Eight o’clock next morning, Barragan came pounding back with stunning news. Houston was less than eight miles away—facing them, not Lynch’s Ferry. Santa Anna leaped to his saddle, galloped to the head of his troops. They got under way immediately, marching “with joy and in the highest spirits.” The Mexican leader never felt more confident; the battle was not shaping up quite the way he planned it, but the victory would be no less decisive.
A good many Americans would have agreed. To them, it looked as though all the aid and money and enthusiasm had been too late. “The present campaign in Texas may be considered as closed,” sighed the Arkansas Gazette, “and we would suggest to all persons who may intend taking up arms to assist the Texans to delay their departure for the present.”
Then was the Alamo in vain, after all? Horace Greeley thought so. Lumping Bexar and Goliad together, he decided such disasters “must naturally, if not necessarily, involve the extinction of every rational hope for Texas.”
Some things, certainly, the Alamo hadn’t accomplished. Travis had vowed to make a Mexican victory worse than defeat; yet Santa Anna’s losses were far from insuperable—he still outnumbered Houston six to one. Nor did the siege seriously interrupt the Mexican schedule. Writing his government on February 16—a week before he ever saw the Alamo—Santa Anna said he expected to have San Antonio by March 2. He was only four days late.
Nor did Travis’ heroism inspire the Texans to rush to the colors. Volunteers were pouring out in the Mississippi lowlands, the woods of Tennessee, the streets of Philadelphia—but they were too far away. Men were needed on the spot. And in Texas, the Alamo had quite a different effect.
At first the turnout was heartening. The army increased from 374 on March 12 to perhaps 1,400 by March 25. But it didn’t last. As details of the Mexican butchery spread and the “Runaway Scrape” began, hundreds of volunteers rushed off to protect their families. By mid-April the army was down again to 900 men.
To Houston, not even the government’s flight was more damaging than the massacre at Bexar. “Your removal to Harrisburg,” he scolded Secretary of War Rusk, “has done more to increase the panic in the country than anything else that has occurred in Texas, except the Fall of the Alamo.”
Yet if the garrison’s sacrifice achieved few tangible results, it accomplished something else far more important. Something less visible to Horace Greeley sitting in New York, but no less real in Texas.
It made the hard core of Houston’s army—the staunch men who remained—blazing, fighting mad. Until the Alamo, it was difficult to take Santa Anna seriously. After the easy Texan victories in the fall, he seemed like something out of a comic-opera. But there was nothing comic-opera about this blood bath. “If such conduct is not sufficient to arouse the patriotic feelings of the sons of liberty,” exploded Private G. A. Giddings, “I know not what will.” And Benjamin Goodrich grimly promised, “We ask nor expect no quarter in the future.”
Along with anger went another feeling, perhaps even more important. This was deep, gnawing shame—shame for failing to go to Travis’ rescue. “Texas will take honor to herself for the defense of the Alamo and will call it a second Thermopylae,” prophesied William Gray from Groce’s Place, “but it will be an everlasting monument of national disgrace.”
A little strong, but who didn’t know in his heart that more could have been done? Who didn’t feel secretly guilty about those interminable resolutions and indignation meetings, when they might have been marching? “My bones shall reproach my country for her neglect,” Travis had written. The bones did their work well.
Men were ashamed they let Travis down, and now they were ashamed to be retreating. “Run, run, Santa Anna is behind you!” cackled an indignant old lady from her doorway, and the ears burned of every man who heard her. By mid-April the troops were raging to get at Santa Anna, and showed signs of revolting if they were held back much longer.
Few noticed that when Houston again moved eastward on April 15, he was no longer retreating; he was now following the enemy. That lunge at the fleeing politicians had drawn the Mexicans far past the little Texan army. Houston edged after them, but most of the men bitterly complained that it was just another march eastward. Nor did Houston enlighten them: “I consulted none—I held no councils of war—if I err the blame is mine.”
April 18, they reached Buffalo Bayou, just across from Harrisburg. Here Houston paused uncertainly. There comes a time when any general needs more than a plan and his intuition … a time when he can also use a touch of luck.
