Despite the chagrin I felt at being literally hors de combat, I could not at this moment avoid surrendering myself to a feeling of exultation.
Both my chagrin and exultation were suddenly checked. A spectacle was before my eyes that inspired me with a vivid hope—a dream of glory.
Like a string of white ants descending the side of one of their steepest “hills,” I perceived a long line moving down the face of the opposite cliff. In the distance—a mile or more—they looked no larger than termites. Like them, too, they were of whitish colour. For all that, I knew they were men—soldiers in the cheap cotton uniforms of the Mexican infantry.
Without any strain upon my powers of ratiocination, I divined that they were fugitives from the field above, who, in their panic, had retreated over the precipice—anywhere that promised to separate them from their victorious foemen.
The moving line was not straight up and down the cliff, but zigzagged along its face. I could tell there was a path.
At its lower end, and already down near the “plan” of the river (Plan del Rio), I perceived a group of men, dressed in dark uniforms. There were points on the more sombre background of their vestments that kept constantly scintillating in the sun. These were gold or gilt buttons, epaulettes, steel scabbards of sabres, or bands of lace.
It was easy to tell that the individuals thus adorned were officers, notwithstanding the fact that, as officers, they were at the wrong end of the retreating line.
I carried a lorgnette, which I had already taken out of its case. I directed it towards the opposite side of the ravine, upon the dark head of that huge caterpillar sinuously descending the cliff.
I could distinguish the individuals of this group. One was receiving attentions from the rest—even assistance. The Mexican Caesar was easily recognised. His halting gait, as he descended the sloping path, or swung himself from, ledge to ledge, betrayed the cork leg of El Cojo.
A mule stood ready saddled at the bottom of the precipice. I saw Santa Anna descend and approach it. I saw him, aided by others, mount in the saddle. I saw him ride off, followed by a disordered crowd of frightened fugitives, who, on reaching the chapparal, took to their heels with the instinct of sauve qui peut.
I looked up the valley of the river. It was enclosed by precipitous “bluffs,” as far as the eye could reach; but on that side where we had planted our battery—scarce a mile above our position—a line of black heavy timber told me there was a lateral ravine leading outwards in the direction of Orizava. The retreating troops of Santa Anna must either find exit by this ravine, keep on up the stream, or risk running back into the teeth of their pursuers on the opposite side of the river.
I hurried back to the battery, and reported what I had seen. I could have made my colonel a general—a hero—had he been of the right stuff.
“ ’Tis an easy game, colonel; we have only to intercept them at the head of yonder dark line of timber. We can be there before them!”
“Nonsense, captain! We have orders to guard this battery. We must not leave it.”
“May I take my own men?”
“No! not a man must be taken away from the guns.”
“Give me fifty!”
“I cannot spare them.”
“Give me twenty; I shall bring Santa Anna back here in less than an hour.”
“Impossible! There are thousands with him. We shall be lucky if they don’t turn this way. There are only three hundred of us, and there must be over a thousand of them.”
“You refuse to give me twenty men?”
“I can’t spare a man. We may need them all, and more.”
“I shall go alone.”
I was half mad. The glory that might have been so easily won was placed beyond my reach by this overcautious imbecile.
I was almost foolish enough to have flung myself over the cliff, or rushed alone into the midst of the retreating foes.
I left the battery and walked slowly away out of sight of my superior. I continued along the counterscarp of the cliff, until I had reached the edge of the lateral ravine leading out from the river valley. I crouched behind the thick tussocks of the zamias. I saw the retreating tyrant, mounted on his mule, ride past, almost within range of my rifle bullet! I saw a thousand men crowding closely after, so utterly routed and demoralised that nothing could have induced them to stand another shot. I was convinced that my original idea was in perfect correspondence with the truth, and that with the help of a score of determined men I could have made prisoners of the whole “ruck.”
Instead of this triumph, my only achievement in the battle of Cerro Gordo was to call my colonel a coward, for which I was afterwards confined to close quarters, and only recovered the right to range abroad on the eve of a subsequent battle, when it was thought that my sword might be of more service than my condemnation by court-martial.
Of such a nature were my thoughts as I lay under canvas on the field of Cerro Gordo on the night succeeding the battle.
“Agua! por amor Dios, agua—aguita!”
These words reaching my ear, and now a second time pronounced, broke in upon the train of my reflections.
