Texas

  She had not yet begun to consider him as a possible husband, especially since her emotions were now dominated by her grief over the death of her mother, but she was neither surprised nor displeased when one day he caught her in a passageway where none could see and kissed her rather vigorously.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said immediately. ‘Please forgive me.’ Before she could respond, he kissed her again, forcefully. When she recalled the scene later, she had to compare the delicate, almost unfolding caresses of René-Claude with the elemental love-making of this americano, and although she much preferred the former and was grateful that her first experience had been so reassuring, she did sometimes suspect that it had been the courtship of children, whereas Marr’s more assertive approach was that of a mature man for a rapidly maturing woman. In other words, she did not automatically reject his advances, for she sensed without putting her thoughts into specific words that it was understandable for him to come along when he did and how he did.

  There was, however, among the soldiers assigned to the presidio that young lieutenant whom Don Ramón had rebuked for sloppiness some years before. He was named Marcelino, born of a distinguished Spanish father and a Mexican woman who was one eighth mestizo, and that eighth dated far back, so that of the young man’s sixteen great-great-grandparents, only one had been Indian, and only five of the remainder had been born in Mexico. He was about as Spanish as one could be in the Mexico of this time, but by no stretch of generosity could he be called either Spanish or peninsular. At best he might try to pass as criollo.

  In both the presidio and in Father Ybarra’s headquarters there was a ridiculous list of names, compiled by clerks with nothing better to do, which purported to designate the particular mix of blood for any citizen in the Spanish dominion. This extraordinary list, which no sensible person took seriously, contained eighty-five different categories, for narrow-minded men deemed it important to indicate precisely what percentage of the four major strains each citizen contained: Spanish, Indian, Negro, Chinese, the latter having slipped into Mexico via the Acapulco-Manila trading galleons that crossed the Pacific each year. Also, it was important to know the father’s derivation and the mother’s; in the samples given here from the preposterous list, the father, of course, comes first:

  Peninsular (gachupín) Spanish-Spanish, both parents born in Spain

  Criollo (Español) Spanish-Spanish, but of lower status because at least one parent born in Mexico

  limpio (clean) de origen both parents probably Spanish, but cannot prove it

  Mestizo Spanish-Indian

  Mulato Spanish-Negro

  Coyote mulatto-Indian

  calpamulato Indian-mulatto

  zambo grifo mulatto-Negro

  Galfarro Negro-mulatto

  zambaigo Indian-Chinese

  Cambujo Chinese-Indian

  In this way the purity of the Spanish race was protected and the infiltrations of lesser strains identified, and many of the designations carried derogatory overtones to demonstrate what the superior groups really thought of such mixing:

  lobo (wolf) Indian and Negro

  zambo (lascivious monkey) Negro and Indian

  Marcelino carried the designation limpio de origen, meaning that he was almost acceptable, but to Don Ramón he was not acceptable, for the latter, with each passing year, took more seriously the responsibility of finding for his granddaughter a husband of proper category.

  Therefore, when the attractive young officer began paying court to Trinidad, Don Ramón moved to protect his granddaughter, unaware that Marr, the americano, posed a much more serious threat. After Lieutenant Marcelino had thrust himself three times upon the Saldañas, obviously enamored of the household’s young lady, Don Ramón stifled his pride and went to the presidio, which he had been avoiding.

  ‘Lieutenant, you’ve become a credit to the army.’

  ‘I try to be.’

  ‘Of that incredible rabble you brought here two years ago, half ran away, one committed murder, and three raped the little Indian girls in the mission.’

  ‘A sorry lot. Not a credit to Spain at all.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been thinking of these days, Lieutenant. Spain. I want my granddaughter to marry a man of Spain.’

  ‘I am a man of Spain. For many generations.’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  Marcelino, who had always been aware of his classification and was not disturbed by it, laughed easily, and this irritated Don Ramón: ‘I’d prefer if you did not present yourself at our house or sit in church staring at Trinidad.’

  ‘Don Ramón, when a man has a very pretty granddaughter, all men stare at her.’

