Crockett’s men were gathered by the cannon ramp inside the church. They were holding rifles, knives and chunks of stone, dug in for one last stand. There was no more ammunition. They would have to meet whatever was about to happen with little more than scraps. They stared at the doorway, which was draped in smoke, and waited for the inevitable.
Crockett turned toward the sacristy and saw little Enrique Esparza huddling with a few other children and their weeping mothers. The boy seemed so out of place in all this that Crockett felt disoriented for an instant. In fact, Crockett himself seemed desperately out of place. He had come to Texas looking and hoping for many things—none of which was a brutal death in a ragged ruin of a church. He nodded a small greeting to Enrique as, suddenly, fifty screaming Mexicans charged through the smoke, firing their rifles, thrusting their bayonets. Crockett grabbed his rifle by the muzzle and held it over his head, ready to use it as a club. He swung hard. The gun thudded against the skull of a soldado, and then he and his men were overwhelmed by a sea of bayonets. All was frenzy, chaos, and pain—horrible pain. And then, it was over.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Miles away, Sam Houston knelt low, his ear to the ground. Travis had promised to fire the Alamo’s cannon on a regular schedule as long as the fort still stood. But Houston heard nothing, neither the Alamo’s cannon nor Santa Anna’s bombardment. With a sigh, he slowly rose, bearing the weight of all that was tragic about the situation.
Deaf Smith stood nearby. Seeing Houston’s troubled face he said, “Sam?”
Houston shook his head. Then he looked up, straight at the sun, bright and hot in the sky.
A flock of buzzards made lazy figure eights. There were enough of them to soften the pain of staring at the sun, but their presence just made things all the clearer. Finally, his eyes could not take it any longer, and he lowered them, peering around the courtyard of the Alamo.
David Crockett was on his knees, hands tied behind him. All around were the bodies of his friends. Several of them also had their hands tied. They had been forced into kneeling positions after they were captured, and summarily shot. One of the Mexican generals had pled for their lives. At least, that is how it seemed to Crockett. But the obvious leader—could this be the infamous Santa Anna?—would have none of it. The gaudily dressed general watched men die all around Crockett with a look that indicated only casual interest, as he might watch baby ducklings frolic in a pond.
Beyond the circle of his friends, Crockett was surrounded by most of the Mexican army. Those directly in Santa Anna’s line of sight were standing at attention, in sharp formation. There were cavalrymen on horseback. Pioneers with thick leather aprons and huge, bloody axes in their hands. Regular foot soldiers. An execution squad stood slightly to Crockett’s right. One of them was the battery sergeant, who seemed nervous about pointing his bayonet at the legendary “Croque.” They were all waiting for orders, to see what would happen next.
Beyond these men in formation, hundreds of other soldiers lined the walls, sitting informally, watching the show. Jesús stood with a crowd near the long barracks.
Crockett did not know why his comrades had been slaughtered or why he had been spared, but he soon got an idea.
“Crockett!” Santa Anna said, with amused satisfaction. “Davy Crockett!”
Crockett stared at him, without expression.
Santa Anna said in Spanish, “If you wish to beg for your life, this would be the appropriate time.” He turned to Almonte and commanded, “Explain this to him.”
Almonte stepped forward and said to Crockett in English, “Throw yourself on the mercy of His Excellency, Antonio López de Santa Anna!”
Crockett slowly looked around at the hundreds of troops surrounding him. A sharp frisson of dread jolted through his body and he wanted to close his eyes and make all this go away. Just when he began to feel that his body was about to start trembling with fear, he looked down at the ground and thought of something very peculiar indeed: Lion of the West. He almost laughed aloud. That silly Nimrod Wildfire. He had a lot to answer for as far as Crockett was concerned. That damned legend. Should have been a good thing, should have made him rich and powerful and the envy of all. But all it did was to get him killed. He spent a lot of time trying to convince people that he was David Crockett, the congressman, the man of substance and promise. But all they wanted to hear about was “Davy” Crockett, the backwoodsman, the bear hunter, the Indian fighter, the country buffoon. Well, here it is, Crockett thought. Time to choose. Who are you really: David or Davy?
