The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales
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The tableau should have gratified; – it tortured me!
I turned away to escape from an emotion – evil, as it was unpleasant.
I walked over the ground, lately the arena of the enemy’s camp, among other tents that stood near. There were not many of them. Arbours formed by the interlacing of branches, and thatched with reeds and grass, had constituted the chief shelter of Santa Anna’s soldiers.
His superior officers only had been provided with tents, of which not more than a dozen were now standing.
Several of them I entered. They were not all empty, though their living occupants had deserted them. Three or four I found tenanted by the dead. Stretched upon catres, or lying upon the floor, were the bodies of men whose uniforms showed them to have been officers of high rank.
One lay so near to the entrance of a tent, that the moonbeams, slanting inward through the opening of the canvas, fell full upon his face. He was a man of magnificent form, with a countenance that even in death might be termed handsome. His complexion was a dark olive, his features perfectly regular, with a coal-black moustache and chin-beard. His dress was half civilian, half military, with insignia embroidered upon the shoulder-straps, proclaiming him a general of division. His name I learnt afterwards, Vasquez, one of the bravest of our foes, who had gallantly held his position on the hill of El Telegrafo till the last moment for retreating. A bullet through the groin terminated what might otherwise have been a brilliant career; and he had been carried to his tent only to die.
No attempt had been made to dress his wound. It was perhaps looked upon as hopeless; and in the panic of retreat even an officer of rank is oft neglected. Over the groin his trousers had been torn open, as if done to examine the wound, and the sky-blue cloth, of which the garment was composed, was saturated with blood, now dark and dry. Its salt odour pervaded the atmosphere, and I was about returning outward; for, attracted by the distinguished appearance of the dead body, I had stepped inside the tent to examine it; when a singular, I might say a startling, observation, caused me to remain where I was.
The corpse lay upon its back, the head about midway upon the floor of the tent, with the feet protruding beyond the canvas on the outside, a little to one side of the entrance. It was the feet, in fact, first seen, that had drawn my attention; and the peculiar chaussure which they displayed caused me to stoop down and examine them. They were encased in elegant russet boots – such as were worn in the time of the second Charles, and now only seen upon the stage. A pair of bright spurs buckled over them, sparkled in the moonlight.
Had I not looked inside at the body, to which this singular chaussure belonged, I might have fancied a cavalier of the olden time asleep within the tent; but the very oddness of the foot-gear influenced me to examine the individual to whom it appertained.
Stepping up to the entrance, my eyes had fallen upon the handsome face; but as my own shadow hindered me from thoroughly examining it, I had gone inside to obtain a better view.
It was after I had completed the observations above detailed that I became witness of the spectacle that startled me.
As I have said, I was on the point of returning out of the tent. To do so it would be necessary for me to pass close to the corpse, in fact, to step over it, as I had done on going inside. As I raised my foot to effect this purpose, I fancied that the body moved!
In surprise I drew back my foot, and stood watching, not without a feeling of fear.
The feeling was not diminished, but increased almost to the degree of horror, when I became convinced that what I saw was no fancy – no optical illusion. The body had actually moved, and was still in motion!
Had I not observed the motion, the change of posture would have convinced me it was taking place: for the head, originally lying in the middle of the tent, was now nearer its edge, and gradually, but surely, approaching the circle of canvas!
All doubt would have been removed – had any existed – when I saw the corpse give, or rather receive, a sudden jerk, which brought the head close in to the canvas.
I could stay no longer inside that tent; and with a single bound I carried myself clear of the entrance.
No sooner did I get outside, than I was relieved from the influence of the supernatural. A perfectly natural – perhaps I should say unnatural – cause divested the phenomenon of its mystery. A man was in the act of stripping General Vasquez of his boots!
With shame I recognised the uniform of an American rifleman.
In justice to that uniform be it told, that the man was not an American, but a worthless mongrel, half Jew, half German; who on more than one occasion had received chastisement for strange crimes, and who afterwards, in a future battle – as I have good reason to know – fired his traitorous bullet at my own back.
