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“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.
“Senors,” 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, Senors! 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?”
CHAPTER XVII. HOME AGAIN
“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 will O’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 picturesque 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 resignation 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: “Senorita, 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 earthbound? 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!6 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!”
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 reminiscence; 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: