CROCKETT AND BOWIE
Unluckily for the Texans, the night was the darkest of the month. No
bonfires burned in San Antonio, and there were no sounds of music. It
seemed to Ned that the silence and darkness were sure indications of
action on the part of the foe.
He felt more lonely and depressed than at any other time hitherto in the
siege, and he was glad when Crockett and a young Tennesseean whom he
called the Bee-Hunter joined him. Crockett had not lost any of his
whimsical good humor, and when Ned suggested that Santa Anna was likely
to profit by the dark he replied:
"If he is the general I take him to be he will, or at least try, but
meanwhile we'll just wait, an' look, an' listen. That's the way to find
out if things are goin' to happen. Don't turn little troubles into big
ones. You don't need a cowskin for a calf. We'll jest rest easy. I'm
mighty nigh old enough to be your grandfather, Ned, an' I've learned to
take things as they come. I guess men of my age were talkin' this same
way five thousand years ago."
"You've seen a lot in your life, Mr. Crockett," said Ned, to whom the
Tennesseean was a great hero.
Crockett laughed low, but deep in his throat, and with much pleasure.
"So I have! So I have!" he replied, "an', by the blue blazes, I can say
it without braggin'. I've seen a lot of water go by since I was runnin'
'roun' a bare-footed boy in Tennessee. I've ranged pretty far from east
to west, an' all the way from Boston in the north to this old mission,
an' that must be some thousands of miles. An' I've had some big times in
New York, too."
"You've been in New York," said Ned, with quick interest. "It must be a
great town."
"It is. It's certainly a bulger of a place. There are thousands an'
thousands of houses, an' you can't count the sails in the bay. I saw the
City Hall an' it's a mighty fine buildin', too. It's all marble on the
side looking south, an' plain stone on the side lookin' north. I asked
why, an' they said all the poor people lived to the north of it. That's
the way things often happen, Ned. An' I saw the great, big hotel John
Jacob Astor was beginnin' to build on Broadway just below the City Hall.
They said it would cost seven hundred thousand dollars, which is an
all-fired lot of money, that it would cover mighty nigh a whole block,
an' that there would be nothin' else in America comin' up to it."
"I'd like to see that town," said Ned.
"Maybe you will some day," said Crockett, "'cause you're young. You
don't know how young you look to me. I heard a lot there, Ned, about
that rich man, Mr. Astor. He got his start as a fur trader. I guess he
was about the biggest fur trader that ever was. He was so active that
all them animals that wore furs on their backs concluded they might as
well give up. I heard one story there about an otter an' a beaver
talkin'. Says the otter to the beaver, when he was tellin' the beaver
good-by after a visit: 'Farewell, I never expect to see you again, my
dear old friend.' 'Don't be too much distressed,' replies the beaver,
'you an' I, old comrade, will soon meet at the hat store.'"
Ned and the Bee-Hunter laughed, and Crockett delved again into his past
life and his experiences in the great city, relatively as great then to
the whole country as it is now.
"I saw a heap of New York," he continued, "an' one of the things I liked
best in it was the theaters. Lad, I saw the great Fanny Kemble play
there, an' she shorely was one of the finest women that ever walked this
troubled earth. I saw her first as Portia in that play of Shakespeare's
called, called, called----"
"'The Merchant of Venice,'" suggested Ned.
"Yes, that's it, 'The Merchant of Venice,' where she was the woman
lawyer. She was fine to see, an' the way she could change her voice an'
looks was clean mirac'lous. If ever I need a lawyer I want her to act
for me. She had me mad, an' then she had me laughin', an' then she had
the water startin' in my eyes. Whatever she wanted me to see I saw, an'
whatever she wanted me to think I thought. An' then, too, she was many
kinds of a woman, different in turn. In fact, Ned, she was just like a
handsome piece of changeable silk--first one color an' then another, but
always clean."
He paused and the others did not interrupt him.
"I don't like cities," he resumed presently. "They crowd me up too much,
but I do like the theater. It makes you see so many things an' so many
kinds of people that you wouldn't have time to see if you had to travel
for 'em. We don't have much chance to travel right now, do we,
Bee-Hunter?"
"A few hundred yards only for our bodies," replied the young
Tennesseean, "but our spirits soar far;
"'Up with your banner, Freedom,
Thy champions cling to thee,
They'll follow where'er you lead them
To death or victory.
Up with your banner, Freedom.'"
He merely hummed the words, but Ned caught his spirit and he repeated to
himself: "Up with your banner, Freedom."
"I guess you've heard enough tales from an old fellow like me," said
Crockett. "At least you won't have time to hear any more 'cause the
Mexicans must be moving out there. Do you hear anything, Ned?"
"Nothing but a little wind."
"Then my ears must be deceivin' me. I've used 'em such a long time that
I guess they feel they've got a right to trick me once in a while."
But Ned was thinking just then of the great city which he wanted to see
some day as Crockett had seen it. But it seemed to him at that moment as
far away as the moon. Would his comrades and he ever escape from those
walls?
His mind came back with a jerk. He did hear something on the plain.
Crockett was right. He heard the tread of horses and the sound of wheels
moving. He called the attention of Crockett to the noises.
"I think I know what causes them," said Crockett. "Santa Anna is
planting his battery under the cover of the night an' I don't see, boys,
how we're goin' to keep him from doin' it."
The best of the Texan sharpshooters lined the walls, and they fired
occasionally at indistinct and flitting figures, but they were quite
certain that they did no execution. The darkness was too great. Travis,
Bowie and Crockett considered the possibility of a sortie, but they
decided that it had no chance of success. The few score Texans would be
overwhelmed in the open plain by the thousands of Mexicans.
But all the leaders were uneasy. If the Mexican batteries were brought
much closer, and were protected by earthworks and other fortifications,
the Alamo would be much less defensible. It was decided to send another
messenger for help, and Ned saw Bonham drop over the rear wall and slip
away in the darkness. He was to go to Goliad, where Fannin had 300 men
and four guns, and bring them in haste.
When Bonham was gone Ned returned to his place on the wall. For hours he
heard the noises without, the distant sound of voices, the heavy clank
of metal against metal, and he knew full well that Santa Anna was
planting his batteries. At last he went to his place in the long room of
the hospital and slept.
When dawn came he sprang up and rushed to the wall. There was the
battery of Santa Anna only three hundred yards from the entrance to the
main plaza and to the southeast, but little further away, was another.
The Mexicans had worked well during the night.
"They're creepin' closer, Ned. They're creepin' closer," said Crockett,
who had come to the wall before him, "but even at that range I don't
think their cannon will do us much harm. Duck, boy, duck! They're goin'
to fire!"
The two batteries opened at the same time, and the Mexican masses in the
rear, out of range, began a tremendous cheering. Many of the balls and
shells now fell inside the mission, but the Texans stayed well under
cover and they still escaped without harm. The Mexican gunners, in their
turn, kept so well protected that the Texan riflemen had little chance.
The great bombardment lasted an hour, but when it ceased, and the smoke
lifted, Ned saw a heavy mass of Mexican cavalry on the eastern road.
Both Ned and Crockett took a long look at the cavalry, a fine body of
men, some carrying lances and others muskets. Ned believed that he
recognized Urrea in the figure of their leader, but the distance was too
great for certainty. But when he spoke of it to Crockett the Tenesseean
borrowed Travis' field glasses.
"Take these," he said, "an' if it's that beloved enemy of yours you can
soon tell."
The boy, with the aid of the glasses, recognized Urrea at once. The
young leader in the uniform of a Mexican captain and with a cocked and
plumed hat upon his head sat his horse haughtily. Ned knew that he was
swelling with pride and that he, like Santa Anna, expected the trap to
shut down on the little band of Texans in a day or two. He felt some
bitterness that fate should have done so much for Urrea.
"I judge by your face," said Crockett whimsically, "that it is Urrea.
But remember, Ned, that you can still be hated and live long."
"It is indeed Urrea," said Ned. "Now what are they gathering cavalry out
there for? They can't expect to gallop over our walls."
"Guess they've an idea that we're goin' to try to slip out an' they're
shuttin' up that road of escape. Seems to me, Ned, they're comin' so
close that it's an insult to us."
