This fine book is available now at our bookstore....

The Trial of Davy Crockett

by Fletcher Rhoden

86 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #01-0132; ISBN 1-55212-733-8; US$12.95, C$19.95, EUR13.00, £9.00

Did Davy Crockett die during the battle for the Alamo, or was he captured and executed?

Read more!

about the book      about the author      sample excerpts      catalogue info

About the Book Did Davy Crockett die during the battle for the Alamo or was he captured and executed? The Trial of Davy Crockett presents a speculative dialogue between Crockett and Generalissimo Antonio López de Santa Anna, meeting in a clash of will and wit over the ideology of the Texian Revolution and American expansionism. The Trial of Davy Crockett presents a new Crockett, true to the original; a man embittered by his own failure, disenfranchised from the government he loved, a man forced to recognize his own shortcomings and those of his country. He is a man whose most supreme faith is brutally tested. Likewise, Santa Anna is presented in more depth and detail than any in fiction: This man is vain, erratic, perhaps slightly unhinged. But he is proud of his nation, determined to serve her at the expense of his own life. He is rightfully offended by many United States policies, especially as regards expansionism and slavery. He stands for what he believes is right, and in the expression of those beliefs we hear, finally, the Mexican perspective on the invasion of their country and the desecration of their way of life. The Trial of Davy Crockett is an unusual work in other ways: Nearly its entire length is occupied by a single scene. The POV is in the second person, but not told in that character's voice: it is instead a second-person limited omniscient viewpoint; rare in fiction. It is a trial which is not a trial, where the defendant is the jury and the punishment is life, not death. It forces the reader to entertain an internal conflict of emotion against intellect, dividing sympathy between two diametrically-opposed forces. It challenges the reader to reconsider his society and its place in history and his place within that society. It challenges history and convention. But it speaks of more than politics; it addresses the vanity that propels men to abuse each other for their own self-satisfaction, a condition which sadly out-lived all involved with the Alamo and will probably out-live us all. This Crockett is the truest to the actual David Crockett, showing him with all his foibles and those of his time; this was no demigod, but a man typical of his lowly times. Only in understanding the truth of his humanity can we appreciate his great leap into legend; only as men can the lives and deaths of these rebels help us understand our own motivations and actions, our own vanities and sacrifices. Is Crockett's character assaulted? No -- this is a more complex and patriotic Crockett than any other in fiction; for only when faith is tested can it be said to be pure. Review from The Midwest Book Review, November 11, 2001. The Trial Of Davy Crockett is a speculative fiction novella. Author Fletcher Rhoden questions whether Davy Crockett was truly killed during the battle for the Alamo -- or whether he was captured and executed by the Mexicans. The Trial Of Davy Crockett presents a hypothetical dialogue between Crockett and Generalissimo Antonio López de Santa Anna, which collide in an articulate, wry, thought-provoking, and no-holds-barred verbal conflict regarding the Texian Revolution and America's unrestrained expansionism. Neither Crockett or Santa Anna is stereotyped in the roles of hero or villain; their opposing points of view are given a clear and fair hearing, for all to see and judge for themselves. Based entirely on the facts of the revolution, The Trial Of Davy Crockett is a "must" for Texas history buffs and not to be missed. Review from a reader in New York The Trial of Davy Crockett offers more than simply a must for Texas history buffs. In this novella, based in fact, author Fletcher Rhoden examines a dynamic character in Santa Anna and in so doing allows the reader a compelling account of Mexican history at a time when that country was shrinking under American expansionism. A subject all too often ignored by many American historians. The character of Davy Crockett does not wane in the shadow of Santa Anna. It is written in a style so unique and intelligent, the reader cannot help but to keep turning the page. Santa Anna has become a sort of ogre in American eyes because of the slaughter at the Alamo and the brutality of the massacre at Goliad. The author's presentation of this dynamic historical period through the eyes of Santa Anna, definitely gives the reader a thought-provoking view of Latino History. Review from The Midwest Book Review's library newsletter, The Bookwatch, October 2001. One of the obscure facts about the famous stand at the Alamo during the Texas war for liberation from Mexico is that Davy Crockett and a handful of others were captured alive by Santa Anna' forces when the mission-turned-fort fell. He and the others were summarily executed soon afterwards. Fletcher Rhoden has carefully crafted a novella that is based on the facts of the Texas revolution that gives fair and equal expression to both sides of the conflict and is thoughtful yet riveting reading from first page to last.

