I. THE CITY IN THE
WILDERNESS............. 1
II. ANTONIA AND ISABEL
.................... 14
III. BUILDERS OF THE
COMMONWEALTH .......... 31
IV. THE SHINING BANDS
OF LOVE ............. 52
V. A FAMOUS BARBECUE
..................... 85
VI. ROBERT WORTH IS
DISARMED .............. 113
VII. A MEETING AT
MIDNIGHT ................. 140
VIII. MOTHER AND PRIEST
..................... 165
IX. THE STORMING OF THE
ALAMO ............. 185
X. THE DOCTOR AND THE
PRIEST ............. 206
XI. A HAPPY TRUCE
......................... 227
XII. DANGER AND HELP
....................... 252
XIII. ARRIVAL OF SANTA
ANNA ................. 282
XIV. FALL OF THE ALAMO
..................... 303
XV. GOLIAD
................................ 330
XVI. THE LOADSTONE IN
THE BREAST ........... 353
XVII. HOME AGAIN
............................ 390
XVIII UNDER ONE FLAG
........................ 417
"What, are you stepping westward?" "Yea."* * * * *
Yet who would stop or fear to advance,Though home or shelter there was
none,With such a sky to lead him on!"
--WORDSWORTH."Ah! cool night wind, tremulous stars,Ah! glimmering
water,Fitful earth murmur,Dreaming woods!"
--ARNOLD. In A. D. sixteen hundred and
ninety-two, a few Franciscan monks began to build a city. The site chosen was a
lovely wilderness hundreds of miles away from civilization on every side, and
surrounded by savage and warlike tribes. But the spot was as beautiful as the
garden of God. It was shielded by picturesque mountains, watered by two rivers,
carpeted with flowers innumerable, shaded by noble trees joyful with the notes
of a multitude of singing birds. To breathe the balmy atmosphere was to be
conscious of some rarer and finer life, and the beauty of the sunny
skies--marvellous at dawn and eve with tints of saffron and amethyst and
opal--was like a dream of heaven.
One of the rivers was
fed by a hundred springs situated in the midst of charming bowers. The monks
called it the San Antonio; and on its banks they built three noble Missions.
The shining white stone of the neighborhood rose in graceful domes and spires
above the green trees. Sculptures, basso-- relievos, and lines of gorgeous
coloring adorned the exteriors. Within, were splendid altars and the appealing
charms of incense, fine vestures and fine music; while from the belfreys, bells
sweet and resonant called to the savages, who paused spell-bound and
half-afraid to listen.
Certainly these priests
had to fight as well as to pray. The Indians did not suffer them to take
possession of their Eden without passionate and practical protest. But what the
monks had taken, they kept; and the fort and the soldier followed the priest
and the Cross. Ere long, the beautiful Mission became a beautiful city, about
which a sort of fame full of romance and mystery gathered. Throughout the south
and west, up the great highway of the Mississippi, on the busy streets of New
York, and among the silent hills of New England, men spoke of San Antonio, as
in the seventeenth century they spoke of Peru; as in the eighteenth century
they spoke of Delhi, and Agra, and the Great Mogul.
Sanguine French traders
carried thither rich ventures in fancy wares from New Orleans; and Spanish dons
from the wealthy cities of Central Mexico, and from the splendid homes of
Chihuahua, came there to buy. And from the villages of Connecticut, and the
woods of Tennessee, and the lagoons of Mississippi, adventurous Americans
entered the Texan territory at Nacogdoches. They went through the land, buying
horses and lending their ready rifles and stout hearts to every effort of that
constantly increasing body of Texans, who, even in their swaddling bands, had
begun to cry Freedom!
At length this cry
became a clamor that shook even the old viceroyal palace in Mexico; while in
San Antonio it gave a certain pitch to all conversation, and made men wear
their cloaks, and set their beavers, and display their arms, with that
demonstrative air of independence they called los Americano. For, though the
Americans were numerically few, they were like the pinch of salt in a
pottage--they gave the snap and savor to the whole community.
Over this
Franciscan-Moorish city the sun set with an incomparable glory one evening in
May, eighteen thirty-five. The white, flat-roofed, terraced houses--each one in
its flowery court--and the domes and spires of the Missions, with their gilded
crosses, had a mirage-like beauty in the rare, soft atmosphere, as if a dream
of Old Spain had been materialized in a wilderness of the New World.
But human life in all
its essentials was in San Antonio, as it was and has been in all other cities
since the world began. Women were in their homes, dressing and cooking, nursing
their children and dreaming of their lovers. Men were in the market-places,
buying and selling, talking of politics and anticipating war. And yet in spite
of these fixed attributes, San Antonio was a city penetrated with romantic
elements, and constantly picturesque.
On this evening, as the
hour of the Angelus approached, the narrow streets and the great squares were
crowded with a humanity that assaulted and captured the senses at once; so
vivid and so various were its component parts. A tall sinewy American with a
rifle across his shoulder was paying some money to a Mexican in blue velvet and
red silk, whose breast was covered with little silver images of his favorite
saints. A party of Mexican officers were strolling to the Alamo; some in white
linen and scarlet sashes, others glittering with color and golden ornaments.
Side by side with these were monks of various orders: the Franciscan in his
blue gown and large white hat; the Capuchin in his brown serge; the Brother of
Mercy in his white flowing robes. Add to these diversities, Indian peons in
ancient sandals, women dressed as in the days of Cortez and Pizarro, Mexican
vendors of every kind, Jewish traders, negro servants, rancheros curvetting on
their horses, Apache and Comanche braves on spying expeditions: and, in this
various crowd, yet by no means of it, small groups of Americans; watchful,
silent, armed to the teeth: and the mind may catch a glimpse of what the
streets of San Antonio were in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and
thirty-five.
It was just before
sunset that the city was always at its gayest point. Yet, at the first toll of
the Angelus, a silence like that of enchantment fell upon it. As a mother cries
hush to a noisy child, so the angel of the city seemed in this evening bell to
bespeak a minute for holy thought. It was only a minute, for with the last note
there was even an access of tumult. The doors and windows of the better houses
were thrown open, ladies began to appear on the balconies, there was a sound of
laughter and merry greetings, and the tiny cloud of the cigarette in every
direction.
But amid this sunset
glamour of splendid color, of velvet, and silk, and gold embroidery, the man
who would have certainly first attracted a stranger's eye wore the plain and
ugly costume common at that day to all American gentlemen. Only black cloth and
white linen and a row palmetto hat with a black ribbon around it; but he wore
his simple garments with the air of a man having authority, and he returned the
continual salutations of rich and poor, like one who had been long familiar
with public appreciation.
It was Dr. Robert
Worth, a physician whose fame had penetrated to the utmost boundaries of the
territories of New Spain. He had been twenty-seven years in San Antonio. He was
a familiar friend in every home. In sickness and in death he had come close to the
hearts in them. Protected at first by the powerful Urrea family, he had found
it easy to retain his nationality, and yet live down envy and suspicion. The
rich had shown him their gratitude with gold; the poor he had never sent
unrelieved away, and they had given him their love.
When in the second year
of his residence he married Dona Maria Flores, he gave, even to doubtful
officials, security for his political intentions. And his future conduct had
seemed to warrant their fullest confidence. In those never ceasing American
invasions between eighteen hundred and three and eighteen hundred and
thirty-two, he had been the friend and succourer of his countrymen, but never
their confederate; their adviser, but never their confidant.
He was a tall, muscular
man of a distinguished appearance. His hair was white. His face was handsome
and good to see. He was laconic in speech, but his eyes were closely observant
of all within their range, and they asked searching questions. He had a
reverent soul, wisely tolerant as to creeds, and he loved his country with a
passion which absence from it constantly intensified. He was believed to be a
thoroughly practical man, fond of accumulating land and gold; but his daughter
Antonia knew that he had in reality a noble imagination. When he spoke to her
of the woods, she felt the echoes of the forest ring through the room; when of
the sea, its walls melted away in an horizon of long rolling waves.
He was thinking of
Antonia as he walked slowly to his home in the suburbs of the city. Of all his
children she was the nearest to him. She had his mother's beauty. She had also
his mother's upright rectitude of nature. The Iberian strain had passed her
absolutely by. She was a northern rose in a tropical garden. As he drew near to
his own gates, he involuntarily quickened his steps. He knew that Antonia would
be waiting. He could see among the thick flowering shrubs her tall slim figure
clothed in white. As she came swiftly down the dim aisles to meet him, he felt
a sentiment of worship for her. She concentrated in herself his memory of home,
mother, and country. She embodied, in the perfectness of their mental
companionship, that rarest and sweetest of ties--a beloved child, who is also a
wise friend and a sympathetic comrade. As he entered the garden she slipped her
hand into his. He clasped it tightly. His smile answered her smile. There was
no need for any words of salutation.
The full moon had
risen. The white house stood clearly out in its radiance. The lattices were
wide open and the parlor lighted. They walked slowly towards it, between hedges
of white camelias and scarlet japonicas. Vanilla, patchuli, verbena, wild
wandering honeysuckle--a hundred other scents-- perfumed the light, warm air.
As they came near the house there was a sound of music, soft and tinkling, with
a rhythmic accent as pulsating as a beating heart.
"It is Don Luis,
father."
"Ah! He plays
well--and he looks well."
They had advanced to
where Don Luis was distinctly visible. He was within the room, but leaning
against the open door, playing upon a mandolin. Robert Worth smiled as he
offered his hand to him. It was impossible not to smile at a youth so handsome,
and so charming--a youth who had all the romance of the past in his name, his
home, his picturesque costume; and all the enchantments of hope and great
enthusiasms in his future.
"Luis, I am glad
to see you; and I felt your music as soon as I heard it."
He was glancing
inquiringly around the room as he spoke; and Antonia answered the look:
"Mother and Isabel
are supping with Dona Valdez. There is to be a dance. I am waiting for you,
father. You must put on your velvet vest."
"And you,
Luis?"
"I do not go. I
asked the judge for the appointment. He refused me. Very well! I care not to
drink chocolate and dance in his house. One hand washes the other, and one
cousin should help another."
"Why did he refuse
you?"
"Who can
tell?" but Luis shrugged his shoulders expressively, and added, "He
gave the office to Blas-Sangre."
"Ah!"
"Yes, it is
so--naturally;--Blas-Sangre is rich, and when the devil of money condescends to
appear, every little devil rises up to do him homage."
"Let it pass,
Luis. Suppose you sing me that last verse again. It had a taking charm. The
music was like a boat rocking on the water."
"So it ought to
be. I learned the words in New Orleans. The music came from the heart of my
mandolin. Listen, Senor!
"`Row young oarsman, row, young oarsman,Into the crypt of the night
we float:Fair, faint moonbeams wash and wander,Wash and wander about the
boat.Not a fetter is here to bind us,Love and memory lose their spell;Friends
that we have left behind us,Prisoners of content,--farewell!'" "You are a wizard, Luis, and I
have had a sail with you. Now, come with us, and show those dandy soldiers from
the Alamo how to dance."
"Pardon! I have
not yet ceased to cross myself at the affront of this morning. And the Senora
Valdez is in the same mind as her husband. I should be received by her like a
dog at mass. I am going to-morrow to the American colony on the Colorado."
"Be careful, Luis.
These Austin colonists are giving great trouble--there have been whispers of
very strong measures. I speak as a friend."
"My heart to
yours! But let me tell you this about the Americans--their drum is in the hands
of one who knows how to beat it."
"As a matter of
hearsay, are you aware that three detachments of troops are on their way from
Mexico?"
"For Texas?"
"For Texas."
"What are three
detachments? Can a few thousand men put Texas under lock and key? I assure you
not, Senor; but now I must say adieu!
He took the doctor's
hand, and, as he held it, turned his luminous face and splendid eyes upon
Antonia. A sympathetic smile brightened her own face like a flame. Then he went
silently away, and Antonia watched him disappear among the shrubbery.
"Come, Antonia! I
am ready. We must not keep the Senora waiting too long."
"I am ready also,
father." Her voice was almost sad, and yet it had a tone of annoyance in
it--"Don Luis is so imprudent," she said. "He is always in
trouble. He is full of enthusiasms; he is as impossible as his favorite, Don Quixote."
"And I thank God,
Antonia, that I can yet feel with him. Woe to the centuries without Quixotes!
Nothing will remain to them but--Sancho Panzas."
"He various changes of the world had known,And some vicissitudes of
human fate,Still altering, never in a steady stateGood after ill, and after
pain delight,Alternate, like the scenes of day and night.""Ladies
whose bright eyesRain influence.""But who the limits of that power
shall trace,Which a brave people into life can bring,Or hide at will, for freedom
combatingBy just revenge inflamed?" For
many years there had never been any doubt in the mind of Robert Worth a to the
ultimate destiny of Texas, though he was by no means an adventurer, and had
come into the beautiful land by a sequence of natural and business-like events.
He was born in New York. In that city he studied his profession, and in
eighteen hundred and three began its practice in an office near Contoit's
Hotel, opposite the City Park. One day he was summoned there to attend a sick
man. His patient proved to be Don Jaime Urrea, and the rich Mexican grandee
conceived a warm friendship for the young physician.
At that very time,
France had just ceded to the United States the territory of Louisiana, and its
western boundary was a subject about which Americans were then angrily
disputing. They asserted that it was the Rio Grande; but Spain, who naturally
did not want Americans so near her own territory, denied the claim, and made
the Sabine River the dividing line. And as Spain had been the original
possessor of Louisiana, she considered herself authority on the subject.
The question was on
every tongue, and it was but natural that it should be discussed by Urrea and
his physician. In fact, they talked continually of the disputed boundary, and
of Mexico. And Mexico was then a name to conjure by. She was as yet a part of
Spain, and a sharer in all her ancient glories. She was a land of romance, and
her very name tasted on the lips, of gold, and of silver, and of precious
stones. Urrea easily persuaded the young man to return to Mexico with him.
The following year
there was a suspicious number of American visitors and traders in San Antonio,
and one of the Urreas was sent with a considerable number of troops to garrison
the city. For Spain was well aware that, however statesmen might settle the
question, the young and adventurous of the American people considered Texas
United States terri- tory, and would be well inclined to take possession of it
by force of arms, if an opportunity offered.
Robert Worth
accompanied General Urrea to San Antonio, and the visit was decisive as to his
future life. The country enchanted him. He was smitten with love for it, as men
are smitten with a beautiful face. And the white Moorish city had one special
charm for him--it was seldom quite free from Americans, Among the mediæval
loungers in the narrow streets, it filled his heart with joy to see at
intervals two or three big men in buckskin or homespun. And he did not much
wonder that the Morisco-Hispano-Mexican feared these Anglo- Americans, and
suspected them of an intention to add Texan to their names.
His inclination to
remain in San Antonio was settled by his marriage. Dona Maria Flores, though
connected with the great Mexican families of Yturbide and Landesa, owned much
property in San Antonio. She had been born within its limits, and educated in
its convent, and a visit to Mexico and New Orleans had only strengthened her
attachment to her own city. She was a very pretty woman, with an affectionate
nature, but she was not intellectual. Even in the convent the sisters had not
considered her clever.
But men often live very
happily with commonplace wives, and Robert Worth had never regretted that his
Maria did not play on the piano, and paint on velvet, and work fine
embroideries for the altars. They had passed nearly twenty-six years together
in more than ordinary content and prosperity. Yet no life is without cares and
contentions, and Robert Worth had had to face circumstances several times,
which had brought the real man to the front.
The education of his
children had been such a crisis. He had two sons and two daughters, and for
them he anticipated a wider and grander career than he had chosen for himself.
When his eldest child, Thomas, had reached the age of fourteen, he determined
to send him to New York. He spoke to Dona Maria of this intention. He described
Columbia to her with all the affectionate pride of a student for his alma
mater. The boy's grandmother also still lived in the home wherein, he himself
had grown to manhood. His eyes filled with tears when he remembered the red
brick house in Canal Street, with its white door and dormer windows, and its
one cherry tree in the strip of garden behind.
But Dona Maria's
national and religious principles, or rather prejudices, were very strong. She
regarded the college of San Juan de Lateran in Mexico as the fountainhead of
knowledge. Her confessor had told her so. All the Yturbides and Landesas had
graduated at San Juan.
But the resolute father
would have none of San Juan. "I know all about it, Maria," he said.
"They will teach Thomas Latin very thoroughly. They will make him
proficient in theology and metaphysics. They will let him dabble in algebra and
Spanish literature; and with great pomp, they will give him his degree, and
`the power of interpreting Aristotle all over the world.' What kind of an
education is that, for a man who may have to fight the battles of life in this
century?"
And since the father
carried his point it is immaterial what precise methods he used. Men are not
fools even in a contest with women. They usually get their own way, if they
take the trouble to go wisely and kindly about it. Two years afterwards,
Antonia followed her brother to New York, and this time, the mother made less
opposition. Perhaps she divined that opposition would have been still more
useless than in the case of the boy. For Robert Worth had one invincible
determination; it was, that this beautiful child, who so much resembled a
mother whom he idolized, should be, during the most susceptible years of her
life, under that mother's influence.
And he was well repaid
for the self-denial her absence entailed, when Antonia came back to him, alert,
self-reliant, industrious, an intelligent and responsive companion, a neat and
capable housekeeper, who insensibly gave to his home that American air it
lacked, and who set upon his table the well- cooked meats and delicate dishes
which he had often longed for.
John, the youngest boy,
was still in New York finishing his course of study; but regarding Isabel,
there seemed to be a tacit relinquishment of the purpose, so inflexibly carried
out with her brothers and sister. Isabel was entirely different from them. Her
father had watched her carefully, and come to the conviction that it would be
impossible to make her nature take the American mintage. She was as distinctly
Iberian as Antonia was Anglo-American.
In her brothers the
admixture of races had been only as alloy to metal. Thomas Worth was but a
darker copy of his father. John had the romance and sensitive honor of old
Spain, mingled with the love of liberty, and the practical temper, of those
Worths who had defied both Charles the First and George the Third. But Isabel
had no soul-kinship with her father's people. Robert Worth had seen in the
Yturbide residencia in Mexico the family portraits which they had brought with
them from Castile. Isabel was the Yturbide of her day. She had all their
physical traits, and from her large golden-black eyes the same passionate soul
looked forth. He felt that it would be utter cruelty to send her among people
who must always be strangers to her.
So Isabel dreamed away
her childhood at her mother's side, or with the sisters in the convent,
learning from them such simple and useless matters as they considered necessary
for a damosel of family and fortune. On the night of the Senora Valdez's
reception, she had astonished every one by the adorable grace of her dancing,
and the captivating way in which she used her fan. Her fingers touched the
guitar as if they had played it for a thousand years. She sang a Spanish
Romancero of El mio Cid with all the fire and tenderness of a Castilian maid.
Her father watched her
with troubled eyes. He almost felt as if he had no part in her. And the thought
gave him an unusual anxiety, for he knew this night that the days were fast
approaching which would test to extremity the affection which bound his family
together. He contrived to draw Antonia aside for a few moments.
"Is she not
wonderful?" he asked. "When did she learn these things? I mean the
way in which she does them?"
Isabel was dancing La
Cachoucha, and Antonia looked at her little sister with eyes full of loving
speculation. Her answer dropped slowly from her lips, as if a conviction was
reluctantly expressed:
"The way must be a
gift from the past--her soul has been at school before she was born here.
Father, are you troubled? What is it? Not Isabel, surely?"
"Not Isabel,
primarily. Antonia, I have been expecting something for twenty years. It is
coming."
"And you are
sorry?"
"I am anxious,
that is all. Go back to the dancers. In the morning we can talk."
In the morning the
doctor was called very early by some one needing his skill. Antonia heard the
swift footsteps and eager voices, and watched him mount the horse always kept
ready saddled for such emergencies, and ride away with the messenger. The
incident in itself was a usual one, but she was conscious that her soul was
moving uneasily and questioningly in some new and uncertain atmosphere.
She had felt it on her
first entrance into Senora Valdez's gran sala--a something irrepressible in the
faces of all the men present. She remembered that even the servants had been
excited, and that they stood in small groups, talking with suppressed passion
and with much demonstrativeness. And the officers from the Alamo! How conscious
they had been of their own importance! What airs of condescension and of an
almost insufferable protection they had assumed! Now, that she recalled the faces
of Judge Valdez, and other men of years and position, she understood that there
had been in them something out of tone with the occasion. In the atmosphere of
the festa she had only felt it. In the solitude of her room she could apprehend
its nature.
For she had been born
during those stormy days when Magee and Bernardo, with twelve hundred
Americans, first flung the banner of Texan independence to the wind; when the
fall of Nacogdoches sent a thrill of sympathy through the United States, and
enabled Cos and Toledo, and the other revolutionary generals in Mexico, to
carry their arms against Old Spain to the very doors of the vice-royal palace.
She had heard from her father many a time the whole brave, brilliant story--the
same story which has been made in all ages from the beginning of time. Only the
week before, they had talked it over as they sat under the great fig-tree
together.
"History but
repeats itself," the doctor had said then; "for when the Mexicans
drove the Spaniards, with their court ceremonies, their monopolies and taxes,
back to Spain, they were just doing what the American colonists did, when they
drove the English royalists back to England. It was natural, too, that the
Americans should help the Mexicans, for, at first, they were but a little band
of patriots; and the American-Saxon has like the Anglo-Saxon an irresistible
impulse to help the weaker side. And oh, Antonia! The cry of Freedom! Who that
has a soul can resist it?"
She remembered this
conversation as she stood in the pallid dawning, and watched her father ride swiftly
away. The story of the long struggle in all its salient features flashed
through her mind; and she understood that it is not the sword alone that gives
liberty--that there must be patience before courage; that great ideas must
germinate for years in the hearts of men before the sword can reap the harvest.
The fascinating memory
of Burr passed like a shadow across her dreaming. The handsome Lafayettes--the
gallant Nolans-- the daring Hunters--the thousands of forgotten American
traders and explorers--bold and enterprising--they had sown the seed. For great
ideas are as catching as evil ones. A Mexican, with the iron hand of Old Spain
upon him and the shadow of the Inquisition over him, could not look into the
face of an American, and not feel the thought of Freedom stirring in his heart.
It stirred in her own
heart. She stood still a moment to feel consciously the glow and the
enlargement. Then with an impulse natural, but neither analyzed nor understood,
she lifted her prayer-book, and began to recite "the rising prayer."
She had not said to herself, "from the love of Freedom to the love of God,
it is but a step," but she experienced the emotion and felt all the joy of
an adoration, simple and unquestioned, springing as naturally from the soul as
the wild flower from the prairie.
As she knelt, up rose
the sun, and flooded her white figure and her fair unbound hair with the
radiance of the early morning. The matin bells chimed from the convent and the
churches, and the singing birds began to flutter their bright wings, and praise
God also, "in their Latin."
She took her breakfast
alone. The Senora never came downstairs so early. Isabel had wavering
inclinations, and generally followed them. Sometimes, even her father had his
cup of strong coffee alone in his study; so the first meal of the day was
usually, as perhaps it ought to be, a selfishly- silent one. "Too much
enthusiasm and chattering at breakfast, are like too much red at sunrise,"
the doctor always said; "a dull, bad day follows it"--and Antonia's
observation had turned the little maxim into a superstition.
In the Senora's room,
the precept was either denied, or defied. Antonia heard the laughter and
conversation through the closed door, and easily divined the subject of it. It
was, but natural. The child had a triumph; one that appealed strongly to her
mother's pride and predilections. It was a pleasant sight to see them in the
shaded sunshine exulting themselves happily in it.
The Senora, plump and
still pretty, reclined upon a large gilded bed. Its splendid silk coverlet and
pillows cased in embroidery and lace made an effective background for her. She
leaned with a luxurious indolence among them, sipping chocolate and smoking a
cigarrito. Isabel was on a couch of the same description. She wore a satin
petticoat, and a loose linen waist richly trimmed with lace. It showed her
beautiful shoulders and arms to perfection. Her hands were folded above her
head. Her tiny feet, shod in satin, were quivering like a bird's wings, as if
they were keeping time with the restlessness of her spirit.
She had large eyes,
dark and bright; strong eyebrows, a pale complexion with a flood of brilliant
color in the checks, dazzling even teeth, and a small, handsome mouth. Her
black hair was loose and flowing, and caressed her cheeks and temples in
numberless little curls and tendrils. Her face was one flush of joy and youth.
She had a look half-earnest and half-childlike, and altogether charming.
Antonia adored her, and she was pleased to listen to the child, telling over
again the pretty things that had been said to her.
"Only Don Luis was
not there at all, Antonia. There is always something wanting," and her
voice fell with those sad inflections that are often only the very excess of
delight.
The Senora looked
sharply at her. "Don Luis was not desirable. He was better away--much
better!"
"But why?"
"Because, Antonia,
he is suspected. There is an American called Houston. Don Luis met him in
Nacogdoches. He has given his soul to him, I think. He would have fought
Morello about him, if the captain could have drawn his sword in such a quarrel.
I should not have known about the affair had not Senora Valdez told me. Your
father says nothing against the Americans."
"Perhaps, then, he
knows nothing against them."
"You will excuse
me, Antonia; not only the living but the dead must have heard of their
wickedness. They are a nation of ingrates. Ingrates are cowards. It was these
words Captain Morello said, when Don Luis drew his sword, made a circle with
its point and stood it upright in the centre. It was a challenge to the whole
garrigon, and about this fellow Houston, whom be calls his friend! Holy Virgin
preserve us from such Mexicans!"
"It is easier to
talk than to fight. Morello's tongue is sharper than his sword."
"Captain Morello
was placing his sword beside that of Don Luis, when the Commandant interfered.
He would not permit his officers to fight in such a quarrel. `Santo Dios!' he
said, `you shall all have your opportunity very soon, gentlemen.' Just reflect
upon the folly of a boy like Don Luis, challenging a soldier like
Morello!"
"He was in no
danger, mother," said Antonia scornfully. "Morello is a bully, who
wears the pavement out with his spurs and sabre. His weapons are for show.
Americans, at least, wear their arms for use, and not for ornament."
"Listen, Antonia!
I will not have them spoken of. They are Jews--or at least infidels, all of
them!--the devil himself is their father--the bishop, when he was here last
confirmation, told me so."
"Mother!"
"At least they are
unbaptized Christians, Antonia. If you are not baptized, the devil sends you to
do his work. As for Don Luis, he is a very Judas! Ah, Maria Santissima! how I
do pity his good mother!"
"Poor Don
Luis!" said Isabel plaintively.
He is so handsome, and
he sings like a very angel. And he loves my father; he wanted to be a doctor,
so that he could always be with him. I dare say this man called Houston is no
better than a Jew, and perhaps very ugly beside. Let us talk no more about him
and the Americans. I am weary of them; as Tia Rachella says, `they have their
spoon in every one's mess.'"
And Antonia, whose
heart was burning, only stooped down and closed her sister's pretty mouth with
a kiss. Her tongue was impatient to speak for the father, and grandmother, and
the friends, so dear to her; but she possessed great discretion, and also a
large share of that rarest of all womanly graces, the power under provocation,
of "putting on Patience the noble."
"Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nationrousing
herself like a strong man after sleep and shaking her invincible locks.
Methinks I see her as an eaglemewing her mighty youth and kindling her
undazzled eye in the full mid-day beam."
--MILTON."And from these grounds, concluding as we doe,Warres causes
diuerse, so by consequenceDiuerse we must conclude their natures too:For war
proceeding from Omnipotence,No doubt is holy, wise, and without error;The
sword, of justice and of sin, the terror."
--LORD BROOKE. It is the fashion now to
live for the present but the men of fifty years ago, the men who builded the
nation, they reverenced the past, and therefore they could work for the future.
As Robert Worth rode through the streets of San Antonio that afternoon, he was
thinking, not of his own life, but of his children's and of the generations
which should come after them.
The city was flooded
with sunshine, and crowded with a pack-train going to Sonora; the animals
restlessly protesting against the heat and flies; their Mexican drivers in the
pulqueria, spending their last peso with their compadres, or with the escort of
soldiers which was to accompany them--a little squad of small, lithe men, with
round, yellow, beardless faces, bearing in a singular degree the stamp of being
native to the soil. Their lieutenant, a gorgeously clad officer with a very
distinguished air, was coming slowly down the street to join them. He bowed,
and smiled pleasantly to the doctor as he passed him, and then in a few moments
the word of command and the shouting of men and the clatter of hoofs invaded
the enchanted atmosphere like an insult.
But the tumult scarcely
jarred with the thoughts of his mind. They had been altogether of war and
rumors of war. Every hour that subtile consciousness of coming events, which
makes whole communities at times prescient, was becoming stronger. "If the
powers of the air have anything to do with the destinies of men," he
muttered, "there must be unseen battalions around me. The air I am
breathing is charged with the feeling of battle."
After leaving the city
there were only a few Mexican huts on the shady road leading to his own house.
All within them were asleep, even the fighting cocks tied outside were dozing
on their perches. He was unusually weary, he had been riding since dawn, and
his heart had not been in sympathy with his body, it had said no good cheer to
it, whispered no word of courage or promise.
All at once his
physical endurance seemed exhausted, and he saw the white wall and arched
gateway of his garden and the turrets of his home with an inexpressible relief.
But it was the hour of siesta, and he was always careful not to let the
requirements of his profession disturb his household. So he rode quietly to the
rear, where he found a peon nodding within the stable door. He opened his eyes
unnaturally wide, and rose to serve his master.
"See thou rub the
mare well down, and give her corn and water."
"To be sure,
Senior, that is to be done. A stranger has been here to-day; an American."
"What did he say
to thee?"
"That he would
call again, Senor."
The incident was not an
unusual one, and it did not trouble the doctor's mind. There was on the side of
the house a low extension containing two rooms. These rooms belonged ex- clusively
to him. One was his study, his office, his covert, the place to which he went
when he wanted to be alone with his own soul. There were a bed and bath and
refreshments in the other room. He went directly to it, and after eating and
washing, fell into a profound sleep.
At the hour before
Angelus the house was as noisy and busy as if it had been an inn. The servants
were running hither and thither, all of them expressing themselves in voluble
Spanish. The cooks were quarrelling in the kitchen. Antonia was showing the
table men, as she had to do afresh every day, how to lay the cloth and serve
the dishes in the American fashion. When the duty was completed, she went into
the garden to listen for the Angelus. The young ladies of to-day would
doubtless consider her toilet frightfully unbecoming; but Antonia looked lovely
in it, though but a white muslin frock, with a straight skirt and low waist and
short, full sleeves. It was confined by a blue belt with a gold buckle, and her
feet were in sandalled slippers of black satin.
The Angelus tolled, and
the thousands of Hail Maries! which blended with its swinging vibrations were
uttered, and left to their fate, as all spoken words must be. Antonia still
observed the form. It lent for a moment a solemn beauty to her face. She was
about to re-enter the house, when she saw a stranger approaching it. He was
dressed in a handsome buckskin suit, and a wide Mexican hat, but she knew at
once that he was an American, and she waited to receive him.
As soon as he saw her,
he removed his hat and approached with it in his hand. Perhaps he was conscious
that the act not only did homage to womanhood, but revealed more perfectly a
face of remarkable beauty and nobility. For the rest, he was very tall,
powerfully built, elegantly proportioned, and his address had the grace and
polish of a cultured gentleman.
"I wish to see Dr.
Worth, Dona."
With a gentle
inclination of the head, she led him to the door of her father's office. She
was the only one in the Doctor's family at all familiar with the room. The
Senora said so many books made her feel as if she were in a church or
monastery; she was afraid to say anything but paternosters in it. Isabel
cowered before the poor skeleton in the corner, and the centipedes and snakes
that filled the bottles on the shelves. There was not a servant that would
enter the room.
But Antonia did not
regard books as a part of some vague spiritual power. She knew the history of
the skeleton. She had seen the death of many of those "little devils"
corked up in alcohol. She knew that at this hour, if her father were at home he
was always disengaged, and she opened the door fearlessly, saying,
"Father, here is a gentleman who wishes to see you."
The doctor had quite
refreshed himself, and, in a house- suit of clean, white linen, was lying on a
couch reading. He arose with alacrity, and with his pleasant smile seemed to
welcome the intruder, as he stepped behind him and closed the door. Antonia had
disappeared. They were quite alone.
"You are Doctor Robert
Worth, sir?"
Their eyes met, their
souls knew each other.
"And you are Sam
Houston?"
The questions were
answered in a hand grip, a sympathetic smile on both faces--the freemasonry of
kindred spirits.
"I have a letter
from your son Thomas, doctor, and I think, also, that you will have something
to say to me, and I to you."
The most prudent of
patriots could not have resisted this man. He had that true imperial look which
all born rulers of men possess--that look that half coerces, and wholly
persuades. Robert Worth acknowledged its power by his instant and decisive
answer.
"I have, indeed,
much to say to you. We shall have dinner directly, then you will give the night
to me?"
After a short
conversation he led him into the sala and introduced him to Antonia. He himself
had to prepare the Senora for her visitor, and he had a little quaking of the
heart as he entered her room. She was dressed for dinner, and turned with a
laughing face to meet him.
"I have been
listening to the cooks quarrelling over the olla, Roberto. But what can my poor
Manuel say when your Irishwoman attacks him. Listen to her! `Take your dirty
stew aff the fire then! Shure it isn't fit for a Christian to ate at
all!'"
"I hope it is,
Maria, for we have a visitor to-night."
"Who, then, my
love?"
"Mr.
Houston."
"Sam Houston? Holy
Virgin of Guadalupe preserve us! I will not see the man."
"I think you will,
Maria. He has brought this letter for you from our son Thomas; and he has been
so kind as to take charge of some fine horses, and sell them well for him in
San Antonio. When a man does us a kindness, we should say thank you."
"That is truth, if
the man is not the Evil One. As for this Sam Houston, you should have heard
what was said of him at the Valdez's."
"I did hear.
Everything was a lie."
"But he is a very
common man."
"Maria, do you
call a soldier, a lawyer, a member of the United States Congress, a governor of
a great State like Tennessee, a common man? Houston has been all of these
things."
"It is, however,
true that he has lived with Indians, and with those Americans, who are bad, who
have no God, who are infidels, and perhaps even cannibals. If he is a good man,
why does he live with bad men? Not even the saints could do that. A good man
should be in his home. Why does he not stay at home."
"Alas! Maria, that
is a woman's fault. He loved a beautiful girl. He married her. My dear one, she
did not bless his life as you have blessed mine. No one knows what his sorrow
was, for he told no one. And he never blamed her, only he left his high office
and turned his back forever on his home."
"Ah! the cruel
woman. Holy Virgin, what hard hearts thou hast to pray for!"
"Come down and
smile upon him, Maria. I should like him to see a high-born Mexican lady. Are
they not the kindest and fairest among all God's women? I know, at least,
Maria, that you are kind and fair"; and he took her hands, and drew her
within his embrace.
What good wife can
resist her husband's wooing? Maria did not. She lifted her face, her eyes shone
through happy tears, she whispered softly: "My Robert, it is a joy to
please you. I will be kind; I will be grateful about Thomas. You shall see that
I will make a pleasant evening."
So the triumphant
husband went down, proud and happy, with his smiling wife upon his arm. Isabel
was already in the room. She also wore a white frock, but her hair was pinned
back with gold butterflies, and she had a beautiful golden necklace around her
throat. And the Senora kept her word. She paid her guest great attention. She
talked to him of his adventures with the Indians. She requested her daughters
to sing to him. She told him stories of the old Castilian families with which
she was connected, and described her visit to New Orleans with a great deal of
pleasant humor. She felt that she was doing herself justice; that she was
charming; and, consequently, she also was charmed with the guest and the
occasion which had been so favorable to her.
After the ladies had
retired, the doctor led his visitor into his study. He sat down silently and
placed a chair for Houston. Both men hesitated for a moment to open the
conversation. Worth, because he was treading on unknown ground; Houston,
because he did not wish to force, even by a question, a resolution which he
felt sure would come voluntarily.
The jar of tobacco
stood between them, and they filled their pipes silently. Then Worth laid a
letter upon the table, and said: "I unstand from this, that my son Thomas
thinks the time has come for decisive action."
"Thomas Worth is
right. With such souls as his the foundation of the state must be laid."
"I am glad Thomas
has taken the position he has; but you must remember, sir, that he is unmarried
and unembarrassed by many circumstances which render decisive movement on my
part a much more difficult thing. Yet no man now living has watched the
Americanizing of Texas with the interest that I have."
"You have been
long on the watch, sir."
"I was here when
my countrymen came first, in little companies of five or ten men. I saw the
party of twenty, who joined the priest Hidalgo in eighteen hundred and ten,
when Mexico made her first attempt to throw off the Spanish yoke."
"An unsuccessful
attempt."
"Yes. The next
year I made a pretended professional journey to Chihuahua, to try and save
their lives. I failed. They were shot with Hidalgo there."
"Yet the strife
for liberty went on."
"It did. Two years
afterwards, Magee and Bernardo, with twelve hundred Americans, raised the
standard of independence on the Trinity River. I saw them them take this very
city, though it was ably defended by Salcedo. They fought like heroes. I had many
of the wounded in my house. I succored them with my purse.
"It was a great
deed for a handful of men."
"The fame of it
brought young Americans by hundreds here. To a man they joined the Mexican
party struggling to free themselves from the tyranny of old Spain. I do not
think any one of them received money. The love of freedom and the love of
adventure were alike their motive and their reward."
"Mexico owed these
men a debt she has forgotten."
"She forgot it
very quickly. In the following year, though they had again defended San Antonio
against the Spaniards, the Mexicans drove all the Americans out of the city
their rifles had saved."
"You were here;
tell me the true reason."
"It was not
altogether ingratitude. It was the instinct of self-preservation. The very
bravery of the Americans made the men whom they had defended hate and fear
them; and there was a continual influx of young men from the States. The
Mexicans said to each other: `There is no end to these Americans. Very soon
they will make a quarrel and turn their arms against us. They do not conform to
our customs, and they will not take an order from any officer but their
own.'"
Houston smiled.
"It is away the Saxon race has," he said. "The old Britons made
the same complaint of them. They went first to England to help the Britons
fight the Romans, and they liked the country so well, they determined to stay
there. If I remember rightly the old Britons had to let them do so."
"It is an old
political situation. You can go back to Genesis and find Pharaoh arguing about
the Jews in the same manner."
"What happened
after this forcible expulsion of the American element from Texas?"
"Mexican
independence was for a time abandoned, and the Spanish viceroys were more
tyrannical than ever. But Americans still came, though they pursued different
tactics. They bought land and settled on the great rivers. In eighteen
twenty-one, Austin, with the permission of the Spanish viceroy in Mexico,
introduced three hundred families."
"That was a step
in the right direction; but I am astonished the viceroy sanctioned it."
"Apodoca, who was
then viceroy, was a Spaniard of the proudest type. He had very much the same
contempt for the Mexicans that an old English viceroy in New York had for the
colonists he was sent to govern. I dare say any of them would have permitted
three hundred German families to settle in some part of British America, as far
from New York as Texas is from Mexico. I do not need to tell you that Austin's
colonists are a band of choice spirits, hardy working men, trained in the
district schools of New England and New York--nearly every one of them a farmer
or mechanic."
"They were the
very material liberty needed. They have made homes."
"That is the
truth. The fighters who preceded them owned nothing but their horses and their
rifles. But these men brought with them their wives and their children, their
civilization, their inborn love of freedom and national faith. They accepted
the guarantee of the Spanish government, and they expected the Spanish
government to keep its promises."
"It did not."
"It had no
opportunity. The colonists were hardly settled when the standard of revolt
against Spain was again raised. Santa Anna took the field for a republican form
of government, and once more a body of Americans, under the Tennesseean, Long,
joined the Mexican army."
"I remember that,
well."
"In eighteen
twenty-four, Santa Anna, Victoria and Bravo drove the Spaniards forever from
Mexico, and then they promulgated the famous constitution of eighteen
twenty-four. It was a noble constitution, purely democratic and federal, and
the Texan colonists to a man gladly swore to obey it. The form was altogether
elective, and what particularly pleased the American element was the fact that
the local government of every State was left to itself."
Houston laughed
heartily. "Do you know, Worth," he said, "State Rights is our
political religion. The average American citizen would expect the Almighty to
conform to a written constitution, and recognize the rights of mankind."
"I don't think he
expects more than he gets, Houston. Where is there a grander constitution than
is guaranteed to us in His Word; or one that more completely recognizes the
rights of all humanity?"
"Thank you, Worth.
I see that I have spoken better than I knew. I was sitting in the United States
Congress, when this constitution passed, and very much occupied with the
politics of Tennessee."
"I will not detain
you with Mexican politics. It may be briefly said that for the last ten years
there has been a constant fight between Pedraza, Guerrero, Bustamante and Santa
Anna for the Presidency of Mexico. After so much war and misery the country is
now ready to resign all the blessings the constitution of eighteen twenty-four
promised her. For peace she is willing to have a dictator in Santa Anna."
"If Mexicans want
a dictator let them bow down to Santa Anna! But do you think the twenty
thousand free-born Americans in Texas are going to have a dictator? They will
have the constitution of eighteen twenty-four--or they will have independence,
and make their own constitution! Yes, sir!"
"You know the men
for whom you speak?"
"I have been up
and down among them for two years. Just after I came to Texas I was elected to
the convention which sent Stephen Austin to Mexico with a statement of our
wrongs. Did we get any redress? No, sir! And as for poor Austin, is he not in
the dungeons of the Inquisition? We have waited two years for an answer. Great
heavens Doctor, surely that is long enough!"
"Was this
convention a body of any influence?"
"Influence! There
were men there whose names will never be forgotten. They met in a log house;
they wore buckskin and homespun; but I tell you, sir, they were debating the
fate of unborn millions."
"Two years since
Austin went to Mexico?"
"A two years'
chapter of tyranny. In them Santa Anna has quite overthrown the republic of
which we were a part. He has made himself dictator. and, because our
authorities have protested against the change, they have been driven from
office by a military force. I tell you, sir, the petty outrages everywhere
perpetrated by petty officials have filled the cup of endurance. It is boiling
over. Now, doctor, what are you going to do? Are you with us, or against
us?"
"I have told you
that I have been with my countrymen always--heart and soul with them."
The doctor spoke with
some irritation, and Houston laid his closed hand hard upon the table to
emphasize his reply:
"Heart and soul!
Very good! But we want your body now. You must tuck your bowie-knife and your
revolvers in your belt, and take your rifle in your hand, and be ready to help
us drive the Mexican force out of this very city."
"When it comes to
that I shall be no laggard."
But he was deathly
pale, for he was suffering as men suffer who feel the sweet bonds of wife and
children and home, and dread the rending of them apart. In a moment, however,
the soul behind his white face made it visibly luminous. "Houston,"
he said, "whenever the cause of freedom needs me, I am ready. I shall want
no second call. But is it not possible, that even yet--"
"It is impossible
to avert what is already here. Within a few days, perhaps to-morrow, you will
hear the publication of an edict from Santa Anna, ordering every American to
give up his arms."
"What! Give up our
arms! No, no, by Heaven! I will die fighting for mine, rather."
"Exactly. That is
how every white man in Texas feels about it. And if such a wonder as a coward
existed among them, he understands that he may as well die fighting Mexicans,
as die of hunger or be scalped by Indians. A large proportion of the colonists
depend on their rifles for their daily food. All of them know that they must
defend their own homes from the Comanche, or see them perish. Now, do you
imagine that Americans will obey any such order? By all the great men of
seventeen seventy-five, if they did, I would go over to the Mexicans and help
them to wipe the degenerate cowards out of existence!"
He rose as he spoke; he
looked like a flame, and his words cut like a sword. Worth caught fire at his
vehemence and passion. He clasped his hands in sympathy as he walked with him
to the door. They stood silently together for a moment on the threshold, gazing
into the night. Over the glorious land the full moon hung, enamoured. Into the
sweet, warm air mockingbirds were pouring low, broken songs of ineffable
melody. The white city in the mystical light looked like an enchanted city. It
was so still that the very houses looked asleep.
"It is a beautiful
land," said the doctor.
"It is worthy of
freedom," answered Houston. Then he went with long, swinging steps down
the garden, and into the shadows beyond, and Worth turned in and closed the
door.
He had been watching
for this very hour for twenty years; and yet he found himself wholly unprepared
for it. Like one led by confused and uncertain thoughts, he went about the room
mechanically locking up his papers, and the surgical instruments he valued so
highly. As he did so he perceived the book he had been reading when Houston
entered. It was lying open where he had laid it down. A singular smile flitted
over his face. He lifted it and carried it closer to the light. It was his
college Cicero.
"I was nineteen
years old when I marked that passage," he said; "and I do not think I
have ever read it since, until to- night. I was reading it when Houston came
into the room. Is it a message, I wonder?--
"`But when thou
considerest everything carefully and thoughtfully; of all societies none is of
more importance, none more dear, than that which unites us with the common-
wealth. Our parents, children, relations and neighbors are dear, but our
fatherland embraces the whole round of these endearments. In its defence, who
would not dare to die, if only he could assist it?"
"O blest be he! O blest be he!Let him all blessings prove,Who made
the chains, the shining chains,The holy chains of love!"
--Spanish Ballad."If you love a lady bright,Seek, and you shall find a
wayAll that love would say, to sayIf you watch the occasion right."
--Spanish Ballad. In the morning
Isabel took breakfast with her sister. This was always a pleasant event to
Antonia. She petted Isabel, she waited upon her, sweetened her chocolate,
spread her cakes with honey, and listened to all her complaints of Tia Rachela.
