Chapter Twenty Three.Her Name is Dolores.There is one subject upon which there can be no question—nothing to admit of discussion. It is, that jealousy is the most painful thought that can torture the soul of man.In painfulness it has its degrees—greater or less, according to its kind: for of this dread passion, conceit, or whatever you may call it, there is more than onespecies.There is the jealousy that springs after possession; and that which arises from anticipation. Mine, of course, belonged to the latter.I shall not stay to inquire which is the more disagreeable of the two—as a general rule. I can only say, that, standing there under the Peruvian pepper-trees, I felt as if the shades of death and the furies of hell were above and around me.I was angry at the man who had made me feel so;—but mad—absolutely mad—with the woman!What could she have meant in leading me such a measure? What profit did she expect by practising upon me such a damnable delusion?“En la Alameda—a seis Horas!”I was there, true to the time,—and she, too. Six o’clock could be heard striking from a score of church towers—every stroke as if the hammer were driving a nail into my heart!For some seconds I listened to the tolling—tolling—tolling. Were they funeral bells?Oh! what a woman—in beauty an angel—in behaviour a devil!I had no longer a doubt that such was a true description of Mercedes Villa-Señor.To excuse my thus quickly coming to conclusions, you should know something of Mexican society—its highest and best.But it is not for me to expose it. Mysouvenirsare too sweet to permit of my turning traitor.That was one of the most bitter—although it was also one of the most transient.Perhaps I should not say transient; since, after a very short interval of relief, it came back bitter as before—with a bitterness long, long, to continue.The illusion was due to a process of reasoning that passed through my mind as I stood looking after thecarretela, after the incident described.I had conceived a half hope.Mercedes might be only a messenger? The note might have been from Dolores—the guarded Dolores, who dared not go out alone?The sisters might beconfidantes—a thing not uncommon in Mexico, or even in England? Dolores, threatened with a cloister, might have no other means of corresponding with her “querido Francisco?”This view of the case was more pleasing than probable.It might have been both, but for my knowledge of “society” as it exists in the City of the Angels. From the insight I had obtained, I could too readily believe, that the handsome Captain Moreno wasplaying false with a pair of sisters!Only for an instant was I permitted to indulge in the unworthy suspicion.But the certainty that succeeded it, was equally painful to reflect upon: for I left the Alameda with the knowledge that Francisco Moreno had one love; and she the lady who had driven past in hercarretela!I obtained the information through a dialogue heard accidentally behind me.Two men, whom I had not noticed before, had been sharing with me the shade of the pepper-tree. One was plainly a Poblano; the other, by his dress, might have passed for a haciendado of thetierra caliente—perhaps a “Yucateco” on his way to the capital. Small as was the note surreptitiously delivered, and rapid its transition from hand to hand—both these men had observed the little episode.The Poblano seemed to treat it as a thing of course. It caused surprise to the stranger; whose habiliments, though not without some richness, scarce concealed an air of rusticity.“Who is she?” inquired the astonished provincial.“The daughter of one of ourricos” replied the Poblano. “His name is Don Eusebio Villa-Señor. No doubt you have heard of him?”“Oh, yes. We know him in Yucatan. He’s got a sugar estate near Sisal; though he don’t come much among us. But who’s the fortunate individual so likely to become proprietor of that pretty plantation? Such an intelligent fellow would make it pay; which,por Dios! is more than I can do with mine.”“Doubtful enough whether captain Moreno could do so either—if he had the chance of becoming its owner. By all accounts he’s not much given to accumulating cash—unless over themontétable. Independently of that, he’s not likely to come in for any property belonging to Don Eusebio Villa-Señor.”“Well, without knowing much of your city habits,” remarked the Yucateco, “I’d say he has a fair chance of becoming the owner of Don Eusebio’s daughter. A Campeachy girl who’d do, what she has just done, would be considered as marked for matrimony.”“Ah!” rejoined the denizen of the angelic city, “you Yucatecos are a simple people: you leave yourmuchachasfree to do as they choose. In Puebla, if they don’t obey the paternal mandate, they are inclosed within convents—of which we have no less than a dozen in our sainted city. I’ve heard say, that such is to be the fate of Dolores Villa-Señor—if she insist on marrying the man to whom you have just seen her handing that pretty epistle.”“Dolores Villa-Señor?” I asked, springing forward, and rudely taking part in a conversation that so fearfully interested me.“DoloresVilla-Señor? Do I understand you to say thatDoloresis the name of the lady just gone past in the carretela?”“Si señor—ciertamente!” responded the Poblano, who must have supposed me insane, “Dolores Villa-Señor; or Lola, if you prefer it short: that is the lady’s name.Carrambo! what is there strange about it? Everychiquititoin the streets of Puebla knowsher.”My tongue was stopped. I made no further inquiry. I had heard enough to tell me I had been chicaned.She who had passed was the woman I loved—the same who had invited me to the Alameda. There could be no mistake about that, nor aught else—only that her name wasDolores, andnot Mercedes!I had been made the catspaw of a heartless coquette!
There is one subject upon which there can be no question—nothing to admit of discussion. It is, that jealousy is the most painful thought that can torture the soul of man.
In painfulness it has its degrees—greater or less, according to its kind: for of this dread passion, conceit, or whatever you may call it, there is more than onespecies.
There is the jealousy that springs after possession; and that which arises from anticipation. Mine, of course, belonged to the latter.
I shall not stay to inquire which is the more disagreeable of the two—as a general rule. I can only say, that, standing there under the Peruvian pepper-trees, I felt as if the shades of death and the furies of hell were above and around me.
I was angry at the man who had made me feel so;—but mad—absolutely mad—with the woman!
What could she have meant in leading me such a measure? What profit did she expect by practising upon me such a damnable delusion?
“En la Alameda—a seis Horas!”
I was there, true to the time,—and she, too. Six o’clock could be heard striking from a score of church towers—every stroke as if the hammer were driving a nail into my heart!
For some seconds I listened to the tolling—tolling—tolling. Were they funeral bells?
Oh! what a woman—in beauty an angel—in behaviour a devil!
I had no longer a doubt that such was a true description of Mercedes Villa-Señor.
To excuse my thus quickly coming to conclusions, you should know something of Mexican society—its highest and best.
But it is not for me to expose it. Mysouvenirsare too sweet to permit of my turning traitor.
That was one of the most bitter—although it was also one of the most transient.
Perhaps I should not say transient; since, after a very short interval of relief, it came back bitter as before—with a bitterness long, long, to continue.
The illusion was due to a process of reasoning that passed through my mind as I stood looking after thecarretela, after the incident described.
I had conceived a half hope.
Mercedes might be only a messenger? The note might have been from Dolores—the guarded Dolores, who dared not go out alone?
The sisters might beconfidantes—a thing not uncommon in Mexico, or even in England? Dolores, threatened with a cloister, might have no other means of corresponding with her “querido Francisco?”
This view of the case was more pleasing than probable.
It might have been both, but for my knowledge of “society” as it exists in the City of the Angels. From the insight I had obtained, I could too readily believe, that the handsome Captain Moreno wasplaying false with a pair of sisters!
Only for an instant was I permitted to indulge in the unworthy suspicion.
But the certainty that succeeded it, was equally painful to reflect upon: for I left the Alameda with the knowledge that Francisco Moreno had one love; and she the lady who had driven past in hercarretela!
I obtained the information through a dialogue heard accidentally behind me.
Two men, whom I had not noticed before, had been sharing with me the shade of the pepper-tree. One was plainly a Poblano; the other, by his dress, might have passed for a haciendado of thetierra caliente—perhaps a “Yucateco” on his way to the capital. Small as was the note surreptitiously delivered, and rapid its transition from hand to hand—both these men had observed the little episode.
The Poblano seemed to treat it as a thing of course. It caused surprise to the stranger; whose habiliments, though not without some richness, scarce concealed an air of rusticity.
“Who is she?” inquired the astonished provincial.
“The daughter of one of ourricos” replied the Poblano. “His name is Don Eusebio Villa-Señor. No doubt you have heard of him?”
“Oh, yes. We know him in Yucatan. He’s got a sugar estate near Sisal; though he don’t come much among us. But who’s the fortunate individual so likely to become proprietor of that pretty plantation? Such an intelligent fellow would make it pay; which,por Dios! is more than I can do with mine.”
“Doubtful enough whether captain Moreno could do so either—if he had the chance of becoming its owner. By all accounts he’s not much given to accumulating cash—unless over themontétable. Independently of that, he’s not likely to come in for any property belonging to Don Eusebio Villa-Señor.”
“Well, without knowing much of your city habits,” remarked the Yucateco, “I’d say he has a fair chance of becoming the owner of Don Eusebio’s daughter. A Campeachy girl who’d do, what she has just done, would be considered as marked for matrimony.”
“Ah!” rejoined the denizen of the angelic city, “you Yucatecos are a simple people: you leave yourmuchachasfree to do as they choose. In Puebla, if they don’t obey the paternal mandate, they are inclosed within convents—of which we have no less than a dozen in our sainted city. I’ve heard say, that such is to be the fate of Dolores Villa-Señor—if she insist on marrying the man to whom you have just seen her handing that pretty epistle.”
“Dolores Villa-Señor?” I asked, springing forward, and rudely taking part in a conversation that so fearfully interested me.
“DoloresVilla-Señor? Do I understand you to say thatDoloresis the name of the lady just gone past in the carretela?”
