Deep in the Heart

by Gilbert, Morris

  I could make him want me. The thought came to Julie as a challenge. She made a sudden decision and then walked up and said, “Hello, Rhys.”

  “Oh, hello, Julie. Come out to see the moon?”

  “It is pretty, isn’t it?”

  Overhead the moon was a huge silver disc, and the stars were already winking in the skies. The air was cold, and Julie moved closer to Rhys. She deliberately pressed against him and whispered, “It is cold out here, isn’t it?”

  Any other man she knew would have taken this as an invitation, and when Rhys moved away from her just enough to avoid her touch, Julie grew slightly angry, and she did not know why. She put her arm through his and said, “Let’s walk a bit.”

  “All right.”

  Julie pressed herself firmly against Rhys, and the two spoke of the beauty of the night. When they paused, Julie said, “Rhys, I get so lonely.” He had turned to face her, and she was standing directly in front of him. She looked up into his face and whispered, “Don’t you ever get lonely, Rhys?”

  Rhys did not answer for a moment, and then he cleared his throat. “Sure, I guess every man does.”

  Julie put her hands on Rhys’ shoulders and said, “You don’t have to be lonely, Rhys. And I don’t either.” She pulled his head down and kissed him. After one moment of resistance, Rhys passionately returned her kiss.

  Shocked, Julie put her hands on his chest and stepped back, suddenly angry with herself. She knew he was just as shocked, for she could see a self-disgust in his eyes.

  “Julie, I . . . I didn’t mean to—”

  “I’m a rotten woman, Rhys!” she said bitterly.

  “What? Why would you say that?”

  “I wanted to see if I could make you want me.”

  Rhys shook his head and said, “I didn’t take much temptation, did I? But I’ve always found you attractive, Julie.”

  The words came as a shock to Julie. “You never showed it.”

  “A man has to fight against things like that if he’s trying to serve God.” Rhys’ face showed shame, and he started to turn away from her. “I thought I was stronger than this, but I guess not.”

  “You’re a good man, Rhys,” Julie said quickly. She caught him by the arm and turned him around and looked at him. “You’re one of the few good men I’ve ever known.”

  “I wasn’t very good just now.”

  His words were bitter, and Julie could tell Rhys was disappointed with himself.

  “Any woman can stir a man up. I’m no good. That’s the problem.”

  “I think there’s something good in you, Julie.”

  Julie glanced up at Rhys, startled at his words. Her eyes widened, and color came to her cheeks. She leaned toward him with a sudden intent and whispered, “Me good? Don’t be foolish. I’m not a good woman, not after all I’ve done.”

  “I’ve always seen it in you beneath that behavior you put on. You’ve made a lot of bad choices,” Rhys said quietly, regaining his composure.

  “But deep down in you there’s a fine woman waiting to be set free. Julie, God can set you free. All you have to do is ask Him.”

  Julie’s hand came up uncertainly and touched the lapel of his coat.

  She thought of all the mistakes she had made, and at that moment, she realized that the way she had been living had not left her happy. A strange feeling sliced through her, and she suddenly felt tears come to her eyes.

  She wanted to believe what Rhys Morgan was saying, but she couldn’t. “I wish I was good like Jerusalem,” she whispered. “But I’m not.” Turning, she ran back toward the house.

  Rhys knew he had seen a longing in Julie to be real and good and pure. He wondered if he would ever see it again, and he turned and looked up at the sparkling stars and murmured, “Lord, there’s a good woman there, but she needs Your help.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-THREE

  General Antonio López de Santa Anna celebrated his forty-second birthday on February 21, 1836. The following day he sent for Mateo Lebonne to commend him on all the valuable information he had gathered. The young man came and saluted smartly, waiting for his orders.

  “You have done well, Sergeant Mateo,” Santa Anna said. “Your reports have been accurate and most helpful.”

