A Time to Stand (15 page)

Santa Anna would have been even more agitated had he known the immense stir caused by Travis’ letter of February 24. Signs multiplied that Texas was at last shaking off its lethargy. At Victoria, word spread that Colonel Wharton had crossed the Guadalupe with a relief party bound for Bexar. In San Felipe, Captain Moseley Baker ordered the local militia to get ready; as they prepared to march on the 29th, two blushing ladies gave them a homespun flag proclaiming independence—by now the goal of everyone.

In Washington-on-the-Brazos, where the delegates were assembling to vote for independence, the air was electric with excitement. On March 1 Sam Houston reappeared, setting off a roar of acclaim. On the 2nd, the Convention rammed through its declaration of independence—another wild demonstration. Later the delegates were again in a tumult when word arrived that the Gonzales men had marched to the Alamo’s relief. Lieutenant Governor Robinson excitedly wrote Colonel Fannin the news: “This moment information has been given that about 30 men has thrown themselves into Bears. …”

Gonzales itself was again in an uproar. Late on the 27th a letter had arrived from Colonel Fannin. He had written it early that morning while sitting in the bushes wondering what to do, but he said nothing about his various misgivings. Instead, he was full of the boldest plans. He explained that he was on his way to the Alamo with 300 men, and laid out an intricate plan for a rendezvous on the Cibolo. As he described it, all the various relief forces would link up there and then march together on San Antonio.

It was too late to tell Kimball—he was already on his way— but Dr. Sutherland and Horace Alsbury quickly recruited twelve more men and prepared to join this ambitious project. Across the Guadalupe, Juan Seguin rallied 25 of his local Mexicans. The two groups set out together on the 28th, hoping to overtake Kimball’s company and incorporate them too, but they reached the Cibolo too late for that. Little matter. The 300 men from Goliad were the main tiling anyhow. Seguin and Sutherland settled down to wait for Fannin’s arrival.

In Goliad, Fannin too was settling down—to await the delayed arrival of the Mexicans. He had completely forgotten the master plan for joining all parties together for a grand-scale march. He thought only of the siege he faced. “I am pretty well prepared to make battle,” he wrote Lieutenant Governor Robinson. “I have nearly completed my fortifications, and have beef enough for 20 days, and will have more. … I am resolved to await your orders let the consequence be what it may.”

But as the days passed and still no Mexicans, Fannin began to take heart again. Hearing that Colonel Wharton had crossed the Guadalupe en route to the Alamo, he revived his old rendezvous plan. On March 1, he wrote Captains De Sauque and Chenoworth foraging on the Cibolo. Reporting Wharton’s advance, he stressed: “If you can find him or communicate
with Gonzales and know how many volunteers will form a junction, if informed speedily, I will push out 200 and co-operate. …”

The more he thought about the idea, the better he liked it. By March 2, the men of Goliad were once again getting ready to start out for the Alamo. “If the division of the Mexican Army advancing toward this place has met any obstacles,” Captain John Brooks wrote his mother, “200 men will be detached for relief of Bexar. We will probably march tomorrow or next day, if we can procure fresh oxen enough to transport our baggage and two 6-pounders.”

C
OLONEL
F
ANNIN WAS COMING
—the rumor raced through the Alamo. To William Ward at the main gate … to Micajah Autry at the stockade … to Gregorio Esparza in the church … to Eliel Melton, slaughtering beef in the corral to the east. No one knew how it started—perhaps with some Gonzales man; perhaps out of thin air, the way rumors so often begin among soldiers.

In any case, it made sense. After all, Fannin was the leader who had always called for action: “March to meet the Tyrant” … “Kick at the moon, whether we hit the mark or not.” He was the man who asked less than a month ago, “Will the freemen of Texas calmly fold their arms, and wait until the approach of their deadly enemy compels them to protect their own firesides?”

And now, the arrival of the Gonzales contingent showed it could be done. If these 32 lightly armed men had made it, certainly Fannin’s 400 could get through. They even had artillery.

Best of all, James Butler Bonham had been sent to fetch them. There was no more forceful man in the garrison than this young South Carolinian. He went after what he wanted —within two weeks of coming to Texas, he was taking things
up direct with Sam Houston. And people listened to him. “His influence in the army is great,” Houston observed, “more so than some who would be generals.”

