The Rifle Rangers
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My ear at this moment caught the sound of dogs barking hoarsely below. Horses of the cavalcade commenced neighing, answered by others from the adjacent fields, who recognised their old companions.
“It must be near night,” I remarked to Raoul.
“I think, about sunset, Captain,” rejoined he. “It feels about that time.”
I could not help smiling. There was something ludicrous in my comrade’s remark about “feeling” the sunset.
The barking of the dogs now ceased, and we could hear voices ahead welcoming the guerilleros.
The hoofs of our mules struck upon a hard pavement, and the sounds echoed as if under an arched way.
Our animals were presently halted, and we were unpacked and flung rudely down upon rough stones, like so many bundles of merchandise.
We lay for some minutes listening to the strange voices around. The neighing of horses, the barking and growling of dogs, the lowing of cattle, the shouts of the arrieros unpacking their mules, the clanking of sabres along the stone pavement, the tinkling of spurs, the laughter of men, and the voices of women – all were in our ears at once.
Two men approached us, conversing.
“They are of the party that escaped us at La Virgen. Two of them are officers.”
“Chingaro! I got this at La Virgen, and a full half-mile off. ’Twas some black jugglery in their bullets. I hope the patrone will hang the Yankee savages.”
“Quien sabe?” (Who knows?) replied the first speaker. “Pinzon has been taken this morning at Puenta Moreno, with several others. They had a fandango with the Yankee dragoons. You know what the old man thinks of Pinzon. He’d sooner part with his wife.”
“You think he will exchange them, then?”
“It is not unlikely.”
“And yet he wouldn’t trouble much if you or I had been taken. No – no; he’d let us be hanged like dogs!”
“Well; that’s always the way, you know.”
“I begin to get tired of him. By the Virgin! José, I’ve half a mind to slip off and join the Padré.”
“Jarauta?”
“Yes; he’s by the Bridge, with a brave set of Jarochos – some of our old comrades upon the Rio Grande among them. They are living at free quarters along the road, and having gay times of it, I hear. If Jarauta had taken these Yankees yesterday, the zopiloté would have made his dinner upon them to-day.”
“That’s true,” rejoined the other; “but come – let us un-blind the devils and give them their beans. It may be the last they’ll ever eat.”
With this consoling remark, José commenced unbuckling our tapojos, and we once more looked upon the light. The brilliance at first dazzled us painfully, and it was some minutes before we could look steadily at the objects around us.
We had been thrown upon the pavement in the corner of the patio– a large court, surrounded by massive walls and flat-roofed houses.
These buildings were low, single-storied, except the range in front, which contained the principal dwellings. The remaining three sides were occupied by stables, granaries, and quarters for the guerilleros and servants. A portale extended along the front range, and large vases, with shrubs and flowers, ornamented the balustrade. The portale was screened from the sun by curtains of bright-coloured cloth. These were partially drawn, and objects of elegant furniture appeared within.
Near the centre of the patio was a large fountain, boiling up into a reservoir of hewn mason-work; and around this fountain were clumps of orange-trees, their leaves in some places dropping down into the water. Various arms hung or leaned against the walls – guns, pistols, and sabres – and two small pieces of cannon, with their caissons and carriages, stood in a prominent position. In these we recognised our old acquaintances of La Virgen.
A long trough stretched across the patio, and out of this a double row of mules and mustangs were greedily eating maize. The saddle-tracks upon their steaming sides showed them to be the companions of our late wearisome journey.
Huge dogs lay basking upon the hot stones, growling at intervals as someone galloped in through the great doorway. Their broad jaws and tawny hides bespoke the Spanish bloodhound – the descendants of that race with which Cortez had harried the conquered Aztecs.
The guerilleros were seated or standing in groups around the fires, broiling jerked beef upon the points of their sabres. Some mended their saddles, or were wiping out an old carbine or a clumsy escopette. Some strutted around the yard, swinging their bright mangas, or trailing after them the picturesque serape. Women in rebozos and coloured skirts walked to and fro among the men.
The women carried jars filled with water. They knelt before smooth stones, and kneaded tortillas. They stirred chilé and chocolate in earthen ollas. They cooked frijoles in flat pans; and amidst all these occupations they joked and laughed and chatted with the men.
Several men – officers, from their style of dress – came out of the portale, and, after delivering orders to the guerilleros on guard, returned to the house.
