In the beautiful city of San Antonio,
which is set like a gem in the valley of the West, stands the
old fort of the Alamo. It is situated on the east bank of the
San Antonio river, whose blue crystal waters flow musically
beneath its dark gray walls. With the name of the Alamo is
blent the holiest memories of the dead, for it is hallowed
ground where heroes died, and where flowed the blood of
martyrs. Many of the early trials and struggles of the
Republic of Texas have been forgotten, amidst the prosperity
that has since reigned throughout the land, yet the
blood-stained walls of the Alamo are still a holy shrine,
visited by lovers of freedom, in honor of the dead. The names
of its brave defenders are household words, and the memory of
their deeds
"Will brightly live from age to
age,
Their country's proudest heritage."
The dawn of the new year of 1836 was a
gloomy one to the people of Texas. Divided among themselves,
without money, without provisions, and almost without an army,
they were compelled to go forth and meet a powerful enemy, who
were invading their country by thousands. A few brave spirits
assembled at Goliad and San Antonio, determined to check the
invader in his course, to keep inviolate their firesides, and,
if necessary, to yield up their lives a willing sacrifice for
their country's good. And never were truer patriots, or braver
men, than Fannin, Travis, Bowie, Crockett, and their
followers. That patriot band had gone forth not to fight for
fame or spoils, but with true hearts and strong hands, to
battle for a nation's birth-right. Solemn was the scene within
the old mission walls, when there, in the presence of high
Heaven, that little band linked their hands and pledged their
faith, "Never to surrender or retreat." Bright with
true courage was each beaming eye, and firm was each word
spoken, that told they had come there "to do or to
die." It was a noble sight--that band of heroes calmly
consecrating themselves to death. One of the brightest
pictures of glory ever hung in the temple of Fame.
At Bexar, day after day, did those
gallant few gaze eagerly to the Westward, watching for Santa
Anna and his army. Night after night did the weary sentinel
pause and lean forward in the darkness, listening for the
tramp of steel clad men upon the plain. And thus waiting,
watching and working, strengthening the walls, and preparing
for defence, did that noble garrison await the onset. On the
23d of February, Santa Anna, with his army, arrived at the
Alazan at noon. Proudly his banner waved in the breeze, bright
flashed his lances in the sunlight, and gaily his horsemen
pranced over the plains, their warrior plumes tossing in the
wind. At two o'clock, in the afternoon, Santa Anna marched
into San Antonio, amid the exulting shouts of his army. The
Texan force within the town retreated in good order before the
foe, and joined their comrades within the fort.
The Alamo had not been built for a fort,
and its walls had neither battlement nor tower; yet they were
thick and strong, and the Texans had planted their artillery
upon them, determined there to give battle to the enemy, and
resist them to the last. Though deficient in ammunition and
provisions, that noble band, firm and undaunted, stood bravely
at their post, each arm nerved for the conflict, and each
heart true and loyal to the Lone Star of Texas, that floated
above them. The invader, insolent in his pride, sent an order
for them to surrender without terms. No message was returned,
but the demand was answered defiantly by a shot from the fort.
Then was hoisted on the church of Bexar, by Santa Anna, the
blood red flag of vengeance, but the sight of its crimson
folds paled not the cheeks of the heroes. By day and by night
that little army stood side by side, keeping in check an enemy
ten times their number. The protecting hand of Providence was
stretched above them in the hour of battle, for the shot and
shell fell harmless at their feet. Each morning, as the
conflict renewed, their hearts were buoyed up with the hope
that friends from without would come to their help, as
messengers had been sent with soul-stirring appeals for aid.
Each evening the sun went down, and still no friend; yet amid
the gloom that was gathering thickly around them, they never
wavered or faltered. At length, on the morning of the first of
March, thirty gallant men, from Gonzales, were safely
conducted into the Alamo, by Captain John W. Smith. Joyous was
the welcome they met with from that band of patriots; every
eye was bright with new hope, every heart was fired with new
faith and courage, and with a resolute spirit they took up
again the midnight watch upon the beleaguered walls. For a
time the presence of the new recruits cheered the hearts of
the stern defenders, but each day, as they saw the ranks of
the enemy swelled by heavy reinforcements, dark thoughts and
dim forebodings would cast their shadows over them. Still they
toiled on--the morning sun shed its light on pale cheeks, worn
with the vigils of the night, and each day they battled with
the foe as best they could. Hope, a faint hope, still thrilled
their bosoms, and bid them not despair, for Col. Travis, on
the 3rd of March, had sent a last messenger to his countrymen,
telling them his situation, and urging them to come to the
rescue. It was the evening before the Sabbath; another week of
toil and strife had passed, and that band of brothers, each in
the strength of his own brave spirit, stood calmly there,
beneath the quiet light of the stars, awaiting the hour of
fate. It was a night of mysteries; the air was filled with
omens, and the shadows, as they played upon the walls of the
old fort, took the shape of new made graves, and the winds
were full of signs to those whose hours were fast pressing to
their close.
It was a time for holy memories, but the
many bright images of the past, with which the starlight was
peopled, and the burning thoughts of home and loved ones,
which then crowded on each heart, remains untold. But the low
whisper of the reeds along the river banks, and the stillness
of the foes that girt the walls without, blent with the soul's
forebodings of coming ill, all told that "it was a night
of Fate, stamped with Almighty Will."
The stars had told the hour of midnight,
and a solemn stillness brooded over all things, broken only by
the step of the sentinel, or the deep breathings of a few, on
whose aching eyelids sleep had fallen.
Another Sabbath morn had been ushered
in, quiet and serene, but it was only the lull before the
tempest, the calm before the storm. Hark! there was a stir and
a hum of voices in the camp without. Nearer and closer they
drew around the fort, the noise and the tumult growing louder
and stronger, and soon the sky was bright with the flash of
artillery, and the air was filled with the shouts of the
multitude, and the shrill voice of the trumpet urging them on
to battle. Calm and collected stood that band of soldiers
within the fort; a lofty heroism was imprinted on each brow,
and as the words "victory or death" passed along the
line, the light of triumph flashed from every eye. The assault
was made, and hosts of the assailants mounted the walls, but
were hurled back in a mangled mass, by the unerring aim of the
Texas Rangers. There was a pause, then a rush of the
combatants again, hurried on by threats and bribes of their
leaders. They mounted the wall, they wavered, they reeled,
they fell beneath the deadly fire. Again they ascended the
ladders by thousands, and though that generous, heroic band
wielded their blades with Spartan courage, still they were
borne down by overpowering numbers, who soon filled the fort.
No quarter was asked or given, and freely flowed the
life-blood in that brief struggle. Col. Travis fell near the
western wall, while around him lay numbers whom he had slain.
And where the strife had been thickest, where the blood had
flowed most freely, where most had been dared and done, there
fell the immortal Crockett, while Col. Bowie, who had been
sick several days, was murdered in his bed. The morning
sunlight, as it crept into the old mission walls, where once
in peace the holy cross was lifted, shone on a scene of blood
and carnage. There five hundred and twenty-one Mexicans lay
dead upon the spot, with a like number wounded. And scattered
here and there, amid heaps of the dead, was seen the pale and
ghastly faces of the brave defenders, not one of whom was left
to tell the story of his daring. On the morning of the 6th of
March, the Alamo fell, and with it nearly two hundred men, who
thus crowned themselves with immortal fame. We praise but
mourn them not, their destiny was a gift of Heaven, for
"The brightness of their names will
be prolonged,
As a torch to stream through ages."
And Travis, Bowie, Crockett, Bonham and
their compatriots, "through a bright forever," will
be called the martyrs of their country.
