I entered my chamber—to sleep? No. And yet it contained a bed fit for Morpheus—a bed canopied and curtained with cloth from the looms of Damascus: shining rods roofed upwards, that met in an ornamental design, where the god of sleep, fanned by virgins of silver, reclined upon a couch of roses.
I drew aside the curtains—a bank of snow—pillows, as if prepared for the cheek of a beautiful bride. I had not slept in a bed for two months. A close crib in a transport ship—a “shake-down” among the scorpions and spiders of Lobos—a single blanket among the sand-hills, where it was not unusual to wake up half-buried by the drift.
These were my souvenirs. Fancy the prospect! It certainly invited repose; and yet I was in no humour to sleep. My brain was in a whirl. The strange incidents of the day—some of them were mysterious—crowded into my mind. My whole system, mental as well as physical, was flushed; and thought followed thought with nervous rapidity.
My heart shared the excitement—chords long silent had been touched—the divine element was fairly enthroned. I was in love!
It was not the first passion of my life, and I easily recognised it. Even jealousy had begun to distil its poison—“Don Santiago!”
I was standing in front of a large mirror, when I noticed two small miniatures hanging against the wall—one on each side of the glass.
I bent over to examine, first, that which hung upon the right. I gazed with emotion. They were her features; “and yet,” thought I, “the painter has not flattered her; it might better represent her ten years hence: still, the likeness is there. Stupid artist!” I turned to the other. “Her fair sister, no doubt. Gracious heaven! Do my eyes deceive me? No, the black wavy hair—the arching brows—the sinister lip—Dubrosc!”
A sharp pang shot through my heart. I looked at the picture again and again with a kind of incredulous bewilderment; but every fresh examination only strengthened conviction. “There is no mistaking those features—they are his!” Paralysed with the shock, I sank into a chair, my heart filled with the most painful emotions.
For some moments I was unable to think, much less to act.
“What can it mean? Is this accomplished villain a fiend?—the fiend of my existence?—thus to cross me at every point, perhaps in the end to—.”
Our mutual dislike at first meeting—Lobos—his reappearance upon the sand-hills, the mystery of his passing the lines and again appearing with the guerilla—all came forcibly upon my recollection; and now I seized the lamp and rushed back to the pictures.
“Yes, I am not mistaken; it is he—it is she, her features—all—all. And thus, too!—the position—side by side—counterparts! There are no others on the wall; matched—mated—perhaps betrothed! His name, too, Don Emilio! The American who taught them English! His is Emile—the voice on the island cried ‘Emile!’ Oh, the coincidence is complete! This villain, handsome and accomplished as he is, has been here before me! Betrothed—perhaps married—perhaps—Torture! horrible!”
I reeled back to my chair, dashing the lamp recklessly upon the table. I know not how long I sat, but a world of wintry thoughts passed through my heart and brain. A clock striking from a large picture awoke me from my reverie. I did not count the hours. Music began to play behind the picture. It was a sad, sweet air, that chimed with my feelings, and to some extent soothed them. I rose at length, and, hastily undressing, threw myself upon the bed, mentally resolving to forget all—to forget that I had ever seen her.
“I will rise early—return to camp without meeting her, and, once there, my duties will drive away this painful fancy. The drum and the fife and the roar of the cannon will drown remembrance. Ha! it was only a passing thought at best—the hallucination of a moment. I shall easily get rid of it. Ha! ha!”
I laid my fevered cheek upon the soft, cold pillow. I felt composed—almost happy.
“A Creole of New Orleans! How could he have been here? Oh! have I not the explanation already? Why should I dwell on it?”
Ah, jealous heart—it is easy to say “forget!”
I tried to prevent my thoughts from returning to this theme. I directed them to a thousand things: to the ships—to the landing—to the army—to the soldiers—to the buttons upon their jackets and the swabs upon their shoulders—to everything I could think of: all in vain. Back, back, back! in painful throes it came, and my heart throbbed, and my brain burned with bitter memories freshly awakened.
I turned and tossed upon my couch for many a long hour. The clock in the picture struck, and played the same music again and again, still soothing me as before. Even despair has its moments of respite; and, worn with fatigue, mental as well as physical, I listened to the sad, sweet strain, until it died away into my dreams.
When I awoke all was darkness around me. I threw out my arms and opened the damask curtains. Not a ray of light entered the room. I felt refreshed, and from this I concluded I must have slept long. I slipped out upon the floor and commenced groping for my watch. Someone knocked.
“Come in!” I called.
The door opened, and a flood of light gushed into the apartment. It was a servant bearing a lamp.
“What is the hour?” I demanded.
“Nine o’clock, mi amo,” (my master), was the reply.
The servant set down the lamp and went out. Another immediately entered, carrying a salver with a small gold cup.
“What have you there?”
“Chocolate, master; Dona Joaquina has sent it.”
I drank off the beverage, and hastened to dress myself. I was reflecting whether I should pass on to camp without seeing any one of the family. Somehow, my heart felt less heavy. I believe the morning always brings relief to pain, either mental or bodily. It seems to be a law of nature—at least, so my experience tells me. The morning air, buoyant and balmy, dulls the edge of anguish. New hopes arise and new projects appear with the sun. The invalid, couch-tossing through the long watches of the night, will acknowledge this truth.
I did not approach the mirror. I dared not.
“I will not looked upon the loved, the hated face—no, on to the camp!—let Lethe—. Has my friend arisen?”
