American Legend: The Real-Life Adventures of David Crockett (37 page)

The Swishers came out to watch Crockett and B. Archer Thomas ride away, feeling a mixture of admiration for the legend and regret that he had to go. The man they waved to from their home seemed more mortal than legend: “He was stout and muscular, about six feet in height, and weighing 180 to 200 pounds. He was of florid complexion, with intelligent gray eyes. He had small side whiskers inclining to sandy. His countenance, although firm and determined, wore a pleasant and genial expression.”
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Despite heading into the unknown, which very likely included being in harm’s way, Crockett maintained that infectious conviviality, that joy in being alive.

DAVID CROCKETT did not look like much of a soldier as he made the final leg of his journey south, and neither did his riding companions. None of them had official uniforms, instead riding in what civilian clothes they had, some in tanned leather leggings and “buckskins,” traditional utilitarian frontier garb or “leatherstockings.”
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The men traveled with all their belongings tied behind their saddles, extra clothes and a bedroll and perhaps some scant provisions in saddlebags, heading into biting winds and driving winter rains, their fur hunting hats pulled down over their ears in the cold mornings and evenings.
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The terrain grew ominous, and about three days’ ride from Washington the men would have passed through the massive, eerie forest of Lost Pines.
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They rode through Bastrop
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and Gonzales, finally arriving in San Antonio de Béxar and dismounting under a steady drizzle in a Mexican graveyard west of the main town, where they took shelter.
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Before long, someone sent word to James Bowie that a small knot of riders was at the graveyard, and Bowie himself, accompanied by Antonio Menchacha, rode out to find out who had arrived, hopeful of reinforcements.
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They found David Crockett and his little band of Tennessee Mounted Volunteers, their number now reduced to just five. Bowie and Menchacha escorted Crockett and his boys into town, taking him directly to the home of Don Erasmo Seguín, one of San Antonio’s most prominent citizens.
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Crockett would stay there, hosted warmly and treated well, until he took lodgings off the main plaza.

Crockett’s arrival obviously created a buzz around the township and the garrison, both his celebrity status and his military experience as a scout boosting morale. Though he likely had no desire to be incognito anyway, shortly Crockett was asked to make a speech and he consented, and by the time he arrived at the main plaza an expectant audience awaited. Colonel James Clinton Neill had rounded up men from the garrison
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and locals flocked curiously around as Crockett mounted a dry-goods box that had been placed for him to stand on as the applause rose. According to Dr. John Sutherland, who recorded the events of that day, after the initial cheering died down and the assembled crowd realized it was really the flesh-and-blood Crockett standing before them, a “profound silence” fell over the crowd as they waited for him to speak. At last he spoke, opening with light yarns and transitioning into his patented “you can go to hell” anecdote, then becoming serious once the laughter subsided. “Fellow citizens,” he assured those he had ridden so far to join, “I am among you.” He must have meant this figuratively as well as literally, even spiritually. According to Dr. Sutherland, Crockett went on in this vein: “I have come to aid you all that I can in your noble cause. I shall identify myself with your interests, and all the honor that I desire is that of defending as a high private, in common with my fellow citizens, the liberties of our common country.”
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Crockett closed with the assurance that he would do whatever it took to help, and that he expected no special treatment or honors: “Me and my Tennessee boys, have come here to Help Texas as privates,” he told them with honesty and conviction, “and will try to do our duty.”
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It was all anyone could have asked of the man.

Two nights later, a bona fide shindig was organized, in good part to honor the arrival of the famous Tennessean David Crockett. The affair was well-attended, including several prominent Tejanos, among them Antonio Menchacha, who had been kindly urged to bring with him “all the principal ladies in the City.”
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William Barrett Travis, James Bowie, and other officers were there as well, enjoying the entertainment which included the seductive fandango, a style of dance more provocative than the Americans volunteers would have been accustomed to. They were riveted by the pulsing beat, the foot stomping, the swirling dresses of the exotic women. The party blended into a mixture of frontier stomp-down and Mexican fandango inside the ballroom, with everyone feasting and drinking with relish. Around 1 a.m., a lone horseman thundered into town, the clatter of hoofbeats mixing with the music as he skidded to a halt and brought forth the most recent courier report from the south of the Rio Grande. The envoy, sent by Placido Benavides, “the Alcade [mayor and magistrate] of Victoria and now employed by the Seguíns as a spy, arrived at the ballroom requesting to speak with Captain Seguín.”
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Learning that Seguín was not available, Menchacha agreed to receive the message.

Interested, Bowie approached Menchacha, who pored over the contents of the letter. His eyes narrowed with concern, Menchacha passed the missive to Bowie, who scanned it quickly. Bowie tried to hand the letter to the passing Travis, but Travis quipped that he was otherwise engaged, currently dancing with the most gorgeous woman in San Antonio, and he had no time for reading letters. Bowie frowned, insisting that he might be interested enough to hold off on the dance. With others, including Crockett, huddled excitedly around, Travis read the contents aloud. Ten thousand men, led by their chief, Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, were marching on San Antonio, with the sole intention of seizing it. The note was four days old, which meant that, depending on their pace over the roughly 150 miles remaining, the Mexicans would be there in less than two weeks.
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It was a fantastic party, and it was by now quite late. Many of the men were already drunk. There was no point in breaking up the festivities. “Let us dance to-night,” Travis hollered, perhaps hoping to rally the men and keep morale high, “and to-morrow we will make provisions for our defense.”
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The men returned to the ladies, and the dancing went on until sunrise.

