Texas Independence - Part III

The clash at Gonzales had been an almost comical, near bloodless beginning to what would become a brutal and bloody struggle. The Mexican troops quickly retired to San Antonio, and a host of Texians pulled their flintlocks down from their mantels and rushed to Gonzales.

By default, Stephen F. Austin was chosen as the leader of the rebel forces. But Austin was definitely not a military man. Frail, but courageous, he nonetheless didn't have the temperament for war. He would soon hang up his military title and take on a more crucial role - seeking support for the rebels in the United States.

By 1834, Mexico was in turmoil, and four states or parts of states were in rebellion. Texas, however, stood the best chance because it had a citizen population with a strong connection to hunting and the use of firearms, and because it had a potential foreign benefactor. The United States from Day 1 was neutral in the revolt, but in that day and age, it was no more illegal for U.S. Citizens to openly support foreign rebels in Texas than it would be for Ernest Hemmingway and other Americans who journeyed to Spain exactly 100 years later to fight in a civil war there.

Americans had been drifting into Texas illegally as well as legally, but now, the prospect of independence brought in scores of adventurers. Not able to conceive that American expatriates would not want to rejoin America, many of the new arrivals were stunned to find that the Texans were not fighting for independence. Instead, they had lifted up as their flag an altered version of the Mexican tricolor, with the date "1824" - the year the constitution had been signed - emblazoned on it. Some versions of the flag may have had two stars rather than the lone star - one for Texas, and one for Coahilla, for whom they were nominally fighting as well. A few hotheads aside, there was little stomach for independence.

But freedom was another matter, and the struggle that they now found themselves in became a classic struggle against tyranny. More like the nobles of 1215, rather than the patriots of 1776, they fought to guarantee their rights within the existing system. So, as the army in Gonzales grew, they decided in late 1835 to go on the offensive.

There were several small outposts of Mexican soldiers in Texas, but the only one of consequence was the garrison in San Antonio. It was commanded at the time by Martin Perfecto de Cos, a relatively poor commander who had risen primarily by riding the coattails of Santa Anna, who happened to be his brother-in-law. Cos was paralyzed by temerity, but his doubts may have been justified: The Mexican troops who kept garrison in the old Mission San Antonio de Valero - the Alamo - were poorly provisioned and poorly trained. Their gunpowder was so old and spoiled that it would explode more with a whiff than a boom, with disastrous consequences, as we will see.

The Texians had few advantages of their own. Although proficient with their weapons, they were highly undisciplined and their rifles were designed for hunting, not war. Lacking lugs for bayonets, they were better at long distance shooting and sniping - but useless in close, confused hand-to-hand fighting. This too, would also be disastrous.

But where they lacked in polish and experience, they clearly excelled in morale and willpower. Bold and brash, the fighters of Gonzales. With the army now swelling to 800 men, they marched on San Antonio and prepared to face the Army of Cos. They were buoyed in part by the arrival of Juan Seguin, a dashing prominent young Tejano, who assured Austin that the citizens of San Antonio de Bexar were with the revolutionaries.

The Texians arrived on the outskirts of the city and pitched camp. Finally, Cos - facing shame for having failed to revenge Goliad - got up his nerve and moved out to meet the Texians. Under cover of fog, his troops crept up to the rebel encampment. A skirmish ensued, and as the fog lifted, an all-out battle erupted. Suddenly, the disastrous conditions of the Mexican soldiers turned it into a disaster. Although easily outnumbering the Texians, their poor gunpowder disappointed, and many of their shots fell short. In some cases, the bullets struck the Texians, but had such low velocity that they bounced off the skin, only causing bruises.

The Mexicans suffered 76 casualties, and the Texians lost only one man. Turning to flee back into San Antonio, the Mexicans barely avoided a route. The Battle of Conception had proven an overwhelming Texian victory.

But Austin had missed it, and arriving late, he held the troops back who wanted to rush in and finish the job. A 34-day siege ensued. On Nov. 26, hearing a rumor that an approaching wagon train was carrying silver bullion, a group of Texian cavalry, led by Jim Bowie and James Fannin attacked it and captured the cargo - which turned out to be nothing but grass to feed Cos' horses.

