Chapter Twenty Two.The Rescue.“Rough handlin’, Cap’n. Yer must excuse haste.”It was the voice of Lincoln.“Ha! in the timber? Safe, then!” ejaculated I in return.“Two or three wounded—not bad neither. Chane has got a stab in the hip—he gin the feller goss for it. Let me louze the darned thing off o’ your neck. It kum mighty near chokin’ yer, Cap’n.”Bob proceeded to unwind the noose end of a lazo that, with some six feet of a raw hide thong, was still tightly fastened around my neck.“But who cut the rope?” demanded I.“I did, with this hyur toothpick. Yer see, Cap’n, it warn’t yer time to be hung just yet.”I could not help smiling as I thanked the hunter for my safety.“But where are the guerilleros?” asked I, looking around, my brain still somewhat confused.“Yander they are, keepin’ safe out o’ range o’ this long gun. Just listen to ’em!—what a hillerballoo!”The Mexican horsemen were galloping out on the prairie, their arms glistening under the clear moonlight.“Take to the trees, men!” cried I, seeing that the enemy had again unlimbered, and were preparing to discharge their howitzer.In a moment the iron shower came whizzing through the branches without doing any injury, as each of the men had covered his body with a tree. Several of the mules that stood tied and trembling were killed by the discharge.Another shower hurtled through the bushes, with a similar effect.I was thinking of retreating farther into the timber, and was walking back to reconnoitre the ground, when my eye fell upon an object that arrested my attention. It was the body of a very large man lying flat upon his face, his head buried among the roots of a good-sized tree. The arms were stiffly pressed against his side, and his legs projected at full stretch, exhibiting an appearance of motionless rigidity, as though a well-dressed corpse had been rolled over on its face. I at once recognised it as the body of the major, whom I supposed to have fallen dead where he lay.“Good heavens! Clayley, look here!” cried I; “poor Blossom’s killed!”“No, I’ll be hanged if I am!” growled the latter, screwing his neck round like a lizard, and looking up without changing the attitude of his body. Clayley was convulsed with laughter. The major sheathed his head again, as he knew that another shot from the howitzer might soon be expected.“Major,” cried Clayley, “that right shoulder of yours projects over at least six inches.”“I know it,” answered the major, in a frightened voice. “Curse the tree!—it’s hardly big enough to cover a squirrel;” and he squatted closer to the earth, pressing his arms tighter against his sides. His whole attitude was so ludicrous that Clayley burst into a second yell of laughter. At this moment a wild shout was heard from the guerilleros.“What next?” cried I, running toward the front, and looking out upon the prairie.“Them wild-cats are gwine to cla’r out, Cap’n,” said Lincoln, meeting me. “I kin see them hitchin’ up.”“It is as you say! What can be the reason?”A strange commotion was visible in the groups of horsemen. Scouts were galloping across the plain to a point of the woods about half a mile distant, and I could see the artillerists fastening their mules to the howitzer-carriage. Suddenly a bugle rang out, sounding the “Recall”, and the guerilleros, spurring their horses, galloped off towards Medellin.A loud cheer, such as was never uttered by Mexican throats, came from the opposite edge of the prairie; and looking in that direction I beheld a long line of dark forms debouching from the woods at a gallop. Their sparkling blades, as they issued from the dark forest, glistened like a cordon of fireflies, and I recognised the heavy footfall of the American horse. A cheer from my men attracted their attention; and the leader of the dragoons, seeing that the guerilleros had got far out of reach, wheeled his column to the right and came galloping down.“Is that Colonel Rawley?” inquired I, recognising a dragoon officer.“Why, bless my soul!” exclaimed he, “how did you get out? We heard you were jugged. All alive yet?”“We have lost two,” I replied.“Pah! that’s nothing. I came out expecting to bury the whole kit of you. Here’s Clayley, too. Clayley, your friend Twing’s with us; you’ll find him in the rear.”“Ha! Clayley, old boy!” cried Twing, coming up; “no bones broken? all right? Take a pull; do you good—don’t drink it all, though—leave a thimbleful for Haller there. How do you like that?”“Delicious, by Jove!” ejaculated Clayey, tugging away at the major’s flask.“Come, Captain, try it.”“Thank you,” I replied, eagerly grasping the welcome flask.“But where is old Bios? killed, wounded, or missing?”“I believe the major is not far off, and still uninjured.”I despatched a man for the major, who presently came up, blowing and swearing like a Flanders trooper.“Hilloa, Bios!” shouted Twing, grasping him by the hand.“Why, bless me, Twing, I’m glad to see you!” answered Blossom, throwing his arms around the diminutive major. “But where on earth is your pewter?” for during the embrace he had been groping all over Twing’s body for the flask.“Here, Cudjo! That flask, boy!”“Faith, Twing, I’m near choked; we’ve been fighting all day—a devil of a fight! I chased a whole squad of the cursed scoundrels on Hercules, and came within a squirrel’s jump of riding right into their nest. We’ve killed dozens; but Haller will tell you all. He’s a good fellow, that Haller; but he’s too rash—rash as blazes! Hilloa, Hercules! glad to see you again, old fellow; you had a sharp brush for it.”“Remember your promise, Major,” said I, as the major stood patting Hercules upon the shoulder.“I’ll do better, Captain. I’ll give you a choice between Hercules and a splendid black I have. Faith! it’s hard to part with you, old Herky, but I know the captain will like the black better: he’s the handsomest horse in the whole army; bought him from poor Ridgely, who was killed at Monterey.”This speech of the major was delivered partly in soliloquy, partly in an apostrophe to Hercules, and partly to myself.“Very well, Major,” I replied. “I’ll take the black. Mr Clayley, mount the men on their mules: you will take command of the company, and proceed with Colonel Rawley to camp. I shall go myself for the Don.”The last was said in a whisper to Clayley.“We may not get in before noon to-morrow. Say nothing of my absence to anyone. I shall make my report at noon tomorrow.”“And, Captain—” said Clayley.“Well, Clayley?”“You will carry back my—.”“What? To which friend?”“Of course, to Mary of the Light.”“Oh, certainly!”“In your best Spanish.”“Rest assured,” said I, smiling at the earnestness of my friend.I was about moving from the spot, when the thought occurred to me to send the company to camp under command of Oakes, and take Clayley along with me.“Clayley, by the way,” said I, calling the lieutenant back, “I don’t see why you may not carry your compliments in person. Oakes can take the men back. I shall borrow half a dozen dragoons from Rawley.”“With all my heart!” replied Clayley.“Come, then; get a horse, and let us be off.”Taking Lincoln and Raoul, with half a dozen of Rawley’s dragoons, I bade my friends good-night.These started for camp by the road of Mata Cordera, while I with my little party brushed for some distance round the border of the prairie, and then climbed the hill, over which lay the path to the house of the Spaniard.As I reached the top of the ridge I turned to look upon the scene of our late skirmish.The cold, round moon, looking down upon the prairie of La Virgen, saw none of the victims of the fight.The guerilleros in their retreat had carried off their dead and wounded comrades, and the Americans slept underground in the lone corral: but I could not help fancying that gaunt wolves were skulking round the inclosure, and that the claws of the coyote were already tearing up the red earth that had been hurriedly heaped over their graves.
“Rough handlin’, Cap’n. Yer must excuse haste.”
It was the voice of Lincoln.
“Ha! in the timber? Safe, then!” ejaculated I in return.
“Two or three wounded—not bad neither. Chane has got a stab in the hip—he gin the feller goss for it. Let me louze the darned thing off o’ your neck. It kum mighty near chokin’ yer, Cap’n.”
Bob proceeded to unwind the noose end of a lazo that, with some six feet of a raw hide thong, was still tightly fastened around my neck.
“But who cut the rope?” demanded I.
“I did, with this hyur toothpick. Yer see, Cap’n, it warn’t yer time to be hung just yet.”
I could not help smiling as I thanked the hunter for my safety.
“But where are the guerilleros?” asked I, looking around, my brain still somewhat confused.
“Yander they are, keepin’ safe out o’ range o’ this long gun. Just listen to ’em!—what a hillerballoo!”
The Mexican horsemen were galloping out on the prairie, their arms glistening under the clear moonlight.
“Take to the trees, men!” cried I, seeing that the enemy had again unlimbered, and were preparing to discharge their howitzer.
In a moment the iron shower came whizzing through the branches without doing any injury, as each of the men had covered his body with a tree. Several of the mules that stood tied and trembling were killed by the discharge.
Another shower hurtled through the bushes, with a similar effect.
I was thinking of retreating farther into the timber, and was walking back to reconnoitre the ground, when my eye fell upon an object that arrested my attention. It was the body of a very large man lying flat upon his face, his head buried among the roots of a good-sized tree. The arms were stiffly pressed against his side, and his legs projected at full stretch, exhibiting an appearance of motionless rigidity, as though a well-dressed corpse had been rolled over on its face. I at once recognised it as the body of the major, whom I supposed to have fallen dead where he lay.
“Good heavens! Clayley, look here!” cried I; “poor Blossom’s killed!”
“No, I’ll be hanged if I am!” growled the latter, screwing his neck round like a lizard, and looking up without changing the attitude of his body. Clayley was convulsed with laughter. The major sheathed his head again, as he knew that another shot from the howitzer might soon be expected.
“Major,” cried Clayley, “that right shoulder of yours projects over at least six inches.”
“I know it,” answered the major, in a frightened voice. “Curse the tree!—it’s hardly big enough to cover a squirrel;” and he squatted closer to the earth, pressing his arms tighter against his sides. His whole attitude was so ludicrous that Clayley burst into a second yell of laughter. At this moment a wild shout was heard from the guerilleros.
“What next?” cried I, running toward the front, and looking out upon the prairie.
“Them wild-cats are gwine to cla’r out, Cap’n,” said Lincoln, meeting me. “I kin see them hitchin’ up.”
“It is as you say! What can be the reason?”
A strange commotion was visible in the groups of horsemen. Scouts were galloping across the plain to a point of the woods about half a mile distant, and I could see the artillerists fastening their mules to the howitzer-carriage. Suddenly a bugle rang out, sounding the “Recall”, and the guerilleros, spurring their horses, galloped off towards Medellin.
A loud cheer, such as was never uttered by Mexican throats, came from the opposite edge of the prairie; and looking in that direction I beheld a long line of dark forms debouching from the woods at a gallop. Their sparkling blades, as they issued from the dark forest, glistened like a cordon of fireflies, and I recognised the heavy footfall of the American horse. A cheer from my men attracted their attention; and the leader of the dragoons, seeing that the guerilleros had got far out of reach, wheeled his column to the right and came galloping down.
