Sam said, “Sooner you get a bunch of white men they drinkin’ water, sooner you get a pat on the head.”
Joe looked at him as if he had been slapped. Then he resumed his digging.
Sam joined him and dug for a while, half-heartedly. He noticed that no one in the compound was paying much attention to them, so it did not really seem to matter if they worked hard or not. Joe dug with purpose, however, obviously trying hard to do a good job for his master. Sam looked at him with a tinge of pity.
“He had you long?” Sam asked.
Joe paused in his digging for a moment and said, “Mister Simon White down at Brazoria hold my contrack, an’ he hire me out to Mister William last July.”
Both men continued to shovel in silence for a few moments. When Sam spoke again, it was quietly—so quietly that Joe could barely hear his voice over the scrapes of the shovels. “I knowed a man name Nemo belong to Simon White—run off for Saltillo,” he said.
“Did he make it?” Joe asked.
Sam shook his head. “I wish I knew, but I don’t.”
Travis, satisfied with Jameson’s progress, walked the perimeter of the compound, checking fortifications, making mental notes for new plans of defense. Several of the New Orleans Greys were in the long barracks, digging trenches that could be used as a retreat point.
“Men,” Travis said, “bag some of that dirt and stack it against the walls. That will double the thickness, make it better protection.”
The men, who were already planning to do just that, nodded at Travis and waited for him to leave.
Louis Dewall was working at a forge, chopping up horseshoes, chains—anything that could be used as cannon shot. Dewall had owned a smithy back in New York. There was not much call for blacksmithing in the Alamo, but he was resourceful and eager to help in any way he could. When he had reduced to shrapnel whatever metal piece he started with, he threw the red-hot chunks into a bucket of water to cool. His friend Daniel Cloud retrieved the pieces from the bucket and placed them by the handful in canvas bags.
Travis paused to watch them work for a moment, then said, “There are two leaden troughs in the horse pens. Should make fine cannon shot.”
And then he was gone.
Cloud watched Travis walk away. He said to Dewall, “What in the hell are we saving our cannonballs for?” Dewall shrugged and went back to his forge.
Travis headed back to his quarters when he heard the familiar noise of rough, hacking coughs. Travis followed the sound to find Bowie leaning weakly against a wall, nearly helpless with coughing. Bowie slapped the wall in disgust over his condition. Travis gave Bowie a moment to compose himself, then walked over.
Bowie looked at him, spat some blood onto the ground and wiped his mouth. “Notice how you don’t really hear it until it stops?” he said.
Travis was silent for a while, then said, “I have never been in a cannon battle before. Not of this magnitude.”
Bowie realized that Travis was offering him an olive branch of sorts. He was not such a bad man. A little full of himself, but he was young. He would grow out of it. Bowie was just about to reply when Travis spoke again.
“Until they decide to attack,” he said, “I suspect we will be bombarded on a nightly basis. Deprive us of sleep.”
Bowie nodded, still holding his bloody handkerchief to his mouth. “Till we start seeing ghosts everywhere.”
Travis said in a soft voice, “Colonel, I became a little heated with you in front of your men. It was ill advised and not terribly professional.”
Bowie waved off the apology. “Forget it,” he said. “Most of ’em didn’t understand what you were saying anyway.”
“It is important that you and I agree,” Travis said. “For me, though we are poorly supplied, surrender is not an option. I submit that we engage and delay until reinforcements arrive.”
Bowie nodded in agreement. “I feel the same way,” he said. With more than a little sense of amazement, Travis nodded back. They had actually reached a consensus.
Bowie said, “Sometimes it’s just the way you say things, Travis. That’s all, I swear to God.” He walked away, coughing as he did. Travis watched him go. He was sorry for Bowie’s illness, but could hardly help a surge of elation when he considered that Bowie’s condition placed Travis in absolute command of the Alamo. All their votes, all the warring factions made no difference now. Bowie was no longer fit to lead. Travis frowned and shook his head, trying to rid himself of such unworthy thoughts. He had no time to gloat, only to command.
