by S. B. Moores
“There’s not much more you can do.”
“His injury doesn’t seem so severe, but he hasn’t awakened.”
“It’s a head wound.” He put his hand back on the stock of his gun and looked out at the Mexicans’ camp. “We know so little about what head wounds do to the human mind. Only time will tell.”
“I keep thinking of Tobias’s Uncle Abraham.”
“The one who fell from the barn loft two years ago?”
“Yes. He slept for more than ten days, and only then passed away.”
“I remember. But poor Abraham didn’t have you waiting by his bedside.”
“I wish there were more we could do for Justin. He calls to me in his sleep.”
“I’m not surprised. You’re the most important thing in the world to him.”
“And he to me. I don’t know if I’d want to go on living without him.”
“I know,” her father said. “More importantly, Justin knows it, too. Right now he’s wrestling with God. They’re trying to work out between them if it’s Justin’s time. I’m certain Justin is presenting a very strong argument before the Lord. You should have faith. I know he’ll come back to us, but . . .”
“But it may not be in time? Is that what you mean?”
He looked down at his hands, then at her. “Abigail. If you can find it in your heart, please . . . please forgive me for not seeing earlier the feelings you and Justin have for each other.”
“Oh, Father.” She put her arms around him. “There’s no need—”
“No,” he said. “That’s not right. I did see it. I did. I just thought. I just didn’t—”
She hugged him. “You did what you thought was right.”
“I was a fool.”
“No, Father. You love me. I know that.”
“You’re a wonderful girl, Abby, and I always wanted the best for you.”
Abigail noted his use of the past tense. She, too, looked over the wall at the Mexicans making preparations for the day’s battle.
“Is it hopeless?” she asked.
His gazed dropped to his musket. “I can’t lie to you. For me, perhaps, and the rest of the men, it may be. You heard the Mexicans’ bugle call, earlier?”
“We all heard it. It was a strange thing to hear over a battlefield.”
“The Mexicans called it El Degüello. They play it when . . . when they want you to know they don’t intend to take any prisoners.”
“What? How can they do that?”
He chuckled. “They have all the guns, dear. In the end, they’ll do pretty much whatever they want.”
“But there are women here. And children.”
“Aye, and God willing, the Mexicans will spare them since they’re not combatants. The men tell me Santa Anna is a crazy fool, but he still has the Spanish sense of dignity.”
“Perhaps he’s had enough fight. Perhaps he’ll decide it’s not worth attacking the mission again.”
“No, lass. It’s precisely because we’ve bested his men so far that Santa Anna won’t quit. That is the Spanish pride. Unfortunately, we no longer have enough men, powder, or shot to stop him.”
“Hasn’t Colonel Travis sent for reinforcements? They could—”
He put a hand on her arm. “Abigail. When Santa Anna comes again, it will be the end. We may all be with God by the end of the day.”
She stood next to him, her mouth open in shock as they looked out over the calm, grassy field that lay between the mission and the Mexican troops.
“Justin,” she said. “He doesn’t deserve this.”
“Nor do you, or any of us, I suppose. But it’s the price men pay when they take up arms for a cause.”
“Justin is wounded. He can’t even fight back.”
“I wish there were something I could do,” he said.
“Maybe there is. Father, do you have any orange blossoms?”
“Aye. Your mother thought I might have trouble sleeping on the ground. But—”
“Where are they?”
“They’re in the saddlebags, next to my bunk.” He pointed along the wall to the low barracks at the end of the stockade.
She put both hands on his arm. “May I have them, please, for Justin?”
“Of course, my dear.”
“Thank you.”
She kissed him on the cheek and hurried to the barracks. She found the soft, deer-leather bag and held it in her hand, gauging the weight of it, trying to determine how many of the orange blossoms she’d need. She took the whole bag and hurried outside, past the stockade where Henry still stood guard. The sky had lightened. Morning had come. She went into the chapel where the wounded lay and found Mrs. Dickenson talking softly to a man with a shoulder wound.
