Brandy poured, the men sniffed and then sipped the explosive mixture.
Travis rose from the table and walked to a makeshift desk. He took out several pages of paper and handed them to Bowie. Bowie pulled the candle closer and read:
“To the People of Texas & all Americans in the world. Fellow citizens & compatriots —I am besieged, by a thousand or more of the Mexicans under Santa Anna — I have sustained a continual bombardment & cannonade for 24 hours & have not lost a man — The enemy has demanded a surrender at discretion, otherwise, the garrison are to be put to the sword, if the fort is taken — I have answered the demand with a cannon shot, & our flag still waves proudly from the walls — I shall never surrender or retreat. Then, I call on you in the name of Liberty, of patriotism, & everything dear to the American character, to come to our aid, with all dispatch — The enemy is receiving reinforcements daily & will no doubt increase to three or four thousand in four or five days. If this call is neglected, I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible & die like a soldier who never forgets what is due to his own honor & that of his country — Victory or Death.”1
Bowie nodded his head in agreement with the words. “I can add nothing to this stirring tribute to the defenders of this mission, Bill. You’ve said it all.”
“Then there is nothing left to do, is there, Jim?”
“Yes,” Bowie said softly. “Fight and die for Texas.”
* * *
The Mexican bombardment continued throughout the day, with very little damage to the makeshift fort, and no injuries or fatalities to the defenders. But Crockett and his sharpshooters played hell with any Mexican soldier who came too close to the walls. Because of the sharpshooters’ deadly accuracy with their long rifles, the Mexicans were unable to move their light cannon any closer.
Inside the compound, the defenders were working frantically to get everything ready for the charge they knew was coming. They shored up the walls and reinforced any broken places in the walls. The hospital was made ready. The noncombatants, some twenty-five of them, were instructed to tend to the wounded, when that occurred, and all knew it would, and soon. For now, they saw to the keeping of fires, the preparation of food, the washing of the defenders’ clothing, and to the rolling of bandages and the safekeeping of the meager supply of medicines.
It did not rain that day, and the sun was welcome, for it had been a cold and very wet month so far. The sun felt good and Bowie’s cough was not nearly so pronounced as he worked to mount another cannon on the south end of the plaza, on a fifteen-foot platform.
Bowie’s mind was not entirely on the placing of the cannon. The Mexican bombardment was continuous and distracting. During the night, the Mexican gunners had crept closer and now some of the cannonballs were actually striking the walls of the mission. Also, after he’d left Travis’s company the night before, he’d gotten drunk and now he had a headache. And the ropes holding the cannon were badly frayed.
Whatever the reason for the accident, Bowie felt the heavy cannon shift on him. “Look out!” he called to the men below him. The men below scrambled out of harm’s way. For a few seconds, all that held the heavy cannon was Bowie’s tremendous upper-body strength. Men raced toward him with rope, but it was too late. The cannon shifted again and slammed into Bowie’s side, crushing his ribs. Bowie fell from the platform and the cannon pivoted again, and stopped against a heavy support post sunk deep into the ground. Bowie lay nearly unconscious on the ground, a fearsome head wound gushing blood and each breath agony because of his broken ribs. Bowie passed out on the way to the hospital.
* * *
Still far to the north, Tall Bull and his small band of warriors made their way cautiously south, staying clear of any settlements. They were not a war party. Not yet, anyway. If by some miracle Jamie MacCallister escaped from the old mission, then and only then, would they become a war party. After only one white. Jamie Ian MacCallister.
* * *
Deep in the Big Thicket of East Texas, Kate sat out the cold winter with the children and waited for some word from Jamie. But none came. Finally, on the 24th of February, the day of Bowie’s accident, a merchant from San Augustine brought her a letter that Jamie had written and posted several weeks back.
She carefully broke the wax seal and with trembling fingers unfolded the paper.
My darling Kate,
I do not know if this letter will even reach you, certainly not when. But as I take pen in hand, I first of all want to tell you how much I love you. I have loved you since the moment we met. I must be blunt, Kate, for I know of no other way to tell you this. I am going to the Alamo to fight for the independence of Texas. It is not in my plans to die, Kate. But if that is necessary to help free the people of this Republic from heel-grinding tyranny, then die I shall. If that should happen, you may take whatever solace there might be in the fact that I died standing shoulder to shoulder with brave and loyal comrades.
I do not know what fate has in store for me, Kate. I know only that I will carry your love in my heart to the end. Whether that will be soon or with you in my arms as the curtain of age falls around us and the light of life dims, is something that only God will decide.
Tell the children that I love them, and think often of them. You are among the best of friends, Kate. I have to smile when I think of our friends, Mexican, Indian, Nigra, and White. I think we have all proven something important in our little community, Kate. However, I am not sure I can express that in words.
But there is one thing I can express: I love you, Kate. Whatever happens, always remember that.
Your loving and faithful husband,
Jamie
Kate wept silently for a few moments, then dried her eyes and rose from the chair. She must be brave. For she knew she was not the only Texas woman who had a man at the Alamo. She wondered what it must be like at that place.
* * *
Jim Bowie was down and was not likely to ever rise again. That news spread like a raging fire throughout the compound. The regimental surgeon, Dr. Pollard, had left Bowie’s quarters shaking his head in amazement that the man was still alive. He had allowed the men of the Alamo to file past Bowie’s bed, to offer condolences and, many of the men knew, to say goodbye to the famous knife fighter. Bowie was dying.
When the last man had filed past, Bowie asked Jamie to sit for a time with him.
“Place those quills and the inkwell close by me, lad,” Bowie requested in a weak voice. “It’s come the time for me to write my farewell. Those scraps of paper, too, lad. Ah. Thank you. Have you written to your loved ones, Jamie?”
“Yes, sir. Before I arrived here. I posted it on the way in with Crockett.”
“Good. I’m writing you out a bill of sale for my horse, Jamie. For when you leave here, you’re going to have to fly. You know where my mount is hidden? Good. You think you can slip out of this bastion one more time, with your horse?”
“Easily, sir.”
“A few miles outside of town there is a ranch that belongs to a friend of mine. His name is Ruiz. Take both our horses there and they will be stabled and grained properly. When the time comes, Jamie, you must leave with this message. You will not question my orders?”
“No, sir.”
“Good lad. The doctor says I must not have any whiskey. So would you please pour me a cup from that jug yonder?”
Jamie was not about to refuse his commander’s request. He poured a cup and Bowie thanked him and sipped and smiled. “Now leave me, lad. Ah, one more thing before you go. Place that jug within arm’s reach, would you? Thanks.” He winked at Jamie. “I’ll not die before the battle’s conclusion, lad. When I close the door to this life, I shall do so in the company of my volunteers and all the men defending this bastion of independence. Pass that on to the men, would you?”