The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales
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“Come!” cried he, in a hoarse and tremulous voice. “Come with me, Henry, I need you.”
“What is it, my dear L – ? A quarrel? A duel?”
“No! no! nothing of the sort. Come! come! come! I will show you a sight that will make a wolf of you. Haste! For God’s sake, haste!”
I hurried on my clothes.
“Bring your arms!” cried L – ; “you may require them.”
I buckled on my sword and pistol-belt, and followed hastily into the street. We ran down the Calle Correo toward the Alameda. It was the road to the Convent of San Francisco, where our regiment had quartered for the night. As yet I knew not for what I was going. Could the enemy have attacked us? No – all was quiet. The people were in their beds. What could it be? L – had not, and would not, explain; but to my inquiries, continually cried, “Haste – come on!” We reached the convent, and, hastily passing the guard, made for the quarters occupied by my friend. As we entered the room – a large one – I saw five or six females, with about a dozen men, soldiers and officers. All were excited by some unusual occurrence. The females were Mexicans, and their heads were muffled in their rebozos. Some were weeping aloud, others talking in strains of lamentation. Among them I distinguished the face of my friend’s betrothed.
“Dearest Rafaela!” cried L – , throwing his arms around her – “it is my friend. Here, Henry, look here! look at this!”
As he spoke, he raised the rebozo, and gently drew back her long black hair. I saw blood upon her cheeks and shoulders! I looked more closely. It flowed from her ears.
“Her ears! O God! they have been cut off!”
“Ay, ay,” cried L – , hoarsely; and dropping the dark tresses, again threw his arms around the girl, and kissed away the tears that were rolling down her cheeks – while uttering expressions of endearment and consolation.
I turned to the other females; they were all similarly mutilated; some of them even worse, for their foreheads, where the U.S. had been freshly burned upon them, were red and swollen. Excepting Rafaela, they were all of the “poblana” class – the laundresses – the mistresses of the soldiers.
The surgeon was in attendance, and in a short time all was done that could be done for wounds like these.
“Come!” cried L – , addressing those around him, “we are wasting time, and that is precious; it is near midnight. The horses will be ready by this, and the rest will be waiting; come Henry, you will go? You will stand by us?”
“I will, but what do you intend?”
“Do not ask us, my friend, you will see presently.”
“Think, my dear L – ,” said I, in a whisper; “do not act rashly.”
“Rashly! there is no rashness about me – you know that. A cowardly act, like this, cannot be revenged too soon. Revenge! what am I talking of? It is not revenge, but justice. The men who could perpetrate this fiendish deed are not fit to live on the earth, and by Heavens! not one of them shall be alive by the morning. Ha, dastards! they thought we were gone; they will find their mistake. Mine be the responsibility, – mine the revenge. Come, friends! come!” And so saying L – led the way, holding his betrothed by the hand. We all followed out of the room, and into the street.
On reaching the Alameda, a group of dark objects was seen among the trees. They were horses and horsemen; there were about thirty of the latter, and enough of the former to mount the party who were with L – . I saw from their size that the horses were of our own troops, with dragoon saddles. In the hurry L – had not thought of saddles for our female companions; but the oversight was of no consequence. Their habitual mode of riding was à la Duchesse de Berri, and in this way they mounted. Before summoning me, L – had organised his band – they were picked men. In the dim light I could see dragoon and infantry uniforms, men in plain clothes, followers of the army, gamblers, teamsters, Texans, desperadoes, ready for just such an adventure. Here and there I could distinguish the long-tailed frock – the undress of the officer. The band, in all, mustered more than forty men.
We rode quietly through the streets, and, issuing from the gate of Nino Perdido, took the road for San Angel. As we proceeded onward I gathered a more minute account of what had transpired at the village. As soon as our division had evacuated it, a mob of thirty or forty ruffians had proceeded to the houses of those whom they termed “Ayankeeados,” and glutted their cowardly vengeance on their unfortunate victims. Some of these had been actually killed in attempting to resist; others had escaped to the Pedregal which runs close to the village; while a few – Rafaela among the number – after submitting to a terrible atrocity, had fled to the city for protection.
