WITH BOWIE
AT THE
ALAMO
FREDERICK
WEST
This book is dedicated
to my dear wife, Bess,
with love and gratitude
WITH BOWIE AT THE ALAMO
Frederick West
Omega Publications, Palm Springs, CA
Copyright 2009 © Frederick West
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical copying, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Except for historical characters and events, all persons, places and occurrences are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to any other actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-0-9840762-5-3
Smashwords Edition
Cover design and page layout by Omega Publications
www.OmegaPublications.net
REVIEWS
WITH BOWIE AT THE ALAMO
FREDERICK WEST
West displays a talent for the 'you are there' feel throughout this exciting book, presenting the reader with such memorable characters, brave and venal, good and bad, that one cannot help but love or hate them and sometimes both. The research and the accuracy of the events portrayed show this gifted writer's ability to take dry facts and make them come alive for the reader, drawing us into the yarn he spins. There's never a dull moment as we join them on their destined rendezvous with San’tana.”
Gayle Farmer, author of Secret Lives
History comes alive in With Bowie at the Alamo, a gripping yarn that takes a young man across America, finally arriving at the Alamo in time for the historic battle. Follow his exciting adventures. Be there, when he joins Jim Bowie. Vivid descriptions and superb dialogue make this tale unforgettable.
Barry Metcalf, author of Nightmare in Alice Springs
With Bowie at the Alamo is a brilliant read in which Frederick West successfully weaves his endearing fictional characters into events in history and the lives of important historical figures. A real page turner from the start and a must-read for anyone interested in adventure and history.
Kym Jade, author of Spirit Stealers
WITH BOWIE AT THE ALAMO
Frederick West
In Frederick West’s debut novel, the story of young James Thomas and his family intertwines with the story of the nascent Republic of Texas. The leading characters move from Kentucky, and West uses James as an everyman reader stand-in through whom we meet many of the great names from the Lone Star State’s history: Colonel Travis, Sam Houston, Jim Bowie and Davy Crockett all get ample space to strut and speechify. We see a great many of its epic formative battles, including the famous last stand at the Alamo and the largely forgotten slaughter of Texan prisoners by the Mexicans at Goliad.
This is a long book, but it never feels like one, as West’s engaging, assured prose style pulls the many strands of his story steadily forward to conclusions the reader will already know: the Mexicans under General Santa Anna … a delightfully hissable villain who steals every scene he’s in … overrun the Alamo, but the Texans eventually win their freedom from Mexico and establish their short-lived republic. It’s a tribute to West’s abilities that nothing in his novel feels like a foregone conclusion—characters grope along day to day, not knowing how things will turn out. Once he lights out from his home and Betsy, the love of his life, James becomes a scout and a Texas Ranger and has many adventures, and through them West is able to convey a wonderful and well-researched sense of time and place. Although narrower in scope, this novel is a worthy companion to Michener’s Texas. It is a rich, informative reading experience, well recommended.
Steve Donoghue, The Historical Novel Society
Originally reviewed under the title Things Worth Fighting For.
It is with gratitude and pride that we give special recognition and thanks to the following for their contribution to the cover art for With Bowie At The Alamo:
The Plan of the Alamo, by Jose Juan Sanches-Navarro, 1836.
This beautifully rendered manuscript map, part of an official military report on the fall of the Alamo, clearly shows where the Mexicans had positioned their cannons (at R and V) and the line of attack of troops under General Cos (S).
The Dodson Flag – the first Lonestar
Designed and made by Sarah Dodson for her husband, Archelaus, a member of the Robinson Company in 1835, it is recognized as the first Lone Star flag.
The Picture of The Alamo
The picture of the Alamo was provided by Michael F. Fitzpatrick from an interpretive sign standing outside the mission and depicting the Alamo in 1836.
The Portrait of Colonel Jim Bowie
The portrait of Jim Bowie is the only known oil painting done from real life.
The Portrait of the President of Mexico
Portrait of General D. Antonio Lopez De Santa Anna, President of the Republic of Mexico, by A. Hoffy
The Reverse of the State Seal – The 1961 Reverse
The Daughters of the Republic of Texas proposed a design for the reverse of the State Seal that was adopted by the Fifty-Seventh Legislature, Second Called Session, and on August 26, 1961, Governor Price Daniel approved this concurrent resolution.
Sarah R. Farnsworth designed the art for the seal’s reverse. This design was unusual because the legislature adopted the art itself as the reverse of the State Seal, as opposed to the usual practice of adopting a description or blazon, which is later rendered by an artist.
Cover design by Omega Publications, 2009
WITH BOWIE
AT THE
ALAMO
INTRODUCTION
In all the history of warfare there is no greater example of the folly of committing atrocities against ones enemies than the war for independence by Mexico’s northern most province Tejas. At the Battle of the Alamo, Santa Anna’s order to take no prisoners stiffened Texian resistance. The Mexican army claimed victory in that fight, but their losses of over six hundred dead and over one thousand wounded, crippled their army and caused severe damage to the respect held for Santa Anna, even among his own officers.
Before the slaughter of the Alamo’s defenders and the massacre of the Texian prisoners at Goliad, Santa Anna’s reputation outside Texas was that of a crafty and capable general. Afterwards he was thought a cruel and inhumane barbarian. Until those atrocities, most Texians opposed a complete separation from the mother country and wanted only to restore the Mexican Constitution of 1824 which Santa Anna had arbitrarily abandoned.
Almost all those prisoners killed at Goliad were volunteers from The United States and not native Texians nor established colonists. Had Santa Anna shown those men normal courtesies extended to prisoners of war in those days—granted parole on their promise not to return to the fight—and sent home in humiliation and defeat, his reputation outside Texas would have been enhanced. Much of the support for the Texians in the United States would have collapsed.
The mass murder of those four hundred prisoners had the opposite effect. Santa Anna, and indeed all the Mexican people, were branded with a reputation for brutality and cruelty. The universal rage among the people of Texas and the United States promoted the success of the Texas Revolution when it counted most, after the fighting was over.
