Johnson continued toward Goliad. There was no time to lose, for the appeal he carried was urgent indeed. Signed by both Travis and Bowie, it declared:
We have removed all our men into the Alamo, where we will make such resistance as is due to our honour, and that of the country, until we can get assistance from you, which we expect you to forward immediately. In this extremity, we hope you will send us all the men you can spare promptly. We have one hundred and forty-six men, who are determined never to retreat. We have but little provisions, but enough to serve us till you and your men arrive. We deem it unnecessary to repeat to a brave officer, who knows his duty, that we call on him for assistance.
Perhaps because Fannin was the land of officer “who knows his duty,” Goliad seemed in better shape than ever. The men knew their jobs; their spirits were high. In a burst of enthusiasm they even held a lottery to pick a good name for their fort. “Milam” and “Independence” both had some backing, but “Defiance” was the name finally drawn from the wheel.
So now Fannin waited in Fort Defiance for whatever the future might bring. At last his men were ready for anything. The night before—February 22—he had written Lieutenant Governor Robinson, “I am now happy to say that I have got them quite well satisfied, and being well-disciplined, and doing good work.”
It was much farther down in the letter that he also confided to his friend, “I am not desirous of retaining the present, or receiving any other appointment in the army. … I am a better judge of my military abilities than others, and if I am qualified to command an Army, I have not found it out.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I Answered Them with a Cannon Shot”
FOR GENERAL SANTA ANNA, the day was looking better after a somewhat shaky start. The previous night he had sent Sesma and the dragoons forward in another attempt to take the enemy by surprise. But the fool halted at 7 A.M. on the Alazan—only a mile and a half from town—fearing, of all things, an attack by the Texans.
He was still there at 12:30 P.M., when the rest of the army came up. Then another two hours lost, while plans were remade and troops realigned for a general advance.
They finally got under way at 2:30 P.M., moving down both the Presidio and Laredo roads. By now the Texans of course knew they were coming, and as Santa Anna’s skirmishers approached, a group of defenders appeared at the edge of town. They hoisted a Mexican tricolor with two stars in the middle—standing for Texas and Coahuila as separate states. It was a gesture of loyalty to the old Constitution of 1824, and probably meant that the men belonged to Seguin’s militia—about the only people left on either side who still thought the revolution could be settled this way.
Santa Anna’s advance guard ignored them. Sweeping steadily forward, the Mexicans were soon in the Campo Santo burial ground; His Excellency himself rode in the lead. The little knot of defenders lowered their flag and retired to the Alamo.
So the “perfidious foreigners” were routed. It was 1813 all over again. The skirmishers, the polished dragoons, the dusty ranks of white-clad infantry drove on. They splashed across San Pedro Creek … fanned out over the town … and were pouring into Military Plaza by 3 P.M.
Little Juan Indalencio could hear the band coming. Like all small boys, he rushed toward the music and came face to face with a tuba so big it looked like the mouth of an alligator. Terrified, he turned and ran home. Juan Diaz, son of the San Fernando caretaker, heard the music too … watched the band march into Main Plaza, followed by standard-bearers carrying the massed battle flags of Mexico. No legalistic pair of stars here; rather the angry, vengeful eagle of the proud Central Government.
But the flag that caught all eyes was no national emblem at all. High in the church tower a group of soldiers flung out a great red banner that flapped and snapped in the afternoon breeze—easily visible to the men in the Alamo some 800 yards away. That was important, for this blood-red flag was the traditional Mexican symbol of no quarter—no surrender—no mercy.
A moment’s silence. Then the Alamo’s 18-pounder thundered with a roar that shook the town … echoed through the nearby hills … reverberated over the distant prairies—reaching Bonham, Johnson, Sutherland and Smith, the fleeing townspeople, anyone else within miles. A cannon ball skimmed harmlessly into town, hitting no one—yet everyone—for it was a clear message of defiance addressed to them all.
