Chapter Seven.A Duel “to the Death.”The duellists stood confronting one another, in the position of “salute,” both hands on high grasping their swords at hilt and point, the blades held horizontally. The second of each was in his place, on the left hand of his principal, half a pace in advance. But a moment more all were waiting for the word. The second of the challenger had the right to give it, and Crittenden was not the man to make delay.“Engage!” he cried out, in a firm clear voice, at the same time stepping half a pace forward, Duperon doing the same. The movement was made as a precaution against foul play; sometimes, though not always intended. For in the excitement of such a moment, or under the impatience of angry passion, one or other of the principals may close too quickly—to prevent which is the duty of the seconds.Quick, at the “engage,” both came to “guard” with a collision that struck sparks from the steel, proving the hot anger of the adversaries. Had they been cooler, they would have crossed swords quietly. But when, the instant after, they came totierce, both appeared more collected, their blades for a while keeping in contact, and gliding around each other as if they had been a single piece.For several minutes this cautious play continued, without further sparks, or only such as appeared to scintillate from the eyes of the combatants. Then came a counter-thrust, quickly followed by a counter parry, with no advantage to either.Long ere this, an observer acquainted with the weapons they were wielding, could have seen that of the two Kearney was the better swordsman. In changing fromcartetotierce, or reversely, the young Irishman showed himself possessed of the power to keep his arm straight and do the work with his wrist, whilst the Creole kept bending his elbow, thus exposing his forearm to the adversary’s point. It is a rare accomplishment among swordsmen, but, when present, insuring almost certain victory, that is, other circumstances being equal.In Kearney’s case, it perhaps proved the saving of his life; since it seemed to be the sole object of his antagonist to thrust in upon him, heedless of his own guard. But the long, straight point, from shoulder far outstretched, and never for an instant obliquely, foiled all his attempts.After a few thrusts, Santander seemed surprised at his fruitless efforts. Then over his face came a look more like fear. It was the first time in his duelling experience he had been so baffled, for it was his first encounter with an adversary who could keep astraight arm.But Florence Kearney had been taughttierceas well ascarte, and knew how to practise it. For a time he was prevented from trying it by the other’s impetuous and incessant thrusting, which kept him continuously at guard, but as the sword-play proceeded, he began to discover the weak points of his antagonist, and, with a well-directed thrust, at length sent his blade through the Creole’s outstretched arm, impaling it from wrist to elbow.An ill-suppressed cry of triumph escaped from the Kentuckian’s lips, while with eyes directed towards the other second, he seemed to ask—“Are you satisfied?”Then the question was formally put.Duperon looked in the face of his principal, though without much show of interrogating him. It seemed as if he already divined what the answer would be.“A la mort!” cried the Creole, with a deadly emphasis and bitter determination in his dark sinister eyes.“To the death be it!” was the response of the Irishman, not so calmly, and now for the first time showing anger. Nor strange he should, since he now knew he had crossed swords with a man determined on taking his life.There was a second or two’s pause, of which Santander availed himself, hastily whipping a handkerchief round his wounded arm—a permission not strictly according to the code, but tacitly granted by his gallant antagonist.When the two again closed and came to guard, the seconds were no longer by their sides. At the words “à la mort” they had withdrawn—each to the rear of his principal—the mode of action in a duel to the death. Theirrôlehenceforth was simply to look on, with no right of interference, unless either of the principals should attempt foul play. This, however, could not well occur. By the phrase “à la mort” is conveyed a peculiar meaning, well-known to the Orleans duellist. When spoken, it is no longer a question of sword-skill, or who draws first blood; but a challenge giving free licence to kill—whichever can.In the present affair it was followed by silence more profound and more intense than ever, while the attention of the spectators, now including the seconds, seemed to redouble itself.The only sound heard was a whistling of wings. The fog had drifted away, and several large birds were seen circling in the air above, looking down with stretched necks, as if they, too, felt interested in the spectacle passing underneath. No doubt they did; for they were vultures, and could see—whether or not they scented it—that blood was being spilled.Once more, also, from the tree tops came the mocking laughter of the eagle; and out of the depths, through long, shadowy arcades, the mournful hootings of the great white owl—fit music for such fell strife.Disregarding these ominous sounds—each seeming a death-warning in itself—the combatants had once more closed, again and again crossing sword-blades with a clash that frightened owl, eagle, and vulture, for an instant causing them to withhold their vocal accompaniment.Though now on both sides the contest was carried on with increased anger, there was not much outward sign of it. On neither any rash sword-play. If they had lost temper they yet had control over their weapons; and their guards and points, though perhaps more rapidly exchanged, displayed as much skill as ever.Again Kearney felt surprised at the repeated thrusts of his antagonist, which kept him all the time on the defensive, while Santander appeared equally astonished and discomfited by that far-reaching arm, straight as a yardstick, with elbow never bent. Could the Creole have but added six inches to his rapier blade, in less than ten seconds the young Irishman would have had nearly so much of it passed between his ribs.Twice its point touched, slightly scratching the skin upon his breast, and drawing blood.For quite twenty minutes the sanguinary strife continued without any marked advantage to either. It was a spectacle somewhat painful to behold, the combatants themselves being a sight to look upon. Kearney’s shirt of finest white linen showed like a butcher’s; his sleeves encrimsoned; his hands, too, grasping his rapier hilt, the same—not with his own blood, but that of his adversary, which had run back along the blade; his face was spotted by the drops dashed over it from the whirling wands of steel.Gory, too, was the face of Santander; but gashed as well. Bending forward to put in a point, the Creole had given his antagonist a chance, resulting to himself in a punctured cheek, the scar of which would stay there for life.It was this brought the combat to an end; or, at all events, to its concluding stroke. Santander, vain of his personal appearance, on feeling his cheek laid open, suddenly lost command of himself, and with a fierce oath rushed at his adversary, regardless of the consequences.He succeeded in making a thrust, though not the one he intended. For having aimed at Kearney’s heart, missing it, his blade passed through the buckle of the young Irishman’s braces, where in an instant it was entangled.Only for half a second; but this was all the skilled swordsman required. Now, first since the fight began, his elbow was seen to bend. This to obtain room for a thrust, which was sent, to all appearance, home to his adversary’s heart.Every one on the ground expected to see Santander fall; for by the force of the blow and direction Kearney’s blade should have passed through his body, splitting the heart in twain. Instead, the point did not appear to penetrate even an inch! As it touched, there came a sound like the chinking of coin in a purse, with simultaneously the snap of a breaking blade, and the young Irishman was seen standing as in a trance of astonishment, in his hand but the half of a sword, the other half gleaming amongst the grass at his feet.It seemed a mischance, fatal to Florence Kearney, and only the veriest dastard would have taken advantage of it. But this Santander was, and once more drawing back, and bringing his blade totierce, he was rushing on his now defenceless antagonist, when Crittenden called “Foul play!” at the same time springing forward to prevent it.His interference, however, would have been too late, and in another instant the young Irishman would have been stretched lifeless along the sward, but for a second individual who had watched the foul play—one who had been suspecting it all along. The sword of Santander seen flying off, as if struck out of his grasp, and his arm dropping by his side, with blood pouring from the tips of his fingers, were all nearly simultaneous incidents, as also the crack of a rifle and a cloud of blue smoke suddenly spurting up over one of the carriages, and half-concealing the colossal figure of Cris Rock, still seated on the box. Out of that cloud came a cry in the enraged voice of the Texan, with words which made all plain—“Ye darned Creole cuss! Take that for a treetur an’ a cowart! Strip the skunk! He’s got sumthin’ steely under his shirt; I heerd the chink o’ it.”Saying which he bounded down from the box, sprang over the water-ditch, and rushed on towards the spot occupied by the combatants.In a dozen strides he was in their midst, and before either of the two seconds, equally astonished, could interfere, he had caught Santander by the throat, and tore open the breast of his shirt!Underneath was then seen another shirt, not flannel, nor yet linen or cotton, but link-and-chain steel!
The duellists stood confronting one another, in the position of “salute,” both hands on high grasping their swords at hilt and point, the blades held horizontally. The second of each was in his place, on the left hand of his principal, half a pace in advance. But a moment more all were waiting for the word. The second of the challenger had the right to give it, and Crittenden was not the man to make delay.
“Engage!” he cried out, in a firm clear voice, at the same time stepping half a pace forward, Duperon doing the same. The movement was made as a precaution against foul play; sometimes, though not always intended. For in the excitement of such a moment, or under the impatience of angry passion, one or other of the principals may close too quickly—to prevent which is the duty of the seconds.
Quick, at the “engage,” both came to “guard” with a collision that struck sparks from the steel, proving the hot anger of the adversaries. Had they been cooler, they would have crossed swords quietly. But when, the instant after, they came totierce, both appeared more collected, their blades for a while keeping in contact, and gliding around each other as if they had been a single piece.
For several minutes this cautious play continued, without further sparks, or only such as appeared to scintillate from the eyes of the combatants. Then came a counter-thrust, quickly followed by a counter parry, with no advantage to either.
Long ere this, an observer acquainted with the weapons they were wielding, could have seen that of the two Kearney was the better swordsman. In changing fromcartetotierce, or reversely, the young Irishman showed himself possessed of the power to keep his arm straight and do the work with his wrist, whilst the Creole kept bending his elbow, thus exposing his forearm to the adversary’s point. It is a rare accomplishment among swordsmen, but, when present, insuring almost certain victory, that is, other circumstances being equal.
In Kearney’s case, it perhaps proved the saving of his life; since it seemed to be the sole object of his antagonist to thrust in upon him, heedless of his own guard. But the long, straight point, from shoulder far outstretched, and never for an instant obliquely, foiled all his attempts.
After a few thrusts, Santander seemed surprised at his fruitless efforts. Then over his face came a look more like fear. It was the first time in his duelling experience he had been so baffled, for it was his first encounter with an adversary who could keep astraight arm.
But Florence Kearney had been taughttierceas well ascarte, and knew how to practise it. For a time he was prevented from trying it by the other’s impetuous and incessant thrusting, which kept him continuously at guard, but as the sword-play proceeded, he began to discover the weak points of his antagonist, and, with a well-directed thrust, at length sent his blade through the Creole’s outstretched arm, impaling it from wrist to elbow.
An ill-suppressed cry of triumph escaped from the Kentuckian’s lips, while with eyes directed towards the other second, he seemed to ask—
“Are you satisfied?”
Then the question was formally put.
