The Rifle Rangers
by Mayne Reid · English · Gutenberg #21241 · 516,899 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Rifle Rangers
Author: Mayne Reid
Release date: April 27, 2007 [eBook #21241]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/21241
Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RIFLE RANGERS ***
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Rifle Rangers
Adventures in South Mexico
By Captain Mayne Reid
________________________________________________________________________
Quite a lively story! At one point the hero is to die by hanging by the
heels over a precipice! At another he and his companions are attacked
by a pack of snarling bloodhounds! And many other tense situations.
As usual with this prolific author the text is well interlarded with
Spanish words, and those from other languages, French, German, Latin,
Greek. We have done our best to get these words right, but beg to be
forgiven if you spot an error here and there.
In addition to our difficulties with the Spanish, there is an Irish
member of the cast whose words are so mis-pronounced that they
practically constitute a language of their own. Here again we have
tried to get the spellings as they appear in the book, but you can
quite see how difficult that has been.
This book first appeared in the 1850s, and went through several
editions in a few years. Forty years later there was a revival, and
again several editions appeared. There are people even nowadays who
revere "Captain" Mayne Reid as the first author to start this genre:
authentic books about the wilder parts of North America, and its
history. NH
________________________________________________________________________
THE RIFLE RANGERS
ADVENTURES IN SOUTH MEXICO
BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID
CHAPTER ONE.
THE LAND OF ANAHUAC.
Away over the dark, wild waves of the rolling Atlantic--away beyond the
summer islands of the Western Ind--lies a lovely land. Its
surface-aspect carries the hue of the emerald; its sky is sapphire; its
sun is a globe of gold. It is the land of Anahuac!
The tourist turns his face to the Orient--the poet sings the gone
glories of Greece--the painter elaborates the hackneyed pictures of
Apennine and Alp--the novelist turns the skulking thief of Italy into a
picturesque bandit, or, Don Quixote-like, betaking himself into the
misty middle age, entertains the romantic miss and milliner's apprentice
with stories of raven steeds, of plumed and impossible heroes. All--
painter, poet, tourist, and novelist--in search of the bright and
beautiful, the poetic and the picturesque--turn their backs upon this
lovely land.
Shall we? No! Westward, like the Genoese, we boldly venture--over the
dark wild waves of the rolling Atlantic; through among the sunny islands
of Ind--westward to the land of Anahuac. Let us debark upon its shores;
let us pierce the secret depths of its forests; let us climb its mighty
mountains, and traverse its table-plains.
Go with us, tourist! Fear not. You shall look upon scenes grand and
gloomy, bright and beautiful. Poet! you shall find themes for poesy
worthy its loftiest strains. Painter! for you there are pictures fresh
from the hand of God. Writer! there are stories still untold by the
author-artist--legends of love and hate, of gratitude and revenge, of
falsehood and devotion, of noble virtue and ignoble crime--legends
redolent of romance, rich in reality.
Thither we steer, over the dark wild waves of the rolling Atlantic;
through the summer islands of the Western Ind; onward--onward to the
shores of Anahuac!
Varied is the aspect of that picture-land, abounding in scenes that
change like the tints of the opal. Varied is the surface which these
pictures adorn. Valleys that open deep into the earth; mountains that
lead the eye far up into heaven; plains that stretch to the horizon's
verge, until the rim of the blue canopy seems to rest upon their
limitless level; "rolling" landscapes, whose softly-turned ridges remind
one of the wavy billows of the ocean.
Alas! word-painting can give but a faint idea of these scenes. The pen
can but feebly portray the grand and sublime effect produced upon the
mind of him who gazes down into the deep valleys, or glances upward to
the mighty mountains of Mexico.
Though feeble be the effort, I shall attempt a series of sketches from
memory. They are the panoramic views that present themselves during a
single "Jornada."
I stand upon the shores of the Mexican Gulf. The waves lip gently up to
my feet upon a beach of silvery sand. The water is pure and
translucent, of azure blue, here and there crested with the pearly froth
of coral breakers. I look to the eastward, and behold a summer sea that
seems to invite navigation. But where are the messengers of commerce
with their white wings? The solitary skiff of the savage "pescador" is
making its way through the surf; a lone "polacca" beats up the coast
with its half-smuggler crew; a "piragua" swings at anchor in a
neighbouring cove: this is all! Far as eye or glass can reach, no other
sail is in sight. The beautiful sea before me is almost unfurrowed by
the keels of commerce.
From this I draw ideas of the land and its inhabitants--unfavourable
ideas of their moral and material condition. No commerce--no industry--
no prosperity. Stay! What see I yonder? Perhaps I have been wronging
them. A dark, tower-like object looms up against the horizon. It is
the smoke of a steamer--sign of advanced civilisation--emblem of active
life. She nears the shore. Ha! a foreign flag--the flag of another
land trails over her taffrail; a foreign flag floats at her peak;
foreign faces appear above her bulwarks, and foreign words issue from
the lips of her commander. She is not of the land. My first conjecture
was right.
She makes for the principal port. She lands a small parcel of letters
and papers, a few bales of merchandise, half a dozen slightly-formed
cadaverous men; and then, putting about, a gun is fired, and she is off
again. She soon disappears away upon the wide ocean; and the waves once
more roll silently in--their glistening surface broken only by the
flapping of the albatross or the plunge of the osprey.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I direct my eyes northward. I behold a belt of white sand skirting the
blue water. I turn towards the south, and in this direction perceive a
similar belt. To both points it extends beyond the reach of vision--
hundreds of miles beyond--forming, like a ribbon of silver, the selvage
of the Mexican Sea. It separates the turquoise blue of the water from
the emerald green of the forest, contrasting with each by its dazzling
whiteness. Its surface is far from being level, as is usual with the
ocean-strand. On the contrary, its millions of sparkling atoms,
rendered light by the burning sun of the tropic, have been lifted on the
wings of the wind, and thrown into hills and ridges hundreds of feet in
height, and trending in every direction like the wreaths of a great
snow-drift. I advance with difficulty over these naked ridges, where no
vegetation finds nourishment in the inorganic heap. I drag myself
wearily along, sinking deeply at every step. I climb sand-hills of
strange and fantastic shapes, cones, and domes, and roof-like ridges,
where the sportive wind seems to have played with the plastic mass, as
children with potter's clay. I encounter huge basins like the craters
of volcanoes, formed by the circling swirl; deep chasms and valleys,
whose sides are walls of sand, steep, often vertical, and not
unfrequently impending with comb-like escarpments.
All these features may be changed in a single night, by the magical
breath of the "norther". The hill to-day may become the valley
to-morrow, and the elevated ridge have given place to the sunken chasm.
Upon the summits of these sand-heights I am fanned by the cool breeze
from the Gulf. I descend into the sheltered gorges, and am burned by a
tropic sun, whose beams, reflected from a thousand crystals, torture my
eyes and brain. In these parts the traveller is often the victim of the
_coup-de-soleil_.
Yonder comes the "_norte_" Along the northern horizon the sky suddenly
changes from light blue to a dark lead colour. Sometimes rumbling
thunder with arrowy lightning portends the change; but if neither seen
nor heard, it is soon felt. The hot atmosphere, that, but a moment
before, encased me in its glowing embrace, is suddenly pierced by a
chill breeze, that causes my skin to creep and my frame to shiver. In
its icy breath there is fever--there is death; for it carries on its
wings the dreaded "vomito". The breeze becomes a strong wind--a
tempest. The sand is lifted upwards, and floats through the air in dun
clouds, here settling down, and there rising up again. I dare not face
it, any more than I would the blast of the simoom. I should be blinded
if I did, or blistered by the "scud" of the angular atoms. The
"norther" continues for hours, sometimes for days. It departs as
suddenly as it came, carrying its baneful influence to lands farther
south.
It is past, and the sand-hills have assumed a different shape. The
ridges trend differently. Some have disappeared, and valleys yawn open
where they stood!
Such are the shores of Anahuac--the shores of the Mexican Sea. Without
commerce--almost harbourless--a waste of sand; but a waste of striking
appearance and picturesque beauty.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
To horse and inwards! Adieu to the bright blue waters of the Gulf!
We have crossed the sand-ridges of the coast, and are riding through the
shadowy aisles of the forest. It is a tropical forest. The outlines of
the leaves, their breadth, their glowing colours all reveal this. The
eye roams with delight over a frondage that partakes equally of the gold
and the green. It revels along waxen leaves, as those of the magnolia,
the plantain, and the banana. It is led upward by the rounded trunks of
the palms, that like columns appear to support the leafy canopy above.
It penetrates the network of vines, or follows the diagonal direction of
gigantic llianas, that creep like monster serpents from tree to tree.
It gazes with pleased wonder upon the huge bamboo-briars and tree-ferns.
Wherever it turns, flowers open their corollas to meet its delighted
glance--tropical tree-flowers, blossoms of the scarlet vine, and
trumpet-shaped tubes of the bignonia.
I turn my eyes to every side, and gaze upon a flora to me strange and
interesting. I behold the tall stems of the _palma real_, rising one
hundred feet without leaf or branch, and supporting a parachute of
feathery fronds that wave to the slightest impulse of the breeze.
Beside it I see its constant companion, the Indian cane--a small
palm-tree, whose slender trunk and low stature contrast oddly with the
colossal proportions of its lordly protector. I behold the _corozo_--of
the same genus with the _palma real_--its light feathery frondage
streaming outwards and bending downwards, as if to protect from the hot
sun the globe-shaped nuts that hang in grape-like clusters beneath. I
see the _abanico_, with its enormous fan-shaped leaves; the wax-palm
distilling its resinous gum; and the _acrocomia_, with its thorny trunk
and enormous racemes of golden fruits. By the side of the stream I
guide my horse among the columnar stems of the noble _coeva_, which has
been enthusiastically but appropriately termed the "bread of life" (_pan
de vida_).
I gaze with wonder upon the ferns, those strange creatures of the
vegetable world, that upon the hillsides of my own far island-home
scarce reach the knee in height. Here they are arborescent--
tree-ferns--rivalling their cousins the palms in stature, and like them,
with their tall, straight stems and lobed leaves, contributing to the
picturesqueness of the landscape. I admire the beautiful mammey with
its great oval fruit and saffron pulp. I ride under the spreading limbs
of the mahogany-tree, marking its oval pinnate leaves, and the egg-like
seed capsules that hang from its branches; thinking as well of the
brilliant surfaces that lie concealed within its dark and knotty trunk.
Onward I ride, through glistening foliage and glowing flowers, that,
under the beams of a tropic sun, present the varying hues of the
rainbow.
There is no wind--scarcely a breath stirring; yet here and there the
leaves are in motion. The wings of bright birds flash before the eye,
passing from tree to tree. The gaudy tanagers, that cannot be tamed--
the noisy lories, the resplendent trogons, the toucans with their huge
clumsy bills, and the tiny bee-birds (the _trochili_ and _colibri_)--all
glance through the sunny vistas.
The carpenter-bird--the great woodpecker--hangs against the decayed
trunk of some dead tree, beating the hollow bark, and now and then
sounding his clarion note, which is heard to the distance of a mile.
Out of the underwood springs the crested curassow; or, basking in the
sun-lit glades, with outspread wings gleaming with metallic lustre, may
be seen the beautiful turkey of Honduras.
The graceful roe (_Gervus Mexicanus_) bounds forward, startled by the
tread of the advancing horse. The caiman crawls lazily along the bank,
or hides his hideous body under the water of a sluggish stream, and the
not less hideous form of the iguana, recognised by its serrated crest,
is seen crawling up the tree-trunk or lying along the slope of a lliana.
The green lizard scuttles along the path--the basilisk looks with
glistening eyes from the dark interstices of some corrugated vine--the
biting peckotin glides among the dry leaves in pursuit of its insect
prey--and the chameleon advances sluggishly along the branches, while it
assumes their colour to deceive its victims.
Serpent forms present themselves: now and then the huge boa and the
macaurel, twining the trees. The great tiger-snake is seen with its
head raised half a yard from the surface; the cascabel, too, coiled like
a cable; and the coral-snake with his red and ringed body stretched at
full length along the ground. The two last, though inferior in size to
the boas, are more to be dreaded; and my horse springs back when he sees
the one glistening through the grass, or hears the "skir-r-r-r" of the
other threatening to strike.
Quadrupeds and quadrumana appear. The red monkey (_Mono Colorado_) runs
at the traveller's approach, and, flinging himself from limb to limb,
hides among the vines and _Tillandsia_ on the high tree-tops; and the
tiny ouistiti, with its pretty, child-like countenance, peers innocently
through the leaves; while the ferocious zambo fills the woods with its
hideous, half-human voice.
The jaguar is not far distant, "laired" in the secret depths of the
impenetrable jungle. His activity is nocturnal, and his beautiful
spotted body may not be seen except by the silver light of the moon.
Roused by accident, or pressed by the dogs of the hunter, he may cross
my path. So, too, may the ocelot and the lynx; or, as I ride silently
on, I may chance to view the long, tawny form of the Mexican lion,
crouched upon a horizontal limb, and watching for the timid stag that
must pass beneath. I turn prudently aside, and leave him to his hungry
vigil.
Night brings a change. The beautiful birds--the parrots, the toucans,
and the trogons--all go to rest at an early hour; and other winged
creatures take possession of the air. Some need not fear the darkness,
for their very life is light. Such are the "cocuyos", whose brilliant
lamps of green and gold and flame, gleam through the aisles of the
forest, until the air seems on fire. Such, too, are the "gusanitos",
the female of which--a wingless insect, like a glow-worm--lies along the
leaf, while her mate whirrs gaily around, shedding his most captivating
gleams as he woos her upon the wing. But, though light is the life of
these beautiful creatures, it is often the cause of their death. It
guides their enemies--the night-hawk and the "whip-poor-will", the bat,
and the owl. Of these last, the hideous vampire may be seen flapping
his broad dark wings in quick, irregular turnings, and the great
"lechuza" (_Strix Mexicana_), issuing from his dark tree-cave, utters
his fearful notes, that resemble the moanings of one who is being
hanged. Now may be heard the scream of the cougar, and the hoarser
voice of the Mexican tiger. Now may be heard the wild, disagreeable
cries of the howling monkeys (_alouattes_), and the barking of the
dog-wolf; and, blending with these, the croaking of the tree-toads and
the shrill tinkling of the bell-frog. Perhaps the air is no longer, as
in the daytime, filled with sweet perfumes. The aroma of a thousand
flowers has yielded to the fetid odour of the skunk (_Mephitis
chinga_)--for that singular creature is abroad, and, having quarrelled
with one of the forest denizens, has caused all of them to feel the
power of its resentment.
Such are some of the features of the tropical forest that lies between
the Gulf and the Mexican mountains. But the aspect of this region is
not all wild. There are cultivated districts--settlements, though far
apart.
The forest opens, and the scene suddenly changes. Before me is a
plantation--the hacienda of a "rico". There are wide fields tilled by
peon serfs, who labour and sing; but their song is sad. Its music is
melancholy. It is the voice of a conquered race.
Yet the scene around them is gay and joyful. All but the people appears
to prosper. Vegetation luxuriates in its fullest growth. Both fruit
and flower exhibit the hues of a perfect development. Man alone seems
stunted in his outlines.
There is a beautiful stream meandering through the open fields. Its
waters are clear and cool. They are the melted snows of Orizava. Upon
its banks grow clumps of the cocoa-palm and the majestic plantain.
There are gardens upon its banks, and orchards filled with the
fruit-trees of the tropics. I see the orange with its golden globes,
the sweet lime, the shaddock, and the guava-tree. I ride under the
shade of the aguacate (_Laurus Persea_), and pluck the luscious fruits
of the cherimolla. The breeze blowing over fields carries on its wings
the aroma of the coffee-tree, the indigo-plant, the vanilla bean, or the
wholesome cacao (_Theobroma Cacao_); and, far as the eye can reach, I
see glancing gaily in the sun the green spears and golden tassels of the
sugar-cane.
Interesting is the aspect of the tropical forest. Not less so is that
of the tropical _field_.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I ride onward and inward into the land. I am gradually ascending from
the sea-level. I no longer travel upon horizontal paths, but over hills
and steep ridges, across deep valleys and ravines. The hoof of my horse
no longer sinks in light sand or dark alluvion. It rings upon rocks of
amygdaloid and porphyry. The soil is changed; the scenery has undergone
a change, and even the atmosphere that surrounds me. The last is
perceptibly cooler, but not yet cold. I am still in the _piedmont_
lands--the _tierras calientes_. The _templadas_ are yet far higher. I
am only a thousand yards or so above sea-level. I am in the
"foot-hills" of the Northern Andes.
How sudden is this change! It is less than an hour since I parted from
the plains below, and yet the surface-aspect around me is like that of
another land. I halt in a wild spot, and survey it with eyes that
wander and wonder. The leaf is less broad, the foliage less dense, the
jungle more open. There are ridges whose sides are nearly naked of
tree-timber. The palms have disappeared, but in their place grow
kindred forms that in many respects resemble them. They are, in fact,
the palms of the mountains. I behold the great palmetto (_Chamcerops_),
with its fan-like fronds standing out upon long petioles from its lofty
summit; the yuccas, with their bayonet-shaped leaves, ungraceful, but
picturesque, with ponderous clusters of green and pulpy capsules. I
behold the _pita_ aloe, with its tall flower-stalk and thorny
sun-scorched leaves. I behold strange forms of the cactus, with their
glorious wax-like blossoms; the cochineal, the tuna, the opuntias--the
great tree-cactus "Foconoztle" (_Opuntia arborescens_), and the tall
"pitahaya" (_Cereus giganteus_), with columnar shafts and straight
upright arms, like the branches of gigantic candelabra; the
echino-cacti, too--those huge mammals of the vegetable world, resting
their globular or egg-shaped forms, without trunk or stalk, upon the
surface of the earth.
There, too, I behold gigantic thistles (_cardonales_) and mimosas, both
shrubby and arborescent--the tree-mimosa, and the sensitive-plant
(_Mimosa frutescens_), that shrinks at my approach, and closes its
delicate leaflets until I have passed out of sight. This is the
favourite land of the acacia; and immense tracts, covered with its
various species, form impenetrable thickets (_chapparals_). I
distinguish in these thickets the honey-locust, with its long purple
legumes, the "algarobo" (carob-tree), and the thorny "mezquite"; and,
rising over all the rest, I descry the tall, slender stem of the
_Fouquiera splendens_, with panicles of cube-shaped crimson flowers.
There is less of animal life here; but even these wild ridges have their
denizens. The cochineal insect crawls upon the cactus leaf, and huge
winged ants build their clay nests upon the branches of the acacia-tree.
The ant-bear squats upon the ground, and projects his glutinous tongue
over the beaten highway, where the busy insects rob the mimosse of their
aromatic leaves. The armadillo, with his bands and rhomboidal scales,
takes refuge in the dry recesses of the rocks, or, clewing himself up,
rolls over the cliff to escape his pursuer. Herds of cattle, half wild,
roam through the glassy glades or over the tufted ridges, lowing for
water; and black vultures (zopilotes) sail through the cloudless
heavens, waiting for some scene of death to be enacted in the thickets
below.
Here, too, I pass through scenes of cultivation. Here is the hut of the
peon and the rancho of the small proprietor; but they are structures of
a more substantial kind than in the region of the palm. They are of
stone. Here, too, is the hacienda, with its low white walls and
prison-like windows; and the pueblita, with its church and cross and
gaily-painted steeple. Here the Indian corn takes the place of the
sugarcane, and I ride through wide fields of the broad-leafed
tobacco-plant. Here grow the jalap and the guaiacum, the sweet-scented
sassafras and the sanitary copaiba.
I ride onward, climbing steep ridges and descending into chasms
(_barrancas_) that yawn deeply and gloomily. Many of these are
thousands of feet in depth; and the road that enables me to reach their
bottoms is often no more than a narrow ledge of the impending cliff,
running terrace-like over a foaming torrent.
Still onward and upward I go, until the "foot-hills" are passed, and I
enter a defile of the mountains themselves--a pass of the Mexican Andes.
I ride through, under the shadow of dark forests and rocks of blue
porphyry. I emerge upon the other side of the sierra. A new scene
opens before my eyes--a scene of such soft loveliness that I suddenly
rein up my horse, and gaze upon it with mingled feelings of admiration
and astonishment. I am looking upon one of the "valles" of Mexico,
those great table-plains that lie within the Cordilleras of the Andes,
thousands of feet above ocean-level, and, along with these mountains,
stretching from the tropic almost to the shores of the Arctic Sea.
The plain before me is level, as though its surface were liquid. I see
mountains bounding it on all sides; but there are passes through them
that lead into other plains (_valus_). These mountains have no
foot-hills. They _stand up_ directly from the plain itself, sometimes
with sloping conical sides--sometimes in precipitous cliffs.
I ride into the plain and survey its features. There is no resemblance
to the land I have left--the _tierra caliente_. I am now in the _tierra
templada_. New objects present themselves--a new aspect is before, a
new atmosphere around me. The air is colder, but it is only the
temperature of spring. To me it feels chilly, coming so lately from the
hot lands below; and I fold my cloak closely around me, and ride on.
The view is open, for the _valu_ is almost treeless. The scene is no
longer wild. The earth has a cultivated aspect--an aspect of
civilisation: for these high plateaux--the _tierras templadas_--are the
seat of Mexican civilisation. Here are the towns--the great cities,
with their rich cathedrals and convents--here dwells the bulk of the
population. Here the rancho is built of unburnt bricks (_adobe's_)--a
mud cabin, often inclosed by hedges of the columnar cactus. Here are
whole villages of such huts, inhabited by the dark-skinned descendants
of the ancient Aztecs.