So from the moment Bonham left for Goliad on February 27, the men in the Alamo began counting the days. He should get there early on the 29th … Fannin’s force would start that morning … they were bound to arrive before dawn on March 2 … at the very latest, March 3.

Yet March 2 came with no sign of Fannin. Only another Mexican battalion to the east. Then March 3, and still no Fannin. Just a new Mexican battery going up on the north. Had even Bonham let them down?

In a way he had. Reaching Goliad on February 29, Bonham found Fannin in one of his low periods. Just back from his abortive relief march, the Colonel was in no mood to try again. Nor did it help when Colonel Frank Johnson arrived that day, fresh from the disaster at San Patricio. He poured out harrowing stories of Mexican butchery. It all made Fannin less anxious than ever to leave his fort. He urged Bonham to stay with him in Goliad.

No, Bonham explained, he had promised to get help; he must try somewhere else.

He next headed for Gonzales, probably arriving late March 1. Here he found only a town of women and children. Kimball’s little band had already marched. Sutherland’s and Alsbury’s men were on the way too. Seguin’s company was supposed to be with them. Most of the older men were at Washington-on-the-Brazos, thrashing out the declaration of independence.

But Bonham did find a 19-year-old named Ben Highsmith. He had left the Alamo with an appeal for Fannin shortly before Santa Anna arrived. Turned down, he headed back for San Antonio alone, only to discover the enemy had come. Reaching Powder House Hill, he found his way
hopelessly blocked by the Mexicans. Worse, they spied him and the Dolores cavalry chased him a good six miles. Turning up in Gonzales at last, Highsmith now poured out the story of his close escape. He was sure no one could get through the Mexican lines. Better stay here, he urged Bonham; reinforcements would soon be coming from San Felipe and the other towns to the east. Then they would have some chance.

“I will report the result of my mission to Travis or die in the attempt,” Bonham stubbornly answered. And next morning, March 2, he crossed the Guadalupe ford and headed off toward the Alamo.

It took more than a brave man to make this decision. It called for the chivalry of Scott, the fire of Byron, a love of the
beau geste,
and a romantic attachment to desperate chances for a noble cause. Qualities of the age, and James Butler Bonham had them all.

Born in 1807 near Red Bank, South Carolina, he came from the best family in the area. On a distinctly lower plane, the Travises lived a few miles away, but they moved to Alabama when Barret Travis was nine and Jim Bonham eleven. It’s doubtful whether the two boys ever knew each other really well.

Bonham grew into a tall, dark boy with black wavy hair and flashing brown eyes. He looked rebellious and was. Entering South Carolina College in 1824, he was always in trouble. Senior year, he battled the authorities over going to class in bad weather, the meals served in commons. But where other college boys might only complain about the food, Bonham dressed in deep mourning, rallied his classmates to the cause, staged a giant demonstration. Not surprisingly he was expelled.

Odd training for a lawyer, but by 1830 Bonham was practicing in Pendleton, South Carolina. Then the Nullification crisis and another stormy interlude. Bonham was, of course,
in the thick of it—boy colonel, aide to Governor Hamilton, dashing artilleryman with a flaming red sash and silver epaulets.

The crisis over, he went back to his practice in Pendleton. Then, less than a year later, another storm—this time in the courtroom. His client was a lady in distress … the opposing lawyer insulted her … Bonham caned him. When the judge ordered an apology, Bonham threatened to tweak His Honor’s nose. Ninety days for contempt of court.

Inevitably the ladies of Pendleton filled his cell with flowers, deluged him with delicacies. Finally released, he was the town hero, the dark Galahad who made every fair heart beat faster—except the one he wanted. The last person to take defeat in love lightly, Bonham was crushed. Filled with despair he left Pendleton early in 1834, joined the restless tide to the West. By April he was starting practice all over again in Montgomery, Alabama.

He cut loose the past completely. Out with the sash, the epaulets, all the other trappings of the old days. (“Sell them as well as you can, but sell them, for they are of no use to me.”) Yet the patient, upward struggle had never been for him, and when the Texas storm broke in 1835, Bonham was immediately in the thick of it. His descendants later said he joined at Travis’ urging. Maybe, but the evidence is lacking. The fact is, Bonham being Bonham couldn’t possibly have stayed out.

