University of Virginia Library

31. CHAPTER XXXI.

A bloody seal was set upon thee, oh! Goliad. A gory
banner bound around thy name; and centuries shall slowly
roll ere thou art blotted from the memory of man.
The annals of the dim and darkened past afford no parallel
for the inhuman deed, so calmly, so deliberately committed
within thy precincts; and the demon perpetrator
escaped unpunished! A perfect appreciation of the spirit
of the text—“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord; I will
repay,” alone can sanction the apathy manifested by one
to whom the world looked as the avenger of his murdered
countrymen.

Rumors of the fall of the Alamo, the overwhelming force
of Santa Anna, and his own imminent danger, had reached
Colonel Fanning. In vain he entreated reinforcements,
in vain urged the risk hourly incurred. The Texan councils
bade him save himself by flight. “Retreat, fly from

the post committed to my keeping!” The words sounded
like a knell on the ear of the noble man to whom they
were addressed. He groaned in the anguish of his spirit,
“I will not leave this fortress—Travis fell defending with
his latest breath the Alamo! Oh, Crocket! Bowie! can I
do better than follow thy example, and give my life in this
true cause?”

An untimely death—the separation and misery of his
darling family, weighed not an atom! “Patria infelici
fidelis!” was ever his motto, and unfaltering was his own
step. There came a messenger from head-quarters—
“Abandon Goliad, and retreat!”

“Colonel, you will not sound a retreat?” and Dr. Bryant
laid his hand upon his commander's arm.

“My God! it is a fearful thing to decide the destinies
of four hundred brave men! Bryant, if we remain it is
certain death—the tragedy of San Antonio will be reacted
in our case!”

“Colonel, you must remember the old saw—`He that
fights and runs away, lives to fight another day,' said a
time-worn ranger, settling his collar with perfect nonchalance.

“Why, Furgeson, do you counsel flight? My brave comrade,
bethink yourself!”

“Well, Colonel, it is something strange for me to say
run; but when I do say it, I am in earnest. The most
hot-headed fellow in our company dare not say I lack courage:
you know as well as I do what they call me—`Bulldog
Furgeson,' but who feels like fighting the grand devil
himself, and his legion of imps to boot? I am a lone man,

and have nothing in particular to live for, it's true; but it
is some object with me to do the most service I can for our
Lone blessed Star! I should like a game with old `Santy'
in a clear ring, and fair play; but I am thinking we had
best take French leave of this place, and join the main
body, where we can fight with some chance ahead. Now
that's my opinion, but if you don't believe that doctrine,
and want to take the `old bull right by the horns,' I say
lets at him.”

A smile passed over the face of his commander.

“Thank you, Furgeson, and rest assured I shall not
doubt your stanch support in time of need.”

Again the broad brow contracted, and, linking his arm
in that of Dr. Bryant, he paced to and fro, engrossed in
earnest, anxious thought. Pausing at length, he pointed
to his troops, awaiting in silence his commands.

“Bryant, at least half those brave fellows have wives
and children, and bright homes, beckoning them away,
yet see them calmly trust to me in this trying hour. Should
my order go forth to man the fort, and meet the worst, I
know full well not a murmur would be heard. Still it is
equally certain that, if we brave the conflict, not one of us
shall survive to tell the tale. What am I to do? Make
this a second Thermopylæ?”

“Peculiarly painful, I know full well, is the situation
in which you are placed. Yet one strong argument remains
to be urged. Colonel, if we desert Goliad, and
sound a retreat, we can not escape. The force of the
enemy is too powerful, their movements too rapid, to allow
us to retire to a place of safety without a desperate encounter.

Is it not better policy to remain here, and meet
the shock?”

“If we fight at all it must be at fearful odds; four hundred
to six thousand! Yet, should I follow the dictates of
my own heart, I would not give one inch!—no, not one!
Dearly they should buy the ground on which I stand!”

“Colonel, shall we not meet them on this spot, and lay
down our lives, as did our brethren of the Alamo?”

“No, by Jove! I shall have to leave, whether I will or
not!” And crumpling the note of orders, he tossed it to
the ground, and pressed it with his heel.

