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CHAPTER XII
FATHER AND DAUGHTER
The adventurers' camp had completely changed its character: it had lost the peaceful appearance of the early days, and assumed a warlike air, perfectly in accordance with the present aspect of affairs. At each issue from the mission, a gun, guarded by a detachment, was pointed at the open country, while piled muskets formed a long row, in front of which a guard walked up and down. Sentries posted at regular distances watched the approaches, while advanced posts, established in sure positions, prevented any attempt at a surprise.
In the interior of the camp the greatest activity prevailed; the camp forges smoked, and re-echoed the hasty blows of the smiths; further on, carpenters were cutting into shape whole trees; the armorers were inspecting and repairing arms; in short, everybody was working eagerly, in order to get everything prepared with the least possible delay.
The count and Curumilla, preceded by Valentine, rapidly crossed the camp, greeted in their passage by the affectionate salutes of the adventurers, who were delighted to see them returned. As they approached headquarters, the shrill sounds of a jarana, with which were mingled the melancholy notes of a voice singing the romance del Rey Rodrigo, smote their ears.
"Perhaps it would be better, before going further," the count said, "to ask some information from Don Cornelio."
"Yes, especially as it would be very difficult, if not impossible, to obtain it from Curumilla."
"I am going to him," the latter remarked, having overheard the few words exchanged by the friends.
"Then it is all for the best," Valentine said with a smile.
Curumilla turned a little to the left, and guided the two men to a jacal of branches which served as the Spaniard's abode, and before which the noble hidalgo was at this moment seated on a stool, strumming his jarana furiously, and singing his eternal romance, while rolling his eyes in a most sentimental way. On seeing the two friends he uttered a shout of joy, threw his guitar far from him, and ran toward them.
"Capa de Dios!" he shouted as he seized their hands, "you are welcome, caballeros. I was impatiently expecting you."
"Is there anything new, then?" Don Louis asked anxiously.
"Hum! a good deal; but I suppose you are not going to remain on horseback?"
"No, no, we will join you."
And they dismounted. During the few sentences exchanged between the count and the Spaniard, Valentine had bent down to the Indian chiefs ear, and whispered a few words, to which Curumilla replied by nodding his head in affirmation. The two Frenchmen then entered the jacal at the heels of Don Cornelio, while the Araucano led away the horses.
"Sit down, gentlemen," the Spaniard said, pointing to several stools scattered about.
"Do you know that you have puzzled me considerably, Don Cornelio?" the count said to him. "What has happened, then, during my absence?"
"Nothing very important in a general point of view: our spies have brought in most reassuring news as to the movements of the enemy. As, however, the acting commandant will make his report to you, I do not wish to talk with you about those matters."
"Has anything else occurred peculiarly interesting to me?"
"You shall judge. You remember that, before your departure, you ordered me to watch over Doña Angela – a singular commission enough for me."
"How so?"
"It is enough that I know why. However, I performed my delicate task, I dare to say, with all the gallantry of a true caballero."
"I thank you for it."
"Yesterday an Indian arrived at the mission, bearer of a letter for the commandant."
"Ah, ah! And you know the contents of the letter?"
"It was simply a request for a safe-conduct to remain in the camp."
"Ah! and who was it signed by?"
"Father Seraphin."
"What!" Valentine exclaimed quickly, "Father Seraphin, the French missionary, the sainted man whom the Indians themselves have christened the 'Apostle of the Prairies?'"
"Himself."
"That is strange," the hunter muttered.
"Is it not?"
"But," said the count, "Father Seraphin does not need a safe-conduct to stay with us as long as he pleases."
"Of course," Valentine confirmed him, "we shall always be happy, myself in particular, to profit by his advice."
"The worthy father did not request the safe-conduct for himself: he is very well aware that his visit could only be agreeable to us."
"Ah! For whom, then?"
"For a person for whom he would be bail during the period of his stay among us, but whose name he kept secret."
"Hum! that is not clear."
"That is what I thought, so I urged the commandant to refuse."
"Well?"
"He granted the safe-conduct, alleging a reason which, by the way, is not so illogical – that the man for whom the safe-conduct is requested is evidently a friend or an enemy, and in either case it is good to know him, so as eventually to treat him as he deserves."