“Si señor—ciertamente!” responded the Poblano, who must have supposed me insane, “Dolores Villa-Señor; or Lola, if you prefer it short: that is the lady’s name.Carrambo! what is there strange about it? Everychiquititoin the streets of Puebla knowsher.”
My tongue was stopped. I made no further inquiry. I had heard enough to tell me I had been chicaned.
She who had passed was the woman I loved—the same who had invited me to the Alameda. There could be no mistake about that, nor aught else—only that her name wasDolores, andnot Mercedes!
I had been made the catspaw of a heartless coquette!
Chapter Twenty Four.A Parting Glance at Puebla.From that hour I felt that Puebla was no place for me. Anymétierbut that of the singed moth. I determined thenceforth to shun the candle that had cruelly scorched, and might only scorch me more.Attractive as was the light that had lured me, I resolved never more to let my eyes look upon it. It had proved too resplendent. It would not be with my own will, if I should ever again seeDoloresVilla-Señor.How easy thus to talk—thus to resolve—during the first throes of a wounded vanity—when the spirit is strengthened by its discomfiture. But ah! how difficult to maintain the determination! Hercules had no such task.I endeavoured to fortify myself with reflection: by conjuring up every thought that might restore my indifference, or enable me to forget her.It was all to no purpose. Such memories could only be chastened by time.They were not universally painful. It was something to think that I had interested, even in the slightest degree, one so grand, so famed, so incomparable; and there were moments when the remembrance soothed me. It was but a poor recompense for the sacrifice I had made, and the suffering I endured.In vain I invoked my pride—my vanity, if you prefer so to call it. It no longer availed me. Crushed in the encounter, it made one last spasmodic attempt, and then sank under a sense of humiliation.Untrue what I had been told by other tongues. They must have been sheer flatterers, those friends who had called mehandsome. Compared with Francisco Moreno, I was as Satyr to Hyperion. So must Dolores have thought? At times, reflecting thus, I could not help feeling vengeful, and dwelling on schemes of retaliation,—of which both were the object. By good fortune none appeared feasible, or even possible. I was helpless as Chatelar, when the sated queen no longer looked lovingly upon him.There was no hope except in absence—that grand balsam of the broken heart. I knew it by a past experience. Fortune favoured me with the chance of trying it the second time; and soon. Three days after that sweet encounter in the Cathedral—and the bitter one in the Alameda—our bugles summoned us to get ready; and, on the fourth, we commenced moving towards the capital of Mexico.The counsel I had received from my sage comrade, along with the excitement of opening a new chapter in our campaign, gave temporary relief to my wounded spirit. An untrodden track was before us—new fields of fame—to end in that long anticipated, much talked-of, pleasure: a revel in the “Halls of the Moctezumas!”To me the prospect had but little attraction: and even this was gone, before we had passed thePiedmontof the Cordillera that overlooks the classic town of Cholula.On entering the “Black Forest,” whose trees were to screen it from my sight, I turned to take a parting look at the City of the Angels.The chances were nearly equal I might never see it again. We were about to enter a valley close as that of Cabool; and from which retreat would be even more difficult. Our troops, all told, mustered scarce ten thousand; while thetrainedregiments of our enemy were of themselves three times the number. Besides, we were about to penetrate a capital city—the very heart’s core of an ancient nation. Would it not rouse our adversaries to a gigantic effort—a throe sufficient to overwhelm us?So supposed many of my comrades.For myself I had no reflections about the future—either of its conquests or defeats.My thoughts were with my eyes—wandering over the vastvega—resting on the spires of a city, where I had experienced one of the sweetest sensations of my life.Alas! it had proved a deception, and I had no pleasure in recalling it. On the contrary, I looked back upon the place with a cold pain at my heart, and a consciousness, that I had there sacrificed some of its warmest affections without an iota of return!I remained for some minutes on the edge of theBosqué Negra—theancillaeof the long-leaved pines sweeping the crown of my forage cap. Under my eyes, as on a chart, was spread the fertile plain of Puebla, with the city projected in clear outline. Besides the Cathedral, many a spire could I distinguish, and that “public walk” where I had suffered such humiliation. My eyes traced the lines of the streets—running parallel, as in all Spanish-American cities—and sought that of the Calle del Obispo.I fancied that I could distinguish it; and along with the fancy a score of souvenirs came sweeping over my soul.They were not pleasant—not one of them. Though all bright below—turrets rising gaily against the turquoise sky—domes that sparkled silver-like in the sun—Orizava snow-white in the distance—around me upon the mountain side all seemed dark as death!It was not thelavathat laced the slope, nor the sombre foliage of the pine-trees, under whose shade I was standing.The shadow came from within—from the cloud covering my soul.It was not dread of the Black Forest behind me—the terror of stage-coach travellers—nor apprehension of the fate that might be awaiting me in the capital of the Moctezumas, yet to be conquered.It could not be worse than that, which had befallen me in the City of the Angels!
From that hour I felt that Puebla was no place for me. Anymétierbut that of the singed moth. I determined thenceforth to shun the candle that had cruelly scorched, and might only scorch me more.
Attractive as was the light that had lured me, I resolved never more to let my eyes look upon it. It had proved too resplendent. It would not be with my own will, if I should ever again seeDoloresVilla-Señor.
How easy thus to talk—thus to resolve—during the first throes of a wounded vanity—when the spirit is strengthened by its discomfiture. But ah! how difficult to maintain the determination! Hercules had no such task.
I endeavoured to fortify myself with reflection: by conjuring up every thought that might restore my indifference, or enable me to forget her.
It was all to no purpose. Such memories could only be chastened by time.
They were not universally painful. It was something to think that I had interested, even in the slightest degree, one so grand, so famed, so incomparable; and there were moments when the remembrance soothed me. It was but a poor recompense for the sacrifice I had made, and the suffering I endured.
In vain I invoked my pride—my vanity, if you prefer so to call it. It no longer availed me. Crushed in the encounter, it made one last spasmodic attempt, and then sank under a sense of humiliation.
Untrue what I had been told by other tongues. They must have been sheer flatterers, those friends who had called mehandsome. Compared with Francisco Moreno, I was as Satyr to Hyperion. So must Dolores have thought? At times, reflecting thus, I could not help feeling vengeful, and dwelling on schemes of retaliation,—of which both were the object. By good fortune none appeared feasible, or even possible. I was helpless as Chatelar, when the sated queen no longer looked lovingly upon him.
There was no hope except in absence—that grand balsam of the broken heart. I knew it by a past experience. Fortune favoured me with the chance of trying it the second time; and soon. Three days after that sweet encounter in the Cathedral—and the bitter one in the Alameda—our bugles summoned us to get ready; and, on the fourth, we commenced moving towards the capital of Mexico.
The counsel I had received from my sage comrade, along with the excitement of opening a new chapter in our campaign, gave temporary relief to my wounded spirit. An untrodden track was before us—new fields of fame—to end in that long anticipated, much talked-of, pleasure: a revel in the “Halls of the Moctezumas!”
To me the prospect had but little attraction: and even this was gone, before we had passed thePiedmontof the Cordillera that overlooks the classic town of Cholula.
On entering the “Black Forest,” whose trees were to screen it from my sight, I turned to take a parting look at the City of the Angels.
The chances were nearly equal I might never see it again. We were about to enter a valley close as that of Cabool; and from which retreat would be even more difficult. Our troops, all told, mustered scarce ten thousand; while thetrainedregiments of our enemy were of themselves three times the number. Besides, we were about to penetrate a capital city—the very heart’s core of an ancient nation. Would it not rouse our adversaries to a gigantic effort—a throe sufficient to overwhelm us?
So supposed many of my comrades.
For myself I had no reflections about the future—either of its conquests or defeats.
My thoughts were with my eyes—wandering over the vastvega—resting on the spires of a city, where I had experienced one of the sweetest sensations of my life.
Alas! it had proved a deception, and I had no pleasure in recalling it. On the contrary, I looked back upon the place with a cold pain at my heart, and a consciousness, that I had there sacrificed some of its warmest affections without an iota of return!
I remained for some minutes on the edge of theBosqué Negra—theancillaeof the long-leaved pines sweeping the crown of my forage cap. Under my eyes, as on a chart, was spread the fertile plain of Puebla, with the city projected in clear outline. Besides the Cathedral, many a spire could I distinguish, and that “public walk” where I had suffered such humiliation. My eyes traced the lines of the streets—running parallel, as in all Spanish-American cities—and sought that of the Calle del Obispo.
I fancied that I could distinguish it; and along with the fancy a score of souvenirs came sweeping over my soul.
They were not pleasant—not one of them. Though all bright below—turrets rising gaily against the turquoise sky—domes that sparkled silver-like in the sun—Orizava snow-white in the distance—around me upon the mountain side all seemed dark as death!
It was not thelavathat laced the slope, nor the sombre foliage of the pine-trees, under whose shade I was standing.
The shadow came from within—from the cloud covering my soul.
It was not dread of the Black Forest behind me—the terror of stage-coach travellers—nor apprehension of the fate that might be awaiting me in the capital of the Moctezumas, yet to be conquered.
It could not be worse than that, which had befallen me in the City of the Angels!
