by S. B. Moores
“Aye.” Justin nodded.
“As fine a man as you are, Justin Sterling, I never wanted my daughter to . . . well, have to struggle in this hard life, or to live below her means.”
“I know, I know. I’d have felt the same as you, if she were my daughter. What little I’ve accomplished in my short life, I’ve done to impress you as much as Abby.”
“And I was a fool not to see it.”
“No, not a fool. Simply a loving father.”
Henry nodded. The two men sat in mutual silence at the table, watching other defenders come and go through the kitchen, each one armed to the teeth with musket, pistol, and knife.
“What are we going to do for Abby now?” Justin finally asked.
“Prayer would be in order for all of us. But whatever happens, I do not believe the Mexicans will deliberately harm the women. They’ll fight to the end, but they’re a proud people, and murdering innocent women and children is beyond their ken.”
“I hope that’s so, but I’ll pray that we all live,” Justin said. “I have nothing more to desire in this life than to see your grandchild born. If only the women survive our little misadventure, I’ll accept that as God’s judgment. But know this, Henry Whitfield. If I live, I will never leave Abigail’s side again. I will dedicate the rest of my life to her, and to our child.”
“I’ve seen the way my daughter looks at you more often than I can recall, Justin, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. I’ve spent much of my life a fool, but in my bones I’ve always known what kind of man you were, and I’d be proud to call you my son.”
Henry held out his hand and Justin clasped it in both of his.
“Thank you, Henry. Now that we’re all on the same side, let’s find a way out of this mess.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Alamo Mission, March 5, 1836
Early the next morning Justin, Abigail, and her father sat at a table in the kitchen. The overcast sky outside threatened a cold spring rain, but the confidence of the mission defenders had grown since the first Mexican attack had been driven off so easily. A few men suggested the Mexicans might not attack again, if they knew what was good for them. Abigail’s father wasn’t so sanguine.
“I’ve read about this General Santa Anna in the newspapers,” he said. “He’s got too much pride to let a bunch of Texican farmers beat him at soldiering. He’ll be back. He’ll send more troops each time to test us, then hit us with everything he’s got.”
Other men knew about Santa Anna, too, and some had talked about slipping over the wall at night, as Tobias had, to sneak through the Mexican lines and escape, but no one else did. The afternoon of the day before, Colonel Travis gathered the men in the courtyard and explained their circumstances in no uncertain terms. Messengers had been sent to Sam Houston, and Travis hoped enough men were coming to break the siege. But they could not count on anyone else arriving before their battle with the Mexicans was decided.
Their situation was dire. Travis had drawn a line in the sand with his sword and asked every man who intended to stay and fight to cross the line and stand with him. Everyone did, including Justin and Henry. Abigail was proud of them, but she knew they and the others had little choice. They were surrounded, and it was better to fight the Mexicans in the light of day than try to run from them like frightened rabbits in the darkness. The men would fight and win, or face defeat and whatever that meant.
Abigail wouldn’t let herself sink into despair. Somehow they would get through this. They had to. She and Justin would return to Ridgetop, start their family, and live to a ripe old age together. She clung to that hope in the face of mounting evidence to the contrary.
She and Justin were finishing a simple stew for breakfast when shouts went up from the men stationed on top of the chapel façade. As the highest point on the garrison and with a view in all directions, it served as the primary observation post. Abigail cocked her head at the sounds. She couldn’t quite hear what the men were saying, but the meaning of their shouts was clear. The Mexicans were mustering for another attack. A small cannon mounted atop the chapel fired, and men snatched up their muskets and rushed from every part of the compound to the walls.
A familiar shaft of fear jabbed at Abigail’s chest when she looked up at Justin. Somehow she’d hoped the Mexicans would go away, or the conflict could be settled without bloodshed. But it wasn’t to be. Today would bring another chance that Justin or her father could be injured or killed. Justin swallowed one more sip of coffee from his tin cup, then pressed his lips to Abigail’s.
“I love you like King Midas loved his gold,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
She gave him a wan smile. “You’d better be, for me and your baby.”
Justin placed his hand lightly on her stomach. “I’d fight off a hundred Mexicans all by myself before I missed this child’s birth.” He kissed her again, then lifted his musket and ammunition bag and ran from the kitchen. Henry Whitfield was already on the wall.
In the last few days, Abigail had heard the skirmishes, had watched the growing army massing outside the walls, the menacing glint of bayonets in the sun as they marched. She knew that Justin fighting a hundred Mexicans all by himself might not be such an exaggeration.
As she had before, when the fighting started, Abigail went to the chapel and helped Susannah Dickenson and a handful of Mexican women at the fort tend to the wounded. A woman named Juana Alsbury, married to one of the men on the wall, showed Abigail where the medical supplies and equipment were kept. The sound of the battle outside threatened to unnerve her almost as much as knowing that Justin and her father were in the midst of it.
It wasn’t long before wounded men were brought into the chapel, and she went to work. She steeled herself and tried to ignore any fearful implications, but a new, more threatening sound was heard. The Mexicans had opened fire with newly arrived cannon. They boomed in the distance in their own, strange language, then men and horses screamed as shells exploded on the walls and in the compound, sending up clouds of dust.
