Michener, James A. (35 page)

I do not speak disparagingly of the friars who attempted to do God's work in these remote and depressing areas. Those serving now are

cxemplan' Christians, and some have stn\en mightily, but they have accomplished little. I am told that in the earliest days, when the missions first opened, results were better, but the numbers of Indians converted to the True Religion were always minimal, and to continue this fruitless effort would be financially and religiously unjustified.

Close the missions. Send the friars back to Zacatecas, where they can do some good. Use the emptied buildings as fortresses in time of siege. Sell the mission ranches with their cattle to local men who can make better use of them. And do it now.

What Father Ybarra overlooked in his harsh and overall accurate summary of the mission experience in Tejas—so much bleaker than that in California and New Mexico—was the civilizing effect of men like Fray Damian and especially Fray Domingo in the 1720s and 1730s, when they lit brave candles in the wilderness, demonstrated Spain's sincere interest in the souls of its Indians, and helped establish little centers of safety and learning capable of maturing into fine towns and cities.

Also, the Franciscans did succeed in civilizing the smaller Indian tribes that clustered about the missions, but their failure to domesticate first the fierce Apache and then the terrible Comanche, now the dominant tribe, created the impression that they had failed in all. This was unfortunate, a historic misinterpretation which implanted in Tejas lore the fiction that 'nothing can be done with the Indian.' Father Ybarra's 1792 report summarized what many Spaniards had concluded, and this legend grew and festered until Tejas, once an area teeming with Indians of many tribes, some most civilized, became Texas, a state with almost no Indians, for it preferred to operate under the slogan attributed to a Northern general serving in Texas: The only good Indian is a dead Indian.' In due course, the Indians of Texas would be either expelled or dead.

But the greatest injustice in Father Ybarra's judgment on the missions was that he did not take into account the nature of God or the workings of His will. God had not come to Tejas in white robes attended by choirs of angels; He came as a toilworn Franciscan friar, a confused captain trying to do his best in some remote presidio. He came as a mestizo woman lugging two bawling babies who would grow into stalwart men; He came sweating Himself over the vast amount of work to be done before the place could be called civilized; and God knew, if Father Ybarra did not, that fat Fray Domingo dancing at sunset in what his detractors called 'a near state of tipsiness and shouting at the top of his voice' was closer to heaven than Ybarra would ever be.

After the destruction of Santa Teresa, Trinidad spent two agonizing weeks surveying her deplorable situation, but could reach no sensible conclusions. She felt such confusion that during the third week she kept entirely to herself m the beautiful house with the low-ceilinged rooms, tended only by Natan. She applied these hours to an unemotional evaluation of all that had happened to her since she first began to confide in her dear friend Amalia Veramendi. Through the shadows of her darkened room passed ghosts of the two dead men she had loved so dearly, Rene-Claude and Don Ramon, and images of the two living ones she despised, Don Mordecai and Father Ybarra, and she had to conclude that not only had those two men abused her, but that Amalia had betrayed her. Despite constant review, she could not find herself at fault. She had responded as any spirited young woman would to the courtship of Rene-Claude, and even though the Galindez and Saldana families had rebuked her for unladylike enthusiasm in the Saltillo paseo, she could not think of a single action she would reverse. She had loved him, she still loved him; and she would love him until she died.

Her relations with Don Mordecai were more difficult to evaluate, for she had actively speculated about her need for a husband, and although she had not sought Marr out or overtly encouraged him, she had wanted to know what kind of man he was, and even what kind of husband he might prove to be. What else could I have done? she asked herself in the darkness of her room. That Marr turned out to be unprincipled was her bad luck, not her fault.

Gradually, as sensitive young women had done throughout history, she tried to construct a realistic portrait of herself: I've done nothing wrong. I regret nothing. And i will not allow them to submerge me in some swamp.

But her moral courage did not solve her personal problems. As she moved about her little town she could feel disapproval directed toward her, but she bit her lip and grappled with specifics: The loss of El Codo? Of course our saintly Fray Damian was less than honest when he maneuvered its transfer to his brother. Away it goes.

Once she had conceded this, she no longer grieved about this loss, but she did realize that she must leave Bejar, though to go . where, she did not know. That decision she would postpone until s;he resolved a matter that was perplexing many thoughtful Mexicans these days. Summoning Natan, she told him: it would be Dainful for me to hold another human being in bondage,' and with exquisite attention to legal detail she gave him his freedom. She

also took care of an old Indian nurse, then left funds to the church for perpetual novenas for the soul of Don Ramon. As she delivered the silver she looked up at a crucifix, and without kneeling she stared into the eyes of Christ and whispered: 'You died to save me, and Don Ramon died to protect my honor. I will strive to be worthy of your love.'

Consoled but still uncertain as to what she must do, she returned to her garden and sat alone, allowing tears to flow: I'm lost. Oh God, I am so alone. Then slowly, from some deep reservoir, an idea began to germinate, and with her eyes still wet, she moved inside to find pen and paper, and drafted a letter:

Esteemed Domingo Garza,

I write from the dark valley of the human soul. A beautiful Frenchman who was to marry me was slain by Comanche. My mother has died. A strong americano I was to marry has married another, then killed my grandfather in a duel. The ranch at which you worked has been taken from us. Mision Santa Teresa, where your great-grandfather carved those wonderful Stations, has been burned and his work lost.

In these tragic days I remember when my grandfather made me learn my letters and I taught you, and I remember how your grandfather taught you to ride, and you taught me. I remember how you were alwavs kind and thoughtful, and how you obeyed the harsh rules my grandfather sometimes laid down ! remember you as a young man of goodness, and now I pray with tears welling from my eyes that in your goodness, and if you are free to do so, you will come and rescue me from the terror in which I live.

San Antonio de Bejar

Provincia de Tejas

1792

Trinidad de Saldana

She posted the letter to the growing town of Laredo, from where it would go downriver to the settlements established by the great Escandon in the 1740s, and in time to the lands once held by the Saldanas. There it would be delivered to Domingo Garza, son of the couple that now owned these lands on the north bank of the river.

It would require, Trinidad judged, about three months for the letter to reach Domingo and three months more before she could receive a reply. In the meantime she moved about the paths of Bejar as if she intended remaining there the rest of her life, heiress no more, sought after no more. She attended church; she asked about new laws at the presidio; she watched as Amalia and her

husband reinforced their foothold in the community She never spoke against them to the acquaintances she met, and she counseled with no one.

At the end of two months and two weeks she was startled by an importunate banging on her door, and when she opened it she found standing before her, his clothes covered with dust from his long ride, Domingo Garza. When he faced her and saw once more that twisted smile and those luminous eyes, he was transfixed, unable to move, for he was a mestizo and she was a daughter of Spain, but as he hesitated she looked directly into his eyes and whispered: 'You have saved me,' and thus set free, he swept her into his arms and buried his head against her neck to hide the tears he could not control.

He stayed in Bejar one week, visiting the burned mission and riding out to see the ranch which he had once supposed he would some day manage for the Saldanas, as his ancestors had done for so long. Later, when Don Mordecai heard that he was in town, he sought him out to make a generous offer: 'You know the ranch. I need a manager I can trust. I'll give you a good job and a good wage.' Then he added with a sly wink: 'And if in due course you should care to marry the Saldaria girl . . .'

Domingo said promptly: 'Now that's a good idea. I need a job.'

So the two men, protected by troops from the presidio, rode out to the ranch, and when they arrived they dismissed the soldiers, telling them to wait within the walled area. Without dismounting, they moved about the ranch, with Marr explaining what Domingo's duties would be, and when they were far from the others, with Marr pointing to a fence that Domingo would have to mend, Domingo drew back, leaned forward from his left stirrup, and landed a mighty blow on Marr's chin that toppled him clean out of his saddle.

With never a sound, Domingo leaped onto the prostrate Marr and began hammering him as hard as he could with both fists.

