On the evening of the 4th, still another Mexican disappeared—this time one of the women in the Alamo. Slipping through La Villita, then across the river, she made her way to His Excellency’s headquarters. It turned out that she brought extremely interesting news: the defenses were crumbling … the men were weak … the ammunition low … the place could easily be taken.
A rumor swept the Mexican lines that the visitor had been sent by Travis himself, specifically to sound out the possibility of surrender. Conceivable—the Colonel had his moments of moody despair—but most unlikely. He was now committed, and he took a fierce pride in seeing things through. Take that day when he couldn’t get through to Rebecca and angrily wrote, “the first time I ever turned back.” Chances are no second occasion arose at the Alamo.
But the Mexican woman’s report remained just as valid. The Texan defenses were weak, on the verge of collapse.
The clear, warm dawn of March 5 brought more bad news for the garrison. During the night the Mexican battery on the north had been pushed still closer—it was now only 200 yards from the fort. Brisk fire again pounded the crumbling walls, and the defenders again huddled behind whatever protection they found. By now they were pretty good at dodging enemy cannon balls—miraculously, not a man had yet been killed.
The Mexican fire tapered off sharply in the late afternoon, and at 5 P.M. the Texans puzzled over the sight of several columns of troops filing out of town. As the heavy firing stopped, the defenders emerged from shelter, began cooking supper on open fires in front of the church. Mrs. Dickinson persuaded a grimy Jim Bonham to have a cup of tea.
The lull meant more than tea to Colonel Travis. Shaking off what must have been an overwhelming desire to relax, he suddenly summoned the whole garrison to assemble in the open plaza. The men wearily ambled over, and Mrs. Dickinson hovered in the rear as the Colonel addressed his men.
He was brief and to the point. He declared that there was no longer any real hope of help. Their choice was to surrender, to try and escape, or to stay and fight to the end. Because it might delay the Mexican advance, he was determined to fight it out. He urged the garrison to join him, but he left every man to his own choice. If anyone desired to escape, now was the time to let it be known and step out of ranks.
It was later said that Travis gave his speech on March 3, but Mrs. Dickinson declared it was the 5th in the only account she ever gave without an enthusiastic assist from the press. It was also said that the Colonel drew a line with his sword to be crossed by all who chose to stand by him. Certainly in character, but in her unvarnished account Mrs. Dickinson never mentioned it. She did, however, remember well that one man stepped out of the ranks—the only member of the garrison who preferred to escape. “His name to the best of my recollection was Ross.”
There was no man in the Alamo named Ross, but Louis Rose of Nacogdoches was very much there—and far from moved by Travis’ eloquence. War was an old story to this Napoleonic veteran: when things went wrong, you lived and fought again another day. He wasn’t about to die now.
His friend Bowie, lying pale on his cot, urged him to stick with the rest. Crockett pointed out that escape was impossible. Rose merely measured the defenses and thought to himself, “I have often done worse than to climb that wall.”
He was gone by dark, edging his way downstream along the river till he came to the ford that led to town. He waded across, passed along a street, turned downstream again, and tramped out into the open country. No one saw him—perhaps because the town was surprisingly empty.
General Santa Anna could have explained. No troops lolled about the streets tonight, because he had methodically withdrawn them. They were off preparing for the grand undertaking that would finally redeem Mexican honor … that would teach these “perfidious foreigners” a lasting lesson. This ambitious project, now racing to its climax, had been brewing for nearly twenty-four hours.
It was early evening on the 4th when Colonel Almonte first knew that something was up. Ordered to report immediately to Santa Anna’s headquarters, Almonte was joined by practically every general and colonel in the army. Strange, for His Excellency hated conferences and practically never asked anyone’s opinion.
But this time was different, and Santa Anna stated his problem right away. Had the time come to take the Alamo by storm?