A few minutes later, Henry and another man carried Justin’s limp body into the chapel.
“No!” Abigail almost screamed when she recognized his bloody face. They laid him down, unconscious, on a pallet in front of her.
“He’s still alive,” her father said. “Cannon fire hit the stockade near us. Others were not so lucky. It’s a head wound, and I can’t tell how serious it is.”
“I’ve got him now.” She steeled herself one more time.
Her father kissed her on the cheek and ran back to the wall with the other man. By now Abigail had enough experience treating wounded men that her actions were nearly automatic. She ripped new bandages and cleaned a bleeding gash near Justin’s hairline. When she doused his torn flesh with alcohol, Justin didn’t react, but she knew he was still alive because the bleeding didn’t stop. She wound a thick bandage around his head tightly enough to staunch the flow of blood. Then she checked him from head to toe for other wounds. There weren’t any. The gash on Justin’s head wasn’t life-threatening by itself but until he regained consciousness, if he regained consciousness, she couldn’t tell how badly he’d been wounded. At least he was alive, and for the moment he was no longer on the wall in the middle of the fight.
Browning sat back in his chair, uncertain how Henrietta would react to his tale. “By 1780 or thereabouts, all three families had begun to settle the Ridgetop Valley.”
Henrietta sipped her tea. “That would include Henry’s father, Abraham.”
“Yes, as well as Wentworth Johnson and Josiah Sterling. They were all here by then.”
“The family history says that Abraham died of smallpox.”
“Aye, as did many others. That winter in the valley was hard, and everyone pitched in to survive. As spring approached and the first planting came nigh, neither Abraham nor Wentworth was up to the task. Few in the other families were, either. Many had been laid low by illness. It was Josiah Sterling w
ho did the planting for himself and the Johnsons and Whitfields. Of course, the families’ homesteads were somewhat smaller in those days. At least those of the Whitfields and Johnsons. But without Josiah, everything would have been lost.”
“I hadn’t heard that story, but I’m grateful to Josiah Sterling if it’s true. It was very fortunate for us.”
“Indeed.” Browning took a bite of biscuit and watched Henrietta, gauging her reactions. “The thing about it is, in the beginning, all three families homesteaded more-or-less equal parcels in the valley, or so they thought. Boundaries, such as they were, were the stuff of common knowledge. Often they were described by the location of prominent trees, rocks, or bodies of water. Records were not well kept in those days, at least not in Ridgetop. And when the fever descended, some thought it was the end for everyone. As families lost loved ones, they joined with others in the valley to make do, and those who survived feared they might not be able to carry on. But Josiah persevered, and so grateful were the survivors of the other two families, that all three pledged their profits and land in common. Essentially they had become one, at least for the business of farming.”
“How admirable,” Henrietta said. “Those times were so hard.”
Browning continued, knowing Henrietta still did not fully understand the implications of what he was telling her. “This history isn’t reflected in what we now have as an official record of property deeds, but my father told me the families entered into a compact—a contract, if you will—by which their land was to be held and worked in common, for the good of all. The document was signed and dated, but no record-keeping office was available at that time for its safekeeping. Indians were still a threat, of course. Only one copy of the document existed, so who was to keep it? How would they know it was safe?”
“I can’t say that I’ve ever seen such an historic document,” Henrietta said. “Who did keep it? Where has it gone?”
“My dear, that is the kind of mystery that plagues a surveyor’s heart. The families are said to have buried the document in a small chest, the location to be marked by a stone.”
“Like pirate treasure? What fun!”
“Aye, but no one knows if the story is true, or what actually happened. And someone surely would have noticed such an odd stone, even if they weren’t aware of its purpose. Unfortunately, Josiah, too, eventually succumbed to the pox. As time passed and the survivors among the families got themselves better secured, knowledge of the location of the agreement, or even of its existence, was eventually forgotten.”
“How sad,” Henrietta said.
“Hmmm.” Not sad for the Whitfields, Browning thought. They managed to do better than the Sterlings, and, from the looks of it, even the Johnsons. He gazed out the window at the acres of mowed pasture and carefully tended fields.
“Henry came later to Ridgetop,” he said, “and I doubt he knows anything about the history of the valley.”
“He’s never mentioned such a thing to me,” Henrietta said. “Although he’s always held the business close to his vest. I’m not sure he’d approve of this land agreement you speak of. Thomas Johnson surely would not.”
“At this point it’s only speculation. If such an agreement were found, and it proved to be legal, it would take some sorting out. It could change everything for the families.”
“I’m glad it’s Henry’s problem. If something should befall the poor man and he doesn’t return, I’m not sure I could carry on with this farm by myself.”
Browning put a reassuring hand on her arm. “I have no doubt he will return, Henrietta. A team of oxen couldn’t keep him away from you.” Browning smiled, but he looked away to keep from revealing his true thoughts on that matter. He hadn’t consciously considered the idea that Henry might not come back, and he couldn’t bring himself to wish the man ill.