---

About the Author As a writer/director, Fletcher Rhoden's work (the video releases of his dramatic stage play 'Soul Cancer' and the comedy short subject 'The Christopher Walken Ecstatic Dance Academy') has been screened in film and video festivals internationally (including Cannes 2001), seen on television and cable, performed live at Madison Square Garden and profiled in a major magazine. He has written several feature scripts and novels and is currently raising funds to direct his stage play, The Trial of Davy Crockett. This is his first novella. In addition to his writing, Rhoden is also an artist; his pen-and-ink illustrations grace The Trial of Davy Crockett but acrylic paints are his favored medium. He is also an accomplished musician, able to read and write music and is expert on guitar and bass and proficient on piano, harmonica and several other instruments. He has written the music and lyrics to nearly five hundred songs, including a rock opera. For two years, Rhoden wrote, directed, produced and starred in two radio programs on KCLA, reaching 1.5 million people twice weekly in Los Angeles and Hawaii. His literary influences are Gabriel García Márquez, Tom Wolfe, Robert Shaw, Ernest Hemingway and Sir Peter Ustinov. He was born in Los Angeles in 1966 and currently lives there with his dog Sarah. Contact Fletcher Rhoden at fletcherrhoden@yahoo.com Please visit the author's web page at www.fletcherrhoden.com Also available from Trafford Publishing: Last Tango with Marlon.

