The Alamo Bride Read online

  Of course.

  Ellis sighed. Grandfather needed to be watchful, not only due to his position as a prominent citizen of Velasco but also because the shipyard would likely be the second place after the fort that the enemy would strike.

  “It is my mother’s recipe. And I do see your point.” She handed him the spyglass, his safety now weighing on her mind. “Have you protection here?” she asked casually. “Watchmen or guards during the night?”

  Grandfather chuckled. “For what purpose? So that an old man can get some sleep? There are greater causes than that and fewer men to perform them.”

  She nodded toward the boat moving toward the docks. “With more men arriving, wouldn’t you think one or two of them might be spared from whatever duty calls them here to protect the good citizens of Velasco and those of us on the other side of the river in Quintana?”

  “We all have the fort for our protection, Ellis,” he said a bit more sternly. “I understand your concern for me, but do not let it go to your head. Texas is the only cause worth protecting right now. I am well and able to protect myself.” He patted her hand. “Though I do worry about your mother and you children. Quintana is farther from the fort, and your father’s land is isolated. I wish Sophie would listen to me and move you all into my home until these current troubles are over.”

  “Papa left the job of taking care of the land to us in his absence,” she said. “And my mother will not be found shirking those duties.”

  He shook his head. “True, she will not, but I do hope she will consider that preserving the lives of her children is worth letting some of those responsibilities go.”

  Ellis’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think it will come to that?”

  “I certainly hope it will not,” he said, his voice now reassuring. “If troubles come to us, the Lord always brings help, does He not?”

  “He does,” she said, knowing this to be true and yet realizing she was human enough to hold on to more than a tiny bit of doubt.

  “And this morning as we sit here we are safe, are we not? We awakened today just as we did yesterday.”

  “We did,” she said with a smile.

  “Then thank the Lord for that and set other concerns aside.” He nodded toward the spyglass and then looked out at the water. “As in life, we can observe or take part.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Those men you see arriving are not like us. They have no land here, no stake in what has become a deadly game between two rivals. I will admit their sponsors have more than our cause on their minds, but they have raised the money all the same to send these soldiers to us.”

  “What is more important than our cause, Grandfather?”

  He shrugged. “Money, my child. There are some who would benefit greatly if we succeed in our quest for freedom from Mexico. For others, our loss would bring more profit.”

  She returned her attention to the boat now tying up at the dock. A crowd had gathered there, and even from where she sat, Ellis could hear cheering.

  “Then I am glad our freedom was worth sending these men.”

  “As am I,” he said. “Perhaps you’ll leave me to my work and go down to join those who are letting them know we are grateful for their arrival.”

  Ellis grinned. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll do that, but only if you promise to doctor that cough. Otherwise I’ll be forced to return alone through dangerous waters to care for you.”

  His smile faded. “Do not joke about such things.” Then he shrugged. “But yes, I promise. Now off with you.”

  Velasco at last. Clay allowed his gaze to follow the coastline to the east, scanning the broad expanse of river and then landing on the tumble of buildings that made up Velasco’s sister city of Quintana.

  Somewhere within his sight was the treasure that would solve everything. All he had to do was find a way to get to it.

  He braced himself as the vessel slammed against the dock. After a struggle against the rising waves, the men secured the ropes, and the order was given to depart. He rose and joined the ranks as they made their way toward dry land.

  Their trip from New Orleans aboard the schooner Columbia had been uneventful, though quarters were tight. Rather than sleep shoulder to shoulder with his comrades, Clay had chosen to place his blanket under the stars when it was not his turn to take up watch. Though used to sleeping under such rough conditions, he would welcome the cot that awaited him tonight at the fort.

  Clay easily found Fort Velasco among the collection of buildings that hugged both sides of the river. The massive round structure would be their headquarters for the time being, and it was in that direction that the Greys would soon march.

  “All in favor of electing Morris as captain, say aye,” one of the men called. The troops shouted their agreement, and Clay joined them.

  In short order the leaders had been chosen, and Captain Morris stepped forward with a well-dressed fellow at his side. The men closed ranks on either side of Clay, leaving him standing in the front of the group.

  At Morris’s nod, the man began. “Welcome, men of the Greys. I am Judge Edmund Andrews, and I will be swearing each of you in as citizens of our great land.”

  Citizens. All around him cheers went up.

  Clay’s breath froze. Nowhere in his plan had he allowed for pledging away his rights as an American to become a citizen elsewhere.

  As the judge continued to speak, Clay weighed his options. He was this close to the treasure, and the only thing that stood in his way was a promise.

  A promise once made was always kept—this had been his father’s belief and his father’s before him. The value of a promise was greater than gold, or was it?

  Clay let out a long breath and fell into line. With each step toward the judge, he weighed the cost. Could the president appoint a man to any position within his government after that man swore allegiance to another country?

  He narrowed his eyes and thought about that. True, in most cases the answer would be a resounding no. But Texas had not yet gained its freedom, so was he truly swearing an oath to a country or merely to a cause?

