Chapter 5: "VICTORY or DEATH"

Perhaps Travis and a few others had some vague sense that something was different when they were awoken early on February 23 by the sound of horses and wagons and Spanish voices drifting down the streets of the town and heading toward the open country to the north and east. Tejano Béxar was on the move in much greater volume than before, and the creaking carts, lowing oxen, and neighing horses made it hard to miss. Those with carts had them packed full; those on foot carried supplies on their shoulders. Although Travis had other concerns to occupy his attention, he was troubled by the rapid and unexpected exodus. He had his soldiers detain a few peripatetic stragglers for questioning.

He asked some where they were going, and they answered evasively, talking about the need to begin spring planting. Unsatisfied, Travis had a few arrested, but that tactic also failed to loosen their tongues. Finally, Nathaniel Lewis, a local merchant, told Travis what every Tejano seemed to know: a Mexican army had been sighted at León Creek, less than eight miles southwest of Béxar. They were coming, and the Tejanos had been warned. Exactly how and by whom was uncertain. José María Rodríguez, a child in 1836, long afterward recalled that early in the morning of February 23 a man named "Rivas called at our home and told us that he had seen Santa Anna in disguise the night before looking in on afandangoon Soledad Street." Rodríguez's father was away "with General Houston's army," but his mother made the decision to bury their money in the clay floor of their home, pack their goods into oxcarts, and go to the ranch of Doña Santos Ximénes.

Rodríguez's memories, though seventy-five years after the event, probably faithfully captured the mood of Béxar that morning. Rumors of Santa Anna sighting, always inaccurate, mixed with reports of the size of the army, always exaggerated. Added together they equaled fear. Any unrecognized man in a poncho and a broad-brimmed hat might be Santa Anna, and an army of ten thousand, fifteen thousand, twenty thousand, or more was on the outskirts of town. Remember what happened in Zacatecas the year before, or after the 1813 insurrection in Béxar itself. If the army was coming, local wisdom dictated that every resident of Béxar should scurry out of harm's way.

At first Travis was unconvinced, but after a few more reports he took precautions. Accompanied by John Sutherland and a few other men, Travis climbed to the belfry of the San Fernando Church between the Main Plaza and the Military Plaza and squinted toward the southwest. Nothing. But to be on the safe side he posted a reliable man as a sentinel with orders to ring the bell if he spied the enemy. Hours passed. Travis looked after other affairs. Then in the early afternoon the bell clanged wildly. Once again Travis scaled to the top of the square tower, glared out into the sun, and saw nothing save a wide prairie broken by patches of mesquite and thickets of chaparral. But the sentinel insisted that he had seen Mexican soldiers out there in the direction of the sun. They had simply disappeared in the bushwood.

Sutherland wanted to ride out and take a look, and Travis agreed that he should take John W. Smith, a local carpenter who knew the country, and reconnoiter the area along the Laredo Road. Sutherland told Travis if "he saw us returning in any other gait than a slow pace, he might be sure that we had seen the enemy."

If Sutherland and Smith took the Laredo Road, they rode directly south. At the same moment, the vanguard of Santa Anna's army was approaching Béxar from the southwest. The night before, the Vanguard Brigade under General Joaquín Ramírez y Sesma had camped along the Alazon Creek, above which a ridgeline afforded the view of the entire San Antonio River Valley. There he could only watch the heavy rains foil hopes of taking the town unprepared. Santa Anna would later write that had the surprise attack taken place it "would have saved the time consumed and the blood shed later in taking of the Alamo."

Crossing over the crest of the slope, Sutherland and Smith got a good look at what the sentinel had seen only at a distance. There must have been fifteen hundred soldiers, Sutherland later remembered, "their polished armor glistening in the rays of the sun, as they formed in a line between thechaparraland the mesquite bushes." In 1836 Mexican soldiers were not wearing breastplates, so no armor glistened in the sun, but Sutherland did not spend much time looking. He and Smith wheeled their horses and spurred north. In a moment, however, Sutherland was on the ground. His horse had slipped in the mud, thrown him, and rolled on top of his leg. Smith helped his dazed companion back onto the saddle and they rode hard into Béxar.

The confirmation that the Mexicans were coming in force sent another wave of panic through the town. Travis ordered his men to cross the San Antonio River and take cover in the Alamo. Herding cattle before them and raidingjacales-- poor people's shacks -- along the way for corn and supplies, they moved in an orderly fashion toward the old mission. Juan Seguín, one of the Tejano revolutionary leaders, recalled that as the Texans walked east on Potero Street toward the river, women stood by watching and exclaiming, "Poor fellows you will all be killed, what shall we do?"

