William Johnstone - Eyes of Eagles

She carefully broke the wax seal and with trembling fingers unfolded the paper.

My darling Kate,

I do not know if this letter will even reach you, certainly not when. But as I take pen in hand, I first of all want to tell you how much I love you. I have loved you since the moment we met. I must be blunt, Kate, for I know of no other way to tell you this. I am going to the Alamo to fight for the independence of Texas. It is not in my plans to die, Kate. But if that is necessary to help free the people of this Republic from heel-grinding tyranny, then die I shall. If that should happen, you may take whatever solace there might be in the fact that I died standing shoulder to shoulder with brave and loyal comrades.

I do not know what fate has in store for me, Kate. I know only that I will carry your love in my heart to the end. Whether that will be soon or with you in my arms as the curtain of age falls around us and the light of life dims, is something that only God will decide.

Tell the children that I love them, and think often of them. You are among the best of friends, Kate. I have to smile when I think of our friends, Mexican, Indian, Nigra, and White. I think we have all proven something important in our little community, Kate. However, I am not sure I can express that in words.

But there is one thing I can express: I love you, Kate. Whatever happens, always remember that.

Your loving and faithful husband,

Jamie

Kate wept silently for a few moments, then dried her eyes and rose from the chair. She must be brave. For she knew she was not the only Texas woman who had a man at the Alamo. She wondered what it must be like at that place.

* * *

Jim Bowie was down and was not likely to ever rise again. That news spread like a raging fire throughout the compound. The regimental surgeon, Dr. Pollard, had left Bowie’s quarters shaking his head in amazement that the man was still alive. He had allowed the men of the Alamo to file past Bowie’s bed, to offer condolences and, many of the men knew, to say goodbye to the famous knife fighter. Bowie was dying.

When the last man had filed past, Bowie asked Jamie to sit for a time with him.

“Place those quills and the inkwell close by me, lad,” Bowie requested in a weak voice. “It’s come the time for me to write my farewell. Those scraps of paper, too, lad. Ah. Thank you. Have you written to your loved ones, Jamie?”

“Yes, sir. Before I arrived here. I posted it on the way in with Crockett.”

“Good. I’m writing you out a bill of sale for my horse, Jamie. For when you leave here, you’re going to have to fly. You know where my mount is hidden? Good. You think you can slip out of this bastion one more time, with your horse?”

“Easily, sir.”

“A few miles outside of town there is a ranch that belongs to a friend of mine. His name is Ruiz. Take both our horses there and they will be stabled and grained properly. When the time comes, Jamie, you must leave with this message. You will not question my orders?”

“No, sir.”

“Good lad. The doctor says I must not have any whiskey. So would you please pour me a cup from that jug yonder?”

Jamie was not about to refuse his commander’s request. He poured a cup and Bowie thanked him and sipped and smiled. “Now leave me, lad. Ah, one more thing before you go. Place that jug within arm’s reach, would you? Thanks.” He winked at Jamie. “I’ll not die before the battle’s conclusion, lad. When I close the door to this life, I shall do so in the company of my volunteers and all the men defending this bastion of independence. Pass that on to the men, would you?”

“Yes, sir.” Jamie quietly left the man. He paused at the door. Bowie was writing, the only sound in the room the scratching of quill-point against the paper. Jamie stepped outside, gently closing the door.

Travis had been the first to call on Bowie. He now met Jamie just outside the door with a worried look on his face. “How did you find him, Scout MacCallister?”

“In good enough spirits.” He told Travis what Bowie had said for him to tell the men.

“Good! Good! That will bolster their resolve.” He patted Jamie’s shoulder and walked away.

The cannonade had picked up, and the Mexican gunners were getting better, the balls and grapeshot crashing against the walls of the mission. Each time they paused to reload, Crockett and his sharpshooters would line the walls and take their shots, and the defenders were taking a toll on the cannoneers.

The defenders of the old mission were still in a good mood, many of them cracking jokes and laughing while the cannonballs drew ever nearer.

Perhaps, Jamie thought, they still believed that reinforcements were on the way. Jamie was operating under no such illusions. Although he could not say why he was so sure of his feelings, he felt the men of the Alamo were being abandoned. Bowie had said from the outset that they would fight and die alone; that they were being used as a way to rally Texas behind the independence movement.

“When we die, lad,” Bowie had said, “all Texas will rise up and fight Mexico. As sure as the sun sets in the west, we are dead men. But we shall not die in vain. The blood spilled here will stain the conscience of all Texans and drive them to fight. Tough as hell on us,” he added dryly, “but good for Texas.”

As evening fell, Jamie slipped out of the mission, without telling anyone. Crockett and a few others watched him leave, but kept silent. They knew, to a man, that Jamie was not running from the fight, and that he would return. His reasons for leaving were his own, and none of their affair. But they also knew that Travis would soon miss him, and would probably demand answers. Travis did miss Jamie before an hour had passed, but he asked questions of no one except Bowie, and that was done in the privacy of Bowie’s quarters.

“I sent him out,” Bowie said, his voice a little stronger. “I wanted him to take my horse to a safe place.” Bowie handed Travis the bill of sale he’d penned that afternoon.

Travis read it and nodded his head. “You think we’re doomed, don’t you, Jim?”

“I think everyone has written us off, Bill. I think we’re being deliberately sent to our deaths. But I don’t resent it. Houston is meeting with the convention at this time, I’m sure.” He was, at Washington-on-the-Brazos. “Fannin is not going to move on his own, and the advisory council will not give him orders to come to our aid.” Fannin never received any orders to aid those at the Alamo, but he would, finally, make an attempt to reach the Alamo. It would come too late. “Bill,” Travis said, just before he closed his eyes to rest. “If I am to die, I could not ask to die in better company.”

In an unusual gesture of comradeship, for he was not an emotional man, William Travis reached down and gently clasped Bowie’s shoulder. “Nor I, Jim,” he said.

Bowie’s slave, Sam, sat in the darkness of a corner in the room and watched and listened. After Travis had left, he rose and came to Bowie’s side. Bowie sensed his presence and opened his pain-filled eyes. He handed the young man a folded sheet of paper.

“I know you can’t read, Sam. But this is your freedom. You’re a free man, now. This paper states that. You get yourself a white rag and walk right out of those gates and keep going.”

“I think I’ll stay for a time, Mr. Jim,” Sam replied.

“Don’t be a fool!” Bowie said sharply. “Get out of this death trap, Sam.”

Sam wet a cloth and bathed Jim’s flushed face. “You rest now. ”Time a-plenty for talkin’ later.”

Too weak and in too much pain to argue, Jim lay back and closed his eyes.