by Walter Lord
But that very night he fell in love again. She was Rebecca Cummings, a lively, capable girl who managed her brother John’s inn at Mill Creek. Travis pursued her with schoolboy ardor. He bought her a brooch, took a lock of her hair. He gave her brother tobacco and legal advice. He explained about Rosanna and his plans for divorce. And she said she was willing to wait.
Meanwhile his practice prospered. No more stolen rifles and blind horses, he was now deep in land. By May, 1834 he needed a law clerk. And still the clients came: “Williamson retains me to represent the Alabama Company … retained by Hoxie to defend title … retained by Major Reynolds to defend eleven-league claim.” Yet true to the Texas tradition, he could never resist even the smallest deal: one day he carefully wrote in his diary, “Gave a bad dollar for 50¢.”
Typical, yet in many ways so different. Despite those gay evenings, Travis usually seemed formal and proper; it was no coincidence that his name was used as reference for a girls’ boarding school. He was quite religious; he actively tried to persuade clergymen to come to Texas. He was intellectual—read Herodotus, Disraeli, Addison, Steele, Scott, even owned bookplates. He was farsighted: one of the first to back a steamboat for Austin’s colony. He was moody, touchy, easily offended, given to long spells of reverie that once led a friend to write, “I almost think sometimes that was you with me, you could enjoy some pleasure.”
Above all, he was ambitious. Intensely self-centered, by the time he was twenty-three he had already written his autobiography. He liked to dramatize himself and had a deep, almost mystical sense of mission. Perhaps the most significant line in his whole diary came the day after mud and high water kept him from visiting Rebecca: “The first time I ever turned back in my life.”
Such a man might never be popular—yet still be born to lead. Sheer ability and determination can do a lot; and Travis had plenty of both.
From the start his heart was with the American colonists in the growing friction with Mexico. By May, 1832, he felt it was time to act. When Colonel John Bradburn, the Mexican commander at Anáhuac, began using high-handed tactics to stop smuggling, Travis and his friend Patrick Jack warned Bradburn that a hundred angry colonists had risen in arms. The Colonel stayed up all night waiting for the onslaught, and it didn’t help when he learned it was all a practical joke. He arrested both Travis and Jack.
Now the colonists really rose. Hundreds of them marched on Bradburn, demanding that the prisoners be released. They found Travis and Jack pinioned to the ground, with Bradburn threatening to kill them both if anyone fired a shot. It was a moment made for Travis. Dramatically he called on his friends to fire: he would rather die a thousand deaths than permit this oppressor to remain unpunished.
The colonists laid siege instead, and soon groups were rising all over eastern Texas. Ultimately the storm blew over. Bradburn was replaced, Travis and Jack were released, and an uneasy truce restored. Peace seemed insured by news of another revolution in Mexico—the fierce Presidente Bustamente was out, and the new strong man was General Santa Anna, a professed liberal who seemed sympathetic to the Texans. As a sign of good faith, customs duties were lifted for another two years.
Travis was not impressed, but a far more important Texan saw reason to hope. Stephen Austin, the original empresario, had always believed in co-operating with the government. In every way he tried to be a loyal Mexican citizen. Now he urged caution and patience with all his strength. The real source of Texas’ troubles, he felt, lay in the poor local administration from distant Coahuila. The two provinces were run as one, but Texas had always been promised separate statehood as soon as it had enough people. Surely this new liberal government would agree that the time was ripe. He would go to Mexico City himself and persuade them to act. So, with a petition for statehood and a proposed constitution in his pocket, Austin hopefully set off for Mexico in the summer of 1833.
Travis remained unconvinced. By now he was a confirmed member of the so-called “War party,” the group that saw no solution except rebellion and independence. By 1834 he was urging the Texans to set up their own government, whatever the Mexicans said. They would never get anywhere by waiting for Mexico to act.
And it certainly looked that way. Once entrenched, Santa Anna had turned into just another anti-American dictator. Austin, after getting the run-around for months, was now in jail in Mexico City. Yet times were certainly better than the stormy days of Bradburn, and in the end the Texans decided to wait a little longer. The “Peace party”—the group trying to get along with Mexico—was in the saddle, and Travis had to back down.