Fertile fields are around me. I behold the maguey of culture (_Agave
Americana_), in all its giant proportions. The lance-like blades of the
zea maize wave with a rich rustling in the breeze, for here that
beautiful plant grows in its greatest luxuriance. Immense plains are
covered with wheat, with capsicum, and the Spanish bean (_frijoles_).
My eyes are gladdened by the sight of roses climbing along the wall or
twining the portal. Here, too, the potato (_Solanum tuberosum_)
flourishes in its native soil; the pear and the pomegranate, the quince
and the apple, are seen in the orchard; and the cereals of the temperate
zone grow side by side with the _Cucurbitacece_ of the tropics.
I pass from one _valu_ into another, by crossing a low ridge of the
dividing mountains. Mark the change! A surface of green is before me,
reaching on all sides to the mountain foot; and upon this roam countless
herds, tended by mounted "vaqueros" (herdsmen).
I pass another ridge, and another _valid_ stretches before me. Again a
change! A desert of sand, over the surface of which move tall dun
columns of swirling dust, like the gigantic phantoms of some
spirit-world. I look into another _valle_, and behold shining waters--
lakes like inland seas--with sedgy shores and surrounded by green
savannas, and vast swamps covered with reeds and "tulares" (bulrush).
Still another plain, black with lava and the scoriae of extinct
volcanoes--black, treeless, and herbless--with not an atom of organic
matter upon its desolate surface.
Such are the features of the plateau-land--varied, and vast, and full of
wild interest.
I leave it and climb higher--nearer to the sky--up the steep sides of
the Cordilleras--up to the _tierra fria_.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I stand ten thousand feet above the level of the ocean. I am under the
deep shadows of a forest. Huge trunks grow around me, hindering a
distant view. Where am I? Not in the tropic, surely, for these trees
are of a northern _sylva_. I recognise the gnarled limbs and lobed
leaves of the oak, the silvery branches of the mountain-ash, the cones
and needles of the pine. The wind, as it swirls among the dead leaves,
causes me to shiver; and high up among the twigs there is the music of
winter in its moaning. Yet I am in the torrid zone; and the same sun
that now glances coldly through the boughs of the oak, but a few hours
before scorched me as it glistened from the fronds of the palm-tree.
The forest opens, and I behold hills under culture--fields of hemp and
flax, and the hardy cereals of the frigid zone. The rancho of the
husbandman is a log cabin, with shingled roof and long projecting eaves,
unlike the dwellings either of the great _valus_ or the _tierras
calientes_. I pass the smoking pits of the "carbonero", and I meet the
"arriero" with his "atajo" of mules heavily laden with ice of the
glaciers. They are passing with their cargoes, to cool the wine-cups in
the great cities of the plains.
Upward and upward! The oak is left behind, and the pine grows stunted
and dwarfish. The wind blows colder and colder. A wintry aspect is
around me.
Upward still. The pine disappears. No vegetable form is seen save the
mosses and lichens that cling to the rocks, as within the Arctic Circle.
I am on the selvage of the snow--the eternal snow. I walk upon
glaciers, and through their translucent mass I behold the lichens
growing beneath.
The scene is bleak and desolate, and I am chilled to the marrow of my
bones.
_Excelsior! excelsior_! The highest point is not yet reached. Through
drifts of snow and over fields of ice, up steep ledges, along the
slippery escarpment that overhangs the giddy abysm, with wearied knees,
and panting breath, and frozen fingers, onward and upward I go. Ha! I
have won the goal. I am on the summit!
I stand on the "cumbre" of Orizava--the mountain of the "burning star"--
more than three miles above the ocean level. My face is turned to the
east, and I look downward. The snow, the cincture of lichens and naked
rocks, the dark belt of pines, the lighter foliage of the oaks, the
fields of barley, the waving maize, the thickets of yucca and acacia
trees, the palm forest, the shore, the sea itself with its azure waves--
all these at a single vision! From the summit of Orizava to the shores
of the Mexican Sea, I glance through every gradation of the thermal
line. I am looking, as it were, from the pole to the equator!
I am alone. My brain is giddy. My pulse vibrates irregularly, and my
heart beats with an audible distinctness. I am oppressed with a sense
of my own nothingness--an atom, almost invisible, upon the breast of the
mighty earth.
I gaze and listen. I see, but I hear not. Here is sight, but no sound.
Around me reigns an awful stillness--the sublime silence of the
Omnipotent, who alone is here.
Hark! the silence is broken! Was it the rumbling of thunder? No. It
was the crash of the falling avalanche. I tremble at its voice. It is
the voice of the Invisible--the whisper of a God!
I tremble and worship.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Reader, could you thus stand upon the summit of Orizava, and look down
to the shores of the Mexican Gulf, you would have before you, as on a
map, the scene of our "adventures."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. Anahuac is Mexico.
Note 2. Jornada is a day's journey.
Note 3. Pescador is a fisherman.
Note 4. Vomito is yellow-fever.
Note 5. Mexico is divided into three regions, known as the "hot"
(_caliente_), "temperate" (_templada_), and "cold" (_fria_).
Note 6. Carbonero is charcoal-burner.
Note 7. Arriero is mule-driver.
CHAPTER TWO.
AN ADVENTURE AMONG THE CREOLES OF NEW ORLEANS.
In the "fall" of 1846 I found myself in the city of New Orleans, filling
up one of those pauses that occur between the chapters of an eventful
life--doing nothing. I have said an _eventful_ life. In the retrospect
of ten years, I could not remember as many weeks spent in one place. I
had traversed the continent from north to south, and crossed it from sea
to sea. My foot had pressed the summits of the Andes, and climbed the
Cordilleras of the Sierra Madre. I had steamed it down the Mississippi,
and sculled it up the Orinoco. I had hunted buffaloes with the Pawnees
of the Platte, and ostriches upon the pampas of the Plata: to-day,
shivering in the hut of an Esquimaux--a month after, taking my _siesta_
in an aery couch under the gossamer frondage of the corozo palm. I had
eaten raw meat with the trappers of the Rocky Mountains, and roast
monkey among the Mosquito Indians; and much more, which might weary the
reader, and ought to have made the writer a wiser man. But, I fear, the
spirit of adventure--its thirst--is within me slakeless. I had just
returned from a "scurry" among the Comanches of Western Texas, and the
idea of "settling down" was as far from my mind as ever.
"What next? what next?" thought I. "Ha! the war with Mexico."
The war between the United States and that country had now fairly
commenced. My sword--a fine Toledo, taken from a Spanish officer at San
Jacinto--hung over the mantel, rusting ingloriously. Near it were my
pistols--a pair of Colt's revolvers--pointing at each other in sullen
muteness. A warlike ardour seized upon me, and clutching, not the
sword, but my pen, I wrote to the War Department for a commission; and,
summoning all my patience, awaited the answer.
But I waited in vain. Every bulletin from Washington exhibited its list
of new-made officers, but my name appeared not among them. In New
Orleans--that most patriotic of republican cities--epaulettes gleamed
upon every shoulder, whilst I, with the anguish of a Tantalus, was
compelled to look idly and enviously on. Despatches came in daily from
the seat of war, filled with newly-glorious names; and steamers from the
same quarter brought fresh batches of heroes--some legless, some
armless, and others with a bullet-hole through the cheek, and perhaps
the loss of a dozen teeth or so; but all thickly covered with laurels.
November came, but no commission. Impatience and ennui had fairly
mastered me. The time hung heavily upon my hands.
"How can I best pass the hour? I shall go to the French opera, and hear
Calve."
Such were my reflections as I sat one evening in my solitary chamber.
In obedience to this impulse, I repaired to the theatre; but the
bellicose strains of the opera, instead of soothing, only heightened my
warlike enthusiasm, and I walked homeward, abusing, as I went, the
president and the secretary-at-war, and the whole government--
legislative, judicial, and executive. "Republics _are_ ungrateful,"
soliloquised I, in a spiteful mood. "I have `surely put in strong
enough' for it; my political connections--besides, the government owes
me a favour--"
"Cl'ar out, ye niggers! What de yer want?"
This was a voice that reached me as I passed through the dark corner of
the Faubourg Treme. Then followed some exclamations in French; a
scuffle ensued, a pistol went off, and I heard the same voice again
calling out:
"Four till one! Injuns! Murder! Help, hyur!"
I ran up. It was very dark; but the glimmer of a distant lamp enabled
me to perceive a man out in the middle of the street, defending himself
against four others. He was a man of giant size, and flourished a
bright weapon, which I took to be a bowie-knife, while his assailants
struck at him on all sides with sticks and stilettoes. A small boy ran
back and forth upon the banquette, calling for help.
Supposing it to be some street quarrel, I endeavoured to separate the
parties by remonstrance. I rushed between them, holding out my cane;
but a sharp cut across the knuckles, which I had received from one of
the small men, together with his evident intention to follow it up,
robbed me of all zest for pacific meditation; and, keeping my eye upon
the one who had cut me, I drew a pistol (I could not otherwise defend
myself), and fired. The man fell dead in his tracks, without a groan.
His comrades, hearing me re-cock, took to their heels, and disappeared
up a neighbouring alley.
The whole scene did not occupy the time you have spent in reading this
relation of it. One minute I was plodding quietly homeward; the next, I
stood in the middle of the street; beside me a stranger of gigantic
proportions; at my feet a black mass of dead humanity, half doubled up
in the mud as it had fallen; on the banquette, the slight, shivering
form of a boy; while above and around were silence and darkness.
I was beginning to fancy the whole thing a dream, when the voice of the
man at my side dispelled this illusion.
"Mister," said he, placing his arms akimbo, and facing me, "if ye'll
tell me yur name, I ain't a-gwine to forgit it. No, Bob Linkin ain't
that sorter."
"What! Bob Lincoln? Bob Lincoln of the Peaks?"
In the voice I had recognised a celebrated mountain trapper, and an old
acquaintance, whom I had not met for several years.
"Why, Lord save us from Injuns! it ain't you, Cap'n Haller? May I be
dog-goned if it ain't! Whooray!--whoop! I knowed it warn't no
store-keeper fired that shot. Haroo! whar are yur, Jack?"
"Here I am," answered the boy, from the pavement.
"Kum hyur, then. Ye ain't badly skeert, air yur?"
"No," firmly responded the boy, crossing over.
"I tuk him from a scoundrelly Crow thet I overhauled on a fork of the
Yellerstone. He gin me a long pedigree, that is, afore I kilt the
skunk. He made out as how his people hed tuk the boy from the
Kimanches, who hed brought him from somewhar down the Grande. I know'd
it wur all bamboozle. The boy's white--American white. Who ever seed a
yeller-hided Mexikin with them eyes and ha'r? Jack, this hyur's Cap'n
Haller. If yur kin iver save his life by givin' yur own, yur must do
it, de ye hear?"
"I will," said the boy resolutely.
"Come, Lincoln," I interposed, "these conditions are not necessary. You
remember I was in your debt."
"Ain't worth mentioning Cap; let bygones be bygones!"
"But what brought you to New Orleans? or, more particularly, how came
you into this scrape?"
"Wal, Cap'n, bein' as the last question is the most partickler, I'll gin
yur the answer to it fust. I hed jest twelve dollars in my pouch, an' I
tuk a idee inter my head thet I mout as well double it. So I stepped
into a shanty whar they wur a-playin' craps. After bettin' a good
spell, I won somewhar about a hundred dollars. Not likin' the sign I
seed about, I tuk Jack and put out. Wal, jest as I was kummin' roun'
this hyur corner, four fellers--them ye seed--run out and jumped me,
like so many catamounts. I tuk them for the same chaps I hed seed
parley vooin' at the craps-table; an' tho't they wur only jokin', till
one of them gin me a sockdolloger over the head, an' fired a pistol. I
then drewed my bowie, an' the skrimmage begun; an' thet's all I know
about it, cap'n, more'n yurself.
"Let's see if it's all up with this'n," continued the hunter, stooping.
"I'deed, yes," he drawled out; "dead as a buck. Thunder! ye've gin it
him atween the eyes, plum. He _is_ one of the fellers, es my name's Bob
Linkin. I kud sw'ar to them mowstaches among a million."
At this moment a patrol of night gendarmes came up; and Lincoln, and
Jack, and myself were carried off to the calaboose, where we spent the
remainder of the night. In the morning we were brought before the
recorder; but I had taken the precaution to send for some friends, who
introduced me to his worship in a proper manner. As my story
corroborated Lincoln's, and his mine, and "Jack's" substantiated both;
and as the comrades of the dead Creole did not appear, and he himself
was identified by the police as a notorious robber, the recorder
dismissed the case as one of "justifiable homicide in self-defence"; and
the hunter and I were permitted to go our way without further
interruption.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note. Craps is a game of dice.
CHAPTER THREE.
A VOLUNTEER RENDEZVOUS.
"Now, Cap," said Lincoln, as we seated ourselves at the table of a cafe,
"I'll answer t'other question yur put last night. I wur up on the head
of Arkansaw, an' hearin' they wur raisin' volunteers down hyur, I kim
down ter jine. It ain't often I trouble the settlements; but I've a
mighty _puncheon_, as the Frenchmen says, to hev a crack at them
yeller-bellies. I hain't forgot a mean trick they sarved me two yeern
ago, up thar by Santer Fe."
"And so you have joined the volunteers?"
"That's sartin. But why ain't you a-gwine to Mexico? That 'ere's a
wonder to me, cap, why you ain't. Thur's a mighty grist o' venturin', I
heern; beats Injun fightin' all holler, an' yur jest the beaver I'd
'spect to find in that 'ar dam. Why don't you go?"
"So I purposed long since, and wrote on to Washington for a commission;
but the government seems to have forgotten me."
"Dod rot the government! git a commission for yourself."
"How?" I asked.
"Jine us, an' be illected--thet's how."
This had crossed my mind before; but, believing myself a stranger among
these volunteers, I had given up the idea. Once joined, he who failed
in being elected an officer was fated to shoulder a firelock. It was
neck or nothing then. Lincoln set things in a new light. They were
strangers to each other, he affirmed, and my chances of being elected
would therefore be as good as any man's.
"I'll tell yur what it is," said he; "yur kin turn with me ter the
rendevooz, an' see for yurself; but if ye'll only jine, an' licker
freely, I'll lay a pack o' beaver agin the skin of a mink that they'll
illect ye captain of the company."
"Even a lieutenancy," I interposed.
"Ne'er a bit of it, cap. Go the big figger. 'Tain't more nor yur
entitled to. I kin git yur a good heist among some hunters thet's thur;
but thar's a buffalo drove o' them parleyvoos, an' a feller among 'em,
one of these hyur creeholes, that's been a-showin' off and fencin' with
a pair of skewers from mornin' till night. I'd be dog-gone glad to see
the starch taken out o' that feller."
I took my resolution. In half an hour after I was standing in a large
hall or armoury. It was the rendezvous of the volunteers, nearly all of
whom were present; and perhaps a more variegated assemblage was never
grouped together. Every nationality seemed to have its representative;
and for variety of language the company might have rivalled the masons
of Babel.
Near the head of the room was a table, upon which lay a large parchment,
covered with signatures. I added mine to the list. In the act I had
staked my liberty. It was an oath.
"These are my rivals--the candidates for office," thought I, looking at
a group who stood near the table. They were men of better appearance
than the _hoi polloi_. Some of them already affected a half-undress
uniform, and most wore forage-caps with glazed covers, and army buttons
over the ears.
"Ha! Clayley!" said I, recognising an old acquaintance. This was a
young cotton-planter--a free, dashing spirit,--who had sacrificed a
fortune at the shrines of Momus and Bacchus.
"Why, Haller, old fellow! glad to see you. How have you been? Think of
going with us?"
"Yes, I have signed. Who is that man?"
"He's a Creole; his name is Dubrosc."
It was a face purely Norman, and one that would halt the wandering eye
in any collection. Of oval outline, framed by a profusion of black
hair, wavy and perfumed. A round black eye, spanned by brows arching
and glossy. Whiskers that belonged rather to the chin, leaving bare the
jawbone, expressive of firmness and resolve. Firm thin lips, handsomely
moustached; when parted, displaying teeth well set and of dazzling
whiteness. A face that might be called beautiful; and yet its beauty
was of that negative order which we admire in the serpent and the pard.
The smile was cynical; the eye cold, yet bright; but the brightness was
altogether _animal_--more the light of instinct than intellect. A face
that presented in its expression a strange admixture of the lovely and
the hideous--physically fair, morally dark--beautiful, yet brutal!
From some undefinable cause, I at once conceived for this man a strange
feeling of dislike. It was he of whom Lincoln had spoken, and who was
likely to be my rival for the captaincy. Was it this that rendered him
repulsive? No. There was a cause beyond. In him I recognised one of
those abandoned natures who shrink from all honest labour, and live upon
the sacrificial fondness of some weak being who has been enslaved by
their personal attractions. There are many such. I have met them in
the _jardins_ of Paris; in the _casinos_ of London; in the cafes of
Havanna, and the "quadroon" balls of New Orleans--everywhere in the
crowded haunts of the world. I have met them with an instinct of
loathing--an instinct of antagonism.
"The fellow is likely to be our captain," whispered Clayley, noticing
that I observed the man with more than ordinary attention. "By the
way," continued he, "I don't half like it. I believe he's an infernal
scoundrel."
"Such are my impressions. But if that be his character, how can he be
elected?"
"Oh! no one here knows another; and this fellow is a splendid swordsman,
like all the Creoles, you know. He has used the trick to advantage, and
has created an impression. By the by, now I recollect, you are no
slouch at that yourself. What are you up for?"
"Captain," I replied.
"Good! Then we must go the `whole hog' in your favour. I have put in
for the first lieutenancy, so we won't run foul of each other. Let us
`hitch teams'."
"With all my heart," said I.
"You came in with that long-bearded hunter. Is he your friend?"
"He is."
"Then I can tell you that among these fellows he's a `whole team, and a
cross dog under the waggon' to boot. See him! he's at it already."
I had noticed Lincoln in conversation with several leather-legging
gentry like himself, whom I knew from their costume and appearance to be
backwoodsmen. All at once these saturnine characters commenced moving
about the room, and entering into conversation with men whom they had
not hitherto deigned to notice.
"They are canvassing," said Clayley.
Lincoln, brushing past, whispered in my ear, "Cap'n, I understan' these
hyur critters better'n you kin. Yer must mix among 'em--mix and
licker--thet's the idee."
"Good advice," said Clayley; "but if you could only take the shine out
of that fellow at fencing, the thing's done at once. By Jove! I think
you might do it, Haller!"
"I have made up my mind to try, at all events."
"Not until the last day--a few hours before the election."
"You are right. It would be better to wait; I shall take your advice.
In the meantime let us follow that of Lincoln--`mix and licker'."
"Ha! ha!" laughed Clayley; "let us come, boys," he added, turning to a
very thirsty-looking group, "let's all take a `smile'. Here, _Captain_
Haller! allow me to introduce you;" and the next moment I was introduced
to a crowd of very seedy-looking gentlemen, and the moment after we were
clinking glasses, and chatting as familiarly as if we had been friends
of forty years' standing.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
During the next three days the enrolment continued, and the canvass was
kept up with energy. The election was to take place on the evening of
the fourth.
Meanwhile my dislike for my rival had been strengthened by closer
observation; and, as is general in such cases, the feeling was
reciprocal.
On the afternoon of the day in question we stood before each other, foil
in hand, both of us nerved by an intense, though as yet _unspoken_,
enmity. This had been observed by most of the spectators, who
approached and formed a circle around us; all of them highly interested
in the result--which, they knew, would be an index to the election.
The room was an armoury, and all kinds of weapons for military practice
were kept in it. Each had helped himself to his foil. One of the
weapons was without a button, and sharp enough to be dangerous in the
hands of an angry man. I noticed that my antagonist had chosen this
one.
"Your foil is not in order; it has lost the button, has it not?" I
observed.
"Ah! monsieur, pardon. I did not perceive that."
"A strange oversight," muttered Clayley, with a significant glance.
The Frenchman returned the imperfect foil, and took another.
"Have you a choice, monsieur?" I inquired.
"No, thank you; I am satisfied."
By this time every person in the rendezvous had come up, and waited with
breathless anxiety. We stood face to face, more like two men about to
engage in deadly duel than a pair of amateurs with blunt foils. My
antagonist was evidently a practised swordsman. I could see that as he
came to guard. As for myself, the small-sword exercise had been a
foible of my college days, and for years I had not met my match at it;
but just then I was out of practice.
We commenced unsteadily. Both were excited by unusual emotions, and our
first thrusts were neither skilfully aimed nor parried. We fenced with
the energy of anger, and the sparks crackled from the friction of the
grazing steel. For several minutes it was a doubtful contest; but I
grew cooler every instant, while a slight advantage I had gained
irritated my adversary. At length, by a lucky hit, I succeeded in
planting the button of my foil upon his cheek. A cheer greeted this,
and I could hear the voice of Lincoln shouting out:
"Wal done, cap'n! Whooray for the mountain-men!" This added to the
exasperation of the Frenchman, causing him to strike wilder than before;
and I found no difficulty in repeating my former thrust. It was now a
sure hit; and after a few passes I thrust my adversary for the third
time, drawing blood. The cheer rang out louder than before. The
Frenchman could no longer conceal his mortification; and, grasping his
foil in both hands, he snapped it over his knee, with an oath. Then,
muttering some word about "better weapons" and "another opportunity", he
strode off among the spectators. Two hours after the combat I was his
captain. Clayley was elected first lieutenant, and in a week from that
time the company was "mustered" into the service of the United States
government, and armed and equipped as an independent corps of "Rifle
Rangers". On the 20th of January, 1847, a noble ship was bearing us
over the blue water, toward the shores of a hostile land.
CHAPTER FOUR.
LIFE ON THE ISLAND OF LOBOS.
