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Post by neferetus on Dec 9, 2006 13:30:07 GMT -5
As a Christmas gift to the alamosports forum, I hereby present my original journal of the Sesquicentennial events of March, 1986 as I witnessed them. Included are the thumbnail sketches I drew inside the hand-written journal. Don't expect to be seeing this journal on any other site. This is an alamosports exclusive.
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Post by neferetus on Dec 9, 2006 13:43:45 GMT -5
SESQUICENTENNIAL MEMORIES Being A Journal of the Events between March 2, 1986, thru March 9, 1986 SUNDAY, MARCH 2ND: I arrived at Ontario airport early, after having had breakfast with my friend John O’Brien, who’d driven me there. Departed Ontario Airport at around 8:15 AM aboard Delta Airlines, bound for Dallas/Fort Worth. While I checked my rifle and bag as luggage, I toted both my hat and boots as carry-on luggage. Arrived at Dallas/Fort Worth and had a 40 minute layover there, before continuing on the final leg of my journey to Bexar. Arrived at the San Antonio airport at around 3:00 PM, then took the VIA limo-bus to the Alamo Travelodge on 4th and Broadway, checking in by 3:30 PM. Upon observing no familiar faces at the Travelodge, I walked to Alamo Plaza in search of same. Swarms of people milled about the Plaza, buying Raspas (snow-cones), as well as Sesquicentennial collectibles, while yet others stood in single file for the privilege of entering the Alamo chapel. I wandered all about the grounds, looking in vain for people that I knew. I snapped off an entire roll of film anyway, before returning to the Travelodge for a shower and a bit of rest. Got a call from the hotel office from Craig Covner and Nina Rosenstand and went downstairs to meet them. They were booked just two doors down from me on the second floor! The three of us decided to take a walk along the San Antonio River and then find some place nice for dinner. Time and again, we were thwarted in our efforts to proceed down the Riverwalk, as a good section of it had broken away and was fenced off for repairs. After backtracking a bit and going up and down stairs from the street level, we finally arrived at the Big Bend Restaurant and dined on fajitas and breakfast tacos on one of the rather wobbly tables on the patio. After dinner, we proceeded up Commerce Street for a stroll around Military Plaza at sunset. Then it was back to the Travelodge for a good night’s sleep. MONDAY, MARCH 3RD: Craig phoned my room to rouse me to full wakefulness and breakfast. After dressing, I went out into the hotel court, only to be hailed from the 2nd floor by Kaj Andersen, of Denmark. Went upstairs to greet him and his wife Ruth, then accompanied by Craig and Nina, proceeded once more towards the Big Bend Restaurant on the Riverwalk. After breakfast, Kaj and Ruth returned to the Travelodge to take care of some business and so I went with Craig and Nina to the Alamo. Wandered around there a bit, taking in Tom Feeley’s new diorama that was on display in the Alamo Museum/Giftshop. While Craig and Nina returned to the Travelodge, I hoofed on alone to a deserted and drained Hemisfair Plaza. Browsed through, then bought a few items in Boch’s Bookstore, then continued on to the shops in La Villita. Wandered around La Villita a bit and bought a ham and Swiss roll in a German Bakery. Ate the sandwich while walking back to the Travelodge, coaxed on my way by the early evening driving wind. There was to be a Living History meeting at Mike Water’s house that evening to discuss the script for the “Travis Draws The Line” program, but I had to bow out due to a severe attack of sinusitis brought on, no doubt, by the chilly evening walk from La Villita. TUESDAY, MARCH 4TH (WITTE MUSEUM DAY) Arose fairly early and met out on the 2nd floor balcony with Ruth, Kaj, Craig, Nina, Dan Gagliasso and Jack Edmondson. (Phil Martin would not be arriving until later that evening.) Jerry Laing soon arrived from his B & B in the King William District. The rest of us had all booked in at the Alamo Travelodge and were occupying the 2nd floor, for the most part. As Mike Waters planned on visiting both the “San Antonio Light” and the” San Antonio Express” newspaper offices that morning to drum up some publicity for the March 6th Sesquicentennial reenactments on Alamo Plaza, some of us (Jerry Laing, Dave Lyons, Mike Waters, Kaj Anderson, UK native Dennis McCamley, his son Daniel, their friend Clive and myself) volunteered to go along in full period costume for a possible photo opportunity. So, after walking to both of the newspaper offices for the interviews, we departed without any photographs being taken and then returned to the Travelodge. While the rest of the gang proceeded to breakfast at the Big Bend Restaurant on the Riverwalk, Kaj, Ruth and I concluded to visit the Witte Museum instead. So, after an unmemorable breakfast at Aunt Mona’s---the hotel’s restaurant--- we proceeded by bus up Broadway to the Witte. The “Remember The Alamo!” display there certainly was something worth remembering and included photos, paintings, artifacts, books and Alamo-related collectibles from over the years. The George Nelson model of San Antonio de Bejar, circa 1836, was simply gorgeous. The concluding item of the exhibit was Eric Von Schmidt’s massive canvass of the battle of the Alamo. After browsing in the Witte Giftshop a while (I picked up a poster of Eric Von Schmidt’s painting which he later autographed), we bussed back to the Travelodge where we’d agreed to meet up with the rest of the group by 5:30 PM. From there, we proceeded in a caravan of cars to Dave and Diana Lyon’s place for another “Travis Draws The Line” script rehearsal. Diana had laid out a nice buffet and I fairly gorged myself, while listening to Jack Edmondson give a whimsical spin to the script. One of the many memorable moments at the meeting included a video of the 1939 film, MAN OF CONQUEST. While people mingled and chatted, with the film as but a background distraction, the moment in the Alamo battle where the hump gets blown off the chapel, folks suddenly stopped and cheered. All in all, it was a fun evening. WEDNESDAY, MARCH 5TH: Breakfasted with Kaj & Ruth at the Big Bend, then strolled the Riverwalk for a bit, before paying our respects at the Alamo and revamped Long Barrack Museum. I was glad to note that the theme of the museum dealt more with the history of the Alamo than it had in prior years. There was even a fairly decent, if not altogether accurate model of the Alamo compound gracing the place. After the Alamo visit, we mailed off some postcards at the Post Office, then returned to the Travelodge for the unenviable task of tackling the accumulating laundry. We located a Laundromat about four miles west of us, so Kaj & Ruth concluded to walk to St. Mary’s and then catch a bus from there to the Laundromat. As I had wanted to attend a bagpipe concert on Alamo Plaza at 12:15 PM, Kaj & Ruth graciously offered to take my laundry with them. They even loaned me the use of one of their tape recorders to capture the event. They are special folk. So we separated, each to our own task---they to the Laundromat and me to Alamo Plaza. After a frantic dash to Woolworth’s for a tape, I made my way through the gathering crowds near the plot of ground on the Plaza just north of the new bandstand and south of the Low Barrack flowerbed. Though the pipers had already assembled, the concert did not actually get under way until 12:30 PM. For that, I was fortunate in being able to record the performance intact. (Save for about ten seconds of the opening tune.) The massed band played for about 18 minutes, while marching in a circle all the while; it was a good spectacle, all in all. They even did a rendition of “Yellow Rose Of Texas”. While bagpipe concerts to me are generally stirring unto themselves, hearing one performed beneath a bright and glorious sky on Alamo Plaza by pipers who had flown there from Scotland, was like the icing on the cake. This was the “Scotland To The Alamo” bagpipe band, comprised in part of the Royal Scots Fusiliers. It was a voluntary effort to help commemorate the Scots and those of Scottish descent who’d perished in the Alamo. After the concert, I returned to the Travelodge to await the return of Kaj & Ruth. They arrived at around 3:00 PM with my laundry clean and neatly folded. We lingered in their hotel room, listening to the bagpipe tape and then Kaj and I concluded to don our period clothing and strap on our gear for a dress rehearsal on Alamo Plaza at 7:00 PM. It was an unusual feeling, walking to the Alamo in the early twilight. Kaj and I costumed, equipped and toting arms; Ruth with several cameras and two tape recorders. There was a considerable crowd ready to play witness to the rehearsal and the media was also there in force. We--- the living historians, that is--- ran through the proceedings and Jack Edmondson’s Travis speech several times, I, mingling with the California contingent of mountain men. As the mountain men allowed that they should represent Davy Crockett’s Tennessee Boys, the moment in the proceedings where Jack/Travis Edmondson yelled, “ The enemy are upon us to your posts, men”, they and I all dashed to the area in front of the chapel where the palisade would’ve been in 1836 and then crouched at the ready with flintlocks cocked. Well, at the very moment we were crouching at the ready and taking aim down south Alamo Plaza, a tourist in a late model station wagon, unaware of the proceedings going on, and/or merely ignoring the police barricades, proceeded north, towards us. However, upon observing the thin skirmish line directing their aim at him, the tourist swiftly realized the better part of valor and beat a hasty u-turn to the rear and safety. The first assault upon the Alamo had been repulsed.