Duperon looked in the face of his principal, though without much show of interrogating him. It seemed as if he already divined what the answer would be.
“A la mort!” cried the Creole, with a deadly emphasis and bitter determination in his dark sinister eyes.
“To the death be it!” was the response of the Irishman, not so calmly, and now for the first time showing anger. Nor strange he should, since he now knew he had crossed swords with a man determined on taking his life.
There was a second or two’s pause, of which Santander availed himself, hastily whipping a handkerchief round his wounded arm—a permission not strictly according to the code, but tacitly granted by his gallant antagonist.
When the two again closed and came to guard, the seconds were no longer by their sides. At the words “à la mort” they had withdrawn—each to the rear of his principal—the mode of action in a duel to the death. Theirrôlehenceforth was simply to look on, with no right of interference, unless either of the principals should attempt foul play. This, however, could not well occur. By the phrase “à la mort” is conveyed a peculiar meaning, well-known to the Orleans duellist. When spoken, it is no longer a question of sword-skill, or who draws first blood; but a challenge giving free licence to kill—whichever can.
In the present affair it was followed by silence more profound and more intense than ever, while the attention of the spectators, now including the seconds, seemed to redouble itself.
The only sound heard was a whistling of wings. The fog had drifted away, and several large birds were seen circling in the air above, looking down with stretched necks, as if they, too, felt interested in the spectacle passing underneath. No doubt they did; for they were vultures, and could see—whether or not they scented it—that blood was being spilled.
Once more, also, from the tree tops came the mocking laughter of the eagle; and out of the depths, through long, shadowy arcades, the mournful hootings of the great white owl—fit music for such fell strife.
Disregarding these ominous sounds—each seeming a death-warning in itself—the combatants had once more closed, again and again crossing sword-blades with a clash that frightened owl, eagle, and vulture, for an instant causing them to withhold their vocal accompaniment.
Though now on both sides the contest was carried on with increased anger, there was not much outward sign of it. On neither any rash sword-play. If they had lost temper they yet had control over their weapons; and their guards and points, though perhaps more rapidly exchanged, displayed as much skill as ever.
Again Kearney felt surprised at the repeated thrusts of his antagonist, which kept him all the time on the defensive, while Santander appeared equally astonished and discomfited by that far-reaching arm, straight as a yardstick, with elbow never bent. Could the Creole have but added six inches to his rapier blade, in less than ten seconds the young Irishman would have had nearly so much of it passed between his ribs.
Twice its point touched, slightly scratching the skin upon his breast, and drawing blood.
For quite twenty minutes the sanguinary strife continued without any marked advantage to either. It was a spectacle somewhat painful to behold, the combatants themselves being a sight to look upon. Kearney’s shirt of finest white linen showed like a butcher’s; his sleeves encrimsoned; his hands, too, grasping his rapier hilt, the same—not with his own blood, but that of his adversary, which had run back along the blade; his face was spotted by the drops dashed over it from the whirling wands of steel.
Gory, too, was the face of Santander; but gashed as well. Bending forward to put in a point, the Creole had given his antagonist a chance, resulting to himself in a punctured cheek, the scar of which would stay there for life.
It was this brought the combat to an end; or, at all events, to its concluding stroke. Santander, vain of his personal appearance, on feeling his cheek laid open, suddenly lost command of himself, and with a fierce oath rushed at his adversary, regardless of the consequences.
He succeeded in making a thrust, though not the one he intended. For having aimed at Kearney’s heart, missing it, his blade passed through the buckle of the young Irishman’s braces, where in an instant it was entangled.
Only for half a second; but this was all the skilled swordsman required. Now, first since the fight began, his elbow was seen to bend. This to obtain room for a thrust, which was sent, to all appearance, home to his adversary’s heart.
Every one on the ground expected to see Santander fall; for by the force of the blow and direction Kearney’s blade should have passed through his body, splitting the heart in twain. Instead, the point did not appear to penetrate even an inch! As it touched, there came a sound like the chinking of coin in a purse, with simultaneously the snap of a breaking blade, and the young Irishman was seen standing as in a trance of astonishment, in his hand but the half of a sword, the other half gleaming amongst the grass at his feet.
It seemed a mischance, fatal to Florence Kearney, and only the veriest dastard would have taken advantage of it. But this Santander was, and once more drawing back, and bringing his blade totierce, he was rushing on his now defenceless antagonist, when Crittenden called “Foul play!” at the same time springing forward to prevent it.
His interference, however, would have been too late, and in another instant the young Irishman would have been stretched lifeless along the sward, but for a second individual who had watched the foul play—one who had been suspecting it all along. The sword of Santander seen flying off, as if struck out of his grasp, and his arm dropping by his side, with blood pouring from the tips of his fingers, were all nearly simultaneous incidents, as also the crack of a rifle and a cloud of blue smoke suddenly spurting up over one of the carriages, and half-concealing the colossal figure of Cris Rock, still seated on the box. Out of that cloud came a cry in the enraged voice of the Texan, with words which made all plain—
“Ye darned Creole cuss! Take that for a treetur an’ a cowart! Strip the skunk! He’s got sumthin’ steely under his shirt; I heerd the chink o’ it.”
Saying which he bounded down from the box, sprang over the water-ditch, and rushed on towards the spot occupied by the combatants.
In a dozen strides he was in their midst, and before either of the two seconds, equally astonished, could interfere, he had caught Santander by the throat, and tore open the breast of his shirt!
Underneath was then seen another shirt, not flannel, nor yet linen or cotton, but link-and-chain steel!
Chapter Eight.A Disgraced Duellist.Impossible to describe the scene which followed, or the expression upon the faces of those men who stood beside Santander. The Texan, strong as he was big, still kept hold of him, though now at arm’s length; in his grasp retaining the grown man with as much apparent ease as though it were but a child. And there, sure enough, under the torn flannel shirt, all could see a doublet of chain armour, impenetrable to sword’s point as plate of solid steel.Explanation this of why Carlos Santander was so ready to take the field in a duel, and had twice left his antagonist lifeless upon it. It explained also why, when leaping across the water-ditch, he had dropped so heavily upon the farther bank. Weighted as he was, no wonder.By this time the two doctors, with the pair of hackney-drivers, seeing that something had turned up out of the common course, parting from the carriages, had also come upon the ground; the jarveys, in sympathy with Cris Rock, crying, “Shame!” In the Crescent City even a cabman has something of chivalry in his nature—the surroundings teach and invite it—and now the detected scoundrel seemed without a single friend. For he—hitherto acting as such, seeing the imposture, which had been alike practised on himself, stepped up to his principal, and looking him scornfully in the face, hissed out the word “Lâche!”Then turning to Kearney and Crittenden he added—“Let that be my apology to you, gentlemen. If you’re not satisfied with it, I’m willing and ready to take his place—with either of you.”“It’s perfectly satisfactory, monsieur,” frankly responded the Kentuckian, “so far as I’m concerned. And I think I may say as much for Captain Kearney.”“Indeed, yes,” assented the Irishman, adding: “We absolve you, sir, from all blame. It’s evident you knew nothing of that shining panoply till now;” as he spoke, pointing to the steel shirt.The French-Creole haughtily, but courteously, bowed thanks. Then, facing once more to Santander, and repeating the “Lâche” strode silently away from the ground.They had all mistaken the character of the individual, who, despite a somewhat forbidding face, was evidently a man of honour, as he had proved himself.“What d’ye weesh me to do wi’ him?” interrogated the Texan, still keeping Santander in firm clutch. “Shed we shoot him or hang him?”“Hang!” simultaneously shouted the two hackney-drivers, who seemed as bitter against the disgraced duellist as if he had “bilked” them of a fare.“So I say, too,” solemnly pronounced the Texan; “shootin’s too good for the like o’ him; a man capable o’ sech a cowardly, murderous trick desarves to die the death o’ a dog.”Then, with an interrogating look at Crittenden, he added: “Which is’t to be, lootenant?”“Neither, Cris,” answered the Kentuckian. “If I mistake not, thegentlemanhas had enough punishment without either. If he’s got so much as a spark of shame or conscience—”“Conshence!” exclaimed Rock, interrupting. “Sech a skunk don’t know the meanin’ o’ the word. Darn ye!” he continued, turning upon his prisoner, and shaking him till the links in the steel shirt chinked, “I feel as if I ked drive the blade o’ my bowie inter ye through them steel fixin’s an’ all.”And, drawing his knife from its sheath, he brandished it in a menacing manner.“Don’t, Rock! Please don’t!” interposed the Kentuckian, Kearney joining in the entreaty. “He’s not worth anger, much less revenge. So let him go.”“You’re right thar, lootenant,” rejoined Rock. “He ain’t worth eyther, that’s the truth. An’ ’twould only be puttin’ pisen on the blade o’ my knife to smear it wi’ his black blood. F’r all, I ain’t a-gwine to let him off so easy’s all that, unless you an’ the captain insists on it. After the warmish work he’s had, an’ the sweat he’s put himself in by the wearin’ o’ two shirts at a time, I guess he won’t be any the worse of a sprinkling o’ cold water. So here goes to gie it him.”Saying which, he strode off towards the ditch, half-dragging, half-carrying Santander along with him.The cowed and craven creature neither made resistance, nor dared. Had he done so, the upshot was obvious. For the Texan’s blade, still bared, was shining before his eyes, and he knew that any attempt on his part, either to oppose the latter’s intention or escape, would result in having it buried between, his ribs. So, silently, sullenly, he allowed himself to be taken along, not as a lamb to the slaughter, but a wolf, or rather dog, about to be chastised for some malfeasance.In an instant after, the chastisement was administered by the Texan laying hold of him with both hands, lifting him from off his feet, and then dropping him down into the water-ditch, where, weighted with the steel shirt, he fell with a dead, heavy plunge, going at once to the bottom.“That’s less than your desarvin’s,” said the Texan, on thus delivering his charge. “An’ if it had been left to Cris Rock ’twould ’a beenup, ’stead o’down, he’d ’a sent ye. If iver man desarved hangin’, you’re the model o’ him. Ha—ha—ha! Look at the skunk now!”The last words, with the laugh preceding them, were elicited by the ludicrous appearance which Santander presented. He had come to the surface again, and, with some difficulty, owing to the encumbrance of his under-shirt, clambered out upon the bank. But not as when he went under. Instead, with what appeared a green cloak over his shoulders, the scum of the stagnant water long collecting undisturbed. The hackney-driver—there was but one now, the other taken off by Duperon, who had hired him, their doctor too—joined with Rock in his laughter, while Kearney, Crittenden, and their own surgeon could not help uniting in the chorus. Never had tragic hero suffered a more comical discomfiture.He was now permitted to withdraw from the scene of it, a permission of which he availed himself without further delay; first retreating for some distance along the Shell Road, as one wandering and distraught; then, as if seized by a sudden thought, diving into the timbered swamp alongside, and there disappearing.Soon after the carriage containing the victorious party rattled past; they inside it scarce casting a look to see what had become of Santander. He was nothing to them now, at best only a thing to be a matter of ludicrous remembrance. Nor long remained he in their thoughts; these now reverting to Texas, and their necessity for hastening back to the Crescent City, to make start for “The Land of the Lone Star.”
Impossible to describe the scene which followed, or the expression upon the faces of those men who stood beside Santander. The Texan, strong as he was big, still kept hold of him, though now at arm’s length; in his grasp retaining the grown man with as much apparent ease as though it were but a child. And there, sure enough, under the torn flannel shirt, all could see a doublet of chain armour, impenetrable to sword’s point as plate of solid steel.
Explanation this of why Carlos Santander was so ready to take the field in a duel, and had twice left his antagonist lifeless upon it. It explained also why, when leaping across the water-ditch, he had dropped so heavily upon the farther bank. Weighted as he was, no wonder.
By this time the two doctors, with the pair of hackney-drivers, seeing that something had turned up out of the common course, parting from the carriages, had also come upon the ground; the jarveys, in sympathy with Cris Rock, crying, “Shame!” In the Crescent City even a cabman has something of chivalry in his nature—the surroundings teach and invite it—and now the detected scoundrel seemed without a single friend. For he—hitherto acting as such, seeing the imposture, which had been alike practised on himself, stepped up to his principal, and looking him scornfully in the face, hissed out the word “Lâche!”
Then turning to Kearney and Crittenden he added—
“Let that be my apology to you, gentlemen. If you’re not satisfied with it, I’m willing and ready to take his place—with either of you.”
“It’s perfectly satisfactory, monsieur,” frankly responded the Kentuckian, “so far as I’m concerned. And I think I may say as much for Captain Kearney.”
“Indeed, yes,” assented the Irishman, adding: “We absolve you, sir, from all blame. It’s evident you knew nothing of that shining panoply till now;” as he spoke, pointing to the steel shirt.
The French-Creole haughtily, but courteously, bowed thanks. Then, facing once more to Santander, and repeating the “Lâche” strode silently away from the ground.
They had all mistaken the character of the individual, who, despite a somewhat forbidding face, was evidently a man of honour, as he had proved himself.
“What d’ye weesh me to do wi’ him?” interrogated the Texan, still keeping Santander in firm clutch. “Shed we shoot him or hang him?”
“Hang!” simultaneously shouted the two hackney-drivers, who seemed as bitter against the disgraced duellist as if he had “bilked” them of a fare.
“So I say, too,” solemnly pronounced the Texan; “shootin’s too good for the like o’ him; a man capable o’ sech a cowardly, murderous trick desarves to die the death o’ a dog.”
Then, with an interrogating look at Crittenden, he added: “Which is’t to be, lootenant?”
“Neither, Cris,” answered the Kentuckian. “If I mistake not, thegentlemanhas had enough punishment without either. If he’s got so much as a spark of shame or conscience—”
“Conshence!” exclaimed Rock, interrupting. “Sech a skunk don’t know the meanin’ o’ the word. Darn ye!” he continued, turning upon his prisoner, and shaking him till the links in the steel shirt chinked, “I feel as if I ked drive the blade o’ my bowie inter ye through them steel fixin’s an’ all.”
And, drawing his knife from its sheath, he brandished it in a menacing manner.
“Don’t, Rock! Please don’t!” interposed the Kentuckian, Kearney joining in the entreaty. “He’s not worth anger, much less revenge. So let him go.”
“You’re right thar, lootenant,” rejoined Rock. “He ain’t worth eyther, that’s the truth. An’ ’twould only be puttin’ pisen on the blade o’ my knife to smear it wi’ his black blood. F’r all, I ain’t a-gwine to let him off so easy’s all that, unless you an’ the captain insists on it. After the warmish work he’s had, an’ the sweat he’s put himself in by the wearin’ o’ two shirts at a time, I guess he won’t be any the worse of a sprinkling o’ cold water. So here goes to gie it him.”
Saying which, he strode off towards the ditch, half-dragging, half-carrying Santander along with him.
The cowed and craven creature neither made resistance, nor dared. Had he done so, the upshot was obvious. For the Texan’s blade, still bared, was shining before his eyes, and he knew that any attempt on his part, either to oppose the latter’s intention or escape, would result in having it buried between, his ribs. So, silently, sullenly, he allowed himself to be taken along, not as a lamb to the slaughter, but a wolf, or rather dog, about to be chastised for some malfeasance.
In an instant after, the chastisement was administered by the Texan laying hold of him with both hands, lifting him from off his feet, and then dropping him down into the water-ditch, where, weighted with the steel shirt, he fell with a dead, heavy plunge, going at once to the bottom.
“That’s less than your desarvin’s,” said the Texan, on thus delivering his charge. “An’ if it had been left to Cris Rock ’twould ’a beenup, ’stead o’down, he’d ’a sent ye. If iver man desarved hangin’, you’re the model o’ him. Ha—ha—ha! Look at the skunk now!”
The last words, with the laugh preceding them, were elicited by the ludicrous appearance which Santander presented. He had come to the surface again, and, with some difficulty, owing to the encumbrance of his under-shirt, clambered out upon the bank. But not as when he went under. Instead, with what appeared a green cloak over his shoulders, the scum of the stagnant water long collecting undisturbed. The hackney-driver—there was but one now, the other taken off by Duperon, who had hired him, their doctor too—joined with Rock in his laughter, while Kearney, Crittenden, and their own surgeon could not help uniting in the chorus. Never had tragic hero suffered a more comical discomfiture.
He was now permitted to withdraw from the scene of it, a permission of which he availed himself without further delay; first retreating for some distance along the Shell Road, as one wandering and distraught; then, as if seized by a sudden thought, diving into the timbered swamp alongside, and there disappearing.
Soon after the carriage containing the victorious party rattled past; they inside it scarce casting a look to see what had become of Santander. He was nothing to them now, at best only a thing to be a matter of ludicrous remembrance. Nor long remained he in their thoughts; these now reverting to Texas, and their necessity for hastening back to the Crescent City, to make start for “The Land of the Lone Star.”
Chapter Nine.A Spartan Band.In ancient days Sparta had its Thermopylae, while in those of modern date Sicily saw a thousand men in scarlet shirts make landing upon her coast, and conquer a kingdom defended by a military force twenty or thirty times their number!But deeds of heroism are not alone confined to the history of the Old World. That of the New presents us with many pages of a similar kind, and Texas can tell of achievements not surpassed, either in valour or chivalry, by any upon record. Such was the battle of San Jacinto, where the Texans were victorious, though overmatched in the proportion of ten to one: such the defence of Fort Alamo, when the brave Colonel Crockett, now world-known, surrendered up his life, alongside the equally brave “Jim Bowie,” he who gave his name to the knife which on that occasion he so efficiently wielded—after a protracted and terrible struggle dropping dead upon a heap of foes who had felt its sharp point and keen edge.Among the deeds of great renown done by the defenders of the young Republic, none may take higher rank, since none is entitled to it, than that known as the battle of Mier. Though they there lost the day—a defeat due to the incapacity of an ill-chosen leader—they won glory eternal. Every man of them who fell had first killed his foeman—some half a score—while of those who survived there was not one so craven as to cry “Quarter!” The white flag went not up till they were overwhelmed and overpowered by sheer disparity of numbers.It was a fight at first with rifles and musketry at long range; then closer as the hostile host came crowding in upon them; the bullets sent through windows and loopholed walls—some from the flat parapetted roofs of the houses—till at length it became a conflict hand to hand with knife, sword, and pistol, or guns clubbed—being empty, with no time to reload them—many a Texan braining one antagonist with the butt of his piece after having sent its bullet through the body of another!Vain all! Brute strength, represented by superior numbers, triumphed over warlike prowess, backed by indomitable courage; and the “Mier Expedition,” from which Texas had expected so much, ended disastrously, though ingloriously; those who survived being made prisoners, and carried off to the capital of Mexico.Of the Volunteer Corps which composed this ill-fated expedition—and they were indeed all volunteers—none gave better account of itself than that organised in Poydras Street, New Orleans, and among its individual members no man behaved better than he whom they had chosen as their leader. Florence Kearney had justified their choice, and proved true to the trust, as all who outlived that fatal day ever after admitted. Fortunately, he himself was among the survivors; by a like good luck, so too were his first-lieutenant Crittenden and Cris Rock. As at “Fanning’s Massacre,” so at Mier the gigantic Texan performed prodigies of valour, laying around him, and slaying on all sides, till at length wounded and disabled, like a lion beset by achevaux-de-friseof Caffre assegais, he was compelled to submit. Fighting side by side, with the man he had first taken a fancy to on the Levee of New Orleans, and afterwards became instrumental in making captain of his corps—finding this man to be what he had conjecturally believed and pronounced him—of the “true grit”—Cris Rock now felt for Florence Kearney almost the affection of a father, combined with the grand respect which one gallant soul is ever ready to pay another. Devotion, too, so strong and real, that had the young Irishman called upon him for the greatest risk of his life, in any good or honourable cause, he would have responded to the call without a moment’s hesitancy or murmur. Nay, more than risk; he would have laid it down, absolutely, to save that of his cherished leader.Proof of this was, in point of fact, afforded but a short while after. Any one acquainted with Texan history will remember how the Mier prisoners, while being taken to the city of Mexico, rose upon their guards, and mastering them, made their escape to the mountains around. This occurred at the little town of El Salado, and was caused by the terrible sufferings the captives had endured upon the march, added to many insults and cruelties, to which they had been subjected, not only by the Mexican soldiers, but the officers having them in charge. These had grown altogether insupportable, at El Salado reaching the climax.It brought about the crisis for a long time accumulating, and which the Texans anticipated. For they had, at every opportunity afforded them, talked over and perfected a plan of escape.By early daybreak on a certain morning, as their guards were carelessly lounging about an idle hour before continuing that toilsome journey, a signal shout was heard.