The Alamo

by Frank Thompson

  But even though his grandfather’s tiny farm was something of a trap, it was also a warm and welcoming home to Jesús. It sat on a gentle slope, framed by tall, green mountains and bordered by two wide streams, one white and furious with eddies and little waterfalls, the other placid as a pond. The nearby forest was rich with game and the fertile soil easily offered up corn and tomatoes, beans and jalapeños. Jesús’s mother had died when he was just a child, so long ago that only with effort could he even conjure up a few hazy images of her. His father had died much more recently. Of that event, he still had vivid and terrifying memories. His father’s death lived on in Jesús’s frequent nightmares, which played and replayed the anguish of the event night after night.

  From that time, Jesús had lived with his grandfather. It had not been an easy period in either of their lives. One had lost a father, the other a son. But Jesús’s grandfather was a kindly man who listened patiently to his grandson’s plaintive chatter about the glorious life he would someday live. He was also a man whose own colorful way of telling tales made his life seem far more interesting than it actually had been.

  All in all, as he sat on the bank of the placid stream watching his fishing line drift lazily in the water, Jesús felt at peace. He knew he was probably happier here than he would be anywhere else. That did not stop the yearning, but it filled the moment with contentment. Besides, he knew that he had a long life ahead of him. There would be plenty of time for traveling the world, seeing unforgettable sights and romancing exotic women.

  A sharp tug suddenly dipped the fishing line under the surface, and Jesús sat up with a start. He let the fish play the line for a moment and then, with a jerk, he lifted the rod and brought it home. It was a trout—easily large enough for supper for both Jesús and his grandfather. He held it up proudly and was about to run over to the cornfield to show it to his grandfather when he saw something else in the distance—something ominous.

  On the horizon, two Mexican cavalrymen—dragoons—on horseback were approaching the field where Jesús’s grandfather was plowing with a team of oxen. The dragoons carried long lances and wore bright red tunics and shiny silver helmets that glinted blindingly in the sunlight; it made them look to Jesús like creatures out of mythology, with heads of flame.

  The two dragoons casually rode up to the old man and stopped.

  “Hello, patriot,” said one of the men. “We were told you have a son.”

  Grandfather looked up at both of them gravely, trying not to show fear. “My son was hanged,” he said. “I am alone.” He gestured toward his jacal as if its emptiness were a testament to the truth of his statement.

  One dragoon nodded to the other, who immediately rode toward the creek to have a look around. As he rode away, the first dragoon began walking his horse slowly around the old man, forcing the old man to turn around and around in a circle in order to keep the horseman in sight. The dragoon said nothing for a long time, merely staring at the grandfather, smiling slightly, knowingly.

  Nervously, the grandfather said, “I live in Tejas, but I am a loyal Mexican.”

  Jesús watched the disturbing scene for a moment, but when he saw the searching dragoon riding his way, he flung the trout to the ground and ran for the cover of a ditch. The dragoon did not see Jesús, but he did see a fish go flying through the air. He whistled for the other, then rode directly toward the ditch. In it, Jesús cowered low, but in plain sight.

  Jesús looked up at the dragoon. The horse stood over him, menacingly. One step forward and Jesús would be crushed. The dragoon was even more menacing. Was he about to skewer Jesús with his lance? Or were Jesús and his grandfather about to be dragged away and hanged from a tree, as his father had been?

  As fearsome as he seemed to Jesús, the dragoon actually had a benign, even friendly, look on his face. Gazing down on Jesús from his horse, the dragoon smiled warmly and said, “Welcome to the army of General Antonio López de Santa Anna.”

  Jesús instinctively put his arms over his head, bracing himself for the attack.

  “Come, come, boy,” the dragoon said. “We are not going to hurt you. Stand up now.”

  Very reluctantly, Jesús stood up. He glanced around, looking desperately for another escape route, knowing that he had absolutely no chance of outrunning the horse, or of escaping the point of that lance.

  “What is your name, boy?” the dragoon said.

  “Jesús Montoya.”

  The dragoon said, “Are you married?”

