"Our bosoms we'll bare to the glorious strife,
And our oath is recorded on high,
To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life,
Or crushed in its ruins to die.
* * * * *
And leaving in battle no blot on his name,
Look proudly to heaven, from the death-bed of fame."
CAMPBELL.
A bloody seal was set upon thee, oh! Goliad. A gory banner bound
around thy name; and centuries shall slowly roll ere thou art blotted
from the memory of man. The annals of the dim and darkened past afford
no parallel for the inhuman deed, so calmly, so deliberately committed
within thy precincts; and the demon perpetrator escaped unpunished!
A perfect appreciation of the spirit of the text--"Vengeance is
mine, saith the Lord; I will repay," alone can sanction the apathy
manifested by one to whom the world looked as the avenger of his
murdered countrymen.
Rumors of the fall of the Alamo, the overwhelming force of Santa Anna,
and his own imminent danger, had reached Colonel Fanning. In vain he
entreated reinforcements, in vain urged the risk hourly incurred. The
Texan councils bade him save himself by flight. "Retreat, fly from the
post committed to my keeping!" The words sounded like a knell on the
ear of the noble man to whom they were addressed. He groaned in the
anguish of his spirit, "I will not leave this fortress--Travis fell
defending with his latest breath the Alamo! Oh, Crocket! Bowie! can
I do better than follow thy example, and give my life in this true
cause?"
An untimely death--the separation and misery of his darling family,
weighed not an atom! "Patria infelici fidelis!" was ever his motto,
and unfaltering was his own step. There came a messenger from
headquarters--"Abandon Goliad, and retreat!"
"Colonel, you will not sound a retreat?" and Dr. Bryant laid his hand
upon his commander's arm.
"My God! it is a fearful thing to decide the destinies of four hundred
brave men! Bryant, if we remain it is certain death--the tragedy of
San Antonio will be reacted in our case!"
"Colonel, you must remember the old saw--'He that fights and runs
away, lives to fight another day,'" said a timeworn ranger, settling
his collar with perfect nonchalance.
"Why, Furgeson, do you counsel flight? My brave comrade, bethink
yourself!"
"Well, Colonel, it is something strange for me to say run; but when I
do say it, I am in earnest. The most hot-headed fellow in our company
dare not say I lack courage: you know as well as I do what they call
me--'Bulldog Furgeson,' but who feels like fighting the grand devil
himself, and his legion of imps to boot? I am a lone man and have
nothing in particular to live for, it's true; but it is some object
with me to do the most service I can for our Lone blessed Star! I
should like a game with old 'Santy' in a clear ring, and fair play;
but I am thinking we had best take French leave of this place, and
join the main body where we can fight with some chance ahead. Now
that's my opinion, but if you don't believe that doctrine, and want to
take the 'old bull right by the horns,' I say let's at him."
A smile passed over the face of his commander.
"Thank you, Furgeson, and rest assured I shall not doubt your stanch
support in time of need."
Again the broad brow contracted, and, linking his arm in that of Dr.
Bryant, he paced to and fro, engrossed in earnest, anxious thought.
Pausing at length, he pointed to his troops, awaiting in silence his
commands.
"Bryant, at least half those brave fellows have wives and children,
and bright homes, beckoning them away, yet see them calmly trust to
me in this trying hour. Should my order go forth to man the fort, and
meet the worst, I know full well not a murmur would be heard. Still it
is equally certain that, if we brave the conflict, not one of us
shall survive to tell the tale. What am I to do? Make this a second
Thermopylæ?"
"Peculiarly painful, I know full well, is the situation in which you
are placed. Yet one strong argument remains to be urged. Colonel, if
we desert Goliad, and sound a retreat, we cannot escape. The force of
the enemy is too powerful, their movements too rapid, to allow us to
retire to a place of safety without a desperate encounter. Is it not
better policy to remain here, and meet the shock?"
"If we fight at all it must be at fearful odds; four hundred to six
thousand! Yet, should I follow the dictates of my own heart, I would
not give one inch!--no, not one! Dearly they should buy the ground on
which I stand!"
"Colonel, shall we not meet them on this spot and lay down our lives,
as did our brethren of the Alamo?"
"No, by Jove! I shall have to leave, whether I will or not!" And
crumpling the note of orders, he tossed it to the ground, and pressed
it with his heel.
He stepped forth, and drawing his military cap about his eyes, folded
his arms upon his broad chest, and addressed his troops:
"Comrades! Retreat is no test of an army's bravery, neither the
courage of its commander. In every age and nation, circumstances have
occurred in which the cause of liberty, or the general welfare of
the state, has been promoted by timely flight rather than desperate
engagements. 'The Swamp Fox' often retired to his island of refuge,
safe from invading bands--the daring Sumter was forced at times to
retreat; and even our great Washington fled from superior forces, and
waited till a more convenient season. Fellow-soldiers: there is one of
two steps to be immediately taken. We will stand to our post, and fall
to a man, like Travis and his noble band, and our names will go down
to posterity as did the Spartans of old,
'Wreathed with honor, and immortal fame;'
or else we set out at once for headquarters, consolidate our forces,
and march united to oppose Santa Anna.
"Comrades, which will ye do?"
No sound was heard along the ranks, each bent his head and communed
with his own spirit; and the image of their distant, yet cherished
homes, rose up and murmured--"Remember thy weeping wife and thy
fair-browed boy; who will guard them when thou art gone?"
The eagle eye of their brave leader was piercingly bent on the
mute assemblage; the momentary gleam of hope that lighted his noble
countenance faded away. There came a faint sound of rising voices--it
swelled louder, and louder still:
"God bless our noble Colonel! our brave Fanning! With him is the
issue. Say but the word, and we will follow!"
"Bryant, I cannot sign their death-warrant!" he said in a low, subdued
tone, sinking his head upon his breast. He lifted himself up, and
raising his voice, calmly replied:
"Had I not received orders to retreat, and if I were not fully aware
that lingering here insured our total destruction, I should scorn to
turn my back upon Goliad! Oh! gladly I would die in its defense;
but your fate is too entirely in my hands to admit of following
my individual wishes! None know the pang it causes me to sound a
'Retreat,' yet it may be, that the success of our cause demands it
at my hands, and therefore I say, 'Retreat, comrades!'--at dawn
to-morrow, we move from Goliad."
The decree went forth, and the ensuing day saw the doomed band moving
eastward toward headquarters they were destined never to reach.
On arriving at Goliad, Dr. Bryant had immediately enlisted, after
placing Inez in safety at the house of an aged Señora of her nation;
and no sooner was it decided to leave the town the following day than
he sought his Spanish friend.
She was sitting alone when he entered, and quickly rising, placed a
seat for him.
"Thank you, Inez, I have only a moment to remain--I come to say
good-by."
"Which way do your people go now?" she hoarsely asked.
"Santa Anna is marching with overwhelming forces toward us, and
Colonel Fanning thinks it advisable to retire to headquarters. We set
out at dawn to-morrow."
"You cannot escape by flight: it were better to remain here. I tell
you now, if you leave Goliad, you will be cut off to a man."
"Inez, my own feelings would strongly incline me to follow your
advice, but it has been decided otherwise!'
"Then, if you must go, I go with you!"
"Impossible, Inez, impossible! you know not what you say! For you to
venture from this place under existing circumstances, beset as we are
on every hand with dangers seen and unseen,--would be the height of
madness."
"I know not fear! of that you must have been convinced long ere this.
Danger cannot intimidate me; what you meet and suffer, that will I
encounter."
"Bethink yourself, Inez! What can you hope to accomplish by this
strange step? You have nothing to fear here from your own nation: what
can you gain by seeking a home among my people? Strange, mysterious
being! I wish for your own sake you were timid--that fear might
strengthen your sense of prudence!"
Inez had bent her head while he spoke, as in humiliation, now she
lifted herself and said, in a low, determined tone:
"I am alone in the wide world, and I have but one hope, but one
pleasure; to be with you while life remains, and to die near, that you
may close my eyes and lay me down to rest." She paused a moment,
and then clasping her hands, approached him, and continued in a more
passionate tone:
"Oh, if you knew how I have loved you, you could not look down so
coldly, so calmly upon me! you could not refuse the favor I ask! Oh,
Dr. Bryant, do not scorn me for my love!--'tis not a common love; for
it I have lost every earthly comfort and blessing; for this struggled
and toiled, and braved numberless dangers. I have loved you better
than everything beside! Turn not from me, and think contemptuously of
the worship given unsought! If you cannot love me, do not, oh, do not
despise me! Let me a little while longer be with you, and see you;
I will not trouble or incommode any one--do not leave me. Oh, Dr.
Bryant, do not leave me!"
The large black eyes were raised entreatingly to his, and an
expression of the keenest anguish rested on her colorless, yet
beautiful face.
Sadly he regarded her as she hurried on: no glance of scorn rested
even for a moment upon her. Yet a stern sorrow settled on his broad
brow, and around the firmly compressed lips.
"Inez, I do not, cannot love you, other than as the kind friend of
other days. I have never loved but one--I never shall. Mary, my own
angel Mary, ever rests in my heart. I cannot forget her--I can never
love another. I do not even thank you for your love, for your avowal
gives me inexpressible pain! I have suspected this, Inez, for long,
and your own heart will tell you I gave no ground to hope that I could
return your affection. I have striven to treat you like a sister of
late, yet this painful hour has not been averted. Equally painful to
both. Inez, your own words make it more than ever necessary that we
should part forever. I cannot return your love--I will not encourage
it. You must, as soon as safety allows, return to your old home.
Inez, do not cherish your affection for me, it can only bring pain and
remorse; forget me, and remember that you have imperative duties of
your own to perform. This is your darkest hour, and believe me, in
time you will be happy, and a blessing to your people. Remember Mary's
words, and her parting gift, and I pray God that we may so live that
we shall all meet in a happier home."
"Then I shall never see you again?" she said, in a calm and
unfaltering voice.
"For your sake, Inez, it is best that we should not meet again. If I
survive this war I go to Europe, and you will probably never see me
more. Inez, I pain you--forgive me. Your own good requires this candor
on my part."
An ashy paleness overspread the cheek and brow of his companion as he
spoke, and the small hands clutched each other tightly, yet no words
passed the quivering lips.
"Good-by, Inez! my kind and valued friend, good-by!" He held out his
hand. She raised her head, and gazed into the sad yet noble face of
the man she had loved so long. She clasped his hand between both hers,
and a moan of bitter anguish escaped the lips.
"My love will follow you forever! A woman of my nature cannot forget.
I shall sink to eternal rest with your name on my lips--your image
in my heart. Yet I would not keep you here--go, and may your God ever
bless you, and--and--may you at last meet your Mary, if there be a
heaven! We part now, for you have said it; good-by, and sometimes,
when all is joy and gladness to you, think a moment on Inez! the
cursed, the miserable Inez! sitting in bitter darkness by her lonely
hearth! Good-by!" She pressed her lips to his hand, and without a
tear, shrouded her face in her mantilla and turned away.
"God bless you, Inez, and keep you from all harm!" and Dr. Bryant left
the house, and returned to his commander.
* * * * *
Colonel Fanning had led his troops but a few miles when the vanguard
halted, and some excitement was manifested. Spurring forward, he
inquired the cause of delay.
"Why, Colonel, if we ain't 'out of the frying-pan into the fire,' my
name is not Will Furgeson. Look yonder, Colonel, it takes older and
weaker eyes than mine to say them ain't Santy Anna's imps marching
down upon us thick as bees just swarmed, too!"
"You are right, Furgeson; it is the entire Mexican force! let us form
at once and meet them!"
Quick and clearly his orders rung out, and his little band, compact
and firm, waited in silence the result. With an exulting shout the
Mexicans charged. Desperately the doomed Texans fought, heaping up the
slain at every step. The wily Santa Anna changed his tactics. There
came a momentary cessation as the crowding thousands were furiously
driven back. And, seizing the opportunity, he spurred forward, offered
honorable terms, and besought Fanning to surrender and save the lives
of his brave followers.
"We will only surrender on condition that every privilege of prisoners
of war be guaranteed to us," replied Colonel Fanning.
"I, Santa Anna, commander-in-chief of the Mexican forces, do most
solemnly pledge my word, that all the privileges consistent with your
situation as prisoners of war, shall be extended to yourself and men.
And hereby swear, that on these conditions you may lay down your arms
in safety, without further molestation on our part."
Is there one of my readers who for a moment would attach blame to the
noble Fanning? The lives of his men were of far more importance to him
than the renown of perishing, like Travis, in a desperate struggle.
With the latter there was no alternative, for the cry of even seven
exhausted men for "quarter" was disregarded, and the garrison fell
to a man. But honorable terms were offered Fanning: he remembered
his men, and surrendered. Santa Anna! can there be pardon for such a
hardened wretch as you? Does not sleep fly your pillow? In the silent
watches of the night, do not the specter forms of your victims cluster
about your couch, and the shambles of Goliad rise before you? Can you
find rest from the echoing shrieks of murdered thousands, or shut your
eyes and fail to perceive the mangled forms stiffening in death,
and weltering in gore? If you are human, which I much doubt, your
blackened soul will be tortured with unavailing remorse, till Death
closes your career on earth, and you are borne to the tribunal of
Almighty God, there to receive your reward....
