San Antonio de Valero would have been a proper name for this settlement, short and musical, but some busybody remembered that the Marqués de Valero had a renowned half brother, the Duque de Béjar, who had given his life in defense of Christian Budapest during battle with the infidel Turks, and this intruder thought it might please the viceroy if the new settlement was named after the hero, so it became San Antonio de Béjar. But as in the case of Mejico and Mexico, local Spanish was cavalier in its interchange of j and x, so it quickly became San Antonio de Béxar, which the locals promptly abbreviated to Béxar.
Here the internecine struggles which had been so prevalent at the Rio Grande missions were avoided, allowing Spanish colonial rule to flourish at its best. Sensible friars at the mission and strong-minded military men in the presidio forced the intricate system to work, riding down any incipient troubles. Into a strange and alien land populated by passive Indians who feared the fierce, untamed Apache to the west, had come a handful of devout Spaniards to build their low-roofed buildings and dig their irrigation ditches.
As soon as Fray Damián saw Béxar he loved it: ‘Oh, I would like to work here!’ and he asked the colonel: ‘Could I not start my mission … off to the north, where I wouldn’t interfere with San Antonio de Valero? There is so much work to be done.’ But the soldier had specific orders: ‘Our job is to inspect and protect the real frontier, the area of the Nacogdoches mission,’ and so with profound regrets Fray Damián left a place which had excited his imagination and started the long march to the bleak northern extremity of Tejas.
‘The journey from Béxar to Los Adaes,’ explained a soldier who had fought in Europe’s mercenary armies, ‘is as long as marching up from Paris, across Flanders, across the Netherlands, and into the Germany. Tejas is big.’
As they kept bearing to the northeast, the brothers noticed radical changes in the scenery. They started across flat grassland and mesquite, then encountered rolling country with many trees, and next were in a completely different terrain, with trees but also with real prairies suitable for farming. Finally they came to what they thought was best of all, fine woodlands with promising soil: ‘Here a man could cut down the trees and make himself a farm that would feed a village.’
As they traveled through this magnificent and almost pristine region, so totally different from the land around Béxar, Damián reflected on an oddity which perplexed him: ‘Why is the capital of Tejas so far north? On the borders of Louisiana?’ He pondered this, but could find no rational justification: ‘By all reason the capital should be at Béxar, for it is central and the source of leadership in Tejas, but since no one at the Council of the Indies in Madrid has ever been to Tejas or seen an accurate map, the capital is kept far to the north, from where it will be almost impossible to provide good government.’
Alvaro offered a clear explanation: ‘France. They control Louisiana a few leagues to the east. Our father fought against them three times, and even though we have a kind of peace now, would you like to gamble on what the situation will be next year? Madrid’s clever: “Keep the capital on the frontier. Keep your eye on those damned Frenchmen.” ’
In late January they reached the west bank of the Neches, a stream one could jump, and although military practice required that a military force cross over at dusk so that it would be prepared to march on in the morning, regardless of any change that might have occurred to the river, the western bank was so hospitable that the men had unpacked the mules and pitched camp before the colonel could stop them. That night a winter storm of huge dimension struck, and by morning the Neches was a torrent which raged for seven days, to the colonel’s disgust with himself for having ignored a basic rule.
However, since the Saldaña brothers were an enterprising pair, they utilized the forced delay to inspect one of the saddest sights in Tejas, the abandoned ruins of a cluster of missions that had once served the region. They had flourished briefly in the 1690s, giving promise of becoming a focus of some importance, but the hostility of the Indians and the fluctuating attitudes of the nearby French had doomed the effort. Worthy Franciscans had lost their enthusiasm and sometimes their lives in these ruins. Their efforts had marked the high tide of Spain’s colonizing effort, and they had not succeeded.
Soldier and friar looked upon the ruins from vastly different perspectives, and it was Alvaro who voiced the no-nonsense interpretation sponsored by the Spanish government in Madrid: ‘No cause for grief, Damián. Missions are thrust into locations to establish a foothold, no more. Pacify the Indians, start a community, and when things are stable, invite the civil government to take over. The mission closes, job done. The buildings gradually fall apart. And you friars move along to your next obligation.’ He saw the deserted ruins simply as proof that in this instance the procedure had failed.
But Damián saw in the rotting timbers the tragedy of crushed aspirations, the death of plans which once must have seemed so promising, and he could hear the early friars assuring one another: ‘We’ll establish our mission here, and bring the word of God to the Indians, and watch as families from Spain move in to build a city.’ Now only the pines whispered over the graves.
‘This could have been a major settlement,’ Damián said. ‘Families should be living here. Children in the shadow of the church. This is heartbreaking.’ He asked his brother to kneel as he said prayers for the departed souls who had struggled so diligently to accomplish so little. For Damián, a mission was not some temporary agency that appeared casually and slipped away when its work was done; it was intended to serve as the everlasting soul of a community, and any abrupt demise was tragic.
When they finally negotiated the swollen Neches, they came upon rude buildings in which new missions were being attempted, but their success seemed doubtful, and as Damián bade these Franciscans goodbye, it was with a sense of futility. Spain was not impressive in these remote corners of its empire.
The ninety-odd miles to Los Adaes were some of the most mournful Alvaro would ever travel, for they proved that the expedition was leaving the Tejas sphere of influence and entering a world in which Spaniards played no significant role: ‘It’s all wrong, Damián. We should be back in Béxar, building a city.’
The new capital was a pitiful sham, a few wooden buildings at the farthest end of a supply line along which Madrid rarely sent anything usable. Spanish officials confided: ‘The French over at Natchitoches arrange things so that we can buy goods smuggled in from the former French capital at Mobile, and for every honest man in the area, there must be a dozen cutthroats who have escaped down the Mississippi River.’ The chapel had barely the equipment for a proper Mass, and Damián thought that if this was the best Spain could do with its empire, that empire was doomed.
The captain acting as governor was always sickly, the foul air from the marshes having affected his lungs so that he coughed continuously. After he read the instructions sent him from Mexico City, he informed Damián: ‘You are to come back with settlers and attempt a new mission in these parts,’ an assignment which the friar accepted without comment.
‘Am I to man the presidio?’ Alvaro asked, and the governor tapped the letter: ‘No mention of it.’ But the colonel interrupted: ‘These are good men, Captain. I shall recommend that they work as a team, and I pray that you will second it.’ Without giving the suggestion even a moment’s study, the weary governor coughed several times, then said: ‘Very well. It can do no harm, I should think.’
When the garrison troops were lined up to see the visitors off, Alvaro saw to his disgust that no two men had the same uniform and that most had none. They were a ragtag disgrace to the army, and the governor confided: ‘These are my best. The worst run off to New Orleans once they see this place.’ And this ineffectual man, governor of all Tejas, wiped his nose on his sleeve.
Joyous news awaited the brothers when they returned to Béxar, for a letter from Benita Liñán informed Alvaro that she was eager to marry him as soon as he returned home. It sounded as if s
he had wedding plans under way, even though the young officer had not yet spoken to her father, as custom required.
When they reached Zacatecas, Benita told Damián that they wanted him to officiate, and as he was preparing for a day which he knew would bring him confusion, he received good news of his own. The administrator of the district summoned him and his Franciscan superior to headquarters, and told them: ‘The new viceroy arrived in Mexico while you were in the north, Fray Damián, and he believes that the French menace has subsided. He doesn’t want to build a mission near Los Adaes. But he does command the Franciscans to establish one more strengthening mission at Béxar. And the father-principal and I have decided that you’re the one to go. We’ll provide you with an escort directly after the wedding.’
Damián, contrasting the fraternity he had experienced at Béxar with the mournful emptiness of the Louisiana border, was delighted with what he held to be a promotion. But when it occurred to him that he might be rejoicing over something which represented a reversal of God’s plans for him—perhaps He meant for me to do His work in Los Adaes; perhaps those ruined missions were left along the Neches to inspire me—he was ashamed of himself for having found joy in a lesser task while escaping the greater to which heaven might have assigned him. This was a real concern, and one which agitated him for some weeks, so that as the wedding approached he found himself beset by doubled turmoil: he was in love with his brother’s bride, there could be no other word for it, and he was ashamed of himself for exulting over his escape from unpleasant or even dangerous duty. He fell into that anguish of self-doubt which would characterize his early years as a missionary: I’m a poor example. I have sin upon me and I cannot cleanse myself. I’m unworthy to be a shepherd and am amazed that God does not strike me.
He was diverted from such self-chastisement when he met the young friar who was to share the duties at the new mission, for Fray Domingo Pacheco, fourteen years younger, was a round-faced, happy brown-skinned mestizo. His father, a Spanish soldier in charge of a ranch belonging to the viceroy, had been so beset by loneliness that he had taken to wife a comely Indian woman, who had been given the name María and who had raised their son Domingo with songs and slaps, kisses and chastisements.
Fray Domingo looked upon the world as a place of contradiction and insanity which could be managed only with a grin, a shrug of the shoulders and the avoidance of as much unpleasantness as possible, and by unpleasantness he meant work. When assigned a job, he nodded, said it was easy to perform, assured the man in command that it would be done promptly, then worked as little and as slowly as possible, smiling warmly whenever a supervisor stopped by to inspect his progress. With Domingo things were always going well, tomorrow was sure to see the task finished, and for each time an observer saw him frown, he saw him smile a score of times.
He was not a stupid fellow, for in his twenty-two years he had accumulated a world of practical knowledge, so that his instructors at the college were often surprised by the astuteness of his answers and reassured by his obvious devotion to his calling. Though he had been characteristically satisfied with taking only minor orders, he was a still a full-fledged friar, and he could perform marriages and baptisms but he could not sing the Mass or engage in certain other restricted rituals. Fray Domingo was a servant of God who believed that with all the sour-faced monks and friars and priests in the world, there must be a place for someone who smiled.
He had what Fray Damián would never attain: an absolute faith in the benevolence of God and a comforting assurance that whatever he, Domingo, did was in accordance with God’s will. This supreme confidence came from his mother, who had belonged to a primitive tribe of Indians far south of Oaxaca; this group held women in low regard, and when she first learned of Christianity and the exalted role played by the Virgin Mary, she placed her entire confidence in the new religion. It was a beautiful religion, consoling, rich in its promises and realistic in its earthly performance. If the Spanish conversion of Mexico had accomplished nothing but the reorganization of women’s lives, as in the case of María Pacheco, it would have achieved great triumphs, for she accepted the new faith joyously and taught her son to do the same.
Although he shunned work, Domingo was in no way a coward. He knew that the frontier was a dangerous place, for he had seen those plaques shaped like hearts that adorned the walls of the refectory at the college: SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF FRIAR LUÍS GALINDO, MARTYRED AT SANTA FE, 1680. There were memorials to the Franciscans who had accompanied Coronado on his expedition and who had remained behind in the wilderness to find their martyrdom, and he had heard of how the missionaries in Tejas, north and south, had had to defend themselves against the very Indians they had been sent to save. But none of this information daunted his resolve to be the finest servant of God ever sent north; he was willing to die, even if he was not willing to work unnecessarily in the years prior to his martyrdom.
‘I will be your faithful companion,’ he assured Fray Damián, who, in a gesture of gratitude, invited him to participate in the forthcoming nuptials.
The wedding was held in the cathedral, and it seemed that everybody of prominence in Zacatecas and surrounding villages participated in the happy occasion. Women of various hues wept when sprightly Benita Liñán half walked, half danced down the narrow nave to where her future brother-in-law waited to perform the ceremony. Dressed in a fine black habit, he stood very tall as he received the bride, but he did not create an imposing impression, for he trembled and his face grew quite red, as if he had forgotten his lines. When the time came for him to take the hand of the bride and place it in the hand of the groom, he shook so noticeably that those in front feared he might be ill, but he regained control and finished the ceremony in clear voice, giving a benediction which all who heard it would remember:
‘My brother, my sister, may you live within the arms of Jesus Christ, may you create a home which radiates love, may your children prosper in their dedication to God, and may all who see you proclaim: “This is a Christian marriage.” Brother Alvaro, sister Benita, this is a day of great joy for me as it is for you, and may the Grace of God descend upon us all who have solemnized this act of Holy Matrimony.’
Damián spent a restless night, rising three times to kneel and pray that his mission in Tejas might reflect in all its operations the will of God. He asked for a blessing upon his companion, that good man Fray Domingo, and he asked special blessings for the couple who were starting their marriage that night, Alvaro and Benita de Saldaña. At the third prayer, when he came to this last name, he dropped his hands from the praying position, allowed his head to fall upon the bed, and wept.
In a thoughtful gesture that gave great pleasure in Mexico City and at the same time ensured financial support in Béxar, the Franciscans decided to name their new mission after the favorite saint of the incoming viceroy, and then add his title so there could be no misunderstanding as to who in heaven and on earth was being honored: Santísima Misión Santa Teresa de Casafuerte. And then, to make clear who in Mexico was running the place, they added: del Colegio de Propaganda Fide de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe de Zacatecas.
When this grandiose name was first pronounced the mission consisted of some sixty acres of virgin soil containing not even a shed, but it was favorably located on the west bank of the Río San Antonio, about two miles north of Misión San Antonio de Valero, where the Saldaña brothers had once stayed. The new mission had a promising site and nothing more, except grazing rights to some five leagues of range land, twenty-two thousand acres, fifteen miles to the southwest.
To make the place function, the two friars would have to build, with whatever help they could persuade the nearby Indians to lend, all the structures of a substantial establishment. A church would be needed, domiciles for the two friars, quarters for the three soldiers assigned to protect the place, housing for the converted Indians who would live there, and either barns or sheds for the cattle, with several small buildings for the care of such tools as t
he mission might accumulate. It would require boundless energy to accomplish all this and yet win the watching Indians to Christianity.
In the days when the two friars were getting started they were grudgingly accommodated at Misión San Antonio, which did not welcome their competition and made it clear that this accommodation could not continue indefinitely, so the opening argument at Santa Teresa concerned which building should be erected first. Fray Domingo was all for concentrating on a house for himself and his superior, but Fray Damián believed that their first obligation was to build a church: ‘How else can we win the Indians to Christianity?’
‘Brother,’ Domingo argued persuasively, ‘how can we preach to anyone if we ourselves lack a place to sleep?’ He punched himself in the belly: ‘Feed yourself, sleep well, then worry about the souls of others.’
This advice Fray Damián had to accept, for Fray Domingo refused to work on the church until he had a place in which to live. So with the aid of two Indians he constructed an amazing hut: in front it was composed of rough adobe bricks, unevenly made and haphazardly piled around a big open door. The three other sides were poles stuck upright in the ground, interlaced with grapevines and plastered with mud. The roof was an untidy mixture of logs, thatch, saplings, mud and grass. The whole looked like the lodge of a careless beaver, dragged onto dry land, with projections everywhere and dirt universal. This was the jacal common throughout northern Mexico, and when Fray Damián’s mission was finished, it would contain two score of them.