A Time to Stand (8 page)

Santa Anna marches to Texas. The General left Mexico City on November 28, 1835, organized his army at San Luis during December, reached Saltillo on January 7, 1836. Here he drilled his troops for about three weeks, moved on to Monclova on February 1, reached the Rio Grande on the 12th. He crossed into Texas on the 16th, arriving at San Antonio on the afternoon of February 23.

Next came the main force—the flower of the army—the brigades of Generals Gaona and Tolsa, the cavalry of General Andrade, and of course Santa Anna himself. Marching directly
north for the Rio Grande, they reached Monclova in the first week of February. Here they picked up Filisola, who was organizing their supplies. A few days’ pause; then on again. As armies go, it was not large, but at this time and in this part of the world it was impressive enough—some 4,000 men and twelve business-like cannon.

Nor would that be all. Already waiting on the Rio Grande was another brigade of 1,541 men and eight guns under General Ramirez y Sesma. He had originally gone north in the fall to reinforce Cós. Too late for this, he halted instead at the river. Now the plan was for the main force to join Sesma, and together they would recapture San Antonio. But all that lay in the future; first Santa Anna’s force had to reach the Texas border.

Winding north into the bare, dry hills of Coahuila, they presented a picture of curious contrasts. Santa Anna and his personal entourage now pranced in front—a glittering display of military ostentation. Far to the rear plodded the lines of infantry. The snappy formations learned at Saltillo were soon forgotten as the men shuffled along in the choking dust.

Behind them crawled the army’s supply train … strung out for miles along the narrow, rocky trail. It was quite a sight—1,800 pack mules loaded with hardtack … 33 huge four-wheel wagons, looking a little like stranded canal barges … 200 two-wheel carts drawn by oxen … hundreds of smaller carts and barrows, the property of enterprising sutlers who trailed the army with liquor, tobacco, bread, anything that might sell.

None of the carts had any metal; pegs and thongs of rawhide were all that held them together. Nor was there any lubrication, and soon the great seven-foot wheels produced a frightful creaking and screeching that could be heard for miles.

Jumbled among them tramped another army of sorts—a
horde of chattering women and children. These were the
soldaderas
of the men—a somewhat unusual military institution. Apart from the companionship they provided, these women served the purpose of cooking and even foraging for the soldiers—especially useful since Santa Anna hadn’t bothered to provide any formal commissary. Yet they consumed provisions too, and they certainly were a distraction.

General Filisola—perhaps brought up to believe in sterner European standards—was appalled. He protested bitterly that the women were cluttering up the army, wrecking any trace of efficiency. His complaint was politely rejected. Headquarters agreed that the
soldaderas
were a disconcerting influence, but philosophically pointed out that if they were sent home, half the army would desert.

Soldiers, sutlers,
soldaderas—all
pushed on, moving ever deeper into the barren, mountainous country of northern Mexico. Days of blinding glare, sore feet, parched throats. “There have been sufferings,” conceded the military correspondent of
El Mosquito Mexicano,
“but surprisingly small. These sufferings only spur them to greater efforts.” And later, a bright thought: “The hardships of the day are forgotten in the pleasure and the coolness of the evening.”

This proved a masterpiece of understatement. On February 13 the “coolness of the evening” was a howling blizzard that swept across the hills, wiped out the trail, blinded the troops and animals. General Andrade’s cavalry became hopelessly lost in a mesquite thicket; men and horses thrashed about, crashing against one another, tumbling into the drifting snow. Gaona’s brigade, caught squarely in the middle of the storm, lost fifty yoke of oxen. There were no tents for the men, and they could only huddle against one another, trying to stay alive. The Mayan Indians in the Yucatán battalion, away from the tropics for the first time, fell by the dozen—pathetic bundles lying motionless in the drifts.

Struggling on, the army finally left the snow behind, only to face a new peril. It had been a dry winter, and now there was neither grass nor water for the horses. Some dropped with
mal de lengua,
a swelling of the tongue from thirst and dry fodder … others died of
telele,
a fever caused by stagnant water. The team of eight mules pulling a great howitzer-pride of the army—fell completely exhausted. What to do? asked Filisola. Leave the gun behind and sell the mules, he was told; the army could use the money.