On hearing the details of these horrid scenes, I no longer felt a repugnance in accompanying my friend. I felt as he did, that men capable of such deeds were “not fit to live,” and we were proceeding to execute a sentence that was just, though illegal. It was not our intention to punish all; we could not have accomplished this, had we so willed it. By the testimony of the girls, there were five or six who had been the promoters and ringleaders of the whole business. These were well known to one or other of the victims, as in most instances it had been some old grudge for which they had been singled out, as objects of this cowardly vengeance. In Rafaela’s case it was a ruffian who had once aspired to her hand, and had been rejected. Jealousy had moved the fiend to this terrible revenge.
It is three leagues from Mexico to San Angel. The road runs through meadows and fields of magueys. Except the lone pulqueria, at the corner where a cross path leads to the hacienda of Narvarte, there is not a house before reaching the bridge of Coyoacan. Here there is a cluster of buildings – “fabricas” – which, during the stay of our army, had been occupied by a regiment. Before arriving at this point we saw no one; and here, only people who, waked from their sleep by the tread of our horses, had not the curiosity to follow us.
San Angel is a mile further up the hill. Before entering the village we divided into five parties, each to be guided by one of the girls. L – ’s vengeance was especially directed towards the ci-devant lover of his betrothed. She herself knowing his residence, was to be our guide.
Proceeding through narrow lanes, we arrived in a suburb of the village, and halted before a house of rather stylish appearance. We had dismounted outside the town, leaving our horses in charge of a guard. It was very dark, and we clustered around the door. One knocked – a voice was heard from within – Rafaela recognised it as that of the ruffian himself. The knock was repeated, and one of the party who spoke the language perfectly, called out: —
“Open the door! Open, Don Pedro!”
“Who is it?” asked the voice.
“Yo,” (I) was the simple reply.
This is generally sufficient to open the door of a Mexican house, and Don Pedro was heard within, moving toward the “Saguan.”
The next moment the great door swung back on its hinges, and the ruffian was dragged forth. He was a swarthy fierce-looking fellow – from what I could see in the dim light – and made a desperate resistance, but he was in the hands of men who soon overpowered and bound him. We did not delay a moment, but hurried back to the place where we had left our horses. As we passed through the streets, men and women were running from house to house, and we heard voices and shots in the distance. On reaching our rendezvous we found our comrades, all of whom had succeeded in making their capture.
There was no time to be lost; there might be troops in the village – though we saw none – but whether or not, there were “leperos” enough to assail us. We did not give them time to muster. Mounting ourselves and our prisoners we rode off at a rapid pace, and were soon beyond the danger of pursuit.
Those who have passed through the gate Nino Perdido will remember that the road leading to San Angel runs, for nearly a mile, in a straight line, and that, for this distance, it is lined on both sides with a double row of large old trees. It is one of the drives (paseos) of Mexico. Where the trees end, the road bends slightly to the south. At this point a cross road strikes off to the pueblito of Piedad, and at the crossing there is a small house, or rather a temple, where the pious wayfarer kneels in his dusty devotions. This little temple, the residence of a hermitical monk, was uninhabited during our occupation of the valley, and, in the actions that resulted in the capture of the city, it had come in for more than its share of hard knocks. A battery had been thrown up beside it, and the counter-battery had bored the walls of the temple with round shot. I never passed this solitary building without admiring its situation. There was no house nearer it than the aforementioned “tinacal” of Narvarte, or the city itself. It stood in the midst of swampy meadows, bordered by broad plats of the green maguey, and this isolation, together with the huge old trees that shadowed and sang over it, gave the spot an air of romantic loneliness.
On arriving under the shadow of the trees, and in front of the lone temple, our party halted by order of their leader. Several of the troopers dismounted, and the prisoners were taken down from their horses. I saw men uncoiling ropes that had hung from their saddle-bows, and I shuddered to think of the use that was about to be made of them.
“Henry,” said L – , riding up to me and speaking in a whisper, “they must not see this.” – He pointed to the girls. – “Take them some distance ahead and wait for us; we will not be long about it, I promise.”
Glad of the excuse to be absent from such a scene, I put spurs to my horse, and rode forward, followed by the females of the party. On reaching the circle near the middle of the paseo I halted.