After calling at Brazos Santiago, we were ordered to land upon the
island of Lobos, fifty miles north of Vera Cruz. This was to be our
"drill rendezvous." We soon reached the island. Detachments from
several regiments debarked together; the jungle was attacked; and in a
few hours the green grove had disappeared, and in its place stood the
white pyramids of canvas with their floating flags. It was the work of
a day. When the sun rose over Lobos it was a desert isle, thickly
covered with a jungle of mangrove, manzanel, and icaco trees, green as
an emerald. How changed the scene! When the moon looked down upon this
same islet it seemed as if a warlike city had sprung suddenly out of the
sea, with a navy at anchor in front of its bannered walls!
In a few days six full regiments had encamped upon the hitherto
uninhabited island, and nothing was heard but the voice of war.
These regiments were all "raw"; and my duty, with others, consisted in
"licking them into shape". It was drill, drill, from morning till
night; and, by early tattoo, I was always glad to crawl into my tent and
go to sleep--such sleep as a man can get among scorpions, lizards, and
soldier-crabs; for the little islet seemed to have within its boundaries
a specimen of every reptile that came safely out of the ark.
The 22nd of February being Washington's birthday, I could not get to bed
as usual. I was compelled to accept an invitation, obtained by Clayley,
to the tent of Major Twing, where they were--using Clayley's own
words--"to have a night of it."
After tattoo we set out for the major's marquee, which lay near the
centre of the islet, in a coppice of caoutchouc-trees. We had no
difficulty in finding it, guided by the jingling of glasses and the
mingling of many voices in boisterous laughter.
As we came near, we could perceive that the marquee had been enlarged by
tucking up the flaps in front, with the addition of a fly stretched over
an extra ridge-pole. Several pieces of rough plank, spirited away from
the ship, resting upon empty bread-barrels, formed the table. Upon this
might be recognised every variety of bottles, glasses, and cups. Open
boxes of sardines, piles of ship-biscuits, and segments of cheese filled
the intervening spaces. Freshly-drawn corks and glistening fragments of
lead were strewed around, while a number of dark conical objects under
the table told that not a few champagne bottles were already "down among
the dead men."
On each side of the table was a row of colonels, captains, subalterns,
and doctors seated without regard to rank or age, according to the order
in which they had "dropped in". There were also some naval officers,
and a sprinkling of strange, half-sailor-looking men, the skippers of
transport brigs, steamboats, etcetera; for Twing for a thorough
republican in his entertainments; besides, the _day_ levelled all
distinctions.
At the head of the table was the major himself, who always carried a
large pewter flask suspended from his shoulders by a green string, and
without this flask no one ever saw Major Twing. He could not have stuck
to it more closely had it been his badge of rank. It was not unusual,
on the route, to hear some wearied officer exclaim, "If I only had a
pull at old Twing's pewter!" and "equal to Twing's flask" was an
expression which stamped the quality of any liquor as superfine. Such
was one of the major's peculiarities, though by no means the only one.
As my friend and I made our appearance under the fly, the company was in
high glee, everyone enjoying himself with that freedom from restraint of
rank peculiar to the American army-service. Clayley was a great
favourite with the major, and at once caught his eye.
"Ha, Clayley! that you? Walk in with your friend. Find seats there,
gentlemen."
"Captain Haller--Major Twing," said Clayley, introducing me.
"Happy to know you, Captain. Can you find seats there? No. Come up
this way. Cudjo, boy! run over to Colonel Marshall's tent, and steal a
couple of stools. Adge, twist the neck off that bottle. Where's the
screw? Hang that screw! Where is it anyhow?"
"Never mind the screw, Mage," cried the adjutant; "I've got a patent
universal here." So saying, this gentleman held out a champagne bottle
in his left hand, and with a down-stroke of his right cut the neck off,
as square as if it had been filed.
"Nate!" ejaculated Hennessy, an Irish officer, who sat near the head of
the table, and who evidently admired that sort of thing.
"What we call a Kentucky corkscrew," said the adjutant coolly. "It
offers a double advantage. It saves time, and you got the wine clear
of--"
"My respects, gentlemen! Captain Haller--Mr Clayley."
"Thank you, Major Twing. To you, sir."
"Ha! the stools at last! Only one! Come, gentlemen, squeeze yourselves
up this way. Here, Clayley, old boy; here's a cartridge-box. Adge!
up-end that box. So--give us your fist, old fellow; how are you? Sit
down, Captain; sit down. Cigars, there!"
At that moment the report of a musket was heard without the tent, and
simultaneously a bullet whistled through the canvas. It knocked the
foraging-cap from the head of Captain Hennessy, and, striking a
decanter, shivered the glass into a thousand pieces!
"A nate shot that, I don't care who fired it," said Hennessy, coolly
picking up his cap. "An inch of a miss--good as a mile," added he,
thrusting his thumb into the bullet-hole.
By this time every officer present was upon his feet, most of them
rushing towards the front of the marquee. A dozen voices called out
together:
"Who fired that gun?"
There was no answer, and several plunged into the thicket in pursuit.
The chaparral was dark and silent, and these returned after a fruitless
search.
"Some soldier, whose musket has gone off by accident," suggested Colonel
Harding. "The fellow has run away, to avoid being put under arrest."
"Come, gentlemen, take your sates again," said Hennessy; "let the poor
divil slide--yez may be thankful it wasn't a shell."
"You, Captain, have most cause to be grateful for the character of the
missile."
"By my sowl, I don't know about that!--a shell or a twenty-four would
have grazed me all the same; but a big shot would have been mighty
inconvanient to the head of my friend Haller, here!"
This was true. My head was nearly in range; and had the shot been a
large one, it would have struck me upon the left temple. As it was, I
felt the "wind" of the bullet, and already began to suffer a painful
sensation over the eye.
"I'm mighty curious to know which of us the fellow has missed, Captain,"
said Hennessy, turning to me as he spoke.
"If it were not a `bull' I should say I hope neither of us. I'm
inclined to think, with Colonel Harding, that it was altogether an
accident."
"By the powers! an ugly accident too, that has spoiled five dollars'
worth of an illigant cap, and a pint of as good brandy as ever was mixed
with hot water and lemon-juice."
"Plenty left, Captain," cried the major. "Come, gentlemen, don't let
this damp us; fill up! till up! Adge, out with the corks! Cudjo,
where's the screw?"
"Never mind the screw, Mage," cried the adjutant, repeating his old
trick upon the neck of a fresh bottle, which, nipped off under the wire,
fell upon a heap of others that had preceded it.
And the wine again foamed and sparkled, and glasses circled round, and
the noisy revelry waxed as loud as ever. The incident of the shot was
soon forgotten. Songs were sung, and stories told, and toasts drunk;
and with song and sentiment, and toast and story, and the wild
excitement of wit and wine, the night waned away. With many of those
young hearts, old with hope and burning with ambition, it was the last
"Twenty-second" they would ever celebrate. Half of them never hailed
another.
CHAPTER FIVE.
A SKELETON ADVENTURE.
It was past midnight when I withdrew from the scene of wassail. My
blood was flushed, and I strolled down upon the beach to enjoy the cool
fresh breeze that was flowing in from the Mexican Sea.
The scene before me was one of picturesque grandeur, and I paused a
moment to gaze upon it. The wine even heightened its loveliness to an
illusion.
The full round moon of the tropics was sweeping over a sky of cloudless
blue. The stars were eclipsed and scarcely visible, except a few of the
larger ones, as the belt of Orion, the planet Venus, and the luminous
radii of the Southern Cross.
From my feet a broad band of silver stretched away to the horizon,
marking the meridian of the moon. This was broken by the line of coral
reef, over which the surf curled and sparkled with a phosphoric
brightness. The reef itself, running all round, seemed to gird the
islet in a circle of fire. Here only were the waves in motion, as if
pressed by some subaqueous and invisible power; for beyond, scarcely a
breath stirred the sleeping sea. It lay smooth and silent, while a
satellite sky seemed caved out in its azure depths.
On the south, a hundred ships were in the deep roadstead, a cable's
length from each other--their hulls, spars, and rigging magnified to
gigantic proportions under the deceptive and tremulous moonbeam. They
were motionless as if the sea had been frozen around them into a solid
crystal. Their flags drooped listlessly down, trailing along the masts,
or warped and twined around the halyards.
Up against the easy ascent extended the long rows of white tents,
shining under the silvery moonbeam like pyramids of snow. In one a
light was still gleaming through the canvas, where, perchance, some
soldier sat up, wearily wiping his gun, or burnishing the brasses upon
his belts.
Now and then dark forms--human and uniformed--passed to and fro from
tent to tent, each returning from a visit to some regimental comrade.
At equal distances round the camp others stood upright and motionless,
the gleam of the musket showing the sentry on his silent post.
The plunge of an oar, as some boat was rowed out among the anchored
ships--the ripple of the light breaker--at intervals the hail of a
sentinel, "Who goes there?"--the low parley that followed--the chirp of
the cicada in the dark jungle--or the scream of the sea-bird, scared by
some submarine enemy from its watery rest--were the only sounds that
disturbed the deep stillness of the night.
I continued my walk along the beach until I had reached that point of
the island directly opposite to the mainland of Mexico. Here the
chaparral grew thick and tangled, running down to the water's edge,
where it ended in a clump of mangroves. As no troops were encamped
here, the islet had not been cleared at this point, and the jungle was
dark and solitary.
The moon was now going down, and straggling shadows began to fall upon
the water.
Certainly some one skulked into the bushes!--a rustling in the leaves--
yes! some fellow who has strayed beyond the line of sentries and is
afraid to return to camp. Ha! a boat! a skiff it is--a net and buoys!
As I live, 'tis a Mexican craft!--who can have brought it here? Some
fisherman from the coast of Tuspan. No, he would not venture; it must
be--
A strange suspicion flashed across my mind, and I rushed through the
mangrove thicket, where I had observed the object a moment before. I
had not proceeded fifty yards when I saw the folly of this movement. I
found myself in the midst of a labyrinth, dark and dismal, surrounded by
a wall of leaves and brambles. The branches of the mangroves, rooted at
their tops, barred up the path, and vines laced them together.
"If they be spies," thought I, "I have taken the worst plan to catch
them. I may as well go through now. I cannot be distant from the rear
of the camp. Ugh! how dismal!"
I pushed on, climbing over fallen trunks, and twining myself through the
viny cordage. The creepers clung to my neck--thorns penetrated my
skin--the _mezquite_ slapped me in the face, drawing blood. I laid my
hand upon a pendent limb; a clammy object struggled under my touch, with
a terrified yet spiteful violence, and, freeing itself, sprang over my
shoulder, and scampered off among the fallen leaves. I felt its fetid
breath as the cold scales brushed against my cheek. It was the hideous
iguana.
A huge bat flapped its sail-like wings in my face, and returned again
and again, breathing a mephitic odour that caused me to gasp. Twice I
struck at it with my sword, cutting only the empty air. A third time my
blade was caught in the trellis of parasites. It was horrible; I felt
terrified to contend with such strange enemies.
At length, after a continued struggle, an opening appeared before me--a
glade; I rushed to the welcome spot.
"What a relief!" I ejaculated, emerging from the leafy darkness.
Suddenly I started back with a cry of horror; my limbs refused to act;
the sword fell from my grasp, and I stood palsied and transfixed, as if
by a bolt from heaven.
Before me, and not over three paces distant, the image of Death himself
rose out of the earth, and stretched forth his skeleton arms to clutch
me. It was no phantom. There was the white, naked skull, with its
eyeless sockets, the long, flesh-less limbs, the open, serrated ribs,
the long, jointed fingers of Death himself.
As my bewildered brain took in these objects I heard a noise in the
bushes as of persons engaged in an angry struggle.
"Emile, Emile!" cried a female voice, "you shall not murder him--you
shall not!"
"Off! off!--Marie, let me go!" was shouted in the rough accents of a
man.
"Oh, no!" continued the female, "you shall not--no--no--no!"
"Curses on the woman! There, let me go now!"
There was a sound as of someone struck with violence--a scream--and at
the same moment a human figure rushed out of the bushes, and,
confronting me, exclaimed: "Ha! Monsieur le Capitaine! _coup pour
coup_!" I heard no more; a heavy blow, descending upon my temples,
deprived me of all power, and I fell senseless to the earth. When I
returned to consciousness the first objects I saw were the huge brown
whiskers of Lincoln, then Lincoln himself, then the pale face of the boy
Jack; and, finally, the forms of several soldiers of my company. I saw
that I was in my own tent and stretched upon my camp-bed.
"What?--howl--what's the matter!--what's this?" I said, raising my
hands to the bandage of wet linen that bound my temples.
"Keep still, Cap'n," said Bob, taking my hand from the fillet and
placing it by my side.
"Och! by my sowl, he's over it; thank the Lord for His goodness!" said
Chane, an Irish soldier.
"Over what? what has happened to me?" I inquired.
"Och, Captin, yer honour, you've been nearly murthered, and all by thim
Frinch scoundhrels; bad luck to their dirty frog-atin' picthers!"
"Murdered! French scoundrels! Bob, what is it?"
"Why, yer see, Cap'n, ye've had a cut hyur over the head; and we think
it's them Frenchmen."
"Oh! I remember now; a blow--but the Death?--the Death?"
I started up from the bed as the phantom of my night adventure returned
to my imagination.
"The Death, Cap'n?--what do yer mean?" inquired Lincoln, holding me in
his strong arms.
"Oh! the Cap'n manes the skilleton, maybe," said Chane.
"What skeleton?" I demanded.
"Why, an owld skilleton the boys found in the chaparril, yer honner.
They hung it to a three; and we found yer honner there, with the
skilleton swinging over ye like a sign. Och! the Frinch bastes!"
I made no further inquiries about the "Death."
"But where are the Frenchmen?" asked I, after a moment.
"Clane gone, yer honner," replied Chane.
"Gone?"
"Yes, Cap'n; that's so as he sez it," answered Lincoln.
"Gone! What do you mean?" I inquired.
"Desarted, Cap'n."
"How do you know that?"
"Because they ain't here."
"On the island?"
"Searched it all--every bush."
"But who? which of the French?"
"Dubrosc and that 'ar boy that was always with him--both desarted."
"You are sure they are missing?"
"Looked high and low, Cap'n. Gravenitz seed Dubrosc steal into the
chaparril with his musket. Shortly afterwards we heern a shot, but
thought nothin' of it till this mornin', when one of the sodgers foun' a
Spanish sombrary out thar; and Chane heern some'dy say the shot passed
through Major Twing's markey. Besides, we foun' this butcher-knife
where yer was lyin'."
Lincoln here held up a species of Mexican sword called a _machete_.
"Ha!--well."
"That's all, Cap'n; only it's my belief there was Mexicans on this
island, and them Frenchmen's gone with them."
After Lincoln left me I lay musing on this still somewhat mysterious
affair. My memory, however, gradually grew clearer; and the events of
the preceding night soon became linked together, and formed a complete
chain. The shot that passed so near my head in Twing's tent--the boat--
the French words I had heard before I received the blow--and the
exclamation, "_Coup pour coup_!"--all convinced me that Lincoln's
conjectures were right.
Dubrosc had fired the shot and struck the blow that had left me
senseless.
But who could the woman be whose voice I had heard pleading in my
behalf?
My thoughts reverted to the boy who had gone off with Dubrosc, and whom
I had often observed in the company of the latter. A strange attachment
appeared to exist between them, in which the boy seemed to be the
devoted slave of the strong fierce Creole. Could this be a woman?
I recollected having been struck with his delicate features, the
softness of his voice, and the smallness of his hands. There were other
points, besides, in the _tournure_ of the boy's figure that had appeared
singular to me. I had frequently observed the eyes of this lad bent
upon me, when Dubrosc was not present, with a strange and unaccountable
expression.
Many other peculiarities connected with the boy and Dubrosc, which at
the time had passed unnoticed and unheeded, now presented themselves to
my recollection, all tending to prove the identity of the boy with the
woman whose voice I had heard in the thicket.
I could not help smiling at the night's adventures; determined, however,
to conceal that part which related to the skeleton.
In a few days my strength was restored. The cut I had received was not
deep--thanks to my forage-cap and the bluntness of the Frenchman's
weapon.
CHAPTER SIX.
THE LANDING AT SACRIFICIOS.
Early in the month of March the troops at Lobos were re-embarked, and
dropped down to the roadstead of Anton Lizardo. The American fleet was
already at anchor there, and in a few days above a hundred sail of
transports had joined it.
There is no city, no village, hardly a habitation upon this half-desert
coast. The aspect is an interminable waste of sandy hills, rendered
hirsute and picturesque by the plumed frondage of the palm-tree.
We dared not go ashore, although the smooth white beach tempted us
strongly. A large body of the enemy was encamped behind the adjacent
ridges, and patrols could be seen at intervals galloping along the
beach.
I could not help fancying what must have been the feeling of the
inhabitants in regard to our ships--a strange sight upon this desert
coast, and not a pleasing one to them, knowing that within those dark
hulls were concealed the hosts of their armed invaders. Laocoon looked
not with more dread upon the huge ribs of the Danaic horse than did the
simple peasant of Anahuac upon this fleet of "oak leviathans" that lay
within so short a distance of his shores.
To us the scene possessed an interest of a far different character. We
looked proudly upon these magnificent models of naval architecture--upon
their size, their number, and their admirable adaptation. We viewed
with a changing cheek and kindling eye this noble exhibition of a free
people's strength; and as the broad banner of our country swung out upon
the breeze of the tropics, we could not help exulting in the glory of
that great nation whose uniform we wore around our bodies.
It was no dream. We saw the burnished cannon and the bright epaulette,
the gleaming button and the glancing bayonet. We heard the startling
trumpet, the stirring drum, and the shrill and thrilling fife; and our
souls drank in all those glorious sights and sounds that form at once
the spirit and the witchery of war.
The landing was to take place on the 9th, and the point of debarkation
fixed upon was the beach opposite the island of Sacrificios, just out of
range of the guns of Vera Cruz.
The 9th of March rose like a dream, bright, balmy, and beautiful. The
sea was scarcely stirred by the gentlest breeze of the tropics; but this
breeze, light as it was, blew directly in our favour.
At an early hour I observed a strange movement among the ships composing
the fleet. Signals were changing in quick succession, and boats gliding
rapidly to and fro.
Before daybreak the huge surf-boats had been drawn down from their
moorings, and with long hempen hawsers attached to the ships and
steamers.
The descent was about to be made. The ominous cloud which had hung dark
and threatening over the shores of Mexico was about to burst upon that
devoted land. But where? The enemy could not tell, and were preparing
to receive us on the adjacent shore.
The black cylinder began to smoke, and the murky cloud rolled down upon
the water, half obscuring the fleet. Here and there a broad sail,
freshly unfurled, hung stiffly from the yard; the canvas, escaping from
its gasket fastenings, had not yet been braced round to the breeze.
Soldiers were seen standing along the decks; some in full equipments,
clutching the bright barrels of their muskets, while others were
buckling on their white belts, or cramming their cartouche-boxes.
Officers, in sash and sword, paced the polished quarter-decks, or talked
earnestly in groups, or watched with eager eyes the motions of the
various ships.
Unusual sounds were heard on all sides. The deep-toned chorus of the
sailor, the creaking of the capstan, and the clanking of the iron cogs;
the "heave-ho!" at the windlass, and the grating of the huge
anchor-chain, as link after link rasped through the rusty ring--sounds
that warned us to make ready for a change.
In the midst of these came the brisk rolling of a drum. It was answered
by another, and another, and still another, until all voices were
drowned by the deafening noise. Then followed the mingling shouts of
command, a rushing over the decks, and streams of blue-clad men poured
down the dark sides, and seated themselves in the surf-boats. These
were filled in a twinkling, and all was silent as before. Every voice
was hushed in expectation, and every eye bent upon the little black
steamer which carried the commander-in-chief.
Suddenly a cloud of smoke rose up from her quarter; a sheet of flame
shot out horizontally; and the report of a heavy gun shook the
atmosphere like an earthquake. Before its echoes had subsided, a
deafening cheer ran simultaneously through the fleet; and the ships, all
together, as if impelled by some hidden and supernatural power, broke
from their moorings, and dashed through the water with the velocity of
the wind. Away to the north-west, in an exciting race; away for the
island of Sacrificios!
On struggled the ships, bending to the breeze and cleaving the crystal
water with their bold bows; on the steamers, beating the blue waves into
a milky way, and dragging the laden boats in their foamy track. On
followed the boats through the hissing and frothy caldron. Loud rolled
the drum, loud brayed the bugle, and loud huzzas echoed from the
adjacent shores.
Already the foe was alarmed and alert. Light horsemen with streaming
haste galloped up the coast. Lancers, with gay trappings and long
pennons, appeared through the openings of the hills. Foaming, prancing
steeds flew with light artillery over the naked ridges, dashing madly
down deep defiles, and crushing the cactus with their whirling wheels.
"Andela! Andela!" was their cry. In vain they urged their horses, in
vain they drove the spur deep and bloody into their smoking sides. The
elements were against them, and in favour of their foes.
The earth and the water were their impediments, while the air and the
water were the allies of their enemies. _They_ clung and sweltered
through the hot and yielding sand or sank in the marshy borders of the
Mandinga and the Medellin, while steam and the wind drove the ships of
their adversaries like arrows through the water.
The alarm spread up the coast. Bugles were sounding, and horsemen
galloped through the streets of Vera Cruz. The alarm-drum beat in the
plaza, and the long roll echoed in every _cuartel_.
Signal rockets shot up from San Juan, and were answered by others from
Santiago and Concepcion.
Thousands of dark forms clustered upon the roofs of the city and the
ramparts of the castle; and thousands of pale lips whispered in accents
of terror, "They come! they come!"