Travis was wondering the same thing. He had a force of about 150 men, a loose collection of volunteers and regular army, under the joint command of himself and Bowie. In his group were colonels, captains, lieutenants, and sergeants -- designations that were hardly based on any sort of education or training. In truth, he had a body of men, a group of patriots and adventurers, among whom were some natural leaders like David Crockett, James Bowie, Juan Seguín, William C. M. Baker, and William Blazeby, but none were experienced officers.

Even more than officers, Travis needed men, and he needed them fast. Seeing that Sutherland was too injured from his fall to be of much use, at 3 P.M. Travis penned a hasty note to Andrew Ponton in Gonzales and sent him off with it. "The enemy in large force is in sight," he wrote. "We need men and provisions. Send them to us. We have 150 men and are determined to defend the Alamo to the last. Give us assistance." Later he wrote a similar note to James Fannin in Goliad, promising to "make such a resistance as is due to our honour, and that of the country, until we can get assistance from you, which we expect you to forward immediately." It was an urgent message, more an order than a request. Travis, determined "never to retreat," deemed "it unnecessary to repeat to a brave officer, who knows his duty" that he needed help, but he wrote it nonetheless.

While the Texans occupied the Alamo, Santa Anna's Vanguard Brigade marched into Béxar. "I will never forget how that army looked as it swept into town," Juan Díaz recalled. "At the head of the soldiers came the regimental band, playing the liveliest airs, and with the band came a squad of men bearing the flags and banners of Mexico and an immense image that looked like an alligator's head." Thousands of Mexican soldiers had moved into Béxar that afternoon, and what they saw confirmed the rebellious nature of the Texans. Above the Military Plaza, and then the Alamo, flapped a tricolor flag with two stars. The stars represented Coahuila and Texas, and the flag signified that the Texans were in rebellion against Santa Anna's violations of the Mexican constitution. Answering flag with flag, Santa Anna ordered a blood red flag raised on the bell tower of the San Fernando Church, a mere thousand yards from the Alamo. In the center of the flag were the skull and crossbones. The flag meant no quarter, no surrender, no mercy -- death for every man who opposed the Mexican government. The Texas rebels, Santa Anna believed, were filibusterers, pirates, and traitors, not soldiers of an established nation, and would be treated accordingly.

The Texans inside the Alamo responded to the flag with a blast from their eighteen-pounder. If Santa Anna wanted a battle without quarter, then so be it. The Texans were ready, just as they had been a few months before when Cos occupied the Alamo. The ball landed harmlessly in the town, raising dust and hurting no one, but the action was an eloquent note of defiance. Santa Anna answered fire with fire. Two Mexican howitzers rained four grenades toward the Alamo. Several shells exploded inside the fort but did no real damage. From inside the Alamo a new flag stretched above the west wall. A white flag. The Texans wanted to talk. Santa Anna responded by ordering a parley sounded.

Talk, yes -- but about what? Both Texans and Mexicans were confused about the exact order of the opening sequence of events. Did the Texans fire first, or did the Mexicans? Was the red flag misinterpreted? Had Santa Anna sounded a parley during engagements, or even before the first shot? Someone inside the Alamo told Bowie that he distinctly heard the notes of a parley, and Bowie ripped a page out of a child's copybook and scribbled a hurried message to Santa Anna asking for clarification. "I wish, Sir, to ascertain if it be true that a parlay was called, for which reason I send my second aid, [Green B.] Benito Jameson, under guarantee of a white flag which I believe will be respected by you and your forces." "Dios y Mexico," he ended his note, but after second thoughts he crossed it out and penned, "God and Texas!" Though ill and in a ticklish military situation, he still wanted Santa Anna to know that he was not a man to bend. "God and Texas" said it nicely.

Santa Anna was above answering a rebel. He refused to meet -- let alone negotiate with -- Jameson. Instead, he instructed aide-de-camp Colonel José Batres to answer Bowie. "I reply to you, according to the order of his Excellency, that the Mexican army cannot come to terms under any conditions with rebellious foreigners to whom there is no other recourse left, if they wish to save their lives, than to place themselves immediately at the disposal of the Supreme Government from whom alone they may expect clemency after some considerations are taken up. God and Liberty!"

