University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.

The 6th of March rose dark and lowering, and all nature
wore an aspect meet for the horrors which that day
chronicled in the page of history. Toward noon the dense
leaden cloud floated off, as though the uncertainty which
vailed the future had suddenly been lifted—the crisis had
come. Santa Anna and his blood-thirsty horde, rendered
more savage by the recollection of the 11th December,
poured out the vial of their wrath on the doomed town.
Oh! San Antonio, thou art too beautiful for strife and
discord to mar thy quiet loveliness. Yet the fiery breath
of desolating war swept rudely o'er thee, and, alas! thou
wast sorely scathed.

A second time the ill-fated fortress was fiercely charged.

Long it withstood the terrible shock, and the overwhelming
thousands that so madly pressed its gray, mouldering
walls. The sun went down as it were in a sea of blood,
its lurid light, gleaming ominously on the pale, damp
brows of the doomed garrison. Black clouds rolled up and
vailed the heavens in gloom. Night closed prematurely
in with fitful gusts, mingling the moans and strife of nature
with the roar of artillery. Still the fury of the onset
abated not: the Alamo shook to its firm basis. Despairingly
the noble band raised their eyes to the blackened
sky. “God help us!” A howling blast swept by, lost in
the deep muttering of the cannonade. Then a deep voice
rung clearly out, high above the surrounding din: “Comrades,
we are lost! let us die like brave men!”

The shriek of departing hope was echoed back by the
sullen groan of despair. Travis fell, fighting at the entrance.
As the hero sank upon the gory floor, there was
a pause; friend and foe gazed upon the noble form! His
spirit sprung up to meet his God.

“On, comrades! Travis has fallen! dearly will we die!”

One hundred and fifty brave hearts poured out their life-blood
by his motionless form, struck down like sheep in the
slaughter-pen. But seven remained: in despair they gazed
on the ruin around, reeling from exhaustion and slipping
in gore. There was borne on the midnight air a faint,
feeble cry: “Quarter! quarter!” Alas! brave hearts,
the appeal was lost, for an incarnate demon led the thirsty
band. With a fiendish yell it was answered back, “No
quarter!” and ye seven were stretched beside your fearless,
noble Travis.

Not a living Texan remained. The stiffening forms,
grim in death, returned not even a groan to the wild shout
of triumph that rung so mockingly through the deserted
chambers of the slaughter-house. Victory declared for the
wily tyrant—the black-hearted Santa Anna. Complete
was the desolation which reigned around: there was none
to oppose—no not one; and the Alamo was his again!
Oh, Death! thou art insatiate! Hundreds had yielded to
thy call, and followed the beckoning of thy relentless hand:
and still another must swell thy spectre host, and join the
shadowy band of the Spirit World!

For three days Don Garcia lay motionless on his couch
of pain; even utterance was denied him, for paralysis had
stretched forth her numb, stiffening finger, and touched
him, even while he stood in the busy haunts of men. All
day the din of battle had sounded in his ear; Inez from
time to time stole from his side, and looked out toward the
fortress, dimly seen through the sulphurous cloud of smoke
and the blaze of artillery.

In the silent watches of the night, the shout of “Victory!”
was borne on by the blast. “My father, the Alamo is
taken—Santa Anna has conquered!” He struggled fearfully,
a gurgling sound alone passed his lips, and he fell back
lifeless on his pillow.

Calmly the girl bent down and closed the eyes, covered
decently the convulsed features, and then, shrouding her
face with the mantilla, stept forth for assistance. The
next day saw the Don borne to his last resting-place. In
accordance with the custom of the nation, no female followed
the bier. It was borne by two men, and followed

by some dozen children, and perhaps as many aged Mexicans.
While just in advance strode the Padre, repeating
the Latin service for the dead, and attended by four boys
—two bearing censers, one a cross, and the other holy
water. With indecent haste they pressed forward, passing
through the church, and resting the bier for a moment
on the altar, while an Ave Maria was repeated. At a
sign from the Padre, the procession moved on to the church-yard,
and, without further ceremony, the body deposited
in consecrated ground. Holy water was sprinkled profusedly
around, and then all departed, leaving him to sleep
undisturbed the last dreamless sleep.