But trouble again erupted early in 1835. Santa Anna was now more hostile than ever. He reopened the Customs House at Anáhuac. He again slapped duties on the colonists. He sent a new man, Captain Antonio Tenorio, to Anáhuac to see that the Texans paid up.
Travis for once was quiet—jolted by an unexpected development that unnerved even this intensely determined man. Rosanna had suddenly turned up from Alabama. She was in Brazoria demanding that Travis either rejoin her or give her a divorce. It was an easy choice to make. He probably would have divorced her long ago, except that he was so absorbed in all these great deeds and ambitious projects. He quickly gave Rosanna her freedom but kept his little son Charles with him in Texas. He hardly knew the boy, but he dreamed of great things for him; he would give him fame and fortune someday.
Now he could concentrate on Texas. Conditions were worse than ever. The local legislature at Monclova was gone—closed down by Santa Anna after it tried to raise money by selling four hundred leagues of Texas land to hungry U.S. speculators. Most Texans were opposed to this step too—and no one liked being governed from Monclova—but Santa Anna’s solution left them even worse off. They now had no government at all, and their representatives were under arrest.
Along the coast Mexican garrisons stepped up their campaign to stop smuggling and collect customs duties. At Galveston they seized the Texas schooner Martha, loaded with supplies for the colonists. A message taken from a careless Mexican courier hinted that even more troops were on the way. Angrily the settlers burned some lumber ordered by Captain Tenorio at Anáhuac.
Travis had a better idea. Late in June he raised a company of twenty-five men and marched on Tenorio’s headquarters. He dramatically gave the Mexicans fifteen minutes to surrender or be “put to the sword.” Tenorio quickly capitulated. He was then packed off to San Felipe, where he philosophically resigned himself to a pleasant evening at the Americans’ Fourth of July Ball.
The colonists couldn’t adjust that easily. They were shocked at Travis’ audacity. This wasn’t merely a case of smuggling, dodging customs collectors, or playing a practical joke on Colonel Bradburn. This was throwing out the garrison commander. Practically open rebellion. Few were ready to go that far.
Apologies … regrets … stern words for Travis. Repudiated, he lapsed into one of his moody spells. He published a note in the Texas Republican asking people to “reserve judgment.” He morosely wrote a friend that he felt ashamed.
At this point, Santa Anna overplayed his hand. Deeming Travis’ setback a sign of weakness, he decided that this was the time to finish off his enemies. During August he poured more troops into Texas and told his brother-in-law, General Martin Perfecto de Cós, to take personal command. Cós ordered the arrest of Travis and several other Texas troublemakers.
The Mexican leaders completely misinterpreted the situation. The Texans’ real goal was to build a secure future without outside interference. They rebuked Travis because he seemed to be inviting a fight. Now they saw an infinitely greater threat—martial law, military occupation, the arrest of good friends. Almost overnight the pendulum swung the other way, and the people of Texas turned violently against Santa Anna.
Committees of Safety sprang up in every town. The highly influential Telegraph and Texas Register hammered away for liberty and freedom. Travis discarded his moody gloom; his letters now sang of “the hour that will try men’s souls.” Then on S
eptember 1 came an electrifying development—Stephen Austin suddenly reappeared from Mexico.
Next week a thousand people jammed the banquet given in his honor at Brazoria. The room fell silent as the trusted leader rose to speak. He had always preached moderation; after a year in Mexican jails, how did he feel?
He left little doubt. Santa Anna was destroying the people’s rights; a General Consultation must be held—clearly a call for a provisional government. And on the question of Mexican troops in Texas, Austin was even more specific. The people had a strong moral sense that “would not unite with any armed force sent against this country; on the contrary, it would resist and repel it, and ought to do so. …”
A week later General Cós landed at Copano with 400 men. “WAR is our only recourse,” thundered a broadside from Austin. Unfazed, Cós headed for San Antonio. Here the garrison commander Colonel Ugartechea had his hands full, confiscating weapons … searching houses … disbanding suspicious groups that re-formed as fast as he broke them up.