They were not the only sounds disturbing the tranquillity of that calm tropic night. From other parts of the field, though in a different direction and more distant, I could hear many voices speaking in a similar strain, in tones of agonised appeal, low mutterings, mingled with moanings, where some mutilated foeman was struggling in the throes of death, and vainly calling for help that came not.
On that night, from the field of Cerro Gordo, many a soul soared upward to eternity—many a brave man went to sleep with unclosed eyes, a sleep from which he was never more to awaken.
In what remained of twilight after my arrival on the ground, I had visited all the wounded within the immediate vicinity of my post—all that I could find—for the field of battle was in reality a wood, or rather a thicket; and no doubt there were many who escaped my observation.
I had done what little was in the power of myself and a score of companions—soldiers of my corps—to alleviate the distress of the sufferers: for, although they were our enemies, we had not the slightest feeling of hostility towards them. There had been such in the morning, but it was gone ere the going down of the sun, leaving only compassion in its place.
Yielding simply to the instincts of humanity, I had done my best in binding up wounds, many of them that I knew to be mortal; and only when worn out by fatigue, absolutely “done up,” had I sought a tent, under the shelter of which it was necessary I should pass the night.
It was after a long spell of sleep, extending into the mid-hours of the night, that I was awakened from my slumbers, and gave way to the reflections above detailed. It was then that I heard that earnest call for water; it was then I heard the more distant voices, and mingled with them the howling bark of the coyote, and the far more terrible baying of the large Mexican wolf. In concert with such choristers, no wonder the human voices were uttered in tones especially earnest and lugubrious.
“Agua! par amor Dios, agua, aguita!”
For the third time I listened to this piteous appeal. It surprised me a little. I thought I had placed a vessel of water within the reach of every one of the wounded wretches who lay near my tent. Had this individual been overlooked?
Perhaps he had drunk what had been left him, and thirsted for more! In any case, the earnest accents in which the solicitation was repeated, told me that he was thirsting with a thirst that tortured him.
I waited for another, the fourth repetition of the melancholy cry. Once more I heard it.
This time I had listened with more attention. I could perceive in the pronunciation a certain provincialism, which proclaimed the speaker a peasant, but one of a special class. The por amor Dios, instead of being drawled out in the whine of the regular alms-asker, was short and slurred. It fell upon the ear as if the a in amor was omitted, and also the initial letter in aguita. The phrase ran:—“Agua! por ’mor Dios, ’gua, aguita!”
I recognised in those abbreviations the patois of a peculiar people, the denizens of the coast of Vera Cruz, and the tierra caliente—the Jarochos.
The sufferer did not appear to be at any great distance from my tent—perhaps a hundred paces, or two hundred at most. I could no longer lend a deaf ear to his outcries.
I started up from my catre—a camp-bedstead, which my tent contained—groped, and found my canteen, not forgetting the brandy-flask, and, sallying forth into the night, commenced making my way towards the spot where I might expect to find the utterer of the earnest appeal.
The tent I was leaving stood in the centre of a circumscribed clearing. Ten paces from its front commenced the chapparal—a thicket of thorny shrubs, consisting of acacia, cactus, the agave, yuccas, and copaiva trees, mingled and linked together by lianas and vines of smilax, sarsaparilla, jalap, and the climbing bromelias. There was no path save that made by wild animals—the timid Mexican mazame and its pursuer, the cunning coyote.
One of these paths I followed.
Its windings soon led me astray. Though the moon was shining in a cloudless sky, I was soon in such a maze that I could neither tell the direction of the tent I had left behind, nor that of the sufferer I had sallied out in search of.
In sight there was no object to guide me. I paused in my steps, and listened for a sound.
For some seconds there was a profound silence, unbroken even by the groans of the wounded, some of whose voices were, perhaps, now silent in death. The wolves, too, had suspended their hideous howlings, as though their quest for prey had ended, and they were busily banqueting on the dead.
The stillness produced a painful effect, even more than the melancholy sounds that had preceded it I almost longed for their renewal.
A short while only did this irksome silence continue. It was terminated by the voice I had before heard, this time in the utterance of a different speech.
“Soy moriendo! Lola—Lolita! a ver te nunca mas en este mundo!” (I am dying, Dolores—dear Dolores! never more shall I see you in this world!)
“Nunca mas en este mundo!” came the words rapidly re-pronounced, but in a voice of such different intonation as to preclude the possibility of mistaking it either for an echo or repetition by the same speaker.
