Bartee Haile
Before the messenger disappeared in the pre-dawn darkness of Mar. 3, 1836, the hollow-eyed colonel whispered, “Every morning at daybreak, I will fire a cannon as a sign that we still hold the fort, but when the cannon is heard no more, its silence will tell the Alamo has fallen.”
The man William Barret Travis entrusted with his final appeal was by Anglo-American standards a longtime resident of Texas. John William Smith was an accidental immigrant, who came in 1826 to collect a debt and found something much more valuable -- a new home.
Back in Missouri, Mrs. Smith shuddered at the thought of raising a family in the frontier environment that was the subject of such hair-raising stories. She not only refused to join her husband with their two small sons but notified him by return mail that she was filing for divorce.
Maria Jesus de Carbello, a direct descendent of the Canary Islanders that settled San Antonio in 1731, healed the newcomer’s broken heart. Not long after the divorce was final, the couple married.
As rebellious colonists encircled San Antonio in November 1835, Smith was arrested in a roundup of suspected sympathizers. Forced at gunpoint to drag heavy artillery pieces into position, he alertly noted the exact location of every cannon and memorized the government defenses down to the last detail.
Smith escaped from custody and shared his priceless knowledge with the insurgents. He drew an incredibly accurate map that served as a blueprint for victory in the Battle of San Antonio.
During a routine patrol on Feb. 23, 1836, Smith and fellow scout John Sutherland were the first to lay eyes on the punitive expedition under the personal command of Santa Anna. In their mad dash back to town to sound the alarm, Sutherland’s horse went down on a wet bridge and rolled over his legs.
Later that afternoon, Col. Travis dispatched Smith and his crippled companion to Gonzales to rally reinforcements. Due to the frequent stops Sutherland’s painful injury required, the 70-mile ride took 30 hours.
Thirty-two volunteers were ready to leave the instant Smith and Sutherland arrived but wanted to wait for Col. James Fannin, who was expected at any moment with his formidable 400-man force. When five days passed with no sign of the indecisive Fannin, the courageous contingent decided to go on without him and asked Smith to lead the way.
The cool-headed scout calmly guided the group through enemy lines and entered the Alamo at approximately three o’clock in the morning on the first day of March. The small band from Gonzales, the only reinforcements that would ever come, raised the number of defenders to just over 180.
Forty-eight hours later, Smith again slipped out of the mission and evaded the Mexican sentries. He carried Travis’ last desperate plea for aid to the independence convention at Washington-on-the-Brazos as well as farewell letters from the doomed freedom fighters to their families.
The first part of the journey was over the familiar road to the Gonzales, a route Smith knew by heart after two previous trips in little more than a week. Without a lame traveling companion to slow him down, he made excellent time.
The next leg was the 45-mile sprint to Moore’s Ferry, present-day site of La Grange, on the Colorado River. From there it was another 65 miles on a very tired horse to Washington-on-the-Brazos.
After three exhausting days in the saddle, Smith reached his historic destination soon after breakfast on Mar. 6. His delivery of Travis’ defiant dispatch coincided almost to the minute with the fall of the Alamo.
At the time, however, the mud-caked rider was mercifully unaware of that ironic twist of fate. Smith stood in the corner and studied the grim faces of the delegates as Buck Travis spoke to them from the grave.
“I shall have to fight the enemy on his own terms. I will do the best I can. The victory will cost the enemy so dear, that it will be worse for him than defeat. God and Texas. Victory or Death.”
Ten tumultuous months later, Smith took office as the first mayor of independent San Antonio. He served three terms before satisfied constituents elevated their favorite son to the senate of the Lone Star Republic in 1842.
In January 1852 at the age of 52, John W. Smith passed away in, of all places, Washington-on-the-Brazos. He died without leaving any permanent record of how he felt about being known as the Alamo Messenger or the thoughts that raced through his mind on that solitary ride into history.
Read all about the early “Murder Most Texan” is a must read for fans of true crime and Texas history. Order your autographed copy for $24.00 by mailing a check to Bartee Haile, P.O. Box 130011, Spring, TX 77393.
