University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

Collins

We had a safe return to St. Antonio. Extreme fatigue,
want of sleep, and encountering the jests of my
companions, who had contrived to make out how things
stood between me and Dona Martha, were the only
unpleasant circumstances of our journey. Every lover
has felt, how harassing, under such circumstances, is the
repetition of such jests, until they are stale. As soon
as we entered the town, we had plenty of matter for
discussion, of a more serious cast. We had had the most
incontestible evidence, that the chiefs of our party could
practise the basest treachery, and the most cold-blooded
assassination. It is true, we acquitted Morelos of any
participation in this abominable plan. But it was not to
be disguised, that he was carried along by the current of
opinion, and compelled to give the sanction of his name to
acts, which ought to have been equally revolting to his
understanding and his heart. We had discovered, even in
him, a recent leaning towards counsels, to retaliate on the
Royalist chiefs, the cruelties which they had practised

in the case of Hidalgo, and the other Patriot chiefs, that had
fallen into their hands. We regretted bitterly to remember,
that all revolutions, in the nature of things, mingle
much of this horrible spirit of revenge, blood, and murder,
with them. We vindicated our own self-respect, on finding
ourselves associated in the same cause with men capable
of such fiend-like projects, by charging them upon
the character of human nature, and the natural reaction of
things, when men, who have been reared in ignorance,
oppression, and cruelty, gain the ascendancy, and become
treacherous and bloody tyrants in their turn. We had
occasion to take other, than abstract views upon the subject.
We were not only associated with men, capable of
weaving such plans into their cause, but we had counter-acted
a most important part of their plan. We had
rescued from their bloody hands the chief of the Royalists
and his family, and had slain an officer of their
party, in effecting the rescue. It is true, we were disguised
as savages. But we had little reason to suppose,
that these adroit and practised villains would not understand
the true state of the case. Inquiry would be made,
and we should be found to have been absent. Then
again, we concluded, that if they had succeeded in the
assassination of the other chiefs, as we had no doubt they
had, they would be sufficiently occupied in defending
themselves against the sensation and inquiry it must
naturally create, to guaranty us from suffering a very
severe scrutiny for what we had done. It was my opinion,
that such a wanton and unnecessary outrage, would not
have been perpetrated, against the known feelings, and
most pointed remonstrances of the Americans, until they
had settled the principle, to set us at defiance. It was
my judgment, on our return to the camp, instead of allowing
them to inquire into our conduct, the Americans ought
to unite, to a man, and with arms in their hands, insist
upon instituting an inquiry into the conduct of our chiefs
in this affair. They had practised upon us the grossest
deception, and we had a right to inquire, why they had
not fulfilled their engagement of honor with us, to escort
the chiefs of the Royalists safely to Matagorda, as they
promised us they would. I insisted, that if we allowed
this most detestable act to pass without remonstrance or
investigation, history would justly represent us as having
aided and abetted the act. With myself, I determined
that if this outrage was generally approved by the Spaniards,
and even winked at by the Americans, I would wash
my hands of any farther participation of the cause.

When we arrived in camp, we found every thing in
greater uproar than ever. Our worst suspicions were confirmed.
The infamous villains, who had volunteered as
the agents of the Patriot chiefs, on purpose to massacre
the Royal commandes, had perpetrated their purpose with
every trait of cold-blooded cruelty. They shot governor
Salcedo, who resisted them. The six other chiefs they
bound, and cut their throats, and threw their bodies into a
ravine. They had the unblushing effrontery to return to
the camp, clothed in the dress, and wearing the watches,
ornaments, and insignia of these unfortunate, but naturally
excellent men, whose only crime was, that they had been
born and bred the adherents of the Spanish despotism.
Our conjectures, that we should be recognised as the
authors of the escape of the Conde, were changed to
conviction. The Spaniards, with lowering countenances,
pronounced the name of the lieutenant whom we had
killed, and pointed us out as we passed through their
camp, applying to us, in connexion with that name, the

epithets, Americanos diablos. The Americans, in their
quarters, were conversing together in groups, with the
deepest apprehension and alarm on their countenances;
and the most rancorous mutual suspicions existed between
the partisans of the two nations.

Many of the Americans, in the utmost disgust and horror,
left the camp, and returned to their own country,
quite relieved in their minds, as to their sympathy with
the oppressed Spaniards. The ease with which we had
beaten the Royalists in every fair encounter, fostered the
hopes of others, that they should yet come at their reversion
in the mines. Others flattered themselves, that better
counsels would ultimately prevail, and that these horrid
deeds were only the natural effervescence of slavery, in
passing into a state of anarchy and licentiousness. Morelos
and Bernardo were each struggling for the ascendancy.
De Benvelt, shocked beyond measure by the late
transaction, resigned his command as soon as the news
arrived in the camp, and shut himself up with his daughters.
No words could paint their disgust and terror, when
I returned to them. Bryan seized me by one arm, and
they by the other, begging me for the love of God, to fly
this herrid country forever, and follow the footsteps of
those whose faces were already set towards the United
States. But for one circumstance, I should have consented
at once. One of the strongest impulses of our
nature still detained me here, and gave me patience to
watch the signs of the times, and wait the issue of events.
With this cherished family, and one or two like-minded
friends, among whom was my classmate, I spent the
evenings and the days, almost confined to the house. We
made a mutual compact, that if our affairs continued to
have the same unpromising aspect, after ten days we

would withdraw, and make our way as fast as possible to
the United States, and De Benvelt consented to wait
patiently till the end of those days.

Eight of them had elapsed with us in the most
profound retirement, when a crisis occurred, which once
more united us all by a feeling of common danger. The
late massacre had not only disgusted and disheartened
the Americans, and palsied every noble patriot arm among
the Mexicans, but it operated in rousing the slumbering
spirit of the Royalists to the utmost pitch, not only of
exasperation and fury, but of daring and courage. They
were determined that neutral and half-way measures should
be renounced. The Patriots had set the example of extermination,
to which a very considerable party of the
Royalists had always been inclined. At the head of that
party was Colonel Arredondo, a warrior of great experience,
trained in European contests, and uniting strong
sense, great cunning, and calm and calculating selfishness,
to the discipline, intrepidity, and unshrinking character of
a soldier, inured to scenes of violence and blood. Age,
circumstances, and perhaps natural character, had rendered
the Conde timid and vacillating in his plans. Sometimes
he inclined to strong, and sometimes to moderate
measures. Sometimes he was inclined to be merciful,
and sometimes cruel; and these feelings rose or fell with
the elevation or depression of his spirits, or with the preponderancy
or inefficacy of the counsels of Don Pedro, or
the father confessor. He sometimes wilfully acted out his
own conceptions, and at other times gave himself up entirely
to the leading of these counsellors. Under the excitement
created by the late deed of horror, the party of Colonel
Arredondo came into complete ascendancy. The Conde's
name was still affixed to acts, but the real and efficient

command was in him. Strong measures were immediately
taken. The interior of Mexico was in the same kind of
calm with a volcano, after a terrible and recent eruption.
Royal troops were drawn from all the cities in the internal
provinces. The regiment of Cadiz was united with that
of Vera Cruz. No officers were commissioned for the king
among the provincials, but such as had given a pledge to
their future course by acts of violence and outrage against
the Patriots.

In ten days from the late massacre, we heard that a
large body of Royal troops, no longer commanded by the
Conde, but by Colonel Arredondo, was rapidly advancing
upon St. Antonio, and had already passed the Rio del
Norte. The Patriot chiefs were panic-struck with the
intelligence. So long as the Conde was in command,
they felt that they could play a double game between us
and the Royalists. They felt a confidence, that if a
treacherous policy called upon them to sacrifice us, they
could at any time make their peace with him, by going
over to his standard. Not so with Colonel Arredondo.
With him they could hope but one of two alternatives,—
the spear, or the rope. They came to us, one after the
other, exculpating themselves from participation in the
late massacre. They proposed a court of investigation,
and professed themselves willing to subject to military
execution the persons who should be found to have originated
tha project. They implored us to resume our
several commands, offering even to give that one of our
number, whom we should elect, the supreme command.
We again held a conclave consultation, and we disagreed
among ourselves. But our young men possessed an
eagerness to make themselves known in exploit and action,
and an adventurous spirit of enterprise, that courted

such an occasion for display, and nerved them to perseverance.
I was undecided what course to pursue.
The good nature of De Benvelt, won by the seeming
repentance of the Patriot chiefs, and by seeing the manifestation
of this spirit of reconciliation, inclined him to
resume his command. I followed his example. De Benvelt,
my classmate, who was appointed aid of Bernardo,
myself, and the Americans generally, were received by
the Spaniards with loud acclamations. Bernardo had
manœuvred to obtain the supreme command; and Morelos
had left the army in disgust, retiring to the city of Mexico
in disguise.

Our measures were soon taken. We moved out of town,
where there were such temptations to riot, and relaxation
of all discipline, as rendered it a place utterly unfit for a
camp, in such an emergency as ours. We took post at a
considerable distance from town, in the large stone buildings
belonging to the Mission establishment. They afforded
us an admirable military position. They would yield only
to a regular siege, and were sufficiently massive, to resist
any thing but heavy battering cannon, which the foe had not.
Wood and water in abundance were near, and it was a
fine position to command forage and provisions. I gave
my opinion, when it was called for, and it was, decidedly,
to intrench our camp here, and wait for the enemy. But
other counsels prevailed. We had express upon express,
that Arredondo was coming upon us. The Americans
exulted in this intelligence, for they flattered themselves
that they should now see real fighting. All former victories
had been won, as they said, with too much ease.
We had come to despise our enemy, and the confidence
consequent upon this contempt, proved our ruin.

Eight miles in advance of the Mission establishment,
there is a considerable stream, which in winter runs with a
full current up to the banks, and in summer becomes almost
a Rio Seco, or dry branch. It was now midsummer, and
the weather excessively hot. We crossed this branch,
which, contrary to the ordinary course of things in the
summer, afforded an abundance of pure water. The
banks were, as is common to such streams in the summer,
high, rugged, and utterly impassable for cavalry, except
directly by the ford. Immediately beyond this river, the
road forks, one branch leading to Labahia and the coast,
and the other to the Parso and Mexico. There was a fine
green alluvion on the opposite bank, and it was completely
sheltered from inspection by a precipitous and wooded
hill. Here we took post, and were determined to await
the foe, whom we knew to be near. We were sure that
we had intercepted all communication of intelligence, and
that the Royal troops would begin to descend the hill, in
full reach of our muskets, before they would discover
us. We calculated to attack them encumbered, as their
troops always are, by a vast quantity of baggage, and
a multitude of useless camp-followers, and in the confusion
of such an unexpected attack, put them to rout
and flight. But their experienced commander was not
so to be caught. He had his policy too, and, to our
ruin, it proved to be the better of the two. Our scouts
reported his troops to be at two miles distance, and
then at one, and in fact we could now clearly hear the
blowing of their bugles, and the rolling of their drums.
Soon after we saw an officer on horseback, in a splendid
uniform, come dashing up to the summit of the hill, not
fifty yards from us. He rose upon his stirrups, and took
a glance of our camp, in the twinkling of an eye. Fifty

rifles were discharged upon him, but he turned his horse,
and fled so swiftly, that he escaped, and carried intelligence
of our proximity. Our impetuosity was the cause
of our first mistake, in inducing us to leave our fine position
by shade and water, on such a burning summer's
morning. But an impulse of consentaneous movement
operated upon us. Horse and foot mounted the hill. We
met a considerable force, chiefly provincials, attacked
them, and in less than fifteen minutes routed them, so that
they fled, and left a few dead behind them. We commenced
a hot pursuit, in which we were fatigued, inflamed
with the heat, and suffering from thirst at the same
time.

In about two miles from the first attack, we met a second
and larger detachment, which the inexperienced Spaniards
felt assured was the main army. The Americans
comprehended in a moment, that both these attacks were
feints, intended only to draw us from wood and water, to
fatigue and harass us down, and render us an easy conquest
to their fresh and untired troops. Nevertheless, we
rushed upon the second detachment, and they resisted us
for nearly half an hour. Considerable blood was shed,
and the resistance seemed to be obstinate. They in their
turn retreated. Mere fatigne, and exposure to the heat,
compelled a short halt, and arrested our pursuit. We
were ready to expire for want of shade and water, and
the Americans wished to wait for the enemy here. My
classmate, aid of general Bernardo, was sent to the provincial
troops on the left, intimating the command of Bernardo,
that we should fall back to our morning position,
and there await the main body of the enemy, which had
just been ascertained to be entrenched four miles in advance
of us. This command was perfectly in accordance