  Jesús shook his head no.

  The abandoned fish, not yet dead, desperately worked its gills as it lay on the banks.

  The dragoon smiled and said, “Plenty of time for marriage, when you are older—and a war hero. You are to come with us.”

  Jesús stammered, “Where . . . what . . . ?”

  The dragoon gestured for Jesús to start walking. “Everything will be explained to you in due time, boy,” he said. He began herding Jesús back to where his grandfather waited with the other horseman. As Jesús stumbled along, he turned to the rider and, with a pleading look in his eyes, said, “My family . . .”

  The dragoon smiled. “They will be very proud of you,” he said. “It is an honor to fight for your country.”

  Jesús walked toward his grandfather, but the dragoon would not let him stop to say good-bye. Jesús waved and murmured, “Grandfather . . .”

  The old man only shook his head sadly. They both knew there was nothing he could do. The other dragoon fell into step beside the one who had captured Jesús. The boy turned a little. He could barely see their faces for the bright sliver glow that emanated from their helmets.

  “Where are we going?” Jesús said.

  The first dragoon snapped, “Quiet! Just walk!”

  Jesús’s dragoon was still smiling. He said to his partner, “Do not be so hard on the boy. He is only curious.” He looked down at Jesús and said, “Where are we going? We are going to punish the gringos.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “You marked the coat as swallowtail?”

  Mr. Ingram, the owner of Ingram’s General Store and Barroom, was beginning to tire of this, but maintained a steady smile on his face. A customer is a customer. Even an exacting, nitpicking, condescending—basically insufferable—customer.

  “As you desired, Mr. Travis,” Ingram said with bland pleasantness.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Travis,” the young man corrected him. Ingram simply raised his eyebrows a bit and nodded.

  Ingram’s was the best-appointed store in San Felipe. In fact, it was just about the only store in San Felipe. Its owner prided himself on stocking almost anything that a person could need to get through life. In the front he kept food, tobacco, Mexican blankets, gourds, guns, saddles, cooking utensils, candles, knives—even pieces of sugar cane and cactus candy for the delight of the children. In the back, there was a barroom with rickety tables; it also served as a storeroom. Crates lined the walls, and goods of all kinds were piled anywhere there was an empty space. That did not seem to matter much to the patrons. When they came there to drink, they did not care much about ambience.

  William Barret Travis would never have had the occasion to see the back room. He was a teetotaler; more than that, he was the kind of teetotaler who made sure that everyone he met heard his views on the subject. As Mr. Ingram was finding out, twenty-six-year-old Travis liked to make himself perfectly clear, no matter what the subject.

  Travis was a handsome man, tall and erect with a natural aristocratic bearing. His eyes were dark and penetrating and his face smooth and unlined. It gave the distinct impression of a face that had almost never experienced the disturbance of a smile. At the same time, it looked far younger than it was—and, undoubtedly, more innocent than it was.

  Travis had not been in San Felipe very long, but Mr. Ingram had already learned to dread his appearance. Whenever the young lieutenant colonel walked into the store, the proprietor knew that he was in for a session of extremely precise orders, spel
led out in numbing detail and repeated ad nauseam.

  Today was even worse than usual. Travis leaned over the counter, intense and humorless, spelling out the minute particulars of the handwritten sales order that was spread on the counter between the two men.

  “And the piping is onyx?” Travis said, not for the first time. He pointed to a sketch of a man in the exact uniform he was ordering. The man in the drawing looked a lot like Travis.

  Mr. Ingram nodded again. “Yes, sir, exactly as you have specified.” He indicated the drawing. “Should be quite a sight. Where would you like the uniform sent?”

  Travis drew himself up a bit.

  “San Antonio de Béxar,” he said. “I will be posted there. To defend the town.”

  “Defend against what?” Mr. Ingram said. “Mexican army left Béxar with their tails between their legs.”

  The response deflated Travis a bit—but only a bit. He could not expect a rank civilian such as Mr. Ingram to understand the sober responsibilities of the military life.

