pyres. Or so the few non-combatants who survived reported.”
“But you think those reports are wrong.”
“I think there’s a possibility they may be.”
With that cautious reply, she led the way through the small door set in the massive wooden gates fronting the mission. Inside, thick adobe walls provided welcome relief from the heat. A smiling docent stepped forward to greet them.
“Welcome to the Alamo. This brochure will give you… Oh!” The smile fell right off her face. “It’s you, Dr. Alazar.”
“Yes, I’m back again.”
“Our museum director said you’d finished your research here.”
“I have. I’m playing tourist this afternoon and showing my, er, friend around.”
The docent’s glance darted from Ellie to Jack and back again. Suspicion carved a deep line between her brows. “Are you planning to take more digital photos?”
“No. I’ve taken all I need.”
“We heard those were stolen.”
“They were,” Ellie replied coolly. “Fortunately, I make it a practice to back up my work.”
The volunteer fanned her brochures with a snap. “Yes, well, I’ll let Dr. Smith know you’re here.”
“You’ve certainly made yourself popular around here,” Jack commented dryly.
“Tell me about it! The exhibits are this way.”
Exiting the church, they entered a long low building that had once served as the barracks and now housed a museum of Texas history. Ellie let Jack set the pace and read those exhibits that caught his interest.
They painted a chillingly realistic picture of the thirteen-day siege. There was Santa Anna’s army of more than twelve hundred. The pitiful inadequacy of the defending force, numbering just over a hundred. Travis’s repeated requests for reinforcements. The arrival of the Tennesseeans. The wild, last-minute dash by thirty-two volunteers from Goliad, Texas, through enemy lines. The final assault some hours before dawn on March sixth. The massacre of all defenders. The mass funeral pyres that consumed both Texan and Mexican dead. The pitiful handful of non-combatants who survived.
The original of Travis’s most famous appeal for assistance was preserved behind glass. Written the day after the Mexican army arrived in San Antonio, the letter still had the power to stir emotions.
Commander of the Alamo
Bexar, Fby 24th, 1836
To the People of Texas and All Americans in the World
Fellow Citizens & Compatriots
I am besieged by a thousand or more of the Mexicans under Santa Anna. I have sustained a continual bombardment & have not lost a man. 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, and our flag still waves proudly on the walls. I shall never surrender nor retreat.
Then, I call on you in the name of Liberty, of patriotism, & of everything dear to the American character, to come to our aid with all dispatch. The enemy is receiving reinforcements daily & will no doubt increase to three or four thousand in four or five days. If this call is neglected, I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible and die like a soldier who never forgets what is due to his own honor & that of his country.
Victory or death
William Barrett Travis
Lt. Col. Comdt
P.S. The Lord is on our side. When the enemy appeared in sight, we had not three bushels of corn. We have since found in deserted houses 80 or 90 bushels & got into the walls 20 or 30 head of Beeves.
Travis.
“Whew!” Jack blew out a long breath. “No wonder the mere suggestion that this man didn’t die at the Alamo has riled so many folks. He certainly made his intentions plain enough.”
Nodding, Ellie trailed after him as he examined the exhibits and artifacts reported to belong to the defenders, among them sewing kits, tobacco pouches and handwoven horsehair bridles and lariats. A small, tattered Bible tugged at her heart. It was inscribed to one Josiah Kennett, whose miniature showed an unsmiling young man in the wide-brimmed sombrero favored by cowboys and vaqueros of the time. Silver conchos decorated the hatband, underscoring how closely Mexican and Tejano cultures had blended in the days before war wrenched them apart.
When Jack and Ellie emerged into a tree-shaded courtyard, the serene quiet gave no echo of the cannons that had once thundered from the surrounding walls. Tourists wandered past quietly, almost reverently.
“Okay,” Jack said, summarizing what he’d read inside. “Susanna Dickinson, wife of the fort’s artillery officer, said that Travis died on the north battery. Travis’s slave Joe said he saw the colonel go down after grappling with troops coming over the wall. They make a pretty convincing argument that William B. stuck to his word and died right here at the Alamo.”
“An argument I might buy,” Ellie agreed, “except that Susanna Dickinson hid in the chapel during the assault. After the battle, she reportedly saw the bodies of Crockett and Bowie, but never specifically indicated she saw Travis’s. She probably heard that he died on the ramparts from other sources.”
“What about Joe’s report?”
“Joe saw his master go down during the assault, then he, too, hid. Travis could have been wounded yet somehow survived. The only document that indicates his body was recovered and burned with the others is a translation of a report by Francisco Ruiz, San Antonio’s mayor at the time. Unfortunately, the translation appeared in 1860, years after the battle. The original has never been found, so there’s no way to verify its authenticity.”
She knew her stuff. There was no arguing that.
“On the other hand,” she continued, “rumors that some of the defenders escaped the massacre ran rampant for years. One held that Mexican forces captured Crockett some miles away and hauled him before Santa Anna, who had him summarily shot. There’s also a diary kept by a corporal in the Mexican army who claims he led a patrol sent out to hunt down fleeing Tejanos.”
Her eyes locked with Jack’s.
“Supposedly, his patrol fired at an escapee approximately five miles south of here, not far from Mission San Jose. The corporal was sure they hit the man, but they lost him in the dense underbrush along the river.”
“Let me guess. That’s the site you’re now excavating.”
“Right.”
It could have happened, Jack mused. He’d experienced the confusion and chaos of battle. He knew how garbled reports could become, how often even the most reliable intelligence proved wrong.
Still, as they moved toward the building that housed a special exhibit of weaponry used at the Alamo, he found himself hoping the theory didn’t hold water. A part of him wanted to believe the legend—that