The courage and determination of the defenders of the Alamo secured that battle’s position as the preeminent symbol of Texas independence, but at the war’s climax in the battle of San Jacinto, the cry of “REMEMBER THE ALAMO” was followed by the more resounding shout of “REMEMBER GOLIAD”. It was that yell that fired the passions of both Texians (Texans of American descent) and Tejanos (Texans of Mexican descent) for revenge. Hearing that reminder of their disgraceful behavior at Goliad sapped the courage from many of the Mexican soldados and left them to cower in shame when facing the onslaught of Houston’s army.
The story that follows, of the migration by James Thomas, Betsy Lewis and the Tucker family to Texas, is typical of thousands. Their experiences after they arrived were unique.
Chapter 1
Benjamin’s Plantation
WIND DRIVEN SNOW burst against Betsy’s face. Tiny particles sifted under her collar as she pounded on the back door of the Big House. She wrapped the shawl tighter and raised a hand to knock again. The door clicked open.
“You come in here dis minute, Child. You catch your death!” Bertha swung the door wide. “What ever bring you out in dis weather?”
“Mamma’s sick too, now. I gotta see Mrs. Thomas,” the girl said, ducking into the warm kitchen and closing the door.
“You wait right here. I get Massa Thomas. He know what to do.” The slave hurried out of the room, leaving Betsy shaking off the snow and wiping her nose. In less then a minute, Polly Thomas came into the room.
“What’s this? Bertha says your mamma—”
“Yes, Ma’am. She was too sick to get up this morning. I made breakfast for her and Daddy, but they wouldn’t eat. Can you help, ‘em, Mrs. Thomas?”
“We certainly will, dear.” Polly Thomas put her arms around Betsy and drew the girl to her bosom. “Soon as Ben gets here, we’ll go over and see what we can do.”
Benjamin came in with Bertha right behind him.
“Doc Kratchet said for me to send for him if Steven got worse. Mrs. Lewis coming down makes it ‘worse’.
“James!” he shouted.
A lad, near Betsy’s thirteen years of age, thrust his head into the kitchen. “What is it, Uncle Ben?”
“Steven’s wife has come down with the fever, too.” he said. “I need you to go get Doc Kratchet.”
“Yes, Sir,” James answered.
“Have Grover saddle my big black for you. And mind, you don’t break a sweat on him in this cold,” the man said then turned his attention to Betsy.
Betsy’s father, Steven Lewis, had worked for the Thomas plantation several years supervising production and sale of hemp. Ben and Polly thought of the Lewis’s as family.
The household sprang into action. Bertha filled a jar with chicken broth, and Polly brought extra quilts. Within three hours James returned bringing Doc Kratchet, but all their efforts failed. The man died during the night and Betsy’s mother died the following day.
With both her parents gone, Betsy needed a home and Mrs. Thomas brought her into the Big House to live. She soon became a close companion for their two boys. Over the next three years, people began referring to her as the boys’ governess. She was proud of that title.
A group of riders approached the turn-off from the Covington-Lexington Trace into the Thomas Plantation’s lane. Among them James Thomas, now in his sixteenth summer, rode beside an older man at the head of the group.
“Thanks for givin’ us a hand, James,” the older man said. “Tell your uncle, Howdy for me.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Hayes,” the lad answered. “It’s too bad we didn’t find your two slaves.”
“Blamed abolitionists probably got ‘em,” the elder replied. “Reckon they’re across the river by now.”
“By the way,” James queried to the whole group, “have any of y’all seen Guy Clinton?” His friend Guy often rode along on these runaway hunts. “We were going ‘coon huntin’, but I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him for all week.”
“I seen him over by Rabbit Hash, yesterday,” one of them said.
“Rabbit Hash? Wonder what he’s doin’ over there?” the older man wondered.
“I dunno. I didn’t talk to him, but he’s probably lookin’ for the same two that we were.”
“Well, I hope he had better luck than we did.”
“Here’s where I leave you,” James said as they reached the Thomas lane. “Y’all come by!” He raised his hand in a vigorous wave as his friends moved on down the road.
The lane wound across a dry creek bed, up the far side hill. Along the right, a stone fence followed the contour of the hill to the split rail fence encompassing the house grounds.
James saw his two cousins, Little Benjamin, seven, and Daniel, five, rolling hoops on the lawn. They began to scuffle and Betsy hurried down the steps to referee. She took possession of both hoops and shook her finger at the boys.
The familiar rush on seeing Betsy made James uncomfortable, but did not stop him from enjoying those first moments each time he came into her presence. His cheeks colored as he found himself hoping she would remove her bonnet so he could see the sun glint from her coppery, golden hair.
With a sigh, he indulged himself with one final drink from Betsy’s beauty as she herded her charges back into the house, stopping to insist they hang their hoops over a peg. With some difficulty, he averted his eyes.
“‘Evening, Uncle Ben,” the lad said, handing his horse’s reins to a servant. “Mr. Hayes says to tell you ‘Howdy’ for him.”
“Tom’s a good old boy,” Benjamin responded. “Y’all do any good findin’ those two slaves?”
“Not a bit. It’s like they disappeared off the face of the earth. Mr. Hayes thinks the abolitionists got ‘em and took ‘em over the river.”
“Reckon so,” his uncle said. “I can’t figure where they’re getting across, though. Can’t be Covington. Too many folks got their eyes peeled over that away.”
“I can’t figure it either.”
Betsy stepped onto the porch, smiled quickly to James and then directed her attention to his uncle.
“Bertha says supper’s ready, sir. She’s made one of those sweet-potato pies you like so much.”
“Thank you, Betsy,” the elder Thomas replied, and the girl went back inside.
“Oh, Uncle Ben? Have you seen my little huntin’ knife?” James asked. “I ain’t been able to find it for a week.”
