Kitabı oku: «The Rifle Rangers», sayfa 12

Chapter Thirty.
A Shot in the Dark

The “City of the True Cross” fell upon the 29th of March, 1847, and the American flag waved over the castle of San Juan de Ulloa. The enemy’s troops marched out upon parole, most of them taking their way to their distant homes upon the table-lands of the Andes.

The American garrison entered the town, but the body of our army encamped upon the green plains to the south.

Here we remained for several days, awaiting the order to march into the interior.

A report had reached us that the Mexican forces, under the celebrated Santa Anna, were concentrating at Puente Nacional; but shortly after it was ascertained that the enemy would make his next stand in the pass of the Cerro Gordo, about half-way between Vera Cruz and the mountains.

After the surrender of the city we were relieved from severe duty, and Clayley and I, taking advantage of this, resolved upon paying another stolen visit to our friends.

Several parties of light horse had been sent out to scour the country, and it had been reported that the principal guerilla of the enemy had gone farther up towards the Puente Nacional. We did not, therefore, anticipate any danger from that source.

We started after nightfall, taking with us three of our best men – Lincoln, Chane, and Raoul. The boy Jack was also of the party. We were mounted on such horses as could be had. The major had kept his word with me, and I bestrode the black – a splendid thoroughbred Arab.

It was a clear moonlight, and as we rode along we could not help noticing many changes.

War had left its black mark upon the objects around. The ranchos by the road were tenantless – many of them wrecked, not a few of them entirely gone; where they had stood, a ray of black ashes marking the outline of their slight walls. Some were represented by a heap of half-burned rubbish still smoking and smouldering.

Various pieces of household furniture lay along the path torn or broken – articles of little value, strewed by the wanton hand of the ruthless robber. Here a petaté, or a palm hat – there a broken olla; a stringless bandolon, the fragments of a guitar crushed under the angry heel, or some flimsy articles of female dress cuffed into the dust; leaves of torn books —misas, or lives of the Santisima Maria– the labours of some zealous padre; old paintings of the saints, Guadalupe, Remedios, and Dolores – of the Niño of Guatepec – rudely torn from the walls and perforated by the sacrilegious bayonet, flung into the road, kicked from foot to foot – the dishonoured penates of a conquered people.

A painful presentiment began to harass me. Wild stories had lately circulated through the army – stories of the misconduct of straggling parties of our soldiers in the back-country. These had stolen from camp, or gone out under the pretext of “beef-hunting.”

Hitherto I had felt no apprehension, not believing that any small party would carry their foraging to so distant a point as the house of our friends. I knew that any detachment, commanded by an officer, would act in a proper manner; and, indeed, any respectable body of American soldiers, without an officer. But in all armies, in war-time, there are robbers, who have thrown themselves into the ranks for no other purpose than to take advantage of the licence of a stolen foray.

We were within less than a league of Don Cosmé’s rancho, and still the evidence of ruin and plunder continued – the evidence, too, of a retaliatory vengeance; for on entering a glade, the mutilated body of a soldier lay across the path. He was upon his back, with open eyes glaring upon the moon. His tongue and heart were cut out, and his left arm had been struck off at the elbow-joint. Not ten steps beyond this we passed another one, similarly disfigured. We were now on the neutral ground.

As we entered the forest my forebodings became painfully oppressive. I imparted them to Clayley. My friend had been occupied with similar thoughts.

“It is just possible,” said he, “that nobody has found the way. By heavens!” he added, with an earnestness unusual in his manner, “I have been far more uneasy about the other side – those half-brigands and that villain Dubrosc.”

“On! on!” I ejaculated, digging the spurs into the flanks of my horse, who sprang forward at a gallop.

I could say no more. Clayley had given utterance to my very thoughts, and a painful feeling shot through my heart.

My companions dashed after me, and we pressed through the trees at a reckless pace.

We entered an opening. Raoul, who was then riding in the advance, suddenly checked his horse, waving on us to halt. We did so.

“What is it, Raoul?” I asked in a whisper.

“Something entered the thicket, Captain.”

“At what point?”

“There, to the left;” and the Frenchman pointed in this direction. “I did not see it well; it might have been a stray animal.”

“I seed it, Cap’n,” said Lincoln, closing up; “it wur a mustang.”

“Mounted, think you?”

“I ain’t confident; I only seed its hips. We were a-gwine too fast to get a good sight on the critter; but it wur a mustang – I seed that cl’ar as daylight.”

I sat for a moment, hesitating.

“I kin tell yer whether it wur mounted, Cap’n,” continued the hunter, “if yer’ll let me slide down and take a squint at the critter’s tracks.”