The two Frenchmen could not refrain from laughing at this singular logic.
"Well, and what is the result of all this?" the count continued.
"The result is that Father Seraphin arrived this morning at the mission, accompanied by a person carefully wrapped up in a large cloak."
"Ah, ah! And this person?"
"You can guess a thousand times before finding out."
"I think it would be better for you to tell me at once."
"I believe so too. Well, prepare yourself to hear something incredible. This person is no one less than Don Sebastian Guerrero."
"The general!" the count exclaimed as he bounded in his chair.
"Do not confound persons. I did not say General, but Don Sebastian Guerrero."
"A truce with nonsense, Don Cornelio! Let us talk seriously, for what you say deserves it."
"I am serious, Don Louis. The general has come here in his private capacity. In a word, it is the father of Doña Angela who is at this moment in our camp, and not the Governor of Sonora."
"I am beginning to understand," the count said in a hollow voice, as he walked in agitation up and down the jacal. "And what took place between father and daughter? Do not be afraid to tell me everything. I will keep the mastery over myself."
"Nothing at all has passed, Don Louis, thanks to Heaven!"
"Ah!"
"Yes, for the simple reason that Doña Angela, by my advice, refused to receive her father's visit during your absence."
"She had the strength to do that?" the count said, as he stopped and fixed a piercing glance on the Spaniard.
"By my advice, yes."
"Thanks, Don Cornelio. Then Father Seraphin and the general – "
"Are awaiting your return in a jacal built expressly for them, where, though apparently free, the general is under such strict surveillance that I defy him to make the slightest movement without my knowledge."
"You were right in acting as you have done, my friend. In these difficult circumstances you have displayed great prudence, and, above all, great perspicacity."
Don Cornelio, on hearing this compliment, blushed like a girl, and let his eyes fall modestly.
"What do you intend doing?" Valentine asked the count.
"Leave Doña Angela mistress of her will. Go and advise her of my return, dear Don Cornelio: you will at the same time lead her father and the missionary to her. Go: I follow you."
The Spaniard went out at once to fulfil his orders.
"When do you expect to start?" Valentine said, so soon as he found himself alone with the count.
"In two days."
"And you march?"
"On La Magdalena."
"Good! I will now ask your leave to go away, accompanied by Curumilla."
"What! you wish to leave me?" the count exclaimed with regret.
The hunter smiled.
"You do not understand me, brother," he answered. "The Indian chief and myself are almost useless here. How could we serve you? In no way; while I am convinced we can make excellent scouts. Leave us to explore the road, at the same time as we try to destroy, or at least lessen, the prejudices which the calumnies so sedulously spread about you have produced against everybody who bears the name of Frenchman."
"I did not dare ask you to render me that service; but now, as you offer it so frankly, I will not be so foolish as to refuse it. Go, brother. Act as you please: all you do will be right."
"Then farewell! I shall start immediately."
"Without taking a moment's rest?"
"You know that I never feel fatigue. Come, courage! We shall meet again at La Magdalena."
The two friends embraced, and then quitted the jacal. On the threshold they separated, after a last pressure of the hand, Valentine going to the right, the count to the left.
A guard of ten men defended the approaches to headquarters, and a sentinel was pacing, with shouldered musket, before the door of the mission church, the count's temporary residence. On arriving at his house Don Louis saw Don Cornelio, accompanied by two persons, one of whom wore a clerical garb. They had stopped, and were apparently waiting. The count hurried on. Although he had never, till this moment, seen Father Seraphin, he recognised him by the portraits Valentine had drawn.
He was still the man with the angelic glance, the delicate and marked features, the intelligently gentle countenance, whom we have presented to our readers in another work; but the apostolate is severe in America. Years count there as triple for missionaries really worthy of the title; and Father Seraphin, though hardly thirty years of age, already bore on his body and face traces of that precocious decrepitude to which those men fall victims who sacrifice themselves, without any thought of self, to the welfare of humanity. His back was beginning to bend, his hair was turning white on his temples, and two deep wrinkles furrowed his brow. Still the vivacity of his glance seemed to contradict this apparent weakness, and prove that if his body had grown enfeebled in the contest, the soul had ever remained equally young and powerful.