Word had just come of a serious problem at Gonzales. The colonists there were shining up a cannon—an old 6-pounder given them years ago to ward off Indians. Ugartechea quickly sent Lieutenant Castaneda with perhaps 100 men to take it away. Castaneda reached Gonzales on September 29, found the cannon was now well hidden. But in very plain sight was a group of armed men—Albert Martin, Almeron Dickinson, Jacob Darst, eighteen altogether. They taunted him about the gun and told him to “come and take it.”
Parleys … indecision … shoot or hold fire? While the two sides dickered, the Gonzales Committee of Safety frantically issued a call for help. Volunteers rushed to the scene, and the little force mushroomed to 150 on September 30 … 167 on October 1.
That night the Texans silently slipped across the Guadalupe; and in the fog-shrouded dawn of October 2, they groped toward the Mexican camp. They were sure Castañeda planned to attack this day; they might as well hit him first. Quietly, very quietly, they edged through the fog. With them was the cannon, dug up from the peach orchard where Albert Martin had buried it.
Someone tripped … a rifle went off … shouts of alarm in the Mexican camp. The Texans halted uncertainly, and at this moment the fog lifted, showing the two sides facing each other about three hundred yards apart. It was almost like a stage curtain going up, but the audience numbered only one: 16-year-old Johnny Gaston, who gaped with excitement, high in the branches of a live-oak tree.
Now more parleys. Again the Mexicans demanded the cannon; again the taunting reply, “Come and take it.”
Suddenly a rattle of muskets—no one really knew who fired first. Next the cannon roared, spouting a shower of nails and old horseshoes at the Mexicans. A few scattered shots in reply, then Castañeda’s men broke for the road back to San Antonio.
Ironically, William Barret Travis wasn’t on hand for this climactic moment. Great men catch colds too, and he was at San Felipe, in bed with a bad sore throat.
But the revolution had begun. The men of Gonzales celebrated all night long. Then another victory—on October 9 Captain Collinsworth captured Goliad, two cannon and hundreds of muskets. More celebrating. Finally on October 13 the little “army”—now 500 strong—set out from Gonzales to throw General Cós out of Texas. Their leader was Stephen Austin. Their artillery was the old 6-pounder, mounted on two slices of tree trunk and drawn by oxen. Their banner— a white cloth decorated with black paint. At the top was a lone star … then a cannon barrel … and underneath, the neatly lettered words: “COME AND TAKE IT.”
In San Antonio, General Cós grimly waited. The Texans would arrive soon, but he would be ready. He built barricades in the streets, stationed sharpshooters in the houses, even installed a small cannon on the church tower that commanded the area. Then he moved more guns and his own headquarters to a position that especially attracted him—an abandoned old mission with tough stone walls across the river just east of town. Occasionally used as a barracks, the mission had once sheltered a Spanish colonial company from Alamo de Parras in Mexico. The name carried over, and by now everyone called the place the Alamo.
CHAPTER THREE
“Come Forward
And Assist
Your Brethren”
“GET UP IF POSSIBLE a committee in your city,” ran the scribbled appeal from Nacogdoches in the Philadelphia Gazette of October 24. “Call on those friends of liberty who aided the Poles and the Greeks, and they will I trust hold out their help to their suffering countrymen. Furnish us cannon and ball, rifles, muskets, powder, blankets. Lose no time. …”
The earthy Sam Houston was more specific. In a fervent letter planted in the Natchitoches, Louisiana, Red River Herald, he urged: “Let each man come with a good rifle and 100 rounds of ammunition—and come soon.”
Planning his new law practice in the rich Red River country, Daniel Cloud heard the call for help. He had hoped to stay here—at last the fees were fat and the dockets large—but this changed everything: “The cause of philanthropy, of humanity, of liberty and human happiness throughout the world calls loudly on every man who can, to aid Texas.”