“Everything will be all right,” Mrs. Dickenson told the man but, by the look on his face, Abigail could tell he didn’t believe it.
“Pardon me, Susannah.” She gestured toward the back of the chapel near the altar, where Justin and the more seriously wounded men lay. “Could you help me for a moment?”
“Surely, dear.” Susannah patted the wounded man on his good arm, rose to her feet, and followed Abigail.
She found Justin lying in the same position on his pallet as she’d seen him almost an hour earlier, and she feared he might be dead. She paused a moment and watched his chest. When it rose with his next breath, she relaxed and turned to Susannah.
“My father has given me a quantity of orange blossoms. I wish to make a potion for Justin to make him sleep.”
Susannah gave Abigail a questioning look. “It’s a remedy I have used myself on occasion, but Justin is already asleep.”
“My fear is that he will awake and return to the fight, but he’s in no condition—”
“And the Mexicans may spare the wounded, especially one who’s not conscious.” Susannah finished her thought. “That’s exactly what Justin would do. It’s a good plan.”
Susannah helped her prepare the potion, using a measure of brandy, the only liquid other than water available for cleaning wounds. She handed Abigail a full cup. “That should be enough. With your permission, I will use the rest of this, and make some additional mixture to give to the other wounded.”
“Of course.”
Susannah left. Abigail sat down and cradled Justin’s head carefully in her lap. Lifting the cup to his lips, she coaxed him to swallow the potion.
“Drink, my love,” she whispered.
“Mmmm?” Justin moaned. His eyes fluttered but didn’t open.
“Drink for me and sleep.” She stroked his forehead, brushing back his long black hair, careful not to touch the darkly stained bandage around his head. Justin’s lips parted and Abigail fed him the slightest bit of the potion that would keep him from choking. He swallowed, started to cough, but then sighed. She gave him some more and continued to feed him until the potion was gone.
“I wish we were home,” she whispered. “You and me, lying under an elm tree, next to the cool creek. I would feed you grapes. You would tell me how beautiful my hair is, shining in the sunlight. I would tell you how much I love you.”
A tear trailed down her cheek, but she brushed it away before it could fall on Justin’s face.
“You must forgive me for what I’m going to do,” she said. “I need you to live. Our baby needs you to live.”
Gently she laid his head back on the pallet. Then she rose to her feet and looked around the nave. Daylight was beginning to show through the glassless windows. Susannah and the other women were tending the wounded. No one was watching her.
She stepped carefully behind the slightly elevated chapel altar. Hidden from view, she tested the floorboards with her feet, alternately putting her weight on one leg, then releasing it. The flooring here consisted of dry wooden planks almost a foot wide and six feet long. They were as old and badly worn as those in the rest of the chapel, and she quickly found what she was looking for. The end of one wide plank squeaked when she put her weight on it, and one end ro
se almost half an inch. She got down on her knees and gripped the loose end of the board, pulling at it until the full length of it popped free. She stopped, fearful someone would look behind the altar to find out what had made the odd noise. All she heard were a few moans from the wounded and snoring from some others. She carefully set the board aside and peered into the dark space where the plank had been removed. She couldn’t see what was below, so she reached down into the space, hoping her hand wouldn’t land on a scurrying rat, or a hairy tarantula. Her fingers found dry dirt nearly an arm’s length below the floor. Good. Plenty of room. She worked at a second plank until it, too, came loose, and she had created an opening in the floor six feet long and two feet wide.
