Eyes of Eagles (28 page)

It did not take Jamie long to spot the huge clouds of dust coming from the south, the dust that seemed to spread for miles, whipped into the air by the cold wind, all coming toward him. That would be more mounted soldiers, the supply wagons, the artillery, and the infantry slogging along

“Thousands of them,” he muttered. “Maybe more than I first reported back.”

As Jamie rode back into town, the bell in the tower stopped ringing. The town was eerily silent. The normally busy plaza was deserted.

Jamie neared the Alamo and noticed that Travis had ordered all his men back behind the walls of the old mission. As he rode toward the still open gates, he whispered to the wind, “Goodbye, Kate. Just remember that I will carry your love in my heart even unto death.”

The gates of the Alamo closed behind him.

* * *

Jamie dismounted and his horse was led away to the pen. He looked around him. While the warning bell was still clanging, Captain Dickerson had galloped into the nearly deserted town to fetch his wife, Sue, and their baby daughter. There were other women inside the walls of the Alamo, but Sue Dickerson was the only American woman. There were several slaves behind the walls, including Bowie's personal man servant, Sam, and Travis's servant and cook, Joe.

Jamie could not find Travis, so he climbed up on a makeshift parapet and reported to Bowie, who was directing the realignment of cannon. Bowie listened to every word, his face growing grimmer. “We retreated once,” Bowie said, his words low. “We shall never retreat again.”

“Sir?” Jamie questioned.

“We came in here, from out there,” Bowie explained, pointing. He looked out toward the empty cold landscape. “What you saw were the Dragoons, Jamie. And also Santa Anna's fighting engineers.”

Jamie had seen much more than that, but he did not contradict Bowie.

Both men watched as couriers saddled up and rode out, Dr. Sutherland and Mr. Smith were heading to Gonzales, about seventy-five miles away, with a message from Travis, pleading for help. The second courier rode to Goliad, in yet another appeal to Fannin to send help.

Davy Crockett walked up, his rifle, Ol' Betsy, as he called it, in his hand. “I reckon Santy Anny's here, boys. He's been wantin' a fight, so let's make sure we give him a good one.”

“Did you take that military commission Travis offered you, Davy?” Bowie asked.

“Nope,” Crockett replied. “I come here to fight, not to order men about. You colonels just tell me where you want me and my sharpshooters, and there we'll be.”

Bowie smiled.

Davy lifted a telescope to his eye and looked south for a moment, just able to see the long line of mounted soldiers. He lowered the glass. “Right purty, ain't they? If they can fight as well as they dress, we're in for a right good scrap.” He handed the glass to Bowie and stepped down to the courtyard.

“You have any orders for me, Jim?” Jamie asked.

Bowie coughed and spat up blood. “No, lad. You've done more than your share. You just pick you a good spot from which to fight and get ready.” Bowie stared at him for a moment. “You keep a horse saddled, Jamie. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir. Jim?”

Bowie nodded his head.

“How long can we hold out?”

“A good question. I would say ten or twelve days. No more than that.”

Bowie very nearly pegged it on the money. They would hold out for thirteen days. Thirteen days of awful, bloody courage and greatness.

Standing on the windy parapet beside the legendary knife fighter, Jamie's thoughts drifted back for a moment to the Big Thicket country . . . and to Kate. He allowed himself a few moments of memories, and then shook them away when he became conscious of Bowie's eyes on him.

“Thinking of hearth and home, lad?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You'll see your loved ones again, lad. I'm going to make certain of that. You're going to go on and do great things, Jamie. I sensed that in you the first moment I laid eyes on you.”

“Why not young Fuqua yonder?” Jamie questioned, cutting his eyes to the boy called Galba. “He couldn't be more than sixteen or seventeen years old.”

Bowie shook his head and evaded any reply. “I've been writing something, Jamie. But I've not yet finished composing. When I'm done, I'll give it to you. See that it gets to the Telegraph and Texas Register. I'll admit, Jamie, that I'll be cutting it close. But if any man jack here can get out with the dying words from this garrison, that person is you. I'd be obliged if you'd do that thing for me.”

“I'm in your company, Jim. I'll obey your orders.”

