The Alamo

by Frank Thompson

  He walked over to the map, pulled his knife from its scabbard and stuck the tip to a point on the map. He held a lit cigar in his left hand.

  “To march an expedition from here . . . to Matamoros . . .”—he sliced the map from San Felipe to Matamoros—“is lunacy,” Houston said. “You do not split an army into vagabond militias that march off on the slightest pretext like bloodthirsty rabble.”

  He placed the knife back into its scabbard, puffed on the cigar and continued his walk around the room.

  “Do you really believe this war is over?” Houston said. “It has not even begun, and already the scoundrels are rushing off for personal gain.”

  Grant and Baker exchanged insulted looks and, for a moment, the room was totally silent. Then murmurs began rising slowly—“Coward,” “Quitter,” “Yellow,” “Drunk!” As the taunts grew louder and louder, Houston became more and more arrogant—and obstinate.

  “All new lands are infested by noisy, second-rate men who favor the rash and extreme measure,” he shouted. He took a long, hard look around the room. “Texas, quite obviously, is overrun with them.”

  The crowd, which might have started out as fifty-fifty, was now almost completely and openly against him.

  From the platform, Burnet grinned down at Houston. “You opposed taking Béxar, where victory was ours,” he said mockingly. “Now, you oppose taking Matamoros, where victory will be as sweet. Perhaps, sir, you simply oppose fighting?”

  The crowd erupted in agreement. Many of the men jeered and laughed.

  “Fighters shall lead the new country of Texas!” shouted Mosley Baker, and the men enthusiastically backed him up with their cheers.

  Burnet held up his hand for order. “The council will now consider the removal of General Houston from command of the regular army. All in favor . . . a show of hands?” The majority of the room erupted with raised arms and Hear, hears! T. J. Rusk hesitated, then, almost sadly, raised his hand.

  Governor Smith pointed to Burnet. “You, sir, do not speak for Texas,” he said. “I am governor, and I hereby dissolve the council!”

  Burnet turned to the crowd, clearly enjoying his role as rabble rouser. He shouted, “All in favor of impeaching Governor Smith?”

  There was another rousing cheer and show of hands. All around the building were red, pinched faces, warmongers shouting, “Matamoros!” “Victory!” and “God bless Texas!”

  Houston tried to speak again but this time his voice was futile against the mob. “The militias must report to the general of the army,” he shouted unheard. “We must have unity of command. . . .”

  Burnet put his face close to Houston’s and snarled, “To whom the militias report is no longer any of your concern.” Burnet turned to face the War Party and gestured toward Fannin, sitting erect like a real soldier against the wall. “The regular army shall report to Colonel James Fannin, a West Point attendee.”

  Fannin stood up shyly to accept the frenzied cheers of the War Party. It was true enough that Fannin had attended West Point. But what Burnet did not know—or, at least what he did not say—was that Fannin had dropped out of the academy after less than two years. He never graduated. Indeed, he never distinguished himself in any way. Of a class of eighty-six, Fannin had ranked sixtieth. Despite that, he was the only West Point man in the room, and to the angry men, who were rabid for action, he seemed to be the perfect choice to head up the army.

  Houston did not know of Fannin’s less-than-glittering record, but he could size up a man with a single glance, and one look told him that Fannin was not up to the job. Houston shook his head in dismay. “Amateur soldiers in the service of amateur politicians,” he scoffed.

  Grant shouted sarcastically to the room, pointing at Houston, “The late, great Sam Houston. Former governor of Tennessee, former general of the Texian army.” His every word was met by laughter and rousing cheers.

  “The fighting at Béxar has obviously produced chaos,” Houston said. “The next will result in annihilation. . . .”

  Grant shouted, “Coward!”

  Houston looked coolly at Grant, took a puff of his cigar and responded, “Scottish catamite!”

  Grant stood up. “What did you say?” he said, shocked. He had been insulted in many and various ways in his life, but this was a new low.

  Houston smiled, delighted to have drawn blood. “I called you a Scottish catamite, Grant—one step down from associate pederast.”

  Grant drew his knife. Houston knew a theatrical moment when one presented itself. He quickly removed his silk cravat, ripped open his shirt and bared his chest. His past as an actor was coming in handy. Melodramatically, he said, “Come for me!”