It was quite dark, and we could see nothing of those we had left behind us. We could hear nothing – nothing but the wind moaning high up among the branches of the tall poplars; but this, with the knowledge I had of what was going on so near me, impressed me with an indescribable feeling of sadness.
L – had kept his promise; he was not long about it.
In less than ten minutes the party came trotting up, chatting gaily as they rode, but their prisoners had been left behind.
As the American army moved down the road to Vera Cruz, many travelling carriages were in its train. In one of these were a girl and a grey-haired old man. Almost constantly during the march a young officer might be seen riding by this carriage, conversing through the windows with its occupants within.
A short time after the return troops landed at New Orleans, a bridal party were seen to enter the old Spanish cathedral; the bridegroom was an officer who had lost an arm. His fame and the reputed beauty of the bride had brought together a large concourse of spectators.
“She loved me,” said L – to me on the morning of this his happiest day; “she loved me in spite of my mutilated limb, and should I cease to love her because she has – no, I see it not; she is to me the same as ever.”
And there were none present who saw it; few were there who knew that under those dark folds of raven hair were the souvenirs of a terrible tragedy.
The Mexican government behaved better to the Ayankeeados than was expected. They did not confiscate the property; and L – is now enjoying his fortune in a snug hacienda, somewhere in the neighbourhood of San Angel.
Story 4
The Broken Bitt
Several months after our army had made its fighting entrée into the capital of Mexico, the regiment known as the “Texan Rangers” arrived in that city. (Note. By our army is understood the American forces.) I am not very certain but that their approach, peaceful as it was, created almost as much terror in the minds of the inhabitants, as our sword-in-hand entrance had occasioned three months before. The name “Tejano” in the ears of a Mexican, sounded with a fearful emphasis, as Goth might have done to a Roman, or Cossack to a plain Christian. Many of them thought they would now be called upon to answer for the sins of Santa Anna, for the treason of Santa Fé, the slaughter of the Alamo, and the battue at Goliad. In the midst of this ludicrous consternation, the Texans rode quietly into the piazza, and breaking up into squadrons, filed off to their respective quarters. In a few hours the minds of the Mexicans became once more tranquil. They were not to be plundered, after all!
I shall never forget the appearance of the Texan Rangers as they pulled up in the Plazza – I could not call the movement a halt. If I live, I shall make an attempt to describe it. I say an attempt, for, to do justice to that ragged coup d’oeil is beyond the privilege of the pen. The brush might do it, handled by a Hogarth; and had that excellent artist been in my place, there and then, we might have had a picture that would have drawn laughter so long as paint and canvas stuck together. Here we have no room for details. One point, however, must be noted, as it relates to our subject – the horses – for be it known, the Rangers were mounted men. Instead of the large cavalry horses which the government had put under them some six months before, each ranger now straddled a scraggy mustang, his boot-heel, with its rusty spur raking the ground as he rode along. What had become of the original “mount”? That was the question, which was answered thus: – The regiment had just made its march of several hundred leagues through the enemy’s country, halting at various places. During the halts, the rich haciendados coveting the fine steeds of Kentucky – colossal when compared with their own gingery jennets – offered freely for them. A series of “swops” had been the consequence. The Texan, at a horse trade keen as the edge of his bowie, took anything that could carry a saddle, at the same time receiving a “mighty heap” of dollars to square the exchange. In this way they had brought themselves down to the ill-conditioned nags upon which they made their first appearance in the capital. Strange to say, these grew fat in a trice, although they were constantly on the scout; seldom idle long enough to let their backs get dry. There was no rest for the Rangers. One week riding fifty leagues to capture Santa Anna; the next, after Paredes, or the robbers of the Cerro; the next, on the trail of the Padre Jarauta; and yet, despite this journeying and fatigue, it was observed by every one that the Rangers’ horses, though still only mustangs, became as fat and plump as if they had been standing all the time with their heads in a corn-crib. It was wonderful to see horses thus fattening upon hard work!
Some endeavoured to account for it, by insinuating that they were not the same cattle upon which the regiment was mounted on its arrival – that the “swopping system” was still practised along the road, and frequently with only one party present at the “trade.” There were such insinuations I remember well. Perhaps they were slanders, perhaps not. I leave it a question of inference.
