Crockett listened for a moment. Slowly, a smile crept across his face.
“Just figgered it out,” he said.
Autry looked at him. “Figured out what?”
His fiddle in his hand, Crockett stood up and scurried to a nearby ladder. He climbed to the top of the main gate building and ran to the westernmost end, looking down on the nest of the eighteen-pounder cannon. With a grin, he raised his fiddle to his chin and began to play. His lively melody made no attempt to drown out the Deguello. Instead, he wove a new melody around its harsh call of no quarter. The men in the Alamo listened with astonishment as he turned the Mexicans’ promise of death and destruction into a lively, somehow haunting, tune of hope, of defiance, of something like happiness.
The Mexican soldados heard it, too, and were as delighted by the sounds as the Texians. Jesús was standing at attention in formation and smiled at the wonderful music coming toward them. His sergeant saw Jesús’s smile, and grinned himself. He said, “Croque . . .” and every man in the line knew who he was talking about.
For both sides, for these brief moments, there was no siege, no battle, no war—just music floating through the air. The men of the Alamo had known fear that day; they had experienced anger and desperation. But now, if only for an instant, they felt peace. Some even dared to feel encouraged. If one lone Texian fiddle could beat the massed Mexican bugles at their own game, then maybe a small band of soldiers really did stand a chance against those overwhelming odds. Nobody much believed that, but those who considered it were comforted by the thought, even if that comfort was destined to stop as soon as the music did.
Up on top of the main gate, Crockett lowered his fiddle, his improvised concert ended. He looked down at the men of the Alamo, washed in the soft reds and golds of the sunset, and grinned happily. “Amazing what a little harmony will do, ain’t it?” he said. He hurriedly climbed back down the ladder and back to his post, to prepare for the barrage that was about to start.
But strangely . . . it did not.
It began to sink in to the garrison that no cannon were being fired and for some reason they knew that no cannon were going to be fired. The defenders slowly pulled their fingers from their ears, came out from their cover and stared at each other.
“Well,” Scurlock said, “if that ain’t the damnedest thing.”
From the west wall, near Travis’s headquarters, came a shout from young James Allen. “Rider going out! If you want to write letters, now’s the time!”
Across the compound, men scrambled for any kind of paper they could find. Some found scraps of brown wrapping paper. Others tore the blank endpapers from books they carried in their packs. Isaac Millsaps thought of his blind wife, left behind in Gonzales. A lot of people thought she was a mighty strong woman, to raise six children without being able to see a thing. Millsaps knew her true strength was greater than anyone could suspect. He had never been much of a provider. He even thought of himself as a ne’er-do-well. Would never have been worth a damn, he thought, except for Mary. She was the spirit of their household, the heart. But, Isaac was ashamed to admit, even to himself, that she was the muscle, as well. She raised the children and, to a great extent, she raised him. If he never came home, she would get along just fine without him. Without her, though, Isaac did not think he could last for a month. He laughed to himself. He had been in this damned fort for less than a week and now he was about to go and get himself killed. He said to himself, “I guess that is a pretty fair indication of how well I can do without her.” He squatted in a corner and began to scrawl:
Dearest Mary, I hope someone with a kind voice is reading this to you. If you could see, you would know how beautiful is this land, our home. I pray to the Almighty that we will be together again soon. Kiss the children for me. . . .
Jim Bonham wished that he had a proper quill to write with, instead of this tiny stump of a pencil. Always proud of his penmanship, he wanted his last message to have an elegance that his family, back on the plantation in South Carolina, would appreciate—and expect. He wished that he could gather all his warm memories of that place into these hastily scribbled words—the lush green forests where he and his father and cousins used to hunt for deer and boar; the languid creek where he had scampered after tadpoles as a boy, and beside which red-haired Essie Burke had introduced him to a very different kind of scampering when he was fifteen; the melancholy call of the whip-poor-will, and the even sadder songs that drifted up to the Bonham house from the slaves’ quarters; the parades, the cotillions, the picnics—family. It was too much to express. Bonham had to settle for a few cursory, heartfelt words.
