THE BLACK TRAGEDY
While the raw recruits crowded one another for breath in the dark vaulted church of Goliad, a little swarthy man in a gorgeous
uniform sat dining luxuriously in the best house in San Antonio, far to the northwest. Some of his favorite generals were
around him, Castrillon, Gaona, Almonte, and the Italian Filisola.
The "Napoleon of the West" was happy. His stay in San Antonio, after the fall of the Alamo, had been a continuous triumph,
with much feasting and drinking and music. He had received messages from the City of Mexico, his capital, and all things there
went well. Everybody obeyed his orders, although they were sent from the distant and barbarous land of Texas.
While they dined, a herald, a Mexican cavalrymen who had ridden far, stopped at the door and handed a letter to the officer
"For the most illustrious president, General Santa Anna," he said.
The officer went within and, waiting an opportune moment, handed the letter to Santa Anna.
"The messenger came from General Urrea," he said.
Santa Anna, with a word of apology, because he loved the surface forms of politeness, opened and read the letter. Then
he uttered a cry of joy.
"We have all the Texans now!" he exclaimed. "General Urrea has taken Fannin and his men. There is nothing left in Texas to oppose us."
The generals uttered joyful shouts and drank again to their illustrious leader. The banquet lasted long, but after it was
over Santa Anna withdrew to his own room and dictated a letter to his secretary. It was sealed carefully and given to a chosen
messenger, a heavy-browed and powerful Mexican.
"Ride fast to Goliad with that letter," said Santa Anna.
The messenger departed at once. He rode a strong horse, and he would find fresh mounts on the way. He obeyed the orders
of the general literally. He soon left San Antonio far behind, and went on hour after hour, straight toward Goliad. Now and
then he felt the inside of his tunic where the letter lay, but it was always safe. Three or four times he met parties of Mexicans,
and he replied briefly to their questions that he rode on the business of the most illustrious president, General Antonio
Lopez de Santa Anna. Once, on the second day, he saw two horsemen, whom his trained eyes told him to be Texan hunters.
The messenger sheered off into a patch of timber, and waited until the hunters passed out of sight. Had they seen him much
might have changed, a terrible story might have been different, but, at that period, the stars in their courses were working
against the Texans. Every accident, every chance, turned to the advantage of their enemies.
The messenger emerged from the timber, and went on at the same steady gait toward Goliad. He was riding his fourth horse
now, having changed every time he met a Mexican detachment, and the animal was fresh and strong. The rider himself, powerful
by nature and trained to a life in the saddle, felt no weariness.
The scattered houses of Goliad came into view, by and by, and the messenger, giving the magic name of Santa Anna, rode
through the lines. He inquired for General Urrea, the commander, but the general having gone to Victoria he was directed to
Colonel Portilla, who commanded in his absence. He found Portilla sitting in a patio with Colonel Garay, the younger Urrea
and several other Mexican officers. The messenger saluted, drew the letter from his pocket and presented it to Colonel Portilla.
"From the most illustrious president and commander-in-chief, General Santa Anna," he said.
Portilla broke the seal and read. As his eyes went down the lines, a deep flush crept through the tan of his face, and
the paper trembled in his hands.
"I cannot do it! I cannot do it! Read, gentlemen, read!" he cried.
Urrea took the extended letter from his hand and read it aloud. Neither his voice nor his hand quivered as he read, and
when he finished he said in a firm voice:
"The orders of the president must be obeyed, and you, Colonel Portilla, must carry them out at once. All of us know that
General Santa Anna does not wish to repeat his commands, and that his wrath is terrible."
"It is so! It is so!" said Portilla hopelessly, and Garay also spoke words of grief. But Urrea, although younger and lower
in rank, was firm, even exultant. His aggressive will dominated the others, and his assertion that the wrath of Santa Anna
was terrible was no vain warning. The others began to look upon him as Santa Anna's messenger, the guardian of his thunderbolts,
and they did not dare to meet his eye.
"We will go outside and talk about it," said Portilla, still much agitated.
