MRS. DICKINSON JUMPED WITH fright at the rustle in the tall grass beside the road. She, Angelina and Ben were now across the Salado—well east of San Antonio—and it never occurred to her that anyone else might be near.
A head popped out of the brush, and a familiar voice hailed her—it was Joe, Travis’ slave. Leery of Mexican promises, he had fled town on foot and was trying to get to Gonzales too. Hearing horses approach, he was sure the Mexicans were after him and plunged into the grass until he saw who it was.
Overjoyed, Joe emerged, attached himself to the little group, and happily trudged along beside Mrs. Dickinson’s horse. He was dubious protection—he dived back into the grass at every unusual sound—but at least he was company, and she needed that too. Mile after mile, the little party continued on—all day March the 11th and 12th.
By noon on the 13th, they were about twenty miles from Gonzales, when once again Joe plunged into the underbrush. This time it was no deer, no stray cow, no fluttering prairie hen. There in the distance, cautiously coming toward them, were three horsemen.
Comanches, Joe whispered, and begged Mrs. Dickinson to join him. But she would have none of it; she was too tired and heart-broken to care any longer. “I’d as soon die one way as another.”
The horsemen drew closer … close enough to see they were riding with martingales. No Indian ever did that. Joe leaped to his feet, wild with joy.
It was a Texan scouting party led by “Deaf” Smith, riding out from Gonzales to check on the Alamo. It didn’t take long to hear enough, and soon they were all heading for Gonzales together. As Mrs. Dickinson wearily lagged behind, scout Henry Karnes left the rest and dashed ahead with the news.
It came as no surprise. All signs had pointed to the fall of the Alamo for days—almost since the moment Sam Houston reached Gonzales on March 11 to organize his army. That very evening Anselmo Borgara and Andres Barcena, two Mexicans from the ranchos near San Antonio, turned up with hair-raising details on the final assault. No, they hadn’t been there themselves, but their friend Antonio Perez had, and he was a truthful man.
The story caused wild dismay in town. To stop any panic, Houston jailed both Mexicans as spies, but in his heart he feared the worst. The silence of Travis’ signal gun spoke louder than a dozen messengers. He canceled plans for a march on San Antonio. He ordered Fannin to pull back. He worried through March 12, waiting in vain for two of Seguin’s spies to report. On the 13th he finally decided that the only way to get the truth was to send out “Deaf” Smith—the taciturn, almost legendary scout who could read footprints like handwriting and smell a Mexican ten miles away.
It was a typical Smith performance. Ordered to return “within three days,” he was back by nightfall, complete with survivors. Now, as Mrs. Dickinson poured out the heartbreaking details, Houston could only hold her hand and weep like a child.
Clearly there must be no more of these sieges. They were simply wasting men. The only course was to hold the little army together and retreat, drawing Santa Anna along, always ready to turn and strike. “By falling back,” Houston assured his highly nervous government, “Texas can rally and defeat any force that can come against her.”
There was no time to lose. Mrs. Dickinson said the advancing Mexicans were already at the Cibolo. Houston ordered an immediate retreat, and by 9:30 P.M. men were collecting rations, loading the ammunition wagon, hitching the oxen. Others took the army’s two brass 24-pounders and unceremoniously dumped them into the Guadalupe River. At a time like this, artillery seemed more a burden than a weapon.
As the commotion rose, one of the townspeople opened his door and called out in alarm: “In the name of God, gentlemen, I hope you are not going to leave the families behind!”
“Oh, yes,” cracked a voice from the ranks, evidently no admirer of Sam Houston, “we are all looking out for Number One.”
Hardly fair. Houston even turned over most of his wagons to the settlers, and they too were preparing to leave. Sydney Kellogg—wife of one Alamo defender, sister of another—had to move carefully: her new baby was due any day.
By 11 the families all seemed to be gone, and the troops were ready to follow. The men clumsily formed in ranks of four; the captains gave the command to march; and the little army tramped off to the east. There were some 374 men in all, and of every conceivable variety—Sampson Connell, an ancient veteran of Jackson’s victory at New Orleans … John Jenkins, a lively 13-year-old … Colonel Sydney Sherman, who had the most dazzling uniform in Texas … Ben, late of the Mexican Army, who found no difficulty at all in making the transition from Almonte’s chef to Houston’s cook.
It was hard marching. The road was rough, the weather hot and muggy—blanket rolls weighed a ton. The night was black—pitch-black—and the men tripped and stumbled as they trudged along. They never knew it could get so dark.
Then unexpectedly it grew lighter. Not from the east, where dawn would break; but from the west, from the town they left behind. A lurid glare rose in the sky, lighting their way beyond complaint. A grim Sam Houston—determined to leave no shelter, no comfort for the advancing Mexicans—was burning Gonzales to the ground.
For a few of the men it was all too much. They had joined up to chase out the Mexicans—just like last fall. But this time everything was different. Butchered friends, burning homes, suffering families. They had families too, and it was time to protect them. Some twenty of Houston’s men deserted, rushing home to save what they could, spreading stories of rout and disaster.
Head east, head east—that was the only hope. At Stafford’s Point, the P. W. Rose family got the news in the afternoon … left at sunset, hauling clothes, bedding and food all jumbled together on an ox-drawn sledge. Dr. Rose was off saving the cattle, so Mrs. Rose had to make out alone. She piled the youngest children on the load and walked alongside, carrying the baby. Eleven-year-old Dilue trudged with her, weeping bitterly for Travis.
Head east, head east—the word spread everywhere. At San Felipe, Gail Borden ran an editorial in his Telegraph and Texas Register, urging everyone to stay put. Then he loaded his presses on a wagon and headed east himself. At Washington-on-the-Brazos, the country’s fledging statesmen slapped together a constitution, elected an interim government, and joined the parade.
“It is with inexpressible regret that I observe the slightest indication of alarm among us,” the new President David G. Burnet declared on March 18. Later that morning he was on his way east too—bound for the “temporary capital” hastily established at the little town of Harrisburg. Here the government resumed its functions, issuing frantic requests for stationery, blankets, cups and saucers, “liquors suitable for Genteel men to drink.”
The “Runaway Scrape,” the Texans called their flight, with a sort of embarrassed jollity in later years. At the time it was simply terrifying—a pell-mell rush of women, children, officials, speculators, everybody. But through it all, a small group of women stood out with unruffled grace and dignity. These were the Alamo widows. The blind Mrs. Isaac Millsaps —inadvertently left behind at Gonzales—waited patiently with her seven children, till Houston discovered the blunder and rescued her. Sydney Kellogg had her baby on March 19, then lay uncomplainingly in the back of an open wagon, bouncing along in the driving rain.
As the refugees streamed east, Houston’s little army brought up the rear, guarding them from the enemy, prodding them along—like a scrappy shepherd dog herding the sheep. The troops reached the Colorado on March 17, waited there a week, hoping to blunt the Mexican advance. Much depended on Fannin, who had been ordered to pull back and be ready to co-operate.
But Fannin, of course, never moved. Rooted to Goliad, he waited too long to begin his march. Finally starting out on the 19th, he was quickly surrounded by Urrea’s forces. A halfhearted fight, and early next morning he surrendered. Some 400 Texans were taken back to Goliad, where they spent a miserable week as prisoners. On the night of March 26 things began to look up—there were rumors of parole—and one of the men took out a flute and softly played “Home, Sweet Home.” The following dawn, Palm Sunday, they were led to the woods and shot.
Rendezvous at San Jacinto. Houston’s little army began retreating from Gonzales on March 13, leisurely followed by Santa Anna. On March 31 the Texans halted on the Brazos for two weeks to rest and regroup, while the Mexican leader continued east, chasing the Texan government. An April 15 Houston resumed his march, now the pursuer instead of the pursued. On April 21 he caught up with Santa Anna at the mouth of the San Jacinto River, demolished the Mexican force in eighteen minutes.
News of Fannin’s surrender reached Houston on March 25 and ended all hope of a stand on the Colorado. Next evening his troops were retreating again. On the 28th they passed Mill Creek, home of Travis’ Rebecca; the 31st, they reached the Brazos. Here they rested and drilled two weeks, while Houston himself tapped reveille on a drum and spent the lonely hours of the night reading Caesar’s Commentaries.
April 12, word came that the Mexicans were crossing downstream, and the retreat began again. The little steamer Yellow Stone ferried the men over the river on the 12th and 13th. Next night they camped at the nearby Donohoe farm, then the familiar orders to push on east.
