Texas

by James A. Michener

  In three words he had summarized Spanish policy in Tejas: when peace reigned between France and Spain, Tejas could go to hell, not one gold piece would be spent; but when trouble threatened, Tejas became ‘our noble bastion in the north, where heroic Spaniards defend our outpost of empire against the evil plans of the French.’ Tejas policy was determined not by the viceroy in Mexico City but by the acts of Frenchmen in Louisiana, and since 1719 their behavior had been ominous.

  I’ll send young Saldaña to our northern frontier, Valero decided, and when the eager young officer was brought into his presence, he said affably: ‘Your father, who fought well for me, asks if you might serve near your brother. I grant his wish. You shall join him in Zacatecas.’

  ‘My father will bless you, sir, as I do now.’

  When Alvaro reached the mining town he was disturbed to see how much older-looking and leaner his brother had become, but as they talked he found Damián as compelling as ever, for the friar’s religious dedication had obviously deepened, causing him to speak with a gravity he had not shown before. The brothers spent two days exchanging information, and they did so enthusiastically, for they had always been friends, sharing secrets they did not share even with their other brothers.

  Next morning the colonel told Alvaro: ‘The pouch you brought from the viceroy brings a message that you and your brother are to accompany me on a tour of inspection. All of Tejas up to Los Adaes.’

  ‘Excellent!’ The young man’s enthusiasm was so genuine that the colonel invited him to dinner that night, where he sat facing the provocative daughter of Anselmo Liñán.

  The Saldaña brothers formed an interesting pair in the candlelight, Damián in his somber gray habit, Alvaro in his bright uniform, the former thin and moody, the latter robust and smiling. Damián spoke little, nervously; Alvaro, with fluency and confidence: ‘The ship that brought us to Vera Cruz was a disgrace, but we had as a fellow passenger a man who could sing like a lark, and he kept us forgetful.’ He said also that in the capital the viceroy had explained how important Tejas was and that he, Alvaro, was most eager to see it, to which the colonel replied: ‘You’ll see enough before we’re through.’

  As Alvaro continued, Damián became aware, with a mixture of pain and interest, that Benita, seated directly across from his brother, was listening to him with undisguised attention and that whenever he seemed about to stop, she encouraged him with further questions. During the course of the dinner he fairly well presented the outline of his life and his ambitions, with Benita nodding approval.

  After dinner she came boldly to Fray Damián and said, in his brother’s hearing: ‘You must be proud to have Alvaro in your family. We’re certainly proud to have him as a visitor.’ Given this incentive, Alvaro interrupted: ‘Could I take you riding tomorrow?’ to which she replied modestly: ‘My dueña does not ride, but perhaps my father …’

  The colonel, overhearing the exchange, asked: ‘Liñan, is it permissible for me to take these young people for a canter tomorrow?’ This posed a difficult problem for Benita’s parents, for they still dreamed of seeing their daughter married in Spain, but slowly they were awakening to the fact that families in their modest position usually spent their lives in Mexico, with never enough money saved to enable them to return to the homeland. Therefore, incoming officers of undoubted Spanish blood like this Saldaña were becoming more attractive.

  ‘She can join you,’ Liñán said.

  No one thought to invite Fray Damián, who spent the hours of their excursion in the grip of a confusion which would engulf him increasingly. He was pleased that his brother had made such a favorable impression on Zacatecas, but he was disturbed that it had to be Benita who translated that favor into action. On the other hand, he realized that she was each day growing closer to that age when she must marry, and since she could never marry him, he was gratified to think that she might choose his brother, for then she would remain within his circle, a part of him, however complex and ill-defined. Now, as he abstractedly placed bricks in a line for the Indian workmen to handle, he awakened to the fact that a tremendous change had overtaken him, as if the normal experiences of a youth which he had avoided were now roaring back in all their tumultuous confusions: ‘Dear God! Am I jealous of my brother? Do I wish it was I riding with Benita?’ And as he spoke thus to the bricks he was lifting, he visualized the two young people riding ahead of the colonel or falling cleverly behind, and leaning across their horses’ necks and kissing.

