Travis ordered the men to exercise to get the blood flowing more freely. Some did; most ignored his orders.
After taking a head count and determining that everyone was safely inside, Travis decided not to push the issue and soon retired to the warmth of his quarters to do what he loved to do: write letters and reports to Houston.
The Mexican artillery barrage kept up all night. The men inside the Alamo huddled together to keep warm and the fire watch was kept busy maintaining the fires.
So far, no defender of the Alamo had been killed and what wounds they’d suffered were very slight. All that was about to change.
* * *
At the convention, Houston had talked until he realized his words were falling on deaf ears. The men at the Alamo were doomed; sacrificed on a blood altar. On this cold and bitter night, Houston stood outside his quarters and brooded. Governor Smith had earlier placed Houston on leave until March 1st, so Houston had no army to command. Houston had gone at once to meet with the Cherokee chiefs to get their word that they would not attack the Texans and would remain neutral during the war. They gave their word.
Houston looked toward the west, toward the Alamo, a hundred miles away, and lifted a hand in salute. “Farewell,” he whispered to the cold wind and the darkness. “May God be with you in your final hours.” Bitterly, he added, “That’s about all you have going for you.”
* * *
Jamie huddled against the wall, listening to the crash of the Mexican artillery slamming against the walls. The ground trembled beneath the soles of his moccasins. Jamie was fortunate in one respect: he was dressed warmly enough and had the serape the Nunez family had given him. His hands were protected from the cold by the gloves Hannah had lovingly made for him. He dozed off, only to be brought back to consciousness by the never-ending artillery barrage.
Jamie wondered if he would ever see Kate and the children again.
Thirty-two
The Fourth Day
February 26th, 1836
Long before dawn broke, Jamie finally said to hell with trying to sleep, and left the protection of the thick wall and went in search of coffee. He got his coffee and a plate of beef and settled down to eat his breakfast while the Mexican gunners continued to bombard the old mission.
When dawn finally split the skies, all hint of rain was gone and the sky was a beautiful blue. The temperature remained quite cold.
When Jamie finished eating, he rinsed out his plate and took up his rifle and walked the nearly three-acre compound, speaking to others as he walked. He knew them all now, at least their first names or nicknames, and they knew him. But on this morning, Jamie could sense a mood of discouragement among the defenders. Even Crockett was no longer laughing and acting the fool and cracking jokes in an attempt to bolster the spirits of the men. The legendary frontiersman was somber, as he stood on the ramparts, staring out toward town.
Jamie climbed the ladder and joined him.
“That damn Mex general has done shifted men all about durin’ the night, lad,” Crockett said. “He’s pretty well sealed us up tight.”
Jamie could see through the smoke from the cannon that Santa Anna had blocked the roads leading east. “That isn’t all he’s done,” Jamie said, after the crash of cannonballs had ceased for a moment. “He’s blocked any possible help from getting to us... at least by the road.”
“What help?” Crockett said, a bitter tone to his voice, as he and Jamie watched as yet another messenger was sent by Travis. The man galloped away. After several harrowing miles, he would circle wide and head for Fannin’s location — if he wasn’t killed by some Mexican patrol.
“How many do that make, Davy?” one of Crockett’s men asked, moving close to be heard.
“Oh, eight or ten in the past few days,” Davy replied. “He told ’em they could RIP if they wanted to.”
“Rest in Peace?” the man questioned.
“Return if Possible,” Davy corrected.
“Goddamnit!” the volunteer cursed, his breath steaming in the cold air. “They’s got to be help on the way!”
“Don’t count on it,” Jamie said. “I think we’re all alone in this fight.”
“Surely the lad is wrong,” Jamie heard another man say as he walked away, climbing down the ladder. “Ain’t he, Davy?”
“I fear he’s mighty right, boys. Mighty right.”
Jamie walked to Bowie’s quarters and looked in. Bowie was awake, but his face was pale and his eyes shiny with pain. He waved Jamie to a chair. “Get us some coffee, Sam. Would you please?”
“How does it look out there, Jamie?” Bowie asked.
Jamie brought the knife fighter up to date.
Bowie coughed and the pain nearly caused him to pass out. He spat blood into a rag and smiled wanly at Jamie. “I guess I’ll die right here in this damn room, lad.” He was one hundred percent accurate in his prediction. From that moment on, James Bowie, born in Logan County, Kentucky, around 1796, would leave that dark room only one more time until his death.
“Can I get you anything, Colonel?” Jamie asked.
“A new body would be nice. Jamie,” he said with a smile. “If by some chance you are trapped in here at the end, and I pray God that you are not, see to it that my knife is close to my hand, would you? I’ll need it when I meet the Devil.”
“Hush that kind of talk!” Sam said, bringing the men coffee.
Bowie laughed. “I gave him his freedom and now I got me an uppity darky on my hands, Jamie.”
Sam wet a cloth and bathed Jim’s face with gentle hands. “I got me a thought that the top man on the other side would let you pass free, Master Jim. Why won’t you let me try?”
“I told you to git, Sam,” Bowie whispered. “I’ll write out a paper saying that you took no part in any combat.”
“I’ll stay,” Sam said firmly.
“Not only has he turned uppity, he’s stubborn as a damn mule to boot,” Jim said. He cut his eyes to Jamie. “I’m still writing that letter, Jamie. I’ll have it finished in time.”
Jamie opened his mouth to lodge a protest and Bowie held up a hand. “I have officially assigned you to Travis’s command, lad. It’s all legal. Bill has said that you will be the last man over the walls with our messages. Them that can write have done so or are doing so. Or they’re getting someone to do it for them. You’ll carry the last words of farewell from this valiant garrison. That’s firm.”
“Yes, sir,” Jamie said. “As you wish.”
“Fine. That’s settled. Now leave me. I’ve not been much for writing long missives and it’s a chore.”
“Jim?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want to be branded a coward.”
Bowie smiled. “You won’t be. How could you be faulted for obeying a direct order? Only a fool would RIP back to a certain death.”
The sounds of the Mexican cannons intensified; the crash of ball and grapeshot slamming against the walls trembled the floor beneath Jamie’s feet. Jamie left the room and Bowie took pen in hand and began slowly writing.
* * *
Events were now unfolding that would seal the fate of those trapped — albeit willingly — inside the Alamo. Fannin had finally decided to act on his own initiative. While Jamie was speaking with Jim Bowie, Fannin and a force of some three hundred men pulled out of Goliad, starting the march to aid those at the Alamo. At the same time, a small force of some thirty volunteers at Gonzales, some seventy miles away to the east, under the command of George Kimbell, was making ready to ride to the Alamo.
Fannin’s relief column got about a mile outside of Goliad — the fort was still in sight — when a wagon broke down. The column was halted while the wagon was repaired. For reasons that were, and are, known only to him, Fannin decided to camp there and wait until the next morning before resuming the march. During the night, the oxen used to pull the wagons got loose, or were freed, and the men spent the entire day of February 27th rounding them up.