The three men bowed politely. The count and the missionary, after exchanging an earnest glance, shook hands with a smile. They had understood each other.
"You are welcome, sir," the count said, addressing the general, "although I am surprised that you place such confidence in pirates, as you call us, as to confide yourself so entirely to our honour."
"The law of nations, sir," the general replied, "has certain recognised rules which are respected by all men."
"Excepting by those who are placed without the pale of society and the common law of humanity," Don Louis remarked dryly.
The missionary interposed.
"Gentlemen," he said in his sympathetic voice, "between you there is no enmity at this moment: there is only a father who claims his daughter from a gentleman who, I feel convinced, will not refuse to restore her to him."
"Heaven forbid, my father," the count said quickly, "that I should attempt to retain this man's daughter against her will, even were he a thousandfold a greater enemy than he is."
"You see, general," the missionary observed, "that I was not mistaken as to the count's character."
"Doña Angela came alone, impelled by her own will, into my camp: she is respected and treated with all the attention she merits. Doña Angela is free to act as she pleases, and I recognise no right to influence her. As I did not carry her off from her father, as I did nothing to attract her hither, I cannot restore her, as this gentleman appears to demand. If Doña Angela is willing to return to her friends, nobody will oppose it; but if, on the contrary, she prefers to remain here under the protection of my brave comrades and myself, no human power will succeed in tearing her from me."
These words were pronounced in a peremptory tone, which produced a marked impression on the two hearers.
"However, gentlemen," the count continued, "what we say between ourselves has no value so long as Doña Angela has not pronounced herself in one way or the other. I will have the honour of leading you to her. You will have an explanation with her, and she will tell you her determination. Still, permit me to warn you that, whatever that decision may be, both yourselves and myself are bound to submit to it."
"Be it so, sir," the general said dryly: "perhaps it is as well that way as any other."
"Come, then," the count continued.
And he preceded them to the hut which served as the maiden's private residence.
Doña Angela, seated on a butaca, and having Violanta at her feet, was engaged with her needlework. On seeing her father and the persons who accompanied him enter, a vivid blush purpled her cheeks, but almost immediately she turned pale as death. Still she contrived to subdue the emotion she felt, rose, bowed silently, and sat down again. The general regarded her for a moment with a mingled expression of tenderness and anger; then turning suddenly to the missionary, he said in a stifled voice, —
"Speak to her, my father; I do not feel the strength to do so."
The maiden smiled sadly.
"My good padre," she said to the missionary, "I thank you for the useless attempt you are making on me today. My resolution is formed: nothing will alter it – it is impossible. I will never return to my family."
"Unhappy child!" the general exclaimed with sorrow, "what reason urged you to abandon me thus?"
"I do all justice to your kindness and tenderness toward me, father," she answered with a melancholy air. "Alas! that unbounded tenderness and the liberty you ever allowed me to enjoy are perhaps the cause of what happens today. I do not wish to reproach you. My destiny has taken possession of me: I will endure the consequences of the fault I have committed."
The general frowned and stamped his foot on the ground passionately.
"Angela, my well-beloved child!" he continued bitterly, "reflect that the scandal occasioned by your flight will dishonour you for ever."
A contemptuous smile played round the maidens pallid lips.
"What do I care?" she said. "The world in which you live is no longer mine. All my joy and sorrow will be henceforth concentrated here."
"But I, your father – you forget me, then, and I am no longer anything to you?"
The girl hesitated: she remained silent, with downcast eyes.
"Doña," the missionary said gently, "God curses children who abandon their father: return to yours. There is still time: he holds out his arms to you – he calls you. Return, my child. A parent's heart is an inexhaustible well of indulgence. Your father will forgive you: he has already done so."
Doña Angela shook her head, but made no further reply. The general and the missionary regarded each other with disappointment, while Don Louis stood a little in the rear, his arms folded on his breast, with sunken head and thoughtful air.
"Oh!" the general muttered with concentrated passion, "ours is an accursed race!"
At this moment Don Louis drew himself up, and walked a few paces forward.
"Doña Angela," he said with marked significance, "was it really your own will that brought you here?"
"Yes," she answered resolutely.
"And you have really decided on obeying neither the orders nor entreaties of your father?"
"Yes," she said again.
"Then you renounce for ever your position in society, and your fortune?"
"Yes."
"You also renounce the protection of your father, who is your natural guardian, and has every human and divine claim on you – you renounce his affection?"
"Yes," she murmured in a low voice.
"Then it is now my turn;" and bowing to the general, he continued, "Sir, whatever may be the hatred that sunders us – whatever may happen at a later date – the honour of your daughter must remain pure and unspotted."
"In order to secure that result," the general said bitterly, "someone must consent to marry her."
"Yes. Well, I, the Count de Prébois Crancé, have the honour of asking you for her hand."
The general fell back in amazement.
"Do you really ask that seriously?" he said.
"Yes."
"Reflect that, while thanking you for your request, I consider it a fresh aggrievance."
"Be it so."
"That this marriage will in nowise prevent the measures I intend taking against you."
"What do I care?"
"And you still consent to give her your hand?"
"Yes."
"Very good. You shall have my answer in four days."
"At La Magdalena, then."
"Be it so." The general turned to his daughter. "I do not curse you," he said, "for God himself cannot free a child from its father's malediction. Farewell! Be happy."
And he rushed out, followed by the missionary.
"My father," the count said, "I shall expect you at La Magdalena."
"I shall be there, sir," Father Seraphin replied sadly, "for I foresee that there will be tears to dry up."
"Good-by, sir," the general said.
"Good-by till we meet again," the count answered with a bow.
The general and the missionary then mounted and set out, escorted by a strong detachment of adventurers, who were to accompany them through the outposts and pickets of the French company. The count looked after them for a long time, and then walked back slowly to his room.
CHAPTER XIII
LA MAGDALENA
The village of La Magdalena occupies an important military position, for it commands the three roads that lead to Ures, Hermosillo, and Sonora, the chief cities of the State, and is nearly at an equal distance from all three. This pueblo, in itself of but slight consideration, enjoys, however, a certain reputation in the country, owing to the beauty of its situation and the purity of the air breathed there.
La Magdalena forms a species of parallelogram, one side of which carelessly mirrors its white houses in the limpid waters of the Rio San Pedro, a confluent of the Gila. Dense woods of palma Christi, styrax, Peru trees, and mahogany form an insurmountable barrier against the burning winds of the desert, while refreshing and perfuming the atmosphere, and serve as a refuge for thousands of blue jays, cardinals, and loros, which chatter gaily under the foliage, and enliven the enchanting landscape – this ravishing oasis, placed there by the hand of nature, as if to make the traveller returning from the prairie forget the sufferings and fatigues of the desert.
The festivities in honour of the patron saint at La Magdalena are the most frequented and joyful of all Sonora. As they last several days, the hacenderos and campesinos flock in for a hundred miles round. During this fête, at which rivers of pulque and mezcal flow, there is one succession of jaranas, montes, and bull baits; in a word, amusements of every description, which no crime ever saddens, in spite of the great concourse of strangers. The Mexicans are not wicked; they are only badly educated, headstrong, and passionate children, but nothing more.
Three days after the events we narrated in our previous chapter, the Pueblo de la Magdalena, at the most animated period of its annual festival, was in a state of more than ordinary agitation and excitement, evidently not produced by the festival; for the people had suddenly broken off their sports, and rushed, laughing and pressing, to one of the ends of the pueblo, where, according to the few words whispered by the gossips, something out of the way was taking place.
In fact, bugles soon sounded a call, and a band of armed men debouched on the pueblo, marching in good order, and to military tunes. First came an advanced guard of a dozen well-mounted men; then came a company of men formed in squads of about thirty each, bearing among them a large banner, on which was inscribed, "Independencia de la Sonora." Behind this band came two guns drawn by mules, then a squadron of cavalry, immediately followed by a long file of wagons and carts. The march was closed by a rearguard of twenty horsemen.
This small army, about three hundred strong, marched through the pueblo with heads raised and bold glances, passed the double row of spectators, and stopped, at a signal from the chief, about one hundred yards in front of the village, at a triangle formed by the meeting of three roads. Here the troops were ordered to bivouac.