“Yes, master; he has been up for hours.”
“Ha! where is he?”
“In the garden, master.”
“Alone?”
“No, master; he is with the niñas.”
“Happy, light-hearted Clayley! No jealous thoughts to torture him!” mused I, as I buckled on my stock.
I had observed that the fair-haired sister and he were kindred spirits—sympathetic natures, who only needed to be placed en rapport to “like each other mightily”—beings who could laugh, dance, and sing together, romp for months, and then get married, as a thing of course; but, should any accident prevent this happy consummation, could say “good-bye” and part without a broken heart on either side; an easy thing for natures like theirs; a return exchange of numerous billets-doux, a laugh over the past, and a light heart for the future. Such is the history of many a love. I can vouch for it. How different with—
“Tell my friend, when he returns to the house, that I wish to see him.”
“Yes, master.”
The servant bowed and left the room.
In a few minutes Clayley made his appearance, gay as a grasshopper.
“So, good lieutenant, you have been improving your time, I hear?”
“Haven’t I, though? Such a delicious stroll! Haller, this is a paradise.”
“Where have you been?”
“Feeding the swans,” replied Clayley, with a laugh. “But, by the way, your chère amie hangs her pretty head this morning. She seems hurt that you have not been up. She kept constantly looking towards the house.”
“Clayley, will you do me the favour to order the men to their saddles?”
“What! going so soon? Not before breakfast, though?”
“In five minutes.”
“Why, Captain, what’s the matter? And such a breakfast as they are getting! Oh, Don Cosmé will not hear of it.”
“Don Cosmé—.”
Our host entered at that moment, and, listening to his remonstrances, the order was rescinded, and I consented to remain.
I saluted the ladies with as much courtesy as I could assume. I could not help the coldness of my manner, and I could perceive that with her it did not pass unobserved.
We sat down to the breakfast-table; but my heart was full of bitterness, and I scarcely touched the delicate viands that were placed before me.
“You do not eat, Captain. I hope you are well?” said Don Cosmé, observing my strange and somewhat rude demeanour.
“Thank, you, Señor, I never enjoyed better health.”
I studiously avoided looking towards her, paying slight attentions to her sister. This is the game of piques. Once or twice I ventured a side-glance. Her eyes were bent upon me with a strange, inquiring look.
They are swimming in tears, and soft, and forgiving. They are swollen. She has been weeping. That is not strange. Her brother’s danger is, no doubt, the cause of her sorrow.
Yet, is there not reproach in her looks? Reproach! How ill does my conduct of last night correspond with this affected coldness—this rudeness! Can she, too, be suffering?
I arose from the table, and, walking forth, ordered Lincoln to prepare the men for marching.
I strolled down among the orange-trees. Clayley followed soon after, accompanied by both the girls. Don Cosmé remained at the house to superintend the saddling of his mule, while Dona Joaquina was packing the necessary articles into his portmanteau.
Following some silent instinct, we—Guadalupe and I—came together. Clayley and his mistress had strayed away, leaving us alone. I had not yet spoken to her. I felt a strange impulse—a desire to know the worst. I felt as one looking over a fearful precipice.
Then I will brave the danger; it can be no worse than this agony of suspicion and suspense.
I turned towards her. Her head was bent to one side. She was crushing an orange-flower between her fingers, and her eyes seemed to follow the dropping fragments.
How beautiful was she at that moment!
“The artist certainly has not flattered you.”
She looked at me with a bewildered expression. Oh, those swimming eyes!
She did not understand me.
I repeated the observation.
“Señor Capitan, what do you mean?”
“That the painter has not done you justice. The portrait is certainly a likeness, yet the expression, I think, should have been younger.”
“The painter! What painter? The portrait! What portrait, Señor?”
“I refer to your portrait, which I accidentally found hanging in my apartment.”
“Ah! by the mirror?”
“Yes, by the mirror,” I answered sullenly.
“But, it is not mine, Señor Capitan.”
“Ha!—how? Not yours?”
“No; it is the portrait of my cousin, Maria de Merced. They say we were much alike.”
My heart expanded. My whole frame quivered under the influence of joyful emotions.
“And the gentleman?” I faltered out.
“Don Emilio? He was cousin’s lover—huyeron,” (they eloped).
As she repeated the last word she turned her head away, and I thought there was a sadness in her manner.
I was about to speak, when she continued:
“It was her room—we have not touched anything.”
“And where is your cousin now?”
“We know not.”
“There is a mystery,” thought I. I pressed the subject no farther. It was nothing to me now. My heart was happy.
“Let us walk farther, Lupita.”
She turned her eyes upon me with an expression of wonder. The change in my manner—so sudden—how was she to account for it? I could have knelt before her and explained all. Reserve disappeared, and the confidence of the preceding night was fully restored.
We wandered along under the guardarayas, amidst sounds and scenes suggestive of love and tenderness. Love! We heard it in the songs of the birds—in the humming of the bees—in the voices of all nature around us. We felt it in our own hearts. The late cloud had passed, making the sky still brighter than before; the reaction had heightened our mutual passion to the intensity of non-resistance; and we walked on, her hand clasped in mine. We had eyes only for each other.
We reached a clump of cocoa-trees; one of them had fallen, and its smooth trunk offered a seat, protected from the sun by the shadowy leaves of its fellows. On this we sat down. There was no resistance—no reasoning process—no calculation of advantages and chances, such as is too often mingled with the noble passion of love. We felt nothing of this—nothing but that undefinable impulse which had entered our hearts, and to whose mystical power neither of us dreamed of offering opposition. Delay and duty were alike forgotten.
