The Alamo Bride

by Kathleen Y'Barbo

  Clay broke the seal without looking away. The wax crumbled beneath his fingers. Finally he turned his attention to the letter.

  Would that this finds you well, Claiborne. I offer my fondest wishes to you. I have authorized the bearer of this letter to receive the item you have guarded so well. Please accept my thanks for a job well done and rest assured those who will now take over for you have only the best interests of the mission at heart.

  It was signed with the formal signature of the president himself.

  Only it wasn’t signed by him because Andrew Jackson did not write this letter. Not only was the signature slightly different, but the man who’d practically been family for as long as Clay could remember had never once called him Claiborne.

  Further proof of deceit.

  Clay folded the paper and settled it into his jacket pocket and then let out a long breath. “Have you read this?” he asked Smith.

  “I have not.”

  Again Clay studied the man across the table as he calculated his next move. Somewhere between Andrew Jackson and Reverend Smith the plans to deliver aid to the Texian militias via their leader, General Houston, had been discovered. The perpetrator of this fraud could be anyone. Clay’s best guess was the source came from Mexico. There were many there who would pay well to put an end to the resistance on their northern border. And yet there were also those on this side of the border who could profit.

  Clay kept his attention on Smith. He had pledged a vow on his own life that he would see that the money that had been quietly raised arrived at its intended destination. If he had to give that life for the cause, the money would arrive safely.

  A strong desire to get out of this place and back into the shadows bore down on him. He needed time to think. Time to formulate an alternative plan.

  “What does it say?” Smith asked.

  He shrugged as if easing into the idea even as his eyes covertly scanned the room in search of any possible accomplices. “I am to make the delivery to you.” He paused. “Tonight.”

  Smith leaned forward. “Those are the same instructions I received. I understand it is a change of plans, but given the current situation, it is the only way.”

  “What is the reason for this change?”

  Another shrug and then Smith reached for his coat. “I was not told. So shall we go now?”

  He ignored the question as he caught the attention of Hewlett. The older man offered a nod and Clay returned the gesture. Was Hewlett friend or foe?

  At this moment, he could not say for certain, though before this day, Clay would have thought the relationship the exchange owner held with Grandfather Gallier and his associates meant that Clay could feel safe in this place.

  Now every face that turned his direction could be a man looking to stop him from carrying out his mission. Again he considered the fact that any friend could be a foe.

  “Unless of course you’ve decided not to do as he has asked. I’m sure our mutual friend could be made to understand, although I doubt your father would.”

  “What does my father have to do with this?” Clay managed through a clenched jaw as he swung his attention back to Smith.

  “Everything and nothing,” the Frenchman said with a casual lift of one shoulder. “I worry for the safety of your family, is all. However, that is a conversation for another time, for we are likely being watched. I suggest you offer me a smile as we leave this place. I would hate to think those who had an opinion as to the business we are conducting here might consider taking action.”

  Clay rose and stared down at Smith from his superior height. “I find it odd that you would threaten a man who is on the same side as you, Reverend Smith.”

  “Do you now?” Smith stood and shrugged himself into his coat. “Look into your heart, Mr. Gentry, and then look around this room. Just as you are looking to serve your needs, so are they. Do not think you’re above it.”

  The statement jarred him more than Clay would have liked. It was a simple thing to consider himself part of the noble cause of aiding General Houston to bring freedom to Texas. A bit more complicated were Clay’s other reasons for doing so.

  Was he following a path leading to his own benefit, or had he truly chosen a nobler way?

  The question chased him as he descended the staircase, trading the elegance of the dining establishment for the fetid chaos of the exchange below and then finally for the damp night air of Magazine Street. As he’d expected, a slow drizzle of rain had begun.

  With Smith on his heels, Clay ignored the rain to lead him in circles through the dark streets at a brisk pace, formulating a plan as he went. With their destination finally in sight, he stopped and whirled around to watch the older man hurrying to catch up.

  Out of breath, Smith shook his head. “If your plan was to lose me on the way here, you failed, sir. Besides, it is common knowledge that you took rooms on the third floor of Banks Arcade.”

  Common knowledge. Hardly.

  Still, Clay forced a laugh. “If my plan had been to lose you, I would not have failed.” He paused. “But this is where we part ways for now. I will make the delivery as planned, but on my terms.” His expression went serious. “In one hour at the Place d’Armes.”

  Smith took a step back to look beyond him. “No, Mr. Gentry. The exchange has already occurred. I’m afraid you are no longer needed.”

  And then everything went dark.

  Clay opened his eyes to find the last of the stars overhead being chased away by the dawn. With his head throbbing and the horizon unsteady at best, he stumbled to his feet and made his way to his rooms.

  As he expected, they had been ransacked and the money was gone. Cursing himself for a fool, Clay fell back onto the narrow cot and stared up at the ceiling. Every detail of the mission had been committed to memory just as he’d done as a child with Grandfather Gallier’s map.

  Less than six weeks from now he was expected to arrive at the agreed meeting place and transfer the funds. To fail was not an option.

  He studied the crack in the plaster ceiling and allowed his mind to consider all the options available to him. His own personal assets could never match the amount of the missing funds.