“No, never!” continued the second voice, in the same tone, and in a similar patois. “Never again shall you look upon Lola—you, Calros Vergara, who have kept me from becoming her husband; who have poisoned her mind against me—”
“Ah! it is you, Rayas! What has brought you hither? Is it to torture a dying man?”
“Carajo! I didn’t come to do anything of the kind. I came to assure myself that you were dying—that’s all. Vicente Vilagos, who has escaped from this ugly affair, has just told me you’d got a bit of lead through your body. I’ve sought you here to make sure that your wound was fatal—as he said it was.”
“Santissima! O Ramon Rayas! that is your errand?”
“You mistake—I have another: else I shouldn’t have risked falling into the hands of those damnable Americanos, who might take a fancy to send one of their infernal bullets through my own carcass.”
“What other errand? What want you with me? I am sore wounded—I believe I am dying.”
“First, as I’ve told you—to make sure that you are dying; and secondly, if that be the case, to learn before you do die, what you have done with Lola.”
“Never. Dead or living, you shall not know from me. Go, go! por amor Dios! do not torment a poor wretch in his last moments.”
“Bah! Calros Vergara, listen to reason. Remember, we were boys together—scourged in the same school. Your time’s up; you can’t protect Lola any more. Why hinder me—I who love her as my own life? I’m not so bad as people say, though I am accused of an inclination for the road. That’s the fault of the bad government we’ve got. Come! don’t leave the world like a fool; and Lola without a protector. Tell me where you’ve hidden her—tell me that, and the n—”
“No! no! Leave me, Rayas! leave me! If I am to die, let me die in peace.”
“You won’t tell me?”
“No—no—”
“Never mind, then; I’ll find out in time, and no thanks to you. So, go to the devil, and carry your secret along with you. If Lola be anywhere within the four corners of Mexico, I’ll track her up. She don’t escape from Rayas the salteadur!”
I could hear a rustling among the hushes: as if the last speaker, having delivered his ultimatum, was taking his departure from the spot.
Suddenly the sound ceased; and the voice once more echoed in my ear—
“Carrambo!” exclaimed the man now known to me as Ramon Rayas, “I was going away without having accomplished the best half of my errand! Didn’t I come to make certain that your wound was mortal? Let’s see if that picaro Vilagos has been telling me the truth. Through what part of the body are you perforated?”
There was no reply; but from certain indications I could tell that the salteador had approached the prostrate man, and was stooping down to examine his wounds.
I made a movement forward in the direction in which I had heard the strange dialogue; but checked myself on again hearing the voice of Rayas.
“Carajo!” ejaculated he, in a tone that betokened some discovery, at the same time one causing disappointment. “That wound of yours is not mortal—not a bit of it! You may recover from it, if—”
“You think I have a chance to recover?” eagerly interrogated the wounded man—willing to clutch at hope, even when offered by an enemy.
“Think you have a chance to recover? I’m sure of it. The bullet has passed through your thigh—what of that? It’s only a flesh wound. The great artery is not touched. That I’m sure about, or you’d have bled to death long ago. The bone is not broken: else you could no more lift your foot in that fashion, than you could kick yonder cofre from the top of Peroté. Carrambo! you’d be sure to get over it, if—”
There was an interval of silence, as though the speaker hesitated to pronounce the condition implied by that “if.” The peculiar emphasis, placed on the monosyllabic word, told me that he was making pause for a purpose.
“If what, Capitan Rayas?”
The interrogatory came from the wounded man, in a tone trembling between hope and doubt.
“If,” answered the other, and with emphatic pronunciation—“if you tell me where you have hidden Dolores.”
There was a groan; and then in a quivering voice came the rejoinder.
“How could that affect my recovery? If I am to die, it could not save me. If it be my fate to survive this sad day—”
“It is not,” interrupted the salteador, in a firm, loud voice. “No! This day you must die—this hour—this moment, unless you reveal to me that secret you have so carefully kept. Where is Dolores?”
“Never! Rather shall I die than that she should fall into the power of such a remorseless villain. After that threat, O God!—”
“Die, then! and go to the God you are calling upon. Die, Calros Vergara—!”
During the latter part of this singular dialogue, I had been worming myself through the devious alleys of the thicket, and gradually drawing nearer to the speakers. Just as the “Die, then!” reached my ears, I caught sight of the man who had pronounced the terrible menace—as well as of him to whom it was addressed.
Both were upon the other side of the little opening into which I had entered, the latter lying prostrate upon the grass; the former bending over him, with right arm upraised, and a long blade glittering in his grasp.
At the sight my sword leaped from its sheath, and I was about to rush forward; when, on calculating the distance across the glade, I perceived I should be too late.
Quick as the thought I changed my weapon, dropping the sword at my feet, and drawing my revolver from its holster in my belt.
To cock the pistol, take aim, and pull the trigger, were three actions in one, the result being a crack, a flash, a cloud of smoke, a cry of commingled rage and pain; and succeeding to these sounds, a loud breaking among the bushes on the opposite side of the opening, as if some individual was making his way through the thicket, without staying to seek for a path, and with no other thought than to put space between himself and the form still recumbent upon the sward!
The latter I knew to be Carlos, or Calros, in the patois of his con-paisano. The fugitive was the salteador so lately threatening his life.
Had the murderer succeeded in his design? I saw his blade brandished aloft, as I drew my pistol from its holster. I had not seen the downward thrust; but, for all that, it might have been made.
With a heart brimful of anxiety, I ran across the glade. I say brimful of anxiety: for something, I could not tell what, had excited my sympathy for Calros Vergara.
Partly may it have been from hearing that speech off sombre but significant import—“Soy moriendo! Lola!—Lolita! a ver te nunca mas en este mundo!” and partly from admiration for a noble nature, that preferred even death to the disclosing of some secret, which might compromise the welfare of his beloved Dolores.
I thought no more of the robber, or his efforts to escape. My whole attention became devoted to the man whom he had marked out for his victim; and I made all haste to ascertain whether I had been successful in hindering his fell intent.
In a score of seconds I was standing by the side of the prostrate Jarocho, bending over his body. I held the pistol in my hand, my finger still pressing upon the trigger, just as after firing the shot that had disembarrassed him of his enemy.
“Are you safe?” I inquired, in the best Mexican-Spanish I could command. “He has not succeeded in—?”
“Strike, villain! through my heart, if you will. Ah! Dolores! Better my death, and yours—better far be in your grave than in the embrace of Ramon Rayas! O Santissima Madre!—I die—I die! Mother of God protect—Lola!—Lolita! quer-i-da herm …”
The last phrase was pronounced in a whisper, gradually growing so indistinct that I could not make certain of the final words, though with my ear close to the lips of the speaker.
His voice was no longer heard even in whispers.
I raised my head, and looked down upon the face of Calros Vergara. His lips moved no more. His eyes still open, and glistening under the light of the moon, seemed no longer to see, no more to mistake me for his enemy. He appeared to be dead.
For some seconds I hung over what I supposed to be an inanimate form; it was that of a mere youth, and fair to behold, as was also the face, which was conspicuously upturned to the light of the moon. Notwithstanding its deathly pallor, it exhibited a fine type of manly beauty. The features were regular, the complexion brown, the cheek soft and smooth, the upper lip darkly bedecked with the young growth of virility, the eye rotund and of noble expression, the forehead framed in a garland of glossy black hair, whose luxuriant curls drooped down upon each side of the full rounded throat—all these I saw at a single glance. I saw also a faultless figure, habited in the costume of a peasant rather than of a soldier, but a peasant of a peculiar people, the Jarochos. In the words lately proceeding from the lips of the unfortunate youth, I had recognised the patois of this people, and was not surprised at seeing a richly-embroidered shirt of the finest linen, neatly fitting over the young man’s breast, a sash of China crape around the waist, calzoneros of velveteen, with rows of bell-buttons, and boots with spurs attached, apparently of silver.
Striking and rich as was the costume, it was still only that of the Mexican peasant. A few peculiarities, such at; the hat of palm-sinnet, and the checked kerchief, that had covered the back part of the head, both lying near, denoted their ci-devant wearer to be a denizen of the coast lands—in short, a “Jarocho.”
These observations did not detain me, or only for a second of time, as I bent down over the prostrate form. My whole design was to examine the wound which I supposed to have been given by the robber, and which I really believed to have caused the Jarocho’s death.
To my astonishment, I could discover no wound, at least none that was fresh. There was a blotch of coagulated blood on the left thigh, darker in the centre as seen through the torn calzoneros; but this was from the wound received in battle.