  “Thank you, Your Excellency!” Mateo had ridden hard these last weeks, sending back reports on the movements of the Texans. Twice he had brought the reports back personally to the general. He looked down at the tall tower of San Fernando Church just across from the Alamo and said, “There are no more than two hundred fighting men inside the Alamo. Colonel Fannin has five hundred men at Goliad, but he refuses to come here. They do have some cannon, however.”

  “I have a job for you, Sergeant.” Santa Anna turned to the man behind him and said, “Lieutenant, let me have the flag.”

  A tall lieutenant stepped forward and handed a folded piece of cloth to Santa Anna, who unfolded it and smiled at Mateo. “I want you to hang this flag in the top tower of the church there. You understand its significance?”

  Mateo looked at the flag, which was close to twelve feet long and wide. It was a bright red color with no symbol at all. “No, sir. What does it represent?” Mateo asked.

  “It means no surrender. No prisoners. Anyone who fights against this flag will be killed.”

  Mateo was shocked but did not allow it to show in his face. He took the red flag and swallowed hard. “I will obey your orders at once, My General.”

  “I have sent out a proclamation. Every American colonist who takes arms against us will be shot. There will be no trials. Every Mexican who fights against us will be hanged without a trial. There will be no further immigration of any kind from the American States into Texas or any other part of Mexico. Any foreigner in Texas who is found in the possession of arms will be arrested, severely judged, and treated accordingly.

  Now, go.”

  After Mateo had left, Colonel Ortez said, “What is our battle plan, General?”

  “We will not use our entire force against this rival. We will use siege warfare. We will strangle them, starve them, blast them with the cannon, and shoot them as they collapse.”

  The shelling of the Alamo began at daybreak the day after the red flag appeared in the church. The rounds were fired from nine pounders dug in on the river bank four hundred yards from the Alamo. The shells battered the walls along with the five-inch howitzer that hurled shots into the Alamo. Despite the constant barrage, the walls were firm and solid, and the shells that fell inside were ineffective. During a lull in the bombardment, Travis sent a message to Gonzales, which eventually found its way to New Orleans, New York, Boston, and even to Europe:

  I shall have to fight the enemy on his own terms. The victory will cost the enemy so dear that it will be worse for him than defeat. I hope your honorable body will hasten reinforcements. Our supply of ammunition is limited.

  God and Texas. Victory or Death.

  Colonel William Travis

  Jake had eaten a scanty breakfast and then had gone over to stand beside Davy Crockett. Crockett grinned at him and nodded toward the gunners. “I don’t think them fellers over there are much punkins. Can’t even hit this fort half the time with cannonballs.”

  “I hear tell you’re a pretty good shot, Davy.”

  “Well, just fair. I killed forty-seven bears in one month. It took me forty-six bullets.”

  Jake grinned, knowing one of Crockett’s tall tales was comin’. “How’d you do that?”

  “Two of them bears was misbehavin’.” Crockett grinned. “Most the time when I hunted coons, they throwed up their paws and just crawled down out of the tree when they saw me.”

  Jake was amused at his humor even at a perilous time like this. He looked over and said, “I can see the head of some of them gunners over there. Why don’t we try a shot at ’em?”

  “Good idea, Jake. You all primed and loaded?”

  “Yep.”

  “Let’s get two of ’em for the pric
e of one. Here, rest your rifle real steady. I been watchin’ them fellers. One of ’em keeps his head up most of the time, but the other one, an officer, I reckon, only pops his head up every now and then. You take the first one, and as soon as the officer’s head pops up, I’ll get him.”

  “All right, Davy.” Jake rested his rifle on the stone wall and centered directly on the head of the soldier whose entire top of his body was in view. He held his finger steady on the trigger and waited. In less than sixty seconds, the officer popped up. Davy said, “Now!” and both men fired simultaneously. The two Mexicans fell backward, and Davy Crockett straightened up. He beat Jake on the shoulder and said, “That was some shootin’.”

  “It was right fair. I wish they’d all stand up, and we could knock ’em off as long as the ammunition held out.”