  Or could they?

  Clay sat bolt upright, ignoring the jolt of pain and the spinning room as he laughed out loud. Of course. The Gallier treasure. According to Grandfather, the value of what lay beneath the Texas soil was much more than what had been stolen last night.

  He stood and began to pace, holding on to the walls until the room slowed its turning. Years of practice allowed him to call up the image his grandfather made him memorize. All that remained was how to make the trip there without drawing attention to himself.

  For as crafty as the Smith fellow was, he couldn’t possibly have hit him on the back of his head while standing in front of him. There was at least one accomplice in this endeavor, likely more.

  A smile rose and laughter once again followed as an idea occurred. Why bother to make a covert escape and risk being followed when he could sail out of New Orleans in plain sight?

  His passion for the plight of Texas was well known, as was his intention to do what he could for that cause. Thus, no one who knew him would find it odd when one week hence he attended the meeting downstairs in the very building where he now sat and presented himself as a candidate for the roster of the New Orleans Greys.

  He would muster in with Captain Morris’s battalion and be delivered to Velasco before the end of the month without anyone lifting an eyebrow. The only wrinkle in what was a nearly flawless plan was the question of how he might slip away to retrieve the treasure. That, he decided, would be left to God’s own provision. If need be, he could invoke the name of Andrew Jackson himself should he be caught and questioned.

  Once his mission was complete and the funds were transferred to Sam Houston’s representatives, the president would surely excuse him from his duties as a Grey and call him to Washington. There Clay would be given the place in the Ja
ckson administration that he had been promised. The appointment that would make everything right that Clay and his temper had made wrong.

  Clay smiled. Yes, this would work. It had to.

  The only question remaining was whether to alert the president to the situation. With nearly six weeks until the date of the exchange, there was no reason to worry the man.

  If all went well, President Jackson would never know that the stake Clay had in seeing the mission complete was now a very personal one.

  Despite the fact that her feet stood on Texas soil, the blood of Spanish noblemen and French privateers ran through Ellis Valmont’s veins. Her family tree was populated with brave souls who fought and died for a cause greater than themselves. Even though she’d married into the Valmont family, Mama could recite their stories as if calling back memories fresh enough to see with her eyes closed.

  As a child Papa heard tales of his noble-born Cordoba grandmother who survived a childhood orphaned on a Caribbean island and then married a privateer whose goal was to rescue treasure much greater than gold and silver, the treasure of enslaved souls. Grandmother Valmont told those same stories to Mama when she joined the family, as much to see that the tales were passed down as to explain why Papa sometimes got lost in a book or caught the wandering fever and picked up stakes to travel bold paths others might shun.

  Had Papa not inherited that penchant for adventure passed down through the generations, this branch of the Valmonts might have continued to reside in some well-appointed home along the Rue Royal or another grand address. Ellis had given up counting the number of aunts, uncles, and cousins they’d left behind when Papa took them to Texas.

  These same family members proclaimed Papa to have lost his mind. To this, Papa would tell them he’d finally found it. Had found a home here on the banks of the river and a cause for which he was willing to lay down his life.

  Until war came to the shores of her coastal Texas home, Ellis had never given serious thought to what it might be like to make a choice to die for a cause greater than self. Now she thought of such things constantly.

  Too often an unfamiliar sail on the horizon cast fear into her heart, and now she could not blame the ancient crumbling books Mama preserved from her New Orleans home and carried to Texas. Books that once entertained Great-Grandmother Maribel Cordoba on Isla de Santa Maria now lay covered in quilts in a trunk beside Mama’s bed, only to be removed by Mama and turned with care lest the fragile pages be ruined.

  Of the two, Mama was the one who always looked to preserve the past, while Papa was always looking to the future. As the only daughter, she had learned much from both of them.

  From her mother, Ellis learned the ways of healing using plants that grew near their coastal Texas homeland. As deep as the roots of these healing herbs grew, deeper still grew Ellis’s roots in the Texas soil.

  She drew her rebozo close and gave thanks her mother insisted she take the colorful Mexican scarf along on this morning’s mission to deliver a remedy for Grandfather Valmont’s persistent cough. She had arisen well before the sun to mix the herbs and now carried them down the familiar path to where the canoe was kept. On the other side of the river in his Velasco home, Grandfather was likely sipping chicory coffee while the sky bled from deep purple to pale blue.

  Though war waged elsewhere, there had been little cause for worry lately in Quintana and Velasco. Still, no citizen of this disputed land could rest easy with Mexican forces unwilling to give in to those who sought freedom.

  Thus, she was always on her guard wherever she walked, and she never went anywhere without a watchful eye and a knife hidden in the pocket of her skirt. And, of course, with an escort of some sort, though generally it was one of her rowdy and most unhelpful younger brothers or the elderly farmhand they called Mr. Jim.

  The boys’ absence today, caused by misbehavior that Mama had punished by sentencing them to cleaning out the barn starting well before daylight, meant she would make the trip without them. Mr. Jim had been called down the road to help the Widow Callahan by cutting up a tree that fell on her chicken coop, so he too was unavailable.