"They're almost within rifle shot."
"Then these bad little Mexican boys must have their faces scorched as a
lesson. Just you wait here, Ned, till I have a talk with Travis an'
Bowie."
It was obvious to Ned that Crockett's talk with the commander and his
second was satisfactory, because when he returned his face was in a
broad grin. Bowie, moreover, came with him, and his blue eyes were
lighted up with the fire of battle.
"We're goin' to teach 'em the lesson, Ned, beginnin' with a b c," said
Crockett, "an' Jim here, who has had a lot of experience in Texas, will
lead us. Come along, I'll watch over you."
A force of seventy or eighty was formed quickly, and hidden from the
view of the Mexicans, they rushed down the plaza, climbed the low walls
and dropped down upon the plain. The Mexican cavalry outnumbered them
four or five to one, but the Texans cared little for such odds.
"Now, boys, up with your rifles!" cried Bowie. "Pump it into 'em!"
Bowie was a product of the border, hard and desperate, a man of many
fierce encounters, but throughout the siege he had been singularly
gentle and considerate in his dealings with his brother Texans. Now he
was all warrior again, his eyes blazing with blue fire while he shouted
vehement words of command to his men.
The sudden appearance of the Texan riflemen outside the Alamo look Urrea
by surprise, but he was quick of perception and action, and his
cavalrymen were the best in the Mexican army. He wheeled them into line
with a few words of command and shouted to them to charge. Bowie's men
instantly stopped, forming a rough line, and up went their rifles.
Urrea's soldiers who carried rifles or muskets opened a hasty and
excited fire at some distance.
Ned heard the bullets singing over his head or saw them kicking up dust
in front of the Texans, but only one of the Texans fell and but few were
wounded. The Mexican rifles or muskets were now empty, but the Mexican
lancers came on in good order and in an almost solid group, the yellow
sunlight flashing across the long blades of their lances.
It takes a great will to face sharp steel in the hands of horsemen
thundering down upon you, and Ned was quite willing to own afterward
that every nerve in him was jumping, but he stood. All stood, and at the
command of Bowie their rifles flashed together in one tremendous
explosion.
The rifles discharged, the Texans instantly snatched out their pistols,
ready for anything that might come galloping through the smoke. But
nothing came. When the smoke lifted they saw that the entire front of
the Mexican column was gone. Fallen men and horses were thick on the
plain and long lances lay across them. Other horses, riderless, were
galloping away to right and left, and unhorsed men were running to the
rear. But Urrea had escaped unharmed. Ned saw him trying to reform his
shattered force.
"Reload your rifles, men!" shouted Bowie. "You can be ready for them
before they come again!"
These were skilled sharpshooters, and they rammed the loads home with
startling rapidity. Every rifle was loaded and a finger was on every
trigger when the second charge of Urrea swept down upon them. No need of
a command from Bowie now. The Texans picked their targets and fired
straight into the dense group. Once more the front of the Mexican column
was shot away, and the lances fell clattering on the plain.
"At 'em, boys, with your pistols!" shouted Bowie. "Don't give 'em a
second chance!"
The Texans rushed forward, firing their pistols. Ned in the smoke became
separated from his comrades, and when he could see more clearly he
beheld but a single horseman. The man was Urrea.
The two recognized each other instantly. The Mexican had the advantage.
He was on horseback and the smoke was in Ned's eyes, not his own. With a
shout of triumph, he rode straight at the boy and made a fierce sweep
with his cavalry saber. It was fortunate for Ned that he was agile of
both body and mind. He ducked and leaped to one side. He felt the swish
of the heavy steel over his head, but as he came up again he fired.
Urrea was protected largely by his horse's neck, and Ned fired at the
horse instead, although he would have greatly preferred Urrea as a
target. The bullet struck true and the horse fell, but the rider leaped
clear and, still holding the saber, sprang at his adversary. Ned
snatched up his rifle, which lay on the ground at his feet, and received
the slash of the sword upon its barrel. The blade broke in two, and
then, clubbing his rifle, Ned struck.
It was fortunate for Urrea, too, that he was agile of mind and body. He
sprang back quickly, but the butt of the rifle grazed his head and drew
blood. The next moment other combatants came between, and Urrea dashed
away in search of a fresh horse. Ned, his blood on fire, was rushing
after him, when Bowie seized his arm and pulled him back.
"No further, Ned!" he cried. "We've scattered their cavalry and we must
get back into the Alamo or the whole Mexican army will be upon us!"
Ned heard far away the beat of flying hoofs. It was made by the horses
of the Mexican cavalry fleeing for their lives. Bowie quickly gathered
together his men, and carrying with them two who had been slain in the
fight they retreated rapidly to the Alamo, the Texan cannon firing over
their heads at the advancing Mexican infantry. In three or four minutes
they were inside the walls again and with their comrades.
The Mexican cavalry did not reappear upon the eastern road, and the
Texans were exultant, yet they had lost two good men and their joy soon
gave way to more solemn feelings. It was decided to bury the slain at
once in the plaza, and a common grave was made for them. They were the
first of the Texans to fall in the defence, and their fate made a deep
impression upon everybody.
It took only a few minutes to dig the grave, and the men, laid side by
side, were covered with their cloaks. While the spades were yet at work
the Mexican cannon opened anew upon the Alamo. A ball and a bomb fell in
the plaza. The shell burst, but fortunately too far away to hurt
anybody. Neither the bursting of the shell nor any other part of the
cannonade interrupted the burial.
Crockett, a public man and an orator, said a few words. They were
sympathetic and well chosen. He spoke of the two men as dying for Texas.
Others, too, would fall in the defence of the Alamo, but their blood
would water the tree of freedom. Then they threw in the dirt. While
Crockett was speaking the cannon still thundered without, but every word
could be heard distinctly.
When Ned walked away he felt to the full the deep solemnity of the
moment. Hitherto they had fought without loss to themselves. The death
of the two men now cast an ominous light over the situation. The Mexican
lines were being drawn closer and closer about the Alamo, and he was
compelled to realize the slenderness of their chances.
The boy resumed his place on the wall, remaining throughout the
afternoon, and watched the coming of the night. Crockett joined him, and
together they saw troops of Mexicans marching away from the main body,
some to right and some to left.
"Stretchin' their lines," said Crockett. "Santa Anna means to close us
in entirely after a while. Now, by the blue blazes, that was a close
shave!"
A bullet sang by his head and flattened against the wall. He and Ned
dropped down just in time. Other bullets thudded against the stone.
Nevertheless, Ned lifted his head above the edge of the parapet and took
a look. His eyes swept a circle and he saw little puffs of smoke coming
from the roofs and windows of the jacals or Mexican huts on their side
of the river. He knew at once that the best of the Mexican sharpshooters
had hidden themselves there, and had opened fire not with muskets, but
with improved rifles. He called Crockett's attention to this point of
danger and the frontiersman grew very serious.
"We've got to get 'em out some way or other," he said. "As I said
before, the cannon balls make a big fuss, but they don't come so often
an' they come at random. It's the little bullets that have the sting of
the wasp, an' when a man looks down the sights, draws a bead on you, an'
sends one of them lead pellets at you, he gen'rally gets you. Ned, we've
got to drive them fellers out of there some way or other."
The bullets from the jacals now swept the walls and the truth of
Crockett's words became painfully evident. The Texan cannon fired upon
the huts, but the balls went through the soft adobe and seemed to do no
harm. It was like firing into a great sponge. Triumphant shouts came
from the Mexicans. Their own batteries resumed the cannonade, while
their sheltered riflemen sent in the bullets faster and faster.
Crockett tapped the barrel of Betsy significantly.
"The work has got to be done with this old lady an' others like her," he
said. "We must get rid of them jacals."
"How?" asked Ned.
"You come along with me an' I'll show you," said Crockett. "I'm goin' to
have a talk with Travis, an' if he agrees with me we'll soon wipe out
that wasps' nest."
Crockett briefly announced his plan, which was bold in the extreme.
Sixty picked riflemen, twenty of whom bore torches also, would rush out
at one of the side gates, storm the jacals, set fire to them, and then
rush back to the Alamo.
Travis hesitated. The plan seemed impossible of execution in face of the
great Mexican force. But Bowie warmly seconded Crockett, and at last the
commander gave his consent. Ned at once asked to go with the daring
troop, and secured permission. The band gathered in a close body by one
of the gates. The torches were long sticks lighted at the end and
burning strongly. The men had already cocked their rifles, but knowing
the immense risk they were about to take they were very quiet. Ned was
pale, and his heart beat painfully, but his hand did not shake.
The Texan cannon, to cover the movement, opened fire from the walls, and
the riflemen, posted at various points, helped also. The Mexican
cannonade increased. When the thunder and crash were at their height the
gate was suddenly thrown open and the sixty dashed out. Fortunately the
drifting smoke hid them partially, and they were almost upon the jacals
before they were discovered.
A great shout came from the Mexicans when they saw the daring Texans
outside, and bullets from the jacals began to knock up grass and dust
about them. But Crockett himself, waving a torch, led them on, shouting:
"It's only a step, boys! It's only a step! Now, let 'em have it!"
The Texans fired as they rushed, but they took care to secure good aim.
The Mexicans were driven from the roofs and the windows and then the
Texans carrying the torches dashed inside. Every house contained
something inflammable, which was quickly set on fire, and two or three
huts made of wood were lighted in a dozen places.
The dry materials blazed up fast. A light wind fanned the flames, which
joined together and leaped up, a roaring pyramid. The Mexicans, who had
lately occupied them, were scuttling like rabbits toward their main
force, and the Texan bullets made them jump higher and faster.
Crockett, with a shout of triumph, flung down his torch.
"Now, boys," he cried. "Here's the end of them jacals. Nothin' on earth
can put out that fire, but if we don't make a foot race back to the
Alamo the end of us will be here, too, in a minute."
The little band wheeled for its homeward rush. Ned heard a great shout
of rage from the Mexicans, and then the hissing and singing of shells
and cannon balls over his head. He saw Mexicans running across the plain
to cut them off, but his comrades and he had reloaded their rifles, and
as they ran they sent a shower of bullets that drove back their foe.
Ned's heart was pumping frightfully, and myriads of black specks danced
before his eyes, but he remembered afterward that he calculated how far
they were from the Alamo, and how far the Mexicans were from them. A
number of his comrades had been wounded, but nobody had fallen and they
still raced in a close group for the gate, which seemed to recede as
they rushed on.
"A few more steps, Ned," cried Crockett, "an' we're in! Ah, there go our
friends!"
The Texan cannon over their heads now fired into the pursuing Mexican
masses, and the sharpshooters on the walls also poured in a deadly hail.
The Mexicans recoiled once more and then Crockett's party made good the
gate.
"All here!" cried Crockett, as those inside held up torches. He ran over
the list rapidly himself and counted them all, but his face fell when he
saw his young friend the Bee-Hunter stagger. Crockett caught him in his
arms and bore him into the hospital. He and Ned watched by his side
until he died, which was very soon. Before he became unconscious he
murmured some lines from an old Scotch poem:
"But hame came the saddle, all bluidy to see.
And hame came the steed, but never hame came he."
They buried him that night beside the other two, and Ned was more solemn
than ever when he sought his usual place in the hospital by the wall. It
had been a day of victory for the Texans, but the omens, nevertheless,
seemed to him to be bad.
The next day he saw the Mexicans spreading further and further about the
Alamo, and they were in such strong force that the Texans could not now
afford to go out and attack any of these bands. A light cold rain fell,
and as he was not on duty he went back to the hospital, where he sat in
silence.
He was deeply depressed and the thunder of the Mexican cannon beat upon
his ears like the voice of doom. He felt a strange annoyance at the
reports of the guns. His nerves jumped, and he became angry with himself
at what he considered a childish weakness.
Now, and for the first time, he felt despair. He borrowed a pencil and a
sheet of paper torn from an old memorandum book and made his will. His
possessions were singularly few, and the most valuable at hand was his
fine long-barreled rifle, which he left to his faithful friend, Obed
White. He bequeathed his pistol and knife to the Panther, and his
clothes to Will Allen. He was compelled to smile at himself when he had
finished his page of writing. Was it likely that his friends would ever
find this paper, or, if finding it, was it likely that any one of them
could ever obtain his inheritance? But it was a relief to his feelings
and, folding the paper, he put it in the inside pocket of his hunting
shirt.
