Clay nodded. “That’s a smart thing to do. We’ll go to a Mexican prison, but there’s always a chance to escape,” he said as the flag went up.
At the sight of the white flag, General Urrea halted the attack, and the surrender went well. Colonel Fannin, still confused, asked that his troops receive all of the honors of war—that they would lay down their arms and there would be no executions and no reprisals.
General Urrea did not accept those terms in writing, but he did agree to an amiable surrender.
Less than an hour after the surrender, Clay was marching along, prodded by the rifle butts of the Mexicans, who were laughing at them and taunting them about their surrender. “Just hold your temper, boy,” Clay said quietly to Brodie. “We’ll get our turn.”
“Clay, I ain’t gonna stay in no Mexican prison.”
“Me either,” Tim said. And Clyde Biddle agreed.
“We’ll stay together, and we’ll bust out,” Brodie said. He glared at Colonel Fannin, who was leading the group. “That’s the stupidest man I ever saw. He ain’t fit to command a herd of pigs!”
Since the Alamo had fallen, General Antonio López de Santa Anna had reveled in the glow of victory. He had lost an enormous number of men, but loss of life did not seem to matter to him in the least. He realized that his army had been bruised, so he contented himself with patching it together again and dallying with young, native girls as if he were on a holiday.
Mateo had been brooding over the heinous treatment of the defenders of the Alamo. He was proud of his uniform and convinced that he had done the right thing, but he could not forget the sight of the bodies being thrown like animals onto the fire. For many nights he had bad dreams about the fire itself.
“Mateo, the General wants to see you.”
“Yes, sir.” Mateo saluted the lieutenant and went at once to Santa Anna’s tent. Santa Anna shoved the young Mexican girl off of his lap and slapped her on the leg. She giggled at him and left the tent. Santa Anna laughed loudly and said, “Good news, Mateo. General Urrea has taken the entire force at Goliad.”
Mateo’s face lit up. “Wonderful, My General! Now the way is clear all the way to the Sabine River!”
“Exactly! And you will be asked to scout again, although there should be nothing to stop us along the way.” He waved at an aide and said, “Send this order on to General Urrea. Tell him to shoot them all, every last one of them.”
The aide stared at General Santa Anna but said instantly, “Yes, sir.” He turned and left the tent at once.
Mateo was shocked. The callous order had robbed him of speech for a moment, and then he said, “My General, I think you should think more before letting that order get to General Urrea.”
Santa Anna glanced up, surprise on his face. “Why should I? By decree of December the thirtieth, it clearly states that any foreigner taking up arms against the Government of Mexico will be shot.”
Mateo felt helpless, for here was the Emperor of Mexcio, and he was only a humble sergeant. Still, he knew something dreadful was wrong with this order. “I think it would be a grave mistake, Your Excellency. Pardon me for speaking so plainly, but such an action would cause problems for you later on.”
“No, I think not, Mateo. You do not show mercy to a beaten people. It only encourages them to wait and resist again. After all”—he stared at Mateo with displeasure on his face—“you did not complain when all that were in the Alamo were killed.”
“But, My General, that was different. It was a battle. Those men had guns, and it was our duty to kill them, as they killed many of us. But when the North Americanos hear that we have executed all of those men who surrendered, they will become very angry.”
“Let them! What can they do? With San Antonio and Goliad in our hands, we can sweep all the way to the river. All we have to do is pin down this Sam Houston. As I understand, he’s now their commander. But he has no army. We’ve won, Mateo. Don’t you see it?”
“Pardon me, My General. I would not argue with you, but something about this seems dangerous. To wipe out the Alamo was a battle, but if you shoot all of these men, these Texans will rise up. They will come in from the United States, and they will create an army. They may forget the Alamo, for it was a fair fight, but they will never forget a massacre like this.”
Santa Anna was not a man to listen to anyone, much less a lowly sergeant. “I’ll hear no more about this. I changed my mind about one thing. I want you to take the order to General Urrea.”
“Me, sir?”