“Is that Colonel Rawley?” inquired I, recognising a dragoon officer.
“Why, bless my soul!” exclaimed he, “how did you get out? We heard you were jugged. All alive yet?”
“We have lost two,” I replied.
“Pah! that’s nothing. I came out expecting to bury the whole kit of you. Here’s Clayley, too. Clayley, your friend Twing’s with us; you’ll find him in the rear.”
“Ha! Clayley, old boy!” cried Twing, coming up; “no bones broken? all right? Take a pull; do you good—don’t drink it all, though—leave a thimbleful for Haller there. How do you like that?”
“Delicious, by Jove!” ejaculated Clayey, tugging away at the major’s flask.
“Come, Captain, try it.”
“Thank you,” I replied, eagerly grasping the welcome flask.
“But where is old Bios? killed, wounded, or missing?”
“I believe the major is not far off, and still uninjured.”
I despatched a man for the major, who presently came up, blowing and swearing like a Flanders trooper.
“Hilloa, Bios!” shouted Twing, grasping him by the hand.
“Why, bless me, Twing, I’m glad to see you!” answered Blossom, throwing his arms around the diminutive major. “But where on earth is your pewter?” for during the embrace he had been groping all over Twing’s body for the flask.
“Here, Cudjo! That flask, boy!”
“Faith, Twing, I’m near choked; we’ve been fighting all day—a devil of a fight! I chased a whole squad of the cursed scoundrels on Hercules, and came within a squirrel’s jump of riding right into their nest. We’ve killed dozens; but Haller will tell you all. He’s a good fellow, that Haller; but he’s too rash—rash as blazes! Hilloa, Hercules! glad to see you again, old fellow; you had a sharp brush for it.”
“Remember your promise, Major,” said I, as the major stood patting Hercules upon the shoulder.
“I’ll do better, Captain. I’ll give you a choice between Hercules and a splendid black I have. Faith! it’s hard to part with you, old Herky, but I know the captain will like the black better: he’s the handsomest horse in the whole army; bought him from poor Ridgely, who was killed at Monterey.”
This speech of the major was delivered partly in soliloquy, partly in an apostrophe to Hercules, and partly to myself.
“Very well, Major,” I replied. “I’ll take the black. Mr Clayley, mount the men on their mules: you will take command of the company, and proceed with Colonel Rawley to camp. I shall go myself for the Don.”
The last was said in a whisper to Clayley.
“We may not get in before noon to-morrow. Say nothing of my absence to anyone. I shall make my report at noon tomorrow.”
“And, Captain—” said Clayley.
“Well, Clayley?”
“You will carry back my—.”
“What? To which friend?”
“Of course, to Mary of the Light.”
“Oh, certainly!”
“In your best Spanish.”
“Rest assured,” said I, smiling at the earnestness of my friend.
I was about moving from the spot, when the thought occurred to me to send the company to camp under command of Oakes, and take Clayley along with me.
“Clayley, by the way,” said I, calling the lieutenant back, “I don’t see why you may not carry your compliments in person. Oakes can take the men back. I shall borrow half a dozen dragoons from Rawley.”
“With all my heart!” replied Clayley.
“Come, then; get a horse, and let us be off.”
Taking Lincoln and Raoul, with half a dozen of Rawley’s dragoons, I bade my friends good-night.
These started for camp by the road of Mata Cordera, while I with my little party brushed for some distance round the border of the prairie, and then climbed the hill, over which lay the path to the house of the Spaniard.
As I reached the top of the ridge I turned to look upon the scene of our late skirmish.
The cold, round moon, looking down upon the prairie of La Virgen, saw none of the victims of the fight.
The guerilleros in their retreat had carried off their dead and wounded comrades, and the Americans slept underground in the lone corral: but I could not help fancying that gaunt wolves were skulking round the inclosure, and that the claws of the coyote were already tearing up the red earth that had been hurriedly heaped over their graves.
Chapter Twenty Three.The Cocuyo.A night-ride through the golden tropical forest, when the moon is bathing its broad and wax-like frondage—when the winds are hushed and the long leaves hang drooping and silent—when the paths conduct through dark aisles and arbours of green vine-leaves, and out again into bright and flowery glades—is one of those luxuries that I wish we could obtain without going beyond the limits of our own land.But no. The romance of the Americannorthernforest—the romance that lingers around the gnarled limbs of the oak, and the maple, and the elm—that sighs with the wintry wind high up among the twigs of the shining sycamore—that flits along the huge fallen trunks—that nestles in the brown and rustling leaves—that hovers above the bold cliff and sleeps upon the grey rock—that sparkles in the diamond stalactites of the frost, or glides along the bosom of the cold black river—is a feeling or a fancy of a far different character.These objects—themselves the emblems of the stony and iron things of nature—call up associations of the darker passions: strange scenes of strife and bloodshed; struggles between red and white savages; and struggles hardly less fierce with the wild beasts of the forest. The rifle, the tomahawk, and the knife are the visions conjured up, while the savage whoop and the dread yell echo in your ear; and you dream ofwar.Far different are the thoughts that suggest themselves as you glide along under the aromatic arbours of the Americansouthernforest, brushing aside the silken foliage, and treading upon the shadows of picturesque palms.The cocuyo lights your way through the dark aisles, and the nightingale cheers you with his varied and mimic song. A thousand sights and sounds, that seem to be possessed of some mysterious and narcotic power, lull you into silence and sleep—a sleep whose dream islove.Clayey and I felt this as we rode silently along. Even the ruder hearts of our companions seemed touched by the same influence.We entered the dark woods that fringed the arroyo, and the stream was crossed in silence. Raoul rode in advance, acting as our guide.After a long silence Clayey suddenly awoke from his reverie and straightened himself up in the saddle.“What time is it, Captain?” he inquired.“Ten—a few minutes past,” answered I, holding my watch under the moonlight.“I wonder if the Don’s in bed yet.”“Not likely: he will be in distress; he expected us an hour ago.”“True, he will not sleep till we come; all right then.”“How all right then?”“For our chances of a supper; a cold pasty, with a glass of claret. What think you?”“I do not feel hungry.”“But I do—as a hawk. I long once more to sound the Don’s larder.”“Do you not long more to see—”“Not to-night—no—that is until after supper. Everything in its own time and place; but a man with a hungry stomach has no stomach for anything but eating. I pledge you my word, Haller, I would rather at this moment see that grand old stewardess, Pepe, than the loveliest woman in Mexico, and that’s ‘Mary of the Light’.”“Monstrous!”“That is, until after I have supped. Then my feelings will doubtless take a turn.”“Ah! Clayey, you can never love!”“Why so, Captain?”“With you, love is a sentiment, not a passion. You regard the fair blonde as you would a picture or a curious ornament.”“You mean to say, then, that my love is ‘all in my eye’?”“Exactly so, in a literal sense. I do not think it has reached your heart, else you would not be thinking of your supper. Now, I could go for days without food—suffer any hardship; but, no—you cannot understand this.”“I confess not. I am too hungry.”“You could forget—nay, I should not be surprised if you have already forgotten—all but the fact that your mistress is a blonde, with bright golden hair. Is it not so?”“I confess, Captain, that I should make but a poor portrait of her from memory.”“And, were I a painter, I could throwherfeatures upon the canvas as truly as if they were before me. I see her face outlined upon these broad leaves—her dark eyes burning in the flash of the cocuyo—her long black hair drooping from the feathery fringes of the palm—and her—”“Stop! You are dreaming, Captain! Her eyes are not dark—her hair is not black.”“What! Her eyes not dark?—as ebony, or night!”“Blue as a turquoise!”“Black! What are you thinking of?”“‘Mary of the Light’.”“Oh, that is quite a different affair!” and my friend and I laughed heartily at our mutual misconceptions.We rode on, again relapsing into silence. The stillness of the night was broken only by the heavy hoof bounding back from the hard turf, the jingling of spurs, or the ringing of the iron scabbard as it struck against the moving flanks of our horses.We had crossed the sandy spur, with its chaparral of cactus and mezquite, and were entering a gorge of heavy timber, when the practised eye of Lincoln detected an object in the dark shadow of the woods, and communicated the fact to me.“Halt!” cried I, in a low voice.The party reined up at the order. A rustling was heard in the bushes ahead.“Quien viva?” challenged Raoul, in the advance.“Un amigo,” (A friend), was the response.I sprang forward to the side of Raoul and called out:“Acercate! acercate!” (Come near!)A figure moved out of the bushes, and approached.“Está el Capitan?” (Is it the captain?)I recognised the guide given me by Don Cosmé.The Mexican approached, and handed me a small piece of paper. I rode into an opening, and held it up to the moonlight; but the writing was in pencil, and I could not make out a single letter.“Try this, Clayley. Perhaps your eyes are better than mine.”“No,” said Clayley, after examining the paper. “I can hardly see the writing upon it.”“Esperate mi amo!” (Wait, my master), said the guide, making me a sign. We remained motionless.The Mexican took from his head his heavysombrero, and stepped into a darker recess of the forest. After standing for a moment, hat in hand, a brilliant object shot out from the leaves of thepalma redonda. It was the cocuyo—the great firefly of the tropics. With a low, humming sound it came glistening along at the height of seven or eight feet from the ground. The man sprang up, and with a sweep of his arm jerked it suddenly to the earth. Then, covering it with his hat, and inverting his hand, he caught the gleaming insect, and presented it to me with the ejaculation:“Ya!” (Now!)“No muerde,” (It does not bite), added he, as he saw that I hesitated to touch the strange, beetle-shaped insect.I took the cocuyo in my hand, the green, golden fire flashing from its great round eyes. I held it up before the writing, but the faint glimmer was scarcely discernible upon the paper.“Why, it would require a dozen of these to make sufficient light,” I said to the guide.“No, Señor; uno basti—asi;” (No, sir; one is enough—thus); and the Mexican, taking the cocuyo in his fingers, pressed it gently against the surface of the paper. It produced a brilliant light, radiating over a circle of several inches in diameter!Every point in the writing was plainly visible.“See, Clayley!” cried I, admiring this lamp of Nature’s own making. “Never trust the tales of travellers. I have heard that half a dozen of these insects in a glass vessel would enable you to read the smallest type. Is that true?” added I, repeating what I had said in Spanish.“No, Señor; ni cincuenta,” (No, sir; nor fifty), replied the Mexican.“And yet with a single cocuyo you may. But we are forgetting—let us see what’s here.”I bent my head to the paper, and read in Spanish:“I have made known your situation to the American commander.”There was no signature nor other mark upon the paper.“From Don Cosmé?” I inquired, in a whisper to the Mexican.“Yes, Señor,” was the reply.“And how did you expect to reach us in the corral?”“Asi,” (So), said the man, holding up a shaggy bull’s hide, which he carried over his arm.“We have friends here, Clayley. Come, my good fellow, take this!” and I handed a gold eagle to the peon.“Forward!”The tinkling of canteens, the jingling of sabres, and the echo of bounding hoofs recommenced. We were again in motion, filing on through the shadowy woods.
A night-ride through the golden tropical forest, when the moon is bathing its broad and wax-like frondage—when the winds are hushed and the long leaves hang drooping and silent—when the paths conduct through dark aisles and arbours of green vine-leaves, and out again into bright and flowery glades—is one of those luxuries that I wish we could obtain without going beyond the limits of our own land.
But no. The romance of the Americannorthernforest—the romance that lingers around the gnarled limbs of the oak, and the maple, and the elm—that sighs with the wintry wind high up among the twigs of the shining sycamore—that flits along the huge fallen trunks—that nestles in the brown and rustling leaves—that hovers above the bold cliff and sleeps upon the grey rock—that sparkles in the diamond stalactites of the frost, or glides along the bosom of the cold black river—is a feeling or a fancy of a far different character.
These objects—themselves the emblems of the stony and iron things of nature—call up associations of the darker passions: strange scenes of strife and bloodshed; struggles between red and white savages; and struggles hardly less fierce with the wild beasts of the forest. The rifle, the tomahawk, and the knife are the visions conjured up, while the savage whoop and the dread yell echo in your ear; and you dream ofwar.
Far different are the thoughts that suggest themselves as you glide along under the aromatic arbours of the Americansouthernforest, brushing aside the silken foliage, and treading upon the shadows of picturesque palms.
The cocuyo lights your way through the dark aisles, and the nightingale cheers you with his varied and mimic song. A thousand sights and sounds, that seem to be possessed of some mysterious and narcotic power, lull you into silence and sleep—a sleep whose dream islove.
Clayey and I felt this as we rode silently along. Even the ruder hearts of our companions seemed touched by the same influence.
We entered the dark woods that fringed the arroyo, and the stream was crossed in silence. Raoul rode in advance, acting as our guide.
After a long silence Clayey suddenly awoke from his reverie and straightened himself up in the saddle.
“What time is it, Captain?” he inquired.
“Ten—a few minutes past,” answered I, holding my watch under the moonlight.
“I wonder if the Don’s in bed yet.”
“Not likely: he will be in distress; he expected us an hour ago.”
“True, he will not sleep till we come; all right then.”
“How all right then?”
“For our chances of a supper; a cold pasty, with a glass of claret. What think you?”
“I do not feel hungry.”
“But I do—as a hawk. I long once more to sound the Don’s larder.”
“Do you not long more to see—”
“Not to-night—no—that is until after supper. Everything in its own time and place; but a man with a hungry stomach has no stomach for anything but eating. I pledge you my word, Haller, I would rather at this moment see that grand old stewardess, Pepe, than the loveliest woman in Mexico, and that’s ‘Mary of the Light’.”
“Monstrous!”
“That is, until after I have supped. Then my feelings will doubtless take a turn.”
“Ah! Clayey, you can never love!”
“Why so, Captain?”
“With you, love is a sentiment, not a passion. You regard the fair blonde as you would a picture or a curious ornament.”
“You mean to say, then, that my love is ‘all in my eye’?”
“Exactly so, in a literal sense. I do not think it has reached your heart, else you would not be thinking of your supper. Now, I could go for days without food—suffer any hardship; but, no—you cannot understand this.”
“I confess not. I am too hungry.”
“You could forget—nay, I should not be surprised if you have already forgotten—all but the fact that your mistress is a blonde, with bright golden hair. Is it not so?”
“I confess, Captain, that I should make but a poor portrait of her from memory.”
“And, were I a painter, I could throwherfeatures upon the canvas as truly as if they were before me. I see her face outlined upon these broad leaves—her dark eyes burning in the flash of the cocuyo—her long black hair drooping from the feathery fringes of the palm—and her—”
“Stop! You are dreaming, Captain! Her eyes are not dark—her hair is not black.”
“What! Her eyes not dark?—as ebony, or night!”
“Blue as a turquoise!”
“Black! What are you thinking of?”
“‘Mary of the Light’.”
“Oh, that is quite a different affair!” and my friend and I laughed heartily at our mutual misconceptions.
We rode on, again relapsing into silence. The stillness of the night was broken only by the heavy hoof bounding back from the hard turf, the jingling of spurs, or the ringing of the iron scabbard as it struck against the moving flanks of our horses.
We had crossed the sandy spur, with its chaparral of cactus and mezquite, and were entering a gorge of heavy timber, when the practised eye of Lincoln detected an object in the dark shadow of the woods, and communicated the fact to me.
“Halt!” cried I, in a low voice.
The party reined up at the order. A rustling was heard in the bushes ahead.
“Quien viva?” challenged Raoul, in the advance.
“Un amigo,” (A friend), was the response.
I sprang forward to the side of Raoul and called out:
“Acercate! acercate!” (Come near!)
A figure moved out of the bushes, and approached.
“Está el Capitan?” (Is it the captain?)
I recognised the guide given me by Don Cosmé.
The Mexican approached, and handed me a small piece of paper. I rode into an opening, and held it up to the moonlight; but the writing was in pencil, and I could not make out a single letter.
“Try this, Clayley. Perhaps your eyes are better than mine.”
“No,” said Clayley, after examining the paper. “I can hardly see the writing upon it.”
“Esperate mi amo!” (Wait, my master), said the guide, making me a sign. We remained motionless.
The Mexican took from his head his heavysombrero, and stepped into a darker recess of the forest. After standing for a moment, hat in hand, a brilliant object shot out from the leaves of thepalma redonda. It was the cocuyo—the great firefly of the tropics. With a low, humming sound it came glistening along at the height of seven or eight feet from the ground. The man sprang up, and with a sweep of his arm jerked it suddenly to the earth. Then, covering it with his hat, and inverting his hand, he caught the gleaming insect, and presented it to me with the ejaculation:
“Ya!” (Now!)
“No muerde,” (It does not bite), added he, as he saw that I hesitated to touch the strange, beetle-shaped insect.
I took the cocuyo in my hand, the green, golden fire flashing from its great round eyes. I held it up before the writing, but the faint glimmer was scarcely discernible upon the paper.
“Why, it would require a dozen of these to make sufficient light,” I said to the guide.
“No, Señor; uno basti—asi;” (No, sir; one is enough—thus); and the Mexican, taking the cocuyo in his fingers, pressed it gently against the surface of the paper. It produced a brilliant light, radiating over a circle of several inches in diameter!
Every point in the writing was plainly visible.
“See, Clayley!” cried I, admiring this lamp of Nature’s own making. “Never trust the tales of travellers. I have heard that half a dozen of these insects in a glass vessel would enable you to read the smallest type. Is that true?” added I, repeating what I had said in Spanish.
“No, Señor; ni cincuenta,” (No, sir; nor fifty), replied the Mexican.
“And yet with a single cocuyo you may. But we are forgetting—let us see what’s here.”
I bent my head to the paper, and read in Spanish:
“I have made known your situation to the American commander.”
There was no signature nor other mark upon the paper.
“From Don Cosmé?” I inquired, in a whisper to the Mexican.
“Yes, Señor,” was the reply.
“And how did you expect to reach us in the corral?”
“Asi,” (So), said the man, holding up a shaggy bull’s hide, which he carried over his arm.
“We have friends here, Clayley. Come, my good fellow, take this!” and I handed a gold eagle to the peon.
“Forward!”
The tinkling of canteens, the jingling of sabres, and the echo of bounding hoofs recommenced. We were again in motion, filing on through the shadowy woods.
