I began to reflect upon the real danger of our situation—corralled upon a naked prairie, ten miles from camp, with no prospect of escape. I knew that we could defend ourselves against twice the number of our cowardly adversaries; they would never dare to come within range of our rifles. But how to get out? how to cross the open plain? Fifty infantry against four times that number of mounted men—lancers at that—and not a bush to shelter the foot-soldier from the long spear and the iron hoof!
The nearest motte was half a mile off, and that another half a mile from the edge of the woods. Even could the motte be reached by a desperate run, it would be impossible to gain the woods, as the enemy would certainly cordon our new position, and thus completely cut us off. At present they had halted in a body about four hundred yards from the corral; and, feeling secure of having us in a trap, most of them had dismounted, and were running out their mustangs upon their lazos. It was plainly their determination to take us by siege.
To add to our desperate circumstances, we discovered that there was not a drop of water in the corral. The thirst that follows a fight had exhausted the scanty supply of our canteens, and the heat was excessive.
As I was running over in my mind the perils of our position, my eye rested upon Lincoln, who stood with his piece at a carry, his left hand crossed over his breast, in the attitude of a soldier waiting to receive orders.
“Well, Sergeant, what is it?” I inquired.
“Will yer allow me, Cap’n, ter take a couple o’ files, and fetch in the Dutchman? The men ’ud like ter put a sod upon him afore them thievin’ robbers kin git at him.”
“Certainly. But will you be safe? He’s at some distance from the stockade.”
“I don’t think them fellers ’ll kum down—they’ve had enuf o’ it just now. We’ll run out quick, and the boys kin kiver us with their fire.”
“Very well, then; set about it.”
Lincoln returned to the company and selected four of the most active of his men, with whom he proceeded towards the entrance. I ordered the soldiers to throw themselves on that side of the inclosure, and cover the party in case of an attack; but none was made. A movement was visible among the Mexicans, as they perceived Lincoln and his party rush out towards the body; but, seeing they would be too late to prevent them from carrying it off, they wisely kept beyond the reach of the American rifles.
The body of the German was brought into the inclosure and buried with due ceremony, although his comrades believed that before many hours it would be torn from its “warrior grave”, dragged forth to feed the coyoté and vulture, and his bones left to whiten upon the naked prairie. Which of us knew that it might not in a few hours be his own fate?
“Gentlemen,” said I to my brother officers, as we came together, “can you suggest any mode of escape?”
“Our only chance is to fight them where we stand. There are four to one,” replied Clayey.
“We have no other chance, Captain,” said Oakes, with a shake of the head.
“But it is not their intention to fight us. Their design is to starve us. See! they are picketing their horses, knowing they can easily overtake us if we attempt to leave the inclosure.”
“Cannot we move in a hollow square?”
“But what is a hollow square of fifty men? and against four times that number of cavalry, with lances and lazos? No, no; they would shiver it with a single charge. Our only hope is that we may be able to hold out until our absence from camp may bring a detachment to our relief.”
“And why not send for it?” inquired the major, who had scarcely been asked for his advice, but whose wits had been sharpened by the extremity of his danger. “Why not send for a couple of regiments?”
“How are we to send, Major?” asked Clayley, looking on the major’s proposition as ridiculous under the circumstances. “Have you a pigeon in your pocket?”
“Why?—how? There’s Hercules runs like a hare; stick one of your fellows in the saddle, and I’ll warrant him to camp in an hour.”
“You are right, Major,” said I, catching at the major’s proposal; “thank you for the thought. If he could only pass that point in the woods! I hate it, but it is our only chance.”
The last sentence I muttered to myself.
“Why do you hate it, Captain?” inquired the major, who had overheard me.
“You might not understand my reasons, Major.”
I was thinking upon the disgrace of being trapped as I was, and on my first scout, too.
“Who will volunteer to ride an express to camp?” I inquired, addressing the men.
Twenty of them leaped out simultaneously.
“Which of you remembers the course, that you could follow it in a gallop?” I asked.
The Frenchman, Raoul, stood forth, touching his cap.
“I know a shorter one, Captain, by Mata Cordera.”
“Ha! Raoul, you know the country. You are the man.”
I now remembered that this man joined us at Sacrificios, just after the landing of the expedition. He had been living in the country previous to our arrival, and was well acquainted with it.
“Are you a good horseman?” I inquired.
“I have seen five years of cavalry service.”
“True. Do you think you can pass them? They are nearly in your track.”
“As we entered the prairie, Captain; but my route will lie past this motte to the left.”
“That will give you several points. Do not stop a moment after you have mounted, or they will take the hint and intercept you.”
“With the red horse there will be no danger, Captain.”
“Leave your gun; take these pistols. Ha! you have a pair in the holsters. See if they are loaded. These spurs—so—cut loose that heavy piece from the saddle: the cloak, too; you must have nothing to encumber you. When you come near the camp, leave your horse in the chaparral. Give this to Colonel C.”
I wrote the following words on a scrap of paper:—
“Dear Colonel,
“Two hundred will be enough. Could they be stolen out after night? If so, all will be well—if it gets abroad...
“Yours,
“H.H.”