“Laundrich! ruffian!” I cried. “Despoiling the dead!”
“Ach! tish only a Mexican – our enemish, captan.”
“Scoundrel! desist from your unhallowed work, or I shall devote you to a worse fate than his whose noble remains you are defiling. Off to your quarters! Off, I say!”
The human wolf skulked away, unwillingly, and with an air of savage chagrin.
I never came nearer slaying a fellow creature – not to accomplish the act.
Better, perhaps, had I completed it on that occasion. It would have spared me a severe shot-wound, afterwards received, with certain other disagreeable contretemps, of which Johanna Laundrich was prime agent and promoter.
Story 1, Chapter VIII
A Pleasant Explanation
The peculiar spectacle thus witnessed for a while distracted my thoughts from the marquee and its occupants.
Only for a short while. Soon again the lovely face of Lola rose up before the eye of my imagination; and the longing to look upon it became stronger than ever.
Yielding to this fascination – for which I could scarcely account – I strolled back to the ci-devant head-quarters of the Mexican commander-in-chief.
On arriving in front of the entrance I paused.
Had the invalid been still asleep, I might have hesitated about disturbing him. But his voice warned me that he was awake, and in conversation with some one – who, of course, could be no other than Lola.
Even then I hesitated about going in; but while thus meditating, I could not help overhearing a portion of the dialogue that was passing between them. A name already known was on the lips of Calros, from which I could easily divine the subject of their conversation. It was the name of Ramon Rayas.
“Yes, dearest Lola,” said the invalid, as if replying to some interrogatory, “it was that villain. Not content with persecuting you with his infamous proposals, he has followed me, even to the field of battle? He would have killed me outright. Carrambo! I thought he had done so. I saw him standing over me with his macheté pointed at my breast. I was too weak to make resistance. I could not raise a hand to parry his thrust. He did not strike. I know not why. There was a shot; and then I saw him standing over me again, with a pistol, its muzzle held close to my body. Valga me Dios! I saw no more. I became unconscious.”
“Dear Calros! it was not Rayas who held the pistol.”
“Not him! – not Ramon Rayas. It was, Lola. I saw him. I heard and talked to him. I listened to his threats. He wanted me to tell him – Oh! too surely was it he – he, and no other.”
“Yes, he who threatened you with the macheté. That’s true enough; but the man who held the pistol – that was not Don Ramon; not an enemy either, though I also thought him one.”
“And who was it?” asked the invalid, with a puzzled look upon his countenance.
“The Americano– he who has had you carried here into the tent.”
“Which of them? There were several around me. Was it the medico who dressed my wound? He must be a doctor to have done it so skilfully.”
“No, it was not he.”
“Which, then, Lola?”
“You saw an officer among them, did you not? – a handsome young officer?”
My heart then thrilled with a pleasant emotion. I bent my eyes with keen scrutiny upon the face of the invalid. I expected to see there an expression denoting jealousy. I thought it strange that no such thought could be detected on the features of Calros Vergara.
“He must be brave, too,” continued the girl, “to have conquered the Capitan Rayas.”
“Conquered Rayas! How? What mean you, Lola?”
“You see those spots of blood on your shirt-bosom? There were others on your face, but I have washed them off. I thought it was yours, Calros.”
“And is it not?”
“No. This is fresh blood, as you may tell by looking at it. It is not yet quite dried. Thanks to the holy Virgin, it is not yours; to lose more would have killed you, Calros; the medico said so.”
“Carrambo! whose is it then?”
“Don Ramon’s.”
“How? Tell me, Lola!”
“You say he was threatening to run you through with his macheté. You heard a shot? It was not Ramon, but the young officer, who fired it; and the bullet was aimed at Rayas himself, and not at you. It must have hit him, for his macheté was found beside you, the hilt stained with blood; and these drops must have come from the wound he received. Ah! dear brother Calros! but for this brave Americano you would now have been in another world, and I left in this, alone, and without a protector.”
Brother Calros!
