The Second Western Megapack
Page 67
Ned was now by the side of Bowie, who showed great satisfaction.
“What will they do next?” asked Ned.
“I don’t know, but you see now that it’s not the biggest noise that hurts the most. They’ll never get us with cannon fire. The only way they can do it is to attack the lowest part of our wall and make a bridge of their own bodies.”
“They are doing something now,” said Ned, whose far-sighted vision always served him well. “They are pulling down houses in the town next to the river.”
“That’s so,” said Bowie, “but we won’t have to wait long to see what they’re about.”
Hundreds of Mexicans with wrecking hooks had assailed three or four of the houses, which they quickly pulled to pieces. Others ran forward with the materials and began to build a bridge across the narrow San Antonio.
“They want to cross over on that bridge and get into a position at once closer and more sheltered,” said Bowie, “but unless I make a big mistake those men at work there are already within range of our rifles. Shall we open fire, Colonel?”
He asked the question of Travis, who nodded. A picked band of Mexicans under General Castrillon were gathered in a mass and were rapidly fitting together the timbers of the houses to make the narrow bridge. But the reach of the Texan rifles was great, and Davy Crockett was merely the king among so many sharpshooters.
The rifles began to flash and crack. No man fired until he was sure of his aim, and no two picked the same target. The Mexicans fell fast. In five minutes thirty or forty were killed, some of them falling into the river, and the rest, dropping the timbers, fled with shouts of horror from the fatal spot. General Castrillon, a brave man, sought to drive them back, but neither blows nor oaths availed. Santa Anna himself came and made many threats, but the men would not stir. They preferredpunishment to the sure death that awaited them from the muzzles of the Texan rifles.
The light puffs of rifle smoke were quickly gone, and once more the town with the people watching on the flat roofs came into full view. A wind burst out the folds of the red flag of no quarter on the tower of the church of San Fernando, but Ned paid no attention to it now. He was watching for Santa Anna’s next move.
“That’s a bridge that will never be built,” said Davy Crockett. “‘Live an’ learn’ is a good sayin’, I suppose, but a lot of them Mexicans neither lived nor learned. It’s been a great day for ‘Betsy’ here.”
Travis, the commander, showed elation.
“I think Santa Anna will realize now,” he said, “that he has neither a promenade nor a picnic before him. Oh, if we only had six or seven hundred men, instead of less than a hundred and fifty!”
“We must send for help,” said Bowie. “The numbers of Santa Anna continually increase, but we are not yet entirely surrounded. If the Texans know that we are beleaguered here they will come to our help.”
“I will send messengers to-morrow night,” said Travis. “The Texans are much scattered, but it is likely that some will come.”
It was strange, but it was characteristic of them, nevertheless, that no one made any mention of escape. Many could have stolen away in the night over the lower walls. Perhaps all could have done so, but not a single Texan ever spoke of such a thing, and not one ever attempted it.
Santa Anna moved some of his batteries and also erected two new ones. When the work on the latter was finished all opened in another tremendous cannonade, lasting for fully an hour. The bank of smoke was heavier than ever, and the roaring in Ned’s ears was incessant, but he felt no awe now. He was growing used to the cannon fire, and as it did so little harm he felt no apprehension.
While the fire was at its height he went down in the church and cleaned his rifle, although he took the precaution to remain in one of the covered rooms by the doorway. Davy Crockett was also there busy with the same task. Before they finished a cannon ball dropped on the floor, bounded against the wall and rebounded several times until it finally lay at rest.
“Somethin’ laid a big egg then,” said Crockett. “It’s jest as well to keep a stone roof over your head when you’re under fire of a few dozen cannon. Never take foolish risks, Ned, for the sake of showin’ off. That’s the advice of an old man.”
Crockett spoke very earnestly, and Ned remembered his words. Bonham called to them a few minutes later that the Mexicans seemed to be meditating some movement on the lower wall around the grand plaza.
“Like as not you’re right,” said Crockett. “It would be the time to try it while our attention was attracted by the big cannonade.”
Crockett himself was detailed to meet the new movement, and he led fifty sharpshooters. Ned was with him, his brain throbbing with the certainty that he was going into action once more. Great quantities of smoke hung over the Alamo and had penetrated every part of it. It crept into Ned’s throat, and it also stung his eyes. It inflamed his brain and increased his desire for combat. They reached the low wall on a run, and found that Bonham was right. A large force of Mexicans was approaching from that side, evidently expecting to make an opening under cover of the smoke.
The assailants were already within range, and the deadly Texan rifles began to crack at once from the wall. The whole front line of the Mexican column was quickly burned away. The return fire of the Mexicans was hasty and irregular and they soon broke and ran.
“An’ that’s over,” said Crockett, as he sent a parting shot. “It was easy, an’ bein’ sheltered not a man of ours was hurt. But, Ned, don’t let the idea that we have a picnic here run away with you. We’ve got to watch an’ watch an’ fight an’ fight all the time, an’ every day more Mexicans will come.”
“I understand, Mr. Crockett,” said Ned. “You know that we may never get out of here alive, and I know it, too.”
