Exodus From the Alamo: The Anatomy of the Last Stand Myth (44 page)

But in truth, the stiffest resistance this morning came not from a previously designated “second” line of defense in the Long Barracks but from the large number of sick and wounded confined to the hospital on the building’s second story. These defenders included not only the sick and injured—or walking wounded—but also those men who served as nurses and attendants. Meanwhile, healthy and able men fired from the Long Barracks’ rooftop, blasting away from this 18-foot-high perch.

More wounded and sick garrison members were located in the second story of the Long Barracks than previously recognized by historians. The siege had resulted in a number of relatively minor casualties, despite the ineffective bombardment. Consequently, soldiers who had only been slightly injured during the siege helped to defend the hospital. Also men who had been wounded during San Antonio’s capture in December 1835 remained in recuperation on the second floor. Quite likely, one of these convalescents was Ireland-born Private James Magee, a former member of the New Orleans Greys who now served in Captain Blazeby’s infantry company. The Irishman had been severely wounded in the attack on Béxar. Magee should have learned from the tragic death of fellow Irish revolutionary, Augustus Magee of an earlier generation, who succumbed in San Antonio far from his native Ireland for an earlier, premature vision of Texas independence.

By the time of Santa Anna’s attack on the Alamo—three months after the Texans had captured San Antonio—recuperating wounded and sick men were able to defend themselves to some degree. On the other hand, the number of diseased garrison members—like Bowie— increased as the siege lengthened, with rations, sanitation, and overall health and living conditions deteriorating to new lows. Altogether, perhaps as many as 75 sick and wounded men were now located in the hospital. For instance, Susanna Dickinson estimated that “50 or 60” wounded men, who had fallen in the December attack, were there. Such soldiers wounded during the siege of Béxar included England-born Private James Nowlan, age 27, and quite likely 31-year-old Sergeant William Daniel Hersee, who had also been born in Great Britain and was one of Captain Carey’s “Invincibles.”

A fairly high number of wounded and sick men was also verified by the fact that a number of Tejano and Indian women attended them. A low figure of only 60 wounded and sick at the infirmary represented more than a third of the entire Alamo garrison at the time of the siege’s beginning. Such a high overall percentage also ensured that any adequate defensive effort was all but impossible.

Meticulous with such details, engineer Jameson had counted only 34 men—out of a total of 114, including officers—in the Alamo’s hospital on January 18, 1836, but the garrison’s health quickly worsened. More than two months later, ravages of disease and sickness had stricken a much larger number of men, like Bowie, and the lengthy siege had only made the situation worse, with additional garrison members falling ill. Even without those inflicted by a serious disease and illnesses, the rigors of the siege, the cold weather, ragged clothing to ward off the elements, no medical supplies, and lack of wood for fires guaranteed that a good many garrison members were sick by the time of the attack, and more than previously realized. Indeed, just before the Alamo’s fall, Dr. Sutherland wrote how “when I left the Alamo [as a courier on February 23] there was 143 men, 110 of which was on the sick list.” How many of these attempted to rouse themselves and go outside to either fight or escape is not known.

What is clear is that quite possibly more men—albeit mainly sick or injured ones—defended the hospital than had attempted to defend the northern and western perimeters, and even the lower floor of the Long Barracks. But the struggle at the second-story hospital was more intense than that of the better-publicized defense of the lower floor of the Long Barracks, the armory. These soldiers occupied the Long Barracks not because of a previously agreed upon tactical plan for a second line of defense, but because so many sick, wounded, and attendants had been caught at this location and were unable to escape. In contrast, most able-bodied men had fled toward the southern perimeter, which was not under attack, seeking to escape the slaughter.