Others felt the same. In Natchitoches crowds packed the Red River Exchange the night Houston’s message appeared. Cheering wildly, they passed a resolution to send the Texans “all possible assistance in their struggle for liberty.” In far-off Boston the Morning Post thundered, “BOSTONIANS! You who have so liberally contributed to the aid of the Poles, the Greeks, and others who have been fighting for liberty, come forward and assist your brethren. …” In Pennsylvania, farmer George Dedrick wrote his wife that he was off “to volenteer in ade of the caus of libertey.”
“Liberty”—that was the word. It was no idle catch phrase then. It had yet to lose its shine through misuse and overuse. Far from it—the very sound stirred Americans to the depths of their souls. In 1835—barely fifty years after Yorktown— there were many people still alive who knew the exhilarating call of freedom. Even some who had fought for it in battle. And many had a father, or uncle, or brother who had been at Breed’s Hill, Cowpens, Valley Forge. For these people, liberty—anybody’s liberty—had very real meaning. It was something to fight and die for.
To this legacy of their fathers these Americans added a touch of their own—a romantic rediscovery of heroic Sparta … glorious Athens … the chivalry of gallant knights. For this was the great romantic revival—the age of Byron and Scott. It was no coincidence that Travis borrowed three Scott novels in one winter … or that the New York Commercial Advertiser featured the new Dearborn edition of Byron.
So when the Greeks rose against the Turkish Sultan—and the Poles against the Czar—Americans too thrilled at freedom’s banner “torn but flying.” They poured out money and supplies, and shed their tears when Byron died in Greece. In Congress, Sam Houston made his maiden speech on behalf of Greek independence.
Scott clothed such deeds with a special kind of glory—the romance and pageantry of medieval times. Carried away by the vogue for his rich, rolling prose, the press saw the Greeks, the Poles, and now the Texans, as more than brave men fighting for liberty—they were also “chivalrous” and “knightly.” Those who rallied to their cause need have no fears, whatever the outcome:
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.
Most thrilling of all, these Texans were Americans. The Greeks and Poles might be just as gallant, but they were far away. The men and women across the Sabine were friends and relatives. They came from no hallowed plain of Marathon—they were from Boston, Charleston, Natchez, the farm down the road. As the citizens’ resolution at Natchitoches, Louisiana, so fervently put it, the Texans were “bone of our bone and flesh of our flesh.”
It was hard to resist such a cause—especially when seasoned with the promise of land. After all, even a chivalrous warrior expects his rations; even the noblest patriot will take his veteran’s benefits. Sam Houston understood perfectly, and his first appeal for help—carried all over the
country—devoted as much space to real estate as to the rights of Texas: “If volunteers from the U.S. will join their brethren in this section, they will receive liberal bounties of land. We have millions of acres of our best lands unchosen and unappropriated.”
Daniel Cloud got the point. Writing home from the Texas border, he neatly phrased the feelings of a man basically moved by idealism, but who also saw the practical side of the matter: “If we succeed, a fertile region and a grateful people will be for us our home and secure to us our reward. If we fail, death in defense of so just and so good a cause need not excite a shudder or a tear.”
It worked the other way too. Hundreds of men simply going to Texas for a fresh start saw their quest somehow ennobled by this battle for liberty. What began as a practical venture turned into a great crusade. When Micajah Autry set out from Tennessee in the fall of 1835, he had no interest in anybody’s revolution. “Childress thinks the fighting will be over before we get there,” he hopefully wrote his wife from Memphis on December 7, 1835. A month on the road and he was writing differently: “I go the whole Hog in the cause of Texas. I expect to help them gain their independence and also to form their civil government, for it is worth risking many lives for.”
It was rarely all black and white. Some men were driven by dazzling Byronic visions, yet were not blind to the rich land that might be waiting. Others were initially interested in land, but soon inspired by dreams of a noble cause. Whichever they were—and whatever the mixture of motives—the brew was strong indeed. The combination of idealism and self-interest somehow made men all the more ardent, all the more spirited, all the more determined.