It was just about dark when “Deaf Smith burst into camp with astounding news. Santa Anna himself was leading the enemy force just ahead—the first time the Texans realized it. Better still, the Mexican leader was now far east of Vince’s Bayou, groping his way down San Jacinto Bay. The Texans were between him and the main part of the Mexican Army. In short they had him cut off.
Could they be sure? Smith had prisoners to prove it—a Mexican courier and escort caught west of Harrisburg bearing important messages for Santa Anna. Not exactly proof, but no less meaningful for Houston’s troops were the courier’s saddlebags. They had been captured from the Texans; they were marked, “W. B. Travis.”
The drum tapped reveille at daybreak on the 19th, and Houston addressed his men. He told them about the Mexican force just ahead; he told them about Santa Anna leading it; and as their eyes nickered in rising excitement, he told them a little about geography. To regain contact with the main army, Santa Anna must come back either by Lynch’s Ferry or the bridge over Vince’s Bayou. The Texans could get to either point first. “Victory is certain!” Houston cried. “Trust in God and fear not! And Remember the Alamo, Remember the Alamo!”
A wild yell erupted from the ranks. Then a mad rush to get ready. The sick, the wounded, the wagons, the baggage would all stay behind. The rest shouldered their rifles and marched east. With them they took their new pride—two handsome 6-pounders christened the “Twin Sisters,” a timely gift from the citizens of Cincinnati.
East three miles … then across Buffalo Bayou and east again … over Vince’s bridge … by the dead Mexican campfires … through a beautiful moonlit night they marched. But the moon was dangerous too, for now they were in “Santa Anna country”—his scouts might be anywhere.
Whispered orders, and at 2 A.M. the Texans fell out for a few hours’ sleep. Up at dawn and on again. Seven o’clock, a halt for breakfast, but they no sooner lit the fires than the inevitable happened. The Mexican scouts—specifically Captain Barragan’s party—spied them and dashed off to warn Santa Anna.
No time to be eating. The Texans forgot breakfast and rushed on again. Just after 10 A.M. “Deaf” Smith’s scouts swooped down on Lynch’s Ferry, drove off an astonished enemy guard, and seized a Mexican flatboat loaded with flour. Maybe they’d have breakfast after all.
Houston laid out his camp along Buffalo Bayou, just where it joined the San Jacinto estuary, and the men fell out. But again, no time to eat. Scouts galloped in, reported the Mexicans coming hard. The Texans moved into line and waited. One o’clock … 1:30 … 2:00.
There they were. Across the prairie, through the tall grass they came swarming—those dusty white jumpers, the blaring bugles, the lancers prancing in their glistening armor.
The “Twin Sisters” crashed into action; the long line of Texan rifles cracked from the woods. The enemy wheeled up their own 6-pounder, traded a few shots. Then a halfhearted Mexican charge that quickly petered out. Firing died off. Toward sunset. Colonel Sydney Sherman led the cavalry to feel out the enemy’s position, returned to camp badly mauled. Houston angrily replaced him with a bright young private bearing the highly military name Mirabeau Buonaparte Lamar.
Santa Anna too was less than completely satisfied with developments. The enemy wouldn’t come out and fight. Instead of behaving like professional soldiers, they skulked in the woods, firing from trees and behind a low ridge. He did his best to lure them into the open, but nothing worked. Finally
, he pulled back a thousand yards and camped for the evening.
He picked his camp site with infinite care and was extremely proud of his choice: “A hill that gave me an advantageous position with water on the rear, heavy woods to our right as far as the banks of the San Jacinto, open plains to the left, and a clear front.”
Thursday, April 21, 1836. In the Mexican camp, it was a beautiful morning brimming with optimism right from the start. At 9 General Cós arrived with 400 reinforcements. Santa Anna had asked for them back in Harrisburg, and for once Filisola was prompt. Shouts, cheers and a special ruffle of drums celebrated the occasion.
No sign of enemy activity, so Santa Anna ordered the men to stack arms and rest in the nearby grove. For protection against any surprise, he improvised a barricade in front of the lines. It was made of branches. To the left—where the 6-pounder stood—he built a somewhat stronger breastwork. This was made of pack saddles, luggage and sacks of hardtack.
