"You want to make a second bargain with me, I think."
"Perhaps so. Do you refuse?"
"I am not at liberty either to accept or decline. You have the power on your side, and I am forced to obey."
"I like to hear you talk in that way. Perhaps you can find the enemy for me?"
The hunter detected the snare.
"Hang it!" he said simply, "As a wood ranger I can easily follow a trail. Put me on the traces of the Mexicans, and if they have not run to earth like prairie dogs, or flown away like eagles, there are heavy odds in favour of my bringing you up with them."
The general reflected.
"Listen to me," he said directly after, "I trust to you. If you serve me faithfully, you shall be nobly rewarded; if you deceive me, you will die."
"I do not understand you; I will try to bring you up with the people you are looking for; but I cannot pledge myself to more, as the rest concerns you."
"That is all I ask."
"On those conditions I am your man."
"Come along, then," the general continued; "but," he added, looking fixedly at him, "remember that you risk your head; at the slightest suspicion I will have you strung up without the least hesitation."
The Canadian merely shrugged his shoulders in answer to this threat, smiled craftily, mounted a horse that was brought him, coolly placed himself on the general's right hand, and at the word of command the small corps left the town in good order. So soon as it reached the plain, it proceeded towards the Mexican camp, curiously watched by all the inhabitants of Coahuila, who had flocked to the ramparts to witness the departure of the Spaniards, and who, in all probability, formed internal vows never to see them again.
[1]About £1600 of our currency.
[1]About £1600 of our currency.
Sotavento was completely exhausted by the efforts he had been compelled to make in reaching the islet on which he had so luckily found a refuge. For nearly an hour he lay with his eyes closed and in a half fainting state. When his strength had gradually returned, when his blood began to circulate more freely and his ideas regained their equilibrium, he thought of the horse, which, in his present situation, became the more precious to him, as the animal alone could save him.
The poor brute had halted a few paces from its master with hanging head and piteous look. The Indian rose, picked up a pebble, went to the horse coaxingly, and began vigorously rubbing all parts of its body, after which operation he dried it with a wisp of grass. The horse perceiving the comfort this produced, whinnied with pleasure as it rubbed its intelligent head against the Indian's shoulder, and then began eagerly browsing the grass which grew profusely in this sequestered spot.
"Come," Sotavento muttered with visible satisfaction, "this poor brute has had a luckier escape than I expected; it has bottom, and will be all right after a few hours' rest."
Certain of finding his steed again when he wanted it, he let it browse in peace, and went off to examine the islet and find out the exact nature of his position, whether good or bad. He could not think of eating, for he was utterly without provisions, but that troubled him very slightly. The Indians, like all nomadic races, are accustomed to endure without complaint, and almost without noticing them, privations which would render a European desperate and incapable of getting out of the scrape. The only weapon the Stag possessed was the knife he took from the soldier whom he had scalped; and hence he must display the greatest prudence, and carefully avoid a meeting with either men or wild beasts.
The islet on which he found himself was rather large and completely covered with wood. The Indian walked its entire length; but on reaching the end he uttered a cry of disappointment, for he noticed aportage, that is to say, a line of rocks crossed the whole width of the river, and formed an impassable crest of breakers; hence he could not dream of gaining the mainland on that side. Had he been alone he would have probably tried, and by his skill and strength have succeeded in reaching land by leaping from one rock to another; but he would not abandon his horse.
On the American savannahs a man unarmed and without a horse is hopelessly lost. Sotavento was aware of this, hence the thought did not occur to him of going away alone. He had crossed the whole length of the isle, and now resolved to go round it. It was a rough job to be undertaken by a man who had not taken any food for twenty-four hours, and whose strength was exhausted by long moral and physical fatigue; still his salvation depended on his resolution, and he did not hesitate. His search was protracted, and for a lengthy period sterile; he walked slowly along the sand with his eyes fixed on the opposite bank, seeking, without desponding, a spot where his horse could stand and climb the scarp with no excessive difficulty. At last he noticed at about the centre of the isle a place where the water was much clearer than elsewhere; it was a shallow ford, for the sand forming the riverbed was visible. He boldly entered the water and walked forward; he was not mistaken; he had really found a wide ford whose depth did not exceed two feet.
This discovery was most lucky; but this was not enough; he must assure himself whether the slope of the opposite bank was not too steep for his horse's hoofs. The Indian continued his march and crossed the river. Then he saw what he had been unable to discover from the isle—a mass of rock projected some distance into the stream and formed an elbow, behind which opened a species of haven, ascending to the top of the cliff by an almost insensible incline. The deeply formed marks in the sand indicated that this was a watering place to which wild beasts proceeded to drink at night. People say that a slice of luck never comes alone; Sotavento had a proof of this on the present occasion, for the ford and road were on the side of the stream to which he would have to cross in order to join his tribe. Henceforth at his ease, and certain of rejoining his friends, the Stag returned to the isle.
The sun had risen a long time, and the heat was beginning to grow intolerable. The Indian, who was in no hurry, resolved to let the great heat pass and not start till toward evening; moreover, the violent exercise he had taken in seeking a passage had greatly fatigued him, and he needed rest. When he rubbed down his horse, he had unbuckled the girths and removed the saddle, which he threw on the grass without looking at it. On his return, at the moment when he sought a convenient spot for sleeping, his eyes fell accidentally on this saddle, and he noticed analforja, or a species of double canvas pocket, which every Mexican carries with him when travelling, which he had not observed, for the simple reason that these bags, fastened behind the saddle, were concealed by a blanket and sheepskin, which almost entirely covered them.
The poor soldier whom the Indian had killed carried in these alforjas all his wretched property, flint and steel, and tobacco, precious things for the fugitive; but what caused him greater pleasure still, there was nearly a yard oftasajo, meat dried in the sun, as well as a dozen biscuits, and a large lump of goat's cheese. All this was wet though, it is true; but what did the Indian care for this, when he was half dead of hunger.
Instead of sleeping, as he had originally intended, Sotavento spread out all the provisions on the ground to let them dry in the sun, which was effected in less than ten minutes, collected dry leaves, lit a fire, roasted his tasajo, and began eating as Indians eat when they have long gone without food, that is to say, with no thought of the morrow. He devoured all his provisions at one meal; then, his hunger appeased, he filled his pipe, and began smoking with the beatitude and satisfaction of a man whose life has hung by a thread, and who has only been saved by a miracle.
Sotavento thus spent the greater part of the day in a gentlefar niente, smoking, sleeping, and ruminating plans of vengeance, for he constantly thought of the two hapless prisoners he had left at the teocali, whom he was most anxious to rejoin now that he had escaped such imminent danger. When the sun began to elongate enormously the shadows of the trees, and its oblique beams had lost nearly all their heat, the Indian considered it time to start; horse and rider, well fed and rested, were in a condition to ride a long distance. Sotavento got up, saddled his horse, and leading it by the bridle to save it unnecessary fatigue, waded through the ford; when he reached the other bank, he took a parting glance of gratitude at this isle, which had offered him such pleasant shelter. Then he mounted, and whispering to his horse the word "Santiago," he set out, as if borne on the wings of the wind, in the direction of the desert.