This endless retreating was hard to take, and on the morning of the 15th it seemed especially frustrating. As the army left Donohoe’s, a mysterious visitor appeared with a taunting message from Santa Anna somewhere to the south: “He knew Mr. Houston was up there in the bushes; and so soon as he had whipped the land thieves out of the country, he would come up and smoke him out.”
If the Mexican commander seemed playful, he had reason to be. Ever since the Alamo, the campaign had been a holiday excursion. Sesma’s troops were the first to start east, leaving San Antonio for Gonzales and San Felipe on March 11. Other detachments soon followed, bound for various objectives—Morales to help reduce Goliad, Tolsa to support Sesma, Gaona to take Nacogdoches. In less experienced hands, it might have seemed like scattering the army.
Santa Anna himself set out on March 31 to join Sesma. This was really something of a concession, for with the fighting nearly over, he wanted to return to Mexico City. But the stodgy Filisola seemed worried, so in the end the General-in-Chief amicably agreed to stay on.
It was really very easy. He reached Gonzales on April 2, crossed the Colorado on the 5th, took San Felipe on the 7th. Now he was on the Brazos and discovered that Houston had sunk or carried off every boat the Texans could find.
He knew a trick or two himself. First Almonte dashed to the edge of the river, and using his best American accent, yelled to the Texans guarding the other side, “Bring over that boat—the Mexicans are coming!” It didn’t work, and after waiting around a few days, Santa Anna finally led the troops down the right bank toward Thompson’s Ferry some thirty miles to the south.
On April 11 a clever ambush hauled in a frightened Negro—threats and bribes did the rest. He showed them a canoe hidden along the bank, and after much frantic paddling the Mexicans had a foothold on the east bank. Next morning they surprised the Texans guarding Thompson’s Ferry, captured another canoe and, best of all, a fine flatboat.
As the last of the Mexicans were crossing on the 14th, they suffered their only shock so far in the campaign. The steamboat Yellow Stone suddenly churned into view. Houston had finished with her and now she was heading downstream. Her tall stack vomited clouds of smoke, her bright paddlewheels thrashed the water.
Many of the Mexicans raced in terror for the woods—they had never seen a steamboat before. Others dashed along the bank, firing their muskets at the paddles. A few intrepid souls laid a trap: at a narrow point along the river they tried to lasso the smokestack. All was in vain. The Yellow Stone rounded the bend and chugged from sight.
Small loss. Santa Anna now had far bigger game in mind. A friendly Mexican reported that President Burnet and his top officials were at Harrisburg. Only thirty miles away! Prompt action could capture them all and end the rebellion with one lightning stroke.
At 3 P.M., April 14, Santa Anna was on the way, leading 700 infantry, 50 cavalry and one 6-pounder. All afternoon and evening they rushed on, soaking the hardtack and drowning two mules in their hurry to get across one difficult creek. No one seemed to know where they were going—nor did Filisola, Sesma or any of the others left behind—but the men had rarely seen their commander more excited.
At 9 o’clock that night they flopped into camp, so tired they didn’t even mind that His Excellency forgot to pick a site with water. Then on again next morning, driving hard all day—time out only to loot a small plantation. Even so, they weren’t going fast enough. Finally, Santa Anna dashed ahead with some dragoons, swooping down on Harrisburg just before midnight.
They were too late. No President, no officials, almost no citizens. Only three printers, cranking out the latest issue of the Telegraph and Texas Register. Santa Anna indignantly pitched the press into nearby Buffalo Bayou and put the printers under arrest.
From them he learned that the government, warned in time, had fled to Galveston. They also confirmed that Houston was still up the Brazos with 800 men. A little at loose ends, Santa Anna now sent Almonte and the cavalry still farther eastward. He told them to check Lynch’s Ferry and New Washington, both at the mouth of the San Jacinto River. See if anything was brewing in that direction.
There certainly was. On the 17th Almonte sent back some exciting news from New Washington: Houston was retreating again—heading for safety east of the Trinity—he would cross the San Jacinto at Lynch’s Ferry.
Get there first and cut him off! Another golden chance to end the rebellion at a single stroke. Again Santa Anna’s little force surged eastward, now driving harder than ever. First they would rejoin Almonte at New Washington, then move together up the San Jacinto estuary to Lynch’s Ferry. They should easily get there before Houston.
