William Johnstone - Eyes of Eagles

Dusk was rapidly settling all around the mission. The Mexican cannons remained silent. Rose hesitated, then left most of his powder and shot behind, laying the pouches and flask on the ground. “You boys will be needing these.”

“Thank you, Louis,” Travis said. “We do need them desperately. That’s a fine gesture.”

“I guess there is nothing left to say,” Rose said. “Except farewell.”

A woman stepped forward and handed the man a small packet of food. “Something to tide you over, Louis.”

Rose was overcome with emotion as he took the food. He could not speak. He nodded his head in thanks and leaped for the rear wall and vanished into the gloom of dusk. Those in the Alamo waited for several minutes, no one moving or speaking. No shots were heard.

“By the Lord,” a man said. “I believe he made it.”

Louis Moses Rose vanished into history.

Thirty-nine

The Eleventh Day

March 4, 1836

Travis wrote no more reports to be sent outside the walls. He told Jamie, “I have no more dispatches for you, Jamie. There is nothing left to say. I cannot write of my own death before it happens. You may leave whenever you wish.”

“I’ll stay for a time yet,” Jamie told him.

“Santa Anna’s men are knocking at the gates now, Jamie. Don’t wait too long.”

Knocking at the gates was not far from the truth. During the night, the Mexican lines had moved to within two hundred yards of the walled compound. Under the now constant bombardment from Mexican cannon fire, the walls were crumbling at a much faster rate than the nearly exhausted defenders could shore them up. And they were out of timbers.

As Jamie moved around the plaza that day, men would call out to him.

“Take another scalp for me, MacCallister!”

“Godspeed, Jamie.”

“Remember the Alamo!” another called. Jamie would, and that phrase would become the battle cry for freedom.

The men were tired, but their spirits were high. They had made their decision, and that had seemed to pull them closer together and lift the general mood. They were going to die, they had accepted that fact, but they were going to die for By God Texas!

The Alamo was no longer thought of as a church. It was a mighty fortress of defiance.

Outside the walls, Santa Anna had had quite enough of those inside the Alamo. He ordered his commanders to make ready for the attack. Thousands of troops drew additional powder and shot. Scaling ladders were made more secure. Knives, swords, and bayonets were sharpened. Men said goodbye to their wives and/or girlfriends and their children. The defenders of the Alamo had about forty-eight hours to live.

Jamie had worked out his escape. It was a simple plan, for he knew that the more elaborate a plan was, the more likely it was to fail. He gave his spare rifles to men along the parapets. He would leave with one rifle, two pistols, his knife, and his bow and quiver of arrows.

He was ready to go.

* * *

Santa Anna could not get the image of the tall, strongly built young man with the golden mane of hair out of his mind. If all the defenders of the Alamo are as that one, he thought but shared it with no one else, we will suffer terrible losses before we breach the ramparts.

He cut his eyes to his brother-in-law, General Cos, sitting across the room. Cos, Santa Anna knew, wished desperately to enhance his shattered reputation, for Cos still smarted over his earlier defeat by the Texans, many of whom, Santa Anna felt, were probably over there in the Alamo at this moment. Cos had given his word that he would never again return to Texas to fight, but had broken it without pause. So much for honor, Santa Anna thought with a cruel smile.

“You and your men will lead the charge,” Santa Anna said abruptly, and watched as Cos’s eyes widened. “You may redeem yourself in that manner.”

That was all Cos was waiting to hear. He stood up and saluted. “Thank you. You will not regret your decision.”

“I hope not,” Santa Anna replied dryly.

“When do we attack?”

“Make your men ready. I will tell you when.”

General Cos saluted and left the room.

* * *

Back at Washington-on-the-Brazos, the last courier from the Alamo had handed a delegate Travis’s last communique. The man rushed into the meeting and bulled his way to the speakers’ platform. He waved the tattered piece of paper and then read the plea for help aloud.

Pandemonium ensued. Men shouted and cheered and cursed and prayed. Some men shouted for all to mount up and get the hell to the Alamo to fight.

But calmer, cooler heads soon prevailed. Chiefly, Sam Houston. The room settled down as he began to speak. When Houston had concluded, it was agreed that no reinforcements were to be sent to Travis’s aid. It was a decision that was to haunt Sam Houston for the rest of his life, but one that he knew he was right in making. Travis and the men under his command had to buy the fledgling government time. A day, maybe two, maybe three days. Precious time to establish a government for the Republic. Promised aid from the United States had not arrived. Without it, the shaky Republic could easily fall.

There were a dozen valid reasons why that fateful decision was reached that cold windy day back in March of ’36.

“President Jackson was dragging his feet in sending help,” one delegate said.

“We don’t know even if he is sending help,” another said.

“The Army is right over there in Louisiana,” it was pointed out.

“Yes. And they marched right up to the border and stopped.”

“That could mean they’re not coming!”

“We don’t even have a constitution.”

“The world would condemn us,” another delegate said. “For starting a civil war. Remember, technically, we’re still a part of Mexico.”

Someone made a very vulgar remark about Mexico and another very personal remark concerning the delegate who brought it up and what he could do with it.

A fistfight promptly ensued.

And so it went. It all amounted to the same thing: Travis and the men at the Alamo were to be sacrificed. There is no other word to use. Fannin refused to come to Travis’s aid. President Jackson refused to send U.S. troops out of Louisiana into what was Mexican territory Houston’s hands were tied as surely as the destinies of those men at the Alamo.

No one liked the decision, most of all Houston. But it was done, and no one could undo it.

Only one thing could be done, and that was: Remember the Alamo.

Forty

The Twelfth Day

March 5, 1836

General Cos stared at the walls of the place he had once commanded and cursed those inside it. “I will kill you all,” he said. “I will not leave a single man alive.”

Dawn began streaking the sky and Cos ordered his cannons to resume firing. The firing would continue all that day and into the night. He still didn’t know when Santa Anna was going to launch his full-scale attack against the rabble in the Alamo, only that he, General Cos, was going to lead it.

He could hardly wait.

Inside the Alamo, shoring up the crumbling walls took most of the men from the parapets. Only Crockett and his sharpshooters and a small contingent of volunteers manned the parapets and platforms. Santa Anna had ordered all his cannon into play and the old walls were really taking a pounding.

Travis found Jamie standing beside Crockett and waved him from the parapet. “I feel in my heart that Santa Anna will attack this night, Jamie. I want you gone from here at full dark. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Since there is no record of William Travis being a clairvoyant, no one knows exactly how he reached his very accurate conclusion as to the time of the attack. But he was right almost to the hour.