William Johnstone - Eyes of Eagles

“After you... amigo.”

So it was a truce. But would it have lasted had Bowie not been terribly hurt in an accident the very next day?

No one knows.

Thirty

The Second Day

February 24, 1836

The Mexican artillery had kept up their bombardment all during the night, causing most of the defenders of the Alamo to sleep lightly at best, at their posts. This was to be the case for the next twelve days. A few of the men had managed to get a few hours good rest despite the bombardment: Bowie, Crockett, Jamie, and several others awakened rested. Most of the others had slept only fitfully.

Over coffee and beef and beans, which for the most part, was what the defenders would live on for the next twelve days, Jamie studied the one hundred and fifty or so men. The discussion that morning was not of the thousands of Mexican troops just outside the old church, but of the letter, drafted and signed by both William Travis and Jim Bowie, that a courier had taken to Governor Smith of Texas before dawn. That letter stated that Travis and Bowie would, from that date on, share command of the Alamo and orders to the men would be mutually agreed upon. That had come as a real shock to men loyal to each faction. But even though all considered it a good sign, most of the defenders’ loyalty still went with Jim Bowie.

Most of the defenders still clung to the belief that reinforcements would come, and together they would whip the Mexican Army. It was a false hope, but it was all they had to keep them going. They had food enough for about three weeks, simple fare, but enough to keep them alive. They were low on powder and shot. But they had plenty of spirit, and that was something that Bowie and Travis had spoken of long into the shell-shot night.

“You know it’s hopeless,” Bowie had told Travis.

“I do not know of any such thing, Bowie.”

“Bill, we’re a hundred and fifty against six or seven thousand.”

“Fannin will come.”

“Only with his wife or a whore,” Bowie said with a smile. “Fannin will do nothing without orders, and the advisory committee will never issue those orders. We’re being sacrificed. But that’s not without merit. What we’re doing here is buying time. Precious time. Time for Houston to get his army ready and in place.”

Travis dropped his eyes to the grounds in his cup and was silent for a moment. “The men?”

“I think they know. The chaplain does.”

Travis sighed heavily. “I have started writing a letter.”

“So, too, have I.”

“Mine is not yet finished.”

Bowie poured them both fresh coffee. “Nor is mine.”

“I expect to have mine finished by tomorrow...” He consulted his timepiece. “... This afternoon. I have asked Captain Martin to stand by to ride.”

“I have not yet started committing mine to paper.” He tapped the side of his head. “But I have it here. I shall start this evening. By then I should have time.”

He wasn’t aware of it, but he would have lots of time to write until the bloody, awful end, still some week and a half away.

“If I might make a suggestion... ?”

“By all means.”

“Jamie MacCallister could take your message from these fortified walls.”

Bowie smiled. “That’s the lad I had in mind.”

“Good! Good! The men tell me he’s like a ghost in the night.” Travis smiled at the knife fighter across the rough table. “I have some brandy...”

Bowie returned the smile. “I don’t recall ever turning down a drink, Bill.”

Brandy poured, the men sniffed and then sipped the explosive mixture.

Travis rose from the table and walked to a makeshift desk. He took out several pages of paper and handed them to Bowie. Bowie pulled the candle closer and read:

“ To the People of Texas & all Americans in the world. Fellow citizens & compatriots —I am besieged, by a thousand or more of the Mexicans under Santa Anna — I have sustained a continual bombardment & cannonade for 24 hours & have not lost a man — The enemy has demanded a surrender at discretion, otherwise, the garrison are to be put to the sword, if the fort is taken — I have answered the demand with a cannon shot, & our flag still waves proudly from the walls — I shall never surrender or retreat. Then, I call on you in the name of Liberty, of patriotism, & everything dear to the American character, to come to our aid, with all dispatch — The enemy is receiving reinforcements daily & will no doubt increase to three or four thousand in four or five days. If this call is neglected, I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible & die like a soldier who never forgets what is due to his own honor & that of his country — Victory or Death .” 1

Bowie nodded his head in agreement with the words. “I can add nothing to this stirring tribute to the defenders of this mission, Bill. You’ve said it all.”

“Then there is nothing left to do, is there, Jim?”

“Yes,” Bowie said softly. “Fight and die for Texas.”

* * *

The Mexican bombardment continued throughout the day, with very little damage to the makeshift fort, and no injuries or fatalities to the defenders. But Crockett and his sharpshooters played hell with any Mexican soldier who came too close to the walls. Because of the sharpshooters’ deadly accuracy with their long rifles, the Mexicans were unable to move their light cannon any closer.

Inside the compound, the defenders were working frantically to get everything ready for the charge they knew was coming. They shored up the walls and reinforced any broken places in the walls. The hospital was made ready. The noncombatants, some twenty-five of them, were instructed to tend to the wounded, when that occurred, and all knew it would, and soon. For now, they saw to the keeping of fires, the preparation of food, the washing of the defenders’ clothing, and to the rolling of bandages and the safekeeping of the meager supply of medicines.

It did not rain that day, and the sun was welcome, for it had been a cold and very wet month so far. The sun felt good and Bowie’s cough was not nearly so pronounced as he worked to mount another cannon on the south end of the plaza, on a fifteen-foot platform.

Bowie’s mind was not entirely on the placing of the cannon. The Mexican bombardment was continuous and distracting. During the night, the Mexican gunners had crept closer and now some of the cannonballs were actually striking the walls of the mission. Also, after he’d left Travis’s company the night before, he’d gotten drunk and now he had a headache. And the ropes holding the cannon were badly frayed.

Whatever the reason for the accident, Bowie felt the heavy cannon shift on him. “Look out!” he called to the men below him. The men below scrambled out of harm’s way. For a few seconds, all that held the heavy cannon was Bowie’s tremendous upper-body strength. Men raced toward him with rope, but it was too late. The cannon shifted again and slammed into Bowie’s side, crushing his ribs. Bowie fell from the platform and the cannon pivoted again, and stopped against a heavy support post sunk deep into the ground. Bowie lay nearly unconscious on the ground, a fearsome head wound gushing blood and each breath agony because of his broken ribs. Bowie passed out on the way to the hospital.

* * *

Still far to the north, Tall Bull and his small band of warriors made their way cautiously south, staying clear of any settlements. They were not a war party. Not yet, anyway. If by some miracle Jamie MacCallister escaped from the old mission, then and only then, would they become a war party. After only one white. Jamie Ian MacCallister.

* * *

Deep in the Big Thicket of East Texas, Kate sat out the cold winter with the children and waited for some word from Jamie. But none came. Finally, on the 24th of February, the day of Bowie’s accident, a merchant from San Augustine brought her a letter that Jamie had written and posted several weeks back.