The Blood of Heroes: The 13-Day Struggle for the Alamo--and the Sacrifice That Forged a Nation by James Donovan Page B
Authors: James Donovan
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dead animals rotting in the streets. But the rebels pushed on, past blackened tree stumps and smoldering ash heaps and piles of rubble, until they were just yards from Main Plaza, Cós’s final line of defense in the town and the most fortified.
At midmorning a roar of voices, the ringing of the church bells, and martial music from the Mexican band in the Alamo signaled what the Texians had been dreading: the arrival of four hundred reinforcements from Zacatecas and San Luis Potosí, escorted by Colonel Domingo de Ugartechea and a 250-strong contingent of experienced troops drawn from every branch of the military—cavalry, infantry, and artillery. They marched through the streets of Béxar, across the wooden footbridge spanning the river, and into the Alamo, accompanied by sixty soldaderas —soldiers’ women—and their children, as was the custom in the Mexican army.
Though they were many in number, the new arrivals were far from fresh: in the last twenty-four hours, none of them had eaten more than a piece of hardtack due to the constant rain. Many had lost their shoes and sandals in the mud. They had force-marched from Saltillo (which, a short time earlier, had been renamed Leona Vicario after a heroine of the revolution, though both names were still used), almost four hundred miles away, through burned prairies and cold rains, fifty-five days straight, and had gone the sixty miles to Béxar without a break. They were bone-tired.
With them rode Captain José Juan Sánchez, proud scion of a family that had distinguished itself militarily from the thirteenth century onward in Spain and the New World. A quarter century earlier, Sánchez had been a classmate of Santa Anna’s in officers’ training, and then an early champion of Mexican independence, earning the rank of captain in his teens. Now he was the adjutant inspector of the northern Mexican states of Nuevo León and Tamaulipas, ordered to Béxar to observe and serve where needed. His salary was not enough to support his wife, Ana, and their six children, and he wanted a better-paying job. He reported to Cós later that morning, then began his inspection duties.
A newly confident Cós raised a black flag over the fort, the sign that no quarter would be given to the enemy. But most of the new soldiers were raw recruits, including numerous convicts in leg chains. These untrained and exhausted felons, many of whom could not even load their rifles, were in no shape to join the fray, and instead of bolstering the command, they made the situation worse, particularly since food supplies were already alarmingly low and they had brought little with them. Without their help, Ugartechea’s reinforcement was effectively a wash: the escorting troops only replaced two hundred of the best-mounted presidiales who had deserted the night before and galloped off toward the Rio Grande.
Meanwhile, the rebels continued their assault on Main Plaza, and Cós transferred his command post across the river and into the Alamo. That afternoon, he devised a desperate strike against the enemy camp a half mile above the fort. Two columns, one of cavalry and one of infantry, approached the Texian position from opposite sides in a classic pincer movement. But the gun crews of James Neill were ready and waiting. When the Mexicans came within range, the Texians let loose a storm of canister shot. The attackers turned and retreated into the Alamo.
Inside the town, the fighting continued past midnight, when the last fortified house defending Main Plaza was taken by a force of rebels, most of them Greys. Under a nearly full moon, about thirty Texians crawled low along house walls to avoid musket fire from the windows inches above them—so close that their whiskers and hair were burned by the blaze of the guns overhead—then rushed the square. They immediately encountered two six-pounders aimed directly at them. The Texians tried to spike the cannon, but as they did so the plaza filled with
At midmorning a roar of voices, the ringing of the church bells, and martial music from the Mexican band in the Alamo signaled what the Texians had been dreading: the arrival of four hundred reinforcements from Zacatecas and San Luis Potosí, escorted by Colonel Domingo de Ugartechea and a 250-strong contingent of experienced troops drawn from every branch of the military—cavalry, infantry, and artillery. They marched through the streets of Béxar, across the wooden footbridge spanning the river, and into the Alamo, accompanied by sixty soldaderas —soldiers’ women—and their children, as was the custom in the Mexican army.
Though they were many in number, the new arrivals were far from fresh: in the last twenty-four hours, none of them had eaten more than a piece of hardtack due to the constant rain. Many had lost their shoes and sandals in the mud. They had force-marched from Saltillo (which, a short time earlier, had been renamed Leona Vicario after a heroine of the revolution, though both names were still used), almost four hundred miles away, through burned prairies and cold rains, fifty-five days straight, and had gone the sixty miles to Béxar without a break. They were bone-tired.
With them rode Captain José Juan Sánchez, proud scion of a family that had distinguished itself militarily from the thirteenth century onward in Spain and the New World. A quarter century earlier, Sánchez had been a classmate of Santa Anna’s in officers’ training, and then an early champion of Mexican independence, earning the rank of captain in his teens. Now he was the adjutant inspector of the northern Mexican states of Nuevo León and Tamaulipas, ordered to Béxar to observe and serve where needed. His salary was not enough to support his wife, Ana, and their six children, and he wanted a better-paying job. He reported to Cós later that morning, then began his inspection duties.
A newly confident Cós raised a black flag over the fort, the sign that no quarter would be given to the enemy. But most of the new soldiers were raw recruits, including numerous convicts in leg chains. These untrained and exhausted felons, many of whom could not even load their rifles, were in no shape to join the fray, and instead of bolstering the command, they made the situation worse, particularly since food supplies were already alarmingly low and they had brought little with them. Without their help, Ugartechea’s reinforcement was effectively a wash: the escorting troops only replaced two hundred of the best-mounted presidiales who had deserted the night before and galloped off toward the Rio Grande.
Meanwhile, the rebels continued their assault on Main Plaza, and Cós transferred his command post across the river and into the Alamo. That afternoon, he devised a desperate strike against the enemy camp a half mile above the fort. Two columns, one of cavalry and one of infantry, approached the Texian position from opposite sides in a classic pincer movement. But the gun crews of James Neill were ready and waiting. When the Mexicans came within range, the Texians let loose a storm of canister shot. The attackers turned and retreated into the Alamo.
Inside the town, the fighting continued past midnight, when the last fortified house defending Main Plaza was taken by a force of rebels, most of them Greys. Under a nearly full moon, about thirty Texians crawled low along house walls to avoid musket fire from the windows inches above them—so close that their whiskers and hair were burned by the blaze of the guns overhead—then rushed the square. They immediately encountered two six-pounders aimed directly at them. The Texians tried to spike the cannon, but as they did so the plaza filled with
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