When they left the patio their steps inevitably took them toward the church. The high note of a flute playing a wailing
air came to them through the narrow windows. It was "Home, Sweet Home," played by a boy in prison. The Mexicans did not know
the song, but its solemn note was not without an appeal to Portilla and Garay. Portilla wiped the perspiration from his face.
"Come away," he said. "We can talk better elsewhere."
They turned in the opposite direction, but Urrea did not remain with them long. Making some excuse for leaving them he
went rapidly to the church. He knew that his rank and authority would secure him prompt admission from the guards, but he
stopped, a moment, at the door. The prisoners were now singing. Three or four hundred voices were joined in some hymn of the
north that he did not know, some song of the English-speaking people. The great volume of sound floated out, and was heard
everywhere in the little town.
Urrea was not moved at all. "Rebels and filibusters!" he said in Spanish, under his breath, but fiercely. Then he ordered
the door unbarred, and went in. Two soldiers went with him and held torches aloft.
The singing ceased when Urrea entered. Ned was standing against the wall, and the young Mexican instinctively turned toward
him, because he knew Ned best. There was much of the tiger cat in Urrea. He had the same feline grace and power, the same
smoothness and quiet before going into action.
"You sing, you are happy," he said to Ned, although he meant them all. "It is well. You of the north bear misfortune well."
"We do the best we can wherever we are," replied young Fulton, dryly.
"The saints themselves could do no more," said the Mexican.
Urrea was speaking in English, and his manner was so friendly and gentle that the recruits crowded around him.
"When are we to be released? When do we get our parole?" they asked.
Urrea smiled and held up his hands. He was all sympathy and generosity.
"All your troubles will be over to-morrow," he said, "and it is fitting that they should end on such a day, because it
is Palm Sunday."
The recruits gave a cheer.
"Do we go down to the coast?" one of them asked.
Urrea smiled with his whole face, and with the gesture of his hands, too. But he shook his head.
"I can say no more," he replied. "I am not the general, and perhaps I have said too much already, but be assured, brave
foes, that to-morrow will end your troubles. You fought us gallantly. You fought against great odds, and you have my sympathy."
Ned had said no more. He was looking at Urrea intently. He was trying, with all the power of his own mind and soul, to
read this man's mind and soul. He was trying to pierce through that Spanish armor of smiles and gestures and silky tones and
see what lay beneath. He sought to read the real meaning of all these polite phrases. His long and powerful gaze finally drew
A little look of fear crept into Urrea's eyes, as the two antagonists stared at each other. But it was only for a few minutes.
Then he looked away with a shrug and a laugh.
"Now I leave you," he said to the men, "and may the saints bring you much happiness. Do not forget that to-morrow is Palm Sunday, and that it is a good omen."
He went out, taking the torchbearers with him, and although it was dark again in the vaulted church, the recruits sang
a long time. Ned sat down with his back against the wall, and he did not share in the general joy. He remembered the look
that had come into Urrea's eyes, when they met the accusing gaze of his own.
After a while the singing ceased, and one by one the recruits fell asleep in the close, stifling air of the place. Ned
dozed an hour or two, but awoke before dawn. He was oppressed by a deep and unaccountable gloom, and it was not lifted when,
in the dusk, he looked at the rows of sleeping figures, crowded so close together that no part of the floor was visible.
He saw the first light appear in the east, and then spread like the slow opening of a fan. The recruits began to awaken
by and by, and their good spirits had carried over from the night before. Soon the old church was filled with talk and laughter.
The day came fully, and then the guards brought food and water, not enough to satisfy hunger and thirst, but enough to
keep them alive. They did not complain, as they would soon be free men, able to obtain all that they wanted. Presently the
doors of the church were thrown open, and the officers and many soldiers appeared. Young Urrea was foremost among the officers,
and, in a loud voice, he ordered all the prisoners to come out, an order that they obeyed with alacrity and pleasure.