Night found the Texans again in Goliad, and they sought sleep secure
from evil; for had not Santa Anna's word been given that further
molestation would not be allowed? and they believed! Soundly they
slept, and dreamed of far-off homes and fireside joys.
"That bright dream was their last!"
Sunrise came, and they were drawn out upon the Plaza. Their leader was
retained in custody, and, unsuspicious of harm, they each maintained
their position. Dr. Bryant raised his eyes--they rested but a moment
on Santa Anna's face. Turning quickly, he shouted aloud,
"Turn, comrades, let us not be shot in the back!"
Another moment the signal was given, and a deadly fire poured
upon four hundred unresisting prisoners of war, to whom honorable
conditions had been granted by the brave and noble generalissimo of
the Mexican forces.
Not one of many noble forms was spared. Dr. Bryant sank without
a struggle to the earth; and his spirit, released from sorrowing
mortality, sprung up to meet his Mary and his God!
The deed was done; and Santa Anna, the mighty chief who mowed down
four hundred unarmed men, was immortalized! Fear not, brave heart,
that posterity will forget thee! Rest assured that the lapse of time
cannot obliterate the memory of thy mighty deeds!
Fanning survived but a few hours, and then a well-aimed ball laid low
forever his noble head. Who among us can calmly remember that his
body was denied a burial? Oh, thou martyr leader of a martyr band, we
cherish thy memory! dear to the heart of every Texan, every American,
every soldier, and every patriot. Peace to thee, noble Fanning! and
may the purest joys of heaven be yours in that eternity to which we
all are hastening.
* * * * *
It was noon! Still and cold lay the four hundred forms upon the Plaza.
Even as they sank, so they slept. No disturbing hand had misplaced
one stiffened member. The silence of death reigned around the murdered
band. A muffled figure swiftly stole down the now deserted streets,
and hurrying to the Plaza, paused and gazed on the ruin and wreck that
surrounded her. Pools of blood were yet standing, and the earth was
damp with gore. One by one Inez turned the motionless forms, still
the face she sought was not to be found. She had almost concluded her
search, when her eye fell on a prostrate form, closely wrapt in a long
black cloak; she knelt and gazed into the upturned face, and a low cry
of bitter anguish welled up and passed her colorless lips. Gently she
lifted the cloak, clasped by one icy hand: the ball had pierced his
side, and entered the heart. So instantaneous had been his death that
not a feature was convulsed. The dark clustering hair was borne back
from the broad white brow, the eyes closed as in deep sleep, the
finely-cut lips just parted. Pallid was the cheek, yet calm and noble
beyond degree was the marble face on which Inez gazed. She caught the
cold hand to her lips, and laid her cheek near his mouth, that she
might know and realize that his spirit had indeed joined Mary's in the
"land of rest." The icy touch extinguished every gleam of hope,
and calmly she drew the cloak over the loved face, concealing every
feature, then dropped her handkerchief upon the covered head, and
drawing her mantilla like a shroud about her, went her way to wait for
night and darkness.
Stretched on a couch in the home of the kind-hearted Señora who had
received her, Inez noted the moments and hours as they passed. An
eternity seemed comprised in the time which elapsed from noon till
dusk. Again and again she raised her bowed head, and looked out on the
slowly sinking sun. It passed at length beyond her vision. She rose
and sought her friend, an aged dame, whom God had gifted with a gentle
heart, keenly alive to the grief and sufferings of another.
"Well, Señorita Inez, what will you have?"
"I have a great favor to ask, yet it is one I doubt not will be
granted. Señora, among yonder slain is one who in life was ever kind
to me and to our people. Since morning he has lain in his own blood!
To-morrow will see them thrown into heaps, and left with scarce sod
enough to cover! I cannot, will not see him buried so! I myself will
lay him down to rest, if Santa Anna claims my life for it to-morrow!
I have caused a grave to be dug in a quiet spot, but I cannot bear him
to it unassisted. My strength is gone--I am well-nigh spent: will you
help me to-night? They will not miss him to-morrow, and none will know
till all is at rest! Señora, will you come with me?"
"Tell me first, Inez, if it is he who brought you here; who acted so
nobly to me, and bade adieu to you but two days since?"
