THE PASTORES
Picture a large barn-like hall without doors or windows, hard dirt floor, rough-plastered walls on which some oil lamps and tallow candles in wooden brackets smoke and cast a dim spectral light. A platform raised about two feet above the floor and extending across the entire back of the hall serves as a stage, and some large, striped Mexican blankets do duty as a drop curtain. The actors remain all the time on the stage, those taking part in the scenes advance to the center, play their rôles, then retire to the sides where those not acting gather behind the curtain and are supposed to be invisible. There was no attempt at scenic effect, no applause, but absorbed, unflagging attention. In front of the stage were some large chairs, in which Don Pedro, Donna Inez and other distinguished personages were seated; back of the chairs were rows of benches occupied by well-dressed men and women, and in open spaces behind and on the sides of the benches a motley crowd of women wearing rebosas and sewing, knitting, or plaiting and combing their hair, and men wearing sombreros and drinking pulque, smoking, or playing cards, sat flat on the floor. After rather a long wait, some musicians sitting near the stage sang to a guitar accompaniment some disconnected strains from church chants or masses. The curtain, parting and being drawn aside, discloses two men, the one fair, handsome and well-dressed, representing the Angel of God, the other dark, ugly, with a club foot and horns projecting above a lowering brow, representing the devil, who have an excited dispute about the advent of the expected Redeemer. These two men appear in every scene. Then follow in regular succession the Annunciation, the Adoration of the Magi, Christ in the Temple, the Temptation, the Crucifixion, the Empty Sepulchre, all being taken literally from the Bible. In the last scene the Devil kneels before the Angel of God, acknowledges the Divinity of Christ, and begs to be admitted to the community of the Redeemed.
The Alcalde’s Daughter
The Virgin was personated by a young, beautiful, pure-looking woman; Christ by a handsome, refined youth; Pontius Pilate by a large, vulgar-looking man; Herodias by a saucy, bold girl; Mary Magdalene by a pale, forlorn looking woman. There were occasional intermissions during which the singers treated the audience to some rather sweet music. A cynic, marveling that the managers of the Pastores should select scenes from a Bible they never read, might describe the performance as a travesty of a faith they would die to defend, yet he would have to acknowledge the earnest interest taken by the audience to be significant of the human sympathy always aroused by the story of Bethlehem.
The most pleasant of Christmas Eve duties, arranging the childrens’ presents near or under the lighted lamps, followed the Pastores. Occasionally a lamp would be hung in a chapel or other preferred place not adjoining the family home, there being no danger of its being molested, a certain sacredness protecting both lamp and presents.
Waking early, Jesusa crept on tip-toe from her little room and hurried to the spot where her lamp had been hung, trembling with glad expectancy of the beautiful things she hoped to find there. A light still flickered in it, but there was nothing beneath or near it. What could it mean? She stood a moment spell-bound, then recalling some childish misdemeanors she burst into tears, and falling on her knees, sobbed: “I have been wicked. I was not worthy of Thy favor, Holy Child of God! Thou hast seen fit to punish me.” Don Pedro and Donna Inez, hearing her leave the house, had followed her, wishing to see her delight at the pleasant surprises they had prepared for her. “Wicked, indeed,” said he; “the angels in heaven are not purer. Some thief has despoiled you. We’ll catch him, punish him and force him to make restitution.”
Though slow to anger and prone to mercy, he was so incensed that he summoned the Mission Council to meet at once in his office to consider an important matter. A night guard at the Alamo testified that making his rounds he saw the white girl called Cana cross the street and go round the corner where the lamp hung; that later he saw her again cross the street and return home, but that seeing her often playing with Jesusa he suspected nothing, and did not follow her. However, when relieved from duty, he picked up near the corner she had passed the dulces and ribbon end, which he there and then produced. The Mexican woman with whom the child lived testified that early that morning Cana had divided with her children a box of dulces, and had given her a bow from which the ribbon end had evidently been detached, claiming to have found them. Cana when arrested and brought to the Alcalde’s office, denied bitterly any knowledge of either dulces or ribbon, then when cross-questioned she became confused and finally began crying: “I knew where Jesusa meant to hang her lamp. I was curious to see what she had, then I don’t know how or why I did it, I grabbed her things, carried them home and hid them in the hole at the foot of the hill.”
