The ancient monastery, erst the abode of Spanish monks, now become the
dwelling-place of the ci-devant Mississippi planter, calls for a word of
description.
It stands on the right side of the river, several hundred yards from the
bank, on a platform slightly elevated above the general level of the
surrounding _terrain_.
The site has been chosen with an eye to the pleasant and picturesque--
that keen look-out towards temporal enjoyment, which at all times, and
in all countries, has characterised these spiritual teachers of the
heathen.
Its elevated position gives it command of a fine prospect, at the same
time securing it against the danger of inundation, when the river is in
flood.
In architectural style the mission-building itself does not much differ
from that of most Mexican country houses--called _haciendas_.
Usually a grand quadrangular structure, with an uncovered court in the
centre, the _patio_; around which runs a gallery or corridor,
communicating with the doors of the different apartments.
But few windows face outside; such as there are being casements,
unglazed, but protected by a _grille_ of iron bars set vertically--the
_reja_. In the centre of its front _facade_ is a double door, of
gaol-like aspect, giving admittance to the passage-way, called _saguan_;
this of sufficient capacity to admit a waggon with its load, intended
for those grand old coaches that lumbered along our own highways in the
days of Dick Turpin, and in which Sir Charles Grandison used luxuriously
to ride. Vehicles of the exact size, and pattern, may be seen to this
day crawling along the country roads of modern Mexico--relics of a
grandeur long since gone.
The _patio_ is paved with stone flags, or tesselated tiles; and, where a
head of water can be had, a fountain plays in the centre, surrounded by
orange-trees, or other evergreens, with flowering-plants in pots. To
rearward of this inner court, a second passage-way gives entrance to
another, and larger, if not so sumptuously arrayed; this devoted to
stables, store-rooms, and other domestic offices. Still farther back is
the _huerta_, or garden.
That attached to the ancient monastery is an enclosure of several acres
in extent, surrounded by a high wall of _adobes_; made to look still
higher from being crested with a palisade of the organ cactus. Filled
with fruit trees and flowering shrubs, these once carefully cultivated,
but for long neglected, now cover the walks in wild luxuriance. Under
their shade, silently treading with sandalled feet, or reclining on
rustic benches, the Texan friars used to spend their idle hours, quite
as pleasantly as their British brethren of Tintern and Tewkesbury. Oft
have the walls of the San Saba mission-house echoed their "ha, ha!" as
they quaffed the choicest vintage of Xeres, and laughed at jests ribald
as any ever perpetrated in a pot-house. Not heard, however, by the
converted heathen under their care; nor intended to be. For them there
were dwellings apart; a collection of rude hovels, styled the
_rancheria_. These were screened from view by a thick grove of
evergreen trees; the _padres_ not relishing a too close contact with
their half-naked neophytes, who were but their _peons_--in short their
slaves. In point of fact, it was the feudal system of the Old World
transported to the New; with the exception that the manorial lords were
monks, and the _villeins_ savage men. And the pretence at
proselytising, with its mongrel mixture of Christianity and
superstition, did not make this Transatlantic _villeinage_ a whit less
irksome to endure. Proof, that the red-skinned serfs required the iron
hand of control is found in the _presidio_, or soldier's barrack--
standing close by--its ruin overlooking those of the _rancheria_. They
who had been conquered by the Cross, still needed the sword to keep them
in subjection, which, as we have seen, it finally failed to do.
Several of the huts still standing, and in a tolerable state of repair,
have supplied shelter to the new settlers; most of whom have taken up
their abode in them. They are only to serve as temporary residences,
until better homes can be built. There is no time for this now. The
spring is on, and the cotton-seed must be got into the ground, to the
neglect of everything else.
Colonel Armstrong himself, with his daughters and domestics, occupies
the old mission-building, which also gives lodgment to Luis Dupre and
his belongings. For the young planter is now looked upon as a member of
the Armstrong family, and it wants but a word from one in holy orders to
make him really so. And such an one has come out with the colonists.
The marriage ceremony is but deferred until the cotton-seed be safe
under the soil. Then there will be a day of jubilee, such as has never
been seen upon the San Saba; a _fiesta_, which in splendour will eclipse
anything the Spanish monks, celebrated for such exhibitions, have ever
got up, or attempted.
But "business before pleasure" is the adage of the hour; and, after a
day or two given to rest, with the arrangement of household affairs, the
real work of colonising commences. The little painted ploughs,
transported from the States, are set to soiling their paint, by turning
up the fertile clod of the San Saba valley, which has so long lain
fallow; while the seed of the cotton-plant is scattered far and wide
over hundreds--ay, thousands of acres.
Around the ancient mission is inaugurated a new life, with scenes of
industry, stirring as those presided over by the _padres_.
Is it sure of being as prosperous, or more likely to be permanent?
One confining his view to the valley--regarding only the vigorous
activity there displayed--would answer this question in the affirmative.
But he who looks farther off--raising his eyes to the bluff on the
opposite side of the river, fixing them on that spot where the Indians
made halt--would hesitate before thus prognosticating. In the dusky
cohort he might suspect some danger threatening the new settlement.
True, the savages are no longer there. After seeing the waggons one
after another becoming stationary, like vultures deprived of a carrion
repast, they moved away. But not far. Only about five miles, to a
grove of timber standing back upon the plain, where they have made a
more permanent camp.
Two alone are left upon the cliff's edge; evidently to act as videttes.
They keep watch night and day, one always remaining awake. Especially
during the night hours do they appear on the alert--with eyes bent on
the far off mission-buildings--watching the window-lights that steadily
shine, and the torches that flit to and fro. Watching for something not
yet seen. What can it be?
