Remember the Alamo [86]
dead
and dying, were around him. At his side was Travis, but so
exhausted that he was scarcely alive.
"Castrillon could not kill these heroes. He asked their lives
of Santa Anna, who stood with a scowling, savage face in
this last citadel of his foes. For answer, he turned to the
men around him, and said, with a malignant emphasis:
`Fire!' It was the last volley. Of the defenders of the
Alamo, not one is left."
A solemn silence followed. For a few minutes it was painful
in its intensity. Isabel broke it. She spoke in a whisper,
but her voice was full of intense feeling. "I wish indeed the
whole city had been burnt up. There was a fire this
afternoon; I would be glad if it were burning yet."
"May God pardon us all, Senorita! That was a fire which does
not go out. It will burn for ages. I will explain myself.
Santa Anna had the dead Americans put into ox-wagons and
carried to an open field outside the city. There they were
burnt to ashes. The glorious pile was still casting lurid
flashes and shadows as I passed it."
"I will hear no more! I will hear no more!" cried the Senora.
"And I will go away from here. Ah, Senor, why do you not make
haste? In a few hours we shall have daylight again. I am in
a terror. Where is Ortiz?"
"The horses are not caught in a five minutes, Senora.
But listen, there is the roll of the wagon on the flagged
court. All, then, is ready. Senora, show now that you are of
a noble house, and in this hour of adversity be brave, as the
Flores have always been."
She was pleased by the entreaty, and took his arm with a
composure which, though assumed, was a sort of strength. She
entered the wagon with her daughters, and uttered no word of
complaint. Then Navarro locked the gate, and took his seat
beside Ortiz. The prairie turf deadened the beat of their
horses' hoofs; they went at a flying pace, and when the first
pallid light of morning touched the east, they had left San
Antonio far behind and were nearing the beautiful banks of the
Cibolo.
CHAPTER XV.
GOLIAD.
"How sleep the brave who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes bless'd?
* * * * *
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung.
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there."
"How shall we rank thee upon glory's page?
Thou more than soldier, and just less than sage."
"Grief fills the room up of my absent child;
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Remembers me of all his gracious parts."
Near midnight, on March the ninth, the weary fugitives arrived
at Gonzales. They had been detained by the deep mud in the
bottom lands, and by the extreme exhaustion of the ladies,
demanding some hours' rest each day. The village was dark
and quiet. Here and there the glimmer of a candle,
now and then the call of a sentry, or the wail of a child
broke the mysterious silence.
Ortiz appeared to know the ground perfectly. He drove without
hesitation to a log house in which a faint thread of light was
observable, and as he approached it he gave a long, peculiar
whistle. The door was instantly thrown open, and, as the
wagon stopped, two men stepped eagerly to it. In another
instant the Senora was weeping in her husband's arms, and
Isabel laughing and crying and murmuring her sweet surprises
into the ear of the delighted Luis. When their wraps had been
removed from the wagon, Ortiz drove away, leaving Navarro and
Antonia standing by the little pile of ladies' luggage.
"I will take charge of all, Senorita. Alas! How weary you
are!"
"It is nothing, Senor. Let me thank you for your great
kindness."
"Senorita, to be of service to you is my good fortune. If it
were necessary, my life for your life, and I would die happy."
She had given him her hand with her
and dying, were around him. At his side was Travis, but so
exhausted that he was scarcely alive.
"Castrillon could not kill these heroes. He asked their lives
of Santa Anna, who stood with a scowling, savage face in
this last citadel of his foes. For answer, he turned to the
men around him, and said, with a malignant emphasis:
`Fire!' It was the last volley. Of the defenders of the
Alamo, not one is left."
A solemn silence followed. For a few minutes it was painful
in its intensity. Isabel broke it. She spoke in a whisper,
but her voice was full of intense feeling. "I wish indeed the
whole city had been burnt up. There was a fire this
afternoon; I would be glad if it were burning yet."
"May God pardon us all, Senorita! That was a fire which does
not go out. It will burn for ages. I will explain myself.
Santa Anna had the dead Americans put into ox-wagons and
carried to an open field outside the city. There they were
burnt to ashes. The glorious pile was still casting lurid
flashes and shadows as I passed it."
"I will hear no more! I will hear no more!" cried the Senora.
"And I will go away from here. Ah, Senor, why do you not make
haste? In a few hours we shall have daylight again. I am in
a terror. Where is Ortiz?"
"The horses are not caught in a five minutes, Senora.
But listen, there is the roll of the wagon on the flagged
court. All, then, is ready. Senora, show now that you are of
a noble house, and in this hour of adversity be brave, as the
Flores have always been."
She was pleased by the entreaty, and took his arm with a
composure which, though assumed, was a sort of strength. She
entered the wagon with her daughters, and uttered no word of
complaint. Then Navarro locked the gate, and took his seat
beside Ortiz. The prairie turf deadened the beat of their
horses' hoofs; they went at a flying pace, and when the first
pallid light of morning touched the east, they had left San
Antonio far behind and were nearing the beautiful banks of the
Cibolo.
CHAPTER XV.
GOLIAD.
"How sleep the brave who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes bless'd?
* * * * *
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung.
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there."
"How shall we rank thee upon glory's page?
Thou more than soldier, and just less than sage."
"Grief fills the room up of my absent child;
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Remembers me of all his gracious parts."
Near midnight, on March the ninth, the weary fugitives arrived
at Gonzales. They had been detained by the deep mud in the
bottom lands, and by the extreme exhaustion of the ladies,
demanding some hours' rest each day. The village was dark
and quiet. Here and there the glimmer of a candle,
now and then the call of a sentry, or the wail of a child
broke the mysterious silence.
Ortiz appeared to know the ground perfectly. He drove without
hesitation to a log house in which a faint thread of light was
observable, and as he approached it he gave a long, peculiar
whistle. The door was instantly thrown open, and, as the
wagon stopped, two men stepped eagerly to it. In another
instant the Senora was weeping in her husband's arms, and
Isabel laughing and crying and murmuring her sweet surprises
into the ear of the delighted Luis. When their wraps had been
removed from the wagon, Ortiz drove away, leaving Navarro and
Antonia standing by the little pile of ladies' luggage.
"I will take charge of all, Senorita. Alas! How weary you
are!"
"It is nothing, Senor. Let me thank you for your great
kindness."
"Senorita, to be of service to you is my good fortune. If it
were necessary, my life for your life, and I would die happy."
She had given him her hand with her