Isabel came gliding in when Antonia was about half way through the meal. Her
scarlet petticoat was gorgeous, her bodice white as snow, her hair glossy as a
bird's wing, but her lips drooped and trembled, and there was the shadow of
tears in her eyes. Antonia kissed their white fringed lids, held the little
form close in her arms, and fluttered about in that motherly way which Isabel
had learned to demand and enjoy.
"What has grieved
you this morning, little dove?"
"It is Tia
Rachela, as usual. The cross old woman! She is going to tell mi madre
something. Antonia, you must make her keep her tongue between her teeth. I
promised her to confess to Fray Ignatius, and she said I must also tell mi madre.
I vowed to say twenty Hail Marias and ten Glorias, and she said `I ought to go
back to the convent.'"
"But what dreadful
thing have you been doing, Iza?"
Iza blushed and looked
into her chocolate cup, as she answered slowly: "I gave--a--flower--away.
Only a suchil flower, Antonia,
that--I--wore--at--my--breast--last--night."
"Whom did you give
it to, Iza?"
Iza hesitated, moved
her chair close to Antonia, and then hid her face on her sister's breast.
"But this is
serious, darling. Surely you did not give it to Senor Houston?"
"Could you think I
was so silly? When madre was talking to him last night, and when I was singing
my pretty serenade, he heard nothing at all. He was thinking his own
thoughts."
"Not to Senor
Houston? Who then? Tell me, Iza."
"To--Don
Luis."
"Don Luis! But he
is not here. He went to the Colorado."
"How stupid are
you, Antonia! In New York they did not teach you to put this and that together.
As soon as I saw Senor Houston, I said to myself: `Don Luis was going to him;
very likely they have met each other on the road; very likely Don Luis is back
in San Antonio. He would not want to go away without bidding me good-by,' and,
of course, I was right."
"But when did you
see him last night? You never left the room."
So many things are
possible. My heart said to me when the talk was going on, `Don Luis is waiting
under the oleanders,' and I walked on to the balcony and there he was, and he
looked so sad, and I dropped my suchil flower to him; and Rachela saw me, for I
think she has a million eyes,--and that is the whole matter."
"But why did not
Don Luis come in?"
"Mi madre forbade
me to speak to him. That is the fault of the Valdez's."
"Then you
disobeyed mi madre, and you know what Fray Ignatius and the Sisters have taught
you about the fourth command."
"Oh, indeed, I did
not think of the fourth command! A sin without intention has not penance; and
consider, Antonia, I am now sixteen, and they would shut me up like a chicken
in its shell. Antonia, sweet Antonia, speak to Rachela, and make your little
Iza happy. Fear is so bad for me. See, I do not even care for my cakes and
honey this morning.
"I will give
Rachela the blue silk kerchief I brought from New York. She will forget a great
deal for that, and then, Iza, darling, you must tell Fray Ignatius of your sin,
because it is not good to have an unconfessed sin on the soul."
"Antonia, do not
say such cruel things. I have confessed to you. Fray Ignatius will give me a
hard penance. Perhaps he may say to mi madre: `That child had better go back to
the convent. I say so, because I have knowledge.' And now I am tired of that
life; I am almost a woman, Antonia, am I not?"
Antonia looked tenderly
into her face. She saw some inscrutable change there. All was the same, and all
was different. She did not understand that it was in the eyes, those lookouts
of the soul. They had lost the frank, inquisitive stare of childhood; they were
tender and misty; they reflected a heart passionate and fearful, in which love
was making himself lord of all.
Antonia was not without
experience. There was in New York a gay, handsome youth, to whom her thoughts
lovingly turned. She had promised to trust him, and to wait for him, and
neither silence nor distance had weakened her faith or her affection. Don Luis
had also made her understand how hard it was to leave Isabel, just when he had
hoped to woo and win her. He had asked her to watch over his beloved, and to
say a word in his favor when all others would be condemning him.
Her sympathy had been
almost a promise, and, indeed, she thought Isabel could hardly have a more
suitable lover. He was handsome, gallant, rich, and of good morals and noble
family. They had been much together in their lives; their childish affection
had been permitted; she felt quite sure that the parents of both had
contemplated a stronger affection and a more lasting tie between them.
And evidently Don Luis
had advanced further in his suit than the Senora was aware of. He had not been
able to resist the charm of secretly wooing the fresh young girl he hoped to
make his wife. Their love must be authorized and sanctioned; true, he wished
that; but the charm of winning the prize be- fore it was given was
irresistible. Antonia comprehended all without many words; but she took her
sister into the garden, where they could be quite alone, and she sought the
girl's confidence because she was sure she could be to her a loving guide.
Isabel was ready enough
to talk, and the morning was conducive to confidence. They strolled slowly
between the myrtle hedges in the sweet gloom of overshadowing trees, hear- ing
only like a faint musical confusion the mingled murmur of the city.
"It was just
here," said Isabel. "I was walking and sitting and doing nothing at
all but looking at the trees and the birds and feeling happy, and Don Luis came
to me. He might have come down from the skies, I was so astonished. And he
looked so handsome, and he said such words! Oh, Antonia! they went straight to
my heart."
"When was this,
dear?"
"It was in the
morning. I had been to mass with Rachela. I had said every prayer with my whole
heart, and Rachela told me I might stay in the garden until the sun grew hot.
And as soon as Rachela was gone, Don Luis came--came just as sudden as an
angel."
"He must have
followed you from mass."
"Perhaps."
"He should not
have done that."
"If a thing is
delightful, nobody should do it. Luis said he knew that it was decided that we
should marry, but that he wanted me to be his wife because I loved him. His
face was shining with joy, his eyes were like two stars, he called me his life,
his adorable mistress, his queen, and he knelt down and took my hands and
kissed them. I was too happy to speak."
"Oh, Iza!"
"Very well,
Antonia! It is easy to say `Oh, Iza'; but what would you have done? And reflect
on this; no one, not even Rachela, saw him. So then, our angels were quite
agreeable and willing. And I--I was in such joy, that I went straight in and
told Holy Maria of my happiness. But when a person has not been in love, how
can they know; and I see that you are going to say as Sister Sacrementa said to
Lores Valdez--`You are a wicked girl, and such things are not to be spoken
of!'"
"Oh, my darling
one, I am not so cruel. I think you did nothing very wrong, Iza. When love
comes into your soul, it is like a new life. If it is a pure, good love, it is
a kind of murder to kill it in any way."
"It has just
struck me, Antonia, that you may be in love also."
"When I was in New
York, our brother Jack had a friend, and he loved me, and I loved him."
"But did
grandmamma let him talk to you?"
"He came every
night. We went walking and driving. In the summer we sailed upon the river; in
the winter we skated upon the ice. He helped me with my lessons. He went with
me to church."
"And was
grandmamma with you?"
"Very seldom.
Often Jack was with us; more often we were quite alone."
"Holy Virgin! Who
ever heard tell of such good fortune? Consuelo Ladrello had never been an hour
alone with Don Domingo before they were married."
"A good girl does
not need a duenna to watch her; that is what I think. And an American girl,
pure and free, would not suffer herself to be watched by any woman, old or
young. Her lover comes boldly into her home; she is too proud, to meet him in
secret."
"Ah! that would be
a perfect joy. That is what I would like! But fancy what Rachela would say; and
mi madre would cover her eyes and refuse to see me if I said such words.
Believe this. It was in the spring Luis told me that he loved me, and though I
have seen him often since, he has never found another moment to speak to me
alone, not for one five minutes. Oh, Antonia! let me have one five minutes this
afternoon! He is going away, and there is to be war, and I may never, never see
him again!"
"Do not weep,
little dove. How can you see him this afternoon?"
"He will be here,
in this very place, I know he will. When he put the suchil flower to his lips
last night he made me understand it. This afternoon, during the hour of siesta,
will you come with me? Only for five minutes, Antonia! You can manage Rachela,
I am sure you can."
"I can manage
Rachela, and you shall have one whole hour, Iza. One whole hour! Come, now, we
must make a visit to our mother. She will be wondering at our delay."
The Senora had not yet
risen. She had taken her chocolate and smoked her cigarito, but was still
drowsing. "I have had a bad night, children," she said full of
dreadful dreams. It must have been that American. Yet, Holy Mother, how
handsome he is! And I assure you that he has the good manners of a courtier.
Still, it was an imprudence, and Senora Valdez will make some great thing of
it."
"You were in your
own house, mother. What has Senora Valdez to do with the guest in it? We might
as well make some great thing about Captain Morello being present at her
party."
"I have to say to
you, Antonia, that Morello is a Castilian; his family is without a cross. He
has the parchments of his noble ancestry to show."
And Senor Houston is an
American--Scotch-American, he said, last night. Pardon, my mother, but do you
know what the men of Scotland are?"
"Si!, They are
monsters! Fray Ignatius has told me. They are heretics of the worst kind. It is
their special delight to put to death good Catholic priests. I saw that in a
book; it must be true."
"Oh, no, mother!
It is not true! It is mere nonsense. Scotchmen do not molest priests, women,
and children. They are the greatest fighters in the world."
"Quien sabe? Who
has taught you so much about these savages?"
"Indeed, mother,
they are not savages. They are a very learned race of men, and very pious also.
Jack has many Scotch-American friends. I know one of them very well"; and
with the last words her face flushed, and her voice fell insensibly into slow
and soft inflections.
"Jack knows many
of them! That is likely. Your father would send him to New York. All kinds of
men are in New York. Fray Ignatius says they have to keep an army of police
there. No wonder! And my son is so full of nobilities, so generous, so
honorable, he will not keep himself exclusive. He is the true resemblance of my
brother Don Juan Flores. Juan was always pitying the poor and making friends
with those beneath him. At last he went into the convent of the Bernardines and
died like a very saint."
"I think our Jack
will be more likely to die like a very hero. If there is any thing Jack hates,
it is oppression. He would right a beggar, if he saw him wronged."
"Poco a poco! I am
tired of rights and wrongs. Let us talk a little about our dresses, for there
will be a gay winter. Senora Valdez assured me of it; many soldiers are coming
here, and we shall have parties, and cock-fights, and, perhaps, even a
bull-feast."
"Oh!" cried
Isabel clapping her hands enthusiastically; "a bull-feast! That is what I
long to see!"
At this moment the
doctor entered the room, and Isabel ran to meet him. No father could have
resisted her pretty ways, her kisses, her endearments, her coaxing diminutives
of speech, her childlike loveliness and simplicity.
"What is making
you so happy, Queridita?" Little dear.
"Mi madre says
there is perhaps to be a bullfeast this winter. Holy Virgin, think of it! That
is the one thing I long to see!"
With her clinging arms
around him, and her eager face lifted to his for sympathy, the father could not
dash the hope which he knew in his heart was very unlikely to be realized.
Neither did he think it necessary to express opposition or disapproval for what
had as yet no tangible existence. So he answered her with smiles and caresses,
and a little quotation which committed him to nothing:
"As, Panem et Circenses was the cryAmong the Roman populace of
old;So, Pany Toros! is the cry of Spain." The
Senora smiled appreciatively and put out her hand. "Pan y Toros!" she
repeated. "And have you reflected, children, that no other nation in the world
cries it. Only Spain and her children! That is because only men of the Spanish
race are brave enough to fight bulls, and only Spanish bulls are brave enough
to fight men."
She was quite pleased
with herself for this speech, and finding no one inclined to dispute the
statement, she went on to describe a festival of bulls she had been present at
in the city of Mexico. The subject delighted her, and she grew eloquent over
it; and, conscious only of Isabel's shining eyes and enthusiastic interest, she
did not notice the air of thoughtfulness which had settled over her husband's
face, nor yet Antonia's ill-disguised weariness and anxiety.
On the night of the
Valdez's party her father had said he would talk with her. Antonia was watching
for the confidence, but not with any great desire. Her heart and her in-
telligence told her it would mean trouble, and she had that natural feeling of
youth which gladly postpones the evil day. And while her father was silent she
believed there were still possibilities of escape from it. So she was not sorry
that he again went to his office in the city without any special word for her.
It was another day stolen from the uncertain future, for the calm usage of the
present, and she was determined to make happiness in it.
When all was still in
the afternoon Isabel came to her. She would not put the child to the necessity
of again asking her help. She rose at once, and said:
"Sit here, Iza,
until I have opened the door for us. Then she took a rich silk kerchief, blue
as the sky, in her hand, and went to the wide, matted hall. There she found
Rachela, asleep on a cane lounge. Antonia woke her.
"Rachela, I wish
to go into the garden for an hour."
The Senorita does the
thing she wants to, Rachela would not presume to interfere. The Senorita became
an Americano in New York."
"There are good
things in New York, Rachela; for instance, this kerchief."
"That is indeed
magnificent!"
"If you permit my
sister to walk in the garden with me, I shall give it to you this moment."
"Dona Isabel is
different. She is a Mexicaine. She must be watched continually."
"For what reason?
She is as innocent as an angel."
"Let her simply
grow up, and you will see that she is not innocent as the angels. Oh, indeed! I
could say something about last night! Dona Isabel has no vocation for a nun;
but, gracias a Dios! Rachela is not yet blind or deaf."
"Let the child go
with me for an hour, Rachela. The kerchief will be so becoming to you. There is
not another in San Antonio like it."
Rachela was past forty,
but not yet past the age of coquetry. "It will look gorgeous with my gold
ear-rings, but--"
"I will give you
also the blue satin bow like it, to wear at your breast."
"Si, si! I will
give the permission, Senorita--for your sake alone. The kerchief and bow are a
little thing to you. To me, they will be a great adornment. You are not to
leave the garden, however, and for one hour's walk only, Senorita; certainly
there is time for no more."
"I will take care
of Isabel; no harm shall come to her. You may keep your eyes shut for one hour,
Rachela, and you may shut your ears also, and put your feet on the couch and
let them rest. I will watch Isabel carefully, be sure of that."
"The child is very
clever, and she has a lover already, I fear. Keep your eyes on the myrtle hedge
that skirts the road. I have to say this--it is not for nothing she wants to
walk with you this afternoon. She would be better fast asleep."
In a few moments the
kerchief and the bow were safely folded in the capacious pocket of Rachela's
apron, and Isabel and Antonia were softly treading the shady walk between the
myrtle hedges. Rachela's eyes were apparently fast closed when the girls pased
her, but she did not fail to notice how charmingly Isabel had dressed herself.
She wore, it is true, her Spanish costume; but she had red roses at her breast,
and her white lace mantilla over her head.
"Ah! she is a
clever little thing!" Rachela muttered. "She knows that she is
irresistible in her Castilian dress. Bah! those French frocks are enough to
drive a man a mile away. I can almost forgive her now. Had she worn the French
frock I would not have forgiven her. I would never have yielded again, no, not
even if the Senora Alveda, was a long and tried one. The youth's political
partialities, though bringing him at present into disgrace, were such as he
himself had largely helped to form. Antonia was sure that her father would
sympathize with Isabel, and excuse in her the lapse of duty which had given his
little girl so much happiness. Yes, it would be right to tell him every thing,
and she did not fear but Isabel would agree in her decision.
At this moment Rachela
entered. The Senora wished her daughters to call upon the American
manteau-maker for her, and the ride in the open carriage to the Plaza would
enable them to bow to their acquaintances, and exhibit their last new dresses
from New Orleans. Rachela was already prepared for the excursion, and she was
not long in attiring Isabel.
"To be sure, the
siesta has made you look charming this afternoon," she said, looking
steadily into the girl's beaming, blushing face, "and this rose silk is
enchanting. Santa Maria, how I pity the officers who will have the great
fortune to see you this afternoon, and break their hearts for the sight! But
you must not look at them, mark! I shall tell the Senora if you do. It is
enough if they look at you. And the American way of the Senorita Antonia, which
is to bow and smile to every admirer, it will but make more enchanting the
becoming modesty of the high-born Mexicaine."
"Keep your tongue
still, Rachela. Ah! if you strike me, I will go to my father. He will not
permit it. I am not a child to be struck and scolded, and told when to open and
shut my eyes. I shall do as my sister does, and the Holy Mother herself will be
satisfied with me!"
"Chito! Chito!!
You wicked one! Oh, Maria Santissima, cast on this child a look of compassion!
The American last night has bewitched her! I said that he looked like a
Jew."
"I am not wicked,
Rachela; and gracias a Dios, there is no Inquisition now to put the
question!"
Isabel was in a great
passion, or the awful word that had made lips parch and blanch to utter it for
generations would never have been launched at the offending woman's head. But
its effect was magical. Rachela put up her hands palm outwards, as if to shield
herself from a blow, and then without another word stooped down and tied the
satin sandals on Isabel's restless feet. She was muttering prayers during the
whole action, for Isabel had been quick to perceive her advantage, and was
following it up by a defiant little monologue of rebellious speeches.
In the midst of this
scene, Antonia entered. She was dressed for the carriage, and the carriage
stood at the door waiting; but her face was full of fear, and she said,
hurriedly:
"Rachela, can you
not make some excuse to my mother which will permit us to remain at home? Hark!
There is something wrong in the city."
In a moment the three
women were on the balcony, intently, anxiously listening. Then they were aware
of a strange confusion in the subtle, amber atmosphere. It was as if they heard
the noise of battle afar off; and Rachela, without a word, glided away to the
Senora. Isabel and Antonia stood hand in hand, listening to the vague trouble
and the echo of harsh, grating voices, mingled with the blare of clarions, the
roll of drums, and the rattle of scattering rifle-shots. Yet the noises were so
blended together, so indistinct, so strangely expressive of both laughter and
defiance, that it was impossible to identify or describe them.
Suddenly a horseman
came at a rapid pace towards the house, and Antonia, leaning over the balcony,
saw him deliver a note to Rachela, and then hurry away at the same reckless
speed. The note was from the doctor to his wife, and it did not tend to allay
their anxiety. "Keep within the house," it said; "there are
difficulties in the city. In an hour or two I will be at home."
But it was near
midnight when he arrived, and Antonia saw that he was a different man. He
looked younger. His blue eyes shone with the light behind them. On his face
there was the impress of an invincible determination. His very walk had lost
its listless, gliding tread, and his steps were firm, alert and rapid.
No one had been able to
go to bed until he arrived, though Isabel slept restlessly in her father's
chair, and the Senora lay upon the couch, drowsing a little between her
frequent attacks of weeping and angry anticipation. For she was sure it was the
Americans. "Anything was possible with such a man as Sam Houston near the
city."
"Perhaps it is
Santa Anna," at length suggested Antonia. "He has been making trouble
ever since I can remember. He was born with a sword in his hand, I think."
"Ca! And every
American with a rifle in his hand! Santa Anna is a monster, but at least he
fights for his own country. Texas is not the country of the Americans."
"But, indeed, they
believe that Texas is their country"; and to these words Doctor Worth
entered.
"What is the
matter? What is the matter, Roberto? I have been made sick with these
uncertainties. Why did you not come home at the Angelus?"
"I have had a good
reason for my delay, Maria. About three o'clock I received a message from the
Senora Alveda, and I visited her. She is in great trouble, and she had not been
able to bear it with her usual fortitude. She bad fainted."
"Ah, the poor
mother! She has a son who will break her heart."
"She made no
complaint of Luis. She is distracted about her country, and as I came home I
understood why. For she is a very shrewd woman, and she perceives that Santa
Anna is preparing trouble enough for it."
"Well, then, what
is it?"
"When I left her
house, I noticed many Americans, as well as many Mexicans, on the streets. They
were standing together, too; and there was something in their faces, and in the
way their arms were carried, which was very striking and portentous. I fancied
they looked coldly on me, and I was troubled by the circumstance. In the Plaza
I saw the military band approaching, accompanied by half a dozen officers and a
few soldiers. The noise stopped suddenly, and Captain Morello proclaimed as a
bando (edict) of the highest authority, an order for all Americans to surrender
their arms of every description to the officials and at the places
notified."
"Very good!"
"Maria, nothing
could be worse! Nothing could be more shameful and disastrous. The Americans
had evidently been expecting this useless bombast, and ere the words were well
uttered, they answered them with a yell of defiance. I do not think more than
one proclamation was necessary, but Morello went from point to point in the
city and the Americans followed him. I can tell you this, Maria: all the
millions in Mexico can not take their rifles from the ten thousand Americans in
Texas, able to carry them."
"We shall see! We
shall see! But, Roberto, you at least will not interfere in their quarrels. You
have never done so hitherto."
"No one has ever
proposed to disarm me before, Maria. I tell you frankly, I will not give up a
single rifle, or revolver, or weapon of any kind, that I possess. I would
rather be slain with them. I have never carried arms before, but I shall carry
them now. I apologize to my countrymen for not having them with me this
afternoon. My dearest wife! My good Maria! do not cry in that despairing way.
You will be killed, Roberto!
You will be a rebel! You will be shot like a dog, and then what will become of
me and my daughters?"
"You have two
sons, Maria. They will avenge their father, and protect their mother and
sisters."
"I shall die of
shame! I shall die of shame and sorrow!"
"Not of shame,
Maria. If I permitted these men to deprive me of my arms, you might well die of
shame."
"What is it? Only
a gun, or a pistol, that you never use?"
"Great God, Maria!
It is everything! It is honor! It is liberty! It is respect to myself! It is
loyalty to my country! It is fidelity to my countrymen! It is true that for
many years the garrison has fully protected us, and I have not needed to use
the arms in my house. But thousands of husbands and fathers need them hourly,
to procure food for their children and wives, and to protect them from the
savages. One tie binds us. Their cause is my cause. Their country is my
country, and their God is my God. Children, am I right or wrong?"
They both stepped
swiftly to his side. Isabel laid her cheek against his, and answered him with a
kiss. Antonia clasped his hand, stood close to him, and said: "We are all
sure that you are right, dear father. My mother is weary and sick with anxiety,
but she thinks so too. Mother always thinks as you do, father. Dear mother,
here is Rachela with a cup of chocolate, and you will sleep and grow strong
before morning."
But the Senora, though
she suffered her daughter's caresses, did not answer them, neither did she
speak to her husband, though he opened the door for her and stood waiting with
a face full of anxious love for a word or a smile from her. And the miserable
wife, still more miserable than her husband, noticed that Isabel did not follow
her. Never before had Isabel seemed to prefer any society to her mother's, and
the unhappy Senora felt the defection, even amid her graver trouble.
But Isabel had seen
something new in her father that night; something that touched her awakening
soul with admiration. She lingered with him and Antonia, listening with vague
comprehension to their conversation, until Rachela called her angrily; and as
she was not brave enough for a second rebellion that night, she obediently
answered her summons.
An hour afterwards,
Antonia stepped cautiously within her room. She was sleeping, and smiling in
her sleep. Where was her loving, innocent soul wandering? Between the myrtle
hedges and under the fig-tree with her lover? Oh, who can tell where the soul
goes when sleep gives it some release? Perhaps it is at night our angels need
to watch us most care fully. For the soul, in dreams, can visit evil and
sorrowful places, as well as happy and holy ones. But Isabel slept and smiled,
and Antonia whispered a prayer at her side ere she went to her own rest.
And the waning moon
cast a pathetic beauty over the Eden- like land, till dawn brought that
mystical silence in which every new day is born. Then Robert Worth rose from
the chair in which he had been sitting so long, remembering the past and
forecasting the future. He walked to the window, opened it, and looked towards
the mountains. They had an ethereal hue, a light without rays, a clearness
almost polar in its severity. But in some way their appearance infused into his
soul calmness and strength.
"Liberty has
always been bought with life, and the glory of the greatest nations handseled
with the blood of their founders." This was the thought in his heart, as
looking far off to the horizon, he asked hopefully:
"What then, O God, shall this good land produce
That Thou art watering it so carefully?"
"So when fierce zeal a nation rends,And stern injustice rules the
throne,Beneath the yoke meek virtue bends,And modest truth is heard to
groan.But when fair Freedom's star appears,Then hushed are sighs, and calmed
are fears.And who, when nations long opprest,Decree to curb the oppressor's
pride,And patriot virtues fire the breast,Who shall the generous ardor
chide?What shall withstand the great decree,When a brave nation will be free? It is flesh and blood that makes
husbands and wives, fathers and children, and for the next few days these ties
were sorely wounded in Robert Worth's house. The Senora was what Rachela called
"difficult." In reality, she was angry and sullen. At such times she
always went early to mass, said many prayers, and still further irritated
herself by unnecessary fasting. But there are few homes which totally escape
the visitations of this pious temper in some form or other. And no creed
modifies it; the strict Calvinist and strict Catholic are equally disagreeable
while under its influence.
Besides, the Senora,
like the ill-tempered prophet, thought she "did well to be angry."
She imagined herself deserted and betrayed in all her tenderest feelings, her
husband a rebel, her home made desolate, her sons and daughters supporting
their father's imprudent views. She could only see one alternative before her;
she must choose between her country and her religion, or her husband and
children.
True, she had not yet
heard from her sons, but she would listen to none of Rachela's hopes regarding
them. Thomas had always said yes to all his father's opinions. How could she
expect anything from John when he was being carefully trained in the very
principles which everywhere made the Americans so irritating to the Mexican
government.
Her husband and Antonia
she would not see. Isabel she received in her darkened room, with passionate
weeping and many reproaches. The unhappy husband had expected this trouble at
the outset. It was one of those domestic thorns which fester and hamper, but to
which the very best of men have to submit. He could only send pleasant and
affectionate messages by Rachela, knowing that Rachela would deliver them with
her own modifications of tone and manner.
"The Senor sends
his great love to the Senora. Grace of Mary! If he would do a little as the
most wise and tender of spouses wishes him! That would be for the good fortune
of every one.
"Ah, Rachela, my
heart is broken! Bring me my mantilla. I will go to early mass, when one's
husband and children forsake them, who, then, is possible but the Holy Mother?
"My Senora, you
will take cold; the morning is chill; besides, I have to say the streets will
be full of those insolent Americans."
"I shall be glad
to take cold, perhaps even to die. And the Americans do not offend women. Even
the devil has his good points."
"Holy Virgin!
Offend women! They do not even think us worth looking at. But then it is an
intolerable offence to see them standing in our streets, as if they had made
the whole land."
But this morning, early
as it was, the streets were empty of Americans. There had been hundreds of them
there at the proclamation; there was not one to be seen twelve hours af-
terwards. But at the principal rendezvous of the city, and on the very walls of
the Alamo, they had left this characteristic notice:
"To SANTA ANNA:
If you want our arms-take them.
TEN THOUSAND AMERICAN TEXANS.
Robert Worth saw it
with an irrepressible emotion of pride and satisfaction. He had faithfully
fulfilled his promise to his conscience, and, with his rifle across his
shoulder, and his revolvers and knife in his belt, was taking the road to his
office with a somewhat marked deliberation. He was yet a remarkably handsome
man; and what man is there that a rifle does not give a kind of nobility to?
With an up-head carriage and the light of his soul in his face, he trod the
narrow, uneven street like a soldier full of enthusiasm at his own commission.
No one interfered with
his solitary parade. He perceived, indeed, a marked approval of it. The
Zavalas, Navarros. Garcias, and other prominent citizens, addressed him with
but a slightly repressed sympathy. They directed his attention with meaning
looks to the counter-proclamation of the Americans. They made him understand by
the pressure of their hands that they also were on the side of liberty.
As he did not hurry, he
met several officers, but they wisely affected not to see what they did not
wish to see. For Doctor Worth was a person to whom very wide latitude might be
given. To both the military and the civilians his skill was a necessity. The
attitude he had taken was privately discussed, but no one publicly acted or
even commented upon it. Perhaps he was a little disappointed at this. He had
come to a point when a frank avowal of his opinions would be a genuine
satisfaction; when, in fact, his long-repressed national feeling was imperious.
On the third morning,
as he crossed the Plaza, some one called him. The voice made his heart leap;
his whole nature responded to it like the strings of a harp to the sweep of a
skilful hand. He turned quickly, and saw two young men galloping towards him.
The foremost figure was his son--his beloved youngest son--whom he had just
been thinking of as well out of danger, safe and happy in the peaceful halls of
Columbia. And lo! here he was in the very home of the enemy; and he was glad of
it.
"Why, Jack!"
he cried; "Why, Jack, my boy! I never thought of you here." He had
his hand on the lad's shoulder, and was gazing into his bright face with tears
and smiles and happy wonder.
Father, I had to come.
And there are plenty more coming. And here is my other self--the best fellow
that ever lived: Darius Grant. `Dare' we call him, father, for there is not
anything he won't venture if he thinks it worth the winning. And how is mi
madre and Antonia, and Iza? And isn't it jolly to see you with a rifle?"
"Well, Dare; well,
Jack; you are both welcome; never so welcome to Texas as at this hour. Come
home at once and, refresh yourselves."
There was so much to
tell that at first the conversation was in fragments and exclamations, and the
voices of the two young men, pitched high and clear in their excitement, went
far before them as if impatient of their welcome. Antonia heard them first. She
was on the balcony, standing thoughtful and attent. It seemed to her as if in
those days she was always listening. Jack's voice was the loudest, but she
heard Dare's first. It vibrated in midair and fell upon her consciousness,
clear and sweet as a far-away bell.
"That is Dare's
voice--here."
She leaned forward, her
soul hearkened after the vibrations, and again they called her. With swift
steps she reached the open door. Rachela sat in her chair within it.
"The Senorita had
better remain within," she said, sullenly; "the sun grows hot."
Let me pass, Rachela, I
am in a hurry."
To be sure, the
Senorita will have her way--good or bad."
Antonia heeded her not;
she was hastening down the main avenue toward the gateway. This avenue was
hedged on each side with oleanders, and they met in a light, waving arch above
her head. At this season they were one mass of pale pink blossoms and dark
glossy leaves. The vivid sunshine through them made a rosy light which tinged
her face and her white gown with an indescribable glow. If a mortal woman can
ever look like an angel, the fair, swiftly moving Antonia had at that moment
the angelic expression of joy and love; the angelic unconsciousness of rapid
and graceful movement; the angelic atmosphere that was in itself a dream of
paradise; rose-tinted, divinely sweet and warm.
Dare saw her coming,
and suddenly ceased speaking. He was in the midst of a sentence, but he forgot
what he was saying. He forgot where he was. He knew nothing, felt nothing, saw
nothing, heard nothing but Antonia. And yet he did not fall at her feet, and
kiss her hands and whisper delightful extravagances; all of which things an
Iberian lover would have done, and felt and looked in the doing perfectly
graceful and natural.
Dare Grant only clasped
both the pretty hands held out to him; only said "Antonia! Antonia!"
only looked at her with eyes full of a loving question, which found its instant
answer in her own. In that moment they revealed to each other the length and
breadth, the height and the depth of their affection. They had not thought of
disguising it; they made no attempt to do so; and Robert Worth needed not the
confession which, a few hours later, Grant thought it right to make to him.
When they entered the
house together, a happy, noisy group, Rachela had left her chair and was going
hurriedly upstairs to tell the Senora her surmise; but Jack passed her with a
bound, and was at his mother's side before the heavy old woman had comprehended
his passing salutation.
"Madre! Mother, I
am here!
The Senora was on her
couch in her darkened room. She had been at the very earliest mass, had a
headache, and had come home in a state of rebellion against heaven and earth.
But Jack was her idol, the one child for whose presence she continually pined,
the one human creature to whose will and happiness she delighted to sacrifice
her own. When she heard his voice she rose quickly, crying out:
"A miracle! A
miracle! Grace of God and Mary, a miracle! Only this morning, my precious, my
boy! I asked the Holy Mother to pity my sorrows, and send you to me. I vow to
Mary a new shrine. I vow to keep it, and dress it for one whole year. I will
give my opal ring to the poor. Oh, Juan! Juan! Juan I am too blessed."
Her words were broken
into pieces by his kisses. He knelt at her knees, and stroked her face, and
patted her hands, and did all with such natural fervor and grace, that anything
else, or anything less, must have seemed cold and unfilial.
"Come, my
beautiful mother, and see my friend. I have told him so much about you; and
poor Dare has no mother. I have promised him that you will be his mother also.
Dare is so good--the finest fellow in all the world; come down and see Dare,
and let us have a real Mexican dinner, madre. I have not tasted an olla since I
left you."
She could not resist
him. She made Rachela lay out her prettiest dress, and when Jack said "how
beautiful your hair is, mother; no one has hair like you!" she drew out
the great shell pins, and let it fall like a cloud around her, and with a glad
pride gave Rachela the order to get out her jewelled comb and gilded fan and
finest mantilla. And oh! how happy is that mother who has such pure and fervent
admiration from her son; and how happy is that son to whom his mother is ever
beautiful!
Jack's presence drove
all the evil spirits out of the house. The windows were thrown open; the
sunshine came in. He was running after Isabel, he was playing the mandolin; his
voice, his laugh, his quick footstep, were everywhere.
In spite of the trouble
in the city, there was a real festival in the house. The Senora came down in
her sweetest temper and her finest garments. She arranged Jack's dinner
herself, selected the dishes and gave strict orders about their serving. She
took Jack's friend at once into her favor, and Dare thought her wonderfully
lovely and gracious. He sat with her on the balcony, and talked of Jack,
telling her how clever he was, and how all his comrades loved him for his sunny
temper and affectionate heart.
It was a happy dinner,
lengthened out with merry conversation. Every one thought that a few hours
might be given to family love and family joy. It would be good to have the
memory of them in the days that were fast coming. So they sat long over the
sweetmeats, and fresh figs, and the pale wines of Xeres and Alicante. And they
rose up with laughter, looking into each others' faces with eyes that seemed to
bespeak love and remembrance. And then they went from the table, and saw not
Destiny standing cold and pitiless behind them, marking two places for evermore
vacant.
There was not much
siesta that day. The Senora, Isabel and Jack sat together; the Senora dozed a
little, but not enough to lose consciousness of Jack's presence and Jack's
voice. The father, happy, and yet acutely anxious, went to and fro between his
children and his study. Antonia and Dare were in the myrtle walk or under the
fig-tree. This hour was the blossoming time of their lives. And it was not the
less sweet and tender because of the dark shadows on the edge of the sunshine.
Nor were they afraid to face the shadows, to inquire of them, and thus to taste
the deeper rapture of love when love is gemmed with tears.
It was understood that
the young men were going away in the morning very early; so early that their
adieus must be said with their good-nights. It was at this hour that the Senora
found courage to ask:
"My Juan, where do
you go?
"To Gonzales, mi
madre."
"But why? Oh,
Juan, do not desert your madre, and your country!
"Desert you,
madre! I am your boy to my last breath! My country I love with my whole soul.
That is why I have come back to you and to her! She is in trouble and her sons
must stand by her."
"Do not talk with
two meanings. Oh, Juan! why do you go to Gonzales?"
"We have heard
that Colonel Ugartchea is to be there soon, and to take away the arms of the
Americans. That is not to be endured. If you yourself were a man, you would
have been away ere this to help them, I am sure."
"Me!! The Blessed
Virgin knows I would cut off my hands and feet first. Juan, listen to me dear
one! You are a Mexican."
"My heart is
Mexican, for it is yours. But I must stand with my father and with my brother,
and with my American compatriots. Are we slaves, that we must give up our arms?
No, but if we gave them up we should deserve to be slaves."
"God and the
saints!" she answered, passionately. "What a trouble about a few
guns! One would think the Mexicans wanted the wives and children, the homes and
lands of the Americans. They cry out from one end of Texas to the other."
"They cry out in
old England and in New England, in New York, in New Orleans, and all down the
Mississippi. And men are crying back to them: `Stand to your rifles and we will
come and help you!' The idea of disarming ten thousand Americans!" Jack
laughed with scornful amusement at the notion. "What a game it will be!
Mother, you can't tell how a man gets to love his rifle. He that takes our purse
takes trash; but our rifles! By George Washington, that's a different
story!"
Juan, my darling, you
are my last hope. Your brother was born with an American heart. He has even
become a heretic. Fray Ignatius says he went into the Colorado and was what
they call immersed; he that was baptized with holy water by the thrice holy
bishop of Durango. My beloved one, go and see Fray Ignatius; late as it is, he
will rise and counsel you.
"My heart, my
conscience, my country, my father, my brother, Santa Anna's despotism, have
already counselled me."
"Speak no more. I
see that you also are a rebel and a heretic. Mother of sorrows, give me thy
compassion!" Then, turning to Juan, she cried out: "May God pardon me
for having brought into this world such ingrates! Go from me! You have broken
my heart!
He fell at her feet,
and, in spite of her reluctance, took her hands--
"Sweetest mother,
wait but a little while. You will see that we are right. Do not be cross with
Juan. I am going away. Kiss me, mother. Kiss me, and give me your
blessing."
"No, I will not
bless you. I will not kiss you. You want what is impossible, what is
wicked."
"I want
freedom."
"And to get
freedom you tread upon your mother's heart. Let loose my hands. I am weary to
death of this everlasting talk of freedom. I think indeed that the Americans
know but two words: freedom and dollars. Ring for Rachela. She, at least, is
faithful to me."
"Not till you kiss
me, mother. Do not send me away unblessed and unloved. That is to doom me to misfortune.
Mi madre, I beg this favor from you." He had risen, but he still held her
hands, and he was weeping as innocent young men are not ashamed to weep.
If she had looked at
him! Oh, if she had but once looked at his face, she could not have resisted
its beauty, its sorrow, its imploration! But she would not look. She drew her
hands angrily away from him. She turned her back upon her suppliant son and
imperiously summoned Rachela.
"Good-by, mi
madre."
"Good-by, mi
madre!
She would not turn to him,
or answer him a word.
"Mi madre, here
comes Rachela! Say `God bless you, Juan.' It is my last word, sweet
mother!"
She neither moved nor
spoke. The next moment Rachela entered, and the wretched woman abandoned
herself to her care with vehement sobs and complainings.
Jack was inexpressibly
sorrowful. He went into the garden, hoping in its silence and solitude to find
some relief. He loved his mother with his strongest affection. Every one of her
sobs wrung his heart. Was it right to wound and disobey her for the sake
of--freedom? Mother was a certain good; freedom only a glorious promise. Mother
was a living fact; freedom an intangible idea.
Ah, but men have always
fought more passionately for ideas than for facts! Tyrants are safe while they
touch only silver and gold; but when they try to bind a man's ideals--the
freedom of his citizenship--the purity of his faith--he will die to preserve
them in their integrity.
Besides, freedom for
every generation has but her hour. If that hour is not seized, no other may
come for the men who have suffered it to pass. But mother would grow more
loving as the days went by. And this was ever the end of Jack's reasoning; for
no man knows how deep the roots of his nature strike into his native land,
until he sees her in the grasp of a tyrant, and hears her crying to him for
deliverance.
The struggle left the
impress on his face. He passed a boundary in it. Certain boyish feelings and
graces would never again be possible to him. He went into the house, weary, and
longing for companionship that would comfort or strengthen him. Only Isabel was
in the parlor. She appeared to be asleep among the sofa cushions, but she
opened her eyes wide as he took a chair beside her.
"I have been
waiting to kiss you again, Juan; do you think this trouble will last very
long?"
"It will be over
directly, Iza. Do not fret yourself about it, angel mio. The Americans are
great fighters, and their quarrel is just. Well, then, it will be settled by
the good God quickly."
"Rachela says that
Santa Anna has sent off a million of men to fight the Americans. Some they will
cut in pieces, and some are to be sent to the mines to work in chains."
God is not dead of old
age, Iza. Santa Anna is a miraculous tyrant. He has committed every crime under
heaven, but I think he will not cut the Americans in pieces."
"And if the
Americans should even make him go back to Mexico!"
"I think that is
very possible."
"What then,
Juan?"
"He would pay for
some of his crimes here the rest he would settle for in purgatory. And you,
too, Iza, are you with the Americans?"
"Luis Alveda says
they are right."
"Oh-h! I see! So
Luis is to be my brother too. Is that so, little dear?"
"Have you room in
your heart for him? Or has this Dare Grant filled it?"
"If I had twenty
sisters, I should have room for twenty brothers, if they were like Dare and
Luis. But, indeed, Luis had his place there before I knew Dare."
"And perhaps you
may see him soon; he is with Senor Sam Houston. Senor Houston was here not a
week ago. Will you think of that? And the mother and uncle of Luis are angry at
him; he will be disinherited, and we shall be very poor, I think. But there is
always my father, who loves Luis."
"Luis will win his
own inheritance. I think you will be very rich."
"And, Juan, if you
see Luis, say to him, `Iza thinks of you continually.'"
At this moment Rachela
angrily called her charge--
"Are you totally
and forever wicked, disobedient one? Two hours I have been kept waiting. Very
well! The, Sisters are the only duenna for you; and back to the convent you
shall go to-morrow. The Senora is of my mind, also."
"My father will
not permit it. I will go to my father. And think of this, Rachela: I am no
longer to be treated like a baby." But she kissed Juan `farewell,' and
went away without further dispute.
The handsome room
looked strangely lonely and desolate when the door had closed behind her. Jack
rose, and roughly shook himself, as if by that means he hoped to throw off the
oppression and melancholy that was invading even his light heart. Hundreds of
moths were dashing themselves to death against the high glass shade that
covered the blowing candles from them. He stood and looked at their hopeless
efforts to reach the flame. He had an unpleasant thought; one of those thoughts
which have the force of a presentiment. He put it away with annoyance,
muttering, "It is time enough to meet misfortune when it comes."
The sound of a footstep
made him stand erect and face the door.
It was only a sleepy
peon with a request that he would go to his father's study. A different mental
atmosphere met him there. The doctor was walking up and down the room, and Dare
and Antonia sat together at the open window.
"Your father wants
to hear about our journey, Jack. Take my chair and tell him what happened.
Antonia and I will walk within hearing; a roof makes me restless such a night
as this"; for the waning moon had risen, and the cool wind from the Gulf
was shaking a thousand scents from the trees and the flowering shrubs.
The change was made
with the words, and the doctor sat down beside his son. "I was asking,
Jack, how you knew so much about Texan affairs, and how you came so suddenly to
take part in them?
"Indeed, father,
we could not escape knowing. The Texan fever was more or less in every young
man's blood. One night Dare had a supper at his rooms, and there were thirty of
us present. A man called Faulkner--a fine fellow from Nacogdoches--spoke to us.
How do you think he spoke, when his only brother, a lad of twenty, is working
in a Mexican mine loaded with chains?"
"For what?"
"He said one day
that `the natural boundaries of the United States are the Atlantic and Pacific
oceans.' He was sent to the mines for the words. Faulkner's only hope for him
is in the independence of Texas. He had us on fire in five minutes--all but
Sandy McDonald, who loves to argue, and therefore took the Mexican side."
"What could he say
for it?"
"He said it was a
very unjustlike thing to make Mexico give her American settlers in Texas two
hundred and twenty-four millions of acres because she thought a change of
government best for her own interests."
"The Americans
settled in Texas under the solemn guarantee of the constitution of eighteen
twenty-four. How many of them would have built homes under a tyrannical
despotism like that Santa Anna is now forcing upon them asked the doctor,
warmly.
McDonald said, `There
is a deal of talk about freedom among you Americans, and it just means nothing
at all.' You should have seen Faulkner! He turned on him like a tornado. `How
should you know anything about freedom, McDonald?' he cried. `You are in feudal
darkness in the Highlands of Scotland. You have only just emigrated into
freedom. But we Americans are born free! If you can not feel the difference
between a federal constitution and a military and religious despotism, there is
simply no use talking to you. How would you like to find yourself in a country
where suddenly trial by jury and the exercise of your religion was denied you?
Of course you could abandon the home you had built, and the acres you had
bought and put under cultivation, and thus make some Mexican heir to your ten
years' labor. Perhaps a Scot, for conscience' sake, would do this.'"
"And what answer
made he?" He said, `A Scot kens how to grip tight to ten years' labor as
well as yoursel', Faulkner; and neither man nor de'il can come between him and
his religion; but--' `But,' shouted Faulkner; `there is no but! It is God and
our right! God and our right, against priestcraft and despotism!'
"Then every one of
us leaped to our feet, and we swore to follow Faulkner to Texas at an hour's
notice; and Sandy said we were `a parcel of fools'; and then, would you believe
it, father, when our boat was leaving the pier, amid the cheers and hurrahs of
thousands, Sandy leaped on the boat and joined us?"
"What did he say
then?"
"He said, `I am a
born fool to go with you, but I think there is a kind o' witchcraft in that
word Texas. It has been stirring me up morning and night like the voice o' the
charmer, and I be to follow it though I ken well enough it isna leading me in
the paths o' peace and pleasantness!'"
"Did you find the
same enthusiasm outside of New York?"
"All along the
Ohio and Mississippi we gathered recruits; and at Randolph, sixty miles above
Memphis, we were joined by David Crockett."
"Jack!"
"True, father! And
then at every landing we took on men. For at every landing Crockett spoke to
the people; and, as we stopped very often, we were cheered all the way down the
river. The Mediterranean, though the biggest boat on it, was soon crowded; but
at Helena, Crockett and a great number of the leading men of the expedition got
off. And as Dare and Crockett had become friends, I followed them."
"Where did you go
to?"
"We went ostensibly
to a big barbecue at John Bowie's plantation, which is a few miles below
Helena. Invitations to this barbecue had been sent hundreds of miles throughout
the surrounding country. We met parties from the depths of the Arkansas
wilderness and the furthest boundaries of the Choctaw nation coming to it.
There were raftsmen from the Mississippi, from the White, and the St. Francis
rivers. There were planters from Lousiana and Tennessee. There were woodsmen
from Kentucky. There were envoys from New Orleans, Washington, and all the
great Eastern cities."
