and typhoid.
Still, the garrison’s spirits were higher than might have been expected—Crockett continued to work hard at keeping them so. Sometimes he would visit the women and children, huddled around their fire, and warm his hands and attempt a few words in Spanish. Bowie, however, was in bad shape, and no longer had himself carried out to visit his men. In one of his better moments he again reminded his men to consider Travis their commander. But most of his hours were spent in delirium, his great chest heaving with the effort to breathe between racking coughs.
The entire garrison was exhausted by the almost constant bombardment during the day and the constant vigilance dictated by the surprise sallies, musket volleys, and music performed by the Mexican battalion bands during the night. Fortunately, the cannon fire had stopped that afternoon. But there was still no sign of help, or word of it. It appeared that the men in the Alamo had been forgotten by the nation they were fighting for.
Travis stood before the men and laid out the situation candidly. He expressed his disappointment that no relief force save the thirty-two men from Gonzales had arrived, though messages received over the past several weeks had promised reinforcements and predicted their timely arrival. He admitted the slim chance that any such forces would reach them before the Mexican attack. He expressed his desire to die for his country rather than surrender—the red flag waving over Béxar made clear the fate of any prisoners—and to sell his life as dearly as possible.
He drew his sword and with its point traced a line in the dirt before him. Then he told them that each could make his own decision, but that he wished every man who would stay and die with him to step across the line. Ben Milam had designated a similar line in rallying the Texian troops before the assault on Béxar.
The first man to do so was one of Captain William Carey’s gunners, twenty-five-year-old Tapley Holland, whose father had been one of Stephen Austin’s first settlers. Others followed him, even the sick and wounded who had made it down from the hospital. Bowie, on a cot, asked some of the men to carry him across. Four men did so.
Only one remained—Louis Rose, a swarthy old Frenchman from Nacogdoches, where he had lived since 1826, supporting himself through various jobs, such as log cutter and hauler. He had never married, and lived a mostly solitary life, sometimes drinking whiskey to excess, occasionally finding comfort with a woman. When the talk of revolution heated up, he had heeded his old soldier-of-fortune spirit and headed west in October 1835. After the taking of Béxar, he had stayed behind with Neill when Grant and Johnson had led most of the men south toward Matamoros.
Some called the fifty-year-old Rose “Moses,” for his age. As a young man, he had fought under his idol, Napoleon, and survived the brutal retreat from Moscow in the icy Russian winter. But he was not ready to die now. He could speak Spanish decently—better than his broken English—and his skin was dark enough to pass for a Mexican. He might be able to escape, with some luck, if he left before the near-full moon rose about nine. He did not cross the line.
Upon full darkness, he scaled the low wall of the cattle pen, carrying only a satchel with his few belongings. He stealthily made his way along the north wall to the acequia that ran south near the west wall and followed it to the gently flowing San Antonio River. He waded across the shallow water and walked through the quiet town—to any passing soldados, just an old, ragged bexareño—and crossed the river again at the ford at the southern side of the loop. He followed the river south out of town for about three miles. Then he struck out east toward the colonies.
That evening, Travis decided on one more desperate attempt to reach Fannin and persuade him to come to their aid. When word spread that he needed another courier, several men volunteered. Travis selected a slight young man with a fleet mare: twenty-one-year-old James Lemuel Allen. He was a graduate of Marion College, near Philadelphia, Missouri, which served as a training school for Presbyterian ministers, the students paying their way by working on the school farm. With a few classmates, Allen had heeded the call for help from the Texian colonies. Upon his arrival in Texas he had volunteered for military service and been sent to Béxar.
There was no need of a written communiqué. The message was simple: Hasten to the aid of your countrymen.
