Remember the Alamo [23]
at the
proclamation; there was not one to be seen twelve hours
afterwards. But at the principal rendezvous of the city, and
on the very walls of the Alamo, they had left this
characteristic notice:
"To SANTA ANNA:
If you want our arms-take them.
TEN THOUSAND AMERICAN TEXANS.
Robert Worth saw it with an irrepressible emotion of pride and
satisfaction. He had faithfully fulfilled his promise to his
conscience, and, with his rifle across his shoulder, and his
revolvers and knife in his belt, was taking the road to his
office with a somewhat marked deliberation. He was yet a
remarkably handsome man; and what man is there that a rifle
does not give a kind of nobility to? With an up-head carriage
and the light of his soul in his face, he trod the narrow,
uneven street like a soldier full of enthusiasm at his own
commission.
No one interfered with his solitary parade. He perceived,
indeed, a marked approval of it. The Zavalas, Navarros.
Garcias, and other prominent citizens, addressed him with but
a slightly repressed sympathy. They directed his attention
with meaning looks to the counter-proclamation of the
Americans. They made him understand by the pressure of their
hands that they also were on the side of liberty.
As he did not hurry, he met several officers, but they wisely
affected not to see what they did not wish to see. For Doctor
Worth was a person to whom very wide latitude might be given.
To both the military and the civilians his skill was a
necessity. The attitude he had taken was privately discussed,
but no one publicly acted or even commented upon it. Perhaps
he was a little disappointed at this. He had come to a point
when a frank avowal of his opinions would be a genuine
satisfaction; when, in fact, his long-repressed national
feeling was imperious.
On the third morning, as he crossed the Plaza, some one called
him. The voice made his heart leap; his whole nature
responded to it like the strings of a harp to the sweep of a
skilful hand. He turned quickly, and saw two young men galloping
towards him. The foremost figure was his son--his beloved
youngest son--whom he had just been thinking of as well out of
danger, safe and happy in the peaceful halls of Columbia. And
lo! here he was in the very home of the enemy; and he was glad
of it.
"Why, Jack!" he cried; "Why, Jack, my boy! I never thought of
you here." He had his hand on the lad's shoulder, and was
gazing into his bright face with tears and smiles and happy
wonder.
Father, I had to come. And there are plenty more coming. And
here is my other self--the best fellow that ever lived:
Darius Grant. `Dare' we call him, father, for there is not
anything he won't venture if he thinks it worth the winning.
And how is mi madre and Antonia, and Iza? And isn't it
jolly to see you with a rifle?"
"Well, Dare; well, Jack; you are both welcome; never so
welcome to Texas as at this hour. Come home at once and,
refresh yourselves."
There was so much to tell that at first the conversation
was in fragments and exclamations, and the voices of the two
young men, pitched high and clear in their excitement, went
far before them as if impatient of their welcome. Antonia
heard them first. She was on the balcony, standing thoughtful
and attent. It seemed to her as if in those days she was
always listening. Jack's voice was the loudest, but she heard
Dare's first. It vibrated in midair and fell upon her
consciousness, clear and sweet as a far-away bell.
"That is Dare's voice-- HERE."
She leaned forward, her soul hearkened after the vibrations,
and again they called her. With swift steps she reached the
open door. Rachela sat in her chair within it.
"The Senorita had better remain within," she said, sullenly;
"the sun grows hot."
"Let me pass, Rachela, I am in a hurry."
"To be sure, the Senorita will have her way--good or bad."
Antonia heeded her not; she was hastening down the main avenue
toward the gateway. This avenue was hedged on each side
proclamation; there was not one to be seen twelve hours
afterwards. But at the principal rendezvous of the city, and
on the very walls of the Alamo, they had left this
characteristic notice:
"To SANTA ANNA:
If you want our arms-take them.
TEN THOUSAND AMERICAN TEXANS.
Robert Worth saw it with an irrepressible emotion of pride and
satisfaction. He had faithfully fulfilled his promise to his
conscience, and, with his rifle across his shoulder, and his
revolvers and knife in his belt, was taking the road to his
office with a somewhat marked deliberation. He was yet a
remarkably handsome man; and what man is there that a rifle
does not give a kind of nobility to? With an up-head carriage
and the light of his soul in his face, he trod the narrow,
uneven street like a soldier full of enthusiasm at his own
commission.
No one interfered with his solitary parade. He perceived,
indeed, a marked approval of it. The Zavalas, Navarros.
Garcias, and other prominent citizens, addressed him with but
a slightly repressed sympathy. They directed his attention
with meaning looks to the counter-proclamation of the
Americans. They made him understand by the pressure of their
hands that they also were on the side of liberty.
As he did not hurry, he met several officers, but they wisely
affected not to see what they did not wish to see. For Doctor
Worth was a person to whom very wide latitude might be given.
To both the military and the civilians his skill was a
necessity. The attitude he had taken was privately discussed,
but no one publicly acted or even commented upon it. Perhaps
he was a little disappointed at this. He had come to a point
when a frank avowal of his opinions would be a genuine
satisfaction; when, in fact, his long-repressed national
feeling was imperious.
On the third morning, as he crossed the Plaza, some one called
him. The voice made his heart leap; his whole nature
responded to it like the strings of a harp to the sweep of a
skilful hand. He turned quickly, and saw two young men galloping
towards him. The foremost figure was his son--his beloved
youngest son--whom he had just been thinking of as well out of
danger, safe and happy in the peaceful halls of Columbia. And
lo! here he was in the very home of the enemy; and he was glad
of it.
"Why, Jack!" he cried; "Why, Jack, my boy! I never thought of
you here." He had his hand on the lad's shoulder, and was
gazing into his bright face with tears and smiles and happy
wonder.
Father, I had to come. And there are plenty more coming. And
here is my other self--the best fellow that ever lived:
Darius Grant. `Dare' we call him, father, for there is not
anything he won't venture if he thinks it worth the winning.
And how is mi madre and Antonia, and Iza? And isn't it
jolly to see you with a rifle?"
"Well, Dare; well, Jack; you are both welcome; never so
welcome to Texas as at this hour. Come home at once and,
refresh yourselves."
There was so much to tell that at first the conversation
was in fragments and exclamations, and the voices of the two
young men, pitched high and clear in their excitement, went
far before them as if impatient of their welcome. Antonia
heard them first. She was on the balcony, standing thoughtful
and attent. It seemed to her as if in those days she was
always listening. Jack's voice was the loudest, but she heard
Dare's first. It vibrated in midair and fell upon her
consciousness, clear and sweet as a far-away bell.
"That is Dare's voice-- HERE."
She leaned forward, her soul hearkened after the vibrations,
and again they called her. With swift steps she reached the
open door. Rachela sat in her chair within it.
"The Senorita had better remain within," she said, sullenly;
"the sun grows hot."
"Let me pass, Rachela, I am in a hurry."
"To be sure, the Senorita will have her way--good or bad."
Antonia heeded her not; she was hastening down the main avenue
toward the gateway. This avenue was hedged on each side