Jesusa, who had been sitting on a stool at her father’s feet, slipped to Cana’s side and gently took her hand. “Don’t cry, Cana,” said she. “You’ve done nothing wrong. You knew I would be willing for you to have them.” “Señor Alcalde,” said one of the Council, a tall, dark man with a loud, harsh voice, “justice and public safety demand the punishment of criminals, and I move that this self-convicted thief be fined twenty-five pesos and in default of payment of said fine that she be stripped and publicly flogged, then confined during Christmas week in the Mission jail.” Cano, who, hanging his head in shame, had crouched behind the door, here sprang forward, fell on his knees and grasping Jesusa’s hand, prayed: “Oh! Jesusa, don’t let them strip and flog my sister. I have strong arms and keen eyes. I will work and earn the money to pay for the things Cana, poor little weak lamb, took. For the love of God, for the Holy Virgin’s sake, don’t let them whip her.” Jesusa, kindly pressing his hand, said: “Have no fear,” then throwing her arms round her father’s neck, cried: “Padre mio, caro padre mio, you have never refused a request. Don’t let them harm Cana.” “Be quiet, my love”; then turning to the Junta he said firmly (and Don Pedro knew well how and when to assume the air of authority): “I will pay this child’s fine and give her the protection of my home. I also adjourn the Junta.”
He then summoned the Mexican with whom the children lived and obtained from him the following story:
“As has been my custom for some time, I went last year to the Comanche Camp on the Pecos for trading purposes, and while there noticed two white children whose miserable condition excited my pity and caused me to ask the chief who they were and where they came from. Evading my questions at first, he finally told me that he had stolen them while on a horse-raiding expedition to the Brazos; that going through the woods late one evening near a house occupied by apparently well-to-do people, he saw the children gathering pecans, and creeping up to them, seized them, strapped them to the back of his horse and fled, expecting to ransom them for a considerable sum. He sent an agent to make terms with the parents, but the agent, returning, reported that the affair had created such a stir he thought it unadvisable to broach the subject. I proposed a trade, and he agreed to take for them a mule, a bridle and a red blanket. I brought them home, intending to try for the ransom, but I did not know how to go about it.” “Speaking of ransom, for how much could you, amigo mio, be induced to relinquish all claims to these children?” asked the Alcalde. “Señor, you know me to be a poor man with a family to support, and needing money badly. Otherwise, I would present them to your honor. Would you be willing to offer twenty pesos?” “Here are fifty pesos. Read and sign this agreement, which, as you will see, transfers to me your right and claim to them.”
Obtaining the requisite authority, the Alcalde engaged a man, known to be trustworthy, to take charge of the Americanos, go with them to the neighborhood designated, hunt up their parents and restore to them their stolen children. Supplying them with clothes and giving to each one a well-filled purse, the Alcalde said, on parting with them: “Never forget that you owe your deliverance from captivity, and your restoration to home and friends, to Jesusa, and remember her in your prayers.”
The leave-taking between the two little girls could not have been more affecting had they been sisters, and Cano’s trembling lips and tearful eyes as he bade Jesusa good-bye expressed more eloquently than words the grateful emotions surging in his brave boyish heart. In due time letters came from the rejoicing parents invoking God’s blessing on the kind-hearted, generous Alcalde. Believing that their little ones had, lost in the woods, perished from starvation, or been drowned in the Brazos, they had mourned them as dead.
The night following the disappointing morning and the harrowing scene in her father’s office found little Jesusa ready for bed betimes. While she slept, Donna Inez, entering her room noiselessly, hung above her cot a picture depicting the healing of Jairus’ daughter, and opposite a scroll inscribed, “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy,” both scroll and picture being the work of the Nuns at the Mission Convent, who, hearing of Jesusa’s defense of Cana, aspired to play the part of rewarding spirits; and nearby, a doll dressed as a queen and many playthings and trinkets calculated to please a little girl.
San Fernando Cathedral
Awaking and seeing the scroll, Jesusa supposed she must be dreaming, then noticing her other treasures, she sprang from bed, calling: “Come madre, come padre; the angels have been here. See what they brought me. It must mean that the Holy Child smiles on me. You will go with me, will you not, carrissimos, to church and join me in grateful thanks for His Divine Favor,” and the adoring parents, unrestrained by thoughts of superstition or deception, encouraged their trusting child in her innocent delusion.
