In days to come he would try to recall this scene, this parting with a woman he had grown to love late in his life, but he would be unable to do so. There was no significant speech, no meaningful farewell and no commitment one way or another. He had left home often before, and he had never taken much account of parting then, nor did he now.
‘Goodbye, old lady. Ten cuidado.’ And he was gone, thinking only briefly of how stalwart a woman she was. He knew he’d been damned lucky to find her. Her brother? Ah, that was another matter. With Benito and his hot temper, one never knew. Probably heading south right now to join up with Santa Anna. Well, that was his business and it did not affect María. In this life all men, it seemed, had trouble with their in-laws.
With that succinct summary of his family affairs as of 12 February 1836, he followed the Guadalupe upstream for two full days and part of a third, after which he entered the little town of Gonzales, only to find it so involved with plans for war that any prospect of collecting cattle vanished. One rancher who could have supplied hundreds reported: ‘All my hands have quit. You ask me, they’re on their way to fight for Santy Anny.’
The Gonzales men took this seriously, and for good reason. Only the previous October the Mexican government had sent soldiers to Gonzales to repossess a cannon loaned to the town; the thinking had been that with agitation spreading throughout Tejas for the establishment of a self-governing state divorced from Coahuila, it was prudent to confiscate any weapons which might be used against government troops.
To the amazement of the Mexican officers, the men of Gonzales had refused to surrender their cannon; instead, they used the thing to lob cannonballs at the troops, then unfurled an insulting flag showing a rude drawing of the cannon and the inscription, neatly lettered: COME AND TAKE IT.
The whole affair was absurd, really, because the so-called cannon was a midget affair so small that two men could drag it along, but it did throw a much larger ball than a rifle, so it was technically a cannon, and the men, exhilarated by their defeat of the Mexican army—one trooper killed—began referring to their brief skirmish as ‘The Lexington of the Texican Revolution.’ If Santa Anna really was on his way to Tejas, one of his first and most brutal stops would be at Gonzales.
Campbell, irritated by this interruption of his plans, moved from one former customer to another, pleading with them to assign him the cattle he needed for his drive to New Orleans, but they were preoccupied. Disgusted, he stopped on the following morning at the store of the Widow Fuqua to pass the time in idle conversation.
‘How did a Jew get to a town like this?’
‘We travel to all parts. Always have.’
‘Where did you come from?’
‘All parts.’
‘You any idea how I might get my cattle together?’ Mrs. Fuqua had no suggestions, for as she reminded Zave, all the Mexicans had fled.
At this moment the shopkeeper’s young son, Galba, entered, and Zave asked: ‘How old are you, son?’ and the lad replied: ‘Sixteen.’
‘How’d you like to help me herd a string of cattle to New Orleans?’ The prospect of such an excursion delighted the boy, small for his age but much like Otto in his apparent ability, and he responded enthusiastically: ‘If Mother allows.’
When Mrs. Fuqua nodded, Zave said: ‘I’ll take care of your son, but first we got to gather our herd.’
‘That can be done,’ the boy said, and on the spot he outlined a plan whereby he and two friends, one of them a lad his own age named Johnny Gaston, could collect the longhorns as effectively as any Mexicans: ‘We can ride and rope.’ Permission was granted by the owners, who were glad to see their stock moved out of the way of an incoming danger, and by Tuesday, the twenty-third, it began to look as if Campbell would succeed in getting his drove on the road before the beginning of March.
But on Wednesday about noon two dusty horsemen galloped in from the west with a written plea from the American commander in the Alamo:
The enemy in large force is in sight. We want men and provisions. Send them to us. We have 150 men and are determined to defend the Alamo to the last. Give us assistance.
Now all talk of cattle vanished. Men spoke only of what could be done to aid their imperiled fellows trapped in San Antonio, and many wild proposals involving no risk were made, but suddenly the aching truth was voiced: ‘We have got to march a relief force into the Alamo.’
On Thursday the discussion resumed, and now all listened intently as the messengers honestly laid forth the situation:
‘Santa Anna has nearly two thousand men there already, with more marching in daily. We have no more than a hundred and fifty. But think of the men we do have. Jim Bowie, Davy Crockett, this young wild man William Travis. With your help they can win.
‘Men of Gonzales, if you do not support us now, the Alamo will fall, Santa Anna will march to your town and destroy it. Upon you depends the freedom of Texas. And you know that on the freedom of Texas depends the freedom of the United States. You must act now.’
These ringing words evoked a flurry of patriotism throughout the town, and women began assembling supplies should their men decide to march; but the decision could be reached only painfully, for the men of Gonzales were intelligent enough to know that odds against them of 2,000-to-150 were perilous. It was clearly understood that anyone who entered the Alamo within the next few days stood a very good chance of dying there, and almost no chance whatever of holding the fortress indefinitely against the overwhelming power of the enemy. On these harsh terms the debate began.
One man asked: ‘Did not General Houston advise Travis to abandon the Alamo? Knock down the walls and let the Mexicans have it?’
‘He did,’ a messenger snapped. His knee had been badly wrenched during an intrepid scout he had made of the oncoming Mexican forces as they approached San Antonio, and he was impatient with these thoughtful, careful men: If I can risk my life on that damned horse, not a hundred yards from the whole Mexican army, why can’t they see the crisis at the Alamo? Controlling his temper, he said: ‘General Houston did order the place abandoned, but it is always the man on the spot who must make the final decision, and Travis, after weighing everything, decided to dig in and fight. Now you must make your decision.’
On Friday, 26 February, the men of Gonzales were beginning to think that maybe they should organize a relief party and march to the support of the men in the Alamo, and by noon the momentum to join that party became an emotional bonfire which engulfed the town. Twenty men signified their willingness, then another five, then still another five, then the richest man in town, Thomas R. Miller, whose young wife had recently run off with a more attractive fellow. By nightfall, thirty-one men had volunteered to lay down their lives, if necessary, in defense of freedom, and among them were two of the boys on whom Zave Campbell had been depending to gather his cattle: Galba Fuqua and Johnny Gaston, brother of the young girl who had run away from Miller.
Zave Campbell, idled through no fault of his own, did not jump to volunteer; this was not his war; as the husband of a wonderful Mexican woman, who became more precious the more he thought of her, he bore no general animosity toward Mexicans; and as a man who had been damn near hanged by loud-mouthed Texicans, he felt no responsibility to them. But with nothing better to do, he did watch from the sidelines as they formed in their final muster, and a more disorganized group of would-be heroes he had never seen. Short boys and gangling men, lads who had never shaved and oldsters with wandering beards, they were all dressed differently, with not a single item of true military dress in the lot. If they wore hats, they were big and floppy; their shoes were shapeless and worn; their homespun trousers were of a dozen different sizes, lengths and thicknesses. A few wore bandoleers; a few had improvised knapsacks; two had bayonets on their long rifles; but each seemed to have a long-bladed knife and three had a pair.
When the roll call was completed, the newly elected officer announced: ‘We march at noon tomorrow,’ and that night Zave found it
difficult to sleep. He felt no urge to choose sides, but he had to respect the courage of these rude countrymen who felt obligated to defend their freedoms. So as the long night waned, he felt himself drawn ever closer to the patriots.
He spent Saturday morning watching odd corners of the town where volunteers bade farewell to their families, and as he saw these emotional scenes he became so confused that when the line formed for the march to the Alamo, he quietly joined at the rear.
In the entire history of Texas there would be none braver than these thirty-two from Gonzales, for each man in this heroic file could say to himself, between thundering heartbeats: I know I’m marching to almost certain death, and I know it’s insane, but I prize freedom above life itself.
Finlay Macnab, an orderly man of forty-four, was downright disgusted at the chaos into which Tejas had fallen even before Santa Anna fired his first gun. As he explained with some bitterness to Otto: ‘It’s a damned disgrace. We have an army of maybe two thousand men, but our shaky government has appointed four supreme commanders. And each one holds a commission which confirms that he is superior to the other three.’
