Travis,
at a table with a small tallow candle at his elbow, was writing his last
message.
Ned was watching the commander as he wrote. But he saw no expression of
despair or even discouragement on Travis' fine face. The letter, which a
messenger succeeded in carrying through the lines that night, breathed a
noble and lofty courage. He was telling again how few were his men, and
how the balls and bombs had rained almost continuously for days upon the
Alamo. Even as his pen was poised they heard the heavy thud of a cannon,
but the pen descended steadily and he wrote:
"I shall continue to hold it until I get relief from my countrymen, or
perish in its defence."
He wrote on a little longer and once more came the heavy thud of a great
gun. Then the pen wrote:
"Again I feel confident that the determined spirit and desperate courage
heretofore exhibited by my men will not fail them in the last struggle,
and, although they may be sacrificed to the vengeance of a Gothic enemy,
the victory will cost that enemy so dear that it will be worse than a
defeat."
"Worse than a defeat!" Travis never knew how significant were the words
that he penned then. A minute or two later the sharp crack of a half
dozen rifles came to them, and Travis wrote:
"A blood-red flag waves from the church of Bexar and in the camp above
us, in token that the war is one of vengeance against rebels.
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