"I had an
invitation myself, Jack."
"I wish you had
accepted it. It was worth the journey. There never was and there never will be
such a barbecue again. Thousands were present. The woods were full of sheds and
temporary buildings, and platforms for the speakers."
"Who were the
speakers?"
"Crockett,
Hawkins, General Montgomery, Colonel Beauford, the three brothers Cheatham,
Doc. Bennet, and many others. When the woods were illuminated at night with
pine knots, you may imagine the scene and the wild enthusiasm that followed
their eloquence."
"Doc. Bennet is a
good partisan, and he is enormously rich."
"And he has a
personal reason for his hatred of Mexico. An insatiable revenge possesses him.
His wife and two children were barbarously murdered by Mexicans. He appealed to
those who could not go to the fight to give money to aid it, and on the spot
laid down ten thousand dollars."
"Good!"
"Nine other men,
either present or there by proxy, instantly gave a like sum, and thirty
thousand in smaller sums was added to it. Every donation was hailed with the
wildest transports, and while the woods were ringing with electrifying shouts,
Hawkins rallied three hundred men round him and went off at a swinging galop
for the Brazos."
"Oh, Jack!
Jack!"
In another hour, the
rest of the leaders had gathered their detachments, and every man had turned
his face to the Texan prairies. Crockett was already far advanced on the way.
Sam Houston was known to be kindling the fire on the spot; and I suppose you
know, father," said Jack, sinking his voice to a whisper, "that we
have still more powerful backers."
"General
Gaines?"
Well, he has a large
body of United States troops at Nacogdoches. He says they are to protect the
people of Navasola from the Indians."
"But Navasola is
twenty-nine miles west of Nacogdoches."
"Navasola is in
Texas. Very well! If the United States feel it to be their duty to protect the
people of Navasola, it seems they already consider Texas within their
boundary."
"You think the
Indians a mere pretext?"
"Of course.
Crockett has with him an autograph letter from President Jackson, introducing
him as `a God-chosen patriot.' President Jackson already sees Texas in the
Union, and Gaines understands that if the American-Texans should be repulsed by
Santa Anna, and fall back upon him, that he may then gather them under his
standard and lead them forward to victory--and the conquest of Texas. Father,
you will see the Stars and Stripes on the palaces of Mexico."
"Do not talk too
fast, Jack. And now, go lie down on my bed. In four hours you must leave, if
you want to reach Gonzales to-night!"
Then Dare was called,
and the lovers knew that their hour of parting was come. They said nothing of
the fears in their hearts; and on Antonia's lifted face there was only the
light of love and of hope.
"The fight will
soon be over, darling, and then!"
"And then? We
shall be so happy."
"Strange sons of Mexico, and strange her fate; They fight for
freedom who were never free; A kingless people for a nerveless state."
"Not all the threats or favors of a crown, A Prince's whisper, or a
tyrant's frown, Can awe the spirit or allure the mind Of him, who to strict
Honor is inclined. Though all the pomp and pleasure that does wait On public
places, and affairs of state; Though all the storms and tempests should arise,
That Church magicians in their cells devise, And from their settled basis nations
tear: He would, unmoved, the mighty ruin bear. Secure in innocence, contemn
them all, And, decently arrayed, in honor fall." "Say, what is honor?
'Tis the finest sense Of justice which the human mind can frame." The keenest sufferings entailed by war are
not on the battle- field, nor in the hospital. They are in the household. There
are the maimed affections, the slain hopes, the broken ties of love. And before
a shot had been fired in the war of Texan independence, the battle had begun in
Robert Worth's household.
The young men lay down
to rest, but he sat watching the night away. There was a melancholy sleepiness
in it; the mockingbirds had ceased singing; the chirping insects had become
weary. Only the clock, with its regular "tick, tick," kept the watch
with him.
When it was near dawn,
he lifted a candle and went into the room where Jack and Dare were sleeping.
Dare did not move; Jack opened his eyes wide, and smiled brightly at the
intruder.
"Well,
father?"
"It is time to get
up, Jack. Tell Dare."
In a few minutes both
came to him. A bottle of wine, some preserved bears' paws, and biscuits were on
the table. They ate standing, speaking very little and almost in whispers; and
then the doctor went with them to the stable. He helped Jack to saddle his
horse. He found a sad pleasure in coming so close to him. Once their cheeks
touched, and the touch brought the tears to his eyes and sent he blood to his
heart.
With his hand on the
saddle, Jack paused and said, softly, "Father, dear, tell mi madre my last
look at the house, my last thought in leaving it, was for her. She would not
kiss me or bless me last night. Ask her to kiss you for me," and then the
lad broke fairly down. The moment had come in which love could find no
utterance, and must act. He flung his arm around his father's neck and kissed
him. And the father wept also, and yet spoke brave words to both as he walked
with them to the gate and watched them ride into the thick mist lying upon the
prairie like a cloud. They were only darker spots in it. It swallowed them up.
They were lost to sight.
He thought no one had
seen the boys leave but himself. But through the lattices two sorrowful women
also watched their departure. The Senora, as wakeful as her husband, had heard
the slight movements, the unusual noises of that early hour, and had divined
the cause of them. She looked at Rachela. The woman had fallen into the dead
sleep of exhaustion, and she would not have to parry her objections and
warnings. Unshod, and in her night-dress, she slipped through the corridor to
the back of the house, and tightly clasping her rosary in her hands, she stood
behind the lattice and watched her boy away.
He turned in his saddle
just before he passed the gate, and she saw his young face lifted with an
unconscious, anxious love, to the very lattice at which she stood: In the dim
light it had a strange pallor. The misty air blurred and made all indistinct.
It was like seeing her Jack in some woful dream. If he had been dead, such a
vision of him might have come to her from the shadow land.
Usually her grief was
noisy and imperative of sympathy. But this morning she could not cry nor
lament. She went softly back to her room and sat down, with her crucifix before
her aching eyes. Yet she could not say her usual prayers. She could not
remember anything but Jack's entreaty--"Kiss me, mi madre! Bless me, mi
madre!" She could not see anything but that last rapid turn in the saddle,
and that piteous young face, showing so weird and dreamlike through the gray mist
of the early dawn.
Antonia had watched
with her. Dare, also, had turned, but there had been something about Dare's
attitude far more cheery and hopeful. On the previous night Antonia had put
some sprays of rosemary in his hat band "to bring good, and keep away evil
on a journey"; and as he turned and lifted his hat he put his lips to
them. He had the belief that from some point his Antonia was watching him. He
conveyed to her, by the strength of his love and his will, the assurance of all
their hopes.
That day Doctor Worth
did not go out. The little bravado of carrying arms was impossible to him. It
was not that his courage had failed, or that he had lost a tittle of his
convictions, but he was depressed by the uncertainty of his position and duty,
and he was, besides, the thrall of that intangible anxiety which we call pre-
sentiment.
Yet, however dreary
life is, it must go on. The brave- hearted cannot drop daily duty. On the
second day the doctor went to his office again, and Antonia arranged the meals
and received company, and did her best to bring the household into peaceful
accord with the new elements encroaching on it from all sides.
But the Senora was more
"difficult" than even Rachela had ever seen her before. She did not
go to church, but Fray Ignatius spent a great deal of time with her; and his
influence was not any more conciliating than that of early masses and much
fasting.
He said to her, indeed:
"My daughter, you have behaved with the fortitude of a saint. It would
have been more than a venial sin, if you had kissed and blessed a rebel in the
very act of his rebellion. The Holy Mary will reward and comfort you."
But the Senora was not
sensible of the reward and comfort; and she did feel most acutely the cruel
wound she had given her mother love. Neither prayers nor penance availed her.
She wanted to see Jack. She wanted to kiss him a hundred times, and bless him
with every kiss. And it did not help her to be told that these longings were
the suggestions of the Evil One, and not to be listened to.
The black-robed monk,
gliding about his house with downcast eyes and folded hands, had never seemed
to Robert Worth so objectionable. He knew that he kept the breach open between
himself and his wife--that he thought it a point of religious duty to do so. He
knew that he was gradually isolating the wretched woman from her husband and
children, and that the continual repetition of prayers and penances did not
give her any adequate comfort for the wrong she was doing her affections.
The city was also in a
condition of the greatest excitement. The soldiers in the Alamo were under
arms. Their officers had evidently received important advices from Mexico.
General Cos, the brother-in-law of Santa Anna, was now in command, and it was
said immense reinforcements were hourly looked for. The drifting American
population had entirely vanished, but its palpable absence inspired the most
thoughtful of the people with fear instead of security.
Nor were the military
by any means sure of the loyalty of the city. It was well known that a large
proportion of the best citizens hated the despotism of Santa Anna; and that if
the Americans attacked San Antonio, they would receive active sympathy. Party
feeling was no longer controllable. Men suspected each other. Duels were of
constant occurrence, and families were torn to pieces; for the monks supported
Santa Anna with all their influence, and there were few women who dared to
disobey them.
Into the midst of this
turbulent, touchy community, there fell one morning a word or two which set it
on fire. Doctor Worth was talking on the Plaza with Senor Lopez Navarro. A
Mexican soldier, with his yellow cloak streaming out behind him, galloped madly
towards the Alamo and left the news there. It spread like wildfire. "There
had been a fight at Gonzales, and the Americans had kept their arms. They had
also put the Mexicans to flight."
"And more,"
added a young Mexican coming up to the group of which Robert Worth was one,
"Stephen Austin has escaped, and he arrived at Gonzales at the very moment
of victory. And more yet: Americans are pouring into Gonzales from every
quarter."
An officer tapped
Doctor Worth on the shoulder. "Senor Doctor, your arms. General Cos hopes,
in the present extremity, you will set an example of obedience."
"I will not give
up my arms. In the present extremity my arms are the greatest need I
have."
"Then Senor,--it
is a great affliction to me--I must arrest you."
He was led away, amid
the audible murmurs of the men who filled the streets. There needed but some
one to have said the word, and they would have taken him forcibly from the
military. A great crowd followed him to the gates of the Alamo. For there was
scarcely a family in San Antonio of which this good doctor was not an adopted member.
The arrest of their favorite confessor would hardly have enraged them more.
Fray Ignatius brought
the news to the Senora. Even he was affected by it. Never before had Antonia
seen him walk except with thoughtful and deliberate steps. She wondered at his
appearance; at its suppressed hurry; at a something in it which struck her as
suppressed satisfaction.
And the priest was in
his heart satisfied; though he was consciously telling himself that "he
was sorry for the Senora, and that he would have been glad if the sins of her
husband could have been set against the works of supererogation which the saints
of his own convent had amassed."
"But he is an
infidel; he believes not in the saints," he muttered; "then how could
they avail him!"
Antonia met him at the
door. He said an Ave Maria as he crossed the threshold, and gave her his hand
to kiss. She looked wonderingly in his face, for unless it was a special visit,
he never called so near the Angelus. Still, it is difficult to throw off a
habit of obedience formed in early youth; and she did not feel as if she could
break through the chill atmosphere of the man and ask: "For what reason
have you come, father?"
A long, shrill shriek
from the Senora was the first answer to the fearful question in her heart. In a
few moments she was at her mother's door. Rachela knelt outside it, telling her
rosary. She stolidly kept her place, and a certain instinct for a moment
prevented Antonia interrupting her. But the passionate words of her mother,
blending with the low, measured tones of the priest, were something far more
positive.
"Let me pass you,
Rachela. What is the matter with my mother?"
The woman was absorbed
in her supplications, and Antonia opened the door. Isabel followed her. They
found themselves in the the presence of an angry sorrow that appalled them. The
Senora had torn her lace mantilla into shreds, and they were scattered over the
room as she had flung them from her hands in her frantic walk about it. The
large shell comb that confined her hair was trodden to pieces, and its long
coils had fallen about her face and shoulders. Her bracelets, her chain of
gold, her brooch and rings were scattered on the floor, and she was standing in
the centre of it, like an enraged creature; tearing her handkerchief into
strips, as an emphasis to her passionate denunciations.
"It serves him
right! Jesus! Maria! Joseph! It serves him right! He must carry arms! He, too!
when it was forbidden! I am glad he is arrested! Oh, Roberto! Roberto!"
"Patience, my
daughter! This is the hand of God. What can you do but submit?"
"What is it, mi
madre? and Isabel put her arms around her mother with the words mi madre.
"Tell Isabel your sorrow."
"Your father is
arrested--taken to the Alamo--he will be sent to the mines. I told him so! I
told him so! He would not listen to me! How wicked he has been!"
"What has my
father done, Fray Ignatius? Why have they arrested him?"
The priest turned to
Antonia with a cold face. He did not like her. He felt that she did not believe
in him.
"Senorita, he has
committed a treason. A good citizen obeys the law; Senor Worth has defied
it."
"Pardon, father, I
cannot believe it."
"A great
forbearance has been shown him, but the end of mercy comes. As he persisted in
wearing arms, he has been taken to the Alamo and disarmed."
"It is a great
shame! An infamous shame and wrong!" cried Antonia. "What right has
any one to take my father's arms? No more than they have to take his purse or
his coat."
"General Santa
Anna--"
"General Santa
Anna is a tyrant and a thief. I care not who says different."
"Antonia!
Shameless one!"
"Mother, do not
strike me." Then she took her mother's hands in her own, and led her to a
couch, caressing her as she spoke--
"Don't believe any
one--any one, mother, who says wrong of my father. You know that he is the best
of men. Rachela! Come here instantly. The rosary is not the thing, now. You
ought to be attending to the Senora. Get her some valerian and some coffee, and
come and remove her clothing. Fray Ignatius, we will beg you to leave us
to-night to ourselves."
"Your mother's
sin, in marrying a heretic, has now found her out. It is my duty to make her
see her fault."
"My mother had a
dispensation from one greater than you."
"Oh, father, pray
for me! I accuse myself! I accuse myself! Oh, wretched woman! Oh, cruel
husband!"
"Mother, you have
been a very happy woman. You have had the best husband in the world. Do not
reproach my father for the sins of others. Do not desert him when he is in the
power of a human tiger. My God, mother! let us think of something to be done
for his help! I will see the Navarros, the Garcia, Judge Valdez; I will go to
the Plaza and call on the thousands he has cured and helped to set him
free."
"You will make of
yourself something not to be spoken of. This is the judgment of God, my
daughter."
"It is the
judgment of a wicked man, Fray Ignatius. My mother is not now able to listen to
you. Isabel, come here and comfort her." Isabel put her cheek to her
mother's; she murmured caressing words; she kissed her face, and coiled up her
straggling hair, and with childlike trust amid all, solicited Holy Mary to
console them.
Fray Ignatius watched
her with a cold scrutiny. He was saying to himself, "It is the fruit of
sin. I warned the Senora, when she married this heretic, that trouble would
come of it. Very well, it has come. Then like a flash a new thought invaded his
mind--If the Senor Doctor disappeared forever, why not induce the Senora and
her daughters to go into a religious house? There was a great deal of money.
The church could use it well.
Antonia did not
understand the thought, but she understood its animus, and again she requested
his withdrawal. This time she went close to him, and bravely looked straight
into his eyes. Their scornful gleam sent a chill to her heart like that of cold
steel. At that moment she understood that she had turned a passive enemy into
an active one.
He went, however,
without further parley, stopping only to warn the Senora against the sin
"of standing with the enemies of God and the Holy Church," and to
order Isabel to recite for her mother's pardon and comfort a certain number of
aves and paternosters. Antonia went with him to the door, and ere he left he
blessed her, and said: "The Senorita will examine her soul and see her
sin. Then the ever merciful Church will hear her confession, and give her the
satisfying penance."
Antonia bowed in
response. When people are in great domestic sorrow, self-examination is a
superfluous advice. She listened a moment to his departing footsteps, shivering
as she stood in the darkness, for a norther had sprung up, and the cold was
severe. She only glanced into the pleasant parlor where the table was laid for
dinner, and a great fire of cedar logs was throwing red, dancing lights over
the white linen and the shining silver and glass. The chairs were placed around
the table; her father's at the head. It had a forsaken air that was
unendurable.
The dinner hour was now
long past. It would be folly to attempt the meal. How could she and Isabel sit
down alone and eat, and her father in prison, and her mother frantic with a
loss which she was warned it was sinful to mourn over. Antonia had a soul made
for extremities and not afraid to face them, but invisible hands controlled
her. What could a woman do, whom society had forbidden to do anything, but
endure the pangs of patience?
The Senora could offer
no suggestions. She was not indeed in a mood to think of her resources. A
spiritual dread was upon her. And with this mingled an intense sense of
personal wrong from her husband. "Had she not begged him to be passive?
And he had put an old rifle before her and her daughters! It was all that Senor
Houston's doing. She had an assurance of that." She invoked a thousand
maledictions on him. She recalled, with passionate reproaches, Jack's
infidelity to her and his God and his country. Her anger passed from one
subject to another constantly, finding in all, even in the lukewarmness of
Antonia and Isabel, and in their affection for lovers, who were also rebels, an
accumulating reason for a stupendous reproach against herself, her husband, her
children, and her unhappy fate. Her whole nature was in revolt--in that
complete mental and moral anarchy from which springs tragedy and murder.
Isabel wept so
violently that she angered still further the tearless suffering of her mother.
"God and the saints!" she cried. "What are you weeping for? Will
tears do any good? Do I weep? God has forbidden me to weep for the wicked. Yet
how I suffer! Mary, mother of sorrows, pity me!"
She sent Isabel away.
Her sobs were not to be borne. And very soon she felt Antonia's white face and
silent companionship to be just as unendurable. She would be alone. Not even
Rachela would she have near her. She put out all the lights but the taper above
a large crucifix, and at its foot she sat down in tearless abandon, alone with
her reproaches and her remorse.
Antonia watched with
her mother, though shut out from her presence. She feared for a state of mind
so barren of affection, so unsoftened by tears. Besides, it was the climax of a
condition which had continued ever since she had sent her boy away without a word
of love. In the dim corridor outside she sat still, listening for any noise or
movement which might demand help or sympathy. It was not nine o'clock; but the
time lengthened itself out beyond endurance. Even yet she had hope of some word
from her father. Surely, they would let him send some word to them!
She heard the murmur of
voices downstairs, and she thought angrily of Rachela, and Molly, and Manuel,
"making a little confidence together" over their trouble, and spicing
their evening gossip with the strange thing that had happened to the Senor
Doctor. She knew that Rachela and Manuel would call him heretic and Americano,
and, by authority of these two words, accuse him of every crime.
Thinking with a
swelling heart of these things, she heard the door open, and a step slowly and
heavily ascend the stairs. Ere she had time to wonder at it, her father came in
sight. There was a shocking change in his air and appearance, but as he was
evidently going to her mother's room, she shrank back and sat motionless so as
not to attract his attention.
Then she went to the
parlor, and had the fire renewed and food put upon the table. She was sure that
he would need it, and she believed he would be glad to talk over with her the
events of the afternoon.
The Senora was still
sitting at the foot of the crucifix when her husband opened the door. She had
not been able to pray; ave and paternoster alike had failed her. Her rebellious
grief filled every corner of her heart. She un- derstood that some one had
entered the room, and she thought of Rachela; but she found a kind of comfort
in the dull stupor of grief she was indulging, and she would not break its
spell by lifting her head.
"Maria."
She rose up quickly and
stood gazing at him.
She did not shriek or
exclaim; her surprise controlled her. And also her terror; for his face was
white as death, and had an expression of angry despair that terrified her.
"Roberto! Roberto!
Mi Roberto! How you have tortured me! I have nearly died! Fray Ignatius said
you had been sent to prison."
She spoke as calmly as
a frightened child; sad and hesitating. If he had taken her in his arms she
would have sobbed her grief away there.
But Robert Worth was at
that hour possessed by two master passions, tyrannical and insatiable--they
would take notice of nothing that did not minister to them.
"Maria, they have
taken my arms from me. Cowards! Cowards! Miserable cowards! I refused to give
them up! They held my hands and robbed me--robbed me of my manhood and honor! I
begged them to shoot me ere they did it, and they spoke courteously and
regretted this, and hoped that, till I felt that it would be a joy to strangle
them."
"Roberto! Mi
Roberto! You have me!"
"I want my rifle
and all it represents. I want myself back again. Maria, Maria, until then, I am
not worthy to be any good woman's husband!"
"Roberto, dearest!
It is not your fault."
"It is my fault. I
have waited too long. My sons showed me my duty--my soul urged me to do it. I
deserve the shame, but I will wipe it out with crimson blood."
The Senora stood
speechless, wringing her hands. Her own passion was puny beside the sternness,
the reality, and the intensity of the quiet rage before her. She was completely
mastered by it. She forgot all but the evident agony she could neither mistake
nor console.
"I have come to
say `farewell,' Maria. We have been very happy together--Maria--our
children--dearest--"
"Oh, Roberto! My
husband! My soul! My life! Leave me not."
"I am going for my
arms. I will take them a hundredfold from those who have robbed me. I swear I
will!"
"You do not love
me. What are these Americans to you? I am your wife. Your Maria--"
"These Americans
are my brothers--my sons. My mother is an American woman."
"And I?"
"You are my
wife--my dear wife! I love you--God Almighty knows how well I love you; but we
must part now, at least for a short time. Maria, my dear one, I must go."
"Go? Where
to?"
"I am going to
join General Houston."
"I thought so. I
knew it. The accursed one! Oh that I had him here again! I would bury my
stiletto in his heart! Over the white hilt I would bury it! I would wash my
hands in his blood, and think them blessed ever afterwards! Stay till daylight,
Roberto. I have so much to say, dearest."
"I cannot. I have
stayed too long. And now I must ride without a gun or knife to protect me. Any
Indian that I meet can scalp me. Do you understand now what disarming means,
Maria? If I had gone with my boy, with my brave Jack, I could at least have sold
my life to its last drop."
"In the morning,
Roberto, Lopez Navarro will get you a gun. Oh, if you must go, do not go
unarmed! There are ten thousand Comanche between here and the Brazos."
"How could I look
Lopez Navarro in the face? Or any other man? No, no! I must win back my arms,
before I can walk the streets of San Antonio again."
He took her in his
arms, he kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her lips, murmuring tender little Spanish
words that meant, oh, so much, to the wretched woman!--words she had taught him
with kisses--words he never used but to her ears only.
She clung to his neck,
to his hands, to his feet; she made his farewell an unspeakable agony. At last
he laid her upon her couch, sobbing and shrieking like a child in an extremity
of physical anguish. But he did not blame her. Her impetuosities, her
unreasonable extravagances, were a part of her nature, her race, and her
character. He did not expect a weak, excitable woman to become suddenly a
creature of flame and steel.
But it was a wonderful
rest to his exhausted body and soul to turn from her to Antonia. She led him
quietly to his chair by the parlor fire. She gave him food and wine. She
listened patiently, but with a living sympathy, to his wrong. She endorsed,
with a clasp of his hand and a smile, his purpose. And she said, almost
cheerfully:
"You have not
given up all your arms, father. When I first heard of the edict, I hid in my
own room the rifle, the powder and the shot, which were in your study. Paola
has knives in the stable; plenty of them. Get one from him."
Good news is a very
relative thing. This information made the doctor feel as if all were now easy
and possible. The words he said to her, Antonia never forgot. They sang in her
heart like music, and led her on through many a difficult path. The
conversation then turned upon money matters, and Antonia received the key of
his study, and full directions as to the gold and papers secreted there.
Then Isabel was
awakened, and the rifle brought down; and Paola saddled the fleetest horse in
the stable, and after one solemn five minutes with his daughter, Robert Worth
rode away into the midnight darkness, and into a chaos of public events of
which no man living could forecast the outcome.
Rode away from wife and
children and home; leaving behind him the love and labor of his lifetime--
"The thousand sweet, still joys of suchAs hand in hand face earthly
life." For what? For
justice, for freedom of thought and action, for the rights of his manhood, for
the brotherhood of race and religion and country. Antonia and Isabel stood hand
in hand at the same lattice from which the Senora had watched her son away, and
in a dim, uncertain manner these thoughts connected themselves in each mind
with the same mournful inquiry--Is it worth while?
As the beat of the
horse's hoofs died away, they turned. The night was cold but clear, and the sky
appeared so high that their eyes throbbed as they gazed upward at the grand
arch, sprinkled with suns and worlds. Suddenly into the tranquil spaces there
was flung a sound of joy and revelry; and the girls stepped to a lattice at the
end of the corridor and looked out.
The residencia of Don
Salvo Valasco was clearly visible from this site. They saw that it was
illuminated throughout. Lovely women, shining with jewels, and soldiers in
scarlet and gold, were chatting through the graceful movements of the danza, or
executing the more brilliant Jota Aragonesa. The misty beauty of white lace
mantillas, the glitter and color of fans and festival dresses, made a moving
picture of great beauty.
And as they watched it
there was a cessation of the dance, followed by the rapid sweep of a powerful
hand over the strings of a guitar. Then a group of officers stepped together,
and a great wave of melodious song, solemn and triumphant, thrilled the night.
It was the national hymn. Antonia and Isabel knew it. Every word beat upon
their hearts. The power of association, the charm of a stately, fervent melody
was upon them.
"It is Senor
Higadillos who leads," whispered Isabel, as a resonant voice, powerful and
sweet, cried--
"O list to the summons! The blood of our sires, Boils high in our
veins, and to vengeance inspires! Who bows to the yoke? who bends to the
blow?" and, without a moment's hesitation, the answer came in a chorus of
enthusiastic cadences-- "No hero will bend, no Mexican bow; Our country in
tears sends her sons to the fight, To conquer, or die, for our land and our
right." "You see,
the Mexicans think they are in the right-- they are patriots also,
Antonia."
The sorrowful girl
spoke like a puzzled child, fretfully and uncertainly, and Antonia led her
silently away. What could she answer? And when she remembered the dear
fugitive, riding alone through the midnight--riding now for life and liberty--she
could not help the uprising again of that cold benumbing question--"Is it
worth while?"
"All faiths are to their own believers just,For none believe
because they will, but must;The priest continues what the nurse began,And thus
the child imposes on the man."
--DRYDEN."--if he be called upon to faceSome awful moment, to which heaven
has joinedGreat issues good or bad for humankind,Is happy as a lover; and
attiredWith sudden brightness, like a man inspired;And through the heat of
conflict keeps the lawIn calmness made; and sees what he foresaw,Or, if an
unexpected call succeed,Come when it will, is equal to the need."
--WORDSWORTH."Ah! love, let us be trueTo one another, through the world
which seemsTo lie before us like a land of dreams!" The gathering at Don Valasco's was constantly repeated in various
degrees of splendor among the loyal Mexicans of the city. They were as fully
convinced of the justice of their cause as the Americans were. "They had
graciously permitted Americans to make homes in their country; now they wanted
not only to build heretic churches and sell heretic bibles, but also to govern
Texas after their own fashion." From a Mexican point of view the American
settlers were a godless, atheistical, quarrelsome set of ingrates. For eaten
bread is soon forgotten, and Mexicans disliked to remember that their own
independence had been won by the aid of the very men they were now trying to
force into subjection.
The two parties were
already in array in every house in the city. The Senora at variance with her
daughters, their Irish cook quarrelling with their Mexican servants, only
represented a state of things nearly universal. And after the failure of the
Mexicans at Gonzales to disarm the Americans, the animosity constantly
increased.
In every church, the
priests--more bitter, fierce and revengeful than either the civil or military
power--urged on the people an exterminating war. A black flag waved from the
Missions, and fired every heart with an unrelenting vengeance and hatred. To
slay a heretic was a free pass through the dolorous pains of purgatory. For the
priesthood foresaw that the triumph of the American element meant the triumph
of freedom of conscience, and the abolition of their own despotism. To them the
struggle was one involving all the privileges of their order; and they urged on
the fight with passionate denunciations of the foe, and with magnificent
promises of spiritual favors and blessings. In the fortress, the plaza, the
houses, the churches, the streets, their fiery words kept society in a ferment.
But through all this
turmoil the small duties of life went on. Soldiers were parading the streets,
and keeping watch on the flat roofs of the houses; men were solemly swearing
allegiance to Santa Anna, or flying by night to the camp of the Americans; life
and death were held at a pin's fee; but eating and dressing, dancing and
flirting were pursued with an eagerness typical of pleasure caught in the
passing.
And every hour these
elements gathered intensity. The always restless populace of San Antonio was at
a feverish point of impatience. They wanted the war at their own doors. They
wanted the quarrel fought out on their own streets. Business took a secondary
place. Men fingered weapons and dreamed of blood, until the temper of the town
was as boisterous and vehement as the temper of the amphitheatre when
impatiently waiting for the bulls and the matadores.
Nor was it possible for
Antonia to lock the door upon this pervading spirit. After Doctor Worth's
flight, it became necessary for her to assume control over the household. She
had promised him to do so, and she was resolved, in spite of all opposition, to
follow out his instructions. But it was by no means an easy task.
Fray Ignatius had both
the Senora and Rachela completely under his subjection. Molly, the Irish cook,
was already dissatisfied. The doctor had saved her life and given her a good
home and generous wages, and while the doctor was happy and prosperous Molly
was accordingly grateful. But a few words from the priest set affairs in a far
pleasanter light to her. She was a true Catholic; the saints sent the heretic
doctor to help. It was therefore the saints to whom gratitude was due. Had she
not earned her good wage? And would not Don Angel Sandoval give her a still
larger sum? Or even the Brothers at the Mission of San Jose? Molly listened to
these words with a complacent pleasure. She reflected that it would be much
more agreeable to her to be where she could entirely forget that she had ever
been hungry and friendless, and lying at death's door.
Antonia knew also that
Rachela was at heart unfaithful, and soon the conviction was forced on her that
servants are never faithful beyond the line of their own interest--that it is,
indeed, against certain primary laws of nature to expect it. Certainly, it was
impossible to doubt that there was in all their dependents a kind of
satisfaction in their misfortunes.
The doctor had done
them favors--how unpleasant was their memory! The Senora had offended them by
the splendor of her dress, and her complacent air of happiness. Antonia's
American ways and her habit of sitting for hours with a book in her hand were a
great irritation.
"She wishes to be
thought wiser than other women--as wise as even a holy priest--she! that never
goes to mass, and is nearly a heretic," said the house steward; and as for
the Senorita Isabel, a little trouble will be good for her! Holy Mary! the way
she has been pampered and petted! It is an absurdity. `Little dear,' and
`angel,' are the hardest words she hears. Si! if God did not mercifully abate a
little the rich they would grow to be `almightys.'"
This was the tone of
the conversation of the servants of the household. It was not an unnatural
tone, but it was a very unhappy one. People cannot escape from the mood of mind
they habitually indulge, and from the animus of the words they habitually use;
and Antonia felt and understood the antagonistic atmosphere. For the things
which we know best of all are precisely the things which no one has ever told
us.
The Senora, in a plain
black serge gown, and black rebozo over her head, spent her time in prayers and
penances. The care of her household had always been delegated to her steward,
and to Rachela; while the duties that more especially belonged to her, had been
fulfilled by her husband and by Antonia. In many respects she was but a
grown-up baby. And so, in this great extremity, the only duty which pressed
upon her was the idea of supplicating the saints to take charge of her unhappy
affairs.
And Fray Ignatius was
daily more hard with her. Antonia even suspected from his growing intolerance
and bitterness, that the Americans were gaining unexpected advantages. But she
knew nothing of what was happening. She could hear from afar off the marching
and movements of soldiers; the blare of military music; the faint echoes of
hurrahing multitudes; but there was no one to give her any certain information.
Still, she guessed something from the anger of the priest and the reticence of
the Mexican servants. If good fortune had been with Santa Anna, she was sure
she would have heard of "The glorious! The invincible! The magnificent Presidente
de la Republica Mexicana! The Napoleon of the West!"
It was not permitted
her to go into the city. A proposal to do so had been met with a storm of angry
amazement. And steam and electricity had not then annihilated distance and
abolished suspense. She could but wonder and hope, and try to read the truth
from a covert inspection of the face and words of Fray Ignatius.
Between this monk and
herself the breach was hourly widening. With angry pain she saw her mother
tortured between the fact that she loved her husband, and the horrible doubt
that to love him was a mortal sin. She understood the underlying motive which
prompted the priest to urge upon the Senora the removal of herself and her
daughters to the con- vent. His offer to take charge of the Worth residencia
and estate was in her conviction a proposal to rob them of all rights in it.
She felt certain that whatever the Church once grasped in its iron hand, it
would ever retain. And both to Isabel and herself the thought of a convent was
now horrible. "They will force me to be a nun," said Isabel;
"and then, what will Luis do? And they will never tell me anything about
my father and my brothers. I should never hear of them. I should never see them
any more; unless the good God was so kind as to let me meet them in his
heaven."
And Antonia had still
darker and more fearful thoughts. She had not forgotten the stories whispered
to her childhood, of dreadful fates reserved for contumacious and disobedient
women. Whenever Fray Ignatius looked at her she felt as if she were within the
shadow of the Inquisition.
Never had days passed
so wearily and anxiously. Never had nights been so terrible. The sisters did
not dare to talk much together; they doubted Rachela; they were sure their
words were listened to and repeated. They were not permitted to be alone with
the Senora. Fray Ignatius had particularly warned Rachela to prevent this. He
was gradually bringing the unhappy woman into what he called "a heavenly
mind"--the influence of her daughters, he was sure, would be that of
worldly affections and sinful liberty. And Rachela obeyed the confessor so
faithfully, that the Senora was almost in a state of solitary confinement.
Every day her will was growing - weaker, her pathetic obedience more childlike
and absolute.
But at midnight, when
every one was asleep, Antonia stepped softly into her sister's room and talked
to her. They sat in Isabel's bed clasping each other's hand in the dark, and
speaking in whispers. Then Antonia warned and strengthened Isabel. She told her
all her fears. She persuaded her to control her wilfulness, to be obedient, and
to assume the childlike thoughtlessness which best satisfied Fray Ignatius.
"He told you to-day to be happy, that he would think for you. My darling,
let him believe that is the thing you want," said Antonia. "I assure
you we shall be the safer for it."
"He said to me
yesterday, when I asked him about the war, `Do not inquire, child, into things
you do not understand. That is to be irreligious,' and then he made the cross
on his breast, as if I had put a bad thought into his heart. We are afraid all
day, and we sit whispering all night about our fears; that is the state we are
in. The Lord sends us nothing but misfortunes, Antonia."
"My darling, tell
the Lord your sorrow, then, but do not repine to Rachela or Fray Ignatius. That
is to complain to the merciless of the All-Merciful."
"Do you think I am
wicked, Antonia? What excuse could I offer to His Divine Majesty, if I spoke
evil to him of Rachela and Fray Ignatius?"
"Neither of them
are our friends; do you think so?"
"Fray Ignatius
looks like a goblin; he gives me a shiver when he looks at me; and as for
Rachela--I already hate her!"
"Do not trust her.
You need not hate her, Isabel."
"Antonia, I know
that I shall eternally hate her; for I am sure that our angels are at
variance."
In conversations like
these the anxious girls passed the long, and often very cold, nights. The days
were still worse, for as November went slowly away the circumstances which sur-
rounded their lives appeared to constantly gather a more decided and a bitterer
tone. December, that had always been such a month of happiness, bright with
Christmas expectations and Christmas joys, came in with a terribly severe, wet
norther. The great log fires only warmed the atmosphere immediately surrounding
them, and Isabel and Antonia sat gloomily within it all day. It seemed to
Antonia as if her heart had come to the very end of hope; and that something
must happen.
The rain lashed the
earth; the wind roared around the house, and filled it with unusual noises. The
cold was a torture that few found themselves able to endure. But it brought a
compensation. Fray Ignatius did not leave the Mission comforts; and Rachela
could not bear to go prowling about the corridors and passages. She established
herself in the Senora's room, and remained there. And very early in the evening
she said "she had an outrageous headache," and went to her room.
Then Antonia and Isabel
sat awhile by their mother's bed. They talked in whispers of their father and
brothers, and when the Senora cried, they kissed her sobs into silence and
wiped her tears away. In that hour, if Fray Ignatius had known it, they undid,
in a great measure, the work to which he had given more than a month of patient
and deeply-reflective labor. For with the girls, there was the wondrous charm
of love and nature; but with the priest, only a splendid ideal of a Church
universal that was to swallow up all the claims of love and all the ties of nature.
It was nearly nine
o'clock when Antonia and Isabel returned to the parlor fire. Their hearts were
full of sorrow for their mother, and of fears for their own future. For this
confidence had shown them how firmly the refuge of the convent had been planted
in the anxious ideas of the Senora. Fortunately, the cold had driven the
servants either to the kitchen fire or to their beds, and they could talk over
the subject without fear of interference.
"Are you sleepy,
queridita?"--(little dear).
"I think I shall
never go to sleep again, Antonia. If I shut my eyes I shall find myself in the
convent; and I do not want to go there even in a dream. Do you know Mother
Teresa? Well then, I could tell you things. And she does not like me, I am sure
of that; quite sure."
"My darling, I am
going to make us a cup of tea. It will do us good."
"If indeed it were
chocolate!"
"I cannot make
chocolate now; but you shall have a great deal of sugar in your cup, and
something good to eat also. There, my darling, put your chair close to the
fire, and we will sit here until we are quite sleepy."
With the words she went
into the kitchen. Molly was nodding over her beads, in the comfortable radius
made by the blazing logs; no one else was present but a young peon. He brought
a small kettle to the parlor fire, and lifted a table to the hearth, and then
replenished the pile of logs for burning during the night. Isabel, cuddling in
a large chair, watched Antonia, as she went softly about putting on the table
such delicacies as she could find at that hour. Tamales and cold duck, sweet
cake and the guava jelly that was Isabel's favorite dainty. There was a little
comfort in the sight of these things; and also, in the bright silver teapot
standing so cheerfully on the hearth, and diffusing through the room a warm
perfume, at once soothing and exhilarating.
"I really think I
shall like that American tea to-night, Antonia, but you must half fill my cup
with those little blocks of sugar--quite half fill it, Antonia; and have you
found cream, my dear one? Then a great deal of cream."
Antonia stood still a
moment and looked at the drowsy little beauty. Her eyes were closed, and her
head nestled comfortably in a corner of the padded chair. Then a hand upon the
door-handle arrested her attention, and Antonia turned her eyes from Isabel and
watched it. Ortiz, the peon, put his head within the room, and then disappeared;
but oh, wonder and joy! Don Luis entered swiftly after him; and before any one
could say a word, he was kneeling by Isabel kissing her hand and mingling his
exclamations of rapture with hers.
Antonia looked with
amazement and delight at this apparition. How had he come? She put her hand
upon his sleeve; it was scarcely wet. His dress was splendid; if he had been
going to a tertullia of the highest class, he could not have been more richly
adorned. And the storm was yet raging! It was a miracle.
"Dear Luis, sit
down! Here is a chair close to Iza! Tell her your secrets a few minutes, and I
will go for mi madre. O yes! She will come! You shall see, Iza! And then, Luis,
we shall have some supper."
"You see that I am
in heaven already, Antonia; though, indeed, I am also hungry and thirsty, my
sister."
Antonia was not a
minute in reaching her mother's room. The unhappy lady was half-lying among the
large pillows of her gilded bed, wide awake. Her black eyes were fixed upon a
crucifix at its foot, and she was slowly murmuring prayers upon her rosary.
"Madre! Madre!
Luis is here, Luis is here! Come quick, mi madre. Here are your stockings and
slippers, and your gown, and your mantilla--no, no, no, do not call Rachela.
Luis has news of my father, and of Jack! Oh, madre, he has a letter from Jack
to you! Come dear, come, in a few minutes you will be ready."
She was urging and
kissing the trembling woman, and dressing her in despite of her faint effort to
delay--to call Rachela--to bring Luis to her room. In ten minutes she was
ready. She went down softly, like a frightened child, Antonia cheering and
encouraging her in whispers.
When she entered the
cheerful parlor the shadow of a smile flitted over her wan face. Luis ran to
meet her. He drew the couch close to the hearth; he helped Antonia arrange her
comfortably upon it. He made her tea, and kissed her hands when he put it into
them. And then Isabel made Luis a cup, and cut his tamales, and waited upon him
with such pretty service, that the happy lover thought he was eating a meal in
Paradise.
For a few minutes it
had been only this ordinary gladness of reunion; but it was impossible to
ignore longer the anxiety in the eyes that asked him so many questions. He took
two letters from his pockets and gave them to the Senora. They were from her
husband and Jack. Her hands trembled; she kissed them fervently; and as she
placed them in her breast her tears dropped down upon them.
Antonia opened the real
conversation with that never- failing wedge, the weather. "You came
through the storm, Luis? Yet you are not wet, scarcely? Now then, explain this
miracle."
"I went first to
Lopez Navarro's. Do you not know this festa dress? It is the one Lopez bought
for the feast of St. James. He lent it to me, for I assure you that my own
clothing was like that of a beggar man. It was impossible that I could see my
angel on earth in it."
"But in such
weather? You can not have come far to-day?"
"Senorita, there
are things which are impossible, quite impossible! That is one of them. Early
this morning the north wind advanced upon us, sword in hand. It will last fifty
hours, and we shall know something more about it before they are over. Very
well, but it was also absolutely necessary that some one should reach San
Antonio to-night; and I was so happy as to persuade General Burleson to send
me. The Holy Lady has given me my reward."
"Have you seen the
Senor Doctor lately; Luis," asked the Senora.
"I left him at
nightfall."
"At nightfall! But
that is impossible!"
"It is true. The
army of the Americans is but a few miles from San Antonio."
"Grace of God!
Luis!"
"As you say,
Senora. It is the grace of God. Did you not know?"
"We know nothing
but what Fray Ignatius tells us--that the Americans have been everywhere
pulling down churches, and granting martyrdom to the priests, and that
everywhere miraculous retributions have pursued them."
"Was Gonzales a
retribution? The Senor Doctor came to us while we were there. God be blessed;
but he startled us like the rattle of rifle-shots in the midnight! `Why were
you not at Goliad?' he cried. `There were three hundred stand of arms there,
and cannon, and plenty of provisions. Why were they not yours?' You would have
thought, Senora, he had been a soldier all his life. The men caught fire when
he came near them, and we went to Goliad like eagles flying for their prey. We
took the town, and the garrison, and all the arms and military stores. I will
tell you something that came to pass there. At midnight, as I and Jack stood
with the Senor Doctor by the camp-fire, a stranger rode up to us. It was
Colonel Milam. He was flying from a Mexican prison and had not heard of the
revolt of the Americans. He made the camp ring with his shout of delight. He
was impatient for the morning. He was the first man that entered the garrison.
Bravissimo! What a soldier is he!"
"I remember! I
remember!" cried the Senora. "Mi Roberto brought him here once. So
splendid a man I never saw before. So tall, so handsome, so gallant, so like a
hero. He is an American from--well, then, I have forgotten the place."
"From Kentucky. He
fought with the Mexicans when they were fighting for their liberty; but when
they wanted a king and a dictator he resigned his commision and was thrown into
prison. He has a long bill against Santa Anna."
"We must not
forget, Luis," said the Senora with a little flash of her old temper,
"that Santa Anna represents to good Catholics the triumph of Holy
Church."
Luis devoutly crossed
himself. "I am her dutiful son, I assure you, Senora--always."
A warning glance from
Antonia changed the conversation. There was plenty to tell which touched them
mainly on the side of the family, and the Senora listened, with pride which she
could not conceal, to the exploits of her husband and sons, though she did not
permit herself to confess the feeling. And her heart softened to her children.
Without acknowledging the tie between Isabel and Luis, she permitted or was
oblivious to the favors it allowed.
Certainly many little
formalities could be dispensed with, in a meeting so unexpected and so
eventful. When the pleasant impromptu meal was over, even the Senora had eaten
and drunk with enjoyment. Then Luis set the table behind them, and they drew
closer to the fire, Luis holding Isabel's hand, and Antonia her mother's. The
Senora took a cigarette from Luis, and Isabel sometimes put that of Luis
between her rosy lips. At the dark, cold midnight they found an hour or two of
sweet- est consolation. It was indeed hard to weary these three heart-starved
women; they asked question after question, and when any brought out the comical
side of camp life they forget their pleasure was almost a clandestine one, and
laughed outright.
In the very midst of
such a laugh, Rachela entered the room. She stood in speechless amazement,
gazing with a dark, malicious face upon the happy group. "Senorita
Isabel!" she screamed; "but this is abominable! At the midnight also!
Who could have believed in such wickedness? Grace of Mary, it is
inconceivable!"
She laid her hand
roughly on Isabel's shoulder, and Luis removed it with as little courtesy.
"You were not called," he said, with the haughty insolence of a
Mexican noble to a servant--"Depart."
"My Senora!
Listen! You yourself also--you will die. You that are really weak--so
broken-hearted--"
Then a miracle
occurred. The Senora threw off the nightmare of selfish sorrow and spiritual
sentimentality which had held her in bondage. She took the cigarito from her
lips with a scornful air, and repeated the words of Luis:
"You were not
called. Depart."
"The Senorita
Isabel?"
"Is in my care.
Her mother's care! do you understand?"
"My Senora, Fray
Ignatius--"
"Saints in heaven!
But this is intolerable! Go."
Then Rachela closed the
door with a clang which echoed through the house. And say as we will, the
malice of the wicked is never quite futile. It was impossible after this
interruption to recall the happy spirit dismissed by it; and Rachela had the
consolation, as she muttered beside the fire in the Senora's room. this
conviction. So that when she heard the party breaking up half an hour after-
wards, she complimented herself upon her influence.
