A Time to Stand (20 page)

Nor was the home front idle. At Lexington, Kentucky, Mary Austin Holley organized a sewing group, and within a month the girls turned out twenty-seven shirts, twelve shirt bosoms, six collars, three roundabouts, and twenty-four pocket handkerchiefs—just the thing, they felt, for the hot, dusty plains.

What was it that stirred people so? What was there about this “small affair” that made Americans not only angry but wildly anxious to join the fight?

The massacre of the whole garrison was of course shocking. The facts were bad enough, and an imaginative press was happy to embellish them. The
Arkansas Gazette
described the Mexican troops as “more brutal than the untutored savages of the desert, bent only upon glutting themselves with the blood of helpless victims.”

But massacres were an old story on the frontier—Indian raids were a constant terror—and it was not just the killing of
men that aroused the nation. It was the killing of
these
men. They were not remote frontiersmen—they were friends from Natchez, Charleston, Boston, home. With few exceptions, they were not rough adventurers—they were farmers, artisans, professional men, idealists. As the Memphis
Enquirer
put it, “Some of our own bosom friends have fallen in the Alamo. They were refused quarter and life—young men with whom we have associated—endeared to us by the power of goodness and greatness. We would avenge their death and spend the last drop of our blood upon the altar of liberty.”

And when the citizens of little Russellville, Kentucky, heard the news, they didn’t regard it as a massacre of Texan patriots; it was the murder of their own Daniel Cloud. The young men of the town solemnly assembled, and in the way of the rimes, recorded their sorrow in the form of some revealing resolutions:

Resolved,
That the many ties of friendship which he twined about our hearts—the high respect we cherished for his talents and enterprise, and our admiration of his amiable deportment, and his virtues, shall embalm his memory in our recollections.

Resolved,
That the early fate which closed his mortal career, has stricken from his profession a scion among the most cultivated and flourishing our country has reared.

Resolved,
That if any reflection can lighten the gloom that is spread in our hearts, it is the conviction that he has nobly bared his bosom as a patriot, and received the fatal shaft in the defense of liberty and humanity.

This last was important. For above all, these good friends had died for a cause that was sublimely in keeping with the
spirit of the times. The Alamo fitted so perfectly with the young republic’s somewhat mauve memories of ’76 … with its heartfelt conviction that America was the true custodian of liberty. The lesson of the Alamo, in fact, seemed lifted right from Byron’s stanzas:

For freedom’s battle, once begun,

Bequeath’d by bleeding sire to son,

Though baffled oft, is ever won.

So the “small affair” became also a symbol, inspiring men to great deeds by the example it set of courage, determination and sacrifice. And because the symbol matched the era so beautifully, the defenders of the Alamo enjoyed a happy windfall. Unlike many of history’s heroes, they did not have to wait for immortality; they achieved it right away.

“We shall never cease to celebrate it,” predicted the
Telegraph and Texas Register
less than three weeks after the siege. “Spirits of the mighty, though fallen! Honors and rest are with ye: the spark of immortality which animated your forms, shall brighten into a flame, and Texas, the whole world, shall hail ye like the demi-Gods of old, as founders of new actions, and as patterns of imitation!”

Perhaps it was impossible to see such things through the dust and smoke of the Alamo at 6:30
A.M.
on the morning of March 6. In any case, Santa Anna devoted himself to poking around the rubble and idly inspecting a few of his victims. He was still at it when a commotion erupted toward the main gateway. The troops had just found six Texans still alive, hidden under some mattresses in one of the barracks rooms.

Several Mexican soldiers rushed at the group, but General Castrillón intervened. He ordered the soldiers away, and with an almost courtly gesture offered the Texans his protection.
He then led them across the littered plaza to Santa Anna and his staff. “Sir,” Castrillón announced, “here are six prisoners I have taken alive; how shall I dispose of them?”

“Have I not told you before how to dispose of them?” the General exploded. “Why do you bring them to
me?”

Turning on his heel, he impatiently told some passing troops to shoot the men. When the officer in charge hesitated, Santa Anna’s own staff saw an opportunity to show their loyalty. They drew their swords and set upon the prisoners. In the carelessness of their enthusiasm, they almost killed Castrillón too.

