University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

How intoxicating is the love of power; and how madly
the votaries of ambition whirl to the vortex of that moral
Corbrechtan, which has ingulfed so many hapless victims.
Our own noble Washington stands forth a bright beacon
to warn every ruler, civil or military, of the thundering
whirlpool. Father of your country! you stand alone on
the pedestal of greatness; and slowly rolling years shall
pour their waters into the boundless deep of eternity ere
another shall be placed beside you.

When Iturbide attempted to free his oppressed countrymen
from the crushing yoke of Spanish thralldom, Liberty
was the watchword. Success crowned his efforts—sovereign
power lay before him. He grasped it, and made himself
a despot. Ambition hurled him from the throne of the
Montezumas, and laid his proud head low. A new star
rose on the stormy horizon of the west; pure and softly
fell the rays on the troubled thousands round. The voice
of the new comer said “Peace,” and the wild tumult sub

sided. Ten years passed; Santa Anna culminated. The
gentle tones of the arch deceiver were metamorphosed into
the tiger's growl, the constitution of 1824 subverted in a
day, and he ruled in the room of the lost Iturbide.

The Alamo was garrisoned. Dark bodies of Mexican
troops moved heavily to and fro, and cannon bristled from
the embrasures. The usually quiet town was metamorphosed
into a scene of riot and clamor, and fandangos, at
which Bacchus rather than Terpsichore presided, often
welcomed the new-born day. The few Americans[1] in San
Antonio viewed with darkened brows the insolent cavaliers.
The gauntlet was flung down—there was no retraction, no
retreat. They knew that it was so, and girded themselves
for a desperate conflict.

The declaration of independence was enthusiastically
hailed by the brave-hearted Texans, as they sprang with
one impulse to support the new-born banner, that floated
so majestically over the sunny prairies of their western
home. Mechanic, statesman, plowboy, poet, pressed forward
to the ranks, emulous of priority alone. A small, but
intrepid band, they defied the tyrant who had subverted
the liberties of his country; defied Santa Anna and his
fierce legions, and spurned the iron yoke which the priests
of Mexico vainly strove to plant upon their necks. Liberty,

civil and religious, was the watchword, and desperately
they must struggle in the coming strife.

Mañuel Nevarro had eagerly enlisted in the Mexican
ranks, and in a few weeks after General Cos's arrival,
donned his uniform. Thus accoutred, he presented himself,
for the first time since their disagreement, before Inez,
who had but recently returned from San Jose, doubting
not that her admiration of his new dress would extend to
him who filled it. In truth, his was a fine form and handsome
face; yet sordid selfishness, and, in common parlance,
“a determination to have his own way,” were indelibly
stamped upon his countenance.

Inez was busily preparing the evening meal when he
entered; and though perfectly aware of his presence, gave
no indication of it. He stood aside and watched her movements,
as she shaped and turned the tortillas. Presently
she began to sing

As the mournful cadence died away, she turned, and
started with well-feigned surprise on meeting the piercing
glance fixed upon her.

“Ah, Mañuel!” She held out both hands, with a most

amicable expression of countenance. He grasped them,
and would have kissed her beautiful lips, but she slipped
adroitly to one side—“No, no! Mañuel. I'll not permit
that till I am Señora Nevarro.”

“And when will that be, Señorita?”

“Not till the war is over.”

“But it has not begun yet; and it will be many moons
before we whip these cursed Americanos.”

“How many, think you, Mañuel?”

“I can't tell, Inez; therefore we will not wait till the
war is over. The Padre is ready any time, and why not
marry at once?”

“Sacra Dios! I'll do no such thing.”

“And why not, Inez?”

“Because they might kill you, Mañuel, and then what
would become of me?”

“You would be as well off then as now; there would
be no difference, only you would be married. You will
mourn, any how, if I am killed.”

“How do you know I would?” Her Spanish eyes
twinkled as she spoke; but for fear of going too far, she
laid her hand on his shoulder. Mañuel turned sharply
round.

“You deserve to be shot, Mañuel, for joining in a miff.
Why didn't you tell me you were going to be a soldier?”

He grasped her hand tighter, but made no reply.

“I say, why did not you tell me first?”

“And if I had told you, what then?”