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Post by neferetus on Dec 9, 2006 13:50:21 GMT -5
It’s a difficult thing, indeed to try and transfer feelings to paper concerning the events that occurred on Alamo Plaza this past week. Oh you could give reports and impressions of what transpired and, if you have a photographic memory, you might even be able to explain who stood where, or who said what, or recall how the sunlight had glowed an eerie orange across the Alamo’s facade at twilight, when the towering presence of the Hyatt threw everything in its shadow. But you could not altogether explain the people on Alamo Plaza and just why they were there. For it was the people that made the event what it was. Such a wild range of costumes, customs, cultures and feelings they displayed, yet all of them sharing a very real common need to be there. After dining on the Riverwalk at Stockman’s, some of us were content to call it quits. For it was 10:30 in the evening on March 5th and the defenders of the Alamo would be needing their last, precious moments of sleep before gathering once more on Alamo Plaza in the wee hours of the morn. (4:30 AM, to be precise.) THURSDAY, MARCH 6TH, (THE ALAMO SESQUICENTENNIAL, PREDAWN): I had a restless night, that night of the 5th. I must’ve awakened five, or six times to check the time. After 3:30 AM, I concluded to just stay up, so I took my time showering and getting dressed and equipped. Rang Nina & Craig’s room, then Kai and Ruth’s. Luckily, they too were already up. Stepped out onto the balcony where other early risers of the Travelodge contingent were already raising a murmur. Jerry Laing soon arrived, via rent-a-car. Then Phil Martin, Canadian Bob Mahoney and several others all eventually turned out in the darkened hotel courtyard. While Craig and Nina said that they would meet up with us later on Alamo Plaza, the rest of the little troop shouldered their arms, cameras and tape recorders and then headed east on 4th St. towards the Alamo and destiny. We reached the plaza and were greeted by a maelstrom of confusion. Despite the early hour, both the crowds and the media were truly out in force this time and, as anyone’s photograph will attest , the onlookers had the Alamo defenders outnumbered beyond their means. (Beyond, visibility, at times!) We arrived at Alamo Plaza and stepped into a maelstrom of confusion, as both the crowds and the media thronged every grass plot and section of flagstone, despite the early hour. And, as anyone’s photographs of the event will attest, the Alamo defenders soon found themselves truly outnumbered, lost in a wave of faces. A presentation was already in progress when we’d arrived, but as our group’s reenactment of “Travis Draws The Line” would not commence until 6:00 O’Clock, we had some time to kill. While some of the participants from the Alamo Encampment had prudently brought coffee in their canteens, the rest of us had to fare without, as there was no commissary wagon (catering truck) commissioned for the event. So a few of us opted to tromp off to the coffee shop in the Menger Hotel for a hot cup of anything. (Jerry Laing, Howard Major, Jack Edmondson, Ruth and Kaj Andersen and myself.) Arriving there, we found that others from the reenactment group had preceded us there, as the stack of guns and equipment stacked on and around the bar so readily attested. As service was rather slow, we were forced to order our coffees to go. As we were leaving somebody (who was that guy?) upset my arm, causing hot coffee to besmatter both my wrist and shirt. This was the first casualty of the day, but there would be more to follow. Downing the remaining coffee, I hustled into formation on the pavement fronting the Alamo chapel. While hurriedly trying to adjust all of my accoutrements about my person in anticipation of the pending event, I noticed that the brush and prick pin for my powder pan had broken loose from their chain. So, gripping the barrel of my half-stock flintlock rifle between my knees, I set to reattaching the brush and pin, with the rifle barrel weighing unsteadily and awkwardly in the grip. This proved to be bad judgment; Down clattered the rifle upon the coarse flagstone with a resounding echo . This drew a lot of stares. “Good move,” somebody said. Well, whatever damaged had been done was done, I reasoned, so I continued reattaching the brush and prick pin to the chain, seemingly oblivious to what had just transpired. Finally, one of the frontiersmen standing next to me picked up the gun and returned it to my grip with my thanks, just as the Henry Guerra program “!3 Days Of The Alamo” commenced. Entering the scene as though we had just arrived in the Alamo in the afternoon of February 23rd, the reenactors all drifted off to their posts around the perimeter of the imaginary compound. This time, I chose the north wall to defend. Finally, Jack Edmondson’s Travis speech began. Although he would later note how the presence of a microphone stand hindered the atmosphere of his performance, it did little to hinder the spirit and fervor of his delivery. Wonderful job, Jack. A lot of the spectators, I noticed, were teary-eyed after the speech and I myself had a lump in my throat. Travis drew his sword, then drew a line in front of the file of Alamo defenders that screeched across the flagstone like fingernails across a blackboard. “Whoever will stay with me and die with me,” he challenged, “cross this line!” Kaj (Charles Zanco) Andersen was one of the first to cross over. “I have come all the way from Denmark,” he explained, “I can go this much further!” “Come on, you blokes, come on!“ added Dennis McCamley, of Liverpool, England. Soon, all of the defenders were across. All except Mike (Jim Bowie) Waters, that is. As he tried to rise from his pallet on the flagstone and failed, Bowie squawked in a hoarse voice, “ Boys, I can’t come over to you of my own will, but if some of you would be so kind as to help me across, I’d be much obliged!” (Assisting Bowie as his nurse/sister-in-law, Juana, was none other than Ellen Bowie, of Maryland.) Bowie was soon carried across, to the sound of three cheers.
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Post by neferetus on Dec 9, 2006 13:51:32 GMT -5
Moments later, the sound of the Deguello was heard in the distance (behind the Alamo Cenotaph), as Santa Anna’s massed bands summoned forward the columns of assault troops. This was a signal for the reenactors to scatter off in different directions and to our posts . Then, when only a few feet from the throng of encircling spectators, we froze dead in our tracks and in time.
Looking on, the spectators seemed truly moved, realizing, I imagine, that these reenactors were representing actual men about to meet their certain deaths. Looking on, in my state of suspended animation, I too found myself truly moved by the reaction that the crowds gave the performance.
Then, while all the reenactors continued frozen in time, Henry Guerra’s narration continued. As the Deguello resumed, preset powder charges around the plaza exploded in the still-darkness of the early morning. Up above, in the towering Hyatt Hotel, numerous lights began flashing on; windows opened, as the shaken hotel guests were roused from their slumber to witness the Alamo’s final moments.
Finally, came the black-powder salute, as participants from the Alamo encampment loaded and primed their rifles from rations of paper cartridges . At the signal of ‘Ready, aim fire!’, about fifty long rifles, inclined skyward, banged off their loads in an uneven volley of billowing smoke, patching debris and repercussion. Wake up and smell the coffee, oh Hyatt Regency!
To drive the point home to those hotel patrons who were heavy sleepers, a second volley was prepared and discharged. “Present arms,” said the drill officer. “Remember The Alamo!” Then cheers rang out, all across the width and breadth of Alamo Plaza; the ceremony was over. Someone next to me remarked how it was 6:40 AM and yet dark, meaning that, had circumstances been the same 150 years ago, then the entire battle of the Alamo may well have been fought in total darkness.
After mingling a bit on the Plaza and taking in the final strains of a bagpiper‘s rendition of “Last Tattoo”, I headed down the Paseo del Rio, then passed through the Hyatt to both drop off and pick up some film at a shop on the Riverwalk. Also present were Kaj & Ruth Andersen, Howard Major and Dave Lyons, so Ruth decided to photograph us Texians firing over the rebuilt SW corner wall of the original Alamo compound.