---

Excerpts

from Chapter 2

    Castrillón ordered five of Duque's soldados to clear a small room in the battered chapel and set up two chairs and a table which had barely survived the siege. Castrillón did not know these soldados by name, although their faces were familiar. But from the time he assumed leadership of their command during the battle they stuck near him.
    The church had been decapitated. The pockmarked outer walls struggled to rise to a suggestion of the roof, which now lay in massive chunks inside the chapel.
    The walls between the smaller rooms were torn to the ground by the slabs of fallen roof. They rose no higher than eight feet in some areas, as low as three feet in others. Morning cast an uneven shadow over the ground. Sunlight streamed in beams through cracks and holes in the clay rubble and poured in from the collapsed roof above.
    Castrillón frowned at the desolate adobe cove, still fresh with the wreak of panic urine and vomit. Is this where I will meet my fate? he wondered. Are these the ashes from which Castrillón is to be reborn?
    Crockett slipped on the blood-slicked floor, nearly pulling Castrillón down. One of Duque's soldados helped ease Crockett into a flimsy wooden chair. It barely supported his slumping weight, his head threatening to roll down his chest.
    Crockett's flesh-burned back pressed into the splintered wood of the chair, and pain hissed out of his lips like steam. Castrillón could almost feel the searing of his skin, the prickling agony. He held his hand out to Crockett, knowing beyond his own reason that there was nothing he could do.
    But he little realized that Crockett was not yet as helpless.
    A spark flared in Crockett's eyes and in his hands as they jolted upward and found Castrillón's neck. Fingers dug into his skin, electric tension streaming from Crockett's heart directly into Castrillón's throat.
    Duque's company already held their muskets and bayonets ready to kill. Castrillón had no desire to see this Salvavidas obliterated in a moment of blind, passionate gunfire. He wanted even less to be caught in that gunfire. His nerves tensed in memory of a death that occurred only in dreams. But now the dreams were reaching out into the daylight; set free and their prophecy fulfilled by Castrillón's own greed and carelessness.
    Castrillón waved the soldados off. In the corner of his eye, he could see them step back, guns still pointed at captor and captive alike.
    Crockett studied Castrillón in his grip; then the room and Duque's soldados. It seemed to Castrillón that Crockett's brain was functioning, however slowly. The rage that consumed him ebbed, falling away just as his fingers loosened their grip from Castrillón's throat.
    Finally, Crockett let go of both.
    Castrillón let go of the images of his own demise at precisely that instant, replaced by his panting and coughing. He wondered how long it would be before all parties would attack again, perhaps successfully.
    "I'm sorry," Crockett said, his voice slogging through phlegm and dust.
    Castrillón nodded and eased back, rubbing his neck as he stood and grabbed his rifle. "Can you hear me?" Castrillón asked in his most deliberate English. "¿Hablais español? Do you speak Spanish?"
    Crockett shook his head.
    In English, Castrillón asked, "Do you know what has happened to you?"
    Crockett nodded, his head sinking heavily over his dirty bulk. His eyes locked on something behind Castrillón. Cautious of trickery, Castrillón backed away from Crockett and followed his line of sight.
    A dismembered hand sat on the floor, the fingers curled in around the up-turned palm. Its pink skin was covered with its own blood. The soldados had cleared the corpses out, but blood was still thick on the walls and floor, chunks of flesh remained scattered. With Crockett under the guard of Duque's soldados, Castrillón reached for the hand.
    It was heavier than he expected, the veins trailing several inches and sticking to his sleeve. He tossed it over the jagged wall into one of the neighboring rooms.
    "Wonder whose it was. Dickinson's maybe, or..." A cough ripped up Crockett's throat, tearing his words.
    Castrillón raised his half-filled canteen, the water splashing with a hollow, metallic echo. Crockett eyed the canteen, his parched lips almost quivering. He took it eagerly, his head tipping back, eyes rolling into his head. Neck muscles rose under his grimy skin as his throat worked to suck out the last drop of water.
    Crockett wiped his mouth on his sleeve and handed the canteen back to Castrillón. "Muchas Gracias."
    "Señor Crockett." Santa Anna's voice captured their attention. Castrillón leveled his rifle at Crockett as the tall generalissimo entered, quickly saluting and returning his hand to the trigger. Duque's soldados did the same. "I see my safety is well tended to," Santa Anna said in English to Castrillón with a lazy salute. He looked back at Crockett and added, "Encantado. Are you comfortable, Colonel?"
    Crockett looked up at Santa Anna but said nothing. Santa Anna huffed as if not surprised by Crockett's silent response. "The battle is over, Sr. Crockett. I hope there can be some dialogue between us."
    Crockett looked at Santa Anna and sucked hard at his front teeth, smacking saliva in loud contempt. "Tal vez otro dia," Crockett said to Santa Anna's impressed smile.
    "What other time than this? Can we share no mutual respect?"
    Two tenientes entered, González and Herrera. González carried a burlap sack which like González himself was flimsy and thin, the filthy shell sagging with too little to hold. Herrera clutched a clear mallet decanter filled with pale red Sangria. His other set of fingers were strangling the stems of two crystal glasses with angular knops and faceted bowls.
    Herrera, with his unending smile and anxious, toppling belly, Castrillón shrugged to himself in a fleeting moment of silent privacy. No less transparent than the decanter.
    Herrera set the wine and glasses on the table, González unfolded the burlap to reveal several tortillas and strips of hardtack.
    Castrillón's stomach growled, the memory of the salty meat on his tongue making it water. "These are the provisions I serve my own men," Santa Anna said to Crockett. "Some are near starving." Crockett's upper lip crested in a hateful sneer. Santa Anna held out his hand to the offerings and added, "Por favor, Colonel, in their honor?"
    Crockett looked at the blockade of enemy surrounding him. Sunlight cut his face as the shadow slowly gave up its ground. His eyes darted into the furthest corners of the room and at the gaping hole that used to be a doorway.
    But there was only one option left to Crockett and at long last he seemed to embrace it, however unwillingly. He grimaced and clutched his wounded side.
    "Maybe some o' that wine," he said.