“I shall ask the question now—I shall know my fate at once,” were my thoughts.
In the changing scenes of a soldier’s life there is but little time for the slow formalities, the zealous vigils, the complicated finesse of courtship. Perhaps this consideration impelled me. I have but little confidence in the cold heart that is won by a series of assiduities. There is too much calculation of after-events—too much selfishness.
These reflections passed through my mind. I bent towards my companion, and whispered to her in that language—rich above all others in the vocabulary of the heart:
“Guadalupe, tu me amas?” (Guadalupe, do you love me?)
“Yo te amo!” was the simple reply. Need I describe the joyful feelings that filled my heart at that moment? My happiness was complete.
The confession rendered her sacred in my eyes, and we sat for some time silent, enjoying that transport only known to those who have truly, purely loved.
The trampling of hoofs! It was Clayley at the head of the troop. They were mounted, and waiting for me. Don Cosmé was impatient; so was the Dona Joaquina. I could not blame them, knowing the cause.
“Ride forward! I shall follow presently.”
The horsemen filed off into the fields, headed by the lieutenant, beside whom rode Don Cosmé, on his white mule.
“You will soon return, Enrique?”
“I shall lose no opportunity of seeing you. I shall long for the hour more than you, I fear.”
“Oh! no, no!”
“Believe me yes, Lupita! Say again you will never cease to love me.”
“Never, never! Tuya—tuya—hasta la muerte!” (Yours—yours—till death!)
How often has this question been asked! How often answered as above!
I sprang into the saddle. A parting look—another from a distance—a wave of the hand—and the next moment I was urging my horse in full gallop under the shadowy palms.
I overtook my companions as they were entering the woods. Clayley, who had been looking back from time to time, brushed alongside, as if wishing to enter into conversation.
“Hard work, Captain, to leave such quarters. By Jove! I could have stayed for ever.”
“Come, Clayley—you are in love.”
“Yes; they who live in glass houses—. Oh! if I could only speak the lingo as you do!”
I could not help smiling, for I had overheard him through the trees making the most he could of his partner’s broken English. I was curious to know how he had sped, and whether he had been as ‘quick upon the trigger’ as myself. My curiosity was soon relieved.
“I tell you, Captain,” he continued, “if I could only have talked it, I would have put the question on the spot. I did try to get a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ out of her; but she either couldn’t or wouldn’t understand me. It was all bad luck.”
“Could you not make her understand you? Surely she knows English enough for that?”
“I thought so too; but when I spoke about love she only laughed and slapped me on the face with her fan. Oh, no; the thing must be done in Spanish, that’s plain; and you see I am going to set about it in earnest. She loaned me these.”
Saying this, he pulled out of the crown of his foraging-cap a couple of small volumes, which I recognised as a Spanish grammar and dictionary. I could not resist laughing aloud.
“Comrade, you will find the best dictionary to be the lady herself.”
“That’s true; but how the deuce are we to get back again? A mule-hunt don’t happen every day.”
“I fancy there will be some difficulty in it.”
I had already thought of this. It was no easy matter to steal away from camp—one’s brother-officers are so solicitous about your appearance at drills and parades. Don Cosmé’s rancho was at least ten miles from the lines, and the road would not be the safest for the solitary lover. The prospect of frequent returns was not at all flattering.
“Can’t we steal out at night?” suggested Clayley. “I think we might mount half a dozen of our fellows, and do it snugly. What do you say, Captain?”
“Clayley, I cannot return without this brother. I have almost given my word to that effect.”
“You have? That is bad! I fear there is no prospect of getting him out as you propose.”
My companion’s prophetic foreboding proved but too correct, for on nearing the camp we were met by an aide-de-camp of the commander-in-chief, who informed me that, on that very morning, all communication between the foreign ships of war and the besieged city had been prohibited.
Don Cosmé’s journey, then, would be in vain. I explained this, advising him to return to his family.
“Do not make it known—say that some time is required, and you have left the matter in my hands. Be assured I shall be among the first to enter the city, and I shall find the boy, and bring him to his mother in safety.”
This was the only consolation I could offer.
“You are kind, Capitan—very kind; but I know that nothing can now be done. We can only hope and pray.”
The old man had dropped into a bent attitude, his countenance marked by the deepest melancholy.
Taking the Frenchman, Raoul, along with me, I rode back until I had placed him beyond the danger of the straggling plunderer, when we shook hands and parted. As he left me, I turned to look after him. He still sat in that attitude that betokens deep dejection, his shoulders bent forward over the neck of his mule, while he gazed vacantly on the path. My heart sank at the spectacle, and, sad and dispirited, I rode at a lagging pace towards the camp.
Not a shot had as yet been fired against the town, but our batteries were nearly perfected, and several mortars were mounted and ready to fling in their deadly missiles. I knew that every shot and shell would carry death into the devoted city, for there was not a point within its walls out of range of a ten-inch howitzer. Women and children must perish along with armed soldiers; and the boy—he, too, might be a victim. Would this be the tidings I should carry to his home? And how should I be received by her with such a tale upon my lips? Already had I sent back a sorrowing father.
“Is there no way to save him, Raoul?”
“Captain?” inquired the man, starting at the vehemence of my manner.
A sudden thought had occurred to me.
“Are you well acquainted with Vera Cruz?”