with the wishes of the Americans. But the provincial
commander of the horse, equally ignorant, obstinate, and
impetuous, sent word back to Bernardo, who had but recently
arrived from the United States, and whom he affected
to consider as an American, that the Americans might
retreat, if they chose, but that his Spaniards were not used
to leaving their business half done, and that they would
advance upon the Royalists, either to beat them, or join
their standard, just as the Americans chose. We saw in
a moment, the nature of our condition. If we undertook
to retreat to our camp, the great body of provincials,
would immediately desert to the Royalists, and in all
probability, we should be attacked by their united force.
We were well informed, that the road between us and
Arredondo, was a burning sand, in which, even the men,
in marching, would sink up to their ancles. We had a
small, but a fine park of brass artillery. We were aware,
that the carriages would plough and sink into the sand. We
were perishing with thirst, and it was burning noon. Under
all these disadvantages, we might possibly beat the
enemy, and on the whole, it seemed the lesser danger, to
attempt to do it. We made another unavailing effort, to
bring the provincial commander to listen to reason, and
then marched to the attack. Words would be wanting to
describe the fatigue of this march. One horse after
another gave out, and one cannon after another was left,
bedded in the sand. Even the horses we rode, could
hardly wade along. A little past the middle of the day,
we descended a small eminence, and saw fifty paces in
advance of us, a wide barricade of green felled trees.
We had time to observe nothing more, and had scarcely
caught a glimpse of this, before we were saluted by a
park of artillery, concealed behind the trees, and a regular,
and murderous discharge of musquetry by platoous.
Our ranks were literally mowed down, and I was for a
moment left alone. The Spaniards recoiled from the
first fire; but the Americans rushed upon the foe, and
clambered over the trees, and formed upon their right.
We brought up the only two field pieces that had not been
left in the sand, and sustained the fight on somewhat
more nearly equal terms, than at the commencment. But
we were unable to make any impression upon the Royal
troops, behind their breast-works. They continued to
pour their fire upon us in platoons, with so much precision,
that it seemed a single discharge, and they
swept away the advance of our force with their artillery.
With such terrible odds against us, we kept up the fight,
for more than two hours, and had once succeeded in completely
silencing the fire of their battery. In fact, they
commenced a retreat, and a company of the Royal provincials
actually did retreat, as fast as possible, quite to the
Rio del Norte, and there reported, that the Royalists were
completely routed. At the same moment, that the Royalists
were retreating from us, we, worn down with fatigue,
sinking with heat and thirst, and more than the half of us
slain, we commenced a retreat too, and this was the second
time, that I had seen two armies retreating from
each other. At this critical moment, when a single
firm charge upon them would have gained us the victory,
our provincial commander, wheeled with his horse and
joined the standard of the enemy. The affair was decided
in a moment. The Royalists faced about. Their
horse wheeled upon our wings, and we were in danger of
being completely surrounded. At once, every thing was
rout and confusion. The weary and spent, the wounded
and the foot soldiers, were speared on the field, or trampled
under foot by the horse. De Benvelt and myself saved
ourselves by the fleetness of our horses. My classmate
was afflicted with fever and ague, when he came into the
field. His horse had been tired down; he had fastened
him to a tree, and had fought on foot. On his retreat, he
found his horse had broken away. The enemy was advancing,
and he was too much exhausted to fly, except on
horseback. He would have been speared, but for the
assistance of a compassionate Spaniard. He spoke Spanish
with great fluency, and he begged the Spaniard, por
el amor de Dios, to catch his horse for him. The Spaniard
advanced, coiled the rope, always hung about his
horse's neck, cast the noose, caught his horse, and assisted
him to mount. I saw him mounted, and fleeing,
and I made the best of my way, with De Benvelt and
Bryan by my side, after him. We should have been glad
of the wings of the wind, for we still had the Royal horse
in view, advancing upon us. It was a sickening sight, to
see many of our poor fellows fall from their horses, literally
unable any longer to keep their seat in the saddle,
and resign themselves up to their fate. De Benvelt was
corpulent, and somewhat unwieldy from age. He was
obliged to stop from fatigue. The brave and honest man
requested me with tears in his eyes to fly. “Be you a
father,” said he, “and brother, and all, to my tear girls,
and tell them, where I saw the end of the tamned liberties.”
He had scarcely given me this charge, before we
were assailed by three or four provincials on horseback.
This occurrence called back his courage. The faithful
Bryan, who had fled in advance, wheeled and came back
to our aid. Bryan fought like a giant, and we drove
them back upon the main body, killing one of their number;
but not until De Benvelt had been severely wounded
by a pistol shot. The wound and the bleeding seemed
to furnish him with new vigor. We fled again, and met
with no more annoyance, until we reached San Antonio.

Exaggerated reports of our defeat and ruin had preceded
us, with the natural addition, that De Benvelt was
mortally wounded, and that I was slain. I leave you
to imagine the scene of our reception by his daughters.
The reality, sad as it was, was so much more tolerable
than their expectations, that they were well prepared to
receive their wounded father; and when I assured them
there was no doubt but he would do well, and that all
that they had to do, was to prepare to fly, the idea of escaping
from the country was so pleasant to them, that
they instantly set themselves to preparing for flight. A
counter revolution commenced in San Antonio, with
the first news of our reverse of fortune, and there was
almost as much danger in delay, from the inhabitants,
as from the enemy. We were not more than an hour in
advance even of them. All my American compatriots,
that were neither wounded, sick, nor exhausted, escaped,
and among them, as I afterwards ascertained with high
satisfaction, my classmate, who arrived safe in Louisiana,
sick of fever and ague, and destitute of every thing, and in
a most wretched plight, but content, and happy to have
escaped the spear. I obtained by dint of money, friendship,
and entreaties, for we were obliged to put every engine
in operation, horses and a waggon. They were harnessed,
and a mattress thrown into it, and my wounded
associate thrown on the mattress in half an hour. The
daughters fled with me on horseback. The travelling
and the jolting inflamed De Benvelt's wound, and pained
him to agony. He was earnest and eloquent again with
me and his daughters, to fly and leave him to his fate.

They felt with me on this point, and I assured him, that
to leave him, was a thing not to be thought of, and that
we should all share his fate, be it what it might. That fate
was, that we should be all arrested and taken. Twenty
horsemen pursued and overtook us, within a few miles
from the town. Resistance being out of the question, we
surrendered ourselves, and were carried back to the town.
We were thrown into the same calabozo, where all the
prisoners, that had not been speared, were secured together.
It was a kind of Calcutta Black Hole, and we were
tortured with heat, thirst, and vermin. It was, indeed, a
rude receptacle for ladies like the Misses Benvelt. But
in this terrible community of misery, where groans, exclamations,
and calls for the deliverance of death, rung
around us on every side, the very excess of our wretchedness,
inspired these sufferers with the tranquil and tearless
indifference of despair. I made an effort to influence
the keepers, to allow another place for these young ladies.
But I either spoke to the deaf, or incurred only contempt
and ridicule. They entreated me to make no further
exertions of this sort, assuring me, that nothing should
separate them from their father.

In the blindness of their exasperation, the Royalists
found no place for the exercise of mercy or discrimination.
Old or young, guilty or innocent, male or female, the
beggar swarming with vermin, or these young ladies
clad in the richest dresses, so that they were known to
have adhered to the Royal cause, or even to be connected
with those who had, were all placed in one predicament.
The blood even now chills in my veins, as I remember,
how the women fell on their knees before me, as I was
retreating on St. Antonio, entreating me with clasped
hands, and with the usual por el amor de Dios, not to

leave them to the vengeance of the Royalists. In the
calabozo, we learned the fate of the remnant of the retreating
Patriots, that escaped the fatal field of Palos
Blancos, and the first fury of pursuit. A party of the
Royal horse took a nearer route to the town, anticipated
the fugitives, and placing themselves on the banks of the
river, where three different roads from the battle field met
they here spread a net, which caught in its meshes every
individual. Most of them were spread on the spot.
Fifty of them were reserved for more enduring sufferings,
and were now in prison with us. I was aware, that if the
Conde had been here, with his usual ascendency in the
councils, De Benvelt's family and myself should have
been spared. As it was, there was scarcely a hope, that
our fate would be delayed, until the Conde could intimate
his will in respect to our case. It was even doubtful, if
he now retained influence enough to arrest our fate, if he
wished to do it. We only knew, that the Royal chiefs
were deliberating upon our fate, during this first dreadful
night in this place. The fate itself was in the awful suspense
of conjecture. We could think of but a single
friend, who would be disposed to make an effort for us,
and that was Bryan; who took a different street in entering
the town, and had not been heard from since. The
groans, the ejaculations, the agonizing prayers to the Virgin
and to the saints, the ridiculous vows of silver shrines,
and images to their patron saints, if they would interpose
for their escape, the curses of despair, in this stifling place
of utter darkness, during this dreadful night, can never be
erased from my memory. I considered it a kind of representation
of the case of the spirits in the final prison of
darkness. I am not now able to analyze my own reflections.
I certainly was not above the instinctive love of
life, and fear of death. But the cause, it seemed, was irretrievably
ruined. Doña Martha could not henceforward
come within the scope of the wildest hopes. Here were
beautiful girls, reared like the lily of the valley, who
awaited their destiny in tranquillity. All about me was
the frantic agony of cowardly despair. I am afraid I
shall never be again so resigned to die, as I was then.

