Leaving the Alamo: The Incredible Journey of Sam and Joe

By Isaac Newton

Taken by the masters to engage in a battle against their wills and against a Mexican regime, they knew very little about. General Antonio Lpez de Santa Anna, a dictator in charge of a brigade comprising over five thousand armed soldiers. Jim Bowie, Colonel William Travis lost their lives during the battle. Their slaves did not. Sam, a faithful slave to Jim Bowie and Joe, a committed and honorable slave to Colonel William Travis fought bravely alongside their masters. And after the battle was decided, and defeat, not victory was the outcome, Joe, and Sam not only survived the battle, but gained their freedom from slavery was well. Their biggest fight was not the Battle of the Alamo, but their struggles to make it back into slavery, to be with their families.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481747127

Isaac Newton

Sir Isaac Newton (1642–1727) was an English physicist and mathematician who was a leading figure in the scientific revolution. His work throughout the seventeenth century provided the basis for modern science, including his three laws of motion and the law of universal gravitation. Newton’s career was prolific. He was president of the Royal Society and in 1705 he was knighted, becoming the first ever scientist to receive the honour.

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© 2013, 2014 by Isaac Newton. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse    03/11/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4817-4713-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-4712-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013907757

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

About the Author

This book is dedicated to my mother Celestine, the memory of the many conversations,

I remember… .

And to my Aunt Katie Richardson,

a conversation is like a walk about in heaven.

And to my Victoria Lee,

may you continue to inspire Christ in others

as you have done so many times to me.

CHAPTER 1

WILLIAM B. TRAVIS

Commander Travis said to James Bowie A thousand Mexicans stare us in the face. Their bayonets shaking in their arms, impatiently awaiting word from their leader to attack and you have commandeered an inferior strategy. Don’t you know the same fate that awaits me, awaits you?

Assuming Commander and Chief of the garrison, the self-righteous William B. Travis and on the eve of death, and besieged by thousands of Mexicans under the dictatorship of General Antonio Lopez de Santa Ana, vowed to the end. Death or Victory! Commander Travis, a self-absorbed ruler of a man believed his way of defending the Alamo was supreme, though passive and non-aggressive, his strategy as defender was simply to wait with the hopes that General Santos and his band of Mexicans would lose interest and drift away like floating clouds. Passive and quiet, And it was that belief that did not sit well with James Bowie, my master and dear friend and James Crockett, a frontiersman of a man from Tennessee. Sir Bonham, at times voiced his displeasure, but soon came to understand Travis’s ways were the only option for survival. On one hand, we had not the rations to sustain a battle much less a full scale war. Food rations were slim pickings. Ammunition and man power was in worst shape. Seems the only thing in abundant supply was the morale of all militia men.

The bite of mites itched, but we dare scratched. One hand wrapped around the wooden barrel exposing a scarred crooked finger snugly against the trigger nervously waiting for the salute to fire.

And before long, an occasional gunshot came barreling through. And we retaliated; striking a few for it was so difficult to miss. And soon another round of enemy gunfire came through, and again we retaliated killing a few more of their men. We traded gunfire for days it seems. It seems, General Santos was sizing up our military strength and it did not take long. And before long, all hell broke loose. Our east and south walls were flanked by Mexicans. Soon, they were coming over the north and west walls. And indeed we fought, I shot as many times as my meager weapons would allow, and at times, my weapon was so hot, it near burnt the skin of my palms. But I kept shooting and reloading, packing gun power and pellets into the opening of my loader and then I was hit. Taking a shot to the head, grazing my scalp, I passed out for several minutes, thinking of the good ole days back in Kentucky.