Around noon, General Cós suggested that the cavalry be allowed to eat and water their horses. Their job was to guard the camp, but all was quiet, and after all, the men had to eat. Santa Anna agreed.
He now retired for a nap. Not in his striped marquee, but under a spacious oak, where the shade seemed especially pleasant. He looked forward to big things once they all had their rest. With the camp back here, the Texans would have to come out of their woods, and then they would get their lesson. Meanwhile, he slept in peace.
Houston spent an even more unusual noon hour. He held the first council of war in his life. The question: “Shall we attack the enemy’s position, or wait for him to attack us?” The staff aimlessly debated the matter, and Houston finally dismissed them. He had made his plans anyhow. Calling “Deaf” Smith, he told his dour scout to take a party and chop down Vince’s bridge, the only way of retreat left open for Santa Anna.
Two o’clock, Houston quietly sent Colonel Joseph Bennett through the ranks, just to make sure the men were ready. They were ready, all right.
At 3:30 the order came: “Parade and prepare for action.” The men fell in, deep in their thoughts. For one of them, at least, there was something quite special to think about. Alfonso Steele had deserted Travis en route to the Alamo. He hadn’t felt like fighting then; but he felt very differently now.
Four o’clock, Houston raised his sword, turned his white stallion toward the Mexican camp. The 783 men surged forward—first in column, then in a long, thin line that swept like a scythe through the tall prairie grass. A fife and drum urged them on, serenading them with an old favorite about a long-awaited rendezvous: “Will You Come to the Bower I Have Shaded for You?”
It was all over in eighteen incredible minutes. Colonel Delgado’s 6-pounder … the silver teapot … the sacks of crumbling hardtack … the brightly decked lances … the bugles … the portable escritoire … the whole Mexican force of 1,150 men—gone forever. More than that: gone were Santa Anna’s plans for Texas and the Mexican dream of an empire running all the way to the Rockies and the Pacific. Other battles—another war—would follow, but for Mexico, San Jacinto was the real nightmare.
The luckless General Castrillón fell murmuring, “I’ve never showed my back; I’m too old to do it now.” Others cared less. Colonel Delgado fled barefoot to a small grove by the bay, surrendered toward evening. The suave Almonte cheerfully turned himself in that night. Secretary Ramón Caro headed for Harrisburg, only to discover “Deaf Smith had done his work well—Vince’s bridge was down. Santa Anna simply disappeared.
The Texans celebrated and counted their own toll—ultimately 9 killed and 34 wounded. Next morning some of Houston’s scouts found a nondescript little fellow hiding in the grass near the splintered remains of Vince’s bridge. He wore a faded blue cotton jacket and red worsted slippers. When questioned, he finally acknowledged he was a simple private in the Mexican Army. They brought him back to camp, and no one suspected anything, until some of the Mexican prisoners spoiled the masquerade. Perhaps from force of habit, they just couldn’t resist calling, “El Presidente! El Presidente!”
Brought before Houston, Santa Anna generously congratulated him on defeating the “Napoleon of the West.” Houston took it calmly, and since a wounded foot kept him from rising, he politely invited His Excellency to have a seat. Months later, the Mexican leader was sent home unharmed on the understanding that he would support Texan independence.
Men were coolly reasonable once again, but it was just as well they didn’t catch Santa Anna during the battle. There was nothing quite like the fury of those eighteen minutes. The flashing knives … the rifles used as clubs … the wrath of the infuriated Texan who even butchered one of the helpless soldaderas. As the slaughter continued, the terrified Mexicans could only fall to their knees, saying “Me no Alamo.” For although they spoke a different tongue, they knew only too well what this was all about. Travis’ stand—and Santa Anna’s answer—had the same moral connotations in any language. Every man at San Jacinto understood the meaning, when in the late afternoon of April 21 Houston’s line swept forward, shouting with an almost lofty rage, “Remember the Alamo!”