“Yes. It will be a test of your loyalty. After all, you’re half Texan yourself. You must prove yourself, Mateo. Now, get ready, for I want you to leave at once. The order will be written out so there will be no mistake. I want every one of those prisoners shot.”
For one brief instant Mateo considered walking away, but he had burned all his bridges behind him. He could not go back home again. Everyone knew that he had fought with Santa Anna. He found it hard to speak, but finally he whispered, “Yes, sir, it shall be done.”
“Good, and you will see that I am right. These Texans will run like rabbits when they find out what sort of a man I am!”
Colonel José Nicolas de la Portilla’s hands trembled so that he could barely read the order that the young sergeant had put into his hands. He looked up and said hoarsely, “But this order is to kill all the prisoners.”
“That is what it says,” Mateo said evenly. All the way on his ride from San Antonio to Goliad, his hope had been that General Urrea, a strong-minded professional, would disobey Santa Anna’s order and refuse to execute the prisoners. He had been profoundly disappointed to discover that Urrea, evidently anticipating such an order, had left Goliad and its prisoners in charge of Colonel Portilla.
Portilla pulled out a handkerchief, and despite the coolness of the morning, he wiped his forehead, which was suddenly covered with perspiration. “But I cannot do this.”
“I do not think you should, Colonel,” Mateo said.
“But . . . but this is Santa Anna’s signature. He is the overall commander. How can I refuse to honor it?”
“Is it possible to find General Urrea and let him make the decision?”
Portilla shook his head, his face gray from the burden of responsibility that bore down on him. He read again the words, this time aloud. “Immediate execution of every perfidious foreigner.” He looked up, and his voice was unsteady. “But doesn’t General Santa Anna understand what this will mean?”
“I told him myself, Colonel. I think if he had time,” Mateo said quickly, “he would see the wisdom of allowing the prisoners to live.”
Actually, Mateo had no such hope, but he was thinking quickly. “At least postpone the execution until General Urrea can be reached.”
“When General Urrea left,” Portilla said, “he commanded me to treat the prisoners with consideration and protect them in every way.”
“I think that was very wise.”
“But I cannot disobey my orders.” Portilla knew that to disobey the Emperor of Mexico would ensure his own death. Torment etched deep lines across his face, and Portilla whispered, “God knows what will happen when we do this terrible thing.”
“I know what will happen. The Texans will gather and fight with a vengeance never seen before. We will pay for this with the blood of thousands, Colonel.”
Portilla folded the message, his hands shaking, and stuck it in his pocket. “That is all, Sergeant.”
At that moment Mateo knew there was no hope for the prisoners. His heart sank, and after saluting, he turned and left the headquarters. He walked outside into the morning air and asked, “Where are the prisoners being kept?”
The private he had asked waved his hand languidly. “Over there in that building.”
Mateo looked at a large unpainted white building ringed with guards and walked toward it slowly. He did not know what prompted him, but when he reached the building, he walked completely around it. The prisoners were all inside, and he aske
d the guard, “Do they stay inside all the time?”
“No, they’re let out after breakfast for exercise. They should be coming out now,” the guard said.
A fatal attraction seemed to form itself in Mateo’s mind. He lingered around until the door opened and the prisoners came pouring out. He was standing not twenty yards away from where the guards ringed the prisoners, bayonets held high, so that there was no chance of an escape. He stared at the faces of the men, and most of them, he noted with shock, seemed happy. They’ve been told that they’ll be set free, was his thought. He was about to turn and go away, sickened at what was going to happen, when he heard his name called loudly.
“Mateo—Mateo!”
Mateo turned and was shocked to see Brodie Hardin, who had approached the ring of guards.
Mateo’s heart sank, and as he went forward, he saw Clay Taliferro standing beside Brodie along with Tim Beringer and Clyde Biddle. The horror of what was to happen became fully real to Mateo. These were his friends, especially Brodie Hardin. He approached and saw that Brodie was grinning.
“Mateo, it’s good to see you.”
