The Yellow Rose

by Gilbert, Morris

  Jerusalem said at once, “I can shoot as good as most men, and so can Julie. That makes nine.”

  “I can shoot, too,” Moriah spoke up. “Zane’s been teaching me, so we have ten.”

  “I don’t think you women ought to get involved with this.”

  Jerusalem caught his eye and said, “What do you think will happen to us if we don’t stop them?”

  Clay knew exactly what was on her mind, and he held her gaze for a moment.

  Finally, she said impatiently, “Don’t argue with me, Clay.”

  Clay laughed. “All right. I’m the general here. I’m going to place you all where you can’t be seen, but where you can get a clear shot. I’m not sure we’ve got enough muskets.”

  “No problem there, old boy,” Fergus said. “I’ve got five sporting rifles besides my own. Should be able to blast the blighters with no trouble, eh?”

  The afternoon shadows were beginning to fall as Clay placed his people in position, but the azure sky was marked by diaphanous clouds. He had thought it all out carefully, and though Clay sometimes seemed lackadaisical, now he moved with decision. In the back of his mind was the knowledge that if his decisions were bad, they would all die. But he let none of this show in his expression. “Moriah, I want you and Clinton upstairs. Each of you take one of the windows up there, but don’t let yourself be seen. Don’t poke your muskets out until the right time.”

  “All right, Clay,” Moriah said and turned to go.

  “I want to stay down on the ground, Clay,” Clinton said. “I ain’t sure I can shoot so good shootin’ down.”

  “You can’t afford to miss, Clinton. Now, don’t argue with me. Get on up there and be sure you don’t let yourself be seen.” He did not wait but turned to say, “Julie, you and Jerusalem take the two windows on the first floor. You heard what I said to Moriah and Clinton. If they see a sign of a weapon, they can pull back, surround us, and we won’t have a chance.”

  “All right, Clay,” Jerusalem said. “Come along, Julie.”

  “Fergus, why don’t you and James take the barn.”

  “Where are you going?” Fergus asked.

  “Right over there at that smokehouse. Remember now. You wait until I fire the first shot before you cut down on them.”

  “What about my Indian friends?”

  Clay had been thinking about the Comanches. He looked at the three who were standing there regarding him, all holding their rifles. “I never saw a Comanche that could be seen if he doesn’t want to.” He smiled.

  Fox, the tallest and leanest of the men, returned his grin. “That is true,” he said. “What do you want us to do?”

  “Find you a place where you can’t be seen. When I knock the officer out of the saddle, get you a man apiece. I’m hoping the rest of them will turn and run. Don’t let any of them get away, or they’ll bring other soldiers back.”

  Paco nodded firmly. He seemed to be the leader of the three. “Good.

  We will take all their scalps.”

  “You are welcome to anything they’ve got, including their guns,”

  Clay said. “Now scatter.”

  Clay waited until the Indians seemed to vanish from sight. He looked up at the upper windows of the house and saw nothing, and then at the bottom two windows. Everyone was hidden from sight. From the barn he could not see a sign of the two men hidden there. He walked to the middle of the yard and said, “Can you all see me clear?”

  “I could blast you right where you stand,” Julie called out.

  “Well, don’t do it.”

  Suddenly, Jerusalem said, “I see some dust clouds, Clay. I think they’re coming.”

  “All right. Remember everybody,” he shouted, “don’t let yourself be seen until you see me knock my man out of the saddle. If you do, we’re in trouble.” He moved back quickly to the smokehouse, stepped inside, and closed the door. It was dark in there, and he heard the hum of insects but ignored them. He had already found a gap between the boards, and he held his own musket up but did not insert it through the opening.

  He stood there looking and found himself wishing that he could pray. It was not the first time that he had envied those who seemed to have this privilege. He discovered that his hands were trembling, and he was shocked. He looked down at them and murmured, “I didn’t think anything in the world could make me do that.” He knew, however, that it was not fear for his own life or even for the men. It was for Jerusalem and the women. He knew what would happen if his plan didn’t work, so he bowed his head for a moment, pulled his hat off, and stood there in the murky light that filtered through the cracks. “Lord,” he said, “I got no business calling on You—and I don’t for myself—but I’d appreciate it if You would take care of the womenfolk.” He finally shrugged his shoulders, put his hat back on, and then moved to watch as the Mexican soldiers drew closer to the ranch.