"Will Jack come
and see me soon, and the Senor Doctor?" questioned the Senora, anxiously,
as she held the hand of Luis in parting.
"Jack is on a
secret message to General Houston. His return advices will find us, I trust, in
San Antonio. But until we have taken the city, no American can safely enter it.
For this reason, when it was necessary to give Lopez Navarro certain
instructions, I volunteered to bring them. By the Virgin of Guadalupe! I have
had my reward," he said, lifting the Senora's hand and kissing it.
"But, then, even
you are in danger."
"Si! If I am
discovered; but, blessed be the hand of God! Luis Alveda knows where he is
going, and how to get there."
"I have
heard," said the Senora in a hushed voice, "that there are to be no
prisoners. That is Santa Anna's order."
"I heard it twenty
days ago, and am still suffocating over it."
"Ah, Luis, you do
not know the man yet! I heard Fray Ignatius say that."
"We know him well;
and also what he is capable of"; and Luis plucked his mustache fiercely,
as he bowed a silent farewell to the ladies.
"Holy Maria! How
brave he is!" said Isabel, with a flash of pride that conquered her desire
to weep. "How brave he is! Certainly, if he meets Santa Anna, he will kill
him."
They went very quietly
up-stairs. The Senora was anticipating the interview she expected with Rachela,
and, perhaps wisely, she isolated herself in an atmosphere of sullen and
haughty silence. She would accept nothing from her, not even sympathy or
flattery; and, in a curt dismission, managed to make her feel the immeasurable
distance between a high-born lady of the house of Flores, and a poor manola
that she had taken from the streets of Madrid. Rachela knew the Senora was
thinking of this circumstance; the thought was in her voice, and it cowed and
snubbed the woman, her nature being essentially as low as her birth.
As for the Senora, the
experience did her a world of good. She waited upon herself as a princess might
condescend to minister to her own wants--loftily, with a smile at her own
complaisance. The very knowledge that her husband was near at hand inspired her
with courage. She went to sleep assuring herself "that not even Fray
Ignatius should again speak evil of her beloved, who never thought of her
except with a loyal affection." For in married life, the wife can sin
against love as well as fidelity; and she thought with a sob of the cowardice
which had permitted Fray Ignatius to call her dear one "rebel and
heretic."
"Santa Dios!"
she said in a passionate whisper; "it is not a mortal sin to think
differently from Santa Anna"--and then more tenderly--"those who love
each other are of the same faith."
And if Fray Ignatius
had seen at that moment the savage whiteness of her small teeth behind the
petulant pout of her parted lips, he might have understood that this woman of
small intelligence had also the unreasoning partisanship and the implacable
sense of anger which generally accompanies small intelligence, and which
indicates a nature governed by feeling, and utterly irresponsive to reasoning
which feeling does not endorse.
. . . . "witness,When the dark-stoled priestly crew,Came swift
trooping where the trumpetOf foul Santa Anna blew.""Rouse thee,
Wrath, and be a giant;People's Will, that hath been pliant,Long, too long;Up, and
snap the rusty chaining,Brittle bond for thy restraining,Know the hour, the
weak are reigningThou art strong."Rise and right the wrongs of
ages;Balance Time's unequal pagesWith the sword." It was nearly two o'clock when Don Luis mounted his horse
and left the Worth residencia. The storm still raged, the night was dark, the
cold intense, but the home of Lopez Navarro was scarce a quarter of a mile
away; and he found him waiting his return.
"You have still an
hour, Luis. Come in and sit with me."
"As you say; and I
wish to show you that I am capable of a great thing. You do not believe me?
Well, then give me again my own clothes. I will resign these."
"You are most
welcome to them, Luis."
"But no; I am in
earnest. The fight is at hand--they are too fine."
"Yes, but I will
tell you--I can say anything to you--there is to be a grand day for freedom;
well, then, for a festa one puts on the best that is to be got. I will even
lend you my Cross of Saint James, if you wish. A young hero should be dressed
like a hero. Honor my poor clothes so far as to wear them in the fight."
"Thank you, Lopez.
I will not disgrace them"; and he bent forward and looked into his
friend's eyes. His glance prolonged his words--went further than speech--went
where speech could not reach.
"Listen to me,
Luis. As a matter of precision, where now are the Americans?"
"At the mission of
Espada."
"La Espada?--the
sword--the name is ominous."
"Of success,
Lopez."
"Is Houston, then,
with you?"
"Until a few days
ago. He and General Austin have gone to San Felipe."
"For what? Is not
San Antonio the most important point?"
"It was decided by
the vote of the army to send them there to frame a provisional government.
There are plenty of fighters with us, but not one statesman but Houston. And
now it is necessary that we should have legal authority to obtain loans,
maintain the army in the field, and many other such things vital to our cause.
Austin is to go to the United States. He will bring back men and money. Houston
must draw up our declaration and manifestoes; direct the civil government;
forward troops; and, in fact, set a new government in motion."
"He is the
loadstone in the bosom! I wonder that the Americans permitted that he should
leave them."
The loadstone in the bosom is a charm against evil; the bringer of good
fortune. "He, and he only,
was the man to go. Ere he left, he said some strange words. I shall not, as a
Mexican, forget them. In the midst of the men he stood like a god, with his
great stature, and his bright, strong face. One cannot think of him as of a
common mortal. Indeed, I will confess that I could only compare him with the
Efreet in the Arabian tale, `whose nostrils were like trumpets, his eyes like
lamps, and who had dishevelled, dust colored hair'"
"But, to proceed;
what were the strange words?"
"Thus he spoke,
and his voice rang out like a clarion:
"`You will fight
as men fight for their homes, and their wives, and their children, but
also--remember this--the idea of Texas is in the American heart! Two
generations they have carried it there! It is your destiny to make the idea a
fact! As far back as eighteen nineteen, Adams wanted Texas. When Adams became
president, he told Poinsett to offer Mexico a million of dollars for Texas.
Clay would have voted three millions. Van Buren, in eighteen twenty-nine, told
Poinsett to offer five millions for Texas. I went to Washington that year, and
proposed to revolutionize Texas. I declare to you that the highest men in the
land were of my mind. Only last July President Jackson offered an additional
half million dollars for the Rio Grande boundary; and Mr. Secretary Forsyth
said, justly or unjustly, by hook, or by crook, Texas must become part of our
country. We have been longing for it for fifty years! Now, then,
brothers-in-arms!' he cried, `You are here for your homes and your freedom;
but, more than that, you are here for your country!' Remember the thousands of
Americans who have slipped out of history and out of memory, who have bought
this land with their blood! We have held a grip on Texas for fifty years. By
the soul of every American who has perished here, I charge you, No Surrender!'
"You should have
heard the shout that answered the charge. Jesu, Maria! It made my heart leap to
my bosom. And ever since, the two words have filled the air. You could see men
catching them on their lips. They are in their eyes, and their walk. Their
hands say them. The up-toss of their heads says them. When they go into battle
they will see Houston in front of them, and hear him call back `No surrender!'
Mexico cannot hold Texas against such a determined purpose, carried out by such
determined men."
Lopez did not answer.
He was a melancholy, well-read man, who had travelled, and to whom the idea of
liberty was a passion. But the feeling of race was also strong in him, and he
could not help regretting that liberty must come to Texas through an alien
people--"heretics, too"--he muttered, carrying the thought out aloud.
It brought others equally living to him, and he asked, "Where, then, is
Doctor Worth?"
"At Espada. The
army wished him to go to San Felipe with Houston, but he declined. And we want
him most of all, both as a fighter and a physician. His son Thomas went in his
place."
"I know not
Thomas."
"Indeed, very few
know him. He is one that seldom speaks. But his rifle has its word always
ready."
"And Jack?"
"Jack also went to
San Felipe. He is to bring back the first despatches. Jack is the darling of
the camp. Ah, what a happy soul he has! One would think that it had just come
from heaven, or was just going there."
"Did you see
Senorita Antonia to-night?"
"Si! She is a
blessing to the eyesight. So brave a young girl, so sweet, so wise; she is a
miracle! If I loved not Isabel with my whole soul, I would kneel at Antonia's
feet."
"That is where I
also would kneel."
"Hark! how the
wind roars, and how the rain thrashes the house! But our men have the shelter
of one of the Panchos. You should have heard the padre threaten them with the
anger of heaven and hell and General Cos. Good-bye, Lopez. I have stayed my
last moment now."
"Your horse has
been well fed. Listen, he is neighing for you; to Doctor Worth give my
honorable regards. Is Senor Parades with you? and Perez Mexia? Say to them I
keep the vow I made in their behalf. Farewell, Luis!" and Luis, who had
been mounting as his friend talked, stooped from his saddle and kissed him.
It was just dawn when
he reached camp, and he found Doctor Worth waiting his arrival. Fortunately
there was nothing but good news for the doctor. Luis had seen everything
through the medium of his own happiness, and he described the midnight meal and
the Senora's amiability with the utmost freedom from anything unpleasant.
Rachela's interference he treated with scornful indifference; and yet it
affected Worth's mind unpleasantly. For it went straight to the source of
offence. "She must have had Fray Ignatius behind her. And my poor Maria,
she will be as dough for them to knead as they desire to!"
And, in fact, as he was
thus thinking, the Senora was lying awake in her bed, anticipating her
confessor's next visit. She was almost glad the norther was still blowing. It
would give her another day's respite; and "so many things happen as the
clock goes round," she reflected. Perhaps even her Roberto might arrive;
it would not be more wonderful than the visit of Luis Alveda.
But very early in the
day she saw the father hurrying up the oleander avenue. The wind tossed his
gown, and blew his hat backward and sideways, and compelled him to make un-
dignified haste. And such little things affect the mental poise and mood! The
Senora smiled at the funny figure he made; and with the smile came a feeling of
resistance to his tyranny, and a stubborn determination to defend her own
conduct.
He came into her room
with a doleful countenance, saying, as he crossed himself, "God be
here!"
"And with you,
father," answered the Senora, cheerfully--a mood she had assumed at the
last moment, by a kind of instinct.
"There is evil
news on every hand my daughter. The heretics are swarming like wolves around
the Missions. Several of our holy brothers have endured the last extremity.
These wolves will even enter the city, and you will be in danger. I have come
to take you to the convent. There, Holy Mary will be your safety."
"But these wolves
might attack the convent, father!"
"Our Blessed Lady
is stronger than they. She has always kept her own."
"Blessed be the
hand of God and Mary! will trust in them. Ah, Antonia! Listen to Fray Ignatius!
He says we must go to the convent--the heretics are coming. They have even
slain some priests at the Mission."
"Fray Ignatius has
been misinformed, dear mother. When a man wears a gown and has no arms
Americans do not molest him. That is certain. As for the convent it is
impossible. My father forbade it. If the Americans enter the city, he is with
them. He will protect us, if we should need it, which is not likely."
"Disobedient
one!"
"Pardon. I wish
only to obey the commands of my father."
"I absolve you
from them."
"They are between
God and my soul. There is no absolution from duty."
"Grace of God!
Hear you, Senora! Hear you the rebellious and disobedient one! She has defied
me to my face! She is near to being anathema! She is not your daughter! She is
bewitched. Some evil spirit has possession of her. Let no one touch her or
speak to her; it shall be a mortal sin."
Antonia fell at her
mother's knee. "Mi madre! I am your daughter, your Antonia, that you
carried in your breast, and that loves you better than life. Permit me not to
be accused of sin--to be called a devil. Mother, speak for me."
At this moment Isabel
entered. Seeing the distress of her mother and sister she hastened to them; but
Fray Ignatius stepped between, and extending his arms forbade her nearer
approach.
"I forbid you to
speak to your sister. I forbid you to touch her, to give her food, or water, or
sympathy, until she has humbled herself, and obtained the forgiveness of her
sin."
Then mother love stood
up triumphant over superstition. "I and my daughter are the same,"
said the Senora, and she gave her hand to Antonia. "If she has sinned, we
will bear the penance together; she and I together."
"I command you to
stand apart. For the good of Antonia's sinful soul, I command you to withdraw
yourself from her."
"She is my
daughter, father. I will bear the sin and the punishment with her. The Holy
Mother will understand me. To her I will go."
The door of her room
was at hand; she stepped swiftly to it, and putting her daughters before her,
passed in and turned the key.
The movement took the
priest by surprise, and yet he was secretly satisfied with it. He had permitted
himself to act with an imprudence most unusual. He had allowed the Senora to
find out her own moral strength, and made a situation for her in which she had
acted not only without his support, but against his authority.
"And yet," he
muttered, "so much depends upon my persuading her into the convent;
however, nothing now is to be done to- day, except to see Rachela. Saint
Joseph! if these American heretics were only in my power! What a long joy I
would make of them! I would cut a throat--just one throat--every day of my
life."
The hatred which could
contemplate a vengeance so long drawn out was on his dark face; yet, it is but
justice to say, that he sincerely believed it to be a holy hatred. The foes of
the church, he regarded as the foes of God; and his anger as a just zeal for
the honor of the Lord of Hosts. Beside which, it included a far more tangible
cause.
The accumulated
treasures of the Missions; their gold and gems, their costly vestments and holy
vessels, had been removed to the convent for safety. "These infidels of
Ameri cans give to women the honor they should give to God and Holy
Church," he said to his brethren. "They will not suffer the Sisters
to be molested; and our wealth will be safe wherever they are."
But this wealth was
really so immense, that he believed it might be well to secure it still
further, and knowing the position Dr. Worth held among his countrymen, he
resolved to induce his wife and daughters to seek refuge within the convent.
They were, in fact, to be held as hostages, for the protection of the property
of the Church.
That he should fail in
his plan was intolerable to him. He had been so confident of success. He
imagined the smile on the face of Fray Sarapiam, and the warning against self--
confidence he would receive from his superior; and he vowed by Saint Joseph
that he would not suffer himself to be so mortified by three women.
Had he seen the Senora
after the first excitement of her rebellion was over, he would have been
satisfied of the validity of his authority, at least as regarded her. She flung
herself at the foot of her altar, weeping and beating her breast in a passion
of self-accusation and contrition. Certainly, she had stood by her daughter in
the presence of the priest; but in her room she withdrew herself from the poor
girl as if she were a spiritual leper.
Antonia at a distance
watched the self-abasement of her mother. She could not weep, but she was white
as clay, and her heart was swollen with a sense of wrong and injustice, until
breathing was almost suffocation. She looked with a piteous entreaty at Isabel.
Her little sister had taken a seat at the extremity of the room away from her.
She watched Antonia with eyes full of terror. But there was no sympathy in her
face, only an uncertainty which seemed to speak to her--to touch her-- and her
mother was broken-hearted with shame and grief.
The anxiety was also a
dumb one. Until the Senora rose from her knees, there was not a movement made,
not a word uttered. The girls waited shivering with cold, sick with fear, until
she spoke. Even then her words were cold as the wind outside:
"Go to your room,
Antonia. You have not only sinned; you have made me sin also. Alas! Alas!
Miserable mother! Holy Maria! pray for me."
"Mi madre, I am
innocent of wrong. I have committed no sin. Is it a sin to obey my father?
Isabel, darling, speak for me."
"But, then, what
have you done, Antonia?"
"Fray Ignatius
wants us to go to the convent. I refused. My father made me promise to do so.
Is not our first duty to our father? Mother, is it not?
"No, no; to
God--and to Fray Ignatius, as the priest of God. He says we ought to go to the
convent. He knows best. We have been disobedient and wicked."
"Isabel, speak, my
dear one. Tell mi madre if you think we should go."
There was a moment's
wavering, and then Isabel went to her mother and caressed her as only Isabel
could caress her, and with the kisses, she said boldly: "Mi madre, we will
not go to the convent. Not any of us. It is a dreadful place, even for a happy
child. Oh, how cold and still are the Sisters! They are like stone figures that
move about."
"Hush, child! I
cannot listen to you! Go away! I must be alone. I must think. I must pray. Only
the Mother of Sorrows can help me."
It was a miserable
sequence to the happy night, and Antonia was really terrified at the position
in which she found herself. If the Americans should fall, nothing but flight,
or uncompromising submission to Fray Ignatius, remained for her. She knew only
too well how miserable her life could be made; what moral torture could be
inflicted; what spiritual servitude exacted. In a moment of time she had
comprehended her danger, and her heart sank and sickened with a genuine
physical terror.
The cold was still
severe, and no one answered her call for wood. Isabel crouched, white and
shivering, over the dying embers, and it was she who first uttered the fear
Antonia had refused to admit to herself--"Suppose the servants are
forbidden to wait upon us!"
"I will bring wood
myself, dearest." She was greatly comforted by the word "us."
She could almost have wept for joy of the sympathy it included. For thought is
rapid in such crucial moments, and she had decided that even flight with her
would be a kinder fate for Isabel, than the cruel tender mercies of the Sisters
and the convent.
They could not talk
much. The thought of their mother's anguish, and of the separation put between
them and their household, shocked and terrified them. Vainly they called for
fuel. At dinner time no table was laid, and no preparations made for the meal.
Then Antonia went into the kitchen. She took with her food, and cooked it. She
brought wood into the parlor, and made up the fire. Fortunately, her northern
education had given her plenty of resources for such emergencies. Two or three
savory dishes were soon ready, and the small table set upon a warm, bright
hearth.
The Senora had
evidently not been included in the ban, for Rachela attended with ostentatious
care to her comfort; but Isabel had rolled herself up in a wadded silk coverlet
and gone to sleep. Antonia awakened her with a kiss. "Come, queridita, and
get your dinner."
"But is it
possible? I thought Fray Ignatius had forbidden it."
"He cannot forbid
me to wait upon you, my darling one. And he cannot turn the flour into dust,
and the meat into stone. There is a good dinner ready; and you are hungry, no
doubt."
"For three hours I
have been faint. Ah! you have made me a custard also! You are a very
comforter."
But the girl was still
and sad, and Antonia was hard pressed to find any real comfort for her. For she
knew that their only hope lay in the immediate attack of the American force,
and its success; and she did not think it wise to hide from her sister the
alternatives that lay before them if the Americans failed.
"I am
afraid," said Isabel; "and so unhappy. A very sad business is life. I
cannot think how any one can care to live."
"Remember Luis,
and our father, and Jack, and Thomas, and our dear mother, who this morning
stood between us and Fray Ignatius. Will you let this priest turn the sky black
above you?"
"And also, men
will fight. What for? Who can tell? The Americans want so much of everything.
Naturally they do not get all they want. What do they do? Fight, and get
killed. Then they go into the next world, and complain of people. As for Luis,
I do not expect to see him again."
Fortunately, the
norther moderated at sunset. Life then seemed so much more possible. Adverse
elements intensify adverse fortune, and the physical suffering from the cold
had also benumbed Antonia's spirits, and made her less hopeful and less
clear-visioned. But when she awoke at the gray dawn of the next day, she awoke
with a different spirit. She had regained herself. She rose quietly, and looked
out towards the city. The black flag from the Alamo and the Missions hung above
it. She looked at the ominous standards, and then the tears sprang to her eyes;
she lifted her face and her hands to heaven, and a few words, swifter than
light, sprang from her soul into the ear of the Eternal Father of Spirits.
The answer came with
the petition--came with the crack of rifle shots; precise, regular, unceasing.
"Oh God! I thank
Thee! Lord of Hosts, Thou art a great multitude! Isabel! Isabel! The Americans
are attacking the city! Our father will fight his way back to his home! Fray
Ignatius can not come to-day. Oh, I am so happy! So happy! Listen! How the
Mexicans are shouting! They are cheering on the men! What a turmoil!"
"Jesu, Maria, have
mercy!" cried Isabel, clasping her crucifix and falling upon her knees.
"Oh, Isabel, pray
for our father, that his angel may overshadow him with strong wings."
"And Luis?"
"And Luis, and
Thomas, and Jack, and Dare. There are prayers for them all, and love enough to
make them. Hark! there are the drums, and the trumpets, and the gallop of the
cavalry. Come, dearest, let us go to our mother. To day, no one will remember
Fray Ignatius."
"Now, hearts,Be ribbed with iron for this one attempt:Set ope' your
sluices, send the vigorous bloodThrough every active limb for our
relief.""Now they begin the tragic play,And with their smoky cannon
banish day.""Endure and conquer. God will soon disposeTo future good
our past and present woes:Resume your courage, and dismiss your care;An hour
will come with pleasure to relateYour sorrows past, as benefits of Fate." The Seņora was already dressed.
She turned with a face full of fear and anger to her daughters as they entered
her room--
"These American
diablos! They are attacking the city. They will take it--that is to be
expected--who can fight diablos? And what is to become of us? Oh, Antonia! Why
did you prevent Fray Ignatius? We might now have been safe in the
convent", and Rachela nodded her head in assent, with an insufferable air
of reproof and toleration.
Antonia saw that the
time had not yet come for pleading her own cause. She left Isabel with her
mother. The Senora's breakfast was waiting, and she offered to share it with
her youngest daughter. Antonia went downstairs to prepare for herself some
coffee. She was surprised and pleased to find it made. For a certain thought
had come to Molly in the night and she had acted upon it--
"The praist is a
strange praist, and almost as black as a nagur; and I'd be a poor body, I
think, to let him be meddling wid my work. Shure, I never heard of the like of
such inter- fering in Ireland, nor in the States at all!" Then turning to
the Mexican cook, Manuel--"You may lave the fire alone till I bees done
wid it."
"Fray Ignatius
will not give you absolution if you disobey him."
"He can be kaping
the same then. There is an Irish praist at San Patricio, and I'll be going
there for my absolution; and I'll be getting none any nearer that an Irish soul
will be a pin the better for. I'll say that, standing in the church, to the
saints themselves; and so be aff wid you and let the fire alone till I bees
done wid it."
But it was not Molly's
place to serve the food she cooked, and she did not trouble herself about the
serving. When she had asserted her right to control her own work, and do it or
neglect it as it seemed good to herself alone, she was satisfied. Over
Antonia--who was at least half a Mexican--she acknowledged a Mexican priest to
have authority; and she had no intention of interfering between Fray Ignatius
and his lawful flock. She was smoking her pipe by the fire when Antonia entered
the kitchen, and she neither lifted her eyes nor spoke to her.
Against such
unreasonable isolation Antonia could not help a feeling of anger; and she heard
with satisfaction the regular crack of the rifles. Her thought was--"They
will make these people find their tongues also, very soon." She was
exceedingly anxious for information; and, as she ate her roll and drank her
coffees she was considering how they could gain it. For even if Fray Ignatius
were able to visit them, his report would be colored by his prejudices and his
desires, and could not be relied on.
Her heart fluttered and
sank; she was hot and cold, sanguine and fearful. She could not endure the idea
of a suspense unrelieved by any reliable word. For the siege might be a long
one. San Antonio was strongly walled and defended. The Alamo fortress stood in
its centre. It had forty-eight cannon, and a garrison of a thousand men. Before
it could be reached, the city had to be taken; and the inhabitants would in the
main fight desperately for their homes.
As soon as she was
alone with her mother, she pointed out these facts to her. "Let me write
to Lopez Navarro, mi madre. He is a friend."
"Of the Americans!
Si."
"Of freedom. He
will send us word."
"Are you forgetful
of what is moral and respectable, Antonia? That a young lady should write to
Lopez Navarro--a man that is unmarried--is such a thing as never before
happened! He would think the world had come to an end, or worse."
"Dear mother! In a
time of trouble like this, who would think wrong of us? Surely you might
write."
"As you say,
Antonia. Tell me, then, who will take the letter."
"The peon Ortiz
will take it. This morning he brought in wood and kindled the fire, and I saw
in his face the kindness of his heart."
After some further
persuasion, the Seņora agreed to write; and Ortiz undertook the
commission, with a nod of understanding. Then there remained nothing to be done
but to listen and to watch. Fortunately, however, Rachela found the centre of
interest among the servants in the kitchen; and the Seņora and her
daughter could converse without espionage.
Just after sunset a
letter arrived from Navarro. Rachela lingered in the room to learn its
contents. But the Seņora, having read them, passed the letter to
Antonia and Isabel; and Rachela saw with anger that Antonia, having carefully
considered it, threw it into the fire. And yet the news it brought was not
unfavorable:
"SEŅORA
MARIA FLORES WORTH: "I send this on December the fifth, in the year of our
Blessed Lord and Lady 1835. It is my honor and pleasure to tell you that the
Americans, having performed miracles of valor, reached the Plaza this afternoon.
Here the main body of the Mexican troops received them, and there has been
severe fighting. At sunset, the Mexicans retreated within the Alamo. The Texans
have taken possession of the Veramendi House, and the portion of the city
surrounding it. There has been a great slaughter of our poor countrymen. I
charge myself whenever I pass the Plaza, to say a paternoster for the souls who
fell there. Senora Maria Flores Worth, I kiss your hands. I kiss also the hands
of the Senorita Antonia, and the hands of the Senorita Isabel, and I make haste
to sign myself, "Your servant,
"LOPEZ NAVARRO."
This little confidence
between mother and daughters restored the tone of feeling between them. They
had something to talk of, personal and exclusive. In the fear and uncer-
tainty, they forgot priestly interdiction and clung to each other with that
affection which is the strength of danger and the comforter of sorrow.
On the following day
the depression deepened. The sounds of battle were closer at hand. The Mexican
servants had an air of insolence and triumph. Antonia feared for the evening's
report--if indeed Navarro should be able to send one. She feared more when she
saw the messenger early in the afternoon. "Too early is often worse than
too late." The proverb shivered upon her trembling lips as she took the
letter from him. The three women read it together, with sinking hearts:
"SEÑORA MARIA
FLORES WORTH: "This on the sixth of December, in the year of our Blessed
Lord and Lady 1835. The brave, the illustrious Colonel Milam is dead. I watched
him three hours in to-day's fight. A man so calm was inconceivable. He was
smiling when the ball struck him--when he fell. The Texans, after his loss,
retired to their quarters. This was at the hour of eleven. At the hour of one,
the Mexicans made another sortie from the Alamo. The Texans rushed to meet them
with an incredible vengeance. Their leader was General Burleson. He showed
himself to General Cos in a sheet of flame. Such men are not to be fought.
General Cos was compelled to retire to the Alamo. The battle is over for
to-day. On this earth the soul has but a mortal sword. The water in the river
is red with blood. The Plaza is covered with the dead and the dying. I have the
honor to tell you that these `miserables' are being attended to by the noble,
the charitable Senor Doctor Worth. As I write, he is kneeling among them. My
soul adores his humanity. I humbly kiss your hands, Senora, and the hands of
your exalted daughters. "LOPEZ NAVARRO."
Until midnight this
letter furnished the anxious, loving women with an unceasing topic of interest.
The allusion to her husband made the Senora weep. She retired to her oratory
and poured out her love and her fears in holy salutations, in thanksgivings and
entreaties.
The next morning there
was an ominous lull in the atmosphere. As men run backward to take a longer
leap forward, so both armies were taking breath for a fiercer struggle. In the
Worth residencia the suspense was becoming hourly harder to endure. The Senora
and her daughters were hardly conscious of the home life around them. In that
wonderful folk-speech which so often touches foundation truths, they were not
all there. Their nobler part had projected itself beyond its limitations. It
was really in the struggle. It mattered little to them now whether food was
cooked or not. They were neither hungry nor sleepy. Existence was prayer and
expectation.
Just before sunset
Antonia saw Don Lopez coming through the garden. The Senora, accompanied by her
daughters, went to meet him. His face was perplexed and troubled:
"General Cos has
been joined by Ugartechea with three hundred men," he said. "You will
see now that the fight will be still more determined."
And before daylight
broke on the morning of the 5th, the Americans attacked the Alamo. The black
flag waved above them; the city itself had the stillness of death; but for
hours the dull roar and the clamorous tumult went on without cessation. The
Senora lay upon her bed motionless, with hands tightly locked. She had
exhausted feeling, and was passive. Antonia and Isabel wandered from window to
window, hoping to see some token which would indicate the course of events.
Nothing was visible but
the ferocious flag flying out above the desperate men fighting below it. So
black! So cruel and defiant it looked! It seemed to darken and fill the whole
atmosphere around it. And though the poor women had not dared to whisper to
each other what it said to them, they knew in their own hearts that it meant,
if the Americans failed, the instant and brutal massacre of every prisoner.
The husband and father
were under its inhuman shadow. So most probably were Darius Grant and Luis
Alveda. It was even likely that Jack might have returned ere the fight, and was
with the besiegers. Every time they went to the window, it filled their hearts
with horror.
In the middle of the
afternoon it suddenly disappeared. Antonia watched it breathlessly. Several
times before, it had been dropped by some American rifle; but this time it was
not as speedily replaced. In a few minutes she uttered a shrill cry. It was in
a voice so strained, so piercing, so unlike her own, that the Senora leaped
from her bed. Antonia turned to meet her mother with white, parted lips. She
was speechless with excess of feeling, but she pointed to the Alamo. The black
flag was no longer there! A white one was flying in its place.
"It is a
surrender!" gasped Antonia. "It is a surrender!" and, as if in
response to her words, a mighty shout and a simultaneous salute of rifles
hailed the emblem of victory.
An hour afterwards a
little Mexican boy came running with all his speed. He brought a few lines from
Don Lopez. They had evidently been written in a great hurry, and on a piece of
paper torn from his pocket-book, but oh! how welcome they were. The very lack
of formality gave to them a certain hurry of good fortune:
"May you and yours be God's care for many years to come,
Seņora! The Mexicans have surrendered the Alamo, and asked for
quarter. These noble-minded Americans have given it. The Seņor
Doctor will bring you good news. I rejoice with you. "LOPEZ NAVARRO."
Death and captivity had
been turned away from their home, and the first impulse of these pious,
simple-hearted women was a prayer of thanksgiving. Then Antonia remembered the
uncomfortable state of the household, and the probable necessities of the men
coming back from mortal strife and the shadow of death.
She found that the news
had already changed the domestic atmosphere. Every servant was attending to his
duty. Every one professed a great joy in the expected arrival of the Senor. And
what a happy impetus the hope gave to her own hands! How delightful it was to
be once more arranging the evening meal, and brightening the rooms with fire
and light!
Soon after dark they
heard the swing of the garden gate, the tramp of rapid footsteps, and the
high-pitched voices of excited men. The door was flung wide. The Senora forgot
that it was cold. She went with outstretched arms to meet her husband. Dare and
Luis were with him. They were black with the smoke of battle. Their clothing
was torn and bloodstained; the awful light of the fierce struggle was still
upon their faces. But they walked like heroes, and the glory of the deeds they
had done crowned with its humanity, made them appear to the women that loved
them but a little lower than the angels.
Doctor Worth held his
wife close to his heart and kissed her tears of joy away, and murmured upon her
lips the tenderest words a woman ever hears--the words a man never perfectly
learns till he has loved his wife through a quarter of a century of change, and
sorrow, and anxiety. And what could Antonia give Dare but the embrace, the
kiss, the sweet whispers of love and pride, which were the spontaneous outcome
of both hearts?
There was a moment's
hesitation on the part of Luis and Isabel. The traditions of caste and country,
the social bonds of centuries, held them. But Isabel snapped them asunder. She
looked at Luis. His eyes were alight with love for her, his handsome face was
transfigured with the nobility of the emotions that possessed him. In spite of
his disordered dress, he was incomparably handsome. When he said, "Angel
mio!" and bent to kiss her hand, she lifted her lovely face to his, she
put her arms around his neck, she cried softly on his breast, whispering sweet
little diminutives of affection and pride. Such hours as followed are very rare
in this life; and they are nearly always bought with a great price--paid for in
advance with sorrow and anxiety, or earned by such faithful watching and
patient waiting as touches the very citadel of life.
The men were hungry;
they had eaten nothing all day. How delicious was their meal! How happy and
merry it made the Senora, and Antonia, and Isabel, to see them empty dish after
dish; to see their unaffected enjoyment of the warm room, and bright fire, of
their after-dinner coffee and tobacco. There was only one drawback to the joy
of the reunion--the absence of Jack.
"His
disappointment will be greater than ours," said Jack's father. "To be
present at the freeing of his native city, and to bring his first laurels to
his mother, was the brightest dream Jack had. But Jack is a fine rider, and is
not a very fine marksman; so it was decided to send him with Houston to the
Convention. We expected him back before the attack on the city began. Indeed,
we were waiting for orders from the Convention to undertake it."
"Then you fought
without orders, father?"
"Well, yes,
Antonia--in a way. Delays in war are as dangerous as in love. We were
surrounded by dragoons, who scoured the country in every direction to prevent
our foraging. San Antonio had to be taken. Soon done was well done. On the
third of December Colonel Milam stepped in front of the ranks, and asked if two
hundred of the men would go with him and storm the city. The whole eleven
hundred stepped forward, and gave him their hands and their word. From them two
hundred of the finest marksmen were selected."
"I have to say
that was a great scene, mi Roberto."
"The greater for
its calmness, I think. There was no shouting, no hurrahing, no obvious
enthusiasm. It was the simple assertion of serious men determined to carry out
their object."
"And you stormed
San Antonio with two hundred men, father?"
"But every man was
a picked man. A Mexican could not show his head above the ramparts and live. We
had no powder and ball to waste; and I doubt if a single ball missed its
aim."
"A Mexican is like
a Highland Scot in one respect," said Dare;" he fights best with
steel. They are good cavalry soldiers."
"There are no
finer cavalry in the world than the horsemen from Santa Fe, Dare. But with
powder and ball Mexicans trust entirely to luck; and luck is nowhere against
Kentucky sharpshooters. Their balls very seldom reached us, though we were
close to the ramparts; and we gathered them up by thousands, and sent them back
with our double-Dupont powder. Then they did damage enough. In fact, we have
taken the Alamo with Mexican balls."
"Under what flag
did you fight, Roberto?"
"Under the Mexican
republican flag of eighteen twenty-four; but indeed, Maria, I do not think we
had one in the camp. We were destitute of all the trappings of war--we had no
uniforms, no music, no flags, no positive military discipline. But we had one
heart and mind, and one object in view; and this four days' fight has shown
what men can do, who are moved by a single, grand idea."
The Senora lay upon a
sofa; the doctor sat by her side. Gradually their conversation became more low
and confidential. They talked of their sons, and their probable whereabouts; of
all that the Senora and her daughters had suffered from the disaffection of the
servants; and the attitude taken by Fray Ignatius. And the doctor noticed,
without much surprise, that his wife's political sympathies were still in a
state of transition and uncertainty. She could not avoid prophesying the speedy
and frightful vengeance of Mexico. She treated the success at San Antonio as
one of the accidents of war. She looked forward to an early renewal of
hostilities.
"My countrymen are
known to me, Roberto," she said, with a touch that was almost a hope of
vengeance. "They have an insurmountable honor; they will revenge this insult
to it in some terrible way. If the gracious Maria holds not the hands of Santa
Anna, he will utterly destroy the Americans! He will be like a tiger that has
become mad."
"I am not so much
afraid of Santa Anna as of Fray Ignatius. Promise me, my dear Maria, that you
will not suffer yourself or your children to be decoyed by him into a convent.
I should never see you again."
The discussion on this
subject was long and eager. Antonia, talking with Dare a little apart, could
not help hearing it and feeling great interest in her father's entreaties, even
though she was discussing with Dare the plans for their future. For Dare had
much to tell his betrothed. During the siege, the doctor had discovered that
his intended son-in-law was a fine surgeon. Dare had, with great delicacy, been
quite reticent on this subject, until circumstances made his assistance a
matter of life and death; and the doctor understood and appreciated the young
man's silence.
"He thinks I might
have a touch of professional jealousy-- he thinks I might suspect him of
wanting a partnership as well as a wife; he wishes to take his full share of
the dangers of war, without getting behind the shield of his profession";
these feelings the doctor understood, and he passed from Fray Ignatius to this
pleasanter topic, gladly.
He told the Senora
clasped her husband's hand with a smile. They were sweetening their own
happiness with making the happiness of their children. They looked first at
Antonia. She sat with Dare, earnestly talking to him in a low voice. Dare
clasped in his own the dear little hand that had been promised to him. Antonia
bent toward her lover; her fair head rested against his shoulder. Isabel sat in
a large chair, and Luis leaned on the back of it, stooping his bright face to
the lovely one which was sometimes dropped to hide her blushes, and sometimes
lifted with flashing eyes to answer his tender words.
"My happiness is
so great, Roberto, I am even tired of being happy. Call Rachela. I must go to
sleep. To-night I cannot even say an ave."
"God hears the
unspoken prayer in your heart, Maria; and to-night let me help you upstairs. My
arm is stronger than Rachela's."
She rose with a little
affectation of greater weakness and lassitude than she really felt. But she
wished to be weak, so that her Roberto might be strong--to be quite dependent
on his care and tenderness. And she let her daughters embrace her so prettily,
and then offered her hand to Dare and Luis with so much grace and true kindness
that both young men were enchanted.
"It is to be seen
that they are gentlemen," she said, as she went slowly upstairs on her
husband's arm--"and hark! that is the singing of Luis. What is it he
says?" They stood still to listen. Clear and sweet were the chords of the
mandolin, and melodiously to them Luis was protesting--
"I tell thee, priest, if the world were wiseThey would not wag one
finger in your quarrels:Your heaven you promise, but our earth you covet;The
Phaetons of mankind, who fire the worldWhich you were sent by preaching but to
warm."Your Saviour came not with a gaudy show,Nor was His kingdom of the
world below:The crown He wore was of the pointed thornIn purple He was
crucified, not born.They who contend for place and high degreeAre not His sons,
but those of Zebedee. "
--DRYDEN. The exalted state of mind
which the victorious men had brought home with them did not vanish with sleep.
The same heroic atmosphere was in the house in the morning. Antonia's face had
a brightness upon it that never yet was the result of mere flesh and blood.
When she came into the usual sitting- room, Dare was already there; indeed, he had
risen purposely for this hour. Their smiles and glances met each other with an
instantaneous understanding. It was the old Greek greeting "Rejoice!"
without the audible expression.
Never again, perhaps,
in all their lives would moments so full of sweetness and splendor come to
them. They were all the sweeter because blended with the homely duties that
fell to Antonia's hands. As she went about ordering the breakfast, and giving
to the table a festal air, Dare thought of the old Homeric heroes, and the
daughters of the kings who ministered to their wants. The bravest of them had
done no greater deeds of personal valor than had been done by the little band
of American pioneers and hunters with whom he had fought the last four days.
The princes among them had been welcomed by no sweeter and fairer women than
had welcomed his companions and himself.
And, though his
clothing was black with the smoke of the battle and torn with the fray, never
had Dare himself looked so handsome. There was an unspeakable radiance in his
fair face. The close, brown curls of his hair; his tall figure, supple and
strong; his air of youth, and valor, and victory; the love-light in his eyes;
the hopes in his heart, made him for the time really more than a mere mortal
man. He walked like the demigods he was thinking of. The most glorious ideal of
life, the brightest dream of love that he had ever had, found in this hour
their complete realization.
The Senora did not come
down; but Isabel and Luis and the doctor joined the breakfast party. Luis had
evidently been to see Lopez Navarro before he did so; for he wore a new suit of
dark blue velvet and silver, a sash of crimson silk, the neatest of patent
leather shoes, and the most beautifully embroidered linen. Dare gave him a
little smile and nod of approbation. He had not thought of fine clothing for
himself; but then for the handsome, elegant, Mexican youth it seemed precisely
the right thing. And Isabel, in her scarlet satin petticoat, and white
embroideries and satin slippers, looked his proper mate. Dare and Antonia, and
even the doctor, watched their almost childlike devotion to each other with
sympathetic delight.
Oh, if such moments
could only last! No, no; as a rule they last long enough. Joy wearies as well
as sorrow. An abiding rapture would make itself a sorrow out of our very
weakness to bear it. We should become exhausted and exacting, and be irritated
by the limitations of our nature, and our inability to create and to endure an
increasing rapture. It is because joy is fugitive that it leaves us a
delightsome memory. It is far better, then, not to hold the rose until it
withers in our fevered hand.
The three women watched
their heroes go back to the city. The doctor looked very little older than his
companions. He sat his horse superbly, and he lifted his hat to the proud
Senora with a loving grace which neither of the young men could excel. In that
far back year, when he had wooed her with the sweet words she taught him, he
had not looked more manly and attractive. There is a perverse disposition in
women to love personal prowess, and to adore the heroes of the battle-field;
and never had the Senora loved her husband as she did at that hour.
In his capacity of
physician he had done unnoticed deeds of far greater bravery--gone into a
Comanche camp that was being devastated by smallpox--or galloped fifty miles;
alone in the night, through woods haunted by savage men and beasts, to succor
some little child struggling with croup, or some frontiersman pierced with an
arrow. The Senora had always fretted and scolded a little when he thus exposed
his life. But the storming of the Alamo! That was a bravery she could
understand. Her Roberto was indeed a hero! Though she could not bring herself
to approve the cause for which he fought, she was as sensitive as men and women
always are to victorious valor and a successful cause.
Rachela was in a state
of rebellion. Nothing but the express orders of Fray Ignatius, to remain where
she was, prevented her leaving the Worths; for the freedom so suddenly given to
Isabel had filled her with indignation. She was longing to be in some house
where she could give adequate expression to the diabolical temper she felt it
right to indulge.
In the afternoon it was
some relief to see the confessor coming up the garden. He had resumed his usual
deliberate pace. His hands were folded upon his breast. He looked as the
mournful Jeremiah may have looked, when he had the burden of a heavy prophecy
to deliver.
The Senora sat down
with a doggedly sullen air, which Antonia understood very well. It meant,
"I am not to be forced to take any way but my own, to-day"; and the
wise priest understood her mood as soon as he entered the room. He put behind
him the reproof he had been meditating. He stimulated her curiosity; he asked
her sympathy. No man knew better than Fray Ignatius, when to assume sacerdotal
authority and when to lay it aside.
And the Senora was
never proof against the compliment of his personal friendship. The fight, as it
affected himself and his brotherhood and the convent, was full of interest to
her. She smiled at Brother Servando's childish alarm; she was angry at an
insult offered to the venerable abbot; she condoled with the Sisters, wept at
the danger that the famous statue of the Virgin de Los Reinedias had been
exposed to; and was altogether as sympathetic as he could desire, until her own
affairs were mentioned.
"And you also, my
daughter? The sword has pierced your heart too, I am sure! To know that your
husband and sons were fighting against your God and your country! Holy Mother!
How great must have been your grief. But, for your comfort, I tell you that the
saints who have suffered a fiery martyrdom stand at the feet of those who, like
you, endure the continual crucifixion of their affections."
The Senora was silent,
but not displeased and the priest then ventured a little further:
"But there is an
end to all trials, daughter and I now absolve you from the further struggle.
Decide this day for your God and your country. Make an offering to Almighty God
and the Holy Mother of your earthly love. Give yourself and your daughters and
all that you have to the benign and merciful Church. Show these rebels and
heretics--these ungrateful recipients of Mexican bounty--what a true Catholic
is capable of. His Divine Majesty and the Holy Mary demand this supreme
sacrifice from you."
"Father, I have my
husband, and my sons; to them, also, I owe some duties."
"The Church will
absolve you from them."
"It would break my
heart."
"Listen then: If
it is your right hand, or your right eye--that is, if it is your husband, or
your child--you are commanded to give them up; or--it is God's word--there is
only hell fire."
"Mother of
Sorrows, pity me! What shall I do?"
She looked with the terror
of a child into the dark, cruel face of the priest. It was as immovably stern
as if carved out of stone. Then her eyes sought those of Antonia, who sat at a
distant window with her embroidery in her hand. She let it fall when her
mother's pitiful, uncertain glance asked from her strength and counsel. She
rose and went to her. Never had the tall, fair girl looked so noble. A
sorrowful majesty, that had something in it of pity and something of anger,
gave to her countenance, her movements, and even her speech, a kind of
authority.
"Dear mother, do
as the beloved and kindhearted Ruth did. Like you, she married one not of her
race and not of her religion. Even when God had taken him from her, she chose
to remain with his people--to leave her own people and abide with his mother.
For this act God blessed her, and all nations in all ages have honored
her."
"Ruth! Ruth! Ruth!
What has Ruth to do with the question? Presumptuous one! Ruth was a heathen
woman--a Moabite--a race ten times accursed."
"Pardon, father.
Ruth was the ancestress of our blessed Saviour, and of the Virgin Mary."
"Believe not the
wicked one, Senora? She is blinded with false knowledge. She is a heretic. I
have long suspected it. She has not been to confession for nine months."
"You wrong me,
father. Every day, twice a day, I confess my sins humbly."
"Chito! You are in
outrageous sin. But, then, what else? I hear, indeed, that you read wicked
books--even upon your knees you read them."
"I read my Bible,
father."
"Bring it to me.
How could a child like you read the Bible? It is a book for bishops and
archbishops, and the Immaculate Father himself. What an arrogance? What an in
solence of self-conceit must possess so young a heart? Saints of God! It
confounds me."
The girl stood with
burning cheeks gazing at the proud, passionate man, but she did not obey his
order.
"Senora, my
daughter! See you with your own eyes the fruit of your sin. Will you dare to
become a partner in such wickedness?"
"Antonia! Antonia!
Go at once and bring here this wicked book. Oh, how can you make so miserable a
mother who loves you so much?"
In a few moments
Antonia returned with the objectionable book. "My dear grandmother gave it
to me," she said. "Look, mi madre, here is my name in her writing. Is
it conceivable that she would give to your Antonia a book that she ought not to
read?"