  This was not the first time Clay had hired out to fight for a cause that was not his own. His own father had termed him a mercenary. While he had hired his services to others, what he could not tell his father was that he never sided with a cause he did not believe in.

  By the time he reached the front of the line, he had determined an answer.

  Texas might someday be its own country, but for now freedom was the cause for which he would fight. And Clay found nothing wrong with swearing an oath for freedom.

  Once Judge Andrews had administered the oath, Clay looked him in the eye and responded with a bold and clear “I will.”

  “Welcome, citizen,” the judge said with a smile and a firm handshake. “We are very glad you’re here.”

  “As am I,” he said, moving on to wait his turn in the next line. There he received a certificate attesting to his oath as an immigrant entering this new country.

  Tucking the certificate away, Clay stepped over to sign the roster making him an official member of the First Company of Texian Volunteers from New Orleans. When he finished, he looked up into the most beautiful green eyes he’d ever seen.

  “Thank you,” the flame-haired woman said.

  Clay Gentry, the man who had never been at a loss for words in his life, suddenly found himself completely mute. Though her dress and colorful scarf might have marked her as one of the local women of Mexican or Spanish descent, there was something about her that seemed familiar.

  As if he had seen her before. Perhaps not in person, but elsewhere.

  The idea was ridiculous, of course. And yet it felt like the truth.

  Before Clay could find his voice, the soldier behind him nudged him along. And though he crossed a gauntlet of grateful Texians all offering him and his fellow New Orleans Greys a word of thanks or encouragement, the green-eyed woman’s words were the only ones he could recall when h
e finally reached the end of them all and stepped inside the fort.

  The remainder of the day was taken up with those things that were required to prepare the company for their coming duties. Finally, when the sun dipped below the horizon and their bellies were full, the company rested.

  Tomorrow they would all be heading upriver to Brazoria where thankful citizens would greet them. At least that was what the judge claimed. Clay figured there might be cheers, but there would also be politicians making speeches.

  There always were.

  He shifted position on his cot and covertly glanced around to see whether any of the other members of Captain Morris’s company still stirred. Once he was certain they did not, he rose and slipped away carrying his boots.

  Staying to the shadows inside the fort, just as he had in New Orleans, Clay got all the way to the exit before he spied two watchmen who had been posted. Backtracking, he found his way around to a wall on the opposite end where his attempt at climbing would be less likely to be observed.

  After several tries, Clay hefted himself up and over. His feet landed on sandy soil where he was able to easily catch his balance. With a glance back to be certain he had not been seen or heard, he hurried away to find a secluded spot to slip into his boots and determine his exact whereabouts.

  Grandfather taught him the skill of navigating by the stars when Clay was a small child. Likely his father had no idea he and the old man would slip off to the lake near the Claibornes’ Tennessee home to practice. With Clay at the tiller and his grandfather calling out the commands, they traversed the tiny lake until the first signs of light.

  Father always wondered why Clay would fall asleep at breakfast when Mama’s father was visiting. Mama, however, never had to guess. She too had learned the skill back when being the daughter of a pirate was a social concern she was yet to have.

  His grandfather loved to tell tales of sailing under a new moon with no light overhead save the speckles of stars. In his tales, Mama was a girl who plied the seas with pirates who had only good in their hearts. Clay smiled at the memory.

  Lest Clay believe his mother was beyond those days, he found more than once that the boat he’d left in one place had been moved to another. Other times he would spy her walking toward the lake after he’d been tucked in for the night. He would listen for the splash of the boat in the water, and sometimes he swore he heard it.

  Of course, he had no proof that his mother still sailed the vessel across the lake during the wee hours of the morning. Still, he liked to believe she did.

  Someday perhaps he would ask her. Maybe he would buy a boat and take her sailing himself, not on the little Tennessee lake but on an ocean with vast horizons.

  First he had to survive this mission.

  Clay made his way along a path he forged through the thicket so as not to be seen. Leaving sight of the fort, he slipped out of the underbrush to walk along the sandy shore. Here and there a candle burned, but otherwise the buildings showed no evidence of inhabitants.

  At least none who were awake at this hour.

  At the sound of coughing, Clay froze. Slowly he looked to his right where the whitecaps from the surf drifted to shore beneath the sliver of a moon. Then to his left where only darkness greeted him.

  “What are you doing here?” a man said, though the sound of the waves kept him from determining exactly where the man might be.

  He looked behind him only to find himself alone. “Show yourself,” Clay responded as he turned back around.

  “I’ve been here all along.” A man of similar height stepped out of the thicket, the glow of his pipe leading the way. “Saw you coming toward me but then you headed down here. I wondered what you were up to.”

  The fellow stopped a few steps shy of Clay, close enough for him to see a man of similar age to his own grandfather, his dark hair sprinkled generously with silver. Though of similar height, this man was much thinner.

  “Just taking a walk,” Clay said with a casualness he did not feel. “Beautiful night and I’ve been cooped up on a ship for days.”

  “You’re a Grey.”

  The statement hung between them. “I am,” Clay finally responded.

  The older man made a move toward him, and Clay stood his ground. Then the fellow stuck his hand out. “Jean Paul Valmont, formerly of New Orleans and now a Texian through and through,” he said. “Thank you for coming to our aid.”

  Clay relaxed and shook the man’s hand. “Name’s Clay,” he said. “Glad to be here.”

  “I’ve got good chicory coffee on the fire,” he said. “My sister sends it to me when she can. I’d be pleased to offer you a cup.”

  “Thank you but no,” he said. “I don’t want to be gone too long from the fort.”

  The truth, and yet it felt like a lie when he said it to the old man. What he didn’t want was for Jean Paul Valmont to remember him or the fact that he’d been seen out here on the beach. And the best way to do that was to make a quick exit.

  “Then good travels to you,” Valmont said.

  “Thank you, sir.” Clay tipped his hat and made his way around the old man, picking up his pace as he headed to the spot where the river met the shore. There he headed off to the right and began his trek upriver, counting his steps as he went.

  The purpose of tonight was to find the place where the buried treasure was. With just over a month until the meeting was to take place, it was far too soon to retrieve the coins. Rather, he would locate them and then return to get them at a time nearer to the date of exchange. In the interim, he would scout a location to relocate the treasure for safekeeping.

  That much of the plan he’d already worked out. The rest would come.

  His boots treaded lightly as he continued counting steps until he reached the number Grandfather’s map required. Then a turn to the east and there it was.

  Clay retrieved the short-handled spade he’d brought with him in his bag from New Orleans and dropped to his knees to dig. After a few minutes, the sound of metal hitting metal rang out. He kept digging until a small box appeared.

  Yanking the box out of the ground, he used the spade to break open the lid. Rather than the mound of gold coins he expected, inside there was a folded piece of oilcloth. With trembling hands, he unfolded the oilcloth to find another slip of paper with a map on it.

  “What the …” He sat back on his heels and then stood. “All this way and risking court-martial to find a map?” He kicked the box back into the hole and buried it again. Now what? He could not fail.

  A sound caught his attention. Oars in water, perhaps, or was it something else?

  Clay crouched down in the brush and tucked the folded paper into his boot alongside the traveling papers from Louisiana that identified him. He waited, barely breathing as he pressed his palm against the pocket where he kept his knife.

  Yes. There it was again. Definitely oars. Either the old man had decided to follow via the river or a stranger was headed his way.

  As the boat drew nearer, he could hear voices. Two men. Murmurs at first and then more clearly. Their language was Spanish. Whether they were friend or foe remained to be seen.

  He thought to let them just float past. Then he heard clearly the substance of their conversation.

  “The Texians at the fort will never know we’ve been here,” one said to the other. “They are fools.”

  “With the number of men who will soon be gathered, we could kill them all while they sleep,” the other said. “A pity our instructions are to wait upriver.”

  “Quiet,” came the response. “I feel we are not alone.”

  With care not to make a sound, Clay retrieved the knife from its sheath and held it at the ready. He’d left his pistol at the fort, reasoning that he would not wish to use something as a weapon that would make enough noise to call attention to his absence.

  If only he had that revolver now.

  The knife would have to suffice.

  The sound of oars against water cea
sed, leaving only the night sounds of chirping birds and the croak of frogs. Though Clay could not yet see the men, he knew they must be very close.

  Then he heard the soft thud of what must be the hull of a boat, followed by what sounded like coughing in the distance. Of course. No wonder the old man was watching tonight. He was waiting for the Mexicans.

  For what purpose, Clay could not say. Nor could he say with any assurance on which side the old man’s allegiance might lie.

  With three men theoretically making their way toward him from two different directions, Clay had to think fast in order to decide what to do. The underbrush behind him was too thick to make an escape without being heard, but staying where he was meant risking discovery and being outnumbered.

  Going north served no purpose other than to escape. At some point he would have to retrace his steps and come back this direction to return to the fort.

  A good soldier knew when to advance and when to retreat. Until he had sufficient weaponry or assistance, any rational man would consider retreat the best option. Clay should either move north up the trail and leave these three to whatever they were up to or cross the river and go south to Quintana.

  But of all the things Clay Gentry had been accused of, being a rational man was not one of them. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then began quietly making his way toward the river’s edge where he could see exactly where the two Mexicans had landed their boat.

  He found the craft, a crude dugout canoe much like the pirogues the people in Grandfather’s part of Louisiana used, but it was empty. Seizing his chance, he slipped into the river. Despite the warm October temperatures, the water was almost icy.

  Stifling a gasp, he set to his task. Something that looked very much like a black snake zigzagged in front of him. Still he continued to move toward the spot where the strangers had departed their craft.

  With care to keep absolutely quiet, Clay grasped the rough wood and gave it a strong pull in an attempt to haul it away from the bank. When that failed, he tried again.