  Seguin sighed and stepped in behind Houston. Grant was about to make a lunge forward, when all heads around him turned.

  “Any excuse to remove your clothes, right, Houston?” Jim Bowie stood just inside the door, smiling and shaking his head.

  The room, for the first time that day, was absolutely hushed.

  Grant, still brandishing his knife at Houston, snarled, “This ain’t your concern, Mr. Bowie.”

  “Indeed,” Houston said, mimicking Grant’s Scottish burr, “this is between me and the catamite.”

  Grant flinched. Bowie put a hand on his hip, letting his jacket slide open enough to expose a knife sheathed to his side, and walked toward the table. Everyone in the room knew the legend of that knife. Bowie slowly drew it out and held it, point upward. It was gigantic, so fearsome-looking that some of the men averted their eyes unconsciously. Bowie flipped the knife and tendered it to Grant, handle first.

  “You want to borrow mine, Grant?” Bowie said. He leaned in closer, speaking with a low, deadly tone, “Because I will surely give it to you.”

  Everyone in the room stared back and forth between Bowie and Grant. Bowie dropped the knife on the table with a loud clang. He gazed coolly at Grant with a look that indicated, “Go for it.” Grant would almost have rather died than humble himself before the War Party, which he hoped to lead. But he was sensible enough to realize that he would die if he carried this on much longer. He was a tolerably good knife fighter. But “tolerably good” was not quite enough to best James Bowie. After a long, awkward pause, Grant resheathed his knife.

  Bowie walked over and rebuttoned Houston’s shirt, making sure to show his back to Grant—and making sure everyone noticed it. His very presence seemed to calm Houston down. Looking slightly dazed, like a man who has been rudely awakened from a dream, Houston whispered to Bowie, “Buy you a drink?” Bowie smiled and placed Houston’s hat on his head at a jaunty angle.

  Throughout, Grant stared down at the knife in front of him but just could not work up the nerve to pick it up. The men who had been so angry and blustery only moments before now sat breathless. Thompson, the loudmouth Carolinian, stared at Bowie’s knife with a kind of horrified fascination, wondering if he was about to get blood all over his nice new beaver hat. He wanted desperately to leap up and dash out the door, but he could not quite bring himself to move.

  Bowie turned to the room, smiling. “You gentlemen will have to excuse Sam,” he said. “He was Indian raised.”

  Bowie put an arm around Houston’s shoulder and they walked toward the door. Bowie stopped, remembering his knife. He returned for it, slowly dragged it across the table, and placed it back in his sheath, never taking his eyes from Grant’s during the entire exhibition. Everyone watched; no one breathed.

  Houston and Bowie stepped out into the street. They walked along silently for a moment, and then Bowie said, “I believe you said something about buying me a drink.” Houston smiled and clapped Bowie on the shoulder. Together, they walked back to Ingram’s, which had not had the pleasure of Houston’s business for nearly fifteen minutes.

  With Houston out of the room, the War Party could continue its relentless push to organize the invasion of Matamoros, or what they were now calling the “Matamoros Expedition.”

  Grant said, “I propose that Col
onel Fannin take charge of the expedition.”

  Burnet nodded and said, “All in favor?”

  A chorus of “ayes” around the room passed the resolution. Fannin stood up modestly and waved at the crowd. He hoped that his face did not betray the panic he felt inside. He wanted to be a military hero, but this actually sounded dangerous.

  Smith stood up in frustration. “This is absurdity,” he shouted. “You will only strip much-needed supplies from our other commands and take them three hundred miles away. This expedition leaves the rest of Texas defenseless!”

  The War Party shouted him down. Burnet glared down at Smith condescendingly. “If we take Matamoros, then the Mexican army has no port of entry into Texas except by land—and we can easily guard those roads. Taking Matamoros is the best way to defend Texas!” The room resounded with cheers. “As for the matter of supplies, Colonel Fannin and his men will take only whatever is necessary, leaving each post occupied with as many men as can be spared. Dr. Grant and Colonel Frank Johnson will take a hundred men to find and obtain more horses and supplies for the expedition.”