  Thus, she was alone. Not that she minded, for the quiet solitude that came from walking the path, crossing the river, and then making her way to Grandfather Valmont’s home was something she liked very much.

  The canoe was where she last left it, well hidden in the reeds on the far end of their property at the river’s edge. Ellis quickly crossed the deep brown waters and secured the canoe out of sight on the other bank. Grasping her basket of herbs, she climbed out and made her way down the path.

  A few minutes later, she rounded a corner and Velasco appeared in the distance. The city was situated at the eastern shore of the Brazos River, the dark thread of water called the Rio de los Brazos de Dios—River of the Arms of God—by the Spaniards. Huddled against the river’s banks all the way down to where the Brazos met the bay, the collection of buildings spread in both directions away from the shipyard and the impressive Valmont home. Ships bobbed at anchor here as well as along the coast, some of them built by Grandfather and his men.

  It was a source of pride to both Papa and Grandfather that Valmont Shipbuilders was bigger than any other enterprise in Velasco other than the military outpost of Fort Velasco. Now that the skirmish at Gonzales appeared to portend more than just an ongoing disagreement with Mexico, likely both the fort and the shipyard were destined to expand to fill the needs of protecting Texas.

  Ellis shook off the thought with a shrug of her shoulders. That the Valmont family was well-off financially compared to others in the city held little place in her thoughts. Even though the shipyard would profit from war, the Valmonts prayed only for peace.

  Built adjacent to his place of work, Jean Paul Valmont’s grand home sat as near to the shoreline as he could place it without getting doused when the spring rains fell. The love of the open water had been passed down through the generations, but unlike those before him, Grandfather built boats rather than sailed them.

  Ellis had made this walk more frequently since Papa and her brother Thomas went to fight with Major Burleson and the militiamen at Gonzales last month. With the men away—she refused to believe the rumor regarding casualties that reached them several weeks ago—it was up to Ellis to see that all was well with the senior member of the family.

  She found her grandfather right where she expected, but she had not anticipated that he would have company at this hour. Voices rose in conversation that seemed to border on disagreement, causing her to stall on the stone path that led to the back of the home and the porch facing the river.

  “I’ll not believe it until there’s proof,” Grandfather said in the French language he rarely used here in Texas. “They’re alive and would never do what you claim.”

  “The proof will come soon enough.” The speaker was male, but beyond this Ellis could discern nothing further. “I warn you only because the friendship between our families goes back longer than either of us have been alive.”

  “And your jealousy of me and my family goes back to our own parents, does it not?” Grandfather paused to allow a fit of coughing to pass. “I thought I’d be rid of you when the Lord took my Claire home, but it appears the vendetta you swore against me did not die with her.”

  Laughter that held no humor reached Ellis’s ears. She craned her neck to try to spy something of the stranger’s identity.

  “The fact that Claire did not deserve you has nothing to do with this. Although, perhaps had she chosen me instead of you, none of this would have happened. Now I merely wish to offer an opportunity that will make us both very wealthy.”

  Ellis edged closer at the mention of her namesake grandmother, Claire Ellis Valmont. Who was this man?

  “You came to gloat at what you wish me to believe is my loss and nothing else,” Grandfather said, his voice almost unrecognizable in the anger this usually soft-spoken man’s tone showed. “Boyd and his son are neither traitors to our cause nor dead
and buried. You, however, are known to shift loyalties to follow what benefits you.”

  “On that we agree. However, you must consider the fact that your son may be clever enough to preserve his life and the lives of his family by doing things that he might otherwise find abhorrent.”

  Silence crackled between them. Ellis’s temper rose. How dare that man accuse her father of doing abhorrent things?

  Whatever that meant.

  “Henri,” her grandfather finally said, “go back to whoever sent you and tell him it did not work.”

  “Be reasonable, Jean Paul,” the man said, switching to English. “Just outside your door is Fort Velasco, a Mexican garrison until four summers ago. Soldiers from New Orleans have only just arrived to join the fight. But look what they fight against!”

  “Seems I heard the same arguments back in ’32, and yet we sent General Ugartechea and the Mexican army away on ships we had waiting for them.”

  “General Santa Anna is no Ugartechea. There’s no surrender in him, I promise you,” Henri said. “And unlike the previous commander, the general and his superior army will kill us all unless he has assurance of our loyalty.”

  “And so you wish me to throw my support your way so that we might join a cause that you claim has taken my son and grandson? Which of us would be the fool then, Henri? You for asking or me for allowing fear to rule my decisions when the Lord is the One clearly in charge?”

  She thought she heard the stranger chuckle. “Will your Lord save you from Santa Anna and his men?” he said, returning to Acadian French. “I think if you believe that, you are the fool.”

  “Henri,” Grandfather said gently, “this is how you lost Claire to me.”

  “Had she chosen me, she might still be alive.”

  The words hung in the air between the men, neither responding for what seemed like an eternity. With two years gone since cholera took Claire Valmont, the family had yet to recover from the loss. Grandmother Valmont had been the essence of home and family, and the mention of her brought tears to Ellis’s eyes.