Joe's Alamo Unsung

By Lewis E Cook

Remember the Alamo! is a slogan known worldwide for courage in battle against overwhelming odds. In that historic stand less than two hundred volunteers fought against five thousand soldiers for thirteen days. According to Joe, the only male survivor, all races and religions fought and died there. Lead by William Travis, Jim Bow

• Language: English
• Publisher: GF Publishing
• Release date: Apr 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781954168756

Book preview

Joe’s

Alamo

Unsung

LEWIS E. COOK

Joe’s Alamo Unsung

Copyright © 2021 by Lewis E. Cook

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN

978-1-954168-77-0 (Hardcover)

978-1-954168-76-3 (Paperback)

978-1-954168-75-6 (eBook)

To:

Lisa, CC (Troy), Charles (Boomer), T. Dionne, Kendra, and De Chaz, whose presence unwittingly provided the best writing atmosphere.

And to all of my teachers both inside and outside of the classroom.

Lewis

Table of Contents

Chapter 1   Hello.

Chapter 2   Slow Joe

Chapter 3   Do You Like Grapes?

Chapter 4   Rosemary Cato

Chapter 5    She Ain’t White?

Chapter 6    The Proposal

Chapter 7    The Double Wedding

Chapter 8    What’s a Jew?

Chapter 9    The Iroquois Gunstock Club

Chapter 10 It Is a Fair Fight

Chapter 11 What About Joe?

Chapter 12 Let’s Go To Texas

Chapter 13 Don’t Call Him Mister

Chapter 14 John

Chapter 15 No Bienvenido (Not Welcome)

Chapter 16 Senator Davy Crockett

Chapter 17 Mrs. Jane Long

Chapter 18 Arrest Buck Travis

Chapter 19 Turtle Bayou Resolution

Chapter 20 We’ll Be Here for You

Chapter 21 Sam Houston

Chapter 22 GTT

Chapter 23 The Reunion

Chapter 24 The Elmira Dixon

Chapter 25 The Federal Army of Texas

Chapter 26 General Cos

Chapter 27 Survival Reflexes

Chapter 28 Don’t go to Matamoros

Chapter 29 We Don’t Count

Chapter 30 Chicken Supper

Chapter 31 Slavery Not Ropes and Chains

Chapter 32 Susanna Dickinson

Chapter 33 H-o-r-s-e

Chapter 34 John Bonham

Chapter 35 The Line in the Sand

Chapter 36 The Final Attack

Chapter 37 The Yellow Rose of Texas

Chapter 38 Epilogue

Author’s Note

I was a science major—premed (biology and chemistry) at the University of Arkansas. After arriving in Texas and awaiting my bar results I got a job teaching biology, chemistry, eighth-grade science, and one seventh-grade Texas history class. Full disclosure that I knew no Texas history got no sympathy and no class exchanges. The science department head shrugged and said, Stay a chapter ahead of them.

That didn’t work. One of the seventh graders’ dad taught American History at the University of Houston and this dumpy little kid knew his stuff. His questions were sharp and he took pride in returning with challenging corrections and insights. I was forced to read the complete Texas, My Texas textbook, research some of his comments and went to the Alamo over Thanksgiving. Damn if I didn’t find it very interesting.

This account of the Alamo began with my reading a one line quote from Joe, William Travis’ slave and the only male survivor of the Alamo. Joe said, There were many different races and religions there. Joe was severely wounded and probably allowed to live only because he spoke Spanish. General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna wanted his massive human slaughters at the Alamo and Goliad to symbolize hopelessness and certain death to all who stood against his mighty army. Instead, all over the world ‘Remember the Alamo’ has come to symbolize bravery in battle and the resolve of a few to stand firmly against overwhelming odds.

Before the course ended my learned student had one last question for me. Who first said ‘Remember the Alamo!? Was it the Mexican General Santa Anna, Joe Travis, Susanna Dickinson, or General Sam Houston? I wondered, too, how those words became so meaningful without any recognition for the slogan’s originator.