She rose to her feet and went back to where Justin lay. His breathing seemed deeper, his sleep more sound, hopefully the result of the orange blossoms. Standing at Justin’s head, she bent down and gripped the corners of the blanket on which he lay. Slowly, carefully, she lifted and pulled, using greater effort until at last Justin started to slide toward her. Taking advantage of her momentum, she continued to pull, sliding him and his blanket behind the altar until his head lay at one end of the long opening in the floor. She stopped to catch her breath. Then she stepped into the hole, turned and pulled Justin toward her, holding the blanket up to keep his head and shoulders from falling. When she had pulled him far enough, his bottom dropped. Now he was sitting in the hole, his ankles still resting on floorboards, and his head and shoulders suspended on the blanket she held in her hands. With one last tug, his feet dropped into the hole, and she gently set the rest of his body down.
Justin moaned, but he didn’t wake up.
As gently as she could, she wriggled out from under Justin and climbed out of the hole. She made two more trips to the hole, leaving Justin’s musket and a few other belongings. Kneeling over the opening, she made sure he lay fully on the blanket, and that his arms and legs were in a comfortable position. Sitting on her knees, she bent down and placed a soft kiss on his lips.
“Goodbye, my love. I’m counting on you to live.”
Justin moaned again, but this time it didn’t sound like he was in pain.
She stood and took her time replacing the floorboards. She stood on the square metal nails as hard as she could to fix them back in place. When she finished, she heard the first sounds of Mexican cannon fire. Shells exploded in the courtyard, throwing up dirt and dust. Shouting men ran to and fro.
The battle had begun.
Abigail ran toward the front doors of the chapel, but Susannah reached out and clutched her sleeve, stopping her.
“You’ll only be in the way,” she said.
“My father’s out there. I have to go.”
Susannah gave her a wan smile and let go of her sleeve. “We’ll be here when you come back.”
Abigail ran from the chapel and into a mass of confusion, cannon fire, and smoke. Musket shot rattled from all sides. She raced toward the wooden stockade, dodging men carrying powder and shot to the walls and wounded men stumbling back. She made her way to the wall, just beneath where her father stood. As she watched, he fired his musket. When he turned and crouched down to reload, he saw her.
“Get away,” he said. “Go to the chapel!”
“Let me help you!” she shouted.
“We have enough to worry about.” He reached down and briefly held her outstretched hand. “I need to know you’re as safe as you can be.”
Half a dozen bullets shattered the wood on the tips of the stockade wall behind him. Splinters tore through Abigail’s hair and raked her cheek. Involuntarily she turned her head and let go of her father’s hand.
“Go now!” he shouted. “Remember me and tell your mother I think of her. I love you!” He cocked his musket and stood up to fire over the wall.
Tears filled her eyes as she turned away. She could barely find her way back to the chapel, stumbling through a confusion of smoke and dust, and screaming men. Inside the chapel the din outside barely diminished. She found Susannah and the other women tending the newly wounded and went to help them.
She tried not to think about what was happening outside, what could happen to them all.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Whitfield Farm, Ridgetop County, Tennessee, March 7, 1836
Archie Browning stood in a field of tall grass and leaned on his shovel. He was near the edge of the Whitfield property, beyond the fields they regularly planted or grazed. Fifty yards or so in front of him lay what his survey papers called Little Elk Creek. It wasn’t hard to make out the path of the creek bed, lined as it was by broad-leafed ferns, black willow trees, and cottonwoods. It formed a natural barrier between the Whitfield property and the neighboring lands. As he scanned the area, he tried to imagine himself a boy, ten or twelve years old, and playing hideand-go-seek in the field. Where would he run? Where would he hide? A number of small, man-made structures, sheds, windmills, and farm equipment dotted the field, all of them inviting places for a child to hide.
But that wouldn’t be where he’d find the stone, if it existed. Nor would the stone be placed in the middle of a field, where it might be struck by a plow or take up valuable planting space. No, the early settlers would have placed it near a prominent natural landmark, where it could be located later. Like the creek.
Studying the survey drawing in his hands, he realized the creek branched almost half a mile upstream from where he stood. The narrowing Y-shaped point of land formed by the intersecting creek beds enclosed the lower portion of the Sterling property, which reached uphill from there. Not the best land for cultivation. But, if the stories about the stone were true, the confluence of the creeks would be a natural location for the stone monument, since it marked the one place were all three families’ properties met.
