Michener, James A. (14 page)

'Avila.' He had to say no more, for his listeners could imagine that fair city perched upon its little hill, the heavy stone walls that enclosed it wandering up and down the slopes.

No one spoke, for everyone in the dining hall loved his or her corner of Spain, that fortunate land which God had created to prove that life on earth could be almost as favorable as life in heaven: Fray Damian could see his father's shepherds bringing in their flocks at night; the colonel could see his silvery city nestled beside the Mediterranean, its streets crowded with revelers at bullfight time; and Linan could see not only sanctified Avila but also the rich fields that lay beyond her walls.

'To Spain!' the colonel proposed, and the wine was passed, with even young Benita lifting her glass, for she, too, remembered Avila.

'To Tejas!' Fray Damian suggested, and they drank to this also, because the subjugation and settlement of that farthest frontier was their immediate concern, not until it was pacified and producing wealth could they sail back to Spain.

In the nights that followed this dinner Fray Damian began to acknowledge the emotional danger into which he had fallen, but he was powerless to protect himself. He continued to contrive excuses for going to the plaza at sunset so that he might see Benita again, swinging along, joking with her girl friends, trying to escape the surveillance of her duena. Each night she became more haunting, and when he lay on his crude straw-and-hay mattress, he could not sleep, for she appeared in his cell, smiling and biting her lip, as she did so enchantingly when she sensed that older people were watching. When he rolled over and punched his pillow he fell into the habit of whispering her name: 'Benita,' and then looking about in terror lest some wakeful friar had heard.

He realized the wrong he was committing, but he could not

drive her from his mind, and when there were marriages to be conducted in the town—mahogany-skinned farmers taking brides with nut-brown complexions—he fell to wondering whether any of these men felt the same emotions as he, and for how long into the marriage. Tormenting visions assailed him as he tried to imagine what marriage was, and he recalled the easy, robust relationship that had existed between his no-nonsense father and his strongly opinionated mother. 'My dowry gave you the fields your peasants plow,' she would shout at her husband, 'and don't you ever forget it.'

Whenever she said this his father would explode in laughter: 'Have you ever seen those damned fields? A crop of rocks.'

'You Saldarias!' She never spelled out what she meant by this, but she did tell her seven sons: 'Remember, you're only half Saldana. The good half comes from the Bermejos.' His name was really Damian Vicente Ignacio de Saldana y Bermejo, and he was proud of both halves.

He would die rather than prove false to the vow of chastity he had voluntarily taken, and he could never bring dishonor upon his family name, so he withdrew from any direct contact with Benita Linan. But neither of these honorable restraints could drive the vision of Benita from his mind, and one night when the anguish was heavy he confessed to himself in his quiet cell: I am a miserable human being. I am as low as a man can fall.

The temptations were exacerbated in 1720 when the time arrived for the carpenter Simon Garza to marry the maid Juana Murioz, for when Damian saw the couple standing before him he grew faint. Behind the bride stood Benita, and as he began to recite the words of the marriage rite the two women became intermingled, and he believed he was officiating at two marriages: Garza and juana, himself and Benita.

Clearing his head, he mustered courage and stumbled through the ceremony, and seeing at last only the two good peasants, he fervently wished them well in their great adventure: 'Simon and Juana, God Himself smiles on you this day. Know love with one another. Rear your children in the love and knowledge of Jesus Christ.' And he lowered both his voice and his head, for he acknowledged how unqualified he was to speak on behalf of the Deity.

Fray Damian's infatuation with Benita was solved, or rather alleviated, in a manner which he could never have foreseen. In the autumn of 1721 the young military officer Alvarode Saldana arrived at Vera Cruz, through which almost everything coming

into Mexico must pass. Five years before, in the town of Saldana, perched among hills in northern Spain, his practical-minded father had told Alvaro, his seventh son: 'There's no land left for you. Ildefonso will have it all. And I doubt if you would be a proper recruit for the church. What's left but the army 7 ' Using his few remaining connections, Don Vicente had arranged for Alvaro to become an officer and had then pulled strings to have him sent to Mexico, where brother Damian could watch over him. Alvaro was twenty-six, unmarried, afire with ambition, and the bearer of a letter of commendation addressed to a former commander of his father: the estimable viceroy, the Marques de Valero, considered by many to be the finest man in that office since the days of the great Mendoza, to whom he was distantly related.