Packages of what appeared to be merchandise lay in one corner of the court. Around this were groups of arrieros, in their red leathern garments, securing their charge for the night, and laying out their alparejas in long rows by the wall.
Over the opposite roofs – for our position was elevated – we could see the bright fields and forest, and far beyond, the Cofre de Perote and the undulating outlines of the Andes. Above all, the white-robed peak of Orizava rose up against the heavens like a pyramid of spotless snow.
The sun had gone down behind the mountains, but his rays still rested upon Orizava, bathing its cone with a yellow light, like a mantle of burnished gold. Clouds of red and white and purple hung like a glory upon his track, and, descending, rested upon the lower summits of the Cordillera. The peak of the “Burning Star” alone appeared above the clouds, towering in sublime and solitary grandeur.
There was a picturesque loveliness about the scene – an idea of sublimity – that caused me for the moment to forget where I was or that I was a captive. My dream was dispelled by the harsh voice of José, who at that moment came up with a couple of peons, carrying a large earthen dish that contained our supper.
This consisted of black beans, with half a dozen tortillas; but as we were all half-famished we did not offer any criticism on the quality of the viands. The dish was placed in our midst, and our arms were untied for the first time since our capture. There were neither knives, forks, nor spoons; but Raoul showed us the Mexican fashion of “eating our spoons”, and, twisting up the tortillas, we scooped and swallowed “right ahead.”
Chapter Thirty Seven.
Chane’s Courtship
The dish was emptied, as Clayley observed, in a “squirrel’s jump.”
“Be my sowl! it ates purty well, black as it is,” said Chane, looking ruefully into the empty vessel. “It’s got a worse complaint than the colour, didn’t yez fetch us a thrifle more of it, my darlint boy?” he added, squinting up at José.
“No entiende,” (Don’t understand), said the Mexican, shaking his head.
“No in tin days!” cried Chane, mistaking the “no entiende” for a phrase of broken English, to which, indeed, its pronunciation somewhat assimilates it. “Och! git out wid you! Bad luck to yer picther! In tin days it’s Murtagh Chane that’ll ayther be takin’ his tay in purgathory or atin’ betther than black banes in some other part of the world.”
“No entiende,” repeated the Mexican as before.
“Tin days, indade! Sure we’d be did wid hunger in half the time. We want the banes now.”
“Qué quiere?” (What do you want?) asked the Mexican, speaking to Raoul, who was by this time convulsed with laughter.
“Phwhat’s that he sez, Raowl?” inquired Chane sharply.
“He says he don’t understand you.”
“Thin spake to him yerself, Raowl. Till him we want more banes, and a few more ov thim pancakes, if he plazes.”
Raoul translated the Irishman’s request.
“No hay” (There are none), answered the Mexican, shaking his forefinger in front of his nose.
“No I – is that phwhat ye say, my darlint? Well, iv yez won’t go yerself, sind somebody else; it’s all the same thing, so yez bring us the ateables.”
“No entiende” said the man, with the same shake of the head.
“Oh! there agin with your tin days – but it’s no use; yez understand me well enough, but yez don’t want to bring the banes.”
“He tells you there is no more,” said Raoul.
“Oh! the desavin’ Judas! and five hundred ov thim grazers atin’ over beyant there. No more banes! oh, the lie!”
“Frijoles – no hay,” said the Mexican, guessing at the purport of Chane’s remarks.
“Fray holeys!” repeated Chane, imitating the Mexican’s pronunciation of the word “frijoles”. “Och! git out wid your fray holeys! There isn’t the size of a flay of holiness about the place. Git out!”
Raoul, and indeed all of us except the Irishman himself, were bursting with laughter.
“I’m chokin’,” said the latter, after a pause; “ask him for wather, Raowl – sure he can’t deny that, with that purty little sthrame boilin’ up undher our noses, as clear as the potteen of Ennishowen.”
Raoul asked for water, which we all needed. Our throats were as dry as charcoal. The Mexican made a sign to one of the women, who shortly came up with an earthen jar filled with water.
“Give it first to the captin, misthress,” said Chane, pointing to me; “sarve all ayqually, but respict rank.”
The woman understood the sign, and handed me the jar. I drank copiously, passing it to my comrades, Clayley and Raoul. Chane at length took the jar; but instead of drinking immediately, as might have been expected, he set it between his knees and looked quizzically up at the woman.
