The Alamo Bride

by Kathleen Y'Barbo

  Again he tried to move, and again he found himself useless for anything other than lying still and watching the shadows for the green-eyed woman.

  She would return. She always did.

  So he would wait.

  There was more. Something he needed to do. A place he needed to be.

  But where? And when?

  The more he tried to remember, the more he seemed to forget. What he could not forget was the green-eyed woman and how she made him feel. If only he could speak to her.

  The soldier was speaking again. Ellis could hear him before she removed the bar to the barn door and stepped inside.

  The sun had not yet risen, but she had already raced through all her chores then made breakfast and set it aside for Mama and the boys. Mr. Jim would be home today, so she added extra bacon in case he arrived early enough to dine with the family.

  Ellis set the plate of bacon and eggs on the chair and then found her way through the murky darkness to light the lamp. As the light filled the room, she saw that the patient had indeed been fine without her there. Or at least he appeared to be.

  “Good morning,” she said as she reached over to feel his brow.

  Fever.

  She sighed. “You’re supposed to be getting better. I even brought breakfast for you. I guess I was a little too hopeful.”

  His eyes opened. “Green-eyed woman,” came out in a deep and breathy voice.

  Ellis smiled. “Yes, I suppose I am. How’re you feeling this morning? Are you hungry?”

  No response.

  Instead he stared up at her. “November 18th at Béxar.”

  Ellis froze. “What do you mean? What is happening that day?”

  He stared, once again mute. Then his eyes closed and remained that way until well after sunrise.

  By then she had moved the breakfast plate to the table and written the date and location he’d given her in the back of the book of psalms. When taken separately, the Grey’s ramblings had not made sense.

  But now that she had this additional information, a story was emerging. It appeared the Grey was supposed to meet a representative of General Houston at Béxar on November 18 to deliver funds that were needed by the Texian army. Something had been buried, possibly the gold, and that could be found where the pecan tree split thirty-three paces from the river.

  Information regarding just where along the Brazos this tree might be had not yet been mentioned. Nor had he identified the name of who sent him on this alleged mission to aid the Texians. These were the questions she would ask if she had the opportunity.

  If only there was another way to … Oh. The boots!

  Ellis scrambled to set the book aside. Grabbing the right boot, she slid her fingers inside and retrieved the folded papers. She set the boot back in place and moved closer to the lamp to spread out the documents on the table.

  The first scrap of paper—not much bigger than the size of her hand—had what appeared to be maps drawn on both sides. She traced what must be a long road of some kind on the first side and saw where it noted the number of steps from something called Ventana de Rosa up to a split tree. There was another set of steps due north to where an X had been marked. Nothing was identified on this map, but it had to be the directions to where Houston’s gold was hidden.

  On the other side of this paper were directions from Columbus to Béxar and a notation of the specific place where the meeting would be held: Mission San Jose.

  Now she had a location to go with the date. What she thought was the outlandish mumbling of a fevered man was becoming something that could be all too real.

  Ellis set the map aside. The next document was smaller, and had fit so easily inside the first one that she could have missed it. Unfolding the page, she recognized the document immediately as identification of a citizen of Louisiana, because all the adults in the Valmont family had been in possession of one before they came here to Texas.

  Her eyes scanned the page until she found what she was looking for. “Claiborne William Andre Gentry.” She glanced over at the soldier and smiled. “No wonder there was so much space between your first name and last on your certificate. I suppose I can still call you Clay until you tell me otherwise.”

  She folded the pages back together, but instead of returning them to their hiding place, she tucked them into the hidden pocket that Mama had sewed into her rebozo. Until she could be certain just whom this man was working for, she had to do as her mother and grandfather warned. She had to believe him an enemy until he could prove himself a friend.

  Though he claimed to be meeting General Houston or one of his men, what if he was delivering funds to the Mexican army to defeat Houston? That was certainly possible. With battles raging elsewhere and the price of Texas freedom being paid in the blood of its citizens, anything was possible.

  Ellis returned to Clay Gentry’s bedside and looked down at the sleeping soldier. “Who are you working for, Clay Gentry?” she said softly.

  He mumbled something, his lips moving but the sound barely audible. She repeated the question, leaning closer.

  “Jackson,” he told her.

  Ellis sat back, stunned. “Andrew Jackson? The president of the United States?”

  For a moment she did not think he would answer. Then he whispered, “Yes,” on an exhale of breath.

  “Why?” she asked, but he remained silent. “Clay, wake up,” she told him. “I want to know why Andrew Jackson would ask you to deliver money to the Texians. Why you? And why contribute to that cause when the president has so many other interests he could support?”

  True, there had been talk that the president would somehow make Texas a state, but that had only been talk. No politician wanted to be the one to initiate a war, apparently, so the subject of statehood had been lost in the cries for attention elsewhere.

  Ellis shook her head. Of course. It was all so ridiculous that it had to come from a mind that was damaged from the head injury. The poor man couldn’t help what he thought to be true, not in his condition. And yet, how did the excuse that the story was outlandish explain the papers in the hidden compartment of his boot?