“It is out of our way. Perhaps you had better,” I added, after a little reflection. “Raoul, you and Chane dismount and go with the sergeant. Hold their horses, Jack.”

“If yer’ll not object, Cap’n,” said Lincoln, addressing me in a whisper, “I’d rayther go ’ithout kump’ny. Thar ain’t two men I’d like, in a tight fix, better’n Rowl and Chane; but I hev done a smart chance o’ trackin’ in my time, an’ I allers gets along better when I’m by myself.”

“Very well, Sergeant; as you wish it, go alone. We shall wait for you.”

The hunter dismounted, and having carefully examined his rifle, strode off in a direction nearly opposite to that where the object had been seen.

I was about to call after him, impatient to continue our journey; but, reflecting a moment, I concluded it was better to leave him to his “instincts”. In five minutes he had disappeared, having entered the chaparral.

We sat in our saddles for half an hour, not without feelings of impatience. I was beginning to fear that some accident had happened to our comrade, when we heard the faint crack of a rifle, but in a direction nearly opposite to that which Lincoln had taken.

“It’s the sergeant’s rifle, Captain,” said Chane.

“Forward!” I shouted; and we dashed into the thicket in the direction whence the report came.

We had ridden about a hundred yards through the chaparral, when we met Lincoln coming up, with his rifle shouldered.

“Well?” I asked.

“’Twur mounted, Cap’n – ’tain’t now.”

“What do you mean, Sergeant?”

“That the mustang hed a yeller-belly on his back, and that he hain’t got ne’er a one now, as I knows on. He got cl’ar away from me – that is, the mustang. The yeller-belly didn’t.”

“What! you haven’t – ?”

“But I hev, Cap’n. I had good, soun’ reason.”

“What reason?” I demanded.

“In the first place, the feller wur a gurillye; and in the next, he wur an outpost picket.”

“How know you this?”

“Wal, Cap’n, I struck his trail on the edge of the thicket. I knowed he hedn’t kum fur, as I looked out for sign whar we crossed the crik bottom, an’ seed none. I tuk the back track, an’ soon come up with him under a big button-wood. He had been thar some time, for the ground wur stamped like a bullock-pen.”

“Well?” said I, impatient to hear the result.

“I follered him up till I seed him leanin’ for’ard on his horse, clost to the track we oughter take. From this I suspicioned him; but, gettin’ a leetle closter, I seed his gun an’ fixin’s strapped to the saddle. So I tuk a sight, and whumelled him. The darned mustang got away with his traps. This hyur’s the only thing worth takin’ from his carcage: it wudn’t do much harm to a grizzly b’ar.”

“Good heaven!” I exclaimed, grasping the glittering object which the hunter held towards me; “what have you done?”

It was a silver-handled stiletto. I recognised the weapon. I had given it to the boy Narcisso.

“No harm, I reckin, Cap’n?”

“The man – the Mexican? How did he look? – what like?” I demanded anxiously.

“Like?” repeated the hunter. “Why, Cap’n, I ’ud call him as ugly a skunk as yer kin skeer up any whar – ’ceptin’ it mout be among the Digger Injuns; but yer kin see for yurself – he’s clost by.”

I leaped from my horse, and followed Lincoln through the bushes. Twenty paces brought us to the object of our search, upon the border of a small glade. The body lay upon its back, where it had been flung by the rearing mustang. The moon was shining full upon the face. I stooped down to examine it. A single glance was sufficient. I had never seen the features before. They were coarse and swart, and the long black locks were matted and woolly. He was a zambo; and, from the half-military equipments that clung around his body, I saw that he had been a guerillero. Lincoln was right.

“Wal, Cap’n,” said he, after I had concluded my examination of the corpse, “ain’t he a picter?”

“You think he was waiting for us?”

“For us or some other game – that’s sartin.”

“There’s a road branches off here to Medellin,” said Raoul, coming up.

“It could not have been for us: they had no knowledge of our intention to come out.”

“Possibly enough, Captain,” remarked Clayley in a whisper to me. “That villain would naturally expect us to return here. He will have learned all that has passed: Narcisso’s escape – our visits. You know he would watch night and day to trap either of us.”

“Oh, heavens!” I exclaimed, as the memory of this man came over me; “why did I not bring more men? Clayley, we must go on now. Slowly, Raoul – slowly, and with caution – do you hear.”

The Frenchman struck into the path that led to the rancho, and rode silently forward. We followed in single file, Lincoln keeping a look-out some paces in the rear.

Chapter Thirty One.
Captured by Guerilleros

We emerged from the forest and entered the fields. All silent. No sign or sound of a suspicion. The house still standing and safe.