The reply was pregnant with possibilities. Though its general tone was tough, it was by no means a blood-red flag. A phrase like "if they wish to save their lives" and a word like "clemency" sounded vaguely hopeful. But what about "after some considerations are taken up"? What did that mean? Perhaps that most of the Texans would be pardoned but their leaders -- certainly hotheaded Travis and traitorous Bowie -- would be put to the sword? Bowie undoubtedly read the reply under the lamp of history. The Texans had treated Cos decently, but Zacatecas suggested that the Mexicans would not do the same to them.

Bowie and Travis were following independent courses. Bowie signed his note "Commander of the volunteers of Bexar," distancing himself from the regular army, and acted without consulting his cocommander. Now Travis wanted a parley of his own, and he sent Albert Martin to speak for him. Since his arrival in Texas via Tennessee and New Orleans, Martin had been deeply involved in the independence movement, and Travis trusted him completely. He rode out to the parley site on the banks of the San Antonio, meeting with Colonel Juan N. Almonte and several other Mexican soldiers. Educated in America and fluent in English, Almonte, perhaps, might be sympathetic with the Texans. Martin brought a verbal message from Travis: if the Mexicans wanted to negotiate terms, Travis "would receive [him] with much pleasure." As one Mexican source later recalled, Travis wanted respect for himself and his army, asserting that he would surrender the fort if he and his men could march out and join their government, as they had allowed Cos to do. If those terms were not met, he would stay put and fight.

Almonte may have been sympathetic, but he was not stupid enough to alienate his commander by promising generous terms he could not deliver. He answered that "it did not become the Mexican Government to make any propositions through me, and that I only had permission to hear such as might be made on part of the rebels." Nothing had changed. Santa Anna had stated his position in the Batres communication: surrender without terms. There was not much more to say. Martin took the message back to Travis, who sent word back to Almonte that he would consider it. If the unbending terms were acceptable, Travis would communicate this to Almonte. If they were unacceptable, he would fire a cannon.

Travis probably knew he had sent Martin on a fool's errand, that if Santa Anna would not budge on his terms for Bowie, the dictator would certainly not bend for him. Perhaps he simply wanted more propaganda ammunition to take to his men, to fire them with resolve and get their blood up for a fight. Juan Seguín later recalled that shortly after Martin returned, Travis gave an incendiary speech to the garrison, reminding them why they were fighting and what to expect if they were defeated. They were fighting for Texas and their families, for their God-given rights and their futures -- and for their lives. The blood red flag told them as much. This said, he ordered a cannon shot.

The next day in an open letter addressed to "the People of Texas & all Americans in the world," he explained the position of the men in the Alamo: "The enemy has demanded a surrender at discretion, otherwise, the garrison are to be put to the sword, if the fort is taken. I have answered the demand with a cannon shot, & our flag still waves proudly from the walls.I shall never surrender or retreat."In language unambiguous and defiant, he challenged his countrymen in Texas and the United States to support his cause. "I call on you in the name of Liberty, of patriotism & every thing dear to the American character, to come to our aid with all dispatch...If this call is neglected, I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible & die like a soldier who never forgets what is due his own honor & that of his country." He ended the letter, "VICTORY or DEATH."

Travis had crossed his own private Rubicon. He would not waver from the position he took on February 23. Now it was time to hunker down and wait. Several things he knew with certainty. First, the Alamo was not a particularly defensible fortress. As military historian Stephen L. Hardin observed, "By the standards of the day, the Alamo was certainly no fortress. It lacked mutually supporting strong points -- demilunes, bastions, hornworks, ravelines, sally ports, and the like. There were simply no strong points from which its defenders could oppose an assault." In addition, the walls had no firing ports, which meant the defenders would have to expose their upper bodies when they manned the Alamo. Travis and Bowie knew the weaknesses of their haven and understood that the Mexicans had the cannons to destroy the Alamo. They chose to stand their ground nonetheless.

Second, even if the Alamo had been defensible against siege weapons, Travis did not have enough soldiers to defend it. Needing five hundred soldiers to man the perimeter, he had about 150 to 160. And not only did he have too few men to defend the walls, he had too few cannoneers to fire all the cannons.