And so, after nightfall, but before moonrise, Allen said good-bye to friends and comrades and mounted his horse bareback, the mare wearing only a bridle—he would need every advantage possible to outrun the Mexican patrols, including the absence of excess weight. After one last look at the Alamo courtyard, he guided his mare through the main gate and out the lunette, leaned down to hug the animal’s neck, and at a full gallop man and mount thundered through the Mexican lines and headed southwest, along the San Antonio River, toward Goliad and its four hundred troops.
No one had followed Rose over the walls, but some of the Alamo defenders shared his assessment of their chances. That night, Crockett asked for those of his clothes that the women had recently washed—he expected to be killed the next day, he said, and wished to die in clean clothes in order that he might be given a decent burial. Crockett may have been joking—sometimes it was hard to tell with his dry delivery—but many of the men entrusted their valuables, mostly watches and jewelry, to the women for safekeeping. Juana Alsbury decided to give her share to Bowie’s cook, Bettie, in hopes that the soldados would be less likely to search her. That night, for the first time, Bettie had been permitted to stay with the other women and children in the sacristy.
While making his rounds, Travis stepped into the sacristy and visited with Susanna Dickinson and her daughter. From his finger he took a gold ring embedded with a black cat’s-eye stone, put it on a string, and placed it around the neck of little Angelina. And he directed Robert Evans, the tall, merry, Irish-born master of ordnance, to undertake a desperate task: if and when the fort was overrun, he should light the large store of Mexican powder in the front room of the church. With any luck they would take many more of the enemy with them when they were gone.
Jameson’s work crews labored late into the night doing what they could to repair and strengthen the crumbling north wall, which in some places was irreparable. Some of the men took advantage of the lull in bombardment to snatch a much-needed break from their stations. James Bonham shared some tea with Captain Almeron Dickinson, his wife, and the other gunners in
Dickinson’s mess. Gregorio Esparza turned away from the convivial gathering to seek out his wife—God only knew when he might see her again. That night the couple slept in each other’s arms.
Sometime after midnight, most of the exhausted men lay down at their posts and wrapped themselves in their blankets. It was cool but not frigid, and they quickly dropped off to sleep. All but a few fires died out. There was little movement in the fort, and few but the sentinels on the walls and the three pickets in the trenches outside made much of an effort to remain awake.
A few hours before dawn, Captain John Baugh, officer of the day, started on his rounds. The night was quiet—too early in the season for crickets. Along the walls, at each defender’s position, lay three or four rifles and Brown Besses primed and ready. The muskets were part of the haul confiscated in December upon Cós’s surrender. Some of them came with bayonets, potentially as valuable as their firepower in the fight to come. The moon, almost full, was still high in the sky, but a cloud cover obscured most of its light.
EARLIER THAT NIGHT, Mexican sergeants, with their bastones (wooden staffs), had moved among the enlisted men, poking them awake, ordering them to form in ranks. At three a.m. the shivering soldados quietly moved through the darkness toward the old mission. They crossed the river and made their way to their designated positions. They were ordered to make no noise, refrain from smoking, and leave their overcoats and blankets in camp lest they impede their own movement. Their chin straps were buckled tight—a properly secured shako could prevent one from getting his head caved in by a blow from a musket or sword. General Cós led his troops to an area about two hundred yards from the Alamo’s northwest corner and the battery there. He positioned his eight line companies—since there were only four fusilero companies of the San Luis Potosí battalion present, both he and Colonel Duque would each assume command of two, in addition to their full battalions—close to three hundred men, in three parallel lines, each a hundred feet long and two ranks deep. The marksmen of the Aldama cazador company would support them as skirmishers. The other columns were deployed in a similar manner to the north, the east, and the south of the fort. The reserves under Colonel Amat waited at the north battery with His Excellency, his staff, and the battalion musicians. General Ramírez y Sesma’s cavalrymen and presidiales, several hundred yards southeast of the fort, had spread out to encircle it from north to south, outside of rifle distance.
The Blood of Heroes: The 13-Day Struggle for the Alamo--and the Sacrifice That Forged a Nation Page 24