He stepped forth, and drawing his military cap about
his eyes, folded his arms upon his broad chest, and addressed
his troops:

“Comrades! Retreat is no test of an army's bravery,
neither the courage of its commander. In every age and
nation, circumstances have occurred in which the cause
of liberty, or the general welfare of the state, has been promoted
by timely flight rather than desperate engagements.
`The Swamp Fox' often retired to his island of refuge, safe
from invading bands—the daring Sumter was forced at
times to retreat; and even our great Washington fled from
superior forces, and waited till a more convenient season.
Fellow-soldiers: there is one of two steps to be immediately
taken. We will stand to our post, and fall to a
man, like Travis and his noble band, and our names will
go down to posterity as did the Spartans of old,

or else we set out at once for head-quarters, consolidate
our forces, and march united to oppose Santa Anna.

“Comrades, which will ye do?”

No sound was heard along the ranks, each bent his head
and communed with his own spirit; and the image of
their distant, yet cherished homes, rose up and murmured
—“Remember thy weeping wife and thy fair-browed
boy; who will guard them when thou art gone?”

The eagle eye of their brave leader was piercingly bent
on the mute assemblage; the momentary gleam of hope
that lighted his noble countenance faded away. There
came a faint sound of rising voices—it swelled louder, and
louder still:

“God bless our noble Colonel! our brave Fanning!
With him is the issue. Say but the word, and we will
follow!”

“Bryant, I can not sign their death-warrant!” he said,
in a low, subdued tone, sinking his head upon his breast.
He lifted himself up, and raising his voice, calmly replied:

“Had I not received orders to retreat, and if I were not
fully aware that lingering here insured our total destruction,
I should scorn to turn my back upon Goliad! Oh!
gladly I would die in its defense; but your fate is too entirely
in my hands to admit of following my individual
wishes! None know the pang it causes me to sound a
`Retreat,' yet it may be, that the success of our cause demands
it at my hands, and therefore I say, `Retreat, comrades!'—at
dawn to-morrow, we move from Goliad.”

The decree went forth, and the ensuing day saw the
doomed band moving eastward toward head-quarters they
were destined never to reach.

On arriving at Goliad, Dr. Bryant had immediately enlisted,

after placing Inez in safety at the house of an aged
Señora of her nation; and no sooner was it decided to
leave the town the following day than he sought his Spanish
friend.

She was sitting alone when he entered, and quickly rising,
placed a seat for him.

“Thank you, Inez, I have only a moment to remain—I
come to say good-by.”

“Which way do your people go now?” she hoarsely
asked.

Santa Anna is marching with overwhelming forces toward
us, and Colonel Fanning thinks it advisable to retire
to head-quarters. We set out at dawn to-morrow.”

“You can not escape by flight: it were better to remain
here. I tell you now, if you leave Goliad, you will be cut
off to a man.”

“Inez, my own feelings would strongly incline me to
follow your advice, but it has been decided otherwise!”

“Then, if you must go, I go with you!”

“Impossible, Inez, impossible! you know not what you
say! For you to venture from this place under existing
circumstances, beset as we are on every hand with dangers
seen and unseen, would be the height of madness.”

“I know not fear! of that you must have been convinced
long ere this. Danger can not intimidate me; what
you meet and suffer, that will I encounter.”

“Bethink yourself, Inez! What can you hope to accomplish
by this strange step? You have nothing to fear
here from your own nation: what can you gain by seeking
a home among my people? Strange, mysterious being!

I wish for your own sake you were timid—that fear might
strengthen your sense of prudence!”

Inez had bent her head while he spoke, as in humiliation,
now she lifted herself and said, in a low, determined
tone:

“I am alone in the wide world, and I have but one
hope, but one pleasure; to be with you while life remains,
and to die near, that you may close my eyes and lay me
down to rest.” She paused a moment, and then clasping
her hands, approached him, and continued in a more passionate
tone:

“Oh, if you knew how I have loved you, you could not
look down so coldly, so calmly upon me! you could not
refuse the favor I ask! Oh, Dr. Bryant, do not scorn me
for my love!—'tis not a common love; for it I have lost
every earthly comfort and blessing; for this struggled and
toiled, and braved numberless dangers. I have loved you
better than every thing beside! Turn not from me, and
think contemptuously of the worship given unsought! If
you can not love me, do not, oh, do not despise me! Let
me a little while longer be with you, and see you; I will
not trouble or incommode any one—do not leave me. Oh,
Dr. Bryant, do not leave me!”

The large black eyes were raised entreatingly to his, and
an expression of the keenest anguish rested on her colorless,
yet beautiful face.

Sadly he regarded her as she hurried on: no glance of
scorn rested even for a moment upon her. Yet a stern
sorrow settled on his broad brow, and around the firmly-compressed
lips.

“Inez, I do not, can not love you, other than as the kind
friend of other days. I have never loved but one—I never
shall. Mary, my own angel Mary, ever rests in my heart.
I can not forget her—I can never love another. I do not
even thank you for your love, for your avowal gives me inexpressible
pain! I have suspected this, Inez, for long,
and your own heart will tell you I gave no ground to hope
that I could return your affection. I have striven to treat
you like a sister of late, yet this painful hour has not been
averted. Equally painful to both. Inez, your own words
make it more than ever necessary that we should part forever.
I can not return your love—I will not encourage it.
You must, as soon as safety allows, return to your old home.
Inez, do not cherish your affection for me, it can only bring
pain and remorse; forget me, and remember that you have
imperative duties of your own to perform. This is your
darkest hour, and believe me, in time you will be happy,
and a blessing to your people. Remember Mary's words,
and her parting gift, and I pray God that we may so live
that we shall all meet in a happier home.”

“Then I shall never see you again?” she said, in a
calm and unfaltering voice.

“For your sake, Inez, it is best that we should not meet
again. If I survive this war I go to Europe, and you will
probably never see me more. Inez, I pain you—forgive
me. Your own good requires this candor on my part.”

An ashy paleness overspread the cheek and brow of his
companion as he spoke, and the small hands clutched each
other tightly, yet no words passed the quivering lips.

“Good-by, Inez! my kind and valued friend, good-by!”

He held out his hand. She raised her head, and gazed into
the sad yet noble face of the man she had loved so long.
She clasped his hand between both hers, and a moan of
bitter anguish escaped the lips.

“My love will follow you forever! A woman of my
nature can not forget. I shall sink to eternal rest with
your name on my lips—your image in my heart. Yet I
would not keep you here—go, and may your God ever
bless you, and—and—may you at last meet your Mary,
if there be a heaven! We part now, for you have said it;
good-by, and sometimes, when all is joy and gladness to you,
think a moment on Inez! the cursed, the miserable Inez!
stiting in bitter darkness by her lonely hearth! Good-by!”
She pressed her lips to his hand, and without a tear,
shrouded her face in her mantilla and turned away.

“God bless you, Inez, and keep you from all harm!”
and Dr. Bryant left the house, and returned to his commander.

Colonel Fanning had led his troops but a few miles when
the vanguard halted, and some excitement was manifested.
Spurring forward, he inquired the cause of delay.

“Why, Colonel, if we ain't `out of the frying-pan into
the fire,' my name is not Will Furgeson. Look yonder,
Colonel, it takes older and weaker eyes than mine to say
them ain't Santy Anna's imps marching down upon us,
thick as bees just swarmed, too!”

“You are right, Furgeson; it is the entire Mexican
force! let us form at once and meet them!”

Quick and clearly his orders rung out, and his little band,

compact and firm, waited in silence the result. With an
exulting shout the Mexicans charged. Desperately the
doomed Texans fought, heaping up the slain at every step.
The wily Santa Anna changed his tactics. There came
a momentary cessation as the crowding thousands were
furiously driven back. And, seizing the opportunity, he
spurred forward, offered honorable terms, and besought
Fanning to surrender and save the lives of his brave
followers.

“We will only surrender on condition that every privilege
of prisoners of war be guaranteed to us,” replied
Colonel Fanning.

“I, Santa Anna, commander-in-chief of the Mexican
forces, do most solemnly pledge my word, that all the
privileges consistent with your situation as prisoners of
war, shall be extended to yourself and men. And hereby
swear, that on these conditions you may lay down your
arms in safety, without further molestation on our part.”

Is there one of my readers who for a moment would
attach blame to the noble Fanning? The lives of his
men were of far more importance to him than the renown
of perishing, like Travis, in a desperate struggle. With the
latter there was no alternative, for the cry of even seven
exhausted men for “quarter” was disregarded, and the
garrison fell to a man. But honorable terms were offered
Fanning: he remembered his men, and surrendered.
Santa Anna! can there be pardon for such a hardened
wretch as you? Does not sleep fly your pillow? In the
silent watches of the night, do not the spectre forms
of your victims cluster about your couch, and the shambles

of Goliad rise before you? Can you find rest from the
echoing shrieks of murdered thousands, or shut your eyes
and fail to perceive the mangled forms stiffening in death,
and weltering in gore? If you are human, which I much
doubt, your blackened soul will be tortured with unavailing
remorse, till Death closes your career on earth, and you
are borne to the tribunal of Almighty God, there to receive
your reward......