Eventful changes fill the succeeding years. The Texas settlers in the towns and counties contiguous to San Antonio, finding the tyranny and injustice of the Mexican authorities intolerable, determine to throw off all allegiance to them and organize a separate, independent government. The wise and effective means of resistance adopted culminate in the struggles at Gonzales and Goliad, where the Texans win decisive victories.
Emboldened by success, they advance on San Antonio, defended by General Cos with a large Mexican force, and after eight days of continuous skirmishing compel him to surrender. Entering the town, they garrison the Alamo with Texas troops and hoist over it the Lone Star Flag. The Alcalde, loyal to duty, had rendered valuable assistance to the Mexican commander and, when the latter retreated, retired with his family to his Salado ranch where, detained by Donna Inez’s serious illness, he remained until the recapture of San Antonio by Santa Anna restored Mexican supremacy. His two eldest sons fell at Goliad, bravely defending their national colors, and the two younger ones were killed a year later in a skirmish on the Rio Grande. Returning to San Antonio the day after the massacre of the brave defenders of the Alamo, he was shocked at the atrocities committed by Santa Anna and, condemning them in unmeasured terms, kindly sought to alleviate the sufferings of the Texans still remaining at the mission.
The defeat of Santa Anna at San Jacinto and his subsequent inglorious return to Mexico, effectually relieved Texas from Mexican thraldom, though the alternate occupation of San Antonio by Texans under Hays and Howard, and by Mexicans under Vasquez and Woll, resulted in prolonging chaotic conditions there for some years.
Don Pedro, gracefully yielding to the inevitable, made no effort to exercise his official functions after the organization of the Texas government. Known, however, as the Alcalde, he was deferred to by both Texans and Mexicans, and, always found acting with the upright and orderly, lost neither public respect nor influence.
When General Sam Houston was elected and inaugurated President of the Republic of Texas the citizens of San Antonio invited him to visit their town, and, on his acceptance of the invitation, they determined to give him a public reception to conclude with a ball and banquet. The Alcalde, asked to act as chairman of the reception committee, surprised every one by agreeing to do so and by advancing a handsome contribution towards defraying the expenses of the reception. The ball was given in the large hall of the Veramendi House and proved a gratifying success. President Houston was accompanied by his Staff, Chief of which was a handsome young officer, Captain Osborn, who, enlisting as a private at San Jacinto, had been promoted on the battlefield for conspicuous gallantry. He was selected to open the ball with the Alcalde’s daughter, Don Pedro himself presenting him to her. Then in the efflorescence of her maidenly charms, Jesusa was so lovely, her voice was so musical, her manner so gracious, that all hearts involuntarily crowned her queen of love and beauty.
And Captain Osborn, could he resist such fascinations? Nous verrons. Following the ball came a dinner at the Alcalde’s, then other entertainments given by hospitable San Antonians, at all of which Captain Osborn was Jesusa’s devoted attendant. People smiled and said: “How well they suit! What a fine match it would be!” Captain Osborn accompanied the President back to Washington, the first Capital of Texas, but returned to San Antonio in a few weeks, when the Alcalde announced his daughter’s betrothal to President Houston’s Chief of Staff.
One evening the lovers were walking together near the Alamo when he asked: “Do you remember once hanging a Christmas lamp in the angle of that corner?” “Of course I do. It is one of the dearest of my childish memories.” “And do you remember a little boy who once knelt to you in your father’s office and implored you to protect his sister?” “Oh!” said she, the light of memory restoring the boyish cast to his features, and recalling as if by magic that exciting scene, “Can it be? Yes, you must be, you are Cano.” “The dream of my life, Jesusa, has been to meet you again, and meeting you, the most cherished hope of my heart has been to win your love.” “Well, you have succeeded,” said she archly.
Of course, Padre Ignacio, her life-long friend and confessor, who had christened her and blessed her at her first communion, officiated at the Nuptial Mass, and who could wonder if amid the decorations transforming the San Fernando altar into a mass of fragrant bloom there hung a Christmas lamp, whose flickering light, though obscured by the glorious sunshine flooding the church, cast a mild benison-like radiance over the young couple—brave soldier boy and maiden fair—plighting their wedded troth there, a radiance betokening faith, hope and undying love.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.