Night found Inez sitting alone by her dreary, deserted
hearth. Father, mother, sister, cousin, all had passed
on before her; and the last of her house, she mused in her
lonely home. A faint fire flickering on the hearth just
revealed the form and face of the Mexican maiden. Her
mantilla lay on the floor beside her, the black hair, thick
and straight, hung to the waist, her brilliant, piercing eyes
were bent vacantly on the fire, her dark cheek perfectly
colorless as clay.

“Who is there to care for Inez now? Who will
smoothe my pillow, and close my eyes, and lay me to
rest?”

Her desolation of heart conquered; her head sunk upon
her bosom, and a deep, bitter groan burst from her lips.
Slowly she rocked herself to and fro in the loneliness
of her spirit.

She had not loved her father warmly; there was little
congeniality between them, and her hasty rejection of

Mañuel's suit mutually embittered their intercourse. For
Nevarro, a sort of sisterly feeling was entertained, no
warmer affection. Yet she could love intensely. A little
sister had waked her tenderness—her heart clung to the
gentle child, so unlike herself. She sickened, and in
a day went down to the tomb: bitter was the grief of
Inez, who felt little for her mother, and soon she too took
her place in the church-yard. Dr. Bryant came, and again
Inez loved—again she was disappointed; and now she sat
alone in the wide world, without one remaining tie to bind
the future.

The hour of bitterness had come. She looked upon that
dreary future and her utter desolation, and no gleam of
hope stole to her darkened soul. An almost vacant expression
settled on the dark countenance of the once beautiful
maiden. Softly the door was pushed ajar, and the form of
the Padre stood within. By instinct she seemed aware of
his entrance, for raising her bowed head, the black sparkling
eyes flashed, and the broad brow wrinkled into a
frown dark as night. He approached her, and they stood
face to face upon the hearth.

“What do you here, in the house of death, Mio Padre?”

“Inez, my queen of beauty, I have come to take the
prize for which I toiled. There are none now between
us, no, not one. You need not draw back so proudly.”

A bitter, contemptuous laugh rung out on the night air,
and Inez folded her arms upon her bosom.

“Truly, Padre, we are well mated! You have opposed
me, and I thwarted you! I am your equal: think you
to intimidate me with threats? You should know better!”

“Inez, listen! I leave this place before many days. My
work is finished here; there are none to oppose, and I go
elsewhere. To Mexico first, and then to Italy. You must
go with me, my proud beauty! I can not leave you here!”

Again Inez laughed her mocking laugh. “Go with you,
Mio Padre! No, no; I must decline the honor. The
hour of settlement has come! Alphonso Mazzolin, for
long you have plotted my destruction; and one by one removed
every obstacle in your way, and smoothed my path
to ruin! I have known this—silently I have watched you
manœuvre. You counseled Mañuel; you flattered him,
encouraged his hasty course and overbearing manner, and
caused the rupture between us. You knew my nature, and
foresaw the result. You thought to secure me within the
walls of yonder gloomy convent, and hoped that in time
my broad lands would bless and enrich your holy church!
But, Padre, I did not fancy the home prepared for me in
San Jose. I promised to comply with my father's wish,
and fulfill the engagement, much to your surprise and
chagrin. Padre, I would have married Mañuel, sooner
than second your plans. I, too, foresaw the tempest that
even now howls over us. It was my only hope, and
I said, who may predict the chances of war? The Americans
may yet number the most here, and then your
power will be at an end. Seemingly I was passive, but
you are thwarted. We stand face to face, and I scorn
you, incarnate devil as you are. How dared you do as
you have done? Mine eyes are opened—you can no
longer deceive me with your lying legends and the marvelous
traditions of your country. I tell you, I hate you

with an everlasting hate. You have led me far from God,
if there be a God, and may my curse follow you, even to
your grave!”

Fiercely the glowing face was bent upon him. Hate,
scorn, bitterness of heart, and utter desolation mingled
strangely in the withering glance. The Padre seized her
arm, and hoarsely exclaimed:

“We know each other now: no matter, you can not escape
me: if force be necessary to take you hence, I can
command it at any moment. You know full well my
word is law; resist not, nor further rouse me—there is no
help for you save in submission. I will not leave you.”

“Ere I follow you hence, yonder river shall close over
my body. I tell you now I will not accompany you.”

He stepped to the door and whistled faintly. The next
moment a black-browed soldier stood before them.