As yet they knew not how the attack was to be made, or where to look for
our descent.
They imagined that we were about to bombard their proud fortress of San
Juan, and expected soon to see the ships of these rash invaders
shattered and sunk before its walls.
The fleet was almost within long range, the black buoyant hulls bounded
fearlessly over the water. The eager crowd thickened upon the walls.
The artillerists of Santiago had gathered around their guns, silent and
waiting orders. Already the burning fuse was sending forth its
sulphurous smell, and the dry powder lay temptingly on the touch, when a
quick, sharp cry was heard along the walls and battlements, a cry of
mingled rage, disappointment, and dismay.
The foremost ship had swerved suddenly from the track; and bearing
sharply to the left, under the _manege_ of a skilful helmsman, was
running down under the shelter of Sacrificios.
The next ship followed her guide, and the next, and the next; and,
before the astonished multitude recovered from their surprise, the whole
fleet had come to within pistol-shot of the island!
The enemy now, for the first time, perceived the _ruse_, and began to
calculate its results. Those giant ships, that but a moment ago seemed
rushing to destruction, had rounded to at a safe distance, and were
preparing, with the speed and skilfulness of a perfect discipline, to
pour a hostile host upon the defenceless shores. In vain the cavalry
bugle called their horsemen to the saddle; in vain the artillery car
rattled along the streets; both would be too late!
Meanwhile, the ships let fall their anchors, with a plunge, and a
rasping, and a rattle. The sails came down upon the yards; and sailors
swung themselves into the great surf-boats, and mixed with the soldiers,
and seized the oars.
Then the blades were suddenly and simultaneously dropped on the surface
of the wave, a naval officer in each boat directing the movements of the
oarsmen.
And the boats pulled out nearer, and by an echelon movement took their
places in line.
Light ships of war were thrown upon our flanks, to cover the descent by
a cross fire. No enemy had yet appeared, and all eyes were turned
landward with fiery expectation. Bounding hearts waited impatiently for
the signal.
The report of a single gun was at length heard from the ship of the
commander-in-chief; and, as if by one impulse, a thousand oars struck
the water, and flung up the spray upon their broad blades. A hundred
boats leaped forward simultaneously. The powerful stroke was repeated,
and propelled them with lightning speed. Now was the exciting race, the
regatta of war! The Dardan rowers would have been distanced here.
On! on! with the velocity of the wind, over the blue waves, through the
snowy surf--on!
And now we neared the shore, and officers sprang to their feet, and
stood with their swords drawn; and soldiers half sat, half crouched,
clutching their muskets. And the keels gritted upon the gravelly bed;
and, at the signal, a thousand men, in one plunge, flung themselves into
the water, and dashed madly through the surf. Thousands followed,
holding their cartridge-boxes breast-high; and blades were glancing, and
bayonets gleaming, and banners waving; and under glancing blades, and
gleaming bayonets, and waving banners, the dark mass rushed high upon
the beach.
Then came a cheer, loud, long, and exulting. It pealed along the whole
line, uttered from five thousand throats, and answered by twice that
number from the anchored ships. It echoed along the shores, and back
from the distant battlements.
A colour-sergeant, springing forward, rushed up the steep sides of a
sand-hill, and planted his flag upon its snowy ridge.
As the well-known banner swung out upon the breeze, another cheer, wild
and thrilling, ran along the line; a hundred answering flags were hauled
up through the fleet; the ships of war saluted with full broadsides; and
the guns of San Juan, now for the first time waking from their lethargic
silence, poured forth their loudest thunder.
The sun was just setting as our column commenced its advance inward.
After winding for a short distance through the defiles of the
sand-hills, we halted for the night, our left wing resting upon the
beach.
The soldiers bivouacked without tents--sleeping upon their arms, with
the soft sand for their couch and the cartridge-box for their pillow.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note. Cuartel is the quarter of the city.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
THE CITY OF THE TRUE CROSS.
Vera Cruz is a fortified city. Round and round it is girt by a wall,
with regular batteries placed at intervals. You enter it from the land
side by three gates (_garitas_), and from the sea by a beautiful pier or
mole that projects some distance into the water. The latter is a modern
construction; and when the sun is descending behind the Mexican
Cordilleras to the west, and the breeze blows in from the Gulf, this
mole--the seat of but little commercial activity--becomes the favourite
promenade of the dark-eyed Vera-Cruzanas and their pallid lovers.
The city stands on the very beach. The sea at full tide washes its
battlements, and many of the houses overlook the water. On almost every
side a plain of sand extends to a mile's distance from the walls, where
it terminates in those lofty white sand-ridges that form a feature of
the shores of the Mexican Gulf. During high tides and "northers" the
sea washes over the surrounding sand-plain, and Vera Cruz appears almost
isolated amid the waves. On one side, however, towards the south, there
is variety in the aspect. Here appear traces of vegetation--some low
trees and bushes, a view of the forest inward into the country, a few
buildings outside the walls, a railway-station, a cemetery, an aqueduct,
a small sluggish stream, marshes and stagnant pools.
In front of the city, built upon the coral reef, stands the celebrated
fortress-castle of San Juan de Ulloa. It is about one thousand yards
out from the mole, and over one of its angles towers a lighthouse. Its
walls, with the reef on which it stands (Gallega), shelter the harbour
of Vera Cruz--which, in fact, is only a roadstead--from the north winds.
Under the lee of San Juan the ships of commerce lie at anchor. There
are but few of them at any time.
Another large fort (Concepcion) stands upon the beach at the northern
angle of the city, and a third (Santiago) defends it towards the south.
A circular bastion, with heavy pieces of ordnance, sweeps the plain to
the rear, commanding it as far as the sand-ridges.
Vera Cruz is a pretty picture to look at, either from the sea or from
the sand-hills in the interior. Its massive domes--its tall steeples
and turreted roofs--its architecture, half Moorish, half modern--the
absence of scattered suburbs or other salient objects to distract the
eye--all combine to render the City of the True Cross an unique and
striking picture. In fact, its numerous architectural varieties, bound
as they are into compact unity by a wall of dark lava-stone, impress you
with the idea that some artist had arranged them for the sake of effect.
The _coup d'oeil_ often reminded me of the engravings of cities in
_Goldsmith's Epitome_, that used to be considered the bright spots in my
lessons of school geography.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
At break of day, on the 10th, the army took up its line of march through
hills of sand-drift. Division lapped upon division, regiment upon
regiment, extending the circle of investment by an irregular echelon.
Foot rifles and light infantry drove the enemy from ridge to ridge, and
through the dark mazes of the chaparral gorge. The column continued its
tortuous track, winding through deep denies, and over hot white hills,
like a bristling snake. It moved within range of the guns of the city,
screened by intervening heights. Now and then the loud cannon of
Santiago opened upon it, as some regiment displayed itself, crossing a
defile or pushing over the spur of a sand-hill. The constant rattling
of rifles and musketry told that our skirmishers were busy in the
advance. The arsenal was carried by a brilliant charge, and the
American flag waved over the ruins of the Convent Malibran. On the 11th
the Orizava road was crossed, and the light troops of the enemy were
brushed from the neighbouring hills. They retired sullenly under
shelter of their heavy guns, and within the walls of the city.
On the morning of the 12th the investment was complete. Vera Cruz lay
within a semicircle, around its centre. The half circumference was a
chain of hostile regiments that embraced the city in their concave arc.
The right of this chain pitched its tents opposite the isle of
Sacrificios; while five miles off to the north, its left rested upon the
hamlet Vergara. The sea covered the complement of this circle, guarded
by a fleet of dark and warlike ships.
The diameter hourly grew shorter. The lines of circum-vallation lapped
closer and closer around the devoted city, until the American pickets
appeared along the ridges of the nearest hills, and within range of the
guns of Santiago, Concepcion, and Xjuoa.
A smooth sand-plain, only a mile in width, lay between the besiegers and
the walls of the besieged.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
After tattoo-beat on the night of the 12th, with a party of my brother
officers, I ascended the high hill around which winds the road leading
to Orizava.
This hill overlooks the city of Vera Cruz.
After dragging ourselves wearily through the soft, yielding sand, we
reached the summit, and halted on a projecting ridge.
With the exception of a variety of exclamations expressing surprise and
delight, not a word for awhile was uttered by any of our party, each
individual being wrapped up in the contemplation of a scene of
surpassing interest. It was moonlight, and sufficiently clear to
distinguish the minutest objects on the picture that lay rolled out
before us like a map.
Below our position, and seeming almost within reach of the hand, lay the
City of the True Cross, rising out of the white plain, and outlined upon
the blue background of the sea.
The dark grey towers and painted domes, the Gothic turret and Moorish
minaret, impressed us with the idea of the antique; while here and there
the tamarind, nourished on some azotea, or the fringed fronds of the
palm-tree, drooping over the notched parapet, lent to the city an aspect
at once southern and picturesque.
Domes, spires, and cupolas rose over the old grey walls, crowned with
floating banners--the consular flags of France, and Spain, and Britain,
waving alongside the eagle of the Aztecs.
Beyond, the blue waters of the Gulf rippled lightly against the
sea-washed battlements of San Juan, whose brilliant lights glistened
along the combing of the surf.
To the south we could distinguish the isle of Sacrificios, and the dark
hulls that slept silently under the shelter of its coral reef.
Outside the fortified wall, which girt the city with its cincture of
grey rock, a smooth plain stretched rearward to the foot of the hill on
which we stood, and right and left along the crest of the ridge from
Punta Hornos to Vergara, ranged a line of dark forms--the picket
sentries of the American outposts, as they stood knee-deep in the soft,
yielding sand-drift.
It was a picture of surprising interest; and, as we stood gazing upon
it, the moon suddenly disappeared behind a bank of clouds; and the lamps
of the city, heretofore eclipsed by her brighter beam, now burned up and
glistened along the walls.
Bells rang merrily from church-towers, and bugles sounded through the
echoing streets. At intervals we could hear the shrill cries of the
guard, "_Centinela! alerte_!" (Sentinel, look out), and the sharp
challenge, "_Quien viva_?" (Who goes there?)
Then the sound of sweet music, mingled with the soft voices of women,
was wafted to our ears, and with beating hearts we fancied we could hear
the light tread of silken feet, as they brushed over the polished floor
of the ball-room.
It was a tantalising moment, and wistful glances were cast on the
beleaguered town; while more than one of our party was heard impatiently
muttering a wish that it might be carried by assault.
As we continued gazing, a bright jet of flame shot out horizontally from
the parapet over Puerto Nuevo.
"Look out!" cried Twing, at the same instant flinging his wiry little
carcase squat under the brow of a sand-wreath.
Several of the party followed his example; but, before all had housed
themselves, a shot came singing past, along with the loud report of a
twenty-four.
The shot struck the comb of the ridge, within several yards of the
group, and ricocheted off into the distant hills.
"Try it again!" cried one.
"That fellow has lost a champagne supper," said Twing.
"More likely he has had it, or his aim would be more steady," suggested
an officer.
"Oysters, too--only think of it!" said Clayley.
"Howld your tongue, Clayley, or by my sowl I'll charge down upon the
town!"
This came from Hennessy, upon whose imagination the contrast between
champagne and oysters and the gritty pork and biscuit he had been
feeding upon for several days past acted like a shock.
"There again!" cried Twing, whose quick eye caught the blaze upon the
parapet.
"A shell, by the powers!" exclaimed Hennessy. "Let it dhrop first, or
it may dhrop on ye," he continued, as several officers were about to
fling themselves on their faces.
The bomb shot up with a hissing, hurtling sound. A little spark could
be seen as it traced its graceful curves through the dark heavens.
The report echoed from the walls, and at the same instant was heard a
dull sound, as the shell buried itself in the sand-drift.
It fell close to one of the picket sentinels, who was standing upon his
post within a few paces of the group. The man appeared to be either
asleep or stupefied, as he remained stock-still. Perhaps he had
mistaken it for the ricochet of a round shot.
"It's big shooting for them to hit the hill!" exclaimed a young officer.
The words had scarcely passed when a loud crash, like the bursting of a
cannon, was heard under our feet; the ground opened like an earthquake,
and, amidst the whistling of the fragments, the sand was dashed into our
faces.
A cloud of dust hung for a moment above the spot. The moon at this
instant reappeared, and as the dust slowly settled away, the mutilated
body of the soldier was seen upon the brow of the hill, at the distance
of twenty paces from his post.
A low cheer reached us from Concepcion, the fort whence the shell had
been projected.
Chagrined at the occurrence, and mortified that it had been caused by
our imprudence, we were turning to leave the hill, when the "whish" of a
rocket attracted our attention.
It rose from the chaparral, about a quarter of a mile in rear of the
camp, and, before it had reached its culminating point, an answering
signal shot up from the Puerto Nuevo.
At the same instant a horseman dashed out of the thicket, and headed his
horse at the steep sand-hills. After three or four desperate plunges,
the fiery mustang gained the crest of the ridge upon which lay the
remains of the dead soldier.
Here the rider, seeing our party, suddenly reined up and balanced for a
moment in the stirrup, as if uncertain whether to advance or retreat.
We, on the other hand, taking him for some officer of our own, and
wondering who it could be galloping about at such an hour, stood silent
and waiting.
"By heavens, that's a Mexican!" muttered Twing, as the ranchero dress
became apparent under a brighter beam of the moon.
Before anyone could reply, the strange horseman wheeled sharply to the
left, and drawing a pistol, fired it into our midst. Then spurring his
wild horse, he galloped past us into a deep defile of the hills.
"You're a set of Yankee fools!" he shouted back, as he reached the
bottom of the dell.
Half a dozen shots replied to the taunting speech; but the retreating
object was beyond pistol range before our astonished party had recovered
from their surprise at such an act of daring audacity.
In a few minutes we could see both horse and rider near the walls of the
city--a speck on the white plain; and shortly after we heard the grating
hinges of the Puerto Nuevo, as the huge gate swung open to receive him.
No one was hit by the shot of his pistol. Several could be heard
gritting their teeth with mortification as we commenced descending the
hill.
"Did you know that voice, Captain?" whispered Clayley to me, as we
returned to camp.
"Yes."
"You think it was--"
"Dubrosc."
CHAPTER EIGHT.
MAJOR BLOSSOM.
On reaching the camp I found a mounted orderly in front of my tent.
"From the general," said the soldier, touching his cap, and handing me a
sealed note.
The orderly, without waiting a reply, leaped into his saddle and rode
off.
I broke the seal with delight:
"Sir,--You will report, with fifty men, to Major Blossom, at 4 a.m.
to-morrow.
"By order,--"
(Signed) "A.A.A.-G.
"Captain Haller, commanding Co. Rifle Rangers."
"Old Bios, eh? Quartermaster scouting, I hope," said Clayley, looking
over the contents of the note.
"Anything but the trenches; I am sick of them."
"Had it been anybody else but Blossom--fighting Daniels, for instance--
we might have reckoned on a comfortable bit of duty; but the old whale
can hardly climb into his saddle--it _does_ look bad."
"I will not long remain in doubt. Order the sergeant to warn the men
for four."
I walked through the camp in search of Blossom's marquee, which I found
in a grove of caoutchouc-trees, and out of range of the heaviest metal
in Vera Cruz. The major himself was seated in a large Campeachy chair,
that had been "borrowed" from some neighbouring rancho, and perhaps it
was never so well filled as by its present occupant.
It would be useless to attempt an elaborate description of Major
Blossom. That would require an entire chapter.
Perhaps the best that can be done to give the reader an idea of him is
to say that he was a great, fat, red man, and known among his brother
officers as "the swearing major". If anyone in the army loved good
living, it was Major Blossom; and if anyone hated hard living, that man
was Major George Blossom. He hated Mexicans, too, and mosquitoes, and
scorpions, and snakes, and sand-flies, and all enemies to his rest and
comfort; and the manner in which he swore at these natural foes would
have entitled him to a high commission in the celebrated army of
Flanders.
Major Blossom was a quarter-master in more senses than one, as he
occupied more quarters than any two men in the army, not excepting the
general-in-chief; and when many a braver man and better officer was cut
down to "twenty-five pounds of baggage", the private lumber of Major
Blossom, including himself, occupied a string of wagons like a
siege-train.
As I entered the tent he was seated at supper. The viands before him
were in striking contrast to the food upon which the army was then
subsisting. There was no gravel gritting between the major's teeth as
he masticated mess-pork or mouldy biscuit. He found no _debris_ of sand
and small rocks at the bottom of his coffee-cup. No; quite the
contrary.
A dish of pickled salmon, a side of cold turkey, a plate of sliced
tongue, with a fine Virginia ham, were the striking features of the
major's supper, while a handsome French coffee-urn, containing the
essence of Mocha, simmered upon the table. Out of this the major from
time to time replenished his silver cup. A bottle of _eau-de-vie_, that
stood near his right hand, assisted him likewise in swallowing his ample
ration.
"Major Blossom, I presume?" said I.
"My name," ejaculated the major, between two swallows, so short and
quick that the phrase sounded like a monosyllable.
"I have received orders to report to you, sir."
"Ah! bad business! bad business!" exclaimed the major, qualifying the
words with an energetic oath.
"How, sir?"
"Atrocious business! dangerous service! Can't see why they sent me."
"I came, Major, to inquire the nature of the service, so that I may have
my men in order for it."
"Dangerous service!"
"It is?"
"Infernal cut-throats! thousands of 'em in the bushes--bore a man
through as soon as wink. Those yellow devils are worse than--!" and
again the swearing major wound up with an exclamation not proper to be
repeated.
"Can't see why they picked _me_ out. There's Myers, and Wayne, and
Wood, not half my size, and that thin scare-the-crows Allen; but no--the
general wants _me_ killed. Die soon enough in this infernal nest of
centipedes without being shot in the chaparral! I wish the chaparral
was--!" and again the major's unmentionable words came pouring forth in
a volley.
I saw that it was useless to interrupt him until the first burst was
over. From his frequent anathemas on the "bushes" and the "chaparral",
I could gather that the service I was called upon to perform lay at some
distance from the camp; but beyond this I could learn nothing, until the
major had sworn himself into a degree of composure, which after some
minutes he accomplished. I then re-stated the object of my visit.
"We're going into the country for mules," replied the major. "Mules,
indeed! Heaven knows there isn't a mule within ten miles, unless with a
yellow-hided Mexican on his back, and such mules we don't want. The
volunteers--curse them!--have scared everything to the mountains: not a
stick of celery nor an onion to be had at any price."
"How long do you think we may be gone?" I inquired.
"Long? Only a day. If I stay overnight in the chaparral, may a wolf
eat me! Oh, no! if the mules don't turn up soon, somebody else may go
fetch 'em--that's all."
"I may ration them for one day?" said I.
"Two--two; your fellows'll be hungry. Roberts, of the Rifles, who's
been out in the country, tells me there isn't enough forage to feed a
cat. So you'd better take two days' biscuit. I suppose we'll meet with
beef enough on the hoof, though I'd rather have a rump-steak out of the
Philadelphia market than all the beef in Mexico. Hang their beef! it's
as tough as tan leather!"
"At four o'clock then, Major, I'll be with you," said I, preparing to
take my leave.
"Make it a little later, Captain. I get no sleep with these cursed
gally-nippers and things; but, stay--how many men have you got?"
"In my company eighty; but my order is to take only fifty."
"There again! I told you so; want me killed--they want old Bios killed!
Fifty men, when a thousand of the leather-skinned devils have been seen
not ten miles off! Fifty men! great heavens! fifty men! There's an
escort to take the chaparral with!"
"But they are fifty men worth a hundred, I promise you."
"Bring all--every son of a gun--bugler and all."
"But that, Major, would be contrary to the general's orders."
"Hang the general's orders! Obey some generals' orders in this army,
and you would do queer things. Bring them all; take my advice. I tell
you, if you don't, our lives may answer for it. Fifty men!"
I was about to depart when the major stopped me with a loud "Hilloa!"
"Why," cried he, "I have lost my senses! Your pardon, Captain! This
unlucky thing has driven me crazy. They must pick upon _me_! What will
you drink? Here's some good brandy; sorry I can't say as much for the
water."
I mixed a glass of brandy and water; the major did the same; and, having
pledged each other, we bade "good night", and separated.
CHAPTER NINE.
SCOUTING IN THE CHAPARRAL.
Between the shores of the Mexican Gulf and the "foot-hills" (_piedmont_)
of the great chain of the Andes lies a strip of low lands. In many
places this belt is nearly a hundred miles in breadth, but generally
less than fifty. It is of a tropical character, termed in the language
of the country _tierra caliente_. It is mostly covered with jungly
forests, in which are found the palm, the tree-ferns, the mahogany and
india-rubber trees, dyewoods, canes, llianas, and many other gigantic
parasites. In the underwood you meet thorny aloes, the "pita" plant,
and wild mezcal; various Cactacese, and flora of singular forms,
scarcely known to the botanist. There are swamps, dark and dank,
overshadowed by the tall cypress, with its pendent streamers of silvery
moss (_Tillandsia usneoides_). From these arise the miasma--the mother
of the dreaded "vomito."
This unhealthy region is but thinly inhabited; but here you meet with
people of the African race, and nowhere else in Mexico. In the towns--
and there are but few--you see the yellow mulatto, and the pretty
quadroon with her black waving hair; but in the spare settlements of the
country you meet with a strange race--the cross of the negro with the
ancient inhabitants of the country--the "zamboes."
Along the coast and in the black country, behind Vera Cruz, you will
find these people living a half-indolent, half-savage life, as small
cultivators, cattle-herds, fishermen, or hunters. In riding through the
forest you may often chance upon such a picture as the following:--
There is an opening in the woods that presents an aspect of careless
cultivation--a mere patch cleared out of the thick jungle--upon which
grow yams, the sweet-potato (_Convolvulus batata_), chile, melons, and
the calabash. On one side of the clearing there is a hut--a sort of
shed. A few upright poles forked at their tops; a few others laid
horizontally upon them; a thatch of palm leaves to shadow the burning
rays of the sun--that is all.