Such an exciting prospect could make a man forget everything else. Where they were right now, for instance. Yet this was interesting country—especially for a student of military tactics. Hardly any room for maneuvering at all. On their left ran the sluggish waters of Buffalo Bayou … ahead was the estuary of the San Jacinto … to the right, the marshes and inlets of Galveston Bay. And as they swept across Vince’s Bayou—spanned only by a narrow wooden bridge—there was now water behind them too.
On they raced. Soon Harrisburg lay far to the rear—and even farther, the rest of the Mexican Army. Sesma was still at Thompson’s Ferry with 1,000 men … Filisola somewhere behind him with 1,800 more … Urrea at Matagorda with another 1,200 … Gaona lost near Bastrop with two whole battalions—he even admitted it. His Excellency had no patience with such men, and he certainly wasn’t going to wait for them.
Noon, April 18, the little force reached New Washington. Almonte was waiting, as expected. No more word of Houston, and things seemed so quiet that Santa Anna decided to rest the troops a day before marching up the estuary toward Lynch’s Ferry. On the 19th he sent Captain Barragan ahead to scout any sign of the Texans.
Eight o’clock next morning, Barragan came pounding back with stunning news. Houston was less than eight miles away—facing them, not Lynch’s Ferry. Santa Anna leaped to his saddle, galloped to the head of his troops. They got under way immediately, marching “with joy and in the highest spirits.” The Mexican leader never felt more confident; the battle was not shaping up quite the way he planned it, but the victory would be no less decisive.
A good many Americans would have agreed. To them, it looked as though all the aid and money and enthusiasm had been too late. “The present campaign in Texas may be considered as closed,” sighed the Arkansas Gazette, “and we would suggest to all persons who may intend taking up arms to assist the Texans to delay their departure for the present.”
Then was the Alamo in vain, after all? Horace Greeley thought so. Lumping Bexar and Goliad together, he decided such disasters “must naturally, if not necessarily, involve the extinction of every rational hope for Texas.”
Some things, certainly, the Alamo hadn’t accomplished. Travis had vowed to make a Mexican victory worse than defeat; yet Santa Anna’s losses were far from insuperable—he still outnumbered Houston six to one. Nor did the siege seriously interrupt the Mexican schedule. Writing his government on February 16—a week before he ever saw the Alamo—Santa Anna said he expected to have San Antonio by March 2. He was only four days late.
Nor did Travis’ heroism inspire the Texans to rush to the colors. Volunteers were pouring out in the Mississippi lowlands, the woods of Tennessee, the streets of Philadelphia—but they were too far away. Men were needed on the spot. And in Texas, the Alamo had quite a different effect.
At first the turnout was heartening. The army increased from 374 on March 12 to perhaps 1,400 by March 25. But it didn’t last. As details of the Mexican butchery spread and the “Runaway Scrape” began, hundreds of volunteers rushed off to protect their families. By mid-April the army was down again to 900 men.
To Houston, not even the government’s flight was more damaging than the massacre at Bexar. “Your removal to Harrisburg,” he scolded Secretary of War Rusk, “has done more to increase the panic in the country than anything else that has occurred in Texas, except the Fall of the Alamo.”
Yet if the garrison’s sacrifice achieved few tangible results, it accomplished something else far more important. Something less visible to Horace Greeley sitting in New York, but no less real in Texas.
It made the hard core of Houston’s army—the staunch men who remained—blazing, fighting mad. Until the Alamo, it was difficult to take Santa Anna seriously. After the easy Texan victories in the fall, he seemed like something out of a comic-opera. But there was nothing comic-opera about this blood bath. “If such conduct is not sufficient to arouse the patriotic feelings of the sons of liberty,” exploded Private G. A. Giddings, “I know not what will.” And Benjamin Goodrich grimly promised, “We ask nor expect no quarter in the future.”
Along with anger went another feeling, perhaps even more important. This was deep, gnawing shame—shame for failing to go to Travis’ rescue. “Texas will take honor to herself for the defense of the Alamo and will call it a second Thermopylae,” prophesied William Gray from Groce’s Place, “but it will be an everlasting monument of national disgrace.”
A little strong, but who didn’t know in his heart that more could have been done? Who didn’t feel secretly guilty about those interminable resolutions and indignation meetings, when they might have been marching? “My bones shall reproach my country for her neglect,” Travis had written. The bones did their work well.
Men were ashamed they let Travis down, and now they were ashamed to be retreating. “Run, run, Santa Anna is behind you!” cackled an indignant old lady from her doorway, and the ears burned of every man who heard her. By mid-April the troops were raging to get at Santa Anna, and showed signs of revolting if they were held back much longer.