  Lieutenant Alanso pulled the troop up, and as his horse moved restlessly, he stared at the house.

  “It’s deserted, sir,” his sergeant said.

  “I think so. Go take a look, Sergeant.”

  The sergeant eagerly spurred his horse forward. He rode at a full gallop, raising a cloud of fine dust, until he came to the yard in front of the house. He stepped off his horse, tied him at the hitching post, and then went straight into the house. He had his rifle in his hand, and he looked around and saw no one. Quickly, he whirled and went back on the porch.

  “There’s nobody here, sir,” he yelled toward the others, who had remained a distance from the house.

  Alanso nodded. “All right, men. Let’s burn the place.” He brought the troop to a gallop until they were all gathered in front of the yard. Alanso laughed and said, “No women for you this time, men, but we’ll catch some for you soon enough. Take what you want from this place and then burn—”

  He did not finish his sentence, for a bullet struck him directly in the mouth. As he fell from his horse, he faintly heard the fusillade of shots, and he died before he touched the earth.

  Julie whispered, “That soldier’s coming in the house.”

  Jerusalem said, “Quick. Hide, Julie.” She watched as Julie ran down the hall, and then quickly she ducked into the storeroom. She was breathing hard, and fear crept up on her of what would happen if Clay’s plan did not work. She stood perfectly still, the musket in her hands. As she heard the soldier’s foot strike the porch, she pulled the hammer back, which made a slight click in the stillness. She knew she could not shoot until Clay gave the signal, but she stood there thinking of Moriah and Mary Aidan and even Julie. She found herself holding her breath, and then she heard the heavy steps come inside the house and walk around. For a moment, her breathing stopped. She was afraid he would come and jerk the door open. She reversed her grip and held the butt forward, planning to strike the man in the face if necessary.

  And then she heard the soldier go outside and call something to his officer. Quickly, Jerusalem lowered the rifle, and she heard the troops yelling at one another. She heard the soldier move inside again, and suddenly a shot rang out from the outside.

  That’s Clay’s shot, she thought. She stepped outside, and the soldier whirled to see her. He grinned and moved toward her, but Jerusalem lifted the rifle and pulled the trigger. The shot caught him in the chest and drove him over backward. He dropped his musket, but even as he lay there with blood pouring from his chest, he was struggling to remove his pistol from the holster. At once Jerusalem came forward and put her hand on his arm. He looked up at her and said something about his mother, then his eyes glazed and he went limp. “Julie, get in here!” she shouted.

  She turned and began to load her rifle. She saw that several of the soldiers were on the ground and were returning the fire, although they could see nobody. They were shouting and screaming. Jerusalem finished loading, and lifting her rifle, she took dead aim and knocked one of the soldiers off. She turned to reload, but then something slapped her on the back. She thought, Who could have hit me? But
then the slap drove her to the floor, and the searing pain came.

  Clay had shot two of the soldiers, but he saw one of the Mexicans whose horse had been shot get up and run for the house. He burst out of the smokehouse at a dead run, ignoring the pain in his side. The soldier saw him, turned, and drew his saber. He started for Clay, but Clay pulled the heavy bowie knife from his belt and threw it with all of his strength. It caught the soldier in the stomach, and he stared at it. He lifted his eyes, and Clay saw that he was very young, not over sixteen, it seemed. He did not wait to see the man fall but glanced around and saw that seven of the soldiers were riding away furiously. Two of them fell as they reached the outer perimeters of the yard, and Clay was shocked to see arrows coming from their bodies. As the other five fled, the three Comanches appeared out of nowhere and rode after the soldiers at full speed, uttering wild screams.

  Suddenly Clay turned, for Julie had come out of the house. “Jerusalem’s been shot!” she cried.

  Instantly, Clay felt a chill. He ran inside past Julie and found Jerusalem lying facedown, and her back was bloody.

  The wound was evidently high on her back. Without hesitation Clay reached up, grabbed the neckline of her dress at the back, and ripped it open. As he tore away the undergarment, he was aware that Julie was standing over him.

  “Is she dead, Clay?”

  “No. It ain’t bad, Julie. Thank God! It hit her a glancing blow, but she’s losing blood fast. Go keep the men out of here, and you and Moriah get some water and some strips of cloth to bandage this wound.”

  Clay hardly heard the voices as Julie kept the men locked out. He was aware that Mary Aidan had come and was watching him, her face white. “She’ll be all right, honey. I just have to do a little bandaging.” When Moriah came back with water, he said, “You take Mary Aidan out. She don’t need to see this.”

  Julie was there then with cloth that she was tearing up.

  “Make a pad that I can put over this track.”

  Julie instantly folded the cloth until it was long enough to cover the wound that had plowed a furrow into Jerusalem’s upper back. “It didn’t hit her straight on. It would have killed her if it had. Are you all right, Jerusalem?” Clay said.

  “I’m . . . all right.”

  “I know it hurts, but we’ve got to get it bandaged to stop the bleeding.”

  Clay washed away the blood with the water Moriah had brought, took the bandage, and carefully put it over her back. He hesitated then and looked up. “Julie, maybe a woman ought to do this. It’s got to be tied around in front. You’d better do it.”

  “Nope,” Julie said. “I’m no good at things like that. You go right ahead.”

  Clay hesitated, but Jerusalem said, “Go on, Clay. Do it.” She sat up, gasping from pain, and pulled her dress down until it hung around her waist. Clay was behind her, and instantly he took some of the long strips and began to pass them around her body. He put one over her shoulder and several high over her chest. Even as he did, he could not help notice that her back was as smooth as a young girl’s. It was strong and well-formed, but he put that out of his mind.

  When he tied the last bandage behind, he said, “You can pull your dress up now.”

  Jerusalem pulled her dress up. It was torn in the back, but she held it up in front, then turned to face him. She saw that Clay’s face was flushed.

  “Well, I guess you’ve seen a woman’s back a time or two.”

  “Well, I reckon not under these circumstances. We got off lucky, but I wish it was me that got nicked instead of you.”

  “I’m glad it wasn’t.”

  Clay licked his lips and said nervously, “When I saw you lyin’ on the floor with blood all over your back, I like to have died, Jerusalem.”

  Jerusalem stared at him curiously. “Did you, Clay? Why did you feel like that?” She saw him struggle for an answer, but he was unable to find one.

  “I reckon they’ll be worried about you. I’ll go fetch ’em. That bandage will have to be changed pretty often.”

  Jerusalem smiled then. “Well, I’ve got a good doctor. You can take care of that, I expect.” She saw Clay stare at her blankly, then he shook his head and turned and hurried from the room. She smiled as she watched him go. “It’s good to see you shook up even if it takes a bare back to do it, Clay Taliferro!”

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  Sam Houston stood looking at the dispatches that Deaf Smith had just arrived with. He had taken them from a Mexican courier. When Houston looked up from them, there was a gleam in his eyes. “Well, Deaf, I reckon it’s time to find out who’s the big dog.”

  “Reckon so, General.” Deaf gestured toward the messages. “According to these, you ain’t likely to catch Santa Anna with fewer men. I doubt he’s got more than seven, eight hundred in his column.”

  “But he’ll have more if we don’t take him now.”

  “What’s your plan, General?” Deaf asked.

  “I’ll tell you, Deaf, but then you keep it to yourself. I don’t want the men to know what’s going on until it happens.” He pulled a rough map out of the desk drawer and laid it flat on the table. “Okay, here we are. Up here is the San Jacinto River, and over here is Buffalo Bayou. That’s where we are now.”

  “You’re right about that. It looks to me like we’ve got ourselves caught in a trap.”

  “If Santa Anna moves in, he’ll come in from here, you see, and he thinks he’ll have us trapped. And in a way he will.”

