Chapter Seven.An order to forage.My adventure did not end with the day; it was continued into the night, and repeated in my dreams. I rode the chase over again; I dashed through the magueys, I leaped thezequia, and galloped through the affrighted herd; I beheld the spotted mustang stretched lifeless upon the plain, its rider bending and weeping over it. That face of rare beauty, that form of exquisite proportion, that eye rotund and noble, that tongue so free, and heart so bold—all were again encountered in dreamland. A dark face was in the vision, and at intervals crossed the picture like a cloud. It was the face of Ijurra.I think it was that awoke me, but thereveilleof the bugle was ringing in my ears as I leaped from my couch.For some moments I was under the impression that the adventure had been a dream: an object that hung on the opposite wall came under my eyes, and recalled the reality—it was my saddle, over the holsters of which lay a coil of white horsehair rope, with a silver ring at the end. I remembered the lazo.When fairly awake, I reviewed my yesterday’s adventure from first to last. I tried to think calmly upon it; I tried to get it out of my thoughts, and return seriously to my duties. A vain attempt! The more I reflected upon the incident, the more I became conscious of the powerful interest its heroine had excited within me. Interest, indeed! Say ratherpassion—a passion that in one single hour had grown as large as my heart!It was notthe firstlove of my life. I was nigh thirty years of age. I had been enamoured before—more than once, it may be—and I understood what the feeling was. I needed no Cupid to tell me I was in love again—to the very ends of my fingers.To paint the object of my passion is a task I shall not attempt. Beauty like hers must be left to the imagination. Think of the woman youyourselflove or have loved; fancy her in her fairest moments, in bower or boudoir—perchance a blushing bride—and you may form some idea— No, no, no! you could never have looked upon woman so lovely as Isolina de Vargas.Oh! that I could fix that fleeting phantom of beauty—that I could paint that likeness for the world to admire! It cannot be. The most puissant pen is powerless, the brightest colour too cold. Though deeply graven upon the tablet of my heart, I cannot multiply the impression.It is idle to talk of wavy hair, profuse and glossed—of almond eyes with long dark fringes—of pearl-white teeth, and cheeks tinted with damascene. All these had she, but they are not peculiar characteristics. Other women are thus gifted. The traits ofherbeauty lay in the intellectual as much as the physical—in a happy combination of both. The soul, the spirit, had its share in producing this incomparable picture. It was to behold the play of those noble features, to watch the changing cheek, the varying smile, the falling lash, the flashing eye, the glance now tender, now sublime—it was to look on all this, and be impressed with an idea of the divinest loveliness.As I ate my frugal breakfast, such a vision was passing before me. I contemplated the future with pleasant hopes, but not without feelings of uneasiness. I had not forgotten the abrupt parting—no invitation to renew the acquaintance, no hope, no prospect that I should ever behold that beautiful woman again, unless blind chance should prove my friend.I am not a fatalist, and I therefore resolved not to rely upon mere destiny, but, if possible, to help it a little in its evolution.Before I had finished my coffee, a dozen schemes had passed through my mind, all tending towards one object—the renewal of my acquaintance with Isolina de Vargas. Unless favoured by some lucky accident, or, what was more desirable,by the lady herself, I knew we might never meet again. In such times, it was not likely she would be much “out-of-doors;” and in a few days, hours perhaps, I might be ordereden routenever more to return to that interesting outpost.As the district was, of course, under martial law, and I wasde factodictator, you will imagine that I might easily have procured the right of entry anywhere. Not so. Whatever be the licence of the mere soldier as regards the common people of a conquered country, the position of the officer with its higher class is essentially different. If a gentleman, he naturally feels a delicacy in making any advances towards an acquaintance; and his honour restrains him from the freer forms of introduction. To take advantage of his position of power would be a positive meanness, of which a true gentleman cannot be guilty. Besides, there may be rancour on the part of the conquered—there usually is—but even when no such feeling exists, another barrier stands in the way of free association between the officer and “society.” The latter feels that the position of affairs will not be permanent; the enemy will in time evacuate, and then the vengeance of mob-patriotism is to be dreaded. Never did the ricos of Mexico feel more secure than while under the protection of the American army: many of them were disposed to be friendly; but the phantom of the future, with its mobémeutes, stared them in the face, and under this dread they were forced to adopt a hypocritical exclusiveness. Epaulettes must not be seen glancing through the windows of their drawing-rooms!Under such circumstances, my situation was difficult enough. I might gaze upon the outside walls of that handsome hacienda till my heart ached, but how was I to effect an entrance?To charge a fort, a battery, an intrenched camp—to storm a castle, or break a solid square—one or all would have been child’s play compared with the difficulty of crossing that glacial line of etiquette that separated me from my beautiful enemy.To effect this purpose, a dozen schemes were passed through my mind, and rejected, till my eyes at length rested upon the most interesting object in the apartment—the little white rope that hung from my saddlebow. In the lazo, I recognised my “forlorn-hope.” That pretty implement must be returned to its owner.I myself should take it home! So fardestinyshould be guided byme; beyond, I should have to put my trust in destiny.I think best under the influence of a cigar; and lighting one, I ascended to the azotea, to complete my little scheme.I had scarcely made two turns of the roof, when a horseman galloped into the piazza. He was in dragoon uniform, and I soon perceived he was an orderly from headquarters, inquiring for the commandant of the outpost. One of the men pointed to me; and the orderly trotting forward, drew up in front of the alcalde’s house, and announced that he was the bearer of a dispatch from the general-in-chief, at the same time showing a folded paper. I directed him to pass it up on the point of his sabre, which he did; and then saluting me, he turned his horse and galloped back as he had come.I opened the dispatch, and read:—“Head-quarters, Army of Occupation,—“July —th, 1846.“Sir,—You will take a sufficient number of your men, and proceed to the hacienda of Don Ramon de Yargas, in the neighbourhood of your station. You will there find five thousand head of beeves, which you will cause to be driven to the camp of the American army, and delivered to the commissary-general. You will find the necessary drivers upon the ground, and a portion of your troop will form the escort. The enclosednotewill enable you to understand the nature of your duty.“A.A. Adjutant-general.“Captain Warfield.”“Surely,” thought I, as I finished reading—“surely there is a ‘Providence that shapes our ends.’ Just as I was cudgelling my brains for some scheme of introduction to Don Ramon de Vargas, here comes one ready fashioned to my hand.”I thought no more about the lazo: the rope was no longer an object of prime interest. Trimmed and embellished with the graceful excuse of “duty,” I should now ride boldly up to the hacienda, and enter its gates with the confident air of a welcome guest. Welcome, indeed! A contract for five thousand beeves, and at war-prices! A good stroke of business on the part of the old Don. Of course, I shall see him—“embrace him”—hobnob with him over a glass of Canario or Xeres—get upon the most intimate terms, and so be “asked back.” I am usually popular with old gentlemen, and I trusted to my bright star to place meen rapportwith Don Ramon de Vargas. The coralling of the cattle would occupy some time—a brace of hours at the least. That would be outside work, and I could intrust it to my lieutenant or a sergeant. For myself, I was determined to stay by the walls. The Don must go out to look after his vaqueros. It would be rude to leave me alone. He would introduce me to his daughter—he could not do less—a customer on so large a scale! We should be left to ourselves, and then— Ha! Ijurra! I had forgottenhim. Wouldhebe there?The recollection of this man fell like a shadow over the bright fancies I had conjured up.A dispatch from head-quarters calls for prompt attention and my reflections were cut short by the necessity of carrying the order into execution. Without loss of time, I issued the command for about fifty of the rangers to “boot and saddle.”I was about to pay more than ordinary attention to my toilet, when it occurred to me I might as well first peruse the “note” referred to in the dispatch. I opened the paper; to my surprise the document was in Spanish. This did not puzzle me, and I read:—“The five thousand beeves are ready for you, according to the contract, butIcannot take upon me to deliver them.They must be taken from mewith ashow of force; and even alittle rudeness, on the part of those you send, would not be out of place. My vaqueros are at your service, butImust not command them. You maypressthem.“Ramon de Vargas.”This note was addressed to the commissary-general of the American army. Its meaning, though to the uninitiated a little obscure, was to me as clear as noonday; and, although, it gave me a high opinion of the administrative talents of Don Ramon de Vargas, it was by no means a welcome document. It rendered null every act of the fine programme I had sketched out. By its directions, there was to be no “embracing,” no hobnobbing over wine, no friendly chat with the Don, notête-à-têtewith his beautiful daughter—no; but, on the contrary, I was to ride up with a swagger, bang the doors, threaten the trembling porter, kick the peons, and demand from their master five thousand head of beef-cattle—all in true freebooting style!A nice figure I shall cut, thought I, in the eyes of Isolina.A little reflection, however, convinced me that that intelligent creature would be in the secret. Yes, she will understand my motives. I can act with as much mildness as circumstances will permit. My Texan lieutenant will do the kicking of the peons, and that without much pressing. If she be not cloistered, I will have a glimpse at her; so here goes. “To horse!”The bugle gave the signal; fifty rangers—with Lieutenants Holingsworth and Wheatley—leaped into their saddles, and next moment were filing by twos from the piazza, myself at their head.A twenty minutes’ trot brought us to the front gate of the hacienda, where we halted. The great door, massive and jail-like, was closed, locked, and barred; the shutters of the windows as well. Not a soul was to be seen outside, not even the apparition of a frightened peon. I had given my Texan lieutenant his cue; he knew enough of Spanish for the purpose.Flinging himself out of the saddle, he approached the gate, and commenced hammering upon it with the butt of his pistol.“Ambre la puerta!” (Open the door!) cried he.No answer.“La puerta—la puerta!” he repeated in a louder tone.Still no answer.“Ambre la puerta!” once more vociferated the lieutenant, at the same time thundering on the woodwork with his weapon.When the noise ceased, a faint “Quien es?” (Who is it?) was heard from within.“Yo!” bawled Wheatley, “ambre! ambre!”“Si, señor,” answered the voice in a somewhat tremulous key.“Anda! anda! Somos hombres de bien!” (Quick then! We are honest men.)A rattling of chains and shooting of bolts now commenced, and lasted for at least a couple of minutes, at the end of which time the great folding-doors opened inward, displaying to view the swarthy leather-cladportero, the brick-pavedsaguan, and a portion of thepatio, or courtyard within.As soon as the door was fairly open, Wheatley made a rush at the trembling porter, caught him by the jerkin, boxed both his ears, and then commanded him in a loud voice to summon thedueño!This conduct, somewhat unexpected on the part of the rangers, seemed to be just to their taste; and I could hear behind me the whole troop chuckling in half-suppressed laughter.Guerillerosas they were, they had never been allowed much licence in their dealings with the inhabitants—the non-combatants—of the country, and much less had they witnessed such conduct on the part of their officers. Indeed, it was cause of complaint in the ranks of the American army, and with many officers too, that even hostile Mexicans were treated with a lenient consideration denied to themselves. Wheatley’s behaviour, therefore, touched a chord in the hearts of our following, that vibrated pleasantly enough; they began to believe that the campaign was about to become a little more jolly.“Señor,” stammered the porter, “the du—du—dueño has given or—orders—he wi—wi—will not s–see any one.”“Willnot?” echoed Wheatley; “go, tell him hemust!”“Yes,amigo,” I said soothingly; for I began to fear the man would be too badly frightened to deliver his message. “Go, say to your master that an American officer has business with him, andmustsee him immediately.”The man went off, after a little more persuasion from the free hand of Wheatley, of course leaving the gates open behind him.We did not wait for his return. The patio looked inviting; and, directing Holingsworth to remain outside with the men, and the Texan lieutenant to follow me, I headed my horse for the great archway, and rode in.
My adventure did not end with the day; it was continued into the night, and repeated in my dreams. I rode the chase over again; I dashed through the magueys, I leaped thezequia, and galloped through the affrighted herd; I beheld the spotted mustang stretched lifeless upon the plain, its rider bending and weeping over it. That face of rare beauty, that form of exquisite proportion, that eye rotund and noble, that tongue so free, and heart so bold—all were again encountered in dreamland. A dark face was in the vision, and at intervals crossed the picture like a cloud. It was the face of Ijurra.
I think it was that awoke me, but thereveilleof the bugle was ringing in my ears as I leaped from my couch.