Two more weeks passed, and finally the Texians couldn't hold back any longer. Standing up before the army, a rough-and-tumble old fighter, Ben Milam, called out to the troops. "Who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio." And for the first - but definitely not the last - time, the Texian army forgot discipline and headed off to battle. Austin approved the orders to save face, but it was clear by now he was no military man and whatever respect he had as a colonizer and administrator did not extend to the battlefield.

The Texians entered the town and a fierce, four-day battle ensued. Although the fighting was nearly constant and literally house-to-house, the Texians again defeated the Mexicans with an overwhelming victory. The Mexicans lost scores of soldiers, the Texans lost only four. One of them was the bold and daring Milam, who became the first of many Texians who would gain immortality in death during the short war.

Cos surrendered his army of 1,000 to the smaller Texian force and handed over the largest city in Texas to the rebels. Paroled and promising never again to fight in Texas, Cos and his soldiers marched south to Mexico. Several of the Mexican soldiers stayed, having joined the revolutionaries.

The Texans were now masters of San Antonio, but for what end? Some thought the revolution over. Others wanted to carry it into Mexico. New soldiers were arriving in Texas daily, but found no fighting to be had. Some went home. Some stayed within the now depressing walls of the Alamo. Most Texians, however, knew that the Mexicans would be back, and the most important task was to turn a rabble that had won several battles on pluck and daring into an army that could defend a country based on discipline and training.

Austin was gone, having turned over leadership of the army to the new provisional state government of Texas. He headed for the U.S. to raise funds for the Army, and the political leaders gave command to an ex governor of Tennessee, Sam Houston. Houston had abandoned his wife and his governorship in a stormy night several years before. Striking out into the wilderness, he moved in with the Cherokee Indians, who had adopted him years before. Nearly naked half the time and living up to his nickname, "Big Drunk," Houston seemed to be a washed out embarrassment, not a future leader of a revolution and a new nation.

But after settling in Texas, Houston became a leading citizen and soon plunged himself into revolutionary politics. The provisional government appointed him commander in chief of the Army to replace Austin, mostly based on his close connections to his old Army commander - and political mentor - Andrew Jackson, who just happened to be President of the United States.

This appointment - politically savvy as it was - didn't sit well with many other revolutionaries, including James Fannin, who had attended West Point, fought in the Siege of Bexar, and now occupied the important fortress of Golaid, near the Texas Coast. His appointment also rubbed other veterans raw when he ordered the abandonment of San Antonio and the destruction of the Alamo.

If Austin had failed to win the loyalty of the army, Houston's chances were scarcely better, and in the end, his orders were ignored. Jim Bowie, who had married into the most important family in San Antonio - the Veramendis (descendants of the original Canary Island settlers) - and William Barret Travis, a brash, 25-year-old lawyer who had illusions of grandeur, thought such a move was cowardly.

In the end, they chose to stay and defend the Alamo, and Houston belatedly gave orders that legitimized the action. But Houston knew it was folly, and began to build up an army of his own from the citizens of the colonies and the new arrivals from the United States.

The problems with the Alamo, as far as Houston saw them, were many:

1. It was too far removed from the colonies, and would depend on lengthy supply lines, which were slow and easy to disrupt.

2. The Tejano citizens of San Antonio generally supported the revolution, but they certainly couldn't stick their necks out too far. While the Anglo settlers saw the coming fight as victory or expulsion, the Tejanos had no place else to go, and when the Mexican Army returned, Houston feared they would passively accept the old status quo rather than a repeat of the punishment they had received in 1813 when their first attempt at liberty had been brutally crushed.

3. The Alamo fortress was a wreck. Many of the walls were collapsed, and even if they had been repaired, it was much too large for a small defending force. Designed for a garrison of 400 or more, it was now defended by a paltry 150 Texians and Tejanos. There simply weren't enough people to cover the gaps in the walls.