Third, even if the Alamo had been a defensible structure and Travis had had enough men to defend it, the garrison lacked food, supplies, and gunpowder to hold out against a protracted siege. Never expecting Santa Anna to mount such an early offensive, the defenders had not stockpiled the necessary supplies. Instead, as they moved to the Alamo they requisitioned what they could find, an unfortunate way to begin a defense against a siege. Nonetheless, Travis chose to stay and fight.

Santa Anna had problems of his own. If time was not on the Texans' side, it was not on his either. His forces were like a pearl necklace strung out over miles and days of south Texas territory. When he took his position in Béxar on February 23, his heavy siege guns were days behind. In theory General Vicente Filisola was right: "By merely placing twenty artillery pieces properly, that poor wall could not have withstood one hour of cannon fire without being reduced to rubble." But Santa Anna needed time for the heavy cannons to arrive and to dig the trenches to get them into proper position. And time could change everything. Time could mean reinforcements for the Alamo. The thought that Texans were on the march toward Béxar concerned Santa Anna more than his eventual confrontation with the men inside the walls, and he sent General Ventura Mora and a cavalry detachment to scout the land to the east and north. Santa Anna was under no illusions about where most Texans stood. He was an invader in enemy territory, far from the center of Mexico and closer to the border of the United States.

Santa Anna in Béxar and Travis and Bowie inside the Alamo had begun the elaborate and deadly game of war. Santa Anna had the numbers and the experience; Travis and Bowie had the advantage of a defensive position. For the moment, it was a game of waiting. But like every important contest, smaller games took place within the larger one. The blood red flag, for instance, was more than just a message. It was a psychological weapon.

That night, and during the following nights of the siege, Santa Anna maintained the psychological pressure. Like other military leaders he knew that lack of sleep would drain resolve and make brave men question their commitment to any cause. On the first night he kept the Texans alert by periodic shelling of their position. Then when darkness fell on the second day, he ordered his band to serenade the defenders, and Mexican music filled the night air. Then without warning the music would stop and hollow iron balls filled with black powder would rain into the Alamo, exploding when they hit the ground and spraying fragments. Then more music. The next time it stopped, the Mexicans might cry out and fire their muskets as if they were attacking or destroying a band of reinforcements bound for the Alamo. All sound and fury signifying nothing, perhaps, but it was enough to keep any man with an imagination awake and wondering. Were the Mexicans attacking? Would they attack that night? When would they attack? Questions began to replace sleep.

Those men inside the Alamo who had slept at all through the first night's activities awoke on Wednesday, February 24, to an overcast day and a south wind that promised rain. Bowie probably rested less than the others, and when the sun rose he could not even lift himself out of bed. Ill for weeks, he had still moved about and done his duties. Now a hard fever had set in and his condition was grave. Juana Navarro de Alsbury, wife of Texas doctor Horace Alsbury and a relative through marriage of Bowie, tended the colonel and said that he had typhoid. It might instead have been some form of consumption, or perhaps pneumonia or some bacterial infection. The garrison physician simply called it "a peculiar disease of a peculiar nature." Diagnosis was of less concern to Travis than the reality of Bowie's condition. Bowie was flat on this back, suffering from chills and the shakes. He was probably suffering through bouts of vomiting and bloody diarrhea as well. He was too sick to walk, too sick to think clearly, and certainly too sick to command.

That left Travis in charge of the defense of the Alamo. Travis, as most observers recorded, was not a man to be trifled with. He struck some people as vain, others as ambitious, brusque, prideful, overly sensitive, self-important, and occasionally hotheaded. He may even have been a bit pompous. But no one considered him incompetent, cowardly, or dumb, and he accepted full command determined to perform his duty to the best of his abilities. Undoubtedly a sense of his new position seeped into his February 24 letter to "the People of Texas & all Americans." The masterful, emotional appeal became Texas's unofficial declaration of independence, and it bespoke a man who took himself and his cause -- his duty and his country -- seriously. The words "Liberty...patriotism & every thing dear to the American character" resounded across Texas and the United States, and the promise"I shall never surrender or retreat"fired imaginations. The sign-off, "VICTORY or DEATH," meant just that to Travis.

