Our conquering army thus easily admitted into the City of the Angels, soon discovered it to be deserving of a far different appellation; and before we were a week within its walls there were few of our fellows who would not have preferred taking the chance of “quarters in Timbuctoo.” Notwithstanding our antipathy to the place, we were forced to remain in it for a period of several months, as it was not deemed prudent to advance directly upon the capital.
Between the “Vega” of Puebla and the “Valle” of Mexico extends a vast wall—the main “cordillera” of the Mexican Andes. It affords several points capable of easy defence, against a force far superior to that of the defenders. It was reported that one or other of these points would be fortified and sustained.
Moreover, the city of Mexico was not to be considered in the same light as the many others in that Imperial Republic, already surrendered to us with such facile freedom—Puebla among the number. The latter was but an outlying post; the former the heart and centre of a nation—up to this time unvisited by foreign foe—for three centuries untainted by the stranger’s footstep.
Around it would be gathered the chivalry of the land, ready to lay down its life in the defence of the modern city; as its Aztec owners freely did, when it was the ancient Tenochtitlan.
Labouring under this romantic delusion, our timid commander-in-chief decreed that we should stay for a time in the City of the Angels.
It was a stay that cost us several thousands of brave men; for, as it afterwards proved, we might have continued our triumphant march into the capital without hostile obstruction.
Fate, or Scott, ruling it, we remained in La Puebla.
If a city inhabited by real angels be not a pleasanter place of abode than that of the sham sort at Puebla, I fancy there are few of my old comrades would care to be quartered in it.
It is true we were in an enemy’s town, with no great claim to hospitality. The people from the first stayed strictly within doors—that is, those of them who could afford to live without exposing their persons upon the street. Of the tradesmen we had enough; and, at their prices, something more.
But the women—those windows full of dark-eyed donçellas we had seen upon our first entry, and but rarely afterwards—appeared to have been suddenly spirited away; and, with some exceptions, we never set eyes on them again!
We fancied that they had their eyes upon us, from behind the deep shadowy rejas: and we had reason to believe they were only restrained from shewing their fair faces by the jealous interference of their men.
As for the latter, we were not long in discovering their proclivity. In a town of sixty thousand inhabitants—with house-room (as already stated) for twice or three times the number—a small corps d’armée, such as ours was, could scarce be discovered in the crowd. On days of general drill, or grand parade, we looked formidable enough—at least to overawe the ruffianism around us.
But when the troops were distributed into their respective cuartels, widely separated from one another, the thing was quite different; and a sky-blue soldier tramping it through the streets might have been likened to a single honest man, moving in the midst of a thousand thieves!
The consequence was that the Poblanos became “muy valiente,” and began to believe, that they had too easily surrendered their city.
And the consequence of this belief, or hallucination on their part, was an attitude of hostility towards our soldiers—resulting in rude badinage, broils, and, not unfrequently, in blood.
The mere mob of “leperos” was not alone guilty of this misconception. The “swells” of the place took part in it—directing their hostility against our subaltern officers—among them some good-natured fellows, who, quite unconscious of the intent, had for a time misconstrued it.
It resulted in a rumour—a repute I should rather call it—which became current throughout the country. The people themselves said, and affected to believe it, that the Americanos, though brave in battle—or, at all events, hitherto successful—were individually afraid of their foes, and shirked the personal encounter!
This idea the jeunesse doré propagated among their female acquaintances; and for a time it obtained credit.
Well do I remember the night when it was first made known to those who were sufferers by the slander.
There were twelve of us busied over a basket of champagne—better I never drank than that we discovered in the cellars of La Puebla.
There is always good wine in the proximity of a convent.
Some one joining our party reported: that he had been jostled while passing through the streets; not by a mob of pelados, but by men who were known as the “young bloods” of the place.
Several others had like experiences to relate—if not of that night, as having occurred within the week.
The Monroe doctrine was touched; and along with it the Yankee “dander.”
We rose to a man; and sallied forth into the street.
It was still early. The pavement was crowded with pedestrians.
I can only justify what followed, by stating that there had been terrible provocation. I had been myself more than once the victim of verbal insult—incredulous that it could have been so meant.
One and all of us were ripe for retaliation.
We proceeded to take it.
Scores of citizens—including the swells, that had hitherto disputed the path—went rapidly to the wall: many of them to the gutter; and next day the banquette was left clear to any one wearing the uniform of “Uncle Sam.”
The lesson, followed by good results, had also some evil ones. Our “rank and file,” taking the hint from their officers, began to knock the Poblanos about like “old boots;” while the leperos finding them alone, and in solitary places, freely retaliated—on several occasions shortening the count of their messes.
The game continuing, soon became perilous to an extreme degree. In daylight we might go where we pleased; but after nightfall—especially if it chanced to be a dark night—it was dangerous to set foot upon the streets. If a single officer—or even two or three—had to dine at the quarters of any remote regiment, he must needs stay all night with his hosts, or take the chance of being waylaid on his way home!