“I know every street, Captain.”
“Where do those arches lead that open from the sea? There is one on each side of the mole.”
I had observed these when visiting a friend, an officer of the navy, on board his ship.
“They are conductors, Captain, to carry off the overflow of the sea after a norther. They lead under the city, opening at various places. I have had the pleasure of passing through them.”
“Ha! How?”
“On a little smuggling expedition.”
“It is possible, then, to reach the town by these?”
“Nothing easier, unless they may have a guard at the mouth; but that is not likely. They would not dream of anyone’s making the attempt.”
“How would you like to make it?”
“If the Captain wishes it, I will bring him a bottle of eau-de-vie from the Café de Santa Anna.”
“I do not wish you to go alone. I would accompany you.”
“Think of it, Captain; there is risk for you in such an undertaking. I may go safely. No one knows that I have joined you, I believe. If you are taken—.”
“Yes, yes; I know well the result.”
“The risk is not great, either,” continued the Frenchman, in a half-soliloquy. “Disguised as Mexicans, we might do it; you speak the language as well as I. If you wish it, Captain—.”
“I do.”
“I am ready, then.”
I knew the fellow well: one of those dare-devil spirits, ready for anything that promised adventure—a child of fortune—a stray waif tumbling about upon the waves of chance—gifted with head and heart of no common order—ignorant of books, yet educated in experience. There was a dash of the heroic in his character that had won my admiration, and I was fond of his company.
It was a desperate adventure—I knew that; but I felt stronger interest than common in the fate of this boy. My own future fate, too, was in a great degree connected with his safety. There was something in the very danger that lured me on to tempt it. I felt that it would be adding another chapter to a life which I have termed “adventurous.”
At night Raoul and I, disguised in the leathern dresses of two rancheros, stole round the lines, and reached Punta Hornos, a point beyond our own pickets. Here we “took the water”, wading waist-deep.
This was about ten o’clock. The tide was just setting out, and the night, by good fortune, was as dark as pitch.
As the swell rolled in we were buried to the neck, and when it rolled back again we bent forward; so that at no time could much of our bodies be seen above the surface.
In this manner, half wading, half swimming, we kept up to the town.
It was a toilsome journey, but the water was warm, and the sand on the bottom firm and level. We were strengthened—I at least—by hope and the knowledge of danger. Doubtless my companion felt the latter stimulant as much as I.
We soon reached the battlements of Santiago, where we proceeded with increased caution. We could see the sentry up against the sky, pacing along the parapet. His shrill cry startled us. We thought we had been discovered. The darkness alone prevented this.
At length we passed him, and came opposite the city, whose battlements rested upon the water’s edge.
The tide was at ebb, and a bed of black, weed-covered rocks lay between the sea and the bastion.
We approached these with caution, and, crawling over the slippery boulders, after a hundred yards or so found ourselves in the entrance of one of the conductors.
Here we halted to rest ourselves, sitting down upon a ledge of rock. We were in no more danger here than in our own tents, yet within twenty feet were men who, had they known our proximity, would have strung us up like a pair of dogs.
But our danger was far from lying at this end of the adventure.
After a rest of half an hour we kept up into the conductor. My companion seemed perfectly at home in this subterranean passage, walking along as boldly as if it had been brilliantly lighted with gas.
After proceeding some distance we approached a grating, where a light shot in from above.
“Can we pass out here?” I inquired.
“Not yet, Captain,” answered Raoul in a whisper. “Farther on.”
We passed the grating, then another and another, and at length reached one where only a feeble ray struggled downward through the bars.
Here my guide stopped, and listened attentively for several minutes. Then, stretching out his hand, he undid the fastening of the grate, and silently turned it upon its hinge. He next swung himself up until his head projected above ground. In this position he again listened, looking cautiously on all sides.
Satisfied at length that there was no one near, he drew his body up through the grating and disappeared. After a short interval he returned, and called down:
“Come, Captain.”
I swung myself up to the street. Raoul shut down the trap with care.
“Take marks, Captain,” whispered he; “we may get separated.”
It was a dismal suburb. No living thing was apparent, with the exception of a gang of prowling dogs, lean and savage, as all dogs are during a siege. An image, decked in all the glare of gaud and tinsel, looked out of a glazed niche in the opposite wall. A dim lamp burned at its feet, showing to the charitable a receptacle for their offerings. A quaint old steeple loomed in the darkness overhead.
“What church?” I asked Raoul.
“La Magdalena.”
“That will do. Now onward.”
“Buenas noches, Señor!” (good-night) said Raoul to a soldier who passed us, wrapped in his great-coat.
“Buenas noches!” returned the man in a gruff voice.
We stole cautiously along the streets, keeping in the darker ones to avoid observation. The citizens were mostly in their beds; but groups of soldiers were straggling about, and patrols met us at every corner.
It became necessary to pass through one of the streets that was brilliantly lighted. When about half-way up it a fellow came swinging along, and, noticing our strange appearance, stopped and looked after us.
Our dresses, as I have said, were of leather; our calzoneros, as well as jackets, were shining with the sea-water, and dripping upon the pavement at every step.
Before we could walk beyond reach, the man shouted out:
“Carajo! caballeros, why don’t you strip before entering the baño?”
“What is it?” cried a soldier, coming up and stopping us.
A group of his comrades joined him, and we were hurried into the light.
“Mil diablos!” exclaimed one of the soldiers, recognising Raoul; “our old friend the Frenchman! Parlez-vous français, Monsieur?”
“Spies!” cried another.
“Arrest them!” shouted a sergeant of the guard, at the moment coming up with a patrol, and we were both jumped upon and held by about a dozen men.
In vain Raoul protested our innocence, declaring that we were only two poor fishermen, who had wet our clothes in drawing the nets.
“It’s not a fisherman’s costume, Monsieur,” said one.
“Fishermen don’t usually wear diamonds on their knuckles,” cried another, snatching a ring from my finger.
On this ring, inside the circlet, were engraven my name and rank!
Several men, now coming forward, recognised Raoul, and stated, moreover, that he had been missing for some days.
“He must, therefore,” said they, “have been with the Yankees.”
We were soon handcuffed and marched off to the guard-prison. There we were closely searched, but nothing further was found, except my purse containing several gold eagles—an American coin that of itself would have been sufficient evidence to condemn me.
We were now heavily chained to each other, after which the guard left us to our thoughts. They could not have left us in much less agreeable companionship.
“I would not care a claco for my own life,” said Raoul, as the gate closed upon us, “but that you, Captain—hélas! hélas!” and the Frenchman groaned and sank upon the stone bench, dragging me down also.
I could offer no consolation. I knew that we should be tried as spies; and, if convicted—a result almost certain—we had not twenty hours to live. The thought that I had brought this brave fellow to such a fate enhanced the misery of my situation. To die thus ingloriously was bitter indeed. Three days ago I could have spent my life recklessly; but now, how changed were my feelings! I had found something worth living to enjoy; and to think I should never again—“Oh! I have become a coward!” I cursed my rashness bitterly.
We passed the night in vain attempts at mutual consolation. Even our present sufferings occupied us. Our clothes were wet through, and the night had become piercingly cold. Our bed was a bench of stone; and upon this we lay as our chains would allow us, sleeping close together to generate warmth. It was to us a miserable night; but morning came at last, and at an early hour we were examined by the officer of the guard.
Our court-martial was fixed for the afternoon, and before this tribunal we were carried, amidst the jeers of the populace. We told our story, giving the name of the boy Narcisso, and the house where he was lodged. This was verified by the court, but declared to be a ruse invented by my comrade—whose knowledge of the place and other circumstances rendered the thing probable enough. Raoul, moreover, was identified by many of the citizens, who proved his disappearance coincident with the landing of the American expedition. Besides, my ring and purse were sufficient of themselves to condemn us—and condemned we were. We were to be garrotted on the following morning!
Raoul was offered life if he would turn traitor and give information of the enemy. The brave soldier indignantly spurned the offer. It was extended to me, with a similar result.
All at once I observed a strange commotion among the people. Citizens and soldiers rushed from the hall, and the court, hastily pronouncing our sentence, ordered us to be carried away. We were seized by the guard, pulled into the street, and dragged back towards our late prison. Our conductors were evidently in a great hurry. As we passed along we were met by citizens running to and fro, apparently in great terror—women and children uttering shrieks and suddenly disappearing behind walls and battlements. Some fell upon their knees, beating their breasts and praying loudly. Others, clasping their infants, stood shivering and speechless.
“It is just like the way they go in an earthquake,” remarked Raoul, “but there is none. What can it be, Captain?”
Before I could reply, the answer came from another quarter.
Far above, an object was hissing and hurtling through the air.
“A shell from ours! Hurrah!” cried Raoul.
I could scarcely refrain from cheering, though we ourselves might be the victims of the missile.
The soldiers who were guarding us had flung themselves down behind walls and pillars, leaving us alone in the open street!
The bomb fell beyond us, and, striking the pavement, burst. The fragments went crashing through the side of an adjoining house; and the wail that came back told how well the iron messengers had done their work. This was the second shell that had been projected from the American mortars. The first had been equally destructive; and hence the extreme terror of both citizen and soldier. Every missile seemed charged with death.
Our guard now returned and dragged us onward, treating us with increased brutality. They were enraged at the exultation visible in our manner; and one, more ferocious than the rest, drove his bayonet into the fleshy part of my comrade’s thigh. After several like acts of inhumanity, we were thrown into our prison and locked up as before.
Since our capture we had tasted neither food nor drink, and hunger and thirst added to the misery of our situation.
The insult had maddened Raoul, and the pain of his wound now rendered him furious. He had not hands to touch it or dress it. Frenzied by anger and pain to a strength almost superhuman, he twisted off his iron manacles, as if they had been straws. This done, the chain that bound us together was soon broken, and our ankle “jewellery” followed.
“Let us live our last hours, Captain, as we have our lives, free and unfettered!”
I could not help admiring the spirit of my brave comrade.
We placed ourselves close to the door and listened.
We could hear the heavy cannonade all around, and now and then the distant shots from the American batteries. We would wait for the bursting of the bombs, and, as the hoarse thunder of crumbling walls reached our ears, Raoul would spring up, shouting his wild, half-French, half-Indian cries.
A thought occurred to me.
“We have arms, Raoul.” I held up the fragments of the heavy chain that had yoked us. “Could you reach the trap on a run, without the danger of mistaking your way?”
Raoul started.
“You are right, Captain—I can. It is barely possible they may visit us to-night. If so, any chance for life is better than none at all.”
