CHAPTER XV. GOLIAD.
"How sleep the brave who sink to rest By all their country's wishes bless'd? * * * * *
By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung. There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there."
"How shall we rank thee upon glory's page? Thou more than soldier, and just less than sage."
"Grief fills the room up of my absent child; Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me; Remembers me of all his gracious parts."
Near midnight, on March the ninth, the weary fugitives arrived atGonzales. They had been detained by the deep mud in the bottom lands,and by the extreme exhaustion of the ladies, demanding some hours' resteach day. The village was dark and quiet. Here and there the glimmerof a candle, now and then the call of a sentry, or the wail of a childbroke the mysterious silence.
Ortiz appeared to know the ground perfectly. He drove without hesitationto a log house in which a faint thread of light was observable, andas he approached it he gave a long, peculiar whistle. The door wasinstantly thrown open, and, as the wagon stopped, two men steppedeagerly to it. In another instant the Senora was weeping in herhusband's arms, and Isabel laughing and crying and murmuring her sweetsurprises into the ear of the delighted Luis. When their wraps had beenremoved from the wagon, Ortiz drove away, leaving Navarro and Antoniastanding by the little pile of ladies' luggage.
"I will take charge of all, Senorita. Alas! How weary you are!"
"It is nothing, Senor. Let me thank you for your great kindness."
"Senorita, to be of service to you is my good fortune. If it werenecessary, my life for your life, and I would die happy."
She had given him her hand with her little speech of thanks, and heraised it to his lips. It was an act of homage that he might haveoffered to a saint, but in it Lopez unconsciously revealed to Antoniathe secret love in his heart. For he stood in the glow of light fromthe open door, and his handsome face showed, as in a glass darkly, thetenderness and hopelessness of his great affection. She was touched bythe discovery, and though she had a nature faithful as sunrising shecould not help a feeling of kindly interest in a lover so reticent, sowatchful, so forgetful of himself.
The log cabin in which they found shelter was at least a resting-place.A fire of cedar logs burned upon the hearth, and there was a bed in theroom, and a few rude chairs covered with raw hide. But the Senora hada happy smile on her weary face. She ignored the poverty of hersurroundings. She had her Roberto, and, for this hour at least, hadforgiven fate.
Presently the coffee-pot was boiling, and Doctor Worth and Luis broughtout their small store of corn-bread and their tin camp-cups, and theweary women ate and drank, and comforted themselves in the love andprotection at their side. Doctor Worth sat by his wife, and gave Antoniahis hand. Isabel leaned her pretty head against Luis, and listened withhappy smiles to his low words:
"Charming little one, your lips are two crimson curtains. Betweencurtain and curtain my kiss is waiting. Give it to me."
"Eyes of my soul, to-night the world begins again for me."
"At this blessed hour of God, I am the happiest man he has made."
"As for me, here in this dear, white hand I put my heart."
Is there any woman who cannot imagine Isabel's shy glances, and the low,sweet words in which she answered such delightful protestations? Andsoon, to add a keener zest to his happiness, Luis began to be a littlejealous.
"With us is Dias de Bonilla. Do you remember, my beloved one, that youdanced with him once?"
"How can you say a thing so offensive?"
"Yes, dear, at the Senora Valdez's."
"It may be. I have forgotten."
"Too well he remembers. He has dared to sing a serenade to yourmemory--well, truly, he did not finish it, and but for the Senor Doctor,I should have taught him that Isabel is not a name for his lips toutter. Here, he may presume to come into your presence. Will you receivehim with extreme haughtiness? It would be a great satisfaction to me."
"The poor fellow! Why should I make him miserable? You should not bejealous, Luis."
"If you smile on him--the least little smile--he will think you are inlove with him. He is such a fool, I assure you. I am very distressedabout this matter, my angel."
"I will tell you Luis--when the myrtle-tree grows figs, and the fig-treeis pink with myrtle flowers, then I may fall in love with Dias deBonilla--if I can take the trouble."
No one heeded this pretty, extravagant talk. It was a thing apart fromthe more serious interests discussed by Doctor Worth and his wife andeldest daughter. And when Ortiz and Navarro joined the circle, thestory of the fall of the Alamo was told again, and Luis forgot his ownhappiness, and wept tears of anger and pity for the dead heroes.