Nothing struck me more, this sad night, than the deportment
of the daughters of De Benvelt. At first, I mistook
their sedateness for the tranquillity of despair. It
was the exertion of the noblest fortitude. It was the
high-principled sensibility of strong minds, called into
exercise by the most tender and sacred motives that can
swell the human breast. It was filial love, manifesting itself
in a holy effort, to smooth the passage of their father
to death. There was to me, in the same predicament with
the rest, a thrill of sublime feeling, as I witnessed these
beautiful girls, whose faces, in the day of their prosperity,
“the winds of heaven had not been permitted to visit too
roughly,” in the midst of darkness, shrieks, and despair,
with the prospect of military execution in the morning, for
their father, for me, and probably, for themselves,—still
preserving an unalterable tranquillity. They must feel it a
privilege, if we might be permitted to die without torture.
They seemed to regard it all as nothing. It appeared, as
if they had shaken hands with life, and had relinquished all
its prospects without a tear or a regret for themselves.
All the sympathies of their hearts, were for their father
and me. Theirs was not the prosing exhortations to patience
and courage, in heavy and set phrase which most
would have uttered, on a like occasion. They evinced
an elastic tranquillity, which is naturally infectious, and
which seemed to say in every word and action, “The bitterness

of death is past” for us, and all that we think and
say, is for others. While occasional and uncontrollable
bursts of sorrow, stifled the voice of the father, they tenderly
begged him to be calm, and expressed themselves
happy, that they were not torn one from another in
succession, imposing the penalty of a lingering death upon
the survivors, but that they were likely, now, all to depart
together.

The earliest impressions of religion, are those that
come to our aid in such emergencies. The daughters remembered
the prayers and the rites of their infancy, in
Fader land. They recited those prayers, and separating
ourselves, as much as we could, from the groaning and
frantic rabble about us, they knelt beside their father, and
went through the simple and affecting service of the Saxon
Lutheran church, for persons in the last extremity; and
they sung a hymn, so much the more impressive for its
quaint and ancient rhymes, and for their touching and
sweet voices, which I had never heard in song before.
These prayers and this hymn infused something of their
enthusiasm and fortitude into the heart of their father.
“Indeed, my sweet girls,” said he, “I am right glad,
since it must be so, that we are like to make this journey
all together. My old heart could not stand a moment the
thought of leaving you alone, among this tamned peoples.”

From their father, they turned to me. There was always
something touching in their strong German accent,
and peculiarly at this time, when the condensed emotions
of their hearts, gave it a peculiar and thrilling intonation
of tenderness. “You have been to us,” said Wilhelmine,
“father, and brother, and friend, all in one.” The full expression
of our feelings to you at another time, might be

mistaken. But, surely, at this time, we may be allowed
to say all that is in our hearts. We die, and we wish to
die, with our father. But it seems hard, almost mysterious,
that so young and so good a man, who has been everything
to our father and to us, and who might have escaped,
should be brought here to die. It must be a hard
case to you, for you love, and are beloved, and yet you
alone, of all this frantic multitude, seem to be calm.”
“Can I,” I asked, “who am a man, and who wear the garb
of a soldier, and who knew when I embraced this desperate
cause, that it did not promise to be a holiday business,
can I shrink from death, when I see women so young, and
so beautiful, manifest so much fortitude and resignation to
their fate?” Sophy mournfully added, “But we love none,
but our father and you. We leave not a being to mourn
for us. We are strangers in a strange land, and the name
will perish with us. Tell me, Is it selfish or not? There
is a kind of dreadful satisfaction to me, that we are all
alike involved, and that there will be no wretched survivor,
after we are laid in our last bed. I would die
rather than give pain to my dear father, to my sisters, or
to you. Can it be, that I am selfish in finding satisfaction
in the thought, that we are all going together?”

“My tear Wilhelmine,” said the father, “it makes me
almost feel in heaven, to hear you sing. Pray sing me
now that sweet song, that you sung one evening when I
was low-spirited on the mountain. She immediately complied,
and just murmured to a wild and plaintive air in
Spanish the words, of which the following is a very exact
translation.

While these excellent daughters were thus arming themselves,
and evincing that noble passive fortitude, which
seems the appropriate gift of the best women in such
circumstances, the wretched father passed from prayer
and tears, to gloomy silence. Sometimes all the father
would rise within him, and burst forth in irrepressible
grief. “My sweet girls,” said he, “forgive your silly
father for undoing you. Oh! dat pad tay, when I took
up for this wicked people, and the tamned liberties. Let
the tay perish, when I left my good stone house, and
brought my daughters among this tamned peoples. They
are no more fit for de liberties than wolves. Mein Gott!
forgive me, for these follies. I have brought ruin on you
all, my tear girls, this good young man, and myself.” In
this style of self-reproach he continued until he wrought
himself into paroxysms. But why go through with the
horrors of that dreadful night! The unabating heroism and
tenderness of these daughters did not remit, and the father
finally became settled in his tranquillity, and laid himself
down on his straw, and soon fell into a profound slumber.
The girls retired into a corner by themselves, undoubtedly
to hold communion with death and with God, before whom
they expected so soon to appear.

If I had been disposed to look on my fate with dismay,
I could not but have caught something of their tenderness
and elevation of heart. I retired too, and the prayers
that came spontaneously to my lips, were those which my
good mother used to say to me, when she put me in my
bed, in my infant days. “Our Father, who art in Heaven,”
said I, “thy will be done!” These sublime words were
repeated again and again, and I hoped that I should not
disgrace my manhood, when I should be be brought to the
last dread trial.

When the gleams of the morning began to pour light
enough through the fissures of our calabozo, to render
“darkness visible,” what ghastly faces, what agonized
countenances did this pale and unearthly light exhibit?
Here were nearly a hundred people, expecting this morning
to exchange time for eternity. Few of them had
principle, rational pride, true courage, religion, or the
hope of immortality. They clung to life from instinct
and appetite, and had no hope beyond life, and no motives
to fortify them against the fears of death. The morning
light, by bringing the prospect of death immediately before
them, redoubled the shrieks, ejaculations, and groans,
until the very confusion and excess of the misery, took
away its distinctness and horror. A supply of the coarsest
food, and some water, were put into our dungeon, and we
were notified, that immediately after taking our food, we
should be ordered out to receive our sentence.

