Remember the Alamo | Page 4

constantly picturesque.
On this evening, as the hour of the Angelus approached, the narrow
streets and the great squares were crowded with a humanity that
assaulted and captured the senses at once; so vivid and so various were
its component parts. A tall sinewy American with a rifle across his
shoulder was paying some money to a Mexican in blue velvet and red
silk, whose breast was covered with little silver images of his favorite
saints. A party of Mexican officers were strolling to the Alamo; some
in white linen and scarlet sashes, others glittering with color and golden
ornaments. Side by side with these were monks of various orders: the
Franciscan in his blue gown and large white hat; the Capuchin in his
brown serge; the Brother of Mercy in his white flowing robes. Add to
these diversities, Indian peons in ancient sandals, women dressed as in
the days of Cortez and Pizarro, Mexican vendors of every kind, Jewish
traders, negro servants, rancheros curvetting on their horses, Apache
and Comanche braves on spying expeditions: and, in this various crowd,
yet by no means of it, small groups of Americans; watchful, silent,
armed to the teeth: and the mind may catch a glimpse of what the
streets of San Antonio were in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred

and thirty-five.
It was just before sunset that the city was always at its gayest point. Yet,
at the first toll of the Angelus, a silence like that of enchantment fell
upon it. As a mother cries hush to a noisy child, so the angel of the city
seemed in this evening bell to bespeak a minute for holy thought. It was
only a minute, for with the last note there was even an access of tumult.
The doors and windows of the better houses were thrown open, ladies
began to appear on the balconies, there was a sound of laughter and
merry greetings, and the tiny cloud of the cigarette in every direction.
But amid this sunset glamour of splendid color, of velvet, and silk, and
gold embroidery, the man who would have certainly first attracted a
stranger's eye wore the plain and ugly costume common at that day to
all American gentlemen. Only black cloth and white linen and a row
palmetto hat with a black ribbon around it; but he wore his simple
garments with the air of a man having authority, and he returned the
continual salutations of rich and poor, like one who had been long
familiar with public appreciation.
It was Dr. Robert Worth, a physician whose fame had penetrated to the
utmost boundaries of the territories of New Spain. He had been
twenty-seven years in San Antonio. He was a familiar friend in every
home. In sickness and in death he had come close to the hearts in them.
Protected at first by the powerful Urrea family, he had found it easy to
retain his nationality, and yet live down envy and suspicion. The rich
had shown him their gratitude with gold; the poor he had never sent
unrelieved away, and they had given him their love.
When in the second year of his residence he married Dona Maria Flores,
he gave, even to doubtful officials, security for his political intentions.
And his future conduct had seemed to warrant their fullest confidence.
In those never ceasing American invasions between eighteen hundred
and three and eighteen hundred and thirty-two, he had been the friend
and succourer of his countrymen, but never their confederate; their
adviser, but never their confidant.
He was a tall, muscular man of a distinguished appearance. His hair

was white. His face was handsome and good to see. He was laconic in
speech, but his eyes were closely observant of all within their range,
and they asked searching questions. He had a reverent soul, wisely
tolerant as to creeds, and he loved his country with a passion which
absence from it constantly intensified. He was believed to be a
thoroughly practical man, fond of accumulating land and gold; but his
daughter Antonia knew that he had in reality a noble imagination.
When he spoke to her of the woods, she felt the echoes of the forest
ring through the room; when of the sea, its walls melted away in an
horizon of long rolling waves.
He was thinking of Antonia as he walked slowly to his home in the
suburbs of the city. Of all his children she was the nearest to him. She
had his mother's beauty. She had also his mother's upright rectitude of
nature. The Iberian strain had passed her absolutely by. She was a
northern rose in a tropical garden. As he drew near to his own gates, he
involuntarily quickened his steps. He knew that Antonia would be
waiting.