It is almost needless to tell the reader that this army was the Atrevida Company. The good conduct of the band, and its martial air, had gained the favour of the population of the pueblo through which they marched so boldly. During the passage handkerchiefs and sombreros were waved, and cries of "Bravo!" were heard. The count, on horseback a few paces ahead of the main body, had not ceased for a moment bowing gracefully to the right and left, and these salutes had been returned with usury all along the village.
So soon as the order to bivouac was given, each set to work, and in less than two hours the adventurers, skilfully employing all within their reach, had established the most graceful and picturesque encampment that can be imagined. Still, as the count regarded himself as being in an enemy's country, nothing was neglected not only to protect the camp from a surprise, but also to place it in a respectable state of defence. By the aid of the wagons and carts, reinforced by palisades, the adventurers formed a barricade, still further defended by a ditch, the earth from which was thrown up on the other side as a breastwork. In the centre of the camp, on a small mound, rose the chiefs tent, before which the guns were planted; and from its summit floated the flag to which we have already alluded.
The arrival of the French was a piece of good fortune for the Sonorians whom the festival had attracted to La Magdalena. Indeed, for several days they had been expected hourly; and the inhabitants, in spite of the proclamations of the Mexican Government, which represented the French as plunderers and bandits, had taken no further precautions against them than to go and meet them, and receive them with shouts of welcome – a characteristic fact which clearly proved that public opinion was not at all deceived as to the meaning of the French pronunciamiento, and that each knew perfectly well on which side were right and justice.
When the camp was formed the authorities of the pueblo presented themselves at the gate, asking, in the name of their fellow citizens, permission to visit the Frenchmen. The count, delighted with this measure, which was of good augury for the relations he hoped presently to establish with the inhabitants, at once gave the requisite permission with the best grace possible.
De Laville had joined the count at about ten miles from the pueblo, at the head of eighty horsemen, which supplied the army with a respectable body of cavalry. Don Louis, having long been acquainted with the captain of Guetzalli, appointed him Chief of the Staff, and intrusted to him the annoying details of duty. De Laville eagerly accepted this mark of confidence; and the count, thenceforward free to occupy himself with the political portion of the expedition, retired to his tent, in order to reflect on the means to be employed by which to bring over to his side the population among which he now was.
Since the day General Guerrero presented himself at the mission, accompanied by Father Seraphin, the count, through a feeling of propriety, had not seen Doña Angela again, over whom he watched, however, with the utmost solicitude. The young lady appreciated this delicacy, and, for her part, had not attempted to see him. She had journeyed from the mission to La Magdalena in a closed palanquin, and a tent had been erected for her at no great distance from the count's.
The permission requested by the authorities had scarce been granted ere the adventurers' camp was visited by all the inhabitants. The mob, eager to see more nearly these bold men who, though in such small number, did not fear to declare war openly against the Government of Mexico, rushed in a body to the place occupied by them. The adventurers received their guests with that gaiety which distinguishes Frenchmen, and in a few hours gained the goodwill of the Sonorians, who, the more they saw of them, the more they wished to see, and who never grew weary of admiring their recklessness, and, above all, their imperturbable conviction of the success of the expedition. Night was setting in, the sun was rapidly sinking on the horizon, when Don Cornelio, who performed the duties of aide-de-camp to the count, raised the curtain of his tent, and announced to him that a field officer, who stated he had a message for him, asked to speak with him. Don Louis gave the order for his introduction. The envoy entered, and the count at once recognised in him Colonel Suarez. On his side, the colonel made a gesture of surprise at seeing the man he had met at Guetzalli, though he had not succeeded in finding out who he was. Don Louis smiled at the colonel's astonishment, bowed politely, and begged him to be seated.
"I am requested, sir, by General Guerrero," the colonel said after the usual compliments, "to deliver a letter to you."
"I have already been told so, colonel," the count answered. "I presume that you are acquainted with the contents of the letter?"
"Nearly so, sir; for I have several words to add to it in the course of conversation."
"I am ready to hear you."
"I will not waste your time, sir. In the first place here is the letter."
"Very good," the count said, taking it and laying it on the table.