“I say, my little darlint,” said he, winking, and touching her lightly under the ribs with his outstretched palm, “my little moochacha– that’s what they call thim – isn’t it, Raowl?”
“Muchacha? oh yes!”
“Well, thin, my purty little moochacha, cudn’t yez? – ye know what I mane – cudn’t yez? Och! ye know well enough – only a little – jist a mouthful to take the cowld taste aff the wather.”
“No entiende,” said the woman, smiling good-naturedly at Chane’s comical gestures.
“Och, the plague! there’s that tin days agin. Talk to her, Raowl. Tell her what I mane.”
Raoul translated his comrade’s wishes.
“Tell her, Raowl, I’ve got no money, becase I have been rabbed, de ye see? but I’ll give her ayther of these saints for the smallest thrifle of agwardent;” and he pulled the images out of his jacket as he spoke.
The woman, seeing these, bent forward with an exclamation; and, recognising the crucifix, with the images of the saint and Virgin, dropped upon her knees and kissed them devoutly, uttering some words in a language half Spanish, half Aztec.
Rising up, she looked kindly at Chane, exclaiming, “Bueno Catolico!” She then tossed the rebozo over her left shoulder, and hurried off across the yard.
“De yez think, Raowl, she’s gone after the licker?”
“I am sure of it,” answered the Frenchman.
In a few minutes the woman returned, and, drawing a small flask out of the folds of her rebozo, handed it to Chane.
The Irishman commenced undoing the string that carried his “relics.”
“Which ov them de yez want, misthress? – the saint, or the Howly Mother, or both? – it’s all the same to Murtagh.”
The woman, observing what he was after, rushed forward, and, placing her hands upon his, said in a kind tone:
“No, Señor. Su proteccion necesita usted.”
“Phwhat diz she say, Raowl?”
“She says, keep them; you will need their protection yourself.”
“Och, be me sowl! she’s not far asthray there. I need it bad enough now, an’ a hape ov good they’re likely to do me. They’ve hung there for tin years – both of thim; and this nate little flask’s the first raal binifit I iver resaved from ayther of them. Thry it, Captin. It’ll do yez good.”
I took the bottle and drank. It was the chingarito– a bad species of aguardiente from the wild aloe – and hot as fire. A mouthful sufficed. I handed the flask to Clayley, who drank more freely. Raoul followed suit, and the bottle came back to the Irishman.
“Your hilth, darlint!” said he, nodding to the Mexican woman. “May yez live till I wish ye dead!”
The woman smiled, and repeated, “No entiende.”
“Och! nivir mind the tin days – we won’t quarrel about that. Ye’re a swate crayteur,” continued he, winking at the woman; “but sure yer petticoats is mighty short, an’ yez want a pair of stockin’s bad, too; but nivir mind – yez stand well upon thim illigant ankles – ’dade ye do; and yez have a purty little futt into the bargain.”
“Qué dice?” (What does he say?) asked the Mexican, speaking to Raoul.
“He is complimenting you on the smallness of your feet,” answered the Frenchman.
The woman was evidently pleased, and commenced cramping up what was in fact a very small foot into its faded satin slipper.
“Tell me, my dear,” continued Chane, “are yez married?”
“Qué dice?” again asked the woman.
“He wants to know if you are married.”
She smiled, waving her forefinger in front of her nose.
Raoul informed the Irishman that this was a negative answer to his question.
“By my sowl, thin,” said Chane, “I wudn’t mind marryin’ ye meself, an’ joinin’ the thribe – that is, if they’ll let me off from the hangin’. Tell her that, Raowl.”
As desired, Raoul explained his comrade’s last speech, at which the woman laughed, but said nothing.
“Silence gives consint. But tell her, Raowl, that I won’t buy a pig in a poke: they must first let me off from the hangin’, de ye hear? – tell her that.”
“El señor está muy alegre,” (The gentleman is very merry), said the woman; and, picking up her jar, with a smile, she left us.
“I say, Raowl, does she consint?”
“She hasn’t made up her mind yet.”
“By the holy vistment! thin it’s all up wid Murt. The saints won’t save him. Take another dhrap, Raowl!”
Chapter Thirty Eight.