Where was that just given by the sword of the Salteador? Certainly I saw stains of blood recently spilt. There were several spots upon the white linen shirt, besprinkling the plaits upon the bosom, and others upon the sleeves; also the cheeks of the youth showed a drop or two on their pallid ground.
Whence had these blood-drops proceeded?
I could not guess. I could discover no recent stab on the Jarocho’s body, not a scratch to account for them!
Had the robber, after all, failed in his fatal thrust? Had the death of his intended victim been caused by the shot-wound in the thigh, hastened by the terror of that horrid threat?
While thus conjecturing, my eye fell upon an object glancing through the grass. I stooped down and took it up. It was a macheté—half sword, half hunting-knife—to be met with in every Mexican house, or seen hanging on the hip of every Mexican cavallero.
Was it the weapon of the wounded man, or that I had lately seen in the hand of his enemy?
I took it up to examine it. The blade was bright: not a speck appeared on its polished surface!
Between my fingers, as they grasped the hilt of riveted horn, I felt something wet. Was it dew from the grass?
No. The moonlight fell upon something darker than dew. Both the haft of the weapon and my fingers encircling it were red as rubies. It was blood, and fresh from the veins of a human being!
As it could not be the blood of Calros, I concluded it must be that of Ramon Rayas. My bullet must have been true to its aim.
While thus occupied with conjectures, a new voice fell upon my ear, as different from either of those lately listened to as music from the rudest noise.
“Calros! dear Calros!” called the voice, “was it you I heard? Speak, Calros! valga me Dios! That shot! Surely it was not for him? No—no—I heard him speaking after it. Calros! Answer me, if you are near. It is I who call—I, your own Lola!”
Had it been the voice of an angel coming out of the chapparal, or from the sky above it could not have sounded sweeter, nor thrilled me with a stranger impulse.
For some seconds I remained irresolute as to what answer should be made to the pathetic appeal. I hesitated to apprise the speaker of the presence of Calros. Only his body was present; his spirit was not there!
What a sad spectacle for the eye of the loved Dolores—the loving Dolores—how could I doubt it? Looking upon the handsome Jarocho—graceful even in the attitude of death—I could not wonder at the earnestness of that feminine voice, pronouncing him her “querido Calros.”
Once more it fell upon my ear, continuing the passionate appeal.
“Calros! O Calros! Why do you not answer me? It is Lola—your own Lola!”
“Lola!” I responded, yielding to an irresistible emotion, “this way; come this way! Calros is here.”
An exclamatory phrase, expressing gratitude to the “Mother of God,” was heard in response; and quickly following the words, a female form, fair as the mother of men, parting the hushes that bordered the glade, stepped cut into the opening.
Yes, fair as the mother of men—it is no exaggeration to say it—was she who, answering my summons, had emerged from the shadowy chapparal, and now stood exposed to my view under the full light of the moon. It was a full moon—a Mexican moon, that delights to shine upon lovely woman; and no lovelier could its beams have ever embraced than she who now stood before me.
It was beauty of a type peculiar to the land in which I viewed it—peculiar even to a single province—the tierra caliente, or coast-region, of Vera Cruz.
The image of Lola is still upon the tablets of my memory, permanently impressed as I saw her at that moment; perhaps more deeply graven upon my heart as I beheld her afterwards.
The picture presented to my eye, and viewed under the moon’s mellow light, was that of a girl just approaching the completeness of womanhood—or rather having completed it, for there seemed nothing wanting to make the perfect woman.
A figure of medium height, neither sylphlike nor slender, but of full physical outline, in points even imposing.
I do not deny that there is something sensual in this type, and I know there are those who incline more to the intellectual. For my part, I doubt the honesty of such ethereal admirers; and must still cling to the belief that bold elliptical outline is the true ideal of beauty in the feminine form.
That of Lola, seen against the verdant background of the chapparal, exhibited this curve in all its luxuriant windings. It was displayed in the tournure of the head, the cheeks, the throat, and shoulders; it embraced bosom, waist, and limbs; it ran over her whole figure—a living, moving curve, like the undulations of some beautiful serpent, always tapering to an end, but never terminating.
It was the curve discovered by Hogarth, though but poorly expressed in his pictures. It was perfectly presented in the outlines of the lovely apparition that came before my eyes in that moonlit glade, on the field of Cerro Gordo.