  In the days before the expedition to the north departed, Alvaro and Benita saw a great deal of each other, and often the austere friar was present, watching them as if he were an uncle. And although Alvaro remained unconscious of the meaning of his presence, Benita understood.

  On the morning of departure, 11 December 1721, the colonel produced three fine horses for himself and the Saldaña brothers, but what happened when Fray Damián saw his caused a great commotion, because he said: ‘As a Franciscan, I’m forbidden ever to ride a horse.’

  The colonel looked at him askance: ‘What foolishness have we here?’

  ‘Our vow of poverty. Caballos are for caballeros. Mules and donkeys are for the poor.’

  The colonel scoffed at such an idea, but when Damián absolutely refused to accept his horse, the animal was led away and a mule brought forward. It was a criminally inclined beast, one eye lower than the other, one ear cocked, the other flat, and it did not propose to have on its back a friar with a floppy habit, for as soon as Damián tried to mount, it shied away and landed two solid kicks on his right leg.

  In no way did this daunt Damián, for looking about, he found a small stick with which he began to hit the mule lightly about the head. The blows did not hurt, but the animal did not like them and drew back in small mincing steps, whereupon Damián danced after him. In time he tamed the animal enough so that he could mount, but the caravan had not even started when the mule leaned forward, planted its two front feet like stone pillars, and tossed Damián over its head.

  Again Damián showed no anger; instead, he stood facing the mule, saying: ‘I shall have to ride you and you shall have to behave.’ At this the mule backed off, and the dancing continued, causing a country poet to begin composing in his head a rather naughty ballad, which would soon be widely recited: ‘El Fraile y el Baile’ (The Friar and the Dance, or, more colloquially, The Dancing Friar).

  At last the mule surrendered, Damián mounted, and the forward scouts started north. As the main body prepared to follow, with seventeen soldiers and handlers, Benita ran to Alvaro and kissed him. There were gasps from some of the older people, but the colonel approved: ‘That’s the proper way to send soldiers on a journey.’

  ‘Colonel, bring him back safely! Please bring him back.’

  Early December was one of the best times of year in the arid area between Zacatecas and Saltillo, for the intense heat of summer had dissipated. And since this year the fall rains had come late, there was still such a profusion of wildflowers that what would otherwise have been a desert looked like a veritable spring garden. In the invigorating coolness they rode easily, noting the deer on the horizon and the tardy rattlesnake preparing for this winter’s hibernation, and often they could see in the distance bands of Indians, who vanished among the gentle hills as the expedition drew near.

  Saltillo was a beautiful settlement of stone houses intermixed with low buildings of adobe and a central plaza as charming as any in Mexico. It was so protected on all sides by hills that the colonel said: ‘Even a big enemy army would have a difficult time capturing this town if it was properly defended. I’d preempt the high ground and cut the foe to pieces if they tried to come up that valley.’

  In Saltillo they witnessed Spain’s fundamental attitude toward colonization. This remarkably attractive town contained only two men from the homeland, the commander and the priest, while much rougher Zacatecas had eleven. ‘What accounts for this?’ Damián asked his brother, and Alvaro offered a shrewd explanation: ‘As you sa
y, Saltillo is beautiful, but what is its function? To guard the border in case the French attack. But Zacatecas! Ah! It has those silver mines, and they’ve got to be protected.’

  ‘Is money everything?’ Damián asked, and his brother replied: ‘In Madrid, yes.’

  One night the Saltillo commander complained: ‘We really must have more honest-to-goodness Spaniards. Those born in Mexico can be fine people—my sister’s married to one—but they can’t be relied upon to preserve the true Spanish culture. And the mestizos they send us?’ He spat.

  ‘It’s the same in Zacatecas,’ the colonel said consolingly. ‘Young Saldaña here—the lieutenant, that is—he’s the first honest Spaniard we’ve had assigned there in two years.’ He looked approvingly at Alvaro, and then tapped Damián on the shoulder: ‘We don’t get friars like this one, either, not from the locals they send us.’