As I handed the paper to Raoul, I whispered in his ear—
“To Colonel C’s own hand. Privately, Raoul—privately, do you hear?”
Colonel C. was my friend, and I knew that he would send a private party to my rescue.
“I understand, Captain,” was the answer of Raoul.
“Ready, then! now mount and be off.”
The Frenchman sprang nimbly to the saddle, and, driving his spurs into the flanks of his horse, shot out from the pen like a bolt of lightning.
For the first three hundred yards or so he galloped directly towards the guerilleros. These stood leaning upon their saddles, or lay stretched along the green-sward. Seeing a single horseman riding towards them, few of them moved, believing him to be some messenger sent to treat for our surrender.
Suddenly the Frenchman swerved from his direct course, and went sweeping around them in the curve of an ellipse.
They now perceived the ruse, and with a yell leaped into their saddles. Some fired their escopettes; others, unwinding their lazos, started in pursuit.
Raoul had by this time set Hercules’s head for the clump of timber which he had taken as his guide, and now kept on in a track almost rectilinear. Could he but reach the motte or clump in safety, he knew that there were straggling trees beyond, and these would secure him in some measure from the lazos of his pursuers.
We stood watching his progress with breathless silence. Our lives depended on his escape. A crowd of the guerilleros was between him and us; but we could still see the green jacket of the soldier, and the great red flanks of Hercules, as he bounded on towards the edge of the woods. Then we saw the lazos launched out, and spinning around Raoul’s head, and straggling shots were fired; and we fancied at one time that our comrade sprang up in the saddle, as if he had been hit. Then he appeared again, all safe, rounding the little islet of timber, and the next moment he was gone from our sight. There followed a while of suspense—of terrible suspense—for the motte hid from view both pursuers and pursued. Every eye was straining towards the point where the horseman had disappeared, when Lincoln, who had climbed to the top of the rancho, cried out:
“He’s safe, Cap’n! The dod-rotted skunks air kummin ’ithout him.”
It was true. A minute after, the horsemen appeared round the motte, riding slowly back, with that air and attitude that betoken disappointment.
Note. A motte is an eminence.
The escape of Raoul and Hercules produced an affect almost magical upon the enemy. Instead of the listless defensive attitude lately assumed, the guerilleros were now in motion like a nest of roused hornets, scouring over the plain, and yelling like a war-party of Indians.
They did not surround the corral, as I had anticipated they would. They had no fear that we should attempt to escape; but they knew that, instead of the three days in which they expected to kill us with thirst at their leisure, they had not three hours left to accomplish that object. Raoul would reach the camp in little more than an hour’s time, and either infantry or mounted men would be on them in two hours after.
Scouts were seen galloping off in the direction taken by Raoul, and others dashed into the woods on the opposite side of the prairie. All was hurry and scurry.
Along with Clayley I had climbed upon the roof of the rancho, to watch the motions of the enemy, and to find out, if possible, his intentions. We stood for some time without speaking, both of us gazing at the manoeuvres of the guerilleros. They were galloping to and fro over the prairie, excited by the escape of Raoul.
“Splendidly done!” exclaimed my companion, struck with their graceful horsemanship. “One of those fellows, Captain, as he sits, at this minute, would—”
“Ha! what—?” shouted he, suddenly turning and pointing towards the woods.
I looked in the direction indicated. A cloud of dust was visible at the débouchement of the Medellin road. It appeared to hang over a small body of troops upon the march. The sun was just setting, and, as the cloud lay towards the west, I could distinguish the sparkling of bright objects through its dun volume. The guerilleros had reined up their horses, and were eagerly gazing towards the same point.
Presently the dust was wafted aside, a dozen dark forms became visible, and in the midst a bright object flashed under the sun like a sheet of gold. At the same instant an insulting shout broke from the guerilleros, and a voice was heard exclaiming:
“Cenobio! Cenobio! Los canones!” (Cenobio! Cenobio! the cannon!)
Clayley turned towards me with an inquiring look.
“It is true, Clayley; by heavens, we’ll have it now!”
“What did they say?”
“Look for yourself—well?”
“A brass piece, as I live!—a six-pound carronade!”
“We are fighting the guerilla (Note 1) of Cenobio, a small army of itself. Neither stockade nor motte will avail us now.”
“What is to be done?” asked my companion.
“Nothing but die with arms in our hands. We will not die without a struggle, and the sooner we prepare for it the better.”
I leaped from the roof, and ordered the bugler to sound the assembly.
In a moment the clear notes rang out, and the soldiers formed before me in the corral.
“My brave comrades!” cried I, “they have got the advantage of us at last. They are bringing down a piece of artillery, and I fear these pickets will offer us but poor shelter. If we are driven out, let us strike for that island of timber; and, mark me—if we are broken, let every man fight his way as he best can, or die over a fallen enemy.”
A determined cheer followed this short harangue, and I continued:
“But let us first see how they use their piece. It is a small one, and will not destroy us all at once. Fling yourselves down as they fire. By lying flat on your faces you may not suffer so badly. Perhaps we can hold the corral until our friends reach us. At all events we shall try.”
Another cheer rang along the line.
“Great heaven, Captain! it’s terrible!” whispered the major.
“What is terrible?” I asked, feeling at the moment a contempt for this blaspheming coward.