  ‘You’re to stop.’

  ‘As you command, sir,’ the arrogant young fellow said with a low bow, ‘but if I were you, I’d worry far more about an americano suitor than one like me.’

  Saldaña reached out to grasp the insolent officer, but the latter merely pushed his hand away, and the interview ended dismally, with Don Ramón embarrassed and Lieutenant Marcelino disgusted with such frontier snobbery. But that afternoon the old man returned: ‘Is what you said true, young man? Is the americano paying serious court to my girl, behind my back?’

  At the very moment that Don Ramón was asking this question, feeling that as his granddaughter’s guardian, he was obligated to know the answer, Trinidad, now lacking a mother or a proper dueña, was slipping across the plaza and into Marr’s warehouse. With the door barred, she and the americano were talking in a far corner when he suddenly grabbed her. She tried to scream, but he silenced her with furious kisses, and when she tried to break away, he forcefully prevented her escape. Soon she was upon the floor with him on top of her, but after moments of enormous confusion she stopped struggling and lay in awful turmoil as he made wild love.

  When it ended she was appalled by its force, by Marr’s uncontrollable passion, and could not comprehend her own inability to fight back; she had submitted against her will, of that she was certain, yet she could not believe that she had stumbled into such a confusing situation without anticipating its outcome.

  In the days that followed she and Marr tried, each in separate ways, to reach some understanding regarding the assault and its consequences. He decided, during long lonely walks beside the river, that he must brave Don Ramón’s objections and propose to Trinidad, winning himself a good wife and a splendid spread of land. He could foresee years of happiness and wealth in Béjar, and as a man of twenty-eight the time to begin his enjoyment of them was now. As for Trinidad, he liked her and felt sure he could have a good life with her. He failed completely to realize that his violent behavior might have alienated her, but he did tell himself: When we meet, I’ll offer an apology, if it looks like she wants one.

  Trinidad faced problems that were more complex, for in addition to the big ranch at El Codo, she would, at her grandfather’s death, inherit all plots of land in town belonging to the Saldañas, and she wondered whether any young woman of seventeen could handle such responsibilities. She was aware that stalwart women among the Canary Islanders had operated businesses when their husbands died, and she supposed that she could do as well as they, but none of them had had entire ranches to control, and most of them had had sons to help.

  She had great respect for the Canary Islanders, who amusingly called themselves Don This and Don That, as if they were real gentry, and she would have been happy had she found some young Islander of promise, but she had not. She liked the young lieutenant at the presidio, but her grandfather had already told her of their quarrel and his dismissal of the man.

  That left Mordecai Marr, who had so much to commend him in the way of valor, daring, imaginativeness and masculine ardor, but just as much to condemn him: vile temper, harsh manners, a lack of sensitivity, and the fact that he was an americano of uncertain lineage and unproved character. However, his willingness to convert to the true religion was in his favor, and his obvious love of land made her think that he would be a good cus
todian of her properties.

  Some days later she returned to the warehouse, and when Marr interpreted this as a signal that she had not been unhappy with his behavior, she told him sternly: ‘You behaved like an animal, Señor Marr, and I’ll have no more of that.’ Honestly surprised by her reaction, he promised: ‘I’ll never offend you. Believe me, a man who wanders about like me … he doesn’t learn how to act with girls.’ And this time when they made love he was a different man, even displaying tenderness when they parted.

  These bewildering experiences made her hungry to talk with someone, and since no member of her family was available, she turned once again to Amalia Veramendi, in whose garden they conversed.

  ‘Would you ever consider marrying an americano?’ Trinidad asked. ‘Don Mordecai is attractive. And he works hard.’

  ‘Have you been visiting with him?’

  ‘Well, he has kissed me.’

  ‘What’s he like? How does he compare with your Frenchman?’

  ‘They’re very different, Amalia.’ She hesitated: ‘But I suppose all men are different.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll stay here … permanently, I mean?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Trinidad said with confidence. ‘He wants to buy his own land and settle. He said so.’

  ‘I heard him tell Father he might move his headquarters to Saltillo.’

  ‘He did?’ Trinidad was startled by this information, for Marr had never spoken to her of such a possibility.

  ‘Well, he discussed the possibility of buying some of our land in Saltillo. Our relatives must have three thousand leagues down there.’

  ‘Did your father say he’d sell?’

  ‘The Veramendis never sell.’ Amalia laughed apologetically when she uttered these pretentious words, for she was not an arrogant girl. ‘Would you marry an americano?’ she asked.

  ‘I wanted to marry a Frenchman.’

  ‘I’m afraid, Trinidad. I really am. I don’t mean about husbands. I mean about everything.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘My dear grandfather talks so much about the death of Spain. The loss of all things good and gentle.’

  Trinidad looked up at the trees, and then, as if relieved to escape from talking honestly about Mordecai Marr, she spoke not about her confusion but Spain’s: ‘I know what he means. When we went south on our wonderful expedition to the capital, we met a file of prisoners marching north, some of them in chains … and where were they going? Right here to Béjar. To serve as soldiers, if you will. Dreadful men, to be the new leaders of Tejas. It was sickening to see them. It’s sickening to learn how they behaved when they got here. I had a clear vision that this was the end of Spain. Don Mordecai says it can’t hold on another twenty years.’

  ‘He’d better be careful what he says.’

  ‘Oh, he didn’t mean that americanos would come down. He meant that the people of Mexico would throw the Spaniards out.’

  ‘He’d better be just as careful about that.’

  And then Trinidad returned to the real problem: ‘You didn’t answer my question. Would you marry an americano?’

  ‘No! I wouldn’t be allowed, for one thing. And for another, I wouldn’t want to.’

  The problem the young women were discussing became academic when Don Mordecai, accompanied by Father Ybarra, came formally to the Saldaña house on the plaza and asked Don Ramón for permission to marry his granddaughter Trinidad. To the old man’s amazement, Marr presented him with translations into Spanish of three documents from Philadelphia signed by clergymen and a judge, testifying to the good character of Mordecai Marr and to the fine reputation of his family.

  Don Ramón left the two men in the large entrance salon and sought his granddaughter, smiling at her bleakly and confessing: ‘It’s not what I wanted, and I’m sure it’s not what you wanted, but …’

  ‘There could be only one René-Claude,’ Trinidad whispered.

  ‘We should have accepted that Lieutenant Marcelino,’ the old man said, ‘but I drove him off.’ He shook his head and stared at his granddaughter, prepared to terminate this loveless match if she spoke, but she did not.

  ‘Do you accept him?’ he asked, and she nodded.

  There was no formal announcement of the proposed wedding, but rumors quickly spread through Béjar and even out to the ranch, so that when Don Mordecai rode there with two soldiers to inspect his future holdings he was greeted with congratulations and a jug of strong wine, which he shared with the Mexican and Indian families who would soon be working for him. The ranch men talked about needed improvements and Marr assured them that work would soon start. It was a happy meeting, with much discussion of Indians: ‘Don Mordecai, we think that when you rode out and killed the Comanche and took back the children, you scared them away. We’ve seen none.’

  ‘We’ll make this ranch safe, and keep it safe,’ he promised.

  In all parts of Béjar he delivered the same message: ‘We shall build permanently. We shall make this town important.’ To the amazement of the townsfolk, he initiated trade with Zacatecas, and what was more important, went to the area capital at Chihuahua over a trail that could scarcely be called a road: ‘Béjar will be the major point for trade to the west. Within our lifetime this will be the center of a new empire, the empire of trade.’

  But when the town was satisfied that it had obtained in Don Mordecai a new resident with powerful vision and great managerial capacity, it was shattered by the announcement that he was not, after all, going to marry Trinidad de Saldaña, but Amalia Veramendi!

  Yes, the more powerful family had approached him with the tempting proposal that if he married their daughter, the couple would be dowered with some forty thousand acres of the choicest land around Saltillo. Banns for the marriage were posted on the church door; congratulations flowed; and because his proposed marriage to Trinidad had remained only an informal arrangement, the community forgave Don Mordecai his impetuous behavior.

  Trinidad learned of the astonishing news from the casual conversation of a maid: ‘I promised the Veramendi cooks that I would help them bake goods for the wedding.’

  ‘And who’s getting married over there?’ Trinidad asked, and the maid replied: ‘Amalia, to Don Mordecai.’

  Trinidad did not weep; she did not even become angry. She walked quietly into her garden and leaned against a tree, endeavoring to understand the various facets of Don Mordecai’s behavior: his arrogant arrival, his brutal love-making; his honest attempt to make amends; his obvious hunger for land; the temptation of the Veramendi lands. And she concluded that she’d had the misfortune to encounter a new type of man, with no morals and no honor. Bewildered and deeply hurt, she went to her grandfather and asked him quietly to ascertain the facts, and it was he who became violently angry, and when he returned he was grim-faced: ‘The scoundrel has proposed to Amalia and been accepted. I told them frankly of his earlier interest in you, and assured them that if …’ He could not finish, for he was trembling with an icy rage.

  He remained in this torment for two days, then realized what the honor of his family required. Striding across the plaza in the shadow of the church, he banged his way into Marr’s warehouse, slapped him stingingly across the face, and challenged him to a duel.

  He then reported to the presidio and asked young Lieutenant Marcelino to serve as his second, and the officer said stiffly: ‘Duels are illegal, as you know. But I cannot refuse, Don Ramón, for you have been dealt a great blow, and I shall be proud to act as your second.’

  Marcelino found the captain of the presidio, José Moncado, and together they went to Marr’s: ‘Sir, you have been challenged by a gentleman of distinction. He is an old man with a trembling hand. To duel him would be an outrage. Please, please, go to him and apologize.’

  ‘Nothing of the sort,’ Marr said in slow, careful Spanish. ‘He’s done little but insult me since I came here, and I want to finish with him.’

  ‘It would be murder for an excellent shot like you to
accept this old man’s challenge.’

  ‘His insults started on the first day … when he barred his door … refused me entrance.’

  ‘You insist?’

  ‘I do. Amalia’s brother will be my second.’

  The two then went across the plaza to dissuade Don Ramón from his folly, and they pointed out the dreadful danger he faced: ‘Several times the americano has proved what an expert shot he is. You must withdraw your challenge.’

  Don Ramón looked at his visitors as if he were an innocent child being reproved for something he did not understand and which he had not done: ‘He has dishonored my granddaughter. What else can I do?’

  ‘But at the Comanche fight, he never missed.’

  ‘What has that to do with me? I fire. He fires. It’s a matter of honor.’

  When they found that they could not deter him, they enlisted the support of Don Lázaro, a curious choice, since he was grandfather to the Veramendi girl whose acceptance of Marr had caused this trouble; he tried, however, to be persuasive: ‘My dear old friend, he will kill you for certain.’

  ‘Not if I kill him first.’

  ‘You can scarcely lift a heavy pistol, let alone fire it.’

  ‘I’ll hold it in two hands. It’s a matter of honor.’

  Don Lázaro considered this for a moment and agreed. ‘You have no choice, that is true. May God protect you.’ Then he said: ‘I had nothing to do with Amalia’s agreement to marry him. My son did that. I was ready for an americano, but not this one,’ and with that he bowed to Don Ramón and returned home.

  So on a June morning in 1792, two parties left town and walked to a slight rise overlooking the river south of town, where three of the missions lay like a string of pearls. A level space was marked off, a line drawn, and starting places for the duelists indicated. Captain Moncado said stiffly: ‘I shall count to fifteen. At each count, you will take a pace away. As soon as I cry “Fifteen” you may turn and fire.’ Then he changed the tone of his voice and asked passionately: ‘Gentlemen, will you reconsider? There is no justification for this duel.’ When neither contestant spoke, he said with near-disgust: ‘So be it. I shall start counting.’