Produced by Mike Lynch
REMEMBER THE ALAMO
By Amelia E. Barr
CHAPTER I. THE CITY IN THE WILDERNESS.
"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 tobuild a city. The site chosen was a lovely wilderness hundreds of milesaway from civilization on every side, and surrounded by savage andwarlike tribes. But the spot was as beautiful as the garden of God. Itwas shielded by picturesque mountains, watered by two rivers, carpetedwith flowers innumerable, shaded by noble trees joyful with the notes ofa multitude of singing birds. To breathe the balmy atmosphere was tobe conscious of some rarer and finer life, and the beauty of the sunnyskies--marvellous at dawn and eve with tints of saffron and amethyst andopal--was like a dream of heaven.
One of the rivers was fed by a hundred springs situated in the midst ofcharming bowers. The monks called it the San Antonio; and on itsbanks they built three noble Missions. The shining white stone of theneighborhood rose in graceful domes and spires above the green trees.Sculptures, basso-relievos, and lines of gorgeous coloring adorned theexteriors. Within, were splendid altars and the appealing charms ofincense, fine vestures and fine music; while from the belfreys, bellssweet and resonant called to the savages, who paused spell-bound andhalf-afraid to listen.
Certainly these priests had to fight as well as to pray. The Indians didnot suffer them to take possession of their Eden without passionate andpractical protest. But what the monks had taken, they kept; and thefort and the soldier followed the priest and the Cross. Ere long, thebeautiful Mission became a beautiful city, about which a sort of famefull of romance and mystery gathered. Throughout the south and west, upthe 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 eighteenthcentury they spoke of Delhi, and Agra, and the Great Mogul.
Sanguine French traders carried thither rich ventures in fancy waresfrom New Orleans; and Spanish dons from the wealthy cities of CentralMexico, and from the splendid homes of Chihuahua, came there to buy. Andfrom the villages of Connecticut, and the woods of Tennessee, andthe lagoons of Mississippi, adventurous Americans entered the Texanterritory at Nacogdoches. They went through the land, buying horsesand lending their ready rifles and stout hearts to every effort ofthat constantly increasing body of Texans, who, even in their swaddlingbands, had begun to cry Freedom!
At length this cry became a clamor that shook even the old viceroyalpalace in Mexico; while in San Antonio it gave a certain pitch to allconversation, and made men wear their cloaks, and set their beavers,and display their arms, with that demonstrative air of independence theycalled los Americano. For, though the Americans were numerically few,they were like the pinch of salt in a pottage--they gave the snap andsavor to the whole community.
Over this Franciscan-Moorish city the sun set with an incomparableglory one evening in May, eighteen thirty-five. The white, flat-roofed,terraced houses--each one in its flowery court--and the domes and spiresof the Missions, with their gilded crosses, had a mirage-like beautyin the rare, soft atmosphere, as if a dream of Old Spain had beenmaterialized in a wilderness of the New World.
But human life in all its essentials was in San Antonio, as it was andhas been in all other cities since the world began. Women were in theirhomes, dressing and cooking, nursing their children and dreaming oftheir lovers. Men were in the market-places, buying and selling, talkingof politics and anticipating war. And yet in spite of these fixedattributes, San Antonio was a city penetrated with romantic elements,and constantly picturesque.
On this evening, as the hour of the Angelus approached, the narrowstreets and the great squares were crowded with a humanity thatassaulted and captured the senses at once; so vivid and so various wereits component parts. A tall sinewy American with a rifle across hisshoulder was paying some money to a Mexican in blue velvet and redsilk, whose breast was covered with little silver images of his favoritesaints. A party of Mexican officers were strolling to the Alamo; some inwhite linen and scarlet sashes, others glittering with color and goldenornaments. Side by side with these were monks of various orders: theFranciscan in his blue gown and large white hat; the Capuchin in hisbrown serge; the Brother of Mercy in his white flowing robes. Add tothese diversities, Indian peons in ancient sandals, women dressed as inthe days of Cortez and Pizarro, Mexican vendors of every kind, Jewishtraders, negro servants, rancheros curvetting on their horses, Apacheand 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 thestreets of San Antonio were in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred andthirty-five.
It was just before sunset that the city was always at its gayestpoint. Yet, at the first toll of the Angelus, a silence like that ofenchantment fell upon it. As a mother cries hush to a noisy child, sothe angel of the city seemed in this evening bell to bespeak a minutefor holy thought. It was only a minute, for with the last note therewas even an access of tumult. The doors and windows of the better houseswere thrown open, ladies began to appear on the balconies, there wasa sound of laughter and merry greetings, and the tiny cloud of thecigarette 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 astranger's eye wore the plain and ugly costume common at that day to allAmerican gentlemen. Only black cloth and white linen and a row palmettohat with a black ribbon around it; but he wore his simple garmentswith the air of a man having authority, and he returned the continualsalutations of rich and poor, like one who had been long familiar withpublic appreciation.
