Michener, James A. (27 page)

Don Ramon, remembering how meticulous his father had been about maintaining the dignity of Spain when he occupied the Bejar presidio, stalked over to the ramshackle building after the parade ended to rebuke Lieutenant Marcelino: 'You could at least wear a proper hat.'

'The government provides us with no hats,' the young man snapped. 'We get damned little of anything, really.' 'If you had any self-respect, you'd buy your own.' 'We're supposed to, but we get no money.' 'And your men! Shocking. Can't you discipline them?' 'If I say one unkind word, make one threat, they desert.' 'You should be ashamed of yourself, young man,' and from that day Don Ramon avoided the presidio and its unruly complement, for he remembered when Spain was Spain.

When Veramendi learned of his friend's unfortunate run-in with the military, he said: 'Old friend, you aren't going to like this, but the two thousand real men who never arrived didn't have to be notable Spaniards like your ancestors and mine. They could very nicely have been Canary Islanders, if they'd had the courage of that fellow who gave your father and uncle so much trouble.' He whistled for one of his granddaughters, and when the girl Amalia appeared, a saucy child of fourteen with bright eyes and big white teeth, he asked her to fetch a book from his desk. As she disappeared Don Ramon asked: 'Would you really let her marry a mestizo?' and Veramendi said with a smile: 'Who else will be left?' When the girl returned, Don Lazaro caught her by the hand: 'Stay! I want you to hear this. I want you to hear how you should speak to little men who assume authority.' Then, turning to Saldana, he explained: 'This is a copy of the letter which our famous Canary Islander, Juan Leal Goras, sent to the viceroy in Mexico City, demanding, not begging, for some additional right he was entitled to. Listen to how he begins his respectful plea:

'Juan Leal Goras, Espanol y Colonizador a las Ordenes de Su Majestad, Quien Dios Protege, en Su Presidio de San Antonio de Vexar y Villa de San Fernando, Provincia de Tejas tainbien llamada Nuevas Filipi-nas, y Senor Regidor de esta Villa. Agricultor.'

Slapping his granddaughter lovingly on the shoulder, he said: 'That's the kind of man we need in Tejas. Give your full credentials, like some dignitary, then sign yourself "Farmer." ' When the girl laughed, not understanding the force of what her grandfather was saying, he drew her to him, kissed her, and said: 'And that's the kind of man 1 want you to marry, Amalia. Someone with spunk.'

When Trinidad learned that she would be traveling to Mexico City she wanted to kiss her mother and her grandfather for their generosity, but she was so overcome by love that she stood in the white-walled room where they took chocolate in the afternoons and lowered her head for fear she might cry. Then a most winsome smile took possession of her curiously tilted mouth, and she gave a childlike leap in the air and shouted: 'Ole! How wonderful!'

She maintained this level of excitement for several days as the great trip was planned. Since it was over a thousand miles to the capital, any citizen of Bejar would be fortunate to make the journey once in a lifetime. Trinidad, supposing that she would see the grand city once and no more, packed her two trunks with the greatest of care.

Bejar at this time was not large, less than two thousand inhabitants, but since the old capital of Los Adaes had been abandoned, it had become the principal Spanish establishment north of Monclova. And because of a startling change in viceregal administration, it now had additional responsibility. A vast collection of provinces, including California, New Mexico and Tejas in the north, along with six huge provinces like Coahuila and Sonora to the south, had been united to form the Provincias Internas with their capital at Chihuahua, but since this city was five hundred miles to the west and connected only by Indian trails to Bejar, most local decisions had to be made in the Tejas capital. For extended periods, Bejar was left on its own.

The town was in a fine setting. Four waterways now ran in parallel courses from north to south, lending color and charm with their shade trees: to the east, the original canal servicing the missions; next, the lively San Antonio; to the west, the irrigation ditch that Fray Damian had laid out for the Canary Islanders in 1732; and farther to the west, a little creek whose water serviced expanding agricultural fields. These waterways created four clearly defined available land areas, and by 1788 each was beginning to fill up with the houses of permanent settlers.

Well to the east, on the far side of the river, stood the unfinished buildings of the dying mission that would one day be named the Alamo, and around it clustered a few mean houses occupied by Indians. On the west bank, within the big loop where the horses pastured, stood eleven well-constructed houses belonging to leading mestizos, and along the rest of the river rose twenty-six other houses of a mixed population. The finest area was that between the westernmost irrigation ditches, and on it stood fifty-four homes clustered about the center of the town; the Saldanas and the Veramendis lived here. West of all the ditches were the scattered homes of farmers.

The carefully recorded census showed: Spaniards (peninsular and criollo) 862, mestizos 203; Indians 505; other colored (Indian-Black, oriental) 275; blacks (all slaves) 37; total 1,882. These citizens performed a rich assortment of duties: ten merchants, each with his own shop; ten tailors; six shoemakers; four river fishermen; four carpenters; two blacksmiths; one barber and one digger of sewers. Lawyers: none.

There were also more than six hundred Indians living in or near the six missions, but the fortunes of these once-valuable institutions had begun to decline so badly that there was talk of closing them down; indeed, a Father Ybarra had recently been sent north i to report on that advisability. He was working now on his recommendations, and since he was a gloomy, unpleasant man, the citizens assumed that his document would be, too.

The town was dominated by the presidio, with its ninety-four military misfits, and the large church started in 1738 by the Canary Islanders. Age had softened this building into an object of some beauty, if one appreciated the harsh desert style adopted by its Franciscan architects.

Trinidad loved Bejar and made each of its corners her own, begging her mother to take her first to some site across the river, then to the lovely missions to the south. The best part of town, she thought, was the two plazas facing the church: a smaller onei to the east toward the river, a larger to the west toward the hill country beyond. In these plazas she and her friends had whiled away many hours of childhood. But lately Trinidad enjoyed even more the family journeys to what she called 'our family's mission,' Santa Teresa, where the handsome carvings by Simon Garza de-j picted the Stations of the Cross. She preferred the one in which Santa Veronica wiped Christ's face with her cloth, and the other in which the man stooped to help Jesus carry his cross, for these showed the kindness of humanity; the others showed only aspects of its brutality. The jamming down upon Christ's head of the

crown of thorns made her feel the thorns piercing her own forehead, while the actual crucifixion was too painful to contemplate.

After one of these journeys, she asked her grandfather about the carvings: 'Is it true that the man who made them was an Indian 7 '

'Half Indian. His Spanish blood enabled him to be an artist.'

'Is it true that he was the grandfather, or something like that, of Domingo, who works at the ranch?'

'How do you know Domingo?'

'We played together. I taught him to read. He taught me to ride.'

'You stay away from Domingo.'

'Why 7 '

'Because 1 tell you to.'

That night Don Ramon had only a broken sleep, for he was tormented by visions of his granddaughter marrying some savage Indian from the mountains of Mexico, and he knew he must prevent this. Early next morning, before the women were up, he called for his best horse, but before he could leave for the ranch, Trinidad, who had heard the clatter of hooves, bounded into the stables in her nightdress.

'Where are you going?' she called.

'Where you're not welcome. Go back to bed,' and before she could protest, for he had always allowed her to accompany him on his travels, he had spurred his horse and headed for the gates of the presidio. There he rounded up a company of armed men to protect him, and together they rode westward over the plains in the early morning sun.

He rode for several hours, until he came to the cluster of buildings from where his men worked the vast, unfenced ranch of El Codo with its thousands of cattle that fed the little town of Bejar. There was a house for the Garza family, whose men had been supervisors for decades, a barn for storing feed, three different sets of corrals, a line of low shacks for the Indians and a good stable for the horses. There was also a large lean-to under which the awkward carts with their creaking solid wheels were kept. It was a handsome assembly of adobe buildings, none pretentious and all well fitted to the terrain in the Spanish manner. Don Ramon was proud of this ranch and not pleased with the job he had to do on reaching it, but he was so determined to protect his granddaughter from the kind of talk Don Lazaro Veramendi had been engaging in that his mind was firm, and as soon as he saw Domingo's father he began.

'Teodoro, you and your family have worked so well for us . . .'

'Only our duty, senor.'

'We want to reward you.'

'You already have, many times.'

in 1749, when I helped the great Escandon explore the valley of the Rio Grande, he liked my work so much that he awarded me four leagues of land along the river.'

'That could be good land, senor, from what the soldiers say.'

'I'm going to give you that land, Teodoro. We'll never make good use of it, I fear.'

'Senor, I wouldn't want to leave El Codo . . .'

'You must,' Don Ramon said firmly. 'You've earned our gratitude.'

'Magdalena might not wish to travel.'

'Wives do what their husbands say, so let's hear no more about it. You have the four leagues. I've brought the papers, signed by Viceroy Giiemes.' From his saddlebag he produced the valuable parchment authorized by King Fernando VI, signed by the viceroy and notarized by the current governor of Nuevo Santander, Mel-chor Vidal de Lorca. The nearly eighteen thousand acres were worth at that time about one cent an acre; in years to come, six thousand dollars an acre, and after that, much more, for they lay on the rich north bank of the Rio Grande, where, according to legend, a walking stick fifty years old would flower and grow fruit if stuck in the loam and watered.

When Garza rode with Don Ramon to the ranch house, he informed his wife Magdalena of the extraordinary proposal, and although neither he nor she could read, he showed her the impressive document heavy with wax seals. They discussed the offer for several minutes while Don Ramon inspected his shoes, his fingernails and his knuckles; then they came to stand before him, holding hands, and Magdalena, delighted to get land, any land, said: 'Don Ramon, we kiss the soles of your shoes. Land of our own after these many years. God will bless you, and we will too. Teodoro and I will go down to the river and take the land'—and here she tapped the precious parchment—'but because we love you and your family, we'll leave our son Domingo here to care for the ranch, as before.'

'No, no!' Don Ramon said. 'Your son must go with you!'

Now Teodoro began to argue that in simple fairness they must leave Domingo behind, but when this was said a second time, Don Ramon became angry: 'He will go with you. To build the corrals, the barns.'

So it was settled, and Don Ramon slept at the ranch for three nights until the Garzas were packed and lesser hands instructed as

to the care of the cattle. He gave the departing family four good horses, a fine bull, six cows and the loan of seven armed men to protect the exodus as it crossed the hundred leagues of Indian lands separating it from the place where the Rio Grande approached the Gulf of Mexico. As they pulled away from El Codo, Don Ramon rode with them for several hours to make sure that they were really on their way; then he embraced Teodoro and his wife, wished them luck in their new home, and shook hands formally with Domingo, seventeen years old, handsome, clever, honest. 'You're a good lad, son. Build your own ranch, and make it prosper.' He reined in his horse, told the armed men protecting him to wait, and watched as the little caravan headed toward the southern horizon. By this time next month they'll reach the place, he thought. I remember it that first night when Escandon and I were riding ahead. Rich land, plenty of water, even some trees, as I recall. Escandon advised me to choose my land on the south side of the river. When I said I liked the look of the north, he said: 'It's yours, if you think something can be done with it.' And now it's Garza's. He reflected on this for many minutes, finally muttering to himself: 'Their son could make his fortune on good land like that. That's why I chose it, for its richness.' As he recalled the capable youth he had sent into exile, other thoughts surged into his mind, but he repressed them, for he did not wish to consider such possibilities: He's a mestizo. He has his own place, and it's not here.

Signaling to his escort, he headed back to town.

The cumbersome entourage which Don Ramon assembled in February 1789 for the long trip to Mexico City would be able to cover about four leagues a day (roughly ten and a half miles), and since the distance was about four hundred leagues, the trip would require a good hundred-odd days of unrelieved travel, plus time for repairs, for rest on Sundays, when Dona Engracia refused to allow the horses to be worked, for the forced halts at swollen rivers, and for much-needed recuperation periods in the provincial cities like Saltillo. The journey would thus require about half a year, then a six-month visit in the capital, plus another half year for the return. No family initiated a trip like this without prayers and solemn adieus, for everyone knew that sickness or flood or the Apache and bandits who prowled the lonely stretches might take the lives of all. When the Saldanas bade farewell to the Veramendis, there were tears aplenty-, especially when the dear friends Trinidad and Amalia embraced.