  Grant nodded. “Now that Béxar has been secured,” he said, “the garrison there will be a bountiful source for men and weapons. John and I will leave for that place within forty-eight hours.”

  Men around the room nodded in agreement. This struck all of them as a foolproof plan.

  Burnet looked at the War Party, then over at the Peace Party, some of whom were grudgingly beginning to see the positive aspects of the Matamoros Expedition. “The time is at hand, my brothers!” Burnet shouted. “On to Matamoros! On to victory!”

  Two days later, Bowie stood in front of Ingram’s, watching as the militia saddled up and rode out, hooting and cheering, certain of victory. Fannin’s column headed down the road to Goliad. Grant and Johnson’s men rode toward Béxar. Even though Johnson was the officer, Grant rode at the head of the column, trying desperately to position himself as their leader. Bowie shook his head in disgust and walked away.

  He passed a dogtrot. It occurred to him that it was the same one in which he had been so violently ill just a few days earlier. And from the sounds emanating from it, Bowie knew that there was someone in there, carrying on his tradition. Bowie peered down the alley and saw a figure sitting on the ground at the end, against the back wall. Light from a lantern in a nearby window played over his face. It was Houston, sitting with legs splayed, head resting against the wall. His battered hat was lying nearby, as if it had fallen off unnoticed. Houston’s eyes were closed and he was humming softly to himself. Bowie had been in the same condition often enough to know at a glance that Houston was dead drunk. In one hand he held an almost empty bottle. In the other, a pistol.

  Bowie walked down the alley and stood before Houston. With some effort, Houston opened his eyes and peered at Bowie. There were flecks of vomit around the corners of his mouth. “Pull up a stool,” he said. Bowie took a look around the alley and noticed that he was standing in the very spot where he himself had been so violently ill. He decided to squat. He said, “Oblige me and do not sleep here tonight.”

  Houston acted as though he did not hear. He took a long pull on the bottle. Some of the whiskey dribbled down his chin, soaking the ruffles on the front of his shirt.

  Bowie said, “You are making a jackass of yourself, Sam.”

  Houston growled, “Vindictive sons a bitches. Sent me off to make treaty with the Cherokees.” He passed the bottle to Bowie, who took a swig.

  Bowie said, “The council did not know what else to do with you. You disagreed with them about Matamoros. You would certainly have been nothing but a burr under Fannin’s saddle. Or Grant’s.”

  Houston nodded and took another swig. “So they are just getting me out of the way. That is how it seems to me.”

  Bowie said, “Sam, look at it this way: You are going home. I know you—you are only really yourself among the Cherokee. You have told me so yourself.”

  Houston shrugged.

  “I slept on rocks outside of Béxar for three months while that paper-collared brother-in-law of Santa Anna’s lived in my home,” Bowie said, “drinking up all my liquor. Everything I had is gone. Everything on paper, anyways.”

  Houston stared out into the darkness. He said, “Texas was a chance, a second chance, for all of us. A place to wash away our sins. That means something. Do not ever forget it.”

  Bowie looked sideways at Houston, who took the bottle and punctuated his point with another swig of whiskey. It seemed to Bowie that Houston was making a speech—a politician always, even when sitting in his own puke.

  Houston shook his head and said sadly, “Texas is wasted on the Texians.”

  Bowie nodded. “The land’s too good for the people,” he said.

  “You cannot blame the land,” Houston said. They were quiet for a moment, then Houston said, “They will be back. The Mexicans. A massive, well-trained army. Against a handful of amateurs. Only chance we have is to fight them in the open. Washington—fox and hound. 1812. Indian wars. Keep moving; burn what you leave behind.” He took another swig. “Goddamn it, Jim,” he said. “What is it about that damnable place?”

  “What place?”

  “Alamo,” Houston said. “Whenever the wind blows sour in Béxar, everybody runs there and hides. Nothing but mud and a caved-in church.”

  “And cannon,” Bowie added. “It protects my home, Sam.”

  Houston looked at Bowie and shook his head sadly. “You do not have a home. Any more than I do.”

  The statement hurt Bowie more than Houston meant to. He patted Bowie on the knee. “It is a damn shame about your wife, Jim,” he said.

  Bowie nodded gravely. “Damn shame about yours, too, Sam.”