The letter begged the viceroy to give consideration to a father's request that Alvaro be permitted to serve in somewhat the same region as Damian, 'it being a distinct honor for one family to provide two such manly sons to the service of our noble King and in a land so far from home.'

When the letter was placed before him, Viceroy Valero regarded it carefully; he had often hunted with the Saldanas; he knew the honorable history of that family; and he had been vaguely aware that one of its sons had been conducting himself favorably as a Franciscan in Zacatecas. But he had an entire country to look after, a job he had performed commendably for nearly six years, and now he rose from his ornate desk to study the large map which dominated so much of this thinking; it showed that impressive network of roads which fanned out across Mexico, binding the various scattered parts together. It was called in its entirety Los Caminos Reales (The Royal Road System), and now Valero inspected the critical segment running from Vera Cruz to Mexico City to San Luis Potosi to Saltillo to the miraculous ford across the Rio Grande at San Juan Bautista, then straight through Tejas to a tiny spot at the extreme northeast called Los Adaes. It was a route of conquest, a highway of poetic names, but once the traveler passed Saltillo, it was not a road at all, merely a poorly marked trail through empty land.

Not exactly empty, the viceroy thought Apache Indians sometimes raid Saltillo, and everywhere in the north they lurk to slaughter my men.

Then he began to laugh, sardonic, bitter chuckles, when he thought of the final destination of El Camino Real: Los Adaes— soon to be the capital, and perched at the farthest edge of the region. Turning away in disgust, he growled: 'Damn the French!'

In three words he had summarized Spanish policy in Tejas:

when peace reigned between France and Spain, Tejas could go to hell, not one gold piece would be spent, but when trouble threatened, Tejas became 'our noble bastion in the north, where heroic Spaniards defend our outpost of empire against the evil plans of the French.' Tejas policy was determined not by the viceroy in Mexico City but by the acts of Frenchmen in Louisiana, and since 1719 their behavior had been ominous.

I'll send young Saldana to our northern frontier, Valero decided, and when the eager young officer was brought into his presence, he said affably: 'Your father, who fought well for me, asks if you might serve near your brother. I grant his wish. You shall join him in Zacatecas.'

'My father will bless you, sir, as I do now.'

When Alvaro reached the mining town he was disturbed to see how much older-looking and leaner his brother had become, but as they talked he found Damian as compelling as ever, for the friar's religious dedication had obviously deepened, causing him to speak with a gravity he had not shown before. The brothers spent two days exchanging information, and they did so enthusiastically, for they had always been friends, sharing secrets they did not share even with their other brothers.

Next morning the colonel told Alvaro: The pouch you brought from the viceroy brings a message that you and your brother are to accompany me on a tour of inspection. All of Tejas up to Los Adaes.'

'Excellent!' The young man's enthusiasm was so genuine that the colonel invited him to dinner that night, where he sat facing the provocative daughter of Anselmo Linan.

The Saldana brothers formed an interesting pair in the candlelight, Damian in his somber gray habit, Alvaro in his bright uniform, the former thin and moody, the latter robust and smiling. Damian spoke little, nervously; Alvaro, with fluency and confidence: 'The ship that brought us to Vera Cruz was a disgrace, but we had as a fellow passenger a man who could sing like a lark, and he kept us forgetful.' He said also that in the capital the viceroy had explained how important Tejas was and that he, Alvaro, was most eager to see it, to which the colonel replied: 'You'll see enough before we're through.'

As Alvaro continued, Damian became aware, with a mixture of pain and interest, that Benita, seated directly across from his brother, was listening to him with undisguised attention and that whenever he seemed about to stop, she encouraged him with further questions. During the course of the dinner he fairly well

presented the outline of his life and his ambitions, with Benita nodding approval.