Her dress did not destroy the voluptuous line. It could not, even had it been one of those monstrous contrivances of fashion for concealing the too-often distorted form. But it was not thus designed. The sleeveless chemise of snow-white cambric, and the translucent skirt of thin muslin, like the gown of Nora Creina, left—
“Every beauty free
To sink or swell as heaven pleases.”
The slight scarf of bluish grey cotton (rebozo) drawn over the crown of the head, and falling loosely down in front, scarcely interfered with the symmetrical outlines of the bosom; while behind, two thick plaits of hair, escaping from under it, hung down to the level of its fringed ends, terminating in a tie of bright red ribbons.
At first sight, I thought the girl was barefoot. The skirt and petticoat (enagua) permitted to be seen beneath them a pair of statuesque ankles, nude to mid-knee. But although thus stockingless, I soon perceived that her feet were in satin slippers, hidden behind the herbage. Neither the naked ankles, nor the slight but costly chaussure, gave me any surprise, however inappropriate either might be deemed to a walk through the thorny chapparal. I knew that both were in the fashion of the country.
At the moment, I was not thinking of either circumstance, nor of the incongruity of bare feet in satin slippers. My eyes and thoughts were turned higher, gazing on a face of peculiar loveliness.
It was a beauty I remember well, but can ill describe.
To say that the complexion was a golden brown, with crimson in the cheeks; that the lips were like a pair of rose-leaves convexly curving against each other, and when parted, displaying a row of pearly teeth; that both eyebrows and lashes were crescent-shaped and black as ebony; that the eyes were of the same hue, but sparkling with liquid light; that the nose was slightly aquiline; the throat full and boldly rounded upward—to say all this, would only be to state a series of physical facts, which can give no idea of the loveliness of that face. It was the combination of these features—their mutual adaptation, their play, that produced the charm which I have called peculiar.
And it was so. Even with a heart at that time not wholly free, it enchained me—and I stood admiring. The face was near, and the moon full enough upon it to enable me to view it with distinctness. I could trace every feature, every shade of expression, even to the quick changing of the colour upon her cheek.
I stood in silence gazing on this apparition so unexpected, so lovely. Surprise, along with admiration, restrained my speech.
For a time the girl was equally silent, though her silence had a different cause. Her eyes were fixed, not upon me but upon the form at my feet. She had only glanced at me, and then quickly transferred her gaze to the prostrate figure.
It was a look of eager inquiry, lasting not long. In a second it changed to one of recognition, and the instant afterwards her eyes filled with an expression of intense agony. She saw Calros—her beloved Calros—prostrate, his face besprinkled with blood. It was Calros, silent, but not asleep; speechless and motionless; perhaps dead?
“Dead! Mother of God, dead!” were the words that, in accents of anguish, came pealing from the lips of Lola.
Her eyes flashed upward. In an instant the expression changed—grief giving place to indignation—something still more dire.
I saw that I was myself its object. With astonishment did I perceive this. It had not occurred to me to reflect on my compromising position. I was still standing over the body of the Jarocho, blood-besprinkled as it was. Less than five minutes before, Calros’s voice had been heard, along with that of another man, mingling in excited dialogue.
A shot had been fired. I held a pistol in my hand, from the muzzle of which a slight film of sulphureous smoke could be seen stringing outward. Calros appeared to be dead. Who but I could have been his slayer?
I heard the word asesino ringing in my ears, with other epithets of like fearful signification, as the girl rushed up to the spot where I stood. There was no weapon in her hand, or I might have fancied she was about to strike me. Even with her clenched fist, I was for a while uncertain whether this was not her intention; and to avoid her, I stepped back.
She stood for some seconds looking me straight in the face. Behind the parting of her tightly compressed lips was displayed a double row of teeth, that, despite their pearly whiteness, gleamed fiercely in the moonlight; while her eyes, as they flashed, seemed to send forth jets of living fire!
“I am innocent!” I called out. “It is not my act; it was not I who—”
“Asesino! monstre! Whoever thou art; false fiend, to deny a deed of which—madré de Dios!—I have been almost a witness. There—there—the weapon still in your hands—his blood freshly spilt!”
“It is not his blood,” I replied, hastily interrupting her.
But she heard not the rejoinder! for suddenly turning from me, she flung herself upon the prostrate form, drowning my voice with her wild exclamations.
