THE OLD CONVENT
The Texans gathered up the arms of the fallen Mexicans, except the
lances for which they had no use, finding several good rifles and a
number of pistols of improved make which were likely to prove of great
value, and then they rode on as briskly as if nothing had happened.
The next day they drew near to San Antonio and entered the beautiful
valley made by the San Antonio River and the creek to which the Mexicans
gave the name San Pedro. Ned found it all very luxuriant and very
refreshing to eyes tired of the prairies and the plains. Despite the
fact that it was the middle of October the green yet endured in that
southern latitude. Splendid forests still in foliage bounded both creek
and river. They rode through noble groves of oak and tall pecans. They
saw many fine springs spouting from the earth, and emptying into river
and creek.
It was a noble land, but, although it had been settled long by Spaniard
and Mexican, the wilderness still endured in many of its aspects. Now
and then a deer sprang up from the thickets, and the wild turkeys still
roosted in the trees. Churches and other buildings, many of massive
stone adorned with carved and costly marbles, extended ten or twelve
miles down the river, but most of them were abandoned and in decay. The
Comanche and his savage brother, the Apache, had raided to the very
gates of San Antonio. The deep irrigation ditches, dug by the Spanish
priests and their Indian converts, were abandoned, and mud and refuse
were fast filling them up. Already an old civilization, sunk in decay,
was ready to give place to another, rude and raw, but full of youth and
vigor.
It was likely that Ned alone felt these truths, as they reached the
lowest outskirts of the missions, and stopped at an abandoned stone
convent, built at the very edge of the San Antonio, where the waters of
the river, green and clear, flowed between banks clothed in a deep and
luxuriant foliage. Half of the troop entered the convent, while the
others watched on the horses outside. It impressed Ned with a sense of
desolation fully equal to that of the ancient pyramid or the lost city.
Everything of value that the nuns had not taken away had been stripped
from the place by Comanche, Apache or Lipan.
It was nearly night when they arrived at the convent. The Texan camp
still lay some miles away, their horses were very tired, and Bowie
decided to remain in the ruined building until morning. The main portion
of the structure was of stone, two stories high, but there were some
extensions of wood, from one of which the floor had been taken away by
plunderers. It was Ned who discovered this floorless room and he
suggested that they lead the horses into it, especially as the night was
turning quite cold, and there were signs of rain.
"A good thought," said Bowie. "We'll do it."
The horses made some trouble at the door, but when they were finally
driven in, and unsaddled and unbridled they seemed content. Two windows,
from which the glass was long since gone, admitted an abundance of air,
and Ned and several others, taking their big bowie knives, went out to
cut grass for them.
On foot, Ned was impressed more than ever by the desolation and
loneliness of the place. The grounds had been surrounded by an adobe
wall, now broken through in many places. On one side had been a little
flower garden, and on the other a larger kitchen garden. One or two late
roses bloomed in the flower garden, but most of it had been destroyed by
weather.
Ned and the others cut armfuls of grass in a little meadow, just beyond
the adobe wall, and they hastened the work. They did not like the looks
of the night. The skies were darkening very fast, and they saw
occasional flashes of lightning in the far southwest. Ned looked back at
the convent. It was now an almost formless bulk against the somber sky,
its most prominent feature being the cupola in which a bronze bell still
hung.
The wind rose and cold drops of rain struck him. He shivered. It
promised to be one of those raw, cold nights frequent in the southwest,
and he knew that the rain would be chill and penetrating. He was glad
that they had found the convent.
They gave the grass to the horses, and then they went into the main
portion of the convent, where Bowie and the rest were already at work.
Here the ruin was not so great, as the Spaniards had built in a solid
manner, according to their custom. They found a large room, with an open
fireplace, in which Ned would have been glad to see wood blazing, but
Bowie did not consider it worth while to gather materials for a fire.
Adjoining this room was a chapel, in which a pulpit, a desecrated image
of the Virgin, and some frames without the pictures, yet remained. Anger
filled Ned's heart that anyone should plunder and spoil such a place,
and he turned sorrowfully away.
Back of the large rooms were workrooms, kitchen and laundry, all
stripped of nearly everything. The narrow stairway that led to the upper
floor was in good condition, and, when Ned mounted it, he saw rows of
narrow little cell-like rooms in which the nuns had slept. All were
bleak and bare, but, from a broken window at the end of the corridor, he
looked out upon the San Antonio and the forests of oak and pecan. He
could barely see the river, the night had grown so dark. The cold rain
increased and was lashed against the building by a moaning wind. Once
more Ned shivered, and once more he was glad that they had found the old
convent. He was glad to return to the main room, where Bowie and the
others were gathered.