In this shadow there are human beings--men, women, children. They wear
rude garments of white cotton cloth; but they are half-naked, and their
skins are dark, almost black. Their hair is woolly and frizzled. They
are not Indians, they are not negroes, they are "zamboes"--a mixture of
both. They are coarse-featured, and coarsely clad. You would find it
difficult, at a little distance, to distinguish their sex, did you not
know that those who swing in the hammocks and recline indolently upon
the palm-mats (_petates_) are the men, and those who move about and do
the work are the females. One of the former occasionally stimulates the
activity of the latter by a stroke of the "cuarto" (mule-whip).
A few rude implements of furniture are in the shed: a "metate" on which
the boiled maize is ground for the "tortilla" cakes; some "ollas" (pots)
of red earthenware; dishes of the calabash; a rude hatchet or two; a
"machete"; a banjo made from the gourd-shell; a high-peaked saddle, with
bridle and "lazo"; strings of red-pepper pods hanging from the
horizontal beams--not much more. A lank dog on the ground in front; a
lean "mustang" tied to the tree; a couple of "burros" (donkeys); and
perhaps a sorry galled mule in an inclosure adjoining.
The zambo enjoys his _dolce far niente_ while his wife does his work--
what work there is, but that is not much. There is an air of neglect
that impresses you; an air of spontaneity about the picture--for the
yams and the melons, and the chile-plants, half choked with weeds, seem
to grow without culture, and the sun gives warmth, so as to render
almost unnecessary the operations of the spindle and the loom.
The forest opens again, and another picture--a prettier one--presents
itself. It bears the aspect of a better cultivation, though still
impressing you with ideas of indolence and neglect. This picture is the
"rancho", the settlement of the small farmer, or "vaquero"
(cattle-herd). Its form is that of an ordinary house, with gables and
sloping roof, but its walls are peculiar. They are constructed of
gigantic bamboo canes, or straight poles of the _Fouquiera splendens_.
These are laced together by cords of the "pita" aloe; but the
interstices between are left open, so as freely to admit the breeze.
Coolness, not warmth, is the object of these buildings. The roof is a
thatch of palm-leaves, and with far-impending eaves casts off the heavy
rain of the tropics. The appearance is striking--more picturesque even
than the chalet of Switzerland.
There is but little furniture within. There is no table; there are few
chairs, and these of raw hide nailed upon a rude frame. There are
bedsteads of bamboo; the universal tortilla-stone; mats of palm-leaf;
baskets of the same material; a small altar-like fireplace in the middle
of the floor; a bandolin hanging by the wall; a saddle of stamped
leather, profusely ornamented with silver nails and plates; a hair
bridle, with huge Mameluke bit; an escopette and sword, or machete; an
endless variety of gaily-painted bowls, dishes, and cups, but neither
knife, fork, nor spoon. Such are the movables of a "rancho" in the
_tierra caliente_.
You may see the ranchero by the door, or attending to his small, wiry,
and spirited horse, outside. The man himself is either of Spanish blood
or a "mestizo" (half-breed). He is rarely a pure Indian, who is most
commonly a peon or labourer, and who can hardly be termed a "ranchero"
in its proper sense.
The ranchero is picturesque--his costume exceedingly so. His complexion
is swarthy, his hair is black, and his teeth are ivory white. He is
often moustached, but rarely takes the trouble to trim or keep these
ornaments in order. His whisker is seldom bushy or luxuriant. His
trousers (_calzoneros_) are of green or dark velvet, open down the
outside seams, and at the bottoms overlaid with stamped black leather,
to defend the ankles of the wearer against the thorny chaparral. A row
of bell buttons, often silver, close the open seams when the weather is
cold. There are wide drawers (_calzoncillos_) of fine white cotton
underneath; and these puff out through the seams, forming a tasty
contrast with the dark velvet. A silken sash, generally of scarlet
colour, encircles the waist; and its fringed ends hang over the hips.
The hunting-knife is stuck under it. There is a short jacket of
velveteen, tastefully embroidered and buttoned; a white cambric shirt,
elaborately worked and plaited; and over all a heavy, broad-brimmed hat
(_sombrero_), with silver or gold band, and tags of the same material
sticking out from the sides. He wears boots of red leather, and huge
spurs with bell rowels; and he is never seen without the "seraph". The
last is his bed, his blanket, his cloak, and his umbrella.
His wife may be seen moving about the rancho, or upon her knees before
the metate kneading tortillas, and besmearing them with _chile Colorado_
(red capsicum). She wears a petticoat or skirt of a naming bright
colour, very short, showing her well-turned but stockingless ankles,
with her small slippered feet. Her arms, neck, and part of her bosom
are nude, but half concealed by the bluish-grey scarf (_rebozo_) that
hangs loosely over her head.
The ranchero leads a free, easy life, burthened with few cares. He is
the finest rider in the world, following his cattle on horseback, and
never makes even the shortest journey on foot. He plays upon the
bandolin, sings an Andalusian ditty, and is fond of _chingarito_ (mezcal
whisky) and the "fandango."
Such is the ranchero of the _tierra caliente_ around Vera Cruz, and such
is he in all other parts of Mexico, from its northern limits to the
Isthmus.
But in the _tierra caliente_ you may also see the rich planter of
cotton, or sugar-cane, or cocoa (_cacao_), or the vanilla bean. His
home is the "hacienda". This is a still livelier picture. There are
many fields inclosed and tilled. They are irrigated by the water from a
small stream. Upon its banks there are cocoa-trees; and out of the rich
moist soil shoot up rows of the majestic plantain, whose immense
yellow-green leaves, sheathing the stem and then drooping gracefully
over, render it one of the most ornamental productions of the tropics,
as its clustering legumes of farinaceous fruit make it one of the most
useful. Low walls, white or gaily painted, appear over the fields, and
a handsome spire rises above the walls. That is the "hacienda" of the
planter--the "rico" of the _tierra caliente_, with its out-buildings and
chapel belfry. You approach it through scenes of cultivation. "Peons",
clad in white cotton and reddish leathern garments, are busy in the
fields. Upon their heads are broad-brimmed hats, woven from the leaf of
the sombrero palm. Their legs are naked, and upon their feet are tied
rude sandals (_guaraches_) with leathern thongs. Their skins are dark,
though not black; their eyes are wild and sparkling; their looks grave
and solemn; their hair coarse, long, and crow-black; and, as they walk,
their toes turn inward. Their downcast looks, their attitudes and
demeanour, impress you with the conviction that they are those who carry
the water and hew the wood of the country. It is so. They are the
"Indios mansos" (the civilised Indians): slaves, in fact, though freemen
by the letter of the law. They are the "peons", the labourers, the
serfs of the land--the descendants of the conquered sons of Anahuac.
Such are the people you find in the _tierra caliente_ of Mexico--in the
environs of Vera Cruz. They do not differ much from the inhabitants of
the high plains, either in costume, customs, or otherwise. In fact,
there is a homogeneousness about the inhabitants of all Spanish
America--making allowance for difference of climate and other
peculiarities--rarely found in any other people.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Before daybreak of the morning after my interview with the "swearing
major", a head appeared between the flaps of my tent. It was that of
Sergeant Bob Lincoln.
"The men air under arms, Cap'n."
"Very well," cried I, leaping from my bed, and hastily buckling on my
accoutrements.
I looked forth. The moon was still brightly shining, and I could see a
number of uniformed men standing upon the company parade, in double
rank. Directly in front of my tent a small boy was saddling a very
small horse. The boy was "Little Jack", as the soldiers called him; and
the horse was little Jack's mustang, "Twidget."
Jack wore a tight-fitting green jacket, trimmed with yellow lace, and
buttoned up to the throat; pantaloons of light green, straight cut, and
striped along the seams; a forage-cap set jauntily upon a profusion of
bright curls; a sabre with a blade of eighteen inches, and a pair of
clinking Mexican spurs. Besides these, he carried the smallest of all
rifles. Thus armed and accoutred, he presented the appearance of a
miniature Ranger.
Twidget had _his_ peculiarities. He was a tight, wiry little animal,
that could live upon mezquite beans or maguey leaves for an indefinite
time; and his abstemiousness was often put to the test. Afterwards,
upon an occasion during the battles in the valley of Mexico, Jack and
Twidget had somehow got separated, at which time the mustang had been
shut up for four days in the cellar of a ruined convent with no other
food than stones and mortar! How Twidget came by his name is not clear.
Perhaps it was some waif of the rider's own fancy.
As I appeared at the entrance of my tent, Jack had just finished
strapping on his Mexican saddle; and seeing me, up he ran to assist in
serving my breakfast. This was hastily despatched, and our party took
the route in silence through the sleeping camp. Shortly after, we were
joined by the major, mounted on a tall, raw-boned horse; while a darkie,
whom the major addressed as "Doc", rode a snug, stout cob, and carried a
large basket. This last contained the major's commissariat.
We were soon travelling along the Orizava road, the major and Jack
riding in advance. I could not help smiling at the contrast between
these two equestrians; the former with his great gaunt horse, looming up
in the uncertain light of the morning like some huge centaur; while Jack
and Twidget appeared the two representatives of the kingdom of Lilliput.
On turning an angle of the forest, a horseman appeared at some distance
along the road. The major gradually slackened his pace, until he was
square with the head of the column, and then fell back into the rear.
This manoeuvre was executed in the most natural manner, but I could
plainly see that the mounted Mexican had caused the major no small
degree of alarm.
The horseman proved to be a zambo, in pursuit of cattle that had escaped
from a neighbouring corral. I put some inquiries to him in relation to
the object of our expedition. The zambo pointed to the south, saying in
Spanish that mules were plenty in that direction.
"_Hay muchos, muchissimos_," (There are many), said he, as he indicated
a road which led through a strip of forest on our left.
Following his direction, we struck into the new path, which soon
narrowed into a bridle-road or trail. The men were thrown into single
file, and marched _a l'Indienne_. The road darkened, passing under
thick-leaved trees, that met and twined over our heads.
At times the hanging limbs and joined parasites caused the major to
flatten his huge body upon the horn of the saddle; and once or twice he
was obliged to alight, and walk under the impeding branches of the
thorny acacias.
Our journey continued without noise, silence being interrupted only by
an occasional oath from the major--uttered, however, in a low tone, as
we were now fairly "in the woods". The road at length opened upon a
small prairie or glade, near the borders of which rose a "butte",
covered with chaparral.
Leaving the party in ambuscade below, I ascended the butte, to obtain a
view of the surrounding country. The day had now fairly broken, and the
sun was just rising over the blue waters of the Gulf.
His rays, prinkling over the waves, caused them to dance and sparkle
with a metallic brightness; and it was only after shading my eyes that I
could distinguish the tall masts of ships and the burnished towers of
the city.
To the south and west stretched a wide expanse of champaign country,
glowing in all the brilliance of tropical vegetation. Fields of green,
and forests of darker green; here and there patches of yellow, and belts
of olive-coloured leaves; at intervals a sheet of silver--the reflection
from a placid lake, or the bend of some silent stream--was visible upon
the imposing picture at my feet.
A broad belt of forest, dotted with the lifelike frondage of the palm,
swept up to the foot of the hill. Beyond this lay an open tract of
meadow, or prairie, upon which were browsing thousands of cattle. The
distance was too great to distinguish their species; but the slender
forms of some of them convinced me that the object of our search would
be found in that direction.
The meadow, then, was the point to be reached.
The belt of forest already mentioned must be crossed; and to effect this
I struck into a trail that seemed to lead in the direction of the
meadow.
The trail became lighter as we entered the heavy timber. Some distance
farther on we reached a stream. Here the trail entirely disappeared.
No "signs" could be found on the opposite bank. The underwood was
thick; and vines, with broad green leaves and huge clusters of scarlet
flowers, barred up the path like a wall.
It was strange! The path had evidently led to this point, but where
beyond?
Several men were detached across the stream to find an opening. After a
search of some minutes a short exclamation from Lincoln proclaimed
success; I crossed over, and found the hunter standing near the bank,
holding back a screen of boughs and vine-leaves, beyond which a narrow
but plain track was easily distinguished, leading on into the forest.
The trellis closed like a gate, and it seemed as if art had lent a hand
to the concealment of the track. The footprints of several horses were
plainly visible in the sandy bottom of the road.
The men entered in single file. With some difficulty Major Blossom and
his great horse squeezed themselves through, and we moved along under
the shady and silent woods.
After a march of several miles, fording numerous streams, and working
our way through tangled thickets of nopal and wild maguey, an opening
suddenly appeared through the trees. Emerging from the forest, a
brilliant scene burst upon us. A large clearing, evidently once
cultivated, but now in a state of neglect, stretched out before us.
Broad fields, covered with flowers of every hue--thickets of blooming
rose-trees--belts of the yellow helianthus--and groups of cocoa-trees
and half-wild plantains, formed a picture singular and beautiful.
On one side, and close to the border of the forest, could be seen the
roof of a house, peering above groves of glistening foliage, and thither
we marched.
We entered a lane, with its _guardarayas_ of orange-trees planted in
rows upon each side, and meeting overhead.
The sunlight fell through this leafy screen with a mellowed and
delicious softness, and the perfume of flowers was wafted on the air.
The rich music of birds was around us; and the loveliness of the scene
was heightened by the wild neglect which characterised it.
On approaching the house we halted; and after charging the men to remain
silent, I advanced alone to reconnoitre.
CHAPTER TEN.
ADVENTURE WITH A CAYMAN.
The lane suddenly opened upon a pasture, but within this a thick hedge
of jessamines, forming a circle, barred the view.
In this circle was the house, whose roof only could be seen from
without.
Not finding any opening through the jessamines, I parted the leaves with
my hands, and looked through. The picture was dream-like; so strange, I
could scarcely credit my senses.
On the crest of the little hillock stood a house of rare construction--
unique and unlike anything I had ever seen. The sides were formed of
bamboos, closely picketed, and laced together by fibres of the _pita_.
The roof--a thatch of palm-leaves--projected far over the eaves, rising
to a cone, and terminating in a small wooden cupola with a cross. There
were no windows. The walls themselves were translucent; and articles of
furniture could be distinguished through the interstices of the bamboos.
A curtain of green _barege_, supported by a rod and rings, formed the
door. This was drawn, discovering an ottoman near the entrance, and an
elegant harp.
The whole structure presented the _coup-d'oeil_ of a huge birdcage, with
its wires of gold!
The grounds were in keeping with the house. In these, the evidence of
neglect, which had been noticed without, existed no longer. Every
object appeared to be under the training of a watchful solicitude.
A thick grove of olives, with their gnarled and spreading branches and
dark-green leaves, stretched rearward, forming a background to the
picture. Right and left grew clumps of orange and lime trees. Golden
fruit and flowers of brilliant hues mingled with their yellow leaves;
spring and autumn blended upon the same branches!
Rare shrubs--exotics--grew out of large vessels of japanned earthenware,
whose brilliant tints added to the voluptuous colouring of the scene.
A _jet d'eau_, crystalline, rose to the height of twenty feet, and,
returning in a shower of prismatic globules, stole away through a bed of
water-lilies and other aquatic plants, losing itself in a grove of lofty
plantain-trees. These, growing from the cool watery bed, flung out
their broad glistening leaves to the length of twenty feet.
So signs of human life met the eye. The birds alone seemed to revel in
the luxuriance of this tropical paradise. A brace of pea-fowl stalked
over the parterre in all the pride of their rainbow plumage. In the
fountain appeared the tall form of a flamingo, his scarlet colour
contrasting with the green leaves of the water-lily. Songsters were
trilling in every tree. The mock-bird, perched upon the highest limb,
was mimicking the monotonous tones of the parrot. The toucans and
trogons flashed from grove to grove, or balanced their bodies under the
spray of the _jet d'eau_; while the humming-birds hung upon the leaves
of some honeyed blossom, or prinkled over the parterre like straying
sunbeams.
I was running my eye over this dream-like picture, in search of a human
figure, when the soft, metallic accents of a female voice reached me
from the grove of plantains. It was a burst of laughter--clear and
ringing. Then followed another, with short exclamations, and the sound
of water as if dashed and sprinkled with a light hand.
What must be the Eve of a paradise like this! The silver tones were
full of promise. It was the first female voice that had greeted my ears
for a month, and chords long slumbering vibrated under the exquisite
touch.
My heart bounded. My first impulse was "forward", which I obeyed by
springing through the jessamines. But the fear of intruding upon a
scene _a la Diane_ changed my determination, and my next thought was to
make a quiet retreat.
I was preparing to return, and had thrust one leg back through the
hedge, when a harsh voice--apparently that of a man--mingled with the
silvery tones.
"_Anda!--anda!--hace mucho calor. Vamos a volver_." (Hasten!--it is
hot. Let us return.)
"_Ah, no, Pepe! un ratito mas_." (Ah, no, Pepe! a little while longer.)
"_Vaya, carrambor_!" (Quick, then!)
Again the clear laughter rang out, mingled with the clapping of hands
and short exclamations of delight.
"Come," thought I, once more entering the parterre, "as there appears to
be one of my own sex here already, it cannot be very _mal a propos_ to
take a peep at this amusement, whatever it be."
I approached the row of plantain-trees, whose leaves screened the
speakers from view.
"_Lupe! Lupe! mira! que bonito_!" (Lupe! Lupe! look here! What a
pretty thing!)
"_Ah, pobrecito! echalo, Luz, echalo_." (Ah! poor little thing! fling
it back, Luz.)
"_Voy luego_," (Presently.)
I stooped down, and silently parted the broad, silken leaves. The sight
was divine!
Within lay a circular tank, or basin, of crystal water, several rods in
diameter, and walled in on all sides by the high screen of glossy
plantains, whose giant leaves, stretching out horizontally, sheltered it
from the rays of the sun.
A low parapet of mason-work ran around, forming the circumference of the
circle. This was japanned with a species of porcelain, whose deep
colouring of blue and green and yellow was displayed in a variety of
grotesque figures.
A strong jet boiled up in the centre, by the refraction of whose ripples
the gold and red fish seemed multiplied into myriads.
At a distant point a bed of water-lilies hung out from the parapet; and
the long, thin neck of a swan rose gracefully over the leaves. Another,
his mate, stood upon the bank drying her snowy pinions in the sun.
A different object attracted me, depriving me, for awhile, of the power
of action.
In the water, and near the jet, were two beautiful girls clothed in a
sort of sleeveless, green tunic, loosely girdled. They were immersed to
the waist. So pellucid was the water that their little feet were
distinctly visible at the bottom, shining like gold.
Luxuriant hair fell down in broad flakes, partially shrouding the snowy
development of their arms and shoulders. Their forms were strikingly
similar--tall, graceful, fully developed, and characterised by that
elliptical line of beauty that, in the female form more than in any
other earthly object, illustrates the far-famed curve of Hogarth.
Their features, too, were alike. "Sisters!" one would exclaim, and yet
their complexions were strikingly dissimilar. The blood, mantling
darker in the veins of one, lent an olive tinge to the soft and wax-like
surface of her skin, while the red upon her cheeks and lips presented an
admixture of purple. Her hair, too, was black; and a dark shading along
the upper lip--a moustache, in fact--soft and silky as the tracery of a
crayon, contrasted with the dazzling whiteness of her teeth. Her eyes
were black, large, and almond-shaped, with that expression which looks
_over_ one; and her whole appearance formed a type of that beauty which
we associate with the Abencerrage and the Alhambra. This was evidently
the elder.
The other was the type of a distinct class of beauty--the golden-haired
blonde. Her eyes were large, globular, and blue as turquoise. Her hair
of a chastened yellow, long and luxuriant; while her skin, less soft and
waxen than that of her sister, presented an effusion of roseate blushes
that extended along the snowy whiteness of her arms. These, in the sun,
appeared as bloodless and transparent as the tiny gold-fish that
quivered in her uplifted hand.
I was riveted to the spot. My first impulse was to retire, silently and
modestly, but the power of a strange fascination for a moment prevented
me. Was it a dream?
"_Ah! que barbara! pobrecito--ito--ito_!" (Ah! what a barbarian you
are! poor little thing!)
"_Comeremos_." (We shall eat it.)
"_Por Dios! no! echalo, Luz, o tirare la agua en sus ojos_." (Goodness!
no! fling it in, Luz, or I shall throw water in your eyes.) And the
speaker stooped as if to execute the threat.
"_Ya--no_," (Now I shall not), said Luz resolutely.
"_Guarda te_!" (Look out, then!)
The brunette placed her little hands close together, forming with their
united palms a concave surface, and commenced dashing water upon the
perverse blonde.
The latter instantly dropped the gold-fish, and retaliated.
An exciting and animated contest ensued. The bright globules flew
around their heads, and rolled down their glittering tresses, as from
the pinions of a swan; while their clear laughter rang out at intervals,
as one or the other appeared victorious.
A hoarse voice drew my attention from this interesting spectacle.
Looking whence it came, my eye rested upon a huge negress stretched
under a cocoa-tree, who had raised herself on one arm, and was laughing
at the contest.
It was her voice, then, I had mistaken for that of a man!
Becoming sensible of my intrusive position, I turned to retreat, when a
shrill cry reached me from the pond.
The swans, with a frightened energy shrieked and flapped over the
surface, the gold-fish shot to and fro like sunbeams, and leaped out of
the water, quivering and terrified, and the birds on all sides screamed
and chattered.
I sprang forward to ascertain the cause of this strange commotion. My
eye fell upon the negress, who had risen, and, running out upon the
parapet with uplifted arms, shouted in terrified accents:
"_Valgame Dios--ninas! El cayman! el cayman_!"