Know that my heart is with you all until the day, by God’s will, we are reunited. Please remember me to my father and tell him to think of nothing but of coming here to this fair country when it is free . . .
William Ward, on the north wall, stared into the night and thought of Ireland. Although he and his fellow Irishmen delighted in singing tearfully of their green homeland, the truth was, Ward did not miss it much. Life was hard on his father’s farm, where hope was in as short supply as money. If rocks and regrets were potatoes and beef, they all would have been fat and happy. But Ward had been desperate to leave. And when he arrived in Texas—was it only eight months ago?—he knew that he had found the garden spot that he had always dreamed of.
My dearest Da,
When this fight is over and we can set about the task of settling our land, I will have money enough to bring you to this blessed Texas, where the land is fertile and the future filled with promise. That day will come only after a struggle but we know what awaits us, and we are prepared to meet it. . . .
Micajah Autry glanced over at Crockett, who was writing his own letter. Friends for only a few months, they had already forged a bond that both knew would last a lifetime. Autry softly barked out a bitter laugh at the thought. A lifetime . . .
It was too late for regrets, but Autry thought of his wife, Nora, and felt a stab of pain. Never one to wax poetically romantic in his letters—he struggled to even remember his last missive to her—Autry decided to take this time to reassure her, and himself, about exactly what he was doing here.
I go whole hog in the cause of Texas. I expect to help them gain their independence and also to form their civil government, for it is worth risking many lives for.
He considered adding a postscript declaring his undying love, revealing to her that his own life was one of those at risk, that he never expected to write another letter to her. But he wrote none of those things. He simply signed the letter, folded it and wrote her address on the outside.
Crockett was writing to his daughter. It would not do at this late date to make her worry. If worse came to worst, she would learn of it soon enough. No, this letter would be a lighthearted, optimistic one. He liked it best when everybody was happy.
I am now blessed with excellent health and am in high spirits although I have been received by everybody with open ceremony of friendship. I must say that what I have seen of Texas it is the garden spot of the world. The best land and the best prospects for health I ever saw.
A dark thought flitted across his mind, wondering how his own health would be at this time tomorrow. But those kinds of thoughts were for his own rumination, not for a cheery letter to the folks back home. He continued writing.
I am in hopes of making a fortune for myself and my family, bad as my prospect has been. I hope you will all do the best you can and I will do the same. Do not be uneasy about me. I am among my friends.
Daniel Cloud’s thoughts were not of a beloved daughter or a distant wife as he leaned against a cannon in the apse of the church, but of a sweetheart who was tantalizingly, torturously close by. Isabella was only a mile away, in her home in Béxar, but she may as well have flown away to a distant star. Her father, a loyal Mexican citizen and proud supporter of Santa Anna, had been incensed that one of these upstart gringo rebels had the nerve to pay court to his youngest daughter. Isabell
a’s mother was more understanding, and even smiled at Cloud when her husband looked the other way, but she made it clear that nothing further could come of any of it. Cloud knew that there were nearly insurmountable obstacles to their happiness, but he had convinced Isabella—and himself—that once he made his fortune, her father would have to look at him in a different light. He would prove himself and they would be happy, blissfully happy, in this vast Eden. As it was, he was ordered into the Alamo so quickly that they never even had a chance to say good-bye.
My dearest Darling,
In my mind’s eye, I see you as you were at the fandango, with your white lace dress and that accursed long fan. Remember how I teased you to stop hiding your face behind it, and how you smiled at me. There was no other woman in that room but you. There is no other woman in my heart but you . . .
Travis was writing, too. As Joe watched impassively, Travis stared at the page on his desk, halfway through a letter and unable to complete it. James Allen knocked on the door.
“Sir?”
Allen stood in the doorway, a satchel around his neck, a handful of letters in his hand. “I have gathered most of the men’s letters,” he said.
Travis looked at Allen, then back down at his own letter. “Spare me a moment more?” he said.