“Oh! this—this business—such a fix to be—”
“Major! remember you are a soldier.”
“Yes; and I wish I had resigned, as I intended to do, before this cursed war commenced.”
“Never fear,” said I, tempted to smile at the candour of his cowardice; “you’ll drink wine at Hewlett’s in a month. Get behind this log—it’s the only point shot-proof in the whole stockade.”
“Do you think, Captain, it will stop a shot?”
“Ay—from a siege-gun. Look out, men, and be ready to obey orders!”
The six-pounder had now approached within five hundred yards of the stockade, and was leisurely being unlimbered in the midst of a group of the enemy’s artillerists.
At this moment the voice of the major arrested my attention.
“Great heaven, Captain! Why do you allow them to come so near?”
“How am I to prevent them?” I asked, with some surprise.
“Why, my rifle will reach farther than that. It might keep them off, I think.”
“Major, you are dreaming!” said I. “They are two hundred yards beyond range of our rifles. If they would only come within that, we should soon send them back for you.”
“But, Captain, mine will carry twice the distance.”
I looked at the major, under the belief that he had taken leave of his senses.
“It’s a zündnadel, I assure you, and will kill at eight hundred yards.”
“Is it possible?” cried I, starting; for I now recollected the curious-looking piece which I had ordered to be cut loose from the saddle of Hercules. “Why did you not tell me that before? Where is Major Blossom’s rifle?” I shouted, looking around.
“This hyur’s the major’s gun” answered Sergeant Lincoln. “But if it’s a rifle, I never seed sich. It looks more like a two-year old cannon.”
It was, as the major had declared, a Prussian needle-gun—then a new invention, but of which I had heard something.
“Is it loaded, Major?” I asked, taking the piece from Lincoln.
“It is.”
“Can you hit that man with the sponge?” said I, returning the piece to the hunter.
“If this hyur thing’ll carry fur enuf, I kin,” was the reply.
“It will kill at a thousand yards, point blank,” cried the major, with energy.
“Ha! are you sure of that, Major?” I asked.
“Certainly, Captain. I got it from the inventor. We tried it at Washington. It is loaded with a conical bullet. It bored a hole through an inch plank at that distance.”
“Well. Now, Sergeant, take sure aim; this may save us yet.”
Lincoln planted himself firmly on his feet, choosing a notch of the stockade that ranged exactly with his shoulder. He then carefully wiped the dust from the sights; and, placing the heavy barrel in the notch, laid his cheek slowly against the stock.
“Sergeant, the man with the shot!” I called out.
As I spoke, one of the artillerists was stooping to the muzzle of the six-pounder, holding in his hand a spherical case-shot. Lincoln pressed the trigger. The crack followed, and the artillerist threw out his arms, and doubled over on his head without giving a kick.
The shot that he had held rolled out upon the green-sward. A wild cry, expressive of extreme astonishment, broke from the guerilleros. At the same instant a cheer rang through the corral.
“Well done!” cried a dozen of voices at once.
In a moment the rifle was wiped and reloaded.
“This time, Sergeant, the fellow with the linstock.”
During the reloading of the rifle, the Mexicans around the six-pounder had somewhat recovered from their surprise, and had rammed home the cartridge. A tall artillerist stood, with linstock and fuse, near the breech, waiting for the order to fire.
Before he received that order the rifle again cracked; his arm new up with a sudden jerk, and the smoking rod, flying from his grasp, was projected to the distance of twenty feet.
The man himself spun round, and, staggering a pace or two, fell into the arms of his comrades.
“Cap’n, jest allow me ter take that ere skunk next time.”
“Which one, Sergeant?” I asked.
“Him thet’s on the black, makin’ such a dot-rotted muss.”
I recognised the horse and figure of Dubrosc.
“Certainly, by all means,” said I, with a strange feeling at my heart as I gave the order.
But before Lincoln could reload, one of the Mexicans, apparently an officer, had snatched up the burning fuse, and, running up, applied it to the touch.
“On your faces, men!”
The ball came crashing through the thin pickets of the corral, and, whizzing across the inclosure, struck one of the mules on the flank, tearing open its hip, causing it to kick furiously as it tumbled over the ground.
Its companions, stampeding, galloped for a moment through the pen; then, collecting in a corner, stood cowered up and quivering. A fierce yell announced the exultation of the guerilleros.
Dubrosc was sitting on his powerful mustang, facing the corral, and watching the effects of the shot.
“If he wur only ’ithin range ov my own rifle!” muttered Lincoln, as he glanced along the sights of the strange piece.
The crack soon followed—the black horse reared, staggered, and fell back on his rider.
“Ten strike, set ’em up!” exclaimed a soldier.
“Missed the skunk!” cried Lincoln, gritting his teeth as the horseman was seen to struggle from under the fallen animal.
Rising to his feet, Dubrosc sprang out to the front, and shook his fist in the air with a shout of defiance.
The guerilleros galloped back; and the artillerists, wheeling the six-pounder, dragged it after, and took up a new position about three hundred yards farther to the rear.
A second shot from the piece again tore through the pickets, striking one of our men, and killing him instantly.
“Aim at the artillerists, Sergeant. We have nothing to fear from the others.”