  Suddenly, Deaf Smith laughed his high-pitched eerie laugh. “I think I got your meanin’, Sam. Our boys can’t run away this way because the river’s there. They can’t run this way because of Buffalo Bayou. They could take off toward Harrisburg, I reckon.”

  “Not if you take some men and burn the bridge.” Houston smiled grimly.

  Deaf Smith stared at the general. “We’d be trapped for sure, wouldn’t we?”

  “That’s right, but that’s my plan. Keep it to yourself. We let Santa Anna’s column come in right here alongside Lake Peggy. I don’t think he’ll come chargin’ in. I think he’ll set up camp and wait for reinforcements. If he does that, then we’ve got him.”

  “What if the reinforcements get here before we can attack?”

  “They better not,” Houston said and smiled frostily. “That would ruin my plan, and I do hate to have my plans ruined. Go burn that bridge, Deaf, but don’t spill my plan to anybody.”

  Santa Anna’s scouts had finally discovered the location of Sam Houston and his small force. They had brought the word back, and Santa Anna had made them repeat their report several times. “You say he is trapped in between this river and this swamp?”

  “Yes, General. There is a bridge, but it’s very small. If you attack head on, they would have no place to run. They would be trapped.”

  Santa Anna was an impetuous man, but something about this situation set off an alarm. He believed the scouts and moved his men into place and studied the map carefully. The area was barely three square miles and was roughly triangular, bounded on the northeast and the northwest by the San Jacinto River and the Buffalo Bayou. It was open on the southwest, but the ground was marshy along the margins of the waterways, where the land was cut with shallow ravines. On the night of the twentieth of April, Santa Anna encamped on the southeastern corner of the plain up against an arm of the San Jacinto River. He walked about and studied the terrain, wishing that the reinforcements would arrive soon. He walked along the line and inspected the placement of his soldiers. The Matamoros Battalion covered the front, which extended from the edge of Lake Peggy on the east for about twelve hundred yards, running into a little copse of woods and then curling toward the southwest. He had only one cannon, a six-pounder, but word had come that more were on the way. On his right flank, he placed five companies, and on the left five more. Somewhat back of these he made his personal camp with the lancers of his escort. His entire force amounted to no more than six hundred and fifty, perhaps, seven hundred
men. He had no reserve, just himself and his staff, but he was expecting six hundred reinforcements under General Cos to arrive within a few hours and did not anticipate any serious enemy action before then. He studied the terrain and then went back to his tent, where a young señorita had been brought in to keep him company until the battle started.

  On April the twenty-first, Houston held his war council. He had planned to attack on the morning of the twenty-second, but the army was rebellious. They voted company by company to fight immediately, and Houston was secretly pleased. He whispered, “Better they think the attack is their idea, Deaf.”

  “I reckon you’re right, General. I don’t know how many men we’re facin’, but we got nearly a thousand here. They couldn’t have many more than that. The thing that bothers me is how we gonna march a thousand men on a bright, sunny day across a mile of open ground. Them Mexicans ain’t militia over there. They’ve been in battles before and know how to fight.”

  Houston did not even answer. He had made up his mind, and his bridges were burned. “We’ll form ’em up right now,” he said decisively and began to place his men. He had sixty horsemen mounted under Mirabeau Buonaparte Lamar, a fierce fighter. Lamar’s orders were to keep the Mexicans from breaking across the prairie. Next, he installed two small companies of Texas regular army with one gun to support each wing. Then Burleson’s first regiment, the Texas backbone of the army, took its place in line. Then Moseley Baker’s riflemen and finally Sidney Sherman’s second with a corps of Kentucky men.

  Houston had thought his plan out carefully and stationed the men in a line only one man deep. In the center floated the republic flag: a five-point blue star with the motto Ubi Libertas Habitat Ibi Nostra Patria Est—“Where Liberty Lives There Is Our Homeland.” Houston then mounted his huge, white stallion Saracen and looked down the line. They had readied their equipment and formed their companies. Now astride Saracen, Houston took up his position in the center of the line. At three-thirty he drew his sword and waved the army forward. There was no band, but two men, a black drummer and a German fifer, began to play, and the men began to sing along with it. The only tune they knew was a bawdy tune played and sung in brothels: