“Where’er we roam,
Our first, best country ever is at home.”
“What constitutes a state?
Men who their duties know;
But know their rights, and knowing, dare maintain.
“And sovereign law, that states collected will
O’er thrones and globes elate,
Sits empress; crowning good, repressing ill.
“This hand to tyrants ever sworn a foe,
For freedom only deals the deadly blow;
Then sheathes in calm repose the vengeful blade,
For gentle peace, in freedom’s hallowed shade.”
The vicinity of a great battle-field is a dreadful place after the lapse
of a day or two. The bayou and the morass had provided sepulture
for hundreds of slain Mexicans, but hundreds still lay upon the open
prairie. Over it, birds of prey hung in dark clouds, heavy-winged, sad,
sombre, and silent. Nothing disturbed them. They took no heed of the
living. Armed with invincible talons and beaks tipped with iron,
they carried on ceaselessly that automatic gluttony, which made them
beneficent crucibles of living fire, for all which would otherwise have
corrupted the higher life. And yet, though innocent as the elements,
they were odious in the sight of all.
Before daylight in the morning the Senora and her daughters were ready
to begin their homeward journey. The doctor could not accompany them,
General Houston and the wounded Americans being dependent largely
upon his care and skill. But Luis Alveda and Lopez Navarro received an
unlimited furlough; and about a dozen Mexican prisoners of war belonging
to San Antonio were released on Navarro’s assurance, and permitted to
travel with the party as camp servants. It was likely, also, that they
would be joined by a great many of the families who had accompanied the
great flight; for, on the preceding evening, Houston had addressed the
army, and told the householders and farmers to go home and plant their
corn.
Full of happiness, the ladies prepared for their journey. A good army
wagon, drawn by eight mules, and another wagon, containing two tents and
everything necessary for a comfortable journey, was waiting for them.
The doctor bid them good-by with smiles and cheerful promises. They were
going home. The war was over. Independence was won. They had the hope
of permanent peace. The weather also was as the weather may be among the
fields of Eden. The heavens were cloudless, the air sweet and fresh, and
the wild honeysuckles, with their spread hands full of scent, perfumed
the prairies mile after mile. The mules went knee-deep through warm
grasses; the grasses were like waving rainbows, with the myriads of
brightly tinted flowers.
Even Lopez was radiantly happy. Most unusual smiles lighted up his
handsome face, and he jingled the silver ornaments on his bridle
pleasantly to his thoughts as he cantered sometimes a little in advance
of the wagon, sometimes in the rear, occasionally by its side; then,
bending forward to lift his hat to the ladies and inquire after their
comfort.
Luis kept close to Isabel; and her lovely face and merry chatter
beguiled him from all other observations. A little before noon they
halted in a beautiful wood; a tent was spread for the ladies, the
animals were loosened from their harness, and a luxurious meal laid upon
the grass. Then the siesta was taken, and at three o’clock travel was
resumed until near sunset, when the camp was made for the night. The
same order was followed every day, and the journey was in every sense an
easy and delightful one. The rides, cheered by pleasant companionship,
were not fatiguing; the impromptu meals were keenly relished. And there
were many sweet opportunities for little strolls in the dim green woods,
and for delightful conversations, as they sat under the stars, while the
camp-fire blazed among the picturesque groups of Mexicans playing monte
around it.
On the third afternoon, the Senora and Isabel were taking a siesta, but
Antonia could not sleep. After one or two efforts she was thoroughly
aroused by the sound of voices which had been very familiar to her in
the black days of the flight--those of a woman and her weary family of
seven children. She had helped her in many ways, and she still felt an
interest in her welfare. It appeared now to be assured. Antonia found
her camping in a little grove of mulberry trees. She had recovered her
health; her children were noisy and happy, and her husband, a tall,
athletic man, with a determined eye and very courteous manners, was
unharnessing the mules from a fine Mexican wagon; part of the lawful
spoils of war. They, too, were going home: “back to the Brazos,” said
the woman affectionately; “and we’re in a considerable hurry,” she added,
“because it’s about time to get the corn in. Jake lays out to plant
fifty acres this year. He says he can go to planting now with an easy
conscience; he ‘lows he has killed enough Mexicans to keep him quiet a
spell.”
They talked a short time together, and then Antonia walked slowly into
the deeper shadows of the wood. She found a wide rock, under trees
softly dimpling, pendulous, and tenderly green; and she sat down in the
sweet gloom, to think of the beloved dead. She had often longed for some
quiet spot, where, alone with God and nature, she could, just for once,
give to her sorrow and her love a free expression.
Now the opportunity seemed to be hers. She began to recall her whole
acquaintance with Dare--their hours of pleasant study--their sails upon
the river--their intercourse by the fireside--the most happy Sundays,
when they walked in the house of God together. In those days, what a
blessed future was before them! She recalled also the time of hope and
anxiety after the storming of the Alamo, and then the last heroic act
of his stainless life. She had felt sure that in such a session with
her own soul she would find the relief of unrestrained and unchecked
weeping. But we cannot kindle when we will either the fire or the
sensibility of the soul. She could not weep; tears were far from her.
Nay, more, she began to feel as if tears were not needed for one who
had found out so beautiful, so unselfish, so divine a road to the grave.
Ought she not rather to rejoice that he had been so early called and
blest? To be glad for herself, too, that all her life long she could
keep the exquisite memory of a love so noble?
In the drift of such thoughts, her white, handsome face grew almost
angelic. She sat motionless and let them come to her; as if she were
listening to the comforting angels. For God has many ways of saying
to the troubled soul: “Be at peace”; and, certainly, Antonia had not
anticipated the calmness and resignation which forbid her the tears she
had bespoken.
At length, in that sweet melancholy which such a mental condition
induces, she rose to return to the camp. A few yards nearer to it she
saw Lopez sitting in a reverie as profound as her own had been. He stood
up to meet her. The patience, the pathos, the exaltation in her face
touched his heart as no words could have done. He said, only: “Senorita,
if I knew how to comfort you!”
“I went away to think of the dead, Senor.”
“I comprehend--but then, I wonder if the dead remember the living!”
“In whatever dwelling-place of eternity the dear ones who died at Goliad
are, I am sure that they remember. Will the emancipated soul be less
faithful than the souls still earthbound? Good souls could not even wish
to forget--and they were good.”
“It will never be permitted me to know two souls more pure, more
faithful, more brave, Juan was as a brother to me, and, BY MY
SANTIGUADA![6] I count it among God’s blessings to have known a man like
Senor Grant. A white soul he had indeed; full of great nobilities!”
Antonia looked at him gratefully. Tears uncalled-for sprang into the
eyes of both; they clasped hands and walked mutely back to the camp
together. For the sentiment which attends the realization that all is
over, is gathered silently into the heart; it is too deep for words.
They found the camp already in that flurry of excitement always
attendant upon its rest and rising, and the Senora was impatiently
inquiring for her eldest daughter.
“GRACIOUS MARIA! Is that you, Antonia? At this hour we are all your
servants, I think. I, at least, have been waiting upon your pleasure”;
then perceiving the traces of sorrow and emotion on her face, she added,
with an unreasonable querulousness: “I bless God when I see how He
has provided for women; giving them tears, when they have no other
employment for their time.”
“Dearest mother, I am sorry to have kept you waiting. I hope that you
have forgotten nothing. Where is your mantilla? And have you replenished
your cigarito case? Is there water in the wagon?”
“Nothing has been provided. Things most necessary are forgotten, no
doubt. When you neglect such matters, what less could happen?”
But such little breezes of temper were soon over. The influences
surrounding, the prospects in advance, were too exhilarating to permit
of anything but passing shadows, and after an easy, delightful journey,
they reached at length the charming vicinity of the romantic city of
the sword. They had but another five miles ride, and it was the Senora’s
pleasure to take it at the hour of midnight. She did not wish her return
to be observed and talked about; she was in reality very much mortified
by the condition of her own and her daughters’ wardrobe.
Consequently, though they made their noon camp so near to their
journey’s end, they rested there until San Antonio was asleep and
dreaming. It was the happiest rest of all the delightful ones they
had known. The knowledge that it was the last stage of a journey so
remarkable, made every one attach a certain tender value to the hours
never to come back to the experiences never to be repeated.
The Senora was gay as a child; Isabel shared and accentuated her
enthusiasms; Luis was expressing his happiness in a variety of songs;
now glorifying his love in some pretty romance or serenade, again
musically assuring liberty, or Texas, that he would be delighted at any
moment to lay down his life for their sakes. Antonia was quite as much
excited in her own way, which was naturally a much quieter way; and
Lopez sat under a great pecan-tree, smoking his cigarito with placid
smiles and admiring glances at every one.
As the sun set, the full moon rose as it rises nowhere but over Texan or
Asian plains; golden, glorious, seeming to fill the whole heaven and the
whole earth with an unspeakable radiance; softly glowing, exquisitely,
magically beautifying. The commonest thing under it was transfigured
into something lovely, fantastic, fairylike. And the dullest souls
swelled and rose like the tides under its influence.
Antonia took from their stores the best they had, and a luxurious supper
was spread upon the grass. The meal might have been one of ten courses,
it occupied so long; it provoked so much mirth, such a rippling stream
of reminiscence; finally, such a sweetly solemn retrospect of the
sorrows and mercies and triumphs of the campaign they had shared
together. This latter feeling soon dominated all others.
The delicious light, the sensuous atmosphere, the white turrets and
towers of the city, shining on the horizon like some mystical, heavenly
city in dreams--the murmur of its far-off life, more audible to the
spiritual than the natural ears--the dark figures of the camp servants,
lying in groups or quietly shuffling their cards, were all elements
conducive to a grave yet happy seriousness.
No one intended to sleep. They were to rest in the moonlight until
the hour of eleven, and then make their last stage. This night they
instinctively kept close together. The Senora had mentally reached that
point where it was not unpleasant to talk over troubles, and to amplify
especially her own share of them.
“But, Holy Maria!” she said; “how unnecessary are such sorrows! I
am never, in the least, any better for them. When the Divine Majesty
condescends to give me the sunshine of prosperity, I am always
exceedingly religious. On the contrary when I am in sorrow, I do not
feel inclined to pray. That is precisely natural. Can the blessed Mother
expect thanks, when she gives her children only suffering and tears?”
“God gives us whatever is best for us, dear mother.”
“Speak, when you have learned wisdom, Antonia. I shall always believe
that trouble comes from the devil; indeed, Fray Ignatius once told me
of a holy man that had one grief upon the heels of the other, and it was
the devil who was sent with all of them. I have myself no doubt that
he opened the gates of hell for Santa Anna to return to earth and do a
little work for him.”
“This thought makes me tremble,” said Lopez; “souls that have become
angelic, can become evil. The degraded seraphim, whom we call the
devil, was once the companion of archangels, and stood with Michael, and
Raphael, and Gabriel, in the presence of the Holy One. Is there sin in
heaven? Can we be tempted even there?”
The inquiry went in different ways to each heart, but no one answered
it. There were even a few moments of constrained, conscious silence,
which Luis happily ended, by chanting softly a verse from the hymn of
the Three Angels:
“‘WHO LIKE THE LORD?’ thunders Michael the Chief.
Raphael, ‘THE CURE OF GOD,’ bringeth relief,
And, as at Nazareth, prophet of peace,
Gabriel, ‘THE LIGHT OF GOD,’ bringeth release.”
The noble syllables floated outward and upward, and Antonia and Lopez
softly intoned the last line together, letting them fall slowly and
softly into the sensitive atmosphere.
“And as for trouble coming from the devil,” said Lopez, “I think,
Senora, that Fray Ignatius is wrong. Trouble is not the worst thing that
can come to a man or woman. On the contrary, our Lady of Prosperity is
said to do, them far greater harm. Let me repeat to you what the ever
wise Don Francisco de Quevedo Villegas says about her:
“‘Where is the virtue prosperity has not staggered? Where the folly she
has not augmented? She takes no counsel, she fears no punishment. She
furnishes matter for scandal, experience, and for story. How many souls,
innocent while poor, have fallen into sin and impiety as soon as they
drank of the enchanted cup of prosperity? Men that can bear prosperity,
are for heaven; even wise devils leave them alone. As for the one who
persecuted and beggared job, how foolish and impertinent he was! If
he had understood humanity, he would have multiplied his riches, and
possessed him of health, and honors, and pleasures: THAT is the trial it
cannot bear.’”