For some moments I was under the impression that the adventure had been a dream: an object that hung on the opposite wall came under my eyes, and recalled the reality—it was my saddle, over the holsters of which lay a coil of white horsehair rope, with a silver ring at the end. I remembered the lazo.
When fairly awake, I reviewed my yesterday’s adventure from first to last. I tried to think calmly upon it; I tried to get it out of my thoughts, and return seriously to my duties. A vain attempt! The more I reflected upon the incident, the more I became conscious of the powerful interest its heroine had excited within me. Interest, indeed! Say ratherpassion—a passion that in one single hour had grown as large as my heart!
It was notthe firstlove of my life. I was nigh thirty years of age. I had been enamoured before—more than once, it may be—and I understood what the feeling was. I needed no Cupid to tell me I was in love again—to the very ends of my fingers.
To paint the object of my passion is a task I shall not attempt. Beauty like hers must be left to the imagination. Think of the woman youyourselflove or have loved; fancy her in her fairest moments, in bower or boudoir—perchance a blushing bride—and you may form some idea— No, no, no! you could never have looked upon woman so lovely as Isolina de Vargas.
Oh! that I could fix that fleeting phantom of beauty—that I could paint that likeness for the world to admire! It cannot be. The most puissant pen is powerless, the brightest colour too cold. Though deeply graven upon the tablet of my heart, I cannot multiply the impression.
It is idle to talk of wavy hair, profuse and glossed—of almond eyes with long dark fringes—of pearl-white teeth, and cheeks tinted with damascene. All these had she, but they are not peculiar characteristics. Other women are thus gifted. The traits ofherbeauty lay in the intellectual as much as the physical—in a happy combination of both. The soul, the spirit, had its share in producing this incomparable picture. It was to behold the play of those noble features, to watch the changing cheek, the varying smile, the falling lash, the flashing eye, the glance now tender, now sublime—it was to look on all this, and be impressed with an idea of the divinest loveliness.
As I ate my frugal breakfast, such a vision was passing before me. I contemplated the future with pleasant hopes, but not without feelings of uneasiness. I had not forgotten the abrupt parting—no invitation to renew the acquaintance, no hope, no prospect that I should ever behold that beautiful woman again, unless blind chance should prove my friend.
I am not a fatalist, and I therefore resolved not to rely upon mere destiny, but, if possible, to help it a little in its evolution.
Before I had finished my coffee, a dozen schemes had passed through my mind, all tending towards one object—the renewal of my acquaintance with Isolina de Vargas. Unless favoured by some lucky accident, or, what was more desirable,by the lady herself, I knew we might never meet again. In such times, it was not likely she would be much “out-of-doors;” and in a few days, hours perhaps, I might be ordereden routenever more to return to that interesting outpost.
As the district was, of course, under martial law, and I wasde factodictator, you will imagine that I might easily have procured the right of entry anywhere. Not so. Whatever be the licence of the mere soldier as regards the common people of a conquered country, the position of the officer with its higher class is essentially different. If a gentleman, he naturally feels a delicacy in making any advances towards an acquaintance; and his honour restrains him from the freer forms of introduction. To take advantage of his position of power would be a positive meanness, of which a true gentleman cannot be guilty. Besides, there may be rancour on the part of the conquered—there usually is—but even when no such feeling exists, another barrier stands in the way of free association between the officer and “society.” The latter feels that the position of affairs will not be permanent; the enemy will in time evacuate, and then the vengeance of mob-patriotism is to be dreaded. Never did the ricos of Mexico feel more secure than while under the protection of the American army: many of them were disposed to be friendly; but the phantom of the future, with its mobémeutes, stared them in the face, and under this dread they were forced to adopt a hypocritical exclusiveness. Epaulettes must not be seen glancing through the windows of their drawing-rooms!
Under such circumstances, my situation was difficult enough. I might gaze upon the outside walls of that handsome hacienda till my heart ached, but how was I to effect an entrance?
To charge a fort, a battery, an intrenched camp—to storm a castle, or break a solid square—one or all would have been child’s play compared with the difficulty of crossing that glacial line of etiquette that separated me from my beautiful enemy.
To effect this purpose, a dozen schemes were passed through my mind, and rejected, till my eyes at length rested upon the most interesting object in the apartment—the little white rope that hung from my saddlebow. In the lazo, I recognised my “forlorn-hope.” That pretty implement must be returned to its owner.I myself should take it home! So fardestinyshould be guided byme; beyond, I should have to put my trust in destiny.
I think best under the influence of a cigar; and lighting one, I ascended to the azotea, to complete my little scheme.
I had scarcely made two turns of the roof, when a horseman galloped into the piazza. He was in dragoon uniform, and I soon perceived he was an orderly from headquarters, inquiring for the commandant of the outpost. One of the men pointed to me; and the orderly trotting forward, drew up in front of the alcalde’s house, and announced that he was the bearer of a dispatch from the general-in-chief, at the same time showing a folded paper. I directed him to pass it up on the point of his sabre, which he did; and then saluting me, he turned his horse and galloped back as he had come.
I opened the dispatch, and read:—
“Head-quarters, Army of Occupation,—
“July —th, 1846.
“Sir,—You will take a sufficient number of your men, and proceed to the hacienda of Don Ramon de Yargas, in the neighbourhood of your station. You will there find five thousand head of beeves, which you will cause to be driven to the camp of the American army, and delivered to the commissary-general. You will find the necessary drivers upon the ground, and a portion of your troop will form the escort. The enclosednotewill enable you to understand the nature of your duty.
“A.A. Adjutant-general.
“Captain Warfield.”
“Surely,” thought I, as I finished reading—“surely there is a ‘Providence that shapes our ends.’ Just as I was cudgelling my brains for some scheme of introduction to Don Ramon de Vargas, here comes one ready fashioned to my hand.”
I thought no more about the lazo: the rope was no longer an object of prime interest. Trimmed and embellished with the graceful excuse of “duty,” I should now ride boldly up to the hacienda, and enter its gates with the confident air of a welcome guest. Welcome, indeed! A contract for five thousand beeves, and at war-prices! A good stroke of business on the part of the old Don. Of course, I shall see him—“embrace him”—hobnob with him over a glass of Canario or Xeres—get upon the most intimate terms, and so be “asked back.” I am usually popular with old gentlemen, and I trusted to my bright star to place meen rapportwith Don Ramon de Vargas. The coralling of the cattle would occupy some time—a brace of hours at the least. That would be outside work, and I could intrust it to my lieutenant or a sergeant. For myself, I was determined to stay by the walls. The Don must go out to look after his vaqueros. It would be rude to leave me alone. He would introduce me to his daughter—he could not do less—a customer on so large a scale! We should be left to ourselves, and then— Ha! Ijurra! I had forgottenhim. Wouldhebe there?
The recollection of this man fell like a shadow over the bright fancies I had conjured up.
A dispatch from head-quarters calls for prompt attention and my reflections were cut short by the necessity of carrying the order into execution. Without loss of time, I issued the command for about fifty of the rangers to “boot and saddle.”
I was about to pay more than ordinary attention to my toilet, when it occurred to me I might as well first peruse the “note” referred to in the dispatch. I opened the paper; to my surprise the document was in Spanish. This did not puzzle me, and I read:—
“The five thousand beeves are ready for you, according to the contract, butIcannot take upon me to deliver them.They must be taken from mewith ashow of force; and even alittle rudeness, on the part of those you send, would not be out of place. My vaqueros are at your service, butImust not command them. You maypressthem.
“Ramon de Vargas.”
This note was addressed to the commissary-general of the American army. Its meaning, though to the uninitiated a little obscure, was to me as clear as noonday; and, although, it gave me a high opinion of the administrative talents of Don Ramon de Vargas, it was by no means a welcome document. It rendered null every act of the fine programme I had sketched out. By its directions, there was to be no “embracing,” no hobnobbing over wine, no friendly chat with the Don, notête-à-têtewith his beautiful daughter—no; but, on the contrary, I was to ride up with a swagger, bang the doors, threaten the trembling porter, kick the peons, and demand from their master five thousand head of beef-cattle—all in true freebooting style!
A nice figure I shall cut, thought I, in the eyes of Isolina.
A little reflection, however, convinced me that that intelligent creature would be in the secret. Yes, she will understand my motives. I can act with as much mildness as circumstances will permit. My Texan lieutenant will do the kicking of the peons, and that without much pressing. If she be not cloistered, I will have a glimpse at her; so here goes. “To horse!”
The bugle gave the signal; fifty rangers—with Lieutenants Holingsworth and Wheatley—leaped into their saddles, and next moment were filing by twos from the piazza, myself at their head.
A twenty minutes’ trot brought us to the front gate of the hacienda, where we halted. The great door, massive and jail-like, was closed, locked, and barred; the shutters of the windows as well. Not a soul was to be seen outside, not even the apparition of a frightened peon. I had given my Texan lieutenant his cue; he knew enough of Spanish for the purpose.
Flinging himself out of the saddle, he approached the gate, and commenced hammering upon it with the butt of his pistol.
“Ambre la puerta!” (Open the door!) cried he.
No answer.
“La puerta—la puerta!” he repeated in a louder tone.
Still no answer.
“Ambre la puerta!” once more vociferated the lieutenant, at the same time thundering on the woodwork with his weapon.
When the noise ceased, a faint “Quien es?” (Who is it?) was heard from within.
“Yo!” bawled Wheatley, “ambre! ambre!”
“Si, señor,” answered the voice in a somewhat tremulous key.
“Anda! anda! Somos hombres de bien!” (Quick then! We are honest men.)
A rattling of chains and shooting of bolts now commenced, and lasted for at least a couple of minutes, at the end of which time the great folding-doors opened inward, displaying to view the swarthy leather-cladportero, the brick-pavedsaguan, and a portion of thepatio, or courtyard within.
As soon as the door was fairly open, Wheatley made a rush at the trembling porter, caught him by the jerkin, boxed both his ears, and then commanded him in a loud voice to summon thedueño!
This conduct, somewhat unexpected on the part of the rangers, seemed to be just to their taste; and I could hear behind me the whole troop chuckling in half-suppressed laughter.Guerillerosas they were, they had never been allowed much licence in their dealings with the inhabitants—the non-combatants—of the country, and much less had they witnessed such conduct on the part of their officers. Indeed, it was cause of complaint in the ranks of the American army, and with many officers too, that even hostile Mexicans were treated with a lenient consideration denied to themselves. Wheatley’s behaviour, therefore, touched a chord in the hearts of our following, that vibrated pleasantly enough; they began to believe that the campaign was about to become a little more jolly.
“Señor,” stammered the porter, “the du—du—dueño has given or—orders—he wi—wi—will not s–see any one.”
“Willnot?” echoed Wheatley; “go, tell him hemust!”
“Yes,amigo,” I said soothingly; for I began to fear the man would be too badly frightened to deliver his message. “Go, say to your master that an American officer has business with him, andmustsee him immediately.”
The man went off, after a little more persuasion from the free hand of Wheatley, of course leaving the gates open behind him.
We did not wait for his return. The patio looked inviting; and, directing Holingsworth to remain outside with the men, and the Texan lieutenant to follow me, I headed my horse for the great archway, and rode in.
Chapter Eight.Don Ramon.On entering the courtyard, a somewhat novel scene presented itself—a Spanish picture, with some transatlantic touches. Thepatioof a Mexican house is its proper front. Here you no longer look upon jail-like door and windows, but façades gaily frescoed, curtained verandahs, and glazed sashes that reach to the ground. The patio of Don Ramon’s mansion was paved with brick. A fountain, with its tank of japanned mason-work, stood in the centre; orange-trees stretched their fronds over the water: their golden globes and white wax-like flowers perfumed the atmosphere, which, cooled by the constant evaporation of thejet, felt fresh and fragrant. Around three sides of the court extended a verandah, its floor of painted tiles rising but a few inches above the level of the pavement. A row ofportalessupported the roof of this verandah, and the whole corridor was railed in, and curtained. The curtains were close-drawn, and except at one point—the entrance between two of the portales—the corridor was completely screened from our view, and consequently all the windows of the house, that opened into the verandah. No human face greeted our searching glances. In looking to the rear—into the greatcorral, or cattle-yard—we could see numerous peons in their brown leathern dresses, with naked legs and sandalled feet; vaqueros in all their grandeur of velveteens, bell-buttons, and gold or silver lace; with a number of women and young girls in colourednaguasand rebosos. A busy scene was presented in that quarter. It was the great cattle enclosure, for the estate of Don Ramon de Vargas was ahacienda de ganados, or grand grazing-farm—a title which in no way detracts from the presumed respectability of its owner, many of the noble hidalgoes of Mexico beinggrazierson a large scale.On entering the patio, I only glanced back at the corral; my eyes were busy with the curtained verandah, and, failing there were carried up to the azotea, in hopes of discovering the object of my thoughts. The house, as I have elsewhere stated, was but a single story in height, and from the saddle I could almost look into the azotea. I could see that it was a sanctuary of rare plants, and the broad leaves and bright corollas of some of the taller ones appeared over the edge of the parapet. Abundance of fair flowers I could perceive, but not that one for which I was looking. No face yet showed, no voice greeted us with a welcome. The shouts of the vaqueros, the music of singing-birds caged along the corridor, and the murmur of the fountain, were the only sounds. The two former suddenly became hushed, as the hoofs of our horses rang upon the stone pavement, and the heedless water alone continued to utter its soft monotone.Once more my eyes swept the curtain, gazing intently into the few apertures left by a careless drawing; once more they sought the azotea, and glanced along the parapet: my scrutiny still remained unrewarded.Without exchanging a word, Wheatley and I sat silent in our saddles, awaiting the return of the portero. Already the peons, vaqueros, and wenches, had poured in through the back gateway, and stood staring with astonishment at the unexpected guests.After a considerable pause, the tread of feet was heard upon the corridor, and presently the messenger appeared, and announced that thedueñowas coming.In a minute after, one of the curtains was drawn back, and an old gentleman made his appearance behind the railing. He was a person of large frame, and although slightly stooping with age, his step was firm, and his whole aspect bespoke a wonderful energy and resolution. His eyes were large and brilliant, shadowed by heavy brows, upon which the hair still retained its dark colour, although that of his head was white as snow. He was simply habited—in a jacket of nankeen cloth, and wide trousers of like material. He wore neither waistcoat nor cravat. A full white shirt of finest linen covered his breast, and a sash of dull blue colour was twisted around his waist. On his head was a costly hat of the “Guayaquil grass,” and in his fingers a husk cigarrito smoking at the end.Altogether, the aspect of Don Ramon—for it was he—despite its assumed sternness, was pleasing and intelligent; and I should have relished a friendly chat with him, even upon his own account.This, however, was out of the question. I must abide by the spirit of my orders: the farce must be played out; so, touching the flanks of my horse, I rode forward to the edge of the verandah, and placed myselfvis-à-viswith the Don.“Are you Don Ramon de Vargas?”“Si, señor,” was the reply, in a tone of angry astonishment.“I am an officer of the American army”—I spoke loud, and in Spanish, of course, for the benefit of the peons and vaqueros. “I am sent to offer you a contract to supply the army with beeves. I have here an order from the general-in-chief—”“I have no beeves for sale,” interrupted Don Ramon, in a loud, indignant voice; “I shall have nothing to do with the American army.”“Then, sir,” retorted I, “I must take your beeves without your consent. You shall be paid for them, but take them I must; my orders require that I should do so. Moreover, your vaqueros must accompany us, and drive the cattle to the American camp.”As I said this, I signalled to Holingsworth, who rode in with his following; and then the whole troop, filing through the back gateway, began to collect the frightened vaqueros, and set them about their work.“I protest against this robbery!” shouted Don Ramon. “It is infamous—contrary to the laws of civilised warfare. I shall appeal to my government—to yours—I shall have redress.”“You shall have payment, Don Ramon,” said I, apparently trying to pacify him.“Payment,carrambo!—payment from robbers,filibusteros—”“Come, come, old gentleman!” cried Wheatley, who was only half behind the scenes, and who spoke rather in earnest, “keep a good tongue in your head, or you may lose something of more value to you than your cattle. Remember whom you are talking to.”“Tejanos! ladrones!” hissed Don Ramon, with an earnest application of the latter phrase that would certainly have brought Wheatley’s revolver from his belt, had I not, at the moment, whispered a word in the lieutenant’s ear.“Hang the old rascal!” muttered he in reply to me. “I thought hewasin earnest. Look here, old fellow!” he continued, addressing himself to Don Ramon, “don’t you be scared about the dollars. Uncle Sam’s a liberal trader and a good paymaster. I wish your beef was mine, and I hadhispromise to pay for it. So take things a little easier, if you please; and don’t be so free of your ‘filibusteros’ and ‘ladrones’: free-born Texans ain’t used to such talk.”Don Ramon suddenly cut short the colloquy by angrily closing the curtains, and hiding himself from our sight.During the whole scene I had great difficulty in controlling my countenance. I could perceive that the Mexican laboured under a similar difficulty. There was a laughing devil in the corner of his keen eye that required restraint; and I thought once or twice either he or I should lose our equanimity.Icertainly should have done so, but that my heart and eyes were most of the time in other quarters. As for the Don, he was playing an important part; and a suspicion of his hypocrisy, on the minds of some of the leather-cladgreaserswho listened to the dialogue, might have afterwards brought him to grief. Most of them were his own domestics and retainers, but not all. There were freerancherosamong them—some who belonged to the pueblita itself—some, perchance, who had figured inpronunciamentos—who voted at elections, and styled themselvescitizens. The Don, therefore, had good reasons for assuming a character; and well did the old gentleman sustain it.As he drew the curtain, his half-whispered “Adios capitan!” heard only by myself, sounded full of sweetness andpromise; and I felt rather contented as I straightened myself in the saddle, and issued the order forrievinghis cattle.
On entering the courtyard, a somewhat novel scene presented itself—a Spanish picture, with some transatlantic touches. Thepatioof a Mexican house is its proper front. Here you no longer look upon jail-like door and windows, but façades gaily frescoed, curtained verandahs, and glazed sashes that reach to the ground. The patio of Don Ramon’s mansion was paved with brick. A fountain, with its tank of japanned mason-work, stood in the centre; orange-trees stretched their fronds over the water: their golden globes and white wax-like flowers perfumed the atmosphere, which, cooled by the constant evaporation of thejet, felt fresh and fragrant. Around three sides of the court extended a verandah, its floor of painted tiles rising but a few inches above the level of the pavement. A row ofportalessupported the roof of this verandah, and the whole corridor was railed in, and curtained. The curtains were close-drawn, and except at one point—the entrance between two of the portales—the corridor was completely screened from our view, and consequently all the windows of the house, that opened into the verandah. No human face greeted our searching glances. In looking to the rear—into the greatcorral, or cattle-yard—we could see numerous peons in their brown leathern dresses, with naked legs and sandalled feet; vaqueros in all their grandeur of velveteens, bell-buttons, and gold or silver lace; with a number of women and young girls in colourednaguasand rebosos. A busy scene was presented in that quarter. It was the great cattle enclosure, for the estate of Don Ramon de Vargas was ahacienda de ganados, or grand grazing-farm—a title which in no way detracts from the presumed respectability of its owner, many of the noble hidalgoes of Mexico beinggrazierson a large scale.
On entering the patio, I only glanced back at the corral; my eyes were busy with the curtained verandah, and, failing there were carried up to the azotea, in hopes of discovering the object of my thoughts. The house, as I have elsewhere stated, was but a single story in height, and from the saddle I could almost look into the azotea. I could see that it was a sanctuary of rare plants, and the broad leaves and bright corollas of some of the taller ones appeared over the edge of the parapet. Abundance of fair flowers I could perceive, but not that one for which I was looking. No face yet showed, no voice greeted us with a welcome. The shouts of the vaqueros, the music of singing-birds caged along the corridor, and the murmur of the fountain, were the only sounds. The two former suddenly became hushed, as the hoofs of our horses rang upon the stone pavement, and the heedless water alone continued to utter its soft monotone.
Once more my eyes swept the curtain, gazing intently into the few apertures left by a careless drawing; once more they sought the azotea, and glanced along the parapet: my scrutiny still remained unrewarded.
Without exchanging a word, Wheatley and I sat silent in our saddles, awaiting the return of the portero. Already the peons, vaqueros, and wenches, had poured in through the back gateway, and stood staring with astonishment at the unexpected guests.
After a considerable pause, the tread of feet was heard upon the corridor, and presently the messenger appeared, and announced that thedueñowas coming.
In a minute after, one of the curtains was drawn back, and an old gentleman made his appearance behind the railing. He was a person of large frame, and although slightly stooping with age, his step was firm, and his whole aspect bespoke a wonderful energy and resolution. His eyes were large and brilliant, shadowed by heavy brows, upon which the hair still retained its dark colour, although that of his head was white as snow. He was simply habited—in a jacket of nankeen cloth, and wide trousers of like material. He wore neither waistcoat nor cravat. A full white shirt of finest linen covered his breast, and a sash of dull blue colour was twisted around his waist. On his head was a costly hat of the “Guayaquil grass,” and in his fingers a husk cigarrito smoking at the end.
Altogether, the aspect of Don Ramon—for it was he—despite its assumed sternness, was pleasing and intelligent; and I should have relished a friendly chat with him, even upon his own account.
This, however, was out of the question. I must abide by the spirit of my orders: the farce must be played out; so, touching the flanks of my horse, I rode forward to the edge of the verandah, and placed myselfvis-à-viswith the Don.
“Are you Don Ramon de Vargas?”
“Si, señor,” was the reply, in a tone of angry astonishment.
“I am an officer of the American army”—I spoke loud, and in Spanish, of course, for the benefit of the peons and vaqueros. “I am sent to offer you a contract to supply the army with beeves. I have here an order from the general-in-chief—”
“I have no beeves for sale,” interrupted Don Ramon, in a loud, indignant voice; “I shall have nothing to do with the American army.”
“Then, sir,” retorted I, “I must take your beeves without your consent. You shall be paid for them, but take them I must; my orders require that I should do so. Moreover, your vaqueros must accompany us, and drive the cattle to the American camp.”
As I said this, I signalled to Holingsworth, who rode in with his following; and then the whole troop, filing through the back gateway, began to collect the frightened vaqueros, and set them about their work.
“I protest against this robbery!” shouted Don Ramon. “It is infamous—contrary to the laws of civilised warfare. I shall appeal to my government—to yours—I shall have redress.”
“You shall have payment, Don Ramon,” said I, apparently trying to pacify him.
“Payment,carrambo!—payment from robbers,filibusteros—”
“Come, come, old gentleman!” cried Wheatley, who was only half behind the scenes, and who spoke rather in earnest, “keep a good tongue in your head, or you may lose something of more value to you than your cattle. Remember whom you are talking to.”
“Tejanos! ladrones!” hissed Don Ramon, with an earnest application of the latter phrase that would certainly have brought Wheatley’s revolver from his belt, had I not, at the moment, whispered a word in the lieutenant’s ear.
“Hang the old rascal!” muttered he in reply to me. “I thought hewasin earnest. Look here, old fellow!” he continued, addressing himself to Don Ramon, “don’t you be scared about the dollars. Uncle Sam’s a liberal trader and a good paymaster. I wish your beef was mine, and I hadhispromise to pay for it. So take things a little easier, if you please; and don’t be so free of your ‘filibusteros’ and ‘ladrones’: free-born Texans ain’t used to such talk.”
Don Ramon suddenly cut short the colloquy by angrily closing the curtains, and hiding himself from our sight.
During the whole scene I had great difficulty in controlling my countenance. I could perceive that the Mexican laboured under a similar difficulty. There was a laughing devil in the corner of his keen eye that required restraint; and I thought once or twice either he or I should lose our equanimity.Icertainly should have done so, but that my heart and eyes were most of the time in other quarters. As for the Don, he was playing an important part; and a suspicion of his hypocrisy, on the minds of some of the leather-cladgreaserswho listened to the dialogue, might have afterwards brought him to grief. Most of them were his own domestics and retainers, but not all. There were freerancherosamong them—some who belonged to the pueblita itself—some, perchance, who had figured inpronunciamentos—who voted at elections, and styled themselvescitizens. The Don, therefore, had good reasons for assuming a character; and well did the old gentleman sustain it.
As he drew the curtain, his half-whispered “Adios capitan!” heard only by myself, sounded full of sweetness andpromise; and I felt rather contented as I straightened myself in the saddle, and issued the order forrievinghis cattle.
Chapter Nine.“Un Papelcito.”Wheatley now rode after the troop, with which Holingworth had already entered the corral. A band of drivers was speedily pressed into service; and with these the two lieutenants proceeded to the great plain at the foot of the hill, where most of Don Ramon’s cattle were at pasture. By this arrangement I was left alone, if I except the company of half-a-dozen slippered wenches—the deities of thecocina—who, clustered in the corner of the patio, eyed me with mingled looks of curiosity and fear.The verandah curtains remained hermetically closed, and though I glanced at every aperture that offered a chance to an observing eye, no one appeared to be stirring behind them.“Too high-bred—perhaps indifferent?” thought I. The latter supposition was by no means gratifying to my vanity. “After all, now that the others are gone out of the way, Don Ramonmightask me to step inside. Ah! no—these mestizo women would tell tales: I perceive it would never do. I may as well give it up. I shall ride out, and join the troop.”As I turned my horse to put this design into execution, the fountain came under my eyes. Its water reminded me that I was thirsty, for it was a July day, and a hot one. A gourd cup lay on the edge of the tank. Without dismounting, I was able to lay hold of the vessel, and filling it with the cool sparkling liquid, I drained it off. It was very good water, but not Canario or Xeres.Sweeping the curtain once more, I turned with a disappointed glance, and jagging my horse, rode doggedly out through the back gateway.Once in the rear of the buildings, I had a full view of the great meadow already known to me; and pulling up, I sat in the saddle, and watched the animated scene that was there being enacted. Bulls, half wild, rushing to and fro in mad fury, vaqueros mounted on their light mustangs, with streaming sash and winding lazo; rangers upon their heavier steeds, offering but a clumsy aid to the more adroit and practised herdsmen; others driving off large groups that had been already collected and brought into subjection: and all this amidst the fierce bellowing of the bulls, the shouts and laughter of the delighted troopers, the shriller cries of the vaqueros and peons: the whole forming a picture that, under other circumstances, I should have contemplated with interest. Just then my spirits were not attuned to its enjoyment, and although I remained for some minutes with my eyes fixed upon the plain, my thoughts were wandering elsewhere.I confess to a strong faith in woman’s curiosity. That such a scene could be passing under the windows of the most aristocratic mansion, without its most aristocratic inmate deigning to take a peep at it, I could not believe. Besides, Isolina was the very reverse.“Ha! Despite that jealous curtain, those beautiful eyes are glancing through some aperture—window or loophole, I doubt not;” and with this reflection I once more turned my face to the buildings.Just then it occurred to me that I had not sufficiently reconnoitred thefrontof the dwelling. As we approached it, we had observed that the shutters of the windows were closed; but these opened inward, and since that time one or other of them might have been set a little ajar. From my knowledge of Mexican interiors, I knew that the front windows are those of the principal apartments—of thesolaand grandcuarto, or drawing-room—precisely those where the inmates of that hour should be found.“Fool!” thought I, “to have remained so long in the patio. Had I gone round to the front of the house, I might have— ’Tis not too late—there’s a chance yet.”Under the impulse of this new hope, I rode back through the corral, and re-entered the patio. The brown-skinned mestizas were still there, chattering and flurried as ever, and the curtain had not been stirred. A glance at it was all I gave; and without stopping I walked my horse across the paved court, and entered under the archedsaguan. The massive gate stood open, as we had left it; and on looking into the little box of the portero, I perceived that it was empty. The man had hid himself, in dread of a second interview with the Texan lieutenant!In another moment I had emerged from the gateway, and was about turning my horse to inspect the windows, when I heard the word “Capitan,” pronounced in a voice, that sounded soft as a silver bell, and thrilled to my heart like a strain of music.I looked towards the windows. It came not thence; they were close shut as ever. Whence—Before I had time to ask myself the question, the “Capitan” was repeated in a somewhat louder key, and I now perceived that the voice proceeded from above—from the azotea.I wrenched my horse round, at the same time turning my eyes upward. I could see no one; but just at that moment an arm, that might have been attached to the bust of Venus, was protruded through a notch in the parapet. In the small hand, wickedly sparkling with jewels, was something white, which I could not distinguish until I saw it projected on the grass—at the same moment that the phrase “Un papelcito” reached my ears.Without hesitation I dismounted—made myself master of thepapelcito; and then leaping once more into the saddle, looked upward. I had purposely drawn my horse some distance from the walls, so that I might command a better view. I was not disappointed—Isolina!The face, that lovely face, was just distinguishable through the slender embrasure, the large brown eyes gazing upon me with that half-earnest, half-mocking glance I had already noticed, and which produced within me both pleasure and pain!I was about to speak to her, when I saw the expression suddenly change: a hurried glance was thrown backwards, as if the approach of some one disturbed her; a finger rested momentarily on her lips, and then her face disappeared behind the screening wall of the parapet.I understood the universal sign, and remained silent.For some moments I was undecided whether to go or stay. She had evidently withdrawn from the front of the building, though she was still upon the azotea. Some one had joined her; and I could hear voices in conversation; her own contrasting with the harsher tones of a man. Perhaps her father—perhaps—that otherrelative—less agreeable supposition!I was about to ride off, when it occurred to me that I had better first master the contents of the “papelcito.” Perhaps it might throw some light on the situation, and enable me to adopt the more pleasant alternative of remaining a while longer upon the premises.I had thrust thebilletinto the breast of my frock; and now looked around for some place where I might draw it forth and peruse it unobserved. The great arched gateway, shadowy and tenantless, offered the desired accommodation; and heading my horse to it, I once more rode inside the saguan.Facing around so as to hide my front from thecocineras, I drew forth the strip of folded paper, and spread it open before me. Though written in pencil, and evidently in a hurried impromptu, I had no difficulty in deciphering it. My heart throbbed exultingly as I read:—“Capitan! I know you will pardon our dry hospitality? A cup of cold water—ha! ha! ha! Remember what I told you yesterday: we fear ourfriendsmore than ourfoes, and we have aguest in the house my father dreads more than you and your terrible filibusteros. I am not angry with you for my pet, but you have carried off my lazo as well. Ah, capitan! would you rob me ofeverything?—Adios!“Isolina.”Thrusting the paper back into my bosom, I sat for some time pondering upon its contents. Part was clear enough—the remaining part full of mystery.“We fear ourfriendsmore thanour foes.” I was behind the scenes sufficiently to comprehend what was intended by that cunningly worded phrase. It simply meant that Don Ramon de Vargas wasAyankieado—in other words, a friend to the American cause, or, as some loud demagogues would have pronounced him, a “traitor to his country.” It did not follow, however, that he was anything of the kind. He might have wished success to the American arms, and still remained a true friend to his country—not one of those blind bigots whose standard displays the brigand motto, “Our country right or wrong;” but an enlightened patriot, who desired more to see Mexico enjoy peace and happiness under foreign domination, than that it should continue in anarchy under the iron rule of native despots. What is there in the empty title ofindependence, without peace, without liberty? After all, patriotism in its ordinary sense is but a doubtful virtue—perhaps nearer to a crime! It will one day appear so; one day in the far future it will be supplanted by a virtue of higher order—the patriotism that knows no boundaries of nations, but whosecountryis the whole earth. That, however, wouldnotbe “patriotism!”Was Don Ramon de Vargas a patriot in this sense—a man of progress, who cared not that thenameof “Mexico” should be blotted from the map, so long as peace and prosperity should be given to his country under another name? Was Don Ramon one of these? It might be. There were many such in Mexico at that time, and these principally of the class to which Señor de Vargas belonged—thericos, or proprietors. It is easy enough to explain why the Ayankieados were of the class of ricos.Perhaps the affection of Don Ramon for the American cause had less lofty motives; perhaps the five thousand beeves may have had something to do with it? Whether or no, I could not tell; nor did I stay to consider. I only reflected upon the matter at all as offering an explanation to the ambiguous phrase now twice used by his fair daughter—“We fear ourfriendsmore than ourfoes.” On either supposition, the meaning was clear.What followed was far from being equally perspicuous.A guest in the house dreaded by her father? Here was mystery indeed. Who could that guest be?—who butIjurra?But Ijurra was her cousin—she had said so. If a cousin, why should he be dreaded? Was there still another guest in the house? That might be: I had not been inside to see. The mansion was large enough to accommodate another—half a score of others. For all that, my thoughts constantly turned upon Ijurra, why I know not, but I could not resist the belief that he was the person pointed at—the guest that was “dreaded!”The behaviour which I had noticed on the day before—the first and only time I had ever seen the man—his angry speech and looks addressed to Isolina—her apparent fear of him: these it was, no doubt, that guided my instincts; and I at length came to the conviction that he was the fiend dreaded by Don Ramon. And she too feared him! “God grant she do not alsolovehim!”Such was my mental ejaculation, as I passed on to consider the closing sentences of the hastily written note. In these I also encountered ambiguity of expression; whether I construed it aright, time would tell. Perhaps my wish was too much parent to my thoughts: but it was with an exulting heart I read the closing sentence and rode forth from the gateway.
Wheatley now rode after the troop, with which Holingworth had already entered the corral. A band of drivers was speedily pressed into service; and with these the two lieutenants proceeded to the great plain at the foot of the hill, where most of Don Ramon’s cattle were at pasture. By this arrangement I was left alone, if I except the company of half-a-dozen slippered wenches—the deities of thecocina—who, clustered in the corner of the patio, eyed me with mingled looks of curiosity and fear.
The verandah curtains remained hermetically closed, and though I glanced at every aperture that offered a chance to an observing eye, no one appeared to be stirring behind them.
“Too high-bred—perhaps indifferent?” thought I. The latter supposition was by no means gratifying to my vanity. “After all, now that the others are gone out of the way, Don Ramonmightask me to step inside. Ah! no—these mestizo women would tell tales: I perceive it would never do. I may as well give it up. I shall ride out, and join the troop.”
As I turned my horse to put this design into execution, the fountain came under my eyes. Its water reminded me that I was thirsty, for it was a July day, and a hot one. A gourd cup lay on the edge of the tank. Without dismounting, I was able to lay hold of the vessel, and filling it with the cool sparkling liquid, I drained it off. It was very good water, but not Canario or Xeres.
Sweeping the curtain once more, I turned with a disappointed glance, and jagging my horse, rode doggedly out through the back gateway.
Once in the rear of the buildings, I had a full view of the great meadow already known to me; and pulling up, I sat in the saddle, and watched the animated scene that was there being enacted. Bulls, half wild, rushing to and fro in mad fury, vaqueros mounted on their light mustangs, with streaming sash and winding lazo; rangers upon their heavier steeds, offering but a clumsy aid to the more adroit and practised herdsmen; others driving off large groups that had been already collected and brought into subjection: and all this amidst the fierce bellowing of the bulls, the shouts and laughter of the delighted troopers, the shriller cries of the vaqueros and peons: the whole forming a picture that, under other circumstances, I should have contemplated with interest. Just then my spirits were not attuned to its enjoyment, and although I remained for some minutes with my eyes fixed upon the plain, my thoughts were wandering elsewhere.
I confess to a strong faith in woman’s curiosity. That such a scene could be passing under the windows of the most aristocratic mansion, without its most aristocratic inmate deigning to take a peep at it, I could not believe. Besides, Isolina was the very reverse.
“Ha! Despite that jealous curtain, those beautiful eyes are glancing through some aperture—window or loophole, I doubt not;” and with this reflection I once more turned my face to the buildings.
Just then it occurred to me that I had not sufficiently reconnoitred thefrontof the dwelling. As we approached it, we had observed that the shutters of the windows were closed; but these opened inward, and since that time one or other of them might have been set a little ajar. From my knowledge of Mexican interiors, I knew that the front windows are those of the principal apartments—of thesolaand grandcuarto, or drawing-room—precisely those where the inmates of that hour should be found.
“Fool!” thought I, “to have remained so long in the patio. Had I gone round to the front of the house, I might have— ’Tis not too late—there’s a chance yet.”
Under the impulse of this new hope, I rode back through the corral, and re-entered the patio. The brown-skinned mestizas were still there, chattering and flurried as ever, and the curtain had not been stirred. A glance at it was all I gave; and without stopping I walked my horse across the paved court, and entered under the archedsaguan. The massive gate stood open, as we had left it; and on looking into the little box of the portero, I perceived that it was empty. The man had hid himself, in dread of a second interview with the Texan lieutenant!
In another moment I had emerged from the gateway, and was about turning my horse to inspect the windows, when I heard the word “Capitan,” pronounced in a voice, that sounded soft as a silver bell, and thrilled to my heart like a strain of music.