  “I hear Martin rode out this mornin’ with a letter from Travis to try to get us some help,” Davy said. “The way I heard, there’s plenty of men at Gonzales and Goliad. Maybe five hundred in all. If they’d come, we could wipe these fellas out.”

  Jake looked around at the compound. “We need ’em,” he said soberly.

  “It’d take a thousand men to defend these walls.”

  Rumors ran through the hundreds of men gathered at Goliad. One day someone would proclaim, “We’re marching to Gonzales.” The next day it was, “We’re going to the Alamo to help Travis.” On still another day it was, “We’re gonna stay here and wait for the Mexicans to come to us.”

  Brodie listened to these rumors with a growing anger. On the twenty-sixth, he said to Clay as the two of them wandered through the camp, “I’m gettin’ sick of this, Clay. I don’t think Colonel Fannin knows what he’s doing.”

  “You better not say that to anybody but me,” Clay said quickly. “Fannin would consider that insubordination.”

  Brodie looked at Clay with a strange look and said, “Now that’s some big fancy word Fergus would say.”

  Clay slapped him on the shoulder and said, “It may sound fancy to you, but it means you could get hanged for questioning his ability to lead.”

  “I still don’t think he should have been made a colonel. What’s the matter with that man anyhow?” Brodie demanded. “We sit here doin’ nothin’ while the war’s goin’ on. And the men at the Alamo need us.”

  Brodie was not the only one who had started to question Fannin’s indecisiveness. Others throughout the ranks were wondering the same thing. Colonel Fannin’s failure to graduate from West Point with a commission was already a strike against him. When he left the Point, he had become a slave trader for a while, then finally came to settle in Texas. Now he was looking for a promotion to general. Those closest to the situation believed that he refused to march to Travis’s aid not because he was afraid, but because he would be forced to serve under Travis, whom he despised. Between the two of them, Travis was more of a fighting man than Fannin.

  “Look, something’s up,” Clay said, pointing to a group of men who were gathered and listening as Colonel Fannin spoke to them from his chestnut stallion. “Come on, let’s find out what it is.”

  When they crossed the parade grounds, they heard Fannin saying, “Men, we’re marching to the Alamo tomorrow to help save our army. Get those supply wagons packed and be ready to leave at dawn.”

  A cheer went up instantly, and Brodie said, his eyes shining, “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  Shortly after dawn the next day, the soldiers marched out, followed by a line of wagons with what supplies they had. They had gone but a few miles when one of the supply wagons broke down. It took some time to repair it, which only delayed the column’s progress. Not long after, they encountered a river that proved difficult to navigate. On the twenty-eighth, Colonel Fannin proved his ineffectiveness by announcing that he would take a vote on whether to continue or turn back.

  “Take a vote!” Clay murmured in shock. “What kind of a leader is he that he would take a vote on a decision?”

  Fannin addressed the group and gave such a pessimistic report about the difficulty of making a seventy-mile march without sufficient food that in the end the vote was to return to Goliad.

  As the column returned back to Fort Defiance, as it had been called, Fannin gave orders to strengthen the walls so that they would be impregnable. His second order was to slaughter plenty of oxen and cure and dry the meat so that the men would never be short of rations.

  All the time, Clay had been waiting for an opportunity to talk to Brodie about the situation. A few days after they had returned to Goliad, he said, “You know, it’d be a mighty good time to leave this place and go back to your ma and your family.”

  Brodie shook his head stubbornly. “I’m gonna stay here and see it out.”

  Tim and Clyde added their voices. “We ain’t gettin’ nowhere,” Tim said. “Let’s pull out.”

  Clyde nodded. “I’m about ready. It ain’t like I thought it would be, Brodie.”

  Brodie had developed a stubborn streak. Surprised that his friends wanted to leave, he turned to them and said, “We ought to leave here and go to the Alamo.”

  “Fannin would shoot us if you tried to do that,” Clay said, then tried to talk some reason to him about returning home.

  In the end Brodie compromised and agreed to think it over if the others would stay a few more days.

  Clay listened, then said, “All right, Brodie, but I’ll hold you to that.”

