“I’m going to start driving those few cattle out yonder in here and put them in the pen,” Jamie said. “We’re running low on supplies.”
Bowie laughed and Travis flushed. “Go on, Jamie,” Bowie called. “Good thinking.”
“Yes,” Travis said. “Very good.”
The rest of that day, those staying behind watched as the town nearly emptied of residents. Wagons creaked on the muddy, rutted road and wheels groaned. For many of the Mexicans in the town, it was not a matter of choice. They knew only too well the savage and ruthless mind of Santa Anna. Most of the residents of San Antonio had helped the Americans, and all knew there were informers who would be quick to point them out. They were running for their lives, taking as many of their personal possessions with them as was possible.
As the fleeing Mexicans looked toward the sound of the ringing bell in the tower, many wondered why the Americans were so willing to die for this? They could just not understand it.
After securing the cattle in the pen, Jamie rode out to see the sight, and quite a sight it was. He could truthfully say he had never seen anything like it. Crouched in a mesquite thicket, Jamie watched as hundreds of brilliantly garmented cavalrymen paraded up and down on their fine horses. An officer — Jamie did not know it but the officer was General Ramirez y Sesma — was the most elegantly dressed of them all. He sat his horse and waved his sword, which caught the rays of the sun and reflected back in flashes of silver.
Jamie watched for the better part of an hour, as more and more troops came riding and marching up from the south. He estimated their numbers at close to three thousand. Taking a terrible chance he mounted up and, skirting wide, rode to the south to see what else he could report. He knew that Travis would not discount his reports now. He had never taken umbrage at Travis’s disbelief in his earlier reports, for he knew that Travis felt that no man in his right mind would attempt to march a huge army across the arid plains in the windswept dead of a bitterly cold winter. But Santa Anna had done it, although at a terrible cost. He had crossed the Rio Grande with six thousand men, nearly two thousand pack mules, about fifty huge wagons, several hundred two-wheeled carts, and twenty-five cannon. The old Spanish road behind him was littered with dead animals and broken wagons and discarded equipment and more than a few dead men, who had dropped from exhaustion during the long forced march. But Santa Anna didn’t care. He had revenge and retribution burning in his mind. He was going to stop this ridiculous independence movement once and for all and teach these goddamn upstart and arrogant Texans a lesson that would forever and ever live in history.
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.