He decided to look there first. He picked up his shovel, tucked his survey papers under his arm, and started walking toward the confluence. His gaze swept back and forth, searching for anything out of the ordinary. Where he saw deer paths worn through the grass, he followed them, since a running child might also follow them to a hiding place, even though he knew the stone wouldn’t be in the middle of a path. At the confluence, the banks of both creeks were overgrown with grasses, ferns, willows, and other vegetation. A good hiding place, but it wouldn’t afford complete concealment.
Just below the confluence the larger, combined, creek bed turned away from him, toward the Johnson property. He stepped to the edge of the creek and looked over the bank. Below him, water burbled and bounced over rocks. The increased volume and flow had cut away a portion of the near-side bank beneath him. Essentially, he was standing on a ledge. Leaning outward, he could see the dark shadow of the empty space below. It would have been an excellent hiding place, especially at a time of low flow, as in late summer when the water wouldn’t rise high enough in the creek to fill the undercut space.
But the creek bed on that day would not be the same as it had been ten or fifteen years earlier. With the force of rushing water, the bend would have moved downhill and downstream over time. If such an undercut bank existed earlier, it would have been upstream from where he now stood, but probably not far away.
He turned north, toward the Sterling property, and made his way with some difficulty along the creek. Here there had not been many cattle, at least recently, and there were few worn pathways. His pant legs swooshed through thigh-high grass and he had to bend low to pass under willows. He saw nothing unusual, nothing that looked like a stone monument.
Finally he stopped and set down the shovel. He pulled off his broad-brimmed hat and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. What kind of foolishness was this, anyway? Here he was, tramping around in an overgrown field, looking for a stone that no one living could remember, and which could have been nothing more than a children’s story. He was lucky he hadn’t stepped on a cottonmouth or a copperhead. No, without more information, he might as well be searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack.
He wasn’t sure
how Henrietta would feel if he found the monument, anyway. If there was a contract among the families, it would only serve to dilute the Whitfields’ interest in what they’d considered their land for at least three generations. Of course, the contract also would have provided them with an interest in tracts of land well beyond their own holdings, but that interest would be shared by the other families. Perhaps it was better that he never found the mythical stone.
He plopped his hat back on his head, scooped up his shovel, and started walking away from the stream. He shielded his eyes with one hand and looked to the far side of the field for the quickest route back to the Whitfield house without retracing his steps.
“Ouch!” His foot hit something solid and he barked his shin. He pitched forward and his hat flew off as he let go of the shovel and survey maps. He landed facedown in the thick, damp grass. Lying on his stomach, he propped himself on his elbows and whispered a curse through the tall blades of grass that pressed against his face and tickled his cheeks. He could tell without looking that he’d torn his pants and that his leg was bleeding. Not badly, but the injury smarted. The injury to his pride was worse. Surveyors were supposed to know where things were, not trip over them.
He crawled to his feet and went to examine what he’d stumbled over. A stone. He almost kicked it, but then saw that it had three smooth sides and was capped in a pyramid. Moss and lichens had grown over most of the stone’s three faces, but he could still see where writing had been chiseled into each flat surface, like a gravestone.
“Lord a’mighty,” he said. “It’s true after all.”
He looked around for his shovel.
The Alamo Mission
Early in the battle, the flow of wounded men brought into the chapel on stretchers seemed unending, but now it began to slow. To Abigail, this was an ominous sign. There might not be enough men left outside to carry on the fight and help the wounded at the same time. Thankfully, so far none of the wounded men was her father. He would either be killed outright or taken prisoner, if any prisoners were taken. He’d said their situation was hopeless, that the Mexicans were sure to win. But what that meant for any surviving defenders she didn’t know. If the Mexicans won, they would come to the chapel sooner or later. She would face that when it happened.