In half an hour the drums rolled at our door. The
keys rattled. The heavy door grated on its hinges, and
we were called out, one by one, by an officer, who recited
our names from a scroll. A regiment guarded us. De
Benvolt, enfeebled by fever, his wound, and the agony of
a broken heart, required the support of his daughters; and

it was a sight to go to any heart, to see these fair and
innocent looking daughters supporting their father amidst
the fierce and pitiless array of a regiment of soldiers, to
the place of execution. While the two elder daughters
each held an arm of their father, the trembling Annette
leaned upon mine. The one half of this group were women
and children, or persons too old or too young, to have been
committed by any overt act, and were here on account
of their affinity with those who had. The groans and the
sobbing were drowned by the rolling of the drum, the
shrill notes of the fife, and a dead march played by the
full band.

Half a mile from the town, in a hollow which descended
gently in the manner of an amphitheatre, was the place of
sentence and execution. In fact, in this case they were
the same thing. A priest, in his pontifical robes, stood by
with a crucifix in one hand, and a burning candle in the
other. The name of every person, save two or three,
was recited and the persons pronounced guilty of treason,
rebellion, and heresy, and they were sentenced to
immediate execution. They were then called out in the
order of their names on the paper. They were allowed
but two minutes for confession. A file of soldiers stood
ready, and a tall officer, whose swarthy face was almost
covered with his whiskers and mustachios, held up his
sword as the signal of discharge. A handkerchief was
loosely folded over the face of the prisoner. He was led
to a central point, ordered to kneel down, the sword was
raised. The victim was removed, and another took his
place.

I am as little disposed to relate, as you would be to
hear, the horrors of this execution in detail. It was protracted
with the most tedious minuteness, apparently that

we might have a long and full taste of the misery of it.
The parties stood directly by me. I know not how it
happened, but although I expected in a few minutes to
take my turn, I felt a strange curiosity, to observe both
the feelings of the victims, the moment before they were
led away, and their spasms after they had received the
discharge. And never, since the days of the guillotine,
was there a more thrilling spectacle of the manner in which
different persons are affected with the immediate prospect
of death. Some uttered a cry and fell down, and were
lifted up and carried away to receive the shot. Others
with more physical and moral self-control, had made a
violent effort, and marched to the place in sullen submission.
Some were affected by a strong spasm, which appeared
to commence in some part of the frame, and to diffuse
itself over the whole body. The countenances of some
wore the paleness of death. Of others the whole circulation
seemed to have mounted to the head. The effect of
the discharges upon us who witnessed it, and who waited
for our turn, was equally various. Some gave a shriek.
Others a long, deep drawn, and quivering sigh. Wilhelmine
gave a faint groan, grasped her father's arm more
closely, held in her breath until the discharge, and then
cried, “Thank God! One more is delivered from his
burden.” Upon De Benvelt every discharge operated
with a stimulant effect, and drew out an execration upon
the treachery and cowardice that had brought them there.
We observed that the females, and those too old and too
young to have borne arms, were excepted and reserved.
Remarking this, the daughters uttered an exclamation
of terror, lest their father should be called out, and they
left behind. Most of the Spanish prisoners had passed to
the priest, and had joined with him in some brief rites,
appertaining to confession. Our names were among the
last on the scroll, and we were reserved to witness the
manner in which all the rest received the consummation
of their fate, before we could know ours. I believe we
began to have a presentiment, from the very manner in
which the officers looked upon us, that we should be remanded
to the prison.

Towards the close of the execution, they called out a
fine young man, the handsomest provincial I had seen.
I had noticed him frequently before. He had been pointed
out to me at the fandangoes, as the finest young man
in New Spain. He had been an ensign in the Royal
army; but being in heart a republican, he had deserted,
and joined the Patriot standard. He was pointed out in
all circles, as gay, amiable, modest, and gallant, devoted
to his friends, and an universal favourite among the ladies.
His faults were free-thinking and gallantry. He was just
the kind of character to call forth the deepest sympathy in
his favour. They called on him to confess and prepare
for execution. “Away,” said he, “with these miserable
mummeries! Reserve them for the wretched cowards
that in battle leave their standard, and go over to the
enemy. Thank God! my mind needs not that kind of
support. I am a young man; but I have known how to
enjoy myself, and I know how to die.” He had a most
delightful voice, and he sung a stanza of a patriotic ode,
in fashion at the time, with thrilling and prodigious effect.
When they came for him, a general feeling of horror passed
over the countenances of the survivors. Even the stern
faces of the soldiers, who performed the execution, relaxed
to pity, and many a tear rolled down to their mustachios.
He took up a little favourite dog, that clung to his steps,
and passed it to a friend, who was looking on, and as he

gave away the dog, we witnessed a slight faltering, as of
overpowering feeling. But he recovered in a moment,
and walked to his place with a countenance not only undaunted,
but gay, and with a firm and elastic step. They
were preparing the handkerchief as usual. But he calmly
waved them off. “I wish,” said he, “to gain converts
to the Patriot cause, by showing these people how a
Patriot looks when he dies. Look you all at the face of
a Patriot soldier.” At the same time he cast a calm and
imposing look round the multitude. He put his right
hand over his left breast, requesting them to aim at his
hand. He waved the other gracefully over his head,
shouting, Viva la republica! Two more were executed.
De Benvelt, his daughters, myself and five other Americans,
and the women, two or three old men, and the
children, were remanded to prison, to wait, as we were
told, further orders in our case. The bodies of those
that had been executed, were thrown into a gully, promiscuously,
and so slightly covered with earth, that the wolves
and the vultures, as I was afterwards informed, removed
the earth, and made them their prey.

When we returned to the calabozo, we were not indeed
so crowded, and the parties were delivered from the
fears of immediate death. But even the absence of the
crowd of the preceding night had its horrors. What had
become of so many people, but a few hours before so
clamorous in their griefs, and sharing with us the sorrows
of existence? Mothers had lost their sons, wives their
husbands, and there was more than one young Spanish
mother, with her long and swarthy visage, and her intensely
black eyes suffused with tears, nursing the babe at
her breast, whose father had just been shot down. Words
convey but a feeble idea of such a scene. Memory has

preserved it in my mind with a painful fidelity. The
daughters and the father were still more earnest in their
thanksgivings for deliverance, than they had been in their
prayers of preparation.

A number of weary days elapsed in this dreary place,
without bringing any change or any intelligence of what
was going on aboard. My fair companions continued the
same noble and affectionate deportment to their father
and to me, as before. They lay down on their mouldy
straw, and endured their evils, and swallowed their miserable
fare with cheerfulness. When I felt it necessary
to recur to the uncertainty of our case, as yet unsettled,
they assured me that they were prepared for any form
either of joy or sorrow. A trial now presented itself to
them, which appeared to be too heavy for even their fortitude
to sustain. The gay and honest-hearted Saxon had
been free, and rather epicurean in his habits, and had
been so long accustomed to the luxuries of the table, and
the cleanliness and comfort of an opulent mansion, that
his wound, confinement, miserable food, filth, and vermin,
together with the gloom of his prospects, and the agonizing
feelings of a father at beholding his daughters in such a
condition, strongly affected his general health. His countenance
grew pale and bloated. His habit was feverish,
and he pined in remembrance of what had been, over the
coarse and unsavory provisions that they brought us. “I
was prepared,” said Wilhelmine, “to see him fall by a
soldier's death, when I expected to share it with him. It
is too much to see him linger and die in this way, with
the sad prospect of surviving him in this horrible place.”
The other daughters had their forebodings too, but neither
of them ever spoke on the subject in the presence of the
other. It was only when the father and the other daughters

were beyond hearing in the dungeon, that the remaining
one relieved the oppression of her heart in consulting
with me on this gloomy subject. My own anticipations,
it is true, were of the same kind. I saw that he could
not long survive this state of things, in this place. But I
spoke as cheerfully as I could, and bade them hope,
assuring them I was persuaded something would soon
happen to brighten our prospects.