“The guerillero must have been waiting for someone whom he expected by the Medellin road. Ride on, Raoul!”

“Captain,” said the man in a whisper, and halting at the end of the guardaraya (enclosure).

“Well?”

“Someone passed out at the other end.”

“Some of the domestics, no doubt. You may ride on, and – never mind; I will take the advance myself.”

I brushed past, and kept up the guardaraya. In a few minutes we had reached the lower end of the pond, where we halted. Here we dismounted; and, leaving the men, Clayley and I stole cautiously forward. We could see no one, though everything about the house looked as usual.

“Are they abed, think you?” asked Clayley.

“No, it is too early – perhaps below, at supper.”

“Heaven send! we shall be most happy to join them. I am as hungry as a wolf.”

We approached the house. Still all silent.

“Where are the dogs?”

We entered.

“Strange! – no one stirring. Ha! the furniture gone!”

We passed into the porch in the rear, and approached the stairway.

“Let us go below – can you see any light?”

I stooped and looked down. I could neither hear nor see any signs of life. I turned, and was gazing up at my friend in wonderment, when my eye was attracted by a strange movement upon the low branches of the olive-trees. The next moment a dozen forms dropped to the ground; and, before we could draw sword or pistol, myself and comrade were bound hand and foot and flung upon our backs.

At the same instant we heard a scuffle down by the pond. Two or three shots were fired; and a few minutes after a crowd of men came up, bringing with them Chane, Lincoln, and Raoul as prisoners.

We were all dragged out into the open ground in front of the rancho, where our horses were also brought and picketed.

Here we lay upon our backs, a dozen guerilleros remaining to guard us. The others went back among the olives, where we could hear them laughing, talking, and yelling. We could see nothing of their movements, as we were tightly bound, and as helpless as if under the influence of nightmare.

As we lay, Lincoln was a little in front of me. I could perceive that they had doubly bound him in consequence of the fierce resistance he had made. He had killed one of the guerilleros. He was banded and strapped all over, like a mummy, and he lay gnashing his teeth and foaming with fury. Raoul and the Irishman appeared to take things more easily, or rather more recklessly.

“I wonder if they are going to hang us to-night, or keep us till morning? What do you think, Chane?” asked the Frenchman, laughing as he spoke.

“Be the crass! they’ll lose no time – ye may depind on that same. There’s not an ounce av tinder mercy in their black hearts; yez may swear till that, from the way this eel-skin cuts.”

“I wonder, Murt,” said Raoul, speaking from sheer recklessness, “if Saint Patrick couldn’t help us a bit. You have him round your neck, haven’t you?”

“Be the powers, Rowl! though ye be only jokin’, I’ve a good mind to thry his holiness upon thim. I’ve got both him and the mother undher me jacket, av I could only rache thim.”

“Good!” cried the other. “Do!”

“It’s aisy for ye to say ‘Do’, when I can’t budge so much as my little finger.”

“Never mind. I’ll arrange that,” answered Raoul. “Hola, Señor!” shouted he to one of the guerilleros.

“Quien?” (Who?) said the man, approaching.

“Usted su mismo,” (Yourself), replied Raoul.

“Que cosa?” (What is it?)

“This gentleman,” said Raoul, still speaking in Spanish, and nodding towards Chane, “has a pocket full of money.”

A hint upon that head was sufficient; and the guerilleros, who, strangely enough, seemed to have overlooked this part of their duty, immediately commenced rifling our pockets, ripping them open with their long knives. They were not a great deal the richer for their pains, our joint purse yielding about twenty dollars. Upon Chane there was no money found; and the man whom Raoul had deceived repaid the latter by a curse and a couple of kicks.

The saint, however, turned up, attached to the Irishman’s neck by a leathern string; and along with him a small crucifix, and a pewter image of the Virgin Mary.

This appeared to please the guerilleros; and one of them, bending over the Irishman, slackened his fastenings a little – still, however, leaving him bound.

“Thank yer honner,” said Chane; “that’s dacent of ye. That’s what Misther O’Connell wud call amaylioration. I’m a hape aysier now.”

“Mucho bueno,” said the man, nodding and laughing.

“Och, be my sowl, yes! —mucho bueno. But I’d have no objecshun if yer honner wud make it mucho bettero. Couldn’t ye just take a little turn aff me wrist here? – it cuts like a rayzyer.”

I could not restrain myself from laughing, in which Clayley and Raoul joined me; and we formed a chorus that seemed to astonish our captors. Lincoln alone preserved his sullenness. He had not spoken a word.