"This brutal massacre was on the morning of the sixth, you say,Navarro?"
"Last Sabbath morning, Senor. Mass was being offered in the churches,and Te Deums sung while it went on."
"A mass to the devil it was," said Ortiz.
"Now, I will tell you something. On the morning of the second, Thomaswas in Washington. A convention sitting there declared, on that day,the independence of Texas, and fifty-five out of fifty-six votes electedGeneral Houston Commander-in-Chief."
"Houston! That is the name of victory! Gracias a Dios!" cried Navarro.
"It is probable that the news of this movement influenced Santa Anna tosuch barbarity."
"It is his nature to be brutal."
"True, Ortiz; yet I can imagine how this proclamation would incense him.On the morning of the sixth, the convention received the last expresssent by poor Travis from the Alamo. It was of the most thrillingcharacter, breathing the very spirit of patriotism and courage--anddespair. In less than an hour, Houston, with a few companions, was onhis way to the Alamo. At the same time he sent an express to Fannin,urging him to meet him on the Cibolo. Houston will be here to-morrow."
"Then he will learn that all help is too late."
But Houston had learned it in his own way before he reached Gonzales;for Travis had stated that as long as the Alamo could be held, signalguns would be fired at sunrising; and it is a well-authenticated factthat these guns were heard by trained ears for more than one hundredmiles across the prairie. Houston, whose senses were keen as the Indianswith whom he had long lived knew when he was within reach of the sound;and he rose very early, and with his ear close to the ground waited inintense anxiety for the dull, rumbling murmur which would tell him theAlamo still held out. His companions stood at some distance, still asstatues, intently watching him. The sun rose. He had listened in vain;not the faintest sound did his ear detect.
"The Alamo has fired its last gun," he said, on rejoining hiscompanions.
"And the men, General?"
"They have died like men. You may be sure of that."
At Gonzales he heard the particulars. And he saw that the news hadexerted a depressing influence upon the troops there. He called themtogether. He spoke to them of the brutal tragedy, and he invested itshorrors with the grandeur of eternal purpose and the glory of heroicsacrifice.
"They were soldiers," he cried; "and they died like soldiers. Theirnames will be the morning stars of American history. They will live forever in the red monument of the Alamo." He looked like a lion, with agloomy stare; his port was fierce, and his eyes commanded all he viewed."Vengeance remains to us! We have declared our independence, and it mustbe maintained."
He immediately sent off another express to Fannin; apprised him of thefall of the Alamo; ordered him to blow up Goliad and fall back uponGonzales. Then he sent wagons into the surrounding country, to transportthe women and children to the eastern settlements; for he knew well whatatrocities would mark every mile of Santa Anna's progress through thecountry.
These wagons, with their helpless loads
, were to rendezvous at PeachCreek, ten miles from Gonzales; where also he expected Fannin and hiseight hundred and sixty men to join him. This addition would make theAmerican force nearly twelve hundred strong. Besides which, Fannin'slittle army was of the finest material, being composed mostly ofenthusiastic volunteers from Georgia and Alabama; young men, who, likeDare Grant and John Worth, were inspired with the idea of freedom, orthe spread of Americanism, or the fanaticism of religious liberty ofconscience--perhaps, even, with hatred of priestly domination. Houstonfelt that he would be sufficient for Santa Anna when the spirit of thiscompany was added to the moral force of men driven from their homes andfamilies to fight for the lands they had bought and the rights which hadbeen guaranteed them.
So he watched the horizon anxiously for Fannin's approach, oftenlaying his ear to the ground to listen for what he could not see. And,impatient as he was for their arrival, the Senora was more so. Shedeclared that her sufferings would be unendurable but for this hope. Theone question on her lips, the one question in her eyes, was, "Are theycoming?" And Antonia, though she did not speak of her private hopes, wasequally anxious. Brother and lover were both very dear to her. And tohave the whole family together would be in itself a great help. Whatevertheir deprivations and fatigues, they could comfort each other withtheir affection.