Colonel Pena and Almonte, standing nearby, always remembered the scene—partly because it seemed so unnecessary; partly because they both were told that one of the victims was the famous David Crockett.

In the Alamo church Mrs. Dickinson sat listening to the occasional cries that still came from outside. As the last firing died away, she and Angelina had been ordered from the sacristy to a little room just right of the main entrance. Soon Mrs. Esparza, her children, and the other women in the church were also brought in. Apparently the Mexicans planned to keep them all here together, until somebody decided what to do with them. As the only “Anglo-American” in the place, Mrs. Dickinson’s prospects seemed anything but bright.

Suddenly a Mexican officer appeared in the doorway and called in broken English, “Is Mrs. Dickinson here?”

No answer.

“Is Mrs. Dickinson here? Speak out! It’s a matter of life and death.”

“Yes,” she finally answered.

“If you want to save your life, follow me.”

He quickly led her outside—how long it seemed since she last saw the sun. Across the yard they went—the officer
leading, Mrs. Dickinson carrying Angelina close behind. There was little time to look around, but she couldn’t help seeing many familiar figures crumpled on the ground. Among them was the mutilated form of David Crockett, lying between the church and the long barracks.

The whole scene was so hideous it should have been etched on her mind forever. Oddly enough—perhaps through some blessing of Fate—she remembered almost nothing. The only thing that stood out in this weirdest of settings was the one thing that looked perfectly normal: Crockett’s coonskin cap lying neatly by his side.

The rest of the women soon followed. Mrs. Esparza and the others in the church; Mrs. Alsbury, her baby and sister Gertrudis from their shelter by the west wall. Of them all, Mrs. Alsbury was the only one whose heart felt a lift on this heaviest of mornings. She had been found by Manuel Pérez, the brother of her first husband. He lived in town and had come to inspect the ruins.

“Sister!” he cried, discovering Mrs. Alsbury standing in the debris. “Don’t you know your own brother-in-law?”

“I’m so upset and distressed that I scarcely know anything.”

It was the same with them all. In a dazed, frightened group they stepped through the litter to the gate. Numb with fatigue, they were taken to town—Mrs. Alsbury and Gertrudis to their family home, the Navarro place; the others to the big, handsome house of Ramón Musquiz on Main Plaza. Behind them, they left the Mexican Army now happily pillaging the Alamo. It was quite a celebration—at one point the rejoicing troops even killed a stray cat because it was “American.”

But one American was still very much alive. From the room where he hid after Travis’ death, the Colonel’s slave Joe crouched and waited in trembling uncertainty. The battle was over now—the noise of the firing gone—but there were new, equally harrowing sounds: the shouts of rampaging Mexicans;
the last cry of some dying Texan. It was not very reassuring.

“Are there any Negroes here?” An officer appeared in the doorway.

“Yes, here is one,” and Joe emerged slowly from his corner. For a moment it must have seemed like a mistake: one nearby Mexican fired at him, another nicked him with a bayonet. But the officer shoved them aside and took Joe safely away.

Minutes later, he stood face to face with Santa Anna himself. It turned out there was nothing to fear. His Excellency assured Joe that this was no war against Negro slaves—he would soon be freed. Meanwhile, would he kindly point out the bodies of Bowie and Travis? Joe grimly obliged.

Satisfied, Santa Anna then assembled all the troops in the plaza and rewarded them with a victory address. No one paid much attention to what he said, but the air was filled with
vivas.
The men were finally dismissed, and the celebration roared on.

Off to one side, Captain Sánchez felt in no mood to celebrate. He was depressed, dreadfully depressed by the casualties. Some 400 wounded—and no hospitals, doctors or medicines. Not even any mattresses or blankets. The town supply had been taken over by Santa Anna’s enterprising brother-in-law, Colonel Dromundo. He would make bedding available, if a man could pay the price.

Santa Anna was much too busy for such details. He had to make his official report. Calling in Ramón Caro and the portable
escritoire,
he dictated a letter to Secretary Tornel in Mexico City.

“Victory belongs to the army,” the message began, “which at this very moment, 8 o’clock
A.M.,
achieved a complete and glorious triumph that will render its memory imperishable.” This was, of course, poetic license, for the battle was actually over by 6:30. But Santa Anna loved dramatic effect and could be forgiven a mild exaggeration. Less pardonable were his
casualty figures—over 600 Texans killed; “about” 70 Mexicans dead and 300 wounded.

Anyhow, it would read nicely in Mexico City, and as a final touch he sent along the captured flag of the New Orleans Greys. It was more than a battle trophy; it was dramatic proof that this time he hadn’t beaten just another group of tattered peons—he had crushed the “perfidious foreigners” themselves. There it all was: the American eagle, the call for liberty, the very word “New-Orleans” arrogantly written on the banner. Lest anyone fail to appreciate the full meaning of this flag, he triumphantly concluded, “The inspection of it will show plainly the true intention of the treacherous colonists and of their abettors, who came from the ports of the United States of the North.”

That over, Santa Anna turned back to the pressing matters at hand. First, a series of orders for Francisco Ruiz, the town’s
alcalde:
have the fallen Mexicans buried … confirm the identification of Travis, Bowie and Crockett (nothing like being sure) … get some wood and burn what was left of the Texans. Yes, he’d allow an exception: the Esparza family could bury Gregorio; their other boy, at least, was a good Mexican.

Now a quick trip to town with Almonte. A stop for some coffee, while that clumsy Ben fumbled with the cups and the Colonel jabbered something about “another such victory will ruin us.” Well, Almonte couldn’t hope to understand, but there was more to a battle than casualty figures. Here the real fruits would come when the news got around Texas … when the people learned what happened to those who opposed authority.

One by one Santa Anna summoned the local leaders to make sure they got the point. He was glad to see most of them did. Even Louisiano Navarro, always so friendly with the “Anglos,” now seemed ready to come back to the fold.
Navarro agreed to send a letter to his friends in Gonzales urging all Mexicans to “come forward and present themselves to the President to receive their pardon and enter on their own proper pursuits.”

The Alamo survivors could help here too, and by the 7th Santa Anna was ready to receive them. One by one they came to headquarters and listened to the gospel: resistance was hopeless, Texas must lay down its arms. Through the generosity of the Central Government, the survivors were now free to travel through the colony, spreading the word. Joe was even invited to attend a military review, and it had just the right effect. He came away swearing he saw 8,000 troops—more than twice as many as could have been there.

His Excellency treated the women most courteously. Two dollars and a blanket for each. For Mrs. Dickinson, he had an extra treat. He would send her and Angelina to Mexico City, so the little girl could be properly raised. Mrs. Dickinson desperately pleaded against it, and even Almonte came to her aid.

Reluctantly, Santa Anna gave up the idea. She and Angelina would go to Gonzales instead, carrying one more message that resistance was hopeless. He arranged for Ben to serve as escort, and on the morning of the 11th the little party set out. They made a strangely touching picture—the worldly-wise Ben trotting along on his pony; the grief-stricken widow with her baby, silently guiding her horse by the now deserted Alamo and into the open country.

M
RS.
D
ICKINSON JUMPED WITH
fright at the rustle in the tall grass beside the road. She, Angelina and Ben were now across the Salado—well east of San Antonio—and it never occurred to her that anyone else might be near.

A head popped out of the brush, and a familiar voice hailed her—it was Joe, Travis’ slave. Leery of Mexican promises, he had fled town on foot and was trying to get to Gonzales too. Hearing horses approach, he was sure the Mexicans were after him and plunged into the grass until he saw who it was.

Overjoyed, Joe emerged, attached himself to the little group, and happily trudged along beside Mrs. Dickinson’s horse. He was dubious protection—he dived back into the grass at every unusual sound—but at least he was company, and she needed that too. Mile after mile, the little party continued on—all day March the 11th and 12th.

By noon on the 13th, they were about twenty miles from Gonzales, when once again Joe plunged into the underbrush. This time it was no deer, no stray cow, no fluttering prairie hen. There in the distance, cautiously coming toward them, were three horsemen.