A Time to Stand (14 page)

Dawn on the 27th brought an unpleasant discovery. During the night the oxen had wandered off. Fannin sent out working parties to herd them back … and more hours passed.

It must have been midmorning when he got the request to hold a council of war. Normally Fannin dreaded the democratic process in military affairs (“Spare us, in God’s name, from elections in camp”), but this time he seemed almost relieved. A meeting of all his officers convened in the bushes,
and hesitantly someone raised the question that troubled more than one mind: was this expedition really a wise idea?

The firebrands seemed shocked, but Fannin had not been to West Point for nothing. He knew something about logistics, and he patiently pointed out their supply situation: they had only a little dried beef, half a barrel of rice, and no cattle except those needed to draw the guns. The nearest supplies lay at Seguin’s ranch, seventy miles away, altogether a dismal prospect.

But ignore the Alamo’s call for help? Fannin sympathized; however, he was a trained soldier, taught to weigh military odds realistically. Here they were—320 volunteers, four cannon, little ammunition. Against them—thousands of well-equipped, superbly drilled Mexican troops.

But
abandon
the men in the Alamo? Well, a professional military mind must consider the over-all strategic picture. If they went to San Antonio, Goliad would be left practically undefended. An enemy attack would easily overrun the small rear-guard—endangering the supplies at Dimitt’s Landing, exposing the Texans’ whole left flank.

Sound tactics ruled the day. The guns and wagons were painfully withdrawn across the river, and the relief expedition trudged back up the hill to the old stone compound they called Fort Defiance.

By the 28th—when Santa Anna got first wind of the march—Fannin’s feet were planted firmly back in Goliad. In fact, if Henry Warnell hated being penned up in the Alamo, Colonel Fannin seemed to relish the prospect in his own stronghold. “I have about 420 men here,” he wrote Joseph Mims, “and if I can get provisions in tomorrow or next day, can maintain myself against any force.”

All that day the Goliad men worked to strengthen their fort. They were still at it around
6
P.M.
when a
mud-spattered courier galloped up with appalling news. Mexican forces under General Urrea had just fallen on San Patricio, fifty miles to the south. There they surprised Colonel Frank Johnson and the remnants of the once carefree Matamoros expedition. Johnson and a few of his men escaped, but nearly everyone was slaughtered. It seemed the Mexicans weren’t taking prisoners.

For Fannin, it was the final, vindication of his strategy. He rushed off a letter to his friend, Lieutenant Governor Robinson, breaking the news and carefully pointing out that it justified his decision to pull his men back: “The propriety of their retrograde movement will now be apparent.”

Then, waxing furious at Texans who wouldn’t help other Texans, he eloquently asked: “What must be the feelings of the Volunteers now shut up in Bexar … will not
curses
be heaped on the heads of the sluggards who remained at home?”

A
T LEAST IT WAS
warm again. The bitter north wind no longer whipped through the low barracks where Jim Bowie tossed in his cot. It no longer lashed at the high platform in the back of the church, where Almeron Dickinson worked over the long 12-pounder by the east wall. Monday, February 29, was another gray day, but the norther had given way to a mild, westerly breeze.

The men in the Alamo needed it. Worn down by six nights of siege—jittery from the endless shouts and wild bugle calls in the dark—they were bitter and discouraged. Yet they hung on. Partly because, bound together by common peril, none dared to be the first to give in. But another reason lay even deeper. They simply could not shake the conviction that here, above all, was the place to stand. Sooner or later everyone would see it. Meanwhile they must hold out till the rest of Texas woke up.

But when? Today rounded out their first full week in the Alamo, and still no sign of help. Nor, oddly enough, any all-out Mexican assault. Only the earthworks that moved steadily closer … the elaborate, complicated maneuvering that went on just out of range.

There was a lot of it today. First a whole battalion of
infantry crossed the ford to the south, circled left, passed the Gonzales road, and took up a position in the open brush to the east. Then it marched back again. Night fell before the Alamo men could see where the battalion finally ended up, but something must be brewing.