“Boy, you’d lose your head if it wasn’t stuck on.” Ben laughed as they rose to go into the house. “I haven’t seen it. But if it doesn’t turn up, I’ll have Amos make you a new one. Now come on. Let’s go see what the women folk have done up for us.”
The table, set in their custom, held all the food for the meal. Some planters had their meals brought out one course at a time, the servants hovering in the background to satisfy each diner’s every whim.
Not so in the Thomas house. Mrs. Polly Thomas knew the value of contented kitchen help. She did not want Bertha and the kitchen maids standing around hungry while the family enjoyed their lavish meal.
The matron signaled that they could go. Bertha would have supper with her own family and then return with her daughter, after the meal, to clean up and put the dishes away.
With a lengthy, enthusiastic prayer, Benjamin launched the meal and then turned his attention to James.
“Where’d you fellers go today, lookin’ for them two runaway slaves?” Ben asked, slicing a crisp end from the beef roast on his plate.
“Somebody told Mr. Hayes the abolitionists were floatin’ boats down the Licking at night. So he figured they’d hole up on the bank waiting for dark.”
“Nah, they ain’t gonna do that. We’d catch ‘em for sure.”
“Reckon you’re right,” James said. “We beat the bushes all the way down to Covington and never did see a sign of ‘em.”
“Well, we’re gonna have a meetin’ over at the church house this evening and see if we can’t put a stop to it.”
“Can I go with you?” James asked.
“Not this time. This meetin’ is just for the owners. If we figure out anything to do, though, you can bet you’ll have a hand in it.”
“I sure want to hear what you come up with.”
After dinner, James took a book from the shelf and walked onto the verandah. He seated himself in the hanging swing and glanced at the sun. Oughta be able to read for a couple of hours.
A few minutes later, Betsy came out and sat beside him. “Wacha readin’?”
He closed the book on his finger and held it up so she could see the tooled leather cover—With Old Tippecanoe on the Wabash.
“The school teacher over at Covington told Uncle Ben about it last winter, and he ordered it from Philadelphia.”
“Tippecanoe? That’s where your grandpa got killed by the Indians wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. This book tells all about it.”
“I don’t even know who my grandfather was,” the girl said absently. “Anyhow, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
Betsy looked away and then asked quietly, “What are you going to do when you grow up, James?”
“I dunno… Uncle Ben wants me to go back east to one of those big schools in Connecticut or someplace. But—I dunno, I think I’d rather go to sea for a while. How come you ask?”
“Oh, I was just wonderin’.”
“Uncle says they start classes in the fall at those big colleges. He doesn’t want me to go this fall, so I’ve got a whole year to decide.”
Betsey hesitated for a moment, then jumped up, faced James and put her hands on her hips.
“If you go to that college you’ve got a whole year,” she said and stomped her foot. “But I’ll bet you go off to sea. I’ll bet you just take off and not even tell anybody where you are going!”
“Now why would I do a fool thing like that? And how come you are gettin’ so riled up, anyhow?”
“Ain’t you got no sense at all, James Thomas?” The girl leaned toward him. With her lips clamped tight, she let a long breath exit her nose. “We both gotta grow up one of these days.”
“Well, it looks to me like we’re both pretty much grown up already. And besides, what does it matter what I’m gonna do?”
“Well, I’ll just tell you, Mister Thomas.” She sat back down. “There are plenty of young men come around here sparkin’ on me. And before I go tellin’ ‘em what I think about it, I wanta find out what you got in your head.”
“What you mean, ‘sparkin’ on you?’ Who’s been coming around here, anyhow?” James found his mouth standing ajar.
“Just never you mind about who’s been comin’ around,” the girl said. “I ain’t paid ‘em no mind anyway. And I’m not going to … if you just let me know you want ‘em to stay away.”
“What’s it matter what I want ‘em to do?” James laid his book on the tea table beside the swing and scratched his head. “It don’t matter what I say about it.” He picked up the book again.
“Sure it does.” The girl pulled her chin back. “I’m gonna be grown up and wantin’ a husband before long, and if it ain’t gonna be you, then I gotta do me some lookin’ around. So—what’s it gonna be, James Thomas, are you gonna grow up, too, or are you gonna go runnin’ off to sea?”
“I—I—I always thought we’d get hitched someday, and uh ... or ... somethin’.” James laid the book back on the tea stand—then picked it up.
“I’d wait for you as long as I had to, if it made any sense.” She took a deep breath. “But a girl has got to know if it makes sense or not. If you don’t act like you even care, I can’t just sit around for the rest of my life waitin’ to find out.”
“You know I like you, Betsy,” he said, red creeping into his cheeks. “Always have. But we’re not grown up enough yet to get married. And besides, I ain’t got no money, and you ain’t....”
“Of course not. I’m not sayin’ we ought to get married now. It’s just that I gotta know you’re thinkin’ about it. And you sure ain’t said the right things yet.”
“What do you mean? What do you want to hear outta me?”
“Oh, James!” Betsy jumped to her feet and ran into the house.
He started to follow her, then thought better of it and sat down to the story of Old Tippecanoe.
Chapter 2
A Horse Trade
UNABLE TO CONCENTRATE, James put the book on the shelf then wandered toward the barn where his uncle had told him he would find a new litter of pups.
The proud mother thumped her tail as James looked over the stall at the nine squirmy little whelps. Stepping through the door, he kneeled and patted her head. She gave a cursory lick while the pups continued nursing. A click behind him drew his attention; he stood and looked around.
“Evenin’, Massa James.” Grover, Ben’s oldest slave smiled at him. “Massa Clinton, he come by today, suh. Tol’ me ta tell ya when I seed ya.”
“Oh, he did, eh? Nobody said anything, up at the house.”
“He never went up to the Big House. He just axed for you, and when I told him you was off someplace, he went on.”
“Well, I reckon I’ll see him next time.”
“Massa James?” Grover went on. “Are you really gonna buy that hoss off Massa Clinton?”