He went to Mobile, the center of excitement, and led the rally that jammed the Shakespeare Theater on October 17. At a second rally three nights later, the citizens appointed him to take their resolutions direct to Sam Houston. Two more weeks, and he was organizing the Mobile Greys.

The Greys reached San Antonio December 12—just too late to share in the glory of beating Cós. But this didn’t stop Bonham. His life in Texas became a whirlwind of activity.
On the 20th he was commissioned lieutenant in the Texas Cavalry … the 26th he was starting a law office in Brazoria … the 30th he was back in the Alamo writing Houston about a good officer. In the middle of January he turned up in Goliad; on the 19th he was back in the Alamo with Bowie; on the 26th he led a political rally for Governor Smith. With a man like Bonham, it didn’t matter that he was only a lieutenant or that he had never heard of Smith six weeks earlier.

All this left little time for renewing any boyhood memories with Travis, but when the Colonel arrived in the Alamo on February 3, the two men took to each other right away. Bonham was a man after Travis’ own heart. He liked Houston and Smith, didn’t like Robinson, Fannin, the Matamoros crowd.

Maybe this made him less than an ideal choice to send to Fannin for help. The commander at Goliad was not only in the other camp, but it was a matter of record that he didn’t like cavalrymen. Still, Travis knew no one more forceful, more trustworthy than Bonham. So off he went to Goliad twice in two weeks—on February 16 and again on the 27th.

And now he was coming back alone. Over the dark, silent prairie … across the Cibolo in the first light of dawn … through the thickets and mesquite trees to the top of Powder House Hill. Here he could look down on the Alamo less than a mile away.

Clearly the fort was still holding out. Around it, on all four sides, were the Mexican camps—the earthworks for Sesma’s guns, the dozens of smoky fires, the troops in their white fatigue suits. The lines were closer than when he left; yet with luck, it was still possible to get through. Bonham was the last man to feel he couldn’t make it.

He pulled off the road to his right, quietly worked his way east through the brush and thickets. At last he reached
a point well between the Mexican-held powder house on the Gonzales road and Sesma’s batteries northeast of the Alamo. As near as he could judge, he was safely between the two enemy positions.

Now to run for it. Digging in his spurs, Bonham swiftly gathered speed, flashed into the open, pounded straight for the Alamo gate by the corral. He hunched low on his horse, making himself small against an expected hail of bullets. But the startled Mexicans never fired a shot, and at 11
A.M.
on Thursday, March 3, Jim Bonham hurtled safely into the Alamo. He was reporting back—as he had promised—to his commanding officer.

Travis wasn’t discouraged. He had written off Fannin anyhow. He still felt help might come from San Felipe, Brazoria, a dozen other towns. Sooner or later they would see the importance of the Alamo. Meanwhile, he had food for twenty days; he had made the fort much stronger; he had no casualties.

But even if no one came, he was determined to stick it out. He would make the Mexican victory so expensive, it would be worse than a defeat. He could count on his men for that.

Indeed he could. Their spirits were remarkable, considering the danger, the weariness, the frustration of waiting for help that didn’t come. True, there were some glum faces and several more of the local Mexicans had vanished. But Henry Warnell still chattered about horses; Jacob Walker still bragged about his children; David Crockett still could get a laugh. There was little fighting to be done, but Green Jameson kept them busy digging trenches in the big open square, piling up more dirt against the walls to make them stronger.

They were hard at this work after welcoming Bonham, when they suddenly heard the sound of distant cheering.
Rushing to the church roof, the gun platforms, the makeshift parapets, they peered into the noonday glare. Could this at last be some reinforcements?

No, the sound came from town. A great celebration was going on. People swarmed in the streets, waving and shouting, “Santa Anna! Santa Anna!” In the bright sunlight the Texans made out a long column of troops—over a thousand soldiers streaming in from the west.

Gaona’s men had at last arrived. Not the whole brigade, to be sure—it was strung out all the way to the Rio Grande —but at least the picked companies. And these were the troops Santa Anna had been demanding.

For picked companies, most of them looked a little seedy. The Toluca men were all
activos—
a term that belied their status as inexperienced reservists. The Aldama battalion seemed anything but smart in its dusty white rags. But there was nothing wrong with the
Zapadores,
a crack unit of 185 sappers, who served the brigade as a whole.