Leaving the Alamo

As I retreated to the interior chapel of the Alamo, looking around for signs of life, I looked around several times, and could not see any other fighters, other than David, Commander Travis and a few others. So I went back out to continue fighting. Not regretting the decision to do so. I saw Joe take a hit, and then another as he falls to the ground, I knew in my heart it was the last of a great man. Oh how I was wrong. Joe stood up slowly, I could see his dazed and confused look, but yet he kept on shooting and fighting. I rushed over to give what little aid I can, and he looked at me as to say, “I much obliged but I can do this on my own.” I, too had taken several hits, but the wounds were nothing more than powder burns and a few buck shots. Had I have taken a hit from one of their canons, or stabbed from one of their bayonets, that would have been an instant death. As we made yet another retreat to someplace safer than being in the open for all to see and shoot, Joe made absolutely sure not to get too far away. Ready for what made be the last stand, Crockett jokingly converse with us and smiling too. Not sure what he said but the smirk on his face tells me it was funny, though we did not outwardly laugh, we were cracking up, our ribs aching from laughter. Joe never laughs, but he did this time, though brief for we had to get back to killing. His light hearted comments made us all feel good, but only for a moment. No more pain, the thought of dying alone, never to see the love of my life is far worse than being shot down by Mexican soldiers. Maybe things will be OK; maybe we won’t have to die. Maybe Santa Ana will take defeat and retreat. Just maybe! Maybe I will make it back to where I came from and be reunited with my one true love…Maybe! As sudden as this war began, it was almost over. Joe and I find ourselves cut off from all the others all alone and surrounded. All the others were not far away, I know. I can hear their cries, their screams for help. Oh what painful noise, cough like noises mixed with sickening chicken pox noises. Struggling for air, sounds like they are taking their last precious breath of fresh air, lots of wheezing, sniffling, with an occasional sudden outburst of crying. Their bodies scarred bullet holes and blood everywhere. Before we can make it to the room where all those remaining, we ran out of ammunition, only weapon now is a rustic bayonet. Santa Ana’s troop soon realizes we were only armed with a piece of rifle and no gun power and pellets and toyed with us for some time. Shortly afterwards, several guns and bayonets starred us in the face and our only option was to surrender. Still fighting, I could feel the hot barrel pressing on my face, blistering my skin. Hot from the firings of pellets and gun powder. The barrel branded me as if I’m someone’s live stock, a cow or horse perhaps, but none the less, an animal. The machete knife at the end of the guns pierced my neck and Joe’s shoulder. Blood gushing out, though not thick, convinces us to surrender our arms and indeed we did. Joe surrendered first. His arms stretched high as if he to touch the lowest cloud in praise, but no words came from his mouth, not even an utter. Then I surrendered and with my arms held high, I too was taken into custody by an unknown enemy. Though I could see them, killed many of them, I could not tell you why I killed, yet I was captured, enslaved yet again. Taken captive by a bunch of hoodlums to a makeshift room was not of my doings. Now a prisoner to my demise, treated far better than picking cotton on a good day. “Sir would like to offer you water and something to eat but our rations are low.” One commanding troop said. Taken Hostage As I look into the eyes of our Mexican captors, young and innocent for they are youngens. These are children. Young Mexican hoodlums, as young as my Little Fanny Lou Tizzy back in Flat Rock. Their teeth are as soft as pine pulp on a rainy day fighting a battle to keep whites folks from homesteading. Can’t blame them, heck if this was my country, I’ll fight too. Till death! I’ll shoot first, and ask questions later. Hoodlums so young, but brave indeed. Braver than a pack of hungry starved out wolves, for nothing under the sun could have kept them from invading the Alamo. Not even a thirst quench of fresh squeezed milk from the swollen mother’s tit could have stopped this invasion. Frustrated and don’t know what to do. Why must it be so, to be captors first to the white men and now to the Mexicans? Why must I be enslaved, beaten, whipped all for the color of my dammed skin. Frustrated and unable to do anything, but take the pain. Unable to do anything for it seems that their kind reigns king and I, poor ole me just a plain old laborer, a thief, a liar, a cheat. That’s how they see me. . No good for heaven, no not me. Of all the good I‘ve done, to be honest, pure, joy and full of love, for the good book says love conquers all. I disagree, for it has not conquered thee that enslave me. I fight my pride; hold back my peace and someday soon, I will be free. If not here, then in heaven, for I cannot be a slave forever and in eternity. After nearly a four hour wait, a figure of a man above all, walked into the room leading a group of high ranking subordinates. “I presume your names are Sir Joe and Sir Sam