American Legend: The Real-Life Adventures of David Crockett (39 page)

The firefight continued through the cold pelting rain of a descending norther, with many of the defender’s shots hitting their mark, Crockett’s sure and experienced blasts among them. The exchange lasted for hours, during which time Travis noted that his riflemen brought down eight or ten of the enemy, who were dragged off under continuous fire.
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Crockett continued to blaze away, and while reloading, he ran about excitedly, rallying the other riflemen to shoot true. His enthusiasm and valor impressed Travis a great deal, and he later remarked that “The Hon. David Crockett was seen at all points, animating the men to do their duty.”
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The sniping was exactly Crockett’s brand of sport, and he covered his comrades as the south gate was briefly opened at Travis’s order and two men slipped silently out on horseback to set fire to the dry
jacales
that the enemy had been using as cover. The tactic worked, and without the close cover, the frontal assault was forced to retreat, at least for the moment. But the offensive proved to Travis that a full and sustained attack was imminent.

John Sutherland had ridden the seventy miles from Béxar to Goliad through mind-numbing pain, but he knew the situation at the compound and faithfully delivered his message to Colonel Fannin. Fannin, himself in a delicate frame of mind and uncertain of his own abilities to lead, made a quick, definitive decision, leaving 100 men at Goliad to defend what they had dubbed Fort Defiance, and take the other 320 to Béxar.
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Fannin’s aide-de-camp at Goliad was a man named John Brooks, who wrote of Fannin’s orders and decision, “We will start tonight or tomorrow morning at the dawn of day in order to relieve that gallant little garrison, who have so nobly resolved to sustain themselves until our arrival.”
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It was a glimmer of hopefulness that the besieged at Béxar would never know about, for the relief effort, while noble and well-intentioned, soon foundered. They were threadbare, near-starved, with scant provisions, and an inauspicious start doomed the mission at the outset. One of the ox-drawn wagons broke a few hundred yards into the journey, and crossing the rain-swollen San Antonio proved tedious and time consuming. The muddy track made the going excruciatingly slow, and several of the oxen managed to wander off in the night.
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They were a ragged and unprepared army, devoid of winter clothing, their boots rotting off their feet, and almost out of ammunition. Fannin determined that his troops were in no condition to rescue anyone—they needed reinforcements themselves. His heroic rescue mission was dead in the water before it even began.

The beleaguered defenders would continue to wait, to pray for troops to come to their aid. Crockett kept up his daily sharpshooting to pass the time, and some reports suggest that his rifle was the one to bring down the first of the enemy soldiers. Late in the day on February 27, as long, muted light began to whiten the walls of the Alamo, a cocky Santa Anna rode toward the mission at the head of his men, almost as if calling Crockett and his boys out. They were happy to oblige, and a rumor went round that a bullet fired from Crockett ’s rifle sent the arrogant general clambering for cover, the shot nearly killing the famed Napoleon of the West.
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In the early morning hours of March 1, in the cold blackness on the other side of midnight, the hopes of the defenders were answered, if only in a small way. Thirty-two brave men of Gonzales had responded to Travis’s dramatic plea and ridden the dangerous road. They arrived at the gates of the Alamo under cover of darkness, wet and cold, their hands frozen to their reins, and after some confusion—the defenders could not be certain they were friendly and even fired on them once—they were hurried inside the walls and welcomed.
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Though small in number and unlikely to significantly shift the balance of power, the fact that they had been able to ride through enemy lines and sneak inside the fort proved uplifting to Travis and his men, who now believed that more might be en route.

But the arrival of the “Gonzales Ranging Company of Mounted Volunteers,” led by “El Colorado” John Smith himself, had been more lucky than skillful. Santa Anna had anticipated Fannin’s relief to arrive from the southeast, heading up from La Bahia, and had stationed patrols there. Coming from the northeast, Smith and the volunteers rode right in.
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Still, the reinforcements lifted spirits inside the garrison, and though the day dawned freezing cold, men scurried about with a renewed cheer-fulness.

Crockett took out his fiddle for a jig or two, joined by the Scotsman John McGregor, and the two of them played tunes together, a huddle of men humming along, clapping and laughing when the two competed to see who could create the most noise with his instrument.
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Crockett ’s grin, good humor, and storytelling buoyed the cold, hungry, and lonely men during the long days under siege by an army whose numbers grew to frightening proportions. Travis, feeling spry with the arrivals, ordered his gunners to launch two cannonballs from his twelve-pounders, one crashing into the military plaza, the other exploding on its target in a direct hit, tearing through the timber roof of a house suspected to be the headquarters of Santa Anna himself and sending Mexicans scattering for cover.
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Travis and the men were unaware of most of the goings-on outside their immediate surroundings. It was probably best that Travis was ignorant of Sam Houston’s behavior and state of mind, for the notorious Raven was in Washington-on-the-Brazos at the constitutional convention, where, rather than acting like a general and future president of Texas, he was engaged in a raging drunk. His drinking was so severe that his friends had to physically subdue him and carry him from the grog-shops to his bed. When, on March 2, the
Brazoria Texas Republican
published Travis’s “Victory or Death” letter, Houston balked, doubting the veracity of the letter and calling it “a damned lie,” then adding that the reports by both Travis and Fannin were schemes to bolster their popularity.
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The resulting doubt about the claims from Béxar slowed immediate action from Washington-on-the-Brazos.

Meanwhile, on March 2, Santa Anna resumed his shelling of the compound, and even began slowly inching his artillery forward, pinching in closer and closer to the Alamo walls.
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Beneath his veneer of hope and optimism, Travis would have been feeling exasperated frustration, noting that his appeals had gone mostly unanswered, and that thirty-two men was hardly enough. He had expected Fannin and hundreds.

