by Walter Lord
It was not a case of contempt. Travis had a healthy respect for Santa Anna’s troops; he knew perfectly well that several thousand Mexicans could overwhelm 150 Texans. But he could not believe anything would happen very soon. Santa Anna would probably wait for the spring grass before bringing his cavalry north. John W. Smith, a shrewd observer, thought that the invasion would come in March. David Cummings wrote his father on February 14, “We have nothing to apprehend before a month or six weeks, as the enemy have not yet crossed the Rio Grande.” Travis himself felt the Mexicans might be expected “by the 15th of March.”
“Wretches! They will soon learn their folly,” thundered General Antonio López de Santa Anna in a proclamation to his invading troops on February 17. He had left the Rio Grande the day before; now he was at the Nueces River, already forty-five miles inside Texas. Here he joined the vanguard of Sesma’s brigade, which had started out on the 12th. Before them lay San Antonio—now only 119 miles away.
His Excellency felt rather elated. Everything at last was going smoothly. So well, in fact, that just before setting out from the border, he dictated a long, complaisant letter to Minister of War Tornel. “The campaign being over,” he explained, “it is but natural that the causes that gave rise to it be analyzed.” He went on to suggest various steps that might be taken in the wake of his triumph: The Texans must pay for the campaign … “industrious” Mexicans should resettle their lands … Anglo-Americans must be completely excluded … land bounties should go to the victorious troops.
Greeting Sesma’s bedraggled soldiers at the Nueces, he was still bursting with confidence, and his proclamation of the 17th was designed to give them his own sense of mission. “You,” he assured them, “are the men chosen to chastise the assassins!”
Next day the “chastisers” struggled on. Since the Texans had burned the Nueces bridge, they were forced to build another of branches and dirt; but that was the least of their troubles. It rained torrents—soaking their white cotton jumpers, turning the hardtack to soggy pulp. Ironically, the drinking water was foul; and rations grew slimmer than ever, leaving the men to chew on mesquite nuts. Indians were an added hazard—pouncing on wagon trains, stealing the cattle, even killing Governor Musquiz’ son.
On they trudged, gauging their progress by the shallow little rivers that laced the prairie. February 19, the Rio Frio— that meant only sixty-eight miles to go. February 20, the Hondo—less than fifty miles now. On the 21st, Santa Anna personally moved to the front, reaching the banks of the Medina at 1:45 P.M. Across this stream lay twenty-five more miles of waving grass—and then San Antonio.
At the Medina he found Sesma’s dragoons already waiting— these fast, dependable horsemen had arrived the previous night. Now they waited together as the slower detachments straggled in throughout the afternoon. The exhausted men threw themselves down on the banks, soothed by the mere sight of the Medina’s emerald waters rushing over a dazzling white limestone bottom.
Santa Anna himself had no time to rest. A delegation mysteriously turned up from San Antonio, and they brought important news. It seemed there would be a fandango this very evening at Domingo Bustillo’s place on Soledad Street. It seemed the Alamo men would attend … they could easily be trapped. And incidentally, it seemed that the smiling civilians of San Antonio weren’t all so friendly to the Texan cause as they appeared.
Quick, sharp orders to Sesma’s cavalry. A detachment of dragoons were to take infantry officers’ horses (better rested) … attack the town that night … seize the dancing Texans by surprise. As the men saddled up around five o’clock, it began to rain. By the time they got going, a blinding storm lashed them from the north. The pretty green Medina, so easy to ford a few hours ago, was now a deep, foaming torrent. One glance convinced them—it just couldn’t be crossed.
Too bad. It was the kind of operation Santa Anna loved—like the time his men dressed up as monks to seize an unsuspecting rival in Veracruz. But it couldn’t be helped, so new orders went out: Sesma’s whole force would attack on the 23rd.
Meanwhile, the men rested, and Santa Anna received some more interesting visitors from San Antonio—an old priest … a Señor Manuel Menchaca … one of the prominent Navarros. His Excellency didn’t worry: an extra day or two would make no difference against men who spent their time at fandangos when the enemy was twenty-five miles away.
There were no fandangos at Goliad, the main Texas stronghold about ninety-five miles southeast of San Antonio. The Alamo might be disorganized and short of men, but not Goliad. Colonel James Walker Fannin had 420 troops—many of them from the Matamoros expedition, which had finally petered out. The fort was strong too—another of those old Spanish compounds, but it seemed more compact and in much better shape than the sprawling Alamo. And above all, there was organization. For Fannin was a genuine West Pointer, the only one with any significant command in Texas.
True; he hadn’t exactly graduated. He ran away after two years under somewhat cloudy circumstances. And there was a good deal of speculation about his later activities. He came to Texas from Georgia around 1834, always flashed plenty of money, seemed to be mixed up in all sorts of shadowy deals— especially slave-running. Yet the fact remained that Fannin was a military man; he proved it in drilling the Brazos Guards, and even more persuasively in his fighting at Concepción.
His military training rang in everything he did. Professional recommendations flowed from his pen—establish a War Bureau, bring in West Pointers. His headquarters bustled with bright young aides like Captain John Sowers Brooks, who had been a U.S. Marine. His proclamations glowed with assurance: “To the West, face. March!” began his call for men during the Matamoros affair. He always had eloquent words for the fresh volunteers arriving from the United States, and they in turn recognized, to use the words of one committee, “that Georgia’s honor and chivalry stood proudly vindicated in your person.”
He seemed to think of everything, even though he did turn down James Butler Bonham when the South Carolinian appeared on February 18 with an urgent appeal for help from Travis. Yet the Alamo clearly fitted somewhere in Fannin’s master plan, for on the 8th he assured San Felipe that he would “make such disposition of my forces as to sustain Bexar.” And again on the 16th: “I have taken measures to forward provisions to Bexar, and forwarded orders there today to place that post in a state of defense, which if attended to will make it safe.”
It took careful reading of his correspondence with Lieutenant Governor Robinson to find some unexpected words of self-doubt. These remarks were tucked away in bold, bristling paragraphs—but they were there. “I feel, I know, if you and the Council do not,” he wrote Robinson on February 14, “that I am incompetent. … I do most earnestly ask of you, and any real friend, to relieve me, and make a selection of one possessing all the requisites of a commander.”
And on February 21—the same evening that Santa Anna’s surprise attack on the Alamo misfired—Fannin again beseeched Robinson, “I hope you will soon release me from the army, at least as an officer.”
CHAPTER SIX
“The Enemy Are in View”
LIGHTS FLICKERED BEFORE DAWN at Ambrosio Rodriguez’ house in San Antonio on the morning of February 23. Mrs. Rodriguez’ cousin Rivas had reappeared during the night, saying he saw Santa Anna in disguise at the last fandango. Imagination, of course, but the citizens had come to expect almost anything from His Excellency. Besides, there was nothing imaginary about the muddy courier who rode into town urging the local Mexicans to get out—the place was about to be attacked.
Señor Rodriguez was off with some of Captain Seguin’s company at Gonzales, but Mrs. Rodriguez was a capable woman. She quickly buried the family savings, about $800, in the clay floor … got a big two-wheeled oxcart … piled six-year-old Jose and his cousin Pablo in the back … and set out for the safety of the Ximenes family rancho.
By sunrise the same scene was unfolding all over town. People hurried to and fro, huddled in excited conve
rsations, dashed in and out of their houses with clothes, bedding, pots and pans. Creaking, bumping, rattling along—a steady stream of carts crawled off into the open country. And those who couldn’t ride seemed glad to walk, bending under their bundles, yanking their children behind them.
Travis watched, wild with frustration. The fainthearted had been pulling out for weeks, but nothing like this. Yet no one would explain anything. Worse, they told obvious lies: they were going to the country to do a little farming. Townspeople? In February?
Exasperated, he ordered no one else to leave. The commotion only increased. He arrested and questioned people at random. The mystery only deepened. Nine o’clock … ten … it was nearly eleven when finally he learned. A friendly Mexican took him aside, described the visit from Santa Anna’s courier, told him that last night the Mexican cavalry were already at the Leon Creek, only eight miles away.
Travis and Dr. John Sutherland raced to the San Fernando church, a squat pile of stone that slumbered peacefully between the Main and Military Plazas. The church was anything but impressive, but its short, square tower easily dominated the area. Up the winding stairs they scrambled, taking a sentinel with them. In the belfry all three strained their eyes to the south and west. In the bright morning sunlight there was only the chaparral, the mesquite thickets, the rolling prairies. Nothing else.
Telling the lookout to ring the bell if he saw anything suspicious, Travis and Sutherland clambered down to the street again. Travis went off to his room in town; Sutherland to Nat Lewis’ store on Main Plaza. Lewis, a bald, jolly man who had never allowed his friendliness to interfere with his pursuit of the dollar, was busy taking inventory.
Ruefully remarking that he might not see his stock much longer, Lewis asked Sutherland to help him. The minutes ticked away as the two men counted the spools, the bolts of cloth, the pots and plates, the candy sticks reserved for the children of valuable customers. Outside it was quieter now; most of the townspeople seemed to be gone, or indoors as a result of Travis’ orders. Noon … one o’clock …
The bell in the tower clanged wildly. Sutherland dropped the trays of dry goods, ran across the plaza to the church. Travis was already there; others were pouring in from everywhere. High in the tower the lookout called down, “The enemy are in view!”
Up the stairs raced several men, and together they all peered out to the southwest where the sentinel pointed. But again there was nothing in sight—just the bare plains, glaring bright in the noonday sun. Cries of “false alarm!” Then a shower of scorn for the sentry, who stood his ground cursing and shouting, “I seen them … they’ve hid behind the brushwood!”
It did no good; the crowd soon drifted off. But Sutherland had no more heart for counting spools of thread for Nat Lewis. He told Travis he would like to ride out and check the lookout’s story, if someone would come along who knew the country. John W. Smith—that tower of strength during the December fighting—was soon at hand. They devised a simple signal: if Travis saw them coming back at anything else than a walk, he’d know the sentry was right.
Out the road they trotted. Now up the slope about a mile and a half from town. At last they were at the top, where they could see down the other side.
At first glance, it must have looked like a million Mexicans there in the thickets just over the crest. Sutherland later estimated 1,500; actually there could not have been more than 369. But there were enough. The sentry was right; the enemy had come. These were his cavalry, waiting for orders in a long restless line.
Gulping in the sight of the polished armor, Smith and Sutherland wheeled around and took off for town. Suddenly a terrific jolt, and Sutherland found himself flying through the air. His horse slipped in the mud, pitched him forward, and landed on top of his legs. Smith raced back, untangled the mess, and they were off again. Slithering, sliding, they frantically galloped down the road. Up in the church tower the vindicated sentry saw them coming, again began clanging his bell.
“Give me the baby! Jump on behind and ask me no questions,” Captain Almeron Dickinson told his wife Susannah, as he rushed to his quarters in the Musquiz home. She handed him little Angelina, climbed up behind his saddle, and the three of them headed off. The bridge already looked dangerous—some commotion down Potrero Street—so Dickinson guided his horse across the ford, then turned up through the outlying huts and shacks to the gate of the Alamo.
Jim Bowie had the same idea. His adored Ursula was gone, but her adopted sisters Juana and Gertrudis were still at the Veramendi house—he must get them to safety. Juana especially must have been glad to see him. A young widow with a baby, she had remarried Dr. Horace Alsbury of Kentucky just a month ago, but now he was away when she needed him most. It was a situation made for Bowie—so loyal to his family and courtly to ladies. He rushed both girls to the Alamo.
Other Mexican women also streamed along with the sweating, shouting garrison—Trinidad Saucedo, a pretty teen-age girl … Petra Gonzales, an ancient crone. Half hidden in the crowd hurried Nat Lewis, carrying the cream of his stock. Antonio Fuentes was there too; it seemed a lifetime since his release from jail only ten days ago climaxed the feud between Travis and Bowie.
As the garrison swarmed up Potrero Street, across the footbridge, and on to the Alamo, the Mexican townspeople shook their heads. Some of them deeply wanted Santa Anna to win … most of them only prayed they could stay out of it … but all of them seemed somehow moved at the moment. Watching this ragged band—and knowing that the armed might of His Excellency would soon sweep the town—it was hard not to feel a pang of sympathy. “Poor fellows,” a woman cried, “you will all be killed.”
Surging into the Alamo, the defenders found a most unusual sight: Sergeant William B. Ward was sober. Normally an inveterate drunkard, Ward was now cool and collected, looking after the guns that covered the main entrance. Curiously, he seemed to be the only person who knew what he was doing in the place.
Otherwise bedlam. On their way up Potrero Street the men had seized some thirty cattle, and now the air echoed with curses and moos as they herded the animals into the corral on the east side of the fort. Bowie and another squad were ransacking nearby huts … lugging in sacks of grain which they dropped in the rooms of the long barracks. The artillerymen, quartered here, were swearing as only artillerymen could. Men who had lost or misplaced their equipment were clamoring for Mexican surplus, loading themselves down with hardware they could never hope to use. The women and children, trembling and crying, were crowding into the rooms along the sides of the church. Here they would be safe—or as safe as could be expected, considering the Alamo’s entire supply of gunpowder was stored in the same rooms.
Looking on the scene, Nat Lewis had enough. Once again shouldering the best of his stock, he slipped out of the Alamo and headed east into the open country. So did two of the soldiers: Captain Dimitt and Lieutenant Nobles.
Undismayed, Travis worked in the headquarters room in the west wall. Time had run out, and still no reinforcements. Yet now that the enemy were really here, maybe somebody would do something. He scribbled another appeal to Colonel Fannin at Goliad, sent the message off with a young courier named Johnson.
A commotion outside, and Travis looked up to find David Crockett and Dr. Sutherland clomping in. Crockett was supporting the doctor—his knee, wrenched when the horse fell on it, had stiffened and was now almost useless. Still, Sutherland could be used somehow. In fact, he was just the man to ride to Gonzales and rally the people there.
At this point, Crockett, fidgeting for some assignment himself, blurted out, “Colonel, here am I. Assign me to a position, and I and my twelve boys will try and defend it.”
Travis had just the place—the diagonal palisade of stakes and earth that ran from the church to the low barracks on the south side. It was the soft spot in the defense, but it wouldn’t be nearly as weak with the world’s greatest hunters behind it.
Now back to Sutherland. Again the pen raced over the paper—short, crisp, a
lmost breathless sentences:
The enemy in large force is in sight. We want men and provisions. Send them to us. We have 150 men and are determined to defend the Alamo to the last. Give us assistance.
Folding the paper, Travis addressed it to “Andrew Ponton, Judge, Gonzales.” Then, his dramatic instinct suddenly taking over, he impulsively crossed it out and wrote instead, “To any of the inhabitants of Texas.”
Sutherland left shortly after 3 P.M., soon fell in with John W. Smith, who had been off closing his house in town. Smith was also going to Gonzales—to recruit some reinforcements— so the two men rode along together. Reaching a small ford, they glanced back for a last look at San Antonio. The very sight froze them in their tracks: pouring into Military Plaza, their breastplates gleaming in the afternoon sun, were the advance units of Santa Anna’s cavalry.
As Smith and Sutherland watched in fascination, storekeeper Nat Lewis unexpectedly panted up. He was on foot, loaded down with saddlebags, and paused only to greet them briefly. Next day he was still going when he met Antonio Menchaca, a friendly Mexican. Asked by Menchaca why he hadn’t stayed at the Alamo, Lewis succinctly summed up his philosophy: “I am not a fighting man, I’m a businessman.”
Smith and Sutherland hurried on too. Fearing Mexican scouts, they first followed the unused old Goliad road, then took to the open prairie. They did their best to keep out of sight, winding through the mesquite thickets, always bearing east toward Gonzales. Sutherland’s leg hurt terribly, and by the time they reached Salado Creek, he could hardly bear the pain. In fact, he was on the point of turning back when from the direction of the Alamo there came the distant, heavy boom of a cannon.
A cannon shot can mean different things. To Sutherland it meant to forget about going back—the fort must now be surrounded. To another horseman not far away, the same shot meant only to reach the Alamo as fast as possible. James Butler Bonham was returning from his unsuccessful attempt to get help from Fannin at Goliad. He was in no particular hurry, and that afternoon was prospecting a little land along the way. But that distant boom started him moving again. Meeting courier Johnson carrying Travis’ latest message to Goliad, Bonham learned that the Mexicans had finally arrived and were probably opening fire. Bonham spurred his horse and rode all the harder for the Alamo.
