William Johnstone - Eyes of Eagles

The riflemen on the ramparts settled in to kill just as many of the enemy as they could that day, and kill them they did. Estimates ranged from three hundred and fifty dead to as many as eight hundred killed. No accurate count would ever be known. But one thing was for certain: the defenders of the Alamo took a terrible toll on the Mexican soldiers that day. The grounds all around the Alamo were littered with enemy dead.

Jamie and Sam lay on the roof of the barracks and killed or wounded their share that bloody day. On one occasion, the Mexican troops managed to get within a hundred yards of the Alamo’s wall, but Crockett and his men drove them back with withering and deadly accurate rifle fire. By eleven o’clock on the third day, the Mexican force retreated in bloody confusion. Santa Anna had already raced from his dubious protection in the houses close to the Alamo back to the safety of the town.

The huts and houses around the Alamo were now blazing as Brown and Despallier had done their work and were now running full tilt back to the walls of the mission as rifle balls hummed and whined all around them from the Mexican lines. Miraculously, neither of them received a scratch. They hurled themselves through the open gates to the wild cheering of the defenders.

It was not yet noon of the third day, and the Mexican Army had been soundly trounced, the infantrymen running back in disorder, out of range of the riflemen along the walls.

Gasping for breath, the two young men gulped first water and then coffee and withstood with grins the congratulatory backpounding they received from the men around them.

“By God, we done it!” Davy Crockett yelled from the parapets, holding Ol’ Betsy high over his head. “We put them greasers to the run, boys.”

In his bed, Bowie heard the legendary woodsman’s shout and smiled sadly. He had never liked the term “greaser,” and he wondered how the Mexicans fighting alongside the Anglos in the Alamo would take it. But Bowie could understand how Crockett felt. The enemy was the enemy, and for doomed men, any term was certainly applicable.

His worry was needless. For Fuqua, Esparza, and the other Mexicans inside the Alamo, they grinned and cheered right along with the others.

Santa Anna was livid with rage. He stormed up and down inside the house he was using as his headquarters and cursed his officers and men for cowardly jackals. He kicked out at anything that he found close to his polished boots. Finally, exhausted by his efforts, he sat down in a chair and glared at those around him.

Santa Anna pointed a trembling finger at his officers. “A repeat of today will not happen again,” he warned them. Taking a moment to further compose himself, he said, “I want the bridge work completed by tomorrow evening. No excuses; just get it done.”

The San Antonio river was over its banks due to an unusually wet winter. Santa Anna’s fighting engineers were working furiously to build several bridges across the river.

“It will be done,” Santa Anna was assured.

The weather had turned fickle and the wind had shifted and was now coming out of the north, dropping the temperature below freezing. Santa Anna’s engineers were not only fighting time, but now they had to contend with the bitter cold. Inside the walls of the Alamo, the defenders, few of whom were adequately dressed for the winter, had to struggle to keep from freezing to death.

Travis ordered the men to exercise to get the blood flowing more freely. Some did; most ignored his orders.

After taking a head count and determining that everyone was safely inside, Travis decided not to push the issue and soon retired to the warmth of his quarters to do what he loved to do: write letters and reports to Houston.

The Mexican artillery barrage kept up all night. The men inside the Alamo huddled together to keep warm and the fire watch was kept busy maintaining the fires.

So far, no defender of the Alamo had been killed and what wounds they’d suffered were very slight. All that was about to change.

* * *

At the convention, Houston had talked until he realized his words were falling on deaf ears. The men at the Alamo were doomed; sacrificed on a blood altar. On this cold and bitter night, Houston stood outside his quarters and brooded. Governor Smith had earlier placed Houston on leave until March 1st, so Houston had no army to command. Houston had gone at once to meet with the Cherokee chiefs to get their word that they would not attack the Texans and would remain neutral during the war. They gave their word.

Houston looked toward the west, toward the Alamo, a hundred miles away, and lifted a hand in salute. “Farewell,” he whispered to the cold wind and the darkness. “May God be with you in your final hours.” Bitterly, he added, “That’s about all you have going for you.”

* * *

Jamie huddled against the wall, listening to the crash of the Mexican artillery slamming against the walls. The ground trembled beneath the soles of his moccasins. Jamie was fortunate in one respect: he was dressed warmly enough and had the serape the Nunez family had given him. His hands were protected from the cold by the gloves Hannah had lovingly made for him. He dozed off, only to be brought back to consciousness by the never-ending artillery barrage.

Jamie wondered if he would ever see Kate and the children again.

Thirty-two

The Fourth Day

February 26th, 1836

Long before dawn broke, Jamie finally said to hell with trying to sleep, and left the protection of the thick wall and went in search of coffee. He got his coffee and a plate of beef and settled down to eat his breakfast while the Mexican gunners continued to bombard the old mission.

When dawn finally split the skies, all hint of rain was gone and the sky was a beautiful blue. The temperature remained quite cold.

When Jamie finished eating, he rinsed out his plate and took up his rifle and walked the nearly three-acre compound, speaking to others as he walked. He knew them all now, at least their first names or nicknames, and they knew him. But on this morning, Jamie could sense a mood of discouragement among the defenders. Even Crockett was no longer laughing and acting the fool and cracking jokes in an attempt to bolster the spirits of the men. The legendary frontiersman was somber, as he stood on the ramparts, staring out toward town.

Jamie climbed the ladder and joined him.

“That damn Mex general has done shifted men all about durin’ the night, lad,” Crockett said. “He’s pretty well sealed us up tight.”

Jamie could see through the smoke from the cannon that Santa Anna had blocked the roads leading east. “That isn’t all he’s done,” Jamie said, after the crash of cannonballs had ceased for a moment. “He’s blocked any possible help from getting to us... at least by the road.”

“What help?” Crockett said, a bitter tone to his voice, as he and Jamie watched as yet another messenger was sent by Travis. The man galloped away. After several harrowing miles, he would circle wide and head for Fannin’s location — if he wasn’t killed by some Mexican patrol.

“How many do that make, Davy?” one of Crockett’s men asked, moving close to be heard.

“Oh, eight or ten in the past few days,” Davy replied. “He told ’em they could RIP if they wanted to.”

“Rest in Peace?” the man questioned.

“Return if Possible,” Davy corrected.

“Goddamnit!” the volunteer cursed, his breath steaming in the cold air. “They’s got to be help on the way!”

“Don’t count on it,” Jamie said. “I think we’re all alone in this fight.”

“Surely the lad is wrong,” Jamie heard another man say as he walked away, climbing down the ladder. “Ain’t he, Davy?”