Bowie smiled and clasped Jamie's arm. “Good lad. Now let's get ready for a fight.”

Jamie noticed the smile on Bowie's lips.

“Tell me the joke, Jim?”

Bowie laughed and then coughed. “His Lord and Majesty General Santa Anna will ask for our surrender, Jamie. I've a bit of a surprise for him, that's all.”

“Is this sure to irritate Colonel Travis?”

Bowie chuckled. “Probably.” And he walked off without adding to that.

Jamie shook his head, wondering if Travis and Bowie would ever get along, even should they be admitted together through the gates of Heaven?

The answer was no.

Hell, either.

Do not go gently into that good night,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

— Dylan Thomas

Twenty
-
nine

Santa Anna's first real battle and his first encounter with Americans had been back in 1813, when he was a young man in the army of General Arredondo and sent to this very town to put down a civil insurrection by a bunch of Anglos trying to form a Republic of Texas. What nonsense, Santa Anna thought. His general had put everyone involved into a wild rout. Then came the punishments. Santa Anna enjoyed that immensely. Santa Anna felt nothing but scorn for Americans. Cowards, all of them.

He shifted in his saddle. He had been afflicted with
disentería
— in cruder terms, the shits — on the long march north, and he was not quite over it. That did nothing to improve his cruel temper.

It was time to enter the town. He had dressed in his finest uniform, with his chest filled with all the medals he'd won over the years of battles. His horse had been washed and groomed, his saddle, studded with silver, had been rubbed and polished.

Santa Anna had plans in mind for the residents of San Antonio, too. Dark savage plans. For he hated them. All of them. Years back he had been humiliated here, over a minor game of chance. And a not so minor incident of forgery — on his part. He had lied his way clear of any charges with his superiors, but he had never forgotten the laughter from the citizens of this wretched town. They would pay. Dearly.

And to further show how lightly Santa Anna treated the defenders at the Alamo... he planned to be
married
during the siege. To a lovely girl he had met only a few hours ago!

Santa Anna obviously did not believe in long courtships.

* * *

“Messenger comin' under a white flag, Jim,” a lookout called from his post.

“They'll be wanting us to surrender,” Bowie said, climbing up and standing beside a charged cannon.

The Mexican officer, all decked out in a fancy-colored uniform, called for the commanding officer. Bowie grinned and looked around for Travis. He was, as usual, in his office, writing reports.

“That's me, Amigo,” Bowie replied cheerfully, in perfect Spanish. “Jim Bowie at your service.
Que haces?
”

“Your surrender, senor Bowie. General Santa Anna demands an unconditional surrender.”

“I can but assume he's watching all this?” Bowie asked.

“
Si,
senor.”

“Run up the flag!” Bowie ordered.

Watching through a glass, Santa Anna's face reddened in rage as the red, white, and green Mexican flag, with some additions added, was hoisted up the flagpole inside the mission. Santa Anna cursed. The numbers 1824 were clearly visible, serving to remind him of the Texas constitution drafted in 1824.

Santa Anna told his aide, “The flag of no quarter. Now!”

The red flag was hoisted on the Mexican side, and every defender watching from the walls in the Alamo knew what it meant: a fight to the death.

Santa Anna issued another order and his cannon roared. They missed their target.

“Fire!” Bowie ordered, and the eighteen-pounder thundered out the Alamo's defiant reply.

Travis rushed from his quarters, furious. Bowie had not told him of his plans to do this. From the parapets, Bowie smiled down at him.

“Jim's little surprise for Colonel Travis,” Jamie muttered to Davy Crockett.

“I 'spect it did get ever'body's attention,” Crockett drawled. “Damn shore got mine!”

“I wish a word with you, Bowie!” Travis yelled.

“Later,” Bowie said, half turning his back to the man. “They've shown a man with a white flag. They want to parlay, and I got a man all ready to do that.”

“I forbid it!” Travis yelled, his voice nearly a scream.

“Too late,” Bowie said, then completely turned his back to the man.

Travis was outraged. He had suspected all along that Bowie had a plan to sell them all out. For to Travis, Bowie was a Mexican-lover.