  For the moment, they were just two men with not much left in the world, men who had every right to believe their best days were behind them. Feeling himself sinking into the pit of despair that had recently become so familiar to him, Houston forced himself to rally. With an expression that suggested he had regained his fire, he looked directly at Bowie and said, “Am I your general?”

  “You know you are,” Bowie said.

  “All right then,” Houston said, “I want you to return to Béxar, blow up the Alamo, and fetch back the cannon. Promise me you will do this?”

  Bowie considered the order, then nodded. After all, it was about time for him to head for home himself.

  “Promise me?” Houston urged.

  “I promise, Sam,” Bowie said. “Now, let us get you up out of your own filth and make you a little more presentable. Do not forget—you are an ambassador to the Cherokees. You need to show a little dignity.” Bowie helped Houston to his feet.

  “Well, Jim,” Houston said, “I can certainly show a little dignity. Apparently very little.”

  The next day was bright and clear, cool and sunny. The streets of San Felipe were quiet and empty, as if things were back to normal and the town was again nothing more than a sleepy backwater. Hogs rooted in the road for something to eat. A few stray dogs did the same, more aggressively. Houston, looking worse for wear in the light of day, finished cinching Saracen, his magnificent white horse. When the saddle was secured, he wiped his cottony mouth with the back of his hand and mounted.

  Mathew Ingram saw Houston through the window of his father’s store. It was now or never. He stepped outside and waved at the man on the horse. “General?” Mathew said tentatively.

  Houston looked straight ahead without expression, without even indicating that he had heard the boy.

  “General, sir,” Mathew said, “I want to fight.”

  Houston tipped his tricorn hat low against the light. He clicked his heels and his horse started down the street at a slow walk. Mathew trotted behind, struggling to keep up.

  “It is important,” Mathew said. “Tell me what I should do, sir.”

  Houston whoa’d his horse to a halt and finally looked down at Mathew. He said, “You have a mother?”

  “Yes, I do,
” Mathew said.

  “And a father?” Houston said. “You have one of those?”

  The boy nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Well,” Houston said, looking forward again, “go home and be with them.”

  Houston spurred his horse on, leaving Mathew in the road. The boy watched him, crestfallen, then reluctantly returned to the store to resume his sweeping.

  Toward the end of town Houston passed twenty men, mounted on their horses. Jim Bowie was among them. The two men stared at each other for a long moment, each pointed in a different direction. Then Bowie nodded to Houston, spurred his horse and galloped away with the others. Houston continued walking his horse out of town—one man headed away from the fray, the other toward it.

  Just outside of San Felipe, Travis’s men, thirty or so, waited while Travis stood on the porch steps of a tidy little house built of planks and rough bricks. A gentle couple, the Ayerses, stood in the doorway. Mrs. Ayers lightly gripped Charlie Travis by the shoulders and watched sadly as the boy prepared to say good-bye to his father. Charlie held a little cloth suitcase in his hand and stared at Travis.

  Travis leaned down to his son’s level and straightened the lapels on the little boy’s coat. “Now you mind Mr. and Mrs. Ayers,” he said. Charlie nodded. “Do not go causing any fuss. When I return we will get a home of our own. I promise.”

  The boy nodded again, hopeful. There was nothing more to say. Travis, aware that his men were watching, held out his hand. “Good-bye, son.”

  Charlie shook his father’s hand. Travis stood up and turned to return to his horse.

  Charlie said, “Daddy?”

  Travis stopped and turned. “What is it, Charlie?”

  Charlie shrugged. “I just wanted to say it.”

  Travis, taken aback, could only nod. He mounted his horse and motioned for the men to ride. As he rode away, he wanted to look back, but could not. If he had not been surrounded by men, he would have wept.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The town of Zacatecas knew few luxuries, even in the best of times, but now it was a nightmare of devastation and sadness. Not long ago, despite its poverty, Zacatecas had been a town filled with hope and fervor, as federalists banded together to defeat the new dictator and his Centralist government. But it was the dictator—Antonio López de Santa Anna—who defeated the federalists. He did more than defeat them—he crushed them under his heel. Then he unleashed his army on the town, sanctioning, even encouraging a two-day orgy of pillage, plunder, rape and murder.