The second story hospital atop the armory of the old convent building was the scene of the hardest-fought struggle inside the Alamo. Thanks to Mexican soldier accounts, Johnson revealed as much when he described how “it was not until then, when they became more concentrated and covered within, that the main struggle began. They were more concentrated as to space, not as to unity of command . . . “
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Ironically, the principal “battle”—the real last stand—within the Alamo compound’s confines was not fought along the walls and perimeter, but in and around the hospital. It was there that a large percentage of the garrison was concentrated, and even if infirm, now fought for its last chance of survival. This new view of a higher percentage of defenders who were unable to defend the walls corresponds with the words of Susanna Dickinson, who said that on March 6 “about seventy-five men who had been wounded in the fight with Cós” were present with the garrison, ironically after receiving treatment from paroled Mexican surgeons.
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According to this number, the percentage of sick and wounded Alamo soldiers at the infirmary was higher than 40 percent. This estimation coincided in part with the opinion of a Mexican soldier born in Guanajuato, Mexico, in 1810 during the dramatic year of Hidalgo’s revolution, who described particularly stiff resistance. Sergeant Francisco Becerra described the hardest fighting he faced on his day: “There was a long room [and]—it was darkened. Here the fight was bloody. It proved to be the hospital. The sick and the wounded fired from their beds and pallets.”
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But any defense of the Long Barracks, the hospital, and other buildings was a guaranteed death sentence. Those men who entered these abode and stone structures in the hope of survival would never leave them alive. Other quick-thinking, or more fortunate soldiers realized as much, and had wisely forsaken the shelter of the Long Barracks and other structures. A large number of Alamo defenders now headed toward the palisade under the veil of darkness, unseen by the attackers. In the context of the exodus from the Alamo about to take place, it is all but certain that an unknown number of able-bodied men and walking wounded slipped out of the hospital to join them, rather than join the hopeless, confused fight at the north wall and in the plaza. Instead they rushed in the opposite direction, toward the palisade.
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As Mexicans continued to pour into the Alamo in the dark early morning hours of March 6, most garrison members who withdrew from the north and west wall or fled the Long Barracks before entrapment understood that seeking refuge in the fort’s buildings was suicidal. Therefore, a large number of men chose life over death by retiring past the Long Barracks toward the southern perimeter, away from the main Mexican attack on the north. By this time, with Morales’ troops still remaining in and around the southwest corner, this sector continued to offer a relatively open avenue of withdrawal.

Ironically, by not understanding the upcoming exodus from the Alamo, historians have gotten the exact scenario reversed, with defenders dashing north across the plaza to defend the north wall instead of moving south. They have assumed that south wall defenders, especially those stationed at the palisade, raced across the plaza’s great length to assist in the north wall’s defense. But this traditional scenario was virtually an impossibility given the time sequences and the fact that the Mexicans had already come over the north wall and entered the plaza practically before the garrison was fully aroused.

All the while, the vast majority of the Alamo’s artillery continued to be silent. Instead of cannon blasts erupting from the defenders, the loudest roar inside the Alamo came from the firing of Brown Bess muskets from the attackers, developments made possible not only by the surprise attack but also by tactical developments which made the Alamo’s cannon largely useless. General Filisola explained another reason for the cannon’s silence: “. . . the instinct of the [Mexican] troops as they attack, moving to the right and to the left on the North side and the movement made by Miñon and Morales with their column on the West corner of the South side which they attacked, left without a target all the guns that the enemy had located on the other three sides.”
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In addition, because the tops of the walls were so narrow, most Alamo artillery pieces had not been placed at elevated points to defend the perimeter except at the timber and earth artillery platforms. As throughout this morning, the Alamo’s considerable defensive liabilities continued to negate an abundance of artillery, even while the Mexicans surged through the plaza. There was simply no time for the vast majority of cannon along the perimeter to be turned inward to wreak havoc on the attackers in the plaza’s darkness.
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Clearly, the considerable amount of time it took for the gunners to rush from their artillery barracks to reach their assigned positions, and then to load their cannon—combined with an inability to depress most pieces sufficiently to fire—made the Alamo’s artillery all but obsolete from the beginning to the end of the struggle. Amazed by the lack of artillery fire, General Filisola concluded: “The way their cannon were positioned they were not alongside the wall, nor could they aim their fire against our men once they were surrounded by the wall itself.” Therefore, perhaps only one cannon—that which had raked the Toluca Battalion—was truly effective that morning. As indicated by Filisola, the traditional story that artillery pieces were turned inward to fire inside the wide plaza swarming with Mexican troops was a myth to justify allegedly high attacker losses.

