. . . . “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!2I wonder that the Americans permitted that he should leave them.”
“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 undignified 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 Americans 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 Senora 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 interfering 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 Senora 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 Senora 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 Senora, 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:
“SENORA MARIA FLORES WORTH:“I send this on December the fifth, in the year of ourBlessed Lord and Lady 1835. It is my honor and pleasure totell you that the Americans, having performed miracles ofvalor, reached the Plaza this afternoon. Here the main bodyof the Mexican troops received them, and there has been severefighting. At sunset, the Mexicans retreated within the Alamo.The Texans have taken possession of the Veramendi House, andthe portion of the city surrounding it. There has been agreat slaughter of our poor countrymen. I charge myselfwhenever I pass the Plaza, to say a paternoster for the soulswho fell there. Senora Maria Flores Worth, I kiss your hands.I kiss also the hands of the Senorita Antonia, and the handsof 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 uncertainty, 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:
“SENORA MARIA FLORES WORTH:“This on the sixth of December, in the year of our BlessedLord and Lady 1835. The brave, the illustrious Colonel Milamis dead. I watched him three hours in to-day’s fight. A manso calm was inconceivable. He was smiling when the ballstruck him—when he fell. The Texans, after his loss, retiredto their quarters. This was at the hour of eleven. At thehour 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 toGeneral Cos in a sheet of flame. Such men are not to befought. General Cos was compelled to retire to the Alamo.The battle is over for to-day. On this earth the soul has buta mortal sword. The water in the river is red withblood. The Plaza is covered with the dead and the dying. Ihave the honor to tell you that these ‘miserables’ are beingattended to by the noble, the charitable Senor Doctor Worth.As I write, he is kneeling among them. My soul adores hishumanity. I humbly kiss your hands, Senora, and the hands ofyour 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,Senora! The Mexicans have surrendered the Alamo, and askedfor quarter. These noble-minded Americans have given it. TheSenor 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 what a noble son they were going to have; he said, “when the war is over, Maria, my dear, he shall marry Antonia.”
“And what do you say, Roberto, if I should give them the fine house on the Plaza that my brother Perfecto left me?”
“If you do that you will be the best mother in the world, Maria. I then will take Dare into partnership. He is good and clever; and I am a little weary of work. I shall enjoy coming home earlier to you. We will go riding and walking, and our courting days will begin again.”
“Maria Santissima! How delightful that will be, Roberto! And as for our Isabel, shall we not make her happy also? Luis should have done as his own family have done; a young man to go against his mother and his uncles, that is very wicked! but, if we forgive that fault, well, then, Luis is as good as good bread.”
“I think so. He began the study of the law. He must finish it. He must learn the American laws also. I am not a poor man, Maria. I will give Isabel the fortune worthy of a Yturbide or a Flores—a fortune that will make her very welcome to the Alvedas.”
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—