Crockett looked up and stared at Santa Anna for another moment. He smiled a little. “You’re Santanna?” he said in a hoarse voice.
Santa Anna understood him and nodded.
Crockett said softly, in a friendly, almost conversational tone, “Thought you would be taller.”
Almonte looked confused. This gringo was not acting nearly obsequious enough.
Crockett said to Almonte, “Tell him I am willing to discuss terms of surrender.”
Almonte was almost relieved. He turned to Santa Anna and said in Spanish, “He is willing to discuss terms of surrender.”
Santa Anna smiled at Crockett pleasantly, enjoying this game of cat and mouse. He would listen to his terms, and then he would have the rebel killed. Today’s victory would be complete.
Crockett said, “If the general here will have his men put down their weapons and peacefully assemble, I promise I will take you to General Houston and try my best to get him to spare most of your lives.”
Almonte was stunned. Was this man totally insane?
“That said,” Crockett continued, his smile growing a little wider, “Sam’s a mite prickly . . . so no promises.”
Almonte just stared at Crockett, wondering what kind of man would sign his own death sentence in this way. Were the stories about him true? Was he simply biding his time before performing some superhuman deed that would save his life and destroy his enemies?
“Tell him,” Crockett said.
Almonte hesitated, glancing at the still smiling Santa Anna.
Angrily, Crockett barked, “Tell him!”
Almonte nodded and turned to Santa Anna. “He wants us to surrender, Excellency.” The smile faded from Santa Anna’s face. He bristled, raised his hand and nodded to the execution squad.
Castrillón stepped forward, a desperate look on his face. “Excellency,” he said, “please spare him!”
A sergeant who had not participated in the battle saw the moment as the perfect way to see blood and action and—perhaps more important—to please the president. He shouted to the execution squad, “Kill him!”
But Crockett did not hear any of it. What he heard was the voice of James Hackett . . . or was it his own voice? “I’m a screamer. I got the roughest racin’ horse, the prettiest sister, the surest rifle and the ugliest dog in the district. I am half horse and half alligator with a whiff of harricane . . .”
“Kill him!”
Crockett grinned, staring directly into the eyes of the execution squad. He said, “I’m a screamer . . .”
The men moved forward swiftly and plunged a half-dozen bayonets into Crockett’s chest.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Joe was found in Travis’s quarters, still sitting on the floor, still clutching the saddlebag. A Mexican officer cautiously entered and, when he saw Joe, quickly raised his rifle and aimed it straight at Joe’s forehead. Joe held his hands in the air, praying he would not forget the words he had practiced for so long—“Me naygro . . . me no disparo . . .” The officer’s face softened and he lowered his rifle. He spoke to Joe, but since he said none of the four Spanish words Joe understood, the frightened young man just looked at him, bewildered. The officer motioned for Joe to follow him. When Joe stood up, the officer took the saddlebag from his hands, then inclined his head toward the courtyard. Joe stepped out into the sunlight.
It was an abattoir. Joe impulsively clamped his hand over his mouth, to keep from vomiting,
to stop himself from screaming. The ground was carpeted with corpses, like statues stiffly carved in the horrible positions of their last seconds of life. Joe almost tiptoed through the carnage, trying not to look down. He tripped over a Texian’s boot and fell face-first into the bloody dirt. He frantically scrambled to get up, willing himself not to succumb to the panic that threatened to overwhelm him.
Joe was led to an officer, splendidly dressed in a uniform of red, blue and gold. From his clothing and his attitude, Joe decided that this must be the commander—Santa Anna himself. Everything he had heard from the men in the Alamo made him believe that Santa Anna was the devil incarnate. Joe did not even want to try to imagine what horrors the president had in store for him. As soon as Santa Anna glanced his way, Joe said in a soft, pleading voice, “Me naygro . . . me naygro. Please don’t kill me. I mean, me no disparo . . .”