“The mare? How’d you hear about that, Grover?
“Massa Clinton, he says he’s brung her over ‘cause you’s wantin’ ta buy her.”
“Well, I’ll be darned,” the lad exclaimed. “I didn’t think he was interested. He’s been eye’n’ papa’s long rifle and powder-horn. I thought he might want to trade with me. I sure don’t have cash money to buy her with.”
“That old rifle used to belong to yo’ great gran’pappy,” Grover said. “I seed ‘im shoot a b’ar with it once. It was comin’ right after my little Nita when she wasn’t no mor’n two or three. Yes sir! If he comes ‘round ag’in I’ll tell him you ain’t interested.”
“No, no. If he comes back, you let me know. I want to talk to him, but don’t tell anyone else about the mare. I’d like to keep that to myself ‘til I decide.”
Uncle Ben sure will get steamed up if I swap off that old flintlock, James thought. His grandfather had carried the weapon at the Battle of Tippecanoe. It’s just a useless old rifle. Maybe if I just go ahead and do it, Uncle Ben won’t get too mad.
James arrived in the parlor just as twilight set in, and the senior Mr. Thomas returned from his meeting, an expression on his face of a man who’d tasted something sour.
“The blasted abolitionists’re cleanin’ us out,” his uncle grumbled. “Clyde Skinner says he was over in Cincinnati yesterday and heard one of those abolitionist fellers preaching on a street corner. Right out in broad daylight.”
“Really?”
“Yep, bragging that people in our own families are workin’ against us.”
“Nah, I can’t believe that,” James put in.
“Well, that’s what they say. They are even hintin’ that it’s some of the planters own sons gone turn-coat!”
“That doesn’t make sense, Uncle. Why would anybody help the abolitionists?”
“Clyde says the preacher was offerin’ ten dollars a head for ever’ one they got across the river to Ohio and five dollars for ‘em, if they bring ‘em to the riverbank on the Kentucky side.”
“That might bring on some of the poor whites, but not the planters sons.” The lad was adamant. “Us boys don’t have much money ourselves, but we’re not gonna do something like that for five dollars.” His face reddened when he realized he was talking as though he was one of the owner’s sons. “Uh, I mean….”
Ben ignored the lad’s embarrassment “You never know what those young whipper-snappers are gonna do, running wild all over the countryside. Some fellers let their boys get away with anything. Clyde says that preacher claimed they was doin’ it just ‘cause it was the right, Godly, thing to do.
“Can you imagine that?” James wondered. “A preacher claiming that stealing is a right Godly thing. And what about the poor slaves? What’s going to happen to ‘em once they get up North? What can we do?”
“There ain’t nothin’ we can do, yet.” Ben said. “But you keep your eyes peeled. You see one of them smart-alecks comin’ up with a bunch of money, you just let me know.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that. But I think they’re just making it up. Nobody I know would do that.”
“We’ll see. They sure better hope I don’t find out it’s true.”
Ben paced a while longer and then turned to the staircase.
“Good night, James. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Where’s Uncle Ben?” James asked, when he came down to breakfast.
“Massa Skinner came by fust thing this mornin’, an’ they went off someplace. Tha’s all I know, suh,” Bertha answered, setting the last of the plates on the table.
When he finished his meal, James started to the reading room, but saw Betsy already there with Little Benjamin, doing his numbers. He turned and went outside where he met Grover coming toward the kitchen door.
“Mornin’, suh,” Grover greeted him. “I was just comin’ up to tell you, suh, that Massa Clinton is here. And like you said, I’s comin’ up to tell you.”
“How come he didn’t just ride on up to the house?”
“Don’t know nothin’ ‘bout none of that, Massa,” Grover said. “He just came up outta the hollar to the barn and axed me if you was here. So I done what you tol’ me.”
“That’s good,” James remarked, and they moseyed toward the barn.
“‘Morning, Guy.” James thrust out his hand in greeting. “What you doing here at this time of mornin’? Where on earth have you been? You look like somethin’ the cat dragged home.”
Guy sat on a mounting stone, his boots muddy, his coat snagged with briars. He looked up, startled. “I—I been out ‘coon huntin’ all night and when morning came I was near your place so I just thought I’d stop and see if you still wanted to swap for this mare.”
“You sure take your ‘coon huntin’ serious, staying out all night. I was wanting to go with you one of these nights, but I don’t know—”
“We never done any good last night and I just didn’t want to give up, so we kept at it. We never did get any ‘coons, though.”
“Where’s your dogs?” James looked around.
“Uh—uh—I sent ‘em on home with Will.” Guy scratched under his arm and studied his boots.
“You mean Will Cutter? You still hang out with that no ‘count? Now I’m glad I didn’t go.”
“That’s why I didn’t come get you. Will was goin’, and you don’t want nothin’ to do with him. Anyhow, what about the mare? You still want to trade that rusty old long rifle?”
“Well, I don’t know. I been thinking on it some.” James tried on his best negotiating face. “How come you’re so all fired set on getting that old fire lock?”
“Well it ain’t that I want the rifle so much,” Guy said, “but I gotta get rid of this mare. I swapped my stallion for her with some slave chaser from down Tennessee way. My pa is fit to be tied. He says he wants that stallion back. The feller I swapped with won’t swap back. Wants cash money, twenty-five dollars.”
Guy took a breath. “I got twenty dollars. If I could just get another five I’d have enough. If you’ll give me five dollars cash, you can have her.”
“She’s sure worth more than that, but I don’t have cash money and I sure can’t go askin’ Uncle Ben for it.”
“I think I can sell that old rifle of yours quicker than I can the mare. If you’ll trade we got a deal. Pa says if I don’t get this mare off the place he’s gonna shoot her.”
“That mad about it, eh? Uncle Ben ain’t gonna like it if I trade either, but he won’t be that mad. I think I’ll do it.”
“That’s a big relief,” Guy said.
“Has she got a name?”