He was right on one point: Bowie did love the Mexican people, he had married a beautiful Mexican girl. Then, too, Bowie knew the Mexican mind; how they thought. Travis was quite vocal in saying, often, that he doubted any Mexican even had a mind.

The Mexican artillery batteries continued to boom, but they were so far out of range, if they weren't careful, Bowie noted, the rounds just might fall on their own troops.

Jameson rode back. “Unconditional surrender,” he shouted to Bowie.

Bowie gave his reply. He personally touched the flame to the hole of the cannon and let the freshly charged eighteen-pounder roar. Then he leaned over the wall and gave the clearly startled Mexican officer under a flag of truce a message for Santa Anna.

The Mexican officer's face paled and he shook his head. “No, señor Bowie. I cannot tell that to my general.”

What Bowie had said was that, remembering that it loses something in the translation, Santa Anna's mother was a burro and his father was a vulture, and also that Santa Anna had sex with whores because he was so ugly no decent woman would have anything to do with him.

“
Madre Dios!
” the officer gasped. “I cannot say that, either!”

“Then tell him that Jim Bowie said
a besar cabo grosso!
”

The Mexican officer threw down the white flag and galloped away. He'd think of something to say to the general. He knew he'd better; he certainly could not repeat any of what Bowie had just said. Santa Anna would have him flogged. Or shot.

“What did you say to that officer?” Travis yelled, standing beside Bowie.

But Bowie only shook his head. “Just that we would, under no conditions, surrender unconditionally.”

Travis didn't believe him, of course. But knowing that Bowie had his blood running hot for battle now, he had enough sense not to call him a liar. For had he done that, the Alamo would have lost one of its two commanders. And Travis knew it. Travis was no coward; far from it. He was a very brave man. He just had, on occasion, uncommon good sense.

“We are not going to surrender under any circumstances!” Travis informed Bowie.

Bowie shrugged his total indifference. But Jamie, watching from a reasonably safe distance, knew what the shrug meant: the idea of surrender had never entered Bowie's mind. He was ready to fight to the death. That was why he had so insulted the courier from Santa Anna.

Travis, still furious, climbed down from the parapet and lined up the men under his personal command. He gave them a rousing, if somewhat profane speech, and all agreed to never surrender. Then he stalked off to his quarters.

“I never thought the tin soldier had it in him,” Bowie said to no one in particular, after listening to Travis's speech. “Maybe I'll change my opinion of him.”

Jamie thought that highly unlikely.

* * *

After listening to his courier's report, Santa Anna was so angry his dysentery returned and he had to rush to the outhouse for a time. When he returned, the courier had wisely disappeared, not wanting to repeat his lies for fear he could not remember all that he had said.

But he had told a junior officer what Bowie had really said. The young officer, seeking to appear favorable in his general's eyes, told Santa Anna all that Bowie had said.

Back to the outhouse.

* * *

The ineffectual cannon fire from the Mexican artillerymen continued throughout the afternoon. They hit nothing. San Antonio was now, for all intents and purposes, deserted. Only a few citizens remained in the town. The people in the town knew that when those in the Alamo really began to fight, their bigger and longer-range cannon could well destroy the town.

Travis's anger had slowly subsided and his logical mind began to see that Bowie had been right in his response to Santa Anna's demand for an unconditional surrender. But he sure as hell wasn't going to tell Bowie that.

Travis stepped out of his quarters and walked the compound. There was no sign of Jim Bowie. He had retired to his quarters to rest. The day had taken a lot out of him. He was much sicker and weaker than he would admit even to himself.

Crockett and several of his men had taken up positions along the walk with their long rifles, just waiting for one of Santa Anna's men to present a target.

So far, no one on either side had been killed, no one on either side had even gotten much upset — except for Travis's wild explosion of temper and Santa Anna's bowels — and no one had been seriously injured.

All that was about to change.

Davy Crockett had been watching as a lone Mexican soldier worked his way closer to the mission.

“You gonna let me have 'im, Davy?” one of his men asked hopefully.

“Nope,” Crockett replied. “He's all mine. How far you reckon he is?”

“Long ways off, Davy,” the Tennessee volunteer said. “You nail that one, it'll be something to write home about.”

“I didn't know you could write,” another one kidded the man.

“Hell, I cain't!”

Chuckling, Davy rested his rifle on a small bag of sand and sighted in. The long rifle cracked and the Mexican soldier went down bonelessly. Davy had drilled him through the heart from a nearly impossible distance and that was the first fatality of the battle. The Mexican soldiers knew then that the men along the walls of the Alamo were highly skilled riflemen.

Travis stood in the plaza and watched as the coonskin-capped and buckskin-wearing Tennessee men danced and whooped and hollered.

“You plugged 'im through the ticker, Davy!” one yelled.

Santa Anna shrugged off the report that one of his men had been killed. He had lots of
soldados
. They were all expendable. Santa Anna was thinking of his wedding day, and even more so, of his wedding night. He became sexually aroused and had to leave the room and wash his face in cold water. That didn't help a bit. He told one of his aides to bring a punta to his quarters. Two of them if possible. Three of them if the aide could find that many. And be sure they were young and pretty. And clean, for the general was a very fastidious man. Santa Anna fancied himself quite the lady's man, and very virile. He was also very vain and arrogant. And those were his good points.

Many of his officers held an intense dislike for General Santa Anna, but they kept that well hidden. Many of them did not like his streak of cruelty. Battles were one thing, but prisoners should be treated with at least some degree of compassion and dignity.

Santa Anna had little compassion, and on more than one occasion he had ordered helpless prisoners shot. But the officers were all professional soldiers, and they would obey their general. But they didn't have to like it.

* * *

Gradually, the gunfire subsided as evening fell and both sides settled down to supper. Travis watched from the open door of his darkened room as Jamie blackened his face and took up his bow and quiver of arrows. For a moment, he considered forbidding the young man to leave. But he stilled his tongue, not wanting another quarrel with Bowie.

My army, he thought. What an odd assortment of men, good men all, and brave men, but still a strange collection. Men from New Orleans, from Tennessee, from half a dozen or more states over in America. There were even a couple of men from Scotland. Mexicans fighting alongside Anglos against their own people. What brought them here, to this place, at this time? Travis shook his head, unable to find the answer to his silent question.

He looked toward Bowie's quarters and sighed. Jim was a good man, a true man, and he wished they could get along. Travis admitted, to himself, that it was as much his own fault as it was Bowie's. They were as different as night was from day.

He watched as Jamie disappeared into the gloom near the west wall. The young man was going out to kill. Travis wished him luck. MacCallister was a mystery. Raised by Indians, Travis recalled someone telling him. Somewhat of a savage, he felt. But nonetheless, a very capable and likeable young man.

Even though William Travis was only a few years older than Jamie MacCallister, on this early evening, he felt the weight of command heavy on his shoulders.

“Colonel,” a man called. “Come get some beef and beans and coffee, sir. It's gonna be a cold night.”

It will heat up come the dawning, Travis thought, as he walked toward the cook fire and took the offered plate of food in one hand and the cup of coffee in his other hand. “Thank you,” he said politely.

* * *

“Please excuse me,” Jamie muttered, lowering the body of the sentry to the nearly frozen ground. The man had died without a sound as the big blade of Jamie's Bowie knife nearly took his head off.

“Carlos?” a voice called out. “Where are you?”

“
Por acá,
” Jamie softly called.

“Ah!” The man started walking toward Jamie and Jamie put an arrow directly into the soldier's chest. He dropped with a thud against the nearly frozen earth.

“
Silencio!
” a hard voice called, adding, “
Idiota!
”

Jamie did the silencing with an arrow in the middle of the man's back. The Mexican batteries began opening up, from about five hundreds yards away from the Alamo. Jamie's knife flashed in the night and he silently slipped away, his bloody souvenirs dangling from his belt. He slipped into the town, knowing he was taking a terrible chance, but feeling the Mexican soldiers ought to know a taste of fear. He was going to give them a taste of it, that night.

That Colonel Travis would not approve of this did not bother Jamie a twit. Bowie would be amused by it.

A drunken sergeant lurched out of a cantina that the soldiers had forced open, mouthing terrible things about
norteamericanos
in general and Texans in particular. Jamie left him sitting on the dirt in the alley, his back to the outside wall of the cantina, his chin on his chest, and his head glistening dark and wetly in the night.