A load seemed lifted from my heart; the arrow, so lately entering it, and already beginning to rankle, appeared to be suddenly plucked from it without causing pain.
Brother Calros!
No longer did I wonder at the stoical indifference with which the Jarocho had listened to that flattering eulogy bestowed upon myself.
“No, Lola Vergara” – for that should be her name – “No! Never in this world, so long as I live, shall you, beautiful Jarocha, be without a protector!”
That was my thought, my mental resolution. I could scarcely restrain myself from rushing into the tent, and proclaiming it aloud!
Story 1, Chapter IX
Evil Imaginings
My discovery of the real relationship existing between Calros and Lola at once cured me of an incipient jealousy, which, though slight, had promised to become sufficiently painful.
Its very existence, however, would have proved to me that I was already in love, had such proof been required to convince me.
But I needed not to reason on that head. I knew that I was enamoured with Lola Vergara – had fallen in love with her at first sight – at that very moment when her accusing eyes flashed fiercely upon me, and through her dazzling teeth was hissed forth that angry epithet, proclaiming me a murderer! In the full tide of anger, with frowning face and furious look, had she appeared lovely – scarcely less lovely than now in her smiles!
I had since beheld these. She smiled on learning that Calros was in no danger of death. She smiled on me as the preserver of his life, gratefully – I fancied graciously. On that fancy I had founded a hope; and hence the jealousy that had so quickly and causelessly arisen.
The hope became strengthened on hearing that fraternal apostrophe, “Hermanita Calros!” pronounced in a language unequalled in the phraseology of affectionate endearment.
The words bespoke a relationship far different from that I had supposed to exist between them – leaving her bosom free for another affection – a passion compatible, if not kindred.
Was it my destiny to inspire this passion? Was that grand triumph to be mine?
Her singular speeches, not very honestly overheard, filled me with hope.
I hesitated about entering the tent. I no longer desired to interrupt a dialogue that had caused me such supreme pleasure; and yet I yearned to proffer my devotion – to stand once more face to face, and eye to eye, with the beautiful Jarocha.
In any case I could not continue to play the part of an eavesdropper. I could now perceive the indelicacy of the act – especially as my satisfied heart no longer needed soothing.
I must either enter, or withdraw. I decided upon entering.
But not till I had set my forage-cap more coquettishly upon my head, drawn my fingers through my hair, and given to my moustache its most captivating curl.
I confess to all this weakness. I was at that time full of conceit in my personal appearance. I had heard the phrase, “handsome young officer,” applied to me by one from whose lips dropped the words like the honey of Hymettus; and, inspired by the flattering epithet, I left nothing undone to deserve it.
Nevertheless I felt embarrassed, as I presented myself once more before the lovely Lola – an embarrassment heightened by the presence of her brother.
Wonder at this, if you will. It is too easily explained. I entered the tent with the consciousness of a design that was not honourable. I stood before them both – the sister and brother – with a conscience not clear. At that moment – I confess it to my shame – I had no other thought than that of trifling with the affections of the beautiful Jarocha.
She was but a peasant – one of a race, it is true, to whom the appellation is somewhat inappropriate – a people, though poor, elegant in person, graceful in deportment, highly gifted with the savoir faire, as it relates to the ordinary intercourse of life – at the same time a people in whose pantheon the divinity, Virtue, finds but an inconspicuous niche.
Neither the first nor the last of these reflections may be deemed an excuse for my conduct. I do not offer them as such, though both serving at the time to satisfy my conscience.
Its scruples were not difficult to subdue. Its still small voice was unheard, or rather unheeded, under the promptings of a powerful, but unholy passion, of which Lola Vergara was then the object, and as I hoped, afterwards to become the victim.
She was but a peasant, a pretty poblana– perhaps already inducted into the mysteries of Cupid’s court: for it would be rare for one of her race to have reached woman’s age without loving. The sister of a common soldier – for such was the rank of Calros – what harm could be done? What wrong could I be dreaming about?
I did not need all this sophistry to satisfy the whisperings of my conscience. At that time of my life the task was easy of accomplishment – too easy; and with such a lure as Lola Vergara it was less than a task.