The Senora took it in
her hands and turned the leaves very much as a child might turn those of a book
in an unknown tongue, in which there were no illustrations nor anything that
looked the least interesting. It was a pretty volume of moderate size, bound in
purple morocco, and fastened with gilt clasps.
"I see the word
God in it very often, Fray Ignatius. Perhaps, indeed, it is not bad."
"It is a heretic
Bible, I am sure. Could anything be more sinful, more disrespectful to God,
more dangerous for a young girl?" and as he said the words he took it from
the Senora's listless hands, glanced at the obnoxious title-page, and then,
stepping hastily to the hearth, flung the book upon the burning logs.
With a cry of horror,
pain, amazement, all blended, Antonia sprang towards the fire, but Fray
Ignatius stood with outstretched arms, before it.
"Stand back!"
he cried. "To save your soul from eternal fires, I burn the book that has
misled you!"
"Oh, my Bible! Oh,
my Bible! Oh, mother! mother!" and sobbing and crying out in her fear and
anger, she fled down stairs and called the peon Ortiz.
"Do you know where
to find the Senor Doctor? If you do, Ortiz, take the swiftest horse and bring
him here."
The man looked with
anger into the girl's troubled face. For a moment he was something unlike
himself. "I can find him; I will bring him in fifteen minutes. Corpus
Christi it is here he should be."
The saddled horse in
the stable was mounted as he muttered one adjuration and oath after another,
and Antonia sat down at the window to watch for the result of her message. For-
tunately, Rachela had been so interested in the proceedings, and so determined
to know all about them, that she seized the opportunity of the outcry to fly to
"her poor Senora," and thus was ignorant of the most unusual step
taken by Antonia.
Indeed, no one was
aware of it but herself and Ortiz; and the servants in the kitchen looked with
a curious interest at the doctor riding into the stable yard as if his life
depended upon his speed. Perhaps it did. All of them stopped their work to
speculate upon the circumstance.
They saw him fling
himself from the saddle they saw Antonia run to meet him; they heard her voice
full of distress--they knew it was the voice of complaint. They were aware it
was answered by a stamp on the flagged hall of the doctor's iron- heeled
boot--which rang through the whole house, and which was but the accompaniment
of the fierce exclamation that went with it.
They heard them mount
the stairs together, and then they were left to their imaginations. As for
Antonia, she was almost terrified at the storm she had raised. Never had she
seen anger so terrible. Yet, though he had not said a word directly to her, she
was aware of his full sympathy. He grasped her hand, and entered the Senora's
room with her. His first order was to Rachela--
"Leave the house
in five minutes; no, in three minutes. I will tell Ortiz to send your clothes
after you. Go!"
"My Senora! Fray
I--"
"Go!" he
thundered. "Out of my house! Fly! I will not endure you another
moment."
The impetus of his
words was like a great wind. They drove the woman before him, and he shut the
door behind her with a terrifying and amazing rage. Then he turned to the
priest--
"Fray Ignatius,
you have abused my hospitality, and my patience. You shall do so no longer. For
twenty-six years I have suffered your interference-"
"The Senor is a
prudent man. The wise bear what they cannot resist"; and with a gentle
smile and lifted eyebrows Fray Ignatius crossed himself.
"I have respected
your faith, though it was the faith of a bigot; and your opinions, though they
were false and cruel, because you believed honestly in them. But you shall not
again interfere with my wife, or my children, or my servants, or my
house."
The Senor Doctor is not
prince, or pope. Shall,' and `shall not,' no one but my own ecclesiastical
superiors can say to me."
"I say, you shall
not again terrify my wife and insult my daughter, and disorganize my whole
household! And, as the God of my mother hears me, you shall not again burn up
His Holy Word under my roof. Never, while I dwell beneath it, enter my gates, or
cross my threshold, or address yourself to any that bear my name, or eat my
bread." With the words, he walked to the door and held it open. It was
impossible to mistake the unspoken order, and there was something in the
concentrated yet controlled passion of Robert Worth which even the haughty
priest did not care to irritate beyond its bounds.
He gathered his robe
together, and with lifted eyes muttered an ejaculatory prayer. Then he said in
slow, cold, precise tones:
"For the present,
I go. Very good. I shall come back again. The saints will take care of that.
Senora, I give you my blessing. Senor, you may yet find the curse of a poor
priest an inconvenience."
He crossed himself at
the door, and cast a last look at the Senora, who had thown herself upon her
knees, and was crying out to Mary and the saints in a passion of excuses and
reproaches. She was deaf to all her husband said. She would not suffer Antonia
to approach her. She felt that now was the hour of her supreme trial. She had
tolerated the rebellion of her husband, and her sons, and her daughter, and now
she was justly punished. They had driven away from her the confessor, and the
maid who had been her counsellor and her reliance from her girlhood.
Her grief and terror
were genuine, and therefore pitiful; and, in spite of his annoyance, the doctor
recognized the fact. In a moment, as soon as they were alone, he put aside his
anger. He knelt beside her, he soothed her with tender words, he pleaded the
justice of his indignation. And ere long she began to listen to his excuses,
and to complain to him:
He had been born a
heretic, and therefore might be excused a little, even by Almighty God. But
Antonia! Her sin was beyond endurance. She herself, and the good Sisters, and
Fray Ignatius, had all taught her in her infancy the true religion. And her
Roberto must see that this was a holy war--a war for the Holy Catholic Church.
No wonder Fray Ignatius was angry.
"My dear Maria,
every church thinks itself right; and all other churches wrong. God looks at
the heart. If it is right, it makes all worship true. But when the Americans
have won Texas, they will give to every one freedom to worship God as they
wish."
"Saints in heaven,
Roberto! That day comes not. One victory! Bah! That is an accident. The Mexicans
are a very brave people,--the bravest in the world. Did they not drive the
Spaniards out of their country; and it is not to be contradicted that the
Spaniards have conquered all other nations. That I saw in a book. The insult
the Americans have given to Mexico will be revenged. Her honor has been
compromised before the world. Very well, it will be made bright again; yes,
Fray Ignatius says with blood and fire it will be made bright."
"And in the mean
time, Maria, we have taken from them the city they love best of all. An hour
ago I saw, General Cos, with eleven hundred Mexican soldiers, pass before a
little band of less than two hundred Americans and lay down their arms. These
defenders of the Alamo had all been blessed by the priests. Their banners had
been anointed with holy oil and holy water. They had all received absolution
everyday before the fight began; they had been promised a free passage through
purgatory and a triumphant entry into heaven."
"Well, I will tell
you something; Fray Ignatius showed it to me--it was a paper printed. The
rebels and their wives and children are to be sent from this earth--you may
know where they will all go, Roberto--Congress says so. The States will give
their treasures. The archbishops will give the episcopal treasures. The
convents will give their gems and gold orna- ments. Ten thousand men had left
for San Antonio, and ten thousand more are to follow; the whole under our great
President Santa Anna. Oh, yes! The rebels in Washington are to be punished also.
It is well known that they sent soldiers to Nacogdoches. Mexicans are not blind
moles, and they have their intelligence, you know. All the States who have
helped these outrageous ingrates are to be devastated, and you will see that
your famous Washington will be turned into a heap of stories. I have seen these
words in print, Roberto. I assure you, that it is not just a little
breath--what one or another says--it is the printed orders of the Mexican
government. That is something these Americans will have to pay attention
to."
The doctor sighed, and
answered the sorrowful, credulous woman with a kiss. What was the use of
reasoning with simplicity so ignorant and so confident? He turned the
conversation to a subject that always roused her best and kindest feelings--her
son Jack.
"I have just seen
young Dewees, Maria. He and Jack left San Felipe together. Dewees brought
instructions to General Burleson; and Jack carried others to Fannin, at
Goliad."
She took her husband's
hands and kissed them. "That indeed! Oh, Roberto! If I could only see my
Jack once more! I have had a constant accusation to bear about him. Till I kiss
my boy again, the world will be all dark before my face. If Our Lady will grant
me this miraculous favor, I will always afterwards be exceedingly religious. I
will give all my desires to the other world."
"Dearest Maria,
God did not put us in this world to be always desiring another. There is no
need, mi queridita, to give up this life as a bad affair. We shall be very
happy again, soon.
"As you say. If I
could only see Jack! For that, I would promise God Almighty and you Roberto to
be happy. I would forgive the rebels and the heretics--for they are well
acquainted with hell road, and will guide each other there without my wish."
"I am sure if Jack
has one day he will come to you. And when he hears of the surrender of General
Cos--"
"Well now, it was
God's will that General Cos should surrender. What more can be said? It is
sufficient."
"Let me call
Antonia. She is miserable at your displeasure; and it is not Antonia's
fault."
"Pardon me,
Roberto. I have seen Antonia. She is not agreeable and obedient to Fray
Ignatius."
"She has been very
wickedly used by him; and I fear he intends to do her evil."
"It is not
convenient to discuss the subject now. I will see Isabel; she is a good
child--my only comfort. Paciencia! there is Luis Alveda singing; Isabel will
now be deaf to all else"; and she rose with a sigh and walked towards the
casement looking into the garden.
Luis was coming up the
oleander walk. The pretty trees were thinner now, and had only a pink blossom
here and there. But the bright winter sun shone through them, and fell upon
Luis and Isabel. For she had also seen him coming, and had gone to meet him,
with a little rainbow-tinted shawl over her head. She looked so piquant and so
happy. She seemed such a proper mate for the handsome youth at her side that a
word of dissent was not possible. The doctor said only, "She is so like
you, Maria. I remember when you were still more lovely, and when from your
balcony you made me with a smile the happiest man in the world."
Such words were never
lost ones; for the Senora had a true and great love for her husband. She gave
him again a smile, she put her hand in his, and then there were no further con-
ciliations required. They stood in the sunshine of their own hearts, and
listened a moment to the gay youth, singing, how at--
"Well, honor is the subject of my story;I cannot tell what you and
other menThink of this life; but for my single self,I had as lief not be, as
live to beIn awe of such a thing as I myself.""Two truths are toldAs
happy prologues to the swelling act,Of the imperial theme.""This is
the eve of Christmas,No sleep from night to morn;The Virgin is in travail,At
twelve will the Child be born." Cities
have not only a certain physiognomy; they have also a decided mental and moral
character, and a definite political tendency. There are good and bad cities,
artistic and commercial cities, scholarly and manufacturing cities,
aristocratic and radical cities. San Antonio, in its political and social
character, was a thoroughly radical city. Its population, composed in a large
measure of adventurous units from various nationalities, had that fluid rather
than fixed character, which is susceptible to new ideas. For they were
generally men who had found the restraints of the centu- ries behind them to be
intolerable--men to whom freedom was the grand ideal of life.
It maybe easily
undertood that this element in the population of San Antonio was a powerful
one, and that a little of such leaven would stir into activity a people who,
beneath the crust of their formal piety, had still something left of that pride
and adventurous spirit which distinguished the Spain of Ferdinand and Isabel.
In fact, no city on the
American continent has such a bloody record as San Antonio. From its settlement
by the warlike monks of 1692, to its final capture by the Americans in 1836, it
was well named "the city of the sword." The Comanche and the white
man fought around its walls their forty years' battle for supremacy. From 1810
to 1821 its streets were constantly bloody with the fight between the royalists
and republicans, and the city and the citadel passed from, one party to the
other continually. And when it came to the question of freedom and American
domination, San Antonio was, as it had ever been, the great Texan battle-
field.
Its citizens then were
well used to the fortunes and changes of war. Men were living who had seen the
horrors of the auto da fe and the splendors of viceregal authority. Insurgent
nobles, fighting priests, revolutionizing Americans, all sorts and conditions
of men, all chances and changes of religious and military power, had ruled it
with a temporary absolutism during their generation.
In the main there was a
favorable feeling regarding its occupation by the Americans. The most lawless
of them were law-abiding in comparison with any kind of victorious Mexi- cans.
Americans protected private property, they honored women, they observed the
sanctity of every man's home; "and, as for being heretics, that was an
affair for the saints and the priests; the comfortable benefits of the Holy
Catholic Church, had not been vouchsafed to all nations."
Political changes are
favorable to religious tolerance, and the priests themselves had been sensible
of a great decrease in their influence during the pending struggle. Prominent
Mexicans had given aid and comfort to the Americans in spite of their spiritual
orders, and there were many men who, like Lopez Navarro, did not dare to go to
confession, because they would have been compelled to acknowledge themselves
rebels.
When the doctor and
Dare and Luis reached the Plaza, the morning after the surrender, they found
the city already astir. Thousands of women were in the churches saying masses
for the dead; the men stood at their store doors or sat smoking on their
balconies, chatting with the passers-by or watching the movements of the
victorious army and the evacuation of the conquered one.
Nearly all of the brave
two hundred occupied the Plaza. They were still greatly excited by the
miraculous ecstacy of victory. But when soldiers in the death-pang rejoice
under its influence, what wonder that the living feel its intoxicating rapture?
They talked and walked as if they already walked the streets of Mexico. All
things seemed possible to them. The royalty of their carriage, the authority in
their faces, gave dignity even to their deerskin clothing. Its primitive
character was its distinction, and the wearers looked like the demi-gods of the
heroic stage of history.
Lopez Navarro touched
the doctor and directed his attention to them. "Does the world, Senor,
contain the stuff to make their counterparts?"
"They are
Americans, Navarro. And though there are a variety of Americans, they have only
one opinion about submitting to tyrants--they won't do it!"
This was the
conversation interrupted by Ortiz and the message he brought, and the doctor
was thoroughly sobered by the events following. He was not inclined to believe,
as the majority of the troops did, that Mexico was conquered. He expected that the
Senora's prediction would be verified. And the personal enmity which the
priesthood felt to him induced a depressing sense of personal disaster.
Nothing in the house or
the city seemed inclined to settle. It took a few days to draw up the articles
of capitulation and clear the town of General Cos and the Mexican troops. And
he had no faith in their agreement to "retire from Texas, and never again
carry arms against the Americans." He knew that they did not consider it
any sin to make "a mental reservation" against a heretic. He was
quite sure that if Cos met reinforcements, he would have to be fought over
again immediately.
And amid these public
cares and considerations, he had serious private ones. The Senora was still
under the control of Fray Ignatius. It required all the influence of his own
personal presence and affection to break the spiritual captivity in which he
held her. He knew that the priest had long been his enemy.
He saw that Antonia was
hated by him. He was in the shadow of a terror worse than death--that of a
long, hopeless captivity. A dungeon and a convent might become to them a living
grave, in which cruelty and despair would slowly gnaw life away.
And yet, for a day or
two he resolved not to speak of his terror. The Senora was so happy in his
presence, and she had such kind confidences to give him about her plans for her
children's future, that he could not bear to alarm her. And the children also
were so full of youth's enthusiasms and love's sweet dreams. Till the last
moment why should he awaken them? And as the strongest mental element in a home
gives the tone to it, so Dare and Antonia, with the doctor behind them, gave to
the Mexican household almost an American freedom of intercourse and community
of pleasure.
The Senora came to the
parlor far more frequently, and in her own apartments her children visited her
with but slight ceremony. They discussed all together their future plans. They
talked over a wonderful journey which they were to take in company to New
Orleans, and Washington, and New York, and perhaps even to London and
Paris--"who could tell, if the Senora would be so good as to enjoy
herself?" They ate more together. They got into the habit of congregating
about the same hearthstone. It was the Senora's first real experience of
domestic life.
In about six days the
Mexican forces left the city. The terms of surrender granted General Cos struck
the Mexicans with a kind of wonder. They had fought with the express
declaration that they would take no American prisoner. Yet the Americans not
only permitted Cos and his troops to leave under parole of honor, but gave them
their arms and sufficient ammunition to protect themselves from the Indians on
their journey home. They allowed them also all their private property. They
furnished them with the provisions necessary to reach the Rio Grande. They took
charge of their sick and wounded. They set all the Mexican prisoners at
liberty--in short, so great was their generosity and courtesy that the Mexicans
were unable to comprehend their motives.
Even Lopez was troubled
at it. "I assure you," he said to Dr. Worth, "they will despise
such civility; they will not believe in its sincerity. At this very blessed
hour of God, they are accusing the Americans of being afraid to press their
advantage. Simply, you will have the fight to make over again. I say this,
because I know Santa Anna."
"Santa Anna is but
a man, Lopez."
"Me perdonas! He
is however a man who knows a trick more than the devil. One must be careful of
a bull in front, of a mule behind, and of a monk and Santa Anna on all sides.
At the word monk, Lopez glanced significantly at a passing priest, and Doctor
Worth saw that it was Fray Ignatius.
"He sprinkled the
Mexican troops with holy water, and blessed them as they left the city this
morning. He has the ear of General Cos. He is not a man to offend, I assure
you, Doctor."
The doctor walked
thoughtfully away. San Antonio was full of his friends, yet never had he felt
himself and his family to be in so much danger. And the words of Lopez had
struck a responding chord in his own consciousness. The careless bravery, the
splendid generosity of his countrymen was at least premature. He went through
the city with observing eyes, and saw much to trouble him.
The gates of Alamo were
open. Crockett lounged upon his rifle in the Plaza. A little crowd was around
him, and the big Tennesseean hunter was talking to them. Shouts of laughter,
bravas of enthusiasm, answered the homely wit and stirring periods that had
over and over "made room for Colonel Crockett," both in the Tennessee
Legislature and the United States Congress. His rifle seemed a part of him--a
kind of third arm. His confident manner, his manliness and bravery, turned his
wit into wisdom. The young fellows around found in him their typical leader.
The elegant James Bowie
was sitting on the verandah of the Veramendi House, calmly smoking. His fair,
handsome face, clear blue eyes and mild manners, gave no indication of the
gigantic physical strength and tremendous coolness and courage of the man who
never tolerated an enemy in his presence. Burleson and Travis were talking
under the shade of a China tree, and there were little groups of American
soldiers on every street; this was what he saw, and yet a terrible sense of
insecurity oppressed him.
The city, moreover, was
not settling to its usual business, though there were many preparations for
public and private entertainments. After passing Colonel Bowie, he met David
Burnett. The shrewd statesman from New Jersey had a shadow upon his face. He
stopped Doctor Worth and spoke frankly to him. "We are in greater danger
now than when we were under fire," he said. "Santa Anna will come on
us like a lion from the swellings of Jordan. I wish Houston knew our position
as it really is. We must either have more men to defend this city or we must
blow up the Alamo and be ready to leave it at a moment's notice."
"Why were such
favorable terms given to General Cos and his troops? I cannot understand
it."
"I will tell you
an amazing fact. When Cos ran up that white flag on the Alamo, we had not a
single round of ammunition left; complaisance was necessary until Cos made over
to us the Mexican arms, ammunition, property and money."
Worth turned and looked
at the fort. A great red flag on which was the word T-E-X-A-S floated from its
battlements, and there were two men standing on its roof, with their faces
westward.
"They are the
lookouts," said Burnett, "and we have scouts through the surrounding
country; but Santa Anna will come, when he comes, with tens of thousands."
"And there is a
line where even the coolest courage and the most brilliant bravery succumbs to
mere numbers--Eh!"
"That is what I
mean, Doctor."
"Where is
Houston?"
"On the Brazos, at
the small town of Washington. The council have established headquarters
there."
Their conversation was
interrupted by the ringing of a little bell, and the doleful supplications of a
priest followed by a crowd of idle men and women. He was begging, "for the
sake of the Holy Virgin," alms to say masses for the soul of an
unfortunate, who had not left a peso for his burial. He droned on, and no one
noticed him until James Bowie stretched his tall figure, sauntered up to the monk
and dropped a gold piece into his cap. He did not stay to hear the exclamations
and the gracias, but with steps that rang like metal upon metal took his way to
the Alamo.
However, dangers
postponed make the most timorous indifferent to them; and when General Cos did
not return, and nothing was heard of Santa Anna, every one began to take up
their ordinary life again. The temper of the Americans also encouraged this
disposition. They were discovered neither to be bloodthirsty nor cannibals. It
was even seen that they enjoyed the fandango and the monte tables, and that a
proposition for a bullfight at Christmas was not opposed by them.
And in spite of all
anxieties, there were many sweet and unusual pleasures in the Worth home. The
discipline of the troops was so lenient that Dare and Luis--one or both--were
generally there in the evenings. Their turns as scouts or watchman at the Alamo
only made more delightful the hours when they were exempted from these duties.
As for the doctor, he had been released from all obligations but those
pertaining to his profession, and Antonia, noticed that he spent every hour he
could spare with the Senora. For some reason, he appeared determined to
strengthen his influence over her.
On Christmas Eve the
old city was very gay. The churches were decorated, and splendidly dressed men
and women passed in and out with smiles and congratulations. The fandangoes and
the gambling houses were all open. From the huertas around, great numbers of
families had come to receive absolution and keep the Nativity. Their rich
clothing and air of idleness gave a holiday feeling to the streets noisy with
the buzzing of the guitar, the metallic throb of the cithara, the murmurs of
voices, and the cries of the hawkers. Priests, Mexicans, Indians and Americans
touched each other on the narrow thoroughfares, but that indescribable feeling
of good will which comes with Christmas pervaded the atmosphere, and gave, even
in the midst of war and danger, a sense of anticipated pleasure.
At the Worth residence
there was a household feast. The Senora and her daughters were in full dress.
They were waiting for the dear ones who had promised to join them at the
Angelus. One by one the houses around were illuminated. Parties of simple
musicians began to pass each other continu ally--they were going to serenade
the blessed Mary all night long. As Antonia closed the balcony window, half a
dozen of these young boys passed the garden hedge singing to the clacking of
their castanets--
"This is the eve of Christmas,No sleep from night to morn,The
Virgin is in travail,At twelve will the Child be born." Luis appeared at the same moment. He
caught up the wild melody and came up the garden path singing it. Dare and the
doctor followed him. It struck Antonia that they were talking of a change, or
of something important. But there was no time for observation. Isabel, radiant
in crimson satin, with her white mantilla over her head, darted forward to meet
Luis, and turned his song to the Virgin into a little adulation for herself. Dare
and the doctor took Antonia's hands, and there was something in the silent
clasp of each which made her heart tremble.
But she was not one of
those foolish women who enquire after misfortune. She could wait and let the
evil news find her, and by so doing she won many a bright hour from the
advancing shadows. The Senora was in unusual spirits. She had obtained a new
confessor. "A man of the most seraphic mind, and, moreover, so fortunate
as to be connected with the house of Flores." He had been gentle to her in
the matter of penances, and not set her religious obligations above her
capacities. Consequently, the Senora had laid aside her penitential garments.
She was in full Castilian costume, and looked very handsome. But Antonia, who
had been in New York during those years when she would otherwise have been
learning how to wear a mantilla and use a fan, did not attempt such
difficulties of the toilet. She knew that she would look unnatural in them, and
she adhered to the American fashions of her day. But in a plain frock of dark
satin trimmed with minever bands, she looked exceedingly noble and lovely.
The meal was a very
merry one, and after it Lopez Navarro joined the party and they had music and
dancing, and finally gathered around the fire to hear the singing of Luis. He
knew a great many of the serenades, and as he sang of the Virgin and the Babe,
a sweeter peace, a more solemn joy, came to each heart. It was like bringing
something of the bliss of heaven into the bliss of earth. The Senora's eyes were
full of tears; she slipped her hand into her husband's and looked at him with a
face which asked, "Do you not also feel the eternity of a true love?"
"How sweet and
wild are these serenades, Luis! said Antonia. "I wonder who wrote
them?"
"But, then, they
were never written, my sister. Out of the hearts of lonely shepherds they came;
or of women spinning in their quiet houses; yes, even of soldiers in the strong
places keeping their watch."
"That is the
truth, Luis," answered Isabel. "And every Christmas, when I was in
the convent the Sisters made a serenade to the Virgin, or a seguidilla to our
blessed Lord. Very still are the Sisters, but when it comes to singing, I can
assure you the angels might listen!"
"There is a
seguidilla I hear everywhere," said the doctor; "and I never hear it
without feeling the better for listening. It begins--`So noble a Lord.'"
"That,
indeed!" cried Luis. "Who knows it not? It is the seguidilla to our
blessed Lord, written by the daughter of Lope de Vega--the holy Marcela Carpio.
You know it, Senora?"
"As I know my
Credo, Luis."
"And you,
Isabel?"
"Since I was a
little one, as high as my father's knee. Rachela taught it to me."
"And you,
Lopez."
"That is sure,
Luis."
"And I, too!"
said Antonia, smiling. "Here is your mandolin. Strike the chords, and we
will all sing with you. My father will remember also." And the doctor
smiled an assent, as the young man resigned Isabel's hand with a kiss, and
swept the strings in that sweetness and power which flows invisibly, but none
the less surely, from the heart to the instrument.
"It is to my
blessed Lord and Redeemer, I sing," he said, bowing his head. Then he
stood up and looked at his companions, and struck the key-note, when every one
joined their voices with his in the wonderful little hymn:
So noble a LordNone serves in vain;For the pay of my loveIs my love's
sweet pain.In the place of caressesThou givest me woes;I kiss Thy hands,When I
feel their blows.For in Thy chastening,Is joy and peace;O Master and Lord!Let
thy blows not cease.I die with longingThy face to seeAnd sweet is the anguishOf
death to me.For, because Thou lovest me,Lover of mine!Death can but make
meUtterly Thine! The doctor was
the first to speak after the sweet triumph of the notes had died away.
"Many a soul I have seen pass whispering those verses," he said;
"men and women, and little children."
"The good Marcela
in heaven has that for her joy," answered Luis.
Lopez rose while the
holy influence still lingered. He kissed the hands of every one, and held the
doctor's in his own until they reached the threshold. A more than usual
farewell took place there, though there were only a few whispered words.
"Farewell, Lopez!
I can trust you?"
"Unto death."
"If we never meet
again?"
"Still it will be
farewell. Thou art in God's care."
Very slowly the doctor
sauntered back to the parlor, like a man who has a heavy duty to, do and hardly
knows how to begin it. "But I will tell Maria first," he whispered;
and then he opened the door, and saw the Senora Alveda resented bitterly the
visits of her son Luis to Isabel. None of the customs of a Mexican betrothal
had taken place, and Rachela did not spare her imagination in describing the
scandalous American familiarity that had been permitted. That, this familiarity
had taken place under the eyes of the doctor and the Senora only intensified
the insult. She might have forgiven clandestine meetings; but that the
formalities due to the Church and herself should have been neglected was indeed
unpardonable.
It soon became evident
to the Senora that she had lost the good-will of her old friends, and the
respect that had always been given to her social position. It was difficult for
her to believe this, and she only accepted the humiliating fact after a variety
of those small insults which women reserve for their own sex.
She was fond of
visiting; she valued the good opinion of her caste, and in the very chill of
the gravest calamities she worried her strength away over little grievances
lying outside the walls of her home and the real affections of her life. And
perhaps with perfect truth she asserted that she had done nothing to deserve
this social ostracism. Others had made her miserable, but she could thank the
saints none could make her guilty.
The defeat of Cos had
been taken by the loyal inhabitants as a mere preliminary to the real fight.
They were very little disturbed by it. It was the overt act which was necessary
to convince Mexico that her clemency to Americans was a mistake, and that the
ungrateful and impious race must be wiped out of existence. The newspapers not
only reiterated this necessity, but proclaimed its certainty. They heralded the
coming of Santa Anna, the victorious avenger, with passionate gasconading. It
was a mere question of a few days or weeks, and in the meantime the people of
San Antonio were "making a little profit and pleasure to themselves out of
the extravagant reprobates." There was not a day in which they did not
anticipate their revenge in local military displays, in dances and
illuminations, in bull-fights, and in splendid religious processions.
And Antonia found it
impossible to combat this influence. It was in the house as certain flavors
were in certain foods, or as heat was in fire. She saw it in the faces of her
servants, and felt it in their indifference to their duty. Every hour she
watched more anxiously for some messenger from her father. And as day after day
went by in a hopeless sameness of grief, she grew more restless under the
continual small trials that encompassed her.
Towards the end of
January, General Urrea, at the head of the vanguard of the Mexican army,
entered Texas. His destination was La Bahia or Goliad, a strong fortress gar-
risoned by Americans under Colonel Fanning. Santa Anna was to leave in eight
days after him. With an army of twenty thousand men he was coming to the relief
of San Antonio.
The news filled the
city with the wildest rejoicing. The little bells of the processions, the big
bells of the churches, the firing of cannon, the hurrahs of the tumultuous
people, made an uproar which reached the three lonely women through the closed
windows of their rooms.
"If only Lopez
Navarro would come! If he would send us some little message! Holy Mary, even he
has forgotten us!" cried the Senora in a paroxysm of upbraiding sorrow.
At that moment the door
opened, and Fray Ignatius passed the threshold with lifted hands and a muttered
blessing. He approached the Senora, and she fell on her knees and kissed the
hand with which he crossed her.
"Holy
father!" she cried, "the angels sent you to a despairing woman."
"My daughter, I
have guided you since your first communion; how then could I forget you? Your
husband has deserted you-- you, the helpless, tender lamb, whom he swore to
cherish; but the blessed fold of your church stands open. Come, poor weary one,
to its shelter."
"My father--"
"Listen to me! The
Mexican troops are soon to arrive. Vengeance without mercy is to be dealt out.
You are the wife of an American rebel; I cannot promise you your life, or your
honor, if you remain here. When soldiers are drunk with blood, and women fall
in their way, God have mercy upon them! I would shield even your rebellious
daughter Antonia from such a fate. I open the doors of the convent to you all.
There you will find safety and peace."
Isabel sat with white,
parted lips and clasped hands, listening. Antonia had not moved or spoken. But
with the last words the priest half-turned to her, and she came swiftly to her
mother's side, and kissing her, whispered:
"Remember your
promise to my father! Oh, mi madre, do not leave Isabel and me alone!"
"You, too, dear
ones! We will all go together, till these dreadful days are past."
"No, no, no!
Isabel and I will not go. We will die rather."
"The Senorita
talks like a foolish one. Listen again! When Santa Anna comes for judgment, it
will be swift and terrible. This house and estate will be forfeited. The
faithful Church may hope righteously to obtain it. The sisters have long needed
a good home. The convent will then come to you. You will have no shelter but
the Church. Come to her arms ere her entreaties are turned to commands."
"My husband told
me--"
"Saints of God!
you have no husband. He has forfeited every right to advise you. Consider that,
daughter; and if you trust not my advice, there is yet living your honorable
uncle, the Marquis de Gonzaga."
Antonia caught eagerly
at this suggestion. It at least offered some delay, in which the Senora might
be strengthened to resist the coercion of Fray Ignatius.
"Mother, it is a
good thought. My great-uncle will tell you what to do; and my father will not
blame you for following his advice. Perhaps even he may offer his home. You are
the child of his sister."
Fray Ignatius walked
towards the fire-place and stood rubbing slowly his long, thin hands before the
blaze, while the Senora and her daughters discussed this proposal. The
half-frantic mother was little inclined to make any further effort to resist
the determined will of her old confessor; but the tears of Isabel won from her
a promise to see her uncle.
"Then, my
daughter, lose no time. I cannot promise you many days in which choice will be
left you. Go this afternoon, and to-morrow I will call for your decision."
It was not a visit that
the Senora liked to make. She had deeply offended her uncle by her marriage,
and their intercourse had since been of the most ceremonious and infrequent
kind. But surely, at this hour, when she was left without any one to advise her
steps, he would remember the tie of blood between them.
He received her with
more kindness than she had anticipated. His eyes glittered in their deep
sockets when she related her extremity and the priest's proposal, and his small
shrunken body quivered with excitement as he answered:
"Saints and
angels! Fray Ignatius is right about Santa Anna. We shall see that he will make
caps for his soldiers out of the skins of these infidel ingrates. But as for
going into the convent, I know not. A miserable marriage you made for yourself,
Maria. Pardon, if I say so much! I let the word slip always. I was never one to
bite my tongue. I am all old man--very well, come here, you and your daughters,
till the days of blood are over. There is room in the house, and a few comforts
in it also. I have some power with Santa Anna. He is a great man--a great man!
In all his wars, good fortune flies before him."
He kissed her hands as
he opened the door, and then went back to the fire, and bent, muttering, over
it: "Giver of good! a true Yturbide; a gentle woman; she is like my sister
Mercedes--very like her. These poor women who trust me, as I am a sinner before
God, I am unhappy to deceive them."
Fray Ignatius might
have divined his thoughts, for he entered at the moment, and said as he
approached him:
"You have done
right. The soul must be saved, if all is lost. This is not a time for the
friends of the Church and of Mexico to waver. The Church is insulted every day
by these foreign heretics--"
"But you are
mistaken, father; the Church holds up her head, whatever happens. Even the
vice-regal crown is not lost--the Church has cleft it into mitres."
Fray Ignatius smiled,
but there was a curious and crafty look of inquiry on his face. "The city
is turbulent, Marquis, and there is undoubtedly a great number of Mexicans
opposed to Santa Anna."
"Do you not know
Mexicans yet? They would be opposed to God Almighty, rather than confess they
were well governed. Bah! the genius of Mexico is mutiny. They scarcely want a
leader to move their madness. They rebel on any weak pretence. They bluster
when they are courted; they crouch when they are oppressed. They are fools to
all the world but themselves. I beg the Almighty to consider in my favor, that
some over-hasty angel misplaced my lot. I should have been born in--New
York."
The priest knew that he
was talking for irritation, but he was too politic to favor the mood. He stood
on the hearth with his hands folded behind him, and with a delightful suav ity
turned the conversation upon the country rather than the people. It was a
glorious day in the dawn of spring. The tenderest greens, the softest blues,
the freshest scents, the clearest air, the most delightful sunshine were
everywhere. The white old town, with its picturesque crowds, its murmur of
voices and laughter, its echoes of fife and drum, its loves and its hatreds,
was at his feet; and, far off, the hazy glory of the mountains, the greenness
and freshness of Paradise, the peace and freedom of the vast, unplanted places.
The old marquis was insensibly led to contemplate the whole; and, in so doing,
to put uppermost that pride of country which was the base of every feeling
susceptible to the priest's influence.
"Such a pleasant
city, Marquis! Spanish monks founded it. Spanish and Mexican soldiers have defended
it. Look at its fine churches and missions; its lovely homes, and blooming
gardens."
"It is also all
our own, father. It was but yesterday I said to one of those insolent Americans
who was condescending to admire it: `Very good, Senor; and, if you deign to
believe me, it was not brought from New York. Such as you see it, it was made
by ourselves here at San Antonio.' Saints in heaven! the fellow laughed in my
face. We were mutually convinced of each other's stupidity."
"Ah, how they envy
us the country! And you, Marquis, who have traveled over the world, you can
imagine the reason?"
"Father, I will
tell you the reason; it is the craving in the heart to find again the lost
Eden. The Almighty made Texas with full hands. When He sets his heart on a man,
he is permitted to live there."
"Grace of God! You
speak the truth. Shall we then give up the gift of His hand to heretics and
infidels?"
"I cannot imagine
it."
"Then every one
must do the work he can do. Some are to slay the unbelievers; others; are to
preserve the children of the Church. Your niece and her two daughters will be
lost to the faith, unless you interfere for their salvation. Of you will their
souls be required."
"By Saint Joseph,
it is a duty not in agreement with my desire! I, who have carefully abstained
from the charge of a wife and daughters of my own."
"It is but for a
day or two, Marquis, until the matter is arranged. The convent is the best of
all refuges for women so desolate."
The marquis did not
answer. He lifted a book and began to read; and Fray Ignatius watched him
furtively.
In the mean time the
Senora had reached her home. She was pleased with the result of her visit. A
little kindness easily imposed upon this childlike woman, and she trusted in
any one who was pleasant to her.
"You may believe
me, Antonia," she said; "my uncle was in a temper most unusual. He
kissed my hands. He offered me his protection. That is a great thing, I assure
you. And your father cannot object to our removal there."
Antonia knew not what
answer to make. Her heart misgave her. Why had Fray Ignatius made the proposal?
She was sure it was part of an arrangement, and not a spontaneous suggestion of
the moment. And she was equally sure that any preconcerted plan, having Fray
Ignatius for its author, must be inimical to them.
Her mother's entry had
not awakened Isabel, who lay asleep upon a sofa. The Senora was a little
nettled at the circumstance. "She is a very child! A visit of such
importance! And she is off to the land of dreams while I am fatiguing myself! I
wish indeed that she had more consideration!" Then Antonia brought her
chocolate, and, as she drank it and smoked her cigarito, she chatted in an
almost eager way about the persons she had seen.
"Going towards the
Plaza, I met judge Valdez. I stopped the carriage, and sent my affections to
the Senora. Would you believe it? He answered me as if his mouth were full of
snow. His disagreeable behavior was exactly copied by the Senora Silvestre and
her daughter Esperanza. Dona Julia and Pilar de Calval did not even perceive
me. Santa Maria! there are none so blind as those who won't see! Oh, indeed! I
found the journey like the way of salvation--full of humiliations. I would have
stopped at the store of the Jew Lavenburg, and ordered many things, but he
turned in when he saw me coming. Once, indeed, he would have put his hat on the
pavement for me to tread upon. But he has heard that your father has made a
rebel of himself, and what can be expected? He knows when Santa Anna has done with
the rebels not one of them will have anything left for God to rain upon. And
there was a great crowd and a great tumult. I think the whole city had a brain
fever."
At this moment Isabel
began to moan in her sleep as if her soul was in some intolerable terror or
grief; and ere Antonia could reach her she sprang into the middle of the room
with a shriek that rang through the house.
It was some minutes
before the child could be soothed. She lay in her mother's arms, sobbing in
speechless distress; but at length she was able to articulate her fright:
"Listen, mi madre,
and may the Holy Lady make you believe me! I have had a dream. God be blessed
that it is not yet true! I will tell you. It was about Fray Ignatius and our
uncle the Marquis de Gonzaga. My good angel gave it to me; for myself and you
all she gave it; and, as my blessed Lord lives! I will not go to them! Si! I
will cut my white throat first!" and she drew her small hand with a
passionate gesture across it. She had stood up as she began to speak, and the
action, added to her unmistakable terror, her stricken face and air of
determination, was very impressive.
"You have had a
dream, my darling?"
"Yes, an awful
dream, Antonia! Mary! Mary! Tender Mary, pity us!"
"And you think we
should not go to the house of the marquis?"
"Oh, Antonia! I
have seen the way. It is black and cold, and full of fear and pain. No one
shall make me take it. I have the stiletto of my grandmother Flores. I will ask
Holy Mary to pardon me, and then--in a moment--I would be among the people of
the other world. That would be far better than Fray Ignatius and the house of
Gonzaga."
The Senora was quite
angry at this fresh complication. It was really incredible what she had to
endure. And would Antonia please to tell her where else they were to go? They
had not a friend left in San Antonio--they did not deserve to have one--and was
it to be supposed that a lady, born noble, could follow the Americans in an
ox-wagon? Antonia might think it preferable to the comfortable house of her
relation; but blessed be the hand of God, which had opened the door of a
respectable shelter to her.
"I will go in the
ox-wagon," said Isabel, with a sullen determination; "but I will not
go into my uncle's house. By the saint of my birth I swear it."
"Mother, listen to
Antonia. When one door shuts, God opens another door. Our own home is yet
undisturbed. Do you believe what Fray Ignatius says of the coming of Santa
Anna? I do not. Until he arrives we are safe in our own home; and when the hour
for going away comes, even a little bird can show us the way to take. And I am
certain that my father is planning for our safety. If Santa Anna was in this
city, and behaving with the brutality which is natural to him, I would not go
away until my father sent the order. Do you think he forgets us? Be not afraid
of such a thing. It cannot take place."
Towards dusk Senor
Navarro called, and the Senora brought him into her private parlor and confided
to him the strait they were in. He looked with sympathy into the troubled,
tear-stained faces of these three helpless women, and listened with many
expressive gestures to the proposal of the priest and the offer of the old
marquis.
"Most excellent
ladies," he answered; "it is a plot. I assure you that it is a plot.
Certainly it was not without reason I was so unhappy about you this afternoon.
Even while I was at the bull-fight, I think our angels were in a consultation
about your affairs. Your name was in my ears above all other sounds."
"You say it is a
plot, Senor. Explain to us what you mean?"
"Yes, I will tell
you. Do you know that Fray Ignatius is the confessor of the marquis?"
"We had not
thought of such a thing."
"It is the truth.
For many years they have been close as the skin and the flesh. Without Fray
Ignatius the marquis says neither yes or no. Also the will of the marquis has
been lately made. I have seen a copy of it. Everything he has is left to the
brotherhoods of the Church. Without doubt, Fray Ignatius was the, lawyer who
wrote it."
"Senor, I always
believed that would happen. At my marriage my uncle made the determination.
Indeed, we have never expected a piastre--no, not even a taco. And to-day he
was kind to me, and offered me his home. Oh, Holy Mother, how wretched I am!
Can I not trust in the good words of those who are of my own family?"
The tie of race will
come before the tie of the family. The tie of religion is strongest of all,
Senora. Let me tell you what will take place. When you and your children are in
the house of the marquis, he will go before the Alcalde. He will declare that
you have gone voluntarily to his care, and that he is your nearest and most
natural guardian. Very well. But further, he will declare, on account of his
great age, and the troubled state of the time, he is unable to protect you, and
ask for the authority to place you in the religious care of the holy sisterhood
of Saint Maria. And he will obtain all he wants."
"But, simply, what
is to be gained by such treachery? He said to-day that I was like his sister
Mercedes, and he spoke very gently to me."
"He would not
think such a proceeding really unkind. He would assure himself that it was good
for your eternal salvation. As to the reason, that is to be looked for in the
purse, where all reasons come from. This house, which the good doctor built, is
the best in the city. It has even two full stories. It is very suitable for a
religious house. It is not far from the Plaza, yet secluded in its beautiful
garden. Fray Ignatius has long desired it. When he has removed you, possession
will be taken, and Santa Anna will confirm the pos- session."
"God succor our
poor souls! What shall we do then, Senor? The Mexican army has entered Texas, it
will soon be here."
"Quien sabe?
Between the Rio Grande and the San Antonio are many difficulties. Urrea has
five thousand men with him, horses and artillery. The horses must graze, the
men must rest and eat. We shall have heavy rains. I am sure that it will be
twenty days ere he reaches the settlements; and even then his destination is
not San Antonio, it is Goliad. Santa Anna will be at least ten days after him.
I suppose, then, that for a whole month you are quite safe in your own home.
That is what I believe now. If I saw a reason to believe what is different, I
would inform you. The good doctor, to whom I owe my life many times, has my
promise. Lopez Navarro never broke his word to any man. The infamy would be a
thing impossible, where the safety of three ladies is concerned."
"And in a month,
mi madre, what great things may happen! Thirty days of possibilities! Come,
now, let us be a little happy, and listen to what the Senor has to tell us. I
am sure this house has been as stupid as a convent"; and Isabel lifted the
cigarette case of the Senora, and with kisses persuaded her to accept its
tranquilizing consolation.
It was an elegant
little golden trifle studded with gems. Her husband had given it to her on the
anniversary of their twenty-fifth wedding day; and it recalled vividly to her
the few sweet moments. She was swayed as easily as a child by the nearest or
strongest influence, and, after all, it did seem the best to take Isabel's
advice, and be a little happy while she could.
Lopez was delighted to
humor this mood. He told them all the news of their own social set; and in such
vivid times something happened every day. There had been betrothals and
marriages, quarrels and entertainments; and Lopez, as a fashionable young man
of wealth and nobility, had taken his share in what had transpired.
Antonia felt
unspeakably grateful to him. After the fretful terror and anxiety of the
day--after the cruel visit of Fray Ignatius--it was indeed a comfort to hear
the pleasant voice of Navarro in all kinds of cheerful modulations. By and by
there was a slow rippling laugh from Isabel, and the Senora's face lost its air
of dismal distraction.
At length Navarro had
brought his narrative of small events down to the afternoon of that day. There
had been a bull- fight, and Isabel was making him describe to her the chulos,
in their pale satin breeches and silk waist-scarfs; the toreros in their
scarlet mantles, and the picadores on their horses.
"And I assure
you," he said, "the company of ladies was very great and splendid.
They were in full dress, and the golden-pinned mantillas and the sea of waving
fans were a sight indeed. Oh, the fans alone! So many colors; great crescents,
growing and waning with far more enchantments than the moons. Their rustle and
movement has a wonderful charm, Senorita Isabel; no one can imagine it.
"Oh, I assure you,
Senor, I can see and feel it. But to be there! That, indeed, would make me
perfectly happy."
"Had you been
there to-day you would have admired, above all things, the feat of the matadore
Jarocho. It was upon the great bull Sandoval--a very monster, I assure you. He
came bellowing at Jarocho, as if he meant his instant death. His eyeballs were
living fire; his nostrils steamed with fury; well, then, at the precise moment,
Jarocho put his slippered feet between his horns, and vaulted, light as a bird
flies, over his back. Then Sandoval turned to him again. Well, he calmly waited
for his approach, and his long sword met him between the horns. As lightly as a
lady touches her cavalier, he seemed to touch Sandoval; but the brute fell like
a stone at his feet. What a storm of vivas! What clapping of hands and shouts
of `valiente!' And the ladies flung their flowers, and the men flung their hats
into the arena, and Jarocho stepped proudly enough on them, I can tell you,
though he was watching the door for the next bull."
"Ah, Senor, why
will men fight each other, when it is so much more grand and interesting to
fight bulls?"
"Senorita Isabel,
if you could only convince them of that! But then, it is not always interesting
to the matadore; for instance, it is only by the mercy of God and the skill of
an Americano that Jarocho is at this moment out of purgatory."