But unexpectedly there followed hours of inaction and indecision—proving once again that real battles are never set pieces, neatly staged, unfolding with proper dramatic pace. In the Alamo word spread that the Mexicans had sounded a parley just before the cannon shot, and Bowie began wondering about the wisdom of defiance if there really was a chance for negotiation. Seizing the first paper in sight—page eight of an ordinary child’s copybook—he dashed off a note to the Mexicans. He explained, almost apologetically, that the garrison had fired before hearing that the Mexicans wanted a truce … now he was sending his aide “Benito” Jameson to find out if this was really so.
If Bowie was conciliatory, he still was determined. After ending his note with the salutation “God and the Mexican Federation,” he suddenly crossed it out and wrote instead, “God and Texas.” On this most basic of issues, Jim Bowie too was committed to independence.
Perhaps that was what made Santa Anna so angry. He refused to receive Jameson; he refused even to answer the note himself. (Who did these rebels think they were, offering to negotiate as equals?) Scornfully tossing the message to his aide, Colonel José Batres, Santa Anna told him to give it the reply it deserved. “The Mexican army,” Batres wrote, “cannot come to terms under any conditions with rebellious foreigners to whom there is no other recourse left, if they wish to save their lives, than to place themselves immediately at the disposal of the Supreme Government. …”
In other words, unconditional surrender. Jameson took the answer, headed back to the fort—but this was not the end of it. He was no sooner gone than another emissary emerged from the Alamo: this time Albert Martin, speaking for William Barret Travis.
No one ever knew why separate representatives came from each of the fort’s co-commanders. Juan Seguin, in the Alamo at the time, later said that Travis wanted no truck with the Mexicans … that he was furious when Bowie sent Jameson without consulting him. But this can only be half-right, for Travis too got in touch with the enemy. It seems more likely that Travis was indeed angry with Bowie, but not so much for making his overture as for breaking their agreement to do everything together. Hence—in a gesture typical of this touchy, sensitive man—Travis’ own emissary appeared under his own flag of truce.
The siege tightens, February 23-March 5. (1) The Alamo; (2) the footbridge, scene of abortive parley on the 23rd; (3) San Fernando Church, where Santa Anna raised his red flag; (4) the Yturri house on Main Plaza, where he established his headquarters; (5) Military Plaza; (6) to (10) batteries described by Travis on March 3; (11) battery planted within 250 yards of Alamo on March 4, and later pushed still closer.
Martin walked to the river … met the smooth-as-syrup Colonel Almonte on the small footbridge just above Potrero Street. He explained that he was speaking for Travis, that if Almonte wanted to talk matters over, Travis would receive him “with much pleasure.”
Officially, Almonte explained that “it did not become the Mexican government to make any propositions through me” … that he was there only to listen. Unofficially, he apparently stressed that the Texans’ only hope was to surrender; but if they did lay down their arms—promising never to take them up again—their lives and property would be spared. After an hour’s talk, Martin said he would return with Travis if the Texans agreed to the Mexican terms; otherwise they would resume fire.
Martin trudged back to the Alamo, and the reply came in the form of another shattering blast from the big 18-pounder. As Travis tersely reported in a message to Houston, “I answered them with a cannon shot.”
As evening approached, strange noises replaced the usual sounds of San Ant
onio. Men stacking rifles … unhitching horses … fumbling with mess gear. In the Veramendi yard soldiers sweated with picks and shovels at an earthwork for the 5-inch howitzer. At the Nixon house Colonel Almonte pored over the inventory of captured matériel. What a disappointment—items like that barrel of pecans; all of it together worth no more than 3,000 pesos. Far more intriguing were the papers taken from John W. Smith’s quarters: piles of maps and plans and lists of names, odd work for a simple carpenter.
In Main Plaza Santa Anna himself wearily dismounted, handed the reins to an orderly, went into the Yturri house on the northwest corner. A flat-roofed, one-story building like most others in San Antonio, it didn’t make much of a headquarters. But at least it was strong; the Texans themselves had used it as an outpost.
