CHAPTER XIII

THE ARRIVAL OF SANTA ANNA

"What thing thou doest, bravely do;
When Heaven's clear call hath found thee,
Follow--with fervid wheels pursue,
Though thousands bray around thee."

"Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,
Which his aspiring rider seemed to know;
With slow but stately pace kept on his course;
You would have thought the very windows spoke,
So many greedy looks of young and old,
Through casements darted their desiring eyes
Upon his visage."

Left to themselves, the two men threw off like a mask the
aspect of cheerfulness they had worn in the presence of the
Senora. Thomas Worth ate heartily, for he had been without
food since morning; but Navarro did not attempt to join his
meal. He sat patiently waiting his sombre eyes fixed upon the
mental visions which circled in the enchanted incense of his
cigarette.

Presently Thomas Worth turned toward the hearth,
pushed the cedar logs on it to a focus, and at their leaping
blaze lighted the pipe which he took from his pocket.
"Lopez," he said, "it strikes me that I am just in time to
prevent some infamous plan of Fray Ignatius and my uncle
Gonzaga."

"I should not have lost sight of the Senora and your sisters.
I have watched them faithfully, though for many good reasons
it has been best to appear indifferent. Will you now remain
in San Antonio?"

"I have come with orders to Travis to blow up the Alamo, and
fall back upon Houston, who is at Gonzales. But I do not
think the men will permit him to do so."

"You have too many leaders. Also, they undervalue the Mexican
soldiers. I assure you they do. They fought Spain for ten
years; they do not want, then, the persistence of true valor.
The Americans may die in the Alamo, but they cannot hold it
against the thousands Santa Anna will bring with him."

"They will die, then. They have no thought of retreat, nor of
any deed that argues fear. Every man relies on himself, as if
in his hand the moment of victory lay."

"Every man will perish."

"They will not perish in vain. Defeat is only a spur to the
American soldier. Every, one makes him a better fighter.
If Santa Anna massacres the men in the Alamo, he seals the
freedom of Texas."

"Houston should have come himself."

"Houston is biding his time. He is doing at present the
hardest duty a great man can do: setting an example of
obedience to a divided and incompetent government. Lopez, you
said rightly that we had too many leaders. When those
appointed for sacrifice have been offered up--when we are in
the extremity of danger and ruin, then Houston will hear the
word he is waiting for."

"And he will lead you on to victory. Indeed, I know it. I
have seen him. He has the line--the fortunate line on the
forehead. He is the loadstone in the breast of your cause;
the magnet who can draw good fortune to it. If fate be
against you, he will force fate to change her mind. If fate
weave you a common thread, he will change it into purple.
Victory, which she gives to others reluctantly, he will take
like a master from her hand HOUSTON! What essence! What
existence! What honor! What hope there is in those seven letters.
Consider this: He will find a way or make a way for freedom."

Subsequent events proved the opinion of Thomas Worth correct
with regard to the garrison in the Alamo. David Crockett!
James Bowie! Barret Travis! The names were a host in
themselves; one and all refused to couple them with retreat.

"Military defeats may be moral victories, young man," said
Crockett to Thomas Worth; "and moral victories make national
greatness. The Roman that filled the gulf with his own body--
the men who died at Thermopylae--they live to-day, and they
have been talking with us."

"But if you join Houston you will save many lives."

"That isn't always the point, sir. Jim Bowie was saying there
was once a lover who used to swim two miles every night to see
a young woman called Hero. Now, he might have waited for a
boat and gone dry-shod to his sweetheart; but if he had, who
would have cared whether he lived or died? The Alamo is
our Hero. If we can't keep her, we can die for her."

The same spirit moved every soul at Goliad. Fanning was there
with nearly nine hundred men, and he had named the place Fort
Defiance, and asserted his determination to hold it. In the
mean time, Houston was using his great personal influence to
collect troops, to make treaties with the Indians, and to keep
together some semblance of a provisional government.

But it had become evident to all the leading spirits of the
revolution that no half-way measures would now do. They only
produced half-way enthusiasm. For this end, Houston spoke out
with his accustomed boldness:

"Gentlemen, we must declare the independence of Texas,
and like our fore-elders, sink or swim by that declaration.
Nothing else, nothing less, can save us. The planters of Texas
must feel that they are fighting for their own constitution,
and not for Mexican promises made to them twelve years ago
and never yet kept."

The simple proposition roused a new enthusiasm; for while
Urrea was hastening towards Goliad, and Santa Anna
towards San Antonio, and Filisola to Washington, the divided
people were becoming more and more embittered. The American
soldiers, who had hitherto gone in and out among the citizens
of San Antonio during the day, and only slept in the Alamo,
were conscious of an ominous change in the temper of the city.
They gathered their recruits together and shut themselves in
the fortress.

Again Thomas Worth urged them to fall back either upon the
line of Houston at Gonzales, or Fanning at Goliad; but in the
indecision and uncertainty of all official orders, Crockett
thought it best to make the first stand at the Mexican city.

"We can, at least," he said, "keep Santa Anna busy long enough
to give the women and children of our own settlements time to
escape, and the men time to draw together with a certain purpose."

"The cry of Santa Anna has been like the cry of wolf! wolf!"
said Bowie. "I hear that great numbers that were under arms
have gone home to plant their corn and cotton. Do you want
Santa Anna to murder them piecemeal--house by house,
family by family? Great George! Which of us would
accommodate him with a prolonged pleasure like that? No! he
shall have a square fight for every life lie gets"; and the
calm, gentlemanly Bowie was suddenly transformed into a
flashing, vehement, furious avenger. He laid his knife and
pistols on the table, his steel-blue eyes scintillated as if
they were lightning; his handsome mouth, his long, white
hands, his whole person radiated wrath and expressed the
utmost lengths of invincible courage and insatiable hatred.

"Gentlemen," answered Travis, "I go with Crockett and Bowie.
If we hold the Alamo, it is a deed well done. If we fall with it,
it is still a deed well done. We shall have given to Houston and
Fanning time to interpose themselves between Santa Anna
and the settlements."

"We have none of us lived very well," said Bowie, "but we can
die well. I say as an American, that Texas is ours by right
of natural locality, and by right of treaty; and, as I live,
I will do my best to make it American by right of conquest!
Comrades, I do not want a prettier quarrel to die in"--and
looking with a brave, unflinching gaze around the grim
fortress--"I do not want a better monument than the Alamo!"

The speech was not answered with any noisy hurrahing; but the
men around the bare, long table clasped hands across it, and
from that last interview with the doomed men Thomas Worth came
away with the knowledge that he had seen the battle begun. He
felt now that there was no time to delay longer his plans for
the safety of his mother and sisters. These were, indeed, of
the simplest and most uncertain character; for the condition
of the country and its few resources were such as to make
flight the only way that promised safety. And yet flight was
environed with dangers of every kind--hunger, thirst, exhaustion,
savage beasts, Indians, and the triple armies of Mexico.

The day after his arrival he had begun to prepare, as far as
possible, for this last emergency, but the Senora's
unconquerable aversion to leave her native city had constantly
hampered him. Until Santa Anna really appeared she would not
believe in the necessity of such a movement. The proposal of
Fray Ignatius, even if it did end in a convent, did not
seem so terrible as to be a wanderer without a roof to cover
her. She felt aggrieved and injured by Antonia's and Isabel's
positive refusal to accept sanctuary from the priest, and with
the underhand cunning of a weak woman she had contrived to let
Fray Ignatius know that SHE was not to blame for the refusal.

All the same the priest hated her in conjunction with her
children. On the morning after her interview with her uncle,
he went to receive her submission; for the marquis had
informed him of all that had passed, and he felt the three
women and the valuable Worth property already under his hard
hand. He opened the gate with the air of a proprietor. He
looked down the lovely alleys of the garden, and up at the
latticed stories of the handsome house, with that solid
satisfaction which is the reward of what is acquired by
personal effort or wisdom.

When he entered the door and was confronted by Thomas Worth,
he was for the moment nonplussed. But he did not permit his
confusion and disappointment to appear. He had not seen
Thomas for a long time. He addressed him with suavity
and regrets, and yet, "was sure he would be glad to hear that,
in the present dangerous crisis, the Marquis de Gonzaga had
remembered the blood-tie and offered his protection to a family
so desolate."

Thomas Worth leaned upon the balusters, as if guarding the
approach to the Senora's apartments. He answered: "The
protection of the marquis is unnecessary. Three ladies are
too great a charge for one so aged. We will not impose it."
The face of the young man was calm and stern, but he spoke
without visible temper, until the priest prepared to pass him.
Then he stretched out his arm as a barrier.

"Fray Ignatius, you have already passed beyond the threshold;
permit me to remind you of Dr. Worth's words on that subject."

"I put my duty before any man's words."

"Sir, for my mother's sake, I would not be disrespectful; but
I assure you, also, that I will not permit any man, while I live,
to disregard my father's orders regarding his own household."

"I must see the Senora."

"That, I reply, is impossible."

"Presume not--dare not to interfere with a priest in the duty
of his office. It is a mortal sin. The curse of the Church will rest
upon you.

"The curse of the Church will not trouble me. But to treat my
father's known wishes with contempt--that is an act of dishonor
and disobedience which I will not be guilty of."

"Santa Maria! Suffer not my spirit to be moved by this wicked
one. Out of my path, Satanas!"