The officers exploded in a babble of advice that quickly confirmed His Excellency’s distrust of these sessions. Sesma and Almonte could hardly wait to attack, and Santa Anna himself was inclined to agree. But others were clearly opposed. Cós, who knew the Alamo well, felt that the light Mexican howitzers and 9-pounders weren’t enough to really soften up the place. Castrillón, an old hand from Spanish days, backed him up—why not wait for Gaona’s two 12-pounders, which should be up by March 7? Colonel Romero of the badly mauled Matamoros battalion eagerly agreed. Someone also pointed out that they were still short of doctors and medical supplies. The General-in-Chief drily replied, all the better; the men would know that it was “not as bad to die as to come out wounded.”
Colonel Francisco Duque and Colonel Amat couldn’t make up their minds at all, and a major representing the San Luis battalion maintained a discreet silence. After all, he had the lowest rank in the room.
Finally Santa Anna could stand the indecision no longer. He abruptly dismissed the council and returned to the old way—the best way—of handling these problems. He would do it all himself.
Mulling it over, he certainly saw Castrillón’s point—those 12-pounders would come in handy. But there were other things to consider: the Alamo was bettering its defenses every day … the siege was draining his own men’s strength … he needed these troops for later operations, really brilliant strokes into the heart of the country. Then there was the matter of those reinforcements from Gonzales. How easily they got in! If they could do it, so could others, and he might be pinned down here forever. Better strike before a strong force like Fannin’s could come to the rescue, and he had “positive knowledge” that the Goliad troops were ready to march.
If Santa Anna had any lingering misgivings they were doubtless removed by that co-operative lady visitor, straight from the Alamo, who offered such interesting details on the garrison’s weakness.
By two o’clock next afternoon, March 5, his plan was complete. Secretary Ramón Caro brought out the portable escritoire, dipped his quill in the little gold ink pot, and did his best to keep up as his commander poured out the details.
Four columns would hit the Alamo at the same time—Cós would strike the northwest corner … Duque the northeast … Romero the east … Morales the south. Sesma’s cavalry would deploy to the east, prepared to cut down any Texans who tried to escape. Santa Anna himself would control the reserves from the new battery north of the fort, ready to throw them in wherever needed.
The main blow would fall on the north wall—Cós and Duque had 700 good men between them. Romero had to get along with 300, but they were all from the battle-hardened Matamoros and Jiménez battalions. Morales had only 100; but his target, the palisade, was the fort’s weakest point. The reserves totaled no more than 400, but His Excellency surrounded himself with the cream—the grenadiers of the five infantry battalions and the hard, tough Zapadores.
Counting Sesma’s 300 cavalry, the whole force added up to some 1,800 men—about three-fourths of the troops now on hand. Santa Anna felt that the rest, mainly convicts and raw recruits, would do more harm than good.
They would attack at 4 A.M. tomorrow, March 6. By that time everything must be in perfect order. And as usual, the Mexican leader immersed himself in even the smallest details: Cós’ troops must carry ten ladders, two crowbars, two axes … all chin straps down … two spare flints for each man in the center companies … “the arms, especially the bayonets, to be in perfect order.”
He had thought of everything; now it was up to the men. Early that afternoon couriers raced from post to post, distributing copies of his orders. The Mexican lines snapped to
life. The battalion colonels studied the beleaguered old mission with new interest; even the jerry-built palisade began to look formidable. The company officers hurried here and there, collecting and sorting the ladders, the axes and crowbars, the flints and cartridge packs—His Excellency specified exactly ten packs for each grenadier. Everyone seemed to sense the quickening tempo and knew once again the empty feeling that always comes in the hours before a battle.
Lieutenant Colonel José de la Pena, in the service eleven years, self-consciously found himself praying for his soul. Captain Sánchez had different thoughts, almost blasphemous. Taking a moment off from his duties, he scribbled in his diary, “Why is it that Santa Anna always wants to mark his triumphs with blood and tears?”
Now it was 5 P.M. The grenadiers swung jauntily through town, headed up stream to join the Zapadores battalion at the reserves’ assembly point. Seven o’clock, the Matamoros and Jiménez men near the powder house stacked their arms and turned in for sleep. The Aldama and Toluca battalions followed suit. Eight o’clock, the San Luis men pulled out of the line, munched some hardtack and bedded down too. As each group turned in, the firing fell off, until at ten o’clock a heavy, oppressive silence hung over the lines.