I looked across to the other side of the pond. A fearful object met my
eyes--the cayman of Mexico! The hideous monster was slowly crawling
over the low wall, dragging his lengthened body from a bed of aquatic
plants.
Already his short fore-arms, squamy and corrugated, rested upon the
inner edge of the parapet, his shoulders projecting as if in the act to
spring! His scale-covered back, with its long serrated ridge, glittered
with a slippery moistness; and his eyes, usually dull, gleamed fierce
and lurid from their prominent sockets.
I had brought with me a light rifle. It was but the work of a moment to
unsling and level it. The sharp crack followed, and the ball impinged
between the monster's eyes, glancing harmlessly from his hard skull as
though it had been a plate of steel. The shot was an idle one, perhaps
worse; for, stung to madness with the stunning shock, the reptile sprang
far out into the water, and made directly for its victims.
The girls, who had long since given over their mirthful contest, seemed
to have lost all presence of mind; and, instead of making for the bank,
stood locked in each other's arms terrified and trembling.
Their symmetrical forms fell into an agonised embrace; and their rounded
arms, olive and roseate, laced each other, and twined across their
quivering bodies.
Their faces were turned to heaven, as though they expected succour from
above--a group that rivalled the Laocoon.
With a spring I cleared the parapet, and, drawing my sword, dashed madly
across the basin.
The girls were near the centre; but the cayman had got the start of me,
and the water, three feet deep, impeded my progress. The bottom of the
tank, too, was slippery, and I fell once or twice on my hands. I rose
again, and with frantic energy plunged forward, all the while calling
upon the bathers to make for the parapet.
Notwithstanding my shouts, the terrified girls made no effort to save
themselves. They were incapable from terror.
On came the cayman with the velocity of vengeance. It was a fearful
moment. Already he swam at a distance of less than six paces from his
prey, his long snout projecting from the water, his gaunt jaws
displaying their quadruple rows of sharp glistening teeth.
I shouted despairingly. I was baffled by the deep water. I had nearly
twice the distance before I could interpose myself between the monster
and its victims.
"I shall be too late!"
Suddenly I saw that the cayman had swerved. In his eagerness he had
struck a subaqueous pipe of the jet.
It delayed him only a moment; but in that moment I had passed the
statue-like group, and stood ready to receive his attack.
"_A la orilla! a la orilla_!" (To the bank! to the bank!) I shouted,
pushing the terrified girls with one hand, while with the other I held
my sword at arm's-length in the face of the advancing reptile.
The girls now, for the first time awaking from their lethargy of terror,
rushed towards the bank.
On came the monster, gnashing his teeth in the fury of disappointment,
and uttering fearful cries.
As soon as he had got within reach I aimed a blow at his head; but the
light sabre glinted from the fleshless skull with the ringing of steel
to steel.
The blow, however, turned him out of his course, and, missing his aim,
he passed me like an arrow. I looked around with a feeling of despair.
"Thank heaven, they are safe!"
I felt the clammy scales rub against my thigh; and I leaped aside to
avoid the stroke of his tail, as it lashed the water into foam.
Again the monster turned, and came on as before.
This time I did not attempt to cut, but thrust the sabre directly for
his throat. The cold blade snapped between his teeth like an icicle.
Not above twelve inches remained with the hilt; and with this I hacked
and fought with the energy of despair.
My situation had now grown critical indeed. The girls had reached the
bank, and stood screaming upon the parapet.
At length the elder seized upon a pole, and, lifting it with all her
might, leaped back into the basin, and was hastening to my rescue, when
a stream of fire was poured through the leaves of the plantains: I heard
a sharp crack--the short humming whiz of a bullet--and a large form,
followed by half a dozen others, emerged from the grove, and, rushing
over the wall, plunged into the pond.
I heard a loud plashing in the water--the shouts of men, the clashing of
bayonets; and then saw the reptile roll over, pierced by a dozen wounds.
CHAPTER ELEVEN.
DON COSME ROSALES.
"Yur safe, Cap'n!" It was Lincoln's voice. Around me stood a dozen of
the men, up to their waists. Little Jack, too, (his head and forage-cap
just appearing above the surface of the water), stood with his eighteen
inches of steel buried in the carcase of the dead reptile. I could not
help smiling at the ludicrous picture.
"Yes, safe," answered I, panting for breath; "safe--you came in good
time, though!"
"We heern yur shot, Cap'n," said Lincoln, "an' we guessed yur didn't
shoot without somethin' ter shoot for; so I tuk half a dozen files and
kim up."
"You acted right, sergeant; but where are the--"
I was looking towards the edge of the tank where I had last seen the
girls. They had disappeared.
"If yez mane the faymales," answered Chane, "they're _vamosed_ through
the threes. Be Saint Patrick, the black one's a thrump anyhow! She
looks for all the world like them bewtiful crayoles of Dimmerary."
Saying this, he turned suddenly round, and commenced driving his bayonet
furiously into the dead cayman, exclaiming between the thrusts:
"Och, ye divil! bad luck to yer ugly carcase! You're a nate-looking
baste to interfere with a pair of illigant craythers! Be the crass!
he's all shill, boys. Och, mother o' Moses! I can't find a saft spot
in him!"
We climbed out upon the parapet, and the soldiers commenced wiping their
wet guns.
Clayley appeared at this moment, filing round the pond at the head of
the detachment. As I explained the adventure to the lieutenant, he
laughed heartily.
"By Jove! it will never do for a despatch," said he; "one killed on the
side of the enemy, and on ours not a wound. There is one, however, who
may be reported `badly scared'."
"Who?" I asked.
"Why, who but the bold Blossom?"
"But where is he?"
"Heaven only knows! The last I saw of him, he was screening himself
behind an old ruin. I wouldn't think it strange if he was off to camp--
that is, if he believes he can find his way back again."
As Clayley said this, he burst into a loud yell of laughter.
It was with difficulty I could restrain myself; for, looking in the
direction indicated by the lieutenant, I saw a bright object, which I at
once recognised as the major's face.
He had drawn aside the broad plantain-leaves, and was peering cautiously
through, with a look of the most ludicrous terror. His face only was
visible, round and luminous, like the full moon; and, like her, too,
variegated with light and shade, for fear had produced spots of white
and purple over the surface of his capacious cheeks.
As soon as the major saw how the "land lay", he came blowing and
blustering through the bushes like an elephant; and it now became
apparent that he carried his long sabre drawn and nourishing.
"Bad luck, after all!" said he as he marched round the pond with a bold
stride. "That's all--is it?" he continued, pointing to the dead cayman.
"Bah! I was in hopes we'd have a brush with the yellow-skins."
"No, Major," said I, trying to look serious, "we are not so fortunate."
"I have no doubt, however," said Clayley with a malicious wink, "but
that we'll have them here in a squirrel's jump. They must have heard
the report of our guns."
A complete change became visible in the major's bearing. The point of
his sabre dropped slowly to the ground, and the blue and white spots
began to array themselves afresh on his great red cheeks.
"Don't you think, Captain," said he, "we've gone far enough into the
cursed country? There's no mules in it--I can certify there's not--not
a single mule. Had we not better return to camp?"
Before I could reply, an object appeared that drew our attention, and
heightened the mosaic upon the major's cheeks.
A man, strangely attired, was seen running down the slope towards the
spot where we were standing.
"Guerillas, by Jove!" exclaimed Clayley, in a voice of feigned terror;
and he pointed to the scarlet sash which was twisted around the man's
waist.
The major looked round for some object where he might shelter himself in
case of a skirmish. He was sidling behind a high point of the parapet,
when the stranger rushed forward, and, throwing both arms about his
neck, poured forth a perfect cataract of Spanish, in which the word
_gracias_ (thanks) was of frequent occurrence.
"What does the man mean with his _grashes_?" exclaimed the major,
struggling to free himself from the Mexican.
But the latter did not hear him, for his eyes at that moment rested upon
my dripping habiliments; and dropping the major, he transferred his
embrace and _gracias_ to me.
"Senor Capitan," he said, still speaking in Spanish, and hugging me like
a bear, "accept my thanks. Ah, sir! you have saved my children; how can
I show you my gratitude?"
Here followed a multitude of those complimentary expressions peculiar to
the language of Cervantes, which ended by his offering me his house and
all it contained.
I bowed in acknowledgment of his courtesy, apologising for being so ill
prepared to receive his "hug", as I observed that my saturated vestments
had wet the old fellow to the skin.
I had now time to examine the stranger, who was a tall, thin, sallow old
gentleman, with a face at once Spanish and intelligent. His hair was
white and short, while a moustache, somewhat grizzled, shaded his lips.
Jet-black brows projected over a pair of keen and sparkling eyes. His
dress was a roundabout of the finest white linen, with waistcoat and
pantaloons of the same material--the latter fastened round the waist by
a scarf of bright red silk. Shoes of green morocco covered his small
feet, while a broad Guayaquil hat shaded his face from the sun.
Though his costume was transatlantic--speaking in reference to Old
Spain--there was that in his air and manner that bespoke him a true
hidalgo.
After a moment's observation I proceeded, in my best Spanish, to express
my regret for the fright which the young ladies--his daughters, I
presumed--had suffered.
The Mexican looked at me with a slight appearance of surprise.
"Why, Senor Capitan," said he, "your accent!--you are a foreigner?"
"A foreigner! To Mexico, did you mean?"
"Yes, Senor. Is it not so?"
"Oh! of course," answered I, smiling, and somewhat puzzled in turn.
"And how long have you been in the army, Senor Capitan?"
"But a short time."
"How do you like Mexico, Senor?"
"I have seen but little of it as yet."
"Why, how long have you been in the country, then?"
"Three days," answered I; "we landed on the 9th."
"_Por Dios_! three days, and in our army already!" muttered the
Spaniard, throwing up his eyes in unaffected surprise.
I began to think I was interrogated by a lunatic.
"May I ask what countryman you are?" continued the old gentleman.
"What countryman? An American, of course!"
"An American?"
"_Un Americano_," repeated I, for we were conversing in Spanish.
"_Y son esos Americanos_?" (And are these Americans?) quickly demanded
my new acquaintance.
"_Si, Senor_," replied I.
"_Carrambo_!" shouted the Spaniard, with a sudden leap, his eyes almost
starting from their sockets.
"I should say, not exactly Americans," I added. "Many of them are
Irish, and French, and Germans, and Swedes, and Swiss; yet they are all
Americans now."
But the Mexican did not stay to hear my explanation. After recovering
from the first shock of surprise, he had bounded through the grove; and
with a wave of his hand, and the ejaculation "_Esperate_!" (wait!)
disappeared among the plantains. The men, who had gathered around the
lower end of the basin, burst out into a roar of laughter, which I did
not attempt to repress. The look of terrified astonishment of the old
Don had been too much for my own gravity, and I could not help being
amused at the conversation that ensued among the soldiers. They were at
some distance, yet I could overhear their remarks.
"That Mexikin's an unhospitable cuss!" muttered Lincoln, with an
expression of contempt.
"He might av axed the captain to dhrink, after savin' such a pair of
illigant craythers," said Chane.
"Sorra dhrap's in the house, Murt; the place looks dry," remarked
another son of the Green Isle.
"Och! an' it's a beautiful cage, anyhow," returned Chane; "and beautiful
birds in it, too. It puts me in mind of ould Dimmerary; but there we
had the liquor, the raal rum--oshins of it, alanna!"
"That 'ere chap's a greelye, I strongly 'spect," whispered one, a
regular down-east Yankee.
"A what?" asked his companion.
"Why, a greelye--one o' them 'ere Mexikin robbers."
"Arrah, now! did yez see the rid sash?" inquired an Irishman.
"Thim's captin's," suggested the Yankee. "He's a captin or a kurnel;
I'll bet high on that."
"What did he say, Nath, as he was running off?"
"I don't know 'zactly--somethin' that sounded mighty like 'spearin' on
us."
"He's a lanzeer then, by jingo!"
"He had better try on his spearin'," said another; "there's shootin'
before spearin'--mighty good ground, too, behind this hyur painted
wall."
"The old fellow was mighty frindly at first; what got into him, anyhow?"
"Raoul says he offered to give the captain his house and all the
furnishin's."
"Och, mother o' Moses! and thim illigant girls, too!"
"Ov coorse."
"By my sowl! an' if I was the captain, I'd take him at his word, and
lave off fightin' intirely."
"It _is_ delf," said a soldier, referring to the material of which the
parapet was constructed.
"No, it ain't."
"It's chaney, then."
"No, nor chaney either."
"Well, what is it?"
"It's only a stone wall painted, you greenhorn!"
"Stone-thunder! it's solid delf, I say."
"Try it with your bayonet, Jim."
_Crick_--_crick_--_crick_--_crinell_! reached my ears. Turning round, I
saw that one of the men had commenced breaking off the japanned work of
the parapet with his bayonet.
"Stop that!" I shouted to the man.
The remark of Chane that followed, although uttered _sotto voce_, I
could distinctly hear. It was sufficiently amusing.
"The captain don't want yez to destroy what'll be his own some day, when
he marries one of thim young Dons. Here comes the owld one, and, by the
powers! he's got a big paper; he's goin' to make over the property!"
Laughing, I looked round, and saw that the Don was returning, sure
enough. He hurried up, holding out a large sheet of parchment.
"Well, Senor, what's this?" I inquired.
"_No soy Mexicano--soy Espanol_!" (I am no Mexican--I am a Spaniard),
said he, with the expression of a true hidalgo.
Casting my eye carelessly over the document, I perceived that it was a
_safeguard_ from the Spanish consul at Vera Cruz, certifying that the
bearer, Don Cosme Rosales, was a native of Spain.
"Senor Rosales," said I, returning the paper, "this was not necessary.
The interesting circumstances under which we have met should have
secured you good treatment, even were you a Mexican and we the
barbarians we have been represented. We have come to make war, not with
peaceful citizens, but with a rabble soldiery."
"_Es verdad_ (Indeed). You are wet, Senor? you are hungry?"
I could not deny that I was both the one and the other.
"You need refreshment, gentlemen; will you come to my house?"
"Permit me, Senor, to introduce you to Major Blossom--Lieutenant
Clayley--Lieutenant Oakes: Don Cosme Rosales, gentlemen."
My friends and the Don bowed to each other. The major had now recovered
his complacency.
"_Vamonos, caballeros_!" (Come on, gentlemen), said the Don, starting
towards the house.
"But your soldiers, Capitan?" added he, stopping suddenly.
"They will remain here," I rejoined.
"Permit me to send them some dinner."
"Oh! certainly," replied I; "use your own pleasure, Don Cosme, but do
not put your household to any inconvenience."
In a few minutes we found our way to the house, which was neither more
nor less than the cage-looking structure already described.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
A MEXICAN DINNER.
"_Pasan adentro, Senores_," said Don Cosme, drawing aside the curtain of
the rancho, and beckoning us to enter.
"Ha!" exclaimed the major, struck with the _coup-d'oeil_ of the
interior.
"Be seated, gentlemen. _Ya vuelvo_." (I will return in an instant.)
So saying, Don Cosme disappeared into a little porch in the back,
partially screened from observation by a close network of woven cane.
"Very pretty, by Jove!" said Clayley, in a low voice.
"Pretty indeed!" echoed the major, with one of his customary
asseverations.
"Stylish, one ought rather to say, to do it justice."
"Stylish!" again chimed in the major, repeating his formula.
"Rosewood chairs and tables," continued Clayley; "a harp, guitar, piano,
sofas, ottomans, carpets knee-deep--whew!"
Not thinking of the furniture, I looked around the room strangely
bewildered.
"Ha! Ha! what perplexes you, Captain?" asked Clayley.
"Nothing."
"Ah! the girls you spoke of--the nymphs of the pond; but where the deuce
are they?"
"Ay, where?" I asked, with a strange sense of uneasiness.
"Girls! what girls?" inquired the major, who had not yet learned the
exact nature of our aquatic adventure.
Here the voice of Don Cosme was heard calling out--
"Pepe! Ramon! Francisco! bring dinner. _Anda! anda_!" (Be quick!)
"Who on earth is the old fellow calling?" asked the major, with some
concern in his manner. "I see no one."
Nor could we; so we all rose up together, and approached that side of
the building that looked rearward.
The house, to all appearance, had but one apartment--the room in which
we then were. The only point of this screened from observation was the
little veranda into which Don Cosme had entered; but this was not large
enough to contain the number of persons who might be represented by the
names he had called out.
Two smaller buildings stood under the olive-trees in the rear; but
these, like the house, were _transparent_, and not a human figure
appeared within them. We could see through the trunks of the olives a
clear distance of a hundred yards. Beyond this, the mezquite and the
scarlet leaves of the wild maguey marked the boundary of the forest.
It was equally puzzling to us whither the girls had gone, or whence
"Pepe, Ramon, and Francisco" were to come.
The tinkling of a little bell startled us from our conjectures, and the
voice of Don Cosme was heard inquiring:
"Have you any favourite dish, gentlemen?"
Someone answered, "No."
"Curse me!" exclaimed the major, "I believe he can get anything we may
call for--raise it out of the ground by stamping his foot or ringing a
bell. Didn't I tell you?"
This exclamation was uttered in consequence of the appearance of a train
of well-dressed servants, five or six in number, bringing waiters with
dishes and decanters. They entered from the porch; but how did they get
into it? Certainly not from the woods without, else we should have seen
them as they approached the cage.
The major uttered a terrible invocation, adding in a hoarse whisper,
"This must be the Mexican Aladdin!"
I confess I was not less puzzled than he. Meantime the servants came
and went, going empty, and returning loaded. In less than half an hour
the table fairly creaked under the weight of a sumptuous dinner. This
is no figure of speech. There were dishes of massive silver, with huge
flagons of the same metal, and even cups of gold!
"_Senores, vamos a comer_" (Come, let us eat, gentlemen), said Don
Cosme, politely motioning us to be seated. "I fear that you will not be
pleased with my _cuisine_--it is purely Mexican--_estilo del pais_."
To say that the dinner was not a good one would be to utter a falsehood,
and contradict the statement of Major George Blossom, of the U.S.
quarter-master's department, who afterwards declared that it was the
best dinner he had ever eaten in his life.
Turtle-soup first.
"Perhaps you would prefer _julienne_ or _vermicelli_, gentlemen?"
inquired the Don.
"Thank you; your turtle is very fine," replied I, necessarily the
interpreter of the party.
"Try some of the _aguacate_--it will improve the flavour of your soup."
One of the waiters handed round a dark, olive-coloured fruit of an
oblong shape, about the size of a large pear.
"Ask him how it is used, Captain," said the major to me.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, gentlemen. I had forgotten that some of our
edibles may be strange to you. Simply pare off the rind, and slice it
thus."
We tried the experiment, but could not discover any peculiar improvement
in the flavour of the soup. The pulp of the aguacate seemed singularly
insipid to our northern palates.
Fish, as with us, and of the finest quality, formed the second course.
A variety of dishes were now brought upon the table; most of them new to
us, but all piquant, pleasant to the taste, and peculiar.
The major tried them all, determined to find out which he might like
best--a piece of knowledge that he said would serve him upon some future
occasion.
The Don seemed to take a pleasure in helping the major, whom he honoured
by the title of "Senor Coronel."
"_Puchero_, Senor Coronel?"
"Thank you, sir," grunted the major, and tried the puchero.
"Allow me to help you to a spoonful of _mole_."
"With pleasure, Don Cosme."
The _mole_ suddenly disappeared down the major's capacious throat.
"Try some of this _chile relleno_."
"By all means," answered the major. "Ah, by Jove! hot as fire!--whew!"
"_Pica! Pica_!" answered Don Cosme, pointing to his thorax, and smiling
at the wry faces the major was making. "Wash it down, Senor, with a
glass of this claret--or here, Pepe! Is the Johannisberg cool yet?
Bring it in, then. Perhaps you prefer champagne, Senores?"
"Thank you; do not trouble yourself, Don Cosme."
"No trouble, Capitan--bring champagne. Here, Senor Coronel, try the
_guisado de pato_."
"Thank you," stammered the major; "you are very kind. Curse the thing!
how it burns!"
"Do you think he understands English?" inquired Clayey of me in a
whisper.
"I should think not," I replied.
"Well, then, I wish to say aloud that this old chap's a superb old gent.
What say you, Major? Don't you wish we had him on the lines?"
"I wish his kitchen were a little nearer the lines," replied the other,
with a wink.
"Senor Coronel, permit me--"
"What is it, my dear Don?" inquired the major.
"_Pasteles de Moctezuma_."
"Oh, certainly. I say, lads, I don't know what the plague I'm eating--
it's not bad to take, though."
"Senor Coronel, allow me to help you to a _guana_ steak."
"A guana steak!" echoed the major, in some surprise.
"_Si, Senor_," replied Don Cosme, holding the steak on his fork.
"A guana steak! Do you think, lads, he means the ugly things we saw at
Lobos."
"To be sure--why not?"
"Then, by Jove, I'm through! I can't go lizards. Thank you, my dear
Don Cosme; I believe I have dined."
"Try this; it is very tender, I assure you," insisted Don Cosme.
"Come, try it, Major, and report," cried Clayey.
"Good--you're like the apothecary that poisoned his dog to try the
effect of his nostrums. Well,"--with an oath--"here goes! It can't be
very bad, seeing how our friend gets it down. Delicious, by Jupiter!
tender as chicken--good, good!"--and amidst sundry similar ejaculations
the major ate his first guana steak.
"Gentlemen, here is an ortolan pie. I can recommend it--the birds are
in season."
"Reed-birds, by Jove!" said the major, recognising his favourite dish.
An incredible number of these creatures disappeared in an incredibly
short time.
The dinner dishes were at length removed, and dessert followed: cakes
and creams, and jellies of various kinds, and blancmange, and a
profusion of the most luxurious fruits. The golden orange, the ripe
pine, the pale-green lime, the juicy grape, the custard-like cherimolla,
the zapote, the granadilla, the pitahaya, the tuna, the mamay; with
dates, figs, almonds, plantains, bananas, and a dozen other species of
fruits, piled upon salvers of silver, were set before us: in fact, every
product of the tropical clime that could excite a new nerve of the sense
of taste. We were fairly astonished at the profusion of luxuries that
came from no one knew where.
"Come, gentlemen, try a glass of curacoa. Senor Coronel, allow me the
pleasure."
"Sir, your very good health."
"Senor Coronel, would you prefer a glass of Majorca?"
"Thank you."
"Or perhaps you would choose _Pedro Ximenes_. I have some very old
_Pedro Ximenes_."
"Either, my dear Don Cosme--either."
"Bring both, Ramon; and bring a couple of bottles of the Madeira--_sello
verde_," (green seal).
"As I am a Christian, the old gentleman's a conjuror!" muttered the
major, now in the best humour possible.
"I wish he would conjure up something else than his infernal wine
bottles," thought I, becoming impatient at the non-appearance of the
ladies.
"_Cafe_, Senores?" A servant entered.
Coffee was handed round in cups of Sevres china.
"You smoke, gentlemen? Would you prefer a Havanna? Here are some sent
me from Cuba by a friend. I believe they are good; or, if you would
amuse yourself with a cigaritto, here are Campeacheanos. These are the
country cigars--_puros_, as we call them. I would not recommend them."
"A Havanna for me," said the major, helping himself at the same time to
a fine-looking "regalia."
I had fallen into a somewhat painful reverie.
I began to fear that, with all his hospitality, the Mexican would allow
us to depart without an introduction to his family; and I had conceived
a strong desire to speak with the two lovely beings whom I had already
seen, but more particularly with the brunette, whose looks and actions
had deeply impressed me. So strange is the mystery of love! My heart
had already made its choice.
I was suddenly aroused by the voice of Don Cosme, who had risen, and was
inviting myself and comrades to join the ladies in the drawing-room.
I started up so suddenly as almost to overturn one of the tables.
"Why, Captain, what's the matter!" said Clayley. "Don Cosme is about to
introduce us to the ladies. You're not going to back out?"
"Certainly not," stammered I, somewhat ashamed at my _gaucherie_.
"He says they're in the drawing-room," whispered the major, in a voice
that betokened a degree of suspicion; "but where the plague that is,
Heaven only knows! Stand by, my boys!--are your pistols all right?"
"Pshaw, Major! for shame!"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
A SUBTERRANEAN DRAWING-ROOM.
The mystery of the drawing-room, and the servants, and the dishes, was
soon over. A descending stairway explained the enigma.
"Let me conduct you to my cave, gentlemen," said the Spaniard: "I am
half a subterranean. In the hot weather, and during the northers, we
find it more agreeable to live under the ground. Follow me, Senores."
We descended, with the exception of Oakes, who returned to look after
the men.
At the foot of the staircase we entered a hall brilliantly lighted. The
floor was without a carpet, and exhibited a mosaic of the finest marble.
The walls were painted of a pale blue colour, and embellished by a
series of pictures from the pencil of Murillo. These were framed in a
costly and elegant manner. From the ceiling were suspended chandeliers
of a curious and unique construction, holding in their outstretched
branches wax candles of an ivory whiteness.
Large vases of waxen flowers, covered with crystals, stood around the
hall upon tables of polished marble. Other articles of furniture,
candelabra, girandoles, gilded clocks, filled the outline. Broad
mirrors reflected the different objects; so that, instead of one
apartment, this hall appeared only one of a continuous suite of splendid
drawing-rooms.
And yet, upon closer observation, there seemed to be no door leading
from this hall, which, as Don Cosme informed his guests, was the
_ante-sala_.
Our host approached one of the large mirrors, and slightly touched a
spring. The tinkling of a small bell was heard within; and at the same
instant the mirror glided back, reflecting in its motion a series of
brilliant objects, that for a moment bewildered our eyes with a blazing
light.
"_Pasan adentro, Senores_," said Don Cosme, stepping aside, and waving
us to enter.
We walked into the drawing-room. The magnificence that greeted us
seemed a vision--a glorious and dazzling hallucination--more like the
gilded brilliance of some enchanted palace than the interior of a
Mexican gentleman's habitation.
As we stood gazing with irresistible wonderment, Don Cosme opened a
side-door, and called aloud, "_Ninas, ninas, ven aca_!" (Children, come
hither!)
Presently we heard several female voices, blending together like a
medley of singing birds.
They approached. We heard the rustling of silken dresses, the falling
of light feet in the doorway, and three ladies entered--the senora of
Don Cosme, followed by her two beautiful daughters, the heroines of our
aquatic adventure.
These hesitated a moment, scanning our faces; then, with a cry of
"_Nuestro Salvador_!" both rushed forward, and knelt, or rather
crouched, at my feet, each of them clasping one of my hands and covering
it with kisses.
Their panting agitation, their flashing eyes, the silken touch of their
delicate fingers, sent the blood rushing through my veins like a stream
of lava; but in their gentle accents, the simple ingenuousness of their
expressions, the childlike innocence of their faces, I regarded them
only as two beautiful children kneeling in the _abandon_ of gratitude.
Meanwhile Don Cosme had introduced Clayley and the major to his senora,
whose baptismal name was Joaquina; and taking the young ladies one in
each hand, he presented them as his daughters, Guadalupe and Maria de la
Luz (Mary of the Light).
"Mama," said Don Cosme, "the gentlemen had not quite finished their
cigars."
"Oh! they can smoke here," replied the senora.
"Will the ladies not object to that?" I inquired.
"No--no--no!" ejaculated they simultaneously.
"Perhaps you will join us?--we have heard that such is the custom of
your country."
"It _was_ the custom," said Don Cosme. "At present the young ladies of
Mexico are rather ashamed of the habit."
"We no smoke--Mamma, yes," added the elder--the brunette--whose name was
Guadalupe.
"Ha! you speak English?"
"Little Englis speak--no good Englis," was the reply.
"Who taught you English?" I inquired, prompted by a mysterious
curiosity.
"Un American us teach--Don Emilio."
"Ha! an American?"
"Yes, Senor," said Don Cosme: "a gentleman from Vera Cruz, who formerly
visited our family."
I thought I could perceive a desire upon the part of our host not to
speak further on this subject, and yet I felt a sudden, and, strange to
say, a painful curiosity to know more about Don Emilio, the American,
and his connection with our newly-made acquaintance. I can only explain
this by asking the reader if he or she has not experienced a similar
feeling while endeavouring to trace the unknown past of some being in
whom either has lately taken an interest--an interest stronger than
friendship?
That mamma smoked was clear, for the old lady had already gone through
the process of unrolling one of the small cartouche-like cigars. Having
re-rolled it between her fingers, she placed it within the gripe of a
pair of small golden pincers.
This done, she held one end to the coals that lay upon the _brazero_,
and ignited the paper. Then, taking the other end between her thin,
purlish lips, she breathed forth a blue cloud of aromatic vapour.
After a few whiffs she invited the major to participate, offering him a
cigarrito from her beaded cigar-case.
This being considered an especial favour, the major's gallantry would
not permit him to refuse. He took the cigarrito, therefore; but, once
in possession, he knew not how to use it.
Imitating the senora, he opened the diminutive cartridge, spreading out
the edges of the wrapper, but attempted in vain to re-roll it.
The ladies, who had watched the process, seemed highly amused,
particularly the younger, who laughed outright.
"Permit me, Senor Coronel," said the Dona Joaquina, taking the cigarrito
from the major's hand, and giving it a turn through her nimble fingers,
which brought it all right again.
"Thus--now--hold your fingers thus. Do not press it: _suave, suave_.
This end to the light--so--very well!"
The major lit the cigar, and, putting it between his great thick lips,
began to puff in a most energetic style.
He had not cast off half a dozen whiffs when the fire, reaching his
fingers, burned them severely, causing him to remove them suddenly from
the cigar. The wrapper then burst open; and the loose pulverised
tobacco by a sudden inhalation rushed into his mouth and down his
throat, causing him to cough and splutter in the most ludicrous manner.
This was too much for the ladies, who, encouraged by the cachinnations
of Clayley, laughed outright; while the major, with tears in his eyes,
could be heard interlarding his coughing solo with all kinds of oaths
and expressions.
The scene ended by one of the young ladies offering the major a glass of
water, which he drank off, effectually clearing the avenue of his
throat.
"Will you try another, Senor Coronel?" asked Dona Joaquina, with a
smile.
"No, ma'am, thank you," replied the major, and then a sort of internal
subterraneous curse could be heard in his throat.
The conversation continued in English, and we were highly amused at the
attempts of our new acquaintances to express themselves in that
language.
After failing, on one occasion, to make herself understood, Guadalupe
said, with some vexation in her manner:
"We wish brother was home come; brother speak ver better Englis."
"Where is he?" I inquired.
"In the ceety--Vera Cruz."
"Ha! and when did you expect him?"
"Thees day--to-night--he home come."
"Yes," added the Senora Joaquina, in Spanish: "he went to the city to
spend a few days with a friend; but he was to return to-day, and we are
looking for him to arrive in the evening."
"But how is he to get out?" cried the major, in his coarse, rough
manner.
"How?--why, Senor?" asked the ladies in a breath, turning deadly pale.
"Why, he can't pass the pickets, ma'am," answered the major.
"Explain, Captain; explain!" said the ladies, appealing to me with looks
of anxiety.
I saw that concealment would be idle. The major had fired the train.
"It gives me pain, ladies," said I, speaking in Spanish, "to inform you
that you must be disappointed. I fear the return of your brother to-day
is impossible."
"But why, Captain?--why?"
"Our lines are completely around Vera Cruz, and all intercourse to and
from the city is at an end."
Had a shell fallen into Don Cosme's drawing-room it could not have
caused a greater change in the feelings of its inmates. Knowing nothing
of military life, they had no idea that our presence there had drawn an
impassable barrier between them and a much-loved member of their family.
In a seclusion almost hermetical they knew that a war existed between
their country and the United States; but that was far away upon the Rio
Grande. They had heard, moreover, that our fleet lay off Vera Cruz, and
the pealing of the distant thunder of San Juan had from time to time
reached their ears; but they had not dreamed, on seeing us, that the
city was invested by land. The truth was now clear; and the anguish of
the mother and daughters became afflicting when we informed them of what
we were unable to conceal--that it was the intention of the American
commander to _bombard the city_.
The scene was to us deeply distressing.
Dona Joaquina wrung her hands, and called upon the Virgin with all the
earnestness of entreaty. The sisters clung alternately to their mother
and Don Cosme, weeping and crying aloud, "_Pobre Narcisso! nuestro
hermanito--le asesinaran_!" (Poor Narcisso, our little brother!--they
will murder him!)
In the midst of this distressing scene the door of the drawing-room was
thrown suddenly open, and a servant rushed in, shouting in an agitated
voice, "_El norte! el norte_!"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
"The Norther."
We hurried after Don Cosme towards the _ante-sala_, both myself and my
companions ignorant of this new object of dread.
When we emerged from the stairway the scene that hailed us was one of
terrific sublimity. Earth and heaven had undergone a sudden and
convulsive change. The face of nature, but a moment since gay with
summer smiles, was now hideously distorted. The sky had changed
suddenly from its blue and sunny brightness to an aspect dark and
portentous.
Along the north-west a vast volume of black vapour rolled up over the
Sierra Madre, and rested upon the peaks of the mountains. From this,
ragged masses, parting in fantastic forms and groupings, floated off
against the concavity of the sky as though the demons of the storm were
breaking up from an angry council. Each of these, as it careered across
the heavens, seemed bent upon some spiteful purpose.
An isolated fragment hung lowering above the snowy cone of Orizava, like
a huge vampire suspended over his sleeping victim.
From the great "parent cloud" that rested upon the Sierra Madre,
lightning-bolts shot out and forked hither and thither or sank into the
detached masses--the messengers of the storm-king bearing his fiery
mandates across the sky.
Away along the horizon of the east moved the yellow pillars of sand,
whirled upward by the wind, like vast columnar towers leading to heaven.
The storm had not yet reached the rancho. The leaves lay motionless
under a dark and ominous calm; but the wild screams of many birds--the
shrieks of the swans, the discordant notes of the frightened pea-fowl,
the chattering of parrots as they sought the shelter of the thick olives
in terrified flight--all betokened the speedy advent of some fearful
convulsion.
The rain in large drops fell upon the broad leaves with a soft, plashing
sound; and now and then a quick, short puff came snorting along, and,
seizing the feathery frondage of the palms, shook them with a spiteful
and ruffian energy.
The long green stripes, after oscillating a moment, would settle down
again in graceful and motionless curves.
A low sound like the "sough" of the sea or the distant falling of water
came from the north; while at intervals the hoarse bark of the _coyote_
and the yelling of terrified monkeys could be heard afar off in the
woods.
"_Tapa la casa! tapa la casa_!" (Cover the house!) cried Don Cosme as
soon as he had fairly got his head above ground. "_Anda_!--_anda con
los macates_!" (Quick with the cords!) With lightning quickness a roll
of palmetto mats came down on all sides of the house, completely
covering the bamboo walls, and forming a screen impervious to both wind
and rain. This was speedily fastened at all corners, and strong stays
were carried out and warped around the trunks of trees. In five minutes
the change was complete. The cage-looking structure had disappeared,
and a house with walls of yellow _petate_ stood in its place.
"Now, Senores, all is secured," said Don Cosme. "Let us return to the
drawing-room."
"I should like to see the first burst of this tornado," I remarked, not
wishing to intrude upon the scene of sorrow we had left.
"So be it, Captain. Stand here under the shelter, then."
"Hot as thunder!" growled the major, wiping the perspiration from his
broad, red cheeks.
"In five minutes, Senor Coronel, you will be chilled. At this point the
heated atmosphere is now compressed. Patience! it will soon be
scattered."
"How long will the storm continue?" I asked. "_Por Dios_! Senor, it
is impossible to tell how long the `_norte_' may rage: sometimes for
days; perhaps only for a few hours. This appears to be a `_huracana_'.
If so, it will be short, but terrible while it lasts. _Carrambo_!"
A puff of cold, sharp wind came whistling past like an arrow. Another
followed, and another, like the three seas that roll over the stormy
ocean. Then, with a loud, rushing sound, the broad, full blast went
sweeping--strong, dark, and dusty--bearing upon its mane the screaming
and terrified birds, mingled with torn and flouted leaves.
The olives creaked and tossed about. The tall palms bowed and yielded,
flinging out their long pinions like streamers. The broad leaves of the
plantains flapped and whistled, and, bending gracefully, allowed the
fierce blast to pass over.
Then a great cloud came rolling down; a thick vapour seemed to fill the
space; and the air felt hot and dark and heavy. A choking, sulphureous
smell rendered the breathing difficult, and for a moment day seemed
changed to night.
Suddenly the whole atmosphere blazed forth in a sheet of flame, and the
trees glistened as though they were on fire. An opaque darkness
succeeded. Another flash, and along with it the crashing thunder--the
artillery of heaven--deafening all other sounds.
Peal followed peal; the vast cloud was breached and burst by a hundred
fiery bolts; and like an avalanche the heavy tropical rain was
precipitated to the earth.
It fell in torrents, but the strength of the tempest had been spent on
the first onslaught. The dark cloud passed on to the south, and a
piercing cold wind swept after it.
"_Vamos a bajar, senores_!" (Let us descend, gentlemen), said Don Cosme
with a shiver, and he conducted us back to the stairway.
Clayley and the major looked towards me with an expression that said,
"Shall we go in?" There were several reasons why our return to the
drawing-room was unpleasant to myself and my companions. A scene of
domestic affliction is ever painful to a stranger. How much more
painful to us, knowing, as we did, that our countrymen--that _we_--had
been the partial agents of this calamity! We hesitated a moment on the
threshold.
"Gentlemen, we must return for a moment: we have been the bearers of
evil tidings--let us offer such consolation as we may think of. Come!"
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
A LITTLE FAIR WEATHER AGAIN.
On re-entering the _sala_ the picture of woe was again presented, but in
an altered aspect. A change, sudden as the atmospheric one we had just
witnessed, had taken place; and the scene of wild weeping was now
succeeded by one of resignation and prayer.
On one side was Dona Joaquina, holding in her hands a golden rosary with
its crucifix. The girls were kneeling in front of a picture--a portrait
of Dolores with the fatal dagger; and the "Lady of Grief" looked not
more sorrowful from the canvas than the beautiful devotees that bent
before her.
With their heads slightly leaning, their arms crossed upon their
swelling bosoms, and their long loose hair trailing upon the carpet,
they formed a picture at once painful and prepossessing.
Not wishing to intrude upon this sacred sorrow, we made a motion to
retire.
"No, Senores," said Don Cosme, interrupting us. "Be seated; let us talk
calmly--let us know the worst."
We then proceeded to inform Don Cosme of the landing of the American
troops and the manner in which our lines were drawn around the city, and
pointed out to him the impossibility of anyone passing either in or out.
"There is still a hope, Don Cosme," said I, "and that, perhaps, rests
with yourself."
The thought had struck me that a Spaniard of Don Cosme's evident rank
and wealth might be enabled to procure access to the city by means of
his consul, and through the Spanish ship of war that I recollected was
lying off San Juan.
"Oh! name it, Captain; name it!" cried he, while at the word "hope" the
ladies had rushed forward, and stood clinging around me.
"There is a Spanish ship of war lying under the walls of Vera Cruz."
"We know it--we know it!" replied Don Cosme eagerly.
"Ah! you know it, then?"
"Oh, yes!" said Guadalupe. "Don Santiago is on board of her."
"Don Santiago?" inquired I; "who is he?"
"He is a relation of ours, Captain," said Don Cosme; "an officer in the
Spanish navy."
This information pained me, although I scarcely knew why.
"You have a friend, then, aboard the Spanish ship," said I to the elder
of the sisters. "'Tis well; it will be in his power to restore to you
your brother."
A ring of brightening faces was around me while I uttered these cheering
words; and Don Cosme, grasping me by the hand, entreated me to proceed.
"This Spanish ship," I continued, "is still allowed to keep up a
communication with the town. You should proceed aboard at once, and by
the assistance of this friend you may bring away your son before the
bombardment commences. I see no difficulty; our batteries are not yet
formed."
"I will go this instant!" said Don Cosme, leaping to his feet, while
Dona Joaquina and her daughters ran out to make preparations for his
journey.
Hope--sweet hope--was again in the ascendant.
"But how, Senor?" asked Don Cosme, as soon as they were gone; "how can I
pass your lines? Shall I be permitted to reach the ship?"
"It will be necessary for me to accompany you, Don Cosme," I replied;
"and I regret exceedingly that my duty will not permit me to return with
you at once."
"Oh, Senor!" exclaimed the Spaniard, with a painful expression.
"My business here," continued I, "is to procure pack-mules for the
American army."
"Mules?"
"Yes. We were crossing for that purpose to a plain on the other side of
the woods, where we had observed some animals of that description."
"'Tis true, Captain; there are a hundred or more; they are mine--take
them all!"
"But it is our intention to pay for them, Don Cosme. The major here has
the power to contract with you."
"As you please, gentlemen; but you will then return this way, and
proceed to your camp?"
"As soon as possible," I replied. "How far distant is this plain?"
"Not more than a league. I would go with you, but--" Here Don Cosme
hesitated, and, approaching, said in a low tone: "The truth is, Senor
Capitan, I should be glad if you could take them _without my consent_.
I have mixed but little in the politics of this country; but Santa Anna
is my enemy--he will ask no better motive for despoiling me."
"I understand you," said I. "Then, Don Cosme, we will take your mules
by force, and carry yourself a prisoner to the American camp--a Yankee
return for your hospitality."
"It is good," replied the Spaniard, with a smile.
"Senor Capitan," continued he, "you are without a sword. Will you
favour me by accepting this?"
Don Cosme held out to me a rapier of Toledo steel, with a golden
scabbard richly chased, and bearing on its hilt the eagle and nopal of
Mexico.
"It is a family relic, and once belonged to the brave Guadalupe
Victoria."
"Ha! indeed!" I exclaimed, taking the sword; "I shall value it much.
Thanks, Senor! thanks! Now, Major, we are ready to proceed."
"A glass of maraschino, gentlemen?" said Don Cosme, as a servant
appeared with a flask and glasses. "Thank you--yes," grunted the major;
"and while we are drinking it, Senor Don, let me give you a hint. You
appear to have plenty of _pewter_." Here the major significantly
touched a gold sugar-dish, which the servant was carrying upon a tray of
chased silver. "Take my word for it, you can't bury it too soon."
"It is true, Don Cosme," said I, translating to him the major's advice.
"We are not French, but there are robbers who hang on the skirts of
every army."
Don Cosme promised to follow the hint with alacrity, and we prepared to
take our departure from the rancho.
"I will give you a guide, Senor Capitan; you will find my people with
the _mulada_. Please _compel_ them to lasso the cattle for you. You
will obtain what you want in the corral. _Adios, Senores_!"
"Farewell, Don Cosme!"
"_A dios, Capitan! adios! adios_!"
I held out my hand to the younger of the girls, who instantly caught it
and pressed it to her lips. It was the action of a child. Guadalupe
followed the example of her sister, but evidently with a degree of
reserve. What, then, should have caused this difference in their
manner?
In the next moment we were ascending the stairway.
"Lucky dog!" growled the major. "Take a ducking myself for that."
"Both beautiful, by Jove!" said Clayley; "but of all the women I ever
saw, give me `Mary of the Light'!"
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
THE SCOUT CONTINUED, WITH A VARIETY OF REFLECTIONS.
Love is a rose growing upon a thorny bramble. There is jealousy in the
very first blush of a passion. No sooner has a fair face made its
impress on the heart than hopes and fears spring up in alternation.
Every action, every word, every look is noted and examined with a
jealous scrutiny; and the heart of the lover, changing like the
chameleon, takes its hues from the latest sentiment that may have
dropped from the loved one's lips. And then the various looks, words,
and actions, the favourable with the unfavourable, are recalled, and by
a mental process classified and marshalled against each other, and
compared and balanced with as much exactitude as the _pros_ and
_contras_ of a miser's bank-book; and in this process we have a new
alternation of hopes and fears.
Ah, love! we could write a long history of thy rise and progress; but it
is doubtful whether any of our readers would be a jot the wiser for it.
Most of them ere this have read that history in their own hearts.
I felt and knew that I was in love. It had come like a thought, as it
comes upon all men whose souls are attuned to vibrate under the mystical
impressions of the beautiful. And well I knew _she_ was beautiful. I
saw its unfailing index in those oval developments--the index, too, of
the intellectual; for experience had taught me that _intellect takes a
shape_; and that those peculiarities of form that we admire, without
knowing why, are but the material illustrations of the diviner
principles of mind.
The eye, too, with its almond outline, and wild, half-Indian, half Arab
expression--the dark tracery over the lip, so rarely seen in the
lineaments of her sex--even these were attractions. There was something
picturesque, something strange, something almost fierce, in her aspect;
and yet it was this indefinable something, this very fierceness, that
had challenged my love. For I must confess mine is not one of those
curious natures that I have read of, whose love is based only upon the
goodness of the object. That _is not love_.
My heart recognised in her _the heroine of extremes_. One of those
natures gifted with all the tenderness that belongs to the angel idea--
woman; yet soaring above her sex in the paralysing moments of peril and
despair. Her feelings, in relation to her sister's cruelty to the
gold-fish, proved the existence of the former principle; her actions, in
attempting my own rescue when battling with the monster, were evidence
of the latter. One of those natures that may err from the desperate
intensity of one passion, that knows no limit to its self-sacrifice
short of destruction and death. One of those beings that may fall--but
_only once_.
"What would I not give--what would I not do--to be the hero of such a
heart?"
These were my reflections as I quitted the house.
I had noted every word, every look, every action, that could lend me a
hope; and my memory conjured up, and my judgment canvassed, each little
circumstance in its turn.
How strange her conduct at bidding adieu! How unlike her sister! Less
friendly and sincere; and yet from this very circumstance I drew my
happiest omen.
Strange--is it not? My experience has taught me that love and hate for
the _same_ object can exist in the _same_ heart, and at the _same_ time.
If this be a paradox, I am a child of error.
I believed it then; and her apparent coldness, which would have rendered
many another hopeless, produced with me an opposite effect.
Then came the cloud--the thought of Don Santiago--and a painful feeling
shot through my heart.
"Don Santiago, a naval officer, young, handsome. Bah! hers is not a
heart to be won by a face."
Such were my reflections and half-uttered expressions as I slowly led my
soldiers through the tangled path.
Don Santiago's age and his appearance were the creations of a jealous
fancy. I had bidden adieu to my new acquaintances knowing nothing of
Don Santiago beyond the fact that he was an officer on board the Spanish
ship of war, and a relation of Don Cosme.
"Oh, yes! Don Santiago is on board! Ha! there was an evident interest.
Her look as she said it; her manner--furies! But he is a relation, a
cousin--_a cousin--I hate cousins_!"
I must have pronounced the last words aloud, as Lincoln, who walked in
my rear, stepped hastily up, and asked:
"What did yer say, Cap'n?"
"Oh! nothing, Sergeant," stammered I, in some confusion.
Notwithstanding my assurance, I overheard Lincoln whisper to his nearest
comrade:
"What ther old Harry hes got into the cap?"
He referred to the fact that I had unconsciously hooked myself half a
dozen times on the thorny claws of the pita-plant, and my overalls began
to exhibit a most tattered condition.
Our route lay through a dense chaparral--now crossing a sandy spur,
covered with mezquite and acacia; then sinking into the bed of some
silent creek, shaded with old cork-trees, whose gnarled and venerable
trunks were laced together by a thousand parasites. Two miles from the
rancho we reached the banks of a considerable stream, which we
conjectured was a branch of the Jamapa River.
On both sides a fringe of dark forest-trees flung out long branches
extending half-way across the stream. The water flowed darkly
underneath.
Huge lilies stood out from the banks--their broad, wax-like leaves
trailing upon the glassy ripple.
Here and there were pools fringed with drooping willows and belts of
green _tule_. Other aquatic plants rose from the water to the height of
twenty feet; among which we distinguished the beautiful "iris", with its
tall, spear-like stem, ending in a brown cylinder, like the pompon of a
grenadier's cap.
As we approached the banks the pelican, scared from his lonely haunt,
rose upon heavy wing, and with a shrill scream flapped away through the
dark aisles of the forest. The cayman plunged sullenly into the sedgy
water; and the "Sajou" monkey, suspended by his prehensile tail from
some overhanging bough, oscillated to and fro, and filled the air with
his hideous, half-human cries.
Halting for a moment to refill the canteens, we crossed over and
ascended the opposite bank. A hundred paces farther on the guide, who
had gone ahead, cried out from an eminence, "_Mira la caballada_!"
(Yonder's the drove!)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
ONE WAY OF TAMING A BULL.
Pushing through the jungle, we ascended the eminence. A brilliant
picture opened before us. The storm had suddenly lulled, and the
tropical sun shone down upon the flowery surface of the earth, bathing
its verdure in a flood of yellow light. It was several hours before
sunset, but the bright orb had commenced descending towards the snowy
cone of Orizava, and his rays had assumed that golden red which
characterises the ante-twilight of the tropics. The short-lived storm
had swept the heavens, and the blue roof of the world was without a
cloud. The dark masses had rolled away over the south-eastern horizon,
and were now spending their fury upon the dyewood forests of Honduras
and Tabasco.
At our feet lay the prairie, spread before us like a green carpet, and
bounded upon the farther side by a dark wall of forest-trees. Several
clumps of timber grew like islands on the plain, adding to the
picturesque character of the landscape.
Near the centre of the prairie stood a small rancho, surrounded by a
high picket fence. This we at once recognised as the "corral" mentioned
by Don Cosme.
At some distance from the inclosure thousands of cattle were browsing
upon the grassy level, their spotted flanks and long upright horns
showing their descent from the famous race of Spanish bulls. Some of
them, straggling from the herd, rambled through the "mottes", or lay
stretched out under the shade of some isolated palm-tree. Ox-bells were
tinkling their cheerful but monotonous music. Hundreds of horses and
mules mingled with the herd; and we could distinguish a couple of
leather-clad _vaqueros_ (herdsmen) galloping from point to point on
their swift mustangs.
These, as we appeared upon the ridge, dashed out after a wild bull that
had just escaped from the corral.
All five--the vaqueros, the mustangs, and the bull--swept over the
prairie like wind, the bull bellowing with rage and terror; while the
vaqueros were yelling in his rear, and whirling their long lazos. Their
straight black hair floating in the wind--their swarthy, Arab-like
faces--their high Spanish hats--their red leather calzoneros, buttoned
up the sides--their huge jingling spurs, and the ornamental trappings of
their deep saddles--all these, combined with the perfect _manege_ of
their dashing steeds, and the wild excitement of the chase in which they
were engaged, rendered them objects of picturesque interest; and we
halted a moment to witness the result.
The bull came rushing past within fifty paces of where we stood,
snorting with rage, and tossing his horns high in the air--his pursuers
close upon him. At this moment one of the vaqueros launched his lazo,
which, floating gracefully out, settled down over one horn. Seeing
this, the vaquero did not turn his horse, but sat facing the bull, and
permitted the rope to run out. It was soon carried taut; and, scarcely
checking the animal, it slipped along the smooth horn and spun out into
the air. The cast was a failure.
The second vaquero now flung his lazo with more success. The heavy
loop, skilfully projected, shot out like an arrow, and embraced _both_
horns in its curving noose. With the quickness of thought the vaquero
wheeled his horse, buried his spurs deep into his flanks, and, pressing
his thighs to the saddle, galloped off in an opposite direction. The
bull dashed on as before. In a moment the lariat was stretched. The
sudden jerk caused the thong to vibrate like a bowstring, and the bull
lay motionless on the grass. The shock almost dragged the mustang upon
his flanks.
The bull lay for some time where he had fallen; then, making an effort,
he sprang up, and looked around him with a bewildered air. He was not
yet conquered. His eye, flashing with rage, rolled around until it fell
upon the rope leading from his horns to the saddle; and, suddenly
lowering his head, with a furious roar he rushed upon the vaquero.
The latter, who had been expecting this attack, drove the spurs into his
mustang, and started in full gallop across the prairie. On followed the
bull, sometimes shortening the distance between him and his enemy, while
at intervals the lazo, tightening, would almost jerk him upon his head.
After running for a hundred yards or so, the vaquero suddenly wheeled
and galloped out at right angles to his former course. Before the bull
could turn, himself the rope again tightened with a jerk and flung him
upon his side. This time he lay but an instant, and, again springing to
his feet, he dashed off in fresh pursuit.
The second vaquero now came up, and, as the bull rushed past, launched
his lazo after, and snared him around one of the legs, drawing the noose
upon his ankle.
This time the bull was flung completely over, and with such a violent
shock that he lay as if dead. One of the vaqueros then rode cautiously
up, and, bending over in the saddle, unfastened both of the lariats, and
set the animal free.
The bull rose to his feet, and, looking around in the most cowed and
pitiful manner, walked quietly off, driven unresistingly towards the
corral.
We commenced descending into the place, and the vaqueros, catching a
glimpse of our uniforms, simultaneously reined up their mustangs with a
sudden jerk. We could see from their gestures that they were frightened
at the approach of our party. This was not strange, as the major,
mounted upon his great gaunt charger, loomed up against the blue sky
like a colossus. The Mexicans, doubtless, had never seen anything in
the way of horseflesh bigger than the mustangs they were riding; and
this apparition, with the long line of uniformed soldiers descending the
hill, was calculated to alarm them severely.
"Them fellers is gwine to put, Cap'n," said Lincoln, touching his cap
respectfully.
"You're right, Sergeant," I replied; "and without them we might as well
think of catching the wind as one of these mules."
"If yer'll just let me draw a bead on the near mustang, I kin kripple
him 'ithout hurtin' the thing thet's in the saddle."
"It would be a pity. No, Sergeant," answered I. "I might stop them by
sending forward the guide," I continued, addressing myself rather than
Lincoln; "but no, it will not do; there must be the appearance of force.
I have promised. Major, would you have the goodness to ride forward,
and prevent those fellows from galloping off?"
"Lord, Captain!" said the major, with a terrified look, "you don't think
I could overtake such Arabs as them? Hercules is slow--slow as a crab!"
Now, this was _a lie_, and I knew it! for Hercules, the major's great,
raw-boned steed, was as fleet as the wind.
"Then, Major, perhaps you will allow Mr Clayley to make trial of him,"
I suggested. "He is light weight. I assure you that, without the
assistance of these Mexicans, we shall not be able to catch a single
mule."
The major, seeing that all eyes were fixed upon him, suddenly
straightened himself up in his stirrups, and, swelling with courage and
importance, declared, "If that was the case, he would go himself."
Then, calling upon "Doc" to follow him, he struck the spurs into
Hercules, and rode forward at a gallop.
It proved that this was just the very course to start the vaqueros, as
the major had inspired them with more terror than all the rest of our
party. They showed evident symptoms of taking to their heels, and I
shouted to them at the top of my voice:
"_Alto! somos amigos_!" (Halt! we are friends).
The words were scarcely out of my mouth when the Mexicans drove the
rowels into their mustangs, and galloped off as if for their lives in
the direction of the corral.
The major followed at a slashing pace, Doc bringing up the rear; while
the basket which the latter carried over his arm began to eject its
contents, scattering the commissariat of the major over the prairie.
Fortunately, the hospitality of Don Cosme had already provided a
substitute for this loss.
After a run of about half a mile Hercules began to gain rapidly upon the
mustangs, whereas Doc was losing distance in an inverse ratio. The
Mexicans had got within a couple of hundred yards of the rancho, the
major not over a hundred in their rear, when I observed the latter
suddenly pull up, and, jerking the long body of Hercules round, commence
riding briskly back, all the while looking over his shoulder towards the
in closure.
The vaqueros did not halt at the corral, as we expected, but kept across
the prairie, and disappeared among the trees on the opposite side.
"What the deuce has got into Blossom?" inquired Clayley; "he was clearly
gaining upon them. The old bloat must have burst a blood-vessel."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
A BRUSH WITH THE GUERILLEROS.
"Why, what was the matter, Major?" inquired I, as the major rode up
blowing like a porpoise.
"Matter!" replied he, with one of his direst imprecations; "matter,
indeed! You wouldn't have me ride plump into their works, would you?"
"Works!" echoed I, in some surprise; "what do you mean by that, Major?"
"I mean works--that's all. There's a stockade ten feet high, as full as
it can stick of them."
"Full of what?"
"Full of the enemy--full of rancheros. I saw their ugly copper faces--a
dozen of them at least--looking at me over the pickets; and, sure as
heaven, if I had gone ten paces farther they would have riddled me like
a target."
"But, Major, they were only peaceable rancheros--cow-herds--nothing
more."
"Cow-herds! I tell you, Captain, that those two that galloped off had a
sword apiece strapped to their saddles. I saw them when I got near:
they were decoys to bring us up to that stockade--I'll bet my life upon
it!"
"Well, Major," rejoined I, "they're far enough from the stockade now;
and the best we can do in their absence will be to examine it, and see
what chances it may offer to corral these mules, for, unless they can be
driven into it, we shall have to return to camp empty-handed."
Saying this, I moved forward with the men, the major keeping in the
rear.
We soon reached the formidable stockade, which proved to be nothing more
than a regular corral, such as are found on the great _haciendas de
ganados_ (cattle farms) of Spanish America. In one corner was a house,
constructed of upright poles, with a thatch of palm-leaves. This
contained the lazos, _alparejas_, saddles, etcetera, of the vaqueros;
and in the door of this house stood a decrepit old zambo, the only human
thing about the place. The zambo's woolly head over the pickets had
reflected itself a dozen times on the major's terrified imagination.
After examining the corral, I found it excellent for our purpose,
provided we could only succeed in driving the mules _into_ it; and,
throwing open the bars, we proceeded to make the attempt. The mules
were browsing quietly at the distance of a quarter of a mile from the
corral.
Marching past the drove, I deployed the company in the form of a
semicircle, forming a complete cordon round the animals; then, closing
in upon them slowly, the soldiers commenced driving them towards the
pen.
We were somewhat awkward at this new duty; but by means of a shower of
small rocks, pieces of _bois de vache_, and an occasional "heigh,
heigh!" the mules were soon in motion and in the required direction.
The major, with Doc and little Jack, being the mounted men of the party,
did great service, especially Jack, who was highly delighted with this
kind of thing, and kept Twidget in a constant gallop from right to left.
As the _mulado_ neared the gates of the inclosure, the two extremes of
the semi-circumference gradually approached each other, closing in
toward the corral.
The mules were already within fifty paces of the entrance, the soldiers
coming up about two hundred yards in the rear, when a noise like the
tramping of many hoofs arrested our attention. The quick, sharp note of
a cavalry bugle rang out across the plain, followed by a wild yell, as
though a band of Indian warriors were sweeping down upon the foe.
In an instant every eye was turned, and we beheld with consternation a
cloud of horsemen springing out from the woods, and dashing along in the
headlong velocity of a charge.
It required but a single glance to satisfy me that they were
guerilleros. Their picturesque attire, their peculiar arms, and the
parti-coloured bannerets upon their lances were not to be mistaken.
We stood for a moment as if thunderstruck; a sharp cry rose along the
deployed line.
I signalled to the bugler, who gave the command, "Rally upon the
centre!"
As if by one impulse, the whole line closed in with a run upon the gates
of the inclosure. The mules, impelled by the sudden rush, dashed
forward pell-mell, blocking up the entrance.
On came the guerilleros, with streaming pennons and lances couched,
shouting their wild cries:
"_Andela! andela! Mueran los Yankees_!" (Forward! forward! Death to
the Yankees!)
The foremost of the soldiers were already upon the heels of the crowded
mules, pricking them with bayonets. The animals began to kick and
plunge in the most furious manner, causing a new danger in front.
"Face about--fire!" I commanded at this moment.
An irregular but well-directed volley emptied half a dozen saddles, and
for a moment staggered the charging line; but, before my men could
reload, the guerilleros had leaped clear over their fallen comrades, and
were swooping down with cries of vengeance. A dozen of their bravest
men were already within shot-range, firing their escopettes and pistols
as they came down.
Our position had now grown fearfully critical. The mules still blocked
up the entrance, preventing the soldiers from taking shelter behind the
stockade; and before we could reload, the rearmost would be at the mercy
of the enemy's lances.
Seizing the major's servant by the arm, I dragged him from his horse,
and, leaping into the saddle, flung myself upon the rear. Half a dozen
of my bravest men, among whom were Lincoln, Chane, and the Frenchman
Raoul, rallied around the horse, determined to receive the cavalry
charge on the short bayonets of their rifles. Their pieces were all
empty!
At this moment my eye rested on one of the soldiers, a brave but
slow-footed German, who was still twenty paces in the rear of his
comrades, making every effort to come up. Two of the guerilleros were
rushing upon him with couched lances. I galloped out to his rescue; but
before I could reach him the lance of the foremost Mexican crashed
through the soldier's skull, shivering it like a shell. The barb and
bloody pennon came out on the opposite side. The man was lifted from
the ground, and carried several paces upon the shaft of the lance.
The guerillero dropped his entangled weapon; but before he could draw
any other, the sword of Victoria was through his heart.
His comrade turned upon me with a cry of vengeance. I had not yet
disengaged my weapon to ward off the thrust. The lance's point was
within three feet of my breast, when a sharp crack was heard from
behind; the lancer threw out his arms with a spasmodic jerk; his long
spear was whirled into the air, and he fell back in his saddle, dead.
"Well done, Jack! fire and scissors! who showed yer that trick? whooray!
whoop!" and I heard the voice of Lincoln, in a sort of Indian yell,
rising high above the din.
At this moment a guerillo, mounted upon a powerful black mustang, came
galloping down. This man, unlike most of his comrades, was armed with
the sabre, which he evidently wielded with great dexterity. He came
dashing on, his white teeth set in a fierce smile.
"Ha! Monsieur le Capitaine," shouted he, as he came near, "still alive?
I thought I had finished you on Lobos; not too late yet!"
I recognised the deserter, Dubrosc!
"Villain!" I ejaculated, too full of rage to utter another word.
We met at full speedy but with my unmanageable horse I could only ward
off his blow as he swept past me. We wheeled again, and galloped
towards each other--both of us impelled by hatred; but my horse again
shied, frightened by the gleaming sabre of my antagonist. Before I
could rein him round, he had brought me close to the pickets of the
corral; and on turning to meet the deserter, I found that we were
separated by a band of dark objects.
It was a detachment of mules that had backed from the gates of the
corral and were escaping to the open plain. We reined up, eyeing each
other with impatient vengeance; but the bullets of my men began to
whistle from the pickets; and Dubrosc, with a threatening gesture,
wheeled his horse and galloped off to his comrades. They had retired
beyond range, and were halted in groups upon the prairie, chafing with
disappointment and rage.
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
A HERCULEAN FEAT.
The whole skirmish did not occupy two minutes. It was like most charges
of Mexican cavalry--a dash, a wild yelling, half a dozen empty saddles,
and a hasty retreat.
The guerilleros had swerved off as soon as they perceived that we had
gained a safe position, and the bullets of our reloaded pieces began to
whistle around their ears. Dubrosc alone, in his impetuosity, galloped
close up to the inclosure; and it was only on perceiving himself alone,
and the folly of exposing himself thus fruitlessly, that he wheeled
round and followed the Mexicans. The latter were now out upon the
prairie, beyond the range of small-arms, grouped around their wounded
comrades, or galloping to and fro, with yells of disappointed vengeance.
I entered the corral, where most of my men had sheltered themselves
behind the stockades. Little Jack sat upon Twidget, reloading his
rifle, and trying to appear insensible to the flattering encomiums that
hailed him from all sides. A compliment from Lincoln, however, was too
much for Jack, and a proud smile was seen upon the face of the boy.
"Thank you, Jack," said I, as I passed him; "I see you can use a rifle
to some purpose."
Jack held down his head, without saying a word, and appeared to be very
busy about the lock of his piece.
In the skirmish, Lincoln had received the scratch of a lance, at which
he was chafing in his own peculiar way, and vowing revenge upon the
giver. It might be said that he had taken this, as he had driven his
short bayonet through his antagonist's arm, and sent him off with this
member hanging by his side. But the hunter was not content; and, as he
retired sullenly into the inclosure, he turned round, and, shaking his
fist at the Mexican, muttered savagely:
"Yer darned skunk! I'll know yer agin. See if I don't git yer yit!"
Gravenitz, a Prussian soldier, had also been too near a lance, and
several others had received slight wounds. The German was the only one
killed. He was still lying out on the plain, where he had fallen, the
long shaft of the lance standing up out of his skull. Not ten feet
distant lay the corpse, of his slayer, glistening in its gaudy and
picturesque attire.
The other guerillero, as he fell, had noosed one of his legs in the lazo
that hung from the horn of his saddle, and was now dragged over the
prairie after his wild and snorting mustang. As the animal swerved, at
every jerk his limber body bound
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