Ned marched forth with the rest, although he did not speak to any of those about him. He looked first at Urrea, whose manner
was polite and smiling, as it had been the night before, and then his glance shifted to the other officers, older men, and
evidently higher in rank. He saw that two, Colonels by their uniforms, were quite pale, and that one of them was biting savagely at his mustache. It all
seemed sinister to Ned. Why was Urrea doing everything, and why were his superiors standing by, evidently a prey to some great
The recruits, under Urrea's orders, were formed into three columns. One was to take the road toward San Antonio, the second
would march toward San Patricio, and the third to Copano. The three columns shouted good-by, but the recruits assured one
another that they would soon meet again. Urrea told one column that it was going to be sent home immediately, another that
it was going outside the town, where it was to help in killing cattle for beef which they would eat, and the third that it
was leaving the church in a hurry to make room for Santa Anna's own troops, who would reach the town in an hour.
Ned was in the largest column, near the head of it, and he watched everything with a wary eye. He noticed that the Mexican
colonels still left all the arrangements to Urrea, and that they remained extremely nervous. Their hands were never quiet
for a moment.
The column filed down through the town, and Ned saw the Mexican women looking at them. He heard two or three of them say
"pobrecitos" (poor fellows), and their use of the word struck upon his ear with an ominous sound. He glanced back. Close behind
the mass of prisoners rode a strong squadron of cavalry with young Urrea at their head. Ned could not see Urrea's face, which
was hidden partly by a cocked and plumed hat, but he noticed that the young Mexican sat very upright, as if he felt the pride
of authority. One hand held the reins, and the other rested on the silver hilt of a small sword at his side.
A column of Mexican infantry marched on either side of the prisoners, and only a few yards away. It seemed to Ned that
they were holding the Texans very close for men whom they were to release in a few hours. Trusting the Mexicans in nothing,
he was suspicious of everything, and he watched with a gaze that missed no detail. But he seemed to be alone in such thoughts.
The recruits, enjoying the fresh air and the prospect of speedy freedom, were talking much, and exchanging many jests.
They passed out of the little town, and the last Ned saw of it was the Mexican women standing in the doorways and watching.
They continued along the road in double file, with the Mexican infantry still on either side, and the Mexican cavalry in the
rear. A half mile from the town, and Urrea gave an order. The whole procession stopped, and the column of Mexican infantry
on the left passed around, joining their comrades on the right. The recruits paid no attention to the movement, but Ned looked
instantly at Urrea. He saw the man rise now in his saddle, his whole face aflame. In a flash he divined everything. His heart
leaped and he shouted:
"Boys, they are going to kill us!"
The startled recruits did not have time to think, because the next instant Urrea, rising to his full height in his stirrups,
The double line of Mexicans, at a range of a few yards, fired in an instant into the column of unarmed prisoners. There
was a great blaze, a spurt of smoke and a tremendous crash. It seemed to Ned that he could fairly hear the thudding of bullets
upon bodies, and the breaking of bones beneath the sudden fierce impact of the leaden hail. An awful strangled cry broke from
the poor recruits, half of whom were already down. The Mexicans, reloading swiftly, poured in another volley, and the prisoners fell in heaps. Then Urrea and the cavalry, with
swords and lances, charged directly upon them, the hoofs of their horses treading upon wounded and unwounded alike.
Ned could never remember clearly the next few moments in that red and awful scene. It seemed to him afterward that he went
mad for the time. He was conscious of groans and cries, of the fierce shouting of the Mexicans, wild with the taste of blood,
of the incessant crackling of the rifles and muskets, and of falling bodies. He saw gathering over himself and his slaughtered
comrades a great column of smoke, pierced by innumerable jets of fire, and he caught glimpses of the swart faces of the Mexicans
as they pulled triggers. From right and left came the crash of heavy but distant volleys, showing that the other two columns
were being massacred in the same way.
He felt the thunder of hoofs and a horse was almost upon him, while the rider, leaning from the saddle, cut at him with
a saber. Ned, driven by instinct rather than reason, sprang to one side the next instant, and then the horseman was lost in
the smoke. He dashed against a figure, and was about to strike with his fist, the only weapon that he now had, when he saw
that he had collided with a Texan, unwounded like himself. Then he, too, was lost in the smoke.
