Chapter Fifteen.A Little Fair Weather again.On re-entering thesalathe picture of woe was again presented, but in an altered aspect. A change, sudden as the atmospheric one we had just witnessed, had taken place; and the scene of wild weeping was now succeeded by one of resignation and prayer.On one side was Dona Joaquina, holding in her hands a golden rosary with its crucifix. The girls were kneeling in front of a picture—a portrait of Dolores with the fatal dagger; and the “Lady of Grief” looked not more sorrowful from the canvas than the beautiful devotees that bent before her.With their heads slightly leaning, their arms crossed upon their swelling bosoms, and their long loose hair trailing upon the carpet, they formed a picture at once painful and prepossessing.Not wishing to intrude upon this sacred sorrow, we made a motion to retire.“No, Señores,” said Don Cosmé, interrupting us. “Be seated; let us talk calmly—let us know the worst.”We then proceeded to inform Don Cosmé of the landing of the American troops and the manner in which our lines were drawn around the city, and pointed out to him the impossibility of anyone passing either in or out.“There is still a hope, Don Cosmé,” said I, “and that, perhaps, rests with yourself.”The thought had struck me that a Spaniard of Don Cosmé’s evident rank and wealth might be enabled to procure access to the city by means of his consul, and through the Spanish ship of war that I recollected was lying off San Juan.“Oh! name it, Captain; name it!” cried he, while at the word “hope” the ladies had rushed forward, and stood clinging around me.“There is a Spanish ship of war lying under the walls of Vera Cruz.”“We know it—we know it!” replied Don Cosmé eagerly.“Ah! you know it, then?”“Oh, yes!” said Guadalupe. “Don Santiago is on board of her.”“Don Santiago?” inquired I; “who is he?”“He is a relation of ours, Captain,” said Don Cosmé; “an officer in the Spanish navy.”This information pained me, although I scarcely knew why.“You have a friend, then, aboard the Spanish ship,” said I to the elder of the sisters. “’Tis well; it will be in his power to restore to you your brother.”A ring of brightening faces was around me while I uttered these cheering words; and Don Cosmé, grasping me by the hand, entreated me to proceed.“This Spanish ship,” I continued, “is still allowed to keep up a communication with the town. You should proceed aboard at once, and by the assistance of this friend you may bring away your son before the bombardment commences. I see no difficulty; our batteries are not yet formed.”“I will go this instant!” said Don Cosmé, leaping to his feet, while Dona Joaquina and her daughters ran out to make preparations for his journey.Hope—sweet hope—was again in the ascendant.“But how, Señor?” asked Don Cosmé, as soon as they were gone; “how can I pass your lines? Shall I be permitted to reach the ship?”“It will be necessary for me to accompany you, Don Cosmé,” I replied; “and I regret exceedingly that my duty will not permit me to return with you at once.”“Oh, Señor!” exclaimed the Spaniard, with a painful expression.“My business here,” continued I, “is to procure pack-mules for the American army.”“Mules?”“Yes. We were crossing for that purpose to a plain on the other side of the woods, where we had observed some animals of that description.”“’Tis true, Captain; there are a hundred or more; they are mine—take them all!”“But it is our intention to pay for them, Don Cosmé. The major here has the power to contract with you.”“As you please, gentlemen; but you will then return this way, and proceed to your camp?”“As soon as possible,” I replied. “How far distant is this plain?”“Not more than a league. I would go with you, but—” Here Don Cosmé hesitated, and, approaching, said in a low tone: “The truth is, Señor Capitan, I should be glad if you could take themwithout my consent. I have mixed but little in the politics of this country; but Santa Anna is my enemy—he will ask no better motive for despoiling me.”“I understand you,” said I. “Then, Don Cosmé, we will take your mules by force, and carry yourself a prisoner to the American camp—a Yankee return for your hospitality.”“It is good,” replied the Spaniard, with a smile.“Señor Capitan,” continued he, “you are without a sword. Will you favour me by accepting this?”Don Cosmé held out to me a rapier of Toledo steel, with a golden scabbard richly chased, and bearing on its hilt the eagle and nopal of Mexico.“It is a family relic, and once belonged to the brave Guadalupe Victoria.”“Ha! indeed!” I exclaimed, taking the sword; “I shall value it much. Thanks, Señor! thanks! Now, Major, we are ready to proceed.”“A glass of maraschino, gentlemen?” said Don Cosmé, as a servant appeared with a flask and glasses. “Thank you—yes,” grunted the major; “and while we are drinking it, Señor Don, let me give you a hint. You appear to have plenty ofpewter.” Here the major significantly touched a gold sugar-dish, which the servant was carrying upon a tray of chased silver. “Take my word for it, you can’t bury it too soon.”“It is true, Don Cosmé,” said I, translating to him the major’s advice. “We are not French, but there are robbers who hang on the skirts of every army.”Don Cosmé promised to follow the hint with alacrity, and we prepared to take our departure from the rancho.“I will give you a guide, Señor Capitan; you will find my people with themulada. Pleasecompelthem to lasso the cattle for you. You will obtain what you want in the corral.Adios, Señores!”“Farewell, Don Cosmé!”“A dios, Capitan! adios! adios!”I held out my hand to the younger of the girls, who instantly caught it and pressed it to her lips. It was the action of a child. Guadalupe followed the example of her sister, but evidently with a degree of reserve. What, then, should have caused this difference in their manner?In the next moment we were ascending the stairway.“Lucky dog!” growled the major. “Take a ducking myself for that.”“Both beautiful, by Jove!” said Clayley; “but of all the women I ever saw, give me ‘Mary of the Light’!”
On re-entering thesalathe picture of woe was again presented, but in an altered aspect. A change, sudden as the atmospheric one we had just witnessed, had taken place; and the scene of wild weeping was now succeeded by one of resignation and prayer.
On one side was Dona Joaquina, holding in her hands a golden rosary with its crucifix. The girls were kneeling in front of a picture—a portrait of Dolores with the fatal dagger; and the “Lady of Grief” looked not more sorrowful from the canvas than the beautiful devotees that bent before her.
With their heads slightly leaning, their arms crossed upon their swelling bosoms, and their long loose hair trailing upon the carpet, they formed a picture at once painful and prepossessing.
Not wishing to intrude upon this sacred sorrow, we made a motion to retire.
“No, Señores,” said Don Cosmé, interrupting us. “Be seated; let us talk calmly—let us know the worst.”
We then proceeded to inform Don Cosmé of the landing of the American troops and the manner in which our lines were drawn around the city, and pointed out to him the impossibility of anyone passing either in or out.
“There is still a hope, Don Cosmé,” said I, “and that, perhaps, rests with yourself.”
The thought had struck me that a Spaniard of Don Cosmé’s evident rank and wealth might be enabled to procure access to the city by means of his consul, and through the Spanish ship of war that I recollected was lying off San Juan.
“Oh! name it, Captain; name it!” cried he, while at the word “hope” the ladies had rushed forward, and stood clinging around me.
“There is a Spanish ship of war lying under the walls of Vera Cruz.”
“We know it—we know it!” replied Don Cosmé eagerly.
“Ah! you know it, then?”
“Oh, yes!” said Guadalupe. “Don Santiago is on board of her.”
“Don Santiago?” inquired I; “who is he?”
“He is a relation of ours, Captain,” said Don Cosmé; “an officer in the Spanish navy.”
This information pained me, although I scarcely knew why.
“You have a friend, then, aboard the Spanish ship,” said I to the elder of the sisters. “’Tis well; it will be in his power to restore to you your brother.”
A ring of brightening faces was around me while I uttered these cheering words; and Don Cosmé, grasping me by the hand, entreated me to proceed.
“This Spanish ship,” I continued, “is still allowed to keep up a communication with the town. You should proceed aboard at once, and by the assistance of this friend you may bring away your son before the bombardment commences. I see no difficulty; our batteries are not yet formed.”
“I will go this instant!” said Don Cosmé, leaping to his feet, while Dona Joaquina and her daughters ran out to make preparations for his journey.
Hope—sweet hope—was again in the ascendant.
“But how, Señor?” asked Don Cosmé, as soon as they were gone; “how can I pass your lines? Shall I be permitted to reach the ship?”
“It will be necessary for me to accompany you, Don Cosmé,” I replied; “and I regret exceedingly that my duty will not permit me to return with you at once.”
“Oh, Señor!” exclaimed the Spaniard, with a painful expression.
“My business here,” continued I, “is to procure pack-mules for the American army.”
“Mules?”
“Yes. We were crossing for that purpose to a plain on the other side of the woods, where we had observed some animals of that description.”
“’Tis true, Captain; there are a hundred or more; they are mine—take them all!”
“But it is our intention to pay for them, Don Cosmé. The major here has the power to contract with you.”
“As you please, gentlemen; but you will then return this way, and proceed to your camp?”
“As soon as possible,” I replied. “How far distant is this plain?”
“Not more than a league. I would go with you, but—” Here Don Cosmé hesitated, and, approaching, said in a low tone: “The truth is, Señor Capitan, I should be glad if you could take themwithout my consent. I have mixed but little in the politics of this country; but Santa Anna is my enemy—he will ask no better motive for despoiling me.”
“I understand you,” said I. “Then, Don Cosmé, we will take your mules by force, and carry yourself a prisoner to the American camp—a Yankee return for your hospitality.”
“It is good,” replied the Spaniard, with a smile.
“Señor Capitan,” continued he, “you are without a sword. Will you favour me by accepting this?”
Don Cosmé held out to me a rapier of Toledo steel, with a golden scabbard richly chased, and bearing on its hilt the eagle and nopal of Mexico.
“It is a family relic, and once belonged to the brave Guadalupe Victoria.”
“Ha! indeed!” I exclaimed, taking the sword; “I shall value it much. Thanks, Señor! thanks! Now, Major, we are ready to proceed.”
“A glass of maraschino, gentlemen?” said Don Cosmé, as a servant appeared with a flask and glasses. “Thank you—yes,” grunted the major; “and while we are drinking it, Señor Don, let me give you a hint. You appear to have plenty ofpewter.” Here the major significantly touched a gold sugar-dish, which the servant was carrying upon a tray of chased silver. “Take my word for it, you can’t bury it too soon.”
“It is true, Don Cosmé,” said I, translating to him the major’s advice. “We are not French, but there are robbers who hang on the skirts of every army.”
Don Cosmé promised to follow the hint with alacrity, and we prepared to take our departure from the rancho.
“I will give you a guide, Señor Capitan; you will find my people with themulada. Pleasecompelthem to lasso the cattle for you. You will obtain what you want in the corral.Adios, Señores!”
“Farewell, Don Cosmé!”
“A dios, Capitan! adios! adios!”
I held out my hand to the younger of the girls, who instantly caught it and pressed it to her lips. It was the action of a child. Guadalupe followed the example of her sister, but evidently with a degree of reserve. What, then, should have caused this difference in their manner?
In the next moment we were ascending the stairway.
“Lucky dog!” growled the major. “Take a ducking myself for that.”
“Both beautiful, by Jove!” said Clayley; “but of all the women I ever saw, give me ‘Mary of the Light’!”
Chapter Sixteen.The Scout continued, with a Variety of Reflections.Love is a rose growing upon a thorny bramble. There is jealousy in the very first blush of a passion. No sooner has a fair face made its impress on the heart than hopes and fears spring up in alternation. Every action, every word, every look is noted and examined with a jealous scrutiny; and the heart of the lover, changing like the chameleon, takes its hues from the latest sentiment that may have dropped from the loved one’s lips. And then the various looks, words, and actions, the favourable with the unfavourable, are recalled, and by a mental process classified and marshalled against each other, and compared and balanced with as much exactitude as theprosandcontrasof a miser’s bank-book; and in this process we have a new alternation of hopes and fears.Ah, love! we could write a long history of thy rise and progress; but it is doubtful whether any of our readers would be a jot the wiser for it. Most of them ere this have read that history in their own hearts.I felt and knew that I was in love. It had come like a thought, as it comes upon all men whose souls are attuned to vibrate under the mystical impressions of the beautiful. And well I knewshewas beautiful. I saw its unfailing index in those oval developments—the index, too, of the intellectual; for experience had taught me thatintellect takes a shape; and that those peculiarities of form that we admire, without knowing why, are but the material illustrations of the diviner principles of mind.The eye, too, with its almond outline, and wild, half-Indian, half Arab expression—the dark tracery over the lip, so rarely seen in the lineaments of her sex—even these were attractions. There was something picturesque, something strange, something almost fierce, in her aspect; and yet it was this indefinable something, this very fierceness, that had challenged my love. For I must confess mine is not one of those curious natures that I have read of, whose love is based only upon the goodness of the object. Thatis not love.My heart recognised in herthe heroine of extremes. One of those natures gifted with all the tenderness that belongs to the angel idea—woman; yet soaring above her sex in the paralysing moments of peril and despair. Her feelings, in relation to her sister’s cruelty to the gold-fish, proved the existence of the former principle; her actions, in attempting my own rescue when battling with the monster, were evidence of the latter. One of those natures that may err from the desperate intensity of one passion, that knows no limit to its self-sacrifice short of destruction and death. One of those beings that may fall—butonly once.“What would I not give—what would I not do—to be the hero of such a heart?”These were my reflections as I quitted the house.I had noted every word, every look, every action, that could lend me a hope; and my memory conjured up, and my judgment canvassed, each little circumstance in its turn.How strange her conduct at bidding adieu! How unlike her sister! Less friendly and sincere; and yet from this very circumstance I drew my happiest omen.Strange—is it not? My experience has taught me that love and hate for thesameobject can exist in thesameheart, and at thesametime. If this be a paradox, I am a child of error.I believed it then; and her apparent coldness, which would have rendered many another hopeless, produced with me an opposite effect.Then came the cloud—the thought of Don Santiago—and a painful feeling shot through my heart.“Don Santiago, a naval officer, young, handsome. Bah! hers is not a heart to be won by a face.”Such were my reflections and half-uttered expressions as I slowly led my soldiers through the tangled path.Don Santiago’s age and his appearance were the creations of a jealous fancy. I had bidden adieu to my new acquaintances knowing nothing of Don Santiago beyond the fact that he was an officer on board the Spanish ship of war, and a relation of Don Cosmé.“Oh, yes! Don Santiago is on board! Ha! there was an evident interest. Her look as she said it; her manner—furies! But he is a relation, a cousin—a cousin—I hate cousins!”I must have pronounced the last words aloud, as Lincoln, who walked in my rear, stepped hastily up, and asked:“What did yer say, Cap’n?”“Oh! nothing, Sergeant,” stammered I, in some confusion.Notwithstanding my assurance, I overheard Lincoln whisper to his nearest comrade:“What ther old Harry hes got into the cap?”He referred to the fact that I had unconsciously hooked myself half a dozen times on the thorny claws of the pita-plant, and my overalls began to exhibit a most tattered condition.Our route lay through a dense chaparral—now crossing a sandy spur, covered with mezquite and acacia; then sinking into the bed of some silent creek, shaded with old cork-trees, whose gnarled and venerable trunks were laced together by a thousand parasites. Two miles from the rancho we reached the banks of a considerable stream, which we conjectured was a branch of the Jamapa River.On both sides a fringe of dark forest-trees flung out long branches extending half-way across the stream. The water flowed darkly underneath.Huge lilies stood out from the banks—their broad, wax-like leaves trailing upon the glassy ripple.Here and there were pools fringed with drooping willows and belts of greentulé. Other aquatic plants rose from the water to the height of twenty feet; among which we distinguished the beautiful “iris”, with its tall, spear-like stem, ending in a brown cylinder, like the pompon of a grenadier’s cap.As we approached the banks the pelican, scared from his lonely haunt, rose upon heavy wing, and with a shrill scream flapped away through the dark aisles of the forest. The cayman plunged sullenly into the sedgy water; and the “Sajou” monkey, suspended by his prehensile tail from some overhanging bough, oscillated to and fro, and filled the air with his hideous, half-human cries.Halting for a moment to refill the canteens, we crossed over and ascended the opposite bank. A hundred paces farther on the guide, who had gone ahead, cried out from an eminence, “Mira la caballada!” (Yonder’s the drove!)
Love is a rose growing upon a thorny bramble. There is jealousy in the very first blush of a passion. No sooner has a fair face made its impress on the heart than hopes and fears spring up in alternation. Every action, every word, every look is noted and examined with a jealous scrutiny; and the heart of the lover, changing like the chameleon, takes its hues from the latest sentiment that may have dropped from the loved one’s lips. And then the various looks, words, and actions, the favourable with the unfavourable, are recalled, and by a mental process classified and marshalled against each other, and compared and balanced with as much exactitude as theprosandcontrasof a miser’s bank-book; and in this process we have a new alternation of hopes and fears.
Ah, love! we could write a long history of thy rise and progress; but it is doubtful whether any of our readers would be a jot the wiser for it. Most of them ere this have read that history in their own hearts.
I felt and knew that I was in love. It had come like a thought, as it comes upon all men whose souls are attuned to vibrate under the mystical impressions of the beautiful. And well I knewshewas beautiful. I saw its unfailing index in those oval developments—the index, too, of the intellectual; for experience had taught me thatintellect takes a shape; and that those peculiarities of form that we admire, without knowing why, are but the material illustrations of the diviner principles of mind.
The eye, too, with its almond outline, and wild, half-Indian, half Arab expression—the dark tracery over the lip, so rarely seen in the lineaments of her sex—even these were attractions. There was something picturesque, something strange, something almost fierce, in her aspect; and yet it was this indefinable something, this very fierceness, that had challenged my love. For I must confess mine is not one of those curious natures that I have read of, whose love is based only upon the goodness of the object. Thatis not love.
My heart recognised in herthe heroine of extremes. One of those natures gifted with all the tenderness that belongs to the angel idea—woman; yet soaring above her sex in the paralysing moments of peril and despair. Her feelings, in relation to her sister’s cruelty to the gold-fish, proved the existence of the former principle; her actions, in attempting my own rescue when battling with the monster, were evidence of the latter. One of those natures that may err from the desperate intensity of one passion, that knows no limit to its self-sacrifice short of destruction and death. One of those beings that may fall—butonly once.
“What would I not give—what would I not do—to be the hero of such a heart?”
These were my reflections as I quitted the house.
I had noted every word, every look, every action, that could lend me a hope; and my memory conjured up, and my judgment canvassed, each little circumstance in its turn.
How strange her conduct at bidding adieu! How unlike her sister! Less friendly and sincere; and yet from this very circumstance I drew my happiest omen.
Strange—is it not? My experience has taught me that love and hate for thesameobject can exist in thesameheart, and at thesametime. If this be a paradox, I am a child of error.
I believed it then; and her apparent coldness, which would have rendered many another hopeless, produced with me an opposite effect.
Then came the cloud—the thought of Don Santiago—and a painful feeling shot through my heart.
“Don Santiago, a naval officer, young, handsome. Bah! hers is not a heart to be won by a face.”
Such were my reflections and half-uttered expressions as I slowly led my soldiers through the tangled path.
Don Santiago’s age and his appearance were the creations of a jealous fancy. I had bidden adieu to my new acquaintances knowing nothing of Don Santiago beyond the fact that he was an officer on board the Spanish ship of war, and a relation of Don Cosmé.
“Oh, yes! Don Santiago is on board! Ha! there was an evident interest. Her look as she said it; her manner—furies! But he is a relation, a cousin—a cousin—I hate cousins!”
I must have pronounced the last words aloud, as Lincoln, who walked in my rear, stepped hastily up, and asked:
“What did yer say, Cap’n?”
“Oh! nothing, Sergeant,” stammered I, in some confusion.
Notwithstanding my assurance, I overheard Lincoln whisper to his nearest comrade:
“What ther old Harry hes got into the cap?”
He referred to the fact that I had unconsciously hooked myself half a dozen times on the thorny claws of the pita-plant, and my overalls began to exhibit a most tattered condition.
Our route lay through a dense chaparral—now crossing a sandy spur, covered with mezquite and acacia; then sinking into the bed of some silent creek, shaded with old cork-trees, whose gnarled and venerable trunks were laced together by a thousand parasites. Two miles from the rancho we reached the banks of a considerable stream, which we conjectured was a branch of the Jamapa River.
On both sides a fringe of dark forest-trees flung out long branches extending half-way across the stream. The water flowed darkly underneath.
Huge lilies stood out from the banks—their broad, wax-like leaves trailing upon the glassy ripple.
Here and there were pools fringed with drooping willows and belts of greentulé. Other aquatic plants rose from the water to the height of twenty feet; among which we distinguished the beautiful “iris”, with its tall, spear-like stem, ending in a brown cylinder, like the pompon of a grenadier’s cap.
As we approached the banks the pelican, scared from his lonely haunt, rose upon heavy wing, and with a shrill scream flapped away through the dark aisles of the forest. The cayman plunged sullenly into the sedgy water; and the “Sajou” monkey, suspended by his prehensile tail from some overhanging bough, oscillated to and fro, and filled the air with his hideous, half-human cries.
Halting for a moment to refill the canteens, we crossed over and ascended the opposite bank. A hundred paces farther on the guide, who had gone ahead, cried out from an eminence, “Mira la caballada!” (Yonder’s the drove!)
Chapter Seventeen.One Way of Taming a Bull.Pushing through the jungle, we ascended the eminence. A brilliant picture opened before us. The storm had suddenly lulled, and the tropical sun shone down upon the flowery surface of the earth, bathing its verdure in a flood of yellow light. It was several hours before sunset, but the bright orb had commenced descending towards the snowy cone of Orizava, and his rays had assumed that golden red which characterises the ante-twilight of the tropics. The short-lived storm had swept the heavens, and the blue roof of the world was without a cloud. The dark masses had rolled away over the south-eastern horizon, and were now spending their fury upon the dyewood forests of Honduras and Tabasco.At our feet lay the prairie, spread before us like a green carpet, and bounded upon the farther side by a dark wall of forest-trees. Several clumps of timber grew like islands on the plain, adding to the picturesque character of the landscape.Near the centre of the prairie stood a small rancho, surrounded by a high picket fence. This we at once recognised as the “corral” mentioned by Don Cosmé.At some distance from the inclosure thousands of cattle were browsing upon the grassy level, their spotted flanks and long upright horns showing their descent from the famous race of Spanish bulls. Some of them, straggling from the herd, rambled through the “mottes”, or lay stretched out under the shade of some isolated palm-tree. Ox-bells were tinkling their cheerful but monotonous music. Hundreds of horses and mules mingled with the herd; and we could distinguish a couple of leather-cladvaqueros(herdsmen) galloping from point to point on their swift mustangs.These, as we appeared upon the ridge, dashed out after a wild bull that had just escaped from the corral.All five—the vaqueros, the mustangs, and the bull—swept over the prairie like wind, the bull bellowing with rage and terror; while the vaqueros were yelling in his rear, and whirling their long lazos. Their straight black hair floating in the wind—their swarthy, Arab-like faces—their high Spanish hats—their red leather calzoneros, buttoned up the sides—their huge jingling spurs, and the ornamental trappings of their deep saddles—all these, combined with the perfectmanègeof their dashing steeds, and the wild excitement of the chase in which they were engaged, rendered them objects of picturesque interest; and we halted a moment to witness the result.The bull came rushing past within fifty paces of where we stood, snorting with rage, and tossing his horns high in the air—his pursuers close upon him. At this moment one of the vaqueros launched his lazo, which, floating gracefully out, settled down over one horn. Seeing this, the vaquero did not turn his horse, but sat facing the bull, and permitted the rope to run out. It was soon carried taut; and, scarcely checking the animal, it slipped along the smooth horn and spun out into the air. The cast was a failure.The second vaquero now flung his lazo with more success. The heavy loop, skilfully projected, shot out like an arrow, and embracedbothhorns in its curving noose. With the quickness of thought the vaquero wheeled his horse, buried his spurs deep into his flanks, and, pressing his thighs to the saddle, galloped off in an opposite direction. The bull dashed on as before. In a moment the lariat was stretched. The sudden jerk caused the thong to vibrate like a bowstring, and the bull lay motionless on the grass. The shock almost dragged the mustang upon his flanks.The bull lay for some time where he had fallen; then, making an effort, he sprang up, and looked around him with a bewildered air. He was not yet conquered. His eye, flashing with rage, rolled around until it fell upon the rope leading from his horns to the saddle; and, suddenly lowering his head, with a furious roar he rushed upon the vaquero.The latter, who had been expecting this attack, drove the spurs into his mustang, and started in full gallop across the prairie. On followed the bull, sometimes shortening the distance between him and his enemy, while at intervals the lazo, tightening, would almost jerk him upon his head.After running for a hundred yards or so, the vaquero suddenly wheeled and galloped out at right angles to his former course. Before the bull could turn, himself the rope again tightened with a jerk and flung him upon his side. This time he lay but an instant, and, again springing to his feet, he dashed off in fresh pursuit.The second vaquero now came up, and, as the bull rushed past, launched his lazo after, and snared him around one of the legs, drawing the noose upon his ankle.This time the bull was flung completely over, and with such a violent shock that he lay as if dead. One of the vaqueros then rode cautiously up, and, bending over in the saddle, unfastened both of the lariats, and set the animal free.The bull rose to his feet, and, looking around in the most cowed and pitiful manner, walked quietly off, driven unresistingly towards the corral.We commenced descending into the place, and the vaqueros, catching a glimpse of our uniforms, simultaneously reined up their mustangs with a sudden jerk. We could see from their gestures that they were frightened at the approach of our party. This was not strange, as the major, mounted upon his great gaunt charger, loomed up against the blue sky like a colossus. The Mexicans, doubtless, had never seen anything in the way of horseflesh bigger than the mustangs they were riding; and this apparition, with the long line of uniformed soldiers descending the hill, was calculated to alarm them severely.“Them fellers is gwine to put, Cap’n,” said Lincoln, touching his cap respectfully.“You’re right, Sergeant,” I replied; “and without them we might as well think of catching the wind as one of these mules.”“If yer’ll just let me draw a bead on the near mustang, I kin kripple him ’ithout hurtin’ the thing thet’s in the saddle.”“It would be a pity. No, Sergeant,” answered I. “I might stop them by sending forward the guide,” I continued, addressing myself rather than Lincoln; “but no, it will not do; there must be the appearance of force. I have promised. Major, would you have the goodness to ride forward, and prevent those fellows from galloping off?”“Lord, Captain!” said the major, with a terrified look, “you don’t think I could overtake such Arabs as them? Hercules is slow—slow as a crab!”Now, this wasa lie, and I knew it! for Hercules, the major’s great, raw-boned steed, was as fleet as the wind.“Then, Major, perhaps you will allow Mr Clayley to make trial of him,” I suggested. “He is light weight. I assure you that, without the assistance of these Mexicans, we shall not be able to catch a single mule.”The major, seeing that all eyes were fixed upon him, suddenly straightened himself up in his stirrups, and, swelling with courage and importance, declared, “If that was the case, he would go himself.” Then, calling upon “Doc” to follow him, he struck the spurs into Hercules, and rode forward at a gallop.It proved that this was just the very course to start the vaqueros, as the major had inspired them with more terror than all the rest of our party. They showed evident symptoms of taking to their heels, and I shouted to them at the top of my voice:“Alto! somos amigos!” (Halt! we are friends).The words were scarcely out of my mouth when the Mexicans drove the rowels into their mustangs, and galloped off as if for their lives in the direction of the corral.The major followed at a slashing pace, Doc bringing up the rear; while the basket which the latter carried over his arm began to eject its contents, scattering the commissariat of the major over the prairie. Fortunately, the hospitality of Don Cosmé had already provided a substitute for this loss.After a run of about half a mile Hercules began to gain rapidly upon the mustangs, whereas Doc was losing distance in an inverse ratio. The Mexicans had got within a couple of hundred yards of the rancho, the major not over a hundred in their rear, when I observed the latter suddenly pull up, and, jerking the long body of Hercules round, commence riding briskly back, all the while looking over his shoulder towards the in closure.The vaqueros did not halt at the corral, as we expected, but kept across the prairie, and disappeared among the trees on the opposite side.“What the deuce has got into Blossom?” inquired Clayley; “he was clearly gaining upon them. The old bloat must have burst a blood-vessel.”