Brilliant with words, he was also a clear-thinking commander. During February 24 and 25, Travis labored to strengthen the Alamo and to clear a field of vision around it. Although the Mexican artillery did not seriously injure any of the defenders, it blasted away parts of the fortress, making repairs necessary. Inside the fort the men were kept busy digging trenches, fortifying walls, and generally moving dirt. But of even more concern to Travis were the actions of the enemy. Intent upon pounding the walls and weakening the structure of the Alamo, Santa Anna began to encircle the fortress. On the night of the twenty-third he erected a small battery just west of the Main Plaza near the San Antonio River. During the next two days and nights he established other batteries -- one just across the San Antonio about 150 yards southwest of the Alamo, and another south of the fortress in an area known as La Villita. He also set up several entrenched camps to the south. Santa Anna's moves inched his guns and troops closer to Travis and his men.

On February 24 Santa Anna mounted his horse and reconnoitered the land around the mission, passing within musket shot of its walls. Exactly what Santa Anna was thinking is difficult to know, for he tended not to disclose his plans until the last moment, but by placing batteries to the south and southwest he undoubtedly planned to attack the Alamo at its main gate. Perhaps he hoped a quick attack would break through the Texans' defenses and result in painless victory. Or maybe his concern over reinforcements motivated him to attack before his full army had arrived in Béxar. Or he might simply have wanted to test the Texans' resolve. Were the men inside the Alamo truly willing to die defending four walls far away from their homes and families?

On the morning of February 25 the Mexican batteries began to shell the Alamo, forcing the defenders to seek cover. While the bombardment was taking place, Santa Anna then ordered two infantry battalions --cazadores(riflemen) from the Matamoros Battalion and foot soldiers from the Jiménez Battalion -- to ford the San Antonio River and move into the mud-and-thatchjacalesof Pueblo de Valero, outside the Alamo's main gate. General Manuel Fernández Castrillón led the attack, but Santa Anna himself hovered close to the action. Travis, Crockett, and the other defenders watched the Mexicans coming closer, looking for cover while steadily moving forward. They all well knew the effective range of their weapons -- seventy yards for a musket, two hundred or so for a long rifle. They waited. Waited on the piles of dirt looking over the Alamo's south walls. Waited in the artillery batteries at the southwest corner, main gate, and palisade. Waited in the trenches and ditches outside the Alamo. Then they opened fire. Travis wrote Sam Houston that the Mexicans "arrived within point blank shot, when we opened a discharge of grape and canister on them, together with a well directed fire from small arms which forced them to halt and take shelter in the houses 90 to 100 yards from our batteries."

The Texas barrage drew blood. After regrouping, Santa Anna's forces began a slow advance, moving from one covered position to the next. The Texans killed several of the attackers and wounded a few others. Despite being bombarded by "balls, grape and canister," the Texans maintained their fire. Travis gloried in the performance of his officers and men, writing Houston that they "conducted themselves with firmness and bravery...with such undaunted heroism" that it was unfair to single out only a few. But Travis did comment that David Crockett "was seen at all points, animating the men to do their duty."

Though the Texans repelled the attack, the assault did underscore one of the major weaknesses in their position. Thejacalesof Pueblo de Valero and La Villita, to the south of the Alamo, offered too much protection for the enemy. The Texans needed a greater field of fire. Seeing this, Charles Despallier, a recent arrival in Béxar from Rapides Parish, Louisiana, and Robert Brown, who had been in Texas for more than a year, "gallantly sallied out" and torched several abandoned structures close to the Alamo.

The fighting continued in bursts while the low clouds spit light rain on the combatants. After two hours the Mexicans pulled back and the shooting stopped. The fight had certainly not elevated Mexican soldiers in Travis's eyes; his men had fought and won the day, sustaining only one injury and a few soldiers "slightly scratched by pieces of rock." But one day's skirmish would be meaningless in the final battle. The enemy was encircling him. Batteries were sprouting at night like mushrooms. His position was becoming increasingly tenuous. "I have every reason to apprehend an attack from his whole force very soon," Travis wrote Houston, "but I shall hold out to the last extremity, hoping to secure reinforcement in a day or two. Do hasten on aid to me as rapidly as possible, as from the superior number of the enemy, it will be impossible for us to keep them out much longer." At the end of the letter Travis shifted, as he often did, from a factual account of the day's events to a somber emotional appeal. "If they overpower us, we fall a sacrifice at the shrine of our country, and we hope posterity and our country will do our memory justice. Give me help, oh my country!"

That night both sides continued to prepare for a major confrontation. The Mexicans conducted a probing assault against the "rear of the fort" and received a volley of grape and musket fire for their efforts. The Texans concentrated their energy on burning morejacalesand clearing the space between themselves and their enemy. The night was alive with musket and rifle fire, cannon blasts, and exploding shells, with cries of soldiers and whispers of raiders. Men shivered against the night air, suddenly colder as the first wisps of a norther swept off the plains.