After dinner she came boldly to Fray Damian and said, in his brother's hearing. 'You must be proud to have Alvaro in your family. We're certainly proud to have him as a visitor.' Given this incentive, Alvaro interrupted: 'Could I take you riding tomorrow?' to which she replied modestly: 'My dueria does not ride, but perhaps my father . . .'

The colonel, overhearing the exchange, asked: 'Linan, is it permissible for me to take these young people for a canter tomorrow?' This posed a difficult problem for Benita's parents, for they still dreamed of seeing their daughter married in Spain, but slowly they were awakening to the fact that families in their modest position usually spent their lives in Mexico, with never enough money saved to enable them to return to the homeland. Therefore, incoming officers of undoubted Spanish blood like this Saldana were becoming more attractive.

'She can join you,' Linan said.

No one thought to invite Fray Damian, who spent the hours of their excursion in the grip of a confusion which would engulf him increasingly. He was pleased that his brother had made such a favorable impression on Zacatecas, but he was disturbed that it had to be Benita who translated that favor into action. On the other hand, he realized that she was each day growing closer to that age when she must marry, and since she could never marry him, he was gratified to think that she might choose his brother, for then she would remain within his circle, a part of him, however complex and ill-defined. Now, as he abstractedly placed bricks in a line for the Indian workmen to handle, he awakened to the fact that a tremendous change had overtaken him, as if the normal experiences of a youth which he had avoided were now roaring back in all their tumultuous confusions: 'Dear God! Am I jealous of my brother? Do I wish it was I riding with Benita?' And as he spoke thus to the bricks he was lifting, he visualized the two young people riding ahead of the colonel or falling cleverly behind, and leaning across their horses' necks and kissing.

In the days before the expedition to the north departed, Alvaro and Benita saw a great deal of each other, and often the austere friar was present, watching them as if he were an uncle. And although Alvaro remained unconscious of the meaning of his presence, Benita understood.

On the morning of departure, 11 December 1721, the colonel produced three fine horses for himself and the Saldana brothers, but what happened when Fray Damian saw his caused a great

commotion, because he said: 'As a Franciscan, I'm forbidden ever to ride a horse.'

The colonel looked at him askance: 'What foolishness have we here?'

'Our vow of poverty. Caballos are for caballeros. Mules and donkeys are for the poor.'

The colonel scoffed at such an idea, but when Damian absolutely refused to accept his horse, the animal was led away and a mule brought forward. It was a criminally inclined beast, one eye lower than the other, one ear cocked, the other flat, and it did not propose to have on its back a friar with a floppy habit, for as soon as Damian tried to mount, it shied away and landed two solid kicks on his right leg.

In no way did this daunt Damian, for looking about, he found a small stick with which he began to hit the mule lightly about the head. The blows did not hurt, but the animal did not like them and drew back in small mincing steps, whereupon Damian danced after him. In time he tamed the animal enough so that he could mount, but the caravan had not even started when the mule leaned forward, planted its two front feet like stone pillars, and tossed Damian over its head.

Again Damian showed no anger; instead, he stood facing the mule, saying: 'I shall have to ride you and you shall have to behave.' At this the mule backed off, and the dancing continued, causing a country poet to begin composing in his head a rather naughty ballad, which would soon be widely recited: 'El Fraile y el Baile' (The Friar and the Dance, or, more colloquially, The Dancing Friar).

At last the mule surrendered, Damian mounted, and the forward scouts started north. As the main body prepared to follow, with seventeen soldiers and handlers, Benita ran to Alvaro and kissed him. There were gasps from some of the older people, but the colonel approved. 'That's the proper way to send soldiers on a journey.'

'Colonel, bring him back safely! Please bring him back.'

Early December was one of the best times of year in the arid area between Zacatecas and Saltillo, for the intense heat of summer had dissipated. And since this year the fall rains had come late, there was still such a profusion of wildflowers that what would otherwise have been a desert looked like a veritable spring garden. In the invigorating coolness they rode easily, noting the deer on the horizon and the tardy rattlesnake preparing for this winter's