The Mexican leader turned immediately to the task of organizing a siege. Yes, there must be a military government. Yes, Francisco Ruiz could stay on as alcalde; he seemed cooperative whoever held the town.
Outside, the darkened streets seemed almost gloomy. Gone were the tinkling guitars, the laughter and firelit yards. Here and there, people slipped along in the shadows, quietly bent on some mysterious errand. At Gregorio Esparza’s house, all was suppressed excitement. Swiftly the family gathered a few things, collected their three children and made off into the dusk. Across the river by the ford, they turned left and headed for the Alamo.
The crumbling old mission was battened down now, silent in the dying light of day. Below the walls the Esparzas waited, while unseen sentries studied them closely. Nothing to worry about here—Gregorio Esparza was one of Seguin’s best men, one of the few local Mexicans who could handle artillery. For some unknown reason the family had been delayed until now, but they were no less welcome.
A window in the church opened and one by one the Esparzas were lifted up and through. Twelve-year-old Enrique, tiny but alert and knowledgeable, stumbled over a cannon just inside the window. Finally they were all inside —the last of the defenders to retire to the Alamo.
In the headquarters room Travis and Bowie faced a difficult night. Here they were with the Mexicans just arriving, and already their command arrangement had broken down. Whether Travis was furious at Bowie or not, this much is certain: something had gone very wrong with their agreement to act jointly.
Now that the siege had begun, how to patch things up again? How to work out a mutually tolerable arrangement between the touchy, sensitive Travis and the stubborn, independent Bowie? Certainly friction, indecision, and divided responsibility could only lead to disaster.
At this point, events took a turn beyond the power of either man. Bowie, ill for weeks, collapsed completely. Literally overnight he was unable to carry on. In the medical ignorance of the day, some said it was “hasty consumption”; others pneumonia; others typhoid fever; others compromised on something called “typhoid pneumonia.” Almost certainly it was not—as many claimed later—a fall or an accidental blow from a cannonball.
In any case, it immediately solved the command problem. Early in the morning of the 24th Bowie turned his responsibilities over to Travis. Then he had his men take him to a small room in the low barracks. As he was carried off, lying pale and weak on a litter, he called Juana Alsbury to his side: “Sister, do not be afraid. I leave you with Colonel Travis, Colonel Crockett and other friends. They are gentlemen and will treat you kindly.”
With the command at last in the hands of one man, the defenders faced their first day of siege. It was clear from the start that the Mexicans meant business—the warm, cloudy morning found them busy digging a new earthwork on the river bank about 400 yards away. Still out of rifle range … but they were closer than the night before.
Early that afternoon they opened up. First a 5-inch howitzer … then a long 9-pounder … then still another 9-pounder. Shells rained on the Alamo. The garrison occasionally answered, but most of the time saved its fire. Everywhere the men huddled at their posts, dodging the flying dirt and stones. Almeron Dickinson on the church roof … William Carey at the artillery headquarters in the southwest corner … Crockett and his Tennessee “boys” behind the palisade. Others crouched in the irrigation ditches just outside the walls—an advanced line used for extra protection. In the dark little rooms of the church the women and children waited in uncertainty.
A crash in the corral—the cry of a wounded horse. Another crash on the southwest parapet—the 18-pounder sent spinning. Yet another along the wall—this time a 12-pounder dismounted.
At last, silence. It was dark when the Texans took stock. Incredibly—miraculously—no one killed or even hurt. In the gathering dusk, Travis used the lull to send off Albert Martin with the message “To the People of Texas & all Americans in the world.”
The Mexicans made no attempt to stop him. Only 600 of Sesma’s troops had yet arrived—just enough to cover the south and west. Taken by surprise, they were too far away to counter the move. Besides, they were busy getting organized and in no mood to worry about occasional enemy messengers. There would be plenty of time for that.
As the troops settled down, Santa Anna was everywhere, preoccupied as usual with even the most minor details. At nine o’clock that morning he personally supervised the distribution of shoes. At eleven he was off scouting with a small cavalry unit. By afternoon he was back in town, watching his guns bombard the fort. Local informants—always happy to accommodate either side—offered the good news that four defenders were killed.