Few noticed that when Houston again moved eastward on April 15, he was no longer retreating; he was now following the enemy. That lunge at the fleeing politicians had drawn the Mexicans far past the little Texan army. Houston edged after them, but most of the men bitterly complained that it was just another march eastward. Nor did Houston enlighten them: “I consulted none—I held no councils of war—if I err the blame is mine.”
April 18, they reached Buffalo Bayou, just across from Harrisburg. Here Houston paused uncertainly. There comes a time when any general needs more than a plan and his intuition … a time when he can also use a touch of luck.
It was just about dark when “Deaf Smith burst into camp with astounding news. Santa Anna himself was leading the enemy force just ahead—the first time the Texans realized it. Better still, the Mexican leader was now far east of Vince’s Bayou, groping his way down San Jacinto Bay. The Texans were between him and the main part of the Mexican Army. In short they had him cut off.
Could they be sure? Smith had prisoners to prove it—a Mexican courier and escort caught west of Harrisburg bearing important messages for Santa Anna. Not exactly proof, but no less meaningful for Houston’s troops were the courier’s saddlebags. They had been captured from the Texans; they were marked, “W. B. Travis.”
The drum tapped reveille at daybreak on the 19th, and Houston addressed his men. He told them about the Mexican force just ahead; he told them about Santa Anna leading it; and as their eyes nickered in rising excitement, he told them a little about geography. To regain contact with the main army, Santa Anna must come back either by Lynch’s Ferry or the bridge over Vince’s Bayou. The Texans could get to either point first. “Victory is certain!” Houston cried. “Trust in God and fear not! And Remember the Alamo, Remember the Alamo!”
A wild yell erupted from the ranks. Then a mad rush to get ready. The sick, the wounded, the wagons, the baggage would all stay behind. The rest shouldered their rifles and marched east. With them they took their new pride—two handsome 6-pounders christened the “Twin Sisters,” a timely gift from the citizens of Cincinnati.
East three miles … then across Buffalo Bayou and east again … over Vince’s bridge … by the dead Mexican campfires … through a beautiful moonlit night they marched. But the moon was dangerous too, for now they were in “Santa Anna country”—his scouts might be anywhere.
Whispered orders, and at 2 A.M. the Texans fell out for a few hours’ sleep. Up at dawn and on again. Seven o’clock, a halt for breakfast, but they no sooner lit the fires than the inevitable happened. The Mexican scouts—specifically Captain Barragan’s party—spied them and dashed off to warn Santa Anna.
No time to be eating. The Texans forgot breakfast and rushed on again. Just after 10 A.M. “Deaf” Smith’s scouts swooped down on Lynch’s Ferry, drove off an astonished enemy guard, and seized a Mexican flatboat loaded with flour. Maybe they’d have breakfast after all.
Houston laid out his camp along Buffalo Bayou, just where it joined the San Jacinto estuary, and the men fell out. But again, no time to eat. Scouts galloped in, reported the Mexicans coming hard. The Texans moved into line and waited. One o’clock … 1:30 … 2:00.
There they were. Across the prairie, through the tall grass they came swarming—those dusty white jumpers, the blaring bugles, the lancers prancing in their glistening armor.
The “Twin Sisters” crashed into action; the long line of Texan rifles cracked from the woods. The enemy wheeled up their own 6-pounder, traded a few shots. Then a halfhearted Mexican charge that quickly petered out. Firing died off. Toward sunset. Colonel Sydney Sherman led the cavalry to feel out the enemy’s position, returned to camp badly mauled. Houston angrily replaced him with a bright young private bearing the highly military name Mirabeau Buonaparte Lamar.
Santa Anna too was less than completely satisfied with developments. The enemy wouldn’t come out and fight. Instead of behaving like professional soldiers, they skulked in the woods, firing from trees and behind a low ridge. He did his best to lure them into the open, but nothing worked. Finally, he pulled back a thousand yards and camped for the evening.
He picked his camp site with infinite care and was extremely proud of his choice: “A hill that gave me an advantageous position with water on the rear, heavy woods to our right as far as the banks of the San Jacinto, open plains to the left, and a clear front.”