  Miraculously no one inside had been killed during the daily bombardment that fell on the Alamo. Santa Anna’s forces made one concerted attack but had been driven back. The men of the Alamo peppered them with rifle fire from the walls and cannon loaded with grape. By the time they pulled back, a host of wounded and dead Mexicans lay in the fields outside. But Santa Anna’s army was growing as more and more units arrived, and the odds narrowed with each passing day.

  Inside, Travis kept the men working hard to reinforce the fort. Despite the gravity of the situation, Davy Crockett was, perhaps, the most cheerful man at the Alamo. He played his fiddle and even played a few duets with John McGregor, a Scotsman who played the bagpipes. He even challenged McGregor to a goodhearted contest. Davy set the terms. The winner would not be the one who played the best, but the one who played the loudest and the longest. And to his grand delight, Davy Crockett won the contest.

  Jake watched every day as the new Mexican reinforcements arrived all the way from Saltillo, farther south, where Santa’s Anna’s main contingency had first formed. Jake felt encouraged, as had others, when the small group arrived from Gonzales. As the days dragged on, he speculated when larger troops would arrive, but by March 3 Jake realized that no more help would be coming. They were on their own against a disciplined army that numbered in the thousands.

  Travis showed no fear, and on the third, he sent out a last letter pleading for supplies and more men. He still hoped for reinforcement, and many of the men scrawled notes to their friends and families, knowing that the outcome looked grim. Smith left at midnight while some of the men distracted the Mexicans by firing on them from the north wall.

  The next morning the Mexican cannons were advanced to less than two hundred fifty yards away. They pounded away at the stone walls all day long and resumed on the morning of the fifth. The walls, tough as they were, were beginning to crumble, and Jake, who had been firing at the enemy, raised his head and peered across the distance. “Look there, Davy, they’re makin’ scalin’ ladders.”

  “I reckon they’ll be comin’ at us pretty soon,” Davy said. He drew a bead, fired carefully, and nodded. “Got him. There’s one that won’t be climbin’ no ladder!”

  Later that afternoon Travis marched out and called all the men, except for a few lookouts, to come to the center of the compound. His face was grim, and Jake noticed that Jim Bowie had been brought out on his cot. He went over to stand beside him and said, “How you feelin’, Jim?”

  “Not too pert, Jake.”

  Jake had no comfort to give him and stood wit
h the rest of the men as they listened to Travis.

  “Men, as you all see, Santa Anna’s army is increasing every day. He’s moving up his big guns. The big attack’s coming. You know what that red flag means. No quarter. And Santa Anna will do exactly what he says.” He paused and looked out over the dirty, weary men who faced him. “His army is forty times as large as ours, and he’s got the cannon to cover it. I think the attack will come tomorrow, on Sunday, and I want to offer every man here one last chance to leave if that’s what you want to do.”

  Travis took his sword and drew a long line in the sand. “Everyone who wants to stay here and take their chances fighting beside me, step over it.”

  “Jake, I can’t make it,” Jim Bowie whispered. “Carry me across that line.”

  “Sure, Jim. Here, you fellows, grab hold of Jim’s cot.” He and the others picked up the cot and walked across the line.

  Travis was watching them, his face fixed in a stern expression, which broke for a moment into a smile. “I might have known you’d come, Colonel Bowie.”

  One hundred eighty-two men stepped across that line. Jake saw Louis Rose standing still, the only man left. He looked across the line silently for a moment, then he shook his head. “This place can’t be defended, Colonel Travis. I’m leaving. I’ll fight again somewhere.”

  “You’ll never make it, Louis,” Davy Crockett spoke up. “Better stay and die with us.”

  “When it gets dark I’ll be gone,” he said. “Any of you fellows want to give me a message, I’ll take it.”

  Jake Hardin kept his eye on Rose, and as the shadows began to fall, he went over and said, “I don’t think you’ll make it, Louis.”

  “I’ll make it, all right.”

  “Good luck to you, then.”

  “Why don’t you come with me, Jake.”

  “Guess not.”