In time the lex talionis became thoroughly established; and a stringent order had to be issued from head-quarters: that neither soldier nor officer should go out upon the streets, without special permission from the commander of the regiment, troop, or detachment.
A revolt of the “angels,” whom we had by this time discovered to be very “devils,” was anticipated. Hence the motive for the precautionary measure.
From that time we were prohibited all out-door exercise, except such as was connected with our drill duties and parade. We were in reality undergoing a sort of mild siege!
Safe sorties could only be made during the day; then only through streets proximate to the respective cuartels. Stragglers to remote suburbs were assaulted sub Jove; while after night it was not safe anywhere, beyond hail of our own sentries!
A pretty pass had things come to in the City of the Angels!
Notwithstanding the disagreeables above enumerated, and some others, I was not among those who would have preferred quarters in Timbuctoo.
One’s liking for a place often depends upon a trivial circumstance; and just such a circumstance had given me a penchant for Puebla.
The human heart is capable of a sentiment that can turn dirt into diamonds, or darkness to light—at least in imagination. Under its influence the peasant’s hut becomes transformed into a princely palace; and the cottage girl assumes the semblance of a queen.
Possessed by this sentiment, I thought Puebla a paradise; for I knew that it contained, if not an angel, one “fair as the first that fell of womankind.” As yet only on one occasion had I seen her; then only at a distance, and for a time scarce counting threescore seconds.
It was during the ceremonial of our entry into the place, already described. As the van of our columns debouched into the Piazza Grande a halt had been ordered, necessarily extending to the regiments in the rear. The spot where my own troop had need to pull up was overlooked by a large two-story house, of somewhat imposing appearance, with frescoed front, balcons, and portales. Of course there were windows; and it was not likely that so situated I should feel shy about looking at, or even into them. There are times and circumstances when a man may be permitted to dispense with the strictest observance of etiquette; and, though it may be quite unchivalric, the conqueror claims, on the occasion of making entry into a conquered city, the right to peep into the windows.
No better than the rest of my fellows, I availed myself of the saucy privilege, by glancing toward the windows of the house, before which we had halted.
In those below there was nobody or nothing—only the red iron bars and the black emptiness behind them.
On turning my eyes upwards, I saw something very different—something that rivetted my gaze, in spite of every effort to avert it. There was a window with balcony in front, and green Venetians inside. Half standing on the sill, and holding the jalousies back, was a woman—I had almost said an angel!
Certainly was she the fairest thing I had ever seen, or in fancy conceived; and my reflection at the time was—I well remember making it—if there be two of her sort in Puebla, the place is appropriately named—La Puebla de los Angeles!
She was not of the fair-haired kind, so fashionable in late days; but dark, with deep dreamy eyes; a mass of black hair, surmounted by a large tortoise-shell comb; eyebrows so pretty as to appear painted; with a corresponding tracery upon the upper lip—the bigotite that tells of Andalusian stock, and descent from the children of the Cid.
While gazing upon her—no doubt rudely enough—I saw that she returned the glance. At first I thought kindly; but then with a serious air, as if resenting my rudeness. I would have given anything I possessed to appease her—the horse I was riding, or aught else. I would have given much for a flower to fling at her feet—knowing the effect of such little flatteries on the Mexican “muchacha;” but, unfortunately, there was no flower near.
In default of one, I bethought me of a substitute—my sword-knot!
The gold tassel was instantly detached from the guard, and fell into the balcony at her feet.
I did not see her take it up. The bugle at that moment sounded the advance; and I was forced to ride forward at the head of my troop.
On glancing back, as we turned out of the street, I saw that she was still outside; and fancied there was something glittering between her fingers in addition to the jewelled rings that encircled them.
I noted the name of the street. It was the Calle del Obispo.
In my heart I registered a vow: that, ere long, I should be back in the Calle del Obispo.
I was not slow in the fulfilment of that vow. The very next day, after being released from morning parade, I repaired to the place in which the fair apparition had made itself manifest.
I had no difficulty in recognising the house. It was one of the largest in the street, easily distinguished by its frescoed front, windows with “balcons,” and jalousies inside. A grand gate entrance piercing the centre told that carriages were kept. In short, everything betokened the residence of a “rico.”
I remembered the very window—so carefully had I made my mental memoranda.
It looked different now. There was but the frame; the picture was no longer in it.
I glanced to the other windows of the dwelling. They were all alike empty. The blinds were drawn down. No one inside appeared to take any interest in what was passing in the street.
I had my walk for nothing. A score of turns, up and down; three cigars smoked while making them; some sober reflections that admonished me I was doing a very ridiculous thing; and I strolled back to my quarters with a humiliating sense of having made a fool of myself, and a resolve not to repeat the performance.
