While these things were happening at San Antonio, the General
Consultation was in session at San Felipe. General Austin, appointed
special commissioner to the United States, had resigned his position as
commander-in-chief of the army two days before the Grass Fight.
Edward Burleson, who succeeded to the command, had fought under General
Jackson in the Creek war, and was known throughout Texas as a brave and
intrepid Indian fighter. To him the soldiers now looked confidently for
immediate action; and all eyes were turned eagerly toward the citadel
over which floated the Mexican flag.
The old town beloved of St. Denis still hugged the river-bank, buried in
evergreen foliage and gay with ever-blooming flowers. The stone and
adobe houses, with flat roofs, thick walls, and barred windows, lined
the narrow streets which opened out into the Military Plaza and the old
_Plaza de las Islas_ (now Constitution). These plazas had been
fortified, and the streets leading into them were barricaded and guarded
by cannon. On the east side of the river the fortress of the Church of
the Alamo and its walled enclosure had also been fortified and mounted
with artillery.
General Burleson, aware of these fortifications, looked at the citadel
and at his little army, and, courageous though he was, he stopped to
count the cost. While he was hesitating and his men were openly
fretting, three Americans escaped from San Antonio, where they had been
imprisoned, and came into the camp (December 3). Their report of the
enemy’s condition decided Burleson to attack the place at once. The
order was given and a plan of assault arranged. The soldiers were
jubilant; an activity long unknown pervaded the camp. But into the midst
of this cheerful excitement dropped like a bombshell a second order
countermanding the first. A scout had disappeared, and it was believed
that he had deserted in order to warn Cos of the intended attack.
[Illustration: Edward Burleson.]
This reason did not satisfy the soldiers. They were defiant and angry
almost to mutiny. Their indignation knew no bounds when they were told
that the camp was about to be broken and the siege raised. There was a
loud clamor of rage and disappointment. During this scene the missing
scout returned in company with a deserter from San Antonio, who
confirmed the report of the weakness of the defenses and the discontent
of the Mexican garrison. Benjamin Milam, upon this, had a word or two
with General Burleson in his tent; then he stepped out, bared his head,
and, waving his hat with a loud hurrah, demanded in a ringing voice:
“Who will go with old Ben Milam into San Antonio?”
Three hundred volunteers with an answering shout sprang to the front.
The same night (December 4) by twos and threes, singly, and in squads,
the storming party stole silently into an old mill on the road between
the camp and the town. Milam, the chief in command, told them off into
two divisions: one to be led by himself and the other by Colonel Frank
W. Johnson. Silent still and like phantoms, the double line took up its
march over the intervening ground and slipped into San Antonio.
A little earlier, Colonel Neill had started from camp with a detachment
to make a pretended attack on the fortress of the Alamo. He opened fire
before daylight and continued to hold the enemy’s attention until the
assaulting party could enter the town. When the sound of their guns
apprised him that this was done, he returned to the camp, where General
Burleson kept his men under arms, ready to march at any moment to
Milam’s assistance.
Milam and Johnson, guided by Deaf Smith, drew their men swiftly through
the dark and silent streets. Suddenly a sentinel gave the alarm. A shot
from Deaf Smith’s rifle silenced him forever; and the Texans dashed to
cover. The Mexicans poured out of their quarters and attacked them
furiously in the houses of Señors de la Garza and Veramendi, where they
had taken shelter. They returned the fire with their accustomed
coolness, picking off their assailants with unerring aim through
loop-holes cut in the thick walls, or from the flat parapeted roofs.
For the next five days the Texans were engaged in fighting and burrowing
their way steadily toward the Military Plaza. With cannon booming and
scattering grape and canister among them, and the rattle of small arms
in their ears, they dug trenches along the streets from corner to
corner; they battered down doors; with crowbars and axes they pried
openings in walls—fighting the while, now at long range, now in deadly
hand-to-hand encounters, and always with defiant smiles on their
powder-blackened faces. The weather was wet and cold; the dismal streets
were slippery with blood and choked with the débris of battle. Above, in
the smoky air flapped from the church tower a black flag which meant “No
quarter.”
On the third day Milam, leaping from a trench to the entrance of the
Veramendi courtyard, was killed. A volley of shot spattered holes in the
heavy, green, batten door beside him as he fell. The brave Chieftain was
buried on the spot consecrated by his own blood. Colonel Johnson was
elected leader in his place, and the fighting and burrowing went on.
About noon the same day Henry Karnes stormed alone the only house
between de la Garza’s and the plaza, and forced an entrance with a
crowbar under a heavy fire from the enemy.
Henry Karnes, the hero of this exploit, was a trapper from the frontier
of Arkansas. He had a genuine love of Indian warfare for its own sake,
and in search of it came to Texas with the earliest pioneers. When the
trumpet call for volunteers was sounded, he enlisted and soon came to be
known, with his celebrated friend and companion Deaf Smith, as one of
the best scouts and spies in the army. He had many adventures among the
Indians. At one time in single combat with an Apache chief he was
wounded and taken prisoner. His fiery red hair, which the Indians
supposed to be painted, caused him to be regarded by them as a great
medicine man. After his capture they concluded to deprive him of this
charm, and, taking him to the nearest stream, they ducked his head under
the water to wash the red from his hair. When they found, after nearly
drowning him, that the red would not come off, they released him,
satisfied that he was a favorite of the Great Spirit. He held the house
he had taken, against the enraged Mexicans, until Captain York’s company
joined him and fortified the position.
“These dogs of Texans are hard to beat off,” thought General Cos,
listening to the crack of their rifles. His crafty face lightened for
one moment, for Ugartechea came in from the Rio Grande, and entered the
fortress, in spite of the cordon of guards, with five hundred recruits.
But such recruits! Cos’ face darkened again. They were five hundred
convicts chained together two and two, and driven like sheep by their
guards.
On the night of the 8th of December the Texans, by a sudden rush and
under a hail of hostile bullets, made themselves masters of the Priest’s
House. The Priest’s House was a large, thick-walled building, commanding
the Military Plaza on the north side. The captors at once barricaded the
doors and cut loop-holes in the massive walls. A loud cheer carried the
news of their success to their comrades outside. “To-morrow!” they
shouted joyously.
But the capture of the Priest’s House completely demoralized the
Mexicans. On the morning of the 9th the cannon at the Alamo ceased their
thunder; the black flag was hauled down from San Fernando’s tower and a
white one went up in its place.
General Burleson entered the city the same day and arranged with General
Cos the terms of surrender.[20] By these a large quantity of valuable
stores, ammunition, artillery, small arms, and clothing remained in the
hands of the victors. The Mexicans to the number of thirteen hundred,
after taking an oath not to fight against Texas, were permitted to
leave, the officers retaining their arms and private property.
The Texan loss in this five days’ fight was two killed and twenty-six
wounded; the enemy lost about one hundred and fifty.
General Burleson placed a small garrison in the fortress of the Alamo.
The camp was raised, and many of the Texan volunteers scattered to their
own homes and firesides, rejoicing in the fact that not a Mexican
soldier remained to tread the soil of Texas.