Chapter Twenty Five.An Antipathy to Robbers.After the storming of Chapultepec—the “summer palace of the Moctezumas;” in which I had the honour of leading the forlorn hope—do not mistake a plain statement of fact for a baseless boast—after a seclusion of three months within the walls of a sick chamber, caused by wounds in that action received; I stepped forth upon the streets of the Mexican capital fully restored to health.Three months more were spent in partaking of those joys—the reward of the victorious soldier, who has completed a campaign.As in the “City of the Angels,” so was it in that of the Moctezumas. The officers of the invading army were excluded from the “interiors”—such of them as were worth entering.But as it was no longer an army of invaders, butconquerors, the exclusion was neither so strict nor general. There were exceptions on both sides—extending to a limited number of courageous hosts and welcome guests.It was my fortune to be among the favoured few. One or two incidents had occurred along the route—one more especially during the march upon Mexico—in which I had the opportunity of bestowing favour and protection. They were reciprocated tenfold byprotégés—who chanced to be of thefamilias principalesof Mexico.During the three months that I lay upon the couch of convalescence, I was surrounded by luxuries brought me by grateful brothers. In the three months that followed I was overwhelmed by the caresses of their sweet sisters; all, of course, in an honest way.It was a pleasant time; and, if anything could have made me forget Dolores Villa-Señor, this should have done it.It did not. The sweetest smile I received in the Valley of Tenochtitlan did not, and could not, stifle within my breast the bitter souvenir I had brought with me from the other side of the Cordillera.Six months after the capture of the Summer Palace, my life in the city of the Moctezumas became dull indeed.The theatres, slimly attended by the feminineéliteof the place; the balls not attended at all, or only by questionablepoblanas, and the plain wives and daughters of the foreign residents (why are they always plain in such places?) soon became unbearable.Even dissipation could not redeem the dulness of the times.For me themontétable had no longer an attraction. The green cloth was spread out in vain; and I could stand by and hear, without the slightest emotion, “Cavallo mozo!” “Soto en la puerta!”In truth my interest in all things appeared gone—all upon earth, with the exception of Dolores Villa-Señor; and she I could scarce think a thing of earth.Just at this crisis there came a chance of distraction. I hailed it with a feeling of gladness.The stray troops of the enemy had forsaken the roads that surrounded the capital—as had also their guerilleros. But still the ways were not safe. Partisans had disappeared, to be succeeded bysalteadores!From all sides came rumours of robbers—from Puebla on the east, Toluca on the west, Cuernavaca on the south, and the Llanos de Apam, that extend northward from the Valley of Tenochtitlan. Scarce passed a day without “novedades” of the bandits, and their devilish audacity: stage-coaches stopped; travellers commanded to lie flat along the earth, while their pockets were being turned inside out; and some stretched upon the ground never more to stand in an erect attitude!An escort of our dragoons could have prevented this—that is, upon any particular occasion. But to have sent an escort with every traveller, who had need to go forth out of the capital, would have required a score of squadrons of well-appointed cavalry. At the time we chanced to be short in this arm; and the distribution of our troops to Cuernavaca and Toluca, the strong force necessary to garrison Puebla—and the numerous detachments required to accompany the commissariat trains, left no cavalry disposable for eccentric service.Till we should receive from Uncle Sam a reinforcement of dragoons, the robbers must be allowed to stop travellers and capture stage-coaches at discretion.This was the condition of things, six months after thesecond conquestof Mexico.I, for one, did not like it. It was but a Christian instinct to hate robbers, wherever found; but in the town of Puebla I had imbibed for this class of mankind a peculiar antipathy.Experience and suspicion both formed its basis. I remembered Captain Carrasco, and I could not help rememberingCaptain Moreno!A young artist who had accompanied our army throughout the campaign—and whose life-like pictures were the admiration of all who looked upon them—had been imprudent enough to risk travelling bydiligenciafrom Mexico to La Puebla. It was not his destiny to arrive at the City of the Angels—on earth; though it is to be hoped he has reached the abode of truer angels in heaven! He was murdered among the mountains of themal pais—between the “venta” of Rio Frio and that of Cordova.I had formed a strong attachment to this unfortunate youth. He had oft partaken of the hospitality of my tent; and, in return I suppose for such slight acts of kindness, in his great picture of the storming of Chapultepec, he had fixed my face upon the canvas, foremost—far foremost—of those who on that day dared to look over the well-defended walls.The consciousness of having performed the feat did not render me less sensible of the kindness of its being recorded. I, a homeless, nameless, adventurer, with no one to sing my praise—save those who had witnessed my deeds—could not feel otherwise than grateful.He saw, and sang them; in that verse in which he was a master—the poetry of the pencil.I was half mad, when I heard that he had been murdered.In twenty minutes after, I stood in the presence of the commander-in-chief.
After the storming of Chapultepec—the “summer palace of the Moctezumas;” in which I had the honour of leading the forlorn hope—do not mistake a plain statement of fact for a baseless boast—after a seclusion of three months within the walls of a sick chamber, caused by wounds in that action received; I stepped forth upon the streets of the Mexican capital fully restored to health.
Three months more were spent in partaking of those joys—the reward of the victorious soldier, who has completed a campaign.
As in the “City of the Angels,” so was it in that of the Moctezumas. The officers of the invading army were excluded from the “interiors”—such of them as were worth entering.
But as it was no longer an army of invaders, butconquerors, the exclusion was neither so strict nor general. There were exceptions on both sides—extending to a limited number of courageous hosts and welcome guests.
It was my fortune to be among the favoured few. One or two incidents had occurred along the route—one more especially during the march upon Mexico—in which I had the opportunity of bestowing favour and protection. They were reciprocated tenfold byprotégés—who chanced to be of thefamilias principalesof Mexico.
During the three months that I lay upon the couch of convalescence, I was surrounded by luxuries brought me by grateful brothers. In the three months that followed I was overwhelmed by the caresses of their sweet sisters; all, of course, in an honest way.
It was a pleasant time; and, if anything could have made me forget Dolores Villa-Señor, this should have done it.
It did not. The sweetest smile I received in the Valley of Tenochtitlan did not, and could not, stifle within my breast the bitter souvenir I had brought with me from the other side of the Cordillera.
Six months after the capture of the Summer Palace, my life in the city of the Moctezumas became dull indeed.
The theatres, slimly attended by the feminineéliteof the place; the balls not attended at all, or only by questionablepoblanas, and the plain wives and daughters of the foreign residents (why are they always plain in such places?) soon became unbearable.
Even dissipation could not redeem the dulness of the times.
For me themontétable had no longer an attraction. The green cloth was spread out in vain; and I could stand by and hear, without the slightest emotion, “Cavallo mozo!” “Soto en la puerta!”
In truth my interest in all things appeared gone—all upon earth, with the exception of Dolores Villa-Señor; and she I could scarce think a thing of earth.
Just at this crisis there came a chance of distraction. I hailed it with a feeling of gladness.
The stray troops of the enemy had forsaken the roads that surrounded the capital—as had also their guerilleros. But still the ways were not safe. Partisans had disappeared, to be succeeded bysalteadores!
From all sides came rumours of robbers—from Puebla on the east, Toluca on the west, Cuernavaca on the south, and the Llanos de Apam, that extend northward from the Valley of Tenochtitlan. Scarce passed a day without “novedades” of the bandits, and their devilish audacity: stage-coaches stopped; travellers commanded to lie flat along the earth, while their pockets were being turned inside out; and some stretched upon the ground never more to stand in an erect attitude!
An escort of our dragoons could have prevented this—that is, upon any particular occasion. But to have sent an escort with every traveller, who had need to go forth out of the capital, would have required a score of squadrons of well-appointed cavalry. At the time we chanced to be short in this arm; and the distribution of our troops to Cuernavaca and Toluca, the strong force necessary to garrison Puebla—and the numerous detachments required to accompany the commissariat trains, left no cavalry disposable for eccentric service.
Till we should receive from Uncle Sam a reinforcement of dragoons, the robbers must be allowed to stop travellers and capture stage-coaches at discretion.
This was the condition of things, six months after thesecond conquestof Mexico.
I, for one, did not like it. It was but a Christian instinct to hate robbers, wherever found; but in the town of Puebla I had imbibed for this class of mankind a peculiar antipathy.
Experience and suspicion both formed its basis. I remembered Captain Carrasco, and I could not help rememberingCaptain Moreno!
A young artist who had accompanied our army throughout the campaign—and whose life-like pictures were the admiration of all who looked upon them—had been imprudent enough to risk travelling bydiligenciafrom Mexico to La Puebla. It was not his destiny to arrive at the City of the Angels—on earth; though it is to be hoped he has reached the abode of truer angels in heaven! He was murdered among the mountains of themal pais—between the “venta” of Rio Frio and that of Cordova.
I had formed a strong attachment to this unfortunate youth. He had oft partaken of the hospitality of my tent; and, in return I suppose for such slight acts of kindness, in his great picture of the storming of Chapultepec, he had fixed my face upon the canvas, foremost—far foremost—of those who on that day dared to look over the well-defended walls.
The consciousness of having performed the feat did not render me less sensible of the kindness of its being recorded. I, a homeless, nameless, adventurer, with no one to sing my praise—save those who had witnessed my deeds—could not feel otherwise than grateful.
He saw, and sang them; in that verse in which he was a master—the poetry of the pencil.
I was half mad, when I heard that he had been murdered.
In twenty minutes after, I stood in the presence of the commander-in-chief.