By now the men too were falling. Short of hardtack from the start, Santa Anna cut the troops to half-rations … forced them to shift for themselves on 12 1/2 cents a day. Desperately, they took to the fields, chewing bitter mesquite nuts and munching reddish berries that looked possibly nourishing. Hundreds collapsed with dysentery and diarrhea. Others succumbed to a spotted itch. Still others dropped from sheer exhaustion.

Nor was anyone likely to pick them up. The lack of doctors, drugs and ambulances—so embarrassing when Santa Anna had his stomach-ache—now proved fatal to scores of his men. Trailing the infantry, General Ampudia’s artillerymen were kept busy collecting fallen soldiers, stuffing them into the munitions wagons and gun carriages.

One night Ampudia himself helped pick up a crumpled wretch, so weak and weighted down by his gun and pack that he could no longer even move. The man died before morning, and it seemed a shame that Santa Anna had also forgotten to bring any chaplains.

Many tried to desert. Some succeeded, more were caught and thrown back in the ranks. No longer did the correspondent from
El Mosquito Mexicano
write glibly of sufferings that only spurred the men to greater efforts. The paper now reported bitterly: “By recent letters we learn that desertions are increasing daily and becoming scandalous. That hunger and
nudity have the troops in despair; the troops are not getting their pay nor officers their salaries.”

Still, with the stoicism of all soldiers in all armies, most of the men somehow carried on. Across the Sabinas on rafts and logs … by the hacienda at San Juan … through San Miguel de Allende … always north toward the Rio Grande and Texas beyond.

Santa Anna himself galloped far in the lead. Around him were his dragoons, splendid in their shining helmets and breastplates. Just behind, his ornate carriage rattled and swayed along the rocky road. Behind it lumbered his baggage train, loaded with the things he felt he needed—the striped marquee … the tea caddy and cream pitcher … the monogrammed china … the decanters with their little gold stoppers … the silver chamber pot.

At last, on February 12, the Rio Grande. With a final burst of speed, Santa Anna’s caravan raced down the hard, flat road leading toward the river … clattered into the old Spanish town of Presidio de Rio Grande … and drew up at the military headquarters of General Ramirez y Sesma.

It must have been a welcome sight for Sesma. During the past months he had been having his own troubles. He too never had enough money. On his way north in November, the government promised him 25,000 pesos from the accommodating Señor Rubio, but only 14,000 were ever delivered. Sesma papered the province of Nuevo León with worthless I.O.U.s to get grain. He requisitioned mules everywhere, and when the people of Abasolo failed to provide the number he demanded, he seized and threatened to shoot the
alcalde,
until the rest were produced.

He reached the Texas border at Laredo two days after Christmas and found Cós already there, retiring from San Antonio. New orders arrived, sending Cós back to Monclova and Sesma to Presidio, eighty miles farther up the river. Here
Santa Anna felt the detachment would be safer till he himself arrived. Waiting for him, Sesma continued to live off the land, stirring fear and hatred among the local people.

Meanwhile he did what military commanders always do while marking time. He polished and paraded his troops. On January 18 he had them all out, drilling in the fields by the Rio Grande.

High in the hills across the river, a lone figure peered down on the scene with interest. Señor José Cassiano was one of those citizens of Bexar who cherished his constitutional rights more than the glamour of Santa Anna. He had volunteered for scout duty along the Rio Grande, and his reports made interesting reading back at the Alamo.

Today was no exception. Cassiano took out his pencil and meticulously noted what he saw—about 1,600 infantry … 400 cavalry … 80 wagons … 400 mules … 3,000 mule-loads of flour … 300
fanegas
of biscuit … 2 mortars … 6 pieces of artillery “supposed to be twelves.”

Enough. Satisfied with his arithmetic, he mounted his horse and turned toward San Antonio.

M
EXICAN TROOP FIGURES MEANT
nothing to Jim Bowie, as he rode slowly toward San Antonio on January 18. He was coming to blow up the Alamo.

He had left Goliad the day before with the necessary orders from Sam Houston, the Texan commander. Feeling that the outpost was far too isolated, Houston had given Bowie a letter, urging Colonel Neill to abandon Bexar, demolish the Alamo, and pull the artillery back to Gonzales and Copano.

Bowie was of course no man’s messenger boy. He had been picked to see that the orders were carried out. In Houston’s words, “There is no man on whose forecast, prudence, and valor I place a higher estimate.”