Lincoln fired again. The shot hit the ground in front of the enemy’s gun; but, glancing, it struck one of the cannoniers, apparently wounding him badly, as he was carried back by his comrades.
The Mexicans, terror-struck at this strange instrument of destruction, took up a new position, two hundred yards still farther back.
Their third shot ricocheted, striking the top of the strong plank behind which the major was screening himself, and only frightening the latter by the shock upon the timber.
Lincoln again fired.
This time his shot produced no visible effect, and a taunting cheer from the enemy told that they felt themselves beyond range.
Another shot was fired from the zündnadel, apparently with a similar result.
“It’s beyond her carry, Cap’n,” said Lincoln, bringing the butt of his piece to the ground, with an expression of reluctant conviction.
“Try one more shot. If it fail, we can reserve the other for closer work. Aim high!”
This resulted as the two preceding ones; and a voice from the guerilleros was heard exclaiming:
“Yankees bobos! mas adelante!” (A little farther, you Yankee fools!)
Another shot from the six-pounder cracked through the planks, knocking his piece from the hands of a soldier, and shivering the dry stock-wood into fifty fragments.
“Sergeant, give me the rifle,” said I. “They must be a thousand yards off; but, as they are as troublesome with that carronade as if they were only ten, I shall try one more shot.”
I fired, but the ball sank at least fifty paces in front of the enemy.
“We expect too much. It is not a twenty-four pounder. Major, I envy you two things—your rifle and your horse.”
“Hercules?”
“Of course.”
“Lord, Captain! you may do what you will with the rifle; and if ever we get out of the reach of these infernal devils, Hercules shall be—.”
At this moment a cheer came from the guerilleros, and a voice was heard shouting above the din:
“La metralla! la metralla!” (The howitzer!)
I leaped upon the roof, and looked out upon the plain. It was true. A howitzer-carriage, drawn by mules, was debouching from the woods, the animals dragging it along at a gallop.
It was evidently a piece of some size, large enough to tear the light picketing that screened us to atoms.
I turned towards my men with a look of despair. My eye at this moment rested on the drove of mules that stood crowded together in a corner of the pen. A sudden thought struck me. Might we not mount them and escape? There were more than enough to carry us all, and the rancho was filled with bridles and ropes. I instantly leaped from the roof, and gave orders to the men.
“Speedily, but without noise!” cried I, as the soldiers proceeded to fling bridles upon the necks of the animals.
In five minutes each man, with his rifle slung, stood by a mule, some of them having buckled on tapadas, to prevent the animals from kicking.
The major stood ready by his horse.
“Now, my brave fellows,” shouted I in a loud voice, “we must take it cavalry fashion—Mexican cavalry, I mean.” The men laughed. “Once in the woods, we shall retreat no farther. At the words ‘Mount and follow’, spring to your seats and follow Mr Clayley. I shall look to your rear—don’t stop to fire—hold on well. If anyone fall, let his nearest comrade take him up. Ha! anyone hurt there?” A shot had whistled through the ranks. “Only a scratch,” was the reply.
“All ready, then, are you? Now, Mr Clayley, you see the high timber—make direct for that. Down with the bars! ‘Mount and follow’!”
As I uttered the last words, the men leaped to their seats; and Clayley, riding the bell-mule, dashed out of the corral, followed by the whole train, some of them plunging and kicking, but all galloped forward at the sound of the bell upon their guide.
As the dark cavalcade rushed out upon the prairie, a wild cry from the guerilleros told that this was the first intimation they had had of the singular ruse. They sprang to their saddles with yells, and galloped in pursuit. The howitzer, that had been trailed upon the corral, was suddenly wheeled about and fired; but the shot, ill-directed in their haste, whistled harmlessly over our heads.
The guerilleros, on their swift steeds, soon lessened the distance between us.
With a dozen of the best men I hung in the rear, to give the foremost of the pursuers a volley, or pick up any soldier who might be tossed from his mule. One of these, at intervals, kicked as only a Mexican mule can; and when within five hundred yards of the timber, his rider, an Irishman, was flung upon the prairie.
The rearmost of our party stopped to take him up. He was seized by Chane, who mounted him in front of himself. The delay had nearly been fatal. The pursuers were already within a hundred yards, firing their pistols and escopettes without effect. A number of the men turned in their seats and blazed back. Others threw their rifles over their shoulders, and pulled trigger at random. I could perceive that two or three guerilleros dropped from their saddles. Their comrades, with shouts of vengeance, closed upon us nearer and nearer. The long lazos, far in advance, whistled around our heads.
I felt the slippery noose light upon my shoulders. I flung out my arms to throw it off, but with a sudden jerk it tightened around my neck. I clutched the hard thong, and pulled with all my might. It was in vain.
The animal I rode, freed from my manège, seemed to plunge under me, and gather up its back with a vicious determination to fling me. It succeeded; and I was launched in the air, and dashed to the earth with a stunning violence.
I felt myself dragged along the gravelly ground. I grasped the weeds, but they came away in my hands, torn up by the roots. There was a struggle above and around me. I could hear loud shouts and the firing of guns. I felt that I was being strangled.
