_ CHAPTER XXX
"Our bosoms we'll bare to the glorious strife,
And our oath is recorded on high,
To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life,
Or crushed in its ruins to die.
* * * * *
And leaving in battle no blot on his name,
Look proudly to heaven, from the death-bed of fame."
CAMPBELL.
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 headquarters--"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 timeworn 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 let's 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 Thermopylae?"
"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 cannot 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,
'Wreathed with honor, and immortal fame;'
or else we set out at once for headquarters, 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 cannot 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 headquarters 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 Senora 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 headquarters. We set out at dawn to-morrow."
"You cannot 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 cannot 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 everything beside! Turn not from me, and think contemptuously of the worship given unsought! If you cannot 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, cannot 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 cannot 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 cannot 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 cannot 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! sitting 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 specter 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.
"That bright dream was their last!"
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 cannot 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 upturned 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 Senora 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, Senorita Inez, what will you have?"
"I have a great favor to ask, yet it is one I doubt not will be granted. Senora, 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 cannot, 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 cannot 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! Senora, 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 Senora 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. Senorita, 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 handerchief. 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 paused on reaching her mark, and bent down for several moments; then raising herself she whispered:
"Senora, 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 Senora, 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 veil 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.
"Senorita, we must make haste to lay him in, and cover him closely. Don't waste time weeping now; you cannot give him life again. Have done, Senorita Inez, and let us finish our work."
"I am not weeping, Senora! 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: "Senora, 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, Senora, they will find him here?"
"No, no, Senorita! none will know that we have buried him. But the night is already far gone, why do you linger?"
For a moment longer Inez gazed 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. _