I made no effort to resist the temptation. On the contrary, I devoted myself to the winning of her heart with all the ardour of an important enterprise.
It was her heart I wished to win, and that only. I wished it because she had won mine. I deny that I had any design beyond – any thought more dishonourable. That of itself may be deemed sufficiently so, since I had no intention of offering her my hand.
Her love alone did I care for; though I will not conceal my belief, that, in the event of conquering her heart, any other conquest would be facile and without resistance.
This was my faith at the time – a faith founded on sad experience. I applied it to Lola Vergara, as I should have done to any other girl under the like circumstances.
The future would prove whether my creed was erroneous as it was dishonourable.
I entered the tent. She, whose affections I intended trifling with, rose from her seat, saluting me, as I stepped forward, with an air of modesty that might have shamed my secret thoughts. Her glance was full of gratitude. How ill did I deserve it!
“Señor,” said she, after answering my inquiries as to the condition of the invalid, “I hope you will forgive me for the rude manner in which I addressed you. Volga me Dios! To have made such a mistake! I thought you had killed my brother, not knowing when I saw you standing over him. O señor! you will forgive me?”
“There is nothing to forgive, fair Lola. Considering the situation, you could scarcely have thought otherwise. Fortunately, no one has succeeded in killing your brother; not even the American rifleman who sent his bullet through him. I am glad to hear that the wound is not dangerous.”
“Ah, señor,” interposed Calros himself, “but for you – Lola has just been telling me – but for you I should have had a wound, not only dangerous, but deadly. That cortante (the Jarocho pointed to the blood-stained weapon lying on the floor of the tent) would have pierced my flesh – my heart. I know it; I am sure of it. He meant to have killed me! El demonio!”
“You are speaking of Ramon Rayas?”
“Of him! – pardon, señor Americano. You cannot know anything of him? How learnt you his name?”
“From your own lips, Calros Vergara; and your name from his. From both of you a name prettier than either.”
I glanced towards Lola, who returned my look with a gracious smile.
Calros looked puzzled; as if not very clearly comprehending me.
“You forget,” I said, “that in the conversation which occurred between you and this Ramon Rayas, you repeatedly addressed each other by name; and also mentioned a third individual, whose acquaintance I have since had the pleasure of making – your sister, is she not?”
“Si, ñor capitan. Ña Lola is my sister.”
“She is worthy to be your sister, señor Calros. She who follows a brother to the field of battle – seeks for him among the slain – risking life to alleviate the pain of his wounds – ah! that is a sister for a soldier. Would that I had such an one!”
While speaking I regarded the countenance of the girl. I regarded it with a tender gaze. I fancied that she returned my thought, but so slightly as to have been perceptible only to the keen scrutiny of love. It was only a single glance she gave me; and then the long lashes fell over her eyes, hiding their sweet scintillation.
When I had finished speaking, she turned towards me, but without raising her eyes. Then pronouncing the formal phrase, “Mil gracius señor” she stepped silently towards the entrance of the tent.
Before passing out, she paused a moment to state apologetically the object of her departure – some trifling errand relating to the invalid.
But for this I might have fancied that my flattery had offended, or perhaps the glance of gallantry with which I had regarded her. Even had it been so, I could not then have apologised: for in another instant she was gone.
Story 1, Chapter X
An Implacable Pursuer
I was in the midst of circumstances still unexplained. A wounded man found lying upon the field of battle – a mere youth; in no respect, either in costume, accoutrements, or personal appearance, resembling the thing called a “common soldier,” and yet bearing no insignia to show that he was aught else.
Found with an enemy standing over him, not a national foe, but a countryman – and, as it appeared, an old school-fellow, macheté in hand, threatening to accomplish what the foeman had left incomplete – threatening his life, and only hindered from taking it by the merest accidental intervention!