"Yes, the same! will you refuse to assist me now?"
"No, by our blessed Virgin! I will do all an old woman like me can do;
yet united, Inez, we shall be strong."
Wrapping their mantillas about them, they noiselessly proceeded to
the Plaza. Darkness had closed in, and happily they met not even
a straggling soldier, for all, with instinctive dread, shunned the
horrid scene. They paused as Señora Berara stumbled over a dead body,
and well-nigh slipped in blood:
"Jesu Maria! my very bones ache with horror! this is no place for me.
Señorita, how will you know the body? Oh! let us make haste to leave
here!"
"Hush! do you see a white spot gleaming yonder? Nay, don't clutch my
arm, it is only my handerchief. I laid it there to mark the place.
Come on, step lightly, or you will press the dead."
With some difficulty they made their way along the damp, slippery
ground, now and then catching at each other for support. Inez paused
on reaching her mark, and bent down for several moments; then raising
herself she whispered:
"Señora, I have wrapped his cloak tightly about him, lift the corners
near his feet, while I carry his head. Be careful, lift gently, and do
not let the cloak slip."
Slowly they lifted the motionless form, and steadily bore it away:
Inez taking the lead, and stepping cautiously. She left the Plaza
and principal streets, and turned toward a broad desolate waste,
stretching away from the town, and bare, save a few gnarled oaks that
moaned in the March wind. The moon rose when they had proceeded some
distance beyond the last house, and Inez paused suddenly, and looked
anxiously about her.
"Sacra Dio! I trust you have not lost your way! Holy Mother, preserve
us if we have gone wrong."
"I knew we must be near the place: it is under yonder tree; fear
nothing Señora, come on:" and a few more steps brought them to the
designated spot.
A shallow excavation had been made, sufficient to admit with ease the
body of a full-grown man; and on its margin they softly laid their
burden down. Every object shone in the clear moonlight, and stranger
scene never moon shone upon. A dreary waste stretched away in the
distance, and sighingly the wind swept over it. Inez knelt beside the
grave, her wan yet still beautiful features convulsed with the secret
agony of her tortured soul; the long raven hair floating like a black
veil around the wasted form. Just before her stood the old woman,
weird-like, her wrinkled, swarthy face exposed to full view, while the
silver hair, unbound by her exertion, streamed in the night breeze.
Loosely her clothes hung about her, and the thin, bony hands were
clasped tightly as she bent forward and gazed on the marble face of
the dead. Wonder, awe, fear, pity, all strangely blended in her dark
countenance.
Inez groaned, and rocked herself to and fro, as if crushed in body and
spirit. She could not lay him to rest forever without the bitterest
anguish, for in life she had worshiped him, and in death her heart
clung to the loved form. Again and again she kissed the cold hand she
held.
"Señorita, we must make haste to lay him in, and cover him closely.
Don't waste time weeping now; you cannot give him life again. Have
done, Señorita Inez, and let us finish our work."
"I am not weeping, Señora! I have not shed a single tear; yet be
patient: surely there is yet time."
Inez straightened the cloak in which Frank Bryant was shrouded, placed
the hands calmly by his side, and softly smoothed the dark hair on his
high and noble brow. She passionately kissed the cold lips once, then
covered forever the loved, loved features, and they carefully lowered
the still form into its last resting-place.
They stood up, and the old dame pointed to the earth piled on either
side. Inez shuddered and closed her eyes a moment, as if unequal to
the task.
Her companion stooped, and was in the act of tossing forward a mass of
earth; but Inez interposed: "Señora, softly! I will do this: remember
there is no coffin."
Fearfully calm was her tone as she slowly pushed in the earth. There
was no hollow echo, such as ofttimes rends the heart of the mourner,
but a heavy, dull sound of earth crushing earth. Gradually she filled
the opening even with the surface, then carefully scattered the
remaining sod.
"I will not raise a mound, for they would tear him up, should they
know where I have laid him." Inez walked away, and gathering a
quantity of brown, shriveled leaves, and also as much grass as she
could draw from the short bunches, sprinkled them on the grave and
along the fresh earth.
"Think you, Señora, they will find him here?"
"No, no, Señorita! none will know that we have buried him. But the
night is already far gone, why do you linger?"
For a moment longer Inez gazed down upon the new-made grave: "But a
few more hours, and I shall sleep here by your side; farewell till
then."
She turned away, and silently they retraced their steps to the town,
reaching without inquiry or molestation their own home.