Joe’s Alamo: Unsung is a fiction. ‘The pursuant of truth, not facts, is the business of fiction.’ This fictional account, filled with humor and sarcasm attempts to recognize the many different races and religions identified by Joe. So, with my student’s last inquiry firmly in mind, this novel is my well-reasoned and researched answer.

Lewis E. Cook

1

Hello.

She was pretty, very pretty, dressed well, hair always nice and easily dismissed the attention of the popular farm boys smiling at her. William knew he dare not approach her now.

The other boys were dressed appropriately for a Saturday morning in town in clean, heavily starched cotton pants, white shirts, western ribbon ties, and shiny cowboy boots. William had on a black, rubber apron tied around the back of his neck and waist and covered in mud down to his leather lace-up boots that were so muddy he wasn’t sure if they were red or black. He knew he had to present a better aura than unloading his Uncle Alex’s sweet potato wagon.

Her dark brown hair bounced playfully with each quick head nod as she stepped around the boys she pretended to ignore. William took that moment to make two changes in his lifestyle. He’d find a way to meet the pretty girl and stop hanging around his Uncle Alex so much. That was the problem. Mention Reverend Alexander Travis and everybody in Calhoun County, Alabama, were respectful. Mention his nephew, William B. Travis, and people shook their heads in doubt. The comparisons were inevitable; the differences were that obvious.

From the beginning when the two brothers—Mark Travis, William’s father, and Rev. Alex—came to northeastern Alabama from South Carolina, William was expected to follow in the footpath of his famous uncle. ‘Look at little William. All he needs is a little more study and Rev. Alex can move over.’ At first William was flattered. Later he resented it.

His father was decorated for valor in the War of 1812. Mark Travis ran the family farm through good and bad years. Rev. Alex was mostly away, yet he took credit for good crops and more than his share of their harvest. As he became aware of this, it didn’t take long for the resentment to surface in William’s character.

William, his teacher asked at the start of a school day, bring us the scripture today?

I don’t have a scripture today, ma’am, he said.

You said that yesterday and I let it go. Now you’re back today doing it again. Surely you don’t want me to tell Rev. Alex you refused to give the scripture two days in a row.

He ain’t my daddy, William said under his breath. Did you say something, boy? the teacher asked.

He said that ain’t his daddy! John Bonham eagerly tattled.

In a flash William punched the Bonham boy hard on his shoulder. John Bonham was bigger and a year older than William although they studied from the same grade reader. Bonham kicked at William’s right leg.

The teacher stepped between the two boys. You’re right. You’ll never be a preacher with that quick temper! the teacher said and read a scripture herself.

John Bonham and William Travis had a fist fight after school.

William fought with many boys that year for other reasons.

He’s a good student, the teacher told his mother, Pearl Travis. The problem is he seems to show up the other boys. They usually take a bit more time to learn their lessons than William. He could help me teach if he had more patience.

That may be the answer, Mrs. Travis thoughtfully said. We want to get him more schooling, but at age sixteen we don’t have many choices.

We can try him as my assistant. He’s old enough and Lord knows he’s smart enough if you can get Rev. Alex to have a word with the schoolmaster. But I don’t think he really wants to be a teacher. And we all know preaching is out, the teacher said.

Rev. Alex’s ‘study’ was only a corner room in their expanded cabin. He claimed it as such because it had two windows. Other than that the trappings were simple: a handmade wooden desk, two straight back chairs, Rev. Alex’s favorite rocking chair padded heavily with thick winter quilts parishioners had given him, and two coal oil lamps reflecting their dull glow on a large cross that hung on the wall.

As he took a serious look at his nephew, Rev. Alex saw the patchy side-whiskers and thin chin-hair now beginning to decorate his face. Certainly William could no longer be dismissed as a child. His face had a serious, no-nonsense appearance most of the time. Rev. Alex tried to remember the last time he or Mark took a strap to little William. All he remembered was William never tried to plead his way out of punishment. He was never long to cry, either.

Rev. Alex concluded William was near the age when he could move out to start his own family. He also knew William was doing the work of two men on the farm because William did the Reverend’s chores while he was away on church duties.

I think I let myself be fooled by the fact that you trim your face hair, Rev. Alex said. But all I had to do was look in the mirror. All of us Travises do that.