Continued strolling along the Riverwalk to Rosengren’s Bookshop in the hopes of locating a copy of the March issue of The Smithsonian Magazine, which featured an article on Eric Von Schmidt’s massive Alamo painting. Although we tried several other shops, there was not a copy to be found anywhere. No matter; it was still kind of fun, parading about San Antonio in period costume and armed to the teeth.
Giving up on the magazine search for the time being, we next headed east up Commerce Street and ended up at Arturo’s Mexican Restaurant. All the participants in the ceremonies on Alamo Plaza had received meal vouchers courtesy of the restaurant and there was already a number of costumed consumers hard intent at their meals. After turning in our vouchers and getting our meals, we tried to find some place to sit down, being careful all the while not to upset the stacked sabers, long rifles and other accoutrements that were scattered all around. We were joined at our table near the wall by none other than Jack (Travis) Edmondson.
After finishing up our meals (thanks, Arturos!) we headed back to Alamo Plaza for a repeat performance of “Travis Draws The Line”. A major added attraction to this particular performance was the inclusion of the Crockett and MacGregor fiddle and bagpipe duel. Just before Travis’ speech, a piper from the “Scotland To The Alamo” bagpipe band was joined by Country giant Charlie Daniels, on the fiddle. As the pair played, some of the Texians hooked arms and high-stepped in circles to the fast-paced tune. For his efforts, Charlie Daniels was presented with a pair of Sesquicentennial cowboy boots by a member of the DRT. “I’d sure like to thank you for these here boots,“ Daniel began. “I’m gonna take ‘em home... (a beat) “‘and wear‘em.” When that performance of Travis’ Line was done, I headed back to the photolab near the Hyatt Regency for yet more film. From there, it was off to the Emily Mogan Hotel, where Bill Chemerka was conducting an Alamo Society Symposium on “Firepower At The Alamo”. Mike Waters even explained how, based on Jake Ivey’s excavations, the palisade defenses were constructed, by use of a chalkboard. After that, it was just a good old down-home talkfest, until folks started to get a mite hungry and began heading off in search of some grub.
Returning to Alamo Plaza, I noticed that some of the reenactors from The Alamo Encampment were forming up along Crockett Street, near the south wall of the DRT Library and Alamo grounds for a parade of the state and national flags of some of the Alamo defenders. Accompanied by fellow Dane, Nina Rosenstand, Kaj Andersen, proudly held aloft the Danish flag, shouting “We are red, we are white, we are Danish Dynamite!”; Dennis McCamley carried the Union Jack. As soon as the parade started though, all frivolity was quickly dismissed. As the color bearers turned north onto Alamo Plaza, an announcer sounded off the name of each state and country, as well as the names of the Alamo defenders that hailed from each, respectively. Soon, the color bearers formed a wreath of flags around the Alamo Cenotaph Monument.
Ruth Andersen, meanwhile had taken on the responsibility of recording, photographing and taping the events on Alamo Plaza for many participants who’d had no one on hand to record it for them. At one point, she was in charge of 1 super-8 movie camera, 37 photo cameras, 5 video recorders and 17 cassette tape recorders, many of which she had in motion at the same time! Amazing.
After the flag ceremony concluded, all reenactors present formed up on Alamo Plaza once more, for Mayor Henry Cisneros was on hand to present each and every one of them with a commemorative medal. After that ceremony wrapped, some of us decided to head on down to the Riverwalk and rendezvous at the Big Bend Restaurant. I myself returned to the Travelodge to change into some street clothes, before dinner. Arriving at the Big Bend, I joined Craig Covner, Nina Rosenstand, Kaj & Ruth Andersen, Jack Edmondson, Phil Martin, Jerry Laing and Dan Gagliasso for coffee and drinks. Then it was off to Stockman‘s for dinner. We had beer and brisket there, before heading back to an all but deserted Alamo Plaza. Judging by the glut of empty snow cone papers, expended Polaroid film and empty film cases scattered all about, the place truly looked as though it had been through a battle of sorts. There were even some expended paper cartridges and burned patching debris swirling around the area where the reenactors had fired the second round of salutes for the Alamo dead.
There were lights in the old church itself, as the Daughters of the Republic of Texas were holding their own private evening services. As for ourselves, the defenders, we paid our own respects, each in his, or her own personal way---outside. (Oh well, we did not like to be hemmed in, anyway.)
Then, with last looks, thoughts and memories shared, we all began to slowly drift away, even as a local clock sounded that it was the beginning of a new day. It was still a long way to Brackettville...
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Post by neferetus on Dec 9, 2006 14:00:08 GMT -5
FRIDAY, March 7, 1986 Morning After packing up all of my luggage and accoutrements, I spent the better part of the morning awaiting the arrival of Jerry Laing, who had hired a van to take a number of us to Brackettville. Craig and Nina, meanwhile, had left for Brackettville with Jack Edmondson, in his rent-a-car. While waiting for Jerry, I had coffee with Kaj Anderson in the Travelodge coffee shop, then checked the local newspaper stands for issues with articles and photos of the previous day’s events. By early afternoon, Jerry had stilled not arrived with the van, so I telephoned Mike Water’s house to see if he was there, picking up Katie Waters. But no one answered the phone. To kill time, I decided to walk down 4th street to the Piggly Wiggly Market in order to get some cold-cuts to make us all some sandwiches to eat along the way to Brackettville. (I had been to the market on several previous visits.) So, leaving Kaj and Ruth at the Travelodge to await Jerry, I walked to where the Piggly Wiggly had once stood, only to find a parking lot! Not giving up, I doubled back by way of Navarro Street in search of any place that sold food... and came up empty-handed. Finally, I returned to the Travelodge, by way of Travis Park. Jerry Laing finally arrived at the Travelodge at about three O’clock. Seems that the rental office had screwed up his order for the van, thinking that he’d wanted it for the following day. So Jerry had to search all over town for a last minute replacement. When Kaj and Ruth checked out of the Travelodge, they left behind some of their luggage in storage there, as they’d planned on returning there the following week, after a visit with BJ Burns at the Shahan Ranch. As I’d gotten a discount on my room ($25.00 per night) for booking more than a week’s stay, I just left the stuff I didn’t need in my hotel room, then helped Jerry and the others pack up the van with all the necessaries of a short campaign. Before departing San Antonio, Jerry drove over to the Menger Hotel to page Ellen Bowie to see if she needed a ride, but Ellen had already checked out. From there, we headed on over to Mike Water’s house to pick up Katie Waters and arrived just as Katie herself was pulling up in her over-laden car. We helped Katie unload and then transfer into the van all of the foodstuffs and drink, plus the chili cauldron she would later set up behind the Long Barracks inside the Alamo compound to help feed the hungry Texian and Mexican reenactors between reenactments. Then It was off to Brackettville at last. Jerry, Ruth, Kaj and myself. Somewhere beyond Hondo, we stopped at a Denny’s Restaurant for a mid-afternoon breakfast, as nobody’d eaten since the previous night at the Stockman’s on the Riverwalk. Continued on across the rolling countryside, witnessing the vaguest signs of fresh green on the bare limbs of the bushes and early spring in the