My prediction was soon accomplished. I had all along
indulged the hope, that the affectionate Bryan would not
be idle, if he lived. I entertained a confident hope, that
he did live. He was well mounted, adroit, shrewd, and
one of those men, who have the character, and maintain
the standing, that render them acceptable to all parties. I
had, also, a faint impression, that I had seen him, on the
day of the execution, mixed with the spectators and the
Royal troops, and wearing the badge by which the Royalists
distinguished themselves from the Patriots. I
had not a doubt of his fidelity, and was satisfied that
if, indeed, it was he, the badge was only assumed the
more effectually to serve me. When my hopes of aid
from that quarter, were almost extinct, and I had begun
to think, that he was dead, or had forgotten me, as I was
standing one evening by the small grated aperture, by
which the little air and light we had, was let in upon us,
and while I was attempting to catch the last glimpses of
the sun, sinking behind the hills, I heard a slight noise, as
the scratching of something on the logs, outside of the grate.
Bringing my face in contact with the grate, I saw a paper
on the end of one of those immensely long reeds, that
grow by the streams in this region. I put my fingers
through the grates and took it. To my surprize and joy,
it was from Bryan, and ran thus. “God bless your Honor!

I am here all the time, and would stay more, but I am
afraid they will guess, what I would be at, bother them!
I hope, your Honor don't think, I am an Orange man, for
all I wear the king's ribband. They'll always find Bryan
as true as steel. I thought, may be I could do something
for you at the Conde's So I turns king's man, and goes
there. The Conde is a gentleman after all, for he has
tried to get you and your friend's family off. But the
young Don, and the father, and the colonel, and all the
rest, the devil burn them, were for shooting you down,
like the rest. They are a little afraid of the Americans.
I can see that. The most the Conde could do, was to
have you brought to Durango, and tried over before him
and the rest, but the young Don swears that he will see
to the hanging of you there. `Two words,' says I, `my lad,
to that bargain.' So they mean to bring you and the Dutchman
to Durango, and hang you there, Devil roast them, and
then put you up on the tower, like dead crows in a cornfield,
to scare the rest. Never you fear. There are
some in the Conde's palace, that love you better than
I. We will have you off yet, in spite of devil or dobbie.”

And in truth, in the evening, we were directed to prepare
ourselves the next morning, to be marched to Durango,
and be tried on the charge of rebellion. Accordingly,
at an early hour in the morning, the drums again rolled
at the door, and we were taken out, and put in a six-horse
waggon, and under the guard of a full company of Royal
regulars, we were started for Durango. Nothing marked
the monotonous sadness of this journey, but the accustomed
sweetness, patience, and sadness, of the young ladies, and
the declining health and spirits, and the low mournings of
the father, as the jostling tortured his wound. He and I
were pinioned fast, which rendered the journey more intolerable.

We had a couple of sub-officers in the waggon
with us, another circumstance, not at all to have been desired.
At night, we were removed from the waggon with
the most guarded caution, and were placed on straw in
the wretched mesons, to find what sleep we could, devoured
by vermin, and surrounded by rabble of all sorts,
and guarded by soldiers, drunk with agua ardiente, or
vino mezcal. After a number of weary days and nights,
so spent, I saw the young ladies reaching their heads from
under the canvass, and their eyes were filled with tears.
`Yonder,” said Wilhelmine, clasping her hands, “yonder
are the mountains of Durango. How often have I looked
at their blue heads, when I was free and happy.” I, too,
aroused myself at this intelligence, and looked abroad. The
evening was drawing on. I observed a cloud of dust at
a distance, nearing us with great rapidity. Our escort
comprehended, that there was trouble in the wind, for
they immediately prepared themselves for an attack.

In five minutes from the first view of the dust, we discovered
a body of horse, completely armed, and with the
Patriot badge. They shouted, “a rescue,” in a voice of
thunder, and in the next instant, the two parties were at
blows. Whatever amount of interest we felt in this contest,
we had nothing to do, but to be spectators, as patient
as we might, and await the issue. Among the hundred
contests of this sort, that took place unrecorded, during
the bloody struggles of the revolution in Mexico, this was
one of the fiercest and most hotly contested. The matter
was decided by the sabre, and each party appeared to
be entirely in earnest. Wounds were mutually given, and
heads cloven without mercy. At one moment the ladies
shrieked, and the Royalists seemed to prevail. At the
next, a fortunate blow from a Patriot sabre, inclined the

scale of victory towards them. It was the first time I had
seen brightness return to De Benvelt's eye, since the fatal
field of Palos Blancos. Even his phlegm and despondency
were thoroughly aroused, to see the issue of this
combat. “Mein Gott,” said he, as he saw a successful
Patriot cut with the sabre, “dat was well done! Dunder
and blixum! give them another my poy of the same sort.”
The Patriots were the more numerous party, and, as was
generally the case, fought the fiercest. But the Royalists
sustained the fight, until the small area of the battle-ground
was slippery with blood, and the greater number, on both
sides, were either killed or placed by wounds hors de combat.
The Royalists, completely surrounded, at length threw
down their arms, and called for quarter. The captain of
the Patriots, accompanied by Bryan, whom I saw from the
first, playing his part manfully in this business, came up to
us, all covered with blood, as they were, and shook us by
the hand, informing us that we were free. The captain
of the Royalists was slain. The Patriot chief informed
the next surviving officer, that his only object in this affair
was our rescue, that having achieved that purpose, he had
nothing further to do with him or with us. He ordered
the prisoners to clear themselves, and to let him see them
so far away, as to leave no fear of their annoying us, and
that he should then shift for himself. He, however, very
kindly offered us his services, and advised us, to fly in the
direction which should seem to promise us the fairest
chance of escape from the Royalists.

While the Patriot captain was attending to his own
wounded, and the Royalists gathering up theirs, Bryan
gave me the particulars of this plan for our rescue. The
Conde had so far evinced himself an honest man, that,
against every effort of his intended son-in-law, and the

father confessor, he had exerted himself to the utmost, to
obtain our acquittal, and permission for us to depart unmolested
to the United States. He urged my character,
and my interposition for his rescue from the assassins, as
good ground for extending this favor to me and my friends.
He was overruled in both requests, and had the further
mortification to hear himself charged in the court, with a
guilty dereliction of principle, and a leaning towards the
Patriot cause. It was so obvious to himself, and every
one else, that he had no longer any officient influence in
the council, that he resigned his command in disgust. A
coolness existed between him and colonel Pedro and the
father confessor on the subject. He took Bryan home
with him, and they planned together the means of our rescue,
as we were coming to Durango, according to the
order of the council. It was no difficult thing, on an estate
like his, containing many thousands of tenants, all personally
known to him, and generally devoted to him, to find
enough brave and trusty men, and Patriots in principle, to
form the company, that effected our release. “But,”
said Bryan, “your Honor will see, that he never showed
a finger in the business. The business was all managed on
the back stairs. As soon as your Honor and your friends
here are off, he will seem as sorry for your escape, as the
rest. They will send out for you, and may be, put a
price on your heads, as they have done for others. He
will agree to it, all one as the rest, ay, and will join in the
hue and cry against you, just as though he were at a buffalo
hunt.”