And indeed it was. Santa Anna had been laying plans, deploying men ever since he heard that Fannin was marching from Goliad. Troops must be sent to wipe him out. But this took manpower, something he didn’t have—wouldn’t have—until that snail Gaona arrived. So he must improvise —borrow troops from here and there for a special force to intercept Fannin. This meant weakening his ring around the Alamo, but the risk must be taken. He loved to gamble anyhow.

Orders went out to Sesma—take the Allende battalion from the east, the Dolores cavalry from the Gonzales road; head down the river toward Goliad. Ten cases of ammunition authorized. Then a final, laconic reminder: “In this war, you know, there ought to be no prisoners.”

That evening the Allende men wearily shouldered their muskets and shuffled off into the dusk, convinced in the fashion of all infantrymen that the officers were crazy. Only that afternoon they had been sent to these bushes east of the Alamo; now they were being sent away again.

Behind them, General Manuel Fernández Castrillón did his best to seal the gap they left. A hard-luck general, Castrillón always seemed to get the worst assignments. Now he spread his men in a thin line, running from the powder house on the Gonzales road to a new earthwork near the irrigation ditch 800 yards northeast of the Alamo. A weak position at best, and weaker still when another norther suddenly struck at midnight. In the howling blackness, it was hard to see or hear anything. Just the sort of night when the “perfidious foreigners” might try to break out.

As it happened, nobody had any plans for breaking out, but there were men in that darkness with very definite plans for breaking in. They had been laying these plans ever since Dr. Sutherland and John W. Smith burst into the little town of Gonzales, seventy miles away, on the afternoon of February 24.

In Gonzales that afternoon, Prudence Kimball had been doing the family wash on the banks of the Guadalupe River. She was busily scrubbing away at 4 o’clock when her husband George rushed up to break the news. Couriers had just arrived … the Mexicans were attacking … Travis was besieged in the Alamo … he desperately needed help. And then the words that came hardest—he must answer the call; he might not be back.

George Kimball was typical of the men who had come to Texas for a fresh start. He was no big land speculator or gambler—just a hatter from New York. He had come to ply his trade in Gonzales, which seemed like a promising town. And he had prospered; his little hat factory on Water Street hummed with activity. He was single when he came but soon found Prudence Nash, a pretty young widow. They now had a baby son, another child on the way. He had everything to lose by going to the Alamo—yet everything to gain, for this fine, new life seemed very much worth fighting for.

That was the way with most of Gonzales. John Flanders, weary of feuding with his father over business, had at last discovered a free, open life far better than any factory near Boston. Dolphin Floyd, the Carolina farm boy, never found his “old rich widow,” but in Gonzales he met Ester House, a widow who was neither very old nor very rich. She suited him fine, and perhaps to his surprise he too had now happily settled down. Men like these were already proud of Gonzales’ record as the “Lexington of Texas.” Now they poured out in answer to Smith’s and Sutherland’s appeal.

George Kimball was the obvious choice to lead them. Only the day before he had been elected the lieutenant of a home-guard unit ambitiously christened “The Gonzales Ranging Company of Mounted Volunteers.” There were only 22 of them, and nobody expected to have anything to do so soon, but they made a perfect nucleus for the relief force. The available members quickly came forward—Marcus Sewell, the English shoemaker; Jesse McCoy, recently sheriff; John G. King, a great friendly bear of a man. Most of them were young, but Isaac Millsaps was forty-one; he also had a blind wife and seven children.

New volunteers steadily swelled the ranks. Young Jonathan Lindley put aside his surveying tools. Albert Martin arrived with Travis’ message of the 24th, could hardly wait to get back. Jacob Darst turned up after delivering supplies to Goliad, his head still swimming with the fervor of Fannin’s oratory.

Earthier reasons—like family pressure or the questioning glance of a neighbor—also played a part. Thomas R. Miller, the richest man in town, lived just a few doors from Darst and Kimball; it was hard to ignore their summons. Besides, Miller was unlucky in love. He had recently lost his pretty young bride, Sydney Gaston, to a dashing 19-year-old named Johnnie Kellogg—a crushing blow to middle-aged pride. Miller also joined up.