THE RESPECTED MAMA

Mama can barely read, much less write; yet she carried, around an ole worn out King James Version of a bible. The reading of this bible so rugged, Reverend Jesse, a bootleg of a Baptist preacher carried one but never opened it, much less preached from it. He preached mainly from notes taken while observing Minister Jones scrolling up and down those rural back roads of Kentucky preaching, mainly fussing at all those slave owners and slaves too. Most of his sermons were about life according to him, not scripture. Though he was a bootleg of a reverend, somewhat trained to teach, Mama was not. Mama can barely read, much less understand. But somehow, she manages to do just that. At night, just before bed time, Mama would read as best she can from the Book of Philippians, often stuttering and mispronouncing words. Sometimes we’re not sure if she’s reading an English translation, or a translation written in another language. Mama was old when she learned how to read and write, but according to Mama, you never too old to learn how to tie a knot. And when Mama finally got the hang of reading and writing, she was found reading scriptures to herself, and to anyone that would listen, not knowing the transformation that’s taking place. Mama writes down the birth records of all born in our quarters. A hardback bible it was in the beginning and perhaps a few years afterwards, but not anymore. The cover is worn and missing its protective cover, exposing Genesis, and soon Exodus, and before long Revelations. Yes, she sure does, she writes them down in the back, near Revelations of that ole worn out bible she packs around with her. Not only does she write down her baby’s name, birthmark, and eye color and so on her writings and markings were so harshly poor only those close to her can make sense of her markings she used to describe those odd physical traits. Mama knows that if she does not do it, none of us will know where we come from, much less know who our siblings are. Not only does Mama inscribe in the back of that ole bible, the scar patterns, whether or not we are missing toes, fingers or limbs, but she also writes down how she and all the older slaves feel. When Rezin was born, Mama’s good friend Maggie came down sick and died on the same day, just a few hours apart. Mama believes one must die to make room for another. If it wasn’t so, Maggie would still be here, alive and making conversation about the good ole days. Mama writes about everything. She even writes down whether or not the weather is good. If someone gave birth during a rainstorm, she writes nothing and waits till the storm passes. Rain changes her mood, not for the worse, she just becomes solemn and withdrawn. A wounded lady indeed, but a passionate mother! Mrs. Maisy sold most of Mama’s siblings, and those she did not sell, her and her husband bartered away to nearby folks. Every time Mrs. Maisy ridded off one of Mama kin, Mama ripped out a page or two in the great book of Isaiah and gave it to them.

As she gave them this piece of paper, and with tears streaming down her face, she stuttered, Keep this, and let no one take this from you. This is all you have on your birth rights. If you lose this, only me can tell you apart not your brother, not your sister or any other foolish devil. They were not around when you were born, so whatever you do, wherever you go, keep this. And if you lose this, remember the verse! Remember the verse! Remember the verse! Mama kept saying that phrase over and over. Remember the verse!

It didn’t take long for the young ones to understand. Days later Mr. Maisy, an iconic zealot of a religious neighbor who once owned more slaves than any in Logan County grew weary, losing sleep and feared heaven would not be his home sold off his estate, slaves, and livestock and left Logan, Kentucky. But he didn’t go far. Several days afterwards, and for days on, we witnessed those strange Maisy boys draped in their white gowns with hoods, running around calling themselves prophets. Their gowns absence of a cross bearing the body of Christ, but heavily baptized in red clay dirt, standing on the corners of those barren and desolate roads preaching to all who mistakenly happened by. Mr. John Bowie bought Mama, I and all of my remaining siblings. Though I am not sure what he paid, but I am certain by the way he looks, his meager livings, I am certain he didn’t break the bank.

CHAPTER 2

SO LONG MY EDNA

Mama had a daughter named Edna, and she was the most beautiful person in the world. Sister Edna had barely passed, her teeth still frail, the smell of spoiled breast milk fresh on her breath, when she, it seems rose from a seedling to sprout in the shady side of sun developed quicker than a well watered tomato plant, with a hint of sun, made plump, and tender, yet frail in the head. Sister Edna was quickly coming of age, and Mama knew it was time. Mama knew she had to let go and let go now for to hold on to something God never intended was not the course. Lil Edna was very frail and had not the rough callous and scaly skin to toughen out a life as a slave mistress. Soon, her planned departure was taking shape. Mama meticulously ripped out a fistful of pages from her ole worn out bible, from the book of Isaiah. I’m not sure why Mama chose the book of Isaiah, but I suppose it had something to do with an African Eunuch finding favor with God. Sister Edna as sweet as the smell of fresh air scented by a spring mist of honeydew and morning basil knew not why Mama gave her those pages and knew better than to question her. For Mama is always right; and when she is wrong, we never questioned her. Mama is more right than going to church. But Mama knew why. She had her reasons for those hunchbacked cradle snatchers raided our quarters looking for our wenches like a pack of starved rat snakes looking for eggs in a chicken coop. Mama knew of a better life out there somewhere, and besides, she despised the way masta and the likes looked at her, licking their tongues as she walked on by and were afraid they would make her a mangy crippled angry mammy before her time, for Edna was a young and beautiful child. Sister Edna oh could she sing those old spiritual songs. Days before her escape, Mama and Edna sang all day long and night too, sometimes singing for days on, their voices echoed throughout the night like an angry old couple settling in on a life of togetherness. Mama’s voice was scratchy, her missing teeth made it near impossible for her to hold any kind of note. Her voice seems as though she’s gasping for air, making it