Bigger and stronger, Marr was not defenseless, but overwhelmed by Garza's sudden move, he could not easily apply his superior force. When he struggled to his feet, lashing out with his powerful arms, Garza danced and dodged, landing such severe blows that before long Marr was winded and sorely hurt.

But still he defended himself, and when Garza saw that his opponent was tiring, he smashed in with a series of wild punches, kicks, jabs and belts, until Marr fell to the ground. As he lay there, clearly defeated, Garza did not grant him the honors of war. Not at all. With his first outcry in the battle he leaped upon the fallen man and smashed him so furiously about the face that blood

spurted; the remaining big front tooth popped out, and Don Mordecai fainted.

Wiping his hands on the grass, Domingo tied Marr's horse to his own, then rode slowly back to where the soldiers waited. 'You'd better go out and find him,' he said. Surrendering Marr's horse to them, he started the long ride back to Bejar, asking for no protection.

He arrived at sunset, well speckled with blood, and before the moon was up he and Trinidad de Saldana, protected by four riders he had hired, were on their way to Laredo, but they had barely left town when she cried: 'Oh! I must go back!' He feared she was reconsidering her decision, but when they reached the beautiful old house on the plaza, all she wanted was that sketch she had made of the church at Saltillo, which Don Ramon had framed. It was one of the memories of her past life which she would never surrender.

She moves on, a mature woman of seventeen, granddaughter of a man of honor who had proved with his life that he was entitled to that claim. He had made himself an Hidalgo de Bragueta, siring seven sons in a row without, as he said, 'the contaminating intrusion of a single daughter.' Yet before he marched into the morning darkness to fight his final duel he had embraced his granddaughter, telling her: 'You are the best son I ever had.'

Across the bleak and dusty wasteland she walks, hoping to spare her splendid horse and oldest friend, Relampaguito. She fords the Medina, that stream which had defined her family's ranch, then the Atascosa of the meager water, then the Nueces, on whose bloody banks her grandsons will die, striving to protect it. Still on foot, she crosses the Nueces Strip, which entire armies will contest in future years, and finally she reaches those fertile fields along the Rio Grande, where citrus and murder and big families and corruption and untold wealth will flourish.

From her womb will spring nine Garzas, like her, prolific, until it would seem that she had populated the entire river valley. Some Garzas will go to the Congress of the United States, others to distinguished service in the Mexican army to face their cousins fighting against them in the American. A few will become agricultural millionaires; many will die unremembered paupers, but in each generation some Garza men will exhibit the courage shown by Domingo when he rode alone through Comanche country to claim his bride and punish her betrayer; and with reassuring frequency some Garza woman will display that quizzical half-smile

which had distinguished the founder of her family, Trinidad de Saldana. And like her, she will be memorable and much loved by men.

. . . TASK FORCE

A week before the June meeting in El Paso the three members of our staff asked to see me privately: 'Dr. Barlow, you're playing this too low key. We think you should take command of the formal sessions, knock some heads together, keep Rusk from running everything, with Quimper's help.'

1 sat for some moments, contemplating their unhappiness, then asked: 'Have you ever heard of the principle which guides many of our best organizations? Primus inter pares?' Apparently no one had, so I interpreted: 'First among equals, the best possible definition of a chairman.'

'What's it mean?' the young man from Texas Tech asked, and I said: 'The chairman must never think he's the hottest thing on the block. Banging the gavel and all that,' and the young woman from SMU warned: 'You'd better do some gavel banging or those tigers are going to eat you up.'

I assured her that when the time came to write our report, Professor Garza and I would form a dependable team in defense of liberal proposals, while Rusk and Quimper, as announced conservatives, should be expected to oppose: 'That'll leave Miss Cobb with the swing vote, and remember, her ancestors were liberal senators. If our ideas are any good, she'll side with us.'

'You work on that principle,' the young woman said, 'you're going to lose every contest. Those three old-timers will hang together in defense of old principles. They're tough.'

'The governor appointed them for that very reason. And if they weren't tough, I wouldn't want them.'