air. By early evening, we’d reached the main thoroughfare of Brackettville and made our way down the seven-mile stretch of highway to the Shahan Ranch and the Alamo Village. Along the way, Jerry played selections from his three-tape musical compilation tribute to the Alamo on one of Kaj Andersen’s tape recorders. Katie Waters , however, neither witnessed nor heard any of these things. Worn out as she was from pushing herself all week long in preparation for the Sesquicentennial events, Katie slept from Denny’s, all the way to the gate of Alamo Village itself, stretched out on the back seat of the van. Arriving at the gate, Katie awoke just in time to playfully wave a fistful of reenactor passes at the guard. (It had been one of her duties to distribute the passes. ) Receiving hers, Ruth Andersen noted how she had been relegated on the guest list to simply: “Wife-Andersen”. After the guard had cheerfully waved us on our way, Jerry drove on up the bumpy road to BJ Burn’s house, which stood not far from the Shahan Ranch house itself. While we were greeted there by BJ’s two yapping dogs, BJ herself was not at home. Realizing that Kaj and Ruth would not be able to drop off their luggage there just yet, we all decided to continue on down the road toward the Village. So, after taking in the view of the Shahan Ranch from the hilltop, we got back into the van. Oh unhappy Jerry! Seems that he inserted the keys into the ignition upside down and they’d stuck fast. Without the proper tools to dislodge them, we were in for a little hike. “You’ve come all the way from Denmark , Kaj,” Jerry chided, “You can go this much further.” We began our walk. Half-way down the road and hill, we observed an approaching vehicle, trailing dust. It was Eric Von Schmidt. “Hop on aboard,” he said. “I’ll take you to town.” Since the car was a compact, I literally had to hop on board. With the rest of the passengers crammed inside, I volunteered to ride shotgun on the roof ’s luggage rack. Yee Haa! we were Village bound. Approaching the north wall of the Alamo compound (Alamo set “north”), we arrived to a swarm of activity. Tents RV’s and pick-up trucks, we saw, dotted the circumference of the mission and mountain men and other reenactors were moving in and out of them. With our curiosity aroused, we decided to enter the Alamo itself, so Eric pulled around to the main gate and parked. With the gate ajar, we walked into the heart of the plaza. It had been ten years since I’d last set foot inside the compound, so I’d prepared myself for some bitter disappointment. It did not arrive. To both my surprise and delight, the place was fixed up very fort-like. Mike Waters had gone through a lot of trouble in his attempt to make the Alamo look like the Alamo, once again. He’d built a false palisade and elaborate gun platform and ramp to conceal Happy’s $7,500 “Bandolero” wall and upon this and all about the yard, gun crews, frontiersmen, plainclothes participants and bystanders milled, awaiting instructions. Though late afternoon had already faded into early evening twilight, Mike still wanted to hold a very rough sort of rehearsal, just to let people know what to expect and what safety precautions would be employed. “Fire your weapons upward,” he pantomimed, “Not straight. And, under no circumstances, draw your ramrod. Too many times have I heard the story of overzealous reenactors firing off their weapon in haste with the ramrod still protruding from the barrel.” The main gate, Kaj Andersen noted, collapsed back in 1982, but Happy Shahan had repaired it by squaring off the interior arch and reducing the side arches within the port itself to mere doorways. Only the exterior arch and wooden gate itself remained original. Up above the gate meanwhile, Mike Waters continued to address the ‘garrison’, giving a word of caution to some of the mountain men concerning the use of roughness in combat. (Seems that one of the Mexican reenactors had threatened to quit.) Mike then addresses certain individuals in the crowd on the importance of authenticity in the presentation. “Take off those stupid sunglasses,” he advised one, “ get that bone out of your nose,” he told yet another. The Sun, meanwhile was waning fast into the west by this time, so armed with my trusty 35 mm camera and 1000 speed film, I made a frantic dash all around the compound, snapping off as many pictures as I could manage in attempt to record the event for posterity. I even went so far as to surmount the BANDOLERO wall for some interesting angle shots, while Mike shouted at me to pay attention. As it ended up, Mike assigned Jerry Laing, Craig Covner and myself as the keepers of the main gate. Anytime a rider would come, or go, it would be our job to see that the gates were opened, likkity-split. Finally, with the haranguing of the ‘garrison’ completed, Mike invited everyone to rendezvous over at the Cantina in the Village where free food, drink and entertainment would be provided, courtesy of Happy Shahan hisself. So, the whole kit and keboodle of us, or purt near as can-be, headed up the dusty road towards the Village in little clumps to fandango in the Cantina. And quite a crowd there was there, too. We were served buffet-style out on the porch and then carried the food inside to set with. To whit: BBQ beef on a roll, with Fritos, potato chips, coffee tea and soft drinks. Once served and inside, I set to table with the McCamleys and the Andersons, just as a stage show was ensuing. Seems that Jeff Bearden and Bill Chemerka were recreating the feather blowing scene from THE ALAMO and it was good fun watching Bearden, as Crockett, blow the feather off of “Bull“ Chemerka‘s nose by mistake. It was even funnier when Chemerka felt obliged to continue as though nothing was wrong. “Well Davy”, he blurted “I beat you fair and square!” Then Eric Von Schmidt took to the stage. After an introduction by Happy Shahan, followed by a word of thanks to Mike Waters, Von Schmidt sailed into a rousing rendition of his new song, THE ALAMO. By the song’s end, he had everyone joining in on the chorus. “Take off your buckskin jackets and give your bones a rest. And we’ll all remember the Alamo and the boys who stood the test.” Then the Alamo Village Cantina house band took the stage for a version of BALLAD OF THE ALAMO. Afterwards, Mike Waters took the mike to run through some of the details of the next day’s battles. “Now I want you to all be extra careful tomorrow, as we’ll be using live rounds.” This mis-statement was followed by a round of cheers and laughter. “All right!” somebody intoned. “One show,” said another.” “All right, all right,” Mike repaired, “Blanks!” Caught up in the comic atmosphere, Mike jokingly asked Happy Shahan. “Happy, would it be all right if we dressed up some of your cows in Mexican uniforms?” “That’s all right”, Happy replied, “You can do anything you want with them, as long as you don’t hurt ‘em.” “All right!” somebody in the audience shouted. “You sounded just a bit too enthusiastic there,” Mike concluded. With the festivities inside the Cantina just about concluded, a few of us decided to walk on over to the Alamo. Along the way, we paused to gaze at the stars that seemed flung across the broad expanse of Texas sky like glitter. There were so many stars in fact, that it was difficult to distinguish individual constellations. We crossed the open space that lay between the Village and the Alamo, picking our way with caution over the uneven dirt road. Was it dark! The only beacons we had to show that we were indeed heading toward the Alamo came courtesy of the tiny cookfires that shone in and around the compound itself. Approaching the main gate, we were greeted by the sounds of mountain men and other reenactors who were setting down their bedrolls in the BARBAROSA room, just off the chapel and inside the Long Barrack. Suddenly, a voice sang out from above the main gate. “Hey Jim, Halt! Who goes there?” “Don’t shoot amigo”, I replied. “A message in the sombrero for Jeem Bowie!” (Oops, wrong line!)
