Frontier Fires

  “We’ve got to be strong, Lynda,” Sarah finally said between tears. “All our men are alive. I just know it. Our job … is to keep ourselves alive and unharmed for them. We can’t do anything for them right now but look out for ourselves and the babies. The Mexicans will come through here, probably tomorrow.”

  “Oh, Mother, it’s all so horrible. I just … want to go home.”

  “We will, Lynda. We will go home again. I promise you that.”

  They awoke to screams and gunshots, and the acrid smell of smoke. Sarah looked out to see much of San Felipe burning. Wagons, carts, horses, and people on foot—all came running past the Cox cabin. Then old Wil Handel rode up with a wagon. “We must go,” he shouted. “Hurry.”

  Emily Cox seemed unconcerned as Lynda and Sarah quickly packed carpetbags, preparing to flee.

  “Come, Sarah,” Wil shouted from the doorway. “Come with us. They’re burning it all down. I have your horse and travois.”

  Emily looked at them with bloodshot eyes. Her face was gaunt and hard. She was making coffee, still in her robe. “All burning but the saloons, I’ll wager,” she said calmly.

  They had hoped the Mexicans would drive through, leave a few men to occupy the city, and go on from there. There were no Texas volunteers here to massacre. There were mostly women and children and men too old or injured to fight. Taking San Felipe was only a sign of “conquering” the Texans and putting them in their place. It was only one more strike along Santa Anna’s march to the Gulf.

  Sarah felt a desperate, sinking feeling. Was it wise to leave, or stay? If they fled, they would have to live out in the open. The nights were still cold, although it was now April. The rivers were swollen with spring rains and snow melts. It made her think of Blue Valley. That battle for water seemed a hundred years ago now. And what was it all for if they were all going to die and never go back home, leaving Texas in full control of Santa Anna’s dictatorship? Blue Valley. She would like to be in that peaceful place right now, with Caleb, resting in his arms.

  Closer gunfire brought her out of her thoughts. She closed her carpetbag. “Hurry, Emily,” she told the woman. Lynda stood holding Cale and her own carpetbag. Outside their travois waited, pulled by the only horse they had left, carrying what few belongings they had salvaged before leaving home. They would tie the rest of their belongings to it and ride in the Handels’ wagon.

  Emily looked at Sarah with an odd smile. “I’m staying. I can handle the whole damned Mexican army if I have to, you know. Or have you forgotten what Emily Stoner really is?”

  Sarah frowned. “You’re Emily Cox, and you’re a fine widow woman.”

  Emily laughed, almost like a crazy woman. She got up nonchalantly from her chair. “I’m Emily Stoner, destined to be a whore forever, and you damned well know it.”

  “Mother, we’ve got to go,” Lynda said anxiously. She looked at Handel. “Go ahead, Mister Handel. We’re coming.”

  “We cannot leave you here.”

  “Come, Sarah,” Mrs. Handel shouted from the wagon.

  Lynda looked at her mother again, but Sarah was staring with pity at Emily. “Emily, please. You must come with us.”

  Emily tossed her blonde hair. It was thinner now, showing some gray. “Did your husband ever tell you why he fled Fort Dearborn?” she asked Sarah with a sneer. “It was because of me! I was already a whore, way back then,” she said, holding up her chin. “I’m the one who taught Caleb Sax all about women. They caught us together once and I screamed rape and almost got the poor boy hung. Did he ever tell you that?”

  Sarah paled slightly. “Yes,” she answered, lying.

  Emily let out an odd hiss. “I’ll bet,” she grumbled. She held Sarah’s eyes. “My wonderful preacher father caught us. I was scared to death of him. That’s why I did it. Caleb had no choice but to get out of there. He never saw the Saxes again.” She paused then, some of the crazy gleam leaving her eyes. “I always felt guilty about that.”

  “Emily, that was years ago. We were all children. None of it matters anymore. What matters is to get out of this city. Please come with us.”

  Emily shook her head, her chin stubbornly set. “No. You two get going. Stay with the others. You’ll be safer.”

  Sarah’s eyes filled with tears. “Emily, don’t do this.”

  Emily blinked back her own tears then. “I’m a survivor, Sarah. And so are you and Lynda. We’re all strong in our own way. I know what I have to do now, what I am. There is nothing those soldiers can do to me that a thousand other men haven’t done.”