William wiped his hand across his face allowing the stubby hairs to scrub his finger tips and smiled at the recognition that it was clearly visible.

Now H. L. Watkins, the principal and schoolmaster at C.P. Coleman School, that’s over in the Watson Chapel School District in Cleburne County, thinks you can help out over there with the younger students, Rev. Travis continued. It only pays six bits a week, but by the end of the month you’ll have folding money. What I like about the job is it won’t interfere with your farm work. You can get a bit more schooling like your ma and pa wants for ya. Plus, it will give you more time to figure out what kind of work you’re interested in doing.

When William didn’t reply, Rev. Alex raised the stakes. I believe I can get Mr. Watkins to throw in a slave laborer to help you out in both places. You can’t let your farm work go lacking, you know. But with three dollars a month and your own slave laborer it’s a way of giving you an income. You can take a girl on a buggy ride without your work going lacking.

William knew his uncle had other conditions. What else will I have to do? he asked.

Well the first thing you have to do is tell us if you’re going to be around long enough for him to rely on you for the full school term and give him notice long before you leave.

I can do that, William agreed since he had no plans to leave the area anyway. Plus, the idea of taking a girl for a buggy ride had frequently crossed his mind. Cleburne was a much larger contiguous county with Calhoun. The prospects of taking up company with a girl there were much better, especially if he showed he was a man with his own slave laborer.

Rev. Alex then began with his own requirements. I know Mark told you about the Indian problem we have out here from time to time. All of the men in that county take militia training twice a year. Since you’re a sure shot, I’ll tell them to make room for you. I also want you to think about joining the Order of the Masonic Lodge. The masons are very popular out here and a damn sight more reliable than some of these so-called Christians.

Stunned to hear his uncle’s critical remark about the church, William looked cross. Rev. Alex withdrew the comment. Forget what I said and you just watch. We’ll talk again.

William Travis started assistant teaching at C.P. Coleman School in Cleburne the next week. He was assigned to teach beginning reading and arithmetic. William quickly picked up Mrs. J. N. Stanfield’s routine. Thereafter she did not interfere. Nothing to this really, William thought. After writing spelling words and simple addition problems on the blackboard for the day’s drill, he walked about to make sure his students understood the examples. For the advanced students he answered questions they were too embarrassed to ask aloud.

There was also one great fringe benefit. The girls in the classroom smiled easier and paid better attention when he discussed the lesson, especially one girl.

Her name was Rosanna Cato. She was a good student, good reader, and dressed better than the other girls. There was always something special about her hair. Whether it was combed into pony tails, pinned to the side, or decorated with flowers, it always had special attention.

That day it was combed from the front to each side of her head, curled around each ear, and tied with string ribbons that matched her dress. She had high cheekbones that narrowed at the chin, smooth, light skin that hardly ever had a pimple, and never the reddish-tan color other girls got from working beside field hands. Her eyes radiated pleasantly and said, ‘good morning,’ long before her lips moved.

William avoided eye contact with her fearing his passion would be exposed. But she seemed to delight in catching his stare. During quiet moments in the classroom he would look over at her. Seemingly knowing he was looking, she would raise her head slowly and glance at him. William always turned away quickly. But she continued to look at him with a smile saying, ‘I almost caught you that time.’

She rarely had a question about the lesson. When she did, she directed it to Mrs. Stanfield. That was fine with William because he didn’t want the added tension of trying to talk to her about school work.

On one occasion while Mrs. Stanfield was helping another student, William glanced over and for a second their eyes did meet. For that second—it seemed like a month—she didn’t smile. Her eyes made a completely different statement. William knew he was captured. She was in complete control. Even though he wanted to break the glance, he couldn’t. Her eyes would not allow his to move. His heart was pounding in his ears and he felt tiny beads of perspiration collect on the top of his brow. Then, with a blink her eyes released him with an expression that said, ‘Now wasn’t that nice.’

From that day, William knew that Rosanna Cato—the prettiest girl in Cleburne County, Alabama—looked kindly upon him. She knew he dreamed about her even though they had never said a word to each other.

A few days later, William was beginning to deny that their eyes had met. He wanted to believe he could help teach any student in the classroom and not treat her any differently. He moved about the one- room school indifferent to her.

This time she raised her hand and beckoned him while Mrs. Stanfield was busy with another. William walked toward her desk with a strut that said, ‘You are only another student.’

He bent down toward her desk and looked at the scribbling on her paper. There was no question to be answered. No problem to help resolve. There was only one word on her paper, ‘Hello,’ written in such a flowing hand that it seemed to have been blown from the sky by angels and placed among flower petals.

Passion poured from his eyes. The urge to touch her, to press his head toward her smiling lips and hug her was overpowering. Knowing nothing else to do, he placed a check mark next to the word, gave her a quick, nervous smile, and stumbled away from her desk.

2

Slow Joe

Rev. Alex never allowed anyone to question his judgment. But his brother, Mark, did so easily with a quick nod or shake of his head as they looked over the nine dark-brown bodies sitting on the floor of the slave’s pen. It was only an extension of the horse corral reinforced with larger timber on three sides and a slanted roof. The spacing between the timbers was only wide enough to see into the pen from sunlight that passed between similar spacing in the roof.

There was no need for any further improvements since slaves were only brought in for a few days once or twice a month during the planting and harvesting seasons. Any buyer inconvenienced by the elements could always arrange to have his picks brought inside a barn for closer inspection. Few ever did unless it was raining. No one wanted to be around slaves or especially slave traders very long.

Mark usually bought his slave labor from other cotton farmers. That way he had a better idea of their hand. Only under dire conditions when he couldn’t borrow slave workers, like when his crop needed picking to avoid dry rot, did he use slave traders. This was different.

He had visited several plantations thinking he’d find a good man- servant for his son. The ideal slave for William would be a mature man with lots of farm experience, and some experience working in big houses among the plantation owners and their families who wouldn’t embarrass William among his guest. He needed a slave that knew enough about farm equipment to sharpen tools and make minor repairs, how to pass messages politely, be respectful among women and students, and yet a good enough worker to allow William time at the school. Mark had not found such a hand, certainly not at the price the schoolmaster was willing to pay.

Word finally reached him that a slave trader had the sort of hand he was looking for. Mark asked his brother to bring H. L. Watkins, the schoolmaster, to the slave pen. He and William would meet them there.

Buying slave labor was harder than buying a good horse. It was notorious for its treachery. Most slave traders were vicious liars. Knowing that plantation farmers didn’t have the time or the money to invest in training newly captured slaves or hunting down runaways, they tried to conceal bad facts about their slaves by mixing a tonic in their food. That way problem slaves looked docile and sleepy.

The trader could swear, Ole Ben was put up because his master had a bad year and could no longer afford him. But Ole Ben is a great hand, good with children, and sings himself to sleep at night. The truth may be that Ole Ben was sold so that his master could sleep at night without worrying if Ole Ben might cut his throat. Once the sale was made, the term ‘buyer beware’ took on a whole different meaning.

Alternatively, Mark would accept a good slave hand for his son that would not be difficult to train and whose body had not been mutilated by beatings and abuse. Good slaves were rarely sold. The ones that were probably had something wrong with them. They were either too old, too sick, or simply too simple. Mental illness was a big problem.

Mark had developed a process of careful examination. Before approaching a slave, Mark looked for signs of its disposition by observing brands and bruises on the slave’s body. He looked for any missing toes and fingers and whether the slave was bound with a chain—a sure sign of a runaway, a rope—too violent, or not bound at all, which usually meant too sick. He then looked at whether the slave ate all of its food—a sign that the slave was treated worse by its last owner than by the slave traders. If a slave ate little of its food that indicated the slave was not accustomed to abuse.

If all of those factors checked out, Mark examined the slave’s eyes for signs of mental illness. He checked their teeth to be sure the slave was likely to survive on the usual diet of beans, salt fat, rice, and sourdough biscuits. Finally, he’d ask the slave a few questions to see if it could talk as further evidence of the slave’s mental disposition.

There were only two slaves in this pen of nine that Mark decided to inspect. Bring that one over here, he told the slave trader.

That’s a good choice, the slave trader said. "Ole