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Post by neferetus on Dec 9, 2006 14:10:31 GMT -5
Passing through the gate and into the darkness of the plaza, I practically tripped over a small carronade that was aimed toward the gate. Did the same thing, when crossing over the barricade and into Crockett’s yard, before the chapel. It had been my original whim to possibly bed down for the night in a corner of the powder magazine, just to the right of the double doors, where hay had been scattered on the floor. But with only one yellow woolen blanket against the cold and neither food, nor toiletries towards morning’s needs, I decided against it. Still, I was in the Alamo and at night! It was both a solemn and spooky feeling, I can tell you! Well, with the festivities in town just about over, it wasn’t long before more people were drifting toward the Alamo to bed down for the night. (Morning rehearsal would commence at 7:00 AM.) Others drove out of Alamo Village to gain lodgings in the Fort Clark Springs Motel. While the Andersens would be staying in BJ Burn’s house, Jerry Laing and I headed for Fort Clark where I had previously made reservations while in San Antonio, for one night’s stay. Seems that with all of his organizing and planning Jerry had failed to come up with any accommodations for himself. So, with the keys finally dislodged from the ignition, we drove back to Brackettville and Fort Clark. Booked in with the night guard at Fort Clark and then drove across the darkened quadrangle to our 2nd floor barracks room, which was located at the end of the building, seen at the left side of the drawing. Those wavy lines shown flitting about the barracks are not birds, they are bats! I discovered this about 5:00 AM the next morning when several of them saw fit to strafe me while I was taking air upon the veranda. SATURDAY, March 8, 1986: Costumed and armed by 5:45 AM, Jerry and I drove into Brackettville for breakfast burritos at the Burger & Shake Cafe. Headed into Alamo Village and arrived at the Alamo compound at just about 7:00 AM. As everyone involved had also arrived promptly, we soon began the rehearsal. Jerry and I, both looking larger than life in the above drawing, took up our positions near the main gate. (That’s Craig Covner in the foreground, dressed as a Mexican soldier, if you can believe it. Again, this drawing is only a ‘study’.) During this particular rehearsal, Mike Waters waived the ‘Line Speech’ (as mostly everyone was familiar with its proceedings) and concentrated instead on the choreography of the Alamo battle. So the action commenced with everyone dashing off to their posts and the defenders above the main gate firing off a thin volley over the wall, before reversing their positions as knowledge became general that the “north wall’s breached!” While the palisade gun was discharged (for effect), we would have to be frugal with the powder before the actual “battle“, as, it was both scarce and dear. One pound of powder per cannon shot, six shots per battle, per gun, five guns...three battles...it added up. Bowie (Mike Waters and Crockett (Kenny Pruitt) were killed several different times and ways and so folks with cameras got some fairy decent, sometimes amusing photographs that would be impossible to take during the course of the actual battle. As for myself, I got brained from behind by an overzealous trooper who’d been advancing from the north wall. Finally, there was a lull in the action, which allowed the reenactors to wander about the compound and take more photographs, while they yet had the chance. I spied Nina Rosenstand over by the firepit near the west wall and asked her to take a photo of me by the small carronade near the gate, with the chapel facade ias a backdrop. While walking around the white picket ‘spectator’ fence, I removed my glasses and handed them to Nina. She took the photograph (and a good one it is, too) and then handed the glasses back to me---minus the right lens. As it must‘ve fallen out somewhere between the cannon and the firepit, we both made a meticulous, if futile search for it over that area of ground. The lens never did show up, but the incident, however unfortunate, would prove the cause of future mirth and gain, as Craig Covner would later on become inspired into making me a I LOST EVERYTHING AT THE ALAMO T-shirt. The shirt lists all of the losses I’d incurred during that Texas trip: i.e., my priming flask, patchbox, the lens, double exposed film, bits of my powder horn and a cracked rifle stock. Finally, the time of battle arrived and there was a goodly crowd of spectators standing along the white picket fence that ran parallel to the west wall, all eager to witness something very special. Outside the main gate, the participants gathered, awaiting their cues. Citizen soldiers, mountain men, those from Europe and Britain, Santa Anna’s troopers, women and children noncombatants---everybody. Within the compound, Tully Shahan began reading Henry Guerra’s “13 Days Of The Alamo” program. When he reached the point of the afternoon of February 23rd, it cued a hundred, or so Texian reenactors through the main gate, scattering hither and yon to their assigned posts. Jerry and I, the last ones to enter, swung the double gates shut and secured them with a pole. Then we poked our rifles through the slits in the gate and pretended to peer off towards town, as though we were expecting trouble. A while later the palisade gun boomed off Travis’ reply to Santa Anna’s call to surrender and the siege was on. As Tully Shahan continued the narration, defenders fired sporadic shots over the walls to give a sense of what it was like being under siege to the spectators. Mike Waters, as Bowie, had his sickbed set up against a wall in the gate port and directed a lot of the action from that point. Earlier that morning, he’d asked if anybody could ride a horse well enough to represent Jim Bonham on messenger duty. When he got a volunteer, Jerry and I’d practiced opening and closing the gates and then getting the hell out of the way of the horse and rider. It was a low gate and our ‘Bonham’ had to duck to get through, but he seemed to have little trouble accomplishing the feat. While all went well during the rehearsal, such could not be said of the actual performance. When a sentry above the gate hollered, “Rider comin’ in!”, Jerry and I tried to dislodge the pole we’d used to brace the gate shut, but it would not budge. Finally, with time running out and the rider fast approaching, Mike Waters rose from his sickbed to assist in removing the pole and opening the gate. Then, as the rider came thundering through, Mike collapsed back onto his sickbed with a cough of relief. Another harrowing moment as gatekeeper came when the cannon crew in the yard were firing off their carronade. As choreographed, Jerry and I were supposed to open the gates, move to the side as the gun was fired outward and then shut the gates again afterwards. All went well, save for one instance when I’d missed my cue. Somehow, I was still inside the port beneath the main gate when the officer of the gun shouted, “Fire in the hole!” Without a moment to spare, I prudently dove through the doorway into the right-hand side-room, just as the gun exploded with a roar and a billow of smoke. The concussion of the gun’s report was amplified all the more in the hollow of that smoke filled little room and plaster and dirt rained down upon me from the ceiling above. As I stepped forth from the door at last and into the open air of the plaza, I choked and spit out grit. Jerry, Kaj and I had jokingly commented earlier that we had all worn our costumes so long without washing them that they were even beginning to smell authentic. And then, this business with the cannon. This was carrying the feel and taste of authenticity a bit too far. This was realism with a fury---and a vengeance! As the program called for the entry of the Gonzales 32, Mike designated around 20, or so of us to subtlety drift off through different exits in the compound and then reassemble just outside the main gate. Jerry Laing was called upon to portray either George Kimball, or Albert Martin, take your pick. Seems that everybody else did. In the first reenactment he was addressed as ‘Martin”, while in the second, he was called “Kimball”. Maybe in the third reenactment he was referred to as either “Albert Kimball”, or “George Martin”. I don’t remember. Anyway, there we stood, just outside the gates, awaiting our cue to enter the fort. As we gazed off toward Alamo Village, it seemed all but deserted, while the rolling expanse of prairie land around Brackettville made it look even emptier still. Inside the compound, Tully Shahan continued his narration and when he reached the point in the narrative where it was March 1st, gun barrels suddenly poked over the top of the wall and a sentry above the main gate fired off a shot in haste. Dennis McCamley, as the receiver of the shot in question shouted up, “Don’t shoot! We’re from Gonzales!” The gates drew open and in we scurried, to the cheers of the garrison and back to our original posts. McCamley, ‘wounded’ in the ankle, limped over to the hospital in the Long Barrack, while Jerry Kimball/Martin made his report to Travis. After a bit more of simulated ‘siege’ with rifles firing sporadically over the wall, Bonham came riding back into the fort and this time, we did not try to kill him. Yes, the illustration is of Jack Edmondson. Can’t you tell by the hat? Anyway, as the drawing illustrates, Bonham brought in the bad news about Fannin not coming. And so, Captain Dickinson assembled the men. We fanned out crescent shape the entire width of the plaza so that the spectators could all get an equal view of the proceedings. Remembering how I’d hung in the background and thus never got into any close-up photos, back during the Alamo reenactment of 1980, I this time edged as close to the white picket spectator’s fence as possible, in order to reap full camera glory. Although in the early stages of pneumonia, Jack Edmondson nevertheless gave his Travis speech with a true fervor that did him credit. And as he spoke, the surroundings somehow made it seem all the more real and I found myself almost oblivious to the presence of the spectators. Jack drew the line and we crossed over. No huzzahs, no fanfare, no rushing of feet in eagerness. it was rather a slow, deliberate, random crossing, with the only audible sounds being the rattle of accoutrements and the plaintive wail of an unhappy child. Bowie’s cot was lifted across to a mild applause that was more evident among the spectators than the reenactors. Rose mad his exit out the main gate. “Not my time to die,” he said. “Good luck, Rose,” somebody offered. “He fought in the wars with Napoleon,” that ‘somebody’ explained to a companion. “To your posts, Men. The enemy are upon us. Give ‘em Hell!” The quiet of the moment was shattered by Travis’ order. Too bad that we didn’t have at least one bugler on hand to sound the Deguello. Even Jerry’s recording of it played on Kaj’s tape recorder would’ve been better than nothing. Oh well... the battle joined, all the same. Jerry and I threw the gate open and then just left it that way. It would be easier for the gun crew, at any rate. In-between the cannon firing, we would shoot off our flintlocks through the open port, then give way to the side once more when the gun was ready to fire. The acoustics of the area beneath the main gate made the gun and cannon fire seem twice as loud. And, with the firing off of around 100 rifles and five cannon around the compound, it truly seemed like a battle of sorts was going on. Suddenly, the call rang out across the plaza. “They’ve breached the north wall! Half of you men, cover the plaza, the rest of you, as you were!” The men above the main gate did just that. The Mexicans at the north end of the plaza were firing commanded volleys, while advancing slowly to the south. The surviving Texians at the north wall barricade formed a thin skirmish line, firing at will, while backing off. Under the controlled Mexican volleys, fired from behind the protection of the barricade, the Texians were going down fast. Finally, the remnant ducked off into the Long Barrack. But this was no time to be viewing the harrowing proceedings within the compound; Jerry and I had a gate to protect. “Swing the gun around!” the officer of the small carronade commanded. The gun crew did and began firing across the plaza and within the compound itself, raking the advancing Mexican troops.