Chapter Twenty Four.Lupé and Luz.Shortly after, we debouched from the forest, entering the open fields of Don Cosmé’s plantation. There was a flowery brilliance around us, full of novelty. We had been accustomed to the ruder scenes of a northern clime. The tropical moon threw a gauzy veil over objects that softened their outlines; and the notes of the nightingale were the only sounds that broke the stillness of what seemed a sleeping elysium.Once a vanilla plantation, here and there the aromatic bean grew wild, its ground usurped by the pita-plant, the acacia, and the thorny cactus. The dry reservoir and the ruinedacequiaproved the care that had in former times been bestowed on its irrigation.Guardarayasof palms and orange-trees, choked up with vines and jessamines, marked the ancient boundaries of the fields. Clusters of fruit and flowers hung from the drooping branches, and the aroma of a thousand sweet-scented shrubs was wafted upon the night air. We felt its narcotic influence as we rode along. The helianthus bowed its golden head, as if weeping at the absence of its god; and the cereus spread its bell-shaped blossom, joying in the more mellow light of the moon.The guide pointed to one of the guardarayas that led to the house. We struck into it, and rode forward. The path was pictured by the moonbeams as they glanced through the half-shadowing leaves. A wild roe bounded away before us, brushing his soft flanks against the rustling thorns of the mezquite.Farther on we reached the grounds, and, halting behind the jessamines, dismounted. Clayley and myself entered the inclosure.As we pushed through a copse we were saluted by the hoarse bark of a couple of mastiffs, and we could perceive several forms moving in front of the rancho. We stopped a moment to observe them.“Quitate, Carlo! Pompo!” (Be off, Carlo! Pompo!) The dogs growled fiercely, barking at intervals.“Papa, mandalos!” (Papa, order them off!)We recognised the voices, and pressed forward.“Afuera, malditos perros! abajo!” (Out of the way, wicked dogs!—down!) shouted Don Cosmé, chiding the fierce brutes and driving them back.The dogs were secured by several domestics, and we advanced.“Quien es?” inquired Don Cosmé.“Amigos” (Friends), I replied.“Papa! papa! es el capitan!” (Papa, it is the captain!) cried one of the sisters, who had run out in advance, and whom I recognised as the elder one.“Do not be alarmed, Señorita,” said I, approaching.“Oh! you are safe—you are safe!—papa, he is safe!” cried both the girls at once; while Don Cosmé exhibited his joy by hugging my comrade and myself alternately.Suddenly letting go, he threw up his hands, and inquired with a look of anxiety:“Y el señor gordo?” (And the fat gentleman?)“Oh! he’s all right,” replied Clayley, with a laugh; “he has saved his bacon, Don Cosmé; though I imagine about this time he wouldn’t object to a little of yours.”I translated my companion’s answer. The latter part of it seemed to act upon Don Cosmé as a hint, and we were immediately hurried to the dining-room, where we found the Dona Joaquina preparing supper.During our meal I recounted the principal events of the day. Don Cosmé knew nothing of these guerilleros, although he had heard that there were bands in the neighbourhood. Learning from the guide that we had been attacked, he had despatched a trusty servant to the American camp, and Raoul had met the party coming to our rescue.After supper Don Cosmé left us to give some orders relative to his departure in the morning. His lady set about preparing the sleeping apartments, and my companion and I were left for some time in the sweet companionship of Lupé and Luz.Both were exquisite musicians, playing the harp and guitar with equal cleverness. Many a pure Spanish melody was poured into the delighted ears of my friend and myself. The thoughts that arose in our minds were doubtless of a similar kind; and yet how strange that our hearts should have been warmed to love by beings so different in character! The gay, free spirit of my comrade seemed to have met a responsive echo. He and his brilliant partner laughed, chatted, and sang in turns. In the incidents of the moment this light-hearted creature had forgotten her brother, yet the next moment she would weep for him. A tender heart—a heart of joys and sorrows—of ever-changing emotions, coming and passing like shadows thrown by straggling clouds upon the sun-lit stream!Unlike wasourconverse—more serious. We may not laugh, lest we should profane the holy sentiment that is stealing upon us. There is no mirth in love. There are joy, pleasure, luxury; but laughter finds no echo in the heart that loves. Love is a feeling of anxiety—of expectation. The harp is set aside. The guitar lies untouched for a sweeter music—the music that vibrates from the strings of the heart. Are our eyes not held together by some invisible chain? Are not our souls in communion through some mysterious means? It is not language—at least, not the language of words; for we are conversing upon indifferent things—not indifferent, either. Narcisso, Narcisso—a theme fraternal. His peril casts a cloud over our happiness.“Oh! that he were here—then we could be happy indeed.”“He will return; fear not—grieve not; to-morrow your father will easily find him. I shall leave no means untried to restore him to so fond a sister.”“Thanks! thanks! Oh! we are already indebted to you so much.”Are those eyes swimming with love, or gratitude, or both at once? Surely gratitude alone does not speak so wildly. Could this scene not last for ever?“Good-night—good-night!”“Señores, pasan Vds. buena noche!” (Gentlemen, may you pass a pleasant night!)They are gone, and those oval developments of face and figure are floating before me, as though the body itself were still present. It is the soft memory of love in all its growing distinctness!We were shown to our sleeping apartments. Our men picketed their horses under the olives, and slept in the bamboo rancho, a single sentry walking his rounds during the night.Note. Vds.Usted, contraction ofVuestra merced, “your grace”, usually written as Vd., is the polite form of address in Spanish.
Shortly after, we debouched from the forest, entering the open fields of Don Cosmé’s plantation. There was a flowery brilliance around us, full of novelty. We had been accustomed to the ruder scenes of a northern clime. The tropical moon threw a gauzy veil over objects that softened their outlines; and the notes of the nightingale were the only sounds that broke the stillness of what seemed a sleeping elysium.
Once a vanilla plantation, here and there the aromatic bean grew wild, its ground usurped by the pita-plant, the acacia, and the thorny cactus. The dry reservoir and the ruinedacequiaproved the care that had in former times been bestowed on its irrigation.Guardarayasof palms and orange-trees, choked up with vines and jessamines, marked the ancient boundaries of the fields. Clusters of fruit and flowers hung from the drooping branches, and the aroma of a thousand sweet-scented shrubs was wafted upon the night air. We felt its narcotic influence as we rode along. The helianthus bowed its golden head, as if weeping at the absence of its god; and the cereus spread its bell-shaped blossom, joying in the more mellow light of the moon.
The guide pointed to one of the guardarayas that led to the house. We struck into it, and rode forward. The path was pictured by the moonbeams as they glanced through the half-shadowing leaves. A wild roe bounded away before us, brushing his soft flanks against the rustling thorns of the mezquite.
Farther on we reached the grounds, and, halting behind the jessamines, dismounted. Clayley and myself entered the inclosure.
As we pushed through a copse we were saluted by the hoarse bark of a couple of mastiffs, and we could perceive several forms moving in front of the rancho. We stopped a moment to observe them.
“Quitate, Carlo! Pompo!” (Be off, Carlo! Pompo!) The dogs growled fiercely, barking at intervals.
“Papa, mandalos!” (Papa, order them off!)
We recognised the voices, and pressed forward.
“Afuera, malditos perros! abajo!” (Out of the way, wicked dogs!—down!) shouted Don Cosmé, chiding the fierce brutes and driving them back.
The dogs were secured by several domestics, and we advanced.
“Quien es?” inquired Don Cosmé.
“Amigos” (Friends), I replied.
“Papa! papa! es el capitan!” (Papa, it is the captain!) cried one of the sisters, who had run out in advance, and whom I recognised as the elder one.
“Do not be alarmed, Señorita,” said I, approaching.
“Oh! you are safe—you are safe!—papa, he is safe!” cried both the girls at once; while Don Cosmé exhibited his joy by hugging my comrade and myself alternately.
Suddenly letting go, he threw up his hands, and inquired with a look of anxiety:
“Y el señor gordo?” (And the fat gentleman?)
“Oh! he’s all right,” replied Clayley, with a laugh; “he has saved his bacon, Don Cosmé; though I imagine about this time he wouldn’t object to a little of yours.”
I translated my companion’s answer. The latter part of it seemed to act upon Don Cosmé as a hint, and we were immediately hurried to the dining-room, where we found the Dona Joaquina preparing supper.
During our meal I recounted the principal events of the day. Don Cosmé knew nothing of these guerilleros, although he had heard that there were bands in the neighbourhood. Learning from the guide that we had been attacked, he had despatched a trusty servant to the American camp, and Raoul had met the party coming to our rescue.
After supper Don Cosmé left us to give some orders relative to his departure in the morning. His lady set about preparing the sleeping apartments, and my companion and I were left for some time in the sweet companionship of Lupé and Luz.
Both were exquisite musicians, playing the harp and guitar with equal cleverness. Many a pure Spanish melody was poured into the delighted ears of my friend and myself. The thoughts that arose in our minds were doubtless of a similar kind; and yet how strange that our hearts should have been warmed to love by beings so different in character! The gay, free spirit of my comrade seemed to have met a responsive echo. He and his brilliant partner laughed, chatted, and sang in turns. In the incidents of the moment this light-hearted creature had forgotten her brother, yet the next moment she would weep for him. A tender heart—a heart of joys and sorrows—of ever-changing emotions, coming and passing like shadows thrown by straggling clouds upon the sun-lit stream!
Unlike wasourconverse—more serious. We may not laugh, lest we should profane the holy sentiment that is stealing upon us. There is no mirth in love. There are joy, pleasure, luxury; but laughter finds no echo in the heart that loves. Love is a feeling of anxiety—of expectation. The harp is set aside. The guitar lies untouched for a sweeter music—the music that vibrates from the strings of the heart. Are our eyes not held together by some invisible chain? Are not our souls in communion through some mysterious means? It is not language—at least, not the language of words; for we are conversing upon indifferent things—not indifferent, either. Narcisso, Narcisso—a theme fraternal. His peril casts a cloud over our happiness.
“Oh! that he were here—then we could be happy indeed.”
“He will return; fear not—grieve not; to-morrow your father will easily find him. I shall leave no means untried to restore him to so fond a sister.”
“Thanks! thanks! Oh! we are already indebted to you so much.”
Are those eyes swimming with love, or gratitude, or both at once? Surely gratitude alone does not speak so wildly. Could this scene not last for ever?
“Good-night—good-night!”
“Señores, pasan Vds. buena noche!” (Gentlemen, may you pass a pleasant night!)
They are gone, and those oval developments of face and figure are floating before me, as though the body itself were still present. It is the soft memory of love in all its growing distinctness!
We were shown to our sleeping apartments. Our men picketed their horses under the olives, and slept in the bamboo rancho, a single sentry walking his rounds during the night.
Note. Vds.Usted, contraction ofVuestra merced, “your grace”, usually written as Vd., is the polite form of address in Spanish.
Chapter Twenty Five.A Tough Night of it after all.I entered my chamber—to sleep? No. And yet it contained a bed fit for Morpheus—a bed canopied and curtained with cloth from the looms of Damascus: shining rods roofed upwards, that met in an ornamental design, where the god of sleep, fanned by virgins of silver, reclined upon a couch of roses.I drew aside the curtains—a bank of snow—pillows, as if prepared for the cheek of a beautiful bride. I had not slept in a bed for two months. A close crib in a transport ship—a “shake-down” among the scorpions and spiders of Lobos—a single blanket among the sand-hills, where it was not unusual to wake up half-buried by the drift.These were mysouvenirs. Fancy the prospect! It certainly invited repose; and yet I was in no humour to sleep. My brain was in a whirl. The strange incidents of the day—some of them were mysterious—crowded into my mind. My whole system, mental as well as physical, was flushed; and thought followed thought with nervous rapidity.My heart shared the excitement—chords long silent had been touched—the divine element was fairly enthroned. I was in love!It was not the first passion of my life, and I easily recognised it. Even jealousy had begun to distil its poison—“Don Santiago!”I was standing in front of a large mirror, when I noticed two small miniatures hanging against the wall—one on each side of the glass.I bent over to examine, first, that which hung upon the right. I gazed with emotion. They wereherfeatures; “and yet,” thought I, “the painter has not flattered her; it might better represent her ten years hence: still, the likeness is there. Stupid artist!” I turned to the other. “Her fair sister, no doubt. Gracious heaven! Do my eyes deceive me? No, the black wavy hair—the arching brows—the sinister lip—Dubrosc!”A sharp pang shot through my heart. I looked at the picture again and again with a kind of incredulous bewilderment; but every fresh examination only strengthened conviction. “There is no mistaking those features—they are his!” Paralysed with the shock, I sank into a chair, my heart filled with the most painful emotions.For some moments I was unable to think, much less to act.“What can it mean? Is this accomplished villain a fiend?—the fiend of my existence?—thus to cross me at every point, perhaps in the end to—.”Our mutual dislike at first meeting—Lobos—his reappearance upon the sand-hills, the mystery of his passing the lines and again appearing with the guerilla—all came forcibly upon my recollection; and now I seized the lamp and rushed back to the pictures.“Yes, I amnotmistaken; it is he—it is she, her features—all—all. And thus, too!—the position—side by side—counterparts! There are no others on the wall; matched—mated—perhaps betrothed! His name, too, Don Emilio! The American who taught them English!Hisis Emile—the voice on the island cried ‘Emile!’ Oh, the coincidence is complete! This villain, handsome and accomplished as he is, has been here before me! Betrothed—perhaps married—perhaps—Torture! horrible!”I reeled back to my chair, dashing the lamp recklessly upon the table. I know not how long I sat, but a world of wintry thoughts passed through my heart and brain. A clock striking from a large picture awoke me from my reverie. I did not count the hours. Music began to play behind the picture. It was a sad, sweet air, that chimed with my feelings, and to some extent soothed them. I rose at length, and, hastily undressing, threw myself upon the bed, mentally resolving to forget all—to forget that I had ever seen her.“I will rise early—return to camp without meeting her, and, once there, my duties will drive away this painful fancy. The drum and the fife and the roar of the cannon will drown remembrance. Ha! it was only a passing thought at best—the hallucination of a moment. I shall easily get rid of it. Ha! ha!”I laid my fevered cheek upon the soft, cold pillow. I felt composed—almost happy.“A Creole of New Orleans! How could he have been here? Oh! have I not the explanation already? Why should I dwell on it?”Ah, jealous heart—it is easy to say “forget!”I tried to prevent my thoughts from returning to this theme. I directed them to a thousand things: to the ships—to the landing—to the army—to the soldiers—to the buttons upon their jackets and the swabs upon their shoulders—to everything I could think of: all in vain. Back, back, back! in painful throes it came, and my heart throbbed, and my brain burned with bitter memories freshly awakened.I turned and tossed upon my couch for many a long hour. The clock in the picture struck, and played the same music again and again, still soothing me as before. Even despair has its moments of respite; and, worn with fatigue, mental as well as physical, I listened to the sad, sweet strain, until it died away into my dreams.
