by S. B. Moores
The noise of the battle outside gradually rose to a crescendo, then the cannon and musket fire diminished, replaced by the clash of steel and shouts of men. The enemy was within the walls. The men were fighting hand-to-hand now, with no time to reload. As a precaution, Abigail took the small pistol from her purse, checked the load, and put the gun in her apron pocket. What good it would be against the entire Mexican army, she had no idea, but having it with her gave her some comfort.
She returned her attention to the wounds of the men lying in front of her. She stripped bandages from sheets of cotton, cleansing and dressing wounds as quickly as she could. Every few minutes she would glance in the direction of the chapel altar, half expecting Justin to stumble forth and demand to get back into the fight. She prayed he would sleep long enough for the battle to be over.
In the middle of helping Susannah dress a man’s torn leg, she realized she no longer heard the relentless din of fighting. On the other side of the wounded man, Susannah’s hands stilled. Abigail looked up. More than a dozen uniformed Mexican soldiers crouched in the doorway of the chapel. Their bayonets were leveled, ready to attack, but they waited, seemingly uncertain what to do with women and the wounded.
Susannah stood up and faced the soldiers, wiping her bloodied hands on a rag.
“Espere.” She gestured at the men lying on cots around her. “Sólo tenemos aquí los hombres heridos.”
Abigail hoped they got the gist of what she’d said. There would be no resistance. There were only wounded men left in the chapel.
One Mexican soldier pushed through the group. From the gold braid on his uniform and his sword, Abigail assumed he was an officer. He glanced around at the many wounded men lying on pallets and low cots. Then, looking at the women, he pointed his sword back at the chapel entrance.
“Todas las mujeres tienen que salirse . . . Ahora!”
The Mexican women nodded and gathered up their skirts. Juana Alsbury looked at Abigail. “They want us to leave, go outside.”
“Vamonos!” the officer shouted.
“I think we should obey.” Susannah picked up Angelina.
Abigail set down her bandages and walked with Susannah, Juana, and the other Mexican women toward the chapel entrance. The soldiers kept their bayonets leveled at them as if they expected the women to attack them as fiercely as their men had. But they gradually moved aside so the women could pass.
In the yard in front of the chapel, the light of the midmorning sun was shrouded by dust and smoke, which lay like a pall over a scene of complete destruction. At the smell of it, Abigail took a bandage from her sash and held it over her nose and mouth. The wooden stockade where her father and Justin had fought was breached in several places and lay in ruins. Parts of it were smoldering and on fire. The bodies of soldiers, Mexican and American, lay everywhere, some still in each other’s grasp, where they’d fought to the very the moment they died. Muskets, swords, and all manner of equipment lay broken and scattered. Even the branches of the apple trees in the courtyard had been shredded by gunfire.
Abigail scanned the ruined stockade with every step she took. She wanted to run to the wall and look for her father, but her feet were leaden, and she and the others were hemmed in by soldiers. Any Americans or Texicans she saw appeared to be dead. The only men left standing were Mexican soldiers and the black man, Joe, whose hands were bound as a prisoner.
She and Joe caught each other’s eye, and she felt the despair written on his face. Joe had fought alongside Colonel Travis, but the Mexicans must have spared his life for some reason. Perhaps they thought Joe, a slave, had been forced to fight. Perhaps they were saving him for some special execution.
Her father might have been taken away, too, but he’d said the Mexicans wouldn’t take any prisoners. Other than Joe and the women and children, it didn’t look as if they had. She thought she’d seen enough fighting and death to have become accustomed to it, but the idea that her father and all the other men she’d talked to that morning were gone threatened to overwhelm her. She no longer wanted to see her father in death, especially if his wounds were severe. Now she only feared for Justin. She prayed he remained hidden, at least until the fever of battle subsided, if not his own fever. With the conflict over and won, perhaps the Mexicans wouldn’t execute him on sight.