The Senora raised
herself from among the satin pillows of her sofa, and asked, excitedly;
"Was there then some accident, Senor? Is Jarocho wounded? Poor
Jarocho!"
"Not a hair of his
head is hurt, Senora. I will tell you. Saint Jago, who followed Sandoval, was a
little devil. He was light and quick, and had intelligence. You could see by
the gleam in his eyes that he took in the whole scene, and considered not only
the people in the ring, but the people in the amphitheatre also, to be his
tormentors. Perhaps in that reflection he was not mistaken. He meant mischief
from the beginning; and he pressed Jarocho so close that he leaped the barrier
for safety. As he leaped, Saint Jago leaped also. Imagine now the terror of the
spectators! The screams! The rush! The lowered horns within an inch of Jarocho,
and Fray Joseph Maria running with the consecrated wafer to the doomed man! At
that precise moment there was a rifle-shot, and the bellowing brute rolled
backward into the arena--dead."
"Oh, Maria
Purissima! How grand! In such moments one really lives, Senor. And but for this
absurd rebellion I and my daughters could have had the emotion. It is indeed
cruel."
"You said the shot
was fired by an American?"
"Senorita Antonia,
it was, indeed. I saw him. He was in the last row. He had stood up when Saint
Jago came in, and he was watching the man and the animal with his soul in his
eyes. He had a face, fine and thin as a woman's--a very gentle face, also. But
at one instant it became stern and fierce, the lips hard set, the eyes half
shut, then the rifle at the shoulder like a flash of light, and the bull was
dead between the beginning and the end of the leap! The sight was wonderful,
and the ladies turned to him with smiles and cries of thankfulness, and the
better part of the men bowed to him; for the Mexican gentleman is always just
to a great deed. But he went away as if he had done something that displeased
himself, and when I overtook him at the gates of the Alamo, he did not look as
if he wished to talk about it.
"However, I could
not refrain myself, and I said: "Permit me, Colonel Crockett, to honor
you. The great feat of to- day's fight was yours. San Antonio owes you for her
favorite Jarocho."
"`I saved a life,
young man,' he answered and I took a life; and I'll be blamed if I know whether
I did right or wrong.' `Jarocho would have been killed but for your shot.'
`That's so; and I killed the bull; but you can take my hat if I don't think I
killed the tallest brute of the two. Adjourn the subject, sir'; and with that
he walked off into the fort, and I did myself the pleasure of coming to see
you, Senora."
He rose and bowed to
the ladies, and, as the Senora was making some polite answer, the door of the
room opened quickly, and a man entered and advanced towards her. Every eye was
turned on him, but ere a word could be uttered he was kneeling at the Senora's
side, and had taken her face in his hands, and was kissing it. In the dim light
she knew him at once, and she cried out: "My Thomas! My Thomas! My dear
son! For three years I have not seen you."
He brought into the
room with him an atmosphere of comfort and strength. Suddenly all fear and
anxiety was lifted, and in Antonia's heart the reaction was so great that she
sank into a chair and began to cry like a child. Her brother held her in his
arms and soothed her with the promise of his presence and help. Then he said,
cheerfully:
"Let me have some
supper, Antonia. I am as hungry as a lobos wolf; and run away, Isabel, and help
your sister, for I declare to you girls I shall eat everything in the
house."
The homely duty was
precisely what was needed to bring every one's feelings to their normal
condition; and Thomas Worth sat chatting with his mother and Lopez of his
father, and Jack, and Dare, and Luis, and the superficial events of the time,
with that pleasant, matter-of-course manner which is by far the most effectual
soother of troubled and unusual conditions.
In less than half an
hour Antonia called her brother, and he and Lopez entered the dining- room
together. They came in as brothers might come, face answering face with
sympathetic change and swiftness; but Antonia could not but notice the
difference in the two men. Lopez was dressed in a suit of black velvet, trimmed
with many small silver buttons. His sash was of crimson silk. His linen was
richly embroidered; and his wide hat was almost covered with black velvet, and
adorned with silver tags. It was a dress that set off admirably his dark
intelligent face.
Thomas Worth wore the
usual frontier costume; a dark flannel shirt, a wide leather belt, buck-skin
breeches, and leather boots covering his knees. He was very like his father in
figure and face--darker, perhaps, and less handsome. But the gentleness and
strength of his personal appearance attracted every one first, and invested all
traits with their own distinctive charm.
And, oh! What a change
was there in the the Senora's room. The poor lady cried a little for joy, and
then went to sleep like a wearied child. Isabel and Antonia were too happy to
sleep. They sat half through the night, talking softly of the danger they had
been in. Now that Thomas had come, they could say had. For he was a very
Great-heart to them, and they could even contemplate the expected visit of Fray
Ignatius without fear; yes, indeed, with something very like satisfaction.
"What thing thou doest, bravely do;When Heaven's clear call hath
found thee,Follow--with fervid wheels pursue,Though thousands bray around
thee.""Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,Which his aspiring rider
seemed to know;With slow but stately pace kept on his course;You would have
thought the very windows spoke,So many greedy looks of young and old,Through
casements darted their desiring eyesUpon his visage." Left to themselves, the two men
threw off like a mask the aspect of cheerfulness they had worn in the presence
of the Senora. Thomas Worth ate heartily, for he had been without food since morning;
but Navarro did not attempt to join his meal. He sat patiently waiting his
sombre eyes fixed upon the mental visions which circled in the enchanted
incense of his cigarette.
Presently Thomas Worth
turned toward the hearth, pushed the cedar logs on it to a focus, and at their
leaping blaze lighted the pipe which he took from his pocket.
"Lopez," he said, "it strikes me that I am just in time to
prevent some infamous plan of Fray Ignatius and my uncle Gonzaga."
"I should not have
lost sight of the Senora and your sisters. I have watched them faithfully,
though for many good reasons it has been best to appear indifferent. Will you
now remain in San Antonio?"
"I have come with
orders to Travis to blow up the Alamo, and fall back upon Houston, who is at
Gonzales. But I do not think the men will permit him to do so."
"You have too many
leaders. Also, they undervalue the Mexican soldiers. I assure you they do. They
fought Spain for ten years; they do not want, then, the persistence of true
valor. The Americans may die in the Alamo, but they cannot hold it against the
thousands Santa Anna will bring with him."
"They will die,
then. They have no thought of retreat, nor of any deed that argues fear. Every
man relies on himself, as if in his hand the moment of victory lay."
"Every man will
perish."
"They will not
perish in vain. Defeat is only a spur to the American soldier. Every, one makes
him a better fighter. If Santa Anna massacres the men in the Alamo, he seals
the freedom of Texas."
"Houston should
have come himself."
"Houston is biding
his time. He is doing at present the hardest duty a great man can do: setting
an example of obedience to a divided and incompetent government. Lopez, you
said rightly that we had too many leaders. When those appointed for sacrifice
have been offered up--when we are in the extremity of danger and ruin, then
Houston will hear the word he is waiting for."
"And he will lead
you on to victory. Indeed, I know it. I have seen him. He has the line--the
fortunate line on the forehead. He is the loadstone in the breast of your
cause; the magnet who can draw good fortune to it. If fate be against you, he
will force fate to change her mind. If fate weave you a common thread, he will
change it into purple. Victory, which she gives to others reluctantly, he will
take like a master from her hand HOUSTON! What essence! What existence! What
honor! What hope there is in those seven letters. Consider this: He will find a
way or make a way for freedom."
Subsequent events proved
the opinion of Thomas Worth correct with regard to the garrison in the Alamo.
David Crockett! James Bowie! Barret Travis! The names were a host in
themselves; one and all refused to couple them with retreat.
"Military defeats
may be moral victories, young man," said Crockett to Thomas Worth;
"and moral victories make national greatness. The Roman that filled the
gulf with his own body-- the men who died at Thermopylae--they live to-day, and
they have been talking with us."
"But if you join
Houston you will save many lives."
"That isn't always
the point, sir. Jim Bowie was saying there was once a lover who used to swim
two miles every night to see a young woman called Hero. Now, he might have
waited for a boat and gone dry-shod to his sweetheart; but if he had, who would
have cared whether he lived or died? The Alamo is our Hero. If we can't keep
her, we can die for her."
The same spirit moved
every soul at Goliad. Fanning was there with nearly nine hundred men, and he
had named the place Fort Defiance, and asserted his determination to hold it.
In the mean time, Houston was using his great personal influence to collect
troops, to make treaties with the Indians, and to keep together some semblance
of a provisional government.
But it had become evident
to all the leading spirits of the revolution that no half-way measures would
now do. They only produced half-way enthusiasm. For this end, Houston spoke out
with his accustomed boldness:
"Gentlemen, we
must declare the independence of Texas, and like our fore-elders, sink or swim
by that declaration. Nothing else, nothing less, can save us. The planters of
Texas must feel that they are fighting for their own constitution, and not for
Mexican promises made to them twelve years ago and never yet kept."
The simple proposition
roused a new enthusiasm; for while Urrea was hastening to wards Goliad, and
Santa Anna towards San Antonio, and Filisola to Washington, the divided people
were becoming more and more embittered. The American soldiers, who had hitherto
gone in and out among the citizens of San Antonio during the day, and only
slept in the Alamo, were conscious of an ominous change in the temper of the
city. They gathered their recruits together and shut themselves in the
fortress.
Again Thomas Worth
urged them to fall back either upon the line of Houston at Gonzales, or Fanning
at Goliad; but in the indecision and uncertainty of all official orders,
Crockett thought it best to make the first stand at the Mexican city.
"We can, at
least," he said, "keep Santa Anna busy long enough to give the women
and children of our own settlements time to escape, and the men time to draw
together with a certain purpose."
"The cry of Santa
Anna has been like the cry of wolf! wolf!" said Bowie. "I hear that
great numbers that were under arms have gone home to plant their corn and
cotton. Do you want Santa Anna to murder them piecemeal-- house by house,
family by family? Great George! Which of us would accommodate him with a
prolonged pleasure like that? No! he shall have a square fight for every life
lie gets"; and the calm, gentlemanly Bowie was suddenly transformed into a
flashing, vehement, furious avenger. He laid his knife and pistols on the
table, his steel-blue eyes scintillated as if they were lightning; his handsome
mouth, his long, white hands, his whole person radiated wrath and expressed the
utmost lengths of invincible courage and insatiable hatred.
"Gentlemen,"
answered Travis, "I go with Crockett and Bowie. If we hold the Alamo, it
is a deed well done. If we fall with it, it is still a deed well done. We shall
have given to Houston and Fanning time to interpose themselves between Santa
Anna and the settlements."
"We have none of
us lived very well," said Bowie, "but we can die well. I say as an
American, that Texas is ours by right of natural locality, and by right of
treaty; and, as I live, I will do my best to make it American by right of
conquest! Comrades, I do not want a prettier quarrel to die in"--and
looking with a brave, unflinching gaze around the grim fortress--"I do not
want a better monument than the Alamo!"
The speech was not
answered with any noisy hurrahing; but the men around the bare, long table
clasped hands across it, and from that last interview with the doomed men
Thomas Worth came away with the knowledge that he had seen the battle begun. He
felt now that there was no time to delay longer his plans for the safety of his
mother and sisters. These were, indeed, of the simplest and most uncertain
character; for the condition of the country and its few resources were such as
to make flight the only way that promised safety. And yet flight was environed
with dangers of every kind--hunger, thirst, exhaustion, savage beasts, Indians,
and the triple armies of Mexico.
The day after his
arrival he had begun to prepare, as far as possible, for this last emergency,
but the Senora's unconquerable aversion to leave her native city had constantly
hampered him. Until Santa Anna really appeared she would not believe in the
necessity of such a movement. The proposal of Fray Ignatius, even if it did end
in a convent, did not seem so terrible as to be a wanderer without a roof to
cover her. She felt aggrieved and injured by Antonia's and Isabel's positive
refusal to accept sanctuary from the priest, and with the underhand cunning of
a weak woman she had contrived to let Fray Ignatius know that she was not to
blame for the refusal.
All the same the priest
hated her in conjunction with her children. On the morning after her interview
with her uncle, he went to receive her submission; for the marquis had informed
him of all that had passed, and he felt the three women and the valuable Worth
property already under his hard hand. He opened the gate with the air of a
proprietor. He looked down the lovely alleys of the garden, and up at the
latticed stories of the handsome house, with that solid satisfaction which is
the reward of what is acquired by personal effort or wisdom.
When he entered the
door and was confronted by Thomas Worth, he was for the moment nonplussed. But
he did not permit his confusion and disappointment to appear. He had not seen
Thomas for a long time. He addressed him with suavity and regrets, and yet,
"was sure he would be glad to hear that, in the present dangerous crisis, the
Marquis de Gonzaga had remembered the blood-tie and offered his protection to a
family so desolate."
Thomas Worth leaned
upon the balusters, as if guarding the approach to the Senora's apartments. He
answered: "The protection of the marquis is unnecessary. Three ladies are
too great a charge for one so aged. We will not impose it." The face of
the young man was calm and stern, but he spoke without visible temper, until
the priest prepared to pass him. Then he stretched out his arm as a barrier.
"Fray Ignatius,
you have already passed beyond the threshold; permit me to remind you of Dr.
Worth's words on that subject."
"I put my duty
before any man's words."
"Sir, for my
mother's sake, I would not be disrespectful; but I assure you, also, that I
will not permit any man, while I live, to disregard my father's orders
regarding his own household."
"I must see the
Senora."
"That, I reply, is
impossible."
"Presume not--dare
not to interfere with a priest in the duty of his office. It is a mortal sin.
The curse of the Church will rest upon you.
"The curse of the
Church will not trouble me. But to treat my father's known wishes with
contempt--that is an act of dishonor and disobedience which I will not be
guilty of."
"Santa Maria!
Suffer not my spirit to be moved by this wicked one. Out of my path,
Satanas!"
The last word was not
one which Thomas Worth had expected. He flushed crimson at its application, and
with a few muttered sentences, intelligible only to the priest, he took him
firmly by the shoulder, led him outside the door, and closed and barred it.
The expulsion was not
accomplished without noisy opposition on the part of Fray Ignatius, and it
pained Thomas deeply to hear, in the midst of the priest's anathemas, the
shrill cries of his mother's distress and disapproval.
The next domestic
movement of Thomas Worth was to rid the house of Molly and Manuel, and the
inferior servants. It was not as easy a task as may be supposed. They had been
ordered by Fray Ignatius to remain, and the order had not been countermanded.
Even if the Senora and her daughters were going east, and their services were
not needed, they had no objections to remain in the Worth house. They
understood that the Church would take possession, and the housekeeping of the
Church was notoriously easy and luxurious.
However, after
exorbitant compensation had been made, and Molly had given in return "a
bit of her mind," she left for the Irish colony of San Patricio, and
Manuel immediately sought his favorite monte table. When he had doubled his
money, he intended to obey Molly's emphatic orders, and go and tell the priest
all about it.
"I would rather,
face a battery of cannon than Fray Ignatius and the servants again,
Antonia." Antonia looked at her brother; he was worried and weary, and his
first action, when he had finally cleared the house, was to walk around it, and
bolt every door and window. Antonia followed him silently. She perceived that
the crisis had come, and she was doing as good women in extremity do--trying to
find in the darkness the hand always stretched out to guide and strengthen. As
yet she had not been able to grasp it. She followed her brother like one in a
troubled dream, whispering faintly, with white lips, "O God, where art
Thou? Help and pity us!"
Thomas led her finally
to his father's office. He went to a closet filled with drugs, removed them,
and then a certain pressure of his hand caused the back of the closet to
disappear in a groove, and a receptacle full of coin and papers was disclosed.
"We must take with
us all the coin we can carry. What you are not likely to require, is to go to
the men in the field. Then, hide in its place the old silver, and the laces,
and the jewels, which came with the Flores from Castile; and any other papers
and valuables, which you received from our father. I think even Fray Ignatius
will not discover them here."
"Is there any
special need to hurry to-day?
"Santa Anna is
within forty-eight hours of San Antonio. He may force a march, and be here
earlier. Travis told me last night that their advance scouts had come in with
this intelligence. To-day they will gather every man they can, and prepare to
defend them selves in the Alamo. As soon as Santa Anna arrives, we are in
danger. I must leave here to-night. I must either take you with me or remove
you to a place of more safety."
"Let us go with
you."
"If my mother is
willing."
"If she is not,
what then?"
"Lopez has
prepared for that emergency. He has an empty house three miles west of San
Antonio. He has had it completely victualled. I will take you there after dark
in the large green chariot. Ortiz will drive the light Jersey wagon on the
Gonzales road. When inquiry is made, the Jersey wagon will have attracted the
attention of every Mexican, and Fray Ignatius will receive positive assurances
that you were in it and are beyond his power. And certainly, without definite
intelligence, he would never suspect you of being anywhere on the highway to
Mexico."
"Shall we be quite
alone?"
"For two or three
days you will be quite alone. Ortiz will, however, return with the wagon by a
circuitous route; for, sooner or later, you are sure to need it. Fear not to
trust him. Only in one respect will you need to supplement his advice by your
own intelligence: he is so eager to fight Santa Anna, he may persuade himself
and you that it is necessary to fly eastward when it is not. In all other
points you may be guided by him, and his disguise as a peon is so perfect that
it will be easy for him to gather in the pulquerias all the information
requisite for your direction. I have been out to the house, and I can assure
you that Lopez has considered everything for your comfort."
"However, I would
rather go with you, Thomas."
"It must be as
mother desires."
When the circumstances
were explained to the Senora, she was at first very determined to accept
neither alternative. "She would remain where she was. She was a Flores and
a Gonzaga. Santa Anna knew better than to molest her. She would rather trust to
him than to those dreadful Americans." Reminded of Fray Ignatius, she shed
a few tears over the poor padrecito, and assured her children they had made a
mistake regarding him, which neither oil nor ointment, nor wit nor wisdom,
could get over.
It was almost
impossible to induce her to come to a decision of any kind; and only when she
saw Antonia and Isabel were dressed for a journey, and that Thomas had locked
up all the rooms and was extinguishing the fires, could she bring herself to
believe that the trial so long anticipated had really come.
"My dearest
mother! My own life and the lives of many others may now hang upon a few
moments. I can remain here no longer. Where shall I take you to?"
"I will not leave
my home."
"Santa Anna is
almost here. As soon as he arrives, Fray Ignatius and twelve of the Bernardine
monks are coming here. I was told that yesterday."
"Then I will go to
the convent. I and my daughters."
"No, mother; if
you go to the convent, Antonia and Isabel must go with me."
She prayed, and
exclaimed, and appealed to saints and angels, and to the holy Virgin, until
Isabel was hysterically weeping, Antonia at a mental tension almost
unendurable, and Thomas on the verge of one of those terrifying passions that
mark the extremity of habitually gentle, patient men.
"My God,
mother!" he exclaimed with a stamp of his spurred boot on the stone floor;
"if you will go to the devil--to the priests, I mean--you must go alone.
Kiss your mother farewell, girls. I have not another moment to wait."
Then, in a passion of
angry sobs and reproaches, she decided to go with her daughters, and no saint
ever suffered with a more firm conviction of their martyrdom to duty than did
this poor foolish, affectionate slave to her emotions and her superstitions.
But when Thomas had gone, and nothing was to be gained by a display of her
sufferings, she permitted herself to be interested in their hiding-place, and
after Antonia had given her a cup of chocolate, and Isabel had petted and
soothed her, she began gradually to allow them to explain their situation, and
even to feel some interest in its discussion.
They sat in the
charmful, dusky glimmer of starlight, for candles and fire were forbidden
luxuries. Fortunately, the weather was warm and sunny, and for making chocolate
and such simple cookery, Lopez had provided a spirit lamp. The Senora was as
pleased as a child with this arrangement. She had never seen anything like it before.
She even imagined the food cooked upon it had some rare and unusual flavor. She
was quite proud when she had learned its mysteries, and quite sure that
chocolate she made upon it was chocolate of a most superior kind.
The house had been
empty for two years, and the great point was to preserve its air of desolation.
No outside arrangement was touched; the torn remnants of some balcony hangings
were left fluttering in the wind; the closed windows and the closed doors, the
absence of smoke from the chimneys and of lights from the windows, preserved
the air of emptiness and loneliness that the passers-by had been accustomed to
see. And, as it was on the highway into the city, there were great numbers of
passers: mule-trains going to Mexico and Sonora; cavaliers and pedestrians;
splendidly-dressed nobles and officials, dusty peons bringing in wood;
ranchmen, peddlers, and the whole long list of a great city's purveyors and
servants.
But though some of the
blinds were half-closed, much could be seen; and Isabel also often took
cushions upon the flat roof, and lying down, watched, from between the
pilasters of the balustrade surrounding it, the moving panorama.
On the morning of the
third day of what the Senora, called their imprisonment, they went to the roof
to sit in the clear sunshine and the fresh wind. They were weary and depressed
with the loneliness and uncertainty of their position, and were almost longing
for something to happen that would push forward the lagging wheels of destiny.
A long fanfare of
trumpets, a roll of drums, a stirring march of warlike melody, startled them
out of the lethargic tedium of exhausted hopes and fears. "It is Santa
Anna!" said Antonia; and though they durst not stand up, they drew closer
to the balustrade and watched for the approaching army. Is there any woman who
can resist that nameless emotion which both fires and rends the heart in the
presence of great military movements? Antonia was still and speechless, and
white as death. Isabel watched with gleaming eyes and set lips. The Senora's
excitement was unmistakably that of exultant national pride.
Santa Anna and his
staff-officers were in front. They passed too rapidly for individual notice,
but it was a grand moving picture of handsome men in scarlet and gold--of grace
ful mangas and waving plumes, and bright-colored velvet capes; of high-mettled
horses, and richly-adorned Mexican saddles, aqueras of black fur, and silver
stirrups; of thousands of common soldiers, in a fine uniform of red and blue;
with antique brazen helmets gleaming in the sun, and long lances, adorned with
tri-colored streamers. They went past like a vivid, wonderful dream--like the
vision of an army of mediaeval knights.
In a few minutes the
tumult of the advancing army was increased tenfold by the clamor of the city
pouring out to meet it. The clashing bells from the steeples, the shouting of
the populace, the blare of trumpets and roll of drums, the lines of churchmen
and officials in their grandest dresses, of citizens of every age,--the indescribable
human murmur--alto gether it was a scene whose sensuous splendor obliterated
for a time the capacity of impressionable natures to judge rightly.
But Antonia saw beyond
all this brave show the ridges of red war, and a noble perversity of soul made
her turn her senses inward. Then her eyes grew dim, and her heart rose in
pitying prayer for that small band of heroes standing together for life and
liberty in the grim Alamo. No pomp of war was theirs. They were isolated from
all their fellows. They were surrounded by their enemies. No word of sympathy
could reach them. Yet she knew they would stand like lions at bay; that they
would give life to its last drop for liberty; and rather than be less than
freemen, they would prefer not to be at all.
"The combat deepens. On, ye brave!Who rush to glory or the
grave.""To all the sensual world proclaim:One crowded hour of
glorious lifeIs worth an age without a name.""Gashed with honorable
scars,Low in Glory's lap they lie;Though they fell, they fell like
stars,Streaming splendor through the sky." The
passing-by of Santa Anna and the Mexican army, though it had been hourly
expected for nearly three days, was an event which threw the Senora and her
daughters into various conditions of mental excitement. They descended from the
roof to the Senora's room, where they could move about and converse with more
freedom. For the poor lady was quite unable to control her speech and actions,
and was also much irritated by Antonia's more composed manner. She thought it
was want of sympathy.
How can you take things
with such a blessed calmness," she asked, angrily. "But it is the way
of the Americans, no doubt, who must have everything for prudence. Sensible!
Sensible! Sensible! that is the tune they are forever playing, and you dance to
it like a miracle."
"My dear mother,
can we do any good by exclaiming and weeping?"
"Holy Virgin!
Perhaps not; but to have a little human nature is more agreeable to those who
are yet on the earth side of purgatory."
"Mi madre,"
said Isabel, "Antonia is our good angel. She thinks for us, and plans for
us, and even now has everything ready for us to move at a moment's notice. Our
good angels have to be sensible and prudent, madre."
"To move at a
moment's notice! Virgin of Guadalupe! where shall we go to? Could my blessed
father and mother see me in this prison, this very vault, I assure you they
would be unhappy even among the angels."
"Mother, there are
hundreds of women today in Texas who would think this house a palace of comfort
and safety."
"Saints and
angels! Is that my fault? Does it make my condition more endurable? Ah, my
children, I have seen great armies come into San Antonio, and always before I
have been able to make a little pleasure to myself out of the event. For the
Mexicans are not blood-thirsty, though they are very warlike. When Bravo was
here, what balls, what bull-fights, what visiting among the ladies! Indeed
there was so much to tell, the tertulia was as necessary as the dinner. To be
sure, the Mexicans are not barbarians; they made a war that had some
refinement. But the Americans! They are savages. With them it is fight, fight,
fight, and if we try to be agreeable, as we were to that outrageous Sam
Houston, they say thank you, madam, and go on thinking their own cruel
thoughts. I wonder the gentle God permits that such men live."
"Dear mother,
refinement in war is not possible. Nothing can make it otherwise than brutal
and bloody."
"Antonia, allow
that I, who am your mother, should know what I have simply seen with my eyes.
Salcedo, Bravo, Martinez, Urrea--are they not great soldiers? Very well, then,
I say they brought some pleasure with their armies; and you will see that Santa
Anna will do the same. If we were only in our own home! It must have been the
devil who made us leave it."
"How truly
splendid the officers looked, mi madre. I dare say Senora Valdez will entertain
them."
"That is certain.
And as for Dorette Valdez--the coquette--it will certainly be a great happiness
to her."
Isabel sighed, and the
Senora felt a kind of satisfaction in the sigh. It was unendurable to be alone
in her regrets and her longings.
"Yes," she
continued, "every night Senora Trespalacios will give a tertulia, and the
officers will have military balls-- the brave young men; they will be so gay,
so charming, so devoted, and in a few hours, perhaps, they will go into the other
world by the road of the battlefield. Ah, how pitiful! How interesting! Cannot
you imagine it?"
Isabel sighed again,
but the sigh was for the gay, the charming Luis Alveda. And when she thought of
him, she forgot in a moment to envy Dorette Valdez, or the senoritas of the
noble house of Trespalacios. And some sudden, swift touch of sympathy, strong
as it was occult, made the Senora at the same moment remember her husband and
her sons. A real sorrow and a real anxiety drove out all smaller annoyances.
Then both her daughters wept together, until their community of grief had
brought to each heart the solemn strength of a divine hope and reliance.
"My children, I
will go now and pray," said the sorrowful wife and mother. "At the
foot of the cross I will wait for the hour of deliverance; and casting herself
on her knees, with her crucifix in her hand, she appeared in a moment to have
forgotten everything but her anguish and her sins, and the Lamb of God upon
whom, with childlike faith, she was en- deavoring to cast them. Her tears
dropped upon the ivory image of the Crucified, and sympathetic tears sprung
into Antonia's and Isabel's eyes, as they listened to her imploration.
That night, when all
was dark and still, Ortiz returned with the wagon. In the morning Antonia went
to speak to him. He looked worn-out and sorrowful, and she feared to ask him
for news. "There is food in the house, and I have made you
chocolate," she said, as she pitifully scanned the man's exhausted
condition.
"The Senorita is
kind as the angels. I will eat and drink at her order. I am, indeed, faint and
hungry."
She brought him to the
table, and when he refused to sit in her presence, she said frankly,
"Captain Ortiz, you are our friend and not our servant. Rest and refresh
yourself."
He bent upon one knee
and kissed the hand she offered, and without further remonstrance obeyed her
desire. Isabel came in shortly, and with the tact of true kindness she made no
remark, but simply took the chair beside Ortiz, and said, in her usual voice
and manner: "Good morning, Captain. We are glad to see you. Did you meet
my brother Thomas again?"
"Senorita, God be
with you! I have not seen him. I was at Goliad."
"Then you would
see our brother Juan?"
"Si. The Senor
Juan is in good health and great happiness. He sent by my willing hands a
letter."
"Perhaps also you
saw his friend, Senor Grant?"
"From him, also, I
received a letter. Into your gracious care, Senorita, I deliver them."
"I thank you for
your kindness, Captain. Tell us now of the fortress. Are the troops in good
spirits?"
"Allow me to fear
that they are in too good assurance of success. The most of the men are very
young. They have not yet met our Lady of Sorrows. They have promised to
themselves the independence of Texas. They will also conquer Mexico. There are
kingdoms in the moon for them. I envy such exalt- ations--and regret them.
Grace of God, Senorita! My heart ached to see the crowds of bright young faces.
With a Napoleon--with a Washington to lead them--they would do miracles."
"What say you to
Houston?"
"I know him not.
At Goliad they are all Houstons. They believe each man in himself. On the
contrary, I wish that each man looked to the same leader."
"Do you know that
Santa Anna is in San Antonio?"
"I felt it, though
I had no certain news. I came far around, and hid myself from all passers-by,
for the sake of the wagon and the horses. I have the happiness to say they are
safe. The wagon is within the enclosure, the horses are on the prairie. They
have been well trained, and will come to my call. As for me, I will now go into
the city, for there will be much to see and to hear that may be important to
us. Senoritas, for all your desires, I am at your service."
When Ortiz was gone,
Isabel had a little fret of disappointment. Luis might have found some
messenger to bring her a word of his love and life. What was love worth that
did not annihilate impossibilities! However, it consoled her a little to carry
Jack's letter to his mother. The Senora had taken her morning chocolate and
fallen asleep. When Isabel awakened her, she opened her eyes with a sigh, and a
look of hopeless misery. These pallid depressions attacked her most cruelly in
the morning, when the room, shabby and unfamiliar, gave both her memory, and
anticipation a shock.
But the sight of the
letter flushed her face with expectation. She took it with smiles. She covered
it with kisses. When she opened it, a curl from Jack's head fell on to her lap.
She pressed it to her heart, and then rose and laid it at the feet of her
Madonna. "She must share my joy," she said with a pathetic
childishness; "she will understand it." Then, with her arm around
Isabel, and the girl's head on his shoulder, they read together Jack's loving words:
"Mi madre, mi madre,
you have Juan's heart in your heart. Believe me, that in all this trouble I
sorrow only for you. When victory is won I shall fly to you. Other young men
have other loves; I have only you, sweet mother. There is always the cry in my
heart for the kiss I missed when I left you. If I could hold your hand
to-night, if I could hear your voice, if I could lay my head on your breast, I
would say that the Holy One had given me the best blessings He had in heaven.
Send to me a letter, madre--a letter full of love and kisses. Forgive Juan!
Think of this only: he is my boy! If I live, it is for you, who are the
loveliest and dearest of mothers. If I die, I shall die with your name on my
lips. I embrace you with my soul. I kiss your hands, and remember how often they
have clasped mine. I kiss your eyes, your cheeks, your dear lips. Mi madre,
remember me! In your prayers, remember Juan!"
With what tears and
sobs was this loving letter read by all the women; and the Senora finally laid
it where she had laid the precious curl that had come with it. She wanted
"the Woman blessed among women" to share the mother joy and the
mother anguish in her heart. Besides, she was a little nervous about Jack's
memento of himself. Her superstitious lore taught her that severed hair is a
token of severed love. She wished he had not sent it, and yet she could not
bear to have it out of her sight.
"Gracias a
Dios!" she kept ejaculating. "I have one child that loves me, and me
only. I shall forgive Juan everything. I shall not forgive Thomas many things.
But Juan! oh! it is impossible not to love him entirely. There is no one like
him in the world. If the good God will only give him back to me, I will say a
prayer of thanks every day of my life long. Oh, Juan! Juan! my boy! my dear one!"
Thus she talked to
herself and her daughters continually. She wrote a letter full of motherly
affection and loving incoherencies; and if Jack had ever received it he would
doubtless have understood and kissed every word, and worn the white messenger close
to his heart. But between writing letters and sending them, there were in those
days intervals full of impossibilities. Love then had to be taken on trust.
Rarely, indeed, could it send assurances of fidelity and affection.
Jack's letter
brightened the day, and formed a new topic of conversation, until Ortiz
returned in the evening. His disguise had enabled him to linger about the Plaza
and monte table, and to hear and observe all that was going on.
"The city is
enjoying itself, and making money," he said, in reply to question from the
Senora. "Certainly the San Antonians approve of liberty, but what would
you do? In Rome one does not quarrel with the Pope; in San Antonio one must
approve of despotism, when Santa Anna parades himself there."
"Has he made any
preparations for attacking the Alamo? Will the Americans resist him?"
"Senorita Antonia,
he is erecting a battery on the river bank, three hundred yards from the Alamo.
This morning, ere the ground was touched, he reviewed his men in the Plaza. He
stood on an elevation at the church door, surrounded by his officers and the
priests, and unfurled the Mexican flag."
"That was about
eleven o'clock, Captain?"
"Si, Senorita. You
are precisely exact."
"I heard at that
hour a dull roar of human voices--a roar like nothing on earth but the distant
roar of the ocean."
"To be sure; it
was the shouting of the people. When all was still, Fray Ignatius blessed the
flag, and sprinkled over it holy water. Then Santa Anna raised it to his lips
and kissed it. Holy Maria! another shout. Then he crossed his sword upon the
flag, and cried out--"Soldados! you are here to defend this banner, which
is the emblem of your holy faith and of your native land, against heretics,
infidels and ungrateful traitors. Do you swear to do it? And the whole army
answered `Si! si! juramos!' (yes, we swear.) Again he kissed the flag, and laid
his sword across it, and, to be sure, then another shout. It was a very clever
thing, I assure you, Senora, and it sent every soldier to the battery with a
great heart."
The Senora's easily
touched feelings were all on fire at the description. "I wish I could have
seen the blessing of the banner," she said; "it is a ceremony to fill
the soul. I have always wept at it. Mark, Antonia! This confirms what I assured
you of--the Mexicans make war with a religious feeling and a true refinement.
And pray, Captain Ortiz, how will the Americans oppose these magnificent
soldiers, full of piety and patriotism?"
"They have the
Alamo, and one hundred and eighty-three men in it."
"And four thousand
men against them?"
"Si. May the
Virgin de los Remedios be their help! An urgent appeal for assistance was sent
to Fanning at Goliad. Senor Navarre, took it on a horse fleet as the wind. You
will see that on the third day he will be smoking in his balcony, in the way
which is usual to him."
The Virgin appealed to in military straits. "Will Fanning answer the appeal?"
"If the answer be
permitted him. But Urrea may prevent. Also other things."
Santa Anna entered San
Antonio on Tuesday the twenty-third of February, 1836, and by the
twenty-seventh the siege had become a very close one. Entrenched encampments
encircled the doomed men in the Alamo, and from dawn to sunset the bombardment
went on. The tumult of the fight--the hurrying in and out of the city--the
clashing of church bells between the booming of cannon--these things the Senora
and her daughters could hear and see; but all else was for twelve days mere
surmise. But only one surmise was possible, when it was known that the little
band of defiant heroes were fighting twenty, times their own number--that no
help could come to them--that the Mexicans were cutting off their water, and
that their provisions were getting very low. The face of Ortiz grew constantly
more gloomy, and yet there was something of triumph in his tone as he told the
miserably anxious women with what desperate valor the Americans were fighting;
and how fatally every one of their shots told.
On Saturday night, the
fifth of March, he called Antonia aside, and said, "My Senorita, you have
a great heart, and so I speak to you. The end is close. To-day the Mexicans
suc- ceeded in getting a large cannon within gunshot of the Alamo, just where
it is weakest. Senor Captain Crockett has stood on the roof all day, and as the
gunners have advanced to fire it he has shot them down. A group of Americans
were around him; they loaded rifles and passed them to him quickly as he could
fire them. Santa Anna was in a fury past believing. He swore then `by every
saint in heaven or hell' to enter the Alamo to- morrow. Senor Navarro says he
is raging like a tiger, and that none of his officers dare approach him. The
Senor bade me tell you that to-morrow night he will be here to escort you to
Gonzales; for no American will his fury spare; he knows neither sex nor age in
his passions. And when the Alamo falls, the soldiers will spread themselves
around for plunder, or shelter, and this empty house is sure to attract them.
The Senorita sees with her own intelligence how things must take place."
"I understand,
Captain. Will you go with us?"
"I will have the
Jersey wagon ready at midnight. I know the horses. Before sun-up we shall have
made many miles."
That night as Antonia
and her sister sat in the dark together, Antonia said: "Isabel, tomorrow
the Alamo will fall. There is no hope for the poor, brave souls there. Then
Santa Anna will kill every American."
"Oh, dear Antonia,
what is to become of us? We shall have no home, nothing to eat, nowhere to sleep.
I think we shall die. Also, there is mi madre. How I do pity her!"
"She is to be your
care, Isabel. I shall rely on you to comfort and manage her. I will attend to
all else. We are going to our father, and Thomas--and Luis."
Yes, and after all I am
very tired of this dreadful life. It is a kind of convent. One is buried alive
here, and still not safe. Do you really imagine that Luis is with my father and
Thomas?"
"I feel sure of
it."
"What a great
enjoyment it will be for me to see him again!"
"And how delighted
he will be! And as it is necessary that we go, Isabel, we must make the best of
the necessity. Try and get mi madre to feel this."
"I can do that
with a few words, and tears, and kisses. Mi madre is like one's good
angel--very easy to persuade."
"And now we must
try and sleep, queridita."
"Are you sure
there is no danger to-night, Antonia?"
"Not to-night. Say
your prayer, and sleep in God's presence. There is yet nothing to fear. Ortiz
and Lopez Navarro are watching every movement."
But at three o'clock in
the morning, the quiet of their rest was broken by sharp bugle calls. The stars
were yet in the sky, and all was so still that they thrilled the air like
something unearthly. Antonia started up, and ran to the roof. Bugle was answering
bugle; and their tones were imperative and cruel, as if they were blown by evil
spirits. It was impossible to avoid the feeling that the call was a predestined
summons, full of the notes of calamity. She was weighed down by this sorrowful
presentiment, because, as yet, neither experience nor years had taught her that
predestined ills are never lost.
The unseen moving
multitudes troubled the atmosphere between them. In wild, savage gusts, she
heard the military bands playing the infamous Dequelo, whose notes of blood and
fire commingled, shrieked in every ear--" No Quarter! No Quarter!" A
prolonged shout, the booming of cannon, an awful murmurous tumult, a sense of
horror, of crash and conflict, answered the merciless, frenzied notes, and
drowned them in the shrieks and curses they called for.
It was yet scarcely
dawn. Her soul, moved by influences so various and so awful, became almost
rebellious. Why did God permit such cruelties? Did He know? Would He allow a
handful of men to be overpowered by numbers? Being omnipotent, would He not in
some way, at least, make the fight equal? The instinct of her anglo-American
nature revolted at the unfairness of the struggle. Even her ejaculations to
heaven were in this spirit. "It is so unjust," she murmured;
"surely the Lord of Hosts will prevent a fight which must be a
massacre."
As she went about the
simple preparations for their breakfast, she wept continuously--tears of
indignation and sorrow--tears coming from the strength of feeling, rather than
its weakness. The Senora could eat nothing. Isabel was white with terror. They
wandered from window to window in the last extremity of anxiety.
About seven o'clock
they saw Ortiz pass the house. There were so many people on the road he could
not find an opportunity to enter for some time. He had been in the city all
night. He had watched the movement of the troops in the starlight. As he drank
a cup of chocolate, he said:
"It was just three
o'clock, Senorita, when the Matamoras battalion was moved forward. General Cos
supported it with two thousand men.
"But General Cos
was paroled by these same Americans who are now in the Alamo; and his life was
spared on condition that he would not bear arms against them again."
"It is but one
lie, one infamy more. When I left the city, about four thousand men were
attacking the Alamo. The infantry, in columns, were driven up to the walls by
the cavalry which surrounded them."
"The Americans! Is
there any hope for them?"
"The mercy of God
remains, Senorita. That is all. The Alamo is not as the everlasting hills. What
men have made, men can also destroy. Senor Navarro is in the church, praying
for the souls that are passing every moment."
"He ought to have
been fighting. To help the living is better than to pray for the dead."
Permit me to assure
you, Senorita Antonia, that no man has done more for the living. In time of
war, there must be many kinds of soldiers. Senor Navarro has given nearly all,
that he possesses for the hope of freedom. He has done secret service of
incalculable value."
"Secret service! I
prefer those who have the courage of their convictions, and who, stand by them
publicly."
"This is to be
considered, Senorita; the man who can be silent can also speak when the day for
speaking arrives." No one opposed this statement. It did not seem worth
while to discuss opinions, while the terrible facts of the position were
appealing to every sense.
As the day went on, the
conflict evidently became closer and fiercer. Ortiz went back to the city, and
the three lonely women knelt upon the house-top, listening in terror to the
tumult of the battle. About noon the firing ceased, and an awful silence--a
silence that made the ears ache to be relieved of it--followed.
"All is
over!" moaned Antonia, and she covered her face with her hands and sobbed
bitterly. Isabel had already exhausted tears. The Senora, with her crucifix in
her hand, was praying for the poor unfortunates dying without prayer.
During the afternoon,
smoke and flame, and strange and sickening odors were blown northward of the
city, and for some time it seemed probable that a great conflagration would
follow the battle. How they longed for some one to come! The utmost of their
calamity would be better than the intolerable suspense. But hour after hour
went past, and not even Ortiz arrived. They began to fear that both he and
Navarro had been discovered in some disloyalty and slain, and Antonia was
heartsick when she considered the helplessness of their situation.
Still, in accordance
with Navarro's instructions, they dressed for the contemplated journey, and sat
in the dark, anxiously listening for footsteps. About eleven o'clock Navarro
and Ortiz came together. Ortiz went for the horses, and Navarro sat down
beside, the Senora. She asked him, in a low voice, what had taken place, and he
answered:
"Everything
dreadful, everything cruel, and monstrous, and inhuman! Among the angels in
heaven there is sorrow and anger this night." His voice had in it all the
pathos of tears, but tears mingled with a burning indignation.
"The Alamo has
fallen!"
"Senorita Antonia,
I would give my soul to undo this day's work. It is a disgrace to Mexico which
centuries cannot wipe out."
"The
Americans?"
"Are all with the
Merciful One."
"Not one
saved?"
"Not one."
"Impossible!"
"I will tell you.
It is right to tell the whole world such an infamy. If I had little children I
would take them on my knee and teach them the story. I heard it from the lips
of one wet-shod with their blood, dripping crimson from the battle--my own
cousin, Xavier. He was with General Castrillon's division. They began their
attack at four in the morning, and after two hours' desperate fighting
succeeded in reaching a courtyard of the Alamo.
"They found the windows
and doors barricaded with bags of earth. Behind these the Americans fought hand
to hand with despairing valor. Ramires, Siesma and Batres led the columns, and
Santa Anna gave the signal of battle from a battery near the bridge. When the
second charge was driven back, he became furious. He put himself in front of
the men, and with shouts and oaths led them to the third charge. Xavier said
that he inspired them with his own frenzy. They reached the foot of the wall,
and the ladders were placed in position. The officers fell to the rear and
forced the men to ascend them. As they reached the top they were stabbed, and
the ladders overturned. Over and over, and over again these attempts were made,
until the garrison in the Alamo were exhausted with the struggle."
Navarro paused a few
minutes, overpowered by his emotions. No one spoke. He could see Antonia's
face, white as a spirit's, in the dim light, and he knew that Isabel was weep-
ing and that the Senora had taken his hand.
"At last, at the
hour of ten, the outer wall was gained. Then, room by room was taken with
slaughter incredible. There were fourteen Americans in the hospital. They fired
their rifles and pistols from their pallets with such deadly aim that Milagros
turned a cannon shotted with grape and canister upon them. They were blown to
pieces, but at the entrance of the door they left forty dead Mexicans."
"Ah Senor, Senor!
tell me no more. My heart can not endure it."
"Mi madre,"
answered Isabel, "we must hear it all. Without it, one cannot learn to
hate Santa Anna sufficiently"; and her small, white teeth snapped
savagely, as she touched the hand of Lopez with an imperative
"Proceed."
"Colonel Bowie was
helpless in bed. Two Mexican officers fired at him, and one ran forward to stab
him ere he died. The dying man caught his murderer by the hair of his head, and
plunged his knife into his heart. They went to judgment at the same
moment."
"I am glad of it!
Glad of it! The American would say to the Almighty: `Thou gavest me life, and
thou gavest me freedom; freedom, that is the nobler gift of the two. This man
robbed me of both.' And God is just. The Judge of the whole earth will do
right."
"At noon, only six
of the one hundred and eighty-three were left alive. They were surrounded by Castrillon
and his soldiers. Xavier says his general was penetrated with admiration for
these heroes. He spoke sympathizingly to Crockett, who stood in an angle of the
fort, with his shattered rifle in his right hand, and his massive knife,
dripping with blood, in his left. His face was gashed, his white hair crimson
with blood; but a score of Mexicans, dead and dying, were around him. At his
side was Travis, but so exhausted that he was scarcely alive.
"Castrillon could
not kill these heroes. He asked their lives of Santa Anna, who stood with a
scowling, savage face in this last citadel of his foes. For answer, he turned
to the men around him, and said, with a malignant emphasis: `Fire!' It was the
last volley. Of the defenders of the Alamo, not one is left."
A solemn silence
followed. For a few minutes it was painful in its intensity. Isabel broke it.
