called “the plaza.” It was about the size of a city block and was bordered by various walls and buildings.
On the south side of the plaza was a long, one-story building called the “low barracks”; it was pierced by the Alamo’s main entrance. Along the west side—which faced the town about 400 yards away—ran a haphazard line of adobe huts, linked and protected by a strong stone wall about twelve feet high. Across the north end ran a similar wall. The east side was banked by the so-called “long barracks.” This two-story building was extremely strong and got extra protection fromwalls bordering a corral that lay in the rear. But the “long barracks” stopped considerably short of the southern side of the plaza, leaving the rectangle incomplete. The gap, however, was partly filled by the most eye-catching building of all—the Alamo church.
Through years of neglect, the church was now a ruin, but it still was the sturdiest building in the compound. Its walls were four feet thick, and although most of the roof was gone, the sacristy and several small rooms along one side were arched and well covered. The center was filled with debris-due mainly to Cós, who had ineffectually tried to fortify the place before surrendering in December. He built a platform at the eastern end, reached by a ramp of earth and timber that ran almost the whole length of the nave.
Although strong and durable, the church was set back so far that it still didn’t meet the south side of the compound. There remained a diagonal gap of about fifty yards in the southeast corner. This gap was the Alamo’s most glaring weakness, but there were other problems almost as big. Although the walls were wonderfully thick—usually two to three feet— they had no embrasures or barbettes. They were mostly twelve feet high, yet there were no parapets. An acequia or ditch provided water, but it could be blocked.
Worst of all, the place was so big. How could 80 men hope to do any good? Or even double that number? Colonel Neill had every right to feel depressed when the garrison assembled to discuss its situation the day after the Matamoros group left. And he had every right to feel surprised when the men passed the solemn resolution: “We consider it highly essential that the existing army remain at Bexar.”
With what? They had no food, no clothes, no money. To make any kind of stand, it would take a miracle—not just supplies, but new men, new leaders, even new spirit. And yet, these things do happen, and within a few weeks the Alamowould undergo changes that Neill, a conscientious but unimaginative man, couldn’t hope to see. At the moment, however, there was nothing but a piece of paper expressing the belief of a few hungry, ill-clad men that San Antonio was a very important place to hold.
Chapter Four
“The Supreme Government Is Supremely Indignant”
E IGHT HUNDRED MILES SOUTH of the Alamo, a well-knit, middle-aged Mexican buckled on his $7,000 sword, mounted a saddle heavy with gold-plated trim, and turned his horse north toward the Rio Grande. General Antonio López de Santa Anna also felt that San Antonio was an important place to hold; and he planned to do something about it.
To Santa Anna, the Texans’ seizure of the town was more than a strategic problem. It was a national outrage, a humiliating blow to his personal pride. It not only called for a remedy; it demanded revenge. “Don Santa Anna,” reported the Tamaulipas Gazette, “feeling as every true Mexican ought, the disgrace thus sustained by the Republic, is making every preparation to wipe out the stain in the blood of those perfidious foreigners.”
That was what hurt the most—”those perfidious foreigners.” It was bad enough being beaten, but to Santa Anna, being beaten by Americans was the greatest indignity of all. He recalled so well his first brush with them in 1813. Then he had come to Texas as a young lieutenant in the Royal Spanish Army to help throttle an
On the south side of the plaza was a long, one-story building called the “low barracks”; it was pierced by the Alamo’s main entrance. Along the west side—which faced the town about 400 yards away—ran a haphazard line of adobe huts, linked and protected by a strong stone wall about twelve feet high. Across the north end ran a similar wall. The east side was banked by the so-called “long barracks.” This two-story building was extremely strong and got extra protection fromwalls bordering a corral that lay in the rear. But the “long barracks” stopped considerably short of the southern side of the plaza, leaving the rectangle incomplete. The gap, however, was partly filled by the most eye-catching building of all—the Alamo church.
Through years of neglect, the church was now a ruin, but it still was the sturdiest building in the compound. Its walls were four feet thick, and although most of the roof was gone, the sacristy and several small rooms along one side were arched and well covered. The center was filled with debris-due mainly to Cós, who had ineffectually tried to fortify the place before surrendering in December. He built a platform at the eastern end, reached by a ramp of earth and timber that ran almost the whole length of the nave.
Although strong and durable, the church was set back so far that it still didn’t meet the south side of the compound. There remained a diagonal gap of about fifty yards in the southeast corner. This gap was the Alamo’s most glaring weakness, but there were other problems almost as big. Although the walls were wonderfully thick—usually two to three feet— they had no embrasures or barbettes. They were mostly twelve feet high, yet there were no parapets. An acequia or ditch provided water, but it could be blocked.
Worst of all, the place was so big. How could 80 men hope to do any good? Or even double that number? Colonel Neill had every right to feel depressed when the garrison assembled to discuss its situation the day after the Matamoros group left. And he had every right to feel surprised when the men passed the solemn resolution: “We consider it highly essential that the existing army remain at Bexar.”
With what? They had no food, no clothes, no money. To make any kind of stand, it would take a miracle—not just supplies, but new men, new leaders, even new spirit. And yet, these things do happen, and within a few weeks the Alamowould undergo changes that Neill, a conscientious but unimaginative man, couldn’t hope to see. At the moment, however, there was nothing but a piece of paper expressing the belief of a few hungry, ill-clad men that San Antonio was a very important place to hold.
Chapter Four
“The Supreme Government Is Supremely Indignant”
E IGHT HUNDRED MILES SOUTH of the Alamo, a well-knit, middle-aged Mexican buckled on his $7,000 sword, mounted a saddle heavy with gold-plated trim, and turned his horse north toward the Rio Grande. General Antonio López de Santa Anna also felt that San Antonio was an important place to hold; and he planned to do something about it.
To Santa Anna, the Texans’ seizure of the town was more than a strategic problem. It was a national outrage, a humiliating blow to his personal pride. It not only called for a remedy; it demanded revenge. “Don Santa Anna,” reported the Tamaulipas Gazette, “feeling as every true Mexican ought, the disgrace thus sustained by the Republic, is making every preparation to wipe out the stain in the blood of those perfidious foreigners.”
That was what hurt the most—”those perfidious foreigners.” It was bad enough being beaten, but to Santa Anna, being beaten by Americans was the greatest indignity of all. He recalled so well his first brush with them in 1813. Then he had come to Texas as a young lieutenant in the Royal Spanish Army to help throttle an
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