Every day wagon-loads of women and children joined the camp, and themarch eastward was very slow. But no circumstance extols more loudly thebravery and tenderness of these American soldiers than the patiencewith which this encumbrance was endured. Men worn out with watching andforaging were never too weary to help some mother still more weary, orto carry some little child whose swollen feet would no longer aid it.
One night they rested at a little place on the Colorado. In one roomof a deserted cabin Houston sat with Major Hockly, dictating to him amilitary dispatch. They had no candles, and Houston was feeding the firewith oak splinters, to furnish light enough for their necessity. In theother room, the Worth family were gathered. Antonia, in preparing fortheir journey, had wisely laid a small mattress and a couple of pillowsin the wagon; and upon this mattress the Senora and Isabel were resting.Doctor Worth and Thomas sat by the fire talking of Fannin's delay; andAntonia was making some corn-meal cakes for their supper.
When the Senora's portion was given to her she put it aside, and liftedher eyes to Antonia's face. They asked the question forever in herheart, "Is Jack coming?" and Antonia pitifully shook her head.
Then the poor woman seemed to have reached the last pitch of endurance."Let me die!" she cried. "I can bear life no longer." To Mary and thesaints she appealed with a passionate grief that was distressing towitness. All the efforts of her husband and her children failed to soothher; and, as often happens in a complication of troubles, she seizedupon the most trifling as the text of her complaint.
"I cannot eat corn bread; I have always detested it. I am hungry. Iam perishing for my chocolate. And I have no clothing. I am ashamedof myself. I thank the saints I have no looking-glass. Oh, Roberto!Roberto! What have you done to your Maria?"
"My dear wife! My dear, dear wife! Be patient a little longer. Think,love, you are not alone. There are women here far more weary, far morehungry; several who, in the confusion, have lost their little children;others who are holding dying babes in their arms."
"Giver of all good! give me patience. I have to say to you that otherwomen's sorrows do not make me grateful for my own. And Santa Maria hasbeen cruel to me. Another more cruel, who can find? I have confessed toher my heartache about Juan; entreated her to bring my boy to me. Hasshe done it?"
"My darling Maria."
"Grace of God, Roberto! It is now the twenty-third of March; I have beenseventeen days wandering with my daughters like very beggars. If only Ihad had the discretion to remain in my own house!"
"Maria, Lopez will tell you that Fray Ignatius and the brothers are inpossession of it. He saw them walking about the garden reading theirbreviaries."
At this moment General Houston, in the opposite room was dictating:"Before God, I have found the darkest hours of my life. For forty-eighthours I have neither eaten an ounce of anything, nor have I slept." TheSenora's sobbing troubled him. He rose to close the door, and saw twomen entering. One leaned upon the other, and appeared to be at the pointof death.
"Where is there a doctor, General?"
"In that room, sir. Have you brought news of Fannin?"
"I have."
"Leave your comrade with the doctor, and report."
The entrance of the wounded man silenced the Senora. She turned herface to the wall and refused to eat. Isabel sat by her side and held herhand. The doctor glanced at it as he turned away. It had been so plumpand dimpled and white. It was now very thin and white with exposure.It told him far better than complaining, how much the poor woman hadsuffered. He went with a sigh to his patient.
"Stabbed with a bayonet through the shoulder--hard riding fromGoliad--no food--no rest--that tells the whole story, doctor."
It was all he could say. A fainting fit followed. Antonia procured somestimulant, and when consciousness returned, assisted her father to dressthe wound. Their own coffee was gone, but she begged a cup from some onemore fortunate; and after the young man had drunk it, and had eatena little bread, he was inclined to make light of his wound and hissufferings.
"Glad to be here at all," he said. "I think I am the only one out offive hundred."
"You cannot mean that you are of Fannin's command?"
"I WAS of Fannin's command. Every man in it has been shot. I escaped bya kind of miracle."
The doctor looked at the Senora. She seemed to be asleep. "Speak low,"he said, "but tell me all."
The man sat upon the floor with his back against the wall. The doctorstooped over him. Antonia and Isabel stood beside their father.