Midnight. Faint stirs in the darkness. Sergeants and company officers rustled among the men, quietly waking them up, mustering them into line. Officers moved silently up and down the formations, checking a dozen last-minute points: make sure the ladder carriers sling their guns on their shoulders … make sure the men leave their blankets behind … make sure they’re wearing shoes or sandals … make sure their bayonets are sharp—His Excellency was very specific about that.
In the Yturri house on Main Plaza, Santa Anna nervously gulped a cup of coffee as he ran over the last details with Colonel Almonte. While they talked, the Colonel’s orderly Ben waited nearby, keeping the coffee hot. Ben, a wandering American Negro, had once been a ship’s steward, and tonight he needed all the patience he had ever accumulated in keeping passengers happy. Santa Anna was never more snappish. To Ben’s relief, the two officers finally stalked off into the night.
One o’clock. The four columns began moving toward their positions. No sound but the dull tramp of marching feet, an occasional grunt as someone stumbled in the darkness.
Two o’clock. Santa Anna and Almonte unexpectedly reappeared at headquarters. His Excellency—now more nervous than ever—demanded coffee, threatened to run Ben through if he didn’t bring it instantly. Ben bustled about the table setting the cups and serving the pot, as Santa Anna and Almonte discussed the situation. The Colonel said something about a costly fight, but Santa Anna cut him off: “It doesn’t matter what the cost is; it must be done.”
Three o’clock. Santa Anna and Almonte were off again, and Ben sank back to rest. Outside the troops shuffled steadily toward their posts. Cós’ column reached its position 200 yards behind the Alamo, sank shivering in the cold, damp grass. A little to the rear, the reserves crossed the rickety bridge over the river, headed for the earthworks to the north. Now the cavalry saddled up and cautiously curled its way around the town to the grove in the east.
Four o’clock. Complete silence. No longer even the sound of troops marching, just the men breathing as they lay on the ground awaiting the signal to attack. Crouching there, Lieutenant Colonel Peña had a curious thought: if he died, he would never again be able to speak to anybody. Santa Anna now moved into the earthworks on the north. The reserves hunched nearby, and right beside him, oddly enough, were the massed bands of all the battalions.
The minutes dragged on—4:30 … 5:00. Bugler José María Gonzales glanced inquiringly at His Excellency. It was hard to see, for even the moon was co-operating—it lay behind a thick blanket of clouds.
Actually the moon knew no favorites. In the Alamo Colonel Travis also decided to take advantage of this cloudy night. He would try one last, desperate appeal to Fannin. By now the most experienced scouts were all gone, but 16-year-old Jim Allen was a marvelous rider and he had a first-rate mare. Once again the postern opened. Riding bareback—his arms around the horse’s neck—young Allen raced out, darted through the Mexican lines, and was safe on the open prairie.
“We have heard again from Bexar,” wrote Captain Brooks after Allen reached Goliad. Then, noting that the new Mexican batteries were pounding the Alamo to pieces, Brooks sadly concluded, “It is feared that Bexar will be taken, and that the devoted courage of the brave defenders will be of no avail.”
There was no time for melancholy thoughts at the Alamo. With Allen on his way, Travis again gave his attention to the fort. Normally it might be time to turn in, but not tonight. They must take advantage of this lull in the Mexican bombardment. They needed every possible moment to repair and strengthen the walls, battered by two days of point-blank gunfire.
Hard work, but at some point Travis managed to fit in a quick visit to the church, where the women and children sat in growing fear and uncertainty. The moody, temperamental Travis always had a weakness for children—there was the comb he gave little Dilue Rose, the candy money for little Charles—and now at this hour of mounting peril his affection came to the surface once more. Going over to 15-month-old Angelina Dickinson, he took from his finger a heavy hammered gold ring with black cat’s-eye stone. Threading it with a bit of string, he looped it around Angelina’s neck as a keepsake, and hurried back to the walls.
At last Travis was satisfied, and the garrison lay down for a few hours’ rest. For some it must have been hard to sleep—at a time like this there was much to think about. Antonio Fuentes could wryly recall that only three weeks ago Bowie and Travis were arguing whether to let him out of jail. Well, Bowie had finally gotten him out, and here he was now.