  ‘Will the day come,’ the Saltillo commander asked, ‘when all of Mexico will be governed by mestizos? They’d get their orders from Madrid, of course. They can be very clever, you know. I’ve had some mestizos on this frontier I’d put up against any of your men from Spain.’ He reflected on this, then added: ‘But they could never claim to be gentlemen. There’s always something missing.’

  ‘I would deplore the day,’ the colonel said, tapping a finger as he spoke each word, ‘when any part of our empire is governed by locals. We must never allow that to happen.’

  ‘To the north it’s already happening,’ the commander said. Waving his arm brusquely to indicate all of Tejas, he said: ‘You’ll find few Spaniards up there, you may be sure.’ He summoned an aide: ‘Pánfilo, can you think of anyone north of the river who was born in Spain?’

  Pánfilo laughed and said: ‘There are very few of anything north of the river, regardless of classification. Almost none born in Spain.’

  ‘The missions? Surely, some of our missionaries …’

  ‘I don’t count them,’ the aide said.

  They dined that night on roast lamb, sweet potatoes, tortillas made fresh from the best corn and a marvelously cool beverage from crushed pomegranate fruit. They toasted the king in Madrid and the viceroy in Mexico City, and when the commander asked if the Saldañas knew any songs from their area in Spain, the brothers offered several with graceful harmony. In response, the two old campaigners offered songs of their own. The formal part of the evening concluded with the opening of a bottle of wine that the commander had been saving for such an occasion.

  As the Saldañas walked back under the stars, Alvaro, emboldened by the wine, confided: ‘When we return to Zacatecas, I think Benita and I …’ He hesitated. ‘I think we shall be married.’

  He looked toward Damián, expecting congratulations, but his brother had turned his head upward toward the sky to contemplate the heavens. As the friar studied the intricate patterns made by the stars, he imagined the three of them, himself, Benita, Alvaro, existing together in some kind of agreed-upon arrangement. He could not yet envisage what its design might be, but only that it must ensure that he not be deprived of their friendship. ‘Father would approve, I know,’ he said quietly.

  Even the colonel, not a sentimental man, was astounded by the rugged beauty of the trail north from Saltillo, for it penetrated interlocking ranges of mountains that twisted through quiet valleys; these contained no houses or farms, for the Indians in this region could be ferocious. ‘This must be the most beautiful empty land in the world,’ Alvaro cried, and the colonel replied: ‘It’s our job to see that it doesn’t stay empty.’

  The Saldañas received important indoctrination regarding their assignment when they reached the Rio Grande, which had on its south bank a remarkable collection of buildings forming the Franciscan center of San Juan Bautista. It contained three different missions staffed by two friars each; nearby stood a solidly built presidio where the soldiers protecting the area lived. Travelers who stayed at the missions heard from the friars how difficult it was to share a settlement with soldiers who had no love of God or respect for Jesus and who made the work of salvation almost impossible. But those who lodged at the presidio heard whining complaints against the feckless friars who did not work, obeyed no civil law, and converted one dying Indian every two or three years … at best.

  At the dinner in Zacatecas they had agreed that the Spanish system of settlement was ideal, but when they saw it in actual practice on the frontier, they had to admit that it was painfully disorganized. When soldiers mingled with friars, all kinds of animosities erupted. Soldiers seduced Indian girls in the missions, while the friars carelessly allowed Indians access to restricted areas, where they stole precious supplies needed by the soldiers.

  If a friar of outstanding Christian humility governed the mission while a soldier of exemplary character headed the presidio, the system had a chance of functioning, and sometimes it did, but more often a situation developed, like the one in San Juan Bautista, in which overt hostility was avoided but petty antagonisms were inescapable. The colonel, suspecting this, assigned Fray Damián to one of the missions, while he and Alvaro lodged at the presidio, so that the young soldier could experience frontier life at its most typical.

  ‘You’ll excuse me, Lieutenant Saldaña, because I know your brother is a friar, and I suppose one of the best,’ said the captain in charge of the presidio, ‘but these damned friars …’ He shrugged his shoulders as if to say that mere words could not describe their duplicity.

  ‘Anything I should report to Zacatecas?’ the colonel asked.