Pushing through the jungle, we ascended the eminence. A brilliant picture opened before us. The storm had suddenly lulled, and the tropical sun shone down upon the flowery surface of the earth, bathing its verdure in a flood of yellow light. It was several hours before sunset, but the bright orb had commenced descending towards the snowy cone of Orizava, and his rays had assumed that golden red which characterises the ante-twilight of the tropics. The short-lived storm had swept the heavens, and the blue roof of the world was without a cloud. The dark masses had rolled away over the south-eastern horizon, and were now spending their fury upon the dyewood forests of Honduras and Tabasco.
At our feet lay the prairie, spread before us like a green carpet, and bounded upon the farther side by a dark wall of forest-trees. Several clumps of timber grew like islands on the plain, adding to the picturesque character of the landscape.
Near the centre of the prairie stood a small rancho, surrounded by a high picket fence. This we at once recognised as the “corral” mentioned by Don Cosmé.
At some distance from the inclosure thousands of cattle were browsing upon the grassy level, their spotted flanks and long upright horns showing their descent from the famous race of Spanish bulls. Some of them, straggling from the herd, rambled through the “mottes”, or lay stretched out under the shade of some isolated palm-tree. Ox-bells were tinkling their cheerful but monotonous music. Hundreds of horses and mules mingled with the herd; and we could distinguish a couple of leather-cladvaqueros(herdsmen) galloping from point to point on their swift mustangs.
These, as we appeared upon the ridge, dashed out after a wild bull that had just escaped from the corral.
All five—the vaqueros, the mustangs, and the bull—swept over the prairie like wind, the bull bellowing with rage and terror; while the vaqueros were yelling in his rear, and whirling their long lazos. Their straight black hair floating in the wind—their swarthy, Arab-like faces—their high Spanish hats—their red leather calzoneros, buttoned up the sides—their huge jingling spurs, and the ornamental trappings of their deep saddles—all these, combined with the perfectmanègeof their dashing steeds, and the wild excitement of the chase in which they were engaged, rendered them objects of picturesque interest; and we halted a moment to witness the result.
The bull came rushing past within fifty paces of where we stood, snorting with rage, and tossing his horns high in the air—his pursuers close upon him. At this moment one of the vaqueros launched his lazo, which, floating gracefully out, settled down over one horn. Seeing this, the vaquero did not turn his horse, but sat facing the bull, and permitted the rope to run out. It was soon carried taut; and, scarcely checking the animal, it slipped along the smooth horn and spun out into the air. The cast was a failure.
The second vaquero now flung his lazo with more success. The heavy loop, skilfully projected, shot out like an arrow, and embracedbothhorns in its curving noose. With the quickness of thought the vaquero wheeled his horse, buried his spurs deep into his flanks, and, pressing his thighs to the saddle, galloped off in an opposite direction. The bull dashed on as before. In a moment the lariat was stretched. The sudden jerk caused the thong to vibrate like a bowstring, and the bull lay motionless on the grass. The shock almost dragged the mustang upon his flanks.
The bull lay for some time where he had fallen; then, making an effort, he sprang up, and looked around him with a bewildered air. He was not yet conquered. His eye, flashing with rage, rolled around until it fell upon the rope leading from his horns to the saddle; and, suddenly lowering his head, with a furious roar he rushed upon the vaquero.
The latter, who had been expecting this attack, drove the spurs into his mustang, and started in full gallop across the prairie. On followed the bull, sometimes shortening the distance between him and his enemy, while at intervals the lazo, tightening, would almost jerk him upon his head.
After running for a hundred yards or so, the vaquero suddenly wheeled and galloped out at right angles to his former course. Before the bull could turn, himself the rope again tightened with a jerk and flung him upon his side. This time he lay but an instant, and, again springing to his feet, he dashed off in fresh pursuit.
The second vaquero now came up, and, as the bull rushed past, launched his lazo after, and snared him around one of the legs, drawing the noose upon his ankle.
This time the bull was flung completely over, and with such a violent shock that he lay as if dead. One of the vaqueros then rode cautiously up, and, bending over in the saddle, unfastened both of the lariats, and set the animal free.
The bull rose to his feet, and, looking around in the most cowed and pitiful manner, walked quietly off, driven unresistingly towards the corral.
We commenced descending into the place, and the vaqueros, catching a glimpse of our uniforms, simultaneously reined up their mustangs with a sudden jerk. We could see from their gestures that they were frightened at the approach of our party. This was not strange, as the major, mounted upon his great gaunt charger, loomed up against the blue sky like a colossus. The Mexicans, doubtless, had never seen anything in the way of horseflesh bigger than the mustangs they were riding; and this apparition, with the long line of uniformed soldiers descending the hill, was calculated to alarm them severely.
“Them fellers is gwine to put, Cap’n,” said Lincoln, touching his cap respectfully.
“You’re right, Sergeant,” I replied; “and without them we might as well think of catching the wind as one of these mules.”
“If yer’ll just let me draw a bead on the near mustang, I kin kripple him ’ithout hurtin’ the thing thet’s in the saddle.”
“It would be a pity. No, Sergeant,” answered I. “I might stop them by sending forward the guide,” I continued, addressing myself rather than Lincoln; “but no, it will not do; there must be the appearance of force. I have promised. Major, would you have the goodness to ride forward, and prevent those fellows from galloping off?”
“Lord, Captain!” said the major, with a terrified look, “you don’t think I could overtake such Arabs as them? Hercules is slow—slow as a crab!”
Now, this wasa lie, and I knew it! for Hercules, the major’s great, raw-boned steed, was as fleet as the wind.
“Then, Major, perhaps you will allow Mr Clayley to make trial of him,” I suggested. “He is light weight. I assure you that, without the assistance of these Mexicans, we shall not be able to catch a single mule.”
The major, seeing that all eyes were fixed upon him, suddenly straightened himself up in his stirrups, and, swelling with courage and importance, declared, “If that was the case, he would go himself.” Then, calling upon “Doc” to follow him, he struck the spurs into Hercules, and rode forward at a gallop.
It proved that this was just the very course to start the vaqueros, as the major had inspired them with more terror than all the rest of our party. They showed evident symptoms of taking to their heels, and I shouted to them at the top of my voice:
“Alto! somos amigos!” (Halt! we are friends).
The words were scarcely out of my mouth when the Mexicans drove the rowels into their mustangs, and galloped off as if for their lives in the direction of the corral.
The major followed at a slashing pace, Doc bringing up the rear; while the basket which the latter carried over his arm began to eject its contents, scattering the commissariat of the major over the prairie. Fortunately, the hospitality of Don Cosmé had already provided a substitute for this loss.
After a run of about half a mile Hercules began to gain rapidly upon the mustangs, whereas Doc was losing distance in an inverse ratio. The Mexicans had got within a couple of hundred yards of the rancho, the major not over a hundred in their rear, when I observed the latter suddenly pull up, and, jerking the long body of Hercules round, commence riding briskly back, all the while looking over his shoulder towards the in closure.
The vaqueros did not halt at the corral, as we expected, but kept across the prairie, and disappeared among the trees on the opposite side.
“What the deuce has got into Blossom?” inquired Clayley; “he was clearly gaining upon them. The old bloat must have burst a blood-vessel.”