Allen nodded, and said, “Yes, sir,” and walked away.
With a sigh, Travis once again put his pen to paper and wrote, “Take care of my little boy . . .”
Reading the words on the page made Travis stop again. Tears welled up in his eyes and he quickly wiped them away, lest they fall on the letter and smear the ink. The letter read:
Take care of my little boy. If the country should be saved, I may make for him a splendid fortune; but if the country be lost and I should perish, he will have nothing but the proud recollection that he is the son of a man who died for his country.
Travis read the letter again and hesitated, as if putting off signing and sending it would hold off the inevitable. Then he dipped his quill in the small copper inkwell and signed his name for the last time in his life.
Crockett passed his letter to Autry with instructions to give it to Allen when he came back. He looked around the walls of the Alamo and saw men praying, thinking, remembering. There were no sounds from the Mexican fortifications to indicate that an attack was imminent but the men knew. Somehow, they just knew.
Crockett stepped into Bowie’s quarters. Bowie smiled slightly when Crockett entered the room. Crockett smiled back, but he was dismayed at the way Bowie looked. Even if Santa Anna did not come in to finish the job pretty soon, it was clear that Bowie had only days to live.
“Have a seat, Congressman,” Bowie said, nodding toward the stool at the foot of the bed.
“Now Jim,” Crockett said, grinning, “you ought not go about saying that word too loud. I pride myself that I have made friends in this place, but if you go around reminding them of my sordid past, they might think less of me.”
Bowie laughed and the laugh turned into a cough, and the single cough led to a spasm that lasted nearly a minute. When at last it ended he sank against his pillow, exhausted. “I would not worry about it. I doubt if many of the men could think less of you than they do now.”
Crockett laughed, “Well, thank you for your kind sentiments. A man always likes to know that he’s well thought of.”
“How are the men doing?” Bowie asked.
Crockett glanced out the ornate cross-shaped window. Through it, he could see part of the solemn façade of the Alamo church and the outside of the palisade. It was a cold night and there was no moon. “I believe that morale is pretty high, all things considered. The men have had a chance to write letters. Young Allen’s riding out with them in a while. Did you want to write one? I could help. My spelling is gradually improving, day by day.”
Bowie coughed again and shook his head. “Nobody to write to. Anything I got to say, I will be able to say to Ursula pretty soon, I expect.”
Crockett looked at the floor. His head was beginning to ache.
Bowie saw the pained look on his face. “You scared, Davy?”
Crockett glanced up and grinned. “Skeered? I have been skeered a time or two in my life. But I often found that something that frightened me at first usually turned out to be something different by and by. On my wedding night with Polly—well, I was all a-tremble. You see, being a God-fearing country boy, I did not know much about the ways of love, and I could not help but feel that something mighty big was about to happen to me and I was not altogether sure that it was going to be a good something. Skeered? Yes, sir, I was skeered as a rabbit. But by the time nature had taken its course, I found it was a fear that I wanted to experience again as soon and as often as possible.”
Bowie laughed.
“This here . . .” Crockett waved his hand toward the compound outside Bowie’s door. “ . . . This here might be something like that, I reckon. Seems awful fearsome from this side of things, but it might turn out to be all right, by and by.”
The two men were silent for a moment. Crockett could never let melancholy overtake a room for very long and he suddenly brightened.
“I remember another time,” he said with a smile. “I must-a been no more’n six years old and we were at a barn raising back in Tennessee. Well, we all lived so scattered that anything like this come to be kind of a cross between a circus and a tent meeting. The womenfolk would fill the tables with fine vittles and as soon as the sun started going down and the barn was built, there’d be fiddle music and dancing and all kinds of shenanigans. When I got a little older, I found there was some real fine shenanigans to partake in.”
“Now hold on just a minute,” Bowie said. “You just got through telling me that you approached your wedding night with fear and trepidation.”
Crockett waved his hand dismissively, “I do not recall using the word ‘trepidation,’ and besides I’d prefer it if you did not cut the starch out of one of my tales with something as lowly as the facts.”