Chapter Twenty Six.The Great Strategist.“What is it, captain? One of my aides-de-camp tells me you have asked for an interview. Be brief with your business; I’m full of affairs just now.” I was not a favourite at head-quarters. I had no flattery for the conceited septuagenarian who at this crisis commanded the American army.Still his consent was necessary for my purpose. Without it I could do nought to avenge the death of my friend. That granted, I had conceived a scheme.“What is it?” asked the general, with an air of impatience that augured ill for my success. “What is it you want?”“Leave of absence, general.”“Why, you’ve been off duty for six months. How much more do you require?”“Only six days.”“Six days! And for what purpose?”“To punish these brigands who infest the road between here and Puebla. I presume, general, you’ve been informed of their atrocities?”“Of course I have. But what can I do? If I send a troop, they see the soldiers miles off, and won’t stand to be attacked. It’s like chasing a wild goose.”“I think I have a plan by which they can be brought to close quarters, and some of them chastised. With your permission, I should like to make trial of it.”“But I have no cavalry just now to spare—not a single sabre. The Government is so stingy, they won’t give me men enough to fill up the regular regiments. They think I can hold a great country like Mexico without horses—where the enemy are nearly all mounted too! No, Sir, I can’t spare a single dragoon—much less your own company; and I suppose you would want to take that with you.”“On the contrary, general, I don’t desire a single soldier from the ranks; at least only three or four of my own, whom I know to be men of courage. There are some dare-devils among our camp-followers—just the sort for such a purpose as mine. With a dozen of them, I fancy we can hold our own with the biggest band of brigands to be found among the mountains of Mexico.”“You are a brave man, captain; but I fear not much of a strategist.”Strategy was the god of this poor military simpleton, as it was of his favourite pupil, McClellan. It was the same sort of strategy that caused the rout at Bull’s Run, and the consequent prolongation of the American civil war. But for it the army of the North might have stacked arms in the streets of Richmond in three weeks after leaving Washington, and the long sanguinary strife have been shunned.Well do I remember both preceptor and pupil. There was bad management in Virginia; exactly what I should have expected from my experience of their tactics in Mexico. In our campaign through the country of the Aztecs the latter was scarcely known, or only as a smart drill master. Nor would he ever after have been heard of, but for the patronage of his superannuated Chief—the “Grand Strategist,” as he was desirous of being deemed.The last remark of the general gave me the cue to flatter him.In hopes of obtaining my end, I availed myself of the opportunity.“General!” I said, with a look of real reverence, “I am aware there will not appear much strategy in what I propose—at least to you, who are capable of grand combinations. My idea is of the simplest.”“Well, let us hear it, captain. Perhaps it may show better in detail. A great deal depends upon that. An army brought into the fielden masse—as Napoleon would say—with its infantry here and its artillery there, and the cavalry scattered over the ground, is like a machine without screws. It must soon fall to pieces. I never move my battalions in that way. If I had—”“If you had, general,” I meekly interposed, seeing that he had made a pause, “you wouldn’t have been here now, as you are—conqueror of the capital of Mexico.”“You are right, captain; quite right!” rejoined he, evidently beginning to like me, “Quite right, sir. And don’t you think that Cortez’s campaign was inferior to that whichI—I—have had the honour of planning; and of conducting, Sir—conducting?”“A mere skirmish to it.”“A skirmish, sir—a skirmish! His enemies a crowd of naked savages—that’s what they were—nothing but slings and bows with which to defend themselves. Not a gun among them; whileI—I, sir, have defeated a grand disciplined army, under the greatest general these Mexicans have ever produced; for, say what you like of Santa Anna, the rascal is a thorough soldier—a regular, sir, a regular—not a volunteer. I detest volunteers; and it’s a great shame for the Government to have sent me so many of them. They’ve fought well, I admit; but they couldn’t help it. They were properly handled, sir; and they had my old regulars alongside of them. How could they hang back, when they saw who was at their head? My presence inspired them; and the consequence is, that they fought and conquered this great country in less than half the time it took Cortez to do it. Therefore I say, sir, that the conquest of Winfield Scott will shine upon the page of history far brighter than that of Fernando Cortez.”“No doubt of it,” was my insincere response, scarce able to conceal my contempt for the huge militarybavard.“Well, sir,” said he, after he had paced once or twice across the floor in swelling grandeur, “you haven’t stated your plans? Let’s hear the detail. My giving you permission may depend upon that.”“What I had intended, general, was to charter thediligencia; and use it, as if it were going on its regular trip between here and Puebla. The robbers are also troublesome upon the Toluca route; so I don’t care which we try first. I should dress my twelve men in Mexican costumes; have a monk or two along with them, and at least a couple of ladies. Therebosowould disguise them sufficiently for our purpose. A Mexican uniform or two might aid the decoy: since just before our coming into the country no less than thirteen officers of their army, travelling in the stage-coach, were stopped by a band of only six robbers, and stripped even of their uniforms! I should have liked two or three Mexicanmilitariosamong my men; but just now it would scarce look natural, and the bandits might suspect aruse.”“Well, sir,” said the general, evidently amused by my ideas, “What would you do with these twelve masqueraders?”“Arm each of them with a small battery of revolvers; give him a good bowie knife to fall back upon; and, when the robbers make halt around the stage-coach, let all spring out at once, and go at them with a will. I know of twelve men I can muster, who are just the sort for such an enterprise. All of them, one time or another, have done a little bit of street fighting; and I’m much mistaken if there’s one of their number who would shy from an encounter with Mexican brigands anything under ten to one. Our only fear would be that too many of the bandits should be able to get off before we had time to give them a good thrashing. They’re wonderfully quick on their little horses.”“By the word of Winfield Scott, sir, there’s something in what you propose. For my part, I shouldn’t care to trouble about these robber gentry—who are perhaps only a little less honest than the rest of their countrymen—but it don’t look just the thing that we haven’t put a stop to their depredations—especially as they’ve committed some outrages on our own people. Well, sir!” he added, after a pause, “I’ll consider your proposal, and give you an answer by to-morrow morning. Meanwhile you may hold yourself in readiness—in case I should think proper to approve of it.”“Shall I retain thediligencia, general?”“No, no; not this trip—not for to-morrow. There will be time enough. I must think the matter over. It won’t do to be charged with silly things; and, as you ought to know, sir, I have enemies at Washington—foes in the rear, sir, as well as in the front. Besides, you wouldn’t have time to get your fellows ready before to-morrow morning?”“In an hour, general; if your permission be given. I have sounded them already. They would all been masquebefore midnight.”“I’ll think of it; I’ll think of it, as soon as I’m disengaged. But there’s somebody waiting outside. A Mexican gentleman, myaide-de-camptells me. I wonder whathewants. Safeguard, I suppose, or some other favour. These people pester the life out of me. They think I’ve nothing to do but to look after every little affair that troubles them. If one of our scamps only steals a chicken, they must seemeabout it. God knows I’ve given them protection enough—more than they’ve been accustomed to at the hands of their own officers!”And God did know it: for the statement was strictly true. However contemptible I might esteem General Scott’s military talents, I can bear testimony to the fact, that his enemies had no cause to complain of his inhumanity. Never was conquered foe treated with such leniency as were the Mexicans during that memorable campaign; which I do not hesitate to pronounce the mostcivilisedthat has found place upon the page of history.I had made my salute, and was about stepping out of the “presence,” when I heard the command, “Stay, sir!”In obedience to it, I once more faced towards the commander-in-chief.“By the way,” he said, “I may want you for a minute. I’m told you speak Spanish perfectly?”“Not perfectly, general. I speak it, as the Spaniards say,un pocito.”“Never mind how—so long as you can hold a conversation in it. Now that I think of it, my interpreter is out of the way; and there’s none of myaidesknows anything of their lingo. The Mexican who’s coming in is not likely to understand a syllable I might say to him. So stay, and translate for us.”“At your command, general, I’ll do the best I can.”“You may prepare yourself, I suppose, to hear of a hen roost having been robbed; and a claim for compensation. Ah! the claimant is there.”The door at that moment was opened from the outside; and one of theaidesentered, ushering a stranger, who stepped briskly in after him.
“What is it, captain? One of my aides-de-camp tells me you have asked for an interview. Be brief with your business; I’m full of affairs just now.” I was not a favourite at head-quarters. I had no flattery for the conceited septuagenarian who at this crisis commanded the American army.
Still his consent was necessary for my purpose. Without it I could do nought to avenge the death of my friend. That granted, I had conceived a scheme.
“What is it?” asked the general, with an air of impatience that augured ill for my success. “What is it you want?”
“Leave of absence, general.”
“Why, you’ve been off duty for six months. How much more do you require?”
“Only six days.”
“Six days! And for what purpose?”
“To punish these brigands who infest the road between here and Puebla. I presume, general, you’ve been informed of their atrocities?”
“Of course I have. But what can I do? If I send a troop, they see the soldiers miles off, and won’t stand to be attacked. It’s like chasing a wild goose.”
“I think I have a plan by which they can be brought to close quarters, and some of them chastised. With your permission, I should like to make trial of it.”
“But I have no cavalry just now to spare—not a single sabre. The Government is so stingy, they won’t give me men enough to fill up the regular regiments. They think I can hold a great country like Mexico without horses—where the enemy are nearly all mounted too! No, Sir, I can’t spare a single dragoon—much less your own company; and I suppose you would want to take that with you.”
“On the contrary, general, I don’t desire a single soldier from the ranks; at least only three or four of my own, whom I know to be men of courage. There are some dare-devils among our camp-followers—just the sort for such a purpose as mine. With a dozen of them, I fancy we can hold our own with the biggest band of brigands to be found among the mountains of Mexico.”
“You are a brave man, captain; but I fear not much of a strategist.”
Strategy was the god of this poor military simpleton, as it was of his favourite pupil, McClellan. It was the same sort of strategy that caused the rout at Bull’s Run, and the consequent prolongation of the American civil war. But for it the army of the North might have stacked arms in the streets of Richmond in three weeks after leaving Washington, and the long sanguinary strife have been shunned.