A bright object glistened before my eyes. I felt myself seized by a strong, rough hand, and swung into the air and rudely shaken, as if in the grasp of some giant’s arm.
Something twitched me sharply over the cheeks. I heard the rustling of trees. Branches snapped and crackled, and leaves swept across my face. Then came the flash—flash, and the crack—crack—crack of a dozen rifles, and under their blazing light I was dashed a second time with violence to the earth.
Note 1. Troop of guerillas, who in Spanish are properly guerilleros.
“Rough handlin’, Cap’n. Yer must excuse haste.”
It was the voice of Lincoln.
“Ha! in the timber? Safe, then!” ejaculated I in return.
“Two or three wounded—not bad neither. Chane has got a stab in the hip—he gin the feller goss for it. Let me louze the darned thing off o’ your neck. It kum mighty near chokin’ yer, Cap’n.”
Bob proceeded to unwind the noose end of a lazo that, with some six feet of a raw hide thong, was still tightly fastened around my neck.
“But who cut the rope?” demanded I.
“I did, with this hyur toothpick. Yer see, Cap’n, it warn’t yer time to be hung just yet.”
I could not help smiling as I thanked the hunter for my safety.
“But where are the guerilleros?” asked I, looking around, my brain still somewhat confused.
“Yander they are, keepin’ safe out o’ range o’ this long gun. Just listen to ’em!—what a hillerballoo!”
The Mexican horsemen were galloping out on the prairie, their arms glistening under the clear moonlight.
“Take to the trees, men!” cried I, seeing that the enemy had again unlimbered, and were preparing to discharge their howitzer.
In a moment the iron shower came whizzing through the branches without doing any injury, as each of the men had covered his body with a tree. Several of the mules that stood tied and trembling were killed by the discharge.
Another shower hurtled through the bushes, with a similar effect.
I was thinking of retreating farther into the timber, and was walking back to reconnoitre the ground, when my eye fell upon an object that arrested my attention. It was the body of a very large man lying flat upon his face, his head buried among the roots of a good-sized tree. The arms were stiffly pressed against his side, and his legs projected at full stretch, exhibiting an appearance of motionless rigidity, as though a well-dressed corpse had been rolled over on its face. I at once recognised it as the body of the major, whom I supposed to have fallen dead where he lay.
“Good heavens! Clayley, look here!” cried I; “poor Blossom’s killed!”
“No, I’ll be hanged if I am!” growled the latter, screwing his neck round like a lizard, and looking up without changing the attitude of his body. Clayley was convulsed with laughter. The major sheathed his head again, as he knew that another shot from the howitzer might soon be expected.
“Major,” cried Clayley, “that right shoulder of yours projects over at least six inches.”
“I know it,” answered the major, in a frightened voice. “Curse the tree!—it’s hardly big enough to cover a squirrel;” and he squatted closer to the earth, pressing his arms tighter against his sides. His whole attitude was so ludicrous that Clayley burst into a second yell of laughter. At this moment a wild shout was heard from the guerilleros.
“What next?” cried I, running toward the front, and looking out upon the prairie.
“Them wild-cats are gwine to cla’r out, Cap’n,” said Lincoln, meeting me. “I kin see them hitchin’ up.”
“It is as you say! What can be the reason?”
A strange commotion was visible in the groups of horsemen. Scouts were galloping across the plain to a point of the woods about half a mile distant, and I could see the artillerists fastening their mules to the howitzer-carriage. Suddenly a bugle rang out, sounding the “Recall”, and the guerilleros, spurring their horses, galloped off towards Medellin.
A loud cheer, such as was never uttered by Mexican throats, came from the opposite edge of the prairie; and looking in that direction I beheld a long line of dark forms debouching from the woods at a gallop. Their sparkling blades, as they issued from the dark forest, glistened like a cordon of fireflies, and I recognised the heavy footfall of the American horse. A cheer from my men attracted their attention; and the leader of the dragoons, seeing that the guerilleros had got far out of reach, wheeled his column to the right and came galloping down.
“Is that Colonel Rawley?” inquired I, recognising a dragoon officer.
“Why, bless my soul!” exclaimed he, “how did you get out? We heard you were jugged. All alive yet?”
“We have lost two,” I replied.
“Pah! that’s nothing. I came out expecting to bury the whole kit of you. Here’s Clayley, too. Clayley, your friend Twing’s with us; you’ll find him in the rear.”
“Ha! Clayley, old boy!” cried Twing, coming up; “no bones broken? all right? Take a pull; do you good—don’t drink it all, though—leave a thimbleful for Haller there. How do you like that?”
“Delicious, by Jove!” ejaculated Clayey, tugging away at the major’s flask.
“Come, Captain, try it.”
“Thank you,” I replied, eagerly grasping the welcome flask.
“But where is old Bios? killed, wounded, or missing?”
“I believe the major is not far off, and still uninjured.”
I despatched a man for the major, who presently came up, blowing and swearing like a Flanders trooper.
“Hilloa, Bios!” shouted Twing, grasping him by the hand.
“Why, bless me, Twing, I’m glad to see you!” answered Blossom, throwing his arms around the diminutive major. “But where on earth is your pewter?” for during the embrace he had been groping all over Twing’s body for the flask.
“Here, Cudjo! That flask, boy!”