Thursday, April 21, 1836. In the Mexican camp, it was a beautiful morning brimming with optimism right from the start. At 9 General Cós arrived with 400 reinforcements. Santa Anna had asked for them back in Harrisburg, and for once Filisola was prompt. Shouts, cheers and a special ruffle of drums celebrated the occasion.
No sign of enemy activity, so Santa Anna ordered the men to stack arms and rest in the nearby grove. For protection against any surprise, he improvised a barricade in front of the lines. It was made of branches. To the left—where the 6-pounder stood—he built a somewhat stronger breastwork. This was made of pack saddles, luggage and sacks of hardtack.
Around noon, General Cós suggested that the cavalry be allowed to eat and water their horses. Their job was to guard the camp, but all was quiet, and after all, the men had to eat. Santa Anna agreed.
He now retired for a nap. Not in his striped marquee, but under a spacious oak, where the shade seemed especially pleasant. He looked forward to big things once they all had their rest. With the camp back here, the Texans would have to come out of their woods, and then they would get their lesson. Meanwhile, he slept in peace.
Houston spent an even more unusual noon hour. He held the first council of war in his life. The question: “Shall we attack the enemy’s position, or wait for him to attack us?” The staff aimlessly debated the matter, and Houston finally dismissed them. He had made his plans anyhow. Calling “Deaf” Smith, he told his dour scout to take a party and chop down Vince’s bridge, the only way of retreat left open for Santa Anna.
Two o’clock, Houston quietly sent Colonel Joseph Bennett through the ranks, just to make sure the men were ready. They were ready, all right.
At 3:30 the order came: “Parade and prepare for action.” The men fell in, deep in their thoughts. For one of them, at least, there was something quite special to think about. Alfonso Steele had deserted Travis en route to the Alamo. He hadn’t felt like fighting then; but he felt very differently now.
Four o’clock, Houston raised his sword, turned his white stallion toward the Mexican camp. The 783 men surged forward—first in column, then in a long, thin line that swept like a scythe through the tall prairie grass. A fife and drum urged them on, serenading them with an old favorite about a long-awaited rendezvous: “Will You Come to the Bower I Have Shaded for You?”
It was all over in eighteen incredible minutes. Colonel Delgado’s 6-pounder … the silver teapot … the sacks of crumbling hardtack … the brightly decked lances … the bugles … the portable escritoire … the whole Mexican force of 1,150 men—gone forever. More than that: gone were Santa Anna’s plans for Texas and the Mexican dream of an empire running all the way to the Rockies and the Pacific. Other battles—another war—would follow, but for Mexico, San Jacinto was the real nightmare.
The luckless General Castrillón fell murmuring, “I’ve never showed my back; I’m too old to do it now.” Others cared less. Colonel Delgado fled barefoot to a small grove by the bay, surrendered toward evening. The suave Almonte cheerfully turned himself in that night. Secretary Ramón Caro headed for Harrisburg, only to discover “Deaf Smith had done his work well—Vince’s bridge was down. Santa Anna simply disappeared.
The Texans celebrated and counted their own toll—ultimately 9 killed and 34 wounded. Next morning some of Houston’s scouts found a nondescript little fellow hiding in the grass near the splintered remains of Vince’s bridge. He wore a faded blue cotton jacket and red worsted slippers. When questioned, he finally acknowledged he was a simple private in the Mexican Army. They brought him back to camp, and no one suspected anything, until some of the Mexican prisoners spoiled the masquerade. Perhaps from force of habit, they just couldn’t resist calling, “El Presidente! El Presidente!”
Brought before Houston, Santa Anna generously congratulated him on defeating the “Napoleon of the West.” Houston took it calmly, and since a wounded foot kept him from rising, he politely invited His Excellency to have a seat. Months later, the Mexican leader was sent home unharmed on the understanding that he would support Texan independence.
Men were coolly reasonable once again, but it was just as well they didn’t catch Santa Anna during the battle. There was nothing quite like the fury of those eighteen minutes. The flashing knives … the rifles used as clubs … the wrath of the infuriated Texan who even butchered one of the helpless soldaderas. As the slaughter continued, the terrified Mexicans could only fall to their knees, saying “Me no Alamo.” For although they spoke a different tongue, they knew only too well what this was all about. Travis’ stand—and Santa Anna’s answer—had the same moral connotations in any language. Every man at San Jacinto understood the meaning, when in the late afternoon of April 21 Houston’s line swept forward, shouting with an almost lofty rage, “Remember the Alamo!”