Riddles of the Alamo
“YOU KNOW,” THE OLD Texan gently admonished, “legend is often truer than history and always more lasting.” And yet the haunting questions remain—did Travis really draw the line, did Crockett really fall fighting, and so on.
The answers come hard, even when someone wants to know the facts. Traces of the frontier are few today in terms of towns, wild game, Indians, lawlessness, almost everything—except research. Here the frontier is still very much alive, for the pioneer’s impatience with dates, spelling and record-keeping lingers on to plague anyone digging into the past.
Dates alone are a nightmare in the story of the Alamo. Ramón Caro had an exasperating way of saying things happened on February 30. Juan Seguin gave at least four different dates as the day he left the fort—February 26 (letter to W. W. Fontaine, 1890); the 28th (Memoirs, 1858); the 29th (talk with R. M. Potter, about 1878); March 2 (affidavit on behalf of Andreas Nava, about 1860). Actually, it appears he left on February 25. Seguin was almost certainly the man who carried Travis’ message of the 25th to Houston, and was seen at Gonzales on the morning of the 28th by Dr. John Sutherland.
Under frontier conditions, dates could also get mixed up in putting them down. Foote’s 1841 history of Texas contains a letter from Colonel Fannin describing his abortive march to relieve the Alamo. Because the letter is dated February 29 and Fannin speaks of marching “yesterday,” readers have understandably assumed he started out on the 28th.
Yet Fannin’s letter is either misdated, miscopied or misprinted. At least seven other letters conclusively show that he actually marched February 26, and the letter in Foote should be dated the 27th. But because Foote is widely read, the error lingers on and Fannin becomes even slower than he was.
Names are another problem. Fannin ended his signature with such a fancy rubric that early historians often spelled his name “Fanning.” In early documents Almeron Dickinson’s name was sometimes spelled “Dickerson,” and through the years a debate of medievalist proportions developed over which version was correct. At the time, of course, people didn’t care as long as they knew who was meant. This book follows the spelling in his marriage certificate and application for headlight land—but he would not have minded the other.
Place names are almost as complicated. People rarely saw a map and used the names they picked up from others, who perhaps used some personal description or association. Hence the same general spot on the Brazos is variously called Thompson’s Ferry, Orozimbo, Old Fort and Fort Bend. In a later, better-organized day it became the town of Richmond.
Finally, so little was written down at all. Texas was acutely aware of the Alamo’s importance, yet nobody had time to make a serious study until twenty-four years later, when Captain Reuben M. Potter issued his first little pamphlet in 1860. Potter, incidentally, was the first to add a fall to Bowie’s variou
s ailments. Later he changed his mind, wrote Henry Arthur McCardle in 1874 that Bowie had not been injured. But the story was now launched and still sails on, even though denied by the person who started it.
It is, then, a rash man indeed who claims he has the final answer to everything that happened in the Alamo. The best that can be done is to offer some careful conclusions—always subject to correction—that might throw new light on a few of the many intriguing riddles… .
Did Houston Order the Alamo Blown Up?
He later said he did, but his critics (of whom there were many) always maintained that this was just another example of Houston taking credit where no credit was due.
Actually, the evidence indicates that Houston did indeed try to avert the siege by ordering the Alamo destroyed and the garrison withdrawn. His orders to Bowie of January 16 have not been preserved, but a letter of the 17th to Governor Smith says, “I have ordered the fortifications in the town of Bexar to be destroyed, and if you think well of it, I will remove all the cannon, and other munitions of war to Gonzales and Copano, blow up the Alamo, and abandon the place… .”
While final action was apparently contingent on the Governor’s approval, other evidence suggests that Houston—feeling sure of his grounds—had already given the necessary orders to Bowie. The Provisional Council certainly thought so and on January 30 angrily complained that Houston had ordered the destruction of all defenses at Bexar and the abandonment of the post.
Nor was this a case where Houston gained his foresight long after the event. Writing James Collinsworth on March 15—only two days after Mrs. Dickinson reached Gonzales— the General declared: “Our forces must not be shut up in forts, where they can neither be supplied with men nor provisions. Long aware of this fact, I directed, on the 16th of January last, that the artillery should be removed, and the Alamo blown up. …”