So now he was on his way. With him rode some thirty men —a mixture of recent recruits like James Bonham of South Carolina and old hands like Louis Rose, a Napoleonic veteran who had wandered across the Atlantic, finally winding up in Nacogdoches around 1827. A shiftless drifter, Rose couldn’t have been less like Bowie; yet they were apparently good friends—another example of the Colonel’s ability to win the loyalty of all kinds of men.

The little party reached San Antonio on the 19th. Riding
into the Alamo, Bowie handed Houston’s letter to Neill, then began checking things himself. The General’s wishes were perfectly clear—destroy the fort and pull back—but there was more to it than that. As Houston had specifically told him last time out, “Much is referred to your discretion.”

Bowie soon discovered that conditions were bad indeed. The garrison had no horses for scouting. There were no medical supplies, no rifle powder, no cannon balls for the 18-pounder.

Morale was down too. The troops refused to drill, or even go out on patrol. Roll call was a farce. Several of the New Orleans Greys settled in the Alamo church, living as they pleased amid the rubble. Just before Bowie’s arrival one man actually mutinied and was finally drummed out of camp.

Yet day after day Bowie hesitated. Somehow he couldn’t bring himself to carry out Houston’s wishes. Was it the place —this dramatic outpost, standing alone between the colonists and the Mexicans? Was it the Alamo’s twenty fine guns, probably the strongest collection between Mexico City and New Orleans? Was it the “frontier” in him—the pioneer’s refusal to be shoved around? Bowie had plenty of that.

Perhaps all these factors played a part, and undoubtedly the men did too. Angry and discouraged just now, they were still magnificent material, and their refusal to be lured away on the Matamoros treasure hunt showed at least a basic sense of responsibility. Green Jameson, who knew them well, certainly thought so. He felt that if properly supported, they would “do duty and fight better than fresh men, they have all been tried and have confidence in themselves.”

His interest stirred, Bowie soon found himself doing things that had little to do with retreat—and a great deal to do with defense. Using his marvelous local contacts, he found horses for long-range scouting. He visited his Mexican friends and came back with fresh intelligence. On January 22 he heard
from the Navarro family that Santa Anna was marching on Texas with 4,600 men. A useful talk with the local padre developed further information: the Mexican cavalry was heading straight for Bexar. It was enough to make Neill think again about leaving, but Bowie’s spirit was soaring. He thought more and more about holding out.

The men caught the spark of this hard, determined leader. Their spirits perked up and so did their work. Captain Almeron Dickinson, the Gonzales blacksmith, discovered he had a born knack for handling artillery. Hiram Williamson of Philadelphia turned into a surprisingly good drillmaster. John Baugh of Virginia took on the adjutant’s chores with a vengeance. Supplies started to trickle in too—42 beeves, 100 bushels of corn, ammunition for the 18-pounder. Green Jameson began to boast that with the Alamo’s artillery they could whip the Mexicans ten to one.

Jameson himself proved an extremely imaginative engineer. The Alamo actually began to look like a fort. He built a palisade of stakes and dirt to close the gap in the southeast angle. He threw up platforms of earth and timber along the walls to serve as parapets and gun mounts. He put the heavy 18-pounder in the southwest angle, where it commanded the town. And all the time his head swam with still more ambitious plans—moats, aqueducts and “a contemplated drawbridge across a contemplated ditch inside a contemplated half-moon battery.”

Bowie pitched in wherever he could—playing a major role not only in defense but in the garrison’s political life as well. For the defenders of the Alamo always had time for politics. Right now they were absorbed in a battle raging at San Felipe between the Provisional Council and Governor Smith. The Council had just fired Smith, and the Governor had retaliated by dismissing the Council. None of this made it any easier to get supplies for the Alamo, but the men’s main interest seemed
to lie in their fear that the Council might come to terms with the Mexicans. The troops were virtually all “independence men” and strongly for Smith.

On January 26 Bowie attended a mass meeting in support of the Governor, which ended by going far beyond that. It turned into a rousing rally for holding the Alamo. The garrison demanded $500 for defense, then declared that even if the money didn’t come, “We cannot be driven from the post of honor.” First man to sign the resolution, just after the chairman James Bonham, was none other than Jim Bowie.