About this time I was told of a splendid mare that was in the possession of one of the Rangers. Of course she was for sale. I wished just then to obtain such an animal; so, drawing three months’ pay (being in all about 300 dollars), I rode over to the Texan quarters – intending, if the mare pleased me, to make a bid.
She was led out, and proved to be worthy of her reputation – a large brown Arabian, with jet black legs and sweeping tail, while her head and neck were graceful as an antelope’s.
While examining her, I noticed a small brand upon her left hind flank. I observed at the same time that some diligence had been used to render the mark “unswearable.” After a little puzzling and adjusting of hair, I made out the letter C.
“What is this?” I asked.
“It er the mark of a hot iron. Yer can see that, kint ye?”
“I can; but this mare is no mustang?”
“Aint a mustang neyther,” responded the Ranger, whittling away at a strop of leather which he held in his hand, and seeming utterly indifferent to everything else.
“Why, then, has she been marked?” I inquired. “It is not usual for Americans to brand their horses, excepting those that belong to the government. Then they’re branded U.S.; this mark is a C.”
“Well, then, stranger, if you must know all about it, the mar’ wur tuk from our people on the grand, by that ar chapparil fox Canales. He burned in that ‘C.’ C stands for Canales, I reckin.”
“That’s true, and for many other names as well. But how did you get her back again?”
“Wagh! we kumd upon Canales an’ his yellerbellies, an’ tuk her from them ag’in, afore the singed bar had done smokin’. Now er yer satisfied?”
I was not. It is true, the story was probable enough. The mare was not Mexican, that was plain. The horse of that country is of a peculiar race, and is as easily distinguished from the English or American Arab, as a sheep is from a goat. Still she bore a Mexican mark, and had been in the possession of some of these people. She might have been, as the Ranger stated, one of our own horses captured and recaptured on the upper line; but I had not observed any such animal with the Texans on their arrival; and as I had heard that the ricos of Mexico had, from time to time, imported blood stock from England and the United States, I feared that she might prove to be one of these. The voice of the Texan interrupted my reflection.
“The critter’s Kaintuck,” continued he – “true Kaintuck. She wur brought down on the Grand, by a lootenant at the breakin’ out o’ this hyar muss. She were at Paler Alter, an’ at Monterey, an’ Bony Yeesty; and at that Hashendy, the time as Dan Drake rid the hundred-mile gallop on Cash Clay’s mar’. Old Kaintuck she er, an’ nothin’ else. They don’t raise such cattle in these hyar diggins, I reckin’. Yee-up, old gal; hold up yer corn-trap; thar’s money bid for ye!”
At the end of this curious monologue, the mare threw up her head and neighed long and loudly.
“Come, my man,” said I, “what’s the meaning of that?”
The neigh was peculiar, and struck me as that of a mare who had been recently separated from her colt.
“She’s a whigherin’ for a hoss, that’s hyar,” answered the Ranger coolly. “They haint been separate a half-an-hour for more ’n a yar, I reckin’. Hev they, Bill?”
“That they haint,” replied the man appealed to, one of a crowd of Texans who had gathered around us.
“They’re in the same kumpny, an’ rid in the same file,” continued the owner of the mare. “She won’t bear that ar leetle hoss out o’ her sight a minit. One o’ the boys hes tuk him out to water. That’s why she whighers, aint it, Bill?”
“’Taint nothin’ else,” replied the confrère.
“But,” said I, “it is strange I did not see this mare when you first came up. I was in the Piazza, and took particular notice of your horses. I think I should have remarked such a fine-looking animal as this.”
“Look hyar, stranger,” answered the Texan, somewhat irritated by this cross-questioning. “I brought this mar’ up the road along with the raygyment. If yer want to buy her, yer kin do it, by givin’ a fair vally for her. If yer don’t, there’s no bones broke, an’ I don’t care a nigger’s dam. If I only take her out to the Palaza, I kin git my axin’ from one o’ these Mexikins in the twinklin’ o’ a goat’s eye. Can’t I, Bill?”
“Yes, siree,” responded Bill.
“Yer say ye didn’t see her when we kum up. That aint nothin’ strange. She war kivered with sweat an’ dust, inch deep; besides, she wur thin then as old bull in enow time. She aint to say fat yit, but she’s improved some, I reckin’. Aint she, Bill?”