By a tacit understanding each of us took a fragment of the chain—there were but two—and sat down by the door to be ready in case our guards should open it. We sat for over an hour, without exchanging a word. We could hear the shells as they burst upon the housetops, the crashing of torn timbers, and the rumbling of walls rolling over, struck by the heavy shot. We could hear the shouts of men and the wailing of women, with now and then a shriek louder than all others, as some missile carried death into the terror-struck crowd.
“Sacre!” said Raoul; “if they had only allowed us a couple of days, our friends would have opened these doors for us. Sacr–r–r–e!”
This last exclamation was uttered in a shriek. Simultaneously a heavy object burst through the roof, tearing the bricks and plaster, and falling with the ring of iron on the floor.
Then followed a deafening crash. The whole earth seemed to shake, and the whizzing of a thousand particles filled the air. A cloud of dust and lime, mixed with the smoke of sulphur, was around us. I gasped for breath, nearly suffocated. I endeavoured to cry out, but my voice, husky and coarse, was scarcely audible to myself. I succeeded at length in ejaculating:
“Raoul! Raoul!”
I heard the voice of my comrade, seemingly at a great distance. I threw out my arms and groped for him. He was close by me, but, like myself, choking for want of air.
“It was a shell,” said he, in a wheezing voice, “Are you hurt, Captain?”
“No,” I replied; “and you?”
“Sound as a bell—our luck is good—it must have struck every other part of the cell.”
“Better it had not missed us,” said I, after a pause; “we are only spared for the garrotte.”
“I am not so sure of that, Captain,” replied my companion, in a manner that seemed to imply he had still hopes of an escape.
“Where that shell came in,” he continued, “something else may go out. Let us see—was it the roof?”
“I think so.”
We groped our way hand in hand towards the centre of the room, looking upwards.
“Peste!” ejaculated Raoul; “I can’t see a foot before me—my eyes are filled—bah!”
So were mine. We stood waiting. The dust was gradually settling down, and we could perceive a faint glimmer from above. There was a large hole through the roof!
Slowly its outlines became defined, and we could see that it was large enough to pass the body of a man; but it was at least fourteen feet from the floor, and we had not timber enough to make a walking-stick!
“What is to be done? We are not cats, Raoul. We can never reach it!”
My comrade, without making a reply, lifted me up in his arms, telling me to climb. I mounted upon his shoulders, balancing myself like a Bedouin; but with my utmost stretch I could not touch the roof.
“Hold!” cried I, a thought striking me. “Let me down, Raoul. Now, if they will only give us a little time.”
“Never fear for them; they’ve enough to do taking care of their own yellow carcases.”
I had noticed that a beam of the roof formed one side of the break, and I proceeded to twist our handcuffs into a clamp, while Raoul peeled off his leather breeches and commenced, tearing them into strips. In ten minutes our “tackle” was ready, and, mounting upon my comrade’s shoulders, I flung it carefully at the beam. It failed to catch, and I came down to the floor, my balance being lost in the effort. I repeated the attempt. Again it failed, and I staggered down as before.
“Sacre!” cried Raoul through his teeth. The iron had struck him on the head.
“Come, we shall try and try—our lives depend upon it.”
The third attempt, according to popular superstition, should be successful. It was so with us. The clamp caught, and the string hung dangling downwards. Mounting again upon my comrade’s shoulders, I grasped the thong high up to test its hold. It was secure; and, cautioning Raoul to hold fast lest the hook might be detached by my vibration, I climbed up and seized hold of the beam. By this I was enabled to squeeze myself through the roof.
Once outside I crawled cautiously along the azotea, which, like all others in Spanish houses, was flat, and bordered by a low parapet of mason-work. I peeped over this parapet, looking down into the street. It was night, and I could see no one below; but up against the sky, upon distant battlements, I could distinguish armed soldiers busy around their guns. These blazed forth at intervals, throwing their sulphureous glare over the city.
I returned to assist Raoul, but, impatient of my delay, he had already mounted, and was dragging up the thong after him.
We crawled from roof to roof, looking for a dark spot to descend into the street. None of the houses in the range of our prison were more than one story high, and, after passing several, we let ourselves down into a narrow alley. It was still early, and the people were running to and fro, amidst the frightful scenes of the bombardment. The shrieks of women were in our ears, mingled with the shouts of men, the groans of the wounded, and the fierce yelling of an excited rabble. The constant whizzing of bombs filled the air, and parapets were hurled down. A round-shot struck the cupola of a church as we passed nearly under it, and the ornaments of ages came tumbling down, blocking up the thoroughfare. We clambered over the ruins and went on. There was no need of our crouching into dark shadows. No one thought of observing us now.
“We are near the house—will you still make the attempt to take him along?” inquired Raoul, referring to the boy Narcisso.
“By all means! Show me the place,” replied I, half-ashamed at having almost forgotten, in the midst of our own perils, the object of our enterprise.
Raoul pointed to a large house with portals and a great door in the centre.
“There, Captain—there it is.”
“Go under that shadow and wait. I shall be better alone.”
This was said in a whisper. My companion did as directed.
I approached the great door and knocked boldly.
“Quien?” cried the porter within the saguan.
“Yo,” I responded.
The door was opened slowly and with caution.
“Is the Señorito Narcisso within?” I inquired.
The man answered in the affirmative.
“Tell him a friend wishes to speak with him.”
After a moment’s hesitation the porter dragged himself lazily up the stone steps. In a few seconds the boy—a fine, bold-looking lad, whom I had seen during our trial—came leaping down. He started on recognising me.