I looked towards the windows. It came not thence; they were close shut as ever. Whence—
Before I had time to ask myself the question, the “Capitan” was repeated in a somewhat louder key, and I now perceived that the voice proceeded from above—from the azotea.
I wrenched my horse round, at the same time turning my eyes upward. I could see no one; but just at that moment an arm, that might have been attached to the bust of Venus, was protruded through a notch in the parapet. In the small hand, wickedly sparkling with jewels, was something white, which I could not distinguish until I saw it projected on the grass—at the same moment that the phrase “Un papelcito” reached my ears.
Without hesitation I dismounted—made myself master of thepapelcito; and then leaping once more into the saddle, looked upward. I had purposely drawn my horse some distance from the walls, so that I might command a better view. I was not disappointed—Isolina!
The face, that lovely face, was just distinguishable through the slender embrasure, the large brown eyes gazing upon me with that half-earnest, half-mocking glance I had already noticed, and which produced within me both pleasure and pain!
I was about to speak to her, when I saw the expression suddenly change: a hurried glance was thrown backwards, as if the approach of some one disturbed her; a finger rested momentarily on her lips, and then her face disappeared behind the screening wall of the parapet.
I understood the universal sign, and remained silent.
For some moments I was undecided whether to go or stay. She had evidently withdrawn from the front of the building, though she was still upon the azotea. Some one had joined her; and I could hear voices in conversation; her own contrasting with the harsher tones of a man. Perhaps her father—perhaps—that otherrelative—less agreeable supposition!
I was about to ride off, when it occurred to me that I had better first master the contents of the “papelcito.” Perhaps it might throw some light on the situation, and enable me to adopt the more pleasant alternative of remaining a while longer upon the premises.
I had thrust thebilletinto the breast of my frock; and now looked around for some place where I might draw it forth and peruse it unobserved. The great arched gateway, shadowy and tenantless, offered the desired accommodation; and heading my horse to it, I once more rode inside the saguan.
Facing around so as to hide my front from thecocineras, I drew forth the strip of folded paper, and spread it open before me. Though written in pencil, and evidently in a hurried impromptu, I had no difficulty in deciphering it. My heart throbbed exultingly as I read:—
“Capitan! I know you will pardon our dry hospitality? A cup of cold water—ha! ha! ha! Remember what I told you yesterday: we fear ourfriendsmore than ourfoes, and we have aguest in the house my father dreads more than you and your terrible filibusteros. I am not angry with you for my pet, but you have carried off my lazo as well. Ah, capitan! would you rob me ofeverything?—Adios!“Isolina.”
“Capitan! I know you will pardon our dry hospitality? A cup of cold water—ha! ha! ha! Remember what I told you yesterday: we fear ourfriendsmore than ourfoes, and we have aguest in the house my father dreads more than you and your terrible filibusteros. I am not angry with you for my pet, but you have carried off my lazo as well. Ah, capitan! would you rob me ofeverything?—Adios!
“Isolina.”
Thrusting the paper back into my bosom, I sat for some time pondering upon its contents. Part was clear enough—the remaining part full of mystery.
“We fear ourfriendsmore thanour foes.” I was behind the scenes sufficiently to comprehend what was intended by that cunningly worded phrase. It simply meant that Don Ramon de Vargas wasAyankieado—in other words, a friend to the American cause, or, as some loud demagogues would have pronounced him, a “traitor to his country.” It did not follow, however, that he was anything of the kind. He might have wished success to the American arms, and still remained a true friend to his country—not one of those blind bigots whose standard displays the brigand motto, “Our country right or wrong;” but an enlightened patriot, who desired more to see Mexico enjoy peace and happiness under foreign domination, than that it should continue in anarchy under the iron rule of native despots. What is there in the empty title ofindependence, without peace, without liberty? After all, patriotism in its ordinary sense is but a doubtful virtue—perhaps nearer to a crime! It will one day appear so; one day in the far future it will be supplanted by a virtue of higher order—the patriotism that knows no boundaries of nations, but whosecountryis the whole earth. That, however, wouldnotbe “patriotism!”
Was Don Ramon de Vargas a patriot in this sense—a man of progress, who cared not that thenameof “Mexico” should be blotted from the map, so long as peace and prosperity should be given to his country under another name? Was Don Ramon one of these? It might be. There were many such in Mexico at that time, and these principally of the class to which Señor de Vargas belonged—thericos, or proprietors. It is easy enough to explain why the Ayankieados were of the class of ricos.
Perhaps the affection of Don Ramon for the American cause had less lofty motives; perhaps the five thousand beeves may have had something to do with it? Whether or no, I could not tell; nor did I stay to consider. I only reflected upon the matter at all as offering an explanation to the ambiguous phrase now twice used by his fair daughter—“We fear ourfriendsmore than ourfoes.” On either supposition, the meaning was clear.
What followed was far from being equally perspicuous.A guest in the house dreaded by her father? Here was mystery indeed. Who could that guest be?—who butIjurra?
But Ijurra was her cousin—she had said so. If a cousin, why should he be dreaded? Was there still another guest in the house? That might be: I had not been inside to see. The mansion was large enough to accommodate another—half a score of others. For all that, my thoughts constantly turned upon Ijurra, why I know not, but I could not resist the belief that he was the person pointed at—the guest that was “dreaded!”
The behaviour which I had noticed on the day before—the first and only time I had ever seen the man—his angry speech and looks addressed to Isolina—her apparent fear of him: these it was, no doubt, that guided my instincts; and I at length came to the conviction that he was the fiend dreaded by Don Ramon. And she too feared him! “God grant she do not alsolovehim!”
Such was my mental ejaculation, as I passed on to consider the closing sentences of the hastily written note. In these I also encountered ambiguity of expression; whether I construed it aright, time would tell. Perhaps my wish was too much parent to my thoughts: but it was with an exulting heart I read the closing sentence and rode forth from the gateway.
Chapter Ten.An old enmity.I rode slowly, and but a few paces before reining up my horse. Although I was under the impression that it would be useless remaining, and that an interview with Isolina was impossible—for that day at least—I could not divest myself of the desire to linger a little longer near the spot. Perhaps she might appear again upon the azotea; if but for a moment; if but to wave her hand, and waft me an adieu; if but—When a short distance separated me from the walls, I drew up; and turning in the saddle, glanced back to the parapet. A face was there, where hers had been; but, oh, the contrast between her lovely features and those that now met my gaze! Hyperion to the Satyr! Not that the face now before me was ugly or ill-featured. There are some, and women too, who would have termed it handsome; to my eyes it was hideous! Let me confess that this hideousness, or more properly its cause, rested in the moral, rather than the physical expression; perhaps, too, little of it might have been found in my own heart. Under other circumstances, I might not have criticised that face so harshly. All the world did not agree with me about the face of Rafael Ijurra—for it was he who was gazing over the parapet.Our eyes met; and that first glance stamped the relationship between us—hostility for life! Not a word passed, and yet the looks of each told the other, in the plainest language, “I am your foe.” Had we sworn it in wild oaths, in all the bitter hyperbole of insult, neither of us would have felt it more profound and keen.I shall not stay to analyse this feeling of sudden and unexpressed hostility, though the philosophy of it is simple enough. You too have experienced it—perhaps more than once in your life, without being exactly able to explain it. I am not in that dilemma: I could explain it easily enough; but it scarcely merits an explanation. Suffice to say, that while gazing upon the face of that man, I entertained it in all its strength.I have called it anunexpressedhostility. Therein I have spoken without thought: it was fully expressed by both of us, though not in words. Words are but weak symbols of a passion, compared with the passion itself, exhibited in the clenched hand, the lip compressed, the flashing eye, the clouded cheek, the quick play of the muscles—weak symbols are words compared with signs like these. No words passed between Ijurra and myself; none were needed. Each read in the other a rival—a rival in love, a competitor for the heart of a lovely woman, theloveliestin Mexico! It is needless to say that, under such an aspect, each hated the other at sight.In the face of Ijurra I read more. I saw before me a man of bad heart and brutal nature. His large, and to speak the truth, beautiful eyes, had in them an animal expression. They were not without intelligence, but so much the worse, for that intelligence expressed ferocity and bad faith. His beauty was the beauty of the jaguar. He had the air of an accomplished man, accustomed to conquest in the field of love—heartless, reckless, false. O mystery of our nature, there are those who love such men!In Ijurra’s face I read more:he knew my secret! The significant glance of his eye told me so. He knew why I was lingering there. The satiric smile upon his lip attested it. He saw my efforts to obtain an interview, and confident in his own position, held my failure but lightly—a something only to amuse him. I could tell all this by the sardonic sneer that sat upon his features.As we continued to gaze, neither moving his eyes from the other, this sneer became too oppressive to be silently borne. I could no longer stand such a satirical reading of my thoughts. The insult was as marked as words could have made it; and I was about to have recourse to words to reply, when the clatter of a horse’s hoofs caused me to turn my eyes in an opposite direction. A horseman was coming up the hill, in a direct line from the pastures. I saw it was one of the lieutenants—Holingsworth.A few more stretches of his horse brought the lieutenant upon the ground, where he pulled up directly in front of me.“Captain Warfield!” said he, speaking in an official tone, “the cattle are collected; shall we proceed—”He proceeded no further with that sentence; his eye, chance directed, was carried up to the azotea, and rested upon the face of Ijurra. He started in his saddle, as if a serpent had stung him; his hollow eyes shot prominently out, glaring wildly from their sockets, while the muscles of his throat and jaws twitched in convulsive action!For a moment, the desperate passion seemed to stifle his breathing, and while thus silent, the expression of his eyes puzzled me. It was of frantic joy, and ill became that face where I had never observed a smile. But the strange look was soon explained—it was not of friendship, but the joy of anticipated vengeance!Breaking into a wild laugh, he shrieked out—“Rafael Ijurra, by the eternal God!”This awful and emphatic recognition produced its effect. I saw that Ijurra knew the man who addressed him. His dark countenance turned suddenly pale, and then became mottled with livid spots, while his eyes scintillated, and rolled about in the unsteady glances of terror. He made no reply beyond the ejaculation “Demonio!” which seemed involuntarily to escape him. He appeared unable to reply; surprise and fright held him spell-bound and speechless!“Traitor! villain! murderer!” shrieked Holingsworth, “we’ve met at last; now for a squaring of our accounts!” and in the next instant the muzzle of his rifle was pointing to the notch in the parapet—pointing to the face of Ijurra!“Hold, Holingsworth!—hold!” cried I, pressing my heel deeply into my horse’s flanks, and dashing forward.Though my steed sprang instantly to the spur, and as quickly I caught the lieutenant’s arm, I was too late to arrest the shot. I spoiled his aim, however; and the bullet, instead of passing through the brain of Rafael Ijurra, as it would certainly have done, glanced upon the mortar of the parapet, sending a cloud of lime-dust into his face.Up to that moment the Mexican had made no attempt to escape beyond the aim of his antagonist. Terror must have glued him to the spot. It was only when the report of the rifle, and the blinding mortar broke the spell, that he was able to turn and fly. When the dust cleared away, his head was no longer above the wall.I turned to my companion, and addressed him in some warmth—“Lieutenant Holingsworth! I command—”“Captain Warfield,” interrupted he, in a tone of cool determination, “you may command me in all matters of duty, and I shall obey you. This is a private affair; and, by the Eternal, the General himself— Bah! I lose time; the villain will escape!” and before I could seize either himself or his bridle-rein, Holingsworth had shot his horse past me, and entered the gateway at a gallop.I followed as quickly as I could, and reached the patio almost as soon as he; but too late to hinder him from his purpose.I grasped him by the arm, but with determined strength he wrenched himself free—at the same instant gliding out of the saddle.Pistol in hand, he rushed up theescalera, his trailing scabbard clanking upon the stone steps as he went. He was soon out of my sight, behind the parapet of the azotea.Flinging myself from the saddle, I followed as fast as my legs would carry me.While on the stairway, I heard loud words and oaths above, the crash of falling objects, and then two shots following quick and fast upon each other. I heard screaming in a woman’s voice, and then a groan—the last uttered by a man.One of them is dead or dying, thought I.On reaching the azotea—which I did in a few seconds of time—I found perfect silence there. I saw no one, male or female, living or dead! True, the place was like a garden, with plants, shrubs, and even trees growing in gigantic pots. I could not view it all at once. They might still be there behind the screen of leaves?I ran to and fro over the whole roof; I saw flower-pots freshly broken. It was the crash of them I had heard while coming up. I saw no man, neither Holingsworth nor Ijurra! They could not be standing up, or I should have seen them. “Perhaps they are down among the pots—both. There were two shots. Perhaps both are down—dead.”But where was she who screamed? Was it Isolina?Half distracted, I rushed to another part of the roof. I saw a small escalera—a private stair—that led into the interior of the house. Ha! they must have gone down by it? she who screamed must have gone that way?For a moment I hesitated to follow; but it was no time to stand upon etiquette; and I was preparing to plunge down the stairway, when I heard shouting outside the walls, and then another shot from a pistol.I turned, and stepped hastily across the azotea in the direction of the sounds. I looked over the parapet. Down the slope of the hill two men were running at the top of their speed, one after the other. The hindmost held in his hand a drawn sabre. It was Holingsworth still in pursuit of Ijurra!The latter appeared to be gaining upon his vengeful pursuer, who, burdened with his accoutrements, ran heavily. The Mexican was evidently making for the woods that grew at the bottom of the hill; and in a few seconds more he had entered the timber, and passed out of sight. Like a hound upon the trail, Holingsworth followed, and disappeared from my view at the same spot.Hoping I might still be able to prevent the shedding of blood, I descended hastily from the azotea, mounted my horse, and galloped down the hill.I reached the edge of the woods where the two had gone in, and followed some distance upon their trail; but I lost it at length, and came to a halt.I remained for some minutes listening for voices, or, what I more expected to hear, the report of a pistol. Neither sound reached me. I heard only the shouts of the vaqueros on the other side of the hill; and this reminding me of my duty, I turned my horse, and rode back to the hacienda.There, everything was silent: not a face was to be seen. The inmates of the house had hidden themselves in rooms barred up and dark; even the damsels of the kitchen had disappeared—thinking, no doubt, that an attack would be made upon the premises, and that spoliation and plunder were intended.I was puzzled how to act. Holingsworth’s strange conduct had disarranged my ideas. I should have demanded admission, and explained the occurrence to Don Ramon; but I had no explanation to give; I rather needed one for myself; and under a painful feeling of suspense as to the result, I rode off from the place.Half-a-dozen rangers were left upon the ground with orders to await the return of Holingsworth, and then gallop after us; while the remainder of the troop, with Wheatley and myself in advance of the vast drove, took the route for the American camp.
I rode slowly, and but a few paces before reining up my horse. Although I was under the impression that it would be useless remaining, and that an interview with Isolina was impossible—for that day at least—I could not divest myself of the desire to linger a little longer near the spot. Perhaps she might appear again upon the azotea; if but for a moment; if but to wave her hand, and waft me an adieu; if but—
When a short distance separated me from the walls, I drew up; and turning in the saddle, glanced back to the parapet. A face was there, where hers had been; but, oh, the contrast between her lovely features and those that now met my gaze! Hyperion to the Satyr! Not that the face now before me was ugly or ill-featured. There are some, and women too, who would have termed it handsome; to my eyes it was hideous! Let me confess that this hideousness, or more properly its cause, rested in the moral, rather than the physical expression; perhaps, too, little of it might have been found in my own heart. Under other circumstances, I might not have criticised that face so harshly. All the world did not agree with me about the face of Rafael Ijurra—for it was he who was gazing over the parapet.
Our eyes met; and that first glance stamped the relationship between us—hostility for life! Not a word passed, and yet the looks of each told the other, in the plainest language, “I am your foe.” Had we sworn it in wild oaths, in all the bitter hyperbole of insult, neither of us would have felt it more profound and keen.
I shall not stay to analyse this feeling of sudden and unexpressed hostility, though the philosophy of it is simple enough. You too have experienced it—perhaps more than once in your life, without being exactly able to explain it. I am not in that dilemma: I could explain it easily enough; but it scarcely merits an explanation. Suffice to say, that while gazing upon the face of that man, I entertained it in all its strength.
I have called it anunexpressedhostility. Therein I have spoken without thought: it was fully expressed by both of us, though not in words. Words are but weak symbols of a passion, compared with the passion itself, exhibited in the clenched hand, the lip compressed, the flashing eye, the clouded cheek, the quick play of the muscles—weak symbols are words compared with signs like these. No words passed between Ijurra and myself; none were needed. Each read in the other a rival—a rival in love, a competitor for the heart of a lovely woman, theloveliestin Mexico! It is needless to say that, under such an aspect, each hated the other at sight.
In the face of Ijurra I read more. I saw before me a man of bad heart and brutal nature. His large, and to speak the truth, beautiful eyes, had in them an animal expression. They were not without intelligence, but so much the worse, for that intelligence expressed ferocity and bad faith. His beauty was the beauty of the jaguar. He had the air of an accomplished man, accustomed to conquest in the field of love—heartless, reckless, false. O mystery of our nature, there are those who love such men!
In Ijurra’s face I read more:he knew my secret! The significant glance of his eye told me so. He knew why I was lingering there. The satiric smile upon his lip attested it. He saw my efforts to obtain an interview, and confident in his own position, held my failure but lightly—a something only to amuse him. I could tell all this by the sardonic sneer that sat upon his features.
As we continued to gaze, neither moving his eyes from the other, this sneer became too oppressive to be silently borne. I could no longer stand such a satirical reading of my thoughts. The insult was as marked as words could have made it; and I was about to have recourse to words to reply, when the clatter of a horse’s hoofs caused me to turn my eyes in an opposite direction. A horseman was coming up the hill, in a direct line from the pastures. I saw it was one of the lieutenants—Holingsworth.
A few more stretches of his horse brought the lieutenant upon the ground, where he pulled up directly in front of me.
“Captain Warfield!” said he, speaking in an official tone, “the cattle are collected; shall we proceed—”
He proceeded no further with that sentence; his eye, chance directed, was carried up to the azotea, and rested upon the face of Ijurra. He started in his saddle, as if a serpent had stung him; his hollow eyes shot prominently out, glaring wildly from their sockets, while the muscles of his throat and jaws twitched in convulsive action!
For a moment, the desperate passion seemed to stifle his breathing, and while thus silent, the expression of his eyes puzzled me. It was of frantic joy, and ill became that face where I had never observed a smile. But the strange look was soon explained—it was not of friendship, but the joy of anticipated vengeance!
Breaking into a wild laugh, he shrieked out—
“Rafael Ijurra, by the eternal God!”
This awful and emphatic recognition produced its effect. I saw that Ijurra knew the man who addressed him. His dark countenance turned suddenly pale, and then became mottled with livid spots, while his eyes scintillated, and rolled about in the unsteady glances of terror. He made no reply beyond the ejaculation “Demonio!” which seemed involuntarily to escape him. He appeared unable to reply; surprise and fright held him spell-bound and speechless!
“Traitor! villain! murderer!” shrieked Holingsworth, “we’ve met at last; now for a squaring of our accounts!” and in the next instant the muzzle of his rifle was pointing to the notch in the parapet—pointing to the face of Ijurra!
“Hold, Holingsworth!—hold!” cried I, pressing my heel deeply into my horse’s flanks, and dashing forward.
Though my steed sprang instantly to the spur, and as quickly I caught the lieutenant’s arm, I was too late to arrest the shot. I spoiled his aim, however; and the bullet, instead of passing through the brain of Rafael Ijurra, as it would certainly have done, glanced upon the mortar of the parapet, sending a cloud of lime-dust into his face.
Up to that moment the Mexican had made no attempt to escape beyond the aim of his antagonist. Terror must have glued him to the spot. It was only when the report of the rifle, and the blinding mortar broke the spell, that he was able to turn and fly. When the dust cleared away, his head was no longer above the wall.
I turned to my companion, and addressed him in some warmth—
“Lieutenant Holingsworth! I command—”
“Captain Warfield,” interrupted he, in a tone of cool determination, “you may command me in all matters of duty, and I shall obey you. This is a private affair; and, by the Eternal, the General himself— Bah! I lose time; the villain will escape!” and before I could seize either himself or his bridle-rein, Holingsworth had shot his horse past me, and entered the gateway at a gallop.
I followed as quickly as I could, and reached the patio almost as soon as he; but too late to hinder him from his purpose.
I grasped him by the arm, but with determined strength he wrenched himself free—at the same instant gliding out of the saddle.
Pistol in hand, he rushed up theescalera, his trailing scabbard clanking upon the stone steps as he went. He was soon out of my sight, behind the parapet of the azotea.
Flinging myself from the saddle, I followed as fast as my legs would carry me.
While on the stairway, I heard loud words and oaths above, the crash of falling objects, and then two shots following quick and fast upon each other. I heard screaming in a woman’s voice, and then a groan—the last uttered by a man.
One of them is dead or dying, thought I.
On reaching the azotea—which I did in a few seconds of time—I found perfect silence there. I saw no one, male or female, living or dead! True, the place was like a garden, with plants, shrubs, and even trees growing in gigantic pots. I could not view it all at once. They might still be there behind the screen of leaves?
I ran to and fro over the whole roof; I saw flower-pots freshly broken. It was the crash of them I had heard while coming up. I saw no man, neither Holingsworth nor Ijurra! They could not be standing up, or I should have seen them. “Perhaps they are down among the pots—both. There were two shots. Perhaps both are down—dead.”
But where was she who screamed? Was it Isolina?
Half distracted, I rushed to another part of the roof. I saw a small escalera—a private stair—that led into the interior of the house. Ha! they must have gone down by it? she who screamed must have gone that way?
For a moment I hesitated to follow; but it was no time to stand upon etiquette; and I was preparing to plunge down the stairway, when I heard shouting outside the walls, and then another shot from a pistol.
I turned, and stepped hastily across the azotea in the direction of the sounds. I looked over the parapet. Down the slope of the hill two men were running at the top of their speed, one after the other. The hindmost held in his hand a drawn sabre. It was Holingsworth still in pursuit of Ijurra!
The latter appeared to be gaining upon his vengeful pursuer, who, burdened with his accoutrements, ran heavily. The Mexican was evidently making for the woods that grew at the bottom of the hill; and in a few seconds more he had entered the timber, and passed out of sight. Like a hound upon the trail, Holingsworth followed, and disappeared from my view at the same spot.
Hoping I might still be able to prevent the shedding of blood, I descended hastily from the azotea, mounted my horse, and galloped down the hill.
I reached the edge of the woods where the two had gone in, and followed some distance upon their trail; but I lost it at length, and came to a halt.
I remained for some minutes listening for voices, or, what I more expected to hear, the report of a pistol. Neither sound reached me. I heard only the shouts of the vaqueros on the other side of the hill; and this reminding me of my duty, I turned my horse, and rode back to the hacienda.
There, everything was silent: not a face was to be seen. The inmates of the house had hidden themselves in rooms barred up and dark; even the damsels of the kitchen had disappeared—thinking, no doubt, that an attack would be made upon the premises, and that spoliation and plunder were intended.
I was puzzled how to act. Holingsworth’s strange conduct had disarranged my ideas. I should have demanded admission, and explained the occurrence to Don Ramon; but I had no explanation to give; I rather needed one for myself; and under a painful feeling of suspense as to the result, I rode off from the place.
Half-a-dozen rangers were left upon the ground with orders to await the return of Holingsworth, and then gallop after us; while the remainder of the troop, with Wheatley and myself in advance of the vast drove, took the route for the American camp.
Chapter Eleven.Rafael Ijurra.In ill-humour I journeyed along. The hot sun and the dusty road did not improve my temper, ruffled as it was by the unpleasant incident. I was far from satisfied with my first lieutenant, whose conduct was still a mystery. Wheatley could not explain it. Some old enmity, no doubt—both of us believed—some story of wrong and revenge.No everyday man was Holingsworth, but one altogether of peculiar character and temperament—as unlike him who rode by my side as acid to alkali. The latter was a dashing, cheerful fellow, dressed in half-Mexican costume, who could ride a wild horse and throw the lazo with any vaquero in the crowd. He was a true Texan, almost by birth; had shared the fortunes of the young republic since the days of Austin: and was never more happy than while engaged in the border warfare, that, with slight intervals, had been carried on against either Mexican or Indian foeman, ever since the lone-star had spread its banner to the breeze. No raw recruit was Wheatley; though young, he was what Texans term an “old Indian fighter”—a real “Texas ranker.”Holingsworth was not a Texan, but a Tennessean, though Texas had been for some years his adopted home. It was not the first time he had crossed the Rio Grande. He had been one of the unfortunate Mier expedition—a survivor of that decimated band—afterwards carried in chains to Mexico, and there compelled to work breast-deep in the mud of the greatzancasthat traverse the streets. Such experience might account for the serious, somewhat stern expression that habitually rested upon his countenance, and gave him the character of a “dark saturnine man.” I have said incidentally that I never saw him smile—never. He spoke seldom, and, as a general thing, only upon matters of duty; but at times, when he fancied himself alone, I have heard him mutter threats, while a convulsive twitching of the muscles and a mechanical clenching of the fingers accompanied his words, as though he stood in the presence of some deadly foe! I had more than once observed these frenzied outbursts, without knowing aught of their cause. Harding Holingsworth—such was his full name—was a man with whom no one would have cared to take the liberty of asking an explanation of his conduct. His courage and war-prowess were well known among the Texans; but it is idle to add this, since otherwise he could not have stood among them in the capacity of a leader. Men like them, who have the election of their own officers, do not trust their lives to the guidance of either stripling or coward.Wheatley and I were talking the matter over as we rode along, and endeavouring to account for the strange behaviour of Holingsworth. We had both concluded that the affair had arisen from some old enmity—perhaps connected with the Mier expedition—when accidentally I mentioned the Mexican’s name. Up to this moment the Texan lieutenant had not seen Ijurra—having been busy with the cattle upon the other side of the hill—nor had the name been pronounced in his hearing.“Ijurra?” he exclaimed with a start, reining up, and turning upon me an inquiring look.“Ijurra.”“RafaelIjurra, do you think?”“Yes, Rafael—that is the name.”“A tall dark fellow, moustached and whiskered?—not ill-looking?”“Yes; he might answer that description,” I replied.“If it be the same Rafael Ijurra that used to live at San Antonio, there’s more than one Texan would like to raisehishair. The same—it must be—there’s no two of the name; ’taint likely—no.”“What do you know of him?”“Know?—that he’s about the most precious scoundrel in all Texas or Mexico either, and that’s saying a good deal. Rafael Ijurra? ’Tis he, by thunder! Itcanbe nobody else; and Holingsworth— Ha! now I think of it, it’s just the man; and Harding Holingsworth, of all men living, has good reasons to rememberhim.”“How? Explain!”The Texan paused for a moment, as if to collect his scattered memories, and then proceeded to detail what he knew of Rafael Ijurra. His account, without the expletives and emphatic ejaculations which adorned it, was substantially as follows:—Rafael Ijurra was by birth a Texan of Mexican race. He had formerly possessed a hacienda near San Antonio de Bexar, with other considerable property, all of which he had spent at play, or otherwise dissipated, so that he had sunk to the status of a professional gambler. Up to the date of the Mier expedition he had passed off as a citizen of Texas, under the new regime, and pretended much patriotic attachment to the young republic. When the Mier adventure was about being organised, Ijurra had influence enough to have himself elected one of its officers. No one suspected his fidelity to the cause. He was one of those who at the halt by Laredo urged the imprudent advance upon Mier; and his presumed knowledge of the country—of which, he was a native—gave weight to his counsel. It afterwards proved that his free advice was intended for the benefit of the enemy, with whom he was in secret correspondence.On the night before the battle Ijurra was missing. The Texan army was captured after a brave defence—in which they slew more than their own number of the enemy—and, under guard, the remnant was marched off for the capital of Mexico. On the second or third day of their march, what was the astonishment of the Texan prisoners to see Rafael Ijurrain the uniform of a Mexican officer, and forming part of their escort! But that their hands were bound, they would have torn him to pieces, so enraged were they at this piece of black treason.“I was not in that ugly scrape,” continued the lieutenant. “As luck would have it, I was down with a fever in Brazos bottom, or I guess I should have had todraw my beanwith the rest of ’em, poor fellows!”Wheatley’s allusion to “drawing his bean” I understood well enough. All who have ever read the account of this ill-starred adventure will remember, that the Texans, goaded by ill-treatment, rose upon their guard, disarmed, and conquered them; but in their subsequent attempt to escape, ill managed and ill guided, nearly all of them were recaptured, anddecimated—each tenth man having been shot like a dog!The mode of choosing the victims was by lot, and the black and white beans of Mexico (frijoles) were made use of as the expositors of the fatal decrees of destiny. A number of the beans, corresponding to the number of the captives, was placed within an earthenolla—there being a black bean for every nine white ones. He who drew the black bean must die!During the drawing of this fearful lottery, there occurred incidents exhibiting character as heroic as has ever been recorded in story.Read from an eye-witness:—“They all drew their beans with manly dignity and firmness. Some of lighter temper jested over the bloody tragedy. One would say, ‘Boys! this beats raffling all to pieces!’ Another, ‘Well, this is the tallest gambling-scrape I ever was in.’ Robert Beard, who lay upon the ground exceedingly ill, called his brother William, and said, ‘Brother, if you draw a black bean, I’ll take your place—I want to die!’ The brother, with overwhelming anguish, replied, ‘No, I will keep my own place;I am stronger, and better able to die than you.’ Major Cocke, when he drew the fatal bean, held it up between his finger and thumb, and, with a smile of contempt, said, ‘Boys! I told you so: I never failed in my life to draw a prize!’ He then coolly added, ‘They only rob me of forty years.’ Henry Whaling, one of Cameron’s best fighters, as he drew his black bean, said, in a joyous tone, ‘Well, they don’t make much out of me anyhow: I know I’ve killed twenty-five of them.’ Then demanding his dinner in a firm voice, he added, ‘They shall not cheat me out of it!’ Saying this, he ate heartily, smoked a cigar, and in twenty minutes after had ceased to live! The Mexicans fired fifteen shots at Whaling before he expired! Young Torrey, quite a youth but in spirit a giant, said that he ‘was perfectly willing to meet his fate—for the glory of his country he had fought, and for her glory he was willing to die.’ Edward Este spoke of his death with the coolest indifference. Cash said, ‘Well, they murdered my brother with Colonel Fannin, and they are about to murder me.’ J.L. Jones said to the interpreter, ‘Tell the officer to look upon men who are not afraid to die for their country.’ Captain Eastland behaved with the most patriotic dignity; he desired that his country should not particularly avenge his death. Major Dunham said he was prepared to die for his country. James Ogden, with his usual equanimity of temper, smiled at his fate and said, ‘I am prepared to meet it.’ Young Robert W. Harris behaved in the most unflinching manner, and called upon his companions to avenge their murder.“They were bound together—their eyes being bandaged—and set upon a log near the wall with their backs towards their executioners. They all begged the officer to shoot them in front, and at a short distance, saying they ‘were not afraid to look death in the face.’ This request the Mexican refused; and to make his cruelty as refined as possible, caused the fire to be delivered from a distance, and to be continued for ten or twelve minutes, lacerating and mangling those heroes in a manner too horrible for description.”When you talk of Thermopylae think also of Texas!“But what of Holingsworth?” I asked.“Ah! Holingsworth!” replied the lieutenant; “he hasgood cause to remember Ijurra, now I think of it. I shall give the story to you as I heard it;” and my companion proceeded with a relation, which caused the blood to curdle in my veins, as I listened. It fully explained, if it did not palliate, the fierce hatred of the Tennessean towards Rafael Ijurra.In the Mier expedition Holingsworth had a brother, who, like himself, was made prisoner. He was a delicate youth, and could ill endure the hardships, much less the barbarous treatment, to which the prisoners were exposed during that memorable march. He became reduced to a skeleton, and worse than that, footsore, so that he could no longer endure the pain of his feet and ankles, worn skinless, and charged with the spines of acacias, cactus, and the numerous thorny plants in which the dry soil of Mexico is so prolific. In agony he fell down upon the road.Ijurra was in command of the guard; from him Holingsworth’s brother begged to be allowed the use of a mule. The youth had known Ijurra at San Antonio, and had even lent him money, which was never returned.“To your feet and forward!” was Ijurra’s answer.“I cannot move a step,” said the youth, despairingly.“Cannot!Carrai! we shall see whether you can. Here, Pablo,” continued he, addressing himself to one of the soldiers of the guard; “give this fellow the spur; he is restive!”The ruffian soldier approached with fixed bayonet, seriously intending to use its point on the poor wayworn invalid! The latter rose with an effort, and made a desperate attempt to keep on; but his resolution again failed him. He could not endure the agonising pain, and after staggering a pace or two, he fell up against a rock.“I cannot!” he again cried—“I cannot march farther: let me die here.”“Forward! or youshalldie here,” shouted Ijurra, drawing a pistol from his belt, and cocking it, evidently with the determination to carry out his threat. “Forward!”“I cannot,” faintly replied the youth.“Forward, or I fire!”“Fire!” cried the young man, throwing open the flaps of his hunting-shirt, and making one last effort to stand erect.“You are scarce worth a bullet,” said the monster with a sneer; at the same instant he levelled his pistol at the breast of his victim, and fired! When the smoke was blown aside, the body of young Holingsworth was seen lying at the base of the rock, doubled up, dead!A thrill of horror ran through the line of captives. Even their habitually brutal guards were touched by such wanton barbarity. The brother of the youth was not six yards from the spot, tightly bound, and witness of the whole scene! Fancy his feelings at that moment!“No wonder,” continued the Texan—“no wonder that Harding Holingsworth don’t stand upon ceremony as to where and when he may attack Rafael Ijurra. I verily believe that the presence of the Commander-in-chief wouldn’t restrain him from taking vengeance. It ain’t to be wondered at!”In hopes that my companion might help me to some knowledge of the family at the hacienda, I guided the conversation in that direction.“And Don Ramon de Vargas is Ijurra’s uncle?”“Sure enough, he must be. Ha! I did not think of that. Don Ramonisthe uncle. I ought to have known him this morning—that confoundedmezcalI drank knocked him out of my mind altogether. I have seen the old fellow several times. He used to come to San Antonio once a-year on business with the merchants there. I remember, too, he once brought a daughter with him—splendid girl that, and no mistake! Faith, she crazed half the young fellows in San Antonio, and there was no end of duels about her. She used to ride wild horses, and fling the lazo like a Comanche. But what am I talking about? That mezcalhasgot into my brains, sure enough. It must have beenheryou chased? Sure as shooting it was!”“Probable enough,” I replied, in a careless way. My companion little knew the deep, feverish interest his remarks were exciting, or the struggle it was costing me to conceal my emotions.One thing I longed to learn from him—whether any of these amorous duellists had been favoured with the approbation of the lady. I longed to put this question, and yet the absolute dread of the answer restrained my tongue! I remained silent, till the opportunity had passed.The hoof-strokes of half-a-dozen horses coming rapidly from the rear, interrupted the conversation. Without surprise, I perceived that it was Holingsworth and the rangers who had been left at the hacienda.“Captain Warfield!” said the Tennessean as he spurred alongside, “my conduct no doubt surprises you. I shall be able to explain it toyoursatisfaction when time permits. It’s a long story—a painful one to me: you will not require it from me now. This much let me say—for good reason, I hold Rafael Ijurra as my most deadly foe.I came to Mexico to kill that man; and, by the Eternal! if I don’t succeed, I care not who killsme!”“You havenotthen—”With a feeling of relief, I put the question, for I read he answer in the look of disappointed vengeance that gleamed in the eyes of the Tennessean. I was not permitted to finish the interrogatory; he knew what I was going to ask, and interrupted me with the reply—“No, no; the villain has escaped; but by—”The rest of the emphatic vow was inaudible; but the wild glance that flashed from the speaker’s eye expressed his deep purpose more plainly than words.The next moment he fell back to his place in the troop, and with his head slightly bent forward, rode on in silence. His dark taciturn features were lit up at intervals by an ominous gleam, showing that he still brooded over his unavenged wrong.
In ill-humour I journeyed along. The hot sun and the dusty road did not improve my temper, ruffled as it was by the unpleasant incident. I was far from satisfied with my first lieutenant, whose conduct was still a mystery. Wheatley could not explain it. Some old enmity, no doubt—both of us believed—some story of wrong and revenge.