“The feller I got her from called her Theresa,” Guy answered with a snicker. “So far I just called her ‘hoss’.”
“Theresa?” James burst out. “That’s no name for a horse.”
“No, I reckon not,” Guy responded, “but that’s what he called her. Maybe he named her after his mother or something.”
“Well, I’m going to have to think of something else,” James insisted. “Maybe I’ll call her Tessy or Tess. Yeah, that’s it. I just call her Tess. She’ll get used to it.”
“I don’t care what you call her, James. I’ll tell you what; I’ll throw in the saddle too, if you give me the powder-horn and that old patch knife of your pa’s.”
“I was figuring on that,” James said. “Speaking of knives, you remember that little pig-sticker I used to carry? Have you seen it around anywhere? I had it last time we went huntin’, but haven’t seen it since. Did you happen to see what I did with it?”
“I ain’t got it. I don’t even remember what it looks like. Why you askin’ me?” Guy looked down at his shirtsleeve and started picking a cocklebur.
“Well, it’ll turn up someplace, I guess.”
Within a few minutes, the two boys finalized their trade and rode off toward the Clinton place, James riding his newly-claimed prize. Guy rode a borrowed horse that James was to lead back when he returned.
“You hear about all the ruckus down Texas way?” James asked, as they rode along.
“No, can’t say I know anything about that,” Guy answered.
“Remember a while back, the Mexicans were offering free land to anyone that would come there and settle? Two families over off the trace went down last year,” James said. “Now, the Mexicans have gone back on their word. They won’t come through with the land titles. The Texians are up in revolt. Jim Bowie is there. Folks down south are forming companies of volunteers. There are a lot of Kaintucks heading that way, too. It’s going to be a cat fight.”
“Where’d you hear about that, anyway?” Guy asked.
“It was in the Lexington Register last week.” James said. “The Mexicans passed a constitution just like ours, back in ‘24. Then Santa Anna came to power, and he plain tore it up. He’s running the government like they never had a constitution at all. The Texians are forming committees all over the place, trying to figure out what to do.”
“Sounds to me like just a big mess,” Guy responded.
“But wouldn’t that be something?” James went on. “To help run the Mexicans out and actually be part of starting a new country? It said in the Register that even old Sam Houston has gone off the reservation to get mixed up in it.”
“Oh, I heard about him all right.” Guy laughed. “They say he’d just got re-elected governor of Tennessee, then ups and walked out on his brand new bride and the State of Tennessee both. I heard he went to live with the Indians.”
“That’s what I heard, too. But he showed up again down Texas way after the uproar died down,” James said.
“Mor’n likely, he’ll get a Mexican bayonet in his belly just like the rest of ‘em.” Guy laughed.
James pulled Tess to a stop. “You don’t think the Texians can win, do you?”
“Nah. What’s a bunch of riff-raff like that gonna do against trained cavalry and infantry with cannon and bayonets? Nope, they’re just gonna git theirselves killed.”
“I don’t know about that. Jim Bowie sure ain’t no riff-raff. I hear he can put up quite a fight.”
“Ha! He might get two or three of ‘em with that big ol’ knife of his before they get a bayonet in him. But more’n likely they’ll shoot him from two hundred yards away and never even notice he has a knife.” Guy gave out an artful laugh.
“Haven’t you got a sense of honor and adventure, Guy?” James asked. “Just think, those folks are fightin’ for their homes and what’s right. They’re fighting against people who broke their word and can’t be trusted.”
“Well, it doesn’t look that way to me.” Guy sneered. “Looks to me more like a bunch of ne’er-do-wells trying to get free land. Then when they get it, they’re not satisfied and want to take over everything. It’s no wonder to me that the Mexicans changed their mind.”
“It doesn’t look like we’re gonna see eye to eye on that,” James said, shaking his head and signaling to Tess to get moving again. “I’d like to see the Texians get the job done.”
“Don’t suppose it makes any difference,” Guy said. “Ain’t neither one of us gonna be goin’ to Texas.”
“Nope, I reckon not.”
Chapter 3
Terrible Accusations
RIDING PAST THE BIG HOUSE when he returned, James saw Betsy in a rocker on the verandah. He gazed at her for a moment. Her coy smile let him know their little spat of the evening before was over and that he’d been staring too long. He made himself turn away, but the good feeling stuck and he went off to the barn with a whistle and a light heart.
James unsaddled the gray horse he had been leading and released it to pasture, then turned to his new horse. Removing the saddle and blanket, he looked at her teeth and her muscular frame confirming his earlier assessment that she was a fine piece of horseflesh.
“Hey, girl, why do you suppose Guy thinks he can sell that old rifle easier than he can sell you?”
Tess didn’t answer.
As he rubbed her down and brushed her with a curry comb he noticed a small P branded just behind the withers. Her saddle blanket had covered the light, well-healed mark and he wondered why anyone would put a brand there.
“Tess, old girl,” James said. The name did not yet roll off his tongue smoothly. “You are my own horse, and we’re going to be together for a long time.”
Tess pitched her ears forward and stared at him, then reached back into the manger for another bite of hay.
“First thing you’ve got to do, Tess,” James patted her neck, “is to learn to do what I tell you.” The mare nickered softly and pitched her ears forward again.
“Don’t know what I’m talkin’ about, do you?” James smiled and ran his hand over her velvety muzzle. He had seen Betsy’s father train horses, but it had been three years, and he was not at all sure he remembered what to do. “Come on, Tess,” he said, after slipping the bridle from her head and hanging it on the wall. “Let me see how good you are at learning something new.”
He gave her a handful of corn and then turned her out into the corral. Closing the barn door, he watched through a crack. Tess walked slowly to the fence, reached over and cropped the tall grass on the other side. The lad stepped through the barn door and whistled several times. She raised her head and looked at him. He held out an ear of corn. Her ears pitched forward in recognition, but she made no move.