For how long could the Texans stand? That night a council of the Texans met to decide upon a course of action. They needed reinforcements, but so far Travis's urgent pleas had either disappeared on the prairies of Texas or been ignored. The council needed someone of standing, someone with deep roots in Texas who commanded respect, to ride to Goliad and convince James Fannin to come to their aid. Tejano Juan Seguín was only twenty-nine years old, but he was a man whose opinions carried weight throughout Spanish-speaking Texas. He had married into an important ranching family, served as a political chief in Béxar, and led a militia company against the centralist government, taking part in the storming of the Alamo the previous December. Moving easily between Spanish and Anglo Texas, Seguín was the ideal courier. His mission was clear: convince Fannin to act.

Ninety-five miles down the San Antonio River, sitting in the presidio of La Bahía, overlooking the town of Goliad, James Walker Fannin prepared for his role as a savior with all the resolve of Prince Hamlet. At his disposal were some four hundred soldiers, passionate and ready to fight, waiting only for Fannin's order to march, lingering while Fannin thought through his options. On February 23, Travis and Bowie jointly signed a letter pleading for assistance, demanding that Fannin, like themselves, act honorably. "We hope you will send us all the men you can spare promptly," they wrote. Time was of the essence and Fannin's army was a five- or six-day march from the Alamo.

Fannin received the letter on February 25, and he recognized his duty at once, though he was not the sort of man to fulfill it. A native of Georgia, he had been raised by his grandfather on a cotton plantation near Marion and entered the U.S. Military Academy at West Point in 1819. He left the academy before graduating, having acquired an apprentice's knowledge of strategy, tactics, logistics, and artillery but a journeyman's sense of rank, command, control, authority, and obedience. Settled in Velasco, Texas, in the fall of 1834, he raised a bit of cotton, traded slaves, and sided with the radicals on the question of Texas independence. Fannin became a member of the committee of safety and correspondence of Columbia in August 1835, wrote letters inviting West Point officers to come to Texas and join the cause, fought in the battles of Gonzales and Concepción in October, and early in January 1836 began raising volunteer troops for the Matamoros expedition. When the expedition fizzled out, he fell back to Goliad, which he hoped to defend against José Urrea's army advancing up the coast. He was bivouacked there on February 25, 1836, when a courier delivered the plea for help from Travis and Bowie.

Fannin faced difficult political, military, and personal choices. In the chaos of the Matamoros expedition and the disintegration of the provisional government, the Texas army suffered badly. The power struggle between Governor Henry Smith and the Council had clouded command issues in a political fog. At one time or another in January and early February, James Fannin, Sam Houston, Frank Johnson, and James Grant had either been designated or tried to assume the role of commander in chief. Fannin knew he occupied critical ground, but he had no idea what to do about it. "General Houston is absent on furlough," he wrote to Acting Governor James W. Robinson on February 22, "and neither myself nor the army have received anyordersas to who should assume the command."

Fannin's long letter to Robinson reveals the depth of his psychological torment. He begins by complaining that he is overworked, then details a lottery he conducted that renamed La Bahía "Fort Defiance." Next he emphasizes how "many men of influence view me with an envious eye, and either desire my station, or my disgrace. Thefirst,they are welcome to -- and many thanks for taking it off my hands." Unlike Travis, Fannin has no desire to lead and requests that Robinson and the Council relieve him of command. "I am a better judge of my military abilities than others, and if I amqualifiedto command anArmy, I have not found it out."After making this stark admission, Fannin starts rambling from one point to another, ranging from the best way to select a commander and ideas for the proposed Texas constitution to qualified officers he has known. Taken as a whole, the letter should have been enough to convince Robinson that La Bahía -- Fannin's Fort Defiance -- was rudderless.

Fannin also found himself in a strategic dilemma. While Travis begged him to march west and break the siege of the Alamo, he had orders from the provisional government to hold Goliad. Urrea was marching steadily north from Matamoros, up the coastal prairies, headed straight for Goliad and Copano Bay, the mouth of the San Antonio River and Béxar's logistical lifeline. If Fannin attempted a rescue of the Alamo, he risked leaving the southwest co

Excerpted from A Line in the Sand: The Alamo in Blood and Memory by Randy Roberts, James S. Olson
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