Chapter Three: The All-Star Defenders of the Alamo

Goliad, Old John's Bar.

William Travis pushed open the leaf spring doors of the bar, and a pungent wave of alcohol and choking cigarette smoke rushed to meet him, mixed with the stench of foot odor and cheap perfume.

The soldiers were making merry with prostitutes, the crowd twisting and swaying wildly to cheerful music.

Some soldiers hoisted prostitutes onto their shoulders, and the uninhibited women cared not a whit about their exposed charms. Everyone was still immersed in the joy of victory; now Goliad, San Antonio, and even all of Texas belonged to them.

Just three months prior, they had annihilated a forty-man Mexican garrison and successfully captured Goliad.

Yet now, Santa Anna was approaching with an eight-thousand-strong Mexican army. If one counted the stragglers rounded up along the way, newly conscripted black slaves, and Indians, the total number was likely no less than ten thousand.

William Travis felt deeply troubled inside; he wanted to find the volunteer commander James Bowie immediately.

As William Travis searched his way inward, he had to dodge drunken men and prostitutes who might collide with him at any moment. The damp floor beneath his feet was stained with grease and rum, nearly causing him to slip.

"Colonel James Bowie, are you here?" William Travis shouted. "I am Colonel William Travis, and I need to speak with you."

No one answered. In his frustration, William Travis directly drew the pistol from his waist and fired two shots straight into the ceiling.

"Bang! Bang!" The two gunshots halted the noisy crowd, except that the circular chandelier hanging from the ceiling tumbled down, immediately crushing a drunkard.

"Carry him out. Which one of you is James Bowie?"

A dwarf raised his hand, and William Travis asked with some confusion, "You are James Bowie?"

The dwarf shook his head rapidly and replied, "Colonel Bowie is upstairs, but I don't think he wants to be disturbed."

William Travis grew somewhat irritated. "I am Colonel William Travis, the highest military commander here, and I am going to see him right now."

The dwarf shrugged and pointed upward toward the second floor.

Fuming, William Travis marched up to the second-floor room, kicked the door open, and found Colonel Bowie engaged in unspeakable activities. With no other choice, he closed the door again and waited outside.

About three minutes later, Colonel Bowie opened the door.

"Colonel William Travis, apologies for the wait."

"Not long, just three minutes."

The two exchanged an awkward smile, yet before they knew it, the distance between them had closed considerably.

"Let's talk in another room and let her rest for a while," Colonel Bowie suggested.

As for James Bowie himself, the knife he invented was far more famous than the man: a blade with an upturned point and a crossguard, later generations called it the Bowie knife, which is the most common type of American military knife we see today.

James Bowie and William Travis came to the kitchen. Bowie picked up two cups and handed one to Travis.

"Have a drink first. You can't negotiate with a dry throat."

With that, Bowie opened a bottle of rum and poured a glass each for Travis and himself.

Pushing the glass away, Travis said, "I don't drink. The men outside are completely incapable of fighting, and I have bad news for you: no one is coming to save us. Santa Anna is bringing ten thousand men, while we have only two colonels and two hundred soldiers."

"Oh, I've heard the rumors. So what if there are ten thousand?" Bowie drained his glass nonchalantly.

"We lack sufficient soldiers, sufficient weapons. The artillery consists of only three antique pieces left behind by the Mexicans."

"Trust me, Travis, the Mexicans' cannons won't be any better than ours," Bowie said with a smile, knowing full well that the Mexicans were still using antiquated Spanish relics.

"Even so, my men plus your volunteers amount to barely two hundred. How are we supposed to fight Santa Anna's massive army?"

"I'm not afraid to die, but if I die, I'll make sure the Mexicans know I'm not to be trifled with. I'll tear a chunk of flesh right out of them, butter it, and swallow it whole."

James Bowie was not lying; he genuinely did not fear death. Everyone who had ever met him praised him as a true Western cowboy, an outlaw through and through.

"But I don't want to die pointlessly."

"Then hand your command over to me, Mr. Nice Guy. Right now, those bigwigs are busy figuring out how to build a country, and our job is to stop Santa Anna. It's as simple as that."

Bowie reached for Travis's glass again, but Travis snatched it away.

"I'm not afraid to die either, but let me tell you, Texas cannot exist without San Antonio. History will prove me right."

Travis tossed back the drink in one gulp and immediately coughed.

"Not bad, you've got backbone, haha!"

"Bowie, I have a request," Travis said hesitatingly.

"Spit it out, like a man."

"I want you to stay silent. I'm going to tell the soldiers that General Houston is already on his way with two thousand reinforcements. I'm afraid those cowards will run away; our mission is to buy enough time for the bigwigs."

Bowie hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

"Very well, I won't expose you. But if anyone wants to leave, that is their freedom, and you cannot stop them."

"As you like. I don't think Houston is foolish enough to abandon San Antonio. You and I both know how vital San Antonio is to Texas. Once Santa Anna occupies San Antonio, he will be in an unassailable position."

Yet historically, Santa Anna, blinded by arrogance and rushing forward recklessly after the Battle of the Alamo, was ultimately ambushed and defeated by the colonist militia led by Houston. This reduced all his efforts to naught, and in the end, Santa Anna himself was forever nailed to the pillar of shame.

A day later, the American legend Davy Crockett arrived at Goliad with twenty Tennessee volunteers.

In legend, Davy Crockett could tear wolves apart with his bare hands, wrestle grizzly bears, single-handedly beat back an attack by three hundred Indian warriors, and single-handedly thwart a British plot to assassinate the American president...

Such a legendary figure was also the only American officer to surrender to Santa Anna at the Battle of the Alamo.

Historically, the twenty Tennessee volunteers led by Davy Crockett were the last batch of reinforcements to reach the Alamo.

In reality, however, a force of four hundred men was stationed just a dozen kilometers away from the Alamo, led by Colonel Fannin.

Yet this group neither went to the aid of Travis at the Alamo nor heeded Houston's orders to evacuate San Antonio and join Houston's main force.

These men sat idly by and watched the destruction of the Alamo garrison, only to later become Santa Anna's punching bags.

Their sole function in history was to burden Santa Anna with the infamous reputation of slaughtering prisoners.

A thousand volunteer soldiers had just departed from Boston, but they would not arrive for another two months.