Well do I remember both preceptor and pupil. There was bad management in Virginia; exactly what I should have expected from my experience of their tactics in Mexico. In our campaign through the country of the Aztecs the latter was scarcely known, or only as a smart drill master. Nor would he ever after have been heard of, but for the patronage of his superannuated Chief—the “Grand Strategist,” as he was desirous of being deemed.
The last remark of the general gave me the cue to flatter him.
In hopes of obtaining my end, I availed myself of the opportunity.
“General!” I said, with a look of real reverence, “I am aware there will not appear much strategy in what I propose—at least to you, who are capable of grand combinations. My idea is of the simplest.”
“Well, let us hear it, captain. Perhaps it may show better in detail. A great deal depends upon that. An army brought into the fielden masse—as Napoleon would say—with its infantry here and its artillery there, and the cavalry scattered over the ground, is like a machine without screws. It must soon fall to pieces. I never move my battalions in that way. If I had—”
“If you had, general,” I meekly interposed, seeing that he had made a pause, “you wouldn’t have been here now, as you are—conqueror of the capital of Mexico.”
“You are right, captain; quite right!” rejoined he, evidently beginning to like me, “Quite right, sir. And don’t you think that Cortez’s campaign was inferior to that whichI—I—have had the honour of planning; and of conducting, Sir—conducting?”
“A mere skirmish to it.”
“A skirmish, sir—a skirmish! His enemies a crowd of naked savages—that’s what they were—nothing but slings and bows with which to defend themselves. Not a gun among them; whileI—I, sir, have defeated a grand disciplined army, under the greatest general these Mexicans have ever produced; for, say what you like of Santa Anna, the rascal is a thorough soldier—a regular, sir, a regular—not a volunteer. I detest volunteers; and it’s a great shame for the Government to have sent me so many of them. They’ve fought well, I admit; but they couldn’t help it. They were properly handled, sir; and they had my old regulars alongside of them. How could they hang back, when they saw who was at their head? My presence inspired them; and the consequence is, that they fought and conquered this great country in less than half the time it took Cortez to do it. Therefore I say, sir, that the conquest of Winfield Scott will shine upon the page of history far brighter than that of Fernando Cortez.”
“No doubt of it,” was my insincere response, scarce able to conceal my contempt for the huge militarybavard.
“Well, sir,” said he, after he had paced once or twice across the floor in swelling grandeur, “you haven’t stated your plans? Let’s hear the detail. My giving you permission may depend upon that.”
“What I had intended, general, was to charter thediligencia; and use it, as if it were going on its regular trip between here and Puebla. The robbers are also troublesome upon the Toluca route; so I don’t care which we try first. I should dress my twelve men in Mexican costumes; have a monk or two along with them, and at least a couple of ladies. Therebosowould disguise them sufficiently for our purpose. A Mexican uniform or two might aid the decoy: since just before our coming into the country no less than thirteen officers of their army, travelling in the stage-coach, were stopped by a band of only six robbers, and stripped even of their uniforms! I should have liked two or three Mexicanmilitariosamong my men; but just now it would scarce look natural, and the bandits might suspect aruse.”
“Well, sir,” said the general, evidently amused by my ideas, “What would you do with these twelve masqueraders?”
“Arm each of them with a small battery of revolvers; give him a good bowie knife to fall back upon; and, when the robbers make halt around the stage-coach, let all spring out at once, and go at them with a will. I know of twelve men I can muster, who are just the sort for such an enterprise. All of them, one time or another, have done a little bit of street fighting; and I’m much mistaken if there’s one of their number who would shy from an encounter with Mexican brigands anything under ten to one. Our only fear would be that too many of the bandits should be able to get off before we had time to give them a good thrashing. They’re wonderfully quick on their little horses.”
“By the word of Winfield Scott, sir, there’s something in what you propose. For my part, I shouldn’t care to trouble about these robber gentry—who are perhaps only a little less honest than the rest of their countrymen—but it don’t look just the thing that we haven’t put a stop to their depredations—especially as they’ve committed some outrages on our own people. Well, sir!” he added, after a pause, “I’ll consider your proposal, and give you an answer by to-morrow morning. Meanwhile you may hold yourself in readiness—in case I should think proper to approve of it.”
“Shall I retain thediligencia, general?”
“No, no; not this trip—not for to-morrow. There will be time enough. I must think the matter over. It won’t do to be charged with silly things; and, as you ought to know, sir, I have enemies at Washington—foes in the rear, sir, as well as in the front. Besides, you wouldn’t have time to get your fellows ready before to-morrow morning?”
“In an hour, general; if your permission be given. I have sounded them already. They would all been masquebefore midnight.”
“I’ll think of it; I’ll think of it, as soon as I’m disengaged. But there’s somebody waiting outside. A Mexican gentleman, myaide-de-camptells me. I wonder whathewants. Safeguard, I suppose, or some other favour. These people pester the life out of me. They think I’ve nothing to do but to look after every little affair that troubles them. If one of our scamps only steals a chicken, they must seemeabout it. God knows I’ve given them protection enough—more than they’ve been accustomed to at the hands of their own officers!”
And God did know it: for the statement was strictly true. However contemptible I might esteem General Scott’s military talents, I can bear testimony to the fact, that his enemies had no cause to complain of his inhumanity. Never was conquered foe treated with such leniency as were the Mexicans during that memorable campaign; which I do not hesitate to pronounce the mostcivilisedthat has found place upon the page of history.
I had made my salute, and was about stepping out of the “presence,” when I heard the command, “Stay, sir!”
In obedience to it, I once more faced towards the commander-in-chief.
“By the way,” he said, “I may want you for a minute. I’m told you speak Spanish perfectly?”
“Not perfectly, general. I speak it, as the Spaniards say,un pocito.”
“Never mind how—so long as you can hold a conversation in it. Now that I think of it, my interpreter is out of the way; and there’s none of myaidesknows anything of their lingo. The Mexican who’s coming in is not likely to understand a syllable I might say to him. So stay, and translate for us.”
“At your command, general, I’ll do the best I can.”
“You may prepare yourself, I suppose, to hear of a hen roost having been robbed; and a claim for compensation. Ah! the claimant is there.”
The door at that moment was opened from the outside; and one of theaidesentered, ushering a stranger, who stepped briskly in after him.
Chapter Twenty Seven.A Bereaved Parent.The individual thus introduced had all the air of one who had sustained a loss—but of a much graver kind than the stealing of his chicks.At a glance I could see that he was a Spanish-American of the pure Iberian blood—the boastedsangre azulof Andalusia—without any trace of the Aztecan. Perhaps a Spaniard resident in Mexico—in other words, aGachupino? He had, at all events, the distinguished bearing of the hidalgo; which was further confirmed by the fineness of his habiliments, that differed very little from what might be seen on a well-dressed English gentleman of the old school: for the stranger was a man of advanced age.He was clean shaven, without moustache or whisker; the hair upon his head short-cut and snow-white; while that upon his arched eyebrows was as black as it might have been at the age of twenty!A piercing eye still showed the capability of flashing fire, when occasion required it. Just then it was filled with a sombre light; and his whole demeanour betokened a man who suffered from some overwhelming sorrow.Under its influence his habitual serenity had forsaken him; and, without pausing inside the door, he walked hurriedly up to the general, and commenced to unburden himself.Between the two of us there was no possibility of mistaking which was the commander-in-chief—so that the stranger had addressed himself to the proper personage.As his talk was Cherokee to the general—perhaps not so well understood—he was motioned to make his communication to me.I had already gathered from his introductory remarks, that he had been travelling in a stage-coach,en routefor the capital on a special errand to the general himself; and that a great misfortune had befallen him on the road. I had by this time noticed a slightdélabrementin his dress—to say nothing of some scratches on his hands and face—that went towards confirming his hurried statement.“A misfortune?” I asked, in my capacity of interpreter. “Of what nature, señor?”“O cavallero; una cosa horrible; un robo! Por los bandoleros!”“A horrible business—a robbery by brigands!” I said, translating literally to the general.“How very singular!” remarked the commander-in-chief. “Quite a coincidence! I think, captain, I shall have to grant your request.”“Of what have they robbed you, señor?” I inquired, in the continuation of my newrôle. “Not your watch—else they would scarce have left you those splendid appendages?”I spoke of a massive chain and bunch of gold seals, with turquoise, topaz, and other sparkling stones, that hung conspicuously from his waistcoat.“Por Dios, no! They did not take that!”“Your purse, perhaps?”“No, señor; they did not touch it either. They would have been welcome to it, and the watch as well. Ah! they might have had everything else but what they did take.”“What was it?”“Mias niñas! mias niñas!”“Ninyas!” interrupted the general, without waiting for the translation, “that means young girls, don’t it, captain?”“In its general signification it does. As he has used it, it means his own daughters.”“What! Have the brigands robbed him of them?”“That’s what he has just stated.”“Poor old gentleman—for he’s evidently a gentleman! It’s a hard case, no doubt, to have his daughters carried off by brigands—worse than if Indians had got them. Go on, and question him. Let him give the whole story; and then ask him what he wants me to do. I’ll wait till you’ve finished. You can translate it all in a lump.”As the general said this he turned away, and speaking to his aide-de-camp, dispatched the latter on some errand that carried him out of the room.He himself became engaged upon some charts—no doubt covered with “grand strategic plans:” for although we were in the enemy’s capital, it was not certain that our campaign had come to a close, and more fighting might be before us.Left free to take my own course, I motioned the Mexican to a seat.He declined it on the score of haste; and standing, I went on with his confession.“How did it happen? When? Where?” was the series of questions I addressed to him in continuation.“On the road, señor—as we came from La Puebla.”“From Puebla!” The words startled me into a strange interest.“Si, señor; but much nearer to this city. It occurred within sight of it, I may say—this side Rio Frio, and not far from theventaof Cordova.”“You were travelling?”“We were travelling—myself, my two daughters, and our family confessor, the good Padre Cornaga.”“In your carriage?”“No, señor; in thediligencia. We were stopped by a band ofladrones, all wearing crape over their faces.”“Well?”“They ordered us out of the coach. Then to lie flat along the ground—with a threat, that if we looked up till they gave the word, we should be shot without ceremony.”“You obeyed, I presume?”“Carrai, señor! Why need you ask the question? Not to do so would have been certain death; and, of course, I did as theladronescommanded. My daughters, I am happy to think, were spared the indignity. But what matters it, since they were carried off?”“Whither?”“A los montes!” “Ay de mi! Holy Virgin, protect them!”“It is to be hoped she will. But why, may I ask, did you risk travelling in thediligenciabetween this place and Puebla? You had no escort, I take it; and must have known that the road is unsafe?”“True, cavallero, we had no escort. It was very imprudent on my part, but I trusted to the counsels of our confessor—un hombre muy sabio—who believed there was no danger. The goodpadreassured us the roads were safe—made so by you valiantAmericanos—that there was not a robber to be encountered between Puebla and the capital. Even then I might not have listened to him, but that I had a good reason for coming hither with my daughters; and as they—neither of them—were at all afraid, but rather inclined to it, I ventured to travel bydiligencia. Alas! too easily did I yield consent to their wishes—as I have now reason to know.Dios de mi alma! Despoiled of my children! Robbed! Ruined!”“I presume you had money upon your person, as well as these other valuables?”I pointed to the chain and seals hanging from the watch-pocket of the petitioner. “They left you these! How do you account for it?”“Ay Dios, cavallero! That is the strangest thing of all. I had both money—gold money—and this watch. It is one of considerable value, as you may judge for yourself.”The old gentleman drew out a grand chronometer-like timepiece, with jewelled holes and strong gold cases—evidently worth a couple of hundred dollars.“They left me this,” he continued, “and my money too! But what signifies that, since they have taken away themuchachas? Pobres niñas!”“And they tookonlythem?” I asked, becoming interested in the story of a robber episode so little in keeping with the ordinary experience.“Nada mas.”“Nothing more! And your fellow-passengers in thediligencia? were they alike sparing of their purses?”“Fellow-passengers! We had none, señor capitan. There were but the four of us, as I’ve said—all members of my own family: for of course we count the goodpadreas one of ourselves. True, there were two or three other gentlemen who wished to get in with us at Puebla. They were strangers to me; and, not liking their looks, I chartered thediligenciafor myself. I believe they came in another coach after us. I am sorry, now, we did not have them along with us. It might have been better. It could not have been worse!”“But thepadreof whom you speak—thishombre muy sabio—what has become of him?”“Carrambo, señor! That is the strangest thing of all: they kept him too! After a time the robbers permitted my unworthy self to proceed on the journey. But the monk they compelled to remain. What a scandal to our Holy Church! I hope it will cause the excommunication of everyladronin Mexico, and have them devoted to the perdition they so richly deserve. This comes of having changed our government into a republic. It was not so in the old times, when Spain sent us a viceroy. Then there were no robbers, such as these audacioussalteadores, that have this day deprived me of my dear daughters!Ay de mi!Ay de mi!”“What do you wish the general to do?” I inquired, as the old gentleman became a little tranquillised, after a spasmodic outburst of grief.“Señor,” he replied, “we have all heard of the humanity of the American ‘Gefe.’ Though he is our country’s enemy, we respect him for the compassion he has shown to a conquered people. Entreat him to take my unhappiness to heart. I know you will do so. Ask him to send out a troop of his valiant dragoons, and recover my lost children. At sight of your brave soldiers the robbers would take to flight, and leave the poormuchachasto be restored to their sorrowing father. O kind capitan; do not deny me! My only hope is in you!”Although the story of a father thus brutally bereft of his children was of itself calculated to excite commiseration, I should, perhaps, not have felt it very keenly, but for a souvenir it had stirred up within me.There was nothing at all strange in what he had told me. It was only one of the “Cosas de Mexico,” though, perhaps, not among the commonest. Still it would have given me little more concern than one might feel on reading the account of a lady in London streets—Bloomsbury-square, for instance—having been stopped by a fustian-coated garotter, and relieved of her pocket handkerchief, her card case, and vinaigrette.Any chagrin the story caused me was but a resuscitation of that already in my mind—the remembrance of my murdered friend, and my antipathy to the whole fraternity ofsalteadores.Both might have been freshly excited by his narrative, and nothing more; but for the aroused remembrance, of which I have spoken; and which secured him a sympathy I could scarcely explain. Besides, there was something touching in the appeal of the old Don—not the less that it was made with all the elegance and in the diction of an educated gentleman.I had no desire to resist it. On the contrary, I at once determined to lay his case before the general, and strengthen it with my own influence—so far as that went.There was not much generosity in my motive. Without knowing it, the Mexican had done me a service. I felt certain I should now have the chance of chastising—if not the same brigands who had assassinated my artist acquaintance—some who would have behaved quite as badly, had the opportunity occurred to them.Before turning to translate what had been communicated to me, I thought it might be as well to make myself acquainted with the patronymic of the petitioner.“Your name?” I inquired, looking him full in the face, and with a vague impression that I had somewhere seen him before, “You have not told me that? The general may wish to know it.”“Eusebio Villa-Señor. Al servicio de V.”I started as if a shot had struck me. Oh! the memories that rolled up at the mention of that name!I was carried back to the City of the Angels—to the Calle del Obispo—to the sorrow from which I had vainly imagined myself to have escaped!Again was it upon me, full and fell as ever.With an effort I succeeded in controlling my emotions, or at least the exhibition of them.Absorbed in his own grief, Don Eusebio did not suspect the existence of mine; and the general was still engrossed with his strategical combinations.I was now too deeply interested in the suit of the petitioner, to lose a moment’s time in placing it before him petitioned.I endorsed it with all the eloquence I could command: since it was almost identical with my own—already preferred.Our joint prayer was heard, and granted upon the spot.I obtained a commission to chastise any band of brigands, I might choose to go out against.Need I say, that I had not much difficulty in making the selection?
The individual thus introduced had all the air of one who had sustained a loss—but of a much graver kind than the stealing of his chicks.
At a glance I could see that he was a Spanish-American of the pure Iberian blood—the boastedsangre azulof Andalusia—without any trace of the Aztecan. Perhaps a Spaniard resident in Mexico—in other words, aGachupino? He had, at all events, the distinguished bearing of the hidalgo; which was further confirmed by the fineness of his habiliments, that differed very little from what might be seen on a well-dressed English gentleman of the old school: for the stranger was a man of advanced age.
He was clean shaven, without moustache or whisker; the hair upon his head short-cut and snow-white; while that upon his arched eyebrows was as black as it might have been at the age of twenty!
A piercing eye still showed the capability of flashing fire, when occasion required it. Just then it was filled with a sombre light; and his whole demeanour betokened a man who suffered from some overwhelming sorrow.
Under its influence his habitual serenity had forsaken him; and, without pausing inside the door, he walked hurriedly up to the general, and commenced to unburden himself.
Between the two of us there was no possibility of mistaking which was the commander-in-chief—so that the stranger had addressed himself to the proper personage.
As his talk was Cherokee to the general—perhaps not so well understood—he was motioned to make his communication to me.
I had already gathered from his introductory remarks, that he had been travelling in a stage-coach,en routefor the capital on a special errand to the general himself; and that a great misfortune had befallen him on the road. I had by this time noticed a slightdélabrementin his dress—to say nothing of some scratches on his hands and face—that went towards confirming his hurried statement.
“A misfortune?” I asked, in my capacity of interpreter. “Of what nature, señor?”
“O cavallero; una cosa horrible; un robo! Por los bandoleros!”
“A horrible business—a robbery by brigands!” I said, translating literally to the general.
“How very singular!” remarked the commander-in-chief. “Quite a coincidence! I think, captain, I shall have to grant your request.”
“Of what have they robbed you, señor?” I inquired, in the continuation of my newrôle. “Not your watch—else they would scarce have left you those splendid appendages?”
I spoke of a massive chain and bunch of gold seals, with turquoise, topaz, and other sparkling stones, that hung conspicuously from his waistcoat.
“Por Dios, no! They did not take that!”
“Your purse, perhaps?”
“No, señor; they did not touch it either. They would have been welcome to it, and the watch as well. Ah! they might have had everything else but what they did take.”
“What was it?”
“Mias niñas! mias niñas!”
“Ninyas!” interrupted the general, without waiting for the translation, “that means young girls, don’t it, captain?”
“In its general signification it does. As he has used it, it means his own daughters.”
“What! Have the brigands robbed him of them?”
“That’s what he has just stated.”
“Poor old gentleman—for he’s evidently a gentleman! It’s a hard case, no doubt, to have his daughters carried off by brigands—worse than if Indians had got them. Go on, and question him. Let him give the whole story; and then ask him what he wants me to do. I’ll wait till you’ve finished. You can translate it all in a lump.”
