Remember the Alamo [67]
coming of
Santa Anna, the victorious avenger, with passionate
gasconading. It was a mere question of a few days or weeks,
and in the meantime the people of San Antonio were "making a
little profit and pleasure to themselves out of the
extravagant reprobates." There was not a day in which they
did not anticipate their revenge in local military displays,
in dances and illuminations, in bull-fights, and in
splendid religious processions.
And Antonia found it impossible to combat this influence. It
was in the house as certain flavors were in certain foods, or
as heat was in fire. She saw it in the faces of her servants,
and felt it in their indifference to their duty. Every hour
she watched more anxiously for some messenger from her father.
And as day after day went by in a hopeless sameness of grief,
she grew more restless under the continual small trials that
encompassed her.
Towards the end of January, General Urrea, at the head of the
vanguard of the Mexican army, entered Texas. His destination
was La Bahia or Goliad, a strong fortress garrisoned by
Americans under Colonel Fanning. Santa Anna was to leave in
eight days after him. With an army of twenty thousand men he
was coming to the relief of San Antonio.
The news filled the city with the wildest rejoicing. The
little bells of the processions, the big bells of the
churches, the firing of cannon, the hurrahs of the tumultuous
people, made an uproar which reached the three lonely
women through the closed windows of their rooms.
"If only Lopez Navarro would come! If he would send us some
little message! Holy Mary, even he has forgotten us!" cried
the Senora in a paroxysm of upbraiding sorrow.
At that moment the door opened, and Fray Ignatius passed the
threshold with lifted hands and a muttered blessing. He
approached the Senora, and she fell on her knees and kissed
the hand with which he crossed her.
"Holy father!" she cried, "the angels sent you to a despairing
woman."
"My daughter, I have guided you since your first communion;
how then could I forget you? Your husband has deserted you--
you, the helpless, tender lamb, whom he swore to cherish; but
the blessed fold of your church stands open. Come, poor weary
one, to its shelter."
"My father--"
"Listen to me! The Mexican troops are soon to arrive.
Vengeance without mercy is to be dealt out. You are the wife
of an American rebel; I cannot promise you your life, or your
honor, if you remain here. When soldiers are drunk with
blood, and women fall in their way, God have mercy upon them!
I would shield even your rebellious daughter Antonia from such
a fate. I open the doors of the convent to you all. There
you will find safety and peace."
Isabel sat with white, parted lips and clasped hands,
listening. Antonia had not moved or spoken. But with the
last words the priest half-turned to her, and she came swiftly
to her mother's side, and kissing her, whispered:
"Remember your promise to my father! Oh, mi madre, do not
leave Isabel and me alone!"
"You, too, dear ones! We will all go together, till these
dreadful days are past."
"No, no, no! Isabel and I will not go. We will die rather."
"The Senorita talks like a foolish one. Listen again! When
Santa Anna comes for judgment, it will be swift and terrible.
This house and estate will be forfeited. The faithful Church
may hope righteously to obtain it. The sisters have long
needed a good home. The convent will then come to you. You
will have no shelter but the Church. Come to her arms
ere her entreaties are turned to commands."
"My husband told me--"
"Saints of God! you have no husband. He has forfeited every
right to advise you. Consider that, daughter; and if you
trust not my advice, there is yet living your honorable uncle,
the Marquis de Gonzaga."
Antonia caught eagerly at this suggestion. It at least
offered some delay, in which the Senora might be strengthened
to resist the coercion of Fray Ignatius.
"Mother, it is a good thought.
Santa Anna, the victorious avenger, with passionate
gasconading. It was a mere question of a few days or weeks,
and in the meantime the people of San Antonio were "making a
little profit and pleasure to themselves out of the
extravagant reprobates." There was not a day in which they
did not anticipate their revenge in local military displays,
in dances and illuminations, in bull-fights, and in
splendid religious processions.
And Antonia found it impossible to combat this influence. It
was in the house as certain flavors were in certain foods, or
as heat was in fire. She saw it in the faces of her servants,
and felt it in their indifference to their duty. Every hour
she watched more anxiously for some messenger from her father.
And as day after day went by in a hopeless sameness of grief,
she grew more restless under the continual small trials that
encompassed her.
Towards the end of January, General Urrea, at the head of the
vanguard of the Mexican army, entered Texas. His destination
was La Bahia or Goliad, a strong fortress garrisoned by
Americans under Colonel Fanning. Santa Anna was to leave in
eight days after him. With an army of twenty thousand men he
was coming to the relief of San Antonio.
The news filled the city with the wildest rejoicing. The
little bells of the processions, the big bells of the
churches, the firing of cannon, the hurrahs of the tumultuous
people, made an uproar which reached the three lonely
women through the closed windows of their rooms.
"If only Lopez Navarro would come! If he would send us some
little message! Holy Mary, even he has forgotten us!" cried
the Senora in a paroxysm of upbraiding sorrow.
At that moment the door opened, and Fray Ignatius passed the
threshold with lifted hands and a muttered blessing. He
approached the Senora, and she fell on her knees and kissed
the hand with which he crossed her.
"Holy father!" she cried, "the angels sent you to a despairing
woman."
"My daughter, I have guided you since your first communion;
how then could I forget you? Your husband has deserted you--
you, the helpless, tender lamb, whom he swore to cherish; but
the blessed fold of your church stands open. Come, poor weary
one, to its shelter."
"My father--"
"Listen to me! The Mexican troops are soon to arrive.
Vengeance without mercy is to be dealt out. You are the wife
of an American rebel; I cannot promise you your life, or your
honor, if you remain here. When soldiers are drunk with
blood, and women fall in their way, God have mercy upon them!
I would shield even your rebellious daughter Antonia from such
a fate. I open the doors of the convent to you all. There
you will find safety and peace."
Isabel sat with white, parted lips and clasped hands,
listening. Antonia had not moved or spoken. But with the
last words the priest half-turned to her, and she came swiftly
to her mother's side, and kissing her, whispered:
"Remember your promise to my father! Oh, mi madre, do not
leave Isabel and me alone!"
"You, too, dear ones! We will all go together, till these
dreadful days are past."
"No, no, no! Isabel and I will not go. We will die rather."
"The Senorita talks like a foolish one. Listen again! When
Santa Anna comes for judgment, it will be swift and terrible.
This house and estate will be forfeited. The faithful Church
may hope righteously to obtain it. The sisters have long
needed a good home. The convent will then come to you. You
will have no shelter but the Church. Come to her arms
ere her entreaties are turned to commands."
"My husband told me--"
"Saints of God! you have no husband. He has forfeited every
right to advise you. Consider that, daughter; and if you
trust not my advice, there is yet living your honorable uncle,
the Marquis de Gonzaga."
Antonia caught eagerly at this suggestion. It at least
offered some delay, in which the Senora might be strengthened
to resist the coercion of Fray Ignatius.
"Mother, it is a good thought.