Young Kellogg himself felt the urge. So did Johnnie Gaston, his new 16-year-old brother-in-law who would follow him anywhere. And if Gaston was old enough, so was Galba Fuqua, another enthusiastic 16-year-old. They all joined up.

It was 2
P.M.
Saturday, February 27, when the group set out from the public square. At the head rode George Kimball; beside him, Albert Martin. Guiding them was John W. Smith, the versatile San Antonio carpenter who knew the country better than anyone. The rest trailed along—25 lean
men, loaded down with rifles, blankets, food and ammunition.

As they reached John G. King’s place on their way out of town, a tall, thin boy ran out and caught Kimball’s reins. It was young William P. King, and he begged to go in place of his father. The elder King was badly needed at home; after all, there were nine children to feed. William was sure he could do just as well—he was the oldest, all of fifteen.

Kimball nodded, the switch was made, and the band continued on. They slipped across the Guadalupe ford, by the Batemans’ lonely farm and on west over the empty prairie. Next day, they stopped at the Cibolo, looking for more recruits. They picked up seven, including David Cummings of the Alamo garrison, who had been off prospecting land when the siege began. They rested most of the 29th, gauging their time so as to make the final dash at night. At last, just at sunset they crossed the river and continued west— 32 men riding into the fading twilight.

“Do you wish to go into the fort, gentlemen?” asked a polite voice in English, as they groped their way toward the Alamo shortly after midnight. There, just ahead, sat a stranger on horseback calmly awaiting their answer.

“Yes,” someone called out, tired of the black night and the norther that howled in their ears.

“Then follow me,” said the polite stranger, swinging his horse into the head of the column. The men fell in behind, relieved to escape the ticklish problem of finding their way through the Mexican lines.

John W. Smith was puzzled. There was something about this man he didn’t like. His voice perhaps … his failure to identify himself … the distance he kept. On the other hand, he spoke good English, wasn’t wearing an enemy uniform, could well be some friendly colonist. It was clearly one of those situations where a scout must fall back on his
intuition. “Boys,” Smith suddenly blurted, “it’s time to be after shooting that fellow!”

The stranger moved even faster than the Texans. With a great kick, he spurred his horse, bolted into the bushes, and was gone before a gun could be raised.

Cautiously, very cautiously, the Gonzales men pushed on through the brush. First to the left, then to the right, they heard the clanking of equipment. That meant stick to the middle … stay low … keep quiet. They edged on forward, squinting hard into the night. At last they saw it-looming out of the darkness directly ahead were the silent old walls of the Alamo.

Suddenly a rifle cracked from the fort. Hit in the foot, a Gonzales man exploded with an oath that could only come from an American. The firing stopped, and a dim light glimmered in the dark, as the postern swung open. Then with a final dash, the 32 men from Gonzales surged into the Alamo at 3
A.M.,
Tuesday, the first of March.

The morning dawned bitterly cold again—but who cared? For the Texans, the arrival of the Gonzales contingent was the greatest thing that had happened since the siege began. The reaction was what might be expected from men who had vainly waited a week. Crockett and McGregor, who conducted their musical duels at high as well as low moments, must have split the air with fiddle and bagpipes.

Later the garrison indulged in a more practical form of celebration. To save ammunition, Travis now had standing orders against using the guns except to repel an attack. But apparently in a burst of whimsy—extremely rare for this intense young man—he relaxed the rule that afternoon. Dickinson’s men rushed to one of the 12-pounders that pointed out over the west wall; let fly a double blast at a house on Main Plaza where the enemy seemed especially active. One shot missed, but the other crashed into the building, sending
stone, timber and Mexicans flying. Unfortunately for their celebration, the Texans never knew that they had just hit the headquarters of Santa Anna himself.

As luck would have it, His Excellency was out. He had gone off reconnoitering that afternoon and was now at the old mill, some 800 yards to the north, inspecting. his camp there. A volley of orders told General Ampudia to build more trenches.

If Santa Anna seemed disturbed, he had reason to be. That fool General Gaona still hadn’t come. With Sesma off chasing Fannin, the east was far too weak. And to cap it all, Sesma had found nothing. He ranged as far down the river as Tinaja, with no sign of Fannin at all. Now he was returning, and they were all right back where they started.