It was not till nine o'clock of the next evening that he reached the ford of the Río del Norte. He crossed, let his horse breathe for a while, and henceforth certain that the enemy could not catch him up, he continued his desperate ride across the savannah. Still, in spite of his diligence, the Indian did not reach the teocali until the third evening after his flight. During his absence the number of his comrades had greatly increased. The messenger he had sent to the village after the capture of Doña Emilia had returned, bringing with him all the male and female members of the tribe whom pressing business did not detain at the atepetl. The Indians were curious to witness the punishment of the prisoners. With them it was an act of justice they were about to perform, for the vengeance they had pursued for so many years was on the point of being consummated.
Sotavento's first care, on reaching the teocali, was to inquire after his prisoners; they were still calm and resigned. The chief, in his heart, was vexed at seeing so many warriors assembled; he, however, concealed his dissatisfaction, and, on the contrary, feigned great joy, intending, if circumstances demanded it, to act vigorously; but wishing temporarily to remain neutral, lest he should arouse the suspicious susceptibility of his comrades, and make them distrustful about the plans he was meditating. The Stag knew that, in case of necessity, he could claim the support and assistance of the young warriors of the tribe, and that he would only have to contend with the old sachems, in whose hearts no feeling but that of revenge any longer existed.
The council of the chiefs was assembled at the moment when he arrived, and he at once proceeded to it. The sachems received him with great marks of distinction, and congratulated him on the fortunate result of his expedition; then they informed him of the measures decided on with respect to the prisoners. These were simple and terrible; the two ladies would be fastened to the stake on the next day, tortured for four hours, and then flayed alive and burnt. The Stag did not wince, he listened to these fearful details without manifesting the slightest emotion; but when the president of the council, who was no other than his father, had imparted to him these resolutions, he asked leave to speak, which was granted him. Then, in an artful harangue, perfectly suited to the intellect of the men who surrounded him, the chief adroitly went over, all the services he had rendered the tribe; the long exile to which he had been condemned in order to insure the success of his plans; the countless difficulties he had had to overcome not to arouse the suspicion of those whom he was betraying; what trouble and care he had been obliged to take in at length securing the captives. He insinuated that no reward had been offered him, although he had a right to claim one; that, according to the Indian fashion, women become the property of those who carry them off; that, consequently, the prisoners belonged to him, and that he alone had the right to decide their fate; but that, if he claimed this right at the moment, it was not for the sake of thwarting the decision of the council, but, on the contrary, to ensure the general vengeance, and render it more exemplary.
The chiefs, who at first listened to this address with marked dissatisfaction, applauded the unexpected finale, and urged the Stag to explain himself. The latter, inwardly satisfied with the effect his remarks produced, only allowed himself to be pressed just long enough to excite the general curiosity more.
"What good is it torturing these two squaws in such a way? Is that the manner in which you would take your revenge? It would be ridiculous, and last but a few hours; and I propose something better. These women are white, rich, and accustomed to all the refinements of luxury which civilization procures; deprive them of all this, not by killing them, but by letting them live in a condition a thousandfold worse than death. However cruel the palefaces may be, they love their children as we love ours. This woman, whom the people of her own colour call Doña Emilia, whom we call the Queen of the Savannah, on account of all the wrongs she has dealt to us, adores her daughter. Order this girl to marry a chief of the tribe, and force her mother to consent to this union. Once the wife of a chief, this haughty Spaniard will suffer tortures a hundred times more terrible than those she would endure if fastened to the stake. The mother, witness of her daughter's suffering and unable to calm or mitigate it, will suffer unusual and incessant grief, which will be the more cruel as she can have no hope. Do you not think that such vengeance is preferable to what you proposed?"
The chiefs applauded enthusiastically; Running Water alone shook his head dubiously.
"That race is intractable," he said, "and nothing can tame it; these women will not consent, they will not accept a proposition which must appear to them dishonouring; they will prefer death."
"In that case they shall die!" the Stag shouted, with a ferocious accent.
Running Water rose.
"Yes," he said, "my son the Stag has spoken well; these palefaces, these Spaniards, whom the genius of evil sent in his wrath upon our land, hunt us like wild beasts; I myself, a few days ago, only escaped from their clutches through the protection of the Wacondah! Let the mother die, while the daughter becomes the squaw of the man who captured her; in that way our vengeance will be complete."
"Let it be so," White Crow remarked. "The Stag will communicate to the prisoners the decision of the council."
"I will do so," the chief said. "Give orders to prepare everything for the torture, for, I repeat, they shall die tomorrow if they meet me with a refusal."
The council broke up; the chiefs retired to the tents erected for them by their squaws, and soon fell asleep. The majordomo alone did not think of rest; he proceeded at a rapid pace to the spot where the prisoners were. On reaching the wickerwork which formed the door, the Indian hesitated for a moment, but, surmounting the emotion which contracted his brow, he violently opened the door, and walked in. The two ladies were sadly seated by a smouldering fire, with their heads bowed on their chests; at the noise produced by the chief's entrance, they quickly raised their heads, stifling a cry of surprise and terror. The Indian looked at them for a moment with an undefinable expression.
"I frighten you," he said, in a low guttural voice, as he smiled.
"No," Doña Emilia answered, "your presence does not terrify us, it merely excites disgust."
The chief frowned angrily, but checked himself.
"It is dangerous," he said, "to rouse the lion when you are in his power."
"The lion?" she continued, disdainfully; "You mean the coyote. The lion is brave, his character is noble, and he only attacks enemies worthy of his fury."
"Very good, I am a coyote," he continued with perfect calmness, "insult is permissible to persons who are about to die."
"Die?" Doña Diana exclaimed, with an outburst of joy that confounded the Indian. "Oh, thanks, señor; this is the first time you have brought me good news. When are we to die?"
"Tomorrow," he replied, in a hollow voice. There was a mournful silence, and then the majordomo continued—
"You seem very weary of life?"
"Yes, of such a life as you have made it; I prefer death to remaining longer exposed to the sufferings of every description to which I have been subjected during my captivity."
"You can both live if you like," he said significantly. They shook their heads in denial, but said nothing.
"At liberty," he continued.
"At liberty?" the young lady repeated, her eyes suddenly lighting up with a flash of hope.
Doña Emilia gently laid her hand on her shoulder, and addressed the chief—
"Come," she said, "explain yourself frankly; your words must conceal some terrible trap; on what condition are we to live and be free? We must be told these conditions in order to know whether we are able to accept them."
"Can life be bargained for in this way?"
"Yes, where life is to be purchased with dishonour."
"Tomorrow you will be fastened to the stake, and tortured for four hours without respite or mercy."
"What next?" Doña Emilia asked haughtily.