“Faith, Twing, I’m near choked; we’ve been fighting all day—a devil of a fight! I chased a whole squad of the cursed scoundrels on Hercules, and came within a squirrel’s jump of riding right into their nest. We’ve killed dozens; but Haller will tell you all. He’s a good fellow, that Haller; but he’s too rash—rash as blazes! Hilloa, Hercules! glad to see you again, old fellow; you had a sharp brush for it.”
“Remember your promise, Major,” said I, as the major stood patting Hercules upon the shoulder.
“I’ll do better, Captain. I’ll give you a choice between Hercules and a splendid black I have. Faith! it’s hard to part with you, old Herky, but I know the captain will like the black better: he’s the handsomest horse in the whole army; bought him from poor Ridgely, who was killed at Monterey.”
This speech of the major was delivered partly in soliloquy, partly in an apostrophe to Hercules, and partly to myself.
“Very well, Major,” I replied. “I’ll take the black. Mr Clayley, mount the men on their mules: you will take command of the company, and proceed with Colonel Rawley to camp. I shall go myself for the Don.”
The last was said in a whisper to Clayley.
“We may not get in before noon to-morrow. Say nothing of my absence to anyone. I shall make my report at noon tomorrow.”
“And, Captain—” said Clayley.
“Well, Clayley?”
“You will carry back my—.”
“What? To which friend?”
“Of course, to Mary of the Light.”
“Oh, certainly!”
“In your best Spanish.”
“Rest assured,” said I, smiling at the earnestness of my friend.
I was about moving from the spot, when the thought occurred to me to send the company to camp under command of Oakes, and take Clayley along with me.
“Clayley, by the way,” said I, calling the lieutenant back, “I don’t see why you may not carry your compliments in person. Oakes can take the men back. I shall borrow half a dozen dragoons from Rawley.”
“With all my heart!” replied Clayley.
“Come, then; get a horse, and let us be off.”
Taking Lincoln and Raoul, with half a dozen of Rawley’s dragoons, I bade my friends good-night.
These started for camp by the road of Mata Cordera, while I with my little party brushed for some distance round the border of the prairie, and then climbed the hill, over which lay the path to the house of the Spaniard.
As I reached the top of the ridge I turned to look upon the scene of our late skirmish.
The cold, round moon, looking down upon the prairie of La Virgen, saw none of the victims of the fight.
The guerilleros in their retreat had carried off their dead and wounded comrades, and the Americans slept underground in the lone corral: but I could not help fancying that gaunt wolves were skulking round the inclosure, and that the claws of the coyote were already tearing up the red earth that had been hurriedly heaped over their graves.
A night-ride through the golden tropical forest, when the moon is bathing its broad and wax-like frondage—when the winds are hushed and the long leaves hang drooping and silent—when the paths conduct through dark aisles and arbours of green vine-leaves, and out again into bright and flowery glades—is one of those luxuries that I wish we could obtain without going beyond the limits of our own land.
But no. The romance of the American northern forest—the romance that lingers around the gnarled limbs of the oak, and the maple, and the elm—that sighs with the wintry wind high up among the twigs of the shining sycamore—that flits along the huge fallen trunks—that nestles in the brown and rustling leaves—that hovers above the bold cliff and sleeps upon the grey rock—that sparkles in the diamond stalactites of the frost, or glides along the bosom of the cold black river—is a feeling or a fancy of a far different character.
These objects—themselves the emblems of the stony and iron things of nature—call up associations of the darker passions: strange scenes of strife and bloodshed; struggles between red and white savages; and struggles hardly less fierce with the wild beasts of the forest. The rifle, the tomahawk, and the knife are the visions conjured up, while the savage whoop and the dread yell echo in your ear; and you dream of war.
Far different are the thoughts that suggest themselves as you glide along under the aromatic arbours of the American southern forest, brushing aside the silken foliage, and treading upon the shadows of picturesque palms.
The cocuyo lights your way through the dark aisles, and the nightingale cheers you with his varied and mimic song. A thousand sights and sounds, that seem to be possessed of some mysterious and narcotic power, lull you into silence and sleep—a sleep whose dream is love.
Clayey and I felt this as we rode silently along. Even the ruder hearts of our companions seemed touched by the same influence.
We entered the dark woods that fringed the arroyo, and the stream was crossed in silence. Raoul rode in advance, acting as our guide.
After a long silence Clayey suddenly awoke from his reverie and straightened himself up in the saddle.
“What time is it, Captain?” he inquired.
“Ten—a few minutes past,” answered I, holding my watch under the moonlight.
“I wonder if the Don’s in bed yet.”
“Not likely: he will be in distress; he expected us an hour ago.”
“True, he will not sleep till we come; all right then.”
“How all right then?”
“For our chances of a supper; a cold pasty, with a glass of claret. What think you?”
“I do not feel hungry.”
“But I do—as a hawk. I long once more to sound the Don’s larder.”
“Do you not long more to see—”
“Not to-night—no—that is until after supper. Everything in its own time and place; but a man with a hungry stomach has no stomach for anything but eating. I pledge you my word, Haller, I would rather at this moment see that grand old stewardess, Pepe, than the loveliest woman in Mexico, and that’s ‘Mary of the Light’.”