Night found the Texans again in Goliad, and they sought
sleep secure from evil; for had not Santa Anna's word been
given that further molestation would not be allowed? and
they believed! Soundly they slept, and dreamed of far-off
homes and fireside joys.

Sunrise came, and they were drawn out upon the Plaza.
Their leader was retained in custody, and, unsuspicious of
harm, they each maintained their position. Dr. Bryant
raised his eyes—they rested but a moment on Santa Anna's
face. Turning quickly, he shouted aloud,

“Turn, comrades, let us not be shot in the back!”

Another moment the signal was given, and a deadly fire
poured upon four hundred unresisting prisoners of war, to
whom honorable conditions had been granted by the brave
and noble generalissimo of the Mexican forces.

Not one of many noble forms was spared. Dr. Bryant
sank without a struggle to the earth; and his spirit, released
from sorrowing mortality, sprung up to meet his
Mary and his God!

The deed was done; and Santa Anna, the mighty chief
who mowed down four hundred unarmed men, was immortalized!

Fear not, brave heart, that posterity will forget
thee! Rest assured that the lapse of time can not obliterate
the memory of thy mighty deeds!

Fanning survived but a few hours, and then a well-aimed
ball laid low forever his noble head. Who among
us can calmly remember that his body was denied a burial?
Oh, thou martyr leader of a martyr band, we cherish thy
memory! dear to the heart of every Texan, every American,
every soldier, and every patriot. Peace to thee, noble
Fanning! and may the purest joys of heaven be yours
in that eternity to which we all are hastening.

It was noon! Still and cold lay the four hundred forms
upon the Plaza. Even as they sank, so they slept. No
disturbing hand had misplaced one stiffened member. The
silence of death reigned around the murdered band. A
muffled figure swiftly stole down the now deserted streets,
and hurrying to the Plaza, paused and gazed on the ruin
and wreck that surrounded her. Pools of blood were yet
standing, and the earth was damp with gore. One by one
Inez turned the motionless forms, still the face she sought
was not to be found. She had almost concluded her search,
when her eye fell on a prostrate form, closely wrapt in a
long black cloak; she knelt and gazed into the up-turned
face, and a low cry of bitter anguish welled up and passed
her colorless lips. Gently she lifted the cloak, clasped by
one icy hand: the ball had pierced his side, and entered
the heart. So instantaneous had been his death that not
a feature was convulsed. The dark clustering hair was
borne back from the broad white brow, the eyes closed as

in deep sleep, the finely-cut lips just parted. Pallid was
the cheek, yet calm and noble beyond degree was the marble
face on which Inez gazed. She caught the cold hand
to her lips, and laid her cheek near his mouth, that she
might know and realize that his spirit had indeed joined
Mary's in the “land of rest.” The icy touch extinguished
every gleam of hope, and calmly she drew the cloak over
the loved face, concealing every feature, then dropped her
handkerchief upon the covered head, and drawing her mantilla
like a shroud about her, went her way to wait for
night and darkness.

Stretched on a couch in the home of the kind-hearted
Señora who had received her, Inez noted the moments
and hours as they passed. An eternity seemed comprised
in the time which elapsed from noon till dusk. Again and
again she raised her bowed head, and looked out on the
slowly sinking sun. It passed at length beyond her vision.
She rose and sought her friend, an aged dame, whom God
had gifted with a gentle heart, keenly alive to the grief
and sufferings of another.

“Well, Señorita Inez, what will you have?”

“I have a great favor to ask, yet it is one I doubt not
will be granted. Señora, among yonder slain is one who
in life was ever kind to me and to our people. Since
morning he has lain in his own blood! To-morrow will
see them thrown into heaps, and left with scarce sod enough
to cover! I can not, will not see him buried so! I myself
will lay him down to rest, if Santa Anna claims my
life for it to-morrow! I have caused a grave to be dug in
a quiet spot, but I can not bear him to it unassisted. My

strength is gone—I am well-nigh spent: will you help me
to-night? They will not miss him to-morrow, and none
will know till all is at rest! Señora, will you come with me?”

“Tell me first, Inez, if it is he who brought you here;
who acted so nobly to me, and bade adieu to you but two
days since?”

“Yes, the same! will you refuse to assist me now?”