from Chapter 3

    Crockett nearly spoke, but his opened mouth was his only reply. It seemed to Castrillón as if Crockett were choking on Santa Anna's cool determination. Santa Anna sneered and added, "What of your slaughter of the Creeks, Sr. Crockett? How merciful were you?"
    Crockett's horror remained, but the direction of his disgust seemed to reverse. Crockett's hand was shaking as he reached for the wine glass. He clutched its stem with his quivering fingers. It trembled in his sweating, greasy grip and tipped over, the remaining swallow spilling and soaking into the rotting wooden table.
    "We shot them down like dogs." Crockett took a deep, quivering breath. "Put twenty balls into one squaw. She just sort of...exploded."
    Crockett seemed to have forgotten that either His Excellency or Castrillón or Duque's soldados were still in the room. He spoke in a low drone, narrating the scene as it must have recurred to his mind's eye in gruesome, minute detail. "We trapped them in a cabin, many as would fit. They made the most fearsome clatterin'; poundin' and scratchin' the walls. Some tried squeezin' out through the windows. We shot 'em where they were and then we..."
    Crockett sucked hard on his teeth, scowling at the vision in his mind's eye. "Then we set the cabin on fire, burned 'em alive. First came those terrified screams, the great billows of black smoke. Flames started to crackle..." Crockett's voice fluttered in his nervous throat, filling again with blood and regret. "Lord, how they screamed."
    Crockett covered his mouth with his battered, filthy fingers. Santa Anna looked at Castrillón in the moments Crockett needed to take another deep, heavy breath.
    Crockett said, "Next day we were looking for food. We found a cellar under the charred cabin, and lo it was filled with nice, ripe potatoes. But the grease from the burning Creeks dripped through the floorboards in such amounts as to nearly stew them 'taters as in a broth of fat meat." Crockett shook his head, eyes still staring off. "But we had such a hungerin'..."
    His Excellency stepped toward Castrillón. "And so we add cannibalism to their list of atrocities," he said in their native Spanish.
    Castrillón reflected on the frightened but determined faces of these rebels as he struck them down, their blood leaping onto his chest. He flashed on the women of Zacatecas and for reasons he could not understand on the orange cat skewered on the soldado's bayonet, blood running down the length of the rifle.
    What about our atrocities? Castrillón asked himself.
    Crockett's posture sank deeper into the wooden chair. It creaked with his weight, threatening to collapse.
    "We were speaking of my march to Béxar," Santa Anna said to Crockett in his forced but impeccable English. "I was given an army which I was told exceeded twenty thousand, and there were barely one-tenth that many. We faced war for the first time against an enemy with a different tongue, from a different world than ours. We believed we marched to meet a race of giants, an army of legends from the pages of Dante. The mind, as you know, can be a powerful enemy when deceived."
    Santa Anna smiled but was again overtaken by his army's mercurial feet. "We faced wolves and Indian attack. We drank water infested with animal carcasses. Pestilence, intrigue, suffering; a trail of bones marks our path here, señor."
    "The bones of impressed men," Crockett said. "In my country's army, even in the Texian rebel army, we are either regular or militia. While the regular fights for advancement, for glory and career, he still fights of his own choosin'. And the militia, bless their souls, fight for love of land and home and country."
    "Whose land and home?" Santa Anna asked, begging for an answer he long-since knew. "Whose country?"
    "But they fight 'cause'n their own free wills. If the U. S. starts kidnapping young men from their homes or taverns, drafting their aid as you and the European despots do, half the folks'll flee north and rightly so, you mark my words."
    "But among your volunteers," Santa Anna said, "many abandon their posts at the same whim which inspired their enlistment."
    Crockett shrugged. "Not that many."
    "No fighting force can survive such a lax regiment." Santa Anna pulled at his sleeve cuffs again, adjusting the coatee to his shoulders. "And I will not tolerate your accusation that my army is a tribe of slaves. They sacrificed no less willingly than the men of your command."
    "I mean no dig at your soldados, Excellency. They put up a hell of a scrape. You should be right proud your arrival weren't no less ugly than your journey."
    "My journey does not at this moment stand to end at the point of a bayonet."
    A smile wriggled under Crockett's bruised cheeks when he said, "Not at this moment."

---

Catalogue Information

---

About Trafford Publishing:
Our books are manufactured one-at-a-time to fill individual orders -- part of an innovative process we invented, called "on-demand publishing." Authors and organizations from 120 countries are using Trafford for their publishing needs.
If you (or your company) wish to list a title for sale to the public, contact the nearest office or select "publishing offices" from our bookstore pages for details.

Canada • USA • UK • Republic of Ireland Contact Us URL http://www.trafford.com © 1995-2005 Trafford Publishing, a division of Trafford Holdings Ltd. Trafford's Privacy Policy: Client information will never be provided to anyone outside of Trafford and its subsidiaries except where required by law.