  Clay’s eyes opened and he stared up at her. Ellis couldn’t tell whether he was truly seeing her or merely looking past her. “I owe him,” he said as his eyes slid shut. “And he owes Houston.”

  She settled on the edge of the bed in the hope of hearing him better. Though his lips continued to move, no more words emerged.

  Ellis pressed her palm to his forehead. He still was burning up. Only then did she realize she had not yet administered the herbs that would reduce the fever. No wonder he was speaking such nonsense. She quickly took care of that and then bathed his forehead with a damp cloth.

  Though she continued to pepper him with questions, Clay said nothing further on any subject. Finally she snatched up a slice of bacon and devoured it. She was about to reach for another slice when Clay’s eyes opened again.

  “Thirsty,” he said.

  She dipped the cloth into the bucket and dripped the water slowly onto his tongue. When she repeated the process, he began to choke.

  “Enough for now,” she told him. “Get well and I will bring water and breakfast.”

  His eyes fluttered open, and it almost looked as if he might smile. Then he fell into a deep sleep again.

  Mama came and went, declaring today to be the day they decrease the sleeping remedy. Though she too was disappointed with the continued fevers, she was not surprised.

  “He’s not guaranteed a recovery, especially considering the severity of the shoulder wound,” Mama reminded her. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  They’d left together then, she and Mama, for there were chores to be done. By the time Ellis managed to return to the barn, she found Clay lying very still but without fever.

  “This is good news,” she told him.

  She leaned back in the chair, preparing to close her eyes for a brief rest, when she noticed his lips moving again. Shifting to the mat
tress, she leaned close.

  “What is it, Clay? Are you trying to tell me something?” When he did not respond, she dipped the cloth in the bucket and let a few drops of water land on his lips.

  He smiled.

  “Do you want more?”

  Clay opened his mouth just enough to allow her to give him a tiny bit more water. This time he did not choke, but she dared not offer any more.

  However, as long as she was getting a response from him, maybe he would be willing to answer more questions. There had to be an explanation for the papers in his boot, and she was determined to find it.

  “Why Mission San Jose?” she asked.

  “Allies,” he told her. “Easy to meet. No one will know.”

  Interesting. Still, a far-fetched story. “What time is the meeting?”

  “Sunset,” he told her, as always in the language of the Acadians.

  “Do you speak English, Clay?” she asked him.

  His eyes opened again and he looked up at her. This time she knew he saw her. “Clay?”

  Ellis hid her smile. “I’m sorry. That is what I have been calling you. Perhaps you prefer Claiborne. Or Claiborne William Andre Gentry. It is a grand name. Very impressive.”

  He continued to hold her gaze, his eyes barely blinking. “Who is Clay?”

  “That is you. It is your name, or rather all of those names are your name. I shortened it to Clay and then, well, never mind.” She gave him a sideways look. “Or is it?”

  She stood and took a step away from the bed. Was it possible, if he was indeed speaking truth and not nonsense, that the document in his boot had been forged?

  Possible also that the man lying injured under her grandmother’s quilt was not Claiborne William Andre Gentry from New Orleans, Louisiana? That he was a spy sent from Santa Anna to somehow do harm to the Texians at Béxar?

  Or worse, to deliver the funds to the Mexican army? Indeed, anything was possible in a time of war.

  Consider him a foe until he is proven a friend.

  Ellis went to the table and mixed the herbs that made up the sleeping remedy and then returned to the patient. He allowed her to administer it without protest, though his eyes never left hers. After a while, the remedy did its job and the soldier—whoever he was—fell into a deep sleep.

  That’s when she sprang into action. Using ropes from the supplies in the barn, she tied his hands. Then she wrapped another rope around his feet. When she was done, she covered him with the quilt and then stood back to catch her breath.

  His chest rose and fell in an even rhythm, attesting to the depth of his sleep. Questioning him now would likely not provide any answers, but she had to try.

  “What is your purpose for going to Béxar?” she whispered against his ear. “Who are you meeting?”

  “Houston,” he said. “Important to meet Houston.”

  “Houston himself or someone representing him?” she asked.

  “Himself, though no one is to know it is him.”

  Ellis shook her head. “So you’re telling me General Sam Houston is going to meet with you at Mission San Jose on November 18th for the purpose of receiving money for his troops?”

  “No,” he said softly. “Gold coins.”

  “Gold coins,” she echoed. “All right, then tell me how the most famous Texian in the army will be able to hide his identity.”

  “Dressed as a padre,” he said. “Both of us.”

  She reached for her book of psalms and turned to the back page. Adding this information to what she had already written there certainly completed the story. But again she had to wonder how much of it was the truth.

  She sighed. How could a man in his condition manage to lie consistently? It was impossible, wasn’t it?

  There was only one unanswered question. “Do you intend to harm General Houston?”

  The Grey’s eyes opened and then fluttered shut again. Apparently this was a question he did not intend to answer.

  Consider him a foe until he is proven a friend.

  And so she would, though she would defer the accusation that he meant harm to the general until she had further proof.

  When Mama arrived, she viewed the new situation with the soldier without comment. Ellis rushed to explain.

  “He was making statements that frightened me. I do not know if he is recalling truth or speaking out of his mind.”