I entered my chamber—to sleep? No. And yet it contained a bed fit for Morpheus—a bed canopied and curtained with cloth from the looms of Damascus: shining rods roofed upwards, that met in an ornamental design, where the god of sleep, fanned by virgins of silver, reclined upon a couch of roses.
I drew aside the curtains—a bank of snow—pillows, as if prepared for the cheek of a beautiful bride. I had not slept in a bed for two months. A close crib in a transport ship—a “shake-down” among the scorpions and spiders of Lobos—a single blanket among the sand-hills, where it was not unusual to wake up half-buried by the drift.
These were mysouvenirs. Fancy the prospect! It certainly invited repose; and yet I was in no humour to sleep. My brain was in a whirl. The strange incidents of the day—some of them were mysterious—crowded into my mind. My whole system, mental as well as physical, was flushed; and thought followed thought with nervous rapidity.
My heart shared the excitement—chords long silent had been touched—the divine element was fairly enthroned. I was in love!
It was not the first passion of my life, and I easily recognised it. Even jealousy had begun to distil its poison—“Don Santiago!”
I was standing in front of a large mirror, when I noticed two small miniatures hanging against the wall—one on each side of the glass.
I bent over to examine, first, that which hung upon the right. I gazed with emotion. They wereherfeatures; “and yet,” thought I, “the painter has not flattered her; it might better represent her ten years hence: still, the likeness is there. Stupid artist!” I turned to the other. “Her fair sister, no doubt. Gracious heaven! Do my eyes deceive me? No, the black wavy hair—the arching brows—the sinister lip—Dubrosc!”
A sharp pang shot through my heart. I looked at the picture again and again with a kind of incredulous bewilderment; but every fresh examination only strengthened conviction. “There is no mistaking those features—they are his!” Paralysed with the shock, I sank into a chair, my heart filled with the most painful emotions.
For some moments I was unable to think, much less to act.
“What can it mean? Is this accomplished villain a fiend?—the fiend of my existence?—thus to cross me at every point, perhaps in the end to—.”
Our mutual dislike at first meeting—Lobos—his reappearance upon the sand-hills, the mystery of his passing the lines and again appearing with the guerilla—all came forcibly upon my recollection; and now I seized the lamp and rushed back to the pictures.
“Yes, I amnotmistaken; it is he—it is she, her features—all—all. And thus, too!—the position—side by side—counterparts! There are no others on the wall; matched—mated—perhaps betrothed! His name, too, Don Emilio! The American who taught them English!Hisis Emile—the voice on the island cried ‘Emile!’ Oh, the coincidence is complete! This villain, handsome and accomplished as he is, has been here before me! Betrothed—perhaps married—perhaps—Torture! horrible!”
I reeled back to my chair, dashing the lamp recklessly upon the table. I know not how long I sat, but a world of wintry thoughts passed through my heart and brain. A clock striking from a large picture awoke me from my reverie. I did not count the hours. Music began to play behind the picture. It was a sad, sweet air, that chimed with my feelings, and to some extent soothed them. I rose at length, and, hastily undressing, threw myself upon the bed, mentally resolving to forget all—to forget that I had ever seen her.
“I will rise early—return to camp without meeting her, and, once there, my duties will drive away this painful fancy. The drum and the fife and the roar of the cannon will drown remembrance. Ha! it was only a passing thought at best—the hallucination of a moment. I shall easily get rid of it. Ha! ha!”
I laid my fevered cheek upon the soft, cold pillow. I felt composed—almost happy.
“A Creole of New Orleans! How could he have been here? Oh! have I not the explanation already? Why should I dwell on it?”
Ah, jealous heart—it is easy to say “forget!”
I tried to prevent my thoughts from returning to this theme. I directed them to a thousand things: to the ships—to the landing—to the army—to the soldiers—to the buttons upon their jackets and the swabs upon their shoulders—to everything I could think of: all in vain. Back, back, back! in painful throes it came, and my heart throbbed, and my brain burned with bitter memories freshly awakened.
I turned and tossed upon my couch for many a long hour. The clock in the picture struck, and played the same music again and again, still soothing me as before. Even despair has its moments of respite; and, worn with fatigue, mental as well as physical, I listened to the sad, sweet strain, until it died away into my dreams.
Chapter Twenty Six.The Light after the Shade.When I awoke all was darkness around me. I threw out my arms and opened the damask curtains. Not a ray of light entered the room. I felt refreshed, and from this I concluded I must have slept long. I slipped out upon the floor and commenced groping for my watch. Someone knocked.“Come in!” I called.The door opened, and a flood of light gushed into the apartment. It was a servant bearing a lamp.“What is the hour?” I demanded.“Nine o’clock,mi amo,” (my master), was the reply.The servant set down the lamp and went out. Another immediately entered, carrying a salver with a small gold cup.“What have you there?”“Chocolate, master; Dona Joaquina has sent it.”I drank off the beverage, and hastened to dress myself. I was reflecting whether I should pass on to camp without seeing any one of the family. Somehow, my heart felt less heavy. I believe the morning always brings relief to pain, either mental or bodily. It seems to be a law of nature—at least, so my experience tells me. The morning air, buoyant and balmy, dulls the edge of anguish. New hopes arise and new projects appear with the sun. The invalid, couch-tossing through the long watches of the night, will acknowledge this truth.I did not approach the mirror. I dared not.“I will not looked upon the loved, the hated face—no, on to the camp!—let Lethe—. Has my friend arisen?”“Yes, master; he has been up for hours.”“Ha! where is he?”“In the garden, master.”“Alone?”“No, master; he is with theniñas.”“Happy, light-hearted Clayley! No jealous thoughts to torture him!” mused I, as I buckled on my stock.I had observed that the fair-haired sister and he were kindred spirits—sympathetic natures, who only needed to be placeden rapportto “like each other mightily”—beings who could laugh, dance, and sing together, romp for months, and then get married, as a thing of course; but, should any accident prevent this happy consummation, could say “good-bye” and part without a broken heart on either side; an easy thing for natures like theirs; a return exchange of numerousbillets-doux, a laugh over the past, and a light heart for the future. Such is the history of many a love. I can vouch for it. How different with—“Tell my friend, when he returns to the house, that I wish to see him.”“Yes, master.”The servant bowed and left the room.In a few minutes Clayley made his appearance, gay as a grasshopper.“So, good lieutenant, you have been improving your time, I hear?”“Haven’t I, though? Such a delicious stroll! Haller, thisisa paradise.”“Where have you been?”“Feeding the swans,” replied Clayley, with a laugh. “But, by the way, yourchère amiehangs her pretty head this morning. She seems hurt that you have not been up. She kept constantly looking towards the house.”“Clayley, will you do me the favour to order the men to their saddles?”“What! going so soon? Not before breakfast, though?”“In five minutes.”“Why, Captain, what’s the matter? And such a breakfast as they are getting! Oh, Don Cosmé will not hear of it.”“Don Cosmé—.”Our host entered at that moment, and, listening to his remonstrances, the order was rescinded, and I consented to remain.I saluted the ladies with as much courtesy as I could assume. I could not help the coldness of my manner, and I could perceive that withherit did not pass unobserved.We sat down to the breakfast-table; but my heart was full of bitterness, and I scarcely touched the delicate viands that were placed before me.“You do not eat, Captain. I hope you are well?” said Don Cosmé, observing my strange and somewhat rude demeanour.“Thank, you, Señor, I never enjoyed better health.”I studiously avoided looking towards her, paying slight attentions to her sister. This is the game of piques. Once or twice I ventured a side-glance. Her eyes were bent upon me with a strange, inquiring look.They are swimming in tears, and soft, and forgiving. They are swollen. She has been weeping. That is not strange. Her brother’s danger is, no doubt, the cause of her sorrow.Yet, is there not reproach in her looks? Reproach! How ill does my conduct of last night correspond with this affected coldness—this rudeness! Can she, too, be suffering?I arose from the table, and, walking forth, ordered Lincoln to prepare the men for marching.I strolled down among the orange-trees. Clayley followed soon after, accompanied by both the girls. Don Cosmé remained at the house to superintend the saddling of his mule, while Dona Joaquina was packing the necessary articles into his portmanteau.Following some silent instinct, we—Guadalupe and I—came together. Clayley and his mistress had strayed away, leaving us alone. I had not yet spoken to her. I felt a strange impulse—a desire to know the worst. I felt as one looking over a fearful precipice.Then I will brave the danger; it can be no worse than this agony of suspicion and suspense.I turned towards her. Her head was bent to one side. She was crushing an orange-flower between her fingers, and her eyes seemed to follow the dropping fragments.How beautiful was she at that moment!“The artist certainly has not flattered you.”She looked at me with a bewildered expression. Oh, those swimming eyes!She did not understand me.I repeated the observation.“Señor Capitan, what do you mean?”“That the painter has not done you justice. The portrait is certainly a likeness, yet the expression, I think, should have been younger.”“The painter! What painter? The portrait! What portrait, Señor?”“I refer to your portrait, which I accidentally found hanging in my apartment.”“Ah! by the mirror?”“Yes, by the mirror,” I answered sullenly.“But, it is notmine, Señor Capitan.”“Ha!—how? Not yours?”“No; it is the portrait of my cousin, Maria de Merced. They say we were much alike.”My heart expanded. My whole frame quivered under the influence of joyful emotions.“And the gentleman?” I faltered out.“Don Emilio? He was cousin’s lover—huyeron,” (they eloped).As she repeated the last word she turned her head away, and I thought there was a sadness in her manner.I was about to speak, when she continued:“It was her room—we have not touched anything.”“And where is your cousin now?”“We know not.”“There is a mystery,” thought I. I pressed the subject no farther. It was nothing to me now. My heart was happy.