He walked into his office and sat down at the little drop-leaf desk that had followed him from Alabama to New Orleans to Nacogdoches to Anahuac and finally to Béxar. He had written love letters on this desk, made steamy, secret entries in his diary, and signed divorce papers. And now, he must write a letter that would bring aid from all corners of Texas. Once Houston, Fannin and all the others truly understood how dire his circumstances were, they would come to him in multitudes, driving Santa Anna back over the Rio Grande toward Mexico City. This war could still be won.
He unfolded and smoothed a piece of brown wrapping paper, dipped his quill in ink and began to write:
Commandancy of the Alamo——
Bejar Fby. 24th 1836
To the People of Texas & all Americans in the
world——
Fellow citizens & compatriots——
I am besieged, by a thousand or more of the Mexicans under Santa Anna——I have sustained a continual Bombardment & cannonade for 24 hours & have not lost a man——The enemy has demanded a Surrender at discretion, otherwise, the garrison are to be put to the sword, if the fort is taken——I have answered the demand with a cannon shot, & our flag still waves proudly from the wall——I shall never Surrender or retreat. Then, I call on you in the name of Liberty, of patriotism & every thing dear to the American character, to come to our aid with all dispatch——The enemy is receiving reinforcements daily & will no doubt increase to three or four thousand in four or five days. If this call is neglected, I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible & die like a soldier who never forgets what is due to his own honor & that of his country
Victory or Death!
William Barret Travis
Lt. Col. Comdt
He started to fold the letter, then thought that he should offer some heartening news, to indicate the resourcefulness and resolve of his men.
P.S. The lord is on our side—When the enemy appeared in sight we had not three bushels of corn——We have since found in deserted houses 80 or 90 bushels & got into the walls 20 or 30 head of Beeves——Travis
Travis read the letter over. He thought of a few high-flown phrases to add, but there was no time. This letter, as hastily written and crude as it was, would simply have to do. The readers would have to forgive its literary failings.
Travis turned to Joe, who had tired of digging and returned to their quarters. While Travis was immersed in the composition of his letter, Joe had been sitting patiently on a stool by the door. “Joe,” Travis said, “go get Captain Martin and tell him to report to me immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” Joe said, and bolted out the door.
In just a moment, Albert Martin stepped in. “Sir.”
“Captain Martin,” Travis said, “I want you to take this message to Gonzales.”
“Yes, sir,” Martin said.
Travis handed the note to Martin. “Bring back every able-bodied man you can find,” he said. “And have this message relayed on by someone there. Colorado Smith and Mr. Smither rode out yesterday. Perhaps you will see one of them to hand this off to.”
Martin nodded and ran out to prepare his horse. Travis sat at his desk. Now for the hardest part: waiting.
At dusk, just as Albert Martin rode out of the Alamo and found the road to Gonzales, the bitter sound of the Deguello came blasting at the Alamo from the Mexican army band in Béxar. All around the fort, the men grimaced and started looking for cover. They knew what was
coming. And, the moment the nightmare call ended, the bombardment began again. The men of the Alamo crouched and covered themselves and prayed that a shell would not find them in the dark.
CHAPTER TWENTY
James Walker Fannin set up his headquarters in the chapel of La Bahía Mission or, as he preferred to call it, Fort Defiance. He liked his office because it made him appear very much the commander, seated behind his large desk, facing the door. Men entered, hat in hand, to ask his advice or to await his orders, and he, with his wealth of military experience, gave them the answers they needed.
At least, that is the way he saw it. His men barely gave Fannin a second thought. When he did come up in their conversation, they snickered and joked about how he hid in his quarters all day, not only avoiding the fight at hand, but also avoiding any kind of action at all. One wag suggested that his men should start calling him “Faintin’.” It was not much of a joke, but the men of Fort Defiance found it hilarious.
While the men of the Alamo spent their days shoring up their crumbling defenses, the garrison at La Bahía had far fewer responsibilities. The walls were tall and solid, the cannon well placed, and the supplies more than adequate. Day to day, there was little for them to do but wait for something to happen. When they saw Colorado Smith galloping furiously toward the fort with Travis’s most recent message, the men thought that their wait was over.