  “Mister William?” Travis’s manservant, Joe, was standing in the doorway. He was about Travis’s height and was dressed in obvious hand-me-downs that nevertheless were clean and well-maintained. Actually, Travis and Joe himself were the only people who referred to Joe as a “manservant.” Everyone else knew that the twenty-three-year-old Negro was a slave.

  “She here,” Joe said. “In yer office. Waitin’.”

  The statement had so little to do with the uniform currently under consideration that Travis did not quite follow what Joe meant. He looked at the young man with eyebrows raised, as if asking, “Who?”

  Joe lowered his head a bit. “Yer wife,” he said.

  Across the street, James Bowie staggered into the narrow space between two buildings. His slave Sam—and Bowie never thought of him as his “manservant”—stood behind him, thinking that his master looked like death warmed over. Bowie was coughing, something that seemed to afflict him more and more these days. Sam had no idea if Bowie was sick or dying—and he did not much care. Sam thought of himself as a slave as well, and thought of little else than how he might someday escape and be a free man, somewhere. Until that day, Sam would take orders and abuse with as much stoic grace as he could muster. There was no alternative.

  “Mister James?” he said, softly.

  Bowie’s coughing began to turn to gagging. With a convulsive fit, he spewed vomit all over the wall. Well, Sam thought, that answers that. His master was neither sick nor dying—just drunk. As usual.

  A group of riders raced down the street behind Sam. He had been placed there by Bowie to keep watch, to make sure no one saw him in his weakened condition. The sound of the riders seemed to snap Bowie out of his misery and he quickly straightened himself up and hurried toward the street. Sam stepped aside to let him pass. With a heavy sigh, he followed him.

  Bowie saw with an inward groan that Travis was walking down the street toward him, with Joe in tow. Bowie straightened further and walked in Travis’s direction, as though headed somewhere with great purpose. Nearly every man in the street who saw Bowie gladhanded him, patted him on the back. He was clearly a favorite among the Texians in this town. Travis was greeted by no one.

  As Bowie and Travis passed each other on the street, each touched the brim of his hat in polite greeting.

  “Colonel,” Travis said.

  Bowie replied, “Buck,” knowing that Travis found the nickname annoying in the extreme.

  Their slaves also greeted each other in a way, sharing a look that hinted at the relationship, or lack thereof, between their owners. Sam clearly felt himself to be more than a little superior to Joe. Joe had heard the scandalous stories about Bowie’s raucous and reckless behavior, his drunkenness and wildness. The moral young man took some modicum of comfort in being owned by such a high-class gentleman as Mr. William.

  As soon as Travis and Bowie were out of earshot of each another, they spoke again.

  “Drunken Hottentot,” Travis said, under his breath.

  Bowie muttered, “Two-bit swell.”

  The group of riders that Bowie had heard were dismounting in front of Ingram’s, rushing in to cut the dust from their throats in the back room. Bowie recognized one of them as Deaf Smith, a great scout and an old friend.

  Bowie strode toward him, calling loudly. “Deaf” was not just his nickname.

  “Deef!” No response.

  Bowie tried again, louder, “Deef!”

  Deaf Smith happened to turn around at that moment and saw with surprise that Bowie was behind him. They shook hands. “Deef, you come from Béxar?” Bowie said.

  “Ain’t it so?” Smith said, nodding.

  Bowie said, “How’s my home?”

  Smith looked Bowie in the eye, wondering how much to tell him. “Free of the Mexican army,” he said. “Fought ’em straight into the old mission, then right out again.”

  “Is it wrecked bad?” Bowie said. “The house?”

  Deaf hesitated, choosing his words carefully.

  “There was quite a bit of cannon shot, Jim.”

  Bowie’s mind immediately conjured up images of his beautiful home in ruins. The Veramendi House was owned by the family of Bowie’s wife. Even today, when it was no longer occupied by members of the family, people all over Béxar referred to it as the “Veramendi Palace.” But Bowie’s mind did not linger long on thoughts of the house, for to him, the house only meant one thing—the place where he had lived with his beloved Ursula. The house, whatever the damage, could be rebuilt or written off. But Ursula . . .