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Post by neferetus on Dec 9, 2006 14:25:01 GMT -5
“Let’s get this gate closed!” somebody said. Maybe it was Jerry. Maybe it was me. Then we began firing through the slits in the gate, just as a show of resistance. Every time I took pause to reload, I’d dart glances across the plaza to see how much closer the Mexicans were coming from that direction. And as they slowly advanced even closer still, I began to feel a genuine panic welling up inside of me. Soon, the Mexicans reached the well in the center of the plaza---a cue for the carronade to unload upon them. Ka-Boom! Half a dozen soldados went down in a big heap. Good choreography. it looked real. Jerry and I finally abandoned the defense of the gate and began directing our fire into the fort itself, while the carronade crew frantically attempted to reload their gun for one last shot. But it was not to be. Soldados picked off a couple of the crew with their escopetas, then closed in with the bayonet to finish off the rest. “Oh no!” I thought. “Here they are! just let me get off one more shot! That’s all I want, just one more...” But there was to be no ‘one more’ for me, either. For, with my back turned to face the threat before me, the gate behind me burst open without warning and in surged a crowd of soldados. As I turned to meet the threat, a gun butt beneath the chin laid me out and I was bayoneted where I lay. Jerry must’ve fared about the same. When you’re dead, you’re meat for the worms and that’s all there is to it. (Unless you cheat, that is.) As I had tumbled in the direction of the white picket spectator fence with my back to the crowd, I was able to view the action going on at the barricade in front of the chapel, without attracting notice. I saw Kenny Pruitt, as Crockett, over by the well portion of the barricade, brain two, or three soldados Fess Parker style, before succumbing to a surge of bayonets. I saw Mike Waters, as Bowie, propped up on his sickbed near the end of the low barrack, brace of pistols inn his hands. His turn had come. As the soldados, moved in, one of Mike’s pistols misfired with but a flash in the pan, but its mate banged off true, sending a trooper lurching backward. After that, it was just a blur of men obscuring my view, as Mike’s two knives lunged upward. When the troops finally cleared the area, Michael J. Waters Bowie lay dead with an expired trooper sprawled on top of him. Then, as Mexican troops began filling up the rooftop of the Low Barrack, somebody, with knife in hand (who I later identified as Bill Chemerka) did a tremendous Douglas Fairbanks leap to his death into “Beekeeper’s” room. With every other defender on the roof of the Low Barrack dead, Phil Martin, a la Jose Maria Torres, mounted the uncertain stairs and planted the Mexican colors, in place of the 1824 flag. With Crockett’s yard all but cleared, Mexican troops turned their attention to the hospital area, just beneath the arbor on the south end of the Long Barrack. And although the hospital patients offered up token resistance, most were ultimately bayoneted. The ones who offered up no resistance, around six men, were dragged out from under the hospital arbor and slain under Santa Anna’s orders. (Heard from just outside the palisade.) “Have I not told you hw to dispose of prisoners?” Then a Mexican lancer, portrayed by Kevin Young, lanced someone in front of the chapel doors, just as Dave (Major Evan) Lyons went rushing past with a torch to blow the powder magazine. A bullet to the back sent him sprawling, while his torch fizzled inside the entrance to the chapel. Then the doors of the chapel were rushed, accompanied by the sounds of shouting and women screaming and then---cheering. It was all over. The Alamo had fallen. Moments later, the women and children were all escorted by troopers beyond the barricade and toward the main gate. Nina (Susanna Dickinson) Rosenstand, with her 18 month old daughter Cabbagelina wrapped in her arms, Ellen (Mrs. Alsbury) Bowie, Diana (Evans) Lyons and her young ones---all strolled past me and through the gate port, while I tried to assume a vacant stare. (That wasn’t so hard, really.) Curtain---Applause. And then, the carpet of dead, risingas one body, retired to the town to take their bitters, get dusted off on the outside and wetted down on the inside. There were not too many major casualties that first battle. Missing flints, a lost ramrod and priming horn here, Phil Martin’s Brown Bess musket snapping its spring, after only allowing him three shots there, and then Mike Water’s yet misfiring pistol. Tallying my own losses for the engagement, my glorious death sprawl had cost me my priming flask and prick pin. And I never would get that rifle to fire during any of the battles, anyhow. All I could do was to flash the pan. Arriving at the Cantina, I had to wait two hours to get my meal, as my meal ticket had somehow gotten lost. Whatever it was I had, it was smothered in barbecue sauce and I swallowed it whole. Made a brief stop at the Trading Post to get some more film. It was my idea to try and get some of my own behind-the-scenes shots, this time around. On my way back to the Alamo, I met Nina Rosenstand and offered to take some clandestine shots for her, as well. She agreed and so my possibles bag soon sagged under the weight of two cameras. Nina herself chose to sit out this reenactment and take some photos from behind the white picket spectator fence. As a noncombatant in the first battle, she’d gotten to see precious little of the proceedings from where she’d huddled with the other noncombatants in the confines of the chapel. Parting with Nina at the main gate, I headed off in search of a safety officer to take a look at my gun. Something was obstructing the vent on the priming pan and not allowing a passage of air when I blew down the barrel. Got one of the mountain men to ream out the vent with a wire, but without effect. Next, I searched out Howard Major, the Master of Ordnance, in one of the rooms in the Long Barrack and he swabbed out the barrel several times with solvent, but it was still no go. Another of the mountain men who was standing by, said that while he did not recommend it, the genuine, original, old-fashioned way of cleaning a clogged barrel was to urinate down it. “Best natural solvent in the World,” he added. Finally, I went to a Mexican safety officer behind the Long Barrack, near the restrooms to see if he could have a go at it. But just as soon as he was starting to check out the weapon, Mike showed up and gestured everyone back to their posts for the next battle. “My gun doesn’t work, “ I bemoaned. “Mine doesn’t either,” he returned. “Fake it.” Witnessing my dilemma, Craig Covner offered me the use of one of Jack Edmondson’s cap and ball pistols. “Something to go ‘bang’ with,” he said. (As Craig would be portraying a soldado this time around, he would be using his Brown Bess musket.)Loading a test charge of powder into the muzzle of the pistol, I capped it and then fired it off skyward with ease. It was just like the pistol I’d left back home! I strode to the main gate with fresh confidence and a gun that would fire. The second performance of Henry Guerra’s “13 Days Of The Alamo commenced. And when the moment arrived in the proceedings where I was to duck of and then reappear as one of the Gonzales 32, I positioned myself in Beekeeper’s room, at the east end of the Low Barrack where I would be out of view of the spectators. With camera at the ready, I snapped off shots of the palisade battery going off, a genuinely exhausted Mike Waters collapsed on his sickbed, Bonham riding in, as well as some other exterior shots. Luckily, I was using Nina’s camera on half of the above mentioned scenes, as my own camera, I was later to discover, was double-exposing practically every time. Unluckily, I was unable to return the camera to Nina for the battle scenes soon to follow. It had been my idea to wait until the drawing of the line commenced to subtly drift over to the white picket spectator fence and then hand the camera to Nina without arousing too much notice. When the time actually arrived however, I found myself enlisted to help tote Jim Bowie across the line, right smack dab in the middle of the plaza. Without a way to get the camera to Nina before the battle commenced, I ended up dying with both cameras. (Luckily for me, Nina’s fury over not getting any battle shots was short-lived. Thank-you, Nina.) Another battle ensued. Another rush upon the gate. It was the same, but then again, not the same. It was something like seeing a movie again that you hadn’t seen in years, where new scenes seem to creep in that you don’t recall from the first viewing. When the gates fell this time however, there was a coordinated rush from those troops in the yard who had just dispatched the carronade gun