The Dance of the Tagarota
Night fell, and the blazing fagots threw their glare over the patio, striking upon objects picturesque at all times, but doubly so under the red light of the pine fires. The grouping of guerilleros – their broad, heavy hats, many of them plumed – their long black hair and pointed beards – their dark, flashing eyes – their teeth, fierce and white – the half-savage expression of their features – their costumes, high-coloured and wild-like – all combined in impressing us with strange feelings.
The mules, the mustangs, the dogs, the peons, the slippered wenches, with their coarse trailing tresses, the low roofs, the iron-barred windows, the orange-trees by the fountain, the palms hanging over the wall, the glistening cocuyos, were all strange sights to us.
The sounds that rang in our ears were not more familiar. Even the voices of the men, unlike the Saxon, sounded wild and sharp. It was the Spanish language, spoken in the patois of the Aztec Indians. In this the guerilleros chatted, and sang, and swore. There was a medley of other sounds, not less strange to our ears, as the dogs howled and barked their bloodhound notes – as the mustangs neighed or the mules whinnied – as the heavy sabre clanked or the huge spur tinkled its tiny bells – as the poblanas (peasant-women), sitting by some group, touched the strings of their bandolons, and chanted their half-Indian songs.
By a blazing pile, close to where we sat, a party of guerilleros, with their women, were dancing the tagarota, a species of fandango.
Two men, seated upon raw-hide stools, strummed away upon a pair of bandolons, while a third pinched and pulled at the strings of an old guitar – all three aiding the music with their shrill, disagreeable voices.
The dancers formed the figure of a parallelogram, each standing opposite his partner, or rather moving, for they were never at rest, but kept constantly beating time with feet, head, and hands. The last they struck against their cheeks and thighs, and at intervals clapped them together.
One would suddenly appear as a hunchback, and, dancing out into the centre of the figure, perform various antics to attract his partner. After a while she would dance up – deformed also – and the two, bringing their bodies into contact, and performing various disgusting contortions, would give place to another pair. These would appear without arms or legs, walking on their knees, or sliding along on their hips!
One danced with his head under his arm, and another with one leg around his neck; all eliciting more or less laughter, as the feat was more or less comical. During the dance every species of deformity was imitated and caricatured, for this is the tagarota. It was a series of grotesque and repulsive pictures. Some of the dancers, flinging themselves flat, would roll across the open space without moving hand or foot. This always elicited applause, and we could not help remarking its resemblance to the gymnastics we had lately been practising ourselves.
“Och, be me sowl! we can bate yez at that!” cried Chane, who appeared to be highly amused at the tagarota, making his comments as the dance went on.
I was sick of the scene, and watched it no longer. My eyes turned to the portale, and I looked anxiously through the half-drawn curtains.
“It is strange I have seen nothing of them! Could they have turned off on some other route? No – they must be here. Narcisso’s promise for to-night! He at least is here. And she? – perhaps occupied within – gay, happy, indifferent – oh!”
The pain shot afresh through my heart.
Suddenly the curtain was drawn aside, and a brilliant picture appeared within – brilliant, but to me like the glimpse which some condemned spirit might catch over the walls of Paradise. Officers in bright uniforms, and amongst these I recognised the elegant person of Dubrosc. Ladies in rich dresses, and amongst these – . Her sister, too, was there, and the Dona Joaquiana, and half a dozen other ladies, rustling in silks and blazing with jewels.
Several of the gentlemen – young officers of the band – wore the picturesque costume of the guerilleros.
They were forming for the dance.
“Look, Captain!” cried Clayley; “Don Cosmé and his people, by the living earthquake!”
“Hush! do not touch me – do not speak to me!”
I felt as though my heart would stop beating. It rose in my bosom, and seemed to hang for minutes without moving. My throat felt dry and husky, and a cold perspiration broke out upon my skin.
He approaches her – he asks her to dance – she consents! No: she refuses. Brave girl! She has strayed away from the dancers, and looks over the balustrade. She is sad. Was it a sigh that caused her bosom to rise? Ha! he comes again. She is smiling! – he touches her hand!
“Fiend! false woman!” I shouted at the top of my voice as I sprang up, impelled by passion. I attempted to rush towards them. My feet were bound, and I fell heavily upon my face!
The guards seized me, tying my hands. My comrades, too, were re-bound. We were dragged over the stones into a small room in one corner of the patio.
The door was bolted and locked, and we were left alone.
Chapter Thirty Nine.