Chapter Eighteen.A Brush with the Guerilleros.“Why, what was the matter, Major?” inquired I, as the major rode up blowing like a porpoise.“Matter!” replied he, with one of his direst imprecations; “matter, indeed! You wouldn’t have me ride plump into their works, would you?”“Works!” echoed I, in some surprise; “what do you mean by that, Major?”“I mean works—that’s all. There’s a stockade ten feet high, as full as it can stick of them.”“Full of what?”“Full of the enemy—full of rancheros. I saw their ugly copper faces—a dozen of them at least—looking at me over the pickets; and, sure as heaven, if I had gone ten paces farther they would have riddled me like a target.”“But, Major, they were only peaceable rancheros—cow-herds—nothing more.”“Cow-herds! I tell you, Captain, that those two that galloped off had a sword apiece strapped to their saddles. I saw them when I got near: they were decoys to bring us up to that stockade—I’ll bet my life upon it!”“Well, Major,” rejoined I, “they’re far enough from the stockade now; and the best we can do in their absence will be to examine it, and see what chances it may offer to corral these mules, for, unless they can be driven into it, we shall have to return to camp empty-handed.”Saying this, I moved forward with the men, the major keeping in the rear.We soon reached the formidable stockade, which proved to be nothing more than a regular corral, such as are found on the greathaciendas de ganados(cattle farms) of Spanish America. In one corner was a house, constructed of upright poles, with a thatch of palm-leaves. This contained the lazos,alparejas, saddles, etcetera, of the vaqueros; and in the door of this house stood a decrepit old zambo, the only human thing about the place. The zambo’s woolly head over the pickets had reflected itself a dozen times on the major’s terrified imagination.After examining the corral, I found it excellent for our purpose, provided we could only succeed in driving the mulesintoit; and, throwing open the bars, we proceeded to make the attempt. The mules were browsing quietly at the distance of a quarter of a mile from the corral.Marching past the drove, I deployed the company in the form of a semicircle, forming a complete cordon round the animals; then, closing in upon them slowly, the soldiers commenced driving them towards the pen.We were somewhat awkward at this new duty; but by means of a shower of small rocks, pieces ofbois de vache, and an occasional “heigh, heigh!” the mules were soon in motion and in the required direction.The major, with Doc and little Jack, being the mounted men of the party, did great service, especially Jack, who was highly delighted with this kind of thing, and kept Twidget in a constant gallop from right to left.As themuladoneared the gates of the inclosure, the two extremes of the semi-circumference gradually approached each other, closing in toward the corral.The mules were already within fifty paces of the entrance, the soldiers coming up about two hundred yards in the rear, when a noise like the tramping of many hoofs arrested our attention. The quick, sharp note of a cavalry bugle rang out across the plain, followed by a wild yell, as though a band of Indian warriors were sweeping down upon the foe.In an instant every eye was turned, and we beheld with consternation a cloud of horsemen springing out from the woods, and dashing along in the headlong velocity of a charge.It required but a single glance to satisfy me that they were guerilleros. Their picturesque attire, their peculiar arms, and the parti-coloured bannerets upon their lances were not to be mistaken.We stood for a moment as if thunderstruck; a sharp cry rose along the deployed line.I signalled to the bugler, who gave the command, “Rally upon the centre!”As if by one impulse, the whole line closed in with a run upon the gates of the inclosure. The mules, impelled by the sudden rush, dashed forward pell-mell, blocking up the entrance.On came the guerilleros, with streaming pennons and lances couched, shouting their wild cries:“Andela! andela! Mueran los Yankees!” (Forward! forward! Death to the Yankees!)The foremost of the soldiers were already upon the heels of the crowded mules, pricking them with bayonets. The animals began to kick and plunge in the most furious manner, causing a new danger in front.“Face about—fire!” I commanded at this moment.An irregular but well-directed volley emptied half a dozen saddles, and for a moment staggered the charging line; but, before my men could reload, the guerilleros had leaped clear over their fallen comrades, and were swooping down with cries of vengeance. A dozen of their bravest men were already within shot-range, firing their escopettes and pistols as they came down.Our position had now grown fearfully critical. The mules still blocked up the entrance, preventing the soldiers from taking shelter behind the stockade; and before we could reload, the rearmost would be at the mercy of the enemy’s lances.Seizing the major’s servant by the arm, I dragged him from his horse, and, leaping into the saddle, flung myself upon the rear. Half a dozen of my bravest men, among whom were Lincoln, Chane, and the Frenchman Raoul, rallied around the horse, determined to receive the cavalry charge on the short bayonets of their rifles. Their pieces were all empty!At this moment my eye rested on one of the soldiers, a brave but slow-footed German, who was still twenty paces in the rear of his comrades, making every effort to come up. Two of the guerilleros were rushing upon him with couched lances. I galloped out to his rescue; but before I could reach him the lance of the foremost Mexican crashed through the soldier’s skull, shivering it like a shell. The barb and bloody pennon came out on the opposite side. The man was lifted from the ground, and carried several paces upon the shaft of the lance.The guerillero dropped his entangled weapon; but before he could draw any other, the sword of Victoria was through his heart.His comrade turned upon me with a cry of vengeance. I had not yet disengaged my weapon to ward off the thrust. The lance’s point was within three feet of my breast, when a sharp crack was heard from behind; the lancer threw out his arms with a spasmodic jerk; his long spear was whirled into the air, and he fell back in his saddle, dead.“Well done, Jack! fire and scissors! who showed yer that trick? whooray! whoop!” and I heard the voice of Lincoln, in a sort of Indian yell, rising high above the din.At this moment a guerillo, mounted upon a powerful black mustang, came galloping down. This man, unlike most of his comrades, was armed with the sabre, which he evidently wielded with great dexterity. He came dashing on, his white teeth set in a fierce smile.“Ha! Monsieur le Capitaine,” shouted he, as he came near, “still alive? I thought I had finished you on Lobos; not too late yet!”I recognised the deserter, Dubrosc!“Villain!” I ejaculated, too full of rage to utter another word.We met at full speedy but with my unmanageable horse I could only ward off his blow as he swept past me. We wheeled again, and galloped towards each other—both of us impelled by hatred; but my horse again shied, frightened by the gleaming sabre of my antagonist. Before I could rein him round, he had brought me close to the pickets of the corral; and on turning to meet the deserter, I found that we were separated by a band of dark objects.It was a detachment of mules that had backed from the gates of the corral and were escaping to the open plain. We reined up, eyeing each other with impatient vengeance; but the bullets of my men began to whistle from the pickets; and Dubrosc, with a threatening gesture, wheeled his horse and galloped off to his comrades. They had retired beyond range, and were halted in groups upon the prairie, chafing with disappointment and rage.
“Why, what was the matter, Major?” inquired I, as the major rode up blowing like a porpoise.
“Matter!” replied he, with one of his direst imprecations; “matter, indeed! You wouldn’t have me ride plump into their works, would you?”
“Works!” echoed I, in some surprise; “what do you mean by that, Major?”
“I mean works—that’s all. There’s a stockade ten feet high, as full as it can stick of them.”
“Full of what?”
“Full of the enemy—full of rancheros. I saw their ugly copper faces—a dozen of them at least—looking at me over the pickets; and, sure as heaven, if I had gone ten paces farther they would have riddled me like a target.”
“But, Major, they were only peaceable rancheros—cow-herds—nothing more.”
“Cow-herds! I tell you, Captain, that those two that galloped off had a sword apiece strapped to their saddles. I saw them when I got near: they were decoys to bring us up to that stockade—I’ll bet my life upon it!”
“Well, Major,” rejoined I, “they’re far enough from the stockade now; and the best we can do in their absence will be to examine it, and see what chances it may offer to corral these mules, for, unless they can be driven into it, we shall have to return to camp empty-handed.”
Saying this, I moved forward with the men, the major keeping in the rear.
We soon reached the formidable stockade, which proved to be nothing more than a regular corral, such as are found on the greathaciendas de ganados(cattle farms) of Spanish America. In one corner was a house, constructed of upright poles, with a thatch of palm-leaves. This contained the lazos,alparejas, saddles, etcetera, of the vaqueros; and in the door of this house stood a decrepit old zambo, the only human thing about the place. The zambo’s woolly head over the pickets had reflected itself a dozen times on the major’s terrified imagination.
After examining the corral, I found it excellent for our purpose, provided we could only succeed in driving the mulesintoit; and, throwing open the bars, we proceeded to make the attempt. The mules were browsing quietly at the distance of a quarter of a mile from the corral.
Marching past the drove, I deployed the company in the form of a semicircle, forming a complete cordon round the animals; then, closing in upon them slowly, the soldiers commenced driving them towards the pen.
We were somewhat awkward at this new duty; but by means of a shower of small rocks, pieces ofbois de vache, and an occasional “heigh, heigh!” the mules were soon in motion and in the required direction.
The major, with Doc and little Jack, being the mounted men of the party, did great service, especially Jack, who was highly delighted with this kind of thing, and kept Twidget in a constant gallop from right to left.
As themuladoneared the gates of the inclosure, the two extremes of the semi-circumference gradually approached each other, closing in toward the corral.
The mules were already within fifty paces of the entrance, the soldiers coming up about two hundred yards in the rear, when a noise like the tramping of many hoofs arrested our attention. The quick, sharp note of a cavalry bugle rang out across the plain, followed by a wild yell, as though a band of Indian warriors were sweeping down upon the foe.
In an instant every eye was turned, and we beheld with consternation a cloud of horsemen springing out from the woods, and dashing along in the headlong velocity of a charge.
It required but a single glance to satisfy me that they were guerilleros. Their picturesque attire, their peculiar arms, and the parti-coloured bannerets upon their lances were not to be mistaken.
We stood for a moment as if thunderstruck; a sharp cry rose along the deployed line.
I signalled to the bugler, who gave the command, “Rally upon the centre!”
As if by one impulse, the whole line closed in with a run upon the gates of the inclosure. The mules, impelled by the sudden rush, dashed forward pell-mell, blocking up the entrance.
On came the guerilleros, with streaming pennons and lances couched, shouting their wild cries:
“Andela! andela! Mueran los Yankees!” (Forward! forward! Death to the Yankees!)
The foremost of the soldiers were already upon the heels of the crowded mules, pricking them with bayonets. The animals began to kick and plunge in the most furious manner, causing a new danger in front.
“Face about—fire!” I commanded at this moment.
An irregular but well-directed volley emptied half a dozen saddles, and for a moment staggered the charging line; but, before my men could reload, the guerilleros had leaped clear over their fallen comrades, and were swooping down with cries of vengeance. A dozen of their bravest men were already within shot-range, firing their escopettes and pistols as they came down.
Our position had now grown fearfully critical. The mules still blocked up the entrance, preventing the soldiers from taking shelter behind the stockade; and before we could reload, the rearmost would be at the mercy of the enemy’s lances.
Seizing the major’s servant by the arm, I dragged him from his horse, and, leaping into the saddle, flung myself upon the rear. Half a dozen of my bravest men, among whom were Lincoln, Chane, and the Frenchman Raoul, rallied around the horse, determined to receive the cavalry charge on the short bayonets of their rifles. Their pieces were all empty!
At this moment my eye rested on one of the soldiers, a brave but slow-footed German, who was still twenty paces in the rear of his comrades, making every effort to come up. Two of the guerilleros were rushing upon him with couched lances. I galloped out to his rescue; but before I could reach him the lance of the foremost Mexican crashed through the soldier’s skull, shivering it like a shell. The barb and bloody pennon came out on the opposite side. The man was lifted from the ground, and carried several paces upon the shaft of the lance.
The guerillero dropped his entangled weapon; but before he could draw any other, the sword of Victoria was through his heart.
His comrade turned upon me with a cry of vengeance. I had not yet disengaged my weapon to ward off the thrust. The lance’s point was within three feet of my breast, when a sharp crack was heard from behind; the lancer threw out his arms with a spasmodic jerk; his long spear was whirled into the air, and he fell back in his saddle, dead.
“Well done, Jack! fire and scissors! who showed yer that trick? whooray! whoop!” and I heard the voice of Lincoln, in a sort of Indian yell, rising high above the din.
At this moment a guerillo, mounted upon a powerful black mustang, came galloping down. This man, unlike most of his comrades, was armed with the sabre, which he evidently wielded with great dexterity. He came dashing on, his white teeth set in a fierce smile.
“Ha! Monsieur le Capitaine,” shouted he, as he came near, “still alive? I thought I had finished you on Lobos; not too late yet!”
I recognised the deserter, Dubrosc!
“Villain!” I ejaculated, too full of rage to utter another word.
We met at full speedy but with my unmanageable horse I could only ward off his blow as he swept past me. We wheeled again, and galloped towards each other—both of us impelled by hatred; but my horse again shied, frightened by the gleaming sabre of my antagonist. Before I could rein him round, he had brought me close to the pickets of the corral; and on turning to meet the deserter, I found that we were separated by a band of dark objects.
It was a detachment of mules that had backed from the gates of the corral and were escaping to the open plain. We reined up, eyeing each other with impatient vengeance; but the bullets of my men began to whistle from the pickets; and Dubrosc, with a threatening gesture, wheeled his horse and galloped off to his comrades. They had retired beyond range, and were halted in groups upon the prairie, chafing with disappointment and rage.
Chapter Nineteen.A Herculean Feat.The whole skirmish did not occupy two minutes. It was like most charges of Mexican cavalry—a dash, a wild yelling, half a dozen empty saddles, and a hasty retreat.The guerilleros had swerved off as soon as they perceived that we had gained a safe position, and the bullets of our reloaded pieces began to whistle around their ears. Dubrosc alone, in his impetuosity, galloped close up to the inclosure; and it was only on perceiving himself alone, and the folly of exposing himself thus fruitlessly, that he wheeled round and followed the Mexicans. The latter were now out upon the prairie, beyond the range of small-arms, grouped around their wounded comrades, or galloping to and fro, with yells of disappointed vengeance.I entered the corral, where most of my men had sheltered themselves behind the stockades. Little Jack sat upon Twidget, reloading his rifle, and trying to appear insensible to the flattering encomiums that hailed him from all sides. A compliment from Lincoln, however, was too much for Jack, and a proud smile was seen upon the face of the boy.“Thank you, Jack,” said I, as I passed him; “I see you can use a rifle to some purpose.”Jack held down his head, without saying a word, and appeared to be very busy about the lock of his piece.In the skirmish, Lincoln had received the scratch of a lance, at which he was chafing in his own peculiar way, and vowing revenge upon the giver. It might be said that he had taken this, as he had driven his short bayonet through his antagonist’s arm, and sent him off with this member hanging by his side. But the hunter was not content; and, as he retired sullenly into the inclosure, he turned round, and, shaking his fist at the Mexican, muttered savagely:“Yer darned skunk! I’ll know yer agin. See if I don’t git yer yit!”Gravenitz, a Prussian soldier, had also been too near a lance, and several others had received slight wounds. The German was the only one killed. He was still lying out on the plain, where he had fallen, the long shaft of the lance standing up out of his skull. Not ten feet distant lay the corpse, of his slayer, glistening in its gaudy and picturesque attire.The other guerillero, as he fell, had noosed one of his legs in the lazo that hung from the horn of his saddle, and was now dragged over the prairie after his wild and snorting mustang. As the animal swerved, at every jerk his limber body bounded to the distance of twenty feet, where it would lie motionless until slung into the air by a fresh pluck on the lazo.As we were watching this horrid spectacle, several of the guerilleros galloped after, while half a dozen others were observed spurring their steeds towards the rear of the corral. On looking in this direction we perceived a huge red horse, with an empty saddle, scouring at full speed across the prairie. A single glance showed us that this horse was Hercules.“Good heavens! the Major!”“Safe somewhere,” replied Clayley; “but where the deuce can he be? He is nothors de combaton the plain, or one could see him even ten miles off. Ha! ha! ha!—look yonder!”Clayley, yelling with laughter, pointed to the corner of the rancho.Though after a scene so tragic, I could hardly refrain from joining Clayley in his boisterous mirth. Hanging by the belt of his sabre upon a high picket was the major, kicking and struggling with all his might. The waist-strap, tightly drawn by the bulky weight of the wearer, separated his body into two vast rotundities, while his face was distorted and purple with the agony of suspense and suspension. He was loudly bellowing for help, and several soldiers were running towards him; but, from the manner in which he jerked his body up, and screwed his neck, so as to enable him to look over the stockade, it was evident that the principal cause of his uneasiness lay on the “other side of the fence.”The truth was, the major, on the first appearance of the enemy, had galloped towards the rear of the corral, and, finding no entrance, had thrown himself from the back of Hercules upon the stockade, intending to climb over; but, having caught a glance of some guerilleros, he had suddenly let go his bridle, and attempted to precipitate himself into the corral.His waist-belt, catching upon a sharp picket, held him suspended midway, still under the impression that the Mexicans were close upon his rear. He was soon unhooked, and now waddled across the corral, uttering a thick and continuous volley of his choicest oaths.Our eyes were now directed towards Hercules. The horsemen had closed upon him within fifty yards, and were winding their long lazos in the air. The major, to all appearance, had lost his horse.After galloping to the edge of the woods, Hercules suddenly halted, and threw up the trailing-bridle with a loud neigh. His pursuers, coming up, flung out their lazos. Two of these, settling over his head, noosed him around the neck. The huge brute, as if aware of the necessity of a desperate effort to free himself, dropped his nose to the ground, and stretched himself out in full gallop.The lariats, one by one tightening over his bony chest, snapped like threads, almost jerking the mustangs from their feet. The long fragments sailed out like streamers as he careered across the prairie, far ahead of his yelling pursuers.He now made directly for the corral. Several of the soldiers ran towards the stockade, in order to seize the bridle when he should come up; but Hercules, spying his old comrade—the horse of the “Doctor”—within the inclosure, first neighed loudly, and then, throwing all his nerve into the effort, sprang high over the picket fence.A cheer rose from the men, who had watched with interest his efforts to escape, and who now welcomed him as if he had been one of themselves.“Two months’ pay for your horse, Major!” cried Clayley.“Och, the bewtiful baste! He’s worth the full of his skin in goold! By my sowl! the capten ought to have ’im,” ejaculated Chane; and various other encomiums were uttered in honour of Hercules.Meanwhile, his pursuers, not daring to approach the stockade, drew off towards their comrades with gestures of disappointment and chagrin.
The whole skirmish did not occupy two minutes. It was like most charges of Mexican cavalry—a dash, a wild yelling, half a dozen empty saddles, and a hasty retreat.
The guerilleros had swerved off as soon as they perceived that we had gained a safe position, and the bullets of our reloaded pieces began to whistle around their ears. Dubrosc alone, in his impetuosity, galloped close up to the inclosure; and it was only on perceiving himself alone, and the folly of exposing himself thus fruitlessly, that he wheeled round and followed the Mexicans. The latter were now out upon the prairie, beyond the range of small-arms, grouped around their wounded comrades, or galloping to and fro, with yells of disappointed vengeance.
I entered the corral, where most of my men had sheltered themselves behind the stockades. Little Jack sat upon Twidget, reloading his rifle, and trying to appear insensible to the flattering encomiums that hailed him from all sides. A compliment from Lincoln, however, was too much for Jack, and a proud smile was seen upon the face of the boy.
“Thank you, Jack,” said I, as I passed him; “I see you can use a rifle to some purpose.”
Jack held down his head, without saying a word, and appeared to be very busy about the lock of his piece.
In the skirmish, Lincoln had received the scratch of a lance, at which he was chafing in his own peculiar way, and vowing revenge upon the giver. It might be said that he had taken this, as he had driven his short bayonet through his antagonist’s arm, and sent him off with this member hanging by his side. But the hunter was not content; and, as he retired sullenly into the inclosure, he turned round, and, shaking his fist at the Mexican, muttered savagely:
“Yer darned skunk! I’ll know yer agin. See if I don’t git yer yit!”
Gravenitz, a Prussian soldier, had also been too near a lance, and several others had received slight wounds. The German was the only one killed. He was still lying out on the plain, where he had fallen, the long shaft of the lance standing up out of his skull. Not ten feet distant lay the corpse, of his slayer, glistening in its gaudy and picturesque attire.
The other guerillero, as he fell, had noosed one of his legs in the lazo that hung from the horn of his saddle, and was now dragged over the prairie after his wild and snorting mustang. As the animal swerved, at every jerk his limber body bounded to the distance of twenty feet, where it would lie motionless until slung into the air by a fresh pluck on the lazo.
As we were watching this horrid spectacle, several of the guerilleros galloped after, while half a dozen others were observed spurring their steeds towards the rear of the corral. On looking in this direction we perceived a huge red horse, with an empty saddle, scouring at full speed across the prairie. A single glance showed us that this horse was Hercules.
“Good heavens! the Major!”
“Safe somewhere,” replied Clayley; “but where the deuce can he be? He is nothors de combaton the plain, or one could see him even ten miles off. Ha! ha! ha!—look yonder!”
Clayley, yelling with laughter, pointed to the corner of the rancho.
Though after a scene so tragic, I could hardly refrain from joining Clayley in his boisterous mirth. Hanging by the belt of his sabre upon a high picket was the major, kicking and struggling with all his might. The waist-strap, tightly drawn by the bulky weight of the wearer, separated his body into two vast rotundities, while his face was distorted and purple with the agony of suspense and suspension. He was loudly bellowing for help, and several soldiers were running towards him; but, from the manner in which he jerked his body up, and screwed his neck, so as to enable him to look over the stockade, it was evident that the principal cause of his uneasiness lay on the “other side of the fence.”
The truth was, the major, on the first appearance of the enemy, had galloped towards the rear of the corral, and, finding no entrance, had thrown himself from the back of Hercules upon the stockade, intending to climb over; but, having caught a glance of some guerilleros, he had suddenly let go his bridle, and attempted to precipitate himself into the corral.
His waist-belt, catching upon a sharp picket, held him suspended midway, still under the impression that the Mexicans were close upon his rear. He was soon unhooked, and now waddled across the corral, uttering a thick and continuous volley of his choicest oaths.
Our eyes were now directed towards Hercules. The horsemen had closed upon him within fifty yards, and were winding their long lazos in the air. The major, to all appearance, had lost his horse.
After galloping to the edge of the woods, Hercules suddenly halted, and threw up the trailing-bridle with a loud neigh. His pursuers, coming up, flung out their lazos. Two of these, settling over his head, noosed him around the neck. The huge brute, as if aware of the necessity of a desperate effort to free himself, dropped his nose to the ground, and stretched himself out in full gallop.
The lariats, one by one tightening over his bony chest, snapped like threads, almost jerking the mustangs from their feet. The long fragments sailed out like streamers as he careered across the prairie, far ahead of his yelling pursuers.
He now made directly for the corral. Several of the soldiers ran towards the stockade, in order to seize the bridle when he should come up; but Hercules, spying his old comrade—the horse of the “Doctor”—within the inclosure, first neighed loudly, and then, throwing all his nerve into the effort, sprang high over the picket fence.
A cheer rose from the men, who had watched with interest his efforts to escape, and who now welcomed him as if he had been one of themselves.
“Two months’ pay for your horse, Major!” cried Clayley.
“Och, the bewtiful baste! He’s worth the full of his skin in goold! By my sowl! the capten ought to have ’im,” ejaculated Chane; and various other encomiums were uttered in honour of Hercules.
Meanwhile, his pursuers, not daring to approach the stockade, drew off towards their comrades with gestures of disappointment and chagrin.
Chapter Twenty.Running the Gauntlet.I began to reflect upon the real danger of our situation—corralled upon a naked prairie, ten miles from camp, with no prospect of escape. I knew that we could defend ourselves against twice the number of our cowardly adversaries; they would never dare to come within range of our rifles. But how to get out? how to cross the open plain? Fifty infantry against four times that number of mounted men—lancers at that—and not a bush to shelter the foot-soldier from the long spear and the iron hoof!The nearestmottewas half a mile off, and that another half a mile from the edge of the woods. Even could the motte be reached by a desperate run, it would be impossible to gain the woods, as the enemy would certainly cordon our new position, and thus completely cut us off. At present they had halted in a body about four hundred yards from the corral; and, feeling secure of having us in a trap, most of them had dismounted, and were running out their mustangs upon their lazos. It was plainly their determination to take us by siege.To add to our desperate circumstances, we discovered that there was not a drop of water in the corral. The thirst that follows a fight had exhausted the scanty supply of our canteens, and the heat was excessive.As I was running over in my mind the perils of our position, my eye rested upon Lincoln, who stood with his piece at a carry, his left hand crossed over his breast, in the attitude of a soldier waiting to receive orders.“Well, Sergeant, what is it?” I inquired.“Will yer allow me, Cap’n, ter take a couple o’ files, and fetch in the Dutchman? The men ’ud like ter put a sod upon him afore them thievin’ robbers kin git at him.”“Certainly. But will you be safe? He’s at some distance from the stockade.”“I don’t think them fellers ’ll kum down—they’ve had enuf o’ it just now. We’ll run out quick, and the boys kin kiver us with their fire.”“Very well, then; set about it.”Lincoln returned to the company and selected four of the most active of his men, with whom he proceeded towards the entrance. I ordered the soldiers to throw themselves on that side of the inclosure, and cover the party in case of an attack; but none was made. A movement was visible among the Mexicans, as they perceived Lincoln and his party rush out towards the body; but, seeing they would be too late to prevent them from carrying it off, they wisely kept beyond the reach of the American rifles.The body of the German was brought into the inclosure and buried with due ceremony, although his comrades believed that before many hours it would be torn from its “warrior grave”, dragged forth to feed the coyoté and vulture, and his bones left to whiten upon the naked prairie. Which of us knew that it might not in a few hours be his own fate?“Gentlemen,” said I to my brother officers, as we came together, “can you suggest any mode of escape?”“Our only chance is to fight them where we stand. There are four to one,” replied Clayey.“We have no other chance, Captain,” said Oakes, with a shake of the head.“But it is not their intention to fightus. Their design is to starve us. See! they are picketing their horses, knowing they can easily overtake us if we attempt to leave the inclosure.”“Cannot we move in a hollow square?”“But what is a hollow square of fifty men? and against four times that number of cavalry, with lances and lazos? No, no; they would shiver it with a single charge. Our only hope is that we may be able to hold out until our absence from camp may bring a detachment to our relief.”“And why not send for it?” inquired the major, who had scarcely been asked for his advice, but whose wits had been sharpened by the extremity of his danger. “Why not send for a couple of regiments?”“How are we to send, Major?” asked Clayley, looking on the major’s proposition as ridiculous under the circumstances. “Have you a pigeon in your pocket?”“Why?—how? There’s Hercules runs like a hare; stick one of your fellows in the saddle, and I’ll warrant him to camp in an hour.”“You are right, Major,” said I, catching at the major’s proposal; “thank you for the thought. If he could only pass that point in the woods! I hate it, but it is our only chance.”The last sentence I muttered to myself.“Why do you hate it, Captain?” inquired the major, who had overheard me.“You might not understand my reasons, Major.”I was thinking upon the disgrace of being trapped as I was, and on my first scout, too.“Who will volunteer to ride an express to camp?” I inquired, addressing the men.Twenty of them leaped out simultaneously.“Which of you remembers the course, that you could follow it in a gallop?” I asked.The Frenchman, Raoul, stood forth, touching his cap.“I know a shorter one, Captain, by Mata Cordera.”“Ha! Raoul, you know the country. You are the man.”I now remembered that this man joined us at Sacrificios, just after the landing of the expedition. He had been living in the country previous to our arrival, and was well acquainted with it.“Are you a good horseman?” I inquired.“I have seen five years of cavalry service.”“True. Do you think you can pass them? They are nearly in your track.”“As we entered the prairie, Captain; but my route will lie past this motte to the left.”“That will give you several points. Do not stop a moment after you have mounted, or they will take the hint and intercept you.”“With the red horse there will be no danger, Captain.”“Leave your gun; take these pistols. Ha! you have a pair in the holsters. See if they are loaded. These spurs—so—cut loose that heavy piece from the saddle: the cloak, too; you must have nothing to encumber you. When you come near the camp, leave your horse in the chaparral. Give this to Colonel C.”I wrote the following words on a scrap of paper:—“Dear Colonel,“Two hundred will be enough. Could they be stolen out after night? If so, all will be well—if it gets abroad...“Yours,“H.H.”As I handed the paper to Raoul, I whispered in his ear—“To Colonel C’s own hand. Privately, Raoul—privately, do you hear?”Colonel C. was my friend, and I knew that he would send aprivateparty to my rescue.“I understand, Captain,” was the answer of Raoul.“Ready, then! now mount and be off.”The Frenchman sprang nimbly to the saddle, and, driving his spurs into the flanks of his horse, shot out from the pen like a bolt of lightning.For the first three hundred yards or so he galloped directly towards the guerilleros. These stood leaning upon their saddles, or lay stretched along the green-sward. Seeing a single horseman riding towards them, few of them moved, believing him to be some messenger sent to treat for our surrender.Suddenly the Frenchman swerved from his direct course, and went sweeping around them in the curve of an ellipse.They now perceived theruse, and with a yell leaped into their saddles. Some fired their escopettes; others, unwinding their lazos, started in pursuit.Raoul had by this time set Hercules’s head for the clump of timber which he had taken as his guide, and now kept on in a track almost rectilinear. Could he but reach the motte or clump in safety, he knew that there were straggling trees beyond, and these would secure him in some measure from the lazos of his pursuers.We stood watching his progress with breathless silence. Our lives depended on his escape. A crowd of the guerilleros was between him and us; but we could still see the green jacket of the soldier, and the great red flanks of Hercules, as he bounded on towards the edge of the woods. Then we saw the lazos launched out, and spinning around Raoul’s head, and straggling shots were fired; and we fancied at one time that our comrade sprang up in the saddle, as if he had been hit. Then he appeared again, all safe, rounding the little islet of timber, and the next moment he was gone from our sight. There followed a while of suspense—of terrible suspense—for the motte hid from view both pursuers and pursued. Every eye was straining towards the point where the horseman had disappeared, when Lincoln, who had climbed to the top of the rancho, cried out:“He’s safe, Cap’n! The dod-rotted skunks air kummin ’ithout him.”It was true. A minute after, the horsemen appeared round the motte, riding slowly back, with that air and attitude that betoken disappointment.Note. A motte is an eminence.
I began to reflect upon the real danger of our situation—corralled upon a naked prairie, ten miles from camp, with no prospect of escape. I knew that we could defend ourselves against twice the number of our cowardly adversaries; they would never dare to come within range of our rifles. But how to get out? how to cross the open plain? Fifty infantry against four times that number of mounted men—lancers at that—and not a bush to shelter the foot-soldier from the long spear and the iron hoof!
The nearestmottewas half a mile off, and that another half a mile from the edge of the woods. Even could the motte be reached by a desperate run, it would be impossible to gain the woods, as the enemy would certainly cordon our new position, and thus completely cut us off. At present they had halted in a body about four hundred yards from the corral; and, feeling secure of having us in a trap, most of them had dismounted, and were running out their mustangs upon their lazos. It was plainly their determination to take us by siege.
To add to our desperate circumstances, we discovered that there was not a drop of water in the corral. The thirst that follows a fight had exhausted the scanty supply of our canteens, and the heat was excessive.
As I was running over in my mind the perils of our position, my eye rested upon Lincoln, who stood with his piece at a carry, his left hand crossed over his breast, in the attitude of a soldier waiting to receive orders.
“Well, Sergeant, what is it?” I inquired.
“Will yer allow me, Cap’n, ter take a couple o’ files, and fetch in the Dutchman? The men ’ud like ter put a sod upon him afore them thievin’ robbers kin git at him.”
“Certainly. But will you be safe? He’s at some distance from the stockade.”
“I don’t think them fellers ’ll kum down—they’ve had enuf o’ it just now. We’ll run out quick, and the boys kin kiver us with their fire.”
“Very well, then; set about it.”
Lincoln returned to the company and selected four of the most active of his men, with whom he proceeded towards the entrance. I ordered the soldiers to throw themselves on that side of the inclosure, and cover the party in case of an attack; but none was made. A movement was visible among the Mexicans, as they perceived Lincoln and his party rush out towards the body; but, seeing they would be too late to prevent them from carrying it off, they wisely kept beyond the reach of the American rifles.
The body of the German was brought into the inclosure and buried with due ceremony, although his comrades believed that before many hours it would be torn from its “warrior grave”, dragged forth to feed the coyoté and vulture, and his bones left to whiten upon the naked prairie. Which of us knew that it might not in a few hours be his own fate?
“Gentlemen,” said I to my brother officers, as we came together, “can you suggest any mode of escape?”
“Our only chance is to fight them where we stand. There are four to one,” replied Clayey.
“We have no other chance, Captain,” said Oakes, with a shake of the head.
“But it is not their intention to fightus. Their design is to starve us. See! they are picketing their horses, knowing they can easily overtake us if we attempt to leave the inclosure.”
“Cannot we move in a hollow square?”
“But what is a hollow square of fifty men? and against four times that number of cavalry, with lances and lazos? No, no; they would shiver it with a single charge. Our only hope is that we may be able to hold out until our absence from camp may bring a detachment to our relief.”
“And why not send for it?” inquired the major, who had scarcely been asked for his advice, but whose wits had been sharpened by the extremity of his danger. “Why not send for a couple of regiments?”
“How are we to send, Major?” asked Clayley, looking on the major’s proposition as ridiculous under the circumstances. “Have you a pigeon in your pocket?”
“Why?—how? There’s Hercules runs like a hare; stick one of your fellows in the saddle, and I’ll warrant him to camp in an hour.”
“You are right, Major,” said I, catching at the major’s proposal; “thank you for the thought. If he could only pass that point in the woods! I hate it, but it is our only chance.”
The last sentence I muttered to myself.
“Why do you hate it, Captain?” inquired the major, who had overheard me.
“You might not understand my reasons, Major.”
I was thinking upon the disgrace of being trapped as I was, and on my first scout, too.
“Who will volunteer to ride an express to camp?” I inquired, addressing the men.
Twenty of them leaped out simultaneously.
“Which of you remembers the course, that you could follow it in a gallop?” I asked.
The Frenchman, Raoul, stood forth, touching his cap.
“I know a shorter one, Captain, by Mata Cordera.”
“Ha! Raoul, you know the country. You are the man.”
I now remembered that this man joined us at Sacrificios, just after the landing of the expedition. He had been living in the country previous to our arrival, and was well acquainted with it.
“Are you a good horseman?” I inquired.
“I have seen five years of cavalry service.”
“True. Do you think you can pass them? They are nearly in your track.”
“As we entered the prairie, Captain; but my route will lie past this motte to the left.”
“That will give you several points. Do not stop a moment after you have mounted, or they will take the hint and intercept you.”
“With the red horse there will be no danger, Captain.”
“Leave your gun; take these pistols. Ha! you have a pair in the holsters. See if they are loaded. These spurs—so—cut loose that heavy piece from the saddle: the cloak, too; you must have nothing to encumber you. When you come near the camp, leave your horse in the chaparral. Give this to Colonel C.”
I wrote the following words on a scrap of paper:—
“Dear Colonel,
“Two hundred will be enough. Could they be stolen out after night? If so, all will be well—if it gets abroad...
“Yours,
“H.H.”
As I handed the paper to Raoul, I whispered in his ear—
“To Colonel C’s own hand. Privately, Raoul—privately, do you hear?”
Colonel C. was my friend, and I knew that he would send aprivateparty to my rescue.
“I understand, Captain,” was the answer of Raoul.
“Ready, then! now mount and be off.”
The Frenchman sprang nimbly to the saddle, and, driving his spurs into the flanks of his horse, shot out from the pen like a bolt of lightning.
For the first three hundred yards or so he galloped directly towards the guerilleros. These stood leaning upon their saddles, or lay stretched along the green-sward. Seeing a single horseman riding towards them, few of them moved, believing him to be some messenger sent to treat for our surrender.
Suddenly the Frenchman swerved from his direct course, and went sweeping around them in the curve of an ellipse.
They now perceived theruse, and with a yell leaped into their saddles. Some fired their escopettes; others, unwinding their lazos, started in pursuit.
Raoul had by this time set Hercules’s head for the clump of timber which he had taken as his guide, and now kept on in a track almost rectilinear. Could he but reach the motte or clump in safety, he knew that there were straggling trees beyond, and these would secure him in some measure from the lazos of his pursuers.
We stood watching his progress with breathless silence. Our lives depended on his escape. A crowd of the guerilleros was between him and us; but we could still see the green jacket of the soldier, and the great red flanks of Hercules, as he bounded on towards the edge of the woods. Then we saw the lazos launched out, and spinning around Raoul’s head, and straggling shots were fired; and we fancied at one time that our comrade sprang up in the saddle, as if he had been hit. Then he appeared again, all safe, rounding the little islet of timber, and the next moment he was gone from our sight. There followed a while of suspense—of terrible suspense—for the motte hid from view both pursuers and pursued. Every eye was straining towards the point where the horseman had disappeared, when Lincoln, who had climbed to the top of the rancho, cried out:
“He’s safe, Cap’n! The dod-rotted skunks air kummin ’ithout him.”
It was true. A minute after, the horsemen appeared round the motte, riding slowly back, with that air and attitude that betoken disappointment.
Note. A motte is an eminence.
Chapter Twenty One.A Short Fight at “Long Shot”.The escape of Raoul and Hercules produced an affect almost magical upon the enemy. Instead of the listless defensive attitude lately assumed, the guerilleros were now in motion like a nest of roused hornets, scouring over the plain, and yelling like a war-party of Indians.They did not surround the corral, as I had anticipated they would. They had no fear that we should attempt to escape; but they knew that, instead of the three days in which they expected to kill us with thirst at their leisure, they had not three hours left to accomplish that object. Raoul would reach the camp in little more than an hour’s time, and either infantry or mounted men would be on them in two hours after.Scouts were seen galloping off in the direction taken by Raoul, and others dashed into the woods on the opposite side of the prairie. All was hurry and scurry.Along with Clayley I had climbed upon the roof of the rancho, to watch the motions of the enemy, and to find out, if possible, his intentions. We stood for some time without speaking, both of us gazing at the manoeuvres of the guerilleros. They were galloping to and fro over the prairie, excited by the escape of Raoul.“Splendidly done!” exclaimed my companion, struck with their graceful horsemanship. “One of those fellows, Captain, as he sits, at this minute, would—”“Ha! what—?” shouted he, suddenly turning and pointing towards the woods.I looked in the direction indicated. A cloud of dust was visible at thedébouchementof the Medellin road. It appeared to hang over a small body of troops upon the march. The sun was just setting, and, as the cloud lay towards the west, I could distinguish the sparkling of bright objects through its dun volume. The guerilleros had reined up their horses, and were eagerly gazing towards the same point.Presently the dust was wafted aside, a dozen dark forms became visible, and in the midst a bright object flashed under the sun like a sheet of gold. At the same instant an insulting shout broke from the guerilleros, and a voice was heard exclaiming:“Cenobio! Cenobio! Los canones!” (Cenobio! Cenobio! the cannon!)Clayley turned towards me with an inquiring look.“It is true, Clayley; by heavens, we’ll have it now!”“What did they say?”“Look for yourself—well?”“A brass piece, as I live!—a six-pound carronade!”“We are fighting the guerilla (Note 1) of Cenobio, a small army of itself. Neither stockade nor motte will avail us now.”“What is to be done?” asked my companion.“Nothing but die with arms in our hands. We will not die without a struggle, and the sooner we prepare for it the better.”I leaped from the roof, and ordered the bugler to sound theassembly.In a moment the clear notes rang out, and the soldiers formed before me in the corral.“My brave comrades!” cried I, “they have got the advantage of us at last. They are bringing down a piece of artillery, and I fear these pickets will offer us but poor shelter. If we are driven out, let us strike for that island of timber; and, mark me—if we are broken, let every man fight his way as he best can, or die over a fallen enemy.”A determined cheer followed this short harangue, and I continued:“But let us first see how they use their piece. It is a small one, and will not destroy us all at once. Fling yourselves down as they fire. By lying flat on your faces you may not suffer so badly. Perhaps we can hold the corral until our friends reach us. At all events we shall try.”Another cheer rang along the line.“Great heaven, Captain! it’s terrible!” whispered the major.“What is terrible?” I asked, feeling at the moment a contempt for this blaspheming coward.“Oh! this—this business—such a fix to be—”“Major! remember you are a soldier.”“Yes; and I wish I had resigned, as I intended to do, before this cursed war commenced.”“Never fear,” said I, tempted to smile at the candour of his cowardice; “you’ll drink wine at Hewlett’s in a month. Get behind this log—it’s the only point shot-proof in the whole stockade.”“Do you think, Captain, itwillstop a shot?”“Ay—from a siege-gun. Look out, men, and be ready to obey orders!”The six-pounder had now approached within five hundred yards of the stockade, and was leisurely being unlimbered in the midst of a group of the enemy’s artillerists.At this moment the voice of the major arrested my attention.“Great heaven, Captain! Why do you allow them to come so near?”“How am I to prevent them?” I asked, with some surprise.“Why, my rifle will reach farther than that. It might keep them off, I think.”“Major, you are dreaming!” said I. “They are two hundred yards beyond range of our rifles. If they would only come within that, we should soon send them back for you.”“But, Captain, mine will carry twice the distance.”I looked at the major, under the belief that he had taken leave of his senses.“It’s azündnadel, I assure you, and will kill at eight hundred yards.”“Is it possible?” cried I, starting; for I now recollected the curious-looking piece which I had ordered to be cut loose from the saddle of Hercules. “Why did you not tell me that before? Where is Major Blossom’s rifle?” I shouted, looking around.“This hyur’s the major’sgun” answered Sergeant Lincoln. “But if it’s a rifle, I never seed sich. It looks more like a two-year old cannon.”It was, as the major had declared, a Prussian needle-gun—then a new invention, but of which I had heard something.“Is it loaded, Major?” I asked, taking the piece from Lincoln.“It is.”“Can you hit that man with the sponge?” said I, returning the piece to the hunter.“If this hyur thing’ll carry fur enuf, I kin,” was the reply.“It will kill at a thousand yards, point blank,” cried the major, with energy.“Ha! are you sure of that, Major?” I asked.“Certainly, Captain. I got it from the inventor. We tried it at Washington. It is loaded with a conical bullet. It bored a hole through an inch plank at that distance.”“Well. Now, Sergeant, take sure aim; this may save us yet.”Lincoln planted himself firmly on his feet, choosing a notch of the stockade that ranged exactly with his shoulder. He then carefully wiped the dust from the sights; and, placing the heavy barrel in the notch, laid his cheek slowly against the stock.“Sergeant, the man with the shot!” I called out.As I spoke, one of the artillerists was stooping to the muzzle of the six-pounder, holding in his hand a spherical case-shot. Lincoln pressed the trigger. The crack followed, and the artillerist threw out his arms, and doubled over on his head without giving a kick.The shot that he had held rolled out upon the green-sward. A wild cry, expressive of extreme astonishment, broke from the guerilleros. At the same instant a cheer rang through the corral.“Well done!” cried a dozen of voices at once.In a moment the rifle was wiped and reloaded.“This time, Sergeant, the fellow with the linstock.”During the reloading of the rifle, the Mexicans around the six-pounder had somewhat recovered from their surprise, and had rammed home the cartridge. A tall artillerist stood, with linstock and fuse, near the breech, waiting for the order to fire.Before he received that order the rifle again cracked; his arm new up with a sudden jerk, and the smoking rod, flying from his grasp, was projected to the distance of twenty feet.The man himself spun round, and, staggering a pace or two, fell into the arms of his comrades.“Cap’n, jest allow me ter take that ere skunk next time.”“Which one, Sergeant?” I asked.“Him thet’s on the black, makin’ such a dot-rotted muss.”I recognised the horse and figure of Dubrosc.“Certainly, by all means,” said I, with a strange feeling at my heart as I gave the order.But before Lincoln could reload, one of the Mexicans, apparently an officer, had snatched up the burning fuse, and, running up, applied it to the touch.“On your faces, men!”The ball came crashing through the thin pickets of the corral, and, whizzing across the inclosure, struck one of the mules on the flank, tearing open its hip, causing it to kick furiously as it tumbled over the ground.Its companions, stampeding, galloped for a moment through the pen; then, collecting in a corner, stood cowered up and quivering. A fierce yell announced the exultation of the guerilleros.Dubrosc was sitting on his powerful mustang, facing the corral, and watching the effects of the shot.“If he wur only ’ithin range ov my own rifle!” muttered Lincoln, as he glanced along the sights of the strange piece.The crack soon followed—the black horse reared, staggered, and fell back on his rider.“Ten strike, set ’em up!” exclaimed a soldier.“Missed the skunk!” cried Lincoln, gritting his teeth as the horseman was seen to struggle from under the fallen animal.Rising to his feet, Dubrosc sprang out to the front, and shook his fist in the air with a shout of defiance.The guerilleros galloped back; and the artillerists, wheeling the six-pounder, dragged it after, and took up a new position about three hundred yards farther to the rear.A second shot from the piece again tore through the pickets, striking one of our men, and killing him instantly.“Aim at the artillerists, Sergeant. We have nothing to fear from the others.”Lincoln fired again. The shot hit the ground in front of the enemy’s gun; but, glancing, it struck one of the cannoniers, apparently wounding him badly, as he was carried back by his comrades.The Mexicans, terror-struck at this strange instrument of destruction, took up a new position, two hundred yards still farther back.Their third shot ricocheted, striking the top of the strong plank behind which the major was screening himself, and only frightening the latter by the shock upon the timber.Lincoln again fired.This time his shot produced no visible effect, and a taunting cheer from the enemy told that they felt themselves beyond range.Another shot was fired from thezündnadel, apparently with a similar result.“It’s beyond her carry, Cap’n,” said Lincoln, bringing the butt of his piece to the ground, with an expression of reluctant conviction.“Try one more shot. If it fail, we can reserve the other for closer work. Aim high!”This resulted as the two preceding ones; and a voice from the guerilleros was heard exclaiming:“Yankees bobos! mas adelante!” (A little farther, you Yankee fools!)Another shot from the six-pounder cracked through the planks, knocking his piece from the hands of a soldier, and shivering the dry stock-wood into fifty fragments.“Sergeant, give me the rifle,” said I. “They must be a thousand yards off; but, as they are as troublesome with that carronade as if they were only ten, I shall try one more shot.”I fired, but the ball sank at least fifty paces in front of the enemy.“We expect too much. It is not a twenty-four pounder. Major, Ienvyyou two things—your rifle and your horse.”“Hercules?”“Of course.”“Lord, Captain! you may do what you will with the rifle; and if ever we get out of the reach of these infernal devils, Hercules shall be—.”At this moment a cheer came from the guerilleros, and a voice was heard shouting above the din:“La metralla! la metralla!” (The howitzer!)I leaped upon the roof, and looked out upon the plain. It was true. A howitzer-carriage, drawn by mules, was debouching from the woods, the animals dragging it along at a gallop.It was evidently a piece of some size, large enough to tear the light picketing that screened us to atoms.I turned towards my men with a look of despair. My eye at this moment rested on the drove of mules that stood crowded together in a corner of the pen. A sudden thought struck me. Might we not mount them and escape? There were more than enough to carry us all, and the rancho was filled with bridles and ropes. I instantly leaped from the roof, and gave orders to the men.“Speedily, but without noise!” cried I, as the soldiers proceeded to fling bridles upon the necks of the animals.In five minutes each man, with his rifle slung, stood by a mule, some of them having buckled ontapadas, to prevent the animals from kicking.The major stood ready by his horse.“Now, my brave fellows,” shouted I in a loud voice, “we must take it cavalry fashion—Mexican cavalry, I mean.” The men laughed. “Once in the woods, we shall retreat no farther. At the words ‘Mount and follow’, spring to your seats and follow Mr Clayley. I shall look to your rear—don’t stop to fire—hold on well. If anyone fall, let his nearest comrade take him up. Ha! anyone hurt there?” A shot had whistled through the ranks. “Only a scratch,” was the reply.“All ready, then, are you? Now, Mr Clayley, you see the high timber—make direct for that. Down with the bars! ‘Mount and follow’!”As I uttered the last words, the men leaped to their seats; and Clayley, riding the bell-mule, dashed out of the corral, followed by the whole train, some of them plunging and kicking, but all galloped forward at the sound of the bell upon their guide.As the dark cavalcade rushed out upon the prairie, a wild cry from the guerilleros told that this was the first intimation they had had of the singularruse. They sprang to their saddles with yells, and galloped in pursuit. The howitzer, that had been trailed upon the corral, was suddenly wheeled about and fired; but the shot, ill-directed in their haste, whistled harmlessly over our heads.The guerilleros, on their swift steeds, soon lessened the distance between us.With a dozen of the best men I hung in the rear, to give the foremost of the pursuers a volley, or pick up any soldier who might be tossed from his mule. One of these, at intervals, kicked as only a Mexican mule can; and when within five hundred yards of the timber, his rider, an Irishman, was flung upon the prairie.The rearmost of our party stopped to take him up. He was seized by Chane, who mounted him in front of himself. The delay had nearly been fatal. The pursuers were already within a hundred yards, firing their pistols and escopettes without effect. A number of the men turned in their seats and blazed back. Others threw their rifles over their shoulders, and pulled trigger at random. I could perceive that two or three guerilleros dropped from their saddles. Their comrades, with shouts of vengeance, closed upon us nearer and nearer. The long lazos, far in advance, whistled around our heads.I felt the slippery noose light upon my shoulders. I flung out my arms to throw it off, but with a sudden jerk it tightened around my neck. I clutched the hard thong, and pulled with all my might. It was in vain.The animal I rode, freed from mymanège, seemed to plunge under me, and gather up its back with a vicious determination to fling me. It succeeded; and I was launched in the air, and dashed to the earth with a stunning violence.I felt myself dragged along the gravelly ground. I grasped the weeds, but they came away in my hands, torn up by the roots. There was a struggle above and around me. I could hear loud shouts and the firing of guns. I felt that I was being strangled.A bright object glistened before my eyes. I felt myself seized by a strong, rough hand, and swung into the air and rudely shaken, as if in the grasp of some giant’s arm.Something twitched me sharply over the cheeks. I heard the rustling of trees. Branches snapped and crackled, and leaves swept across my face. Then came the flash—flash, and the crack—crack—crack of a dozen rifles, and under their blazing light I was dashed a second time with violence to the earth.Note 1. Troop of guerillas, who in Spanish are properlyguerilleros.
The escape of Raoul and Hercules produced an affect almost magical upon the enemy. Instead of the listless defensive attitude lately assumed, the guerilleros were now in motion like a nest of roused hornets, scouring over the plain, and yelling like a war-party of Indians.
They did not surround the corral, as I had anticipated they would. They had no fear that we should attempt to escape; but they knew that, instead of the three days in which they expected to kill us with thirst at their leisure, they had not three hours left to accomplish that object. Raoul would reach the camp in little more than an hour’s time, and either infantry or mounted men would be on them in two hours after.
Scouts were seen galloping off in the direction taken by Raoul, and others dashed into the woods on the opposite side of the prairie. All was hurry and scurry.
Along with Clayley I had climbed upon the roof of the rancho, to watch the motions of the enemy, and to find out, if possible, his intentions. We stood for some time without speaking, both of us gazing at the manoeuvres of the guerilleros. They were galloping to and fro over the prairie, excited by the escape of Raoul.
“Splendidly done!” exclaimed my companion, struck with their graceful horsemanship. “One of those fellows, Captain, as he sits, at this minute, would—”
“Ha! what—?” shouted he, suddenly turning and pointing towards the woods.
I looked in the direction indicated. A cloud of dust was visible at thedébouchementof the Medellin road. It appeared to hang over a small body of troops upon the march. The sun was just setting, and, as the cloud lay towards the west, I could distinguish the sparkling of bright objects through its dun volume. The guerilleros had reined up their horses, and were eagerly gazing towards the same point.
Presently the dust was wafted aside, a dozen dark forms became visible, and in the midst a bright object flashed under the sun like a sheet of gold. At the same instant an insulting shout broke from the guerilleros, and a voice was heard exclaiming:
“Cenobio! Cenobio! Los canones!” (Cenobio! Cenobio! the cannon!)
Clayley turned towards me with an inquiring look.
“It is true, Clayley; by heavens, we’ll have it now!”
“What did they say?”
“Look for yourself—well?”
“A brass piece, as I live!—a six-pound carronade!”
“We are fighting the guerilla (Note 1) of Cenobio, a small army of itself. Neither stockade nor motte will avail us now.”
“What is to be done?” asked my companion.
“Nothing but die with arms in our hands. We will not die without a struggle, and the sooner we prepare for it the better.”
I leaped from the roof, and ordered the bugler to sound theassembly.
In a moment the clear notes rang out, and the soldiers formed before me in the corral.
“My brave comrades!” cried I, “they have got the advantage of us at last. They are bringing down a piece of artillery, and I fear these pickets will offer us but poor shelter. If we are driven out, let us strike for that island of timber; and, mark me—if we are broken, let every man fight his way as he best can, or die over a fallen enemy.”
A determined cheer followed this short harangue, and I continued:
“But let us first see how they use their piece. It is a small one, and will not destroy us all at once. Fling yourselves down as they fire. By lying flat on your faces you may not suffer so badly. Perhaps we can hold the corral until our friends reach us. At all events we shall try.”
Another cheer rang along the line.
“Great heaven, Captain! it’s terrible!” whispered the major.
“What is terrible?” I asked, feeling at the moment a contempt for this blaspheming coward.
“Oh! this—this business—such a fix to be—”
“Major! remember you are a soldier.”
“Yes; and I wish I had resigned, as I intended to do, before this cursed war commenced.”
“Never fear,” said I, tempted to smile at the candour of his cowardice; “you’ll drink wine at Hewlett’s in a month. Get behind this log—it’s the only point shot-proof in the whole stockade.”
“Do you think, Captain, itwillstop a shot?”
“Ay—from a siege-gun. Look out, men, and be ready to obey orders!”
The six-pounder had now approached within five hundred yards of the stockade, and was leisurely being unlimbered in the midst of a group of the enemy’s artillerists.
At this moment the voice of the major arrested my attention.
“Great heaven, Captain! Why do you allow them to come so near?”
“How am I to prevent them?” I asked, with some surprise.
“Why, my rifle will reach farther than that. It might keep them off, I think.”
“Major, you are dreaming!” said I. “They are two hundred yards beyond range of our rifles. If they would only come within that, we should soon send them back for you.”
“But, Captain, mine will carry twice the distance.”
I looked at the major, under the belief that he had taken leave of his senses.
“It’s azündnadel, I assure you, and will kill at eight hundred yards.”
“Is it possible?” cried I, starting; for I now recollected the curious-looking piece which I had ordered to be cut loose from the saddle of Hercules. “Why did you not tell me that before? Where is Major Blossom’s rifle?” I shouted, looking around.
“This hyur’s the major’sgun” answered Sergeant Lincoln. “But if it’s a rifle, I never seed sich. It looks more like a two-year old cannon.”
It was, as the major had declared, a Prussian needle-gun—then a new invention, but of which I had heard something.
“Is it loaded, Major?” I asked, taking the piece from Lincoln.
“It is.”
“Can you hit that man with the sponge?” said I, returning the piece to the hunter.
“If this hyur thing’ll carry fur enuf, I kin,” was the reply.
“It will kill at a thousand yards, point blank,” cried the major, with energy.
“Ha! are you sure of that, Major?” I asked.
“Certainly, Captain. I got it from the inventor. We tried it at Washington. It is loaded with a conical bullet. It bored a hole through an inch plank at that distance.”
“Well. Now, Sergeant, take sure aim; this may save us yet.”
Lincoln planted himself firmly on his feet, choosing a notch of the stockade that ranged exactly with his shoulder. He then carefully wiped the dust from the sights; and, placing the heavy barrel in the notch, laid his cheek slowly against the stock.
“Sergeant, the man with the shot!” I called out.
As I spoke, one of the artillerists was stooping to the muzzle of the six-pounder, holding in his hand a spherical case-shot. Lincoln pressed the trigger. The crack followed, and the artillerist threw out his arms, and doubled over on his head without giving a kick.
The shot that he had held rolled out upon the green-sward. A wild cry, expressive of extreme astonishment, broke from the guerilleros. At the same instant a cheer rang through the corral.
“Well done!” cried a dozen of voices at once.
In a moment the rifle was wiped and reloaded.
“This time, Sergeant, the fellow with the linstock.”
During the reloading of the rifle, the Mexicans around the six-pounder had somewhat recovered from their surprise, and had rammed home the cartridge. A tall artillerist stood, with linstock and fuse, near the breech, waiting for the order to fire.
Before he received that order the rifle again cracked; his arm new up with a sudden jerk, and the smoking rod, flying from his grasp, was projected to the distance of twenty feet.
The man himself spun round, and, staggering a pace or two, fell into the arms of his comrades.
“Cap’n, jest allow me ter take that ere skunk next time.”
“Which one, Sergeant?” I asked.
“Him thet’s on the black, makin’ such a dot-rotted muss.”
I recognised the horse and figure of Dubrosc.
“Certainly, by all means,” said I, with a strange feeling at my heart as I gave the order.
But before Lincoln could reload, one of the Mexicans, apparently an officer, had snatched up the burning fuse, and, running up, applied it to the touch.
“On your faces, men!”
The ball came crashing through the thin pickets of the corral, and, whizzing across the inclosure, struck one of the mules on the flank, tearing open its hip, causing it to kick furiously as it tumbled over the ground.
Its companions, stampeding, galloped for a moment through the pen; then, collecting in a corner, stood cowered up and quivering. A fierce yell announced the exultation of the guerilleros.
Dubrosc was sitting on his powerful mustang, facing the corral, and watching the effects of the shot.
“If he wur only ’ithin range ov my own rifle!” muttered Lincoln, as he glanced along the sights of the strange piece.
The crack soon followed—the black horse reared, staggered, and fell back on his rider.
“Ten strike, set ’em up!” exclaimed a soldier.
“Missed the skunk!” cried Lincoln, gritting his teeth as the horseman was seen to struggle from under the fallen animal.
Rising to his feet, Dubrosc sprang out to the front, and shook his fist in the air with a shout of defiance.
The guerilleros galloped back; and the artillerists, wheeling the six-pounder, dragged it after, and took up a new position about three hundred yards farther to the rear.
A second shot from the piece again tore through the pickets, striking one of our men, and killing him instantly.
“Aim at the artillerists, Sergeant. We have nothing to fear from the others.”
Lincoln fired again. The shot hit the ground in front of the enemy’s gun; but, glancing, it struck one of the cannoniers, apparently wounding him badly, as he was carried back by his comrades.
The Mexicans, terror-struck at this strange instrument of destruction, took up a new position, two hundred yards still farther back.
Their third shot ricocheted, striking the top of the strong plank behind which the major was screening himself, and only frightening the latter by the shock upon the timber.
Lincoln again fired.
This time his shot produced no visible effect, and a taunting cheer from the enemy told that they felt themselves beyond range.
Another shot was fired from thezündnadel, apparently with a similar result.
“It’s beyond her carry, Cap’n,” said Lincoln, bringing the butt of his piece to the ground, with an expression of reluctant conviction.
“Try one more shot. If it fail, we can reserve the other for closer work. Aim high!”
This resulted as the two preceding ones; and a voice from the guerilleros was heard exclaiming:
“Yankees bobos! mas adelante!” (A little farther, you Yankee fools!)
Another shot from the six-pounder cracked through the planks, knocking his piece from the hands of a soldier, and shivering the dry stock-wood into fifty fragments.
“Sergeant, give me the rifle,” said I. “They must be a thousand yards off; but, as they are as troublesome with that carronade as if they were only ten, I shall try one more shot.”
I fired, but the ball sank at least fifty paces in front of the enemy.
“We expect too much. It is not a twenty-four pounder. Major, Ienvyyou two things—your rifle and your horse.”
“Hercules?”
“Of course.”
“Lord, Captain! you may do what you will with the rifle; and if ever we get out of the reach of these infernal devils, Hercules shall be—.”
At this moment a cheer came from the guerilleros, and a voice was heard shouting above the din:
“La metralla! la metralla!” (The howitzer!)
I leaped upon the roof, and looked out upon the plain. It was true. A howitzer-carriage, drawn by mules, was debouching from the woods, the animals dragging it along at a gallop.
It was evidently a piece of some size, large enough to tear the light picketing that screened us to atoms.
I turned towards my men with a look of despair. My eye at this moment rested on the drove of mules that stood crowded together in a corner of the pen. A sudden thought struck me. Might we not mount them and escape? There were more than enough to carry us all, and the rancho was filled with bridles and ropes. I instantly leaped from the roof, and gave orders to the men.
“Speedily, but without noise!” cried I, as the soldiers proceeded to fling bridles upon the necks of the animals.
In five minutes each man, with his rifle slung, stood by a mule, some of them having buckled ontapadas, to prevent the animals from kicking.
The major stood ready by his horse.
“Now, my brave fellows,” shouted I in a loud voice, “we must take it cavalry fashion—Mexican cavalry, I mean.” The men laughed. “Once in the woods, we shall retreat no farther. At the words ‘Mount and follow’, spring to your seats and follow Mr Clayley. I shall look to your rear—don’t stop to fire—hold on well. If anyone fall, let his nearest comrade take him up. Ha! anyone hurt there?” A shot had whistled through the ranks. “Only a scratch,” was the reply.
“All ready, then, are you? Now, Mr Clayley, you see the high timber—make direct for that. Down with the bars! ‘Mount and follow’!”
As I uttered the last words, the men leaped to their seats; and Clayley, riding the bell-mule, dashed out of the corral, followed by the whole train, some of them plunging and kicking, but all galloped forward at the sound of the bell upon their guide.
As the dark cavalcade rushed out upon the prairie, a wild cry from the guerilleros told that this was the first intimation they had had of the singularruse. They sprang to their saddles with yells, and galloped in pursuit. The howitzer, that had been trailed upon the corral, was suddenly wheeled about and fired; but the shot, ill-directed in their haste, whistled harmlessly over our heads.
The guerilleros, on their swift steeds, soon lessened the distance between us.
With a dozen of the best men I hung in the rear, to give the foremost of the pursuers a volley, or pick up any soldier who might be tossed from his mule. One of these, at intervals, kicked as only a Mexican mule can; and when within five hundred yards of the timber, his rider, an Irishman, was flung upon the prairie.
The rearmost of our party stopped to take him up. He was seized by Chane, who mounted him in front of himself. The delay had nearly been fatal. The pursuers were already within a hundred yards, firing their pistols and escopettes without effect. A number of the men turned in their seats and blazed back. Others threw their rifles over their shoulders, and pulled trigger at random. I could perceive that two or three guerilleros dropped from their saddles. Their comrades, with shouts of vengeance, closed upon us nearer and nearer. The long lazos, far in advance, whistled around our heads.
I felt the slippery noose light upon my shoulders. I flung out my arms to throw it off, but with a sudden jerk it tightened around my neck. I clutched the hard thong, and pulled with all my might. It was in vain.
The animal I rode, freed from mymanège, seemed to plunge under me, and gather up its back with a vicious determination to fling me. It succeeded; and I was launched in the air, and dashed to the earth with a stunning violence.
I felt myself dragged along the gravelly ground. I grasped the weeds, but they came away in my hands, torn up by the roots. There was a struggle above and around me. I could hear loud shouts and the firing of guns. I felt that I was being strangled.
A bright object glistened before my eyes. I felt myself seized by a strong, rough hand, and swung into the air and rudely shaken, as if in the grasp of some giant’s arm.
Something twitched me sharply over the cheeks. I heard the rustling of trees. Branches snapped and crackled, and leaves swept across my face. Then came the flash—flash, and the crack—crack—crack of a dozen rifles, and under their blazing light I was dashed a second time with violence to the earth.
Note 1. Troop of guerillas, who in Spanish are properlyguerilleros.