“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 to
build a city. The site chosen was a lovely wilderness hundreds of miles
away from civilization on every side, and surrounded by savage and
warlike tribes. But the spot was as beautiful as the garden of God. It
was shielded by picturesque mountains, watered by two rivers, carpeted
with flowers innumerable, shaded by noble trees joyful with the notes of
a multitude of singing birds. To breathe the balmy atmosphere was to
be conscious of some rarer and finer life, and the beauty of the sunny
skies--marvellous at dawn and eve with tints of saffron and amethyst and
opal--was like a dream of heaven.
One of the rivers was fed by a hundred springs situated in the midst of
charming bowers. The monks called it the San Antonio; and on its
banks they built three noble Missions. The shining white stone of the
neighborhood rose in graceful domes and spires above the green trees.
Sculptures, basso-relievos, and lines of gorgeous coloring adorned the
exteriors. Within, were splendid altars and the appealing charms of
incense, fine vestures and fine music; while from the belfreys, bells
sweet and resonant called to the savages, who paused spell-bound and
half-afraid to listen.
Certainly these priests had to fight as well as to pray. The Indians did
not suffer them to take possession of their Eden without passionate and
practical protest. But what the monks had taken, they kept; and the
fort and the soldier followed the priest and the Cross. Ere long, the
beautiful Mission became a beautiful city, about which a sort of fame
full of romance and mystery gathered. Throughout the south and west, up
the 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 eighteenth
century they spoke of Delhi, and Agra, and the Great Mogul.
Sanguine French traders carried thither rich ventures in fancy wares
from New Orleans; and Spanish dons from the wealthy cities of Central
Mexico, and from the splendid homes of Chihuahua, came there to buy. And
from the villages of Connecticut, and the woods of Tennessee, and
the lagoons of Mississippi, adventurous Americans entered the Texan
territory at Nacogdoches. They went through the land, buying horses
and lending their ready rifles and stout hearts to every effort of
that constantly increasing body of Texans, who, even in their swaddling
bands, had begun to cry Freedom!
At length this cry became a clamor that shook even the old viceroyal
palace in Mexico; while in San Antonio it gave a certain pitch to all
conversation, and made men wear their cloaks, and set their beavers,
and display their arms, with that demonstrative air of independence they
called los Americano. For, though the Americans were numerically few,
they were like the pinch of salt in a pottage--they gave the snap and
savor to the whole community.
Over this Franciscan-Moorish city the sun set with an incomparable
glory one evening in May, eighteen thirty-five. The white, flat-roofed,
terraced houses--each one in its flowery court--and the domes and spires
of the Missions, with their gilded crosses, had a mirage-like beauty
in the rare, soft atmosphere, as if a dream of Old Spain had been
materialized in a wilderness of the New World.
But human life in all its essentials was in San Antonio, as it was and
has been in all other cities since the world began. Women were in their
homes, dressing and cooking, nursing their children and dreaming of
their lovers. Men were in the market-places, buying and selling, talking
of politics and anticipating war. And yet in spite of these fixed
attributes, San Antonio was a city penetrated with romantic elements,
and constantly picturesque.
On this evening, as the hour of the Angelus approached, the narrow
streets and the great squares were crowded with a humanity that
assaulted and captured the senses at once; so vivid and so various were
its component parts. A tall sinewy American with a rifle across his
shoulder was paying some money to a Mexican in blue velvet and red
silk, whose breast was covered with little silver images of his favorite
saints. A party of Mexican officers were strolling to the Alamo; some in
white linen and scarlet sashes, others glittering with color and golden
ornaments. Side by side with these were monks of various orders: the
Franciscan in his blue gown and large white hat; the Capuchin in his
brown serge; the Brother of Mercy in his white flowing robes. Add to
these diversities, Indian peons in ancient sandals, women dressed as in
the days of Cortez and Pizarro, Mexican vendors of every kind, Jewish
traders, negro servants, rancheros curvetting on their horses, Apache
and 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 the
streets of San Antonio were in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and
thirty-five.
It was just before sunset that the city was always at its gayest
point. Yet, at the first toll of the Angelus, a silence like that of
enchantment fell upon it. As a mother cries hush to a noisy child, so
the angel of the city seemed in this evening bell to bespeak a minute
for holy thought. It was only a minute, for with the last note there
was even an access of tumult. The doors and windows of the better houses
were thrown open, ladies began to appear on the balconies, there was
a sound of laughter and merry greetings, and the tiny cloud of the
cigarette 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 a
stranger’s eye wore the plain and ugly costume common at that day to all
American gentlemen. Only black cloth and white linen and a row palmetto
hat with a black ribbon around it; but he wore his simple garments
with the air of a man having authority, and he returned the continual
salutations of rich and poor, like one who had been long familiar with
public appreciation.
