James wished the sentries in the fort might be asleep, but that quickly proved to be a forlorn hope. He and the other Texans had just begun digging and setting up the protective planks when powder flashed atop the wall, and a bullet whistled past. That shot was followed by others.

“Hold your fire, men!” came Austin’s order.

But the man named Robinson, either misunderstanding or out of panic, fired back. A volley responded instantly, aimed at the point where his rifle had flashed. James heard the sickening thud of a bullet and a surprised cry, then a long, agonized moan as Robinson slumped to the ground, mortally wounded. James rushed to his side and knelt, but a gurgling sound in the man’s throat told him nothing could be done. He felt sick at his stomach and turned away.

“I reckon he’s made his wife happy,” somebody remarked.

James felt a surge of anger and would have challenged the man were he not trying so hard to hold down the little bit of supper he had eaten.

Fire from the fort became so intense that some of the men began to run away. Angry threats from those who remained did nothing to slow their speed. Bullets smashed through the planks that had been raised for protection. There had not been time enough to shovel up an earthen embankment adequate to reinforce them. The Texans returned fire for fire.

James involuntarily ducked each time he heard a bullet snarl by, though he realized by that time it would have been too late had it been intended for him. Every once in a while he heard a man cry as he was struck. The stench of gunpowder was so sharp that at times he could hardly breathe. He choked, his nostrils afire, his lungs burning. He could hear screams from inside the fort and knew the Texans’ fire was as deadly as that from the Mexicans. The only saving grace was that the big cannon could not be lowered enough to bear down upon the attackers. It thundered and belched fire over their heads.

He found himself more than once looking back over his shoulder, wondering if he could make it to safety were he to jump up and run, as others had already done. Here, at least, the planks and the earth provided at least a modicum of cover. Better to stay in the little hole he had dug for himself than to take his chances out in the open.

He felt a tug at his sleeve and a sharp, fiery pain along his left arm. A Mexican bullet had grazed him. He felt with his right hand. The place burned as if he had run against a hot poker, but it bled only a little.

“They hit you?” a man next to him asked anxiously.

“Just enough to make me good and mad.” But nausea came over him, and he lost most of his supper after all.

He had heard many stories about many battles, but somehow they all fell short of the reality he was experiencing here. The stories had always made the fights seem bloodless and without pain except to the enemy. But he felt pain now. He could hear the cries of the wounded and dying, both in the Texan line and within the beleaguered fortress.