“Dead! Calros! dear Calros! Are you dead? Speak to me one word—a whisper, to say you still live! Ay de mi! it is too true. No answer—no breath! Where is the wound that has robbed you of life, and me of my only friend? Where?—where?”
And as she continued to give voice to these detached exclamations, she proceeded, as if mechanically, to examine the wounds of the unconscious Jarocho.
I felt the awkwardness of the situation. Appearances were against me. Some explanation must be given.
Stepping nearer, I bent down by the side of the young girl; and as soon as her silence gave me an opportunity of being heard, repeated my asseveration.
“It is not his blood,” I said, “but that of another. Your friend has received no wound—at least none lately given, and least of all by me. His death—if he be dead—has been caused by this.”
I pointed to the dark spot on his thigh.
“It is a bullet wound received in the battle.”
“The blood upon his bosom—his cheeks—you see—’tis fresh?”
“I repeat it is not his. I speak truly.”
My earnest utterance seemed to make an impression upon her.
“Whose then? whose blood?” she cried out.
“That of a man who was in the act of killing Calros, when my pistol frustrated his intent. I fear after all he may have been successful, though not exactly according to his design. He intended to have stabbed the wounded man with his macheté.”
I took the mongrel sword, and held it up to the light.
“There’s blood on its blade, as you see; but it is that of him who would have been the true assassin, had not my bullet disabled his arm. Have you ever seen this weapon before?”
“O ñor; I could not tell. ’Tis a macheté. They’re all alike.”
“Have you ever heard the name of Ramon Rayas?”
The answer was an exclamation—almost a shriek!
“You know him, then?”
“Ramon Rayas! oh, the fiend—he—it was he. He vowed to kill Calros. Calros! O Calros! Has he fulfilled his vow?”
Once more the girl bent over the body of the Jarocho; and leaning low, recklessly placed her lips in contact with his blood-stained cheek. At the same time her arms fondly flung around, seemed to enfold the corpse in a loving embrace. Had he been alive and conscious, with the certainty of recovering, I could have envied him that sweet entwining.
My impulse was of a holier nature. If I could not restore the dead, I might give comfort to the living. But was he dead? It was not till that moment I had doubted it.
As I stooped over the body, I heard a sound that resembled a sigh. It could not be the sobbing of the bereaved Lola—though this also was audible.
The girl had again raised her head, and was holding it a little to one side, while the sound that had attracted my attention seemed to proceed from a different direction—in fact from the lips of the man supposed to be dead.
I lowered my ear to his face, and listened for a repetition of the sound. It came in a moment as I had before heard it—a sort of sigh half suppressed, like the breath struggling from a bosom over-weighted.
“Lola,” I whispered, “your Calros is not dead. He still breathes.”
I needed not to communicate this intelligence. The ear of affection had been bent, keenly as my own. By the sudden brightening of her countenance, I could perceive that Lola had heard that same sound, and was listening to catch it again, as if her life depended on its repetition.
She had mechanically pushed me aside, so that her ear might be closer to the mute lips of Calros.
“One moment,” I said, gently raising her from her recumbent position; “perhaps he has only fainted I have a remedy here; a stimulant that may serve to restore him. Permit me to administer it.”
I drew forth the flask which providentially I had brought from the tent. It contained “Catalan brandy,” one of the most potent of spirits.
Silently but readily she glided out of the way, watching my movements like some affectionate sister who assists the physician by the couch of an invalid brother.
I felt the pulse of the wounded man. My medical skill was not extensive; but I could perceive that its beating, though feeble, was not irregular—not flickering, like a lamp that was destined soon to become extinguished.
Lola read hope in my looks: her own became brighter.
I pulled out the stopper. I applied the flask to the lips of the unconscious Calros, pouring into his mouth a portion of the Catalonian spirit.
The effect was almost instantaneous. His bosom began to heave, his breath issued forth more freely, his glazed eyes showed signs of reanimation.
The girl could scarcely be restrained from repeating her fond embraces.
Presently the eyes of the invalid seemed to see—almost to recognise. His lips moved, as though he was endeavouring to speak, but as yet there came forth no sound.
Once more I applied the flask, pouring into his throat nearly a wine-glassful of the Catalan.
In less than a score of seconds the dose produced its effect—made known by a movement throughout the frame of the Jarocho, and a muttered whisper proceeding from his lips.
Again the girl would have strangled him with her passionate caresses. Judging from the joy with which she witnessed his resuscitation, her affection for him must have been boundless.
