William Johnstone - Eyes of Eagles

Jamie could not find Travis, so he climbed up on a makeshift parapet and reported to Bowie, who was directing the realignment of cannon. Bowie listened to every word, his face growing grimmer. “We retreated once,” Bowie said, his words low. “We shall never retreat again.”

“Sir?” Jamie questioned.

“We came in here, from out there,” Bowie explained, pointing. He looked out toward the empty cold landscape. “What you saw were the Dragoons, Jamie. And also Santa Anna’s fighting engineers.”

Jamie had seen much more than that, but he did not contradict Bowie.

Both men watched as couriers saddled up and rode out, Dr. Sutherland and Mr. Smith were heading to Gonzales, about seventy-five miles away, with a message from Travis, pleading for help. The second courier rode to Goliad, in yet another appeal to Fannin to send help.

Davy Crockett walked up, his rifle, Ol’ Betsy, as he called it, in his hand. “I reckon Santy Anny’s here, boys. He’s been wantin’ a fight, so let’s make sure we give him a good one.”

“Did you take that military commission Travis offered you, Davy?” Bowie asked.

“Nope,” Crockett replied. “I come here to fight, not to order men about. You colonels just tell me where you want me and my sharpshooters, and there we’ll be.”

Bowie smiled.

Davy lifted a telescope to his eye and looked south for a moment, just able to see the long line of mounted soldiers. He lowered the glass. “Right purty, ain’t they? If they can fight as well as they dress, we’re in for a right good scrap.” He handed the glass to Bowie and stepped down to the courtyard.

“You have any orders for me, Jim?” Jamie asked.

Bowie coughed and spat up blood. “No, lad. You’ve done more than your share. You just pick you a good spot from which to fight and get ready.” Bowie stared at him for a moment. “You keep a horse saddled, Jamie. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir. Jim?”

Bowie nodded his head.

“How long can we hold out?”

“A good question. I would say ten or twelve days. No more than that.”

Bowie very nearly pegged it on the money. They would hold out for thirteen days. Thirteen days of awful, bloody courage and greatness.

Standing on the windy parapet beside the legendary knife fighter, Jamie’s thoughts drifted back for a moment to the Big Thicket country . . . and to Kate. He allowed himself a few moments of memories, and then shook them away when he became conscious of Bowie’s eyes on him.

“Thinking of hearth and home, lad?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll see your loved ones again, lad. I’m going to make certain of that. You’re going to go on and do great things, Jamie. I sensed that in you the first moment I laid eyes on you.”

“Why not young Fuqua yonder?” Jamie questioned, cutting his eyes to the boy called Galba. “He couldn’t be more than sixteen or seventeen years old.”

Bowie shook his head and evaded any reply. “I’ve been writing something, Jamie. But I’ve not yet finished composing. When I’m done, I’ll give it to you. See that it gets to the Telegraph and Texas Register. I’ll admit, Jamie, that I’ll be cutting it close. But if any man jack here can get out with the dying words from this garrison, that person is you. I’d be obliged if you’d do that thing for me.”

“I’m in your company, Jim. I’ll obey your orders.”

Bowie smiled and clasped Jamie’s arm. “Good lad. Now let’s get ready for a fight.”

Jamie noticed the smile on Bowie’s lips.

“Tell me the joke, Jim?”

Bowie laughed and then coughed. “His Lord and Majesty General Santa Anna will ask for our surrender, Jamie. I’ve a bit of a surprise for him, that’s all.”

“Is this sure to irritate Colonel Travis?”

Bowie chuckled. “Probably.” And he walked off without adding to that.

Jamie shook his head, wondering if Travis and Bowie would ever get along, even should they be admitted together through the gates of Heaven?

The answer was no.

Hell, either.

Part Three

The Siege

Do not go gently into that good night,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

— Dylan Thomas

Twenty - nine

The First Day

Santa Anna’s first real battle and his first encounter with Americans had been back in 1813, when he was a young man in the army of General Arredondo and sent to this very town to put down a civil insurrection by a bunch of Anglos trying to form a Republic of Texas. What nonsense, Santa Anna thought. His general had put everyone involved into a wild rout. Then came the punishments. Santa Anna enjoyed that immensely. Santa Anna felt nothing but scorn for Americans. Cowards, all of them.

He shifted in his saddle. He had been afflicted with disentería — in cruder terms, the shits — on the long march north, and he was not quite over it. That did nothing to improve his cruel temper.

It was time to enter the town. He had dressed in his finest uniform, with his chest filled with all the medals he’d won over the years of battles. His horse had been washed and groomed, his saddle, studded with silver, had been rubbed and polished.

Santa Anna had plans in mind for the residents of San Antonio, too. Dark savage plans. For he hated them. All of them. Years back he had been humiliated here, over a minor game of chance. And a not so minor incident of forgery — on his part. He had lied his way clear of any charges with his superiors, but he had never forgotten the laughter from the citizens of this wretched town. They would pay. Dearly.

And to further show how lightly Santa Anna treated the defenders at the Alamo... he planned to be married during the siege. To a lovely girl he had met only a few hours ago!

Santa Anna obviously did not believe in long courtships.

* * *

“Messenger comin’ under a white flag, Jim,” a lookout called from his post.

“They’ll be wanting us to surrender,” Bowie said, climbing up and standing beside a charged cannon.

The Mexican officer, all decked out in a fancy-colored uniform, called for the commanding officer. Bowie grinned and looked around for Travis. He was, as usual, in his office, writing reports.

“That’s me, Amigo,” Bowie replied cheerfully, in perfect Spanish. “Jim Bowie at your service. Que haces? ”

“Your surrender, senor Bowie. General Santa Anna demands an unconditional surrender.”

“I can but assume he’s watching all this?” Bowie asked.

“ Si, senor.”

“Run up the flag!” Bowie ordered.

Watching through a glass, Santa Anna’s face reddened in rage as the red, white, and green Mexican flag, with some additions added, was hoisted up the flagpole inside the mission. Santa Anna cursed. The numbers 1824 were clearly visible, serving to remind him of the Texas constitution drafted in 1824.

Santa Anna told his aide, “The flag of no quarter. Now!”

The red flag was hoisted on the Mexican side, and every defender watching from the walls in the Alamo knew what it meant: a fight to the death.

Santa Anna issued another order and his cannon roared. They missed their target.

“Fire!” Bowie ordered, and the eighteen-pounder thundered out the Alamo’s defiant reply.

Travis rushed from his quarters, furious. Bowie had not told him of his plans to do this. From the parapets, Bowie smiled down at him.

“Jim’s little surprise for Colonel Travis,” Jamie muttered to Davy Crockett.

“I ’spect it did get ever’body’s attention,” Crockett drawled. “Damn shore got mine!”

“I wish a word with you, Bowie!” Travis yelled.