“Let us walk farther, Lupita.”She turned her eyes upon me with an expression of wonder. The change in my manner—so sudden—how was she to account for it? I could have knelt before her and explained all. Reserve disappeared, and the confidence of the preceding night was fully restored.We wandered along under theguardarayas, amidst sounds and scenes suggestive of love and tenderness. Love! We heard it in the songs of the birds—in the humming of the bees—in the voices of all nature around us. We felt it in our own hearts. The late cloud had passed, making the sky still brighter than before; the reaction had heightened our mutual passion to the intensity of non-resistance; and we walked on, her hand clasped in mine. We had eyes only for each other.We reached a clump of cocoa-trees; one of them had fallen, and its smooth trunk offered a seat, protected from the sun by the shadowy leaves of its fellows. On this we sat down. There was no resistance—no reasoning process—no calculation of advantages and chances, such as is too often mingled with the noble passion of love. We felt nothing of this—nothing but that undefinable impulse which had entered our hearts, and to whose mystical power neither of us dreamed of offering opposition. Delay and duty were alike forgotten.“I shall ask the question now—I shall know my fate at once,” were my thoughts.In the changing scenes of a soldier’s life there is but little time for the slow formalities, the zealous vigils, the complicatedfinesseof courtship. Perhaps this consideration impelled me. I have but little confidence in the cold heart that is won by a series of assiduities. There is too much calculation of after-events—too much selfishness.These reflections passed through my mind. I bent towards my companion, and whispered to her in that language—rich above all others in the vocabulary of the heart:“Guadalupe, tu me amas?” (Guadalupe, do you love me?)“Yo te amo!” was the simple reply. Need I describe the joyful feelings that filled my heart at that moment? My happiness was complete.The confession rendered her sacred in my eyes, and we sat for some time silent, enjoying that transport only known to those who have truly, purely loved.The trampling of hoofs! It was Clayley at the head of the troop. They were mounted, and waiting for me. Don Cosmé was impatient; so was the Dona Joaquina. I could not blame them, knowing the cause.“Ride forward! I shall follow presently.”The horsemen filed off into the fields, headed by the lieutenant, beside whom rode Don Cosmé, on his white mule.“You will soon return, Enrique?”“I shall lose no opportunity of seeing you. I shall long for the hour more than you, I fear.”“Oh! no, no!”“Believe me yes, Lupita! Say again you will never cease to love me.”“Never, never!Tuya—tuya—hasta la muerte!” (Yours—yours—till death!)How often has this question been asked! How often answered as above!I sprang into the saddle. A parting look—another from a distance—a wave of the hand—and the next moment I was urging my horse in full gallop under the shadowy palms.
When I awoke all was darkness around me. I threw out my arms and opened the damask curtains. Not a ray of light entered the room. I felt refreshed, and from this I concluded I must have slept long. I slipped out upon the floor and commenced groping for my watch. Someone knocked.
“Come in!” I called.
The door opened, and a flood of light gushed into the apartment. It was a servant bearing a lamp.
“What is the hour?” I demanded.
“Nine o’clock,mi amo,” (my master), was the reply.
The servant set down the lamp and went out. Another immediately entered, carrying a salver with a small gold cup.
“What have you there?”
“Chocolate, master; Dona Joaquina has sent it.”
I drank off the beverage, and hastened to dress myself. I was reflecting whether I should pass on to camp without seeing any one of the family. Somehow, my heart felt less heavy. I believe the morning always brings relief to pain, either mental or bodily. It seems to be a law of nature—at least, so my experience tells me. The morning air, buoyant and balmy, dulls the edge of anguish. New hopes arise and new projects appear with the sun. The invalid, couch-tossing through the long watches of the night, will acknowledge this truth.
I did not approach the mirror. I dared not.
“I will not looked upon the loved, the hated face—no, on to the camp!—let Lethe—. Has my friend arisen?”
“Yes, master; he has been up for hours.”
“Ha! where is he?”
“In the garden, master.”
“Alone?”
“No, master; he is with theniñas.”
“Happy, light-hearted Clayley! No jealous thoughts to torture him!” mused I, as I buckled on my stock.
I had observed that the fair-haired sister and he were kindred spirits—sympathetic natures, who only needed to be placeden rapportto “like each other mightily”—beings who could laugh, dance, and sing together, romp for months, and then get married, as a thing of course; but, should any accident prevent this happy consummation, could say “good-bye” and part without a broken heart on either side; an easy thing for natures like theirs; a return exchange of numerousbillets-doux, a laugh over the past, and a light heart for the future. Such is the history of many a love. I can vouch for it. How different with—
“Tell my friend, when he returns to the house, that I wish to see him.”
“Yes, master.”
The servant bowed and left the room.
In a few minutes Clayley made his appearance, gay as a grasshopper.
“So, good lieutenant, you have been improving your time, I hear?”
“Haven’t I, though? Such a delicious stroll! Haller, thisisa paradise.”
“Where have you been?”
“Feeding the swans,” replied Clayley, with a laugh. “But, by the way, yourchère amiehangs her pretty head this morning. She seems hurt that you have not been up. She kept constantly looking towards the house.”
“Clayley, will you do me the favour to order the men to their saddles?”
“What! going so soon? Not before breakfast, though?”
“In five minutes.”
“Why, Captain, what’s the matter? And such a breakfast as they are getting! Oh, Don Cosmé will not hear of it.”
“Don Cosmé—.”
Our host entered at that moment, and, listening to his remonstrances, the order was rescinded, and I consented to remain.
I saluted the ladies with as much courtesy as I could assume. I could not help the coldness of my manner, and I could perceive that withherit did not pass unobserved.
We sat down to the breakfast-table; but my heart was full of bitterness, and I scarcely touched the delicate viands that were placed before me.
“You do not eat, Captain. I hope you are well?” said Don Cosmé, observing my strange and somewhat rude demeanour.
“Thank, you, Señor, I never enjoyed better health.”
I studiously avoided looking towards her, paying slight attentions to her sister. This is the game of piques. Once or twice I ventured a side-glance. Her eyes were bent upon me with a strange, inquiring look.
They are swimming in tears, and soft, and forgiving. They are swollen. She has been weeping. That is not strange. Her brother’s danger is, no doubt, the cause of her sorrow.
Yet, is there not reproach in her looks? Reproach! How ill does my conduct of last night correspond with this affected coldness—this rudeness! Can she, too, be suffering?
I arose from the table, and, walking forth, ordered Lincoln to prepare the men for marching.
I strolled down among the orange-trees. Clayley followed soon after, accompanied by both the girls. Don Cosmé remained at the house to superintend the saddling of his mule, while Dona Joaquina was packing the necessary articles into his portmanteau.
Following some silent instinct, we—Guadalupe and I—came together. Clayley and his mistress had strayed away, leaving us alone. I had not yet spoken to her. I felt a strange impulse—a desire to know the worst. I felt as one looking over a fearful precipice.
Then I will brave the danger; it can be no worse than this agony of suspicion and suspense.
I turned towards her. Her head was bent to one side. She was crushing an orange-flower between her fingers, and her eyes seemed to follow the dropping fragments.
How beautiful was she at that moment!
“The artist certainly has not flattered you.”
She looked at me with a bewildered expression. Oh, those swimming eyes!
She did not understand me.
I repeated the observation.
“Señor Capitan, what do you mean?”
“That the painter has not done you justice. The portrait is certainly a likeness, yet the expression, I think, should have been younger.”
“The painter! What painter? The portrait! What portrait, Señor?”
“I refer to your portrait, which I accidentally found hanging in my apartment.”
“Ah! by the mirror?”
“Yes, by the mirror,” I answered sullenly.
“But, it is notmine, Señor Capitan.”
“Ha!—how? Not yours?”
“No; it is the portrait of my cousin, Maria de Merced. They say we were much alike.”
My heart expanded. My whole frame quivered under the influence of joyful emotions.
“And the gentleman?” I faltered out.
“Don Emilio? He was cousin’s lover—huyeron,” (they eloped).
As she repeated the last word she turned her head away, and I thought there was a sadness in her manner.
I was about to speak, when she continued:
“It was her room—we have not touched anything.”
“And where is your cousin now?”
“We know not.”
“There is a mystery,” thought I. I pressed the subject no farther. It was nothing to me now. My heart was happy.
“Let us walk farther, Lupita.”
She turned her eyes upon me with an expression of wonder. The change in my manner—so sudden—how was she to account for it? I could have knelt before her and explained all. Reserve disappeared, and the confidence of the preceding night was fully restored.
We wandered along under theguardarayas, amidst sounds and scenes suggestive of love and tenderness. Love! We heard it in the songs of the birds—in the humming of the bees—in the voices of all nature around us. We felt it in our own hearts. The late cloud had passed, making the sky still brighter than before; the reaction had heightened our mutual passion to the intensity of non-resistance; and we walked on, her hand clasped in mine. We had eyes only for each other.
We reached a clump of cocoa-trees; one of them had fallen, and its smooth trunk offered a seat, protected from the sun by the shadowy leaves of its fellows. On this we sat down. There was no resistance—no reasoning process—no calculation of advantages and chances, such as is too often mingled with the noble passion of love. We felt nothing of this—nothing but that undefinable impulse which had entered our hearts, and to whose mystical power neither of us dreamed of offering opposition. Delay and duty were alike forgotten.
“I shall ask the question now—I shall know my fate at once,” were my thoughts.
In the changing scenes of a soldier’s life there is but little time for the slow formalities, the zealous vigils, the complicatedfinesseof courtship. Perhaps this consideration impelled me. I have but little confidence in the cold heart that is won by a series of assiduities. There is too much calculation of after-events—too much selfishness.