Macnab was correct. A wavering revolutionary government, unsure whether it wanted statehood within Mexico, jointure with the United States, or a free nation of its own, had appointed Sam Houston, vainglorious but demonstrably able, as commander in chief of the army on the basis of his militia rank years ago in Tennessee. But they had also designated Colonel James Fannin, a West Point man but not a graduate, as commander of the regular army contingent and subsidiary to no one. Rump forces within the government had given still another command to Dr. James Grant, born in Scotland and since 1825 owner of an enormous ranch west of Saltillo; a volatile man much hated in northern Mexico, he had served in the governing body of Coahuila-y-Tejas until Santa Anna prorogued it and now sought revenge.
The fourth contestant for top honors was an irascible Virginia-Alabama-Illinois schoolteacher and greengrocer with military delusions; at a time of crisis in 1835 he had assumed command of a privateering force that had captured the Alamo from General Cós and sent him kiting back to Mexico under pledge never to return under arms. Commander in Chief Frank W. Johnson had his own plans for subduing Mexico; in executing them with total ineptness he would lose his entire force save four, but he himself would escape and live another forty-eight years, during which he would write a five-volume history of the times he had seen and the heroisms he had performed.
There was, of course, a fifth commander, almost insanely jealous of the other four and possibly more gifted as a military leader than any of them: Colonel William Travis, who still held on to the Alamo in gross disobedience to orders from General Houston that he abandon it and blow it up.
These five warring commanders led forces totaling only two thousand troops. All Santa Anna had to do was knock them off, one by one, and this he was in the process of accomplishing.
‘It’s insane,’ Macnab said to his son as they chopped wood on their farm along the Guadalupe. ‘A man would be crazy to get himself involved in such nonsense.’ Consequently, he was not moved when on 8 January, Colonel Fannin sent a horseman through the countryside with an urgent call for volunteers to help him defend the eastern lands around Victoria.
So the Macnabs refused to attend the big organizing effort at which more than a hundred late arrivals with a Georgia Battalion whooped and cheered as they joined the Fannin crusade. A lively group of Irish immigrants who had recently taken up land in the nearby Irish colonies made even more noise when they enlisted, and equally valued were four well-trained Polish engineers who reported from the scattered Polish settlers in the area. Just as their countryman Thaddeus Kosciusko had built most of General Washington’s fortifications during the Revolution, they would assume responsibility for perfecting Fannin’s defenses.
Macnab, listening to reports of how successful the meeting had been, had reason to hope that in this command, at least, things would move forward intelligently, and he concluded that he and his son could leave the prosecution of this war to the enthusiasts. He was startled when he learned that this odd assortment of would-be soldiers had moved practically into his backyard, fortifying themselves noisily in the abandoned presidio at Goliad, less than thirty miles from the Macnab farm. He could no longer escape the fact that the war had encroached upon him.
Even so, he remained reluctant to associate himself with what he feared would be a disastrous experience, and he was in this confused, gloomy frame of mind when, on 18 February, a twenty-nine-year-old man of the most compelling honesty galloped unattended into nearby Goliad with urgent news. He was Lieutenant James Bonham, a lawyer from South Carolina, whose heroic longings had been ignited by reports of what the Texas patriots were attempting. Like so many others whose names would soon glorify Texas history, he had arrived only recently in the territory—less than three months before—but his cool enthusiasm was so respected that he was quickly made an officer, whereupon he volunteered for service in the Alamo. Now, as danger threatened that bastion, he had at incredible risk broken through the enemy cordon and ridden eastward for help, and the men at Goliad listened in deepening apprehension as he informed them of the facts about the Alamo:
‘Our side has a hundred and fifty men. Santa Anna has nearly two thousand already, with more on the way. The odds sound impossible, but with the kind of heroes we have—I mean the determination, the steady fire they’re capable of—I believe we can hold the fort till the rest of Texas mobilizes.
‘What we need now is for every fighting man in this part of Texas to rush to the Alamo. Strengthen our perimeters! Give us help! Start to march now! The freedom of Texas and the whole United States lies in the balance! Help us!’