"General Don Sebastian Guerrero," the colonel continued, "accepts the offer you did him the honour of making him for the hand of his daughter: still he desires that the nuptial ceremony should take place as soon as possible."
"I see nothing to prevent it."
"He desires also that this ceremony, at which he hopes to be present with a large party of his relations and friends, should be celebrated at La Magdalena by Father Seraphin."
"I have a few observations to make on that subject, colonel."
"I am listening to you, caballero."
"I willingly consent that Father Seraphin should marry us; but the ceremony will not take place at La Magdalena, but here in my camp, which I cannot and will not leave."
The colonel knit his brows. The count continued without seeming to notice it: —
"The general can be present at the ceremony, with as many relations and friends as he pleases; but as, unfortunately, we do not stand on such good terms to each other as I should wish, and as I must take care of my own safety, as much as he does of his, the general will be good enough to send me ten hostages selected among the most influential persons in the State. These hostages will be treated by me with the greatest honour, and restored to the general one hour after the nuptial blessing and the departure of the guests from the camp. But I must warn your general that, if the slightest treachery is attempted against myself or one of the men I have the honour of commanding, these hostages will be immediately shot."
"Oh!" the colonel exclaimed, "you distrust General Guerrero, sir, and put no faith in his honour as a caballero."
"Unfortunately, sir," the count replied dryly, "I have learned at my own expense what the value is of the honour of certain Mexicans. I will, therefore, enter into no discussion on that subject. Such are my conditions. The general is at liberty to accept or refuse them; but I pledge you my word of honour that I shall make no change."
"Very well, sir," the colonel answered, intimidated in spite of himself by the count's resolute accent, "I will have the honour of transmitting these harsh conditions to the general."
Don Louis bowed.
"I doubt whether he will accept them," the colonel continued.
"He can do as he pleases."
"But is there no other way of settling the difference?"
"I do not see any."
"Well, in the event of the general accepting, how shall I let you know it, so as to lose as little time as possible?"
"In a very simple mode, sir – by the arrival of Father Seraphin and the delivery of the hostages."
"And, in that case, when will the ceremony take place?"
"Two hours after the hostages have reached my camp."
"I will retire, sir, and submit your reply to my superior officer."
"Do so, sir."
The colonel retired, and the count, who fancied himself sure of the acceptance of his ultimatum, immediately gave the necessary orders for the construction of the cabin intended to serve as a chapel. After this he wrote a note, which was handed to Doña Angela through the medium of Don Cornelio. This note, which was very laconic, contained the following lines: —
"MADAM,
"I have received your father's answer: it is favourable. Tomorrow, in all probability, the ceremony of our marriage will take place. I watch over you and myself.
"The Count de PRÉBOIS CRANCÉ."
After sending off this note the count wrapped himself in a cloak, and went out to visit the posts, and assure himself that the sentries were keeping good guard. The night was bright and clear; the sky studded with an infinite number of brilliant stars; the atmosphere perfumed with a thousand sweet odours; at intervals the strains of the guitars, borne on the breeze, rose from the pueblo, and died out at the count's ear. The camp was silent and gloomy; the adventurers, who had retired under their leafy jacales, were enjoying that rest so necessary after a day's march; the horses, hobbled pell-mell with the mules, were devouring their alfalfa; the sentries, with shouldered muskets, were walking slowly around the intrenchments with their eyes fixed on the plain.
The count, after walking about for some time, and convincing himself that everything was in the most perfect order, was induced by the melancholy and mysterious softness of the night, to lean on the breastwork; and, with his eye fixed on vacancy, not looking at or probably seeing anything, he gradually gave way to his dreams, yielding unconsciously to the mysterious influence of the objects that surrounded him. From time to time, as the sentries called to each other, he mechanically raised his head; then he would yield again to the flood of thought that fell on him, and was so absorbed in himself that he seemed to be asleep; but it was not so.
For several hours he had been thus leaning over the breastwork, without a thought of retiring, when he suddenly felt a hand lightly laid on his shoulder. This touch, light as it was, sufficed to recall him from the ideal worlds in which his imagination was galloping, and to a consciousness of his present situation. The count stifled a cry of surprise and turned round. A man was holding on to the outside of the breastwork, his head scarce emerging over the top. It was Curumilla.