crew with the attackers who were swarming in through the main gate port. The end results had both surges of troops hitting Jerry and I almost simultaneously. I was bayoneted while frantically trying to reload my pistol. Down on one knee behind the stairs, I fired off a percussion cap into the air as a final act of defiance, before receiving yet another bayonet thrust for this act of daring. Well, there I was, dead beneath the stairs. This was a bad place to be, I soon found out, as with every clomp, clomp, clomping footstep the troopers made while scrambling up the rickety stairs to gain the roof of the Low Barrack rained down about an acre of dirt into my eyes, nose and mouth. Wonderful. When I craned my head aside to escape much of the earthen deluge, I was once again able to witness some of the final proceedings of the performance. With the battle finally over, the noncombatants were led out of the chapel and right past me. One of the escort troopers, Craigorio by name, noticing that I wasn’t quite dead enough, poked me once again with a bayonet and I responded with an exaggerated wince and death rattle, just to let him know that he had done a real good job. With the presentation over it was PICTURE POSING TIME, with dozens of Crockett wanna-bes all meeting a grisly, yet glorious end in front of the chapel. Even one of the wives seemed to have gotten into the spirit of the moment, as she asked three of the fancily uniformed troopers, “Would you please kill my husband for me?” Well enough was enough. And all good things eventually come to an end. As I felt like a scumbag in my raunched-out impression, I headed out the west gate to Jerry’s van, just across the road to change into my civvies. Proudly sporting my hand-painted Laurence Golbey tee-shirt of John Wayne’s movie poster from THE ALAMO, I headed back into the compound. Kicked back on one of the beds in the hospital area for a bit of rest and to get out of the sun. The Lyons and Andersons were also there as were Dennis McCamley (dead to the world) and Jack Edmondson (picture taking). As it was getting hotter as the afternoon waned, I volunteered to buy some cold drinks in the Trading Post vending machine, trudging from the fort to the town and then back again. When I arrived back at the Alamo however, I discovered that there was someone selling canned sodas from an ice chest, just beyond the west wall. Cours’n mine tasted all the better for the effort I’d put into getting them... warm. By this time, I had worked up an almighty honger. But no matter. For Katie Water’s chili cauldron, tumbling and churning over an open fire lit just behind the Long Barrack, was ready! With styrofoam cup in hand, I awaited my turn in line, until that big, messy scooper sloshed its contents into and then over the sides of the cup, followed by a mess of Fritos on top. Then, with a cup of hot coffee poured from the big, battered blue pot, I settled under the shade of a tree a short distance away and had a memorable repast, indeed. After the chili-fest, Craig Covner and Nina Rosenstand came by to say that they and a few others were going to walk to the false chapel wall, some 300 yards true east of the Alamo compound and did anyone want to go. Jerry Laing volunteered to take everyone in the rented van and before you could say ‘Rumplestiltskin’, in tumbled Craig, Nina, Ruth Anderson, Phil Martin, Dan Gagliasso, Arthur Stanzel and myself. Arriving at the false chapel wall, we all began to climb to the jagged top in caution. It was my idea to recreate the John Wayne ‘fallen cross’, or ‘X’ on the top of the facade, so Phil Martin helped me scrounge around for some lumber to use from the ruins of the cannon platform. With him on the top of the wall, I fashioned the cross, while he, sitting on the wall, held it in place with one hand. While lots of good photos were snapped, the very best one was taken by Nina Rosenstand who set her camera on the ground, aimed up, set the timer for about ten seconds and then scrambled into the window opening just in time to appear in the picture herself.
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Post by neferetus on Dec 9, 2006 14:27:07 GMT -5
While surveying the area around the false wall for some interesting rocks specimens, Arthur Stanzel showed Ruth Andersen some interesting snail and sea shell fossils upon the hillside, just to the south. Soon, everyone was joining in on the ‘expedition’, ramming their pockets full of fossils. With daylight on the wane, we finally packed off back to the Alamo in the van. Kaj Anderson was there, as was Howard Major. The group consensus was to head on back into Brackettville to get some beer, sodas and munchies in a grocery there and then to return to the Alamo compound to reconvene by the fire pit under cover of darkness. While riding up the dark and bumpy road toward the Shahan Ranch gate, we were halted by some cattle in the process of crossing. Jerry high-beamed them to make them move and then jumped out of the driver’s seat with his camera to snap a few pictures. Loaded up at the grocery in town, then headed back to the Alamo. A nice, if however smoky fire was lit in the courtyard firepit and some familiar faces were beginning to gather around it. Eric Von Schmidt, with his guitar and mandolin at the ready, Jack Edmonson, zonked out within the pit itself, Howard Major, Kevin Young, Craig & Nina, Kaj & Ruth, Jerry, Kenny Pruitt, a few of the mountain men and myself. While some began popping beers that Kaj handed around, others sang period, or Alamo-related songs. While Craig and Nina sang “Come To The Bower” and Santa Anna’s Coming To Town”, Jerry dug his harpoon out of his dirty red bandana to join Eric Von Schmidt on yet another version of “The Alamo” song. Then Eric sailed into an new song that he was composing about Jim Bowie. So there we were, singing and drinking beer under the star-flung Texas sky. It was an experience that I’ll never forget. For this was about as close to being in the actual Alamo during the siege as we could ever get and I think that mostly everyone there was aware of that. Failing to exhaustion, the party began to break up. Back in the van again and moving off into the dark, Jerry dropped Kaj and Ruth off at BJ Burns house. Then he and I headed off to our own accommodations. Back when we’d been getting the snacks and drinks, we’d also stopped off at Fort Clark to see if we could extend our stay there, only to find that it was booked solid. That being the case, we had to drive eight miles to a little hotel and coffee shop. Sat down to eat, before heading back to the Alamo with the snacks and drinks. Jerry Laing had a chicken-fried steak. Anyhow, here Jerry and I were, once again. I must’ve slept pretty good. At any rate, it was 4:00 AM, the next thing I knew. Washed my grimy period shirt in the shower, then hung it on a nail beneath the porch awning to blow dry in the gusty morning wind. The skies were a paling grey and a light mist whipped up with the breeze, but no rain. Jerry and I patronized the Burger & Shake Coffee shop, before heading on to the road to the Shahan Ranch. He had hotcakes and I had two chorizo and egg soft tacos. Once we were back inside the ranch gate, I held my period shirt out the window to further dry it and it was soon dry enough to don, once we’d reached the Alamo compound. As it was Sunday, and they had a distance to travel to get back home, a lot of the reenactors had to desert Brackettville only hours before the final battle presentation. Don Clark had to take his leave at 9:00 AM, even though the battle was scheduled for 10:00 AM. Too bad. This being the case, the Mexican ranks were soon sadly depleted by 9:45 AM. While there had been around 40 troopers mustered for the first two battles on Saturday, today, Sunday, there were barely 17. So, as reenactors began to gather outside the main gate, Mike Waters did his best to encourage some of them to portray Mexican soldiers in this battle. “Anyone with white pants, po-leeze report to the Mexican camp,” he pleaded. “We’ll do our best to get you outfitted.” While some of the mountain men graciously complied (“Nice to be on the winning side, for a change,” they chided) there were still not enough. So, I made a decision. “You’ll have to get someone else to help you with the gate, Jerry,” I announced, “I’m going over to the other side.” So, leaving the group outside the gate, I circled around behind the chapel and cattle pen to the restroom area where the Mexican troops were drilling. One of the troopers had an extra pair of ‘one size fits all’ white trousers with a red stripe down the side inside his pack and another loaned me a red wool campaign hat. So, there i was. A poor, provincial conscript. The guy who’d loaned me the pants told me to just shove all of my valuables and Texian gear into his backpack for safekeeping. (See illustration.)