And what is the design of these painted savages, who look more like
demons than men? Is it to attack the new colony, plunder, and destroy
it?
Regarding their numbers, this would seem absurd. They are in all only
twenty; while the colonists count at least fifty fighting men. No
common men either; but most of them accustomed to the use of arms; many
backwoodsmen, born borderers, staunch as steel. Against such, twenty
Indians--though the picked warriors of the warlike Comanche tribe--would
stand no chance in fair open fight. But they may not mean this; and
their intent be only stealing?
Or they may be but a pioneer party--the vanguard of a greater force?
In any case, their behaviour is singularly suspicious. Such manoeuvring
can mean no good, but may be fraught with evil to Colonel Armstrong and
his colonists.
For several successive days is this surveillance maintained, and still
nothing seems to come of it. The party of savages remains encamped in
the timber at back; while the two sentinels keep their place upon the
promontory; though now and then going and coming, as before.
But on a certain night they forsake their post altogether, as if their
object has been attained, and there is no need to keep watch any more.
On this same night, a man might be seen issuing out of the
mission-building, and making away from its walls. He is not seen,
nevertheless. For it is the hour of midnight, and all have retired to
rest--the whole household seemingly wrapt in profoundest slumber.
Moreover, the man slips out stealthily, through the backdoor; thence
across the second courtyard, and along a narrow passage leading into the
garden. Having reached this, he keeps on down the centre walk, and over
the wall at bottom, through which there chances to be a breach. All
these mysterious movements are in keeping with the appearance of the
man. For his countenance shows cunning of no ordinary kind. At first
glance, and under the moonlight, he might be mistaken for a mulatto.
But, though coloured, he is not of this kind. His tawny skin shows a
tinge of red, which tells of Indian, rather than African blood. He is,
in truth, a _mestizo_--half Spaniard or Mexican, the other half being
the aboriginal race of America.
It is a breed not always evil-disposed, still less frequently
ill-featured; and, so far as looks go, the individual in question might
claim to be called handsome. He has a plenteous profusion of dark curly
hair, framing a countenance by no means common. A face of oval form,
regular features, the nose and chin markedly prominent, a pair of coal
black eyes, with a well-defined crescent over each. Between his lips
are teeth, sound and of ivory whiteness, seeming whiter in contrast with
a pair of jet black moustaches.
Taking his features singly, any of them might be pronounced comely. And
yet the _tout ensemble_ is not pleasing. Despite physical beauty, there
is something in the man's face that appears repulsive, and causes
shrinking in the heart of the beholder. Chiefly is it his eyes that
seem to produce this effect; their glance inspiring fear, such as one
feels while being gazed at by an adder.
Not always can this sinister look be observed. For the _mestizo_, when
face to face with his superiors, has the habit of holding his eyes
averted--cast down, as if conscious of having committed crime, or an
intention to commit it.
Most with whom he comes in contact are impressed with the idea, that he
either has sinned, or intends sinning; so all are chary of giving him
confidence.
No--not all. There is one exception: one man who has trusted, and still
continues to trust him--the young planter, Dupre. So far, that he has
made him his man of confidence--head-servant over all the household.
For it need scarce be told, that the real master of the house is he who
rendered it habitable, by filling it with furniture and giving it a
staff of servants. Colonel Armstrong is but its head through courtesy
due to age, and the respect shown to a future father-in-law.
Why the Creole puts such trust in Fernand--the _mestizo's_ name--no one
can clearly comprehend. For he is not one of those domestics, whose
integrity has been tested by long years of service. On the contrary,
Dupre has never set eyes on him, till just before leaving Nachitoches.
While organising the expedition, the half-blood had presented himself,
and offered to act as its guide--professing acquaintance with that
section of Texas whither the colony was to be conducted. But long
before reaching their destination, Dupre had promoted him to a higher
and more lucrative post--in short, made him his "major-domo."
Colonel Armstrong does not object. He has not the right. Still less,
anybody else. Outsiders only wonder and shake their heads; saying, in
whispers, that the thing is strange, and adding, "No good can come of
it."
Could any of them observe the _mestizo_ at this midnight hour, skulking
away from the house; could they follow and watch his further movements,
they might indulge in something more than a surmise about his fidelity;
indeed, be convinced he is a traitor.
After getting about half-a-mile from the mission walls, he makes stop on
the edge of attract of timber lying between--its outer edge, open
towards the river's bank, and the bluffs beyond.
There, crouching down by the side of a flat stone, he pours some
gunpowder upon it, from a horn taken out of his pocket.
This done, he draws forth a box of lucifer matches; scrapes one across
the stone, and sets the powder ablaze.
It flashes up in bright glare, illumining the darkness around.
A second, time he repeats this manoeuvre; a third, and a fourth; and on,
till, for the tenth time, powder has been burnt.
Then turning away from the spot, he makes back towards the
dwelling-house, entering it by the way he went out, and stealthily as
before.
No one within its walls has been witness to the pyrotechnic display.
For all, it has not been unobserved. The Indian videttes, stationed on
the far-off bluff, see it. See, and furthermore, seem to accept it as a
signal--a cue for action. What but this could have caused them to
spring upon the backs of their horses, forsake their post of
observation, and gallop off to the bivouac of their comrades; which they
do, soon as noting that the tenth flash is not followed by another?
Surely must it be a signal, and preconcerted?
In the life of the prairie savage fire plays a conspicuous part. It is
his telegraph, by which he can communicate with far off friends, telling
them where an enemy is, and how or when he should be "struck." A single
spark, or smoke, has in it much of meaning. A flash may mean more; but
ten following in succession were alphabet enough to tell a tale of no
common kind--one, it may be, predicting death.