He walked to her and held out the food. When she tasted her reward, he thrust the ear in his pocket, walked into the barn and closed the door. In a few minutes she resumed grazing. James stepped outside and whistled in the same tone as before. She turned to face him and blew a long breath out through her nostrils.
This time, James walked toward her, but stopped short so she’d have to take one step if she wanted the corn.
When Tess had done her part, James gave her half an ear and retreated into the barn. She walked to the water trough and enjoyed a long drink.
Stepping back into the pen, James made the distinctive whistle and Tess met him halfway. Three more tries and she came immediately on the first call.
“Not likely you’ll remember this,” James said, “but we’ll do it again every day as long as we need to.”
Tess gave him a friendly nibble on the arm. James pinched her shoulder in return.
Rubbing her neck and nose, he let her eat the remaining two ears of corn then opened the gate and slapped her on the flank to tell her it was all right to go. She flicked her ears forward, whinnied a greeting to the other horses and sped off at a full gallop.
Benjamin Thomas had awakened that morning before the rooster crowed and, as usual, was the first downstairs to start the day. When Bertha came to light the morning fires, she found him in his study working on the ledgers.
Just as the sun broke over the eastern tree line, Ben heard the crunch of horse’s hooves on gravel. He stepped out onto the verandah where he found Clyde Skinner and the Boone County Sheriff, still mounted.
“Mornin’ Thomas,” the sheriff said.
“We come up with somethin’ I think you’d be wantin’ to know about,” Clyde said. “We got that no ‘count Will Cutter in jail over at Burlington. He may be just what we need to find out what’s goin’ on with our slaves. Come along, I’d like you to have a talk with him. We’ll tell you as much as we know about it while we’re on the way.”
“Fair enough,” Ben said, then shouted toward the barns. “Grover? Get somebody to saddle my horse and bring it up here.”
“Yes, suh,” was the old slave’s instant reply.
A few minutes later, Grover appeared on the path with the horse, saddled and ready to go.
“Tell Bertha that I won’t be here for breakfast,” Ben said.
“Yes, suh. I tell her.”
Before the sun gave the valleys their full brightness of day, the three men were on their way to the county seat at Burlington.
“All right, now,” Ben said as they started. “What’s this all about?”
“Will Cutter is always gettin’ hisself into one kind of a ruckus or another, but this time it’s worse than usual. There’s other folks in it with him. I’m hopin’ we can clean out the whole rat’s nest at one time. I oughta let Clyde tell you what happened last night.”
“Last night after the meetin’, when I got home,” Clyde began. “there was still some light. I spotted two blacks sneaking along a fence, making for one of my barns. At first I thought it was a couple of mine, out for some mischief, but studyin’ for a minute, I knew that it couldn’t be, ‘cause they were wearin’ regular clothes like white men wear. Now I never give my slaves clothes. They have to make their own outta homegrown flax and hemp, so I knew that it had to be somethin’ else.
“I couldn’t figure any reason for ‘em sneakin’ into my barn unless my workers was in on it, too. If there was slaves from more than one place teamin’ up to run off together, there had to be a white man in it somewhere. I’d come up on the very thing we were talking about at the meetin’.
“So, I high tailed it over the sheriff’s house to get me some help. When I got there, I found him playin’ cards with a Mike and Harry Wilcox. So the sheriff deputized the lot of us, and we headed back to my place.”
The sheriff spoke up. “By the time we got back it was dark, but there was a good moon. We knew that even though we couldn’t see them, they could see us coming. So before we got to where they could spot us, I sent the Wilcox brothers down into the holler on the other side of the barn. From there the boys could see which way they headed if they cut out on us.
“Clyde says, unless we rode straight up to the barn like he always does, they’d know we were on to ‘em, so that’s what we did. There was no sign of ‘em in the barn. I heard a couple of noises out back and figured it was them, laying low ‘til we went into the house. We let the door bang good when we went in and lit a couple of candles. Then we went out the back where we could see the barn and waited.
Clyde chimed in then. “In a little while, we saw something moving around and a white man walked right out into the moonlight. He had four slaves with him, and he was talking to ‘em. We couldn’t hear much of what he said but one thing was plain as day—’we’re gonna meet up with my partner over at Rabbit Hash Landing,—’ there was more to it, but we couldn’t make it out.
“All of a sudden they just faded away and disappeared down into the hollar. We couldn’t see where they went, but since the boys were waitin’ on ‘em, we figured they’d spot ‘em and shore ‘nuff they did.”
“It wasn’t but a few minutes ‘til the boys come up out of the holler. They saw the same thing we did, one white man and four blacks, but they was too far away to catch, and there wasn’t any way to follow ‘em without being seen. The whole bunch headed off to the west.”
The sheriff picked up the story again. “We set ourselves on goin’ over to Rabbit Hash and waitin’, but, there’s no road from here to there. We had to go all the way up to your place then cut over the fields to the river road and then down to the landing. By the time we got there, it was too late. The boat was already about fifty yards from shore. We could see another boat farther out on the water, nothin’ we could do about it. We couldn’t make out much, but there was enough moon so we could see four blacks in the closer one and one white man.
“We could make out a man, standin’ out there on the landing and figured he must be the white man we’d seen up at Clyde’s place. That turned out to be right. It was Will Cutter and he gave up without a fight. And to top that off, he had twenty dollars in his pocket.
“We knew for sure then that it was one of them abolitionist fellers in the boat, and this one we caught had just collected his five dollars a head. We thought the partner Cutter mentioned musta been already gone. But all of a sudden, we found out different. A horse blew, back in the shadows under the trees. That feller knew his game was up, so he charged out onto the road at full speed and darn near ran us down. We had tied our horses back a ways and went in on foot, so we didn’t have ‘em handy, and that second one got clean away.
“When we got Cutter down to the jail, we figured he’d tell us who his sidekick was, but we couldn’t get anything out of him.”
“Well, you fellers had quite a night of it.” Ben said, when he thought that it was his time to speak. “But I don’t understand why you came to get me. You’ve already got your man.”
“There might be something you can help us with, Mr. Thomas,” the sheriff said as they rode into town. “Will Cutter had somethin’ on him and maybe you can help us figure out what it means.”
The town consisted of only a few buildings: a general store and post office, a church, the sheriff’s office and county jail. Each had a residence attached for the proprietors. Being the county seat, Burlington also had a well maintained meeting hall.
The sheriff’s dog bounded out, barking and running circles around the little party as they rode into town.
Since the sheriff had no deputy, there was no one in the office except the prisoner, locked in its only cell. In no hurry, the men went to the house where the sheriff’s wife and six young children waited with a hearty breakfast of bacon, corn-meal mush and biscuits. One of the children took a plate to the jail and thrust it under the bars for Will Cutter.
When they finished their meal, the three men walked to the sheriff’s office. Cutter waved his finger between the bars and yelled a stream of curses as they entered the building.
“…and you hain’t got no evidence, Sheriff, you hear me? You cain’t keep me locked up here. You hain’t got no ev-ee-dense.”
The sheriff plopped down at his desk and propped his feet on the corner. He didn’t say a word for half a minute or so, just sat giving Cutter a lop-sided grin. Ben and Clyde took the cue and stood aside.
“Hmm. Well now, if I ain’t got no evidence, I reckon you’re right. Yep, I reckon I might as well go on back home and let these two planter fellas turn you loose. Yep, I reckon that’s just the thing to do.”
“Wait a minute, Sheriff, you cain’t do that. Them fellers’ll string me up.”
“You sure got a powerful lot of ideas about what I can and can’t do, Will Cutter. Seems to me you oughta be puttin’ your mind on how to get yourself out of this pickle, instead of telling me what I can’t do.” The sheriff took the big iron jail key down off its peg and tossed it to Clyde.
“No! No, don’t do that!” Cutter screamed. “I’ll tell you whatever you want.”
“Had a change of heart, have ya?” The sheriff sat down on a bench in front of the cell and leaned back against the wall. “You fellers might as well pull up a chair and set a spell. It looks like our guest has got a long story to tell us.”
Clyde and Ben each took the sheriff’s advice and sat staring at the boy through the iron bars.
“Let’s start off by you tellin’ us how you got your hands on this.” With a quick motion, he tossed a small hunting knife so that it stuck into the jailhouse floor at his feet.
The little knife’s blade, about seven inches long, curved slightly at the point. A steel cap held its stag-horn handle in place. A chill went through Ben when he saw the plantation mark at the base of the handle and recognized it as the work of Amos, his blacksmith. This was James’ missing hunting knife.
“Where’d you get that?” he burst out.
“That’s just an ol’ knife. I don’t know where I got it. I’ve had it for years. Maybe I found it someplace.” The sheriff watched Will Cutter hesitate.
“No ya didn’t, Cutter,” the sheriff countered. “You got that knife from the other no ‘count that was down there on the landing with you last night, didn’t you?”
“You were right to come and get me, Sheriff,” Ben said. “That knife belongs to my nephew, James.” He turned to the prisoner. “Now, how did you get your hands on it?”
Cutter, alarmed by the sharp tone, almost failed to answer. He sent his mind spinning. What’s so special about that knife? Guy Clinton swapped me that for the one I lifted from the general store over in Independence. There must be something about this knife that makes it dangerous.
Guy Clinton’s the only friend I got. I can’t let them lock him up, too. I might need him on the outside.
“I ain’t tellin’,” he blurted out, trying to buy time to think up a plausible story.
“We ain’t gonna start that again are we, Will?” The sheriff leaned forward and looked him in the eye.
“All right. I’ll tell you, but get him outta here first.” He pointed at Ben. “Get him outta here, and I’ll tell ya.”
Ben jumped to his feet. “You’ll tell us right now, Will Cutter. Right now, right here in front of me and anybody else that wants to hear.”
“He’s right, Will,” the sheriff said. “You’re gonna have to tell us all, and you’re most likely gonna have to tell the circuit judge when he comes through. So you might as well get used to the idea.”
I got that knife nigh on to a week ago. He thinks I got it last night. If somebody reported it missing before that, he’s gonna find out. Will looked away from the men in front of his cell ‘til it all came clear.
“All right,” he said, finally. “It was him. I got it off Thomas. But I didn’t get it last night. He was down there with me before, a while back, an’ dropped it. I just picked it up. I didn’t figger he’d miss it, him being rich an’ all. I figgered he could get another one any time he wanted.”
“You mean to tell me that James Thomas has been helpin’ you steal slaves and slip ‘em across the river?” the sheriff queried.
“You’re lyin’!” Ben burst out, without much conviction.
“He’s one of them that claims he’s just doing it ‘cause he thinks slavery ain’t right. But he sure takes his five dollars, same as me.”
The sheriff stood and motioned to the others to step outside. On the porch, he said, “I hate to admit it, but Cutter’s right. I ain’t got no evidence. We seen a boat on the river, and we seen Cutter with twenty dollars, but that ain’t against the law. I can keep him locked up here ‘til the circuit judge comes by the first of the month. But that’s as far as it goes. The judge is gonna turn him loose.”
“But what we gonna do, Sheriff?” Clyde Skinner asked.
“Ain’t a lot we can do. If I’d picked him up while he still had them slaves in tow, we’d have him dead-to-rights. I just thought we’d get ‘em both if we waited ‘til be got over to Rabbit Hash, but I was wrong.”
“You gonna arrest James, Sheriff?” Ben asked quietly.
“What for? Just ‘cause Cutter stole his knife don’t put nothin’ on him that the judge will listen to.”
“I’ll horse-whip the little scoundrel,” Ben bellowed.
“Now, that’d be a mighty fine start. At least now we got one locked up, and we know one more to keep an eye on.”
“All right if I keep the knife?”
“Sure, might as well. It ain’t evidence against anything we got a charge on.”
Ben rode out of Burlington with a heavy heart, in no hurry for his confrontation with James. He knew the circuit judge was in Kenton County this week, so he rode to Independence for a talk with him. By noon, he had located the judge and confirmed that the slim evidence would not likely hold up. The judge thought Cutter’s testifying against James would be nothing short of a joke. Without corroboration, he wouldn’t even allow the case in his court.
As he rode up the lane that afternoon, Tess presented herself and ran along the stone fence nickering as though she recognized him.
“Grover,” he said as he climbed down from the saddle, “what is that palomino mare doing out in the pasture?”
“Oh, that’s Massa James’ hoss, Massa.”
“James? What’s he doing with it?”
“I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout all that, Massa.”
“All right, Grover,” Ben sighed. “Do you know where he is?”
“I reckon he might be up at the Big House, Massa,” Grover answered. “I ain’t seen him fo’ a spell.”
He handed the reins of his tired horse to the slave and walked toward the house. At the hitching post by the verandah, Ben noticed Guy Clinton’s horse, and looked up to see the young man sitting on the verandah talking with a red eyed Betsy. At the sight of Ben approaching, Betsy leapt to her feet and ran into the house.
“What’s the meaning of this, Clinton?” he boomed.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir. I’m afraid I have been the bearer of disturbing news for Miss Lewis,” the young man said, as carefully and as formally as he could.
“And just what kind of news would make her do that?” Ben stood erect and returned the formal stance.
“Sir, you really should be aware of this, also.” Guy continued in his lowered tone. “It regards Miss Sally McKee, sir.”
“Sally McKee.” Ben did not lower his tone. “What on earth does Sally McKee have to do with Betsy?”
“Sir, y’all know that Miss McKee had to go away to visit her aunt in Nashville. Well, it seems her leaving is connected with your nephew, James.”
“Sally McKee and James? And you chose to talk about that with Miss Lewis?” Ben lowered his voice. He clenched his right fist and started to reach for Guy with the other hand, but held back.
“She has a right to know,” Guy whined. “You know she’s smitten with that scoundrel. She’s got a right to know.”
“It is one thing to tell me such a thing, Mr. Clinton. It is quite another to talk about it in the presence of a lady. If you have something unsavory, you bring it to me. I will decide whether to tell the ladies of this household.
“And now, Mr. Clinton, please leave.” Ben pointed down the lane. “You may return when you have regained your senses. But for the moment, sir, you will please leave.”
Ben’s nostrils flared as he watched Guy Clinton mount his horse and ride down the lane.
In the house, he saw no sign of Betsy.
“Polly?” he called to his wife as he walked into the dining room.
“Mrs. Thomas, she went upstairs with Miss Betsy, suh.”
“I see. Thank you, Bertha.” he said. “And where is James?”
“He went off down to the ‘bacco barn. The las’ I saw him he was talking to my daughter and little Rufus.” Surely, he’s not arranging to spirit them over the river, too.
“Send someone out to get him, Bertha. And tell him to say that I need to see James right away.” He spoke careful so to not let his tone alarm the servants.
Ben walked into the reading room, plopped into a big leather chair, let out a sigh of frustration and waited.
“I’ve something to talk over with you, James,” he said, standing, when his nephew arrived. “Sit down there, boy.”
Ben looked James in the eye, and began. “Either one of these things would be enough to give me a lot of sadness. But to have two incidents at the same time is almost too much to put up with.
“I have loved you like a son,” he said. “Ever since my brother died and you came to live with us. I have been closer with you than some men are with their own children. I’ve had faith in you, and I’ve always trusted you to be honest. I thought you looked to me with the same respect.”
Ben spoke calmly, without raising his voice, his tone showing only sadness.
“Whatever do you mean, Uncle Ben?”
“I mean that you have been found out.” He laid the knife on the reading table. “This was found in the possession of your friend, Will Cutter, when he was caught smuggling slaves.”
“Will Cutter? That no ‘count is no friend of mine.” The lad jumped to his feet.
“Mr. Cutter seems to think otherwise.” His uncle closed his lips tightly and leaned forward. “I’d like you to explain to me how it is that you were seen at the Rabbit Hash landing in the middle of the night, just after two boatloads of slaves shoved off for Indiana.”
“That’s a lie. I don’t know who said such a thing, but it’s just not true.”
“Then how did Will Cutter get his hands on this knife of yours?” Ben stood and lifted the knife by its tip, letting it dangle like a dead fish.
“There you have it. If he said he got my knife from me last night, you know he’s lying. My knife was missing before that. We even talked about it yesterday.”
“That’s not what he’s says. He says you’ve been there before and you lost your knife another time.”
“Well, I don’t care what he said. I have never had anything to do with Will Cutter. I’ve only been to Rabbit Hash landing once in my whole life. That was when you took me across the ferry for horse tradin’.”
Ben thought for a moment. “That’s good to hear, James. So there must be some other explanation for his having your knife and telling us you were with him. It’s puzzling, though. Why would he make up a story like that if you don’t have anything to do with him?”
“I don’t know why, but he’s makin’ it up. I swear.”
“Then let us leave that aside for now and clear up this other matter.” Ben nodded. It was easy enough to believe Cutter was lying.
“Tell me about your friendship with Miss Sally McKee.” His uncle offered a friendly smile and laid his hand on the lad’s shoulder.
“Sally McKee?” James stared back at his uncle. “Why I haven’t seen her, except in church. And she hasn’t even been there for the last couple of Sundays.”
“Come now, lad. You can tell me. I was young once, you know.”
“Uncle, I tell you that I ain’t had nothing to do with Sally McKee.”
“Boy, I can understand a young fellow getting caught up in the moment and doing something rash. There is another issue here though. That is your continuing to spark on Betsy while carrying on with Sally McKee. It is just not a proper thing.” Ben shook his head and went on. “As far as I am concerned, your conduct toward Betsy is the more serious.”