Santa Anna smiled warmly and put his hand on Joe’s shoulder. “Tranquillo, mi amigo,” he said. “Te hemos libertado.”
Almonte, standing close by, translated for Joe. “Do not worry,” he said. “We have made you free.”
Santa Anna spoke to Almonte, who in turn spoke to Joe. “The general wishes to see the famous ones.”
Santa Anna nodded. “Travis,” he said, “y el fanfurrón Buy.”
“Travis,” repeated Almonte, “and the great braggart Bowie.”
Joe nodded. Maybe they really were not going to slaughter him. “Yes, sir, I can show you Colonel Travis and Colonel Bowie,” he said. Joe walked to the north wall, followed by Santa Anna and several of his officers and aides. He carefully made his way up the ramp, slick with blood, until he found the body of Travis, exactly where he had fallen. Joe knelt beside him. Travis’s eyes were open. The hole in his forehead was deceptively small. From the pool of blood which served as his pillow, Joe assumed that the hole in the back of his head was far larger and angrier. Curiously, looking at his master this way made Joe feel an unexpected sadness. The man had bought him and owned him like a horse or pig. And if Joe had ever displeased him, Travis would have sold him like any piece of property that had outlived its usefulness. But he had always been kind to Joe, after his fashion; and, for good or bad, the two men had shared their lives for a long time.
“This is Colonel Travis,” he said to Santa Anna. “He was my master.” Then he stood up and walked back down the ramp. The Mexican officers followed him all the way across the courtyard to view the corpse of James Bowie.
Toward the end of the day, Joe watched as the bodies of Travis, Bowie, Crockett and all the others were consumed by flames. The Mexicans had fed him and given him money and then set him free. They requested—not ordered—that he accompany Susanna Dickinson and her little baby to Gonzales. From there, he could keep going into Mexico where he could live as a free man forever.
In Gonzales, Houston watched with sinking spirits as his growing army drilled under the commands of Mosley Baker. They weren’t bad shots, most of them, but they were not particularly military material, either.
Baker called out, “Fire by files. Ready . . . aim . . . fire!”
The soldiers aimed and “fired” with unloaded muskets. “Did not hit a gol-dang thing,” called out one wit. Several others guffawed like idiots. Houston shook his head and started back to his tent. All around him were women and children who had sent their husbands and fathers to the Alamo. It seemed to Houston that their eyes reflected dimming hope. They stared at him as if accusing him, as if he were responsible for their despair. Except for the drilling army, Gonzales was a town of silence. All its citizens could do was wait, and hope, and dread.
On the way to Gonzales, Houston had sent an urgent message to Fannin, ordering him to bring his forces to meet Houston’s. Once their two armies merged, they would be in much better shape to face the enemy. Houston knew that Fannin could be slow and indecisive, so he made sure that there was no ambiguity in the orders. Come here, they read, now!
A movement caught Houston’s eye and his gaze drifted to the horizon. Two riders were approaching, hellbent.
“Béxar has fallen!” one of them shouted in Spanish as they rode into town. “All dead! All dead!”
Few of the Gonzales citizens understood the words, but they all felt the urgency and rushed toward the riders. Houston bellowed, “Juan! Find out what those men are about!”
Seguin ran over to the men, who had dismounted and were now rushing pell-mell through the streets, shouting, “The Alamo has fallen! Santa Anna killed them all!” Some of the women understood, and shrieked in terror. Seguin recognized the men as vaqueros who worked a ranchero just outside of Béxar. “Chato,” he called. “Melendez! What is this all about?”
Melendez, a compact and sturdy man of about thirty, recognized Seguin and immediately took off his hat. “Don Juan,” he said. “We have just come from Béxar. Santa Anna attacked the Alamo on Sunday morning.” Chato’s hat had blown off some miles down the road during their furious ride. His windblown hair made it look as though his head had been struck by lightning. “We watched from a distance. All dead . . . all gone. They burned the Texians’ bodies.”