"After that," he continued with an ill-omened smile, "you will be flayed alive, and burnt while still quivering."
While uttering these cruel words, the chief fixed a viper glance on his captives. Doña Emilia shrugged her shoulders contemptuously.
"I am waiting for you to tell us the conditions on which you will allow us to live," she went on with a bitter smile. "They must be very horrible, since you, whom nothing checks, hesitate in revealing them to us."
"You know the condition already," he said slowly.
"Repeat it, I have forgotten it," Doña Emilia remarked.
The chief made an effort over himself, and said in a choking voice—
"That your daughter consents to become my wife."
Doña Emilia broke into a loud harsh laugh, and looked at her daughter. The latter drew herself up proudly, walked toward the chief, who was apparently calm, although a terrible tempest raged in his breast and fixed on him a glance of sovereign contempt.
"Invent the most atrocious tortures," she said to him, "I prefer death to such fearful degradation."
"Well said, my child!" Doña Emilia exclaimed, as she passionately pressed her to her heart.
The chief stamped his foot passionately; he gave the two ladies a glance of implacable hatred and went away, after saying one word of frightful meaning, "Tomorrow." So soon as the ladies were alone, they joined hands, knelt and prayed fervently to Him who alone had the power to save them.
The duty confided to Moonshine by General Cárdenas was not difficult to carry out. The track of the Mexicans was clearly marked on the ground, and the hunter suspected that the bargain the general had proposed to him was merely a pretext, and that in reality he wished to keep him by his side, in order to punish him if he had laid a trap for the Spaniards. Still the couple continued to gallop side by side, talking pleasantly and apparently well satisfied with each other. The day was splendid, the sky blue, and the sun dazzling; the leaves, washed by the rain, were greener and dew laden; the night storm had refreshed the atmosphere, and the hot sunbeams incessantly drawing out the moisture, made the earth smoke like the mouth of a crater; the birds twittered beneath the foliage, the squirrels leapt from branch to branch, and at times elks and antelopes, awakened by the sound of the horses, rose amid the lofty grass, looked around them timidly, and then bounded off in all directions. Men and horses unconsciously underwent the influence of the scene; they eagerly inhaled the air impregnated with the sharp scent of flowers and plants, and felt happy at living.
"On my honour," said the general, "give me the country. It is pleasant to breathe the fresh air, when you have been confined within stone walls for several days."
"Yes, you are right, General," the Canadian answered, joyously; "life is splendid in the desert; existence in town is ridiculous. Men were great asses for inventing them, and restricting their horizon, when they had space and liberty before them. Deuce take towns. The handsomest house is not worth the blade of grass that shelters the grasshopper we can hear singing so merrily."
"You seem to love the desert, Señor Moonshine?"
"I, General? Why I was born in it. My father was in the service of the Hudson's Bay Company as trapper. My mother brought me into the world on the shore of one of our magnificent Canadian lakes. My eyes first opened beneath the majestic verdant arcades of a virgin forest. The first horizon I gazed at was surrounded by chains of mountains whose haughty crest no human foot has yet trodden. Oh! General, how glorious it is to live in the desert without ties of any sort, to feel your heart beat freely in your bosom, to aspire through every pore the fragrant exhalations of the savannah. Alone with your horse, with no regrets for the past or care for the future, you feel that you live, and you unconsciously become a better man, because you are nearer to GOD whose sublime book ever lies open before you. Such an existence is the only true one, the only possible for a stout-hearted man; the other is only a continual slavery, an incessant restraint which withers ideas, dulls the intellect, and converts man such as GOD created him into a badly organized machine, a quarrelsome and wicked creature, who goes to his grave pale, sickly, and discontented."
"By Jove! That is what I call enthusiasm, my boy," the general said, laughing. "Unfortunately, all this is only good in theory. What would become of civilization if everybody followed your example?"
"Oh, yes," the hunter exclaimed, with a disdainful smile, "that's the great word, 'civilization'—that is to say, slavery; brutalization of the masses for the advantage of ambitious and insatiable minorities; an association of bandits decorated with pompous titles and sounding names, among whom strength represents the law, and who answer arguments by gaols, prisons, and bullets; where everything is paid for, life as well as death, and even the very vitiated atmosphere, breathed in muddy, narrow streets, and low, stifling houses. Deuce take civilization and the rogues who invented it for their own profit! Civilization is the plague and cause of all the diseases that afflict humanity. I'll have none of it."
The general listened to the hunter with increasing surprise. The nervous blunt language involuntarily seduced him. It was the first time he found himself in the presence of one of those wood rangers who, impatient of control, have resolutely broken with the life of society. He could not understand this strange nature, so contrary to those he had hitherto elbowed in life.
While conversing thus the general and the Canadian reached the ford where Sotavento had escaped that morning. The column halted for a moment; for about two leagues on the other side of the river ran a chain of lofty, wooded mountains, while an enormous barranca yawned in the centre of this range, and formed a narrow defile—the only place by which the Spanish troops could pass to continue their march. The general examined with growing anxiety the gloomy landscape spread out before him. All around was silent and desolate. In vain did the general survey the plain through his telescope; he could see nothing but trees growing very close together, through which it seemed almost impossible to force a passage. The canyon or barranca began just opposite the ford, and there was no doubt but that the Mexican army had followed this, the sole practicable road, for the traces of its passage were deeply marked in the ground. The general frowned, and looked suspiciously at the hunter; the latter, who had fallen behind to tighten his girths, went up to him.
"I understand—" he said to him.
"What do you understand?"
"Why, that you suspect me, General."
"And suppose I did, what then?"
"You would be wrong."
"Why so?"
"For a hundred reasons."
"Tell me one of them."
"For what purpose should I have led you into a trap?"
"To betray me, ¡viva Cristo! If, as I suppose, you belong to the Mexican army."
"I do belong to that army," the hunter replied coolly; "but what does that prove?"
"What it proves?" the general exclaimed furiously, "That you are a spy, and that I shall have you shot."
"That is not answering, General, but knocking a man down."
"Be it so; recommend your soul to God."
"A man like myself is ever ready to appear before Him. Could you say the same?"
The general stamped his foot furiously.
"But give me a reason, at least," he said.
"I did give you one; but you would not accept it."
"Seek another."
"Well, if you wish to argue the matter, I am quite agreeable," the hunter, who still quiet, calm, and straightforward, continued.
"What has occurred between us? I informed you that the Mexicans had abandoned their camp, leaving their train behind. Was that false? No; it was true, and I told you nothing else. You resolved to set out in pursuit of the insurgents, and instead of urging you on to do so, I recommended you to remain at Coahuila. Is that like a traitor? I do not think so. You insisted on my following you, and I obeyed. My part was entirely restricted to that, I think you will allow, General? Now that you find yourself in front of a defile in which you are afraid of being attacked, you turn upon me. Is that fair? I fancy that if you are really afraid of falling into an ambuscade, there is one very easy thing to do."
"What is it?"
