A Time to Stand (10 page)

And of course they all continued to play. The Alamo garrison was determined, but no band of angels. Men like the Arkansas jockey Henry Warnell and wild young William Malone of Georgia weren’t about to ignore the pleasures of the town. Seaman William Jackson and John McGregor, the jaunty Scot from Nacogdoches, felt the same. Nor were the officers immune—Captain Carey talked not too seriously of marriage with a pretty
senorita.

Over them all—whether at work or play—there was a new spirit in the air. The volunteers discovered that Travis wasn’t so bad after all—a little self-centered perhaps, but no one worked harder. Travis’ regulars, in turn, soon fell under Bowie’s spell. The garrison had finally become a solidly knit group of men—resourceful and self-reliant, yet drawing strength from each other too.

On February 16 Green Jameson wrote one of his most optimistic letters to Governor Smith. He was full of his latest improvements, full of new ideas for an even stronger, “diamond-shaped” fort. Pleased with the garrison’s accomplishments, he also had a few caustic words about an earlier Mexican attempt to fortify the Alamo: “They have shown imbecility and want of skill in the fortress as they have in all things else.”

That same day a dusty horseman galloped into town from the south. Riding up Potrero Street, he reined in at the last house before the rickety bridge over the San Antonio River. This was Ambrosio Rodriguez’ place, and the horseman was Mrs. Rodriguez’ cousin Rivas. As a good member of the family, he had come all the way from Laredo to warn them that they must leave at once. Santa Anna was about to cross the Rio Grande and head for Bexar.

Señor Rodriguez, friendly to the Texans, sent for Travis at once. The Colonel came readily—he had grown to know the Rodriguez family well, liked to stop by and chat with them on his way to and from the Alamo just across the river. Now he listened carefully as Rivas repeated his warning. No, Travis finally decided, it just couldn’t be. The Mexicans were coming —no one knew better than he—but not so soon.

On the 18th Rodriguez heard another alarming report, again passed the news on to Travis. But again the Colonel was politely skeptical. Rodriguez, a bit of a strategist himself, suggested pulling the garrison back. Travis had heard that advice all too often.

On the 20th still another horseman appeared. This was Blas Herrera, who had been recruited by his cousin, Captain Juan Seguin, to serve in a company of local Mexicans supporting the Texan cause. This group was an important addition to the defense, for Seguin came from an influential family in San Antonio, and his men knew the country intimately. As tension mounted, he had sent Herrera to the Rio Grande to watch for enemy movements; now Herrera was back with his own piece of alarming news—he himself had seen Santa Anna’s army crossing the Rio Grande, plunging into Texas.

At nine o’clock that night a council of war convened in Travis’ room. Herrera repeated his story, and the Texans argued for hours whether to believe him. Some were
convinced, but more were doubtful—they had heard these stories before and nothing ever happened. In the end, Travis ignored the warning.

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.”

L
IGHTS 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 conversations, 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.