  “Stop it, Emily,” Sarah said sharply. “You can’t hurt me. You want us to hate you, but it won’t work. You want it because you hate yourself. But you shouldn’t. You were true to Howard. You were a good wife. And you had a right to try for happiness. He died for us. You can’t just stand there and—”

  “Go on!” Emily screamed. “Get going! They’re coming!”

  Sarah closed her eyes and turned away. This was the old, hard Emily—the one she had never really known. It hurt to think of Caleb being with her, but then he’d been just a boy, and Emily had been a mere child herself.

  There were more gunshots, and she had no choice. She had to get out. She picked up James and hurried out the door, praying for the safety of her baby, grandson, and daughter. There was nothing more she could do about Emily Cox.

  They were quickly drawn up in the swell of people who fled before the smoke. Mrs. Handel drove the wagon while Wil led Sarah’s horse. James started to cry, and there was no way to soothe him. They had to keep going, run while they could.

  San Felipe was soon mostly in flames, except for a few saloons … and one small cabin at the end of town.

  “Welcome to San Felipe,” Emily told the soldiers who were the first to arrive at the cabin. She stood outside facing them, wearing only a thin robe. “No sense going on after the women who have fled, gentlemen, when you can get all you need right here.”

  They just stared at her as she smiled seductively, hoping to divert their attention from the last women who had fled. Sarah Sax and Lynda Whitestone were not something soldiers would easily pass up a chance at raping.

  “Spare my house, and I’ll do what I can to relieve your needs before you move on. You had better hurry, though, if you want to catch Sam Houston. He’s headed for the Gulf.”

  She turned and sauntered inside. Eight men sat on horses grinning at each other. One carrying a torch dropped it and they all dismounted, then moved to the door to have their pleasure with the wild white woman.

  Houston moved on to Harrisburg. When they heard San Felipe had been burned, Caleb and Jess both went almost wild with worry. The women! They should be with the women! Were they still at the Handels’ or had they been in San Felipe, where many refugees from outer areas had fled? Their only comfort was that the women were certainly not alone. And the best way to end this was to stay together with the militia and make a move against Santa Anna, something Houston surely intended to do eventually. Caleb wanted his turn at the Mexican soldiers. All any of them could think of was the Alamo and Goliad; so many men slaughtered; prisoners shot down like pigs; bodies burned. If Texas was going to be saved from the pompous, cruel Santa Anna, they must take a stand soon.

  “Word is Santa Anna has ordered all his men to meet him here in the south,” Jess came up and told Caleb then. “He’ll get them all together full force before they come for us. At least that means they’ll vacate San Felipe. The women should be safe. If we could defeat him now, we could go home.”

  Caleb looked at him with tired eyes. “Home?” He sighed deeply. “I wonder if there is a home to go to.”

  Jess nodded. “Sure there is. We have to believe there is, Caleb. You just remember Sarah and James—and your grandson—and Lynda. They’re all waiting for us to come back.”

  Their eyes held. “And waiting for Tom, too.”

  Jess saw him tremble. Was he beginning to realize the truth? He nodded. “For Tom, too.”


  Their thoughts were interrupted when a messenger rode through camp and told them to make ready. They were marching to the Gulf. Santa Anna had arrived in New Washington. Warned by scouts, those citizens of New Washington who made up the central government of the new republic escaped by ship into Galveston Bay only hours before Santa Anna arrived. Now Houston was ordering his men to head in that very direction, toward the San Jacinto River, where Santa Anna was making camp.

  Jess grinned, picking up his long gun. “This is it, friend. I knew Houston would come through. By God, we’re going to fight, and we’re going to win!”

  Men were cheering, picking up their gear, making ready to break camp.

  “Remember the Alamo,” they were shouting back and forth to each other.

  The words pierced Caleb’s heart. The Alamo! Tom! He couldn’t have been there. It couldn’t be true. He would not believe it. He picked up his rifle. He was going to kill some Mexicans. Of all the men he’d killed, he knew he would enjoy this as he had never enjoyed killing before. He moved along with the rest of the men. Most were on foot. Horses and supplies had become scarce. It made him realize he’d have to round up some wild Texas mustangs all over again when he got home—start building his herd anew. He’d do it with the money the government owed him when all this was over. And Tom would help him. Tom was good at that. He doubted he could run the place without his son. Yes. He’d get this war over with and go home, and Tom would be there, waiting.

  Caleb lay on his belly studying the camp through underbrush. The volunteers had chosen him to scout out the position of the Mexican troops because they knew his Indian skills at such things would be an asset.

  He shivered from the cold. It was April 1836, but for several days it had been unusually cold and had rained constantly. They had marched through mud toward this place, sleeping little, exposed to the weather twenty-four hours a day so that Caleb felt weary and drenched to the bone.

  But it was worth it. Before him, their backs against the San Jacinto River and Peggy Lake, were Mexican soldiers, perhaps fifteen hundred men. And there was no mistaking who occupied the fanciest tent, into which a giggling, pretty woman had gone. Only Santa Anna would live so high. He had completed his march through eastern Texas. Now he seemed ready to relax and enjoy the spoils of victory.

  “Only you haven’t won yet, you son of a bitch,” Caleb hissed.

  He headed back, moving through underbrush and swamp along Peggy Lake. When he made it back to Houston’s camp, his story was confirmed by other scouts coming in from other directions and from San Felipe. The uncomfortable weather had caused delays and confusion among Santa Anna’s three armies. They had become separated. Santa Anna himself was camped not far away, and they were in an open area, their backs to the water. It was an excellent advantage, even though the Texans were outnumbered two to one.

  Houston had slept in that morning, his first full night’s rest in nearly six weeks. The time had come. Santa Anna didn’t even know Texas volunteers were near. If they could take the notorious Mexican leader, it would be the ultimate victory. To get Santa Anna’s surrender would be to win the war.

  The men milled around impatiently, wondering why Houston still did not move. It was difficult to keep some of them in camp. Finally Houston formed his troops, after the sun was already going down behind them.

  “Siesta time,” someone near Caleb said excitedly. “That’s it! He’s been waitin’ till siesta time. All Mexicans take an afternoon nap. It’s the perfect time to attack!”

  Caleb smiled as the word was passed. Yes. They had every advantage. He thought again of Tom as the troops moved out then, marching through moss and oak behind Sam Houston, who rode a white horse, his sword raised. Drum and fife began to play, but the Mexicans slept so soundly they never suspected a thing.

  Finally they were close enough for an all-out charge. Those on horses rode in at a gallop then, while the rest broke into a run.

  “Remember the Alamo,” they all were shouting.

  The words cut into Caleb as though a Mexican soldier had sliced him with a sword. Tom! No, not Tom! Not Tom! He could not face it, yet the shouted words seemed to bring it all into reality. Dead. All dead. No survivors at the Alamo. No survivors. Tom had been there.

  “Remember the Alamo! Alamo! Alamo!” The words pounded in his ears as he ran now, pulling his knife, his heart beating so hard with a building sorrow that his chest ached fiercely.

  “Remember the Alamo,” he shouted himself then. As soon as he got the words out the tears came, tears of horror, anger, grief. Not Tom! Not Tom!

  Suddenly he was in the heat of the short but fierce fight, as confused, shocked Mexican soldiers came out of tents to meet the wild, brave Texans. Caleb felt his knife sink into someone wearing a red coat. Then came another, and another. He slashed and slashed like a madman, wanting to kill all of them. The Texans yipped and called like wild Indians, shooting, slashing with swords and knives.

  After several minutes of fighting, Caleb began slashing wildly at one soldier over and over, until Jess pulled him off.

  “It’s over, Caleb,” the man told him desperately. “The man’s dead and the battle is over.”

  Caleb threw him off with a power that seemed almost superhuman, sending Jess flying. He whirled then, still holding the knife.

  “Caleb, it’s me, Jess,” the young man yelled. “Goddamn it, the fighting is over. We’ve won.”

  Caleb froze, staring at him strangely. All around them men began cheering, rounding up Mexican soldiers, their hands in the air in an act of surrender. Later the tally would show 630 Mexicans killed and 208 wounded, with 730 taken prisoner. The Texans, numbering nine hundred, had lost only nine men. Their victory had been quick and sure.

  Sam Houston had been wounded in his right leg and his horse was killed. He was carried to rest under an oak tree. The prisoners were herded together, and as the Texans began frantically searching for Santa Anna, who had somehow slipped away, Caleb stood looking down at his bloody knife, not even aware of a wound in his own left side.

  “Come on, Caleb. You’re bleeding,” Jess told him. He was battered himself but not badly hurt. His clothes carried the blood of those he had fought but not his own. He grabbed Caleb’s arm and made him sit down, leaning against a tree. He pulled Caleb’s buckskin shirt out of his leggings and examined a large gash in Caleb’s side, then called for the doctor.

  “In a minute,” the busy man called back.

  “Tom,” Caleb mumbled.

  Jess looked back at him. “What?”

  “We have to find him.”

  Jess sighed, pulling off his own shirt in spite of the cold and holding it against Caleb’s side. His long underwear would have to do for now. He pressed the shirt tightly against Caleb’s wound

  “We won’t find him, Caleb. Tom is dead,” he said gently. “They all died at the Alamo. We can’t bring him back.”

  Caleb shook his head, another tear slipping out of one eye. “No. When we go home, we’ll ask around.”

  “Damn it, Caleb, you’ve got to face facts. Sarah and Lynda will both need you to be a whole man when you get back. God only knows what they’ve been through. We’ll all need each other. Before we go home you’ve got to face the reality that Tom is dead.”

  Caleb pressed his head back against the tree, his chest heaving. “No. We’ll … we’ll look for him. We’ll go to the mission, ask at all the cities where volunteers congregated. And if we don’t find him, I’ll bet he’ll be at home waiting for us when we get there.”

  “He won’t, Caleb. He won’t be there.”

  Their eyes met. “Remember the Alamo,” someone nearby shouted again, as Mexican soldiers were shoved around, some kicked at. “You bastards didn’t even leave us bodies to bury,” another shouted. “Why’d you have to burn them, you lilly-livers!”

  More tears slipped out of Caleb’s eyes. Burned! They’d burned the bodies … all of them! That’s what the scouts said. What if Tom wasn’t even completely
dead yet when they set fire to him? He looked down at the hard earth he sat on, grasping some of it in his fist. Texas. So many lives lost for Texas. And so many of them his own loved ones. Marie and her parents, their two sons David and John, Lee, and Bess. And now … no! Not Tom!

  “Remember the Alamo,” he said gruffly to Jess.

  Jess’s own eyes teared, and they reached out for each other and embraced. “Let’s go home, Caleb,” Jess said, his voice full of emotion. “Let’s go home to Lynda and Sarah.”

  “Sarah,” Caleb whispered. “Yes. I have to be with Sarah. Sarah, my Sarah. God, let her be all right!”

  Chapter

  Twenty-One

  * * *

  The Mexican prisoners were first moved to Galveston. Santa Anna had been found trying to sneak away disguised in peasant’s clothing. It was not easy for Sam Houston to keep his Texans from hanging the man; but he finally convinced them that to let the man live and openly admit defeat was the best way to secure Texas independence. Santa Anna was forced to sign a formal surrender. When news of his defeat spread, Mexican soldiers elsewhere—up to four thousand men at Fort Bend alone—fled to the south, out of Texas territory.

  Caleb and Jess had accompanied the prisoners’ march to Galveston, which brought them to less than a hundred miles from home. Home. The word sounded good, but what would they find when they got there? They rode hard, heading first for San Felipe.

  Sarah swept off the porch of Emily’s cabin. They had spent weeks living in tent shelters, staying with large groups of refugees for safety until scouts finally reported Santa Anna’s men had left San Felipe. For the time being there was no place else to go. Until Caleb returned, they could not go back to the ranch. Recently they had received word of Santa Anna’s defeat at San Jacinto. Surely Caleb would be coming home soon. They would wait in town.

  Wil Handel had returned to his ranch to try to get things in order again, and Mildred had insisted on going with him. Sarah and Lynda had no idea what was left of their own ranch, fearing the worst, since the Handel house had been burned. They could only hope things were still intact. Sarah refused to accept any possibility Caleb could be dead, and she kept telling herself there had to be a mistake about Tom. His last letter had been from the Alamo, but that was months ago. Maybe somehow he’d been gone when the mission was destroyed. It was impossible to imagine he could be dead; and worse, what his death would do to Caleb.