Authors: James Donovan
Tags: #History / Military - General, #History / United States - 19th Century
Take care of my little boy. If the country should be saved, I may make for him a splendid fortune; but if the country be lost and I shall perish, he will have nothing but the proud recollection that he is the son of a man who died for his country.
The indefatigable John Smith volunteered to take the missives through the enemy lines to Gonzales. The earlier couriers had carried few letters besides those of Colonel Travis, but now other men, upon hearing that Smith would leave that night, gave the big redhead their own letters to be forwarded to their families. The sight of the Mexican reinforcements, and the attendant signs that a concerted attack was on its way, had induced a sense of impending doom.
Smith knew the area better than anyone in the garrison, but over the last few days the Mexicans had tightened the cordon around the Alamo. He would need help this time, particularly since a full moon would begin rising at seven p.m. Travis ordered a sally on the north side, up toward Zambrano’s sugar mill, beyond a loop of the river.
While a squad of rebels jumped the low wall in the cattle pen and moved north, engaging
soldados
and attracting attention with their rifle fire, Smith stole out the main gate and galloped toward Gonzales, disappearing into the night.
T
HE TWO HUNDRED MEN
John Smith left behind him in the fort may not have been well trained or organized, but they were a determined bunch. Beneath the dirt and grime and stubble and rags was a group who had been tested and not found wanting. Many of them had been among the first to answer the call, to join Stephen Austin’s Army of the People. These militiamen had hurried to Gonzales at the first request for help and endured much for the cause. They had marched to Béxar and remained there, in cold and rain and wretched conditions, for many weeks. They had stormed the town in the predawn hours of December 5 with Milam and Johnson and Grant, running through the dark cornfields and streets to gain a tenuous foothold on the well-fortified town held by the Mexican army, a much larger, better organized, and better equipped force, battling house by house and room by room for five grueling days.
Some of the colonists had left then, when Cós had surrendered and marched his eleven hundred soldiers out of Texas—gone home to their families and farms. The war was over; they could return to their lives, at least until spring.
Most of the volunteers from the United States, such as the Greys, were young men with no homes to return to. They had left their homes for Texas in response to the call for aid and arrived weeks later to assist their Texian cousins in the ousting of a despot—much as their fathers and grandfathers sixty years before them had rebelled against George III. They saw this cause as similar, the parallels too strong to ignore: a tyrannical dictator running roughshod over the rights of his subjects and violating the covenant accepted by the immigrants and residents alike, whether Anglo or Tejano. Taxation without proper representation, and a complete lack of a representative political system upon the dissolution of the state congresses… the abrogation of the most basic of civil rights, including the absence of trial by jury and the writ of habeas corpus… military occupation that threatened to increase dramatically… the insistence that the colonists deliver up their arms—such burdens these sons of 1776 found intolerable.
So these men had come to Texas to fight for liberty, and also to gain the land that would make them truly free men, earning their living independent of any other and providing a better life for themselves and their families. And they thought these things worth dying for.
The American Revolution had been the first great uprising of modern times, its principles so just and honorable, its conduct so sound and admirable, that a wave of revolution inspired by the American colonists had swept across Europe and the civilized world. It was a movement still finding entire nations of converts in countries such as Greece and Poland.
Americans were beseeched for assistance to these causes, and they had responded. Now their own brothers and sons and cousins and friends and neighbors, their own blood, were fighting for the same cause right next door. And all across the country, from New England to the newest state, Missouri, rallies were held to raise money and soldiers for Texas and its liberty, and thousands of men had answered the call.
Little more than five decades after Americans had secured their freedom, the word “liberty” remained far more than an abstract term, a right taken for granted. Liberty or death, as Patrick Henry put it, represented the American stand on the subject, and in 1836 the cost of freedom paid for with human lives was still vivid in the mind of every citizen and the memory of many. The word represented one of the basic rights every man was entitled to by birth. And the rebels believed passionately, just as Thomas Jefferson had written in the Declaration of Independence, that legitimate political authority rested on the consent of the governed, who retained the right to withdraw their consent and change their government if it threatened those inalienable rights it was formed to protect. As Texians saw it, that was exactly what Santa Anna was in the process of doing.
Linked to this new concept of liberty, this idea of truly free men, and essential to its core, was landownership. Its importance went beyond the desire for riches, or large-scale exploitation of resources in the pursuit of progress. Suffrage, the right to vote and elect representatives, that most essential component of a republic, was even in the United States initially confined to property owners; land meant power. While that requirement had gradually been eliminated in all but a few states, the mind-set remained. Too, it was a time, a world, an existence, based on an agrarian way of life—eight of ten men worked the land. To own land in 1836 was viewed by all as an essential condition of liberty. A man without land was nobody.
Eight of the Alamo’s defenders were Tejanos who had bravely decided to join the colonists in their rebellion—they, too, were outraged by Santa Anna’s actions. But like the great majority of Americans at the time, the rest were of Anglo-Saxon stock. Most of the men in the fort were Scots-Irish whose Scottish ancestors had fought for their freedom from the British at Stirling and Bannockburn, and then fought the Irish at the same time they were marrying and breeding with their women. A dozen or so were Englishmen whose forefathers had defeated the French at Agincourt and Crécy, and beheaded their own king for aspiring to tyranny. And for those who were American-born, 1776 was no such distant memory; there were veterans of that struggle still living. At least fifty of the defenders proudly claimed fathers or grandfathers who had participated in the Revolutionary War. No, whatever else happened, these men would back down from no one.
There were other factors involved. Most of the men, established settlers and fresh volunteers alike, hailed from the contiguous southern states, and many of them considered slavery an accepted part of the order of things. The defense of slavery was at best an underlying cause, not a prime factor, in the Americans’ desire to aid their countrymen in gaining their liberty. For that is how they considered their Texian cousins—as Americans, still. But few of the Texian colonists actually owned slaves, and those who did were able to reconcile their adherence to that institution with their belief in the basic rights of man, just as their revolutionary forefathers had. Many colonists considered Mexico’s antislavery law hypocritical, given the country’s system of peonage, which was used primarily to man the huge haciendas in the south of Mexico. Its victims, who numbered in the tens of thousands, endured many of the same conditions as slaves did: hopeless indebtedness, corporal punishment, and severe penalties for escape; they were even sold as commodities.
Almost all the men from the southern states claimed Scotland and Ireland as their hereditary birthplaces, many of them only one or two generations removed from the old countries. Journeying west—for freedom, for land—was in their blood. And they were fighters. Fighting for these things, and other, sometimes lesser things, too—family, honor, justice, or even sport—was also in their blood. Truth to tell, some of the men had walked or ridden hundreds of miles just for a good fight.
Most of them were not trained soldiers. Save for the New Orleans Greys, they wore no uniforms, and their arms were their own, a mixture of muskets, rifles, shotguns, pistols, tomahawks, and blades. In almost every respect they did not meet the definition of an army. But in a letter to Sam Houston, Green Jameson had summed up their most important quality: “They have all been tried, and have confidence in themselves.”
That confidence would soon be tested.
O
NE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY MILES
to the east, in the town of Washington, other express riders had left with important news of their own.
On the afternoon of March 1, forty-one convention members—enough for a quorum—had met in the unfinished building a quarter mile up from the Brazos River landing. There were no doors, nor was there glass in the windows—only cotton cloth, which did little to keep a below-freezing north wind from entering the unheated hall. “Everybody [was] shivering and exclaiming against the cold,” noted an observer. But spirits were high, and compared to the previous Texian political conventions, this one was a model of brisk efficiency. They quickly came to order and elected officers, then began conducting the business at hand. Delegates spoke disapprovingly of the quarrel between the governor on the one hand and the lieutenant governor and the General Council on the other, and refused to hear complaints from either side, calling on each only for their official information.
They wasted little time authorizing a committee of five, headed by George C. Childress, to draw up a declaration of independence. Even the most pacifist among them understood that the time for reconciliation with Mexico was past. The next morning Childress and his committee presented their document, modeled closely on the United States’ 1776 declaration. (Childress, an attorney and former newspaper editor, had clearly begun preparing it before he arrived and likely wrote it himself.) The draft was read aloud, and in less than an hour, with no changes made, it was approved.
Only one man rose to speak to the declaration: Sam Houston, representing the citizens of Refugio. His arrival on February 29, fresh from a successfully negotiated treaty with the Cherokees, “created more sensation than that of any other man,” wrote an observer; a delegate remembered his appearance as “that of an Indian chief. A piece of red flannel with a hole cut in it for his great head to go through for a shirt with a buckskin over-shirt and buckskin breaches, so eager to fight the massacrerer of the Alamo that he had no time or taste for dress.” Houston was waiting for clear authorization from this new legal body before assuming military command; he wanted no repeat of the underhanded shenanigans and schemings of the interim government that had tied his hands so badly. He had learned a hard lesson; this time he would not leave without complete authority over all forces, volunteer or regular. Houston may have been eager to fight Santa Anna, but as yet he had no official title under this new government, and thus no power to command anyone.
That afternoon, Houston’s forty-third birthday, enough misspellings were found in the declaration that the signing was delayed until a corrected version was ready. The next day, March 3, every delegate present—including three prominent Tejanos—signed the document, officially declaring independence. Five copies were ordered, to be sent to Brazoria, Béxar, San Felipe, Nacogdoches, and Goliad, and express riders left town for those destinations, announcing the news along the way.
The mood in Washington improved when a courier rode into town with the news that 350 men under James Fannin were on the march to Béxar, and others were on their way. And the latest from Travis—his letter of February 25, which had arrived the previous day, March 2—reported that a Mexican attack had been fought off, and the Alamo garrison was holding its own. The Alamo, it was believed, was safe for the time being. In any case, Houston and many of the other delegates in Washington went on a two-day drinking spree—eggnog fortified with spirits, the libation of the moment—to celebrate the new nation.
W
HILE THE TAVERNS OF THE VILLAGE
on the Brazos reeled to the merriment of their representatives, the Alamo defenders shivered through another chilly night, another chilling dawn. For them, eggnog was a distant memory, and even coffee now counted as a luxury. But they had cause for celebration, too, though they could not know it. The nature of their struggle had changed. They had been fighting for independence all along. Now, at last, it was official.
“His Excellency Expects That Every Man Will Do His Duty”
Our honor, now outraged,
In blood and fire shall be assuaged.
J
OSÉ
J
UAN
S
ÁNCHEZ
B
efore he left Béxar on February 11, garrison commander James Neill had told his men he would return within twenty days. He would not keep that promise, though for the best of reasons.
After visiting his family in Bastrop and tending to the illness there, Neill had traveled east to San Felipe to see Henry Smith. Though deposed, Smith was still acting as though he were governor, and performing what limited duties he could until he removed to Washington to attend the convention. Neill found him just before he left, and on February 28, Smith gave Neill $600, part of the $5,000 donated to Texas by Harry Hill of Tennessee, for the use of the Alamo garrison. With funds finally in his hands, Neill headed back to Gonzales. A week later Smith would write, “Much confusion prevails among our volunteer troops on the frontier, but, by using much vigilance, I have now got Bexar secure”—sad evidence of his ignorance of the situation 180 miles to the west of him.