It was Dr. Robert Worth, a physician whose fame had penetrated tothe utmost boundaries of the territories of New Spain. He had beentwenty-seven years in San Antonio. He was a familiar friend in everyhome. 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 toretain his nationality, and yet live down envy and suspicion. The richhad shown him their gratitude with gold; the poor he had never sentunrelieved 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 politicalintentions. And his future conduct had seemed to warrant their fullestconfidence. In those never ceasing American invasions between eighteenhundred and three and eighteen hundred and thirty-two, he had been thefriend 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 waswhite. 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 theyasked searching questions. He had a reverent soul, wisely tolerant asto creeds, and he loved his country with a passion which absence fromit constantly intensified. He was believed to be a thoroughly practicalman, fond of accumulating land and gold; but his daughter Antonia knewthat he had in reality a noble imagination. When he spoke to her of thewoods, she felt the echoes of the forest ring through the room; when ofthe sea, its walls melted away in an horizon of long rolling waves.
He was t
hinking of Antonia as he walked slowly to his home in thesuburbs of the city. Of all his children she was the nearest to him. Shehad his mother's beauty. She had also his mother's upright rectitudeof nature. The Iberian strain had passed her absolutely by. She was anorthern rose in a tropical garden. As he drew near to his own gates,he involuntarily quickened his steps. He knew that Antonia would bewaiting. He could see among the thick flowering shrubs her tall slimfigure clothed in white. As she came swiftly down the dim aisles to meethim, he felt a sentiment of worship for her. She concentrated inherself his memory of home, mother, and country. She embodied, in theperfectness of their mental companionship, that rarest and sweetestof ties--a beloved child, who is also a wise friend and a sympatheticcomrade. As he entered the garden she slipped her hand into his. Heclasped it tightly. His smile answered her smile. There was no need forany words of salutation.
The full moon had risen. The white house stood clearly out in itsradiance. The lattices were wide open and the parlor lighted. Theywalked slowly towards it, between hedges of white camelias and scarletjaponicas. Vanilla, patchuli, verbena, wild wandering honeysuckle--ahundred other scents--perfumed the light, warm air. As they came nearthe house there was a sound of music, soft and tinkling, with a rhythmicaccent 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 waswithin the room, but leaning against the open door, playing upon amandolin. Robert Worth smiled as he offered his hand to him. It wasimpossible not to smile at a youth so handsome, and so charming--ayouth who had all the romance of the past in his name, his home,his picturesque costume; and all the enchantments of hope and greatenthusiasms in his future.
"Luis, I am glad to see you; and I felt your music as soon as I heardit."
He was glancing inquiringly around the room as he spoke; and Antoniaanswered 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. Verywell! I care not to drink chocolate and dance in his house. One handwashes 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 devilof money condescends to appear, every little devil rises up to do himhomage."
"Let it pass, Luis. Suppose you sing me that last verse again. It had ataking 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 camefrom 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 withus, and show those dandy soldiers from the Alamo how to dance."
"Pardon! I have not yet ceased to cross myself at the affront of thismorning. And the Senora Valdez is in the same mind as her husband. Ishould be received by her like a dog at mass. I am going to-morrow tothe American colony on the Colorado."
"Be careful, Luis. These Austin colonists are giving greattrouble--there have been whispers of very strong measures. I speak as afriend."
"My heart to yours! But let me tell you this about the Americans--theirdrum is in the hands of one who knows how to beat it."
"As a matter of hearsay, are you aware that three detachments of troopsare on their way from Mexico?"
"For Texas?"
"For Texas."
"What are three detachments? Can a few thousand men put Texas under lockand 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 faceand splendid eyes upon Antonia. A sympathetic smile brightened her ownface like a flame. Then he went silently away, and Antonia watched himdisappear among the shrubbery.
"Come, Antonia! I am ready. We must not keep the Senora waiting toolong."
"I am ready also, father." Her voice was almost sad, and yet it had atone of annoyance in it--"Don Luis is so imprudent," she said. "He isalways in trouble. He is full of enthusiasms; he is as impossible as hisfavorite, Don Quixote."
"And I thank God, Antonia, that I can yet feel with him. Woe to thecenturies without Quixotes! Nothing will remain to them but--SanchoPanzas."
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