the crowd soon drifted off. But Sutherland had no more heart for counting spools of thread for Nat Lewis. He told Travis he would like to ride out and check the lookout’s story, if someone would come along who knew the country. John W. Smith—that tower of strength during the December fighting—was soon at hand. They devised a simple signal: if Travis saw them coming back at anything else than a walk, he’d know the sentry was right.
Out the road they trotted. Now up the slope about a mile and a half from town. At last they were at the top, where they could see down the other side.
At first glance, it must have looked like a million Mexicans there in the thickets just over the crest. Sutherland later estimated 1,500; actually there could not have been more than 369. But there were enough. The sentry was right; the enemy had come. These were his cavalry, waiting for orders in a long restless line.
Gulping in the sight of the polished armor, Smith and Sutherland wheeled around and took off for town. Suddenly a terrific jolt, and Sutherland found himself flying through the air. His horse slipped in the mud, pitched him forward, and landed on top of his legs. Smith raced back, untangled themess, and they were off again. Slithering, sliding, they frantically galloped down the road. Up in the church tower the vindicated sentry saw them coming, again began clanging his bell.
“Give me the baby! Jump on behind and ask me no questions,” Captain Almeron Dickinson told his wife Susannah, as he rushed to his quarters in the Musquiz home. She handed him little Angelina, climbed up behind his saddle, and the three of them headed off. The bridge already looked dangerous—some commotion down Potrero Street—so Dickinson guided his horse across the ford, then turned up through the outlying huts and shacks to the gate of the Alamo.
Jim Bowie had the same idea. His adored Ursula was gone, but her adopted sisters Juana and Gertrudis were still at the Veramendi house—he must get them to safety. Juana especially must have been glad to see him. A young widow with a baby, she had remarried Dr. Horace Alsbury of Kentucky just a month ago, but now he was away when she needed him most. It was a situation made for Bowie—so loyal to his family and courtly to ladies. He rushed both girls to the Alamo.
Other Mexican women also streamed along with the sweating, shouting garrison—Trinidad Saucedo, a pretty teen-age girl … Petra Gonzales, an ancient crone. Half hidden in the crowd hurried Nat Lewis, carrying the cream of his stock. Antonio Fuentes was there too; it seemed a lifetime since his release from jail only ten days ago climaxed the feud between Travis and Bowie.
As the garrison swarmed up Potrero Street, across the footbridge, and on to the Alamo, the Mexican townspeople shook their heads. Some of them deeply wanted Santa Anna to win … most of them only prayed they could stay out of it … but all of them seemed somehow moved at the moment. Watching this ragged band—and knowing that the armedmight of His Excellency would soon sweep the town—it was hard not to feel a pang of sympathy. “Poor fellows,” a woman cried, “you will all be killed.”
Surging into the Alamo, the defenders found a most unusual sight: Sergeant William B. Ward was sober. Normally an inveterate drunkard, Ward was now cool and collected, looking after the guns that covered the main entrance. Curiously, he seemed to be the only person who knew what he was doing in the place.
Otherwise bedlam. On their way up Potrero Street the men had seized some thirty cattle, and now the air echoed with curses and moos as they herded the animals into the corral on the east side of the fort. Bowie and another squad were ransacking nearby huts … lugging in sacks of grain which they dropped in the rooms of the long barracks. The artillerymen, quartered here, were swearing as only artillerymen could. Men who had lost or misplaced their equipment were clamoring
Out the road they trotted. Now up the slope about a mile and a half from town. At last they were at the top, where they could see down the other side.
At first glance, it must have looked like a million Mexicans there in the thickets just over the crest. Sutherland later estimated 1,500; actually there could not have been more than 369. But there were enough. The sentry was right; the enemy had come. These were his cavalry, waiting for orders in a long restless line.
Gulping in the sight of the polished armor, Smith and Sutherland wheeled around and took off for town. Suddenly a terrific jolt, and Sutherland found himself flying through the air. His horse slipped in the mud, pitched him forward, and landed on top of his legs. Smith raced back, untangled themess, and they were off again. Slithering, sliding, they frantically galloped down the road. Up in the church tower the vindicated sentry saw them coming, again began clanging his bell.
“Give me the baby! Jump on behind and ask me no questions,” Captain Almeron Dickinson told his wife Susannah, as he rushed to his quarters in the Musquiz home. She handed him little Angelina, climbed up behind his saddle, and the three of them headed off. The bridge already looked dangerous—some commotion down Potrero Street—so Dickinson guided his horse across the ford, then turned up through the outlying huts and shacks to the gate of the Alamo.
Jim Bowie had the same idea. His adored Ursula was gone, but her adopted sisters Juana and Gertrudis were still at the Veramendi house—he must get them to safety. Juana especially must have been glad to see him. A young widow with a baby, she had remarried Dr. Horace Alsbury of Kentucky just a month ago, but now he was away when she needed him most. It was a situation made for Bowie—so loyal to his family and courtly to ladies. He rushed both girls to the Alamo.
Other Mexican women also streamed along with the sweating, shouting garrison—Trinidad Saucedo, a pretty teen-age girl … Petra Gonzales, an ancient crone. Half hidden in the crowd hurried Nat Lewis, carrying the cream of his stock. Antonio Fuentes was there too; it seemed a lifetime since his release from jail only ten days ago climaxed the feud between Travis and Bowie.
As the garrison swarmed up Potrero Street, across the footbridge, and on to the Alamo, the Mexican townspeople shook their heads. Some of them deeply wanted Santa Anna to win … most of them only prayed they could stay out of it … but all of them seemed somehow moved at the moment. Watching this ragged band—and knowing that the armedmight of His Excellency would soon sweep the town—it was hard not to feel a pang of sympathy. “Poor fellows,” a woman cried, “you will all be killed.”
Surging into the Alamo, the defenders found a most unusual sight: Sergeant William B. Ward was sober. Normally an inveterate drunkard, Ward was now cool and collected, looking after the guns that covered the main entrance. Curiously, he seemed to be the only person who knew what he was doing in the place.
Otherwise bedlam. On their way up Potrero Street the men had seized some thirty cattle, and now the air echoed with curses and moos as they herded the animals into the corral on the east side of the fort. Bowie and another squad were ransacking nearby huts … lugging in sacks of grain which they dropped in the rooms of the long barracks. The artillerymen, quartered here, were swearing as only artillerymen could. Men who had lost or misplaced their equipment were clamoring
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