  ‘Nothing, and everything,’ the captain said, and with that summation he began listing the malfeasances of the clergy, and a sorry portrait he painted of frontier clericalism, for he charged the friars with theft, willful contravention of the king’s ordinances and general insubordination: ‘And one particular charge which I do hope you’ll mention in your report. By agreement they are obligated to share with us the fruits of their labor—corn, a good goat now and then, a portion of any steer that is slaughtered. And they have green vegetables in their gardens, I know it, I’ve seen them. But we get none. They use their food to feed their Indians.’ The only charge he did not bring against the friars was one which did surface at other posts: ‘I must admit, Colonel, that unsavory as they are, they do not meddle with the Indian women. In their religious duties they’re true Christians, anyone would admit that, but in the management of the mission as a part of our system, they’re no better than a bunch of lying, lazy thieves.’

  At the mission that night charges which did involve Indian women were laid before Fray Damián, with urgent requests that he convey them to the authorities in Zacatecas. ‘We cannot prevent those devilish soldiers, whom God has never known, from consorting with our Indian converts. Well, to speak truthfully, they’re not really converts, not yet, but we have high hopes. As soon as a girl of that certain age comes to our compound, the soldiers get after her, and before long she’s pregnant. At times it seems that our major function on the frontier is the production of mestizo bastards.’

  There was one serious complaint which both the friar and the colonel felt must be presented to the authorities, and it was voiced in noninflammatory tones by the friars: ‘The order clearly states that we shall have in each mission two friars, which we have provided, and three armed soldiers, which the presidio is to provide. But we never get the soldiers.’

  To this justifiable complaint the military officials had solid response: ‘We originally placed three soldiers in each mission, as required by the king, but when we did we heard much fault-finding from the friars—“The soldiers did this.” “Your soldiers did that.” “The soldiers molest the girls.” Well, I told them frankly: “If you don’t want our soldiers for your work, we can sure as hell use them in ours,” so we took them back.’

  The colonel suggested that perhaps the presidio could screen its men carefully and find one each for the three missions, but the friars protested: ‘That is not what the order provides.’ On the night before the expedition departed, t
he colonel finally put his finger on the sore spot: ‘I take my military orders from Mexico City, you know,’ and the friars replied: ‘And we take our orders from Guadalajara.’ It was obvious that the rupture would remain unhealed.

  Crossing the Rio Grande was physically trivial—water up to the ankle on a stone riverbed as smooth as a table—but emotionally exciting, for now the Spaniards entered a potential battleground: real Apache ready to attack from the west, shadowy Frenchmen lurking in the north. The terrain was inviting to horsemen, great stretches of waving grassland punctuated occasionally by clumps of mesquite bushes, those low, thorny, jagged miniature trees which had always populated the river courses of Tejas but which, in recent years, had begun to invade the grassland wherever the grand balance of nature had been disturbed by the grazing of cattle or the scraping of a hoe. For a friar who hoped to establish here his mission and a presidio, with a town following in due course, this was forbidding land, for it contained little visible water.

  But after eight days of such travel, with crossing of two rivers, the Nueces and the Medina, the Spaniards entered Tejas, where they found sights which gladdened their hearts. A small stream, the San Antonio de Padua, ran with spring-fed water, and on its far bank earlier Franciscans had erected two missions of obvious stability, while on the near bank, a short distance away, a sturdy presidio housed the soldiers guarding the area. Close to the barracks an informal little village consisting of two adobe houses had begun to germinate, and here lived the four mestizo families who endeavored to farm the good fields along the river.

  In all ways the settlement was minimal: at the missions, two friars, three soldiers in each and fifty-one Indians, two of whom had converted; in the presidio, a captain, a sergeant and fifty-two soldiers; in the two-hut village, seven adults and three children.

  These Franciscan efforts had been named Misión San José and Misión San Antonio de Valero, after the popular saint of Padua and the equally popular viceroy who had authorized its founding. The viceroy carried a formidable appellation: Baltazar Manuel de Zúñiga (this could be considered his name) y Guzmán-Sotomayor (his mother’s name) y Mendoza y Sarmiento (historic names adhering to his family). And as if this were not sufficient, he was also Marqués de Valero y Duque de Arión (his hereditary titles).