4. Even if they could resist, Houston feared that the soldiers in the Alamo would simply be bottled in and bypassed. With the troops caught in San Antonio and unable to maneuver, the Mexicans would be free to sweep into the colonies.

But there was something mystical about the Alamo, and it became a fatal temptress to all the men who stood on its weathered adobe walls. More than one man had been sent with orders to abandon and destroy it, and one by one, they were seduced by its strange power. This was the Romantic era. The era of Beethoven and of the poets Coleridge and Keats, and Shelley. The era of Lord Byron, who wrote breathtaking poetry about passion, patriotism, freedom and honor - and sacrificed his life to those virtues twelve years before, fighting and dying in the Greek Revolution.

In that age, a man was not a man if he did not face danger, if he did not stand up for honor, if he would not risk all to defend his country, his wife, and his family. The Alamo, weathered and beaten-down as it must have seen, was to the eyes of these men of unbridled spirit the very symbol of the honor and glory they worshipped above all.

The earliest known photo of the Alamo chapel, taken a decade after the battle, before it was reconstructed

And so they clung to it, rebuilding its walls and re-aligning the captured Mexican cannon. The Mexican Army had been expelled, and they felt that soon the people of Texas would join them here, and prepare for the showdown that was to come. This was January, 1836. A new year. They had just expelled Cos' army, and it would be two months before Cos would arrive in Mexico City. It would certainly not be until the fall - perhaps summer - when the Mexicans would return. By then, the trickle of volunteers and supplies arriving in Texas would be a flood. And they could not lose.

Their spirits rose even more on February 8, when the already-legendary Davy Crockett and 30 volunteers from Tennessee (including my great, great ancestor) arrived and joined the defenders inside the Alamo. Crockett was a frontier fighter turned congressman whose antics had spawned a series of braggadocio-filled pamphlets extolling his exploits. The Chuck Norris of his day, he was attributed with near supernatural powers, abilities and strength. If any man could "lick the whole Mexican Army" it certainly was him. The Texans, who had beaten the Mexicans many times already with only a handful of losses of their own, were supremely confident.

But they sorely underestimated Santa Anna. He had not waited until his brother-in-law was defeated. Over a month before - November 28 - Santa Anna had left Mexico City with an army of 6,000 - a larger force than any that had ever fought in North America before. Taking the same paths that he had trod as a young Lieutenant in the Spanish Army in 1813, he once again came north to teach a lesson to the interloping Anglos and the treasonous Tejanos who had embraced them. Joining up with Cos' retreating forces - who were ordered to fall in line despite their pledge to never fight in Texas again - Santa Anna pressed onward, inexorably, to the fateful meeting that would bring his brilliantly-outfitted soldiers and their gleaming bayonets to face the grizzled frontiersmen of Texas and their deadly long rifles.

The winter of 1836 was the coldest in centuries, and a sudden blizzard of snow struck the lower Rio Grande Valley. Armies in that age didn't fight in winter, but that didn't stop Santa Anna. Marching on brutally through the snow, he did not stop, even as the conscripted Indians who made up the bulk of his infantry began to drop. They were covered by the snow where they lay. For the self-styled Napoleon of the West, it was a Russian-like odyssey into a dark and desolate land.

On February 23, 1836, the Texians were relaxing and unconcerned when the bells of the San Fernando church in San Antonio began to peal out a frantic warning. Hardly had they mounted the walls when the shiny helmets of Mexican dragoons appeared on the hills in the distance. Within minutes, the entire city descended into chaos. Defenders with wives in the city rushed to bring them inside the walls. Cattle were quickly secured and driven in. Dispatch riders were sent to Gonzales with the terrible news.

By nightfall, over 1,000 Mexican soldiers had arrived, and more arrived within the next day. Thus began a 13-day siege of the ancient mission. On the first day, the Mexicans began lobbing cannon shot over the walls, but the Texians dug in, firmed up their defenses, and prepared to fight. The command of the fortress had never been clear. The original commander, James Neill, who had done wonders in rebuilding the walls and positioning the cannons, left to deal with an illness in the family and never returned. From then on, command was disputed, with Jim Bowie in charge of the volunteers and Travis in charge of the regular forces sent from Gonzales. The two clashed nearly at once. Finally, with Bowie falling ill and confined to his bed, Travis assumed full command.