She spoke in a whisper, but her voice was full of intense feeling. "I wish
indeed the whole city had been burnt up. There was a fire this afternoon; I would
be glad if it were burning yet."
"May God pardon us
all, Senorita! That was a fire which does not go out. It will burn for ages. I
will explain myself. Santa Anna had the dead Americans put into ox-wagons and
carried to an open field outside the city. There they were burnt to ashes. The
glorious pile was still casting lurid flashes and shadows as I passed it."
"I will hear no
more! I will hear no more!" cried the Senora. "And I will go away
from here. Ah, Senor, why do you not make haste? In a few hours we shall have
daylight again. I am in a terror. Where is Ortiz?"
"The horses are
not caught in a five minutes, Senora. But listen, there is the roll of the
wagon on the flagged court. All, then, is ready. Senora, show now that you are
of a noble house, and in this hour of adversity be brave, as the Flores have
always been."
She was pleased by the
entreaty, and took his arm with a composure which, though assumed, was a sort
of strength. She entered the wagon with her daughters, and uttered no word of complaint.
Then Navarro locked the gate, and took his seat beside Ortiz. The prairie turf
deadened the beat of their horses' hoofs; they went at a flying pace, and when
the first pallid light of morning touched the east, they had left San Antonio
far behind and were nearing the beautiful banks of the Cibolo.
"How sleep the brave who sink to restBy all their country's wishes
bless'd?By fairy hands their knell is rung;By forms unseen their dirge is
sung.There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,To bless the turf that wraps their
clay;And Freedom shall awhile repair,To dwell a weeping hermit
there.""How shall we rank thee upon glory's page?Thou more than
soldier, and just less than sage.""Grief fills the room up of my
absent child;Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;Remembers me of all his
gracious parts." Near midnight, on
March the ninth, the weary fugitives arrived at Gonzales. They had been
detained by the deep mud in the bottom lands, and by the extreme exhaustion of
the ladies, demanding some hours' rest each day. The village was dark and
quiet. Here and there the glimmer of a candle, now and then the call of a
sentry, or the wail of a child broke the mysterious silence.
Ortiz appeared to know
the ground perfectly. He drove without hesitation to a log house in which a
faint thread of light was observable, and as he approached it he gave a long,
peculiar whistle. The door was instantly thrown open, and, as the wagon
stopped, two men stepped eagerly to it. In another instant the Senora was
weeping in her husband's arms, and Isabel laughing and crying and murmuring her
sweet surprises into the ear of the delighted Luis. When their wraps had been
removed from the wagon, Ortiz drove away, leaving Navarro and Antonia standing
by the little pile of ladies' luggage.
"I will take
charge of all, Senorita. Alas! How weary you are!"
"It is nothing,
Senor. Let me thank you for your great kindness."
"Senorita, to be
of service to you is my good fortune. If it were necessary, my life for your life,
and I would die happy."
She had given him her
hand with her little speech of thanks, and he raised it to his lips. It was an
act of homage that he might have offered to a saint, but in it Lopez
unconsciously revealed to Antonia the secret love in his heart. For he stood in
the glow of light from the open door, and his handsome face showed, as in a
glass darkly, the tenderness and hopelessness of his great affection. She was
touched by the discovery, and though she had a nature faithful as sunrising she
could not help a feeling of kindly interest in a lover so reticent, so
watchful, so forgetful of himself.
The log cabin in which
they found shelter was at least a resting-place. A fire of cedar logs burned
upon the hearth, and there was a bed in the room, and a few rude chairs covered
with raw hide. But the Senora had a happy smile on her weary face. She ignored
the poverty of her surroundings. She had her Roberto, and, for this hour at
least, had forgiven fate.
Presently the
coffee-pot was boiling, and Doctor Worth and Luis brought out their small store
of corn-bread and their tin camp-cups, and the weary women ate and drank, and
comforted themselves in the love and protection at their side. Doctor Worth sat
by his wife, and gave Antonia his hand. Isabel leaned her pretty head against
Luis, and listened with happy smiles to his low words:
"Charming little
one, your lips are two crimson curtains. Between curtain and curtain my kiss is
waiting. Give it to me."
"Eyes of my soul,
to-night the world begins again for me."
"At this blessed
hour of God, I am the happiest man he has made."
"As for me, here
in this dear, white hand I put my heart."
Is there any woman who
cannot imagine Isabel's shy glances, and the low, sweet words in which she
answered such delightful protestations? And soon, to add a keener zest to his
happiness, Luis began to be a little jealous.
"With us is Dias
de Bonilla. Do you remember, my beloved one. that you danced with him
once?"
"How can you say a
thing so offensive?"
"Yes, dear, at the
Senora Valdez's."
"It may be. I have
forgotten."
"Too well he
remembers. He has dared to sing a serenade to your memory--well, truly, he did
not finish it, and but for the Senor Doctor, I should have taught him that
Isabel is not a name for his lips to utter. Here, he may presume to come into
your presence. Will you receive him with extreme haughtiness? It would be a
great satisfaction to me."
"The poor fellow!
Why should I make him miserable? You should not be jealous, Luis."
"If you smile on
him--the least little smile--he will think you are in love with him. He is such
a fool, I assure you. I am very distressed about this matter, my angel."
"I will tell you
Luis--when the myrtle-tree grows figs, and the fig-tree is pink with myrtle
flowers, then I may fall in love with Dias de Bonilla--if I can take the
trouble."
No one heeded this
pretty, extravagant talk. It was a thing apart from the more serious interests
discussed by Doctor Worth and his wife and eldest daughter. And when Ortiz and
Navarro joined the circle, the story of the fall of the Alamo was told again,
and Luis forgot his own happiness, and wept tears of anger and pity for the
dead heroes.
"This brutal
massacre was on the morning of the sixth, you say, Navarro?"
"Last Sabbath
morning, Senor. Mass was being offered in the churches, and Te Deums sung while
it went on."
"A mass to the
devil it was," said Ortiz.
"Now, I will tell
you something. On the morning of the second, Thomas was in Washington. A
convention sitting there declared, on that day, the independence of Texas, and
fifty- five out of fifty-six votes elected General Houston Commander-
in-Chief."
"Houston! That is
the name of victory! Gracias a Dios!" cried Navarro.
"It is probable
that the news of this movement influenced Santa Anna to such barbarity."
"It is his nature
to be brutal."
"True, Ortiz; yet
I can imagine how this proclamation would incense him. On the morning of the
sixth, the convention received the last express sent by poor Travis from the
Alamo. It was of the most thrilling character, breathing the very spirit of
patriotism and courage--and despair. In less than an hour, Houston, with a few
companions, was on his way to the Alamo. At the same time he sent an express to
Fannin, urging him to meet him on the Cibolo. Houston will be here
to-morrow."
"Then he will
learn that all help is too late."
But Houston had learned
it in his own way before he reached Gonzales; for Travis had stated that as
long as the Alamo could be held, signal guns would be fired at sunrising; and
it is a well-authenticated fact that these guns were heard by trained ears for
more than one hundred miles across the prairie. Houston, whose senses were keen
as the Indians with whom he had long lived knew when he was within reach of the
sound; and he rose very early, and with his ear close to the ground waited in
intense anxiety for the dull, rumbling murmur which would tell him the Alamo
still held out. His companions stood at some distance, still as statues,
intently watching him. The sun rose. He had listened in vain; not the faintest
sound did his ear detect.
"The Alamo has
fired its last gun," he said, on rejoining his companions.
"And the men,
General?"
"They have died
like men. You may be sure of that."
At Gonzales he heard
the particulars. And he saw that the news had exerted a depressing influence
upon the troops there. He called them together. He spoke to them of the brutal
tragedy, and he invested its horrors with the grandeur of eternal purpose and
the glory of heroic sacrifice.
"They were
soldiers," he cried; "and they died like soldiers. Their names will
be the morning stars of American history. They will live for ever in the red
monument of the Alamo." He looked like a lion, with a gloomy stare; his
port was fierce, and his eyes commanded all he viewed. "Vengeance remains
to us! We have declared our independence, and it must be maintained."
He immediately sent off
another express to Fannin; apprised him of the fall of the Alamo; ordered him
to blow up Goliad and fall back upon Gonzales. Then he sent wagons into the
surrounding country, to transport the women and children to the eastern
settlements; for he knew well what atrocities would mark every mile of Santa
Anna's progress through the country.
These wagons, with
their helpless loads, were to rendezvous at Peach Creek, ten miles from
Gonzales; where also he expected Fannin and his eight hundred and sixty men to
join him. This addition would make the American force nearly twelve hundred
strong. Besides which, Fannin's little army was of the finest material, being
composed mostly of enthusiastic volunteers from Georgia and Alabama; young men,
who, like Dare Grant and John Worth, were inspired with the idea of freedom, or
the spread of Americanism, or the fanaticism of religious liberty of
conscience--perhaps, even, with hatred of priestly domination. Houston felt
that he would be sufficient for Santa Anna when the spirit of this company was
added to the moral force of men driven from their homes and families to fight
for the lands they had bought and the rights which had been guaranteed them.
So he watched the
horizon anxiously for Fannin's approach, often laying his ear to the ground to
listen for what he could not see. And, impatient as he was for their arrival,
the Senora was more so. She declared that her sufferings would be unendurable
but for this hope. The one question on her lips, the one question in her eyes,
was, "Are they coming?" And Antonia, though she did not speak of her
private hopes, was equally anxious. Brother and lover were both very dear to
her. And to have the whole family together would be in itself a great help.
Whatever their deprivations and fatigues, they could comfort each other with
their affection.
Every day wagon-loads
of women and children joined the camp, and the march eastward was very slow.
But no circumstance extols more loudly the bravery and tenderness of these
American soldiers than the patience with which this encumbrance was endured.
Men worn out with watching and foraging were never too weary to help some
mother still more weary, or to carry some little child whose swollen feet would
no longer aid it.
One night they rested
at a little place on the Colorado. In one room of a deserted cabin Houston sat
with Major Hockly, dictating to him a military dispatch. They had no candles,
and Houston was feeding the fire with oak splinters, to furnish light enough
for their necessity. In the other room, the Worth family were gathered.
Antonia, in preparing for their journey, had wisely laid a small mattress and a
couple of pillows in the wagon; and upon this mattress the Senora and Isabel
were resting. Doctor Worth and Thomas sat by the fire talking of Fannin's
delay; and Antonia was making some corn-meal cakes for their supper.
When the Senora's portion
was given to her she put it aside, and lifted her eyes to Antonia's face. They
asked the question forever in her heart, "Is Jack coming?" and
Antonia pitifully shook her head.
Then the poor woman
seemed to have reached the last pitch of endurance. "Let me die!" she
cried. "I can bear life no longer." To Mary and the saints she
appealed with a passionate grief that was distressing to witness. All the
efforts of her husband and her children failed to sooth her; and, as often happens
in a complication of troubles, she seized upon the most trifling as the text of
her complaint.
"I cannot eat corn
bread; I have always detested it. I am hungry. I am perishing for my chocolate.
And I have no clothing. I am ashamed of myself. I thank the saints I have no
looking-glass. Oh, Roberto! Roberto! What have you done to your Maria?"
"My dear wife! My
dear, dear wife! Be patient a little longer. Think, love, you are not alone.
There are women here far more weary, far more hungry; several who, in the
confusion, have lost their little children; others who are holding dying babes
in their arms."
"Giver of all
good! give me patience. I have to say to you that other women's sorrows do not
make me grateful for my own. And Santa Maria has been cruel to me. Another more
cruel, who can find? I have confessed to her my heartache about Juan; entreated
her to bring my boy to me. Has she done it?"
"My darling
Maria."
"Grace of God,
Roberto! It is now the twenty-third of March; I have been seventeen days
wandering with my daughters like very beggars. If only I had had the discretion
to remain in my own house!"
Maria, Lopez will tell
you that Fray Ignatius and the brothers are in possession of it. He saw them
walking about the garden reading their breviaries."
At this moment General
Houston, in the op posite room was dictating: "Before God, I have found
the darkest hours of my life. For forty-eight hours I have neither eaten an
ounce of anything, nor have I slept." The Senora's sobbing troubled him.
He rose to close the door, and saw two men entering. One leaned upon the other,
and appeared to be at the point of death.
"Where is there a
doctor, General?"
"In that room,
sir. Have you brought news of Fannin?"
"I have."
"Leave your
comrade with the doctor, and report."
The entrance of the
wounded man silenced the Senora. She turned her face to the wall and refused to
eat. Isabel sat by her side and held her hand. The doctor glanced at it as he
turned away. It had been so plump and dimpled and white. It was now very thin
and white with exposure. It told him far better than complaining, how much the
poor woman had suffered. He went with a sigh to his patient.
"Stabbed with a
bayonet through the shoulder--hard riding from Goliad--no food--no rest--that
tells the whole story, doctor."
It was all he could
say. A fainting fit followed. Antonia procured some stimulant, and when
consciousness returned, assisted her father to dress the wound. Their own
coffee was gone, but she begged a cup from some one more fortunate; and after
the young man had drunk it, and had eaten a little bread, he was inclined to
make light of his wound and his sufferings.
"Glad to be here
at all," he said. "I think I am the only one out of five
hundred."
"You cannot mean
that you are of Fannin's command?"
"I was of Fannin's
command. Every man in it has been shot. I escaped by a kind of miracle."
The doctor looked at
the Senora. She seemed to be asleep. "Speak low," he said, "but
tell me all."
The man sat upon the
floor with his back against the wall. The doctor stooped over him. Antonia and
Isabel stood beside their father.
"We heard of
Urrea's approach at San Patricio. The Irish people of that settlement welcomed
Urrea with great rejoicing. He was a Catholic--a defender of the faith. But the
American settlers in the surrounding country fled, and Fannin heard that five
hundred women and children, followed by the enemy, were trying to reach the
fortress of Goliad. He ordered Major Ward, with the Georgia battalions, to go
and meet the fugitives. Many of the officers entreated him not to divide his
men for a report which had come by way of the faithless colony of San Patricio.
"But Fannin
thought the risk ought to be taken. He took it, and the five hundred women and
children proved to be a regiment of Mexican dragoons. They surrounded our
infantry on every side, and after two days' desperate fighting, the Georgia
battalions were no more. In the meantime, Fannin got the express telling him of
the fall of the Alamo, and ordering him to unite with General Houston. That
might have been a possible thing with eight hundred and sixty men, but it was
not possible with three hundred and sixty. However, we made the effort, and on
the great prairie were attacked by the enemy lying in ambush there. Entirely
encircled by them, yet still fighting and pressing onward, we defended
ourselves until our ammunition gave out. Then we accepted the terms of
capitulation offered by Urrea, and were marched back to Goliad as prisoners of
war. Santa Anna ordered us all to be shot."
"But you were
prisoners of war?"
"Urrea laughed at
the articles, and said his only intention in them was to prevent the loss of
Mexican blood. Most of his officers remonstrated with with him, but he flew
into a passion at Miralejes. `The Senor Presidente's orders are not to be
trifled with. By the Virgin of Guadelupe!' he cried, `it would be as much as my
own life was worth to disobey them.'
"It gave the
Mexican soldiers pleasure to tell us these things, and though we scarcely
believed such treachery possible, we were very uneasy. On the eighth day after
the surrender, a lovely Sunday morning, we were marched out of the fort on
pretence of sending us to Louisiana; according to the articles of surrender,
and we were in high spirits at the prospect.
"But I noticed
that we were surrounded by a double row of soldiers, and that made me
suspicious. In a few moments, Fannin was marched into the centre, and told to
sit down on a low stool. He felt that his hour had come. He took his watch and
his purse, and gave them to some poor woman who stood outside lamenting and
praying for the poor Americans. I shall never forget the calmness and
brightness of his face. The Mexican colonel raised his sword, the drums beat,
and the slaughter began. Fifty men at a time were shot; and those whom the guns
missed or crippled, were dispatched with the bayonet or lance."
"You escaped.
How?"
"When the lips of
the officer moved to give the order: Fire! I fell upon my face as if dead. As I
lay, I was pierced by a bayonet through the shoulder, but I made no sign of
life. After the execution, the camp followers came to rob the dead. A
kind-hearted Mexican woman helped me to reach the river. I found a horse tied
there, and I took it. I have been on the point of giving up life several times,
but I met a man coming here with the news to Houston, and he helped me to hold
out."
The doctor was
trembling with grief and anger, and he felt Antonia's hand on his shoulder.
"My friend,"
he whispered, "did you know John Worth?"
"Who did not know
him in Fannin's camp? Any of us would have been glad to save poor Jack; and he
had a friend who refused to live without him."
"Dare Grant?"
"That was the man,
young lady. Grant was a doctor, and the Mexicans wanted doctors. They offered
him his life for his services, but he would not have it unless his friend's
life also was spared. They were shot holding each other's hands, and fell
together. I was watching their faces at the moment. There wasn't a bit of fear
in them."
The Senora rose, and
came as swiftly as a spirit to them. She looked like a woman walking in her
sleep. She touched the stranger. "I heard you. You saw Dare Grant die. But
my boy! My boy! Where is my Juan?"
"Maria,
darling."
"Don't speak,
Roberto. Where is my Juan? Juan Worth?"
"Madam. I am sorry
enough, God knows. Juan Worth--was shot."
Then the wretched
mother threw up her hands, and with an awful cry fell to the ground. It was
hours ere she recovered consciousness, and consciousness only restored her to
misery.
The distress of the
father, the brother and sisters of the dead youth was submerged in the
speechless despair of the mother. She could not swallow food; she turned away
from the the sympathy of all who loved her. Even Isabel's caresses were
received with an apathy which was terrifying. With the severed curl of her
boy's hair in her fingers, she sat in tearless, voiceless anguish.
Poor Antonia, weighed
down with the double loss that had come to her, felt, for the first time, as if
their condition was utterly hopeless. The mental picture of her brother and her
lover meeting their tragic death hand in hand, their youth and beauty, their
courage and fidelity, was constantly before her. With all the purity and
strength of her true heart, she loved Dare; but she did not for a moment wish
that he had taken a different course. "It is just what I should have
expected from him," she said to Isabel. "If he had let poor Jack die
alone, I could never have loved him in the same way again. But oh, Isabel, how
miserable I am?"
"Sweet Antonia, I
can only weep with you. Think of this; it was on last Sunday morning. Do you
remember how sad you were?"
"I was in what
seemed to be an unreasonable distress. I went away to weep. My very thoughts
were tired with their sorrowful journeys up and down my mind, trying to find
out hope and only meeting despair. Oh, my brave Jack! Oh, my dear Dare, what a
cruel fate was your's!"
"And mi madre,
Antonia? I fear, indeed, that she will lose her senses. She will not speak to
Thomas, nor even to me. She has not said a prayer since Jack's death. She
cannot sleep. I am afraid of her, Antonia."
"To-night we are
to move further east; perhaps the journey may waken her out of this trance of
grief. I can see that our father is wretched about her; and Thomas wanders in
and out of the room as if his heart was broken."
"Thomas loved
Jack. Luis told me that he sat with him and Lopez, and that he sobbed like a
woman. But, also, he means a great revenge. None of the men slept last night.
They stood by the camp-fires talking. Sometimes I went to the door and looked
out. How awful they were in the blaze and darkness! I think, indeed, they could
have conquered Santa Anna very easily."
Isabel had not
misjudged the spirit of the camp. The news of the massacre at Goliad was
answered by a call for vengeance that nothing but vengeance could satisfy. On
the following day Houston addressed his little army. He reminded them that they
were the children of the heroes who fought for liberty at Yorktown, and
Saratoga, and Bunker Hill. He made a soul- stirring review of the events that
had passed; he explained to them their situation, and the designs of the enemy,
and how he proposed to meet them.
His voice, loud as a
trumpet with a silver sound, inspired all who heard it with courage. His large,
bright visage, serious but hopeful, seemed to sun the camp. "They live too
long," he cried, "who outlive freedom. And I promise you that you
shall have a full cup of vengeance. For every man that fell fighting at the
Alamo, for every one treacherously slaughtered at Goliad, you shall be
satisfied. If I seem to be flying before the enemy now, it is for his
destruction. Three Mexican armies united, we cannot fight. We can fight them
singly. And every mile we make them follow us weakens them, separates them,
confuses them. The low lands of the Brazos, the unfordable streams, the
morasses, the pathless woods, are in league with us. And we must place our
women and children in safety. Even if we have to carry them to General Gaines
and the United States troops, we must protect them, first of all. I believe
that we shall win our freedom with our own hands; but if the worst come, and we
have to fall back to the Sabine, we shall find friends and backers there. I
know President Jackson, my old general, the unconquered Christian Mars! Do you
think he will desert his countrymen? Never! If we should need help, he has
provided it. And the freedom of Texas is sure and certain. It is at hand.
Prepare to achieve it. We shall take up our march eastward in three
hours."
Ringing shouts answered
the summons. The camp was in a tumult of preparation immediately; Houston was
lending his great physical strength to the mechanical difficulties to be
encountered. A crowd of men was around. Suddenly a woman touched him on the
arm, and he straightened himself and looked at her.
"You will kill
Santa Anna, General? You will kill this fiend who has escaped from hell! By the
mother of Christ, I ask it."
"My dear
madam!"
He was so moved with
pity that he could not for a moment or two give her any stronger assurance. For
this suppliant, pallid and frenzied with sorrow, was the once beautiful Senora
Worth. He looked at her hollow eyes, and shrunk form, and worn clothing, and
remembered with a pang, the lovely, gracious lady clad in satin and lace, with
a jewelled comb in her fine hair and a jewelled fan in her beautiful hands, and
a wave of pity and anger passed like a flame over his face.
"By the memory of
my own dear mother, Senora, I will make Santa Anna pay the full price of his
cruelties."
"Thank you,
Senor"; and she glided away with her tearless eyes fixed upon the curl of
black hair in her open palm.
"But to the hero, when his swordHas won the battle for the free,Thy
voice sounds like a prophet's word,And in its hollow tones are heard.The thanks
of millions yet to be,""Who battled for the true and just,"And
grasps the skirts of happy chance,And breasts the blows of
circumstance."And lives to clutch the golden keys,To mould a mighty
state's decrees." The
memorial of wrongs, which resulted in the Declaration of Texan Independence,
was drawn up with statesmanlike ability by David G. Burnett, a native of New
Jersey, a man of great learning, dignity, and experience; who, as early as
1806, sailed from New York to join Miranda in his effort to give Spanish
America liberty. The paper need not be quoted here. It gave the greatest
prominence to the refusal of trial by jury, the failure too establish a system
of public education, the tyranny of military law, the demand that the colonists
should give up arms necessary for their protection or their sustenance, the
inciting of the Indians to massacre the American settlers, and the refusal of
the right to worship the Almighty according to the dictates of their own
consciences. Burnett was elected Governor, and Houston felt that he could now
give his whole attention to military affairs.
The seat of Government
was removed to Harrisburg, a small place on the Buffalo Bayou; and Houston was
sure that this change would cause Santa Anna to diverge from his route to
Nacogdoches. He dispatched orders to the men scattered up and down the Brazos
from Washington to Fort Bend--a distance of eighty miles--to join him on the
march to Harrisburg, and he struck his own camp at the time he had specified.
In less than
twenty-four hours they reached San Felipe, a distance of twenty-eight miles.
The suffering of the women and children on that march can never be told. Acts
of heroism on the part of the men and of fortitude on the part of the women
that are almost incredible, marked every step of the way. The Senora sat in her
wagon, speechless, and lost in a maze of melancholy anguish. She did not seem
to heed want, or cold, or wet, or the utter misery of her surroundings. Her
soul had concentrated all its consciousness upon the strand of hair she
continually smoothed through her fingers. Dr. Worth, in his capacity of
physician, accompanied the flying families, and he was thus able to pay some
attention to his distraught wife; but she answered nothing he said to her. If
she looked at him, her eyes either flamed with anger, or expressed something of
the terror to be seen in the eyes of a hunted animal. It was evident that her
childish intelligence had seized upon him as the most obvious cause of all her
loss and misery.
The condition of a wife
so beloved almost broke his heart. The tragic death of his dear son was not so
hard to endure as this living woe at his side. And when they reached San Felipe
and found it in ashes, a bitter cry of hopeless suffering came from every
woman's lips. They had thought to find there a little food, and a day's
sheltered resting-place. Even Antonia's brave soul fainted, at the want and
suffering around her. She had gold, but it could not buy bread for the little
ones, weeping with hunger and terrified by the fretfulness of mothers suffering
the pangs of want and in the last stage of human weariness.
It was on this night
Houston wrote: "I will do the best I can; but be assured the fame of
Jackson could never compensate me for my anxiety and mental pain." And
yet, when he was told that a blind woman and her seven children had been passed
by, and did not know the enemy were approaching, he delayed the march until men
had been sent back to bring them into safety.
During these days of
grief and privation Isabel's nature grew to its finest proportions. Her patient
efforts to arouse her mother, and her cheerfulness under the loss of all
comforts, were delightful. Besides which, she had an inexhaustible fund of
sympathy for the babies. She was never without one in her arms. Three mothers,
who had died on the road, left their children to her care. And it was wonderful
and pitiful to see the delicately nurtured girl, making all kinds of efforts to
secure little necessaries for the children she had elected to care for.
"The Holy Mother
helps me," she said to, Antonia. "She makes the poor little ones
good, and I am not very tired."
At San Felipe they were
joined by nearly one hundred men, who also brought word that a fine company
were advancing to their aid from Mississippi, under General Quitman; and that
two large cannon, sent by the people of Cincinnati, were within a few miles.
And thus hoping and fearing, hungry and weary to the death, they reached, on
the 16th of April, after a march of eighteen miles, a place called McArley's.
They had come over a boggy prairie under a cold rain, and were depressed beyond
expression. But there was a little shelter here for the women and children to
sleep under. The men camped in the open. They had not a tent in their
possession.
About ten o'clock that
night, Doctor Worth was sitting with his wife and children and Antonia in one
corner of a room in a deserted cabin. He had the Senora's wasted hand in his
own, and was talking to her. She sat in apathetic silence. It was impossible to
tell whether she heard or understood him.
"I wonder where
Isabel is," said Antonia; and with the words the girl entered the room.
She had in her arms a little lad of four years old, suffering the tortures of
croup.
"Mi madre,"
she cried, "you know how to save him! He is dying! Save him! Listen to me!
The Holy Mother says so"; and she laid the child on her knee.
A change like a flash
of light passed over the Senora's face. "The poor little one!" Her
motherly instincts crushed down everything else. In the child's agony she
forgot her own grief. With glad hearts the doctor and Antonia encouraged her in
her good work, and when at length the sufferer had been relieved and was
sleeping against her breast, the Senora had wept. The stone from her heart had
been rolled away by a little child. Her own selfish sorrow had been buried in a
wave of holy, unselfish maternal affection. The key to her nature had been
found, and henceforward Isabel brought to her every suffering baby.
On the next day they
marched ten miles through a heavy rain, and arrived at Burnett's settlement.
The women had shelter, the men slept on the wet ground--took the prairie
without cover--with their arms in their hands. They knew they were in the
vicinity of Santa Anna, and all were ready to answer in an instant the three
taps of the drum, which was the only instrument of martial music in the camp,
and which was never touched but by Houston.
Another day of eighteen
miles brought them to within a short distance of Harrisburg. Santa Anna had
just been there, and the place was in ashes. It was evident to all, now, that
the day and the hour was at hand. Houston first thought of the two hundred
families he had in charge, and they were quickly taken over the bayou. When he
had seen the last one in this comparative safety, he uttered so fervent a
"Thank God!" that the men around unconsciously repeated it. The bayou
though narrow was twenty feet deep, and the very home of alligators. There was
only one small bridge in the vicinity. He intended its destruction, and thus to
make his little band and the deep, dangerous stream a double barrier between
the Mexicans and the women and children beyond them. It was after this duty he
wrote:
"This morning we
are in preparation to meet Santa Anna. We will only be about seven hundred to
march, besides the camp guard. But we go to conquest. The troops are in fine
spirits, and now is the time for action. I leave the result in the hands of an
all-wise God, and I rely confidently in his Providence.
"SAM HOUSTON."Copy from Department of War of the Republic of
Texas. The women and children,
under a competent guide, continued their march eastward. But they were worn
out. Many were unable to put their feet to the ground. The wagons were crowded
with these helpless ones. The Senora had so far recovered as to understand that
within a few hours Santa Anna and the Americans must meet. And, mentally led by
Isabel's passionate hatred, she now showed a vindictiveness beyond that of any
other woman.
She spent hours upon
her knees, imploring the saints, and the stars, and the angel Michael, to fight
against Santa Anna. To Isabel she whispered, "I have even informed the
evil one where he may be found. The wretch who ordered such infamies! He
poisons the air of the whole world as he goes through it. I shall never be
happy till I know that he is in purgatory. He will be hated even there-- and in
a worse place, too. Yes, it is pleasant to think of that! There will be many
accusers of him there. I shall comfort myself with imagining his punishment.
Isabel, do you believe with your heart that Senor Houston and the Americans
will be strong enough to kill him?"
"Mi madre, I know
it."
"Then do be a
little delighted. How can you bear things with such a provoking indifference?
But as Luis is safe--"
"Chito! Chito! Do
not be cruel, mi madre. I would stab Santa Anna with my own hands--very slowly,
I would stab him. It would be so sweet. The Sisters told me of a woman in the
Holy Book, who smiled upon the one she hated, and gave him milk and butter, and
when he slept, drove a great nail through his temples. I know how she felt.
What a feast it would be, to strike, and strike, and strike! I could drive ten,
twenty, fifty nails, into Santa Anna, when I think of Juan."
No one had before dared
to breathe her boy's name in her hearing. She herself had never spoken it. It
fell upon the ears of both women like a strain of forgotten music. They looked
at each other with eyes that stirred memory and love to their sweetest depths.
Almost in whispers they began to talk of the dead boy, to recall how lovable,
how charming, how affectionate, how obedient he had been. Then the Senora broke
open the seals of her sorrow, and, with bitter reproaches on herself, confessed
that the kiss she had denied her Juan was a load of anguish upon her heart that
she could not bear.
"If I had only
blessed him," she moaned; "I had saved him from his misfortune. A
mother's blessing is such a holy thing! And he knelt at my knees, and begged
it. I can see his eyes in the darkness, when my eyes are shut. I can hear his
voice when I am asleep. Isabel, I shall never be happy till I see Juan again,
and say to him, `Forgive me, dear one, forgive me, for I have suffered.'"
Both were weeping, but
Isabel said, bravely: "I am sure that Juan does not blame you now, mi
madre. In the other world one understands better. And remember, also, the
letter which he wrote you. His last thought was yours. He fell with your name
on his lips. These things are certain. And was it not good of Dare to die with
him? A friend like that! Out of the tale-books who ever hears of such a thing?
Antonia has wept much. In the nights, when she thinks I am asleep, I hear her.
Have you seen that she has grown white and thin? I think that my father is very
unhappy about her."
"In an hour of
mercy may the merciful One remember Dare Grant! I will pray for his peace as
long as I live. If he had left Juan--if he had come back alone--I think indeed
I should have hated him."
"That was also the
opinion of Antonia--she would never have loved him the same. I am sure she
would not have married him."
"My good Antonia!
Go bring her to me, Isabel. I want to comfort her. She has been so patient with
me. I have felt it--felt it every minute; and I have been stupid and selfish,
and have forgotten that she too was suffering."
The next day it was
found impossible to move. The majority of the women had husbands with the army.
They had left their wives, to secure everlasting freedom for their children;
but, even if Houston was victorious, they might be wounded and need their help.
To be near them in any case was the one thing about which they were positive.
"We will not move
another inch," said a brave little Massachusetts woman, who had been the
natural leader of this domestic Exodus; "we will rest ourselves a little
here, and if the Mexicans want some extraordinary fighting they can have it;
especially, if they come meddling with us or our children. My husband told me
just to get out of reach of shot and shell and wait there till we heard of the
victory, and I am for doing that, and no other thing."
Nearly two hundred
women, bent upon their own way, are not to be taken any other way; and the few
old men who had been sent to guide the party, and shoot what game was necessary
for their support, surrendered at once to this feminine mutiny. Besides, the
condition of the boys and girls between seven and fourteen was really a
deplorable one. They were too old to be cared for as infants, and they had been
obliged, with the strength of children, to accomplish the labor of men and
women. Many were crippled in their feet, others were continually on the point
of swooning.
It was now the 20th of
April. The Senora and her daughters had been six weeks with the American army,
exposed to all the privations which such a life entailed. But the most obvious
of these privations were, perhaps, those which were most easily borne. Women
endure great calamities better than the little annoyances affecting those wants
which are part and parcel of their sex or their caste. It was not the
necessaries so much as the luxuries of life which the Senora missed--the
changes of raiment--the privacy--the quiet--the regularity of events.
During the whole of the
20th, there was almost a Sabbath stillness. It was a warm, balmy day. The
wearied children were under the wagons and under the trees, sleeping the dead
sleep of extreme exhaustion. The mothers, wherever it was possible, slept also.
The guides were a little apart, listening and smoking. If they spoke, it was
only in monosyllables. Rest was so much more needed than food that little or no
attempt was made to cook until near sundown.
At dawn next
morning--nay, a little before dawn--when all was chill, and gray, and misty,
and there was not a sound but the wailing of a sick child, the Senora touched
her daughters. Her voice was strange to them; her face solemnly happy.
"Antonio! Isabel!
I have seen Juan! I have seen Juan! My eyes were shut, but I have seen him. He
was a beautiful shadow, with a great, shadowy host around him. He bent on me
such eyes! Holy Mother! their love was unfathomable, and I heard his voice. It
was far off, yet near. `Madre!' he said, `Tomorrow you shall hear from us.' Now
I am happy. There are words in my heart, but I cannot explain them to you. I
know what they mean. I will weep no more. They put my Juan's body in the grave,
but they have not buried him."
All day she was silent
and full of thought, but her face was smiling and hopeful, and she had the air
of one waiting for some assured happiness. About three o'clock in the afternoon
she stood up quickly and cried, "Hark! the battle has begun!" Every
one listened intently, and after a short pause the oldest of the guides nodded.
"I'd give the rest of my life to be young again," he said, "just
for three hours to be young, and behind Houston!"
"To-morrow we
shall hear."
The words fell from the
Senora's lips with a singular significance. Her face and voice were the face
and voice of some glad diviner, triumphantly carrying her own augury. Under a
little grove of trees she walked until sunset, passing the beads of her rosary
through her fingers, and mechanically whispering the prayers appointed. The act
undoubtedly quieted her, but Antonia knew that she lay awake all night, praying
for the living or the dead.
About ten o'clock of
the morning of the 22d, a horseman was seen coming toward the camp at full
speed. Women and children stood breathlessly waiting his approach. No one could
speak. If a child moved, the movement was angrily reproved. The tension was too
great to admit of a touch through any sense. Some, unable to bear the extended
strain, sank upon the ground and covered their faces with their hands. But the
half-grown children, wan with privations and fever, ragged and barefoot,
watched steadily the horse and its rider, their round, gleaming eyes full of
wonder and fear.
"It is
Thomas," said the Senora.
As he came near, and
the beat of the horse's hoofs could be heard, a cry almost inarticulate, not to
be described, shrill and agonizing in its intensity, broke simultaneously from
the anxious women. It was one cry from many hearts, all at the last point of
endurance. Thomas Worth understood it. He flung his hat up, and answered with a
joyful "Hurrah!"
When he reached the
camp, every face was wet with tears, and a crowd of faces was instantly round
him. All the agonies of war were on them. He raised himself in his stirrups and
shouted out:
"You may all go
back to your homes! Santa Anna is completely overthrown! The Mexican army is
destroyed! There will be no more fighting, no more fears. The independence of Texas
is won! No matter where you come from, you are all Texans now! Victory!
Freedom! Peace! My dear friends, go back to your homes. Your husbands will join
you at the San Jacinto."
Then he dismounted and
sought his mother and sisters. With joyful amazement he recognized the change
in the Senora. "You look like yourself, dear mother," he said.
"Father sends you this kiss. He would have brought it, but there are a few
wounded men to look after; and also I can ride quicker. Antonia, cheer up my
dear!--and Isabel, little darling, you will not need to cry any more for your
ribbons, and mantillas, and pretty dresses."
"Thomas! You have
not much feeling, I think. What I want to know about, is Luis. You think of no
one; and, as for my dresses, and mantillas, I dare say Fray Ignatius has sold,
or burned them."
"Queridita! Was I
cruel? Luis is well. He has not a scratch. He was in the front of the battle,
too."
"That, of course.
Would you imagine that Luis would be at the rear? He is General Houston's
friend, and one lion knows another lion."
"Pretty one, do
not be angry with me. I will tell you some good news. Luis is coming here,
unless you go back at once with me."
"We will go back
with you, Thomas. I am full of impatience. I remember my dear home. I will go
to it, like a bird to its nest."
In half an hour they
had turned the heads of their horses westward again. They went so rapidly, and
were under so much excitement, that sustained conversation was impossible. And
the Senora also fell into a sound sleep as soon as the first homeward steps had
been taken. Whatever had been made known to her by Juan had received its
fulfilment. She was assured and happy. She slept till they reached the
victorious camp, and her husband awakened her with a kiss. She answered him
with her old childish impulsiveness. And among the first words she said,
were" "Roberto, my beloved, I have seen Juan."
He believed her. To his
reverent soul there was nothing incredible in the statement. The tie between a
mother and her child is not broken by death. Was it unlikely, then, that Juan
should have been conscious of, and touched by, the mental agony which his
untimely death had caused a mother so beloved?
And oh! how different
was the return to the ground west of the Buffalo Bayou. The very atmosphere was
changed. A day or two of spring had brought out the flowers and unfolded every
green thing. Doctor Worth took his family to a fine Mexican marquee, and among
other comforts the Senora found there the chocolate she had so long craved, and
some cigaritos of most delicate flavor.
In a short time a
luxurious meal was prepared by Antonia, and just as they were sitting down to
it, Luis and Lopez entered the tent together. Isabel had expected the visit and
prepared for it as far as her limited wardrobe permitted. And her fine hair,
and bright eyes, her perfect face and form, and the charming innocence of her
manners, adorned her as the color and perfume of the rose make the beauty of
the flower. She was so lovely that she could dare to banter Luis on the
splendor of his attire.
"It is evident, mi
madre, that Luis has found at least the baggage of a major-general. Such velvet
and silver embroidery! Such a silk sash! They are fit at the very least for a
sultan of the Turks."
He came to her crowned
with victory. Like a hero he came, and like a lover. They had a thousand pretty
things to say to each other; and a thousand blissful plans in prospect. Life to
them had never before been so well worth living.
Indeed, a wonderful
exaltation possessed both Luis and Lopez. The sombre, handsome face of the
latter was transfigured by it. He kissed the hand of the Senora, and then
turned to Antonia. Her pallor and emaciation shocked him. He could only murmur,
"SeÛorita!" But she saw the surprise, the sorrow, the sympathy, yes,
the adoring love in his heart, and she was thankful to him for the reticence
that relieved her from special attention.
Doctor Worth made room
for Lopez beside him. Luis sat by Isabel, upon a pile of splendid military
saddle-cloths. As she sipped her chocolate, he smoked his cigarito in a lazy
fashion, and gave himself up with delight to that foolishness of love-making
which is often far wiser than the very words of wisdom.
As yet the ladies had
not spoken of the battle. It was won. That great fact had been as much as they
could bear at first. The Senora wanted to sleep. Isabel wanted to see Luis.
Only Antonia was anxious for the details, and she had been busy in preparing
the respectable meal which her mother had so long craved. The apparent
indifference was natural enough. The assurance of good fortune is always
sufficient for the first stage of reaction from anxiety. When the most urgent
personal feelings have been satisfied, then comes the demand for detail and
discussion. So now, as they sat together, the Senora said:
"No one has told
me anything about the battle. Were you present, Roberto?"
"I had that great
honor, Maria. Lopez and Luis were with the cavalry, and Ortiz also has had some
satisfaction for all his wrongs."
"Very good! But I
am impatient for the story; so is Antonia; and as for Isabel--bah! the little
one is listening to another story. One must excuse her. We expected the bat tle
on the twentieth, but no!
"The enemy were
expecting it also, and were in high spirits and perfect preparation. Houston
thought it prudent to dash their enthusiasm by uncertainty and waiting. But at
dawn, on the twenty-first, we heard the three taps of the drum, and seven
hundred soldiers sprang to their feet as one man. Houston had been watching all
night. He spoke to us with a tongue of fire and then, while we cooked and ate
our breakfast, he lay down and slept. The sun came up without a cloud, and
shone brightly on his face. He sprang to his feet and said to Burleson, as he
saluted him: `The sun of Austerlitz has risen again.'
"Some one brought
him a piece of cornbread and broiled beef. He sat upon the grass and ate it--or
rather upon the blue hyacinths that covered the grass; they are red now. For
many weeks I had not seen his countenance so bright; all traces of trouble and
anxiety were gone. He called Deaf Smith--the scout of scouts--and quickly
ordered him to cut down the only bridge across the bayou.
"At nine o'clock,
General Cos joined Santa Anna with five hundred and forty men, and for a moment
I thought we had made a mistake in not attacking the enemy before his
reinforcements came up. But the knowledge that Cos was present, raised
enthusiasm to the highest pitch. Our troops remembered his parole at the Alamo,
and the shameful manner in which he had broken it; and there was not a man who
did not long to kill him for it.
"About three
o'clock in the afternoon, Houston ordered the attack. The seven hundred
Americans were divided into three bodies. I saw Houston in the very centre of
the line, and I have a confused memory of Milard and Lamar, Burleson and
Sherman and Wharton, in front of their divisions."
"Were the Mexicans
expecting the attack, father?"
"They were in
perfect order, Antonia; and when Sherman shouted the battle-cry: `Remember the
Alamo! Goliad and the Alamo!' it was taken up by the whole seven hundred, and
such a shout of vengeance mortal ears never heard before. The air was full of
it, and it appeared to be echoed and repeated by innumerable voices.
"With this shout
on our lips, we advanced to within sixty paces of the Mexican lines, and then a
storm of bullets went flying over our heads. One ball, however, shattered
Houston's ankle, and another struck his horse in the breast. But both man and
horse were of the finest metal, and they pressed on regardless of their wounds.
We did not answer the volley until we poured our lead into their very bosoms.
No time for reloading then. We clubbed our rifles till they broke, flung them
away and fired our pistols in the eyes of the enemy; then, nothing else
remaining, took our bowie-knives from our belts and cut our way through the
walls of living flesh."
Lopez rose at the
words. It was impossible for him to express himself sufficiently in an attitude
of repose. His eyes glowed like fire, his dark face was like a flame, he threw
up his hands as he cried:
"Nothing
comparable to that charge with knives was ever made on earth! If I had seen
through the smoke and vapor the mighty shade of Bowie leading it, I should not
have been surprised."
"Perhaps indeed,
he did lead it," said the Senora, in a solemn voice. "I saw yes, by
all the saints of God! I saw a great host with my Juan. They stretched out
vast, shadowy arms--they made me feel what I can never tell. But I shall honor
Senor Houston. I shall say to him some day. `Senor, the unseen battalions--the
mighty dead as well as the mighty living--won the battle.' Roberto, believe me,
there are things women understand better than wise men."
A little awe, a solemn
silence, answered the earnest woman. Luis and Isabel came close to her, and
Isabel took her hand. Lopez resumed the conversation. "I know Colonel
Bowie," he said. "In the last days at San Antonio I was often with
him. Brave as a lion, true to his friends, relentless to his foes, was he. The
knife he made was the expression of his character in steel. It is a knife of
extreme unction--the oil and wafer are all that remains for the men who feels
its edge. For my part, I honor the Senora's thought. It is a great satisfaction
to me to hope that Bowie, and Crockett, and Travis, and Fannin, and all their
company were present at San Jacinto. If the just God permitted it, 'twas a
favor of supreme justice."
"But then you are
not alone in the thought, Lopez. I heard General Sherman say, `Poor Fannin! He
has been blamed for not obeying Houston's orders. I think he obeyed them
to-day.' At the moment I did not com- prehend; but now it is plain to me. He
thought Fannin had been present, and perhaps it was this belief made him so
impetuous and invincible. He fought like a spirit; one forgot that he was flesh
and blood."
"Sherman is of a
grand stock," said the doctor; descended from the wise Roger Sherman; bred
in Massachusetts and trained in all the hardy virtues of her sons. It was from
his lips the battle-cry of `Remember the Alamo!' sprang."
"But then,
Roberto, nothing shall persuade me that my countrymen are cowards."
"On the contrary,
Maria, they kept their ground with great courage. They were slain by hundreds
just where they stood when the battle began. Twenty-six officers and nearly
seven hundred men were left dead upon the field. But the flight was still more
terrible. Into the bayou horses and men rolled down together. The deep black
stream became red; it was choked up with their dead bodies, while the mire and
water of the morass was literally bridged with the smothered mules and horses
and soldiers."
"The battle began
at three o'clock; but we heard the firing only for a very short time,"
said Antonia.
"After we reached
their breastworks it lasted just eighteen minutes. At four, the whole Mexican
army was dead, or flying in every direction, and the pursuit and slaughter
continued until twilight. Truly an unseen power made all our moves for us. It
was a military miracle, for our loss was only eight killed and seventeen
wounded."
"I am sorry
Houston is among the wounded."
"His ankle-bone is
shattered. He is suffering much. I was with him when he left the field and I
was delighted with his patience and dignity. The men crowded around him. They
seized his bridle; they clasped his hands. `Have we done well to-day, General?