Here then we were, on an open plain, forty miles from
Durango, free indeed, but one of the party wounded, and
weak, three ladies to encumber us, and surrounded with
pursuit, danger, and death, on every side. The Patriot

captain proposed our taking any number of the horses,
and any provisions, arms, and amunition, that we wished
for in our flight, assuring us, it would be but right, to levy
these articles from the Royalists. We consulted with
him, as an experienced and trusty adviser, respecting our
best course for flight. Between us and the United States,
on the only practicable rout, were three hundred leagues,
and the Royal army, with scouts and patrols, by whom we
could not fail to be intercepted. Besides, the sinking
strength of De Benvelt, was entirely unequal to any distant
flight. In front of us was a city, strongly garrisoned
by Royal troops, and our only efficient friend obliged to
assume the appearance of enmity. The Patriot commander
only waited, until we should elect the direction of our
flight, and was impatient to be gone. The sun was sinking
behind the blue summits of the mountains, and their shadows
already covered us and the scene of battle with a cooling
shade. “Let us fly,” said Wilhelmine, “to these mountains.
Any direction is better, than to remain by this
scene of carnage. I have always loved mountains. They
lift their sheltering heads, in their unchangeable repose,
and remind me of the unfailing shelter over the friendless,
the unchangeable protection of that Omnipotent Being,
who formed them. Let us call on the rocks and the
mountains to shelter us. Let us dwell in dens and caves
of the earth, and escape forever from man, and these
sickening scenes of battle and blood. You shall be our
shepherd. We will be shepherdesses. We will find a
soft and mossy couch for my poor father. We will nurse
him, and cheer him, and sing to him; and we will live on
fruits and game, and water from the spring.” All this
pastoral counsel was uttered in a tone, that partook partly
of dismay, and the terrors of the recent combat, and the
groans of the dying, that still rung in our ears, and partly
of a wild, half frantic, and assumed gaiety. But on
second thought, it struck the captain, and it struck us all,
as the most prudent plan, which, in present circumstances,
could be devised. We hailed Wilhemine's rhapsody, as
the result of inspiration. The younger sisters and the
father fell in with the proposal. Bryan declared, that he
was with us for life and for death, and that where we
went, if we would allow him, there he would go too. “To
the caves of the mountains,” was the general voice. The
captain gave us counsel and aid. The waggon that had
brought us, was unloaded of all unnecessary articles.
From the slain we were furnished with an ample supply
of every kind of arms and amunition. From the baggage
waggon of the Royalist troops, which they had left on the
field of battle, provisions, axes, implements, and whatever
articles a hasty consideration of our probable wants dictated,
as requisite, we took. We had six horses to our waggon,
and we selected two of the best, that were left on the
field, and fastened them by the bridle to our waggon.
We were most scrupulous on the score of provisions, exhausting
the Patriots, as well as securing all that had
been left by the Royalists. Bryan mounted as driver of
our waggon. We disposed of our party, amidst sacks of
bread, and pikes, and muskets, somewhat more comfortably,
than we had come thus far. The Patriot captain
walked apart with me, and we held a private communication
for a moment. The Royalists were already gone
with their wounded beyond sight. We tendered solemn
and grateful thanks to our intrepid deliverer. He wheeled
with his company in one direction. We waited until the
measured gallop of their horses, was no longer heard
over the plain. Then we took a direction at right angles
to the road, and in the nearest direction to the mountains.

We arrived at their bases, just as the last twilight was
fading from the sky. As is usual, where the smooth prairie
is continued to the foot of mountains, we were arrested
by a high perpendicular wall. We groped along upon its
side some little distance, until a narrow opening admitted
us under an immense projection, rising like an arehed roof,
and its summit reaching an hundred feet in advance of its
base, over the plain. Such shelters are common in such
situations, and the wild buffaloes, we saw, had found an
asylum here before us. It offered us a most welcome shelter
for the weary De Benvelt and his daughters, from a
tempest that seemed to be approaching. It was barricaded
on three sides by impassible heights of rock. At
the entrance, we placed our waggon, as a defence. We
unharnessed our horses, and took the usual precaution to
prevent their escape, and turned them out to their repast
on the prairie. Bryan and myself put ourselves cheerfully
to the operation of wood-cutting. Our hoary cavern
was soon illumined with a blazing fire. We prepared a
couch for the weary and wounded Saxon, of the cushions
and buffalo robes of the waggon, and we placed him, as
he said, more at his ease, than he had been, since the battle.
We made a table of the planks of the waggon. Barrels
of bread and provisions, furnished us with chairs.
We brought forth cold provisions, and excellent Parso,
which we had plundered from Ferdinand the VII. Bryan
would even add chocolate to our preparations. With
blankets and cloaks we formed cushions for the ladies.
The gathering tempest of thunder and rain, would shield
us from pursuit, until another day should enable us to
hunt a deeper and securer retreat. We were at once

