In 1719 St. Denis was at Natchitoches, which was one of the outposts of
the French in Louisiana and close to the Texas border. He had traveled
back and forth through Texas more than once since his first trip to the
presidio on the Rio Grande; and he had spent much of his time in Mexican
dungeons. But for that he bore the Spaniards no great ill-will. He had
escaped from prison and brought his beautiful Mexican wife away with
him; and when he made his flying journeys he turned aside, no doubt, to
see his Spanish friend, Captain Domingo Ramon—who, by the way, was his
wife’s uncle—and to admire the missions which were going up in every
direction under that captain’s vigorous management. But now things were
changed. A few months before, France and Spain, never on good terms with
each other, had declared open war.
St. Denis, if the truth were told, was glad of a chance to fight
somebody besides Indians. He was right weary of the skulking ways of the
red warrior with his tomahawk, his paint and feathers, and his savage
desire to carry scalps at his belt. He longed for a good honest brush
with white men, who fought openly with gun and sword—men, for example,
like his good friend Captain Ramon and his troop of jolly soldiers!
He leaped lightly into the saddle one morning and galloped out of
Natchitoches at the head of a hundred and fifty men. Bernard de la
Harpe, in joint command of the expedition, rode by his side.
They crossed the Sabine River and attacked the garrisons at the Missions
of Nacogdoches, Aes, and Orquizacas, all of whom, surprised by the
sudden onslaught, retreated before them. It was a lively chase across
the vast territory, with a good deal of skirmishing; and it ended only
when the Spaniards were safe inside the town of San Antonio.
St. Denis, drawing rein on the brow of the hill and gazing down once
more into the lovely valley, saw a sort of orderly confusion on an open
plaza in the heart of the town; horsemen were gathering, men were moving
hurriedly about, and from the midst of the bustle the clear tones of a
bell suddenly fell upon the air. It was the call to arms!
St. Denis smiled and turned to La Harpe: “It is high time we were riding
homeward,” he said gaily, with a glance at their small band of wayworn
troopers; and turning their horses’ heads they galloped away.
None too soon! For shortly afterwards the Marquis de Aguayo, governor of
the province, came out of the town with a fresh troop of five hundred
Spaniards, tried soldiers and eager recruits, and galloped in pursuit of
the flying Frenchmen. It was another lively chase across the vast
territory; but this time it was France who retreated, with Spain at her
heels. Captain Ramon, quite as anxious for a tilt with civilized
soldiers as his friendly enemy and nephew-in-law St. Denis, left the
work of mission-building in the hands of his friars, and, as second in
command, joined the governor-general in this pursuit.
Aguayo, following the example of St. Denis, did not pause until the
intruders were safe in their own citadel at Natchitoches; then he
replaced at the Missions of Orquizacas and Aes the men whom he had
brought back with him, and he left for their protection a stout garrison
at the Mission of Nuestra Señora del Pilar (Our Lady of the Font), about
twenty miles west of Natchitoches.
He was as keenly alive as St. Denis himself to the natural beauty of the
valley watered by the San Pedro and San Antonio Rivers; and on his
return to San Antonio he set on foot many improvements, including the
widening and deepening of the irrigating ditches.
These irrigating ditches were called _acequias_ (a-sā′-kee-a). They are
still in use, and many of them are very beautiful. One known as the
Acequia Madre, or Mother Ditch, is as deep and wide as a small rivulet;
the living waters, pure and cool, rush along a bed lined and parapeted
with stone, and overhung with pomegranates and rustling banana leaves.
The water from the ditches is turned, by means of gates, into the fields
and gardens which lie along its course. Each landowner is entitled to so
much water a day, or at a stated period. This inflow of the crystal
flood is called the _saca de agua_ (taking the water), and is hailed
with delight as it comes singing its way through corn-row, garden-patch,
and rose-bower.
In the early days the completing of a water-ditch was celebrated as a
feast. Rows of cactus were planted on its banks to keep off cattle, and
shade-trees were set out along its course. A priest, attended by
acolytes, blessed the water. The following day a drum was beaten at
morning mass, and all those who had contributed in money or labor to the
making of the ditch were summoned to the church to take part in the
Suerte (soo-air′-ta),—a lottery for the drawing of the land watered by
the new sluice. Tickets were placed in an urn and were drawn out by two
children. The lucky holders of the highest numbers got the best lands.
At night, by way of winding up the feast, there would be a procession
and a _fandango_[9] on the plaza.
The good Marquis de Aguayo further recommended to the Spanish government
at Madrid to send colonists to the province. “One family,” he said, “is
better than a hundred soldiers.”
Then, having done all he could for the New Philippines, he went back to
his official residence at Monclova, attended as far as St. John the
Baptist by Captain Ramon.