“A dog-goned heap,” was the ready response of Bill. I was so taken with the appearance of the beautiful creature, that I determined to run the risk, and purchase her. I might have to give her up again to some gentleman claiming his property; but, thought I, I can easily recover my money, as the Ranger will be glad to pay it back to me, rather than spend his time in the guardhouse.
“How much?” I asked, having made up my mind to buy.
“The zact figger yer want?”
“Yes, the exact figure.”
“Two-fifty: cheap enough, I reckin’. Aint it, Bill?”
“Dog cheap,” was the laconic answer. I offered two hundred. It wouldn’t do. The cunning Ranger saw that I was “bound” to have her, and stood up to his first asking. I raised my bid to two hundred and twenty-five.
“Won’t take a picayune less nor two-fifty. She’s a’mighty cheap at it. She er the finest mar’ in all Mexiko. That’s sartin.”
After a while, I saw that the man was inexorable; and, drawing out my purse, I counted down the required amount. A bill of sale, which was signed by the Ranger, and witnessed by his comrade, Bill, completed the “trade,” and the mare was forthwith transferred to my quarters. Under the nimble brush and comb of my Mexican groom, Vicente, she soon became the most admired piece of horseflesh that made its appearance on the Pasáo.
About ten days after, a party of us (we had nothing to do at the time) came to the resolve to visit Real del Monte, a rich silver-mine in the mountains that skirt the north-east of the valley. A division of our army was stationed there, and some of our old comarados had sent us an “invite” to come up and explore the mines – adding that two or three very hospitable English haciendados lived in that neighbourhood.
We could not resist, and consequently made ready to start. There were eight or ten of us in all, who had asked and obtained leave; and as we intended to include in our excursion the old town of Tezcoco and the pyramids of Teotihuacan – a guerilla neighbourhood – we borrowed a score of dragoons to escort us. I had resolved to try my new purchase upon the road on this occasion.
The morning of our departure arrived, and I was about to throw my leg over the saddle, when I was accosted by a small, spare man, with the salutation —
“Buenas dias, capitan!”
There was nothing in the words strange or unusual, nor, indeed, in the individual who pronounced them; but there was something in the manner of this gentleman that told me at once he had some business with me.
“Well, señor,” I asked, “what is it?”
The stranger hesitated for a moment, and then looking at the mare, replied, “La yegua, capitan.”
“The mare – well, what of her?” I asked, with a beating heart.
“I regret to inform you, captain, that you have purchased a stolen horse;” and the little man bowed politely as he said it.
Had it been an order from the commander-in-chief, placing me under arrest, I should not have been so much vexed at it. I had grown so fond of this animal that I would cheerfully have paid down another two hundred and fifty rather than part with her, and this I saw plainly I would now have to do.
“Stolen!” I echoed involuntarily.
“Yes, captain, it is true.”
“And from whom? From you, sir?”
“No, captain; from Don Miguel Castro.”
“And you?”
“I am his agent – his mayorazgo– nothing more.”
“Don Miguel Castro,” thought I. “Yes – C for Castro – yes, all as he says, no doubt of it. I must give up the mare.”
“Well, my dear sir,” I asked, after a pause, “how am I to know that your statement is true?”
“Here, captain – here is the certificate of Señor Smeeth.” Saying this, the little man handed me a folded document, on opening which I found it to be a bill of sale delivered by the celebrated Joe Smith, of Mexican horse-dealing notoriety, and describing the property to a hair.
“This seems quite correct,” I observed, returning the bill; “but it will be necessary for you to prove this claim before the commander-in-chief; and when that is done I shall deliver you your mare. Adios, caballero!”
So saying, I rode off to overtake my companions, determined, since I must part with the animal, first to have one good ride out of her.
We spent about a week in the mountains, enjoying every amusement that our friends could provide for us. We found the English haciendados worthy of their reputation. What a contrast between the cheer of their Saxon hospitality and the cold welcome of the selfish Iberian! But we approached the limits of our “leave,” and must get back to duty and the city. After a parting and a promise to return, we leaped once more to the saddle, and headed our horses homeward.