“No, by our blessed Virgin! I will do all an old woman
like me can do; yet united, Inez, we shall be strong.”

Wrapping their mantillas about them, they noiselessly
proceeded to the Plaza. Darkness had closed in, and happily
they met not even a straggling soldier, for all, with
instinctive dread, shunned the horrid scene. They paused
as Señora Berara stumbled over a dead body, and well-nigh
slipped in blood:

“Jesu Maria! my very bones ache with horror! this is
no place for me. Señorita, how will you know the body?
Oh! let us make haste to leave here!”

“Hush! do you see a white spot gleaming yonder?
Nay, don't clutch my arm, it is only my handkerchief. I
laid it there to mark the place. Come on, step lightly, or
you will press the dead.

With some difficulty they made their way along the
damp, slippery ground, now and then catching at each
other for support. Inez pauzed on reaching her mark, and
bent down for several moments; then raising herself she
whispered:

“Señora, I have wrapped his cloak tightly about him,
lift the corners near his feet, while I carry his head. Be
careful, lift gently, and do not let the cloak slip.”

Slowly they lifted the motionless form, and steadily bore
it away: Inez taking the lead, and stepping cautiously.
She left the Plaza and principal streets, and turned toward
a broad desolate waste, stretching away from the town,
and bare, save a few gnarled oaks that moaned in the
March wind. The moon rose when they had proceeded
some distance beyond the last house, and Inez paused suddenly,
and looked anxiously about her.

“Sacra Dio! I trust you have not lost your way! Holy
Mother, preserve us if we have gone wrong.”

“I knew we must be near the place: it is under yonder
tree; fear nothing, Señora, come on:” and a few more
steps brought them to the designated spot.

A shallow excavation had been made, sufficient to admit
with ease the body of a full-grown man; and on
its margin they softly laid their burden down. Every
object shone in the clear moonlight, and stranger scene
never moon shone upon. A dreary waste stretched away
in the distance, and sighingly the wind swept over it.
Inez knelt beside the grave, her wan yet still beautiful
features convulsed with the secret agony of her tortured
soul; the long raven hair floating like a black vail around
the wasted form. Just before her stood the old woman,
weird-like, her wrinkled, swarthy face exposed to full view,
while the silver hair, unbound by her exertion, streamed
in the night breeze. Loosely her clothes hung about her,
and the thin, bony hands were clasped tightly as she bent
forward and gazed on the marble face of the dead. Wonder,
awe, fear, pity, all strangely blended in her dark countenance.

Inez groaned, and rocked herself to and fro, as if crushed
in body and spirit. She could not lay him to rest forever
without the bitterest anguish, for in life she had worshiped
him, and in death her heart clung to the loved form.
Again and again she kissed the cold hand she held.

“Señorita, we must make haste to lay him in, and cover
him closely. Don't waste time weeping now; you can not
give him life again. Have done, Señorita Inez, and let
us finish our work.”

“I am not weeping, Señora! I have not shed a single
tear; yet be patient: surely there is yet time.”

Inez straightened the cloak in which Frank Bryant was
shrouded, placed the hands calmly by his side, and softly
smoothed the dark hair on his high and noble brow. She
passionately kissed the cold lips once, then covered forever
the loved, loved features, and they carefully lowered the
still form into its last resting-place.

They stood up, and the old dame pointed to the earth
piled on either side. Inez shuddered and closed her eyes
a moment, as if unequal to the task.

Her companion stooped, and was in the act of tossing
forward a mass of earth; but Inez interposed: “Señora,
softly! I will do this: remember there is no coffin.”

Fearfully calm was her tone as she slowly pushed in
the earth. There was no hollow echo, such as ofttimes
rends the heart of the mourner, but a heavy, dull sound of
earth crushing earth. Gradually she filled the opening
even with the surface, then carefully scattered the remaining
sod.

“I will not raise a mound, for they would tear him up,

should they know where I have laid him.” Inez walked
away, and gathering a quantity of brown, shriveled leaves,
and also as much grass as she could draw from the short
bunches, sprinkled them on the grave and along the fresh
earth.

“Think you, Señora, they will find him here?”

“No, no, Señorita! none will know that we have buried
him. But the night is already far gone, why do you
linger?”

For a moment longer Inezgazed down upon the new-made
grave: “But a few more hours, and I shall sleep here by
your side; farewell till then.”

She turned away, and silently they retraced their steps
to the town, reaching without inquiry or molestation their
own home.