“Keep away from him!” I said, adding to the verbal caution a slight exertion of physical force. “There is scarcely an ounce of blood in his body, that is why he has fainted; that and the shock caused by the threat of—”
I did not choose to disquiet her by repeating what appeared to be a dreaded name. “Excitement of any kind may prove fatal. If you love him stay out of his sight; at least for a while, till he recover strength sufficient to bear your presence.”
How idle in me to have made use of these words, “if you love him!” The appearance of the handsome Jarocho, handsome even with death’s pallor on his brow, forbade any other belief; while the beautiful Jarocha, beautiful through all the changes of anger and hate, despair and hope, showed by her every action that Calros Vergara was the loved one of her life.
“Keep out of sight,” I again requested: “pray do not go near him till I return. The night air is unfavourable to his recovery. I must seek assistance, and have him carried into my tent. I entreat you, Señorita, do not make yourself known to him now, or the shock may be fatal.”
The look given by the girl, in answer to my solicitations, produced upon me an impression at once vivid and peculiar. It was a mingling of pleasure and pain, just in proportion as my fancy whispered me, that in those glances there was something more than gratitude.
Alas! it is true. Even in that melancholy hour, I felt pleasure in the thought that, whether he might recover or die, I should one day supplant Calros Vergara in the affections of his beloved Lola!
I aroused half-a-dozen of my men from their midnight slumbers. Among them was one who had some skill in surgery, derived from a long experience as hospital assistant.
There was a catre, or leathern bedstead, in the tent—a common article of camp furniture among the officers of the Mexican army. By splicing a pair of tent-poles along its sides, it could be converted into a “stretcher” of a superior kind.
The transformation was soon made; and, returning to the chapparal, we placed the wounded man upon the catre, with as much tenderness as if, instead of an enemy, he had been one of our own comrades.
He had by this time so far recovered as to be sensible of what was passing; but it was not until he had been carried within the tent, and his wound carefully dressed by the ex-hospital assistant, that I consented to an interview between him and his “querida Lola.”
Mistrusting the effect of any sudden excitement—even though caused by joy—I had entreated the girl to remain out of sight; and though suffering from a painful impatience to speak to her beloved Calros, she had obeyed me.
Being assured by the improvised surgeon that there was no real danger; that the wound was not likely to prove fatal; and that the syncope of the wounded man had been caused by weakness from loss of blood, I withdrew the restriction.
In an instant after, the beautiful Lola flew into the arms of her lover.
It was an affecting scene, and touched even my rude companions, who stood around the catre. To me it was not pleasant—I might almost say it was painful—to listen to that interchange of endearing epithets. I coveted the caresses that were being lavished upon the handsome Jarocho.
Soon the soldiers withdrew, to resume their interrupted repose, the hospital assistant going with the rest. I was left in the tent with Calros and Lola.
I could not help envying the invalid. For the sake of being tended by such a nurse, I would willingly have changed situations with him!
Lola had heard the assurance given by the hospital assistant, and communicated it to the wounded man. There was no longer the dread of death to hinder them from indulging in a free interchange of thought.
Perhaps they had something to say to each other which should not be overheard by any one? Under the idea that my presence might be a restraint, I withdrew; I shall not say without reluctance.
Throwing my cloak over my shoulders, I walked out of the tent, leaving them alone.
The night was still; the silence more solemn than ever. Not a sound disturbed it. Even the moanings of the disabled men, who lay here and there over the field of battle, which at an earlier hour had been well nigh continuous, seemed now to have ceased.
I was astonished by this circumstance, and mentally endeavoured to account for it. Perhaps the report of my pistol had awed them into silence, under the belief that the “strippers” were abroad, and that it was better to endure their agonies in silence than to guide those vultures in their villainous search! This was the only explanation I could think of.
I strolled off into the chapparal; but I soon found my way back into the neighbourhood of the tent. Under that piece of spread canvas, rendered luminous by the lamp burning inside, there was an attraction that drew me nearer and nearer. It was irresistible; and involuntarily yielding to it, I at length found myself in front of the arcade-like entrance, gazing inward.
The flap was thrown back; and I could see the occupants inside, the invalid stretched upon the catre, lying on his back as we had left him, the girl bending over him, her eyes fixed steadily upon his face. I could see that he was asleep; but not the less affectionately were those beautiful eyes bent upon his slumbering features.
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.