“Herrara, she has broken her promise—she refuses to
enter a convent, and she defies me, and scorns our holy
church. I somewhat expected this; and I charge you
now, suffer her not to pass the threshold of her own room;
guard well the door, there is no window. See you, Inez,
you can not escape me?” He whispered in the intruder's
ear, and, promising to come again the ensuing day, left the
house, carefully closing the door after him. Lighting his
cigarrita, Herrara requested Inez to seek her own apartment,
that he might secure the door outside, and then return
to the fire. Without a word she ascended the stairs
to her own room. A chain was passed about the door, and
then the retreating steps of the soldier died away.

What should she do? Inez sat down to collect her

thoughts, and looked round the apartment. The walls
were of solid rock, and in one corner was a small grating
of four iron bars, which admitted light and air, but precluded
all hope of escape in that quarter. The door was
secured, and no means of egress presented itself. Her eye
rested on her lamp, and a smile lit up the dark countenance
of the prisoner. She threw herself on her bed: slowly the
hours rolled—midnight came at last. She rose and listened—no
stir, no sound of life reached her: she glanced
at her lamp, now dim—the light was waning, and softly
stepping across the room, she drew from a basket several
bundles of paper. These she tore in pieces, and placing
them beside the door, drew the lamp near. Inez carefully
twisted up her long black hair, and placed on her head a
broad sombrero, which the Don had worn of late; then
taking his Mexican blanket, she slipped her head through
the opening, and suffered it to fall to her feet. Something
seemed forgotten, and after some little search, she found a
small cotton bag, into which she dropped a polonce, then
secured it beneath the blanket. Queerly enough she looked,
thus accoutred; but apparently the oddity of her appearance
never once crossed her mind, for, stepping across
the floor, she held the pieces of paper over the lamp till
ignited, then quickly thrust them one by one between the
small crack or chink in the centre of the door. It was of
wood, old and dry, and caught like tinder. She watched
it burn; the door was narrow, and the devouring element
soon consumed all save the top and bottom pieces which
extended across. These quivered as their support crumbled
beneath them, and soon would fall with a crash. She
watched her time, and gathering dress and blanket closely
about her, sprang through, and though almost suffocated
with smoke, hurried down to a small door at the rear of the
house. She stood without and listened: Inez fancied she
heard the crackling of the fire, yet there was no time to
lose. Just before her sat a large stone vessel, containing
the soaking corn for the morning tortillos; drawing forth
her bag, she filled it with the swollen grain, and hastened
on to where a small black horse was lassoed, having his
hay scattered on the ground beside him. It was but the
work of a moment to throw on and fasten her father's
saddle, which hung on a neighboring tree, and loosing the
hair larait, she patted the pony she had often ridden on
St. —'s day, and sprang into the seat. Slowly she
passed through the narrow yard, and entered the street;
pausing, she glanced up at her window, and perceived
through the grating the blaze and smoke now filling the
vacant room. Distinctly the clank of the chain fell on her
ear, and turning into an alley, she galloped away.

Inez knew it would be impossible to pass over the bridge,
and down the Alameda without detection, for seven hundred
Mexican troops were stationed on the outskirts of the
town; and, with the celerity of thought, she directed her
way in the opposite direction, toward a shallow portion of
the river, occasionally used as a ford. Happily the distance
was short; and urging her somewhat unwilling horse, she
plunged in. The moon rose full and bright as she reached
the opposite bank; and pausing a moment, she looked back
upon the sleeping town. No sound of life fell on her ear;
and avoiding the beaten track, she turned her horse out on

the grass, and hastened on toward the east, directing her
course so as to pass beyond the Powder-House, which was
dimly seen in the distance. At a quick canter it was soon
passed, and she pressed on to the Salado, some three miles
distant. Full well she knew she would be sought for when
morning dawned; and with such speed she almost flew on,
that sunrise found her many miles from her home. Inez
was fearless, or she would never have dared to undertake
what lay before her. Alone, unprotected, in the guise of a
man, without possessing his ordinary means of defense, there
was much to risk; for Indian depredations were frequent,
and she must traverse a wide waste of almost interminable
length ere reaching any settlement.

When the sunbeams played joyously about her Inez stopped
to rest, and eating a few grains of her treasured corn,
she allowed her horse to graze a short time along the margin
of a stream, where the grass was tender and abundant;
and then remounting, rode on somewhat more leisurely than
she had previously done.