During a lull in the bombardment, he called his men into the courtyard to tell them the situation. The outlook, he said, was bleak. Although he had pleaded for reinforcements from the first day on, there was no indication that they would arrive. The nearest forces were those of Fannin in Goliad, but Fannin wasn't moving. Houston had not yet responded to the pleas. The Alamo, he said, would fall if not relieved. But even now there were still gaps in the Mexican lines and hope remained that the men could abandon the mission and escape to join Houston.

What he did then has become the stuff of myth, legend and heroism. According to a story which was only recounted years later, Travis drew his sword from its scabbard and drew a line in the sand, and asked that those who would stay and fight. Whether the line in the sand is myth or truth ultimately is moot, for every man standing before him chose to stay and fight.

Returning to his room in the second floor of a long low building that had once housed Spanish missionaries, Travis penned the latest of several letters to Houston. The words he wrote may seem inconceivable to cynical, modern ears, but in the age of Romanticism, glory and gallantry, they were sincere, from the heart, and inspired. The words that he wrote would ultimately transcend everything that William Barret Travis had ever done in his life. He had failed as a husband. He had failed as a father. At 25, he had been given an immense responsibility and he thought he had failed here too. As his ill-prepared rabble in a crumbling fortress faced the largest army the continent had ever seen, he certainly must have blamed himself for the disaster he knew would come.

But in those few lines, William Barret Travis lit the fuse of the cannon of the Texian heart. He saved a country and inspired a nation. In the battle that would come, he would be almost the first to fall, scarcely firing a single shot. But with his pen, he did what 1,000 reinforcements at the Alamo could never have done. Taking it up and dipping it in his inkwell, he touched it to the paper and began:

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!

William Barret Travis
Lt. Col. comdt

The seige lasted 12 more days. Travis sent several couriers out, seeking news of reinforcements. But they were not coming. Houston knew he would never make it on time, and his reservations about abandoning the colonies were still valid. Fannin in Goliad finally started out, but it would be too late. The Alamo was now completely surrounded. But just before the path was blocked, a lone courier surveyed the scene. James Bonham surveyed the fortress and the increasing strength of the Mexican pickets. Bonham was not inside the Alamo, but outside, beyond the Mexican lines. He had left the Alamo days before carrying a message to Houston. Now he was returning with sad news. Houston would not come. No one would come. Every single man in the Alamo would die.

As Bonham stood on the hillside, he knew he could turn back. The Mexicans had not seen him and he was in the clear. With a kick of his spurs and a sideways tug on the reins, he could turn his horse around and ride back to Houston. In Houston's Army, he would have a chance for glory and for life.

But the power of the Alamo, which had seduced 188 men to cling to its walls seduced one more. Given the opportunity to steer Northward to freedom or ride South to the aid of his friends, Bonham guided his horse forward. Passing through the Mexican lines at a gallop, he entered the Alamo, from which he would never return.

The men who stood within the walls came from a dozen countries. There were some of the early settlers who had given up their citizenship in the United States for a new start in a foreign land. There were men who had only been in Texas a few weeks and had no connection to the land. And there were some whose roots went deep in the soil of Texas. Although most Tejanos had been used by the Army as scouts and remained with Houston in Gonzales, a dozen stood on the walls of the Alamo. Among them was a former Mexican soldier who had thrown his lot in with the cause of liberty.

The Alamo was not foreign to Gregorio Esparza. As he stood on those walls watching his former army close in and wave the blood-red flag and sound the call of Deguello - no surrender, no quarter - Gregorio Esparza was fighting for his home. For Gregorio Esparza had been born here. In this place. In these walls. Gregorio Esparza had been born inside the Alamo.

On the other side of the wall, the Mexican soldiers stood patiently, their hearts beating with fear and anticipation. Among the endless lines of footsoldiers in their white tunics was another Tejano for whom the walls of the Alamo were intimitely familiar. His name was Francisco Esparza. He was Gregorio's brother.