As the general said this he turned away, and speaking to his aide-de-camp, dispatched the latter on some errand that carried him out of the room.
He himself became engaged upon some charts—no doubt covered with “grand strategic plans:” for although we were in the enemy’s capital, it was not certain that our campaign had come to a close, and more fighting might be before us.
Left free to take my own course, I motioned the Mexican to a seat.
He declined it on the score of haste; and standing, I went on with his confession.
“How did it happen? When? Where?” was the series of questions I addressed to him in continuation.
“On the road, señor—as we came from La Puebla.”
“From Puebla!” The words startled me into a strange interest.
“Si, señor; but much nearer to this city. It occurred within sight of it, I may say—this side Rio Frio, and not far from theventaof Cordova.”
“You were travelling?”
“We were travelling—myself, my two daughters, and our family confessor, the good Padre Cornaga.”
“In your carriage?”
“No, señor; in thediligencia. We were stopped by a band ofladrones, all wearing crape over their faces.”
“Well?”
“They ordered us out of the coach. Then to lie flat along the ground—with a threat, that if we looked up till they gave the word, we should be shot without ceremony.”
“You obeyed, I presume?”
“Carrai, señor! Why need you ask the question? Not to do so would have been certain death; and, of course, I did as theladronescommanded. My daughters, I am happy to think, were spared the indignity. But what matters it, since they were carried off?”
“Whither?”
“A los montes!” “Ay de mi! Holy Virgin, protect them!”
“It is to be hoped she will. But why, may I ask, did you risk travelling in thediligenciabetween this place and Puebla? You had no escort, I take it; and must have known that the road is unsafe?”
“True, cavallero, we had no escort. It was very imprudent on my part, but I trusted to the counsels of our confessor—un hombre muy sabio—who believed there was no danger. The goodpadreassured us the roads were safe—made so by you valiantAmericanos—that there was not a robber to be encountered between Puebla and the capital. Even then I might not have listened to him, but that I had a good reason for coming hither with my daughters; and as they—neither of them—were at all afraid, but rather inclined to it, I ventured to travel bydiligencia. Alas! too easily did I yield consent to their wishes—as I have now reason to know.Dios de mi alma! Despoiled of my children! Robbed! Ruined!”
“I presume you had money upon your person, as well as these other valuables?”
I pointed to the chain and seals hanging from the watch-pocket of the petitioner. “They left you these! How do you account for it?”
“Ay Dios, cavallero! That is the strangest thing of all. I had both money—gold money—and this watch. It is one of considerable value, as you may judge for yourself.”
The old gentleman drew out a grand chronometer-like timepiece, with jewelled holes and strong gold cases—evidently worth a couple of hundred dollars.
“They left me this,” he continued, “and my money too! But what signifies that, since they have taken away themuchachas? Pobres niñas!”
“And they tookonlythem?” I asked, becoming interested in the story of a robber episode so little in keeping with the ordinary experience.
“Nada mas.”
“Nothing more! And your fellow-passengers in thediligencia? were they alike sparing of their purses?”
“Fellow-passengers! We had none, señor capitan. There were but the four of us, as I’ve said—all members of my own family: for of course we count the goodpadreas one of ourselves. True, there were two or three other gentlemen who wished to get in with us at Puebla. They were strangers to me; and, not liking their looks, I chartered thediligenciafor myself. I believe they came in another coach after us. I am sorry, now, we did not have them along with us. It might have been better. It could not have been worse!”
“But thepadreof whom you speak—thishombre muy sabio—what has become of him?”
“Carrambo, señor! That is the strangest thing of all: they kept him too! After a time the robbers permitted my unworthy self to proceed on the journey. But the monk they compelled to remain. What a scandal to our Holy Church! I hope it will cause the excommunication of everyladronin Mexico, and have them devoted to the perdition they so richly deserve. This comes of having changed our government into a republic. It was not so in the old times, when Spain sent us a viceroy. Then there were no robbers, such as these audacioussalteadores, that have this day deprived me of my dear daughters!Ay de mi!Ay de mi!”
“What do you wish the general to do?” I inquired, as the old gentleman became a little tranquillised, after a spasmodic outburst of grief.
“Señor,” he replied, “we have all heard of the humanity of the American ‘Gefe.’ Though he is our country’s enemy, we respect him for the compassion he has shown to a conquered people. Entreat him to take my unhappiness to heart. I know you will do so. Ask him to send out a troop of his valiant dragoons, and recover my lost children. At sight of your brave soldiers the robbers would take to flight, and leave the poormuchachasto be restored to their sorrowing father. O kind capitan; do not deny me! My only hope is in you!”
Although the story of a father thus brutally bereft of his children was of itself calculated to excite commiseration, I should, perhaps, not have felt it very keenly, but for a souvenir it had stirred up within me.
There was nothing at all strange in what he had told me. It was only one of the “Cosas de Mexico,” though, perhaps, not among the commonest. Still it would have given me little more concern than one might feel on reading the account of a lady in London streets—Bloomsbury-square, for instance—having been stopped by a fustian-coated garotter, and relieved of her pocket handkerchief, her card case, and vinaigrette.
Any chagrin the story caused me was but a resuscitation of that already in my mind—the remembrance of my murdered friend, and my antipathy to the whole fraternity ofsalteadores.
Both might have been freshly excited by his narrative, and nothing more; but for the aroused remembrance, of which I have spoken; and which secured him a sympathy I could scarcely explain. Besides, there was something touching in the appeal of the old Don—not the less that it was made with all the elegance and in the diction of an educated gentleman.
I had no desire to resist it. On the contrary, I at once determined to lay his case before the general, and strengthen it with my own influence—so far as that went.
There was not much generosity in my motive. Without knowing it, the Mexican had done me a service. I felt certain I should now have the chance of chastising—if not the same brigands who had assassinated my artist acquaintance—some who would have behaved quite as badly, had the opportunity occurred to them.
Before turning to translate what had been communicated to me, I thought it might be as well to make myself acquainted with the patronymic of the petitioner.
“Your name?” I inquired, looking him full in the face, and with a vague impression that I had somewhere seen him before, “You have not told me that? The general may wish to know it.”
“Eusebio Villa-Señor. Al servicio de V.”
I started as if a shot had struck me. Oh! the memories that rolled up at the mention of that name!
I was carried back to the City of the Angels—to the Calle del Obispo—to the sorrow from which I had vainly imagined myself to have escaped!
Again was it upon me, full and fell as ever.
With an effort I succeeded in controlling my emotions, or at least the exhibition of them.
Absorbed in his own grief, Don Eusebio did not suspect the existence of mine; and the general was still engrossed with his strategical combinations.
I was now too deeply interested in the suit of the petitioner, to lose a moment’s time in placing it before him petitioned.
I endorsed it with all the eloquence I could command: since it was almost identical with my own—already preferred.
Our joint prayer was heard, and granted upon the spot.
I obtained a commission to chastise any band of brigands, I might choose to go out against.
Need I say, that I had not much difficulty in making the selection?
Chapter Twenty Eight.A Disobedient Daughter.I shall not attempt to describe the blackness in my breast as I sallied forth from the President’s palace—Don Eusebio by my side.Directed by the general, he had placed his affair in my hands, and himself at my disposal.The announcement of his name had caused me an acute pain—the agony of a reopened wound.And the pain came not from the story I had heard. It was not the thought that Dolores—for it was no more Mercedes—that Dolores Villa-Señor was in the keeping of brutal brigands! It had pained me as much—perhaps more—to think of her in the keeping of Francisco Moreno!Truth compels me to the sad, disgraceful confession: that I listened to the tale with a sort of satisfaction! Jealousy was still alive—anger not dead—within my heart!Though remembered with reluctance, too keenly did I feel the slight that had been put upon me.The ungentle thought did not for long control me. Soon was it succeeded by one purer and holier—sprung from such chivalry as I possessed. A weak woman in the power of wild, wanton men—two of them, for that matter; though I thought but of one—borne off by brigands to some hideous haunt—some scene of lascivious revel!They were horrid fancies that came crowding upon me. They drove jealousy out of my heart, and along with it my senseless anger.These gone, I became inspired by a slight, scarcely definable, pleasure—like the distant re-dawning of a hope that has been for a time extinguished.What if I should be the means of rescuing Dolores Villa-Señor from the hands of her worse than savage captors—of saving her from a life-long shame?Might not the gratitude, called forth by such a deed, become changed to that other feeling, I had once fondly fancied to have been entertained in my favour?I could have risked everything—life itself—to bring about such a revolution!After all, had I not been too precipitate in my conclusions? Was it certain she had surrendered her heart—herwholeheart—to Francisco Moreno?The episode in the Alameda—of which I had been a spectator—might it not have been but a bit of flirtation, deftly practised by Spanish dames, and oft without serious intent, or termination?Or might it have been only a chapter of coquetry—myself the object aimed at?Consoling thoughts—well calculated to stir me to energetic action! Don Eusebio might have been surprised at my ardent espousal of his cause!He was at least affected by it. Entirely unsuspicious of my motive for questioning him, he not only gave me an unreserved account of the robbery upon the road, but made me the confidant of more than one family secret.One gave me something more than a surprise. It caused the renewal of my chagrin.“In your interview with the general,” I said, “you spoke of some important matter that was bringing you to the capital. May I be told it? Excuse me for asking: but in the performance of my duty it may be necessary for me to know what was the object of your journey.”“Say no more, señor capitan,” he rejoined, interrupting me; “you have taken such a friendly interest in my misfortunes—far beyond what your duty requires—that I have no hesitation in telling you all. Indeed, it is essential I should do so. Hear me, then.”Without repeating Don Eusebio’s words—with all the circumlocution rendered appropriate by paternal affection, and the sorrow from which he suffered—I learnt from him what might have caused me greater surprise, but for the chance conversation to which I had listened in the Alameda.The Poblano had spoken the truth to his friend from Yucatan.Not only had Don Eusebio threatened to immure his daughter in a nunnery; but was actually on his way to carry the threat into execution, when stopped by thesalteadores!Although accompanied by both his daughters, but one of them was to be consigned to her living tomb—the aristocratic convent ofLa Conception, in the city of Mexico—the abode of some of Mexico’s fairestmuchachas.“Which of your daughters?” I asked with such eagerempressementas to startle Don Eusebio, and call forth an interrogative exclamation.“Oh!” I answered, with an effort to gloss over my confusion, “I understood you to say you hadtwodaughters. Of course one is older than the other—that is, if they be not twins?”“No señor; they are not twins. One is two years the elder. It was she who intended to devote herself to the service of God.Por dios!” he continued, his brow shadowing as he spoke, “Both must do so now. There is no other future for them—pobres niñas!”I understood the significance of the sad speech, and remained silent.After a pause, he proceeded, “It wasDolores, my eldest girl, who intended to take the veil.”“Was it of her own free will?” I asked.I could see that the question caused embarrassment. My emotions at the moment were not less powerful—not less painful—than his.“Pardon me,” I continued, “for making so free with your family affairs; which, of course, cannot in any way concern me. It was a mere inadvertence—quite unintentional—I assure you.”“O, sir! have I not promised to tell you all—you who have so nobly espoused our cause; you who are about to imperil your precious life for the safety of my children! Why should I conceal from you aught that appertains to their welfare?”“It is true,” he continued, after a short interval of silence, “true, that my daughter was not altogether reconciled to the step. I myself was inciting her to take it. I had my reasons, señor; and I am sure, that on hearing them, you will approve of what I intended doing. It was for her happiness; for the honour of our family name and the glory of God—which last should be the chief end and act of every true Christian.”The solemn speech awed me into silence. I made no reply, but stood awaiting the revelation.“Only of late,” continued Don Eusebio, “in fact within the last few days, was I made acquainted with a circumstance, that caused me both anger and alarm. I learnt that some intimate relations had become established between my elder daughter, Dolores, and a young man in no way worthy of forming an alliance with our family. Know, sir, that the nameVilla-Señoris one. But why dwell upon that? I could not look upon my child, and think of her disgrace. For that reason I determined that she should pass the rest of her days in expiating the crime she had committed.”“Crime! What crime?”It would be difficult to describe the sensation I felt while putting this question, or the agony with which I awaited the answer.“That of consenting to unite herself—for it had come to giving her consent—to one of low birth; of listening to vows of love from the lips of a peasant—alepero!”“Was he this?”“Si, señor; was, and is. Through the state of anarchy and revolution from which this unfortunate country has long suffered, like many others of his class, he has risen to the paltry distinction of being an officer in our army—a captain, I believe. Among you, I am aware, the title is one of distinction—not so easily earned, and substantial when obtained. In the army of our so-called Republic, a swineherd to-day may be a captain to-morrow; and the captain of to-morrow asalteadorthe day following!”“Of course you know the name of this captain—whom you deem so unworthy of your daughter?”The question was put mechanically, and without care for the answer. I knew that the name would be “Francisco Moreno.”It was.
I shall not attempt to describe the blackness in my breast as I sallied forth from the President’s palace—Don Eusebio by my side.
Directed by the general, he had placed his affair in my hands, and himself at my disposal.
The announcement of his name had caused me an acute pain—the agony of a reopened wound.
And the pain came not from the story I had heard. It was not the thought that Dolores—for it was no more Mercedes—that Dolores Villa-Señor was in the keeping of brutal brigands! It had pained me as much—perhaps more—to think of her in the keeping of Francisco Moreno!
Truth compels me to the sad, disgraceful confession: that I listened to the tale with a sort of satisfaction! Jealousy was still alive—anger not dead—within my heart!
Though remembered with reluctance, too keenly did I feel the slight that had been put upon me.
The ungentle thought did not for long control me. Soon was it succeeded by one purer and holier—sprung from such chivalry as I possessed. A weak woman in the power of wild, wanton men—two of them, for that matter; though I thought but of one—borne off by brigands to some hideous haunt—some scene of lascivious revel!
They were horrid fancies that came crowding upon me. They drove jealousy out of my heart, and along with it my senseless anger.
These gone, I became inspired by a slight, scarcely definable, pleasure—like the distant re-dawning of a hope that has been for a time extinguished.
What if I should be the means of rescuing Dolores Villa-Señor from the hands of her worse than savage captors—of saving her from a life-long shame?
Might not the gratitude, called forth by such a deed, become changed to that other feeling, I had once fondly fancied to have been entertained in my favour?
I could have risked everything—life itself—to bring about such a revolution!
After all, had I not been too precipitate in my conclusions? Was it certain she had surrendered her heart—herwholeheart—to Francisco Moreno?
The episode in the Alameda—of which I had been a spectator—might it not have been but a bit of flirtation, deftly practised by Spanish dames, and oft without serious intent, or termination?
Or might it have been only a chapter of coquetry—myself the object aimed at?
Consoling thoughts—well calculated to stir me to energetic action! Don Eusebio might have been surprised at my ardent espousal of his cause!
He was at least affected by it. Entirely unsuspicious of my motive for questioning him, he not only gave me an unreserved account of the robbery upon the road, but made me the confidant of more than one family secret.
One gave me something more than a surprise. It caused the renewal of my chagrin.
“In your interview with the general,” I said, “you spoke of some important matter that was bringing you to the capital. May I be told it? Excuse me for asking: but in the performance of my duty it may be necessary for me to know what was the object of your journey.”
“Say no more, señor capitan,” he rejoined, interrupting me; “you have taken such a friendly interest in my misfortunes—far beyond what your duty requires—that I have no hesitation in telling you all. Indeed, it is essential I should do so. Hear me, then.”
Without repeating Don Eusebio’s words—with all the circumlocution rendered appropriate by paternal affection, and the sorrow from which he suffered—I learnt from him what might have caused me greater surprise, but for the chance conversation to which I had listened in the Alameda.
The Poblano had spoken the truth to his friend from Yucatan.
Not only had Don Eusebio threatened to immure his daughter in a nunnery; but was actually on his way to carry the threat into execution, when stopped by thesalteadores!
Although accompanied by both his daughters, but one of them was to be consigned to her living tomb—the aristocratic convent ofLa Conception, in the city of Mexico—the abode of some of Mexico’s fairestmuchachas.
“Which of your daughters?” I asked with such eagerempressementas to startle Don Eusebio, and call forth an interrogative exclamation.
“Oh!” I answered, with an effort to gloss over my confusion, “I understood you to say you hadtwodaughters. Of course one is older than the other—that is, if they be not twins?”
“No señor; they are not twins. One is two years the elder. It was she who intended to devote herself to the service of God.Por dios!” he continued, his brow shadowing as he spoke, “Both must do so now. There is no other future for them—pobres niñas!”
I understood the significance of the sad speech, and remained silent.
After a pause, he proceeded, “It wasDolores, my eldest girl, who intended to take the veil.”
“Was it of her own free will?” I asked.
I could see that the question caused embarrassment. My emotions at the moment were not less powerful—not less painful—than his.
“Pardon me,” I continued, “for making so free with your family affairs; which, of course, cannot in any way concern me. It was a mere inadvertence—quite unintentional—I assure you.”
“O, sir! have I not promised to tell you all—you who have so nobly espoused our cause; you who are about to imperil your precious life for the safety of my children! Why should I conceal from you aught that appertains to their welfare?”
“It is true,” he continued, after a short interval of silence, “true, that my daughter was not altogether reconciled to the step. I myself was inciting her to take it. I had my reasons, señor; and I am sure, that on hearing them, you will approve of what I intended doing. It was for her happiness; for the honour of our family name and the glory of God—which last should be the chief end and act of every true Christian.”
The solemn speech awed me into silence. I made no reply, but stood awaiting the revelation.
“Only of late,” continued Don Eusebio, “in fact within the last few days, was I made acquainted with a circumstance, that caused me both anger and alarm. I learnt that some intimate relations had become established between my elder daughter, Dolores, and a young man in no way worthy of forming an alliance with our family. Know, sir, that the nameVilla-Señoris one. But why dwell upon that? I could not look upon my child, and think of her disgrace. For that reason I determined that she should pass the rest of her days in expiating the crime she had committed.”
“Crime! What crime?”
It would be difficult to describe the sensation I felt while putting this question, or the agony with which I awaited the answer.
“That of consenting to unite herself—for it had come to giving her consent—to one of low birth; of listening to vows of love from the lips of a peasant—alepero!”
“Was he this?”
“Si, señor; was, and is. Through the state of anarchy and revolution from which this unfortunate country has long suffered, like many others of his class, he has risen to the paltry distinction of being an officer in our army—a captain, I believe. Among you, I am aware, the title is one of distinction—not so easily earned, and substantial when obtained. In the army of our so-called Republic, a swineherd to-day may be a captain to-morrow; and the captain of to-morrow asalteadorthe day following!”
“Of course you know the name of this captain—whom you deem so unworthy of your daughter?”
The question was put mechanically, and without care for the answer. I knew that the name would be “Francisco Moreno.”
It was.