The last word was not one which Thomas Worth had expected.
He flushed crimson at its application, and with a few muttered
sentences, intelligible only to the priest, he took him firmly
by the shoulder, led him outside the door, and closed and barred it.

The expulsion was not accomplished without noisy opposition on
the part of Fray Ignatius, and it pained Thomas deeply to hear,
in the midst of the priest's anathemas, the shrill cries of his
mother's distress and disapproval.

The next domestic movement of Thomas Worth was to rid the
house of Molly and Manuel, and the inferior servants. It was
not as easy a task as may be supposed. They had been ordered
by Fray Ignatius to remain, and the order had not been
countermanded. Even if the Senora and her daughters were
going east, and their services were not needed, they had no
objections to remain in the Worth house. They understood that
the Church would take possession, and the housekeeping of the
Church was notoriously easy and luxurious.

However, after exorbitant compensation had been made, and
Molly had given in return "a bit of her mind," she left for
the Irish colony of San Patricio, and Manuel immediately
sought his favorite monte table. When he had doubled his
money, he intended to obey Molly's emphatic orders, and go and
tell the priest all about it.

"I would rather, face a battery of cannon than Fray Ignatius
and the servants again, Antonia." Antonia looked at her
brother; he was worried and weary, and his first action, when
he had finally cleared the house, was to walk around it, and
bolt every door and window. Antonia followed him silently.
She perceived that the crisis had come, and she was doing as
good women in extremity do--trying to find in the darkness the
hand always stretched out to guide and strengthen. As
yet she had not been able to grasp it. She followed her
brother like one in a troubled dream, whispering faintly, with
white lips, "O God, where art Thou? Help and pity us!"

Thomas led her finally to his father's office. He went to a
closet filled with drugs, removed them, and then a certain
pressure of his hand caused the back of the closet to
disappear in a groove, and a receptacle full of coin and
papers was disclosed.

"We must take with us all the coin we can carry. What you are
not likely to require, is to go to the men in the field.
Then, hide in its place the old silver, and the laces, and the
jewels, which came with the Flores from Castile; and any other
papers and valuables, which you received from our father. I
think even Fray Ignatius will not discover them here."

"Is there any special need to hurry to-day?

"Santa Anna is within forty-eight hours of San Antonio. He
may force a march, and be here earlier. Travis told me last
night that their advance scouts had come in with this
intelligence. To-day they will gather every man they can, and
prepare to defend themselves in the Alamo. As soon as
Santa Anna arrives, we are in danger. I must leave here to-
night. I must either take you with me or remove you to a
place of more safety."

"Let us go with you."

"If my mother is willing."

"If she is not, what then?"

"Lopez has prepared for that emergency. He has an empty house
three miles west of San Antonio. He has had it completely
victualled. I will take you there after dark in the large
green chariot. Ortiz will drive the light Jersey wagon on the
Gonzales road. When inquiry is made, the Jersey wagon will
have attracted the attention of every Mexican, and Fray
Ignatius will receive positive assurances that you were in it
and are beyond his power. And certainly, without definite
intelligence, he would never suspect you of being anywhere on
the highway to Mexico."

"Shall we be quite alone?"

"For two or three days you will be quite alone. Ortiz will,
however, return with the wagon by a circuitous route; for,
sooner or later, you are sure to need it. Fear not to trust
him. Only in one respect will you need to supplement his
advice by your own intelligence: he is so eager to fight Santa
Anna, he may persuade himself and you that it is necessary to
fly eastward when it is not. In all other points you may be
guided by him, and his disguise as a peon is so perfect that
it will be easy for him to gather in the pulquerias all the
information requisite for your direction. I have been out to
the house, and I can assure you that Lopez has considered
everything for your comfort."

"However, I would rather go with you, Thomas."

"It must be as mother desires."

When the circumstances were explained to the Senora, she was
at first very determined to accept neither alternative. "She
would remain where she was. She was a Flores and a Gonzaga.
Santa Anna knew better than to molest her. She would rather
trust to him than to those dreadful Americans." Reminded of
Fray Ignatius, she shed a few tears over the poor padrecito,
and assured her children they had made a mistake regarding
him, which neither oil nor ointment, nor wit nor wisdom, could
get over.

It was almost impossible to induce her to come to a decision
of any kind; and only when she saw Antonia and Isabel were
dressed for a journey, and that Thomas had locked up all the
rooms and was extinguishing the fires, could she bring herself
to believe that the trial so long anticipated had really come.

"My dearest mother! My own life and the lives of many others
may now hang upon a few moments. I can remain here no longer.
Where shall I take you to?"

"I will not leave my home."

"Santa Anna is almost here. As soon as he arrives, Fray
Ignatius and twelve of the Bernardine monks are coming here.
I was told that yesterday."

"Then I will go to the convent. I and my daughters."

"No, mother; if you go to the convent, Antonia and Isabel must
go with me."

She prayed, and exclaimed, and appealed to saints and angels,
and to the holy Virgin, until Isabel was hysterically weeping,
Antonia at a mental tension almost unendurable, and Thomas on
the verge of one of those terrifying passions that mark
the extremity of habitually gentle, patient men.

"My God, mother!" he exclaimed with a stamp of his spurred
boot on the stone floor; "if you will go to the devil--to the
priests, I mean--you must go alone. Kiss your mother
farewell, girls. I have not another moment to wait."

Then, in a passion of angry sobs and reproaches, she decided
to go with her daughters, and no saint ever suffered with a
more firm conviction of their martyrdom to duty than did this
poor foolish, affectionate slave to her emotions and her
superstitions. But when Thomas had gone, and nothing was to
be gained by a display of her sufferings, she permitted
herself to be interested in their hiding-place, and after
Antonia had given her a cup of chocolate, and Isabel had
petted and soothed her, she began gradually to allow them to
explain their situation, and even to feel some interest in its
discussion.

They sat in the charmful, dusky glimmer of starlight, for
candles and fire were forbidden luxuries. Fortunately, the
weather was warm and sunny, and for making chocolate and such
simple cookery, Lopez had provided a spirit lamp. The
Senora was as pleased as a child with this arrangement. She
had never seen anything like it before. She even imagined the
food cooked upon it had some rare and unusual flavor. She was
quite proud when she had learned its mysteries, and quite sure
that chocolate she made upon it was chocolate of a most
superior kind.

The house had been empty for two years, and the great point
was to preserve its air of desolation. No outside arrangement
was touched; the torn remnants of some balcony hangings were
left fluttering in the wind; the closed windows and the closed
doors, the absence of smoke from the chimneys and of lights
from the windows, preserved the air of emptiness and
loneliness that the passers-by had been accustomed to see.
And, as it was on the highway into the city, there were great
numbers of passers: mule-trains going to Mexico and Sonora;
cavaliers and pedestrians; splendidly-dressed nobles and
officials, dusty peons bringing in wood; ranchmen, peddlers,
and the whole long list of a great city's purveyors and servants.

But though some of the blinds were half-closed, much could be
seen; and Isabel also often took cushions upon the flat roof,
and lying down, watched, from between the pilasters of the
balustrade surrounding it, the moving panorama.

On the morning of the third day of what the Senora, called
their imprisonment, they went to the roof to sit in the clear
sunshine and the fresh wind. They were weary and depressed
with the loneliness and uncertainty of their position, and
were almost longing for something to happen that would push
forward the lagging wheels of destiny.

A long fanfare of trumpets, a roll of drums, a stirring march
of warlike melody, startled them out of the lethargic tedium
of exhausted hopes and fears. "It is Santa Anna!" said Antonia;
and though they durst not stand up, they drew closer
to the balustrade and watched for the approaching army. Is
there any woman who can resist that nameless emotion which
both fires and rends the heart in the presence of great
military movements? Antonia was still and speechless, and
white as death. Isabel watched with gleaming eyes and
set lips. The Senora's excitement was unmistakably that of
exultant national pride.

Santa Anna and his staff-officers were in front. They passed
too rapidly for individual notice, but it was a grand moving
picture of handsome men in scarlet and gold--of graceful
mangas and waving plumes, and bright-colored velvet capes;
of high-mettled horses, and richly-adorned Mexican saddles,
aqueras of black fur, and silver stirrups; of thousands of
common soldiers, in a fine uniform of red and blue; with
antique brazen helmets gleaming in the sun, and long lances,
adorned with tri-colored streamers. They went past like a
vivid, wonderful dream--like the vision of an army of
mediaeval knights.

In a few minutes the tumult of the advancing army was
increased tenfold by the clamor of the city pouring out to
meet it. The clashing bells from the steeples, the shouting
of the populace, the blare of trumpets and roll of drums, the
lines of churchmen and officials in their grandest dresses, of
citizens of every age,--the indescribable human murmur--
altogether it was a scene whose sensuous splendor
obliterated for a time the capacity of impressionable
natures to judge rightly.

But Antonia saw beyond all this brave show the ridges of red
war, and a noble perversity of soul made her turn her senses
inward. Then her eyes grew dim, and her heart rose in pitying
prayer for that small band of heroes standing together for
life and liberty in the grim Alamo. No pomp of war was
theirs. They were isolated from all their fellows. They were
surrounded by their enemies. No word of sympathy could reach
them. Yet she knew they would stand like lions at bay; that
they would give life to its last drop for liberty; and rather
than be less than freemen, they would prefer not to be at all.

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