In the dark and chilly morning hours of March 6, 1836, the Mexican soldiers stood at attention. Finally, the order was given and they advanced. It didn't have to end this way. Santa Anna had been told that his powerful seige cannons were only two days out. With them, he could pound the fortress into rubble without risking a single one of his soldiers. But in that era of glory and honor, nothing short of a blood sacrifice would suffice. The soldiers, Santa Anna told General Castrillon - who had pleaded for the men's sake to delay the attack, "were nothing but so many chickens."

The first shots rang out and the Texans surged to the walls. Raising their rifles, they once again turned to their incredibly-accurate marksmanship, exacting a terrifying toll from the onrushing Mexicans. Wave upon wave were decimated by the cannons that Col. Neill had so-well placed. The cream of Mexican youth - ordinary men and boys who could be raising families and growing crops - were cut down as if by a great scythe. Yet still they came. Sheer numbers would prevail on this day. As Texians raised their heads to fire over the walls, Mexican soldiers firing with the best powder (not the poor stock they had been stuck with in Bexar), began to pick them off.
One of the first killed was Travis, his hot-headed enthusiasm perhaps getting the best of him. Soon, more followed. Holes began opening in the lines. Realizing that the walls were lost, the Texians retreated to a secondary defense within the fort. But in their haste, they had forgotten to spike their own cannon. Mexican soldiers wrestled them around and turned them inward on the defenders. They fired and blew huge holes in the line of ragged Texians.

Still they fought on, shooting down Mexican soldiers as they advanced. But as the pace of battle increased, it was barely possible to load and fire their muzzle-loading rifles. Now the Mexican bayonettes came into their own. When the hard-pressed soldiers on both sides could no longer shoot, they turned their rifles and muskets into blunt, Medival instruments of war. The Texians, with no bayonettes, were reduced to fighting with clubs. The Mexicans, who had the foot-long blades affixed to their weapons, were fighting with spears.

The Texians were soon pushed back into corners, rooms within the long barracks, and into the chapel. There they were cut down, at last, to the final man. As the slaughter went on, the Mexicans became crazed with an inhuman berzerker-like furor, slaughtering everything in their path. When a cat leaped out of a hiding place, a Mexican soldier shouted, "It's not a cat, it's a Texan!" and instantly, the animal was pierced with half a dozen bayonettes.
By dawn, it was over. Hundreds of Mexicans had been sacrificed to the hubris of Santa Anna. The Texians had fought to the death, even Jim Bowie, who had struggled from his sickbed, but was overcome. Travis was dead. Crockett was dead. The Mexicans spared only the half dozen scared and frightened women within the fortress - the wives and lovers of the recently-dispatched defenders. Only one male was spared - Travis' slave Joe, who may have fought early in the battle, but had retreated to the chapel to protect the women and was captured with them. If he had been armed before, he was not when he was found, and as a slave, was spared.

As he surveyed the terrible carnage, the stoic Santa Anna said "It was a small affair." If his heart was moved by the suffering and anguish of his own soldiers, he never showed it. But it should have. For as he returned to his tent and the acrid smoke of war passed over his battlefield, the cream of the Mexican army had been devastated. Among the first who had charged the walls were the bravest and the best. These had fallen before the Texian rifles. These soldiers would never fight again. Their loss would soon be felt on another battlefield hundreds of miles away, in the swampy lands of Southeast Texas.

As the Texians were placed on a stack of logs and their bodies readied for an unceremonial cremation, the Mexicans made one single concession to honor, courage and decency. One - and only one - of the nearly 200 Alamo defenders was given the right of a Christian burial. His name was Gregorio Esparza. Weeping and in anguish, his brother Francisco carried him from the field. On that horrendous day, March 6, 1836, there were thousands of tears shed and thousands of hearts torn with anguish. But none was more poignant, more sickening and wrenching than the tears of the Mexican soldier who buried the brother he had fought against within the walls of the fortress where they had both been born.


Coming soon: Revolution and Epilogue