Indeed, contrary to the mythological Alamo, neither sufficient time nor manpower existed for cannon to be turned inward. For instance, the barrel alone of the 18-pounder weighed more than a ton, and, like other guns, especially those mounted on naval carriages, could not be turned inward. Most important, the relatively easy overwhelming of the key artillery positions along the perimeter—Forts Teran and Condelle and the southwest corner—was simply too swift for cannoneers to turn their guns around, which would have meant exposing their backs to the attackers.
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To support the myth of the defenders’ combat prowess, the timehonored view that the Alamo’s cannon, all loaded with homemade canister and firing effectively at close range, wreaked terrible havoc in the Mexican ranks—both inside and outside the Alamo—was a fiction to justify defensive heroics and grossly inflated Mexican losses. But General Filisola told the truth of the artillery’s impotence this early morning because of poor positioning and the lack of trained cannoneers, which ensured that even if gunners reached their pieces in time, these artillery pieces would still have been largely ineffective.
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Ironically, most Mexican soldiers who became casualties from defenders’ fire—rifle, not artillery—very likely fell not outside the Alamo’s walls but on the inside, having been cut down by return fire from the Long Barracks, the hospital, and the rooftop. Compared to the open plaza that had become a killing field, the Long Barracks had offered an inviting refuge, or so it seemed, to panicked survivors yet reeling from the shock of a surprise attack at night. Therefore, for the first time all morning, a substantial number of Alamo defenders had come together, not by design but quite by accident.
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With resistance having shifted ever higher, “a lively rifle fire,” in de la Pena’s words, came from the Long Barracks’ rooftop at a height of nearly twenty feet, a commanding perch. This was the most galling, concentrated rifle and shotgun fire unleashed by the defenders that morning. Given the hundreds of soldados massed together in the plaza, each bullet fired could hardly miss, sometimes passing through the flesh of more than one attacker. For the first time, Alamo riflemen finally had a decent firing position, making a stand around the garrison’s flag, which could not yet be seen by the attackers in the darkness.
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Meanwhile, a large number of garrison members continued to dash toward the southern perimeter, heading for the palisade and main gate, which were free of attackers. Combined with the shock, surprise, and sheer terror of the Mexican onslaught, the thought of hundreds of attacking Mexican soldiers wielding bayonets—15 to 18 inches of cold steel—against defenders with little ammunition, few leaders remaining, and no bayonets of their own, hastened the flight of those men who had not taken shelter in the Long Barracks.

Indeed, the most powerful impact of the bayonet was purely psychological, a fact well understood by Napoleon. He had found that the mere threat of employing the bayonet was often more effective than the weapon itself. Even the best trained soldiers of Napoleonic-era armies often broke and ran when faced with hand-held steel, or as one British veteran put it: “One side turns and runs away as soon as the other comes close enough to do mischief.”
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And the Alamo defenders were the antithesis of such veterans, without training, experience, or discipline, and therefore far more vulnerable to that fear.
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Once they had fired their muskets and rifles, they possessed no weapons of sufficient length to fend off the attackers’ lethal bayonets. As Santa Anna had foreseen, the panic among the reeling Anglo-Celts who were now streaming south stemmed in part from the grim prospect of facing Mexican bayonets and a miserable death.
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What developed, therefore, had been a merely natural response from the defenders that morning. Instead of rushing forth in a futile attempt to man the undefendable north wall, a large number of garrison members, after emerging from their sleeping quarters, remained either in the area south of the Long Barracks or the plaza. After all, in the dark, confusion, noise, and chaos, no one could tell exactly where the main attack was coming from. Consequently, other newly awakened men had rushed not to the north wall, but south to defend both the palisade and the main gate, whose defenders had been firing at Morales’ column.

While the north wall had been overwhelmed, therefore, the south wall defenders along the so-called low barracks, facing the wrong way, had played no role in attempting to stop the Mexicans from pouring into the plaza. Ironically, these defenders along the south wall remained largely out of action, even after Colonel Morales’ column overran the elevated 18-pounder firing platform and then joined in the attack on the Long Barracks.

With no Mexican attack striking the southern perimeter and with Santa Anna’s troops swarming into their rear from the north wall, the defensive role of the men in position along the south wall, including the main gate lunette with its artillery, was negated in swift, effective fashion. If they remained in position along the south wall, then these soldiers would soon be struck from behind by the Mexicans now surging through the plaza from the north. By this time, even though the fighting in and around the Long Barracks continued unabated, groups of soldados poured farther south, advancing toward the palisade’s rear. However, and fortunately for them, darkness yet protected garrison members who fled to the southern perimeter.

At this time, consequently, a large number of garrison members, primarily those defending the southern perimeter and those who had fled the north wall and bypassed the Long Barracks, now began to come together near the palisade. They either acted on their own, or at the urging of officers who had kept their heads in the chaos, like Captains Baugh or Missouri-born William Charles M. Baker, or twenty-nineyear-old Samuel Blair from McGloin’s Irish Colony, if not yet killed by this time, or reliable noncommissioned officers, like English-born Sergeant James R. Dimpkins, a former member of the New Orleans Greys.