Near at hand, soon after to appear by his side, a woman – not one of those hideous hags sometimes seen on the morrow of a bloody battle, skulking among the slain, and stooping, vulture-like, over the mangled corpse – but a young girl of sweet voice and lovely aspect; so contrasting with the rude objects around her, so apparently out of place amid such scenes, that instead of a human being, a form of flesh and blood, one might have believed her to be an angel of mercy, that had descended from the sky to soothe the sufferings which men in their frantic fury had caused one another!
And this angel-like creature to prove the sister– and not the sweetheart– of him whose cries had called me from my couch!
Even in this circumstance there was something to cause me surprise. It would not have been the first time I had met the soldier’s sweetheart on the field of battle; but never before had I encountered his sister.
I might have been more surprised at this peculiar encounter, but that on the afternoon of that very day I had been spectator of a scene calculated to explain it. In a field adjoining the hamlet-village of El Plan I had gazed upon four thousand soldiers of Santa Anna’s army made prisoners during the action; and circling among them – not as spectators, but real actors in the affairs of the camp – were at least half this number of women!
Though most stood in a different relationship, I learned that many of these devoted creatures were the sisters – some of them the mothers – of the men who had mingled in the fight!
I could not help contrasting this bi-sexual crowd with the invading army to which I myself appertained; in which some half-dozen hags, under the appellation of sutler’s assistants; a like number performing the métier of the laundress; and one or two virgins of still more questionable calling, formed the whole female camp-following.
After such a scene as that witnessed by the rancheria of El Plan, it could not much astonish me to find the sister of Cairo? Vergara on the field of battle. My astonishment only arose from seeing such a sister!
On being left alone with the Jarocho, I could no longer repress my desire to obtain an explanation of the series of mysteries, that had so suddenly and unexpectedly surrounded me.
My interference in his behalf had furnished me with a sort of right to make the request – even to demand it.
“Ramon Rayas,” I said, as soon as the girl was gone out of hearing – “This Ramon Rayas appears to be no friend of yours?”
“Ah, señor! my bitterest enemy.”
“He is not the enemy of your sister, though! He professes to be her very best friend – at least her lover, which should be the same thing? Is she of that opinion?”
“My sister hates him.”
“Are you sure of that?”
”Ñor capitan, you are a stranger to me; but the service you’ve this night performed makes me feel as if I were talking to an old friend. Excuse the freedom I take. I am only a poor Jarocho – owning nothing but my rancho, a few varas of garden-ground, my horse, my saddle, and my macheté. I was going to say my liberty, but that’s not true: else why am I dragged from my home to fight battles in which I have no interest? You may say what our military oppressors say – it is to fight for my country. Bah! what use in spilling one’s blood for a country that’s not free? It isn’t for that I’ve been brought to Cerro Gordo, and shot down like a dog. It was to fight for a tyrant, not for a country – for El Cojo, and nobody else!”
“You have not been in the battle by your own will, then?”
“Carrambo! nothing of the sort, ñor deconocio! I am here by conscription; and I’ve been shot down by conscription. No matter now. We have no liberty left in Mexico – at least I have none. Still, ñor capitan, there’s one treasure left to me which I prize above everything else before riches, or even liberty. It was left me by my parents – who have long ago gone to a better world.”
“What treasure?” I inquired, seeing that the speaker hesitated to declare it.
“Ña Lola – mia hermanita.” (Lola, my dear sister.)
“I hope there is no danger of your losing her?”
“There is. This very night you must have heard something to tell you that there is.”
“’Tis true I heard something that sounded like a threat; but what need you fear from a man who can have no control over you or your sister? You say she scorns his suit. If that be so, I cannot understand how she is in danger.”
“Ah! ñor deconocio! you know not our country, else you might understand. The man you speak of has power; that is, if he be still alive.”
The speaker glanced significantly towards the blood-stained cutlass.
“Power! How?”
“He is my captain. I am one of a band of guerilleros, raised in our village and neighbourhood. This man, Don Ramon Rayas, is our chief. He had his appointment from the dictator himself, Don Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. It’s a puzzle to me – and to others as well – how he obtained it: for it’s well known that before the beginning of this war with the Americanos, Rayas was a salteador.”