“Hello, Brodie. Señor Clay,” he said woodenly and spoke also to Tim and Clyde.
“Well, we got ourselves snapped up,” Brodie said, “but I guess we’ll be gettin’ out of here pretty soon.”
“I trust so,” Mateo said, hating himself for lying.
Mateo saw anger and even hatred in the eyes of Tim and Clyde. He knew they despised him for what they felt was his traitorous conduct. For the life of him, he could not think of a word to say, and then Brodie spoke up.
“I saw your mother and your sister just before we left. They’re doing fine.”
“That is good to hear.” The news of his family made Mateo feel even worse. He saw the guards were listening but doubted that many of them could speak English. He knew he had only a few moments, and stepping closer, he knew he had only one choice. “Brodie,” he whispered, “listen to me.”
“Sure, Mateo.”
“Don’t let anything show in your face when I speak. You hear me, Señor Clay, you too?”
Clay grew alert. “You hear him, boys. Whatever he says, don’t let a thing show in your face. Now what is it, Mateo?”
“General Santa Anna has sent an order that all of you are to be executed.” Mateo watched and saw that the four of them contained their shock well. Quickly he said, “All of you smile and don’t let the guards see anything. But I’m going to do my best to save you.”
“How can you do that?” Brodie asked hoarsely. He was trying to smile, but fear was in his eyes.
“I don’t know, but whenever they come to take you out, I’ll be with them. You four stay with me whatever happens. You understand?”
“Sure, Mateo,” Clay said quickly. “You’re a good lad.”
Mateo shook his head and said loudly, “God be with you all. I will see you later.”
As Mateo walked away, the four turned from the guards and moved toward the center of the others. “Don’t say a word about this to anybody,”
Clay said. “It’s pretty bad, but Mateo will help us if he can. We just have to be ready.”
Palm Sunday, March the twenty-seventh, was a fine day. The sun was bright and shiny, and Colonel Portilla, dressed in his finest uniform, was, nevertheless, pale of face as he faced his junior officers. He read the order from Santa Anna and saw shock run through their faces. “We have no choice. We must shoot them all.”
One of the officers protested. “But, Colonel, we can’t do that!”
“If you do not, you yourself will be shot!” The threat was enough to sober all of the men. They knew Santa Anna’s temper well and listened as Portilla said, “We will tell them we’re taking them to the boats, and they are being freed to go home. Now, go.”
“They’re coming for us,” Clay said. “Remember. We stay right together, and we stick to Mateo like glue.”
Brodie nodded, and the four moved outside with the rest of the prisoners. There were approximately four hundred of them, and a captain stopped them outside and said, “You’re all being freed. You will march to the boats, where you will be sent home again.” A rousing cheer went up from the men, and Clay exchanged glances with Brodie. Neither of them spoke, but Brodie walked closer to Clay.
The men moved outside of the town, marching and talking and filled with excitement. Colonel Fannin was at the head of them, and he obeyed the orders of their captors to form three separate columns. The men moved on, and the mood was almost like a picnic.
Suddenly, Mateo appeared riding a bay stallion. He took his place along one side of the column, and Clay whispered, “There he is. Move over to the side.” The four men made their way until they were marching right beside Mateo. He looked at them one time, nodded slightly and then looked straight ahead.
The route took the men through a wooded area, and Clay, who was watching Mateo closely, saw him turn and nod again.
Suddenly, a group of horsemen appeared armed with rifles and pistols. They moved to surround the group, and Mateo quickly turned his head to Brodie and whispered, “Come on.”
Shots began to ring out, and screams of the wounded filled the air. Brodie heard Tim scream, “Clyde!” He turned around and saw that Clyde had fallen, the back of his shirt a mass of crimson blood.
Tim was bent over him, and even as he was, a bullet struck him in the neck, severing the artery. He fell to the ground, the crimson flow spurting out. He tried to get up, and his eyes locked on Brodie as the life flowed out of him.
Brodie started toward him, but Clay seized him with an iron grip. “Come on!” he shouted. “It’s too late for them!”