The room had been lighted by two windows, facing the San Antonio and two
on the side. They had been closed originally by shutters, which were now
gone, but as the windows were narrow the driving rain did not enter far.
One or two of the men, sharing Ned's earlier feeling, spoke up in favor
of a fire. They wanted the cheerfulness that light and warmth give. But
Bowie refused again.
"Not necessary," he said. "We are here in the enemy's country, and we do
not want to give him warning of our presence. We met the lancers to-day,
and we have no desire to meet them again to-night."
"Right," the Ring Tailed Panther roared gently to Ned. "When you're
makin' war you must fight first an' take your pleasure afterward."
It was warm enough in the room and the open windows gave them all the
air they needed. Every man, except those detailed for the guard, spread
his blankets and went to sleep. Ned was on the early watch. He, too,
would have liked sleep. He could have felt wonderfully fine rolled in
the blankets with the cold rain pattering on the walls outside. But he
was chosen for the first watch, and his time would come later.
Ned was posted at a broken door that led to the extension in which the
horses were sheltered. The remaining sentinels, three in number,
including the Ring Tailed Panther, were stationed in different parts of
the building. The boy from his position in the broken doorway could see
into the room where his comrades slept, and, when he looked in the other
direction, he could also see the horses, some of which were now lying
down.
It was all very still in the old convent. So deep was this silence that
Ned began to fancy that he heard the breathing of his sleeping comrades.
It was only fancy. The horses had ceased to stir. Perhaps they were as
glad as the men that they had found shelter. But outside Ned heard
distinctly the moaning of the wind, and the lashing of the cold rain
against roof and walls.
On the right where the extension had been connected with the main
building of stone there was a great opening, and through this Ned looked
down toward the adobe wall and the San Antonio. He saw dimly across the
river a dark waving mass which he knew to be the pecan trees, bending in
the wind, but on his own side of the stream he could distinguish
nothing. But he watched there unceasingly, save for occasional glances
at the horses or his sleeping comrades.
He could now see objects very well within the room. He was able to count
his comrades sleeping on the floor. He saw two empty picture frames on
the wall, and, near by, a rope, which he surmised led to the bell in the
cupola, and which some chance had allowed to remain there. Now and then
Ned and one of his comrades of the watch met and exchanged a few words,
but they always spoke in whispers, lest they awaken the sleeping men.
After these brief meetings Ned would return to his watch at the opening.
The character of the night did not change as time trailed its slow
length away. One solid black cloud covered the sky from horizon to
horizon. The wind out of the southwest never ceased to moan, and the
cold rain blew steadily upon the walls and roof of the ruined convent. It
was not a night when either Texans or Mexicans would wish to be abroad,
and, as the chill grew sharper and more penetrating, Ned wrapped one of
his blankets about his shoulders.
As the night advanced, Ned's sense of oppression deepened. He felt once
more as he had felt at the pyramid, that he was among old dead things.
Ghosts could walk here as truly as they could walk on the banks of the
Teotihuacan. Sometimes as the great cloud lightened the least bit he
caught glimpses of the grass and weeds that grew between him and the
broken adobe wall which was about fifteen yards away.
Only an hour more, and the second watch would come on. Ned began to
think of his place on the floor, and of the deep and dreamless sleep
that he knew would be his. Then he was attracted by a glimpse of the
adobe wall. It seemed to him that he had seen a projection, where there
was none before. He looked a second time, and he did not see it. Fancy
played strange tricks at midnight in the enemy's country, and in the
desolate silence.
Ned shook himself. Although a vivid imagination might be excusable at
such a time even in a man, a veteran of many campaigns, he was
essentially an uncompromising realist, and he wished to see facts
exactly as they were. The work upon which he was engaged allowed no time
for the breeding of fancy.
He looked again and there were two projections where he had seen only
one before. They resembled knobs on the adobe wall, rising perhaps half
a foot above it, and the sight troubled Ned. Was fancy to prove too
strong, when he had drilled himself so long to see the real? Was he to
be played with by the imagination, as if he had no will of his own?
He thought once of speaking to the sentinels at the other doors, but he
could not compel himself to do it. They would laugh at him, and it is a
bitter thing to be laughed at. So he kept his watch, and while he looked
the projections appeared, disappeared and appeared once more.
He could stand it no longer. Putting his rifle under his blanket in
order to keep the weapon dry he stepped out of doors, but flattened
himself against the wall of the convent. The rain and wind whipped him
unmercifully, and the cold ran through him, but he was resolved to see
what was happening by the adobe wall. The projections were there and
they had increased to four. They did not go away.
Ned was now convinced that it was not fancy. His mind had obeyed his
will, and he was the true realist, no victim of the imagination. He was
about to kneel down in the grass, and crawl toward the wall, when
something caused him to change his mind. One of the projections suddenly
extended a full yard above the wall, and resolved itself into the shape
of a man. But what a man! The body from the waist up was naked, and
above it rose a head crested with long hair, black and coarse. Other
heads and bodies also savage and naked rose up beside it on the wall.
Ned knew in an instant and springing back within the convent he cried:
"Comanches! Comanches! Up men, up!"
At the same moment, acting on impulse, he seized the rope that hung by
the wall and pulled it hard, fast and often. Above in the cupola the
great bronze bell boomed forth a tremendous solemn note that rose far
over the moaning of the wind. From the adobe wall came a fierce yell, a
sinister cry that swelled until it became a high and piercing volume of
sound, and then died away in a menacing note like the howl of wolves.
But Ned, impulse still his master, never ceased to pull the bell.
All the Texans were on their feet at once, wide awake, rifles in their
hands.
"Lie down, men, by the doors!" cried Bowie, "and shoot anything that
tries to come in. Ned, let go the rope, you are in range there, and lie
down with us! But you have done well, boy! You have done well! You have
saved us all from being scalped, and perhaps the booming of the big bell
will bring us help that we may need badly!"
Ned threw himself on the floor just in time to avoid a bullet that sang
in at the open doorway. But no other shot was fired then. The Comanches
in silence sank back into the darkness and the rain. The defenders lay
on the floor, guarding the doorways with open rifles. They could not see
much, but they could hear well, and since Ned had given the warning in
time every one of the little party felt that they held a fortress.
Ned's pulses were still leaping, but great pride was in his heart. It
was he, not one of the veterans, who had saved them, and Bowie had
instantly spoken words of high approval. He was now lying flat on the
floor, but he looked out once more at the same opening. There were
certainly no projections on the wall now, but he could not tell whether
the Comanches were inside it or outside. If they crept to the sides of
the convent's stone walls the riflemen could not reach them there. He
wondered how many they were and how they had happened to raid so near to
San Antonio at this time.
Then ensued a long and trying period of silence. Less experienced men
than the Texans might have thought that the Comanches had gone away
after the failure of their attempt at surprise, but these veterans knew
better. Bowie and all of them were trying to divine their point of
attack and how to meet it. For the present, they could do nothing but
watch the doorways, and guard themselves against a sudden rush of their
dangerous foe.
"Panther," said Obed White, "it seems to me that you're getting all the
ripping and tearing and chawing that you want on this trip."
"It ain't what you might call monotonous," said the Ring Tailed Panther.
"I agree to that much."
It had been fully an hour now since Ned had rung the great bell, and
they had heard no noises save the usual ones of that night, the wind and
the rain. He surmised at last that the Comanches had taken advantage of
the war between the Texans and Mexicans to make a raid on the San
Antonio Valley, expecting to gallop in, do their terrible work, and then
be away. Doubtless it had not occurred to them that they would meet such
a group as that led by Bowie and the Ring Tailed Panther.
"Ned," said Bowie, "creep across the floor there to that rope and ring
the bell again. Ring it a long time. Either it will hurry the Comanches
into action, or friends of ours will hear it. It's likely that all the
Mexicans have now withdrawn into San Antonio, and that only Texans,
besides this band of Comanches, are abroad in the valley."
Ned wormed himself across the floor, and then, pressing himself against
the wall, reached up for the rope. A strange thought darted into his
brain. He had a deep feeling for music, and he could play both the
violin and piano. He could also ring chimes. He was keyed to the utmost,
every pulse and vein surcharged with the emotion that comes from a
desperate situation and a great impulse to save it.
The great bell suddenly began to peal forth the air of The Star Spangled
Banner. Some of the notes may have gone wrong, there may have been
errors of time and emphasis, but the old tune, then young, was there.
Every man lying on the floor, every one of whom was born in the States,
knew it, and every heart leaped. Elsewhere it might have been a
commonplace thing to do, but there in the night and the storm,
surrounded by enemies, on a vast and lonely frontier it was an
inspiration. Every Texan in the valley who heard it would know that it
was the call of a friend asking for help, and he would come.
Not a Texan moved, but they breathed heavily. Overhead the great bell
boomed solemnly on, and Ned, his hand on the rope, put all his heart and
strength into the task. A rifle cracked and a bullet entered the
doorway, but it passed over the heads of the Texans, and flattened
against the stone wall beyond. A rifle inside cracked in response, and a
Comanche in the grass and weeds uttered a death yell.
"I was watchin' for just such a chance," said the Ring Tailed Panther in
satisfied tones. "I saw him when he rose to fire. Just as you thought,
Mr. Bowie, the bell is makin' their nerves raw, an' they feel that they
must do somethin' right away."
"What a queer note that was in Ned's tune!" suddenly exclaimed Obed.
Bowie laughed.
"An angry Comanche shot at the bell and hit it. That's what happened,"
he said. "They can waste as many bullets as they please that way."
But the Comanches wasted no more just then. A noise came from the
horses. The shots evidently had alarmed them, and they were beginning to
stamp and rear. Four men, at the order of Bowie, slipped into the
improvised stable and sought to quiet them. They also remained there to
keep a guard at the broken windows. Ned, unconscious how much time had
passed, was still ringing the bell.
"You can rest now, Ned," said Bowie. "That was a good idea of yours and
you can repeat it later on. I'm thinking that the Comanches will soon
act, if they are going to act at all."
But nothing occurred for nearly an hour, when the horses began to rear
and stamp again. Two or three of them also uttered shrill neighs. Bowie,
with Ned, Obed and the Ring Tailed Panther joined the four already in
the improvised stable. The horses would not be quieted. It was quite
evident that instinct was warning them of something that human beings
could not yet detect.
Ned wondered. He put his hand on the neck of his own horse which knew
him well, yet the beast trembled all over, and uttered a sudden shrill
neigh. It was quite dark in the place, only a little light coming
through the broken windows, yet Ned was quite sure that no Comanches had
managed to get inside, and lie in hiding there.
A few moments later the Ring Tailed Panther uttered a fierce cry.
"I smell smoke!" he cried. "That's why the horses are so scared. The
demons have managed to set fire to this place which is wood. That's why
they've been so quiet!"
Ned, too, now smelt the strong odor of smoke, and a spurt of fire
appeared at a crack between two of the planks at the far end of the
place. The struggles of the horses increased. They were wild with
fright.
Ned instantly recognized the danger. The burning wooden building would
fill the stone convent itself with flame and smoke, and make it
untenable. The sparks already had become many, and the odor of smoke was
increasing. Their situation, suddenly become desperate, was growing more
so every instant. But they were Texans, inured to every kind of danger.
Bowie shouted for more men to come from the convent, leaving only five
or six on guard there.
Then the Texans began to bring method and procedure out of the turmoil.
Some held the horses, others, led by Bowie, kicked loose the light
planks where the fire had been started, and hurled them outward. They
were nearly choked by the smoke but they worked on.
The Comanches, many of whom were hugging the wall, shouted their war
cry, and began to fire into the opening that Bowie and his men had made.
They could not take much aim, because of the smoke, but their bullets
wounded two Texans. Despite the danger Bowie and most of his men were
still compelled to work at the fire. The room was full of smoke, and
behind them the horses were yet struggling with those who held them.
The Ring Tailed Panther lay down and resting himself on one elbow took
aim with his rifle. He was almost clear of the smoke which hung in a
bank above him. Ned noticed him and imitated him. He saw a dusky figure
outside and when he fired it fell. The Ring Tailed Panther did as well,
and Obed joined them. While Bowie and the others were dashing out the
fire, three great marksmen were driving back the Comanches who sought to
take advantage of the diversion.
"Good! good!" cried Bowie, as they knocked out the last burning plank.
"That ends the fire," said Obed, "and now we've got a hole here which is
not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a barn door, but I do not think it
will suffice for our friends, the Comanches."
All the men turned their attention to the enemy, and, lying on the
ground, they took as good aim as the darkness would permit. The Texan
rifles cracked fast and, despite the darkness, the bullets often found
the chosen targets. The Comanches had been shouting the war whoop
continuously, but now their cries began to die, and their fire died with
it. Never a very good marksman, the Indian was no match for the Texans,
every one of whom was a sharpshooter, armed with a fine rifle of long
range.
The Texans also fired from the shelter of the building, and, as the
great cloud was now parting, letting through shafts from the moon, the
Comanches were unable to find good hiding in the weeds and grass. The
bullets pursued them there. No matter how low they lay the keen eye of
some Texan searched them out, and sent in the fatal or wounding bullet.