most comfortably sheltered from the storm and from danger,
and the open front of our shelter gave us a full and
sublime view of the objects below us, as they became distinctly
visible for the moment by the gleams of lightning.
The whole surface of the boundless prairie below us, in
the intervals of the lightning, was lurid with the feebler
and darting radiance of millions of glow-worms. Cheered
by the domestic blaze of our fire, we sat down to our repast.
Nothing would persuade Bryan to lay aside his observance,
as a servant, and take his place at table with us,
as we requested him. But all his Irish vivacity was visible
in his good nature and fresh countenance, as he
waited upon our table. The contrast of the tempest and
thunder abroad, compared with our late loathsome abode
in the calabozo, and our pinioned imprisonment in our
waggon, as we journeyed to Durango, thoughts of our destiny
after we should arrive there, the bloody contest
which had effected our deliverance from these dangers,
the shelter, the comforts, the smoking chocolate, and the
fragrant Parso, received, under these circumstances, a
zest, which nothing else could have given. De Benvelt ate
with an appetite, which he had not known for a long time,
remarking, that he should be content to live here, during
the rest of his days, and never give the Royalists any
more trouble about the “tamned liberties,” if they would only
let him alone, and leave him to the care of his son, and
his dear daughters. If we could only find him some safe
retreat like this, in the mountains, and never let him see a
“tamned Creole” more, he was sure, that he should recover
of his wound, and gain his flesh and his appetite again.
To hear their father talk in this way, brightened the faces
of the daughters. They began to chat with their wonted
reckless gaiety, and to find themes for conversation and
amusement, in their late adventures, and to descant upon
the new character of shepherdesses, that they proposed to
assume. We began to compare our situation here, with
our condition upon mount Mixtpal, and the ladies, whom
recent events had inspired with new dislike of the Creole
character, considered it a circumstance in favor of our
present condition, that we had none of them here. We
even took it as a good omen for the future, that Providence,
on our first approach to the mountains, just as a
storm was impending, had furnished such a desirable shelter,
as we might, at other times, have sought whole days
without finding. The only circumstance to be regretted,
was that in the morning, we should be obliged, in regard
to our future safety, to renounce it, and seek in the mountains
for one more remote from inspection, and more easily
defended. To our present retreat we could be traced
even by the marks of the wheels, and the feet of the horses.
There was no danger at least for this night. Every thing
that could, would be sheltered, while such a storm raged
abroad. We jointly agreed, that in gratitude for such a
great and happy deliverance, we ought to wave all apprehensions,
cast our fears, as far as we could, to the winds,
and place a simple trust in Him, who had, thus far, so graciously
and wonderfully delivered us, and who thus called
upon us, to trust Him for the future. To this strain of
conversation, De Benvelt said, “Dat is right, my tear
girls. This chocolate tasted right good, and I feel the
wine warm at my stomach. Hear how the storm rages.
Mein Gott! what would have become of me, if we had
found no shelter? Mein Gott is good. Tear girls, say me
de prayers, in de pure old Tuch, and sing me that sweet
hymn, which talks about fader land.” Without a second
request, the daughters began to chant together, the Saxon
Lutheran service, and having finished it, their sweet voices
chimed in concert, as they sung their father's favorite
hymn. As they sunk on their bended knees on the stone
pavement, the thunder roaring abroad, the light of our
fire casting its flickering shadows upon the grey vault of
stone above us, tears of thankfulness and sensibility streaming
down their cheeks, and their flowing locks of auburn
shading their fair faces, as with a veil, our devotions
might have vied in interest with those of the Vatican.
Bryan, deeply affected, retired to a little distance, and began
to chant the evening service to the Virgin. Taken
all together, it was an occasion to inspire the proper feelings
of prayer and thanksgiving in any heart, that was not
incurably hardened against those feelings. I am sure,
that the best feelings of my heart went up in thankfulness
to the Divine throne. Our devotions finished, Bryan and
myself, with a little direction from the ladies, prepared
rustic, but entirely comfortable couches for the family.
As for him and myself, we scraped together an abundance
of fresh leaves, spread cloaks over them, and lay down
on a couch, sufficiently soft for wearied soldiers.

With the first gleams of morning light, Bryan and I
arose, and took a long ramble on the mountains. The
sun was bright in the sky, and the morning glittering with
the renovation, in the sultry days, derived from a copious
shower, when we returned to the family. They had
slept profoundly, and were refreshed, but had become
painfully anxious on account of our absence. We took
a breakfast as cheerful as our supper. The clouds were
all dispersed, and the mountains reeked with rolling
wreaths of mists, that look so beautiful upon their summits,
after a great rain. The perfect clearness of the day,
admonished us, that it was now we ought to be apprehensive

of pursuit. I had found a practicable defile for our
horses, far into the mountains. However reluctantly, we
were compelled to leave our waggon here. De Benvelt
felt himself so much refreshed and better, that he thought
he was able to ride. We packed part of our baggage on
the three spare horses. We secured the provisions and
articles, that were reserved to be carried up at another
ascent, and, Bryan and myself occasionally on foot, we began
slowly to wind round the spiral line of the defile.
De Benvelt soon complained of pain and fatigue, and
shortly after declared himself unable to endure his situation
any longer. The daughters dismounted, and we
placed their father at his ease, under the shade of a tree,
and left them to fan him, and bestow upon him their filial
attentions, while Bryan and I went in search of a place,
which should afford the three requisites, that our case called
for, shelter, secrecy, and defence.

At an elevation of perhaps twelve hundred feet, and at
the distance of a league and a half from the base of the
mountains, we found a limestone cavern, of narrow entrance,
which two persons might be able to defend against
a hundred and yet the opening admitted light and air,
sufficient for habitance and comfort. At the foot was a
small table plain, beautifully variegated with herbs and
flowers, sheltered by precipitous cliffs, and shaded with
fine sycamores, and still further accommodated with
a rivulet of pure and cool water, which gushed out in different
springs at the foot of the rocks. A full mile of the
defile below us, in all its windings, was completely under
the eye, from the foot of the cavern, so that we could
discern the approach of assailants, a considerable time before
they could reach us. Paroquets, red-birds, mocking
birds, nightingale sparrows, and a variety of unknown

birds of beautiful song and plumage, flitted and carolled
among the branches of the sycamores. Alpine flowers
were associated on the margin of the stream, with the
splendid cups of the tropical flowering plants. A thousand
butterflies of great size, and of all the hues of the rainbow,
fluttered from flower to flower. On the marjoram and
thyme, hummed the mountain bee. Multitudes of humming
birds, of plumage indescribably splendid, and quick
as lightning in their motions, darted from flower to flower.
The capability of the place to supply our wants, for a long
concealment, was still increased by the circumstance, that
herds of wild cattle, deer, and buffaloes, must pass near
this cavern in winding their way up and down the mountains.

Bryan held up his hands in astonishment. “Now,”
said he, “in the name of St. Patrick, this thing is a sure
sign that your Honor is under the care of the saints.
Where could we find another such a place upon the
earth? It seems just made to our hands.” In truth,
taken all in all, it was a little paradise, hid in the mountains
exactly for our case. The only difficulty was, to
get our family moved up to it. I left Bryan to cut down
the bushes at the entrance, and take the rude, but necessary
preliminary steps, towards fitting the cave for habitance,
while I descended to assist the family to ascend to
it. We had left them at the midway distance between
this place and the plain. De Benvelt had been refreshed
by rest, and the cool of the shade. The family mounted
their horses again. We drove the baggage horses before
us, and we were tediously employed four hours in mounting
up to the cavern. The family were as much delighted
with the place as we had been. In front of it was range
for our horses, and with the little fitting up, for which we
had ample means, we should have a commodious mansion,

in perfect keeping with the sweet little plain in front of it.
Bryan had seen enough of the new countries, as he called
them, to have learned all the little fetches and contrivances
of a backwoodsman. And to a person who has been
bred in cities, where all the labors of the mechanic arts
are so divided, and carried to so high a finish, it is incredible
how comfortable a backwoodsman will render his
cabin with only skins of the chase, and a few of the simplest
tools and implements. We furnished our beds with
frames fixed on crotches. We had our permanent table.
The Spanish beard, or long moss, furnished soft and
elastic mattresses. The young ladies, with the cheerfulness
and even gaiety of rustic brides, fitting up the cabins
of their bridegrooms, put their hands to the furnishing and
arranging the comforts of our new abode. We made
their father and them a comfortable place for sleeping,
before night, we projected a hundred improvements for
the morrow, and our thoughts were already expatiating
in the natural range from utility to ornament; for the
young ladies observed, that they intended to be shepherdesses
of taste, and genuine Arcadians, and would have
matters within to correspond with so sweet a place without.
We had our prayers at the close of the day, and our
hymn of thankfulness from our fair chaplains. As his
daughters assisted De Benvelt to his clean and fresh moss
couch, “Now, mein Gott,” said he, “be thanked. This
is the first place where I have stretched myself at ease,
since I have been hunting the tamned liberties.”