The bombardment was renewed in the afternoon, but Ned stayed in his
place in the hospital. After a while Davy Crockett and several others
joined him there. Crockett as usual was jocular, and told more stories
of his trips to the large eastern cities. He had just finished an
anecdote of Philadelphia, when he turned suddenly to Ned.
"Boy," he said, "you and I have fought together more than once now, an'
I like you. You are brave an' you've a head full of sense. When you grow
older you'll be worth a lot to Texas. They'll need you in the council.
No, don't protest. This is the time when we can say what is in us. The
Mexican circle around the Alamo is almost complete. Isn't that so,
boys?"
"It is."
"Then I'll say what we all know. Three or four days from now the chances
will be a hundred to one against any of us ever gettin' out of here. An'
you're the youngest of the defence, Ned, so I want you to slip out
to-night while there's yet time. Mebbe you can get up a big lot of men
to come to our help."
Ned looked straight at Crockett, and the veteran's eyes wavered.
"It's a little scheme you have," said Ned, "to get me out of the way.
You think because I'm the youngest I ought to go off alone at night and
save my own life. Well, I'm not going. I intend to stay here and fight
it out with the rest of you."
"I meant for the best, boy, I meant for the best," said Crockett. "I'm
an old fellow an' I've had a terrible lot of fun in my time. About as
much, I guess, as one man is entitled to, but you've got all your life
before you."
"Couldn't think of it," said Ned lightly; "besides, I've got a password
in case I'm taken by Santa Anna."
"What's that?" asked Crockett curiously.
"It's the single word 'Roylston.' Mr. Roylston told me if I were taken
by Santa Anna to mention his name to him."
"That's queer, an' then maybe it ain't," said Crockett musingly. "I've
heard a lot of John Roylston. He's about the biggest trader in the
southwest. I guess he must have some sort of a financial hold on Santa
Anna, who is always wantin' money. Ned, if the time should ever come,
don't you forget to use that password."
The next night was dark and chilly with gusts of rain. In the afternoon
the Mexican cannonade waned, and at night it ceased entirely. The Alamo
itself, except for a few small lights within the buildings, was kept
entirely dark in order that skulking sharpshooters without might not
find a target.
Ned was on watch near one of the lower walls about the plaza. He wrapped
his useful serape closely about his body and the lower part of his face
in order to protect himself from the cold and wet, and the broad brim of
his sombrero was drawn down to meet it. The other Texans on guard were
protected in similar fashion, and in the flitting glimpses that Ned
caught of them they looked to him like men in disguise.
The time went on very slowly. In the look backward every hour in the
Alamo seemed to him as ten. He walked back and forth a long time,
occasionally meeting other sentinels, and exchanging a few words with
them. Once he glanced at their cattle, which were packed closely under a
rough shed, where they lay, groaning with content. Then he went back to
the wall and noticed the dim figure of one of the sentinels going toward
the convent yard and the church.
Ned took only a single glance at the man, but he rather envied him. The
man was going off duty early, and he would soon be asleep in a warm
place under a roof. He did not think of him again until a full hour
later, when he, too, going off duty, saw a figure hidden in serape and
sombrero passing along the inner edge of the plaza. The walk and figure
reminded him of the man whom he had seen an hour before, and he wondered
why any one who could have been asleep under shelter should have
returned to the cold and rain.
He decided to follow, but the figure flitted away before him down the
plaza and toward the lowest part of the wall. This was doubly curious.
Moreover, it was ground for great suspicion. Ned followed swiftly. He
saw the figure mounting the wall, as if to take position there as a
sentinel, and then the truth came to him in a flash. It was Urrea
playing the congenial role of spy.
Ned rushed forward, shouting. Urrea turned, snatched a pistol and fired.
The bullet whistled past Ned's head. The next moment Urrea dropped over
the wall and fled away in the darkness. The other sentinels were not
able to obtain a shot at him.