  When Mama raised her eyebrows, Ellis rushed to clarify. “He wasn’t threatening us, Mama, if that’s what you were thinking. I just …” She struggled to find a way to tell her without giving details she wasn’t sure were true. “I feel like he is hiding something. Whether that is his loyalty to Texas or to someone in a position of power trying to help Texas, I do not know.”

  “So you think keeping him restrained is necessary?”

  “That or keeping him asleep,” she said.

  “This is a temporary solution,” Mama reminded her. “Eventually he will heal and awaken. Then what do you propose to do?”

  “I have no proposal,” she said with a sigh. “He is making claims that cause me to wonder whether he is a spy for someone else or an ambassador sent to bring aid to General Houston. He has been saying some truly outlandish things.”

  “Do you care to tell me any of these outlandish things in specific?”

  “There is nothing specific to tell yet,” she said, “but I am keeping track of them. I wrote them all down in case the information is needed. Both you and Grandfather Valmont have said we should be watchful and consider anyone we are not certain is a friend to be our enemy.”

  “These are difficult times these past few years,” Mama said as she nodded in agreement. “But be careful about making pronouncements in regard to someone who cannot speak up in his defense.”

  “Agreed,” Ellis said. “So I propose we keep him either asleep or restrained until he can speak in his defense.”

  Her mother seemed to consider Ellis’s proposal. “For today, I will agree to him being restrained but not to giving him something for sleep. Healing requires he return to normal sleeping patterns.”

  “I understand,” she said, knowing Mama was right.

  “Even in times of war, a man should be given the right to speak in defense, don’t you think?” At her reluctant nod, Mama continued. “Perhaps Mr. Jim can be convinced to stay here with him at night so that you do not have to feel afraid. He would, of course, need a bed of his own. I doubt he’d be willing to shirk his daytime chores in favor of staying awake at this man’s bedside.”

  Or both do the daytime chores and still stay awake to provide care to the patient, she thought but did not say aloud. “Has he returned?” Ellis said instead.

  “Not yet, but I expect him anytime now. I had word the circuit rider is bringing him himself.” Mama nodded toward the soldier. “How much of the sleeping herbs did you give him?” Upon Ellis’s answer, her mother continued. “Then I expect he will have a good long rest. Come, I have plenty for you to do while our patient is sleeping.”

  A few hours later, Ellis looked up from her work in the field to see a horse with two riders coming down the road. “Mama,” she called as she hurried toward the road. “We’ve got company.”

  As the horse drew near, she spied their beloved Mr. Jim riding behind the Methodist circuit rider. The preacher urged the mount forward, hurrying their arrival at the gate.

  “Welcome,” Mama said, beating Ellis to the chore of opening the gate. “We are so thankful you’ve brought our dear friend home.”

  The circuit rider echoed the greeting as he rode through the now-open gate. Mr. Jim grinned broadly, showing his lack of teeth and his joy at being home once again.

  No one—not even he—could remember when Antonio Jose Jimenez arrived on the property now owned by the Valmont family. Known by his preferred name of Mr. Jim, the old gentleman had worked for the previous owner, and though that family moved on, he did not.

  Rather, Papa was happy for him to stay. Strong as an ox and able to do the
work of a man half his age, Mr. Jim had been an asset to the family during the years before the war began and a godsend once the men went off with the militia to Goliad.

  Had Papa not begged Mr. Jim to stay behind and keep watch over the women and children, the older man would have marched away with the rest. His allegiance to Papa was so strong, however, that he would do anything Boyd Valmont asked of him, even if that meant leaving the fighting to the others in favor of helping with everything from farming to mending fences to aiding in the laundering of clothes on occasion.

  Lucas and Mack met them on the porch and hurried to take the horse’s reins. As the preacher climbed down, it became apparent that the old man was not as well as expected.

  “Bring the horse alongside the porch,” Mama told the boys. “I think we are going to need to help Mr. Jim get on his feet.”

  The Valmont home, like others in the area, was built in the dogtrot style with two square structures united by a common roof that created a covered porch between them. The style was so named because a dog could trot happily between the parlor and the sleeping areas without going inside.

  In the case of the Valmont home, Papa’s success had allowed for a second story to be built over the first. Two large bedchambers upstairs housed Ellis’s brothers as well as any cousins, friends, or trusted workers who needed a place to stay. Downstairs were two more bedchambers on one side of the open porch—one for Mama and Papa and the other for Ellis—with a narrow hall dividing the two rooms. A suite of parlor furniture and Grandmother Valmont’s massive table and chair set from New Orleans filled out the other side.

  Standing close enough to watch every move, Mama looked doubtful as Mr. Jim proclaimed he was just fine. Nodding to Ellis, she made sure there was help when that proclamation proved to be false.

  His knees buckled, and it took her and the preacher to get him inside and situated in the rocker by the fireplace. Mama performed the duties of a hospitable hostess until she found a way to excuse herself. On her way outside, she motioned for Ellis to join her.

  “He does not need to be here,” Mama said when they’d left the porch. “He may believe he has the stamina of a young man, but his age is showing in how he is healing from his injuries. Did you notice his pupils were uneven?”