Johnnie Kellogg and George Kimball had gentler things to ponder: both were about to become fathers. Andrew Kent had a different kind of family worry; he was the father of nine.
For Thomas Miller there was the irony of his will. Few Texans bothered with such formalities, but as the richest man in Gonzales, Miller had painstakingly covered everything. Even careful directions that “my body be decently interred.”
Jim Bowie had made a will too, but in his case it didn’t matter. Whether he died from fever or Mexican bayonets, he knew all too well he was leaving the world absolutely broke. What had happened to it all? Just paper profits.
Dolphin Floyd also had something to think about. As midnight passed and the Alamo entered its thirteenth day of siege, he realized that today, March 6, was his twenty-first birthday.
Four o’clock, even Travis was finally resting, wrapped in a blanket in the headquarters room, sword and double-barreled shotgun by his side. Lying nearby was his Negro slave Joe, a husky 23-year-old who by now had earned his spurs as a full-fledged member of the garrison. Five o’clock, all was quiet—only one man stirring. Adjutant John Baugh, officer of the day, was just starting his rounds on the north wall.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Great God, Sue, the Mexicans Are Inside Our Walls!”
BUGLER JOSÉMARÍA GONZALES glanced again at Santa Anna. It was now just after 5 A.M., and the first streaks of dawn faintly tinged the eastern sky. Around the Alamo 1,800 Mexicans crouched in tense, mounting, irrepressible excitement.
“Viva Santa Anna!” a man suddenly yelled, unable to contain himself any longer. Others took up the cry, and a wild burst of cheering filled the air.
His Excellency knew that the moment had come. Already, these cheers must be warning the fort—any further delay would cost the last edge of surprise. He gave the signal, and Gonzales sounded the hard, strident call of attack. From company to company, battalion to battalion, other buglers picked it up and passed it on. There were seventy confusing, complicated bugle calls in the Mexican Army, but it’s safe to say every man in the four attack columns knew exactly what this one meant.
“Arriba!” shouted General Cós to the men in the first column, lying in the grass 200 yards north of the Alamo. The men jumped up, grabbe
d their ladders and pikes and crowbars, and with a mighty shout surged forward toward the fort.
On the Alamo wall, Captain John Baugh came to startled attention. Alarms in the night were an old story to him—but never anything like this. No word yet from the pickets outside, but this growing bedlam could mean only one thing—they were already overrun. He turned and raced for the barracks, crying for all to hear, “Colonel Travis! The Mexicans are coming!”
Travis sprang from his blanket … seized his sword, double-barreled shotgun and homespun jacket of Texas jeans. Telling his slave Joe to follow, he ran across the plaza, leaped to the wall by the north battery. No enemy in sight yet, but the yells, the bugles, and now the rockets exploding in the sky told enough. “Come on, boys!” he shouted. “The Mexicans are upon us and we’ll give them Hell!”
Men were running everywhere—the infantry scrambling to their posts on Jameson’s parapets, the artillerymen stumbling from their quarters in the long barracks. In the church, 12-year-old Enrique Esparza shrank from a flash of flame, as the Alamo’s long 12-pounders swung into action.
Travis remained at the north battery, urging the men to hurry, shouting again and again, “Hurrah, my boys!” No time to put on his coat, he slung it over a peg by a cannon and turned back to the troops. Spying a couple of Seguin’s company, he switched briefly to Spanish: “No rendirse, muchachos!”
They needed all the encouragement they could get. The first Mexicans had now reached the protective ditch—too close to bring cannon to bear. Soon planks and ladders were rising uncertainly against the wall, as the attackers struggled to find a firm footing.
Travis grasped the threat, aimed his shotgun down at the Mexicans, gave them a blast at point-blank range. At almost the same moment, a volley rang out from the darkness. Travis spun, hit in the head. His shotgun fell among the enemy; he himself within the fort, rolling down the bank of earth piled against the wall. He ended up sitting on the slope near a cannon, stunned and dying.