Many of the Texians at Fort Defiance knew Smith and greeted him enthusiastically as he rode through the gates. “Where’s Fannin at?” Smith yelled to no one in particular. Jack Davis, a Pennsylvania boy, paused at his whittling long enough to point toward headquarters. Corporal Zaboly ran to Smith as he dismounted, then quickly ushered him into Fannin’s presence.
Fannin read Travis’s letter, frowning all the while. Smith refused his offer of a seat. He was eager to be on his way again and paced restlessly as Fannin read. “When did you leave the Alamo?” Fannin asked.
“Two days ago,” Smith said.
Fannin leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin. He believed it made him look thoughtful. “So there’s no way of knowing,” he said to Smith, “by now, the garrison might have surrendered.”
Colorado Smith smiled in amazement. “Jim Bowie?” he said incredulously. “Surrender?”
Fannin said, “Or perhaps they have been overrun.”
Smith shook his head. “I do not believe that Santa Anna was ready to attack,” he said. “It looked to me like the Mexicans were setting up for a siege.”
Fannin sighed and stood up. He began to pace around the room. He looked very much like an officer with strategy on his mind.
“Fort Defiance,” he said importantly, “where we sit, is equally important, strategically.”
“Those men are in a desperate situation, sir,” Smith said.
Fannin waved him away impatiently. “I understand that,” he said. “But our supplies are low. And to risk the main force of our army in the open like that . . .”
He shook his head. Fannin saw that Smith was looking at him with a kind of disgust on his face. He straightened a little and said, “I will . . . consider this action, of course. The stand that Bowie and Colonel Travis have taken is very courageous.”
Smith’s expression changed from disgust to hopelessness. He realized that Fannin was not going to rush into anything. He suspected that Fannin was not actually going to do anything at all.
“Courageous,” Fannin said, “but, if I may say so, ill advised.”
Two arrows lay on the ground. One arrowhead was barbed, the other was smooth. Sam Houston, squatting and drinking from a bottle, watched two six-year-old Cherokee boys examine them.
“This one is for birds?” one asked.
“That is right,” Houston replied in the boy’s language.
The other boy picked up the smooth arrowhead. “And this one is for fishing.”
Houston shook his head. “No.”
“Is it for very big birds?” the boy asked.
Houston said, “It is for men.”
The boys looked at the arrow with a new kind of respect. Houston looked up, his eyes squinting in the bright sunlight. A dark bird circled lazily in the sky above. Casually, Houston picked up the bird arrow and drew it back on a bow. At first glance the bird appeared to be a crow or perhaps a buzzard. But now Houston could see that the bird was a raven. Arrow pointed upward, Houston stared at the bird for several seconds. Then he slowly lowered the bow.
Neither boy understood his reluctance to shoot the bird—it seemed to be a very easy shot, especially to a great hunter like Houston.
The sound of galloping hooves made Houston and the boys turn around and look down the trail. Deaf Smith was riding toward him. Smith had a stern look on his face, but that was not very unusual. It occurred to Houston that he had never actually seen the man smile.
“Deef,” called Houston loudly.
Smith dismounted and held out his hand to Houston. “Sam.” Houston shook his hand. He still held the bow and arrow in his left hand.
Houston said, “Well, I suppose that you have ridden all the way out here to give me some delightful news. I can tell by your sunny disposition.”
Most men would have responded in kind, but Smith never engaged in verbal pleasantries. It was if he never had the time to joke. And he never seemed to understand that anybody else was joking. To Houston’s greeting, he shook his head mournfully.
“No, sir, I got no good news at all. Far from it,” Smith said.
Houston’s face darkened. “Tell me,” he said.
“The Matamoros Expedition, for one thing,” Smith said. “It is a disaster. They are split up, probably dead by now. Johnson and Grant off one way, Fannin off t’other.”
“Those damn fools. Those goddamned fools,” Houston said. He flung the bow and arrow to the ground angrily. “I would say that they deserve what they get, but we need those men. What a stupid waste.”