A Kiss in the Dark
It would be impossible to describe my feelings as I was flung upon the floor of our prison. This was cold, damp, and filthy; but I heeded not these grievances. Greater sorrows absorbed the less. There is no torture so racking, no pain so painful as the throbbings of a jealous heart; but how much harder to bear under circumstances like mine! She could sleep, smile, dance – dance by my prison, and with my jailer!
I felt spiteful – vengeful. I was stung to a desire for retaliation, and along with this came an eagerness to live for the opportunity of indulging in this passion.
I began to look around our prison, and see what chances it afforded for escape.
“Good heavens! if our being transferred to the cell should destroy the plans of Narcisso! How is he to reach us? The door is double-locked, and a sentry is pacing without.”
After several painful efforts I raised myself upon my feet, propping my body against the side of the prison. There was an aperture – a window about as large as a loophole for musketry. I spun myself along the wall until I stood directly under it. It was just the height of my chin. Cautioning my companions to silence, I placed my ear to the aperture and listened. A low sound came wailing from the fields without. I did not heed this. I knew it was the wolf. It rose again, louder than before. A peculiarity in the howl struck me, and I turned, calling to Raoul.
“What is it, Captain?” inquired he.
“Do you know if the prairie wolf is found here?”
“I do not know if it be the true prairie wolf, Captain. There is one something like the coyote.”
I returned to the aperture and listened.
“Again the howl of the prairie wolf – the bark! By heavens! it is Lincoln!”
Now it ceased for several minutes, and then came again, but from another direction.
“What is to be done? if I answer him, it will alarm the sentry. I will wait until he comes closer to the wall.”
I could tell that he was creeping nearer and nearer.
Finding he had not been answered, the howling ceased. I stood listening eagerly to every sound from without. My comrades, who had now become apprised of Lincoln’s proximity, had risen to their feet and were leaning against the walls.
We were about half an hour in this situation, without exchanging a word, when a light tap was heard from without, and a soft voice whispered:
“Hola, Capitan!”
I placed my ear to the aperture. The whisper was repeated. It was not Lincoln – that was clear.
It must be Narcisso.
“Quien?” I asked.
“Yo, Capitan.”
I recognised the voice that had addressed me in the morning.
It is Narcisso.
“Can you place your hands in the aperture?” said he.
“No; they are tied behind my back.”
“Can you bring them opposite, then?”
“No; I am standing on my toes, and my wrists are still far below the sill.”
“Are your comrades all similarly bound?”
“All.”
“Let one get on each side of you, and raise you up on their shoulders.”
Wondering at the astuteness of the young Spaniard, I ordered Chane and Raoul to lift me as he directed.
When my wrists came opposite the window I cautioned them to hold on. Presently a soft hand touched mine, passing all over them. Then I felt the blade of a knife pressed against the thong, and in an instant it leaped from my wrists. I ordered the men to set me down, and I listened as before.
“Here is the knife. You can release your own ankles and those of your comrades. This paper will direct you further. You will find the lamp inside.”
A knife, with a folded and strangely shining note, was passed through by the speaker.
“And now, Capitan – one favour,” continued the voice, in a trembling tone.
“Ask it! ask it!”
“I would kiss your hand before we part.”
“Dear, noble boy!” cried I, thrusting my hand into the aperture.
“Boy! ah, true – you think me a boy. I am no boy, Capitan, but a woman – one who loves you with all her blighted, broken heart!”
“Oh, heavens! It is, then – dearest Guadalupe!”
“Ha! I thought as much. Now I will not. But no; what good would it be to me? No – no – no! I shall keep my word.”
This appeared to be uttered in soliloquy, and the tumult of my thoughts prevented me from noticing the strangeness of these expressions. I thought of them afterwards.
“Your hand! your hand!” I ejaculated.
“You would kiss my hand? Do so!” The little hand was thrust through, and I could see it in the dim light, flashing with brilliants. I caught it in mine, covering it with kisses. It seemed to yield to the fervid pressure of my lips.
“Oh!” I exclaimed, in the transport of my feelings, “let us not part; let us fly together! I was wronging you, loveliest, dearest Guadalupe – !”
A slight exclamation, as if from some painful emotion, and the hand was plucked away, leaving one of the diamonds in my fingers. The next moment the voice whispered, with a strange sadness of tone, as I thought: