by S. B. Moores
The woman talked over their situation one night after a meager but filling supper of Mexican beans and tortillas.
“I think the army is heading toward San Jacinto,” Susannah said.
“Is that north or south?” Abigail asked. She wanted to be as close to home as possible if they had any chance of being released.
“It’s east of here.”
“Even better,” Abigail said.
“Look, Abby, I have some bad news.”
“What news?” A shaft of fear iced her chest, but she couldn’t imagine any worse news than she’d already been given unless Justin, too, had died.
“The Mexicans are letting me go, along with Angelina and Joe. They’re taking us back to Béxar.”
“That’s good news. But—”
Susannah shook her head again. “Santa Anna isn’t releasing you or the Mexican women. Not yet at least. He wants Joe and me to tell the Americans about his glorious victories. They want to demoralize any more settlers who might be coming from the States. They’ve freed Joe, hoping other slaves will escape and come to Texas.”
Abigail reached out and took Susannah’s hands in hers.
“That really is good news. I’m happy for you. And for Joe.”
Susannah shook her head. “I wish you could come with us. I don’t know what Santa Anna wants with you or the other women, but I can imagine.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll find a way to make him let me go, I promise you that.” Abigail held her chin up, but she didn’t feel her own bravado.
Susannah gave her a wan smile.
“I should stay here. I can protect you.”
“No.” Abigail squeezed Susannah’s hands. “I need you to go. I need you to tell the world that I’m here. If you do that, Justin might find out I’m still alive.”
Susannah looked perplexed. “Abby. There were no other survivors. You know that.”
“That’s what everyone says, but it may not be true. There’s something I haven’t told you. Justin still wasn’t awake by the time the Mexicans began their final assault.”
“I know, Abby, and I’m so sorry.”
“No, you don’t understand. Just before the attack, I hid Justin under the floor in the chapel. Behind the altar.”
“What?” Susannah grinned. “Clever girl.”
“I don’t think the Mexicans ever found him. I haven’t told anyone this. I was afraid we might be tortured or something, and I wanted to keep him safe.”
“I understand. He may have awakened and escaped. I will go back to the mission to find out. If he’s . . . if he’s still alive, I will try to find him. I’ll tell him you’re alive and where you are.”
“Thank you. I would also like you to send a letter to my mother when you can, to tell her what’s happened.”
“I can do that, too.”
“I don’t know what’s going to happen, but if I must stay with the Mexicans I will, until I can find a way to escape or convince Santa Anna to let me go.”
Susannah touched a hand to Abigail’s cheek. “Do what you must to stay alive, but don’t take any foolish chances.”
They found a few sheets of paper and a pencil among Major Dickenson’s belongings, and Abigail sat near a candle to write a letter to her mother.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Ridgetop, Tennessee, April 8, 1836
As usual, Henrietta sat in her wicker rocking chair on the porch, sipping tea and waiting for Henry and Abigail to return. It had been almost three months since their departure, and she hadn’t received any word of their whereabouts. Neither had the Johnsons or Sterlings. Henrietta had passed the breaking point. She was gradually steeling herself against the worst possible news. She had begged Archie to stay with her until Henry returned, and he not-so-reluctantly agreed, even though they both knew how such an arrangement would look to her husband.
Then the postal service delivered Abby’s letter. She was a prisoner but alive, and Henry had been killed in a battle in Texas, of all places. The letter didn’t explain how or why they’d gone to the Alamo, but they must have followed Justin. Now he was missing, too, but there was hope he was still alive. Archie had stood next to her as she read the letter, and when realization of what had happened sank in, she buried her face in his chest and sobbed. Then, after begging Archie once again not to leave, she locked herself in her bedroom and mourned Henry for six days. Archie left meals on trays outsider her door. Then he would stand for a while on the other side of the wooden barrier, giving her news of the weather, the farming operations, and sympathies passed on from neighbors. He never insisted that she respond in any way, other than to assure him she was all right. As all right as could be expected.
Walter Sterling came to call, but there was little he could do for Henrietta and nothing more he could learn about Justin. Other neighbors left hot casseroles and cold fruit pies, little of which Henrietta touched; until, on the sixth day, she emerged from her bedroom. She had bathed and fixed her hair, and wore one of her finer charcoal, not-quite-black, dresses. A string of brilliant white pearls adorned her neck.
She appeared in the doorway of the library, where Archie sat in a stuffed chair, leafing through Parson Weems’s biography of George Washington.
“It was his fault,” she said.
Browning looked up, startled as much by the care Henrietta had taken with her appearance as the fact that she had finally come out of her room.
“Henrietta! Who’s fault?”
“George Washington. He’s to blame.”
“How’s that?” Browning cocked an eyebrow and wondered if the long, isolated mourning had crazed the woman.
“Don’t you remember, Archie? We met at George Washington’s funeral.”
He chuckled “Of course I remember. How could I forget the happiest day of my life?”
She smiled, but he wouldn’t dwell on his happiness or those bygone days, not with Henry so recently departed. “I think Henry would want you to have that,” she said, pointing at the book. “It’s a gift that would fit his sense of humor.”
“He was a kind man,” was all Browning could say. “Is there anything I can do for you, my dear?”
“You can fetch me some of the neighbors’ cooking you told me so much about from the other side of my bedroom door. I am famished.”
Browning set the book aside and leapt to his feet. “I’m told there is a fine squash pie in the kitchen.”
“That sounds marvelous.”
He rubbed his hands together. “And may I suggest a brandy, to accompany your repast?”
“I believe you’re going to spoil me, Archie.”
“In any way I can, my dear. In any way I can.”
He held out his arm. She took his elbow, and he led her to the dining room.
April 17, 1836, somewhere in Texas
As near as she could tell, Abigail figured it was mid-April. The actual date didn’t matter. The days had worn on, one much the same as the next, and she slowly descended into a steady, unshakeable sense of despair. At night she wept for her father. During the day she scanned the horizon, hoping to see Justin, astride a horse and watching from the top of a distant hill, ready to rescue her. She knew that wasn’t likely. At last she decided to resist her sense of hopelessness and make the best of her situation. Santa Anna still treated her with respect, but she had no better idea what he intended to do with her. Was she now his slave? Did the Mexicans even keep slaves? Perhaps he wanted her child, as he had hinted he wanted Angelina. That thought chilled her, but what could she do? The Mexicans appeared to accept her, but in what capacity, she didn’t know.
To keep herself busy, she helped Juana and the other women who’d been with her at the Alamo. They all pitched in to assist the many families of the soldiers who followed the army wherever it went. These women’s husbands had been killed, too, but they had nowhere else to go. Usually, she found herself washing dishes or cooking beans or jackrabbit stew, which bubbled in giant pots over open campfires. It was a far c
ry from the kitchen in her family’s Ridgetop home, and she learned a greater appreciation for the talent of the Whitfields’ cook, Margaret Anne. Abigail didn’t feel like a prisoner, exactly, although clearly she was. She knew Santa Anna had an interest in her, but that hadn’t given her too many privileges except, perhaps, that his interest kept other men away.
A few of her captors spoke English, but Abigail’s rudimentary knowledge of Spanish was improving, and she could communicate a basic understanding of her needs. When she couldn’t make herself understood, Juana translated for her. Abigail’s minimal language skills simply emphasized that she had very little chance of escape. Among the hundreds of men and women who moved as one with the army, she alone stood out like a signal beacon with her fair skin and long, red hair. Everyone in camp knew where she was at any given moment, and the soldiers were not shy about looking.
Mostly she grew numb to her new existence. She didn’t know whether the army had a home base or if it would ever settle in one place. To some extent it didn’t matter. So long as they kept moving, there needn’t be any final disposition of her status as a prisoner. The constant travel and the strenuous work wearied her, and each night she slept soundly in a tent with Juana and the three other women, all of whom were sympathetic to her plight. Abigail never had a chance to take a proper bath, but when the army camped near a creek or river, the Mexican women showed her how to bathe wearing a serape, discretely exposing and washing separate parts of her body, one at a time, while leaving the rest of her body covered.
On the night of the twentieth of April, the army camped near a place called San Jacinto, and Abigail helped cook tortillas for a hundred Mexican soldiers. The men toasted each other with their favorite drink, tequila, which was distilled from the local agave cactus. They said they were honoring Santa Quitéria, but the Mexican women assured Abigail that was just an excuse. Santa Quitéria’s feast day wasn’t until May. Abigail suspected they were celebrating a victory by another part of the army at Goliad.
Such news only damped any thoughts she had of escaping. She accepted a small cup of the tequila liquor when she was offered one, but she took only a modest sip, to keep from giving offense. She found the taste foreign to her tongue but pleasant enough. She refused any more by patting her stomach and saying, embarazada. It sounded to her like she was apologizing for being embarrassed, but the Mexicans understood. She was pregnant and didn’t want to drink too much alcohol.
Feeling fuzzy with a hint of inebriation, she made her way to the women’s tent to lie down. The party lasted well into the evening but she slept soundly, undisturbed.
And as she slept, she dreamed again of Justin, and of home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
San Jacinto, Texas, April 21, 1836
Abigail awoke to the sound of gunshots. Horses and men were screaming. She and the women in her tent scrambled out of their bedding, pushed their way outside, and stopped. The Mexican army was in chaos. Many of the men were just waking up and hadn’t had time to put on their boots. Officers shouted orders; men reached for their weapons and ran in every direction. Gunshots were coming from the edge of the camp.
“Los gringos!” one of the Mexican women said. “Siendo atacados!” The Americans were attacking. In the distance she heard men shouting in English. “Remember Goliad! Remember the Alamo!” Abigail was thrilled that she might be rescued, and her first instinct was to run toward the Americans. But one of the Mexican women clutched her coat and started pulling her toward the creek bank.
“Espera!” Juana said. “Wait!” A musket ball whistled past Abigail’s ear, pulling a strand of hair over her eyes, and she understood. They had to take cover. Even so, Abigail scanned the outskirts of the camp, looking for her father or Justin, even though she knew they couldn’t be there. The women crouched low and hurried down a creek embankment to the water. They huddled together behind the protection of the creek bank while the world above them exploded with gunshots, shouting men, and the scrape and clash of steel. A soldier staggered past them, clutching his chest, and collapsed facedown in the creek. One of the Mexican women started to rise to help him but the others held her back.