“Oh, to be sure! Quevedo was a wise man. But even wise men don’t know
everything. However, WE ARE GOING HOME! I thank the saints for this
immeasurable favor. It is a prosperity that is good for women. I will
stake my Santiguida on that! And will you observe that it is Sunday
again? Just before sunset I heard the vesper bells clearly. Remember
that we left San Antonio on Sunday also! I have always heard that Sunday
was a good day to begin a journey on.”
“If it had been on a Friday--”
“Friday! Indeed, Luis, I would not have gone one hundred yards upon a
Friday. How can you suppose what is so inconceivably foolish?”
“I think much of the right hour to undertake anything,” said Lopez. “The
first movements are not in the hands of men; and we are subject to more
influences than we comprehend. There is a ripe time for events, as well
as for fruits: but the hour depends upon forces which we cannot control
by giving to them the name of the day; and our sage Quevedo has made a
pleasant mockery thereon. It is at my lips, if your ears care to hear
it.”
“Quevedo, again! No, it is not proper, Senor. Every day has its duties
and its favors, Senor. That man actually said that fasting on Friday was
not a special means of grace! Quevedo was almost a heretic. I have heard
Fray Ignatius say so. He did not approve of him.”
“Mi madre, let us hear what is to be said. Rachela told me, I must fast
on a Friday, and cut my nails on a Wednesday, and never cut them on a
Sunday, and take medicine on a Monday, and look after money on Tuesday,
and pay calls and give gifts on Saturday; very well, I do not think much
of Rachela; just suppose, for the passing of the time, that we listen to
what Quevedo says.”
“Here are four against me; well, then, proceed, Senor.”
“‘On Monday,’ says the wise and witty one, buy all that you can meet
with, and take all that is to be had for nothing. On Tuesday, receive
all that is given you; for it is Mar’s day, and he will look on you with
an ill aspect if you refuse the first proffer and have not a second. On
Wednesday, ask of all you meet; perhaps Mercury may give some one vanity
enough to grant you something. Thursday is a good day to believe nothing
that flatterers say. Friday it is well to shun creditors. On Saturday
it is well to lie long abed, to walk at your ease, to eat a good dinner,
and to wear comfortable shoes; because Saturn is old, and loves his
ease.’”
“And Sunday, Senor?”
“Pardon, Senorita Isabel, Sunday comes not into a pasquinade. Senora,
let me tell you that it draws near to eleven. If we leave now we shall
reach San Antonio in time to say the prayer of gratitude before the
blessed day of the seven is past.”
“Holy Mary! that is what I should desire. Come, my children; I thank
you, Senor, for such a blessed memory. My heart is indeed full of joy
and thankfulness.”
A slight disappointment, however, awaited the Senora. Without asking any
questions, without taking anything into consideration, perhaps, indeed,
because she feared to ask or consider, she had assumed that she would
immediately re-enter her own home. With the unreason of a child, she had
insisted upon expecting that somehow, or by some not explained efforts,
she would find her house precisely as she left it. Little had been said
of its occupancy by Fray Ignatius and his brothers; perhaps she did not
quite believe in the statement; perhaps she expected Fray Ignatius to
respect the arrangements which he knew had been so dear to her.
It was therefore a trial--indeed, something of a shock--when she found
they were to be the guests of Navarro, and when it was made clear to her
that her own home had been dismantled and rearranged and was still in
the possession of the Church. But, with a child’s unreason, she had also
a sweet ductility of nature; she was easily persuaded, easily pleased,
and quite ready to console herself with the assurance that it only
needed Doctor Worth’s presence and personal influence to drive away all
intruders upon her rights.
In the mean time she was contented. The finest goods in San Antonio were
sent early on the following morning to her room; and the selection of
three entire wardrobes gave her abundance of delightful employment. She
almost wept with joy as she passed the fine lawns and rich silks through
her worn fingers. And when she could cast off forever her garment of
heaviness and of weariful wanderings, and array herself in the splendid
robes which she wore with such grace and pleasure, she was an honestly
grateful woman.
Then she permitted Lopez to let her old acquaintances know of her
presence in her native city; and she was comforted when she began to
receive calls from the Senora Alveda, and judge and Senora Valdez, and
many other of her friends and associates. They encouraged her to talk of
her sufferings and her great loss. Even the judge thought it worth his
while, now, to conciliate the simple little woman. He had wisdom enough
to perceive that Mexican domination was over, and that the American
influence of Doctor Worth was likely to be of service to him.
The Senora found herself a heroine; more than that, she became aware
that for some reason those who had once patronized her were now disposed
to pay her a kind of court. But this did not lessen her satisfaction;
she suspected no motive but real kindness, for she had that innate
rectitude which has always confidence in the honesty of others.
There was now full reconciliation between Luis and his mother and
uncles; and his betrothal to Isabel was acknowledged with all the
customary rejoicings and complimentary calls and receptions. Life
quickly began to fall back into its well-defined grooves; if there was
anything unusual, every one made an effort to pass it by without notice.
The city was conspicuously in this mind. American rule was accepted in
the quiescent temper with which men and women accept weather which may
or may not be agreeable, but which is known to be unavoidable. Americans
were coming by hundreds and by thousands: and those Mexicans who could
not make up their minds to become Texans, and to assimilate with the new
elements sure to predominate, were quietly breaking up their homes and
transferring their interests across the Rio Grande.
They were not missed, even for a day. Some American was ready to step
into their place, and the pushing, progressive spirit of the race was
soon evident in the hearty way with which they set to work, not only to
repair what war had destroyed, but to inaugurate those movements
which are always among their first necessities. Ministers, physicians,
teachers, mechanics of all kinds, were soon at work; churches
were built, Bibles were publicly sold, or given away; schools were
advertised; the city was changing its tone as easily as a woman changes
the fashion of her dress. Santa Anna had said truly enough to Houston,
that the Texans had no flag to fight under; but the young Republic very
soon flung her ensign out among those of the gray nations of the world.
It floated above the twice glorious Alamo: a bright blue standard, with
one white star in the centre. It was run up at sunrise one morning. The
city was watching for it; and when it suddenly flew out in their sight,
it was greeted with the most triumphant enthusiasm. The lonely star in
its field of blue touched every heart’s chivalry. It said to them, “I
stand alone! I have no sister states to encourage and help me! I rely
only on the brave hearts and strong arms that I set me here!” And they
answered the silent appeal with a cheer that promised everything; with a
love that even then began to wonder if there were not a place for such
a glorious star in the grand constellation under which most of them had
been born.
A short time after their return, the Senora had a letter from her
husband, saying that he was going to New Orleans with General Houston,
whose wound was in a dangerous condition. Thomas Worth had been
appointed to an important post in the civil government; and his labors,
like those of all the public men of Texas at that date, were continuous
and Herculean. It was impossible for him to leave them; but the doctor
assured his wife that he would return as soon as he had placed Houston
in the hands of skilful surgeons; and he asked her, until then, to be as
happy as her circumstances permitted.
She was quite willing to obey the request. Not naturally inclined to
worry, she found many sources of content and pleasure, until the early
days of June brought back to her the husband she so truly loved,
and with him the promise of a return to her own home. Indeed the
difficulties in the way of this return had vanished ere they were to
meet. Fray Ignatius had convinced himself that his short lease had fully
expired; and when Dr. Worth went armed with the legal process necessary
to resume his rights, he found his enemy had already surrendered them.
The house was empty. Nothing of its old splendor remained. Every one of
its properties had been scattered. The poor Senora walked through the
desolate rooms with a heartache.
“It was precisely in this spot that the sideboard stood, Roberto!--the
sideboard that my cousin Johar presented to me. It came from the City
of Mexico, and there was not another like it. I shall regret it all my
life.”