Little Jack had been placed upon the ground near the hunter. He was but loosely tied, our captors not thinking it worth while to trouble themselves about so diminutive a subject. I had noticed him wriggling about, and using all his Indian craft to undo his fastenings; but he appeared not to have succeeded, as he now lay perfectly still again.

While the guerilleros were occupied with Chane and his saints, I observed the boy roll himself over and over, until he lay close up against the hunter. One of the guerilleros, noticing this, picked Jack up by the waistbelt, and, holding him at arm’s length, shouted out:

“Mira, camarados! qui briboncito!” (Look, comrades! what a little rascal!)

Amidst the laughing of the guerilleros, Jack was swung out, and fell in a bed of shrubs and flowers, where we saw no more of him. As he was bound, we concluded that he could not help himself, and was lying where he had been thrown.

My attention was called away from this incident by an exclamation of Chane.

“Och! blood, turf, and murther! If there isn’t that Frinch scoundhrel Dubrosc!”

I looked up. The man was standing over us.

“Ah, Monsieur le Capitaine!” cried he, in a sneering voice, “comment vous portez-vous? You came up dove-hunting —eh? The birds, you see, are not in the cot.”

Had there been only a thread around my body, I could not have moved at that moment. I felt cold and rigid as marble. A thousand agonising thoughts crowded upon me at once – my doubts, my fears on her account, drowning all ideas of personal danger. I could have died at that moment, and without a groan, to have ensured her safety.

There was something so fiendish in the character of this man – a polished brutality, too – that caused me to fear the worst.

“Oh, heaven!” I muttered, “in the power of such a man!”

“Ho!” cried Dubrosc, advancing a pace or two, and seizing my horse by the bridle, “a splendid mount! An Arab, as I live! Look here, Yañez!” he continued, addressing a guerillero who accompanied him, “I claim this, if you have no objection.”

“Take him,” said the other, who was evidently the leader of the party.

“Thank you. And you, Monsieur le Capitaine,” he added ironically, turning to me, “thank you for this handsome present. He will just replace my brave mustang, for whose loss I expect I am indebted to you, you great brute! —sacre!”

The last words were addressed to Lincoln; and, as though maddened by the memory of La Virgen, he approached the latter, and kicked him fiercely in the side.

The wanton foot had scarcely touched his ribs, when the hunter sprang up, as if by galvanic action, the thongs flying from his body in fifty spiral fragments. With a bound he leaped to his rifle; and, clutching it – he knew it was empty – struck the astonished Frenchman a blow upon the head. The latter fell heavily to the earth. In an instant a dozen knives and swords were aimed at the hunter’s throat. Sweeping his rifle around him, he cleared an opening, and, dashing past his foes with a wild yell, bounded off through the shrubbery. The guerilleros followed, screaming with rage; and we could hear an occasional shot, as they continued the pursuit into the distant woods. Dubrosc was carried back into the rancho, apparently lifeless.

We were still wondering how our comrade had untied himself, when one of the guerilleros, lifting a piece of the thong, exclaimed:

“Carajo! ha cortado el briboncito!” (The little rascal has cut it!) and the man darted into the shrubbery in search of little Jack. It was with us a moment of fearful suspense. We expected to see poor Jack sacrificed instantly. We watched the man with intense emotion, as he ran to and fro.

At length he threw up his arms with a gesture of surprise, calling out at the same time:

“Por todos santos! se fue!” (By all the saints! he’s gone!)

“Hurrah!” cried Chane; “holies! – such a gossoon as that boy!”

Several of the guerilleros dived into the thicket; but their search was in vain.

We were now separated, so that we could no longer converse, and were more strictly watched, two sentries standing over each of us. We spent about an hour in this way. Straggling parties at intervals came back from the pursuit, and we could gather, from what we overheard, that neither Lincoln nor Jack had yet been retaken.

We could hear talking in the rear of the rancho, and we felt that our fate was being determined upon. It was plain Dubrosc was not in command of the party. Had he been so, we should never have been carried beyond the olive-grove. It appeared we were to be hung elsewhere.

At length a movement was visible that betokened departure. Our horses were taken away, and saddled mules were led out in front of the rancho. Upon these we were set, and strapped tightly to the saddles. A serape was passed over each of us, and we were blinded by tapojos. A bugle then sounded the “forward”. We could hear a confusion of noises, the prancing of many hoofs, and the next moment we felt ourselves moving along at a hurried pace through the woods.