Abigail and the others were herded toward the south gate, which had been thrown open. Since they were mere women, the Mexicans might have considered them harmless. In any case, they were not searched. She could feel the weight of the small pistol bumping against her thigh as she walked. The women were brought to a halt in front of a group of officers, deep in discussions, who paid them no attention. One man noticed them, then the others. One officer came forward. He was shorter than most of the others, but with a more impressive uniform and braiding. He removed his bicorn hat and nodded courteously. When he spoke, his English was excellent.
“I am Generalissimo Antonio López de Santa Anna,” he said. “And you are my prisoners.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
March 8, 1836
The distant noise concerned Justin, demanded his attention, but he wasn’t sure of its source or why it was so important. His eyes fluttered, not fully opening, but he saw nothing but darkness. He felt his coat covering him like a blanket. His head throbbed too much for him to want to open his eyes. His shoulders and hips ached, and his stomach rumbled with hunger. Through his pain he remembered that he’d injured his head somehow. At that moment the “how” didn’t matter as much as the hurt. He knew Abby would be concerned about him, but the idea that she was somewhere nearby comforted him. Not wanting to worry her, he let himself slip back into unconsciousness.
In his dream, Justin was back in the Ridgetop fields near his home, near the creek where he once played hide-and-seek with Abby and Tobias. The sun was shining, he was a child again, and he was happy. Not a care in the world. Barefoot, he lay on his back under the shade of an elm tree with a long piece of sweetgrass in his teeth. Abby stood over him, trying to get his attention. He had a dopey grin on his face as he admired her every moment. But Abby wasn’t smiling. She reached down and shook his shoulders.
He looked in the direction she pointed and saw row after row of uniformed Mexican soldiers marching slowly, mechanically toward them. Their faces were blank, expressionless. Their ranks stretched to the horizon on either side, an endless army of identical soldiers, each one wearing a tall uniform hat, with bayonet leveled and coming steadily toward them. Then he was running, pulling Abby away with one hand, while he tried to load his musket with the other. Fumbling, he managed to get off one shot at nearly point blank range, but hit nothing. The Mexicans continued their lock-step advance, and no matter how fast he ran or how much he pulled Abby, he couldn’t put any distance between them and the slow marching enemy. Abby screamed and he awoke.
He saw nothing but blackness, and his eyes couldn’t quite focus. He tried to raise his head and quickly hit his forehead on a wooden plank. That hurt. He lay back down to let the pain subside while he tried to make sense of his surroundings. At the corners of his vision he saw dust particles dancing in the air. They shone along narrow bands of sunlight that streamed through slits, which ran from head to toe on either side of him. The slits were about a foot apart. He felt like he was lying down with his coat over him, but he was facing a wall of wooden boards. How could that be?
For a moment he almost panicked, thinking he was in a coffin, mistaken for dead and prematurely buried. But the sunlight streaming through the slits reassured him. If he was in a coffin, it was one of sloppy construction, and he wasn’t underground. Not yet, at least. He turned his head slowly against the pain and looked to either side. More boards formed walls on both sides of him, a few inches away. They didn’t quite touch his shoulders and, as far as he could tell, the distance between them didn’t narrow toward his feet, as they would in a coffin. Then he recognized the construction. The boards on either side of him were joists. He was lying on a blank
et underneath a wooden floor. Who had put him there? Why?
He almost called out for help, but something stopped him. The last thing he remembered, he was at the Alamo Mission and facing an overwhelming army of Mexicans. But he heard nothing overhead. No sounds of battle. No footsteps. Not even conversation. The silence from the other side of the boards wasn’t natural and he remained cautious. Besides, whoever had put him where he was must have had a good reason.
He judged the distance between his nose and the surface in front of his face at no more than five to six inches. Not much, but enough room to move his arms up to his sides to get some leverage against the boards. He listened again but still heard nothing. He pushed aside his coat, pressed his hands flat against the boards, and increased the pressure. The nails squeaked, but they moved easily. He stopped and listened. Still no sound. Finally he pushed the boards away from his face and let them drop to the side. Staring up at the distant ceiling, it took him a few seconds to realize he was lying in the chapel. The stale, acrid smell of burned wood, gunpowder, and, yes, flesh filled his nose and he almost gagged. With some effort he sat up and rested his elbows on the floor next to the hole. From that angle he saw his saddlebag lying at his feet, along with a length of rope. His musket lay under the floorboards too.
