Their horses, urged into the water, swam to the other bank, and, without looking back the three rode for San Antonio de Bexar.
While the Panther, Obed White and Will Allen were riding over the prairie, Ned Fulton sat once more with his friend. Davy Crockett, in one of the adobe buildings. Night had come, and they heard outside the fitful crackle of rifle fire, but they paid no attention to it. 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."