The blood drained from Seguin’s face. “All of them? Every man in the Alamo?”
“Yes,” Melendez said. “We saw it all. They built three funeral pyres. There were no prisoners.”
Houston had been listening with a furious look on his face. He stormed over to the vaqueros and jabbed his finger at Melendez’s face. “I will not have you men ride in here, spreading your lies around this town!” he shouted.
Chato looked astonished. “Lies?” he said. “We have seen what we told you. Every word is true.”
“Seguin,” Houston said. “Arrest these scoundrels. They were obviously sent here as spies by Santa Anna himself.”
“But General,” Seguin said. “I know them. These are honest men.”
“They are liars, sir!” Houston said. “Arrest them at once or I will have you arrested yourself!” Houston turned to the crowd. “Listen not to these men,” he said. “They have come to sow dissension and fear so that we will lose our resolve. We must be steadfast.”
Houston looked back at Seguin, who sighed and led the two men away. “I am sorry, my friends,” he said. “Houston believes you. I can see it in his eyes. But he is trying to forestall panic. We will set you free tonight.” Chato and Melendez looked at each other in bewilderment. They endured an arduous and dangerous ride for this?
Houston motioned to Deaf Smith. “Deef,” he said, as quietly as he could. “I want you to ride to Béxar and look into what these men have said.”
Smith nodded. “I fear it is true, Sam.”
“So do I, Deef,” Houston said. “But I do not want the others to despair. At least not until we know for sure.”
Smith gave Houston an informal salute and ran for his horse. Houston called out to his officers, “Keep drilling those men! We must be ready!”
Smith’s Indian pony galloped with great speed down the road toward Béxar, but their journey was not as long as Smith expected. He had traveled less than two miles when he saw another horse and rider approaching him. This horse was not running. In fact, someone was walking in front of it, leading it along at a lazy saunter. When he got nearer, Smith recognized the rider as Susanna Dickinson. She was holding her baby. An intense sadness suffused her countenance. Joe was leading the horse. The scene looked to Smith like a pietà come to life.
Smith rode up to them and touched his hat. “Mrs. Dickinson, ain’t it?” he said. She nodded but said nothing. Smith said hesitantly, “Have you news from the Alamo?” Susanna looked at him sharply but did not answer. Joe said, “We going to Gonzales, sir. We needs to see General Houston.”
Smith nodded. “Well, he’s there, all right. I will take you to him.”
The appearance of these travelers in town caused the crowds to gather again immediately. This time, the wailing of the Gonzales wives began even before Susanna or Joe had uttered a word. Houston heard the ruckus and emerged f
rom his tent again. When he saw Mrs. Dickinson, he sighed heavily.
Joe kept his eyes on the ground as he led the horse into Gonzales. He recognized Houston and prayed that Houston did not recognize him. The Mexicans had freed him, but to these white men he was still, and always would be, a slave.
But even though Joe tried to avoid Houston’s gaze, it did not work. Houston looked at him immediately. “You are Joe, are you not? Colonel Travis’s man?”
Joe hesitated and said, “Yes, sir.” He looked up at Susanna and said, “This here Missus Dickinson. Her husband dead in the Alamo.” Joe shook his head sadly. “They all dead, General.”
Houston said nothing. The air was filled with screams of grief and heartrending weeping. He had suspected it before today, felt it in his gut, knew it. But he had held out hope that his instincts had been wrong. Now they were confirmed, and there was no way to ignore the fact. The Alamo had fallen. Deep in Houston’s mind was the nagging thought that the disaster was his fault. He sent Bowie there; he even, without meaning to, sent Crockett there. And then he did not manage to get help to them on time. While they were holding their ground for thirteen days, he should have been building an army. Instead, as far as he was concerned, he did little more than lollygag.
One thing was clear: If Béxar had fallen, the next points of danger would be Gonzales and Goliad. Today, Gonzales was a town of widows. He could not spare enough men to stay behind and guard the town, so he would just have to take the town with him.
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