It was Dr. Robert Worth, a physician whose fame had penetrated to
the utmost boundaries of the territories of New Spain. He had been
twenty-seven years in San Antonio. He was a familiar friend in every
home. 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 to
retain his nationality, and yet live down envy and suspicion. The rich
had shown him their gratitude with gold; the poor he had never sent
unrelieved 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 political
intentions. And his future conduct had seemed to warrant their fullest
confidence. In those never ceasing American invasions between eighteen
hundred and three and eighteen hundred and thirty-two, he had been the
friend 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 was
white. 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 they
asked searching questions. He had a reverent soul, wisely tolerant as
to creeds, and he loved his country with a passion which absence from
it constantly intensified. He was believed to be a thoroughly practical
man, fond of accumulating land and gold; but his daughter Antonia knew
that he had in reality a noble imagination. When he spoke to her of the
woods, she felt the echoes of the forest ring through the room; when of
the sea, its walls melted away in an horizon of long rolling waves.
He was thinking of Antonia as he walked slowly to his home in the
suburbs of the city. Of all his children she was the nearest to him. She
had his mother’s beauty. She had also his mother’s upright rectitude
of nature. The Iberian strain had passed her absolutely by. She was a
northern rose in a tropical garden. As he drew near to his own gates,
he involuntarily quickened his steps. He knew that Antonia would be
waiting. He could see among the thick flowering shrubs her tall slim
figure clothed in white. As she came swiftly down the dim aisles to meet
him, he felt a sentiment of worship for her. She concentrated in
herself his memory of home, mother, and country. She embodied, in the
perfectness of their mental companionship, that rarest and sweetest
of ties--a beloved child, who is also a wise friend and a sympathetic
comrade. As he entered the garden she slipped her hand into his. He
clasped it tightly. His smile answered her smile. There was no need for
any words of salutation.
The full moon had risen. The white house stood clearly out in its
radiance. The lattices were wide open and the parlor lighted. They
walked slowly towards it, between hedges of white camelias and scarlet
japonicas. Vanilla, patchuli, verbena, wild wandering honeysuckle--a
hundred other scents--perfumed the light, warm air. As they came near
the house there was a sound of music, soft and tinkling, with a rhythmic
accent 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 was
within the room, but leaning against the open door, playing upon a
mandolin. Robert Worth smiled as he offered his hand to him. It was
impossible not to smile at a youth so handsome, and so charming--a
youth who had all the romance of the past in his name, his home,
his picturesque costume; and all the enchantments of hope and great
enthusiasms in his future.
“Luis, I am glad to see you; and I felt your music as soon as I heard
it.”
He was glancing inquiringly around the room as he spoke; and Antonia
answered 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. Very
well! I care not to drink chocolate and dance in his house. One hand
washes 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 devil
of money condescends to appear, every little devil rises up to do him
homage.”
“Let it pass, Luis. Suppose you sing me that last verse again. It had a
taking 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 came
from 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 with
us, and show those dandy soldiers from the Alamo how to dance.”
“Pardon! I have not yet ceased to cross myself at the affront of this
morning. And the Senora Valdez is in the same mind as her husband. I
should be received by her like a dog at mass. I am going to-morrow to
the American colony on the Colorado.”
“Be careful, Luis. These Austin colonists are giving great
trouble--there have been whispers of very strong measures. I speak as a
friend.”
“My heart to yours! But let me tell you this about the Americans--their
drum is in the hands of one who knows how to beat it.”
“As a matter of hearsay, are you aware that three detachments of troops
are on their way from Mexico?”
“For Texas?”
“For Texas.”
“What are three detachments? Can a few thousand men put Texas under lock
and 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 face
and splendid eyes upon Antonia. A sympathetic smile brightened her own
face like a flame. Then he went silently away, and Antonia watched him
disappear among the shrubbery.
“Come, Antonia! I am ready. We must not keep the Senora waiting too
long.”
“I am ready also, father.” Her voice was almost sad, and yet it had a
tone of annoyance in it--“Don Luis is so imprudent,” she said. “He is
always in trouble. He is full of enthusiasms; he is as impossible as his
favorite, Don Quixote.”
“And I thank God, Antonia, that I can yet feel with him. Woe to the
centuries without Quixotes! Nothing will remain to them but--Sancho
Panzas.”