"Why, turn back and reach Coahuila again as quickly as possible; if the Mexicans wished to lay a trap for you, they will be caught in it themselves, as they leave their guns and ammunition in your hands."
The general reflected.
"What would you do in my place?" he asked.
"Well, I will be frank with you, General. We men of the desert regard courage in a manner diametrically opposite to yours. As we generally fight only to save our life or our plunder, we never venture on an action unless we have almost a certainty of success."
"Hence, under the present circumstances?"
"I should turn back without shame, and be off to Coahuila at the same pace at which I started, that is, a gallop; that is what I should do. I can understand that you would act differently."
"Ah!" the general said, giving him a piercing glance, "For what reason?"
"Nonsense, General, you are making fun of me; for you know as well as I do. Come, have me shot, and let us have an end of it."
"I shall not have you shot," he answered; "for, traitor or no, you have spoken to me like an honest man. Go where you please; you are free."
The Canadian felt involuntarily affected by this remark.
"Thanks, General. Now take my advice, and do not push on."
"Does danger really exist?"
"I cannot tell you; still, I confess that I have a bad opinion of that black large hole I see over there; it seems to me to contain a storm."
"Yes, I feel that I ought to follow your advice, but unhappily I cannot do so. The troops of the king, my master, must not appear to recoil before such miserable foes; for it would be giving these scoundrels an importance which they do not possess."
"You know better than I how you should act; but, I repeat, take care."
"Oh, be sure of that. Well, good-bye; get away before the action begins."
"Well, then, thank you, and good-bye, General—I dare not wish you good luck."
The Canadian turned his horse and started at a gallop in the direction of Coahuila. The general looked after him till he was hidden by a turn in the road.
"What a singular man!" he muttered; "If he is a spy I never saw one like him."
It was high time, however, to come to some resolution, and so the general summoned his officers around him.
"Caballeros," he said bluntly, when they were assembled, "I am afraid that we acted very imprudently in venturing to pursue the enemy with so small a force as we have at our disposal. Although I do not wish to throw any of my responsibility as chief upon you, still I deem it urgent to take your advice before crossing this stream, beyond which, as you can see from here, is a canyon, which, if I am not mistaken, contains a formidable ambuscade. Answer me frankly, which shall we do? Push boldly on, at the risk of what may happen; or quietly turn back and regain our entrenchments?"
The officers were mostly of opinion that they must march forward at all risks. The effect of a retreat made almost in the presence of the enemy might have as disastrous an influence upon the prestige that surrounded the Spanish army as a battle lost. All these brave soldiers were ashamed at appearing to fly before an invisible enemy; for as yet only vague suspicions were entertained, which might be false, more especially as the plain continued to be deserted, and nothing of a dubious nature had been perceived.
"Very well, caballeros," the general said with a bow to his officers, "we will march on; if fate betrays our courage we will fall like brave men. Long live Spain!"
"Long live Spain!" the officers repeated enthusiastically.
"Captain Don Luis Obregozo, take two hundred horse, and make a reconnoissance in the canyon; be very prudent, and do not venture too far. Don Pedro Castilla will hold himself in readiness to support you with five hundred cavalry, should it be necessary; the rest of the army will not cross the stream till your return. Go at once."
The two officers selected by the general immediately prepared to obey; the troopers, leaving the infantry they carried with the main body, crossed the ford, and galloped into the plain. The general gave orders for the troops to be drawn up in a column, in order to lose as little time as possible in passing, and, opening his telescope, he attentively followed the movements of the two detachments he had sent on ahead. The second body, commanded by Captain Castilla, halted about halfway between the stream and the canyon, ready to act on the first alarm, Captain Obregozo boldly pushed on, sending a few troopers ahead as scouts, while others scattered on either side the main body, and examined the thickets. The detachment advanced thus almost into the entrance of the defile, and nothing suspicious occurred. On reaching this point the captain ordered a halt.
"My lads," he said to his soldiers, "if the enemy is really in there, it is unnecessary for us all foolishly to enter the wolf's throat; a few men of good will are enough. Who will follow me?"
The soldiers remained motionless and silent.
"What?" the captain exclaimed with a frown, "Does not a man offer to follow me?"
"It is not that, Captain," an old sergeant replied roughly; "you know very well that we are all of good will and ready to follow you to purgatory; choose yourself the men you will take with you."
"Very good," the captain said gaily, as he pointed out five or six troopers. They at once quitted the ranks, and placed themselves behind the captain; The latter, after temporarily entrusting the command of the detachment to his lieutenant, with strict orders not to enter the defile, whatever might happen, but, on the contrary, to fall back on the reserve if he did not return, boldly entered the canyon, followed by his weak escort. Several minutes elapsed, and then a discharge was suddenly heard, and two riderless horses galloped back into the plain.
"The captain! Let us save the captain!" the dragoons shouted, as they waved their sabres frantically.
And without listening to the remonstrances of their lieutenant, who tried in vain to hold them back, they dashed irregularly into the defile. The officer, finding his efforts useless, bravely placed himself at their head. Then the sound of a regular combat and a well sustained musketry fire was audible.
"Let us support our brothers!" Captain Castilla exclaimed, drawing his sword.
"Forward, forward!" the soldiers yelled.
The second detachment, starting at a gallop, in its turn was engulfed in this accursed defile, which, like the mouth of the infernal regions, swallowed up everything but gave nothing back. The general, as we said, was attentively watching the movements of his scouts.
"The unhappy men!" he exclaimed, on seeing what was going on, "The maniacs! They will be killed to the last man. Come back, come back, I command you," he shouted, without reflecting that the troops he thus addressed were too far off to hear or obey him, and that had they by chance heard, they would not have obeyed him, owing to the frenzy which seemed to have suddenly assailed them.
The soldiers remaining on the river bank also saw, not what was going on in the defile, but on the plain; they began muttering at the inactivity to which their chief condemned them, and brandished their weapons with a fury which only required an excuse to break out.
"Shall we let our brothers be butchered?" an old officer asked, biting his moustache passionately.
"Silence, caballero," the general answered savagely; "had they obeyed my orders, this would not have occurred."
"But the misfortune is done at present, General; we must not desert seven hundred men in that way."
"Look, look," the soldiers exclaimed, on perceiving several horsemen issue from the defile vigorously pursued by others, who speedily caught them up and sabred them.
This last episode raised the exasperation of the troops to the highest pitch, a species of vertigo seized on them, and refusing to listen to anything, many of them forced their horses into the river.
"Stop, stop!" the general shouted in a voice of thunder, "Since you absolutely insist on marching to an inevitable butchery, let me at least guide you."
The soldiers recognizing, in spite of their excitement, the voice they had so long been accustomed to obey, halted instinctively. Then the general restored order among them as far as was possible, and the ford was crossed rapidly and in a manner that did not endanger the position of the army. On reaching the plain the infantry dismounted and formed; the general arranged them so that they should support the cavalry, and drew his sword, whose blade flashed in the sun.