The next day Travis witnessed a harrowing sight: long, serpentine lines of enemy soldiers streamed into Béxar, numbering over a thousand strong by the looks of them. Even more disconcerting, the arrival of this regiment, a well-armed cavalry in full-dress regalia, was heralded by music, boisterous singing, drums, firing weapons, and fanfare, so that he concluded (wrongly, it turned out, since Santa Anna had actually been there since the siege began) that the hoopla signaled the arrival of Santa Anna himself. As he stared grimly across the river and the plaza, Travis surveyed a force of some 2,500 troops.
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But Travis also witnessed something else, something nearly miraculous considering it was broad daylight: James Butler Bonham galloped up, having managed to squirt directly between the Mexican-seized powder house and cavalry commander General Ramirez y Sesma’s troops. It was a daring move: after hiding in the thicket and brush, he had bolted for open ground and spurred hard, swinging low on his mount to minimize himself as a target, but no fire came. At around 11 a.m. Bonham arrived inside the Alamo walls.
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He quickly reached into his saddlebags and produced a letter from R. M. Williamson in San Felipe, addressed to William Barrett Travis, dated March 1, 1836. The words could not have been more welcomed, suggesting that even as Bonham read, Texians were hastening to their defense. It was precisely the kind of positive news the garrison had long awaited:

Sixty men have set out from this municipality and in all human probability they are with you at this date. Colonel Fannin, with three hundred men and four pieces of artillery, has been on the march toward Bejar for three days. Tonight we expect some three hundred reinforcements . . . and no time will be wasted in seeking their help for you . . . PS. For God’s sake, hold out until we can help you.
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Travis took Bonham’s unscathed arrival as a prompt that he might also succeed in getting a messenger out, and he retired to his quarters to write the convention in Washington. He would choose his words and tone carefully, resulting in a most detailed, informative, and patriotic document, one that reiterated his intention to fight to the death, reinforcements or none. He coldly and clearly assessed his military situation and laid out his military needs. “Colonel Fannin is said to be on the march to this place,” he wrote, adding his dubious appraisal, “but I fear it is not true.” He reiterated that despite incessant shelling since February 25, they had managed to hold the fort down without losing a single man. Travis told the men of the convention that he was completely surrounded by the enemy, yet despite the continual bombardment, he had been able to fortify “this place, that the walls are generally proof against canon balls.” He then turned to the condition and mental state of his brave defenders. “The spirits of my men are still high, though they have had much to depress them.” He went on to estimate that the enemy encircling him was between 1,500 and 6,000, including the thousand marching in as he wrote.
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He needed help, and he needed it now. He carefully outlined his desires: 500 pounds of cannon powder, 200 rounds of cannonballs in six-, nine-, twelve-, and eighteen-pound balls, ten kegs of rifle powder, and a healthy supply of lead, all sent with no further delay, under heavy guard.
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If these requests were quickly met, he and the defenders might just have a chance. But if the relief did not arrive expeditiously, Travis would have no alternative but to “fight the enemy on his own terms,” and those terms were to the death, with a “no prisoners” provision from the enemy. “A blood-red banner waves from the church of Bejar, and in the camp above us, in token that the war is one of vengeance against rebels. They have declared us as such, and demanded that we should surrender at discretion, or that this garrison should be put to the sword.”

Travis closed with defiance, pointing out that the red flags of “no quarter” did not faze him, nor his men. “Their threats have had no influence on me, or my men, but to make all fight with desperation, and that high souled courage which characterizes the patriot, who is willing to die in defence of his country’s liberty and his own honor.”
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In a cryptic and grim postscript, Travis underscored that the enemy reinforcements continued to pour in, and their numbers would soon mount to two or three thousand. He signed off—“God and Texas—Victory or Death.” He pressed the long letter into his courier’s hand and sent him toward Washington, where the delegates were busy framing the Texian Declaration of Independence, lifting most of it directly from that of the United States of 1776.

Perhaps sensing that the end was drawing near, Travis penned two more letters during the day, these shorter and more personal, one to his friend Jesse Grimes, the other a brief note to friend David Ayers, guardian of Travis’s son. Perhaps fearing that his first letter would fail to make it through the enemy lines, Travis reiterated some of that correspondence, then added

Let the Convention go on and make a declaration of independence; and we will then understand and the world will understand what we are fighting for. If independence is not declared, I shall lay down my arms and so will the men under my command. But under the flag of independence, we are ready to peril our lives a hundred times a day, and to dare the monster who is fighting us under a blood-red flag, threatening to make Texas a waste desert . . . If my countrymen do not rally to my relief, I am determined to perish in the defence of this place, and my bones shall reproach my country for her neglect.
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He had made his case, politically and militarily, so that now all that was left was to write a note regarding his son, which echoes some of the sentiment found in Crockett’s letter to his family back in January. Both mention that securing Texas would result in a “fortune” for themselves and their families. Travis procured a ripped scrap of yellowing paper and scribbled the following:

Take care of my little boy. If the country should be saved I may make him a splendid fortune. But if the country should be lost, and I should perish, he will have nothing but the proud recollection that he is the son of a man who died for his country.
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Thinking of his son and certainly doubtful that he would ever see the boy again, Travis handed the letters to his trusted envoy, “El Colorado” John Smith, and sent him on his way.

Ironically, the same day, March 3, in Washington-on-the-Brazos, the declaration of independence was read aloud to the assembly and signed by everyone present, officially ratifying the Republic of Texas.
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The next day, Sam Houston was made commander in chief of the army, and it would be his job to rescue the defenders if he could gather enough troops and get there in time.