Brodie tore his eyes from his two dying friends, and he and Clay ran to get beside Mateo’s horse. Mateo said, “Here, hang on to the saddle.”
Brodie grabbed the back of the saddle skirt, and Clay took a grip. Mateo moved his horse toward a group of scrub timber. The air was filled with the crackling of explosions as Portilla’s soldiers shot as quickly as they could reload. Men were running everywhere, trying to take cover. When Clay and Brodie reached the timber, Mateo yelled, “Run quick! Go to the river!”
Brodie ducked his head and ran with Clay at his side. They had just entered the thickness of the woods when Clay suddenly grunted and fell.
“Clay, are you hit?”
“I reckon I am.”
Brodie turned to examine him. “Where is it?”
“Way in the back. High up. I don’t think it’s a killin’ shot,” Clay said, wincing from the pain.
Brodie turned Clay over and saw that he had been shot very high on the left shoulder in the back.
“Missed a lung,” Clay said as he slowly struggled to his feet.
“You’ll bleed to death,” Brodie said. He took off his shirt, tore it into bits. Part of it he used to make a pad and put it over the welling flood of blood. The rest of it he tore into strips to hold the bandage in place.
“That’ll have to do,” Clay panted. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
The two moved quickly through the underbrush. They could hear the screams of the dying men, and the crackling of rifles seemed to go on a long time.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
Clay was lying on his back staring up through the trees. Overhead, a pair of gray squirrels were frolicking. Seeing the man below them, they chattered angrily, then scampered over to the next tree on overhanging branches. Clay moved painfully, and then suddenly he heard the sound of horses approaching. He struggled to a sitting position and then gave a sigh of relief when he saw Brodie coming mounted on a horse and leading another one.
“Where’d you get them horses?”
“I stole them from a farm. They ain’t much, but maybe they’ll get us home.”
Brodie slid off the horse, tied them up, and came over to where Clay was sitting. “You’re plumb white. You done lost too much blood, Clay.”
“I’ll make it. I got some good news.”
>
“Well, I can use it. What is it?”
Clay reached up and touched his chest. “Feel this right here.”
Brodie reached out and touched Clay’s chest high on the left side. “It’s a lump. What is it?”
“It’s the musket ball. It didn’t make it all the way through. But it’s close enough. You’ll have to cut it out, Brodie.”
“Cut it out?” Brodie exclaimed.
“Here. Take this knife. It won’t take much. Do it now.”
Brodie swallowed hard and took Clay’s razor-sharp bowie knife. He poised the tip of it and looked at Clay.
“Do it hard and quick,” Clay said.
Brodie felt the tip of the bullet, and taking a deep breath, he sliced the skin. The blood began to flow, but the knife point struck the ball. Using the tip of the knife, he pried it out and then quickly tore off a bit of Clay’s shirt and put it over the wound.
“Maybe you’ll be better now that that’s out of there,” Brodie said as he put pressure on the bandage.
“Neither one of us will be better if we don’t get away from here. Help me get on that horse.”
Brodie reached down and helped Clay to his feet. He locked his fingers together and said, “Step in here, and I’ll pull you right up.” He waited until Clay put his left foot in his hand, then he lifted him, and Clay straddled the horse. Brodie handed him the lines and then quickly swung on the back of the other horse.
“Come on. You’ll have to do all the navigatin’,” Clay said. “I’m not goin’ to be much help, Brodie. Feel quite light-headed.”
Brodie looked up when a large drop of rain hit his face. It was the rainy season, and he shook his head. “The rivers are going to be hard to get across if this keeps up.”
All that day they rode as fast as they could, stopping only a few times to rest and water the horses. Clay never complained once and clung doggedly to the pommel of the saddle and kept his seat. Brodie could tell Clay was in pain from the strained look on his face whenever he looked back. When it was almost dark, Brodie spotted a house up ahead. “You wait here. I’m gonna see what’s up there.”
Deep in the Heart Page 39