Are you satisfied with us?' they cried.
"`You have covered
yourselves with glory,' he answered. `You have written a grand page in American
history this day, boys. For it was not for fame nor for empire you fought; but
for your rights as freemen, for your homes and your faith.'
"The next moment
he fell from his horse and we laid him down at the foot of an oak tree. He had
fainted from loss of blood and the agony of his wound, combined with the
superhuman exertions and anxieties of the past week."
"But he is better
now?"
"Yes; I dressed
the wound as well as my appliances permitted; but he will not be able to use
his foot for some time. No one slept that night. Weary as the men were, their
excitement and happiness were too great for the bonds of sleep. In the morning
the rich spoils of the enemy's camp were divided among them. Houston refused
any part in them. `My share of the honor is sufficient,' he said. Yet the
spoils were very valuable ones to men who but a few hours before had nothing
but the clothing they wore and the arms they carried. Among them were nearly
one thousand stand of English muskets, three hundred valuable mules, one
hundred fine horses, provisions, clothing, tents, and at least twelve thousand
dollars in silver."
"Were you on the
field all the time, father?"
"I was near
Houston from first to last. When he saw the battle was won, he did his best to
prevent needless slaughter. But men on a battle-field like San Jacinto cannot
be reasoned with; after a certain point, they could not even be commanded. The
majority had some private revenge to satisfy after the public welfare had been
served. We met one old man in a frenzy, covered with blood from his white beard
to his boots, his arms bare to his shoulders, his knife dripping from haft to
point."
"Houston looked at
him, and said something about mercy and valor. `General,' he said, `they killed
two of my boys at Goliad, and my brother at the Alamo. I'll not spare a Mexican
while I've the strength to kill one. I'm on the scent for Santa Anna, and, by
G--, if I find him, I will spare Texas and you any more trouble with the
brute.'"
At this moment Thomas
Worth entered the marquee, and, in an excited manner, said:
"Santa Anna is
taken! Santa Anna is taken! "
"Taken!"
cried the Senora in a passion.
"Taken! Is it possible
the wretch is yet in this world? I was assuring myself that he was in one not
so comfortable. Why is he not killed? It is an inconceivable insult to humanity
to let him live. Have you thought of your brother Juan? Give me the knife in
your belt, Thomas, if you cannot use it."
"My dear
mother--"
"Maria, my life!
Thomas could not wisely kill so important a prisoner. Texas wants him to secure
her peace and independence. The lives of all the Americans in Mexico may depend
upon his. Mere personal vengeance on him would be too dear a satisfaction. On
the battle-field he might have been lawfully slain--and he was well looked for;
but now, No."
"Holy Mary! might
have been slain! He ought to have been slain, a thousand times over."
"Luis, I wish that
you had been a hero, and killed him. Then all our life long, if you had said,
`Isabel, I slew Santa Anna,' I should have given you honor for it. I should be
obedient to your wishes for that deed."
"But my charming
one, I prefer to be obedient to your wish. Let us not think of the creature; he
is but a dead dog."
The doctor turned to
his son. "Thomas, tell us about the capture."
"I was riding with
a young lieutenant, called Sylvester, from Cincinnati, and he saw a man hiding
in the grass. He was in coarsest clothing, but Sylvester noticed under it linen
of fine cambric. He said: `You are an officer, I perceive, sir.' The man denied
it, but when he could not escape, he asked to be taken to General Houston.
Sylvester tied him to his bridle-rein, and we soon learned the truth; for as we
passed the Mexican prisoners they lifted their hats and said, with a murmur of
amazement, `El Presidente!'
"The news spread
like wildfire. As we took him through the camp he trembled at the looks and
words that assailed him, and prayed us continually, `for the love of God and
the saints,' not to let him be slain. We took him to Houston in safety. Houston
was resting on the ground, having had, as my father knows, a night of great
suffering. Santa Anna approached him, and, laying his hand on his heart, said:
`I am General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, President of the Mexican Republic,
and I claim to be your prisoner of war.' Houston pointed to a seat, and then
sent for Santa Anna's secretary, Almonte, who is also a prisoner, and who
speaks English perfectly.
"When Almonte
came, he embraced Santa Anna, and addressing Houston, said: `General, you are
born to a great destiny. You have conquered the Napoleon of the West.
Generosity becomes the brave and the fortunate.'
"Houston answered,
sternly: `You should have remembered that sentiment at the Alamo and at
Goliad.'
"Then the
following conversation occurred. Santa Anna said:
"`The Alamo was
taken by storm. The usages of war permitted the slaughter.'
"`We live in the
nineteenth century, President. We profess to be Christians.'
"`I have to remind
you, General Houston, of the storming of San Sebastian, Ciudad, Riego and
Badajos, by the Duke of Wellington.'
"`That was in
Spain. There may have been circumstances demanding such cruelty.'
"`Permit me also
to bring to your intelligence the battles at Fort Meigs and at the river
Raisin. American prisoners were there given by English officers to their Indian
allies for torture and death. The English war cry at Sandusky was, "Give
the d-- Yankees no quarter."'
"`Sir, permit me
to say, that you read history to a devilish purpose, if you read it to search
after brutal precedents. At Goliad our men surrendered. They were promised
safe-conduct out of Texas. The massacre at Goliad was a ferocious crime.'
"`It was precisely
the same thing as the wholesale murder of Turkish prisoners at Jaffa by the
great Napoleon. Also I had the positive orders of my government to slay all
Americans found with arms.'
"`These men had
given up their arms.'
"`All
Americans--my government said so.'
"`Sir! you are the
government of Mexico. You obeyed your own orders.'
"`You will at
least allow that, in the eyes of recognized nations, your army was but a band
of desperadoes, without government, and fighting under no flag.'
"`Sir, you show a
convenient ignorance. We have a government; and as soon as we can lay down our
rifles, we shall probably be able to make a flag. I say to you, President Santa
Anna, that the butchery at Goliad was without an excuse and without a parallel
in civilized warfare. The men had capitulated to General Urrea.'
"`Urrea had no
right to receive their capitulation.' Then his mild, handsome face became in a
moment malicious and tigerish, and he said with a cruel emphasis: `If I ever
get Urrea into my hands, I will execute him! I perceive, however, that I have
never understood the American character. For the few thousands in the country,
I thought my army an overwhelming one. I underestimated their ability.'
"`I tell you, sir,
an army of millions would be too small to enslave ten thousand free-born
anglo-Americans. Liberty is our birthright. We have marched four days on an ear
or two of dry corn, and then fought a battle after it'; and Houston drew from
his pocket an ear, partially consumed, which had been his ration. `We have had
no tents, no music, no uniforms, no flag, nothing to stimulate us but the determination
to submit to no wrong, and to have every one of our rights.'
"Then he turned to
Rusk and Sherman, and called a military counsel about the prisoner, who was
placed in an adjoining tent under a sufficient guard. But the excitement is
intense; and the wretch is suffering, undoubtedly, all the mortal terrors of
being torn to pieces by an infuriated soldiery. Houston will have to speak to
them. They will be influenced by no other man."
The discussion upon
this event lasted until midnight. But the ladies retired to their own tent much
earlier. They knelt together in grateful prayer, and then kissed each other
upon their knees. It was so sweet to lie down once more in safety; to have the
luxury of a tent, and a mattress, and pillow.
"Blessed be the hand
of God! my children," said the Senora; "and may the angels give us in
our dreams grateful thoughts."
And then, in the dark,
Isabel nestled her head in her sister's breast, and whispered: "Forgive me
for being happy, sweet Antonia. Indeed, when I smiled on Luis, I was often
thinking of you. In my joy and triumph and love, I do not forget that one great
awful grave at Goliad. But a woman must hide so many things; do you comprehend
me, Antonia?"
"Querdita,"
she whispered, "I comprehend all. God has done right. If His angel had
said to me, `One must be taken and the other left,' I should have prayed,
`Spare then my little sister all sorrow.' Good-night, my darling"; but as
their lips met, Isabel felt upon her cheeks the bitter rain which is the price
of accepted sacrifice; the rain, which afterwards makes the heart soft, and
fresh, and responsive to all the airs of God.
At the same moment, the
white curtains of the marquee, in which the doctor sat talking with his son and
Luis and Lopez, were opened; and the face of Ortiz showed brown and glowing
between them.
"SeÛors," he
said, as he advanced to them,
I am satisfied. I have
been appointed on the guard over Santa Anna. He has recognized me. He has to
obey my orders. Will you think of that?" Then taking the doctor's hand he
raised it to his lips. "Senor, I owe this satisfaction to you. You have
made me my triumph. How shall I repay you?"
"By being merciful
in the day of your power, Ortiz."
"I assure you that
I am not so presumptuous, Senor. Mercy is the right of the Divinity. It is
beyond my capacity. Besides which, it is not likely the Divinity will trouble
himself about Santa Anna. I have, therefore, to obey the orders of the great,
the illustrious Houston; which are, to prevent his escape at all risks. May St.
James give me the opportunity, SeÛors! In this happy hour, a Dios!"
Then Lopez bent
forward, and with a smile touched the doctor's hand. "Will you now
remember the words I said of Houston? Did I not tell you, that success was with
him? that on his brow was the line of fortune? that he was the loadstone in the
breast of freedom?
"Where'er we roam,Our first, best country ever is at
home.""What constitutes a state?Men who their duties know;But know
their rights, and knowing, dare maintain."And sovereign law, that states
collected willO'er thrones and globes elate,Sits empress; crowning good,
repressing ill."This hand to tyrants ever sworn a foe,For freedom only
deals the deadly blow;Then sheathes in calm repose the vengeful blade,For
gentle peace, in freedom's hallowed shade." The vicinity of a great battle-field is a dreadful place after
the lapse of a day or two. The bayou and the morass had provided sepulture for
hundreds of slain Mexicans, but hundreds still lay upon the open prairie. Over
it, birds of prey hung in dark clouds, heavy-winged, sad, sombre, and silent.
Nothing disturbed them. They took no heed of the living. Armed with invincible
talons and beaks tipped with iron, they carried on ceaselessly that automatic
gluttony, which made them beneficent crucibles of living fire, for all which
would otherwise have corrupted the higher life. And yet, though innocent as the
elements, they were odious in the sight of all.
Before daylight in the
morning the Senora and her daughters were ready to begin their homeward
journey. The doctor could not accompany them, General Houston and the wounded
Americans being dependent largely upon his care and skill. But Luis Alveda and
Lopez Navarro received an unlimited furlough; and about a dozen Mexican
prisoners of war belonging to San Antonio were released on Navarro's assurance,
and permitted to travel with the party as camp servants. It was likely, also,
that they would be joined by a great many of the families who had accompanied
the great flight; for, on the preceding evening, Houston had addressed the
army, and told the householders and farmers to go home and plant their corn.
Full of happiness, the
ladies prepared for their journey. A good army wagon, drawn by eight mules, and
another wagon, containing two tents and everything necessary for a comfortable
journey, was waiting for them. The doctor bid them good-by with smiles and
cheerful promises. They were going home. The war was over. Independence was
won. They had the hope of permanent peace. The weather also was as the weather
may be among the fields of Eden. The heavens were cloudless, the air sweet and
fresh, and the wild honeysuckles, with their spread hands full of scent,
perfumed the prairies mile after mile. The mules went knee-deep through warm
grasses; the grasses were like waving rainbows, with the myriads of brightly
tinted flowers.
Even Lopez was
radiantly happy. Most unusual smiles lighted up his handsome face, and he
jingled the silver ornaments on his bridle pleasantly to his thoughts as he
cantered sometimes a little in advance of the wagon, sometimes in the rear,
occasionally by its side; then, bending forward to lift his hat to the ladies
and inquire after their comfort.
Luis kept close to
Isabel; and her lovely face and merry chatter beguiled him from all other
observations. A little before noon they halted in a beautiful wood; a tent was
spread for the ladies, the animals were loosened from their harness, and a
luxurious meal laid upon the grass. Then the siesta was taken, and at three
o'clock travel was resumed until near sunset, when the camp was made for the
night. The same order was followed every day, and the journey was in every
sense an easy and delightful one. The rides, cheered by pleasant companionship,
were not fatiguing; the impromptu meals were keenly relished. And there were
many sweet opportunities for little strolls in the dim green woods, and for
delightful conversations, as they sat under the stars, while the camp-fire
blazed among the pictur- esque groups of Mexicans playing monte around it.
On the third afternoon,
the Senora and Isabel were taking a siesta, but Antonia could not sleep. After
one or two efforts she was thoroughly aroused by the sound of voices which had
been very familiar to her in the black days of the flight--those of a woman and
her weary family of seven children. She had helped her in many ways, and she
still felt an interest in her welfare. It appeared now to be assured. Antonia
found her camping in a little grove of mulberry trees. She had recovered her
health; her children were noisy and happy, and her husband, a tall, athletic
man, with a determined eye and very courteous manners, was unharnessing the
mules from a fine Mexican wagon; part of the lawful spoils of war. They, too,
were going home: "back to the Brazos," said the woman affectionately;
and we're in a considerable hurry," she added, because it's about time to
get the corn in. Jake lays out to plant fifty acres this year. He says he can
go to planting now with an easy conscience; he 'lows he has killed enough
Mexicans to keep him quiet a spell."
They talked a short
time together, and then Antonia walked slowly into the deeper shadows of the
wood. She found a wide rock, under trees softly dimpling, pendulous, and
tenderly green; and she sat down in the sweet gloom, to think of the beloved
dead. She had often longed for some quiet spot, where, alone with God and
nature, she could, just for once, give to her sorrow and her love a free
expression.
Now the opportunity
seemed to be hers. She began to recall her whole acquaintance with Dare--their
hours of pleasant study--their sails upon the river--their intercourse by the
fireside--the most happy Sundays, when they walked in the house of God
together. In those days, what a blessed future was before them! She recalled
also the time of hope and anxiety after the storming of the Alamo, and then the
last heroic act of his stainless life. She had felt sure that in such a session
with her own soul she would find the relief of unrestrained and unchecked
weeping. But we cannot kindle when we will either the fire or the sensibility
of the soul. She could not weep; tears were far from her. Nay, more, she began
to feel as if tears were not needed for one who had found out so beautiful, so
unselfish, so divine a road to the grave. Ought she not rather to rejoice that
he had been so early called and blest? To be glad for herself, too, that all
her life long she could keep the exquisite memory of a love so noble?
In the drift of such
thoughts, her white, handsome face grew almost angelic. She sat motionless and
let them come to her; as if she were listening to the comforting angels. For
God has many ways of saying to the troubled soul: "Be at peace"; and,
certainly, Antonia had not anticipated the calmness and resig- nation which
forbid her the tears she had bespoken.
At length, in that
sweet melancholy which such a mental condition induces, she rose to return to
the camp. A few yards nearer to it she saw Lopez sitting in a reverie as
profound as her own had been. He stood up to meet her. The patience, the
pathos, the exaltation in her face touched his heart as no words could have
done. He said, only: "SeÛorita, if I knew how to comfort you!"
"I went away to
think of the dead, Senor."
"I comprehend--but
then, I wonder if the dead remember the living!"
"In whatever
dwelling-place of eternity the dear ones who died at Goliad are, I am sure that
they remember. Will the emancipated soul be less faithful than the souls still
earth- bound? Good souls could not even wish to forget--and they were good."
"It will never be
permitted me to know two souls more pure, more faithful, more brave, Juan was
as a brother to me, and, by my Santiguada! I count it among God's blessings to
have known a man like Senor Grant. A white soul he had indeed; full of great
nobilities!"
Sign of the Cross. Antonia
looked at him gratefully. Tears uncalled-for sprang into the eyes of both; they
clasped hands and walked mutely back to the camp together. For the sentiment
which attends the realization that all is over, is gathered silently into the
heart; it is too deep for words.
They found the camp
already in that flurry of excitement always attendant upon its rest and rising,
and the Senora was impatiently inquiring for her eldest daughter.
"Gracious Maria!
Is that you, Antonia? At this hour we are all your servants, I think. I, at
least, have been waiting upon your pleasure"; then perceiving the traces
of sorrow and emotion on her face, she added, with an unreasonable
querulousness: "I bless God when I see how He has provided for women;
giving them tears, when they have no other employment for their time."
"Dearest mother, I
am sorry to have kept you waiting. I hope that you have forgotten nothing.
Where is your mantilla? And have you replenished your cigarito case? Is there
water in the wagon?"
"Nothing has been
provided. Things most necessary are forgotten, no doubt. When you neglect such
matters, what less could happen?"
But such little breezes
of temper were soon over. The influences surrounding, the prospects in advance,
were too exhilarating to permit of anything but passing shadows, and after an
easy, delightful journey, they reached at length the charming vicinity of the
romantic city of the sword. They had but another five miles ride, and it was
the Senora's pleasure to take it at the hour of midnight. She did not wish her
return to be observed and talked about; she was in reality very much mortified
by the condition of her own and her daughters' wardrobe.
Consequently, though
they made their noon camp so near to their journey's end, they rested there
until San Antonio was asleep and dreaming. It was the happiest rest of all the
delightful ones they had known. The knowledge that it was the last stage of a
journey so remarkable, made every one attach a certain tender value to the
hours never to come back to the experiences never to be repeated.
The Senora was gay as a
child; Isabel shared and accentuated her enthusiasms; Luis was expressing his
happiness in a variety of songs; now glorifying his love in some pretty romance
or serenade, again musically assuring liberty, or Texas, that he would be
delighted at any moment to lay down his life for their sakes. Antonia was quite
as much excited in her own way, which was naturally a much quieter way; and
Lopez sat under a great pecan-tree, smoking his cigarito with placid smiles and
admiring glances at every one.
As the sun set, the
full moon rose as it rises nowhere but over Texan or Asian plains; golden,
glorious, seeming to fill the whole heaven and the whole earth with an unspeakable
radiance; softly glowing, exquisitely, magically beautifying. The commonest
thing under it was transfigured into something lovely, fantastic, fairylike.
And the dullest souls swelled and rose like the tides under its influence.
Antonia took from their
stores the best they had, and a luxurious supper was spread upon the grass. The
meal might have been one of ten courses, it occupied so long; it provoked so
much mirth, such a rippling stream of remi- niscence; finally, such a sweetly
solemn retrospect of the sorrows and mercies and triumphs of the campaign they
had shared together. This latter feeling soon dominated all others.
The delicious light,
the sensuous atmosphere, the white turrets and towers of the city, shining on
the horizon like some mystical, heavenly city in dreams--the murmur of its far-
off life, more audible to the spiritual than the natural ears--the dark figures
of the camp servants, lying in groups or quietly shuffling their cards, were
all elements conducive to a grave yet happy seriousness.
No one intended to
sleep. They were to rest in the moonlight until the hour of eleven, and then
make their last stage. This night they instinctively kept close together. The
Senora had mentally reached that point where it was not unpleasant to talk over
troubles, and to amplify especially her own share of them.
"But, Holy
Maria!" she said; "how unnecessary are such sorrows! I am never, in
the least, any better for them. When the Divine Majesty condescends to give me
the sunshine of prosperity, I am always exceedingly religious. On the contrary
when I am in sorrow, I do not feel inclined to pray. That is precisely natural.
Can the blessed Mother expect thanks, when she gives her children only
suffering and tears?"
"God gives us
whatever is best for us, dear mother."
"Speak, when you
have learned wisdom, Antonia. I shall always believe that trouble comes from
the devil; indeed, Fray Ignatius once told me of a holy man that had one grief
upon the heels of the other, and it was the devil who was sent with all of
them. I have myself no doubt that he opened the gates of hell for Santa Anna to
return to earth and do a little work for him."
"This thought
makes me tremble," said Lopez; "souls that have become angelic, can
become evil. The degraded seraphim, whom we call the devil, was once the
companion of archangels, and stood with Michael, and Raphael, and Gabriel, in
the presence of the Holy One. Is there sin in heaven? Can we be tempted even
there?"
The inquiry went in
different ways to each heart, but no one answered it. There were even a few
moments of constrained, conscious silence, which Luis happily ended, by
chanting softly a verse from the hymn of the Three Angels:
"`Who like the Lord?' thunders Michael the Chief.Raphael, `the cure
of God,' bringeth relief,And, as at Nazareth, prophet of peace,Gabriel, `the
light of God,' bringeth release." The
noble syllables floated outward and upward, and Antonia and Lopez softly
intoned the last line together, letting them fall slowly and softly into the
sensitive atmosphere.
"And as for
trouble coming from the devil," said Lopez, "I think, Senora, that
Fray Ignatius is wrong. Trouble is not the worst thing that can come to a man
or woman. On the contrary, our Lady of Prosperity is said to do, them far
greater harm. Let me repeat to you what the ever wise Don Francisco de Quevedo
Villegas says about her:
"Where is the
virtue prosperity has not staggered? Where the folly she has not augmented? She
takes no counsel, she fears no punishment. She furnishes matter for scandal,
experience, and for story. How many souls, innocent while poor, have fallen
into sin and impiety as soon as they drank of the enchanted cup of prosperity?
Men that can bear prosperity, are for heaven; even wise devils leave them
alone. As for the one who persecuted and beggared job, how foolish and
impertinent he was! If he had understood humanity, he would have multiplied his
riches, and possessed him of health, and honors, and pleasures: that is the
trial it cannot bear.'"
"Oh, to be sure!
Quevedo was a wise man. But even wise men don't know everything. However, we
are going home! I thank the saints for this immeasurable favor. It is a
prosperity that is good for women. I will stake my Santiguida on that! And will
you observe that it is Sunday again? Just before sunset I heard the vesper
bells clearly. Remember that we left San Antonio on Sunday also! I have always
heard that Sunday was a good day to begin a journey on."
"If it had been on
a Friday--"
"Friday! Indeed, Luis,
I would not have gone one hundred yards upon a Friday. How can you suppose what
is so inconceivably foolish?"
"I think much of
the right hour to undertake anything," said Lopez. "The first
movements are not in the hands of men; and we are subject to more influences
than we comprehend. There is a ripe time for events, as well as for fruits: but
the hour depends upon forces which we cannot control by giving to them the name
of the day; and our sage Quevedo has made a pleasant mockery thereon. It is at
my lips, if your ears care to hear it."
"Quevedo, again!
No, it is not proper, Senor. Every day has its duties and its favors, Senor.
That man actually said that fasting on Friday was not a special means of grace!
Que- vedo was almost a heretic. I have heard Fray Ignatius say so. He did not
approve of him."
"Mi madre, let us
hear what is to be said. Rachela told me, I must fast on a Friday, and cut my
nails on a Wednesday, and never cut them on a Sunday, and take medicine on a
Monday, and look after money on Tuesday, and pay calls and give gifts on
Saturday; very well, I do not think much of Rachela; just suppose, for the
passing of the time, that we listen to what Quevedo says."
"Here are four
against me; well, then, proceed, Senor."
"`On Monday,' says
the wise and witty one, buy all that you can meet with, and take all that is to
be had for nothing. On Tuesday, receive all that is given you; for it is Mar's
day, and he will look on you with an ill aspect if you refuse the first proffer
and have not a second. On Wednesday, ask of all you meet; perhaps Mercury may
give some one vanity enough to grant you something. Thursday is a good day to
believe nothing that flatterers say. Friday it is well to shun creditors. On
Saturday it is well to lie long abed, to walk at your ease, to eat a good
dinner, and to wear comfortable shoes; because Saturn is old, and loves his
ease.'"
"And Sunday,
Senor?"
"Pardon, SeÛorita
Isabel, Sunday comes not into a pasquinade. Senora, let me tell you that it draws
near to eleven. If we leave now we shall reach San Antonio in time to say the
prayer of gratitude before the blessed day of the seven is past."
"Holy Mary! that
is what I should desire. Come, my children; I thank you, Senor, for such a
blessed memory. My heart is indeed full of joy and thankfulness."
A slight
disappointment, however, awaited the Senora. Without asking any questions,
without taking anything into consideration, perhaps, indeed, because she feared
to ask or consider, she had assumed that she would immediately re-enter her own
home. With the unreason of a child, she had insisted upon expecting that
somehow, or by some not explained efforts, she would find her house precisely
as she left it. Little had been said of its occupancy by Fray Ignatius and his
brothers; perhaps she did not quite believe in the statement; perhaps she
expected Fray Ignatius to respect the arrangements which he knew had been so
dear to her.
It was therefore a
trial--indeed, something of a shock-- when she found they were to be the guests
of Navarro, and when it was made clear to her that her own home had been
dismantled and rearranged and was still in the possession of the Church. But,
with a child's unreason, she had also a sweet ductility of nature; she was easily
persuaded, easily pleased, and quite ready to console herself with the
assurance that it only needed Doctor Worth's presence and personal influence to
drive away all intruders upon her rights.
In the mean time she
was contented. The finest goods in San Antonio were sent early on the following
morning to her room; and the selection of three entire wardrobes gave her
abundance of delightful employment. She almost wept with joy as she passed the
fine lawns and rich silks through her worn fingers. And when she could cast off
forever her garment of heaviness and of weariful wanderings, and array herself
in the splendid robes which she wore with such grace and pleasure, she was an
honestly grateful woman.
Then she permitted
Lopez to let her old acquaintances know of her presence in her native city; and
she was comforted when she began to receive calls from the Senora Alveda, and
judge and Senora Valdez, and many other of her friends and associates. They
encouraged her to talk of her sufferings and her great loss. Even the judge
thought it worth his while, now, to conciliate the simple little woman. He had
wisdom enough to perceive that Mexican domination was over, and that the
American influence of Doctor Worth was likely to be of service to him.
The Senora found
herself a heroine; more than that, she became aware that for some reason those
who had once patronized her were now disposed to pay her a kind of court. But
this did not lessen her satisfaction; she suspected no motive but real
kindness, for she had that innate rectitude which has always confidence in the
honesty of others.
There was now full
reconciliation between Luis and his mother and uncles; and his betrothal to
Isabel was acknowledged with all the customary rejoicings and complimentary
calls and receptions. Life quickly began to fall back into its well-defined
grooves; if there was anything unusual, every one made an effort to pass it by
without notice. The city was conspicuously in this mind. American rule was
accepted in the quiescent temper with which men and women accept weather which
may or may not be agreeable, but which is known to be unavoidable. Americans
were coming by hundreds and by thousands: and those Mexicans who could not make
up their minds to become Texans, and to assimilate with the new elements sure
to predominate, were quietly breaking up their homes and transferring their
interests across the Rio Grande.
They were not missed,
even for a day. Some American was ready to step into their place, and the
pushing, progressive spirit of the race was soon evident in the hearty way with
which they set to work, not only to repair what war had destroyed, but to
inaugurate those movements which are always among their first necessities.
Ministers, physicians, teachers, mechanics of all kinds, were soon at work;
churches were built, Bibles were publicly sold, or given away; schools were
advertised; the city was changing its tone as easily as a woman changes the
fashion of her dress. Santa Anna had said truly enough to Houston, that the Texans
had no flag to fight under; but the young Republic very soon flung her ensign
out among those of the gray nations of the world. It floated above the twice
glorious Alamo: a bright blue standard, with one white star in the centre. It
was run up at sunrise one morning. The city was watching for it; and when it
suddenly flew out in their sight, it was greeted with the most triumphant
enthusiasm. The lonely star in its field of blue touched every heart's
chivalry. It said to them, I stand alone! I have no sister states to encourage
and help me! I rely only on the brave hearts and strong arms that I set me
here!" And they answered the silent appeal with a cheer that promised
everything; with a love that even then began to wonder if there were not a place
for such a glorious star in the grand constellation under which most of them
had been born.
A short time after
their return, the Senora had a letter from her husband, saying that he was
going to New Orleans with General Houston, whose wound was in a dangerous
condition. Thomas Worth had been appointed to an important post in the civil
government; and his labors, like those of all the public men of Texas at that
date, were continuous and Herculean. It was impossible for him to leave them;
but the doctor assured his wife that he would return as soon as he had placed
Houston in the hands of skilful surgeons; and he asked her, until then, to be
as happy as her circumstances permitted.
She was quite willing
to obey the request. Not naturally inclined to worry, she found many sources of
content and pleasure, until the early days of June brought back to her the
husband she so truly loved, and with him the promise of a return to her own
home. Indeed the difficulties in the way of this return had vanished ere they were
to meet. Fray Ignatius had convinced himself that his short lease had fully
expired; and when Dr. Worth went armed with the legal process necessary to
resume his rights, he found his enemy had already surrendered them. The house
was empty. Nothing of its old splendor remained. Every one of its properties
had been scattered. The poor Senora walked through the desolate rooms with a
heartache.
"It was precisely
in this spot that the sideboard stood, Roberto!--the sideboard that my cousin
Johar presented to me. It came from the City of Mexico, and there was not
another like it. I shall regret it all my life."
"Maria, my
dearest, it might have been worse. The silver which adorned it is safe. Those
r--monks did not find out its hiding-place, and I bought you a far more
beautiful sideboard in New Orleans; the very newest style, Maria."
"Roberto! Roberto!
How happy you make me! To be sure my cousin Johar's sideboard was already
shabby--and to have a sideboard from New Orleans, that, indeed, is something to
talk about!"
"Besides, which,
dearest one, I bought new furniture for the parlors, and for your own
apartments; also for Antonia's and Isabel's rooms. Indeed, Maria, I thought it
best to provide afresh for the whole house."
"How wonderful! No
wife in San Antonio has a husband so good. I will never condescend to speak of
you when other women talk of their husbands. New furniture for my whole house!
The thing is inconceivably charming. But when, Roberto, will these things
arrive? Is there danger on the road they are coming? Might not some one take
them away? I shall not be able to sleep until I am sure they are safe."
"I chartered a
schooner in New Orleans, and came with them to the Bay of Espiritu Santo. There
I saw them placed upon wagons, and only left them after the customs had been
paid in the interior--sixty miles away. You may hire servants at once to
prepare the rooms: the furniture will be here in about three days."
"I am the happiest
woman in the world, Roberto! "And she really felt herself to be so.
Thoughtful love could have devised nothing more likely to bridge pleasantly and
surely over the transition between the past and the coming life. Every fresh
piece of furniture unpacked was a new wonder and a new delight. With her satin
skirts tucked daintily clear of soil, and her mantilla wrapped around her head
and shoulders, she went from room to room, interesting herself in every strip
of carpet, and every yard of drapery. Her delight was infectious. The doctor
smiled to find himself comparing shades, and gravely considering the
arrangement of chairs and tables.
But how was it possible
for so loving a husband and father to avoid sharing the pleasure he had
provided? And Isabel was even more excited than her mother. All this grandeur
had a double meaning to her; it would reflect honor upon the betrothal
receptions which would be given for Luis and herself--"amber satin and
white lace is exactly what I should have desired, Antonia," she said
delightedly. "How exceedingly suitable it will be to me! And those
delicious chintzes and dimities for our bedrooms! Did you ever conceive of
things so beautiful?"
Antonia was quite ready
to echo her delight. Housekeeping and homemaking, in all its ways, was her
lovable talent. It was really Antonia who saw all the plans and the desires of
the Senora thoroughly carried out. It was her clever fingers and natural taste
which gave to every room that air of comfort and refinement which all felt and
admired, but which seemed to elude their power to imitate.
On the fourth of July
the doctor and his family ate together their first dinner in their renovated
home. The day was one that he never forgot, and he was glad to link it with a
domestic occurence so happy and so fortunate.
Sometimes silently,
sometimes with a few words to his boys, he had always, on this festival, drank
his glass of fine Xeres to the honor and glory of the land he loved. This day
he spoke her name proudly. He recalled the wonders of her past progress; he
anticipated the blessings which she would bring to Texas; he said, as he lifted
the glass in his hand, and let the happy tears flow down his browned and
thinned face:
"My wife and
daughters, I believe I shall live to see the lone star set in the glorious
assemblage of her sister stars! I shall live to say, I dwell in San Antonio,
which is the loveliest city in the loveliest State of the American Union. For,
dear ones, I was born an American citizen, and I ask this favor of God, that I
may also die an American citizen."
"Mi Roberto, when
you die I shall not long survive you. And now that the house is made so
beautiful! With so much new furniture! How can you speak of dying?"
And, my dear father,
remember how you have toiled and suffered for the Independence of Texas."
Because, Antonia, I would
have Texas go free into a union of free States. This was the hope of Houston.
`We can have help,' he often said to his little army; "a word will call
help from Nacogdoches,--but we will emancipate ourselves. If we go into the
American States, we will go as equals; we will go as men who have won the right
to say: Let us dwell under the same flag, for we are brothers!"
"And through thee I believeIn the noble and great, who are
gone."Yes! I believe that there livedOthers like thee in the past.Not like
the men of the crowd.Who all around me to-day,Bluster, or cringe, and make
lifeHideous, and arid, and vile,But souls temper'd with fire,Fervent, heroic,
and good;Helpers, and friends of mankind."
--ARNOLD."Our armor now may rust, our idle scimitarsHang by our sides for
ornament, not use.Children shall beat our atabals and drums;And all the noisy
trades of war no moreShall wake the peaceful morn."
--DRYDEN. As the years go on they bring
many changes--changes that come as naturally as the seasons--that tend as
naturally to anticipated growth and decay--that scarcely startle the subjects
of them, till a lengthened- out period of time discloses their vitality and
extent. Between the ages of twenty and thirty, ten years do not seem very
destructive to life. The woman at eighteen, and twenty- eight, if changed, is
usually ripened and improved; the man at thirty, finer and more mature than he
was at twenty. But when this same period is placed to women and men who are
either approaching fifty, or have passed it, the change is distinctly felt.
It was even confessed
by the Senora one exquisite morning in the beginning of March, though the sun
was shining warmly, and the flowers blooming, and the birds singing, and all
nature rejoicing, as though it was the first season of creation.
"I am far from
being as gay and strong as I wish to be, Roberto," she, said; "and
today, consider what a company there is coming! And if General Houston is to be
added to it, I shall be as weary as I shall be happy."
"He is the
simplest of men; a cup of coffee, a bit of steak--"
"San Blas! That is
how you talk! But is, it possible to receive him like a common mortal? He is a
hero, and, besides that, among hidalgos de casa Solar" (gentlemen of known
property)--
"Well, then, you
have servants, Maria, my dear one."
"Servants! Bah! Of
what use are they, Roberto, since they also have got hold of American
ideas?"
"Isabel and
Antonia will be here."
"Let me only
enumerate to you, Roberto. Thomas and his wife and four children arrived last
night. You may at this moment hear the little Maria crying. I dare say Pepita
is washing the child, and using soap which is very disagreeable. I have always
admired the wife of Thomas, but I think she is too fond of her own way with the
children. I give her advices which she does not take."
"They are her own
children, dearest."
"Holy Maria! They
are also my own grandchildren."
"Well, well, we
must remember that Abbie is a little Puritan. She believes in bringing up
children strictly, and it is good; for Thomas would spoil them. As for Isabel's
boys--"
"God be blessed!
Isabel's boys are entirely charming. They have been corrected at my own knee.
There are not more beautifully behaved boys in the christened world."
"And Antonia's
little Christina?"
"She is already an
angel. Ah, Roberto! If I had only died when I was as innocent as that dear
one!"
"I am thankful you
did not die, Maria. How dark my life would have been without you!"
"Beloved, then I
am glad I am not in the kingdom of heaven; though, if one dies like Christina,
one escapes purgatory. Roberto, when I rise I am very stiff: I think, indeed, I
have some rheumatism."
"That is not
unlikely; and also Maria, you have now some years."
"Let that be confessed;
but the good God knows that I lost all my youth in that awful flight of
'thirty-six."
"Maria, we all
left or lost something on that dark journey. To-day, we shall recover its full
value."
"To be sure--that
is what is said--we shall see. Will you now send Dolores to me? I must arrange
my toilet with some haste; and tell me, Roberto, what dress is your preference;
it is your eyes, beloved, I wish to please."
Robert Worth was not
too old to feel charmed and touched by the compliment. And he was not a
thoughtless or churlish husband; he knew how to repay such a wifely compliment,
and it was a pleasant sight to see the aged companions standing hand in hand
before the handsome suits which Dolores had spread out for her mistress to
examine.
He looked at the purple
and the black and the white robes, and then he looked at the face beside him.
It was faded, and had lost its oval shape; but its coloring was yet beautiful,
and the large, dark eyes tender and bright below the snow- white hair. After a
few minutes' consideration, he touched, gently, a robe of white satin.
"Put this on, Maria," he said, "and your white mantilla, and
your best jewels. The occasion will excuse the utmost splendor."
The choice delighted
her. She had really wished to wear it, and some one's judgment to endorse her
own inclinations was all that was necessary to confirm her wish. Dolores found
her in the most delightful temper. She sat before the glass, smiling and
talking, while her maid piled high the snowy plaits and curls and crowned them
with the jewelled comb, only worn on very great festivals. Her form was still
good, and the white satin fell gracefully from her throat to her small feet.
Besides, whatever of loss or gain had marred her once fine proportions, was
entirely concealed by the beautifying, graceful, veiling folds of her mantilla.
There was the flash of diamonds, and the moonlight glimmer of pearls beneath
this flimsy covering; and at her belt a few white lilies. She was exceedingly
pleased with her own appearance, and her satisfaction gave an ease and a sense
of authority to her air and movements which was charming.
"By Maria's grace,
I am a very pretty old lady," she said to herself; "and I think I
shall I astonish my daughter-in-law a little. One is afraid of these calm,
cool, northern women, but I feel to-day that even Abbie must be proud of
me."
Indeed, her entrance
into the large parlor made quite a sensation. She could see the quiet pleasure
in her husband's face; and her son Thomas, after one glance, put down the child
on his knee, and went to meet her. "Mi madre," he whispered with a
kiss. He had not used the pretty Spanish word for years, but in the sudden rush
of admiring tenderness, his boyish heart came back to him, and quite
unconsciously he used his boyhood's speech. After this, she was not the least
in awe of her wise daughter-in-law. She touched her cheek kindly, and asked her
about the children, and was immeasurably delighted when Abbie said: "How
beautiful you are to-day! I wish I had your likeness to send to Boston. Robert,
come here and look at your grandmother! I want you to remember, as long as you
live, how grandmother looks to-day." And Robert--a fine lad eight years
old, accustomed to implicit obedience-- put down the book he was reading, planted
himself squarely before the Senora, and looked at her attentively, as if she
was a lesson to be learned.
"Well then,
Roberto?"
"I am glad I have
such a pretty grandmother. Will you let me stand on tiptoes and kiss you?"
and the cool, calm northern woman's eyes filled with tears, as she brought her
younger children, one by one, for the Senora's caress. The doctor and his son
watched this pretty domestic drama with hearts full of pride and happiness; and
before it had lost one particle of its beauty and feeling, the door was flung
open with a vigor which made every one turn to it with expectation. A splendid
little lad sprang in, and without any consideration for satin and lace, clung
to the Senora. He was her image: a true Yturbide, young as he was; beautiful
and haughty as his Castilian ancestors.
Isabel and Luis
followed; Isabel more lovely than ever, richly dressed in American fashion,
full of pretty enthusiasms, vivacious, charming, and quite at her ease. She had
been married eight years. She was a fashionable woman, and an authority upon
all social subjects.
Luis also was
wonderfully improved. The light-hearted gaiety, which ten years ago had bubbled
over in continual song, was still there; but it was under control, evident only
because it made perpetual sunshine on his face. He had taken the doctor's
advice--completed his study of English and Mexican law--and become a famous referee
in cases of disputed Mexican claims and title deeds. His elegant form and
handsome, olive face looked less picturesque in the dull, uncompromising
stiffness of broadcloth, cut into those peculiarly unbecoming fashions of
ugliness which the anglo-Saxon and anglo-American affect. But it gained by the
change a certain air of reliability and importance; an air not to be dispensed
with in a young lawyer already aspiring to the seat among the lawmakers of his
State.
"We called upon
Antonia," said Isabel, "as we came here. Of course she was engaged
with Lopez. They were reading a book together; and even on such a day as this
were taking, with the most blessed indifference, a minute at a time. They will
join us on the Plaza. I represented to them that they might miss a good
position. `That has been already secured,' said Lopez, with that exasperating
repose which only the saints could endure with patience. For that reason, I
consider Antonia a saint to permit it. As for me, I should say: `The house is
on fire, Lopez! Will it please you for once to feel a little excited?' Luis
says they read, continually, books which make people think of great solemnities
and responsibilities. How foolish, when they are so rich, and might enjoy
themselves perpetually!"
"Here are the
carriages," cried Thomas Worth, "and the ceremony of to-day has its
own hour. It will never come again."
"Your mother and I
will go first, Thomas; and we will take Abbie and your eldest son. I shall see
you in your place. Luis, bring your boy with you; he has intelligence and will
remember the man he will see to-day, and may never see again."
On the Plaza, close to
the gates of the Alamo, a rostrum had been erected; and around it were a few
stands, set apart for the carriages of the most illustrious of the families of
San Antonio. The Senora, from the shaded depths of her own, watched their
arrival. Nothing could be more characteristic than the approach of her
daughters. Antonia and Lopez, stately and handsome, came slowly; their
high-stepping horses chafing at the irrestraint. Luis and Isabel drove to their
appointed place with a speed and clatter, accentuated by the jingling of the
silver rings of the harness and the silver hanging buttons on the gay dress of
the Mexican driver. But the occupants of both carriages appeared to be great
favorites with the populace who thronged the Plaza, the windows, the flat roofs
of the houses, and every available place for hearing and seeing.
The blue flag of Texas
fluttered gayly over the lovely city; and there was a salvo of cannon; then,
into the sunshine and into the sight of all stepped the man of his generation.
Nature has her royal line, and she makes no mistakes in the kings she crowns.
The physical charm of Houston was at this time very great. His tall, ample,
dignified form attracted attention at once. His eyes penetrated the souls of
all upon whom they fell. His lips were touched with fire, and his words
thrilled and swayed men, as the wind sways the heavy heads in a field of ripe
barley.
He stretched out his
arms to the people, and they stretched out their arms to him. The magnetic
chain of sympathy was complete. The hearts of his listeners were an instrument,
on which he played the noblest, most inspiring, the sweetest of melodies. He
kindled them as flame kindles dry grass. He showed them their future with a
prophet's eye, and touched them also with the glad diviner's rapture. They
aspired, they rejoiced at his bidding; and at the moment of their highest
enthusiasm, he cried out:
"Whatever State
gave us birth, we have one native land and we have one flag!" Instantly
from the grim, blood-stained walls of the fortress, the blessed Stars and
Stripes flew out; and in a moment a thousand smaller flags, from every high
place, gave it salutation. Then the thunder of cannon was answered by the
thunder of voices. Cannon may thunder and make no impression; but the shout of
humanity! It stirs and troubles the deepest heart-stream. It is a cry that
cannot be resisted. It sets the gates of feeling wide open. And it was while
men were in this mood that Houston said his last words:
"I look in this
glorious sunshine upon the bloody walls of the Alamo. I remember Goliad. I
carry my memory back over the long struggle of thirty years. Do you think the
young, brave souls, fired with the love of liberty, who fell in this long
conflict have forgotten it? No! No! No! Wherever in God's Eternity they are
this day, I believe they are permitted to know that Texas has become part of
their country, and rests forever under the flag they loved. The shouting
thousands, the booming cannon, that greeted this flag were not all the sounds I
heard! Far off, far off, yet louder than any noise of earth, I heard from the
dead years, and the dead heroes of these years; the hurrahing of ghostly voices
and the clapping of unseen hands!"
"It was like
Houston to call the dead to the triumph," said the doctor, as he stood
with the Senora in her room. He was unbuttoning her gloves, and her tears
dropped down upon his hands.
"He is a man by himself,
and none like him. I thought that I should never forgive him for sparing the
life of that monster--Santa Anna; but to-day I forgive him even that. I am so
happy that I shall ask Holy Maria to excuse me the feeling; for it is not good
to permit one's self to be too happy; it brings trouble. But indeed, when I
looked at Thomas, I thought how wisely he has married. It is seldom a mother
can approve of her daughter-in-law; but Abbie has many excellencies--good
manners, and a good heart, and a fortune which is quite respectable."
"And strong
principles also, Maria. She will bring up her children to know right and wrong,
and to do right."
"That of course.
Every good mother does that. I am sure it is a sight for the angels to see
Isabel teaching her children their prayers. Did you observe also how great a
favorite Luis is? He lifted his hat to this one and that one, and it is certain
that the next election will be in his hand."
"Perhaps--I wish
Lopez would take more interest in politics. He is a dreamer."
"But, then, a very
happy dreamer." Perhaps to dream well and pleasantly is to live a better
life. Antonia is devoted to him. She has a blessed lot. Once I did not think
she would be so fortunate."
"Lopez was prudent
and patient."
"Prudent! Patient!
It is a miracle to me! I assure you, they even talk together of young Senor
Grant! It is satisfactory, but extremely strange."
"You had better
sleep a little, Maria. General Houston is coming to dinner."
That is understood.
When I spoke last to him, I was a woman broken-hearted. To-night I will thank
him for all that he has done. Ah, Roberto! His words to-day went to my, soul--I
thought of my Juan--I thought of the vision he showed me--I wondered if he
knew--if he saw-- and heard--" she leaned her head upon her husband's
breast, and he kissed away the sorrowful rain.
"He was so sweet!
so beautiful! Oh, Roberto!"
"He was God's
greatest gift to us. Maria! dear. Maria! I love you for, all the children you
have given me; but most of all, for Juan!"
THE END