“Why, I should not have let you do it, you savage. If
you had only asked me, I might be willing to marry you

next week. But as it is, I am not going to be left a widow,
I can tell you.”

“Inez, I don't believe you care whether I am killed or
not. I do not understand you at all.”

The girl's eyes filled, and her lip quivered with emotion.
“Mañuel, do you think me a brute? There is nobody
to love Inez but her father and you. I am not cold hearted.”

“You speak truth, Inez; and my uncle will not live very
long, for he has seen many years. When he is gone, there
will be nobody to take care of you but me; so the sooner
we are married the better.”

“Not so. You must come and see us as often as you
can till the war is over; but I will marry no one now.”

“Will you promise it shall be as soon as the war is
over?”

Inez coquettishly tossed her beautiful head, and advancing
to the fire, gayly exclaimed—“While we talked the
tortillas burned. Come, eat some supper. I know they
are as good as those you get at the Alamo.”

Mañuel seated himself on a buffalo-robe, and while partaking
of the evening meal, Inez chatted away on indifferent
subjects, asking, during the conversation, what news
had been received from the Texan army.

“We got news to-day that they are marching down to
Gonzales, but I am thinking they will find hot work.”

“How many men may we number, Mañuel, and think
you the chances are for us?”

“By the blessed Virgin, if we were not ten to five,
Mañuel Nevarro would not eat his tortilla in peace. The

Captain says we will scatter them like pecans in a high
wind.”

“What bone is there to fight for at Gonzales?”

“Cannon, Inez, cannon. Don't you know we sent a
thousand men to bring it here, and the white rascal sent
five hundred to keep it there. By the Virgin, we will see
who gets it!”

“Holy Mother protect us! Mañuel, take care of yourself,
man, and rush not into danger. It will profit you little
that we have many men, if some strong arm tells your
length on the sward.”

“Never fear, Inez—never fear. We must not stop till
every American turns his back on the Alamo, and his face
to the East.”

“But you will not harm those that live here in peace
with all men?”

“The Padre told our General, yesterday, that we must
fight till all submitted, or the last American child was
driven to the far bank of the Sabine.”

Inez laid her hand on his arm, and looking him full in
the face, asked, in a low tone—“Mañuel, would you help
to drive Mary from her home among us? She who nursed
me in sickness, and bound the white bread to your bleeding
arm, and made the tea for my dying mother, when none
other came to help? Mañuel! Mañuel! she is alone in
the world, with only her cousin. Spare Mary in her little
home; she hurts none, but makes many to die in peace.”

Mañuel's face softened somewhat, but he replied in the
same determined tone—“The Padre says she is an accursed
heretic, and he will not rest till she is far away.

But I tell you now, Inez, she will not be harmed; for he
said he would see that she was protected, and would himself
take her to a place of safety. He said she had been
kind to our people, and none should molest her or her
cousin; but leave all to him.”

“If the Padre promised, he will place them in safety;
he never forgets to do what he says. I am satisfied, Manuel;
and for the rest of the Americans, the sooner they are
driven out the better.”

“You say truly, Inez, the sooner the better: all, all shall
go, even their Doctor, that carries himself with such a
lordly air, and sits in saddle as though never man had horse
before. But the moon is up; I must return, for I watch
to-night, and must be back in time.” He put on his hat
as he spoke.

“Mañuel, come as often as you can, and let me know
what is going on. You are the only one whose word I believe;
there are so many strange tales nowadays, I put
little faith in any. And before you go, put this crucifix
about your neck: 'twill save you in time of danger, and
think of Inez when you see it.” She undid the fastening
which held it round her own throat, and pressing it to her
lips, laid it in his hand.

Astonished at a proof of tenderness so unexpected, Manuel
caught her in his arms, but disengaging herself, she
shook her finger threateningly at him, and pointed to the
door. He lighted his cigarrita, and promising to come often,
returned to the Alamo.

Left alone, the Spanish maiden sought her own apartment,
muttering as she ascended the steps—“The Padre

protect you, Mary! Yes, even as the hawk the new chicken.
Take thee to a place of safety! even as the eagle
bears the young lamb to his eyrie. Yes, Mañuel, I have
bound the handkerchief about your eyes. You think I love
you, and trust both Padre and crucifix! Trust on, I too
have been deceived.”