A consuming rage and horror seized Ned. Why he was not killed he never knew. The cloud over the place where the slaughtered
recruits lay thickened, but the Mexicans never ceased to fire into it with their rifles and muskets. The crackling of the
weapons beat incessantly upon the drums of his ears. Mingled with it were the cries and groans of the victims, now fast growing
fewer. But it was all a blurred and red vision to Ned. While he was in that deadly volcano he moved by instinct and impulse and not by
A few of the unwounded had already dashed from the smoke and had undertaken flight across the plain, away from the Mexican
infantry, where they were slain by the lances or muskets of the cavalry under Urrea. Ned followed them. A lancer thrust so
savagely at him that when the boy sprang aside the lance was hurled from his hand. Ned's foot struck against the weapon, and
instantly he picked it up. A horseman on his right was aiming a musket at him, and, using the lance as a long club, he struck
furiously at the Mexican. The heavy butt landed squarely upon the man's head, and shattered it like an eggshell. Youthful
and humane, Ned nevertheless felt a savage joy when the man's skull crashed beneath his blow.
It is true that he was quite mad for the moment. His rage and horror caused every nerve and muscle within him to swell.
His brain was a mass of fire. His strength was superhuman. Whirling the great lance in club fashion about his head he struck
another Mexican across the shoulders, and sent him with a howl of pain from the saddle. He next struck a horse across the
forehead, and so great was the impact that the animal went down. A cavalryman at a range of ten yards fired at him and missed.
He never fired again, as the heavy butt of the lance caught him the next instant on the side of the head, and he went to join
All the while Ned was running for the timber. A certain reason was appearing in his actions, and he was beginning to think
clearly. He curved about as he ran, knowing that it would disturb the aim of the Mexicans, who were not good shots, and instinctively
he held on to the lance, whirling it about his head, and from time to time uttering fierce shouts like an Indian warrior wild with battle.
More than one Mexican horseman sheered away from the formidable figure with the formidable weapon.
Ned saw other figures, unarmed, running for the wood. A few reached it, but most were cut down before they had gone half
way. Behind him the firing and shouting of the Mexicans did not seem to decrease, but no more groans or cries reached him
from the bank of smoke that hung over the place where the murdered recruits lay. But the crash of the fire, directed on the
other columns to right and left, still came to him.
Ned saw the wood not far away now. Twenty or thirty shots had been fired at him, but all missed except two, which merely
grazed him. He was not hurt and the superhuman strength, born of events so extraordinary, still bore him up. The trees looked
very green. They seemed to hold out sheltering arms, and there was dense underbrush through which the cavalry could not dash.
He came yet nearer, and then a horseman, rifle raised to his shoulder, dashed in between. Sparks danced before Ned's eyes.
Throat and mouth, lips and his whole face burned with smoke and fever, but all the heat seemed to drive him into fiercer action.
He struck at horse and horseman so savagely that the two went down together, and the lance broke in his hands. Then with a
cry of triumph that his parched throat could scarcely utter, he leaped into the timber.
Having reached the shelter of the trees, Ned ran on for a long time, and finally came into the belt of forest along the
San Antonio River. Twenty-six others escaped in the same way on that day, which witnessed the most dreadful deed ever done on the soil of North America, but nearly four hundred were murdered in obedience to the letter sent
by Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. Fannin and Ward, themselves, were shot through the head, and their bodies were thrown into
the common heap of the slain.
Ned did not see any of the other fugitives among the trees. He may have passed them, but his brain was still on fire, and
he beheld nothing but that terrible scene behind him, the falling recruits, the fire and the smoke and the charging horsemen.
He could scarcely believe that it was real. The supreme power would not permit such things. Already the Alamo had lighted
a fire in his soul, and Goliad now turned it into a roaring flame. He hated Urrea, who had rejoiced in it, and he hated Santa
Anna who, he dimly felt, had been responsible for this massacre. Every element in his being was turned for the time into passion
and hatred. As he wandered on, he murmured unintelligible but angry words through his burning lips.
He knew nothing about the passage of time, but after many hours he realized that it was night, and that he had come to
the banks of a river. It was the San Antonio, and he swam it, wishing to put the stream between himself and the Mexicans.
Then he sat down in the thick timber, and the collapse from such intense emotions and such great exertions came quickly. He
seemed to go to pieces all in a breath. His head fell forward and he became unconscious.