Not surprisingly, much of the Alamo garrison’s strength was naturally concentrated along the southern perimeter for two primary reasons: first, to protect the wooden palisade which was the weakest sector; and second, because the Alamo’s main gate was located at the south wall’s center. If garrison members had acted instinctively to leave their defensive positions along the southern perimeter on their own, then a capable officer might have attempted to take charge of the chaotic situation just south of the Long Barracks, perhaps in the Alamo courtyard. With Mexicans yet scaling the north wall, charging through the plaza, or focusing on reducing the Long Barracks, some time remained for men along the southern perimeter to organize themselves. Acting out of natural impulse, these soldiers came together in the day’s second ad hoc concentration of defenders, after the Long Barracks concentration.

If Sutherland was correct in his estimate that some two-thirds of garrison members were on the sick list at the siege’s beginning, then some sick and walking wounded had escaped the hospital and slipped out through the darkness unseen by the attackers, traversing the relatively short distance across the courtyard to the palisade.

In the darkness and wreaths of battle-smoke that yet shielded them from the attackers’ eyes, this concentration of garrison members near the palisade at the church’s southwest corner was completely understandable under the circumstances. For the most part, and before an enduring legend transformed them into mythical killing machines like Thermopylae’s Spartans, the Alamo men were in general more conservative and sensible compared to their more reckless comrades who had embarked upon the Matamoros expedition with relatively few troops only to meet with disaster from Santa Anna’s right wing. These young men and boys at the Alamo had only wanted to survive the war—after having decided to remain in remote San Antonio which was far safer than attacking Mexico—collect land for their military service, and settle down to live the rest of their lives in peace. No one wanted to needlessly sacrifice themselves and die a noble death for an apathetic Texas, which had yet to declare its independence, as far as they knew. And now these young soldiers so far from home suddenly found themselves facing a grisly death at the hands of an enraged soldiery bent on their destruction.

Meanwhile, additional Mexicans surged toward them, and with time running out, these refugees from the west, north, and south walls and any escapees from the Long Barracks who managed to get out in time, continued to unite as one near the palisade. Amid the relative safety of darkness, these survivors gathered together in the open ground at the southern end of the plaza, either in front of the church or in the palisade’s rear. A thin window of opportunity existed for this massing of survivors because the main struggle still raged at the Long Barracks, whose doomed defenders had unwittingly bought precious time for this concentration, drawing most of the Mexicans’ attention. Unobserved by Santa Anna’s troops in the blackness, this tactical situation allowed time for scores of garrison members to assemble near the low, wooden palisade. Clearly, now was the time to make a break for it before it was too late, and these desperate men, fortunate in having survived in the death trap so far, knew as much.

As Santa Anna later explained without exaggeration, one of the long-overlooked realities of this bloody morning was how “a large number” of the garrison attempted to get out of the Alamo alive, “hoping to escape the bayonets of the infantry . . .”
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In fact, a large-scale flight from the Alamo had been fully expected by Santa Anna and was an all but inevitable result of not only the disastrous situation within the compound but due to earlier decisions. For instance, de la Pena described how Travis had informed his men on March 5 that if no help arrived, then “they would surrender the next day or would try to escape under cover of darkness.” Quite simply, since the surprise attack negated any chance of the garrison’s surrender as a body, only one logical alternative remained: an opportunity which, ironically, Santa Anna’s nighttime assault—providing a shield of darkness— had provided.
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So far the overrunning of the Alamo had been surprisingly brief, perhaps only fifteen minutes had passed since the unleashing of the 5:30 a.m. assault. However, 6 a.m. was approaching, and around that time, the first faint light of day.
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Therefore, the natural primal instinct of flight, rather than fight, was now the only alternative for the survivors gathered at the palisade. However, the tragic fate of those men now planning to flee the indefensible Alamo was already preordained, just like the slaughtered Mexican militiamen at Zacatecas, where Sesma’s lancers and dragoons had demonstrated their efficiency and ruthlessness in slaughtering opponents, including the wounded, especially after they broke and fled. And now Mexico’s most apt killers of rebels, who were also the most resplendently uniformed soldiers in Santa Anna’s Army, were positioned on commanding ground around the Alameda. Sesma’s proud lancers looked like the famed French and Polish lancers at Napoleon’s zenith of power. The colorful, elegant uniforms of Sesma’s men disguised the fact that they were merciless killers. As in the past, these lancers were again inspired by the bugles blaring the Deguello, which was commanding them to kill without pity.