“Muerto,” they said. The man was dead, and the woman sat back down. The trunk of a tree overhead splintered from cannon shot, and fragments of wood rained down on their heads. Abigail thought she had become used to the sounds of battle, but the noise, the smoke, and the presence of the Americans brought back all the fears she had known at the Alamo. Would she survive this battle, too? If the Americans were defeated again, her despair might overwhelm her. She realized with certainty that she couldn’t cower next to the creek any longer. Win or lose, live or die, she had to go to the Americans. She pulled her coat around her and looked at the other women.
“Gracias por todo,” she said to Juana. “Necessito ir.” I need to go. She hooked her thumb over her head at the battle, in the direction from which the Americans were attacking.
“Buena suerte,” Juana said. “Good luck.” The other women nodded. They understood. Abigail started to rise, but the noise of fighting ended, and the sudden quiet stopped her. As quickly as it had started, the battle sounded like it was over. Men were still shouting, but the shooting had stopped and the cannons were silent. She started to scramble to her feet again when she heard a familiar voice.
“Can I help you?” Justin was on one knee at the edge of the creek bank, musket in one hand and reaching his other hand down to help her up. He wore a clean bandage around his forehead. “You always did like to hide by the creek.”
“Justin!” She needed no help jumping to her feet and scrambling up the creek bank. She ran to him, almost knocking him backward. She threw her arms around his neck and planted kisses on his lips, his cheek, and his neck.
“Slow down,” he said. “The battle’s over now. We’ve got the rest of our lives.”
“That may not be long enough,” she whispered. Tears sprang to her eyes, even as he pressed his lips to hers.
Abigail savored every moment of their journey home. They fell in with a small company of men and women who traded beaver skins in Texas for knives and cook pots from the east. They were traveling to New Orleans and willingly shared their food and other supplies, thinking themselves more than compensated by the stories Abigail and Justin told them about their adventures each night around the campfire. Justin’s injury was healing and, although Abigail kept a close eye on him, there didn’t appear to be any long-term effect from the wound.
Once in New Orleans, they were hired to work on a riverboat; Abigail in the galley, while Justin helped feed fuel into the steam boilers. Before they left on their working river cruise, Justin insisted that they see some of the city.
“We may never have this chance again,” he said.
Abigail couldn’t resist. They found a lively but not-toodisreputable saloon and spent an evening savoring Creole cuisine and listening to quick fiddle tunes, slow-moving ballads, and the keening voices of Cajun musicians. So exhilarated was Abigail to be free from the conflict in Texas and safe in Justin’s arms that she grabbed him by the hand to pull him onto the dance floor.
“Wait!” Justin said. He had always been a reluctant dancer.
“No,” she said. “We’re never waiting for anything ever again.”
To the amusement of the locals, it took them a few minutes to adapt to the quick, two-step rhythm of the Cajun fiddle. Abigail thought Justin’s halting steps were charming, hampered as he was by her growing stomach as they shuffled around the floor, trying not to bump into other dancers. Eventually they found their rhythm and moved in a way that satisfied them both. They shut out the rest of the world and danced through slow tunes and fast as though the musicians played only for them. In the wee hours of the morning, when the final tune had finished, the musicians and other dancers applauded them as they left the floor. Justin bowed and held her hand as she curtsied as delicately as she could.
In the morning, Justin insisted they make one mor
e stop. He wouldn’t tell Abigail where, but he took her hand and walked her through the Vieux Carré to one of the more exclusive dress shops.
“Why don’t we go in here?” he said. “I saw shops like this in Lexington.”
She stared at the silken dresses in the display window, most of which, by the looks of them, had come from Paris, London, or elsewhere in Europe.
“Oh, Justin.” She felt her mouth water, but she shook her head. “I appreciate the thought, but we can’t afford any of these.”
“I never thought I’d hear a Whitfield say such a thing. Let’s take a look anyway, to see if there’s anything you like.”
“You mean something you’d like to see me wear?”
Justin winked. “You’ve caught me out. You’d look splendid as a queen in a flour sack, but I was thinking of something suitable for a wedding.”
She stepped between him and the shop, took his two hands in hers and looked him in the eye. “Justin. You know I’m yours. Come rain or come shine, I’m yours forever. As much as I appreciate it, you don’t need to do this for me.”
“Perhaps not, but I don’t think I’ve properly thanked you for saving my life.”
“Saving your life? That isn’t why I did it. I wasn’t going to let you escape your parental duties by getting yourself killed.” He laughed and she punched his shoulder. Then she gestured at the display window. “This is an extravagance. I may be a Whitfield—”
“Soon to be a Sterling,” he admonished her.
“So how do you, a poor Sterling, expect to pay for anything in this shop but the plainest sash or the meanest hair comb?”
“Ah, I have a secret. Some amazing things can be found beneath the floorboards of an old Spanish mission, besides the occasional wounded warrior.”