“Monstrous!”
“That is, until after I have supped. Then my feelings will doubtless take a turn.”
“Ah! Clayey, you can never love!”
“Why so, Captain?”
“With you, love is a sentiment, not a passion. You regard the fair blonde as you would a picture or a curious ornament.”
“You mean to say, then, that my love is ‘all in my eye’?”
“Exactly so, in a literal sense. I do not think it has reached your heart, else you would not be thinking of your supper. Now, I could go for days without food—suffer any hardship; but, no—you cannot understand this.”
“I confess not. I am too hungry.”
“You could forget—nay, I should not be surprised if you have already forgotten—all but the fact that your mistress is a blonde, with bright golden hair. Is it not so?”
“I confess, Captain, that I should make but a poor portrait of her from memory.”
“And, were I a painter, I could throw her features upon the canvas as truly as if they were before me. I see her face outlined upon these broad leaves—her dark eyes burning in the flash of the cocuyo—her long black hair drooping from the feathery fringes of the palm—and her—”
“Stop! You are dreaming, Captain! Her eyes are not dark—her hair is not black.”
“What! Her eyes not dark?—as ebony, or night!”
“Blue as a turquoise!”
“Black! What are you thinking of?”
“‘Mary of the Light’.”
“Oh, that is quite a different affair!” and my friend and I laughed heartily at our mutual misconceptions.
We rode on, again relapsing into silence. The stillness of the night was broken only by the heavy hoof bounding back from the hard turf, the jingling of spurs, or the ringing of the iron scabbard as it struck against the moving flanks of our horses.
We had crossed the sandy spur, with its chaparral of cactus and mezquite, and were entering a gorge of heavy timber, when the practised eye of Lincoln detected an object in the dark shadow of the woods, and communicated the fact to me.
“Halt!” cried I, in a low voice.
The party reined up at the order. A rustling was heard in the bushes ahead.
“Quien viva?” challenged Raoul, in the advance.
“Un amigo,” (A friend), was the response.
I sprang forward to the side of Raoul and called out:
“Acercate! acercate!” (Come near!)
A figure moved out of the bushes, and approached.
“Está el Capitan?” (Is it the captain?)
I recognised the guide given me by Don Cosmé.
The Mexican approached, and handed me a small piece of paper. I rode into an opening, and held it up to the moonlight; but the writing was in pencil, and I could not make out a single letter.
“Try this, Clayley. Perhaps your eyes are better than mine.”
“No,” said Clayley, after examining the paper. “I can hardly see the writing upon it.”
“Esperate mi amo!” (Wait, my master), said the guide, making me a sign. We remained motionless.
The Mexican took from his head his heavy sombrero, and stepped into a darker recess of the forest. After standing for a moment, hat in hand, a brilliant object shot out from the leaves of the palma redonda. It was the cocuyo—the great firefly of the tropics. With a low, humming sound it came glistening along at the height of seven or eight feet from the ground. The man sprang up, and with a sweep of his arm jerked it suddenly to the earth. Then, covering it with his hat, and inverting his hand, he caught the gleaming insect, and presented it to me with the ejaculation:
“Ya!” (Now!)
“No muerde,” (It does not bite), added he, as he saw that I hesitated to touch the strange, beetle-shaped insect.
I took the cocuyo in my hand, the green, golden fire flashing from its great round eyes. I held it up before the writing, but the faint glimmer was scarcely discernible upon the paper.
“Why, it would require a dozen of these to make sufficient light,” I said to the guide.
“No, Señor; uno basti—asi;” (No, sir; one is enough—thus); and the Mexican, taking the cocuyo in his fingers, pressed it gently against the surface of the paper. It produced a brilliant light, radiating over a circle of several inches in diameter!
Every point in the writing was plainly visible.
“See, Clayley!” cried I, admiring this lamp of Nature’s own making. “Never trust the tales of travellers. I have heard that half a dozen of these insects in a glass vessel would enable you to read the smallest type. Is that true?” added I, repeating what I had said in Spanish.
“No, Señor; ni cincuenta,” (No, sir; nor fifty), replied the Mexican.
“And yet with a single cocuyo you may. But we are forgetting—let us see what’s here.”
I bent my head to the paper, and read in Spanish:
“I have made known your situation to the American commander.”
There was no signature nor other mark upon the paper.
“From Don Cosmé?” I inquired, in a whisper to the Mexican.
“Yes, Señor,” was the reply.
“And how did you expect to reach us in the corral?”
“Asi,” (So), said the man, holding up a shaggy bull’s hide, which he carried over his arm.
“We have friends here, Clayley. Come, my good fellow, take this!” and I handed a gold eagle to the peon.
“Forward!”
The tinkling of canteens, the jingling of sabres, and the echo of bounding hoofs recommenced. We were again in motion, filing on through the shadowy woods.
Shortly after, we debouched from the forest, entering the open fields of Don Cosmé’s plantation. There was a flowery brilliance around us, full of novelty. We had been accustomed to the ruder scenes of a northern clime. The tropical moon threw a gauzy veil over objects that softened their outlines; and the notes of the nightingale were the only sounds that broke the stillness of what seemed a sleeping elysium.