"We heard of Urrea's approach at San Patricio. The Irish people of thatsettlement welcomed Urrea with great rejoicing. He was a Catholic--adefender of the faith. But the American settlers in the surroundingcountry fled, and Fannin heard that five hundred women and children,followed by the enemy, were trying to reach the fortress of Goliad.He ordered Major Ward, with the Georgia battalions, to go and meet thefugitives. Many of the officers entreated him not to divide his men fora report which had come by way of the faithless colony of San Patricio.
"But Fannin thought the risk ought to be taken. He took it, and the fivehundred women and children proved to be a regiment of Mexican dragoons.They surrounded our infantry on every side, and after two days'desperate fighting, the Georgia battalions were no more. In themeantime, Fannin got the express telling him of the fall of the Alamo,and ordering him to unite with General Houston. That might have been apossible thing with eight hundred and sixty men, but it was not possiblewith three hundred and sixty. However, we made the effort, and on thegreat prairie were attacked by the enemy lying in ambush there. Entirelyencircled by them, yet still fighting and pressing onward, we defendedourselves until our ammunition gave out. Then we accepted the termsof capitulation offered by Urrea, and were marched back to Goliad asprisoners of war. Santa Anna ordered us all to be shot."
"But you were prisoners of war?"
"Urrea laughed at the articles, and said his only intention in them wasto prevent the loss of Mexican blood. Most of his officers remonstratedwith with{sic} him, but he flew into a passion at Miralejes. 'TheSenor Presidente's orders are not to be trifled with. By the Virgin ofGuadelupe!' he cried, 'it would be as much as my own life was worth todisobey them.'
"It gave the Mexican soldiers pleasure to tell us these things, andthough we scarcely believed such treachery possible, we were veryuneasy. On the eighth day after the surrender, a lovely Sunday morning,we were marched out of the fort on pretence of sending us to Louisiana;according to the articles of surrender, and we were in high spirits atthe prospect.
"But I noticed that we were surrounded by a double row of soldiers, andthat made me suspicious. In a few moments, Fannin was marched into thec
entre, and told to sit down on a low stool. He felt that his hour hadcome. He took his watch and his purse, and gave them to some poor womanwho stood outside lamenting and praying for the poor Americans. Ishall never forget the calmness and brightness of his face. The Mexicancolonel raised his sword, the drums beat, and the slaughter began. Fiftymen at a time were shot; and those whom the guns missed or crippled,were dispatched with the bayonet or lance."
"You escaped. How?"
"When the lips of the officer moved to give the order: Fire! I fell uponmy face as if dead. As I lay, I was pierced by a bayonet through theshoulder, but I made no sign of life. After the execution, the campfollowers came to rob the dead. A kind-hearted Mexican woman helped meto reach the river. I found a horse tied there, and I took it. I havebeen on the point of giving up life several times, but I met a mancoming here with the news to Houston, and he helped me to hold out."
The doctor was trembling with grief and anger, and he felt Antonia'shand on his shoulder.
"My friend," he whispered, "did you know JOHN WORTH?"
"Who did not know him in Fannin's camp? Any of us would have been gladto save poor Jack; and he had a friend who refused to live without him."
"Dare Grant?"
"That was the man, young lady. Grant was a doctor, and the Mexicanswanted doctors. They offered him his life for his services, but he wouldnot have it unless his friend's life also was spared. They were shotholding each other's hands, and fell together. I was watching theirfaces at the moment. There wasn't a bit of fear in them."
The Senora rose, and came as swiftly as a spirit to them. She lookedlike a woman walking in her sleep. She touched the stranger. "I heardyou. You saw Dare Grant die. But my boy! My boy! Where is my Juan?"
"Maria, darling."
"Don't speak, Roberto. Where is my Juan? Juan Worth?"
"Madam. I am sorry enough, God knows. Juan Worth--was shot."
Then the wretched mother threw up her hands, and with an awful cryfell to the ground. It was hours ere she recovered consciousness, andconsciousness only restored her to misery.
The distress of the father, the brother and sisters of the dead youthwas submerged in the speechless despair of the mother. She could notswallow food; she turned away from the the{sic} sympathy of all wholoved her. Even Isabel's caresses were received with an apathy which wasterrifying. With the severed curl of her boy's hair in her fingers, shesat in tearless, voiceless anguish.