"I throw away the scabbard," he shouted in a voice heard by all; "forward! For the king and for Spain!"
"Long live Spain!" the soldiers shouted.
The Spanish army then rushed like an avalanche into the defile, whence the noise of the invisible combat could still be heard.
Oliver Clary, when he left the Hacienda del Río, was not mistaken in saying to Count de Melgosa that he was afraid Don Melchior would commit some folly; the hunter's foreboding was destined to be realized even sooner than he thought. The young man, whose mind was made up beforehand, did not wish to argue with his two friends; but, satisfied with the information the hunter had given him, impatiently awaited the moment when he should be alone, in order to carry out the plan he had formed. This plan, of an audacity that trenched almost on insanity, he had been careful not to let the count or the Canadian suspect, as he felt sure they would oppose it with all their might.
Don Melchior, brought up on the Indian border, accustomed from his earliest youth to scour the woods in all directions in the pursuit of Indians or wild beasts, was habituated to desert life and thoroughly conversant with redskin habits; hence, he had no doubt he would be able to get to the prisoners. Hence, so soon as the count and Oliver had left the hacienda, the young man made his preparations; that is to say, he carefully inspected his firearms, placed provisions in his alforjas, and mounted his horse. It was about four in the afternoon. The great gate of the hacienda was open; hence he went out the more easily, because being merely regarded as a guest of the count, no one had received orders to impede his movements or prevent him doing what he thought proper. The young man slowly descended the mountain; at the moment when he reached the plain, the sound of a galloping horse made him turn round. Diego López was coming toward him at full speed, and Don Melchior waited for him.
"¡Viva Dios!" the worthy man exclaimed, "Where on earth are you going, Don Melchior?"
The young man looked at him haughtily.
"Am I your master's prisoner?" he replied, drily.
"Not at all, señor," the peon said, with the greatest politeness.
"In that case, by what right do you ask me such a question? Am I not at liberty to do what I please?"
"I do not say the contrary."
"If that is the case, what do you want with me?"
"Caballero, I beg you not to take in ill part what I am so free as to say to you. The Señor Conde feels a very lively interest in you; before leaving the hacienda, he ordered me to pay the greatest attention to you."
"Admitted."
"On seeing you mount your horse at so advanced an hour, and take provisions with you, I assumed that it was your intention to leave the hacienda."
"Your assumption was correct, I am really leaving the hacienda. What then?"
"Very good. You are at liberty to do so. I have no right to control your actions; but be kind enough to inform me where you are going, in order that I may tell my master."
"For what object?"
"I am merely obeying the orders I received, señor. I am but a servant;" and he added, with a marked stress on the words, "perhaps it is as well for your own sake that my master should know where you are going."
The young gentleman reflected for a moment.
"Forgive me, Diego López," he said, presently, "the rather rough way in which I received you. I did wrong to act thus, for you are a worthy man. Tell your master that I am resolved to try and save Doña Emilia and her daughter, and that is why I quitted his hospitable roof."
The peon shook his head sadly.
"Alone, señor?" he said; "take care."
"Heaven will aid me, my friend."
"I have no right to prevent you, I have no wish to do so, but if I may be permitted to make a remark?"
"Speak!"
"I would tell you that this plan is insane, that you are rushing to your destruction, and that you are attempting an expedition in which you will perish, perhaps without seeing the persons for whom you devote yourself."
"Yes, that is true," the young man answered sadly. "What you say to me I have said to myself, but my destiny carries me away. I must accomplish this sacrifice, while knowing that I am committing an act of madness; I will carry it through to the end."
"I have neither the strength nor the courage to blame you, señor, I can only pity you; put your trust in heaven. As for me, I shall go to my master and tell him what you are doing at this moment. If we do not succeed in saving you, at least we will avenge you, and if I may believe my foreboding, the vengeance will be terrible."
"Go, my friend; go, and thank you. Tell your master how truly grateful I am to him for all that he has done for me, but that fatality carries me away; and that I would sooner die than suffer from the grief which is devouring me. I wish to know the fate of the two unhappy prisoners, and, no matter what may happen, I will know it."
"May heaven protect you, señor! You are well acquainted with the redskins; perhaps by acting prudently you may foil their vigilance, although it is almost impossible. But," he added with a species of forced resolution, "what is the use of arguing longer. Perhaps your plan will succeed, through the very fact of its insanity. Children and lovers are privileged."
The young man blushed, and dug his spurs into the flanks of his horse, which started at a gallop. The peon looked after him, sorrowfully shaking his head several times.
"Well, good-bye, Don Melchior," he said, "I repeat, may God protect you, for He alone can save you."
The young man scarce heard him. The peon's voice struck his ear, but he did not understand the sense of his words. He waved his hand in farewell and disappeared in the tall grass that overgrew the banks of the stream. Diego López remained motionless for an instant.
"Poor boy!" he murmured, "He has a noble heart; a soul full of devotion; but what can he do? He is lost; death clutches him already, its hand is spread out over him. Let me go and warn the Señor Conde," he added, repressing a sympathetic sigh.
And loosening his bridle he galloped off in the direction of the Hacienda del Barrio.
Don Melchior, through the frequent excursions he had made in carrying out Doña Emilia's monomania for vengeance, had a thorough knowledge of the country for thirty or forty leagues round; several times accident had led him to the vicinity of the teocali, where the ladies were now held in captivity, and hence he was well aware of the exact position of this strange monument, the sole vestige of the ancient, civilization of the Indians.
While himself thoroughly convinced of the madness of his attempt in favour of the prisoners, he had drawn up his plans with the greatest prudence, ready to sacrifice his life, but not wishing to leave anything to chance, while unconsciously retaining in his heart a last glance of hope, that divine spark which is never completely extinguished in the human heart, and allows him a glimpse of success even in the most senseless undertakings.
So soon as Diego López parted from him, Don Melchior checked the speed of his horse in order not to reach the ford of the Río Grande del Norte till sunset. He was obliged to travel by night, for as the Indians are in their encampments at that period, the young man would have nothing to fear from their vigilance, and incurred no risk but that of meeting wild beasts, a trifling danger for an experienced hunter. Besides, so far as it was possible to calculate distances, Don Melchior believed himself only seven or eight leagues distant from the teocali. By galloping in a straight line, he would therefore only have a two hours' ride to make in a country which he had frequently traversed, and which was perfectly familiar to him.
We have already stated, on several occasions, that in hot countries there is no twilight, and that when the sun has set night arrives almost without transition. The young man had so well calculated, that he was a gunshot from the ford at the moment when the sun disappeared on the horizon in a glory of purple and gold. In spite of the complete absence of twilight, there is, however, a charming moment in American evenings. It is the one when, after night has quite set in, you witness the sudden awakening of the denizens of the darkness; when the night breeze agitates the majestic tops of the trees, and the wild beasts, leaving their lairs, bay the moon with their guttural notes, which are repeated in every way by the echoes of the ravines. The traveller, involuntarily affected by a vague respect at the sight of this immensity which he cannot comprehend, feels himself weak and paltry.
Don Melchior crossed the ford without obstacle, and then dashed at full speed into the desert, cutting through the tall grass in a straight line. For two hours he galloped in the pale light of the stars, with his hand on his weapons, and ready for any event. On coming within about two musket shots of the teocali he stopped, dismounted, and taking his horse by the bridle, led it into a thicket, where, after hobbling it, he fastened up its nostrils to prevent it neighing. Then thrusting his pistols in his belt, he seized his rifle, and proceeded toward the teocali, muttering in a suppressed voice one sentence, which completely represented the thought that impelled him to act as he was doing—
"Heaven be gracious to me!"
The night was calm and serene; the stars sparkled in a deep blue sky, and spread a gentle light, which allowed him to distinguish the diversities of the landscape for a long distance. A veiled silence, if we may employ the expression, reigned over the prairie, where no other sound was audible save that produced by the incessant murmurs of the infinitely little creatures buzzing beneath every blade of grass, and carrying on their laborious task under the ever open eye of the Creator. At times the distant echo bore down on the breeze the snapping bark of the coyotes, or the hoarse roar of the jaguars at the watering place.
Don Melchior advanced firmly and resolutely, having sacrificed his life beforehand, but determined only to succumb in an unequal struggle of one against a host. We fancy that we said in one of our previous chapters that the teocali in which the prisoners were detained stood in the middle of a plain, for a great distance round which the trees had been cut down. At the moment when the young man was preparing to emerge from the covert, and asked himself how he should manage to reach the mountain unseen, he perceived an Indian sentry leaning motionless against a sumach and on the watch.
Don Melchior stopped, for the situation was a critical one. The moon profusely shed its pale pallid beams upon this man, whose appearance had at a certain distance something gloomy and threatening about it. A cry uttered by this sentry would ruin Don Melchior. After a few seconds' hesitation his resolution was formed. Uncocking his gun, which might go off without his will, he lay down on the ground, and began crawling on his hands and knees in the direction of the sentry, before whom he must infallibly pass.
Anyone who has not been in the situation of our hero could not form an idea of it. Don Melchior was at this moment playing a terrible game. It was to him a question of life and death; the fall of a leaf, the breaking of a branch was sufficient to settle it. The hurried beating of his heart terrified him, and he took half an hour in proceeding a distance of twenty paces. At length, on coming close to the sentry, he suddenly rose behind him, and plunged his dagger straight into his neck, at the very spot where the head is attached to the spine. The redskin fell like a log, without uttering a cry or even giving a sigh.
The young man at once understanding the importance to himself of a disguise, in order to cross the clearing round the teocali, stripped the Indian of his clothes, put them on himself, and after dragging the corpse a few paces, in order that it might not be found immediately, he hid it under a pile of dry leaves. Then, assuming the calm and grave step of Indian warriors, the young man boldly quitted the shelter of the covert, and advanced slowly toward the teocali, now ready for all events, and keeping his finger on the trigger of his gun, which he laid carelessly on his shoulder.
Numerous watch fires burnt round the teocali; the Indians, wrapped, up in their buffalo hides, blankets, or zarapés, were sleeping peacefully, trusting to the vigilance of the sentry. Don Melchior walked right through the camp, unmolested. At times, as he passed, an Indian turned towards him, half opened his eyes, and then fell back on the ground again, muttering a few unintelligible words. The young man's heart beat as if going to burst his breast; the emotion he felt was so powerful that, on reaching the first steps of the teocali, he was involuntarily constrained to stop. Still, sustained by the feeling of the sacred mission he had taken on himself, he succeeded, by a supreme effort, in overcoming his emotion, and continued his walk.
No one opposed his passage. The Indians guard themselves badly. Under present circumstances, they could not suppose that a single man would enter their camp, and succeed in deceiving their sentries. This confidence caused the security of the bold young man, and once he reached the teocali, almost entirely insured his security.
I forgot who said that mad enterprises are those which succeed the beet owing to their extravagance, and this paradoxical remark is far truer than a person might be disposed to believe it. Don Melchior's plan of thus introducing himself alone into the presence of the prisoners, a project of wild boldness, would succeed entirely on account of its impossibility.
When the young man reached the top of the teocali he stopped, for he must discover the place where the prisoners were confined. He looked searchingly around him. The moon allowed him to distinguish clearly the smallest objects. Several Indians were lying round a smouldering fire, but Don Melchior's eyes did not dwell on them, he was examining the most obscure corner of the buildings that stood on the platform. His eye was caught by a man lying across a door, closed by a wickerwork frame; he gave a violent start, for the prisoners were behind that door. Stepping boldly over the sleeper, he Went up to it. At the moment he reached the Indian the latter rose before him, and set the sharp point of his lance against his chest.
"What does my brother want?" he asked in a guttural voice.
Don Melchior was not troubled. In spite of his interned emotion, his face remained calm and stoical.
"Good," he said in Comanche, a language which he spoke perfectly. "My brother was asleep. Is that the way in which he watches his prisoners?"
"The Opossum is not asleep," the Indian said haughtily. "He knows the importance of the duty entrusted to him."
"If he is not asleep, how is it that he is ignorant the hour has arrived when I am to take his place?" the young man continued.
"Is it so late? I have not heard the hoot of the owl."
"Yet it has been sounded twice. Good, my brother is tired; let him go and sleep, while I watch in his stead."
The Indian had no reason to doubt what Don Melchior said to him. Besides, he was really desirous of sleep, and was not sorry to catch up a few hours' rest. Hence he made no remark, but quietly surrendered his post, and five minutes later was lying by the side of his comrades fast asleep.
This last alarm had been serious, although Don Melchior had bravely gone through with it. Still his agitation was so great, partly to regain his coolness, he remained quiet for nearly a quarter of an hour before he ventured to enter the prisoners' room. At length he did so. Doña Emilia, seated in a corner, was holding her daughter's head on her lap.
"Who's there?" she asked, with a sudden start.
"A friend," the young man answered in a low voice. Doña Diana sprang up.
"Don Melchior!" she cried.
"Silence," he said, "silence, in heaven's name."
"Oh! I was certain he would come," the young lady continued, as she walked towards him.
"Thanks, Melchior," Doña Emilia said, as she offered him her hand. "Thank you for coming; however terrible my situation may be, your presence here is an immense consolation."
"Have you come to deliver us, Melchior?" the maiden continued.
"Yes," he answered simply, "such is my object; and believe me, señorita, all that a man can do, I will."
"What," Doña Emilia asked, "are you alone?"
"Alas, yes; but what matter?" Doña Diana fell back on her bed.
"Flight is impossible," she murmured with despair.
"Why so?" the young man continued boldly, "Have I not contrived to get in here alone?"
She shook her head sadly.
"Yes," she said; "but you were alone."
Don Melchior sighed, for he understood the meaning of the remark.
"Why despair?" Doña Emilia exclaimed, starting up impetuously. "We are three now. The Indians tremble at the sight of me, and we shall succeed in escaping."
"Mother, mother," the girl said entreatingly, "dismiss that thought. Alas! Flight is impossible, as you know well. Melchior is as well aware of it as we are."
The young man hung his head.
"If I cannot save you, señorita," he answered, "I can die with you."
"Die with us!" she exclaimed impetuously. "Oh no, that must not be, I insist."
"It was my hope in coming here," he said.
"Very good, Melchior," Doña Emilia said; "but cease to fear for us. The Indians will not dare, I feel firmly convinced, to make an attack on our lives, in spite of their frightful threats."
"Mother, undeceive yourself, our death is resolved. It is close at hand, for the conditions offered us compel us to die."
"That is true," Doña Emilia murmured despondingly. "Great God, what is to be done?"
"Fly," Don Melchior exclaimed boldly.
"No," the young lady continued, "the plan is impracticable, and it would be madness to dwell on it. If you have reached us by a miracle, it is impossible for you to convey us through the Indian camp and pass the sentries unseen. It would be precipitating our death instead of checking it."
"It is well, señorita," Don Melchior said, leaning his shoulder against the wall. "Since you refuse to attempt to fly, I shall come back to my first resolution."
"What is it?"
"To die with you."
The young lady took a step forward, and turned to Doña Emilia.
"Do you hear, mother?" she exclaimed in agony. "Do you hear what Don Melchior says? I will not have him die. Order him to go away."
"Why should I order him?" Doña Emilia coldly replied. "Don Melchior has ever been devoted to us. He has come to die with us, and neither you nor I have the right to prevent him."
"I must, I tell you, I must."
"And why so, my child?"
"Why?" she repeated, wild with grief. "Because, mother, I love him, and will not have him die!"
Doña Emilia stood for a moment as if annihilated by the sudden revelation of this love, which she suspected, though unwilling to believe in it. A reaction took place in her, and she laid her hand on the young man's arm.
"Go, Don Melchior," she said in a gentle voice, half choked by sobs. "My daughter loves you, and will not have you die."
"Thanks, thanks, mother!" the maiden exclaimed, as she fell into her arms, and hid her face in her bosom.
"Oh, let me, let me die with you!" Don Melchior said, clasping his hands imploringly.
"No," Doña Emilia repeated, "you must leave us."
"The night is getting on; I implore you, Melchior to be gone!" the maiden exclaimed.
The young man hesitated, and a violent combat took place in his heart.
"It is your wish," he muttered, with hesitation.
"In the name of our love, I command you!"
"Your will be done. Bless me, madam, for I shall return, and for your sake attempt impossibilities."
Doña Emilia wiped away the tears that ran down her cheeks against her will.
"Bless you, my son!" she said, in a voice choked by sobs. "God alone knows the future, Melchior. I thank you for not having deserted us. Embrace your betrothed; perhaps this first kiss will be the last."
The two young people fell into each other's arms.
"And now, farewell," Doña Emilia continued. "Begone, you must begone!"
Don Melchior tore himself with difficulty from the maiden's clasp.
"Oh, not farewell!" he exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with hope. "We shall meet again," and he tottered out of the room.
"Mother, mother," Doña Diana said, throwing herself wildly into Doña Emilia's arms, "oh, now I wish to die!"
"Poor child!" her mother murmured, as she covered her with kisses. "Take patience; we have but a few hours longer to suffer."
THE provost marshal recognized the inutility of further search, and, despairing of recapturing the fugitive, whom he supposed to be hidden in the irregular masses of rock that bordered the stream, collected his men, and gave them orders to close up, after bidding them keep the prisoner's escape temporarily a secret, as he himself intended to tell the general what had occurred when the latter asked at his hands the prisoner confided to him. An hour later he entered the canyon, and rejoined the main body of the army.
General Sandoval, although he had nearly twenty thousand men under his orders, perceived, almost immediately after he invested Coahuila, that with soldiers like his, badly armed, worse disciplined, and completely deficient in the necessary articles for a regular siege, he would never succeed in storming a town defended by a garrison of veteran troops, and commanded by one of the best generals of the Spanish army. He therefore converted the siege into a blockade, contenting himself with cutting off the enemy's communications with the interior, and hoping finally to reduce him by famine.
But about this time he received a despatch from General Iturbide. After informing him fully of the events that had occurred, which had, in a few days, changed the state of affairs, and destroyed the power of Spain throughout the entire viceroyalty, the general told him that the Spaniards now held but two points on the Mexican territory—the fortress of San Juan de Ulúa, near Veracruz, and the town of Coahuila. Ulúa but slightly troubled the new chief of the Mexican government.
The Spaniards, shut up in the fortress, and completely cut off from the seaboard, even supposing that they held out for a long time, could not by any possibility exert any influence over the affairs of the country; but the case was not the same with Coahuila. The intendancy of which this town was the capital was one of the richest in Mexico. Being mountainous and well wooded, a clever leader of partizans could collect the malcontents, whose number was large, organize guerillas, and carry on the war, till the Spanish government recovered from its stupor and tried to seize again the rich colonies which had only just slipped from its grasp.
Now, such a skilful chief was invested at Coahuila at this very moment. He had a numerous and well-disciplined garrison, sufficient to form the nucleus of an army which would soon become formidable if time were allowed for its organization. Hence it was absolutely necessary to finish with this general by capturing him, and cutting up his troops.
On perusing this explicit and positive despatch, General Don Pelagio Sandoval found himself no little embarrassed. General Iturbide gave him to understand that he trusted entirely to him, that he had accomplished things far more important than this, and the provisional government felt assured he would carry it through honourably. For two days the general remained plunged in deep thought, forming a dozen plans, and rejecting them in turn. He could not dream of attempting an assault, and carrying the town by storm when opposed by adversaries like the Spaniards. Don Pelagio only saw one way of success: it was to compel General Cárdenas to leave the town, lay a trap for him, and force him into a surrender.
The idea was certainly good; but what stratagem should he employ to cheat General Cárdenas, and draw him out? The general was not the man to let himself be caught in a clumsy snare. He would immediately scent it, and the Mexicans would have to begin over again, under greater difficulties than at first, as the enemy would be on his guard. At last, after long hesitation, Don Pelagio decided on a plan of unexampled temerity, and which must infallibly succeed through its sheer audacity, if matters were carried out with prudence.
Taking advantage of a frightful storm that raged over his camp and the town, and rendered the darkness of night denser still, he ordered his troops to leave the encampment in small detachments, giving each leader of a corps detailed instructions about the movements he must make and the spot he was to go to, and remained himself to the last, to make sure of the due execution of his orders. As it was necessary that the Spaniards should believe in a precipitate flight, rather than a retreat, he was obliged to leave behind him the larger portion of his guns and ammunition, certain, were he the victor, of finding it all intact, but resolved, like the gambler who risks his whole fortune on a card, to blow out his brains if he were conquered, for he knew that Iturbide would not forgive him a defeat.
