Book Reviews: The Gates of the Alamo, by Stephen Harrigan

      I spent my college years living in central Texas, just a few hours' drive from San Antonio and its legendary Alamo, and so I witnessed that state's peculiar fascination with itself first-hand. Many Texans cling tenaciously to their state’s image as a wild western, larger than life, country unto itself. Back in the eighties, a Fort Worth politician once proudly referred to his city as "just a big ol' cow town," a description it had long since outgrown. Frankly, to a non-native, it was all a bit annoying.
      So when I was given a fat book to read called The Gates of the Alamo, I was less than enthusiastic. Here, I thought, is yet another Texas love letter to itself, a rehash of all the corniest myths that Texans hold so dear. But I decided to flip through the first pages and see just how bad it was.
      A good thing, too, because I might have missed a fine historical novel about those early days of Texas, rich in period detail and mercifully lacking in mythology. All the legendary principals appear--David Crockett, Jim Bowie, William Travis, Santa Anna--not in their legendary forms, but as real people with plausible reasons for acting the way they do. Sometimes as heroes, and sometimes not.
      The main characters, however, are all creations of Harrigan's own imagination. Edmund McGowan is an American botanist trying to complete his life's work--a comprehensive study of the plants of Texas--before war with Mexico can interfere. He meets Mary Mott, a widow, and her teenage son Terrell, and finds himself drawn to both of them.
      When Terrell has a disastrous first experience in love, Edmund's strange, self-imposed emotional coldness keeps him from reaching out to help the boy, and Terrell runs off to join up with the Texas republicans against Santa Anna. Mary, afraid that their angry parting will be Terrell's last memory of her, insists on traveling with Edmund to find him and reconcile, but their path leads them directly into the approaching crisis and the siege at San Antonio de Bexar.
      The story of these three alone would be plenty to flesh out a good book, but Harrigan deftly balances the Texan viewpoint with major subplots that tell the Mexican half of the story as well. Blas Montoya and Telesforo Villasenor, both soldiers in Santa Anna’s army, converge on the Alamo in very different ways. Montoya and his men must survive a brutal forced march before they even get to the Alamo, where many of them will be killed in the assault. Villasenor, an ambitious officer, catches the eye of Santa Anna with his bravado after being wounded in battle, and travels to San Antonio as the general’s aide.
      Both Montoya and Villasenor give Harrigan a chance to reveal historical details that only Mexican characters could know at the time. They also allow him to describe some of the more gruesome realities of 19th century warfare, and to present both sides of a thorny political tangle without choosing between them.
Die-hard Alamo buffs will undoubtedly protest the moments in The Gates of the Alamo when Harrigan departs from strict historical accuracy for the sake of story, especially when he allows a lone survivor to escape the siege. Yet he will probably upset others by sometimes sticking too close to truth, as when he reveals some of the less savory character traits of cherished heroic figures like Jim Bowie.
      But these are quibbles for the folks in Texas historical societies to squabble over. Most readers will find little to complain about--just a sprawling, well-researched, and richly populated historical novel to enjoy.