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Post by neferetus on Dec 9, 2006 14:28:48 GMT -5
Then we all lined up single file along the east wall and were drilled by our officer in the manual of arms. ‘Ready’ (Listo) ‘Aim’ (Apuntar) ‘Fire’ (Fuego). Adalente! The whole bit. To appear like a greater force than we actually were, we would have to cheer and scream and fire in continuous volleys. (The number of troops that were to strike from the north wall barricade are exactly represented in the above drawing.) We waited in the wings while the program unfolded and then ran its course inside the plaza court. We couldn’t see a blessed thing , when peeking around the corner of the Long Barrack, save for a portion of the spectators who were watching the show from behind the white picket fence and a few of the Texians behind the north wall barricade. Straining our ears, we were able to discern the moment of the arrival of the Gonzales 32, as well as Jack’s ‘Travis draws the line speech.’ After having participated in these reenactments for several times, it felt kind of strange to be suddenly standing on the outside, looking in. And then-----THE ASSAULT! We were formed into two separate ‘columns’ of ten men each---short-barreled guns to the fore. “Adalente!” our officer shouted and we surged forward as best we could, shouting ourselves hoarse to the officer’s exhortations. Lining up in front of the north wall barricade, we fired off our volley and then ducked off behind the wall of the BARBAROSA cemetery (which now closed off Travis’ NW gun ramp) to reload. While we were ducking off, the other column of ten men moved out from behind the Long Barrack to fire off their volley. By the time they’d retired around the corner by the restrooms to reload, we came filing out as a new column to discharge yet another volley. In this way, the Mexican army was able to keep up an almost constant fire. “Listo! Apuntar! Fuego! We blasted the Texians at point blank range with our withering fire and epithets. “Muereto, Diablos Tejanos!” we shouted. The Texians were going down fast and after Jack (Travis) Edmondson was dropped by a shot to the forehead, were forced to ultimately withdraw. They backed off slowly with deliberation, dragging their stricken comrades along with them. The remnant holed themselves up in the Long Barrack. It looked frightfully real, from the attacker’s point of view. The only problem was, we could not afford to lose too many Mexican soldiers in the attack, otherwise there would not be enough left to carry the fort. So, the Texians continued to take their punishment as we slowly advanced across the plaza, firing and cheering. Well, deciding that somebody had to die on our side, so it might as well be me, I went down before a Texian volley, sprawling forward to my demise in the dust. Of course being dead did not keep me from at least viewing some of the rest of the proceedings, as troopers rushed the Long Barrack rooms and there were the sounds of scuffling from within. The carronade crew and the men above the main gate continued to fire at us from across the plaza. Kenny Pruitt did his Fess Parker bit by the barricade, then went down. One of the Mexican troopers (Phil Martin) later related to me how one of the Texian women who was servicing as a nurse, had ducked off into one of the side rooms of the Long Barrack with her three year old daughter in tow. Seems that the little girl had been terrified by the discharge of the palisade gun and the mother had thought to seclude her there to comfort her. Anyhow, the room was supposed to have been deserted when the soldados came charging in with bayonets leveled, while shrieking “Death to the Texians!” in their best Spanish. I imagine that that little girl will have her own special reason for ‘Remembering the Alamo’, in the future. Well, the battle finally ended and I got to arise from the dust again. it was just as well, for a few of the spectator children had been irreverently pelting me with small pebbles from behind the white picket fence. It was all over. How sad! Some of the participants had to leave the Village, right away, but not before we all stood for a ‘cast photo’ in front of the chapel. Then there was more mingling with families, friends, each other and camera snapping Alamo Village guests. As Richard Curilla had wanted to get some exterior battle scenes video-taped for the documentary he and Happy Shahan were making, somebody found one of the original scaling ladders from THE ALAMO in one of the rooms of the Long Barrack and planted it on the exterior of the Low Barrack wall, just west of the main gate. Then, as Rich videotaped, some of the Mexican troopers in the ‘good’ uniforms advanced and surmounted the ladder, scaling the top of the wall to the opposition of Kenny Pruitt and a few other defenders. They gained the parapet, scuffled for a bit and then, that was it. Evident among the assault troops, Craig Covner was brained by Kenny Pruitt while in the act of scaling and began to slip down toward the rungs of the ladder, in a none to nice way. Dropping his prop rifle to the ground below, Craig caught himself just as he was about to land, crotch first , on a wrung. An exciting end to an exciting day. Farewell, Brackettville and Texas! For it’s off to the San Antonio airport and home...
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Post by neferetus on Dec 9, 2006 14:31:35 GMT -5
Well, I hope you enjoyed my Sesquicentennial memories. Hope I posted everything in correwct order. If not, then be expecting a little editing, somewhere down the line. -Ned-
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Post by Greg C. on Dec 9, 2006 14:43:54 GMT -5
for your sake i hope that was copied and pasted. lots of good reading!
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Post by Bromhead24 on Dec 10, 2006 11:44:07 GMT -5
Excellent read Nef and thank you for sharing it with us, I wish i had writing skills so i can write my memoirs...maybe i can dictate them...
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Post by TexasMac on Dec 15, 2006 23:16:44 GMT -5
An intriguing read, Ned!
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Post by Greg C. on Dec 22, 2006 21:40:43 GMT -5
nef, you could write a seperate book on your travels and adventures and it would probably be double the size of one domingo morning.
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Post by neferetus on Feb 3, 2007 12:42:44 GMT -5
Eric Von Schmidt has died. This is sad news, indeed. The innovative blues singer/guitar player influenced the likes of Bob Dylan. He was also a great guy to be around. I'll always remember riding on the roof of Eric's car from the Shahan Ranch House, to the Alamo Village. His song, THE ALAMO, which he performed live in the Cantina, is something I'll never forget. God Bless Eric.
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Post by neferetus on Feb 3, 2007 12:47:14 GMT -5
THE ALAMO by Eric Von Schmidt Damn near dead In his sweat-soaked bed, They d rug Bowie 'cross the line. His well known knife And his Mexican wife Were scarcely on his mind. He dreamed a dream of someplace else, Where the sheets were clean and fine. As through the haze, came the early days When he was in his prime. Now Travis, he had drawn that line, "You can stay, or you can go." He begged for help and he pleaded for men To defend the Alamo. But when Moses Rose, he chose to go, I can understand his mind. It was just as hard to leave that yard, As it was to stay behind. CHORUS: Take off your buckskin jackets And give your bones a rest. And we'll all remember the Alamo And the boys who stood the test. Now Santa Anna, he sat in his tent, He had a dram glass in his hand. He'd issued the shoes And he'd issued the booze And he summoned up the band. "Play that cut-throat song, me boys, Just so they'll understand. And let's all go to the Alamo And kill them where they stand". When Davy Crockett, he heard those notes, He thought of his fiddle bow. And all those rousing songs he'd played So many years ago. For the Mexican band was quite out of tune As the cold night winds did blow. Then the troops marched down across the town To crush the Alamo. CHORUS: Take off your buckskin jackets And give your bones a rest And we'll all remember the Alamo And the boys who stood the test. Well they charged them once, And they charged them twice At a fearful loss of men. A cannon ball had breached the wall And then, they charged again. As the bloody tide, it swept inside, It was fighting hand to hand, And bayonet with Bowie knife met, As each man made his stand. And As they died, they cursed and they cried The bloody dawn it rose. They'd come from all over Americay, They'd come from Mexico. And when the fighting was over And the funeral pyres did glow, There's no one here And there's no one there Who'd forget the Alamo. CHORUS: Take off your buckskin jackets And give your bones a rest. And we'll all remember the Alamo And the boys who stood the test.
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Post by Cole_blooded on Feb 3, 2007 19:18:43 GMT -5
Sad indeed Neff! How old was Eric and where is he from? When did you first meet him if I may ask? TED COLE....aka....Cole_blooded
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Post by neferetus on Feb 6, 2007 17:56:56 GMT -5
Although I was well aware of who Eric was, long prior to 1986---I even had two of his albums in my collection--- I first met him in San Antonio in March of that year. Fellow artist Craig Covner had mentioned how Eric's painting of the Alamo would be on display at the Witte Museum and that Eric himself would be in town that week, as the DRT had accepted his song THE ALAMO as the official Sesquicentennial song. I first set eyes on him at the Alamo, where after looking him over to make sure he was the very same Eric Von Schmidt, I intoduced myself to him, shook hands and said, "You really are Eric Von Schmidt", to which he replied, "Yes, I am."
Eric was just a really down to earth, unpretensious guy and made you feel like you'd known him for years, after a short while. And while he was in San antonio, he really was just one of the Alamo folks. The Brackettville encounter, with me riding on the luggage rack of his car, was just the icing on the cake.
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Post by neferetus on Feb 6, 2007 18:00:33 GMT -5
Oh Ted, Eric was born in Westport, Connecticut and was 75 years old at the time of his death. Several years ago, he had throat surgery, which prevented him from singing anymore, but he never qut picking the guitar, until last year when he suffered a stroke.
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Post by neferetus on Feb 6, 2007 18:01:41 GMT -5
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