Although J. C. Neill had done a remarkable job of maintaining order, morale, and a semblance of military discipline around the garrison, there were still rumblings about the camp—disgruntlement over lack of pay and provisions—and some men were planning to bolt if things did not improve soon. Neill’s abilities and leadership moved Bowie to write, “I cannot eulogise the conduct and character of Col. Neill too brightly,” he said, adding that “no other man in the army could have kept men at this post, under the neglect they have experienced.”
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His skills and competence made the news of his departure tough for Bowie to take; on February 11, Neill departed abruptly, citing a sudden illness in the family and a special mission to procure defense funds.
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He requested a “twenty day’s leave,” and officers and volunteers alike pleaded with him to stay, but his mind was made up. As he readied to ride off, Neill assigned William Barrett Travis the command of the garrison.

Travis, who had arrived only a week or so before and was a mere twenty-six-year-old stripling, did not immediately command the respect of the troops. In fact, many felt that the older, more experienced local Jim Bowie to be the obvious choice. Bowie had deep ties to San Antonio, having taken full citizenship back in 1831 and married the daughter of the town’s richest family—the Veramendis.
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As a result, Bowie was well known about the place, and the men liked his festive side, too. A hard drinker and storyteller (he was rumored to have wrestled alligators in the Louisiana of his youth), Bowie assumed that the command of the Alamo would be his. The volunteers and the mercenaries preferred Bowie’s command, while the regulars—what few there were of them—opted for Travis. Travis saw that he was in a precarious situation, and immediately called for an impromptu company election. Some of the volunteers actually suggested that Crockett should be included because of his obvious war experience and clear leadership abilities, but he diplomatically declined, citing his intention only in assisting Travis.
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The ballots were quickly cast, with only two volunteer companies voting. Bowie was elected,
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but as it was barely a majority, and allegiances were clearly split between him and Travis, the reality was that no one was technically in command, the camp now divided in two. Bowie decided to celebrate his “victory” by launching into a powerful two-day drunk, carousing wildly about the town. He stumbled to the jail and released Mexican prisoners, then commanded his followers to halt a massive, ox-drawn cart filled with fleeing civilians, afraid of the advancing Santa Anna forces. Violently asserting his control, Bowie crazily ordered the Tejanos to return to town.
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Travis was disgusted by the despicable behavior. He wrote to Governor Henry Smith, complaining of the situation: “Since the election [Bowie] has been roaring drunk all the time. If I did not feel my honor & that of my country compromitted I would leave here instantly for some other point with the troops under my immediate command—I am unwilling to be responsible for the drunken irregularities of any man.”
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In fact, seeing that Bowie’s behavior was beginning to infect the other men as well, as many of the garrison were now drunk, too, Travis made a shrewd decision and ordered the regulars to follow him to an encampment on the Medina River a few miles from town where order could be restored.
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His sensible tactic worked, for two days later, on February 14, a sober and contrite Bowie offered apologies for his erratic behavior, though by now he was falling feverishly ill, his head throbbing. The two came to a compromise: Bowie would lead the volunteers of the garrison and Travis would remain in command of the regulars, plus the volunteer cavalry, a joint command, with all correspondence and orders signed by both of them.
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They wrote Governor Smith urgently requesting money, supplies, and munitions, and expressing hope that they would get them soon. Though they did not know exactly when Santa Anna and his troops would arrive, they could practically feel the force’s hoofbeats rumbling their way. “There is no doubt that the enemy will shortly advance upon this place,” they wrote together. “We must therefore urge the necessity of sending reinforcements as speedily as possible to our aid.”
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Travis moved back into lodgings inside town, and Bowie and his volunteers boarded at the Alamo compound. They were committed to the fight, and had silently agreed that they would die fighting for Texas if necessary.

Crockett moved into the Alamo with the rest of the volunteers, busying himself by helping as he could to shore up the defenses of the abandoned mission. When time permitted, he visited with volunteers, told jokes and stories, trying to keep morale high, even when the mood among the famished and ill-provisioned camp was low. Crockett had felt want as a soldier before, remembering all too well those anguished days plodding near dead through the Florida swamps. He would cheer up the men with his witty and outrageous stories. If Crockett had known what was coming, he might have been less jovial.

On February 16, Santa Anna crossed the Rio Grande at Paso de Francia, immediately predicting that the Texians anticipated his arrival from the south, by way of the Laredo Road.
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Instead, he would swing around to converge on San Antonio de Béxar from the west. During the journey north, Santa Anna’s army had grown, and when he had met Cós’s retreating force of 815 poorly armed and poorly clothed soldiers, he annexed them straight away, ordering them to turn around and head toward San Antonio once more. Then Santa Anna “angrily ordered Cós to violate the terms of his parole, that is, that he would not bear arms against the Anglo-Americans.”
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These haggard men, as well as those of General José Urrea, whose 550 men had crossed the Rio Grande at Matamoros on February 17,
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would converge on Béxar and catch the Texians by surprise. They rode hard through plunging temperatures and a threatening sky filled with pounding hail and snow. José Enrique de la Pena, an officer in Santa Anna’s army, described the macabre scene, swathed as their men were in “torment and cold”: “What a bewitching scene! As far as one could see, all was snow. The trees, totally covered, formed an amazing variety of cones and pyramids, which seemed to be made of alabaster.”
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The weary men pressed on, riding through the bizarre spectacle riddled with dead and dying mules, horses, and men, the snow “covered with the blood of these beasts, contrasting with the whiteness.”
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The cold and violent spring storm darkened the skies of Texas, looming like a false front before a violent thunder burst.