  Travis approached his law office and stopped at the doorway. A towheaded, somber-faced little boy of seven stared back at him. Behind the child, a woman with sad eyes stroked the golden hair of a three-year-old girl, who clung to her mother’s leg and shyly avoided looking at Travis. The woman gave the boy a little nudge. “Go on, Charlie,” she said. “You remember him. Do you not remember your father?”

  Travis forced a smile that he did not feel and held his hand a couple of feet above the floor. “When I last saw you,” he said in an unconvincingly hearty voice, “you were this tall.”

  There was no reply. The boy just looked at Travis, without anger, without fear, without . . . anything. Still smiling his frozen smile, Travis turned his gaze toward the little girl.

  “What are you calling her?” he asked. “Lizzy? Betsy?”

  “Elisabeth,” the woman said firmly.

  The little girl buried her face in her mother’s skirts. Travis, still avoiding the woman’s eyes, turned his attention toward some papers on the desk.

  “Well, Rosanna,” Travis said in a businesslike tone, “the choices are abandonment, adultery, or cruel and barbarous treatment. I think abandonment’s the most accurate.”

  Rosanna Travis was twenty-four years old, but life had caused her to age prematurely. Although she was still a pretty woman, her eyes were hard and her mouth grim. It was difficult for Travis to reconcile this wounded face with the lovely vision he had first encountered at that dance in Claiborne, Alabama, seven years ago. It did not occur to him that perhaps her stern countenance was worn only for such occasions, when her heart felt as if it were being ripped from her body.

  In a low voice, almost a whisper, Rosanna said, “Last time I saw you, you were lying in bed next to me. Then I closed my eyes. That was four years ago.” She nodded toward the papers on the desk. “Any of the choices would be appropriate.”

  Travis said softly, “That is true, Rosanna. That is certainly true.”

  Rosanna sat in a leather-bound chair beside the desk and pulled little Elisabeth into her lap. “They talk about you a lot back in Claiborne,” she said.

  Travis looked at her, interested, as he always was, when the topic was himself. “What do they say?”

  Rosanna smiled bitterly. “Rumors. You . . . we . . . are the subject of many and various rumors.”

  Travis sat on the edge of his desk. “For instance?”

  “Some pe
ople hold that it is I who was unfaithful to you,” Rosanna said.

  Travis grimaced a little. “Perhaps we should not speak of such things in front of the children. . . .”

  Rosanna snapped, “Charlie has heard these things almost every day. Well-meaning people in church, other children taunting him. There is nothing we can say now that he does not already know. Elisabeth, thank God, is too young to understand any of it.”

  Travis nodded solemnly. Charlie continued to stare at him, but Travis avoided his gaze. He said to Rosanna, “What are the other rumors?”

  “They say you killed a man,” she said.

  “What?”

  She nodded. “Those who believe that I was unfaithful to you say that you discovered the man in question and murdered him. I have heard that you stabbed him and that you shot him. I even heard that you tied him to his bed and set his house on fire,” Rosanna said.

  “What unutterable nonsense!” Travis said, standing up abruptly and pacing the floor. “Who would say such things about me?”

  Rosanna shrugged a little. “Almost everyone,” she said. “When you departed in the dead of night, leaving unpaid debts, abandoned law clients . . . After that, no one regarded you with very much admiration. Oddly, I find myself having to defend you from time to time.” She laughed, quickly and bitterly. “Yes, I have to stand up for your character. Is that not a priceless irony?”

  Travis said nothing. Shame burned at his face.

  Rosanna’s face was still impassive, but her voice was choked with emotion. “Are you going to marry her?”

  Travis was startled. “Who?” he said.

  Rosanna looked at him, smiling bitterly. “Who? That kind of response is unworthy even of you, Will.”

  Travis lowered his eyes. “I had no idea that you knew anything about her.”

  “I do not,” Rosanna said. “Except that I have been told you are engaged to her.”

  “That is not precisely true,” Travis said. “We have been . . . keeping company for some time now. But the subject of marriage . . .”