A Time to Stand: The Epic of the Alamo

  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?”

  Chapter Nine

  “30 Men Has Thrown Themselves into Bears”

  AT 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 rec
ruits. 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.

  Santa Anna would have been even more agitated had he known the immense stir caused by Travis’ letter of February 24. Signs multiplied that Texas was at last shaking off its lethargy. At Victoria, word spread that Colonel Wharton had crossed the Guadalupe with a relief party bound for Bexar. In San Felipe, Captain Moseley Baker ordered the local militia to get ready; as they prepared to march on the 29th, two blushing ladies gave them a homespun flag proclaiming independence—by now the goal of everyone.

  In Washington-on-the-Brazos, where the delegates were assembling to vote for independence, the air was electric with excitement. On March 1 Sam Houston reappeared, setting off a roar of acclaim. On the 2nd, the Convention rammed through its declaration of independence—another wild demonstration. Later the delegates were again in a tumult when word arrived that the Gonzales men had marched to the Alamo’s relief. Lieutenant Governor Robinson excitedly wrote Colonel Fannin the news: “This moment information has been given that about 30 men has thrown themselves into Bears. …”

  Gonzales itself was again in an uproar. Late on the 27th a letter had arrived from Colonel Fannin. He had written it early that morning while sitting in the bushes wondering what to do, but he said nothing about his various misgivings. Instead, he was full of the boldest plans. He explained that he was on his way to the Alamo with 300 men, and laid out an intricate plan for a rendezvous on the Cibolo. As he described it, all the various relief forces would link up there and then march together on San Antonio.

  It was too late to tell Kimball—he was already on his way— but Dr. Sutherland and Horace Alsbury quickly recruited twelve more men and prepared to join this ambitious project. Across the Guadalupe, Juan Seguin rallied 25 of his local Mexicans. The two groups set out together on the 28th, hoping to overtake Kimball’s company and incorporate them too, but they reached the Cibolo too late for that. Little matter. The 300 men from Goliad were the main tiling anyhow. Seguin and Sutherland settled down to wait for Fannin’s arrival.

  In Goliad, Fannin too was settling down—to await the delayed arrival of the Mexicans. He had completely forgotten the master plan for joining all parties together for a grand-scale march. He thought only of the siege he faced. “I am pretty well prepared to make battle,” he wrote Lieutenant Governor Robinson. “I have nearly completed my fortifications, and have beef enough for 20 days, and will have more. … I am resolved to await your orders let the consequence be what it may.”

  But as the days passed and still no Mexicans, Fannin began to take heart again. Hearing that Colonel Wharton had crossed the Guadalupe en route to the Alamo, he revived his old rendezvous plan. On March 1, he wrote Captains De Sauque and Chenoworth foraging on the Cibolo. Reporting Wharton’s advance, he stressed: “If you can find him or communicate with Gonzales and know how many volunteers will form a junction, if informed speedily, I will push out 200 and co-operate. …”

  The more he thought about the idea, the better he liked it. By March 2, the men of Goliad were once again getting ready to start out for the Alamo. “If the division of the Mexican Army advancing toward this place has met any obstacles,” Captain John Brooks wrote his mother, “200 men will be detached for relief of Bexar. We will probably march tomorrow or next day, if we can procure fresh oxen enough to transport our baggage and two 6-pounders.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “I Will Report the Result of My Mission”

  COLONEL FANNIN WAS COMING—the rumor raced through the Alamo. To William Ward at the main gate … to Micajah Autry at the stockade … to Gregorio Esparza in the church … to Eliel Melton, slaughtering beef in the corral to the east. No one knew how it started—perhaps with some Gonzales man; perhaps out of thin air, the way rumors so often begin among soldiers.

  In any case, it made sense. After all, Fannin was the leader who had always called for action: “March to meet the Tyrant” … “Kick at the moon, whether we hit the mark or not.” He was the man who asked less than a month ago, “Will the freemen of Texas calmly fold their arms, and wait until the approach of their deadly enemy compels them to protect their own firesides?”

  And now, the arrival of the Gonzales contingent showed it could be done. If these 32 lightly armed men had made it, certainly Fannin’s 400 could get through. They even had artillery.

  Best of all, James Butler Bonham had been sent to fetch them. There was no more forceful man in the garrison than this
young South Carolinian. He went after what he wanted —within two weeks of coming to Texas, he was taking things up direct with Sam Houston. And people listened to him. “His influence in the army is great,” Houston observed, “more so than some who would be generals.”

  So from the moment Bonham left for Goliad on February 27, the men in the Alamo began counting the days. He should get there early on the 29th … Fannin’s force would start that morning … they were bound to arrive before dawn on March 2 … at the very latest, March 3.

  Yet March 2 came with no sign of Fannin. Only another Mexican battalion to the east. Then March 3, and still no Fannin. Just a new Mexican battery going up on the north. Had even Bonham let them down?

  In a way he had. Reaching Goliad on February 29, Bonham found Fannin in one of his low periods. Just back from his abortive relief march, the Colonel was in no mood to try again. Nor did it help when Colonel Frank Johnson arrived that day, fresh from the disaster at San Patricio. He poured out harrowing stories of Mexican butchery. It all made Fannin less anxious than ever to leave his fort. He urged Bonham to stay with him in Goliad.

  No, Bonham explained, he had promised to get help; he must try somewhere else.

  He next headed for Gonzales, probably arriving late March 1. Here he found only a town of women and children. Kimball’s little band had already marched. Sutherland’s and Alsbury’s men were on the way too. Seguin’s company was supposed to be with them. Most of the older men were at Washington-on-the-Brazos, thrashing out the declaration of independence.

  But Bonham did find a 19-year-old named Ben Highsmith. He had left the Alamo with an appeal for Fannin shortly before Santa Anna arrived. Turned down, he headed back for San Antonio alone, only to discover the enemy had come. Reaching Powder House Hill, he found his way hopelessly blocked by the Mexicans. Worse, they spied him and the Dolores cavalry chased him a good six miles. Turning up in Gonzales at last, Highsmith now poured out the story of his close escape. He was sure no one could get through the Mexican lines. Better stay here, he urged Bonham; reinforcements would soon be coming from San Felipe and the other towns to the east. Then they would have some chance.