“Hush!” I whispered, making signs to him to be silent. “Take leave of your friends, and meet me in ten minutes behind the church of La Magdalena.”
“Why, Señor,” inquired the boy without listening, “how have you got out of prison? I have just been to the governor on your behalf, and—.”
“No matter how,” I replied, interrupting him; “follow my directions—remember your mother and sisters are suffering.”
“I shall come,” said the boy resolutely.
“Hasta luego!” (Lose no time then). “Adios!”
We parted without another word. I rejoined Raoul, and we walked on towards La Magdalena. We passed through the street where we had been captured on the preceding night, but it was so altered that we should not have known it. Fragments of walls were thrown across the path, and here and there lay masses of bricks and mortar freshly torn down.
Neither patrol nor sentry thought of troubling us now, and our strange appearance did not strike the attention of the passengers.
We reached the church, and Raoul descended, leaving me to wait for the boy. The latter was true to his word, and his slight figure soon appeared rounding the corner. Without losing a moment we all three entered the subterranean passage, but the tide was still high, and we had to wait for the ebb. This came at length, and, clambering over the rocks, we entered the surf and waded as before. After an hour’s toil we reached Punta Hornos, and a little beyond this point I was enabled to hail one of our own pickets, and to pass the lines in safety.
At ten o’clock I was in my own tent—just twenty-four hours from the time I had left it, and, with the exception of Clayley, not one of my brother officers knew anything of our adventure.
Clayley and I agreed to “mount” a party the next night and carry the boy to his friends. This we accordingly did, stealing out of camp after tattoo. It would be impossible to describe the rejoicing of our new acquaintances—the gratitude lavishly expressed—the smiles of love that thanked us.
We should have repeated our visits almost nightly; but from that time the guerilleros swarmed in the back-country, and small parties of our men, straggling from camp, were cut off daily. It was necessary, therefore, for my friend and myself to chafe under a prudent impatience, and wait for the fall of Vera Cruz.
The “City of the True Cross” fell upon the 29th of March, 1847, and the American flag waved over the castle of San Juan de Ulloa. The enemy’s troops marched out upon parole, most of them taking their way to their distant homes upon the table-lands of the Andes.
The American garrison entered the town, but the body of our army encamped upon the green plains to the south.
Here we remained for several days, awaiting the order to march into the interior.
A report had reached us that the Mexican forces, under the celebrated Santa Anna, were concentrating at Puente Nacional; but shortly after it was ascertained that the enemy would make his next stand in the pass of the Cerro Gordo, about half-way between Vera Cruz and the mountains.
After the surrender of the city we were relieved from severe duty, and Clayley and I, taking advantage of this, resolved upon paying another stolen visit to our friends.
Several parties of light horse had been sent out to scour the country, and it had been reported that the principal guerilla of the enemy had gone farther up towards the Puente Nacional. We did not, therefore, anticipate any danger from that source.
We started after nightfall, taking with us three of our best men—Lincoln, Chane, and Raoul. The boy Jack was also of the party. We were mounted on such horses as could be had. The major had kept his word with me, and I bestrode the black—a splendid thoroughbred Arab.
It was a clear moonlight, and as we rode along we could not help noticing many changes.
War had left its black mark upon the objects around. The ranchos by the road were tenantless—many of them wrecked, not a few of them entirely gone; where they had stood, a ray of black ashes marking the outline of their slight walls. Some were represented by a heap of half-burned rubbish still smoking and smouldering.
Various pieces of household furniture lay along the path torn or broken—articles of little value, strewed by the wanton hand of the ruthless robber. Here a petaté, or a palm hat—there a broken olla; a stringless bandolon, the fragments of a guitar crushed under the angry heel, or some flimsy articles of female dress cuffed into the dust; leaves of torn books—misas, or lives of the Santisima Maria—the labours of some zealous padre; old paintings of the saints, Guadalupe, Remedios, and Dolores—of the Niño of Guatepec—rudely torn from the walls and perforated by the sacrilegious bayonet, flung into the road, kicked from foot to foot—the dishonoured penates of a conquered people.
A painful presentiment began to harass me. Wild stories had lately circulated through the army—stories of the misconduct of straggling parties of our soldiers in the back-country. These had stolen from camp, or gone out under the pretext of “beef-hunting.”
Hitherto I had felt no apprehension, not believing that any small party would carry their foraging to so distant a point as the house of our friends. I knew that any detachment, commanded by an officer, would act in a proper manner; and, indeed, any respectable body of American soldiers, without an officer. But in all armies, in war-time, there are robbers, who have thrown themselves into the ranks for no other purpose than to take advantage of the licence of a stolen foray.
We were within less than a league of Don Cosmé’s rancho, and still the evidence of ruin and plunder continued—the evidence, too, of a retaliatory vengeance; for on entering a glade, the mutilated body of a soldier lay across the path. He was upon his back, with open eyes glaring upon the moon. His tongue and heart were cut out, and his left arm had been struck off at the elbow-joint. Not ten steps beyond this we passed another one, similarly disfigured. We were now on the neutral ground.
As we entered the forest my forebodings became painfully oppressive. I imparted them to Clayley. My friend had been occupied with similar thoughts.
“It is just possible,” said he, “that nobody has found the way. By heavens!” he added, with an earnestness unusual in his manner, “I have been far more uneasy about the other side—those half-brigands and that villain Dubrosc.”
“On! on!” I ejaculated, digging the spurs into the flanks of my horse, who sprang forward at a gallop.
I could say no more. Clayley had given utterance to my very thoughts, and a painful feeling shot through my heart.
My companions dashed after me, and we pressed through the trees at a reckless pace.
We entered an opening. Raoul, who was then riding in the advance, suddenly checked his horse, waving on us to halt. We did so.
“What is it, Raoul?” I asked in a whisper.
“Something entered the thicket, Captain.”
“At what point?”
“There, to the left;” and the Frenchman pointed in this direction. “I did not see it well; it might have been a stray animal.”
“I seed it, Cap’n,” said Lincoln, closing up; “it wur a mustang.”
“Mounted, think you?”
“I ain’t confident; I only seed its hips. We were a-gwine too fast to get a good sight on the critter; but it wur a mustang—I seed that cl’ar as daylight.”
I sat for a moment, hesitating.
“I kin tell yer whether it wur mounted, Cap’n,” continued the hunter, “if yer’ll let me slide down and take a squint at the critter’s tracks.”
“It is out of our way. Perhaps you had better,” I added, after a little reflection. “Raoul, you and Chane dismount and go with the sergeant. Hold their horses, Jack.”
“If yer’ll not object, Cap’n,” said Lincoln, addressing me in a whisper, “I’d rayther go ’ithout kump’ny. Thar ain’t two men I’d like, in a tight fix, better’n Rowl and Chane; but I hev done a smart chance o’ trackin’ in my time, an’ I allers gets along better when I’m by myself.”
“Very well, Sergeant; as you wish it, go alone. We shall wait for you.”
The hunter dismounted, and having carefully examined his rifle, strode off in a direction nearly opposite to that where the object had been seen.
I was about to call after him, impatient to continue our journey; but, reflecting a moment, I concluded it was better to leave him to his “instincts”. In five minutes he had disappeared, having entered the chaparral.
We sat in our saddles for half an hour, not without feelings of impatience. I was beginning to fear that some accident had happened to our comrade, when we heard the faint crack of a rifle, but in a direction nearly opposite to that which Lincoln had taken.
“It’s the sergeant’s rifle, Captain,” said Chane.
“Forward!” I shouted; and we dashed into the thicket in the direction whence the report came.
We had ridden about a hundred yards through the chaparral, when we met Lincoln coming up, with his rifle shouldered.
“Well?” I asked.
“’Twur mounted, Cap’n—’tain’t now.”
“What do you mean, Sergeant?”
“That the mustang hed a yeller-belly on his back, and that he hain’t got ne’er a one now, as I knows on. He got cl’ar away from me—that is, the mustang. The yeller-belly didn’t.”
“What! you haven’t—?”
“But I hev, Cap’n. I had good, soun’ reason.”
“What reason?” I demanded.
“In the first place, the feller wur a gurillye; and in the next, he wur an outpost picket.”
“How know you this?”
“Wal, Cap’n, I struck his trail on the edge of the thicket. I knowed he hedn’t kum fur, as I looked out for sign whar we crossed the crik bottom, an’ seed none. I tuk the back track, an’ soon come up with him under a big button-wood. He had been thar some time, for the ground wur stamped like a bullock-pen.”
“Well?” said I, impatient to hear the result.
“I follered him up till I seed him leanin’ for’ard on his horse, clost to the track we oughter take. From this I suspicioned him; but, gettin’ a leetle closter, I seed his gun an’ fixin’s strapped to the saddle. So I tuk a sight, and whumelled him. The darned mustang got away with his traps. This hyur’s the only thing worth takin’ from his carcage: it wudn’t do much harm to a grizzly b’ar.”
“Good heaven!” I exclaimed, grasping the glittering object which the hunter held towards me; “what have you done?”
It was a silver-handled stiletto. I recognised the weapon. I had given it to the boy Narcisso.
“No harm, I reckin, Cap’n?”
“The man—the Mexican? How did he look?—what like?” I demanded anxiously.
“Like?” repeated the hunter. “Why, Cap’n, I ’ud call him as ugly a skunk as yer kin skeer up any whar—’ceptin’ it mout be among the Digger Injuns; but yer kin see for yurself—he’s clost by.”
I leaped from my horse, and followed Lincoln through the bushes. Twenty paces brought us to the object of our search, upon the border of a small glade. The body lay upon its back, where it had been flung by the rearing mustang. The moon was shining full upon the face. I stooped down to examine it. A single glance was sufficient. I had never seen the features before. They were coarse and swart, and the long black locks were matted and woolly. He was a zambo; and, from the half-military equipments that clung around his body, I saw that he had been a guerillero. Lincoln was right.
“Wal, Cap’n,” said he, after I had concluded my examination of the corpse, “ain’t he a picter?”
“You think he was waiting for us?”
“For us or some other game—that’s sartin.”
“There’s a road branches off here to Medellin,” said Raoul, coming up.
“It could not have been for us: they had no knowledge of our intention to come out.”
“Possibly enough, Captain,” remarked Clayley in a whisper to me. “That villain would naturally expect us to return here. He will have learned all that has passed: Narcisso’s escape—our visits. You know he would watch night and day to trap either of us.”
“Oh, heavens!” I exclaimed, as the memory of this man came over me; “why did I not bring more men? Clayley, we must go on now. Slowly, Raoul—slowly, and with caution—do you hear.”
The Frenchman struck into the path that led to the rancho, and rode silently forward. We followed in single file, Lincoln keeping a look-out some paces in the rear.