“You speak truth, lad,” said Crockett, very soberly. “But remember that it’s a chance we take every day here in the southwest. An’ it’s pleasant to know that they’re all brave men here together. You haven’t seen any flinchin’ on the part of anybody an’ I don’t think you ever will.”
“What are you going to do now?” asked Ned.
“I’m goin’ to eat dinner, an’ after that I’ll take a nap. My advice to you is to do the same, ’cause you’ll be on watch to-night.”
“I know I can eat,” said Ned, “and I’ll try to sleep.”
He found that his appetite was all right, and after dinner he lay down in the long room of the hospital. Here he heard the cannon of Santa Anna still thundering, but the walls softened the sound somewhat and made it seem much more distant. In a way it was soothing and Ned, although sure that he could not sleep, slept. All that afternoon he was rocked into deeper slumber by the continuous roar of the Mexican guns. Smoke floated over the convent yard and through all the buildings, but it did not disturb him. Now and then a flash of rifle fire came from the Texans on the walls, but that did not disturb him, either.
Nature was paying its debt. The boy lying on his blankets breathed deeply and regularly as he slept. The hours of the afternoon passed one by one, and it was dark when he awoke. The fire of the cannon had now ceased and two or three lights were burning in the hospital. Crockett was already up, and with some of the other men was eating beefsteak at a table.
“You said you’d try to sleep, Ned,” he exclaimed, “an’ you must have made a big try, ’cause you snored so loud we couldn’t hear Santa Anna’s cannon.”
“Why, I’m sure I don’t snore, Mr. Crockett,” said Ned, red in the face.
“No, you don’t snore, I’ll take that back,” said Davy Crockett, when the laugh subsided, “but I never saw a young man sleep more beautifully an’ skillfully. Why, the risin’ an’ fallin’ of your chest was as reg’lar as the tickin’ of a clock.”
Ned joined them at the table. He did not mind the jests of those men, as they did not mind the jests of one another. They were now like close blood-kin. They were a band of brethren, bound together by the unbreakable tie of mortal danger.
Ned slept soundly when his watch was finished, and he awoke again the next day to the thunder of the cannonade, which continued almost without cessation throughout the day, but in the afternoon Travis wrote a letter, a noble appeal to the people of Texas for help. He stated that they had been under a continual bombardment for more than twenty-four hours, but not a man had yet been hurt. “I shall never surrender or retreat,” he said. “Then I call on you in the name of liberty, of patriotism, and of everything dear to the American character, to come to our aid with all dispatch.” He closed with the three words, “Victory or death,” not written in any vainglory or with any melodramatic appeal, but with the full consciousness of the desperate crisis, and a quiet resolution to do as he said.
The heroic letter is now in the possession of the State of Texas. Most of the men in the Alamo knew its contents, and they approved of it. When it was fully dark Travis gave it to Albert Martin. Then he looked around for another messenger.
“Two should go together in case of mishap,” he said.
His eye fell upon Ned.
“If you wish to go I will send you,” he said, “but I leave it to your choice. If you prefer to stay, you stay.”
Ned’s first impulse was to go. He might find Obed White, Will Allen and the Panther out there and bring them back with him, but his second impulse told him that it was only a chance, and he would abide with Crockett and Bowie.
“I thank you for the offer, but I think, sir, that I’ll stay,” he said.
He saw Crockett give him a swift approving glance. Another was quickly chosen in his stead, and Ned was in the grand plaza when they dropped over the low wall and disappeared in the darkness. His comrades and he listened attentively a long time, but as they heard no sound of shots they were sure that they were now safe beyond the Mexican lines.
“I don’t want to discourage anybody,” said Bowie, “but I’m not hoping much from the messengers. The Texans are scattered too widely.”
“No, they can’t bring many,” said Crockett, “but every man counts. Sometimes it takes mighty little to turn the tale, and they may turn it.”
“I hope so,” said Bowie.
The Mexican cannon were silent that night and Ned slept deeply, awaking only when the dawn of a clear day came. He was astonished at the quickness with which he grew used to a state of siege and imminent danger. All the habits of life now went on as usual. He ate breakfast with as good an appetite as if he had been out on the prairie with his friends, and he talked with his new comrades as if Santa Anna and his army were a thousand miles away.
But when he did go upon the church wall he saw that Santa Anna had begun work again and at a new place. The Mexican general, having seen that his artillery was doing no damage, was making a great effort to get within much closer range where the balls would count. Men protected by heavy planking or advancing along trenches were seeking to erect a battery within less than three hundred yards of the entrance to the main plaza. They had already thrown up a part of a breastwork. Meanwhile the Texan sharpshooters were waiting for a chance.
Ned took no part in it except that of a spectator. But Crockett, Bowie and a dozen others were crouched on the wall with their rifles. Presently an incautious Mexican showed above the earthwork. It was Crockett who slew him, but Bowie took the next. Then the other rifles flashed fast, eight or ten Mexicans were slain, and the rest fled. Once more the deadly Texan rifles had triumphed.
Ned wondered why Santa Anna had endeavored to place the battery there in the daytime. It could be done at night, when it was impossible for the Texans to aim their rifles so well. He did not know that the pride of Santa Anna, unable to brook delay in the face of so small a force, had pushed him forward.
Knowing now what might be done at night, Ned passed the day in anxiety, and with the coming of the twilight his anxiety increased.
CHAPTER X
CROCKETT AND BOWIE
Unluckily for the Texans, the night was the darkest of the month. No bonfires burned in San Antonio, and there were no sounds of music. It seemed to Ned that the silence and darkness were sure indications of action on the part of the foe.
He felt more lonely and depressed than at any other time hitherto in the siege, and he was glad when Crockett and a young Tennesseean whom he called the Bee-Hunter joined him. Crockett had not lost any of his whimsical good humor, and when Ned suggested that Santa Anna was likely to profit by the dark he replied:
“If he is the general I take him to be he will, or at least try, but meanwhile we’ll just wait, an’ look, an’ listen. That’s the way to find out if things are goin’ to happen. Don’t turn little troubles into big ones. You don’t need a cowskin for a calf. We’ll jest rest easy. I’m mighty nigh old enough to be your grandfather, Ned, an’ I’ve learned to take things as they come. I guess men of my age were talkin’ this same way five thousand years ago.”
“You’ve seen a lot in your life, Mr. Crockett,” said Ned, to whom the Tennesseean was a great hero.
Crockett laughed low, but deep in his throat, and with much pleasure.
“So I have! So I have!” he replied, “an’, by the blue blazes, I can say it without braggin’. I’ve seen a lot of water go by since I was runnin’ ’roun’ a bare-footed boy in Tennessee. I’ve ranged pretty far from east to west, an’ all the way from Boston in the north to this old mission, an’ that must be some thousands of miles. An’ I’ve had some big times in New York, too.”
“You’ve been in New York,” said Ned, with quick interest. “It must be a great town.”
“It is. It’s certainly a bulger of a place. There are thousands an’ thousands of houses, an’ you can’t count the sails in the bay. I saw the City Hall an’ it’s a mighty fine buildin’, too. It’s all marble on the side looking south, an’ plain stone on the side lookin’ north. I asked why, an’ they said all the poor people lived to the north of it. That’s the way things often happen, Ned. An’ I saw the great, big hotel John Jacob Astor was beginnin’ to build on Broadway just below the City Hall. They said it would cost seven hundred thousand dollars, which is an all-fired lot of money, that it would cover mighty nigh a whole block, an’ that there would be nothin’ else in America comin’ up to it.”
“I’d like to see that town,” said Ned.
“Maybe you will some day,” said Crockett, “’cause you’re young. You don’t know how young you look to me. I heard a lot there, Ned, about that rich man, Mr. Astor. He got his start as a fur trader. I guess he was about the biggest fur trader that ever was. He was so active that all them animals that wore furs on their backs concluded they might as well give up. I heard one story there about an otter an’ a beaver talkin’. Says the otter to the beaver, when he was tellin’ the beaver good-by after a visit: ‘Farewell, I never expect to see you again, my dear old friend.’ ‘Don’t be too much distressed,’ replies the beaver, ‘you an’ I, old comrade, will soon meet at the hat store.’”
Ned and the Bee-Hunter laughed, and Crockett delved again into his past life and his experiences in the great city, relatively as great then to the whole country as it is now.
“I saw a heap of New York,” he continued, “an’ one of the things I liked best in it was the theaters. Lad, I saw the great Fanny Kemble play there, an’ she shorely was one of the finest women that ever walked this troubled earth. I saw her first as Portia in that play of Shakespeare’s called, called, called—”
“The Merchant of Venice,
” suggested Ned.
“Yes, that’s it, The Merchant of Venice, where she was the woman lawyer. She was fine to see, an’ the way she could change her voice an’ looks was clean mirac’lous. If ever I need a lawyer I want her to act for me. She had me mad, an’ then she had me laughin’, an’ then she had the water startin’ in my eyes. Whatever she wanted me to see I saw, an’ whatever she wanted me to think I thought. An’ then, too, she was many kinds of a woman, different in turn. In fact, Ned, she was just like a handsome piece of changeable silk—first one color an’ then another, but always clean.”
He paused and the others did not interrupt him.
“I don’t like cities,” he resumed presently. “They crowd me up too much, but I do like the theater. It makes you see so many things an’ so many kinds of people that you wouldn’t have time to see if you had to travel for ’em. We don’t have much chance to travel right now, do we, Bee-Hunter?”
“A few hundred yards only for our bodies,” replied the young Tennesseean, “but our spirits soar far;
“‘Up with your banner, Freedom,
Thy champions cling to thee,
They’ll follow where’er you lead them
To death or victory.
Up with your banner, Freedom.’”
He merely hummed the words, but Ned caught his spirit and he repeated to himself: “Up with your banner, Freedom.”
“I guess you’ve heard enough tales from an old fellow like me,” said Crockett. “At least you won’t have time to hear any more ’cause the Mexicans must be moving out there. Do you hear anything, Ned?”
“Nothing but a little wind.”
“Then my ears must be deceivin’ me. I’ve used ’em such a long time that I guess they feel they’ve got a right to trick me once in a while.”