Authors: James Donovan
Tags: #History / Military - General, #History / United States - 19th Century
Both sides were exhausted after four grueling days of almost constant struggle. One of the two Texian columns had been reduced by half, to forty-nine men, and they were almost out of ammunition, with little gunpowder left. A frigid rain the next morning resulted in less gunfire on both sides due to damp powder, and eased the stench of dead animals rotting in the streets. But the rebels pushed on, past blackened tree stumps and smoldering ash heaps and piles of rubble, until they were just yards from Main Plaza, Cós’s final line of defense in the town and the most fortified.
At midmorning a roar of voices, the ringing of the church bells, and martial music from the Mexican band in the Alamo signaled what the Texians had been dreading: the arrival of four hundred reinforcements from Zacatecas and San Luis Potosí, escorted by Colonel Domingo de Ugartechea and a 250-strong contingent of experienced troops drawn from every branch of the military—cavalry, infantry, and artillery. They marched through the streets of Béxar, across the wooden footbridge spanning the river, and into the Alamo, accompanied by sixty
soldaderas
—soldiers’ women—and their children, as was the custom in the Mexican army.
Though they were many in number, the new arrivals were far from fresh: in the last twenty-four hours, none of them had eaten more than a piece of hardtack due to the constant rain. Many had lost their shoes and sandals in the mud. They had force-marched from Saltillo (which, a short time earlier, had been renamed Leona Vicario after a heroine of the revolution, though both names were still used), almost four hundred miles away, through burned prairies and cold rains, fifty-five days straight, and had gone the sixty miles to Béxar without a break. They were bone-tired.
With them rode Captain José Juan Sánchez, proud scion of a family that had distinguished itself militarily from the thirteenth century onward in Spain and the New World. A quarter century earlier, Sánchez had been a classmate of Santa Anna’s in officers’ training, and then an early champion of Mexican independence, earning the rank of captain in his teens. Now he was the adjutant inspector of the northern Mexican states of Nuevo León and Tamaulipas, ordered to Béxar to observe and serve where needed. His salary was not enough to support his wife, Ana, and their six children, and he wanted a better-paying job. He reported to Cós later that morning, then began his inspection duties.
A newly confident Cós raised a black flag over the fort, the sign that no quarter would be given to the enemy. But most of the new soldiers were raw recruits, including numerous convicts in leg chains. These untrained and exhausted felons, many of whom could not even load their rifles, were in no shape to join the fray, and instead of bolstering the command, they made the situation worse, particularly since food supplies were already alarmingly low and they had brought little with them. Without their help, Ugartechea’s reinforcement was effectively a wash: the escorting troops only replaced two hundred of the best-mounted
presidiales
who had deserted the night before and galloped off toward the Rio Grande.
Meanwhile, the rebels continued their assault on Main Plaza, and Cós transferred his command post across the river and into the Alamo. That afternoon, he devised a desperate strike against the enemy camp a half mile above the fort. Two columns, one of cavalry and one of infantry, approached the Texian position from opposite sides in a classic pincer movement. But the gun crews of James Neill were ready and waiting. When the Mexicans came within range, the Texians let loose a storm of canister shot. The attackers turned and retreated into the Alamo.
Inside the town, the fighting continued past midnight, when the last fortified house defending Main Plaza was taken by a force of rebels, most of them Greys. Under a nearly full moon, about thirty Texians crawled low along house walls to avoid musket fire from the windows inches above them—so close that their whiskers and hair were burned by the blaze of the guns overhead—then rushed the square. They immediately encountered two six-pounders aimed directly at them. The Texians tried to spike the cannon, but as they did so the plaza filled with troops. A Mexican officer gave the order to fix bayonets and led a group of
soldados
in a charge into the rebels. The rebels took refuge in a stone structure called the Priest’s House, at the northeast corner of the square, after forcing out its defenders and sending twenty women and children into safer rooms. The Mexicans rallied around three cannon—two of them six-pounders just fifteen paces from the house—and pounded the building incessantly. As they did so, Captain Sánchez directed a howitzer bombardment from the atrium of the church.
By now, the rest of the Texian forces had lost contact with the Greys in the Priest’s House, and reported that they had all probably been killed. The news reached Burleson in the Texian camp right after he was informed of Ugartechea’s reinforcements. He summoned Johnson and suggested a withdrawal from town. They had only one powder keg left, and many of the men carried just a few rounds in their pouches. Under the circumstances, retreat appeared to be the wisest option.
But simple escape would not be so easy. The men inside the Priest’s House were enduring a furious bombardment. They threw any furniture they could find against the doors and windows, but cannonballs continued to blast through. The Greys’ leader turned to his men and gave them a choice: retreat, surrender, or die. The Greys were exhausted and short on powder, but to a man they told him, “Die or do.” They would remain where they were and sell their lives as dearly as possible.
About one in the morning, Cós decided to consolidate his forces. He ordered the remaining infantry troops in Béxar to start moving across the river. What was left of the elite Morelos Battalion acted as a rear guard near Main Plaza as the sick and the wounded and all remaining arms and munitions were transported to the Alamo. Cós continued to discuss his options with his officers, who had rejected his suggestion that they counterattack.
As the night wore on, conditions worsened for the Mexicans. Provisions were almost gone, even basics such as water and firewood, and there were now more than 1,100 men to feed. Hundreds of horses were starving; some were eating the cloaks of the troops and even gnawing on wooden cannon parts. The garrison’s morale had plummeted after the two hundred
presidiales
had deserted, and now panic set in. The unshackled convicts insulted and even attacked their officers, and frightened women and children spread confusion as they ran about the fort. Word spread that the defense had become a total rout, and cries of “We are lost” were heard everywhere.
As the crowd lurched into chaos, Cós tried to calm the troops, but his voice was drowned in the tumult. In the darkness he was trampled and injured, and though he finally restored a semblance of order, he had to retire to a bed. They could hold out for a few days, he knew, but unless they broke out, the final result seemed inevitable.
At six a.m. the general summoned Captain Sánchez, who had grabbed his musket and joined the fighting near Main Plaza with the Morelos Battalion. Cós sent him back across the river to approach the enemy and obtain the best terms of capitulation possible. As the captain made his way to the plaza, he met the Morelos commander, Colonel Nicolás Condelle, who with seventy of his men was still guarding the retreat under the battalion banner. Earlier, in the heat of battle, the colonel had told Sánchez that they would die there if necessary. Now, when Sánchez told him of his mission, Condelle objected: “The Morelos Battalion has never surrendered,” he said. Some of his subalterns agreed, and even threatened Sánchez with their muskets—one fired and missed. The captain shouted that he had his orders. Condelle gave in, and permitted him to proceed. Sánchez raised a truce flag at the main square about seven a.m., and was soon surrounded by jabbering colonists.
When the grime-covered rebels in the Priest’s House cautiously emerged in the early morning light after the gunfire had stopped, they saw the truce flag, and a white banner flying above the mission across the river. Somehow every Texian in the house had survived, though one Grey had been badly wounded. They escorted Sánchez to Colonel Johnson, who sent for Burleson.
The negotiations lasted until two the next morning, when they finally hammered out a generous eighteen-point agreement—though its magnanimity was viewed by some of the rebels as a “child’s bargain.” The officers would receive paroles to return to the interior of Mexico, and the army would leave within six days. They gave their word that they would not oppose the reestablishment of the constitution of 1824 or reenter Texas under arms. The Texians allowed them to keep their personal guns and ten bullets a man, and even supplied a small cannon for protection against Indians; the rest of the artillery pieces, about twenty, would stay. Meanwhile, the Mexican troops would remain in the Alamo, and the rebels in town across the river. But by the afternoon of the next day, soldiers of both armies were mingling, some playing cards together, particularly the men of the local Alamo and Béxar garrisons. That evening, the rebels celebrated their victory with a fandango. The Mexican tricolor again flew over the Church of San Fernando.
On December 14, Cós marched south toward Laredo with a thousand men, including Captain Sánchez and the weary conscripts who had just completed the same arduous 150-mile route six days before. Cós had suffered 150 casualties, most of them men in the Morelos Battalion, against five Texian deaths. More than thirty seriously wounded
soldados
remained behind at Military Plaza, with one doctor to minister to them. With the column rode Lieutenant Francisco de Castañeda and four members of the Alamo company—his men and those of the Béxar garrison were given the option of staying in town with their families, and these four were the only ones who had not taken advantage of the offer. Most of the
presidiales
were unmounted. Behind them the Mexican army left a small arsenal—about twenty cannon, eleven thousand musket cartridges, more than three hundred functional muskets, much powder and cannon shot—and, of more immediate value, almost two hundred blankets that would be fully appreciated by the chilled Texians. Many of the volunteers moved into the Alamo, where they sought out the best-sheltered corners for protection against the cold; a group of nine Greys claimed the church as their quarters. Thieves had stripped the roofless structure of all ornaments, but outside, the four sandstone saints in alcoves on either side of the door remained. Women from the town still crossed the river to kneel before them and pray.
The next day, Edward Burleson left Béxar for his farm in Bastrop, accompanied by his aged father, who had taken sick after the Grass Fight. Many of the remaining settlers, eager to return to their farms, followed, taking their carts and wagons with them. All but a dozen or so Gonzales men walked or rode back to DeWitt’s colony. Most of the colonists were only a few days’ ride from home; with any luck, they would make it in time for Christmas dinner. Their families needed them: Indians had been taking advantage of their absence to step up their raiding, and soon it would be time for plowing. Besides, there was no need for them in Béxar, and it was cold, and few of the men wore winter clothing. Juan Seguín’s company of mounted Tejanos disbanded, and Seguín rejoined his wife, María Gertrudis, and his four young children. Other
bexareños
began to trickle into their battered town from the ranches along the river.
Many of the rambunctious young volunteers from the United States signed on for a new adventure that promised plenty of plunder and action—an expedition south to Matamoros, on the south bank of the mouth of the Rio Grande, deep within the Mexican state of Tamaulipas. The prosperous port city of six thousand allegedly harbored many federalist sympathizers; together they might spark a widespread uprising in northern Mexico against the centralists. Just as alluring were its rumored riches: $100,000 per month in revenue, which could help fund the Texian revolution. The General Council had tentatively supported the idea, and Colonel Johnson and Dr. James Grant, a wealthy Scotsman and former
empresario
who owned a large hacienda in northern Mexico, appointed themselves leaders of the expedition. On December 30, after appropriating most of the provisions and ammunition recently sent by the General Council from Gonzales, Grant led two hundred volunteers down the road along the San Antonio River toward Goliad while Johnson rode to San Felipe to obtain authorization for the expedition.
As word of the victory spread eastward to the colonies, Texians rejoiced in the fact that there were now no Mexican troops in the province. That an undisciplined group of backwoods militiamen could defeat a European-style army almost twice its size called forth echoes of a similar rebellion a half century before, and references to “the sons of ’76” were frequent. The news was celebrated outside Texas as well: in New Orleans, rehearsals began in mid-December for a play to open on January 1 entitled
The Fall of San Antonio, or Texas Victorious,
which featured Ben Milam’s inspiring call to duty and his death—and threw in an Indian war dance as well. In far-off New York, on the first day of the new year, another drama,
The Triumph of Texas,
opened at the Bowery Theatre.
Most Texians assumed the war was over, that the Mexican government would leave Texas alone, or that other Mexican states would join the revolt and overthrow Santa Anna. Only a few thought otherwise. Sam Houston was one of them, and he called for Texians to rally and join the regular army. Nobody listened to him. Newspapers as far away as New York reported what was widely believed: “No other expedition can be fitted out by Mexicans against Texas until spring; and then the army of the Patriots will be sufficiently strong to repel them.”
On November 24, the day he left, Stephen Austin had told his men that he had received word of an army of ten thousand Mexican
soldados
preparing to march into Texas and put down the insurrection, much as they had in Zacatecas—that is to say, in a most unpleasant manner. Now, a month later, word began reaching Béxar and then the Anglo settlements to the east that an army was indeed on its way north, its leader none other than the despot himself. It seemed that Santa Anna, the former federalist who considered himself the Napoleon of the West, had definite plans for these traitors to their adopted homeland. In taking Béxar, a Mexican stronghold for a century, the ungrateful rebels had humiliated their mother country. Now it was imperative that he retake and hold the town, not only to establish a supply base from which to attack the Anglo colonies but also for another, more compelling reason: revenge.