“Interesting,” he muttered. “I’ve been buried like an Egyptian pharaoh, with all of my belongings.” He touched the bandage around his head and winced. “I’m not dead, but I might feel better if I were.”
He threw his coat aside, lifted himself up and out of the opening, and rolled over until he lay on the floor. His mind raced at the implications of what had happened to him and the lack of any significant sounds. Only a steady spring breeze gusted through the gaping chapel windows. A thousand questions ran through his mind. Where had everyone gone? Had the battle ended? Was Abby still alive? If so, where was she? Was it she who’d put him under the floor? Why? He had to get outside and find someone for answers.
Moving his limbs took away a bit of their ache and stiffness. Feeling better, he got to his knees, then stood up. His head spun for a moment, but he steadied himself against the wooden altar, which was taller than he by four feet. He knelt back down and reached into the opening to retrieve his musket, bag, and rope.
He also found a small leather pouch. It wasn’t his, and it must have lain under the floor much longer than he had. It was so covered with dust that it was almost indistinguishable from the dirt. He picked it up and blew at the dust. Inside the faded, cracked leather he felt what must have been metal coins.
“My lucky day,” he said. “In more ways than one.” He put the pouch in his coat pocket.
He coiled the rope and put it over his head and one shoulder. Then he looked at the bag and remembered that he had carried a portion of jerked beef. He flipped the bag open, found the beef, and tore off a chunk with his teeth, letting it dissolve slowly in his mouth. The salty taste of it almost overwhelmed him, but he refused to chew until the beef had softened, since chewing hurt his head. After swallowing the beef, he looked into the bag again and realized whoever had placed him under the floor included a small leather water flask and some hardtack. He popped the cork stopper from the flask and swallowed a mouthful of water. His strength was slowly returning. He replaced the cork, put the water flask in his saddlebag, and hoisted the bag onto his shoulder.
Taking up his musket, he stepped around the weathered chapel altar. What he saw of the open nave concerned him greatly. There were no bodies, but the floor was strewn with pallets, stretchers, blankets, bandages, and other materials necessary for tending the wounded. There must have been a lot of wounded. Dark pools of blood ran over on the floor and stained most of the bedding materials. No one had bothered to clean the room, which didn’t bode well for the outcome of the battle. Then to his left, he saw two elderly Hispanic women. They had been kneeling in silent prayer, but they looked up at him in disbelief. His sudden appearance from behind the altar must have startled them. They crossed themselves repeatedly and stared at him.
“Buenos días,” he said, using some of the Spanish he’d picked up during his time in Texas. “Por favor. Donde estan los hombres Americanos?”
“Ah,” one of the women said. “Muerte.” She crossed herself again. “Todos son muerte. Lo siento, mucho, señor.”
Muerte was a word he understood. Dead. Everyone? Could that be? He refused to believe everyone had died. Not Abigail. Not his child. He couldn’t face that, and he wouldn’t believe it until he saw the proof with his own eyes.
“Y los soldados Mexicanos?” he asked carefully. He wasn’t sure where the old women’s sympathies lay.
“Ido. Todo se ha ido.”
Justin didn’t understand the words, but the woman waved her hand in the air, indicating that everyone had gone away.
“Gracias.”
The woman talked rapidly to each other in Spanish while Justin stumbled toward the chapel entrance, fearful of what he’d see. Outside, squinting in the sunlight, he could tell the destroyed compound had been the scene of a fierce battle. Once again, there were no bodies, but bloodstained sand and ruined equipment lay everywhere. Whiffs of smoke still rose from the smoldering wood of the stockade, and from the interior of the low barracks. He didn’t want to look inside, but he made himself. He didn’t find anyone alive or dead within the wreckage of the rooms. That might have been a good sign had it not been for the foul smell of burned flesh, hints of which wafted through the air.