“Now, boys, up and at them!” were the words, with some others following, which all well understood—almost a repetition of the famous order of Wellington at Waterloo. And as promptly obeyed; for on hearing it the Texans rushed at the soldiers of the escort, wrenched from them their weapons, and with those fought their way through the hastily-formed ranks of the enemy out into the open country.So far they had succeeded, though in the end, for most of them, it proved a short and sad respite. Pursued by an overwhelming force—fresh troops drawn from the garrisons in the neighbourhood, added to the late escort so shamefully discomfited, and smarting under the humiliation and defeat—the pursuit carrying them through a country to which they were entire strangers—a district almost uninhabited, without roads, and, worse still, without water,—not strange that all, or nearly all, of them were recaptured, and carried back to El Salado.Then ensued a scene worthy of being enacted by savages, for little better than savages were those in whose custody they were. Exulting fiend-like over their recapture, at first the word went round that all were to be executed; this being the general wish of their captors. No doubt the deed of wholesale vengeance would have been done, and our hero, Florence Kearney, with his companion, Cris Rock, never more have been heard of; in other words, the novel of the “Free Lances” would not have been written. But among those reckless avengers there were some who knew better than to advocate indiscriminate slaughter. It was “a far cry to Loch Awe,” all knew; the Highland loch typified not by Texas, but the United States. But the more knowing ones always knew that, however far, the cry might be heard, and then what the result? No mere band of Texan filibusters, ill-organised, and but poorly equipped, to come across the Rio Grande; instead a well-disciplined army in numbers enough for sure retaliation, bearing the banner of the “Stars and Stripes.”In fine, a more merciful course was determined upon; onlydecimationof the prisoners—every tenth man to suffer death.There was no word about degrees in their guiltiness—all were alike in this respect—and the fate of each was to be dependent on pure blind chance.When the retaken escapadoes had been brought back to El Salado, they were drawn up in line of single file, and carefully counted. A helmet, snatched from the head of one of the Dragoons guarding them, was made use of as a ballot-box. Into this were thrown a number of what we call French or kidney beans—thepijolesof Mexico—in count corresponding to that of the devoted victims. Of thesepijolesthere are several varieties, distinguishable chiefly by their colour. Two sorts are common, the black and white; and these were chosen to serve as tickets in that dread lottery of life and death. For every nine white beans there was a black one; he who drew black would be shot within the hour!Into the hard soldier’s head-piece, appropriate for such purpose, the beans were dropped, and the drawing done as designed. I, who now write of it long after, can truthfully affirm that never in the history of human kind has there been a grander exhibition of man’s courage than was that day given at El Salado. The men who exemplified it were of no particular nation. As a matter of course, the main body of the Texans were of American birth, but among them were also Englishmen, Scotchmen, Irishmen, French, and Germans—even some who spoke Spanish, the language of their captors, now their judges, and about to become their executioners. But when that helmet of horrible contents was carried round, and held before each, not one showed the slightest fear or hesitancy to plunge his hand into it, though knowing that what they should bring up between their fingers might be the sealing of their fate. Many laughed and made laughter among their comrades, by some quaintjeu d’esprit. One reckless fellow—no other than Cris Rock—as he fearlessly rattled the beans about, cried aloud—“Wal, boys, I guess it’s the tallest gamblin’ I’ve ever took a hand at. But this child ain’t afeerd. I was born to good luck, an’ am not likely to go under—jest yet.”The event justified his confidence, as he drewblank—notblack, the fatal colour.It was now Kearney’s turn to undergo the dread ordeal; and, without flinching, he was about to insert his hand into the helmet, when the Texan, seizing hold of it, stayed him.“No, Cap!” he exclaimed; “I’m wownded, putty bad, as ye see,”—(he had received a lance thrust in their struggle with the Guards)—“an’ mayent git over it. Thurfor, your life’s worth more’n mine. Besides, my luck’s good jest now. So let me take your chance. That’s allowed, as these skunks hev sayed themselves.”So it was—a declaration having been made by the officer who presided over the drawing—from humane motives as pretended—that any one who could find a substitute might himself stand clear. A grim mockery it seemed; and yet it was not so; since, besides Cris Rock, more than one courageous fellow proposed the same to comrade and friend—in the case of two brothers the elder one insisting upon it.Though fully, fervently appreciating the generous offer, Florence Kearney was not the man to avail himself of it.“Thanks, brave comrade!” he said, with warmth, detaching his hand from the Texan’s grasp, and thrusting it into the helmet. “What’s left of your life yet is worth more than all mine; and my luck may be good as yours—we’ll see.”It proved so, a murmur of satisfaction running along the line as they saw his hand drawn out with a white bear between the fingers.“Thanks to the Almighty!” joyously shouted the Texan, as he made out the colour. “Both o’ us clar o’ that scrape, by Job! An’ as there ain’t no need for me dyin’ yet, I mean to live it out, an’ git well agin.”And get well he did, despite the long after march, with all its exposures and fatigues; his health and strength being completely restored as he stepped over the threshold, entering within his prison-cell in the city of Mexico.
In ancient days Sparta had its Thermopylae, while in those of modern date Sicily saw a thousand men in scarlet shirts make landing upon her coast, and conquer a kingdom defended by a military force twenty or thirty times their number!
But deeds of heroism are not alone confined to the history of the Old World. That of the New presents us with many pages of a similar kind, and Texas can tell of achievements not surpassed, either in valour or chivalry, by any upon record. Such was the battle of San Jacinto, where the Texans were victorious, though overmatched in the proportion of ten to one: such the defence of Fort Alamo, when the brave Colonel Crockett, now world-known, surrendered up his life, alongside the equally brave “Jim Bowie,” he who gave his name to the knife which on that occasion he so efficiently wielded—after a protracted and terrible struggle dropping dead upon a heap of foes who had felt its sharp point and keen edge.
Among the deeds of great renown done by the defenders of the young Republic, none may take higher rank, since none is entitled to it, than that known as the battle of Mier. Though they there lost the day—a defeat due to the incapacity of an ill-chosen leader—they won glory eternal. Every man of them who fell had first killed his foeman—some half a score—while of those who survived there was not one so craven as to cry “Quarter!” The white flag went not up till they were overwhelmed and overpowered by sheer disparity of numbers.
It was a fight at first with rifles and musketry at long range; then closer as the hostile host came crowding in upon them; the bullets sent through windows and loopholed walls—some from the flat parapetted roofs of the houses—till at length it became a conflict hand to hand with knife, sword, and pistol, or guns clubbed—being empty, with no time to reload them—many a Texan braining one antagonist with the butt of his piece after having sent its bullet through the body of another!
Vain all! Brute strength, represented by superior numbers, triumphed over warlike prowess, backed by indomitable courage; and the “Mier Expedition,” from which Texas had expected so much, ended disastrously, though ingloriously; those who survived being made prisoners, and carried off to the capital of Mexico.
Of the Volunteer Corps which composed this ill-fated expedition—and they were indeed all volunteers—none gave better account of itself than that organised in Poydras Street, New Orleans, and among its individual members no man behaved better than he whom they had chosen as their leader. Florence Kearney had justified their choice, and proved true to the trust, as all who outlived that fatal day ever after admitted. Fortunately, he himself was among the survivors; by a like good luck, so too were his first-lieutenant Crittenden and Cris Rock. As at “Fanning’s Massacre,” so at Mier the gigantic Texan performed prodigies of valour, laying around him, and slaying on all sides, till at length wounded and disabled, like a lion beset by achevaux-de-friseof Caffre assegais, he was compelled to submit. Fighting side by side, with the man he had first taken a fancy to on the Levee of New Orleans, and afterwards became instrumental in making captain of his corps—finding this man to be what he had conjecturally believed and pronounced him—of the “true grit”—Cris Rock now felt for Florence Kearney almost the affection of a father, combined with the grand respect which one gallant soul is ever ready to pay another. Devotion, too, so strong and real, that had the young Irishman called upon him for the greatest risk of his life, in any good or honourable cause, he would have responded to the call without a moment’s hesitancy or murmur. Nay, more than risk; he would have laid it down, absolutely, to save that of his cherished leader.
Proof of this was, in point of fact, afforded but a short while after. Any one acquainted with Texan history will remember how the Mier prisoners, while being taken to the city of Mexico, rose upon their guards, and mastering them, made their escape to the mountains around. This occurred at the little town of El Salado, and was caused by the terrible sufferings the captives had endured upon the march, added to many insults and cruelties, to which they had been subjected, not only by the Mexican soldiers, but the officers having them in charge. These had grown altogether insupportable, at El Salado reaching the climax.
It brought about the crisis for a long time accumulating, and which the Texans anticipated. For they had, at every opportunity afforded them, talked over and perfected a plan of escape.
By early daybreak on a certain morning, as their guards were carelessly lounging about an idle hour before continuing that toilsome journey, a signal shout was heard.
“Now, boys, up and at them!” were the words, with some others following, which all well understood—almost a repetition of the famous order of Wellington at Waterloo. And as promptly obeyed; for on hearing it the Texans rushed at the soldiers of the escort, wrenched from them their weapons, and with those fought their way through the hastily-formed ranks of the enemy out into the open country.
So far they had succeeded, though in the end, for most of them, it proved a short and sad respite. Pursued by an overwhelming force—fresh troops drawn from the garrisons in the neighbourhood, added to the late escort so shamefully discomfited, and smarting under the humiliation and defeat—the pursuit carrying them through a country to which they were entire strangers—a district almost uninhabited, without roads, and, worse still, without water,—not strange that all, or nearly all, of them were recaptured, and carried back to El Salado.
Then ensued a scene worthy of being enacted by savages, for little better than savages were those in whose custody they were. Exulting fiend-like over their recapture, at first the word went round that all were to be executed; this being the general wish of their captors. No doubt the deed of wholesale vengeance would have been done, and our hero, Florence Kearney, with his companion, Cris Rock, never more have been heard of; in other words, the novel of the “Free Lances” would not have been written. But among those reckless avengers there were some who knew better than to advocate indiscriminate slaughter. It was “a far cry to Loch Awe,” all knew; the Highland loch typified not by Texas, but the United States. But the more knowing ones always knew that, however far, the cry might be heard, and then what the result? No mere band of Texan filibusters, ill-organised, and but poorly equipped, to come across the Rio Grande; instead a well-disciplined army in numbers enough for sure retaliation, bearing the banner of the “Stars and Stripes.”
In fine, a more merciful course was determined upon; onlydecimationof the prisoners—every tenth man to suffer death.
There was no word about degrees in their guiltiness—all were alike in this respect—and the fate of each was to be dependent on pure blind chance.
When the retaken escapadoes had been brought back to El Salado, they were drawn up in line of single file, and carefully counted. A helmet, snatched from the head of one of the Dragoons guarding them, was made use of as a ballot-box. Into this were thrown a number of what we call French or kidney beans—thepijolesof Mexico—in count corresponding to that of the devoted victims. Of thesepijolesthere are several varieties, distinguishable chiefly by their colour. Two sorts are common, the black and white; and these were chosen to serve as tickets in that dread lottery of life and death. For every nine white beans there was a black one; he who drew black would be shot within the hour!
Into the hard soldier’s head-piece, appropriate for such purpose, the beans were dropped, and the drawing done as designed. I, who now write of it long after, can truthfully affirm that never in the history of human kind has there been a grander exhibition of man’s courage than was that day given at El Salado. The men who exemplified it were of no particular nation. As a matter of course, the main body of the Texans were of American birth, but among them were also Englishmen, Scotchmen, Irishmen, French, and Germans—even some who spoke Spanish, the language of their captors, now their judges, and about to become their executioners. But when that helmet of horrible contents was carried round, and held before each, not one showed the slightest fear or hesitancy to plunge his hand into it, though knowing that what they should bring up between their fingers might be the sealing of their fate. Many laughed and made laughter among their comrades, by some quaintjeu d’esprit. One reckless fellow—no other than Cris Rock—as he fearlessly rattled the beans about, cried aloud—
“Wal, boys, I guess it’s the tallest gamblin’ I’ve ever took a hand at. But this child ain’t afeerd. I was born to good luck, an’ am not likely to go under—jest yet.”
The event justified his confidence, as he drewblank—notblack, the fatal colour.
It was now Kearney’s turn to undergo the dread ordeal; and, without flinching, he was about to insert his hand into the helmet, when the Texan, seizing hold of it, stayed him.
“No, Cap!” he exclaimed; “I’m wownded, putty bad, as ye see,”—(he had received a lance thrust in their struggle with the Guards)—“an’ mayent git over it. Thurfor, your life’s worth more’n mine. Besides, my luck’s good jest now. So let me take your chance. That’s allowed, as these skunks hev sayed themselves.”
So it was—a declaration having been made by the officer who presided over the drawing—from humane motives as pretended—that any one who could find a substitute might himself stand clear. A grim mockery it seemed; and yet it was not so; since, besides Cris Rock, more than one courageous fellow proposed the same to comrade and friend—in the case of two brothers the elder one insisting upon it.
Though fully, fervently appreciating the generous offer, Florence Kearney was not the man to avail himself of it.
“Thanks, brave comrade!” he said, with warmth, detaching his hand from the Texan’s grasp, and thrusting it into the helmet. “What’s left of your life yet is worth more than all mine; and my luck may be good as yours—we’ll see.”
It proved so, a murmur of satisfaction running along the line as they saw his hand drawn out with a white bear between the fingers.
“Thanks to the Almighty!” joyously shouted the Texan, as he made out the colour. “Both o’ us clar o’ that scrape, by Job! An’ as there ain’t no need for me dyin’ yet, I mean to live it out, an’ git well agin.”
And get well he did, despite the long after march, with all its exposures and fatigues; his health and strength being completely restored as he stepped over the threshold, entering within his prison-cell in the city of Mexico.
Chapter Ten.The Acordada.One of the most noted “lions” in the City of Mexico is the prison called La Acordada. Few strangers visit the Mexican capital without also paying a visit to this celebrated penal establishment, and few who enter its gloomy portals issue forth from them without having seen something to sadden the heart, and be ever afterwards remembered with repugnance and pain.There is, perhaps, no prison in the universal world where one may witness so many, and such a variety of criminals; since there is no crime known to the calendar that has not been committed by some one of the gaol-birds of the Acordada.Its cells, or cloisters—for the building was once a monastery—are usually well filled with thieves, forgers, ravishers, highway robbers, and a fair admixture of murderers; none appearing cowed or repentant, but boldly brazening it out, and even boasting of their deeds of villainy, fierce and strong as when doing them, save the disabled ones, who suffer from wounds or some loathsome disease.Nor is all their criminal action suspended inside the prison walls. It is carried on within their cells, and still more frequently in the courtyards of the ancient convent, where they are permitted to meet in common and spend a considerable portion of their time. Here they may be seen in groups, most of them ragged and greasy, squatted on the flags, card-playing—and cheating when they can—now and then quarrelling, but always talking loud and cursing.Into the midst of this mass of degraded humanity were thrust two of the unfortunate prisoners, taken at the battle of Mier—the two with whom our tale has alone to do.For reasons that need not be told, most of the captives were excepted from this degradation; the main body of them being carried on through the city to the pleasant suburban village of Tacubaya.But Florence Kearney and Cris Rock were not among the exceptions; both having been consigned to the horrid pandemonium we have painted.It was some consolation to them that they were allowed to share the same cell, though they would have liked it better could they have had this all to themselves. As it was, they had not; two individuals being bestowed in it along with them.It was an apartment of but limited dimensions—about eight feet by ten—the cloister of some ancient monk, who, no doubt, led a jolly enough life of it there, or, if not there, in the refectory outside, in the days when the Acordada was a pleasant place of residence for himself and his cowled companions. For his monastery, as “Bolton Abbey in the olden time,” saw many a scene of good cheer, its inmates being no anchorites.Beside the Texan prisoners, its other occupants now were men of Mexican birth. One of them, under more favourable circumstances, would have presented a fine appearance. Even in his prison garb, somewhat ragged and squalid, he looked the gentleman and something more. For there was that in his air and physiognomy, which proclaimed him no common man. Captivity may hold and make more fierce, but cannot degrade, the lion. And just as a lion in its cage seemed this man in a cell of the Acordada. His face was of the rotund type, bold in its expression, yet with something of gentle humanity, seen when searched for, in the profound depths of a dark penetrating eye. His complexion was a clear olive, such as is common to Mexicans of pure Spanish descent, the progeny of the Conquistadors; his beard and moustache coal-black, as also the thick mass of hair that, bushing out and down over his ears, half concealed them.Cris Rock “cottoned” to this man on sight. Nor liked him much the less when told he had been a robber! Cris supposed that in Mexico a robber may sometimes be an honest man, or at all events, have taken to the road through some supposed wrong—personal or political. Freebooting is less a crime, or at all events, more easy of extenuation in a country whose chief magistrate himself is a freebooter; and such, at this moment, neither more nor less, was the chief magistrate of Mexico, Don Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna.Beyond the fact, or it might be only suspicion, that Ruperto Rivas was a robber, little seemed to be known of him among the inmates of the Acordada. He had been there only a short while, and took no part in their vulgar, commonplace ways of killing time; instead, staying within his cell. His name had, however, leaked out, and this brought up in the minds of some of his fellow-prisoners certain reminiscences pointing to him as one of the road fraternity; no common one either, but the chief of a band of “salteadores.”Altogether different was the fourth personage entitled to a share in the cell appropriated to Kearney and Cris Rock; unlike the reputed robber as the Satyr to Hyperion. In short, a contrast of the completest kind, both physically and mentally. No two beings claiming to be of human kind could have presented a greater dissimilarity—being very types of the extreme. Ruperto Rivas, despite the shabby habiliments in which the gaol authorities had arrayed him, looked all dignity and grandeur, while El Zorillo—the little fox, as his prison companions called him—was an epitomised impersonation of wickedness and meanness; not only crooked in soul, but in body—being in point of fact anenanoor dwarf-hunchback.Previous to the arrival of those who were henceforth to share their cell, this ill-assorted pair had been kept chained together, as much by way of punishment as to prevent escape. But now, the gaol-governor, as if struck by a comical idea, directed them to be separated, and the dwarf linked to the Texan Colossus—thus presenting a yet more ludicrous contrast of couples—while the ex-captain of the filibusters and the reputed robber were consigned to the same chain.Of the new occupants of the cloister, Cris Rock was the more disgusted with the situation. His heart was large enough to feel sympathy for humanity in any shape, and he would have pitied his deformed fellow-prisoner, but for a deformity of the latter worse than any physical ugliness; for the Texan soon learnt that the hideous creature, whose couch as well as chain he was forced to share, had committed crimes of the most atrocious nature, among the rest murder! It was, in fact, for this last that he was now in the Acordada—a cowardly murder, too—a case of poisoning. That he still lived was due to the proofs not being legally satisfactory, though no one doubted of his having perpetrated the crime. At first contact with this wretch the Texan had recoiled in horror, without knowing aught of his past. There was that in his face which spoke a history of dark deeds. But when this became known to the new denizens of the cell, the proximity of such a monster was positively revolting to them.Vengeance itself could not have devised a more effective mode of torture. Cris Rock groaned under it, now and then grinding his teeth and stamping his feet, as if he could have trodden the mis-shapen thing into a still more shapeless mass under the heels of his heavy boots.For the first two days of their imprisonment in the Acordada neither of the Texans could understand why they were being thus punished—as it were to satisfy some personal spite. None of the other Mier prisoners, of whom several had been brought to the same gaol, were submitted to a like degradation. True, these were also chained two and two; but to one another, and not to Mexican criminals. Why, then, had they alone been made an exception? For their lives neither could tell or guess, though they gave way to every kind of conjecture. It was true enough that Cris Rock had been one of the ringleaders in the rising at El Salado, while the young Irishman had also taken a prominent part in that affair. Still, there were others now in the Acordada who had done the same, receiving treatment altogether different. The attack upon the Guards, therefore, could scarce be the cause of what they were called upon to suffer now; for besides the humiliation of being chained to criminals, they were otherwise severely dealt with. The food set before them was of the coarsest, with a scarcity of it; and more than once the gaoler, whose duty it was to look after them, made mockery of their irksome situation, jesting on the grotesque companionship of the dwarf and giant. As the gaol-governor had shown, on his first having them conveyed to their cells, signs of a special hostility, so did their daily attendant. But for what reason neither Florence Kearney nor his faithful comrade could divine.They learnt it at length—on the third day after their entrance within the prison. All was explained by the door of their cell being drawn open, exposing to view the face and figure of a man well-known to them. And from both something like a cry escaped, as they saw standing without, by the side of the gaol-governor—Carlos Santander.
One of the most noted “lions” in the City of Mexico is the prison called La Acordada. Few strangers visit the Mexican capital without also paying a visit to this celebrated penal establishment, and few who enter its gloomy portals issue forth from them without having seen something to sadden the heart, and be ever afterwards remembered with repugnance and pain.
There is, perhaps, no prison in the universal world where one may witness so many, and such a variety of criminals; since there is no crime known to the calendar that has not been committed by some one of the gaol-birds of the Acordada.
Its cells, or cloisters—for the building was once a monastery—are usually well filled with thieves, forgers, ravishers, highway robbers, and a fair admixture of murderers; none appearing cowed or repentant, but boldly brazening it out, and even boasting of their deeds of villainy, fierce and strong as when doing them, save the disabled ones, who suffer from wounds or some loathsome disease.
Nor is all their criminal action suspended inside the prison walls. It is carried on within their cells, and still more frequently in the courtyards of the ancient convent, where they are permitted to meet in common and spend a considerable portion of their time. Here they may be seen in groups, most of them ragged and greasy, squatted on the flags, card-playing—and cheating when they can—now and then quarrelling, but always talking loud and cursing.
Into the midst of this mass of degraded humanity were thrust two of the unfortunate prisoners, taken at the battle of Mier—the two with whom our tale has alone to do.
For reasons that need not be told, most of the captives were excepted from this degradation; the main body of them being carried on through the city to the pleasant suburban village of Tacubaya.
But Florence Kearney and Cris Rock were not among the exceptions; both having been consigned to the horrid pandemonium we have painted.
It was some consolation to them that they were allowed to share the same cell, though they would have liked it better could they have had this all to themselves. As it was, they had not; two individuals being bestowed in it along with them.
It was an apartment of but limited dimensions—about eight feet by ten—the cloister of some ancient monk, who, no doubt, led a jolly enough life of it there, or, if not there, in the refectory outside, in the days when the Acordada was a pleasant place of residence for himself and his cowled companions. For his monastery, as “Bolton Abbey in the olden time,” saw many a scene of good cheer, its inmates being no anchorites.
Beside the Texan prisoners, its other occupants now were men of Mexican birth. One of them, under more favourable circumstances, would have presented a fine appearance. Even in his prison garb, somewhat ragged and squalid, he looked the gentleman and something more. For there was that in his air and physiognomy, which proclaimed him no common man. Captivity may hold and make more fierce, but cannot degrade, the lion. And just as a lion in its cage seemed this man in a cell of the Acordada. His face was of the rotund type, bold in its expression, yet with something of gentle humanity, seen when searched for, in the profound depths of a dark penetrating eye. His complexion was a clear olive, such as is common to Mexicans of pure Spanish descent, the progeny of the Conquistadors; his beard and moustache coal-black, as also the thick mass of hair that, bushing out and down over his ears, half concealed them.
Cris Rock “cottoned” to this man on sight. Nor liked him much the less when told he had been a robber! Cris supposed that in Mexico a robber may sometimes be an honest man, or at all events, have taken to the road through some supposed wrong—personal or political. Freebooting is less a crime, or at all events, more easy of extenuation in a country whose chief magistrate himself is a freebooter; and such, at this moment, neither more nor less, was the chief magistrate of Mexico, Don Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna.
Beyond the fact, or it might be only suspicion, that Ruperto Rivas was a robber, little seemed to be known of him among the inmates of the Acordada. He had been there only a short while, and took no part in their vulgar, commonplace ways of killing time; instead, staying within his cell. His name had, however, leaked out, and this brought up in the minds of some of his fellow-prisoners certain reminiscences pointing to him as one of the road fraternity; no common one either, but the chief of a band of “salteadores.”
Altogether different was the fourth personage entitled to a share in the cell appropriated to Kearney and Cris Rock; unlike the reputed robber as the Satyr to Hyperion. In short, a contrast of the completest kind, both physically and mentally. No two beings claiming to be of human kind could have presented a greater dissimilarity—being very types of the extreme. Ruperto Rivas, despite the shabby habiliments in which the gaol authorities had arrayed him, looked all dignity and grandeur, while El Zorillo—the little fox, as his prison companions called him—was an epitomised impersonation of wickedness and meanness; not only crooked in soul, but in body—being in point of fact anenanoor dwarf-hunchback.
Previous to the arrival of those who were henceforth to share their cell, this ill-assorted pair had been kept chained together, as much by way of punishment as to prevent escape. But now, the gaol-governor, as if struck by a comical idea, directed them to be separated, and the dwarf linked to the Texan Colossus—thus presenting a yet more ludicrous contrast of couples—while the ex-captain of the filibusters and the reputed robber were consigned to the same chain.
Of the new occupants of the cloister, Cris Rock was the more disgusted with the situation. His heart was large enough to feel sympathy for humanity in any shape, and he would have pitied his deformed fellow-prisoner, but for a deformity of the latter worse than any physical ugliness; for the Texan soon learnt that the hideous creature, whose couch as well as chain he was forced to share, had committed crimes of the most atrocious nature, among the rest murder! It was, in fact, for this last that he was now in the Acordada—a cowardly murder, too—a case of poisoning. That he still lived was due to the proofs not being legally satisfactory, though no one doubted of his having perpetrated the crime. At first contact with this wretch the Texan had recoiled in horror, without knowing aught of his past. There was that in his face which spoke a history of dark deeds. But when this became known to the new denizens of the cell, the proximity of such a monster was positively revolting to them.
Vengeance itself could not have devised a more effective mode of torture. Cris Rock groaned under it, now and then grinding his teeth and stamping his feet, as if he could have trodden the mis-shapen thing into a still more shapeless mass under the heels of his heavy boots.
For the first two days of their imprisonment in the Acordada neither of the Texans could understand why they were being thus punished—as it were to satisfy some personal spite. None of the other Mier prisoners, of whom several had been brought to the same gaol, were submitted to a like degradation. True, these were also chained two and two; but to one another, and not to Mexican criminals. Why, then, had they alone been made an exception? For their lives neither could tell or guess, though they gave way to every kind of conjecture. It was true enough that Cris Rock had been one of the ringleaders in the rising at El Salado, while the young Irishman had also taken a prominent part in that affair. Still, there were others now in the Acordada who had done the same, receiving treatment altogether different. The attack upon the Guards, therefore, could scarce be the cause of what they were called upon to suffer now; for besides the humiliation of being chained to criminals, they were otherwise severely dealt with. The food set before them was of the coarsest, with a scarcity of it; and more than once the gaoler, whose duty it was to look after them, made mockery of their irksome situation, jesting on the grotesque companionship of the dwarf and giant. As the gaol-governor had shown, on his first having them conveyed to their cells, signs of a special hostility, so did their daily attendant. But for what reason neither Florence Kearney nor his faithful comrade could divine.
They learnt it at length—on the third day after their entrance within the prison. All was explained by the door of their cell being drawn open, exposing to view the face and figure of a man well-known to them. And from both something like a cry escaped, as they saw standing without, by the side of the gaol-governor—Carlos Santander.
Chapter Eleven.A Colonel in Full Feather.Yes; outside the door of their cell was Carlos Santander. And in full war panoply, wearing a magnificent uniform, with a glittering sword by his side, and on his head a cocked hat, surmounted by apanacheof white ostrich feathers!To explain his presence there, and in such guise, it is necessary to return upon time and state some particulars of this man’s life not yet before the reader. As already said, he was a native of New Orleans, but of Mexican parentage, and regarding himself as a Mexican citizen. Something more than a mere citizen, indeed; as, previous to his encounter with Florence Kearney, he had been for a time resident in Mexico, holding some sort of appointment under that Government, or from the Dictator himself—Santa Anna. What he was doing in New Orleans no one exactly knew, though among his intimates there was an impression that he still served his Mexican master, in the capacity of a secret agent—a sort ofprocurador, or spy. Nor did this suspicion do him wrong: for he was drawing pay from Santa Anna, and doing work for him in the States, which could scarce be dignified with the name of diplomacy. Proof of its vile character is afforded by the action he took among the volunteers in Poydras Street. His presenting himself at their rendezvous, getting enrolled in the corps, and offering as a candidate for the captaincy, were all done under instructions, and with a design which, for wickedness and cold-blooded atrocity, was worthy of Satan himself. Had he succeeded in becoming the leader of this ill-fated band, for them the upshot might have been no worse; though it would not have been better; since it was his intention to betray them to the enemy at the first opportunity that should offer. Thwarted in this intent, knowing he could no longer show his face among the filibusters, even though it were but as a private in the ranks; fearing, furthermore, the shame that awaited him in New Orleans soon as the affair of the steel shirt should get bruited about, he had hastily decamped from that place, and, as we now know, once more made his way to Mexico.Luckily for him, the shirt, or rather under-shirt, business leaked not out; at least not to reach the ears of any one in the Mexican capital.Nor, indeed, was it ever much known in New Orleans. His second, Duperon, for his own sake not desiring to make it public, had refrained from speaking of it; and their doctor, a close little Frenchman, controlled by Duperon, remained equally reticent; while all those on the other side—Kearney, Crittenden, Rock and the surgeon—had taken departure for Texas on the very day of the duel; from that time forward having “other fish to fry.”But there were still the two hackney-drivers, who, no doubt, had they stayed in the Crescent City in pursuit of their daily avocation, would have given notoriety to an occurrence curious as it was scandalous.It chanced, however, that both the jarveys were Irishmen; and suddenly smitten with warlike aspirations—either from witnessing the spectacle of the duel, or the gallant behaviour of their young countryman—on that same day dropped the ribbons, and, taking to a musket instead, wore among the men who composed the ill-started expedition which came to grief on the Rio Grande.So, for the time, Carlos Santander had escaped the brand of infamy due to his dastardly act.His reappearance on the scene in such grand garb needs little explanation. A fairly brave and skilled soldier, a vainer man than General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna never wore sword, and one of his foibles was to see himself surrounded by a glittering escort. The officers of his staff were very peacocks in their gaudy adornment, and as a rale, the best-looking of them were his first favourites. Santander, on returning to Mexico, was appointed one of his aides-de-camp, and being just the sort—a showy fellow—soon rose to rank; so that the defeated candidate for a captaincy of Texan Volunteers, was now a colonel in the Mexican Army, on the personal staff of its Commander-in-Chief.Had Florence Kearney and Cris Rock but known they were to meet this man in Mexico—could they have anticipated seeing him, as he was now, at the door of their prison-cell—their hearts would have been fainter as they toiled along the weary way, and perchance in that lottery of life and death they might have little cared whether they drew black or white.At the sight of him there rose up all at once in their recollection that scene upon the Shell Road; the Texan vividly recalling how he had ducked the caitiff in the ditch, as how he looked after crawling out upon the bank—mud bedraggled and covered with the viscous scum,—in strange contrast to his splendid appearance now! And Kearney well remembered the same, noting in addition a scar on Santander’s cheek—he had himself given—which the latter vainly sought to conceal beneath whiskers since permitted to grow their full length and breadth.These remembrances were enough to make the heart of the captive Irishman beat quick, if it did not quail; while that of the Texan had like reason to throb apprehensively.Nor could they draw any comfort from the expression on Santander’s face. Instead, they but read there what they might well believe to be their death sentence. The man was smiling, but it was the smile of Lucifer in triumph—mocking, malignant, seeming to say, without spoken word but, for all that, emphatically and with determination—“I have you in my power, and verily you shall feel my vengeance.”They could tell it was no accident had brought him thither no duty of prison inspection—but the fiendish purpose to flaunt his grandeur before their eyes, and gloat over the misery he knew it would cause them. And his presence explained what had hitherto been a puzzle to them—why they two were being made an exception among their captive comrades, and thrown into such strange fellowship. It must have been to humiliate them; as, indeed, they could now tell by a certain speech which the gaol-governor addressed to Santander, as the cell door turned back upon its hinges.“There they are, Señor Colonel! As you see, I’ve had them coupled according to orders. What a well-matched pair!” he added, ironically, as his eyes fell upon Cris Rock and the hunchback. “Ay Dios! It’s a sight to draw laughter from the most sober-sided recluse that ever lodged within these walls. Ha! ha! ha!”It drew this from Carlos Santander; who, relishing the jest, joined in the “ha! ha!” till the old convent rang with their coarse ribaldry.
Yes; outside the door of their cell was Carlos Santander. And in full war panoply, wearing a magnificent uniform, with a glittering sword by his side, and on his head a cocked hat, surmounted by apanacheof white ostrich feathers!
To explain his presence there, and in such guise, it is necessary to return upon time and state some particulars of this man’s life not yet before the reader. As already said, he was a native of New Orleans, but of Mexican parentage, and regarding himself as a Mexican citizen. Something more than a mere citizen, indeed; as, previous to his encounter with Florence Kearney, he had been for a time resident in Mexico, holding some sort of appointment under that Government, or from the Dictator himself—Santa Anna. What he was doing in New Orleans no one exactly knew, though among his intimates there was an impression that he still served his Mexican master, in the capacity of a secret agent—a sort ofprocurador, or spy. Nor did this suspicion do him wrong: for he was drawing pay from Santa Anna, and doing work for him in the States, which could scarce be dignified with the name of diplomacy. Proof of its vile character is afforded by the action he took among the volunteers in Poydras Street. His presenting himself at their rendezvous, getting enrolled in the corps, and offering as a candidate for the captaincy, were all done under instructions, and with a design which, for wickedness and cold-blooded atrocity, was worthy of Satan himself. Had he succeeded in becoming the leader of this ill-fated band, for them the upshot might have been no worse; though it would not have been better; since it was his intention to betray them to the enemy at the first opportunity that should offer. Thwarted in this intent, knowing he could no longer show his face among the filibusters, even though it were but as a private in the ranks; fearing, furthermore, the shame that awaited him in New Orleans soon as the affair of the steel shirt should get bruited about, he had hastily decamped from that place, and, as we now know, once more made his way to Mexico.
Luckily for him, the shirt, or rather under-shirt, business leaked not out; at least not to reach the ears of any one in the Mexican capital.
Nor, indeed, was it ever much known in New Orleans. His second, Duperon, for his own sake not desiring to make it public, had refrained from speaking of it; and their doctor, a close little Frenchman, controlled by Duperon, remained equally reticent; while all those on the other side—Kearney, Crittenden, Rock and the surgeon—had taken departure for Texas on the very day of the duel; from that time forward having “other fish to fry.”
But there were still the two hackney-drivers, who, no doubt, had they stayed in the Crescent City in pursuit of their daily avocation, would have given notoriety to an occurrence curious as it was scandalous.
It chanced, however, that both the jarveys were Irishmen; and suddenly smitten with warlike aspirations—either from witnessing the spectacle of the duel, or the gallant behaviour of their young countryman—on that same day dropped the ribbons, and, taking to a musket instead, wore among the men who composed the ill-started expedition which came to grief on the Rio Grande.
So, for the time, Carlos Santander had escaped the brand of infamy due to his dastardly act.
His reappearance on the scene in such grand garb needs little explanation. A fairly brave and skilled soldier, a vainer man than General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna never wore sword, and one of his foibles was to see himself surrounded by a glittering escort. The officers of his staff were very peacocks in their gaudy adornment, and as a rale, the best-looking of them were his first favourites. Santander, on returning to Mexico, was appointed one of his aides-de-camp, and being just the sort—a showy fellow—soon rose to rank; so that the defeated candidate for a captaincy of Texan Volunteers, was now a colonel in the Mexican Army, on the personal staff of its Commander-in-Chief.
Had Florence Kearney and Cris Rock but known they were to meet this man in Mexico—could they have anticipated seeing him, as he was now, at the door of their prison-cell—their hearts would have been fainter as they toiled along the weary way, and perchance in that lottery of life and death they might have little cared whether they drew black or white.
At the sight of him there rose up all at once in their recollection that scene upon the Shell Road; the Texan vividly recalling how he had ducked the caitiff in the ditch, as how he looked after crawling out upon the bank—mud bedraggled and covered with the viscous scum,—in strange contrast to his splendid appearance now! And Kearney well remembered the same, noting in addition a scar on Santander’s cheek—he had himself given—which the latter vainly sought to conceal beneath whiskers since permitted to grow their full length and breadth.
These remembrances were enough to make the heart of the captive Irishman beat quick, if it did not quail; while that of the Texan had like reason to throb apprehensively.
Nor could they draw any comfort from the expression on Santander’s face. Instead, they but read there what they might well believe to be their death sentence. The man was smiling, but it was the smile of Lucifer in triumph—mocking, malignant, seeming to say, without spoken word but, for all that, emphatically and with determination—
“I have you in my power, and verily you shall feel my vengeance.”
They could tell it was no accident had brought him thither no duty of prison inspection—but the fiendish purpose to flaunt his grandeur before their eyes, and gloat over the misery he knew it would cause them. And his presence explained what had hitherto been a puzzle to them—why they two were being made an exception among their captive comrades, and thrown into such strange fellowship. It must have been to humiliate them; as, indeed, they could now tell by a certain speech which the gaol-governor addressed to Santander, as the cell door turned back upon its hinges.
“There they are, Señor Colonel! As you see, I’ve had them coupled according to orders. What a well-matched pair!” he added, ironically, as his eyes fell upon Cris Rock and the hunchback. “Ay Dios! It’s a sight to draw laughter from the most sober-sided recluse that ever lodged within these walls. Ha! ha! ha!”
It drew this from Carlos Santander; who, relishing the jest, joined in the “ha! ha!” till the old convent rang with their coarse ribaldry.
Chapter Twelve.“Do your darndest.”During all this time—only a few seconds it was—the four men within the cell preserved silence; the dwarf, as the door alone was drawn open, having said to the gaol-governor: “Buenas Dias Excellenza! you’re coming to set us free, aren’t you?”A mere bit of jocular bravado; for, as might be supposed, the deformed wretch could have little hope of deliverance, save by the gallows, to which he had actually been condemned. A creature of indomitable pluck, however, this had not so far frightened him as to hinder jesting—a habit to which he was greatly given. Besides, he did not believe he was going to thegarota. Murderer though he was, he might expect pardon, could he only find money sufficient to pay the price, and satisfy the conscience of those who had him in keeping.His question was neither answered nor himself taken notice of; the attention of those outside being now directed upon the other occupants of the cell. Of these only two had their faces so that they could be seen. The third, who was the reputed robber, kept his turned towards the wall, the opened door being behind his back; and this attitude he preserved, not being called upon to change it till Santander had closed his conversation with Cris Rock and Kearney. He had opened it in a jaunty, jeering tone, saying—“Well, my brave Filibusters! Is this where you are?Caspita! In a queer place and queer company, too! Not so nice, Señor Don Florencio, as that you used to keep in the Crescent City. And you, my Texan Colossus! I take it you don’t find the atmosphere of the Acordada quite so pleasant as the fresh breezes of prairie-land, eh?”He paused, as if to note the effect of his irony; then continued—“So this is the ending of the grand Mier Expedition, with the further invasion of Mexico! Well, you’ve found your way to its capital, anyhow, if you haven’t fought it. And now you’re here, what do you expect, pray?”“Not much o’ good from sich a scoundrel as you,” responded Rock, in a tone of reckless defiance.“What! No good from me! An old acquaintance—friend, I ought rather to call myself, after the little scene that passed between us on the shores of Pontchartrain. Come, gentlemen! Being here among strangers you should think yourselves fortunate in finding an old comrade of the filibustering band; one owing you so many obligations. Ah! well; having the opportunity now, I shall try my best to wipe out the indebtedness.”“You kin do your darndest,” rejoined Rock in the same sullen tone. “We don’t look for marcy at your hands nosomever. It ain’t in ye; an if ’t war, Cris Rock ’ud scorn to claim it. So ye may do yur crowing on a dunghill, whar there be cocks like to be scared at it. Thar ain’t neery one o’ that sort hyar.”Santander was taken aback by this unlooked-for rebuff. He had come to the Acordada to indulge in the luxury of a little vapouring over his fallen foes, whom he knew to be there, having been informed of all that had befallen them from Mier up to Mexico. He expected to find them cowed, and eager to crave life from him; which he would no more have granted than to a brace of dogs that had bitten him. But so far from showing any fear, both prisoners looked a little defiant; the Texan with the air of a caged wolf seeming ready to tear him if he showed but a step over the threshold of the cell.“Oh! very well,” he returned, making light of what Rock had said. “If you won’t accept favours from an old, and, as you know, tried friend, I must leave you so without them. But,” he added, addressing himself more directly to Kearney:“You, Señor Irlandes—surely you won’t be so unreasonable?”“Carlos Santander,” said the young Irishman, looking hisci-devantadversary full in the face, “as I proved you not worth thrusting with my sword, I now pronounce you not worth words—even to call you coward,—though that you are from the crown of your head to the soles of your feet. Not even brave when your body is encased in armour. Dastard! I defy you.”Though manifestly stung by the reminder, Santander preserved his coolness. He had this, if not courage—at least a knack of feigning it. But again foiled in the attempt to humble the enemy, and, moreover, dreading exposure in the eyes of the gaol-governor—an oldmilitario—should the story of thesteel shirtcome out in the conversation, he desisted questioning theTejanos. Luckily for him none of the others there understood English—the language he and the Texans had used in their brief, but sharp exchange of words. Now addressing himself to the governor, he said—“As you perceive, Señor Don Pedro, these two gentlemen are old acquaintances of mine, whose present unfortunate position I regret, and would gladly relieve. Alas! I fear the law will take its course.”At which commiserating remark Don Pedro smiled grimly; well aware of the sort of interest Colonel Santander took in the pair of prisoners committed to his care. For the order so to dispose of them he knew to have come from Santander himself! It was not his place, nor was he the kind of man to inquire into motives; especially when these concerned his superiors. Santander was an officer on the staff of the Dictator, besides being a favourite at Court. The gaol-governor knew it, and was subservient. Had he been commanded to secretly strangle the two men thus specially placed in his charge, or administer poison to them, he would have done it without pity or protest. The cruel tyrant who had made him governor of the Acordada knew his man, and had already, as rumour said, with history to confirm it, more than once availed himself of this means to get rid of enemies, personal or political.During all this interlude the robber had maintained his position and silence, his face turned to the blank wall of the cloister, his back upon all the others. What his motive for this was neither of the Texans could tell; and in all likelihood Santander knew not himself any more who the man was. But his behaviour, from its very strangeness, courted inquiry; and seemingly struck with it, the staff-colonel, addressing himself to the gaol-governor, said—“By the way, Don Pedro, who is your prisoner, who makes the fourth in this curious quartette? He seems shy about showing his face, which would argue it an ugly one like my own.”A bit of badinage in which Carlos Santander oft indulged. He knew that he was anything but ill-favoured as far as face went.“Only a gentleman of the road—un salteador” responded the governor.“An interesting sort of individual then,” said Santander. “Let me scan his countenance, and see whether it be of the true brigand type—a Mazaroni or Diavolo.”So saying, he stepped inside the cell, and passed on till he could see over the robber’s shoulder, who now slightly turning his head, faced towards him. Not a word was exchanged between the two, but from the looks it was clear they were old acquaintances, Santander starting as he recognised the other; while his glance betrayed a hostility strong and fierce as that felt for either Florence Kearney or the Texan. A slight exclamation, involuntary, but telling of anger, was all that passed his lips as his eyes met a pair of other eyes which seemed to pierce his very heart.He stayed not for more; but turning upon his heel, made direct for the door. Not to reach it, however, without interruption. In his hurry to be gone, he stumbled over the legs of the Texan, that stretched across the cell, nearly from side to side. Angered by the obstruction, he gave them a spiteful kick, then passed on outward. By good fortune fast and far out of reach, otherwise Cris Rock, who sprang to his feet, and on for the entrance, jerking the dwarf after, would in all probability there and then have taken his life.As it was, the gaol-governor, seeing the danger, suddenly shut the cloister door, so saving it.“Jest as I’ve been tellin’ ye all along, Cap,” coolly remarked Rock, as the slammed door ceased to make resonance; “we shed ha’ hanged the skunk, or shot him thar an’ then on the Shell Road. ’Twar a foolish thing lettin’ him out o’ that ditch when I had him in it. Darn the luck o’ my not drownin’ him outright! We’re like to sup sorrow for it now.”
During all this time—only a few seconds it was—the four men within the cell preserved silence; the dwarf, as the door alone was drawn open, having said to the gaol-governor: “Buenas Dias Excellenza! you’re coming to set us free, aren’t you?”
A mere bit of jocular bravado; for, as might be supposed, the deformed wretch could have little hope of deliverance, save by the gallows, to which he had actually been condemned. A creature of indomitable pluck, however, this had not so far frightened him as to hinder jesting—a habit to which he was greatly given. Besides, he did not believe he was going to thegarota. Murderer though he was, he might expect pardon, could he only find money sufficient to pay the price, and satisfy the conscience of those who had him in keeping.
His question was neither answered nor himself taken notice of; the attention of those outside being now directed upon the other occupants of the cell. Of these only two had their faces so that they could be seen. The third, who was the reputed robber, kept his turned towards the wall, the opened door being behind his back; and this attitude he preserved, not being called upon to change it till Santander had closed his conversation with Cris Rock and Kearney. He had opened it in a jaunty, jeering tone, saying—
“Well, my brave Filibusters! Is this where you are?Caspita! In a queer place and queer company, too! Not so nice, Señor Don Florencio, as that you used to keep in the Crescent City. And you, my Texan Colossus! I take it you don’t find the atmosphere of the Acordada quite so pleasant as the fresh breezes of prairie-land, eh?”
He paused, as if to note the effect of his irony; then continued—
“So this is the ending of the grand Mier Expedition, with the further invasion of Mexico! Well, you’ve found your way to its capital, anyhow, if you haven’t fought it. And now you’re here, what do you expect, pray?”
“Not much o’ good from sich a scoundrel as you,” responded Rock, in a tone of reckless defiance.
“What! No good from me! An old acquaintance—friend, I ought rather to call myself, after the little scene that passed between us on the shores of Pontchartrain. Come, gentlemen! Being here among strangers you should think yourselves fortunate in finding an old comrade of the filibustering band; one owing you so many obligations. Ah! well; having the opportunity now, I shall try my best to wipe out the indebtedness.”
“You kin do your darndest,” rejoined Rock in the same sullen tone. “We don’t look for marcy at your hands nosomever. It ain’t in ye; an if ’t war, Cris Rock ’ud scorn to claim it. So ye may do yur crowing on a dunghill, whar there be cocks like to be scared at it. Thar ain’t neery one o’ that sort hyar.”
Santander was taken aback by this unlooked-for rebuff. He had come to the Acordada to indulge in the luxury of a little vapouring over his fallen foes, whom he knew to be there, having been informed of all that had befallen them from Mier up to Mexico. He expected to find them cowed, and eager to crave life from him; which he would no more have granted than to a brace of dogs that had bitten him. But so far from showing any fear, both prisoners looked a little defiant; the Texan with the air of a caged wolf seeming ready to tear him if he showed but a step over the threshold of the cell.
“Oh! very well,” he returned, making light of what Rock had said. “If you won’t accept favours from an old, and, as you know, tried friend, I must leave you so without them. But,” he added, addressing himself more directly to Kearney:
“You, Señor Irlandes—surely you won’t be so unreasonable?”
“Carlos Santander,” said the young Irishman, looking hisci-devantadversary full in the face, “as I proved you not worth thrusting with my sword, I now pronounce you not worth words—even to call you coward,—though that you are from the crown of your head to the soles of your feet. Not even brave when your body is encased in armour. Dastard! I defy you.”
Though manifestly stung by the reminder, Santander preserved his coolness. He had this, if not courage—at least a knack of feigning it. But again foiled in the attempt to humble the enemy, and, moreover, dreading exposure in the eyes of the gaol-governor—an oldmilitario—should the story of thesteel shirtcome out in the conversation, he desisted questioning theTejanos. Luckily for him none of the others there understood English—the language he and the Texans had used in their brief, but sharp exchange of words. Now addressing himself to the governor, he said—
“As you perceive, Señor Don Pedro, these two gentlemen are old acquaintances of mine, whose present unfortunate position I regret, and would gladly relieve. Alas! I fear the law will take its course.”
At which commiserating remark Don Pedro smiled grimly; well aware of the sort of interest Colonel Santander took in the pair of prisoners committed to his care. For the order so to dispose of them he knew to have come from Santander himself! It was not his place, nor was he the kind of man to inquire into motives; especially when these concerned his superiors. Santander was an officer on the staff of the Dictator, besides being a favourite at Court. The gaol-governor knew it, and was subservient. Had he been commanded to secretly strangle the two men thus specially placed in his charge, or administer poison to them, he would have done it without pity or protest. The cruel tyrant who had made him governor of the Acordada knew his man, and had already, as rumour said, with history to confirm it, more than once availed himself of this means to get rid of enemies, personal or political.
During all this interlude the robber had maintained his position and silence, his face turned to the blank wall of the cloister, his back upon all the others. What his motive for this was neither of the Texans could tell; and in all likelihood Santander knew not himself any more who the man was. But his behaviour, from its very strangeness, courted inquiry; and seemingly struck with it, the staff-colonel, addressing himself to the gaol-governor, said—
“By the way, Don Pedro, who is your prisoner, who makes the fourth in this curious quartette? He seems shy about showing his face, which would argue it an ugly one like my own.”
A bit of badinage in which Carlos Santander oft indulged. He knew that he was anything but ill-favoured as far as face went.
“Only a gentleman of the road—un salteador” responded the governor.
“An interesting sort of individual then,” said Santander. “Let me scan his countenance, and see whether it be of the true brigand type—a Mazaroni or Diavolo.”
So saying, he stepped inside the cell, and passed on till he could see over the robber’s shoulder, who now slightly turning his head, faced towards him. Not a word was exchanged between the two, but from the looks it was clear they were old acquaintances, Santander starting as he recognised the other; while his glance betrayed a hostility strong and fierce as that felt for either Florence Kearney or the Texan. A slight exclamation, involuntary, but telling of anger, was all that passed his lips as his eyes met a pair of other eyes which seemed to pierce his very heart.
He stayed not for more; but turning upon his heel, made direct for the door. Not to reach it, however, without interruption. In his hurry to be gone, he stumbled over the legs of the Texan, that stretched across the cell, nearly from side to side. Angered by the obstruction, he gave them a spiteful kick, then passed on outward. By good fortune fast and far out of reach, otherwise Cris Rock, who sprang to his feet, and on for the entrance, jerking the dwarf after, would in all probability there and then have taken his life.
As it was, the gaol-governor, seeing the danger, suddenly shut the cloister door, so saving it.
“Jest as I’ve been tellin’ ye all along, Cap,” coolly remarked Rock, as the slammed door ceased to make resonance; “we shed ha’ hanged the skunk, or shot him thar an’ then on the Shell Road. ’Twar a foolish thing lettin’ him out o’ that ditch when I had him in it. Darn the luck o’ my not drownin’ him outright! We’re like to sup sorrow for it now.”