Deaf Smith nodded gravely. “Yes, sir,” he said. Houston could tell from the agitated look on Smith’s face that the bad news had not ended yet.
“What?” he said.
“Well, sir,” Smith said, “there is another matter. Santa Anna has captured Béxar.”
The news was not exactly unexpected, but it seemed too soon. How in the hell, he wondered, did Santa Anna get his army all the way up from Mexico City in the dead of winter? He always figured that the dictator was not quite human, but he always assumed that the men in the Mexican army were.
“When did this happen?” Houston said.
“Three days ago,” said Smith. “Our troops are forted up in the Alamo.”
The Alamo. Why did everybody who came within a hundred miles of that place seem to fall under its spell? Every military man who saw it thought that it would make a fine, strong fort. And so far, they had all been terribly wrong. The place had meant nothing but defeat for everyone who ever occupied it. The men inside the Alamo now would be no exception.
Chief Bowles sat staring at the river. He had seen Houston talking with the other white man and could tell by the look on Houston’s face that something big had happened outside. Houston had talked to him often about staying here, making a home with Talihina, finding contentment among the Cherokee. Chief Bowles knew this was just talk. Houston had a destiny. Perhaps it was a dark destiny, but it could not be denied. He would be leaving soon. Today, perhaps. He would never come back.
Houston asked Smith, “Do you have paper and a pencil?”
Smith nodded and dug through the ragged pack that he kept hanging over his shoulder. He produced an old envelope and a stub of a pencil and handed them to Houston.
As Houston scribbled, he said, “Take this back to Governor Smith. If Burnet and those other fools do not go off half-cocked, maybe we can still rally before this whole thing turns into a disaster.”
Smith pocketed the note. “Where are you goin’ to be, sir?” he said.
Houston looked around the village. With a stab of pain, he knew what h
e had to do. “I’ll be along,” he said. “Tell ’em all that I will be along directly.”
Deaf Smith remounted. “You ought to get yourself something to eat before you leave, Deef,” Houston said.
Smith shook his head. “Got some fatback and bread in my pack. I can eat in the saddle.” He slapped his horse’s flank and waved at Houston as he rode away.
“I will see you soon, Deef,” Houston called, but he doubted that Smith heard him.
Chief Bowles felt Houston approach but did not turn around. When Houston sat beside him on the riverbank, the chief noted that he had changed into his white man’s clothes—the long frock coat, the rough buckskin breeches and his odd tricorn hat.
The two men sat in silence for a moment, then Houston said in Cherokee, “How did I come by my Indian name?”
“The Raven is proud and dark,” Chief Bowles replied. “And alone. That was you as a boy, when you first came to us.”
“And now?” Houston asked in English.
Chief Bowles answered in English. “Now they have another name for you . . . ‘Ootstetee Ardeetahskee.’ ”
“Ootstetee Ardeetahskee,” Houston repeated, almost to himself. “The Big Drunk.” He shook his head sadly.
Chief Bowles said, “In the stories, the Raven is often cursed. He is beaten and crushed and left for dead. But in the end he outwits his enemy.”
Houston glanced over at Chief Bowles, but the old man did not take his eyes from the river. Houston knew he was trying to tell him something. But what?
“Of course, that is only in stories,” Chief Bowles continued. “And you are the Raven no more.”
Houston felt a touch on his shoulder. Talihina stood behind him. Her mouth looked set, determined, but there was deep sadness in her eyes. “Come,” she said. “Come to my bed.”
They had made love many times before, in the smoky closeness of a lodge, under the lush canopy of the forest, on the banks of the river, serenaded by its many songs. Talihina approached the act in a way completely unlike that of any of the Anglo women Houston had known—even those professionals for whom enthusiasm should have been a stock in trade. Talihina expressed her passion with total abandon, without shame, without the coy inhibitions that East Coast women seemed to think was essential to their mystique. Houston often felt like an animal in her embrace—powerful, free; not thinking, just feeling. Sometimes both would shout their pleasure to the skies, roaring like beasts, gasping and moaning with the intensity of the experience.
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