“Maria, my dearest, it might have been worse. The silver which adorned
it is safe. Those r--monks did not find out its hiding-place, and I
bought you a far more beautiful sideboard in New Orleans; the very
newest style, Maria.”
“Roberto! Roberto! How happy you make me! To be sure my cousin Johar’s
sideboard was already shabby--and to have a sideboard from New Orleans,
that, indeed, is something to talk about!”
“Besides, which, dearest one, I bought new furniture for the parlors,
and for your own apartments; also for Antonia’s and Isabel’s rooms.
Indeed, Maria, I thought it best to provide afresh for the whole house.”
“How wonderful! No wife in San Antonio has a husband so good. I
will never condescend to speak of you when other women talk of their
husbands. New furniture for my whole house! The thing is inconceivably
charming. But when, Roberto, will these things arrive? Is there danger
on the road they are coming? Might not some one take them away? I shall
not be able to sleep until I am sure they are safe.”
“I chartered a schooner in New Orleans, and came with them to the Bay of
Espiritu Santo. There I saw them placed upon wagons, and only left them
after the customs had been paid in the interior--sixty miles away. You
may hire servants at once to prepare the rooms: the furniture will be
here in about three days.”
“I am the happiest woman in the world, Roberto!” And she really felt
herself to be so. Thoughtful love could have devised nothing more likely
to bridge pleasantly and surely over the transition between the past
and the coming life. Every fresh piece of furniture unpacked was a new
wonder and a new delight. With her satin skirts tucked daintily clear of
soil, and her mantilla wrapped around her head and shoulders, she went
from room to room, interesting herself in every strip of carpet, and
every yard of drapery. Her delight was infectious. The doctor smiled to
find himself comparing shades, and gravely considering the arrangement
of chairs and tables.
But how was it possible for so loving a husband and father to avoid
sharing the pleasure he had provided? And Isabel was even more excited
than her mother. All this grandeur had a double meaning to her; it would
reflect honor upon the betrothal receptions which would be given for
Luis and herself--“amber satin and white lace is exactly what I should
have desired, Antonia,” she said delightedly. “How exceedingly suitable
it will be to me! And those delicious chintzes and dimities for our
bedrooms! Did you ever conceive of things so beautiful?”
Antonia was quite ready to echo her delight. Housekeeping and
homemaking, in all its ways, was her lovable talent. It was really
Antonia who saw all the plans and the desires of the Senora thoroughly
carried out. It was her clever fingers and natural taste which gave
to every room that air of comfort and refinement which all felt and
admired, but which seemed to elude their power to imitate.
On the fourth of July the doctor and his family ate together their first
dinner in their renovated home. The day was one that he never forgot,
and he was glad to link it with a domestic occurrence so happy and so
fortunate.
Sometimes silently, sometimes with a few words to his boys, he had
always, on this festival, drank his glass of fine Xeres to the honor
and glory of the land he loved. This day he spoke her name proudly. He
recalled the wonders of her past progress; he anticipated the blessings
which she would bring to Texas; he said, as he lifted the glass in his
hand, and let the happy tears flow down his browned and thinned face:
“My wife and daughters, I believe I shall live to see the lone star set
in the glorious assemblage of her sister stars! I shall live to say, I
dwell in San Antonio, which is the loveliest city in the loveliest State
of the American Union. For, dear ones, I was born an American citizen,
and I ask this favor of God, that I may also die an American citizen.”
“MI ROBERTO, when you die I shall not long survive you. And now that
the house is made so beautiful! With so much new furniture! How can you
speak of dying?”
“And, my dear father, remember how you have toiled and suffered for THE
INDEPENDENCE OF TEXAS.”
“Because, Antonia, I would have Texas go free into a union of free
States. This was the hope of Houston. ‘We can have help,’ he often said
to his little army; ‘a word will call help from Nacogdoches,--but we
will emancipate ourselves. If we go into the American States, we will go
as equals; we will go as men who have won the right to say: LET US DWELL
UNDER THE SAME FLAG, FOR WE ARE BROTHERS!’”