The main gate of the compound lay open and, outside the walls, Justin immediately came upon a large disturbed area of scorched earth. Apparently the bodies of the dead had been burned, and then hastily buried in the Texas soil. He did not look too closely, but a piece of scorched buckskin and a twisted, melted pair of spectacles told him the men buried here had been defenders, not the Mexican dead. He wouldn’t know whether Henry, Abigail, and his child had met their fate in this funeral pyre, but many of the men he’d known surely had. Undoubtedly he’d been hidden under the chapel floor while he was unconscious to escape this fate. They must have known the fight was hopeless. Tears sprang to his eyes. He dropped to his knees and wept, his fingers clawing at the charred earth.
After a few moments he set his jaw and wiped his eyes. He refused to believe God was cruel enough to make him a father and take away the mother and his child so quickly. He would seek news elsewhere and find out if any of the Americans had walked away. If no one survived, truly he had nothing to live for. He would find other Texicans, men who continued the fight, and he would avenge the loss of his family.
He heard a nickering sound. When he looked up he saw a brown and white pinto mare. It had no saddle, and it was grazing quietly on the spring grass just outside the wall, a mere thirty yards away.
“Hello there, girl.” He made some quiet kissing sounds. The horse raised its head and looked at him briefly, then it went back to eating. More importantly, it didn’t run away. It probably wasn’t wild. Justin dropped his musket and saddlebag and fashioned a loop in the end of the rope. Then he pulled up a few sprigs of nearby alfalfa. With the rope behind his back, he rose to his feet. Holding the alfalfa snack out in front of him, he slowly made his way toward the grazing animal.
Susannah Dickenson, a soldier’s wife, seemed to know what was expected of prisoners of the Mexican army. Abigail stayed close to Susannah and helped her with Angelina whenever she could. They were fed as well as could be expected by an army on the march, often dining with General Santa Anna in his personal tent, but Abigail had little appetite. Occasionally she thought about the pistol still hidden among her meager belongings. Using it on General Santa Anna would have been appropriate revenge for her father’s death, but such an act would certainly mean her own death, too.
As much as she might want revenge, she wouldn’t do anything. She was with child and her life was no longer her own. Justin might still be alive, somewhere, and that let her cling to the dim, flickering hope that someday they’d be reunited. That th
ey could go back to the life they’d once known, only now as man and wife. Those thoughts, foolish as they might have been, sustained her and kept her going with each passing day.
The general seemed particularly taken with Susannah and Abigail. He did everything he could to make Abigail comfortable, too, after learning she was pregnant. He expressed sincere regret that Susannah’s husband had been among the casualties. Such was his concern that he offered to send Angelina to a school in Mexico City and raise the girl as his own daughter. Under the circumstances, Susannah expressed gratitude for the general’s concern and politely declined his offers of help. Fearing to press the matter, the women had no idea when or if they would ever be freed to return to the United States. They were allowed to ride in a supply wagon when the army marched away from the ruined mission, looking for other rebellious Americans who claimed territory belonging to Mexico.
Abigail was numb to the buzzing activity around her. She couldn’t quite grasp that her father had been killed, along with all of the other men who’d defended the Alamo, except Joe. She hadn’t seen her father’s body, but the Mexicans insisted there hadn’t been any other survivors. She wept at night when she was alone in the women’s tent, but she had to accept the awful truth. Her father was gone.
No one ever mentioned a man hiding under the floorboards of the chapel, but Abigail understood little of the many conversations in Spanish she overheard. If Justin survived his wound and found his way out of the Alamo, he’d probably assume Abigail had died along with everyone else. He’d go back to Tennessee and give the grim news to her mother. She had no idea what he’d do then, but at least he’d be alive. She took some comfort in that thought. She could only imagine how her mother would receive the news of Abigail and her father’s death. All alone at home, the poor woman would be beside herself with grief. If only Abigail could send word to Tennessee. For the time being, however, they were in a strange and hostile land, and at the mercy of the Mexican army.