That evening His Excellency made a gesture quite in keeping with the sardonic streak that ran deep within him; he ordered his band to serenade the besieged. To the blare of horns and trumpets, he added the blast of an occasional grenade.
There were other bizarre touches. Men out of gunshot were often within earshot, and insults were freely exchanged. Townspeople wandered between the lines without serious interference. Margarito García, a friendly local Mexican, slipped over to the Alamo after dark and chatted with his friends in the garrison. Estaban Pacheco even brought Captain Seguin his meals.
Later in the evening the festive touch suddenly evaporated. A sharp-eyed Texan spied something moving on the footbridge leading across the river. Shouts of alarm, and a blast of rifle fire caught Colonel Juan Bringas crossing the bridge with five or six men on a scouting mission. One Mexican toppled over dead; the others wildly stampeded back across the bridge. In the commotion Colonel Bringas himself fell into the river, barely managed to reach safety as the bullets cut the water around him.
Not all the Mexican efforts were as futile. In the gray drizzling dawn of February 25 the Alamo men found another enemy earthwork going up by the McMullen house just across the river.
More was to come. At 10 A.M. a blare of Mexican bugles … a hail of solid shot, grape and canister. Through the smoke the garrison could see little figures swarming across the river; scattering among the adobe huts and wooden shacks south of the main entrance. The defenders held their fire, as the enemy soldiers darted from building to building, always moving closer. Now 200 yards … 100 … 90.
A roar of cannon from the Alamo. Point-blank range, and Artillery Captains Carey and Dickinson made the most of it. Guns blasted from the church roof, the earthwork stockade, the sandbagged main entrance. The Tennessee “boys” joined in with their squirrel rifles, and David Crockett was everywhere cheering them on. Cavalryman Cleland Simmons, other volunteers, rushed over to lend support. Who wouldn’t want to fight beside Crockett today?
The Mexicans wavered, stopped, dodged behind the ramshackle buildings that covered their advance. A serious problem for the Texans. This area, known locally as La Villita, was a jumble of shacks and huts, offering good shelter and dangerously close to the Alamo. Never a part of San Antonio proper, La Villita grew up in the days of the Spanish—a place where soldiers lived with their common-law wives. It had always remained a disreputable section, happily patronized by whatever garrison was holding the town at the moment.
Little matter its past; today La Villita was a val
uable military asset. Protected by its buildings, the Mexicans could plant new batteries in the very shadow of the Alamo. Something had to be done.
The Alamo gate briefly opened. Through the smoke Robert Brown, Charles Despallier, James Rose, several others raced with torches toward the nearest buildings. Smoke poured from the thatched roofs; dry wooden walls crackled in flames. Hard dangerous work, for the enemy might be anywhere. James Rose barely escaped the grasping hands of a Mexican officer.
But the job was done. The nearest huts were burned; the Texans had a new field of fire; the Mexicans lost their best cover.
By noon they had had enough. Sesma’s men pulled back to the river in confusion, dragging their casualties with them. The Texans relaxed, pleased with the morning’s work. Taking stock, Travis discovered that—again miraculously—he had no serious casualties. Only two or three men clipped by flying rocks.
At Mexican headquarters Santa Anna was taking stock too. A definite repulse, but there were compensations. His own losses were also light—only eight casualties. Maybe the men were too cautious, but at least they knew how to take cover. Moreover, he was at last on the Alamo side of the river. Even if the Texans destroyed the buildings nearest the fort, he still held a few good houses close to the water.
To add to the bright side, only 300 Mexicans had made the attack—the Matamoros battalion reinforced by the Jimenez. Things would be different when the rest of the troops reached San Antonio. Where were they anyhow? Santa Anna sent for Colonel Bringas, by now dried out from his midnight swim. Bringas was soon on his way to General Gaona, marching leisurely from the Rio Grande. Gaona was ordered to hurry along his three best companies by forced march.