Later that evening, after Browning had excused himself, Henrietta sat on the porch again in the dark to watch for Henry. Left alone, her sadness returned. Henry’s and Abigail’s absence, the idea that her family could be in trouble somewhere, and Browning’s talk of history, caused her to dwell on her own long life in Ridgetop. She wondered where she’d be that very day if Browning had come back to her in Virginia so long ago. They’d have been married and life might have been very good.
But her life hadn’t been so bad in Tennessee with Henry. Watching Abigail grow up and playing with her friends. Seeing her become a fine young—wait. A dim memory of Abigail’s childhood intruded on her thoughts, unbidden.
It was a late summer day when the children came into the house after a game of hide-and-seek. Henrietta had been more concerned about the children’s muddy feet but, yes, the children had told a fanciful story about an odd stone with carvings on it. They thought it might be a grave, or a marker for buried treasure, but the grownups had dismissed those foolish ideas. What the carvings were she couldn’t remember, but they’d had something to do with the families. Could that have been the stone in Archie’s story?
She rose from her chair, went out the screen door, and walked down the familiar path in the moonlit darkness to the guest cottage. A candle glowed in one window, indicating that Browning had not yet retired, even though the hour was late. She started toward the door to knock. Then she thought better of it.
Could the candle have been meant for her? Was it an invitation to join Archie in the cottage? Or did she simply wish that were so? Archie hadn’t made any personal advances toward her since arriving, but he wasn’t the kind of man who would. He would naturally want to know whether Henrietta still had feelings for him first. Then a candle at such a late hour might be his way of letting her take the first step, if she chose.
She hadn’t come there for love, although surprisingly, the idea of it warmed her. She sighed and ran her hand through her hair to straighten it, but then she turned around and walked away. She got no more than twenty feet from the cottage before she turned back around to look at the candlelit window. She stood in the dark a full ten minutes, playing visions in her head of what might happen if she knocked on the door, or if Browning came outside and discovered her. The longer she stood there, the more she ached to knock, to see if any of her fantasies came true. No, of course they wouldn’t. She’d made her choices long ago and she had to live with them. She sighed again, picked up the hem of her skirt, and walked back to the main house, to her own chilly bedroom.
They could talk about the odd, three-sided stone in the morning.
At breakfast, Henrietta couldn’t help but consider Archie Browning in a new light. She watched him butter his toast and sip his coffee. He smiled at her and made small talk, but the ordinary tasks of eating the morning meal gave her no clue as to his deeper thoughts or how he felt about her now. Obviously he still had some feelings for her, although until the previous night she hadn’t seriously considered the implications. She didn’t need to speculate.
The man still loved her. He wouldn’t have come to the farm, much less stayed as long as he had, if that weren’t true. But he truly had been a gentleman. He made little mention of their courting days in Virginia, or of the longing he felt for her in all the intervening years. He wanted nothing from her now, or so he said. He simply acted as her steady companion as she waited for Henry and Abigail to return.
She shouldn’t have been surprised. They were grownups, after all, and not subject to the barely controllable urges that tortured youngsters in love. Ah, but the urges hadn’t disappeared entirely. Her cheeks turned warm as she remembered standing outside the cottage in the dark.
“You seem rather distracted this morning,” Browning said, setting down his coffee cup. “I’d give a penny for your thoughts.”
“My thoughts?” Henrietta started from her reverie. “They’re not worth a penny, I assure you.”
“You have a lot on your mind, I know. I’m sure he’s fine, but I wish we had some news from Henry to end the mystery of his absence.”
“The mystery? Yes!” Henrietta remembered their c
onversation of the day before. “I don’t know about Henry, but I may know something about the stone you spoke of.”
“Ah, the stone. Tell me. I need a clue.”
“There is a stone, I’m sure of it. Abigail and her friends found it when they were children. We thought they were making up stories. They were quite insistent at the time, but nobody went looking for it.”
Browning sat up straight. “Do you remember where they said it was?”
“No, they weren’t very specific, if I recall. But they’d been playing near the creek. I remember that.”
“That might be good enough. I have the current legal descriptions of the county properties, and I have my equipment. With your permission, I’ll do a little snooping near the creek. See what I can find.”
“Of course.” Henrietta smiled, happy to give Browning something to do besides tend to her needs. Then she wondered what Henry would think.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
March 6, 1836
Just before sunrise, Abigail found her father standing guard, his musket resting between the sharpened points of the wooden stockade, his gaze on the Mexican cooking fires, which were visible in the dim light almost a half mile away.
It struck Abigail that she still thought of him as her father. Even if Archie Browning’s story were true, how could she not? She marveled at the changes she’d seen in him over the last few days. He seemed kinder, gentler than she’d ever known him. Had he always been that way and she hadn’t realized it, or had her reckless behavior caused him to become a different man? She might never know. What she finally understood is that the stern father she had grown up with loved her with all his heart. As only a father could have.
He must have heard her footsteps on the wooden planking, but he kept his gaze outward, toward the enemy. When she finally stood at his shoulder, he looked down and put an arm around her.
“How’s he doing?” he asked.
“I don’t know. His wound has stopped bleeding and we’ve kept it clean, but I’m worried.”