These reflections passed through my mind. I bent towards my companion, and whispered to her in that language—rich above all others in the vocabulary of the heart:
“Guadalupe, tu me amas?” (Guadalupe, do you love me?)
“Yo te amo!” was the simple reply. Need I describe the joyful feelings that filled my heart at that moment? My happiness was complete.
The confession rendered her sacred in my eyes, and we sat for some time silent, enjoying that transport only known to those who have truly, purely loved.
The trampling of hoofs! It was Clayley at the head of the troop. They were mounted, and waiting for me. Don Cosmé was impatient; so was the Dona Joaquina. I could not blame them, knowing the cause.
“Ride forward! I shall follow presently.”
The horsemen filed off into the fields, headed by the lieutenant, beside whom rode Don Cosmé, on his white mule.
“You will soon return, Enrique?”
“I shall lose no opportunity of seeing you. I shall long for the hour more than you, I fear.”
“Oh! no, no!”
“Believe me yes, Lupita! Say again you will never cease to love me.”
“Never, never!Tuya—tuya—hasta la muerte!” (Yours—yours—till death!)
How often has this question been asked! How often answered as above!
I sprang into the saddle. A parting look—another from a distance—a wave of the hand—and the next moment I was urging my horse in full gallop under the shadowy palms.
Chapter Twenty Seven.A Disappointment and a New Plan.I overtook my companions as they were entering the woods. Clayley, who had been looking back from time to time, brushed alongside, as if wishing to enter into conversation.“Hard work, Captain, to leave such quarters. By Jove! I could have stayed for ever.”“Come, Clayley—you are in love.”“Yes; they who live in glass houses—. Oh! if I could only speak the lingo as you do!”I could not help smiling, for I had overheard him through the trees making the most he could of his partner’s broken English. I was curious to know how he had sped, and whether he had been as ‘quick upon the trigger’ as myself. My curiosity was soon relieved.“I tell you, Captain,” he continued, “if I could only have talked it, I would have put the question on the spot. I did try to get a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ out of her; but she either couldn’t or wouldn’t understand me. It was all bad luck.”“Could you not make her understand you? Surely she knows English enough for that?”“I thought so too; but when I spoke about love she only laughed and slapped me on the face with her fan. Oh, no; the thing must be done in Spanish, that’s plain; and you see I am going to set about it in earnest. She loaned me these.”Saying this, he pulled out of the crown of his foraging-cap a couple of small volumes, which I recognised as a Spanish grammar and dictionary. I could not resist laughing aloud.“Comrade, you will find the best dictionary to be the lady herself.”“That’s true; but how the deuce are we to get back again? A mule-hunt don’t happen every day.”“I fancy there will be some difficulty in it.”I had already thought of this. It was no easy matter to steal away from camp—one’s brother-officers are so solicitous about your appearance at drills and parades. Don Cosmé’s rancho was at least ten miles from the lines, and the road would not be the safest for the solitary lover. The prospect of frequent returns was not at all flattering.“Can’t we steal out at night?” suggested Clayley. “I think we might mount half a dozen of our fellows, and do it snugly. What do you say, Captain?”“Clayley, I cannot return without this brother. I have almost given my word to that effect.”“You have? That is bad! I fear there is no prospect of getting him out as you propose.”My companion’s prophetic foreboding proved but too correct, for on nearing the camp we were met by an aide-de-camp of the commander-in-chief, who informed me that, on that very morning, all communication between the foreign ships of war and the besieged city had been prohibited.Don Cosmé’s journey, then, would be in vain. I explained this, advising him to return to his family.“Do not make it known—say that some time is required, and you have left the matter in my hands. Be assured I shall be among the first to enter the city, and I shall find the boy, and bring him to his mother in safety.”This was the only consolation I could offer.“You are kind, Capitan—very kind; but I know that nothing can now be done. We can only hope and pray.”The old man had dropped into a bent attitude, his countenance marked by the deepest melancholy.Taking the Frenchman, Raoul, along with me, I rode back until I had placed him beyond the danger of the straggling plunderer, when we shook hands and parted. As he left me, I turned to look after him. He still sat in that attitude that betokens deep dejection, his shoulders bent forward over the neck of his mule, while he gazed vacantly on the path. My heart sank at the spectacle, and, sad and dispirited, I rode at a lagging pace towards the camp.Not a shot had as yet been fired against the town, but our batteries were nearly perfected, and several mortars were mounted and ready to fling in their deadly missiles. I knew that every shot and shell would carry death into the devoted city, for there was not a point within its walls out of range of a ten-inch howitzer. Women and children must perish along with armed soldiers; and the boy—he, too, might be a victim. Would this be the tidings I should carry to his home? And how should I be received by her with such a tale upon my lips? Already had I sent back a sorrowing father.“Is there no way to save him, Raoul?”“Captain?” inquired the man, starting at the vehemence of my manner.A sudden thought had occurred to me.“Are you well acquainted with Vera Cruz?”“I know every street, Captain.”“Where do those arches lead that open from the sea? There is one on each side of the mole.”I had observed these when visiting a friend, an officer of the navy, on board his ship.“They are conductors, Captain, to carry off the overflow of the sea after a norther. They lead under the city, opening at various places. I have had the pleasure of passing through them.”“Ha! How?”“On a little smuggling expedition.”“It is possible, then, to reach the town by these?”“Nothing easier, unless they may have a guard at the mouth; but that is not likely. They would not dream of anyone’s making the attempt.”“How wouldyoulike to make it?”“If the Captain wishes it, I will bring him a bottle ofeau-de-viefrom the Café de Santa Anna.”“I do not wish you to go alone. I would accompany you.”“Think of it, Captain; there is risk foryouin such an undertaking.Imay go safely. No one knows that I have joined you, I believe. Ifyouare taken—.”“Yes, yes; I know well the result.”“The risk is not great, either,” continued the Frenchman, in a half-soliloquy. “Disguised as Mexicans, we might do it; you speak the language as well as I. If you wish it, Captain—.”“I do.”“I am ready, then.”I knew the fellow well: one of those dare-devil spirits, ready for anything that promised adventure—a child of fortune—a stray waif tumbling about upon the waves of chance—gifted with head and heart of no common order—ignorant of books, yet educated in experience. There was a dash of the heroic in his character that had won my admiration, and I was fond of his company.It was a desperate adventure—I knew that; but I felt stronger interest than common in the fate of this boy. My own future fate, too, was in a great degree connected with his safety. There was something in the very danger that lured me on to tempt it. I felt that it would be adding another chapter to a life which I have termed “adventurous.”
I overtook my companions as they were entering the woods. Clayley, who had been looking back from time to time, brushed alongside, as if wishing to enter into conversation.
“Hard work, Captain, to leave such quarters. By Jove! I could have stayed for ever.”
“Come, Clayley—you are in love.”
“Yes; they who live in glass houses—. Oh! if I could only speak the lingo as you do!”
I could not help smiling, for I had overheard him through the trees making the most he could of his partner’s broken English. I was curious to know how he had sped, and whether he had been as ‘quick upon the trigger’ as myself. My curiosity was soon relieved.
“I tell you, Captain,” he continued, “if I could only have talked it, I would have put the question on the spot. I did try to get a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ out of her; but she either couldn’t or wouldn’t understand me. It was all bad luck.”
“Could you not make her understand you? Surely she knows English enough for that?”
“I thought so too; but when I spoke about love she only laughed and slapped me on the face with her fan. Oh, no; the thing must be done in Spanish, that’s plain; and you see I am going to set about it in earnest. She loaned me these.”
Saying this, he pulled out of the crown of his foraging-cap a couple of small volumes, which I recognised as a Spanish grammar and dictionary. I could not resist laughing aloud.
“Comrade, you will find the best dictionary to be the lady herself.”
“That’s true; but how the deuce are we to get back again? A mule-hunt don’t happen every day.”
“I fancy there will be some difficulty in it.”
I had already thought of this. It was no easy matter to steal away from camp—one’s brother-officers are so solicitous about your appearance at drills and parades. Don Cosmé’s rancho was at least ten miles from the lines, and the road would not be the safest for the solitary lover. The prospect of frequent returns was not at all flattering.
“Can’t we steal out at night?” suggested Clayley. “I think we might mount half a dozen of our fellows, and do it snugly. What do you say, Captain?”
“Clayley, I cannot return without this brother. I have almost given my word to that effect.”
“You have? That is bad! I fear there is no prospect of getting him out as you propose.”
My companion’s prophetic foreboding proved but too correct, for on nearing the camp we were met by an aide-de-camp of the commander-in-chief, who informed me that, on that very morning, all communication between the foreign ships of war and the besieged city had been prohibited.
Don Cosmé’s journey, then, would be in vain. I explained this, advising him to return to his family.
“Do not make it known—say that some time is required, and you have left the matter in my hands. Be assured I shall be among the first to enter the city, and I shall find the boy, and bring him to his mother in safety.”
This was the only consolation I could offer.
“You are kind, Capitan—very kind; but I know that nothing can now be done. We can only hope and pray.”
The old man had dropped into a bent attitude, his countenance marked by the deepest melancholy.
Taking the Frenchman, Raoul, along with me, I rode back until I had placed him beyond the danger of the straggling plunderer, when we shook hands and parted. As he left me, I turned to look after him. He still sat in that attitude that betokens deep dejection, his shoulders bent forward over the neck of his mule, while he gazed vacantly on the path. My heart sank at the spectacle, and, sad and dispirited, I rode at a lagging pace towards the camp.
Not a shot had as yet been fired against the town, but our batteries were nearly perfected, and several mortars were mounted and ready to fling in their deadly missiles. I knew that every shot and shell would carry death into the devoted city, for there was not a point within its walls out of range of a ten-inch howitzer. Women and children must perish along with armed soldiers; and the boy—he, too, might be a victim. Would this be the tidings I should carry to his home? And how should I be received by her with such a tale upon my lips? Already had I sent back a sorrowing father.
“Is there no way to save him, Raoul?”
“Captain?” inquired the man, starting at the vehemence of my manner.
A sudden thought had occurred to me.
“Are you well acquainted with Vera Cruz?”
“I know every street, Captain.”
“Where do those arches lead that open from the sea? There is one on each side of the mole.”
I had observed these when visiting a friend, an officer of the navy, on board his ship.
“They are conductors, Captain, to carry off the overflow of the sea after a norther. They lead under the city, opening at various places. I have had the pleasure of passing through them.”
“Ha! How?”
“On a little smuggling expedition.”
“It is possible, then, to reach the town by these?”
“Nothing easier, unless they may have a guard at the mouth; but that is not likely. They would not dream of anyone’s making the attempt.”
“How wouldyoulike to make it?”
“If the Captain wishes it, I will bring him a bottle ofeau-de-viefrom the Café de Santa Anna.”
“I do not wish you to go alone. I would accompany you.”
“Think of it, Captain; there is risk foryouin such an undertaking.Imay go safely. No one knows that I have joined you, I believe. Ifyouare taken—.”
“Yes, yes; I know well the result.”
“The risk is not great, either,” continued the Frenchman, in a half-soliloquy. “Disguised as Mexicans, we might do it; you speak the language as well as I. If you wish it, Captain—.”
“I do.”
“I am ready, then.”
I knew the fellow well: one of those dare-devil spirits, ready for anything that promised adventure—a child of fortune—a stray waif tumbling about upon the waves of chance—gifted with head and heart of no common order—ignorant of books, yet educated in experience. There was a dash of the heroic in his character that had won my admiration, and I was fond of his company.
It was a desperate adventure—I knew that; but I felt stronger interest than common in the fate of this boy. My own future fate, too, was in a great degree connected with his safety. There was something in the very danger that lured me on to tempt it. I felt that it would be adding another chapter to a life which I have termed “adventurous.”
Chapter Twenty Eight.A Foolhardy Adventure.At night Raoul and I, disguised in the leathern dresses of two rancheros, stole round the lines, and reached Punta Hornos, a point beyond our own pickets. Here we “took the water”, wading waist-deep.This was about ten o’clock. The tide was just setting out, and the night, by good fortune, was as dark as pitch.As the swell rolled in we were buried to the neck, and when it rolled back again we bent forward; so that at no time could much of our bodies be seen above the surface.In this manner, half wading, half swimming, we kept up to the town.It was a toilsome journey, but the water was warm, and the sand on the bottom firm and level. We were strengthened—I at least—by hope and the knowledge of danger. Doubtless my companion felt the latter stimulant as much as I.We soon reached the battlements of Santiago, where we proceeded with increased caution. We could see the sentry up against the sky, pacing along the parapet. His shrill cry startled us. We thought we had been discovered. The darkness alone prevented this.At length we passed him, and came opposite the city, whose battlements rested upon the water’s edge.The tide was at ebb, and a bed of black, weed-covered rocks lay between the sea and the bastion.We approached these with caution, and, crawling over the slippery boulders, after a hundred yards or so found ourselves in the entrance of one of the conductors.Here we halted to rest ourselves, sitting down upon a ledge of rock. We were in no more danger here than in our own tents, yet within twenty feet were men who, had they known our proximity, would have strung us up like a pair of dogs.But our danger was far from lying at this end of the adventure.After a rest of half an hour we kept up into the conductor. My companion seemed perfectly at home in this subterranean passage, walking along as boldly as if it had been brilliantly lighted with gas.After proceeding some distance we approached a grating, where a light shot in from above.“Can we pass out here?” I inquired.“Not yet, Captain,” answered Raoul in a whisper. “Farther on.”We passed the grating, then another and another, and at length reached one where only a feeble ray struggled downward through the bars.Here my guide stopped, and listened attentively for several minutes. Then, stretching out his hand, he undid the fastening of the grate, and silently turned it upon its hinge. He next swung himself up until his head projected above ground. In this position he again listened, looking cautiously on all sides.Satisfied at length that there was no one near, he drew his body up through the grating and disappeared. After a short interval he returned, and called down:“Come, Captain.”I swung myself up to the street. Raoul shut down the trap with care.“Take marks, Captain,” whispered he; “we may get separated.”It was a dismal suburb. No living thing was apparent, with the exception of a gang of prowling dogs, lean and savage, as all dogs are during a siege. An image, decked in all the glare of gaud and tinsel, looked out of a glazed niche in the opposite wall. A dim lamp burned at its feet, showing to the charitable a receptacle for their offerings. A quaint old steeple loomed in the darkness overhead.“What church?” I asked Raoul.“La Magdalena.”“That will do. Now onward.”“Buenas noches, Señor!” (good-night) said Raoul to a soldier who passed us, wrapped in his great-coat.“Buenas noches!” returned the man in a gruff voice.We stole cautiously along the streets, keeping in the darker ones to avoid observation. The citizens were mostly in their beds; but groups of soldiers were straggling about, and patrols met us at every corner.It became necessary to pass through one of the streets that was brilliantly lighted. When about half-way up it a fellow came swinging along, and, noticing our strange appearance, stopped and looked after us.Our dresses, as I have said, were of leather; our calzoneros, as well as jackets, were shining with the sea-water, and dripping upon the pavement at every step.Before we could walk beyond reach, the man shouted out:“Carajo! caballeros, why don’t you strip before entering thebaño?”“What is it?” cried a soldier, coming up and stopping us.A group of his comrades joined him, and we were hurried into the light.“Mil diablos!” exclaimed one of the soldiers, recognising Raoul; “our old friend the Frenchman!Parlez-vous français,Monsieur?”“Spies!” cried another.“Arrest them!” shouted a sergeant of the guard, at the moment coming up with a patrol, and we were both jumped upon and held by about a dozen men.In vain Raoul protested our innocence, declaring that we were only two poor fishermen, who had wet our clothes in drawing the nets.“It’s not a fisherman’s costume, Monsieur,” said one.“Fishermen don’t usually wear diamonds on their knuckles,” cried another, snatching a ring from my finger.On this ring, inside the circlet, were engraven my name and rank!Several men, now coming forward, recognised Raoul, and stated, moreover, that he had been missing for some days.“He must, therefore,” said they, “have been with the Yankees.”We were soon handcuffed and marched off to the guard-prison. There we were closely searched, but nothing further was found, except my purse containing several gold eagles—an American coin that of itself would have been sufficient evidence to condemn me.We were now heavily chained to each other, after which the guard left us to our thoughts. They could not have left us in much less agreeable companionship.
At night Raoul and I, disguised in the leathern dresses of two rancheros, stole round the lines, and reached Punta Hornos, a point beyond our own pickets. Here we “took the water”, wading waist-deep.
This was about ten o’clock. The tide was just setting out, and the night, by good fortune, was as dark as pitch.
As the swell rolled in we were buried to the neck, and when it rolled back again we bent forward; so that at no time could much of our bodies be seen above the surface.
In this manner, half wading, half swimming, we kept up to the town.
It was a toilsome journey, but the water was warm, and the sand on the bottom firm and level. We were strengthened—I at least—by hope and the knowledge of danger. Doubtless my companion felt the latter stimulant as much as I.
We soon reached the battlements of Santiago, where we proceeded with increased caution. We could see the sentry up against the sky, pacing along the parapet. His shrill cry startled us. We thought we had been discovered. The darkness alone prevented this.
At length we passed him, and came opposite the city, whose battlements rested upon the water’s edge.
The tide was at ebb, and a bed of black, weed-covered rocks lay between the sea and the bastion.
We approached these with caution, and, crawling over the slippery boulders, after a hundred yards or so found ourselves in the entrance of one of the conductors.
Here we halted to rest ourselves, sitting down upon a ledge of rock. We were in no more danger here than in our own tents, yet within twenty feet were men who, had they known our proximity, would have strung us up like a pair of dogs.
But our danger was far from lying at this end of the adventure.
After a rest of half an hour we kept up into the conductor. My companion seemed perfectly at home in this subterranean passage, walking along as boldly as if it had been brilliantly lighted with gas.
After proceeding some distance we approached a grating, where a light shot in from above.
“Can we pass out here?” I inquired.
“Not yet, Captain,” answered Raoul in a whisper. “Farther on.”
We passed the grating, then another and another, and at length reached one where only a feeble ray struggled downward through the bars.
Here my guide stopped, and listened attentively for several minutes. Then, stretching out his hand, he undid the fastening of the grate, and silently turned it upon its hinge. He next swung himself up until his head projected above ground. In this position he again listened, looking cautiously on all sides.
Satisfied at length that there was no one near, he drew his body up through the grating and disappeared. After a short interval he returned, and called down:
“Come, Captain.”
I swung myself up to the street. Raoul shut down the trap with care.
“Take marks, Captain,” whispered he; “we may get separated.”
It was a dismal suburb. No living thing was apparent, with the exception of a gang of prowling dogs, lean and savage, as all dogs are during a siege. An image, decked in all the glare of gaud and tinsel, looked out of a glazed niche in the opposite wall. A dim lamp burned at its feet, showing to the charitable a receptacle for their offerings. A quaint old steeple loomed in the darkness overhead.
“What church?” I asked Raoul.
“La Magdalena.”
“That will do. Now onward.”
“Buenas noches, Señor!” (good-night) said Raoul to a soldier who passed us, wrapped in his great-coat.
“Buenas noches!” returned the man in a gruff voice.
We stole cautiously along the streets, keeping in the darker ones to avoid observation. The citizens were mostly in their beds; but groups of soldiers were straggling about, and patrols met us at every corner.
It became necessary to pass through one of the streets that was brilliantly lighted. When about half-way up it a fellow came swinging along, and, noticing our strange appearance, stopped and looked after us.
Our dresses, as I have said, were of leather; our calzoneros, as well as jackets, were shining with the sea-water, and dripping upon the pavement at every step.
Before we could walk beyond reach, the man shouted out:
“Carajo! caballeros, why don’t you strip before entering thebaño?”
“What is it?” cried a soldier, coming up and stopping us.
A group of his comrades joined him, and we were hurried into the light.
“Mil diablos!” exclaimed one of the soldiers, recognising Raoul; “our old friend the Frenchman!Parlez-vous français,Monsieur?”
“Spies!” cried another.
“Arrest them!” shouted a sergeant of the guard, at the moment coming up with a patrol, and we were both jumped upon and held by about a dozen men.
In vain Raoul protested our innocence, declaring that we were only two poor fishermen, who had wet our clothes in drawing the nets.
“It’s not a fisherman’s costume, Monsieur,” said one.
“Fishermen don’t usually wear diamonds on their knuckles,” cried another, snatching a ring from my finger.
On this ring, inside the circlet, were engraven my name and rank!
Several men, now coming forward, recognised Raoul, and stated, moreover, that he had been missing for some days.
“He must, therefore,” said they, “have been with the Yankees.”
We were soon handcuffed and marched off to the guard-prison. There we were closely searched, but nothing further was found, except my purse containing several gold eagles—an American coin that of itself would have been sufficient evidence to condemn me.
We were now heavily chained to each other, after which the guard left us to our thoughts. They could not have left us in much less agreeable companionship.