Once a vanilla plantation, here and there the aromatic bean grew wild, its ground usurped by the pita-plant, the acacia, and the thorny cactus. The dry reservoir and the ruined acequia proved the care that had in former times been bestowed on its irrigation. Guardarayas of palms and orange-trees, choked up with vines and jessamines, marked the ancient boundaries of the fields. Clusters of fruit and flowers hung from the drooping branches, and the aroma of a thousand sweet-scented shrubs was wafted upon the night air. We felt its narcotic influence as we rode along. The helianthus bowed its golden head, as if weeping at the absence of its god; and the cereus spread its bell-shaped blossom, joying in the more mellow light of the moon.
The guide pointed to one of the guardarayas that led to the house. We struck into it, and rode forward. The path was pictured by the moonbeams as they glanced through the half-shadowing leaves. A wild roe bounded away before us, brushing his soft flanks against the rustling thorns of the mezquite.
Farther on we reached the grounds, and, halting behind the jessamines, dismounted. Clayley and myself entered the inclosure.
As we pushed through a copse we were saluted by the hoarse bark of a couple of mastiffs, and we could perceive several forms moving in front of the rancho. We stopped a moment to observe them.
“Quitate, Carlo! Pompo!” (Be off, Carlo! Pompo!) The dogs growled fiercely, barking at intervals.
“Papa, mandalos!” (Papa, order them off!)
We recognised the voices, and pressed forward.
“Afuera, malditos perros! abajo!” (Out of the way, wicked dogs!—down!) shouted Don Cosmé, chiding the fierce brutes and driving them back.
The dogs were secured by several domestics, and we advanced.
“Quien es?” inquired Don Cosmé.
“Amigos” (Friends), I replied.
“Papa! papa! es el capitan!” (Papa, it is the captain!) cried one of the sisters, who had run out in advance, and whom I recognised as the elder one.
“Do not be alarmed, Señorita,” said I, approaching.
“Oh! you are safe—you are safe!—papa, he is safe!” cried both the girls at once; while Don Cosmé exhibited his joy by hugging my comrade and myself alternately.
Suddenly letting go, he threw up his hands, and inquired with a look of anxiety:
“Y el señor gordo?” (And the fat gentleman?)
“Oh! he’s all right,” replied Clayley, with a laugh; “he has saved his bacon, Don Cosmé; though I imagine about this time he wouldn’t object to a little of yours.”
I translated my companion’s answer. The latter part of it seemed to act upon Don Cosmé as a hint, and we were immediately hurried to the dining-room, where we found the Dona Joaquina preparing supper.
During our meal I recounted the principal events of the day. Don Cosmé knew nothing of these guerilleros, although he had heard that there were bands in the neighbourhood. Learning from the guide that we had been attacked, he had despatched a trusty servant to the American camp, and Raoul had met the party coming to our rescue.
After supper Don Cosmé left us to give some orders relative to his departure in the morning. His lady set about preparing the sleeping apartments, and my companion and I were left for some time in the sweet companionship of Lupé and Luz.
Both were exquisite musicians, playing the harp and guitar with equal cleverness. Many a pure Spanish melody was poured into the delighted ears of my friend and myself. The thoughts that arose in our minds were doubtless of a similar kind; and yet how strange that our hearts should have been warmed to love by beings so different in character! The gay, free spirit of my comrade seemed to have met a responsive echo. He and his brilliant partner laughed, chatted, and sang in turns. In the incidents of the moment this light-hearted creature had forgotten her brother, yet the next moment she would weep for him. A tender heart—a heart of joys and sorrows—of ever-changing emotions, coming and passing like shadows thrown by straggling clouds upon the sun-lit stream!
Unlike was our converse—more serious. We may not laugh, lest we should profane the holy sentiment that is stealing upon us. There is no mirth in love. There are joy, pleasure, luxury; but laughter finds no echo in the heart that loves. Love is a feeling of anxiety—of expectation. The harp is set aside. The guitar lies untouched for a sweeter music—the music that vibrates from the strings of the heart. Are our eyes not held together by some invisible chain? Are not our souls in communion through some mysterious means? It is not language—at least, not the language of words; for we are conversing upon indifferent things—not indifferent, either. Narcisso, Narcisso—a theme fraternal. His peril casts a cloud over our happiness.
“Oh! that he were here—then we could be happy indeed.”
“He will return; fear not—grieve not; to-morrow your father will easily find him. I shall leave no means untried to restore him to so fond a sister.”
“Thanks! thanks! Oh! we are already indebted to you so much.”
Are those eyes swimming with love, or gratitude, or both at once? Surely gratitude alone does not speak so wildly. Could this scene not last for ever?
“Good-night—good-night!”
“Señores, pasan Vds. buena noche!” (Gentlemen, may you pass a pleasant night!)
They are gone, and those oval developments of face and figure are floating before me, as though the body itself were still present. It is the soft memory of love in all its growing distinctness!
We were shown to our sleeping apartments. Our men picketed their horses under the olives, and slept in the bamboo rancho, a single sentry walking his rounds during the night.
Note. Vds. Usted, contraction of Vuestra merced, “your grace”, usually written as Vd., is the polite form of address in Spanish.