Soon they were driven to the shelter of the adobe wall, where they lay,
and for a little while returned a scattering fire which did no harm.
After it ceased no Comanche uttered a war whoop and there was silence
again, save for the rain which now trickled down softly.
Bowie distributed sentinels at the openings, including the new one made
by the fire, and then the Texans took count of themselves. They had not
escaped unscathed. One lying on the floor had received a bullet in his
head and had died in silence, unnoticed in the battle. Two men had
suffered wounds, but they were not severe, and would not keep them from
taking part in a renewal of the combat, should it come.
All this reckoning was made in the dusk of the old convent, and with the
weariness of both body and soul that comes after a period of great and
prolonged exertion. Within the two rooms that they had defended, the
odor of burned gunpowder was strong, stinging throat and nostrils.
Eddies of smoke hung between floor and ceiling. Many of the men coughed,
and it was long before they could reduce the horses to entire quiet.
They wrapped the dead man in his blankets and laid him in the corner.
They bound up the hurts of the others, as best they could and then, save
for the watching, they relaxed completely. Ned, his back against the
wall, sat with his friends Obed and the Ring Tailed Panther. He was
utterly exhausted, and even in the dusk the men noticed it.
"Here, Ned," said Obed, "take a chew of this. You may not feel that you
need it, but it will be a good thing for you."
He extended a strip of dried venison. Ned thanked him and ate, although
he had not felt hungry. By and by he grew stronger, and then Bowie
called to him.
"Ned," he said, "crawl across the floor again. Be sure you do not raise
your head until you reach the wall. Then ring the bell, until I tell you
to stop. I've a notion that somebody will come by morning. Boys, the
rest of you be ready with your rifles. It was the bell before that
brought on the attack."
Ned slid across the floor, and once more pulled the rope with the old
fervor, sending the notes of the tune that he could play best far out
over the valley of the San Antonio. But no reply came from the
Comanches. They did not dare to rush the place again in the face of
those deadly Texan rifles. They made no sound while the bell played on,
but the Texans knew that they still lay behind the adobe wall, ready for
a shot at any incautious head.
Ned rang for a full half hour, before Bowie told him to quit. Then he
crept back to his place. He put his head on his folded blanket and,
although not intending it, fell asleep, despite the close air of the
place. But he awoke before it was dawn, and hastily sat up, ashamed.
When he saw in the dark that half the men were asleep he was ashamed no
longer. Bowie, who was standing by one of the doors, but sheltered from
a shot, smiled at him.
"The sun will rise in a half hour, Ned," he said, "and you've waked up
in time to hear the answer to your ringing of the bell. Listen!"
Ned strained his ears, and he heard a faint far sound, musical like his
own call. It seemed to him to be the note of a trumpet.
"Horsemen are coming," said Bowie, "and unless I am far wrong they are
Texans. Ring again, Ned."
The bell boomed forth once more, and for the last time. Clear and sharp,
came the peal of the trumpet in answer. One by one the men awoke. The
light was now appearing in the East, the gray trembling into silver.
From the valley came the rapid beat of hoofs, a rifle shot and then
three or four more. Bowie ran out at the door, and Ned followed him.
Across the meadows the Comanches scurried on their ponies, and a group
of white men sent a volley after them. Then the white men galloped
toward the convent. Bowie walked forward to meet them.
"You were never more welcome, Fannin," he said to the leader of the
group.
The man sprang from his horse, and grasped Bowie's hand.
"We rode as fast as we could, but I didn't know it was you, Jim," he
said. "Some of our scouts heard a bell somewhere playing The Star
Spangled Banner in the night. We thought they were dreaming, but they
swore to it. So we concluded it must be a call for help and I came with
the troop that you see here. We lost the direction once or twice, but
the bell called us back."
"For that," said Bowie, "you have to thank this boy here, a boy in years
only, a man in action, and two men in mind and courage. This is Ned
Fulton, Colonel Fannin."
Ned blushed and expostulated, but Bowie took nothing back. Fannin looked
about him curiously.
"You seem to have had something of a fight here," he said. "Down in the
grass and weeds we saw several Comanches who will trouble no more."
"We had all we wanted," said Bowie, "and we shall be glad to ride at
once with you to camp. I bring some good men for the cause, and there
are more behind."
They buried the fallen man in the old flower garden, and then rode
swiftly for the Texan camp on the Salado.