Remember the Alamo [96]
entailed. But the most obvious
of these privations were, perhaps, those which were most
easily borne. Women endure great calamities better than the
little annoyances affecting those wants which are part and
parcel of their sex or their caste. It was not the
necessaries so much as the luxuries of life which the Senora
missed--the changes of raiment--the privacy--the quiet--the
regularity of events.
During the whole of the 20th, there was almost a Sabbath
stillness. It was a warm, balmy day. The wearied children
were under the wagons and under the trees, sleeping the dead
sleep of extreme exhaustion. The mothers, wherever it was
possible, slept also. The guides were a little apart,
listening and smoking. If they spoke, it was only in
monosyllables. Rest was so much more needed than food that
little or no attempt was made to cook until near sundown.
At dawn next morning--nay, a little before dawn--when all was
chill, and gray, and misty, and there was not a sound but the
wailing of a sick child, the Senora touched her daughters.
Her voice was strange to them; her face solemnly happy.
"Antonio! Isabel! I HAVE SEEN JUAN! I HAVE SEEN JUAN! My
eyes were shut, but I have seen him. He was a beautiful
shadow, with a great, shadowy host around him. He bent on me
such eyes! Holy Mother! their love was unfathomable, and I
heard his voice. It was far off, yet near. `Madre!' he said,
`TOMORROW YOU SHALL HEAR FROM US.' Now I am happy. There
are words in my heart, but I cannot explain them to you. I
know what they mean. I will weep no more. They put my Juan's
body in the grave, but they have not buried HIM."
All day she was silent and full of thought, but her face was
smiling and hopeful, and she had the air of one waiting for
some assured happiness. About three o'clock in the
afternoon she stood up quickly and cried, "Hark! the battle
has begun!" Every one listened intently, and after a short
pause the oldest of the guides nodded. "I'd give the rest of
my life to be young again," he said, "just for three hours to
be young, and behind Houston!"
"TO-MORROW WE SHALL HEAR."
The words fell from the Senora's lips with a singular
significance. Her face and voice were the face and voice of
some glad diviner, triumphantly carrying her own augury.
Under a little grove of trees she walked until sunset, passing
the beads of her rosary through her fingers, and mechanically
whispering the prayers appointed. The act undoubtedly quieted
her, but Antonia knew that she lay awake all night, praying
for the living or the dead.
About ten o'clock of the morning of the 22d, a horseman was
seen coming toward the camp at full speed. Women and children
stood breathlessly waiting his approach. No one could speak.
If a child moved, the movement was angrily reproved. The
tension was too great to admit of a touch through any
sense. Some, unable to bear the extended strain, sank upon
the ground and covered their faces with their hands. But the
half-grown children, wan with privations and fever, ragged and
barefoot, watched steadily the horse and its rider, their
round, gleaming eyes full of wonder and fear.
"It is Thomas," said the Senora.
As he came near, and the beat of the horse's hoofs could be
heard, a cry almost inarticulate, not to be described, shrill
and agonizing in its intensity, broke simultaneously from the
anxious women. It was one cry from many hearts, all at the
last point of endurance. Thomas Worth understood it. He
flung his hat up, and answered with a joyful "Hurrah!"
When he reached the camp, every face was wet with tears, and
a crowd of faces was instantly round him. All the agonies of
war were on them. He raised himself in his stirrups and
shouted out:
"You may all go back to your homes! Santa Anna is completely
overthrown! The Mexican army is destroyed! There will be no
more fighting, no more fears. The independence of Texas
is won! No matter where you come from, YOU ARE ALL TEXANS
NOW! Victory! Freedom! Peace!
of these privations were, perhaps, those which were most
easily borne. Women endure great calamities better than the
little annoyances affecting those wants which are part and
parcel of their sex or their caste. It was not the
necessaries so much as the luxuries of life which the Senora
missed--the changes of raiment--the privacy--the quiet--the
regularity of events.
During the whole of the 20th, there was almost a Sabbath
stillness. It was a warm, balmy day. The wearied children
were under the wagons and under the trees, sleeping the dead
sleep of extreme exhaustion. The mothers, wherever it was
possible, slept also. The guides were a little apart,
listening and smoking. If they spoke, it was only in
monosyllables. Rest was so much more needed than food that
little or no attempt was made to cook until near sundown.
At dawn next morning--nay, a little before dawn--when all was
chill, and gray, and misty, and there was not a sound but the
wailing of a sick child, the Senora touched her daughters.
Her voice was strange to them; her face solemnly happy.
"Antonio! Isabel! I HAVE SEEN JUAN! I HAVE SEEN JUAN! My
eyes were shut, but I have seen him. He was a beautiful
shadow, with a great, shadowy host around him. He bent on me
such eyes! Holy Mother! their love was unfathomable, and I
heard his voice. It was far off, yet near. `Madre!' he said,
`TOMORROW YOU SHALL HEAR FROM US.' Now I am happy. There
are words in my heart, but I cannot explain them to you. I
know what they mean. I will weep no more. They put my Juan's
body in the grave, but they have not buried HIM."
All day she was silent and full of thought, but her face was
smiling and hopeful, and she had the air of one waiting for
some assured happiness. About three o'clock in the
afternoon she stood up quickly and cried, "Hark! the battle
has begun!" Every one listened intently, and after a short
pause the oldest of the guides nodded. "I'd give the rest of
my life to be young again," he said, "just for three hours to
be young, and behind Houston!"
"TO-MORROW WE SHALL HEAR."
The words fell from the Senora's lips with a singular
significance. Her face and voice were the face and voice of
some glad diviner, triumphantly carrying her own augury.
Under a little grove of trees she walked until sunset, passing
the beads of her rosary through her fingers, and mechanically
whispering the prayers appointed. The act undoubtedly quieted
her, but Antonia knew that she lay awake all night, praying
for the living or the dead.
About ten o'clock of the morning of the 22d, a horseman was
seen coming toward the camp at full speed. Women and children
stood breathlessly waiting his approach. No one could speak.
If a child moved, the movement was angrily reproved. The
tension was too great to admit of a touch through any
sense. Some, unable to bear the extended strain, sank upon
the ground and covered their faces with their hands. But the
half-grown children, wan with privations and fever, ragged and
barefoot, watched steadily the horse and its rider, their
round, gleaming eyes full of wonder and fear.
"It is Thomas," said the Senora.
As he came near, and the beat of the horse's hoofs could be
heard, a cry almost inarticulate, not to be described, shrill
and agonizing in its intensity, broke simultaneously from the
anxious women. It was one cry from many hearts, all at the
last point of endurance. Thomas Worth understood it. He
flung his hat up, and answered with a joyful "Hurrah!"
When he reached the camp, every face was wet with tears, and
a crowd of faces was instantly round him. All the agonies of
war were on them. He raised himself in his stirrups and
shouted out:
"You may all go back to your homes! Santa Anna is completely
overthrown! The Mexican army is destroyed! There will be no
more fighting, no more fears. The independence of Texas
is won! No matter where you come from, YOU ARE ALL TEXANS
NOW! Victory! Freedom! Peace!