Colonel Fannin, listening attentively to the plea, assured Bonham that ‘he would think it over,’ whereupon the impetuous young lieutenant saluted, trying to hide his anger at this vacillation, and spurred his horse onward to Victoria. There he assembled the local farmers, to whom he delivered his message with such dramatic force that young Otto Macnab blurted out: ‘Where are you going next?’ and Bonham said without hesitation: ‘Back to the Alamo.’
‘Can I go with you?’
The South Carolinian looked down at the boy and said: ‘Take your father to Goliad. March with Colonel Fannin and his men. They’re going to reinforce us.’
‘Will you go back alone?’ Otto asked.
‘I came alone.’
He said this so simply, so sweetly, as if he were talking to a woman about strolling through a park, that Otto was enthralled. This was the kind of man he longed to be with, and he watched with tumultuous agitation as the former lawyer turned westward toward his elected station in the Alamo. He had fought his way out of that fortress and now he was prepared to fight his way back in.
As he disappeared, Otto asked his father: ‘If things are so bad, why does he go back in?’ and Finlay replied: ‘I doubt he considered any other possibility.’
That night neither Macnab could sleep. Otto’s head was filled with images of galloping horses, challenges at dusk, guns blazing, and a lone man leaping his horse across obstacles. His father’s visions were more controlled and much more sober; he saw a beleaguered Texas, chaotically led, staggering and fumbling its way toward liberty, and he saw the irresistible logic of Bonham’s plea: ‘Unite with us! Help us! Give us the time we need till Texas mobilizes.’
All night these words rang in his ears, growing more forceful with each reiteration, until, toward dawn, he rose and walked alone beside the river that he had grown to love. It was peaceful now, a beautiful river, home of birds and haven for thirsty animals, and it had become a real home for him. Looking up to the branches of the trees that stood along its bank, he could see debris from the last terrible flood, many feet above his head. Texas is in flood, he told himself as the sun rose, and no one can predict where the debris will finally rest.
At breakfast he told Josefina: ‘Otto and I better get ready to leave.’ When she ask
ed: ‘For what?’ he told her in Spanish: ‘We must go to Goliad.’
‘To fight against my people?’
‘Your people are fighting against us.’
She sat down, with her apron brought to her face as if to hide tears, and said sorrowfully: ‘I think maybe so,’ but what it was she truly thought, she did not confide.
She was further distressed when Otto left, obviously to say farewell to María Campbell, whom he loved first and strongest, but at noon, when the boy returned, she and Finlay had all things packed, and the two Macnabs headed southwest for the presidio at Goliad.
On leap year day, General Santa Anna’s equerry came to Benito Garza and said: ‘I want you to find some soldier, about thirty years old, who could look like a priest.’
‘Why?’
‘Do as you’re told.’
So Garza wandered among the troops looking for someone who might resemble a priest if properly garbed, and by chance he came upon a real priest serving the troops, a Father Palacio, whom he took to the adjutant.
To Garza’s surprise, the officer was infuriated, and although he tried to mask his rage while the priest was present, as soon as the clergyman departed he slapped Garza across the face and shouted: ‘Do as you’re told, damn you.’ Benito was so astonished by this insulting treatment that he resumed his search in anger and finally found a rather fat fellow who looked as if he might play the drunken friar in a barracks-room comedy put on by locals.
Leading him like a child to the equerry, Garza said hopefully: ‘I think this one will do,’ and to his relief the officer said: ‘So do I. Now find him the clothes.’
‘What clothes?’ Benito asked, and again the equerry started to slap him, but this time Benito grabbed the man’s wrist, twisting it savagely as he whispered in a shaking voice: ‘You do that again, I kill you.’
The young officer, stunned that a man he took to be a peasant should behave so, reached forward as if to strike Garza, but when he saw Benito’s flaring nostrils and grim eyes, he drew back. In a chastened voice he said: ‘We need some priest’s clothes.’ This proved a more difficult task, but after more than an hour spent searching, Benito came upon an old woman in the main plaza who said that a priest who had once boarded in her house had died. She found remnants of his habit, and when it was fitted to the fat soldier he did indeed look like a priest.