Bowie smiled a little and said, “Sorry.”
“Now,” Crockett continued, “there was a feller at this barn raising who had the most fascinating talent. Had a voice that come out of his pocket. Yessir, believe me, the voice come right out of his pocket! And then, to add wonder to a marvel, he put that goldurned voice into my pocket. Well, sir.”
Crockett looked down at his pocket and worked the flaps like a little mouth. He spoke in a falsetto voice: “ ‘Hello . . . Hello . . . I am trapped in your pocket.’ Well, Jim, I liked to jump right out of my socks.”
Bowie laughed.
“And that was not all, not by a long shot,” Crockett said. “He also had him a moon-faced doll, mean as ten hornets, wearing a tricorn hat. She was real as you or me.” He looked at his hand. “ ‘Hello. Hello. You are that young Davy, ain’t ye?’ Like to skeered me half to death, but at the same time I just could not get enough of it.”
Both men laughed. Then Crockett’s smile dropped and he picked up Bowie’s pistols, checking their powder. When he was satisfied that both guns were loaded and in good working order, he placed them back on the table beside Bowie’s bed.
Crockett looked at Bowie and said, “I rode on a steam train. I rode on a steamboat. I killed many a bear and got elected to Congress. Had two fine wives and some loving children. Not a bad life, I reckon. But sometimes I think I’d trade all them memories for five more minutes of that doll in the tricorn hat.”
The two men, now friends, shared a knowing smile. Bowie removed his knife from its scabbard and stuck it into his bedside table, beside the pistols. He said, “They will come from all sides to keep you occupied but the real attack will be focused on one wall. Hold your wits and always keep one eye behind you.”
Crockett looked up at Bowie. His eyes glinted with uncertainty, but Bowie shook his head ever so slightly.
“You do not need me any more than you need that fur cap,” Bowie said. “You been on these walls every day of your life.”
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br /> Crockett patted Bowie’s leg and stood up. “I will see you later, Jim.”
Bowie nodded and closed his eyes.
As Crockett emerged from Bowie’s room, he saw James Allen riding out of the south wall gate. Somebody called out, “Godspeed, Jim.” The sound of Allen’s galloping horse gradually receded into the night. The Mexicans did not even try to stop him. It was as if they did not even care.
Crockett settled in at the palisade beside Autry. Many of the men had drifted off to sleep, but Autry was peering off into the distance.
“Better get some sleep, Micajah,” Crockett said.
Autry smiled a little. “Something tells me I will be getting sleep enough, soon enough.”
Crockett said, “Well, Jim Allen just rode out. Maybe he will bring back some help and we will get out of this thing all right.”
Autry smiled wider. “You are an optimist, are you not, David?”
But Crockett was not smiling. He said, “Well, yes and no.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
A cheery fire warmed the main room of the Yturri house. Candelabra were set on the table and on nearby floor stands; the entire room flickered with soft, golden light. The massive mahogany table was meant for large, luxurious dinners and festive social occasions. But tonight, the only one enjoying dinner and basking in the loveliness of the room was Santa Anna. His generals sat or stood uncomfortably while the president delicately placed a chicken bone on the fine china plate before him. There were no plates before the others. A large map took up most of the table. Santa Anna’s aide, Batres, stood to the side with a long stick in his hand, to be used as a pointer.
In the next room, Santa Anna’s bride, Juanita, waited. He was always at his most ardent after a show of force. Gathering all his generals before him and issuing commands to them would feed his sense of power. He merely had to speak, and they would act. Juanita had learned that as well. It did not pay to resist her husband. That only made things worse. Sometimes, when he barked orders at her in bed, telling her to do the most distasteful and immoral things, she thought about saluting him and saying, “Yes, Your Excellency!” But she knew that her moment of whimsy would result in a caning. And once he started caning her, his thoughts seemed to drift naturally toward other ways to hurt her, disgusting ways. No, it was best simply to do what he said, and pray for it to be over.
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