Remember the Alamo [84]
shrieked in every ear--"NO QUARTER! NO
QUARTER!" A prolonged shout, the booming of cannon, an awful
murmurous tumult, a sense of horror, of crash and conflict,
answered the merciless, frenzied notes, and drowned them in
the shrieks and curses they called for.
It was yet scarcely dawn. Her soul, moved by influences so
various and so awful, became almost rebellious. Why did God
permit such cruelties? Did He know? Would He allow a handful
of men to be overpowered by numbers? Being omnipotent, would
He not in some way, at least, make the fight equal? The
instinct of her anglo-American nature revolted at the
unfairness of the struggle. Even her ejaculations to heaven
were in this spirit. "It is so unjust," she murmured; "surely
the Lord of Hosts will prevent a fight which must be a
massacre."
As she went about the simple preparations for their breakfast,
she wept continuously--tears of indignation and sorrow--tears
coming from the strength of feeling, rather than its weakness.
The Senora could eat nothing. Isabel was white with terror.
They wandered from window to window in the last extremity of
anxiety.
About seven o'clock they saw Ortiz pass the house. There were
so many people on the road he could not find an opportunity to
enter for some time. He had been in the city all night. He
had watched the movement of the troops in the starlight. As
he drank a cup of chocolate, he said:
"It was just three o'clock, Senorita, when the Matamoras
battalion was moved forward. General Cos supported it with
two thousand men.
"But General Cos was paroled by these same Americans who are
now in the Alamo; and his life was spared on condition that he
would not bear arms against them again."
"It is but one lie, one infamy more. When I left the city,
about four thousand men were attacking the Alamo. The
infantry, in columns, were driven up to the walls by the
cavalry which surrounded them."
"The Americans! Is there any hope for them?"
"The mercy of God remains, Senorita. That is all. The Alamo
is not as the everlasting hills. What men have made, men can
also destroy. Senor Navarro is in the church, praying for the
souls that are passing every moment."
"He ought to have been fighting. To help the living is better
than to pray for the dead."
Permit me to assure you, Senorita Antonia, that no man has
done more for the living. In time of war, there must be many
kinds of soldiers. Senor Navarro has given nearly all, that
he possesses for the hope of freedom. He has done secret
service of incalculable value."
"Secret service! I prefer those who have the courage of their
convictions, and who, stand by them publicly."
"This is to be considered, Senorita; the man who can be silent
can also speak when the day for speaking arrives." No one
opposed this statement. It did not seem worth while to
discuss opinions, while the terrible facts of the
position were appealing to every sense.
As the day went on, the conflict evidently became closer and
fiercer. Ortiz went back to the city, and the three lonely
women knelt upon the house-top, listening in terror to the
tumult of the battle. About noon the firing ceased, and an
awful silence--a silence that made the ears ache to be
relieved of it--followed.
"All is over!" moaned Antonia, and she covered her face with
her hands and sobbed bitterly. Isabel had already exhausted
tears. The Senora, with her crucifix in her hand, was praying
for the poor unfortunates dying without prayer.
During the afternoon, smoke and flame, and strange and
sickening odors were blown northward of the city, and for some
time it seemed probable that a great conflagration would
follow the battle. How they longed for some one to come! The
utmost of their calamity would be better than the intolerable
suspense. But hour after hour went past, and not even Ortiz
arrived. They began to fear that both he and Navarro had been
discovered in some disloyalty and slain, and Antonia was
heartsick when she considered
QUARTER!" A prolonged shout, the booming of cannon, an awful
murmurous tumult, a sense of horror, of crash and conflict,
answered the merciless, frenzied notes, and drowned them in
the shrieks and curses they called for.
It was yet scarcely dawn. Her soul, moved by influences so
various and so awful, became almost rebellious. Why did God
permit such cruelties? Did He know? Would He allow a handful
of men to be overpowered by numbers? Being omnipotent, would
He not in some way, at least, make the fight equal? The
instinct of her anglo-American nature revolted at the
unfairness of the struggle. Even her ejaculations to heaven
were in this spirit. "It is so unjust," she murmured; "surely
the Lord of Hosts will prevent a fight which must be a
massacre."
As she went about the simple preparations for their breakfast,
she wept continuously--tears of indignation and sorrow--tears
coming from the strength of feeling, rather than its weakness.
The Senora could eat nothing. Isabel was white with terror.
They wandered from window to window in the last extremity of
anxiety.
About seven o'clock they saw Ortiz pass the house. There were
so many people on the road he could not find an opportunity to
enter for some time. He had been in the city all night. He
had watched the movement of the troops in the starlight. As
he drank a cup of chocolate, he said:
"It was just three o'clock, Senorita, when the Matamoras
battalion was moved forward. General Cos supported it with
two thousand men.
"But General Cos was paroled by these same Americans who are
now in the Alamo; and his life was spared on condition that he
would not bear arms against them again."
"It is but one lie, one infamy more. When I left the city,
about four thousand men were attacking the Alamo. The
infantry, in columns, were driven up to the walls by the
cavalry which surrounded them."
"The Americans! Is there any hope for them?"
"The mercy of God remains, Senorita. That is all. The Alamo
is not as the everlasting hills. What men have made, men can
also destroy. Senor Navarro is in the church, praying for the
souls that are passing every moment."
"He ought to have been fighting. To help the living is better
than to pray for the dead."
Permit me to assure you, Senorita Antonia, that no man has
done more for the living. In time of war, there must be many
kinds of soldiers. Senor Navarro has given nearly all, that
he possesses for the hope of freedom. He has done secret
service of incalculable value."
"Secret service! I prefer those who have the courage of their
convictions, and who, stand by them publicly."
"This is to be considered, Senorita; the man who can be silent
can also speak when the day for speaking arrives." No one
opposed this statement. It did not seem worth while to
discuss opinions, while the terrible facts of the
position were appealing to every sense.
As the day went on, the conflict evidently became closer and
fiercer. Ortiz went back to the city, and the three lonely
women knelt upon the house-top, listening in terror to the
tumult of the battle. About noon the firing ceased, and an
awful silence--a silence that made the ears ache to be
relieved of it--followed.
"All is over!" moaned Antonia, and she covered her face with
her hands and sobbed bitterly. Isabel had already exhausted
tears. The Senora, with her crucifix in her hand, was praying
for the poor unfortunates dying without prayer.
During the afternoon, smoke and flame, and strange and
sickening odors were blown northward of the city, and for some
time it seemed probable that a great conflagration would
follow the battle. How they longed for some one to come! The
utmost of their calamity would be better than the intolerable
suspense. But hour after hour went past, and not even Ortiz
arrived. They began to fear that both he and Navarro had been
discovered in some disloyalty and slain, and Antonia was
heartsick when she considered