Poor Antonia, weighed down with the double loss that had come to her,felt, for the first time, as if their condition was utterly hopeless.The mental picture of her brother and her lover meeting their tragicdeath hand in hand, their youth and beauty, their courage and fidelity,was constantly before her. With all the purity and strength of her trueheart, she loved Dare; but she did not for a moment wish that he hadtaken a different course. "It is just what I should have expected fromhim," she said to Isabel. "If he had let poor Jack die alone, Icould never have loved him in the same way again. But oh, Isabel, howmiserable I am?"
"Sweet Antonia, I can only weep with you. Think of this; it was on lastSunday morning. Do you remember how sad you were?"
"I was in what seemed to be an unreasonable distress. I went away toweep. My very thoughts were tired with their sorrowful journeys up anddown my mind, trying to find out hope and only meeting despair. Oh, mybrave Jack! Oh, my dear Dare, what a cruel fate was your's!"
"And mi madre, Antonia? I fear, indeed, that she will lose her senses.She will not speak to Thomas, nor even to me. She has not said a prayersince Jack's death. She cannot sleep. I am afraid of her, Antonia."
"To-night we are to move further east; perhaps the journey may waken herout of this trance of grief. I can see that our father is wretchedabout her; and Thomas wanders in and out of the room as if his heart wasbroken."
"Thomas loved Jack. Luis told me that he sat with him and Lopez, andthat he sobbed like a woman. But, also, he means a great revenge. Noneof the men slept last night. They stood by the camp-fires talking.Sometimes I went to the door and looked out. How awful they were in theblaze and darkness! I think, indeed, they could have conquered SantaAnna very easily."
Isabel had not misjudged the spirit of the camp. The news of themassacre at Goliad was answered by a call for vengeance that nothingbut vengeance could satisfy. On the following day Houston addressed hislittle army. He reminded them that they were the children of the heroeswho fought for liberty at Yorktown, and Saratoga, and Bunker Hill. Hemade a soul-stirring review of the events that had passed; he explainedto them their situation, and the designs of the enemy, and how heproposed to meet them.
His voice, loud as a trumpet with a silver sound, inspired all who heardit with courage. His large, bright visage, serious but hopeful, seemedto sun the camp. "They live too long," he cried, "who outlive freedom.And I promise you that you shall have a full cup of vengeance. Forevery man that fell fighting at the Alamo, for every one treacherouslyslaughtered at Goliad, you shall be satisfied. If I seem to be flyingbefore the enemy now, it is for his destruction. Three Mexican armiesunited, we cannot fight. We can fight them singly. And every mile wemake them follow us weakens them, separates them, confuses them. The lowlands of the Brazos, the unfordable streams, the morasses, the pathlesswoods, are in league with us. And we must place our women and childrenin safety. Even if we have to carry them to General Gaines and theUnited States troops, we must protect them, first of all. I believe thatwe shall win our freedom with our own hands; but if the worst come, andwe have to fall back to the Sabine, we shall find friends and backersthere. I know President Jackson, my old general, the unconqueredChristian Mars! Do you think he will desert his countrymen? Never! If weshould need help, he has provided it. And the freedom of Texas is sureand certain. It is at hand. Prepare to achieve it. We shall take up ourmarch eastward in three hours."
Ringing shouts answered the summons. The camp was in a tumult ofpreparation immediately; Houston was lending his great physical strengthto the mechanical difficulties to be encountered. A crowd of men wasaround. Suddenly a woman touched him on the arm, and he straightenedhimself and looked at her.
"You will kill Santa Anna, General? You will kill this fiend who hasescaped from hell! By the mother of Christ, I ask it."
"My dear madam!"
He was so moved with pity that he could not for a moment or two giveher any stronger assurance. For this suppliant, pallid and frenzied withsorrow, was the once beautiful Senora Worth. He looked at her holloweyes, and shrunk form, and worn clothing, and remembered with a pang,the lovely, gracious lady clad in satin and lace, with a jewelled combin her fine hair and a jewelled fan in her beautiful hands, and a waveof pity and anger passed like a flame over his face.
"By the memory of my own dear mother, Senora, I will make Santa Anna paythe full price of his cruelties."
"Thank you, Senor"; and she glided away with her tearless eyes fixedupon the curl of black hair in her open palm.
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