Chapter Thirty Two.
A Blind Ride

We rode all night. The mule-blinds, although preventing us from seeing a single object, proved to be an advantage. They saved our eyes and faces from the thorny claws of the acacia and mezquite. Without hands to fend them off, these would have torn us badly, as we could feel them, from time to time, penetrating even the hard leather of the tapojos. Our thongs chafed us, and we suffered great pain from the monotonous motion. Our road lay through thick woods. This we could perceive from the constant rustle of the leaves and the crackling of branches, as the cavalcade passed on.

Towards morning our route led over hills, steep and difficult, we could tell from the attitudes of our animals. We had passed the level plains, and were entering among the “foothills” of the Mexican mountains. There was no passing or repassing of one another. From this I concluded that we were journeying along a narrow road, and in single file.

Raoul was directly in front of me, and we could converse at times.

“Where do you think they are taking us, Raoul?” I inquired, speaking in French.

“To Cenobio’s hacienda. I hope so, at least!”

“Why do you hope so?”

“Because we shall stand some chance for our lives. Cenobio is a noble fellow.”

“You know him, then?”

“Yes, Captain; I have helped him a little in the contraband trade.”

“A smuggler, is he?”

“Why, in this country it is hardly fair to call it by so harsh a name, as the Government itself dips out of the same dish. Smuggling here, as in most other countries, should be looked upon rather as the offspring of necessity and maladministration than as a vice in itself. Cenobio is a contrabandisto, and upon a large scale.”

“And you are a political philosopher, Raoul!”

“Bah! Captain; it would be bad if I could not defend my own calling,” replied my comrade, with a laugh.

“You think, then, that we are in the hands of Cenobio’s men.”

“I am sure of it, Captain. Sacre! had it been Jarauta’s band, we would have been in heaven – that is, our souls – and our bodies would now be embellishing some of the trees upon Don Cosmé’s plantation. Heaven protect us from Jarauta! The robber-priest gives but short shrift to any of his enemies; but if he could lay his hands on your humble servant, you would see hanging done in double-quick time.”

“Why think you we are with Cenobio’s guerilla?”

“I know Yañez, whom we saw at the rancho. He is one of Cenobio’s officers, and the leader of this party, which is only a detachment. I am rather surprised that he has brought us away, considering that Dubrosc is with him; there must have been some influence in our favour which I cannot understand.”

I was struck by the remark, and began to reflect upon it in silence. The voice of the Frenchman again fell upon my ear.

“I cannot be mistaken. No – this hill – it runs down to the San Juan River.”

Again, after a short interval, as we felt ourselves fording a stream, Raoul said:

“Yes, the San Juan – I know the stony bottom – just the depth, too, at this season.”

Our mules plunged through the swift current, flinging the spray over our heads. We could feel the water up to the saddle-flaps, cold as ice; and yet we were journeying in the hot tropic. But we were fording a stream fed by the snows of Orizava.

“Now I am certain of the road,” continued Raoul, after we had crossed. “I know this bank well. The mule slides. Look out, Captain.”

“For what?” I asked, with some anxiety.

The Frenchman laughed as he replied:

“I believe I am taking leave of my senses. I called to you to look out, as if you had the power to help yourself in case the accident should occur.”

“What accidents?” I inquired, with a nervous sense of some impending danger.

“Falling over: we are on a precipice that is reckoned dangerous on account of the clay; if your mule should stumble here, the first thing you would strike would be the branches of some trees five hundred feet below, or thereabout.”

“Good heaven!” I ejaculated; “is it so?”

“Never fear, Captain; there is not much danger. These mules appear to be sure-footed; and certainly,” he added, with a laugh, “their loads are well packed and tied.”

I was in no condition just then to relish a joke, and my companion’s humour was completely thrown away upon me. The thought of my mule missing his foot and tumbling over a precipice, while I was stuck to him like a centaur, was anything else than pleasant. I had heard of such accidents, and the knowledge did not make the reflection any easier. I could not help muttering to myself:

“Why, in the name of mischief, did the fellow tell me this till we had passed it?”

I crouched closer to the saddle, allowing my limbs to follow every motion of the animal, lest some counteracting shock might disturb our joint equilibrium. I could hear the torrent, as it roared and hissed far below, appearing directly under us; and the “sough” grew fainter and fainter as we ascended.

On we went, climbing up – up – up; our strong mules straining against the precipitous path. It was daybreak. There was a faint glimmer of light under our tapojos. At length we could perceive a brighter beam. We felt a sudden glow of heat over our bodies; the air seemed lighter; our mules walked on a horizontal path. We were on the ridge, and warmed by the beams of the rising sun.

“Thank heaven we have passed it!”

I could not help feeling thus: and yet perhaps we were riding to an ignominious death!