No everyday man was Holingsworth, but one altogether of peculiar character and temperament—as unlike him who rode by my side as acid to alkali. The latter was a dashing, cheerful fellow, dressed in half-Mexican costume, who could ride a wild horse and throw the lazo with any vaquero in the crowd. He was a true Texan, almost by birth; had shared the fortunes of the young republic since the days of Austin: and was never more happy than while engaged in the border warfare, that, with slight intervals, had been carried on against either Mexican or Indian foeman, ever since the lone-star had spread its banner to the breeze. No raw recruit was Wheatley; though young, he was what Texans term an “old Indian fighter”—a real “Texas ranker.”
Holingsworth was not a Texan, but a Tennessean, though Texas had been for some years his adopted home. It was not the first time he had crossed the Rio Grande. He had been one of the unfortunate Mier expedition—a survivor of that decimated band—afterwards carried in chains to Mexico, and there compelled to work breast-deep in the mud of the greatzancasthat traverse the streets. Such experience might account for the serious, somewhat stern expression that habitually rested upon his countenance, and gave him the character of a “dark saturnine man.” I have said incidentally that I never saw him smile—never. He spoke seldom, and, as a general thing, only upon matters of duty; but at times, when he fancied himself alone, I have heard him mutter threats, while a convulsive twitching of the muscles and a mechanical clenching of the fingers accompanied his words, as though he stood in the presence of some deadly foe! I had more than once observed these frenzied outbursts, without knowing aught of their cause. Harding Holingsworth—such was his full name—was a man with whom no one would have cared to take the liberty of asking an explanation of his conduct. His courage and war-prowess were well known among the Texans; but it is idle to add this, since otherwise he could not have stood among them in the capacity of a leader. Men like them, who have the election of their own officers, do not trust their lives to the guidance of either stripling or coward.
Wheatley and I were talking the matter over as we rode along, and endeavouring to account for the strange behaviour of Holingsworth. We had both concluded that the affair had arisen from some old enmity—perhaps connected with the Mier expedition—when accidentally I mentioned the Mexican’s name. Up to this moment the Texan lieutenant had not seen Ijurra—having been busy with the cattle upon the other side of the hill—nor had the name been pronounced in his hearing.
“Ijurra?” he exclaimed with a start, reining up, and turning upon me an inquiring look.
“Ijurra.”
“RafaelIjurra, do you think?”
“Yes, Rafael—that is the name.”
“A tall dark fellow, moustached and whiskered?—not ill-looking?”
“Yes; he might answer that description,” I replied.
“If it be the same Rafael Ijurra that used to live at San Antonio, there’s more than one Texan would like to raisehishair. The same—it must be—there’s no two of the name; ’taint likely—no.”
“What do you know of him?”
“Know?—that he’s about the most precious scoundrel in all Texas or Mexico either, and that’s saying a good deal. Rafael Ijurra? ’Tis he, by thunder! Itcanbe nobody else; and Holingsworth— Ha! now I think of it, it’s just the man; and Harding Holingsworth, of all men living, has good reasons to rememberhim.”
“How? Explain!”
The Texan paused for a moment, as if to collect his scattered memories, and then proceeded to detail what he knew of Rafael Ijurra. His account, without the expletives and emphatic ejaculations which adorned it, was substantially as follows:—
Rafael Ijurra was by birth a Texan of Mexican race. He had formerly possessed a hacienda near San Antonio de Bexar, with other considerable property, all of which he had spent at play, or otherwise dissipated, so that he had sunk to the status of a professional gambler. Up to the date of the Mier expedition he had passed off as a citizen of Texas, under the new regime, and pretended much patriotic attachment to the young republic. When the Mier adventure was about being organised, Ijurra had influence enough to have himself elected one of its officers. No one suspected his fidelity to the cause. He was one of those who at the halt by Laredo urged the imprudent advance upon Mier; and his presumed knowledge of the country—of which, he was a native—gave weight to his counsel. It afterwards proved that his free advice was intended for the benefit of the enemy, with whom he was in secret correspondence.
On the night before the battle Ijurra was missing. The Texan army was captured after a brave defence—in which they slew more than their own number of the enemy—and, under guard, the remnant was marched off for the capital of Mexico. On the second or third day of their march, what was the astonishment of the Texan prisoners to see Rafael Ijurrain the uniform of a Mexican officer, and forming part of their escort! But that their hands were bound, they would have torn him to pieces, so enraged were they at this piece of black treason.
“I was not in that ugly scrape,” continued the lieutenant. “As luck would have it, I was down with a fever in Brazos bottom, or I guess I should have had todraw my beanwith the rest of ’em, poor fellows!”
Wheatley’s allusion to “drawing his bean” I understood well enough. All who have ever read the account of this ill-starred adventure will remember, that the Texans, goaded by ill-treatment, rose upon their guard, disarmed, and conquered them; but in their subsequent attempt to escape, ill managed and ill guided, nearly all of them were recaptured, anddecimated—each tenth man having been shot like a dog!
The mode of choosing the victims was by lot, and the black and white beans of Mexico (frijoles) were made use of as the expositors of the fatal decrees of destiny. A number of the beans, corresponding to the number of the captives, was placed within an earthenolla—there being a black bean for every nine white ones. He who drew the black bean must die!
During the drawing of this fearful lottery, there occurred incidents exhibiting character as heroic as has ever been recorded in story.
Read from an eye-witness:—
“They all drew their beans with manly dignity and firmness. Some of lighter temper jested over the bloody tragedy. One would say, ‘Boys! this beats raffling all to pieces!’ Another, ‘Well, this is the tallest gambling-scrape I ever was in.’ Robert Beard, who lay upon the ground exceedingly ill, called his brother William, and said, ‘Brother, if you draw a black bean, I’ll take your place—I want to die!’ The brother, with overwhelming anguish, replied, ‘No, I will keep my own place;I am stronger, and better able to die than you.’ Major Cocke, when he drew the fatal bean, held it up between his finger and thumb, and, with a smile of contempt, said, ‘Boys! I told you so: I never failed in my life to draw a prize!’ He then coolly added, ‘They only rob me of forty years.’ Henry Whaling, one of Cameron’s best fighters, as he drew his black bean, said, in a joyous tone, ‘Well, they don’t make much out of me anyhow: I know I’ve killed twenty-five of them.’ Then demanding his dinner in a firm voice, he added, ‘They shall not cheat me out of it!’ Saying this, he ate heartily, smoked a cigar, and in twenty minutes after had ceased to live! The Mexicans fired fifteen shots at Whaling before he expired! Young Torrey, quite a youth but in spirit a giant, said that he ‘was perfectly willing to meet his fate—for the glory of his country he had fought, and for her glory he was willing to die.’ Edward Este spoke of his death with the coolest indifference. Cash said, ‘Well, they murdered my brother with Colonel Fannin, and they are about to murder me.’ J.L. Jones said to the interpreter, ‘Tell the officer to look upon men who are not afraid to die for their country.’ Captain Eastland behaved with the most patriotic dignity; he desired that his country should not particularly avenge his death. Major Dunham said he was prepared to die for his country. James Ogden, with his usual equanimity of temper, smiled at his fate and said, ‘I am prepared to meet it.’ Young Robert W. Harris behaved in the most unflinching manner, and called upon his companions to avenge their murder.
“They were bound together—their eyes being bandaged—and set upon a log near the wall with their backs towards their executioners. They all begged the officer to shoot them in front, and at a short distance, saying they ‘were not afraid to look death in the face.’ This request the Mexican refused; and to make his cruelty as refined as possible, caused the fire to be delivered from a distance, and to be continued for ten or twelve minutes, lacerating and mangling those heroes in a manner too horrible for description.”
When you talk of Thermopylae think also of Texas!
“But what of Holingsworth?” I asked.
“Ah! Holingsworth!” replied the lieutenant; “he hasgood cause to remember Ijurra, now I think of it. I shall give the story to you as I heard it;” and my companion proceeded with a relation, which caused the blood to curdle in my veins, as I listened. It fully explained, if it did not palliate, the fierce hatred of the Tennessean towards Rafael Ijurra.
In the Mier expedition Holingsworth had a brother, who, like himself, was made prisoner. He was a delicate youth, and could ill endure the hardships, much less the barbarous treatment, to which the prisoners were exposed during that memorable march. He became reduced to a skeleton, and worse than that, footsore, so that he could no longer endure the pain of his feet and ankles, worn skinless, and charged with the spines of acacias, cactus, and the numerous thorny plants in which the dry soil of Mexico is so prolific. In agony he fell down upon the road.
Ijurra was in command of the guard; from him Holingsworth’s brother begged to be allowed the use of a mule. The youth had known Ijurra at San Antonio, and had even lent him money, which was never returned.
“To your feet and forward!” was Ijurra’s answer.
“I cannot move a step,” said the youth, despairingly.
“Cannot!Carrai! we shall see whether you can. Here, Pablo,” continued he, addressing himself to one of the soldiers of the guard; “give this fellow the spur; he is restive!”
The ruffian soldier approached with fixed bayonet, seriously intending to use its point on the poor wayworn invalid! The latter rose with an effort, and made a desperate attempt to keep on; but his resolution again failed him. He could not endure the agonising pain, and after staggering a pace or two, he fell up against a rock.
“I cannot!” he again cried—“I cannot march farther: let me die here.”
“Forward! or youshalldie here,” shouted Ijurra, drawing a pistol from his belt, and cocking it, evidently with the determination to carry out his threat. “Forward!”
“I cannot,” faintly replied the youth.
“Forward, or I fire!”
“Fire!” cried the young man, throwing open the flaps of his hunting-shirt, and making one last effort to stand erect.
“You are scarce worth a bullet,” said the monster with a sneer; at the same instant he levelled his pistol at the breast of his victim, and fired! When the smoke was blown aside, the body of young Holingsworth was seen lying at the base of the rock, doubled up, dead!
A thrill of horror ran through the line of captives. Even their habitually brutal guards were touched by such wanton barbarity. The brother of the youth was not six yards from the spot, tightly bound, and witness of the whole scene! Fancy his feelings at that moment!
“No wonder,” continued the Texan—“no wonder that Harding Holingsworth don’t stand upon ceremony as to where and when he may attack Rafael Ijurra. I verily believe that the presence of the Commander-in-chief wouldn’t restrain him from taking vengeance. It ain’t to be wondered at!”
In hopes that my companion might help me to some knowledge of the family at the hacienda, I guided the conversation in that direction.
“And Don Ramon de Vargas is Ijurra’s uncle?”
“Sure enough, he must be. Ha! I did not think of that. Don Ramonisthe uncle. I ought to have known him this morning—that confoundedmezcalI drank knocked him out of my mind altogether. I have seen the old fellow several times. He used to come to San Antonio once a-year on business with the merchants there. I remember, too, he once brought a daughter with him—splendid girl that, and no mistake! Faith, she crazed half the young fellows in San Antonio, and there was no end of duels about her. She used to ride wild horses, and fling the lazo like a Comanche. But what am I talking about? That mezcalhasgot into my brains, sure enough. It must have beenheryou chased? Sure as shooting it was!”
“Probable enough,” I replied, in a careless way. My companion little knew the deep, feverish interest his remarks were exciting, or the struggle it was costing me to conceal my emotions.
One thing I longed to learn from him—whether any of these amorous duellists had been favoured with the approbation of the lady. I longed to put this question, and yet the absolute dread of the answer restrained my tongue! I remained silent, till the opportunity had passed.
The hoof-strokes of half-a-dozen horses coming rapidly from the rear, interrupted the conversation. Without surprise, I perceived that it was Holingsworth and the rangers who had been left at the hacienda.
“Captain Warfield!” said the Tennessean as he spurred alongside, “my conduct no doubt surprises you. I shall be able to explain it toyoursatisfaction when time permits. It’s a long story—a painful one to me: you will not require it from me now. This much let me say—for good reason, I hold Rafael Ijurra as my most deadly foe.I came to Mexico to kill that man; and, by the Eternal! if I don’t succeed, I care not who killsme!”
“You havenotthen—”
With a feeling of relief, I put the question, for I read he answer in the look of disappointed vengeance that gleamed in the eyes of the Tennessean. I was not permitted to finish the interrogatory; he knew what I was going to ask, and interrupted me with the reply—
“No, no; the villain has escaped; but by—”
The rest of the emphatic vow was inaudible; but the wild glance that flashed from the speaker’s eye expressed his deep purpose more plainly than words.
The next moment he fell back to his place in the troop, and with his head slightly bent forward, rode on in silence. His dark taciturn features were lit up at intervals by an ominous gleam, showing that he still brooded over his unavenged wrong.