Moonshine, the Canadian, thoroughly instructed by the general, and who, in his careless gaiety, only thought of playing the Spaniards a famous trick, was left behind to induce the enemy to nibble. We have seen in what manner the Canadian performed the delicate task.
The spot where Don Pelagio proposed waiting for the Spaniard was excellently adapted for a surprise. It was a canyon, or defile, about three leagues in length, and so narrow that two horsemen could scarce ride side by side. This canyon, like most of those found in these latitudes, was merely a dried up watercourse, produced by an earthquake. It formed countless angles and turns, so close to each other that it was impossible to see anything ahead save the wood covered sides of the canyon, which rose precipitously to an enormous height It was evident that if the Spaniards were so mad as to enter this defile, they might perish to the last man, without a chance of resistance.
The Mexicans, on reaching the canyon a little before sunrise, had plenty of time to prepare for action. General Pelagio had all the heights crowned and established his troops in unassailable positions. These measures were taken with such skill and prudence, that this spot where, at the moment, more than four and twenty thousand men were assembled, seemed completely deserted, and it would have been impossible, within a pistol shot, to see the barrel of a single gun glisten. If the Spaniards, from the spot where they had halted on the riverbank, could perceive nothing, it was not the same with the Mexicans. Not one of the enemy's movements escaped Don Pelagio. When he saw the long columns of the Spanish army arrive on the riverbank the Mexican chief quivered with joy. His stratagem had succeeded, his calculations were just, and, as he had expected, his enemy, deceived by the feigned retreat, was about to deliver himself into his hands.
A man must have himself experienced the feelings of a lucky player, who gains a decisive game, in order to understand the full extent of the delight which filled the Mexican general's heart. Still, he felt a moment of indescribable anxiety and agony when he saw the enemy halt on the bank of the stream, and remain there so long quiescent. He feared for a moment lest the Spaniards, guessing the trap laid for them, would turn back. All in that case would be left to the chances of a battle in the open with an experienced enemy accustomed to conquer, and who would, doubtless, contest the field warmly. But this apprehension soon faded away when the scouts crossed the ford. The decisive moment was at hand, and the Mexicans prepared seriously for action.
"My friends," the general said to the persons who surrounded him, "here are the last relics of the troops of those who have oppressed us for three centuries. God has reserved for us the glory of fighting the last battle which will sully the sacred soil of our country with bloodshed. All our brothers have their eyes on us; they ask victory at our hands; shall we disappoint them?"
"No!" the soldiers, electrified by these generous words answered as one man.
"Swear to conquer!" the general continued.
"We swear it!" they exclaimed enthusiastically.
"It is well! I hold your promise, and God has heard it.¡Méjico e independencia!Each to his post now, for blood is about to flow!"
The officers hastily returned to the positions assigned to them, the soldiers lay down on the grass with their finger on the trigger, and all awaited with palpitating hearts the signal for action. At this moment the two detachments sent forward as scouts separated. Captain Castilla halted while Captain Obregozo formed his columns of attack, and continued his forward march.
When the captain, resolved to carry out his duty thoroughly, entered the defile, a few well-aimed musket shots sufficed to destroy his weak escort, and the officer himself fell with a bullet through his chest. This brave officer was the first victim of this day, so fatal to the Spanish army. Unhappily, many others were fated to follow him. When the second detachment, which hurried up to the aid of the first, followed into the defile, the combat assumed the proportions of a battle.
Unhappily, the Spaniards having no infantry, and covered by invisible foes, fell one after the other with cries of impotent rage. On all sides bullets hailed on them, against which they had no protection, and were unable to reply. At times, a bullet, aimed haphazard, or guided by destiny, reached an object it was not aimed at. The shrubs parted, and a corpse rolling down the precipice fell crushed at the feet of the horses.
But for one man the Mexicans lost the Spaniards lost fifty. The fight was too unequal; it was no longer a combat, but a butchery. Suddenly, a tremendous shout was heard; the earth trembled beneath the hoofs of nearly two thousand horses, and General Cárdenas appeared, his face inflamed with noble ardour, his hair in disorder, leaning over his saddle, with his right arm extended, and his sword hanging from his wrist by a steel chain. Behind him came the whole Spanish army—the real battle was about to begin. The infantry arrived at the double on the flanks of the column, firing into the bushes and shrubs where they saw shots fired. The Spanish general, as an experienced leader, had made the best of a bad position. He had scarce entered the canyon with the cavalry, ere a large infantry corps, facing front and rear, occupied the gorge with two guns levelled on the plain. The general rightly conjectured that his enemies might try to catch him between two fires, which was really the plan of the Mexicans; for, no sooner had the infantry occupied the allotted post than Don Aurelio Gutiérrez, at the head of a considerable body of troops, infantry and cavalry, darted suddenly from the forest which had hitherto concealed him, and dashed furiously on the Spaniards, in order to dislodge them and drive them into the interior of the defile.
An obstinate hand to hand fight at once began. Here, at least, the combat was equal; for the Spaniards could see their enemies. Unhappily, the sharpshooters, concealed behind bushes, covered and decimated them, being most desperate against the artillerymen, whom they mercilessly shot down each time when they went up to reload their guns.
General Cárdenas, in spite of all obstacles—the bullets, lumps of rock, and whole trees showered down on his troops—crossed the whole defile with the rapidity of an arrow. He then perceived, some distance ahead, a barricade erected by the Mexicans to intercept his passage.
"There is the road, boys," the general shouted;
"Forward, forward!"
All dashed on to clear the barricade, but suddenly a battery was unmasked, and death passed along the Spanish ranks. Four howitzers, loaded with canister, thundered simultaneously, sweeping down whole lines of horsemen, and making a bloody gap through the entire column. Two-thirds of this magnificent Spanish cavalry were laid low. The general, lifting his horse with a prodigious effort, had forced the noble animal to mount the face of the barricade.
"Forward!" the general shouted, brandishing his sword over his head and digging his spurs into his horse's belly.
The animal made a last generous effort, and rolled dying in the centre of the Mexicans. General Cárdenas was already on his feet, sword in hand.
"Surrender, surrender!" a numbers of soldiers shouted, as they rushed toward him.
"Nonsense! Does a Spanish general ever surrender?" he said, with a gloomy smile of contempt.
And, whirling his formidable sabre round his head, he drove back the men who had ventured too near him.
"Stop, stop!" Oliver Clary shouted, as he dashed forward. "By heaven, he is a noble soldier; let us grant him the death of a brave man. Defend, yourself, General."
"Thank you, señor," the general replied with a smile; "I expected nothing less from your courtesy."
"A fair fight. Back, señores," the hunter said.
"No, no," a man suddenly shouted, as he hurried to the front. "You are a foreigner, Señor Don Oliver; allow me to settle this quarrel."
The Canadian turned and recognized Don Aníbal de Saldibar.
"Very good," he said, lowering his point with a gesture of respectful deference.