It was but a half-heart resolve, and failed me on the following day.
Again did I traverse the Calle del Obispo; again scrutinise the windows of the stuccoed mansion.
As on the day before, the jalousies were down, and my surveillance was once more doomed to disappointment. There was no face, no form, not even so much as a finger, to be seen through the screening lattice.
Shall I go again?
This was the question I asked myself on the third day.
I had almost answered it in the negative: for I was by this time getting tired of the profitless rôle I had been playing.
It was perilous too. There was a chance of becoming involved in a maze, from which escape might not be so easy. I felt sure I could love the woman I had seen in the window. The powerful impression her eyes had made upon me, in twenty seconds of time, was earnest of what might follow from a prolonged observation of them. I could not calculate on escaping without becoming inspired by a passion.
And what if it should not be reciprocated? It was sheer vanity, to have even the slightest hope that it might be!
Better to give it up—to go no more through the street where the fair vision had shewn itself—to try and forget that I had seen it.
Such were my reflections on the morning of the third day, after my arrival in the Angelic city.
Only in the morning. Before twilight there was a change. The twilight had something to do in producing it. On the two previous occasions I had mistaken the hour when beauty is accustomed to display itself in the balconies of La Puebla. Hence, perhaps, my failing to obtain a view of her who had so interested me.
I determined to try again.
Just as the sun’s rays were turning rose-coloured upon the snow-crowned summit of Orizava, I was once more wending my way towards the Calle del Obispo.
A third disappointment; but this time of a kind entirely different from the other two.
I had hit the hour. The donçella—of whom for three days I had been thinking—three nights dreaming—was in the window where I had first seen her.
One glance and I was completely disenchanted!
Not that she could be called plain, or otherwise than pretty. She was more than passably so, but still only pretty.
Where was the resplendent beauty that had so strangely, suddenly, impressed me?
She might have deemed me ill-mannered, as I stood scanning her features to discover it; for I was no longer in awe—such as I expected her presence would have produced. I could now look upon her, without fear of that possibly perilous future I had been picturing to myself.
After all, the thing was easy of explanation. For six weeks we had been among the hills—in cantonment—so far from Jalapa, that it was only upon rare occasions we had an opportunity of refreshing our eyes with a sight of the fair Jalapenas. We had been accustomed to see only the peasant girls of Banderilla and San Miguel Soldado, with here and there along the route the coarse unkempt squaws of Azteca. Compared with these, she of the Calle del Obispo was indeed an angel. It was the contrast that had misled me?
Well, it would be a lesson of caution not to be too quick at falling in love. I had often listened to the allegement, that circumstances have much to do in producing the tender passion. This seemed to confirm it.
I was not without regret, on discovering that the angel of my imagination was no more than a pretty woman—a regret strengthened by the remembrance of three distinct promenades made for the express purpose of seeing her—to say nothing of the innumerable vagaries of pleasant conjecture, all exerted in vain.
I felt a little vexed at having thrown away my sword-knot!
I was scarce consoled by the reflection, that my peace of mind was no longer in peril; for I was now almost indifferent to the opinion which the lady might entertain of me. I no longer cared a straw about the reciprocity of a passion the possibility of which had been troubling me. There would be none to reciprocate.
Thus chagrined, and a little by the same thought consoled, I had ceased to stare at the señorita; who certainly stared at me in surprise, and as I fancied, with some degree of indignation.
My rudeness had given her reason; and I could not help perceiving it.
I was about to make the best apology in my power, by hastening away from the spot—my eyes turned to the ground in a look of humiliation—when curiosity, more than aught else, prompted me to raise them once more to the window. I was desirous to know whether my repentance had been understood and acknowledged.
I intended it only for a transitory glance. It became fixed.
Fixed and fascinated! The woman that but six seconds before appeared only pretty—that three days before I had supposed supremely beautiful—was again the angel I had deemed her—certainly the most beautiful woman I ever beheld!
What could have caused this change? Was it an illusion—some deception my senses were practising upon me?
If the lady saw reason to think me rude before, she had double cause now. I stood transfixed to the spot, gazing upon her with my eyes, my soul—my every thought concentrated in the glance.
And yet she seemed less frowning than before: for I was sure that she had frowned. I could not explain this, any more than I could account for the other transformation. Enough that I was gratified with the thought of having, not idly, bestowed my sword-knot.
For some time I remained under the spell of a speechless surprise.
It was broken—not by words, but by a new tableau suddenly presented to my view. Two women were at the window! One was the pretty prude who had well nigh chased me out of the street; the other, the lovely being who had attracted me into it!
At a glance I saw that they were sisters.
They were remarkably alike, both in form and features. Even the expression upon their countenances was similar—that similarity that may be seen between two individuals in the same family, known as a “family likeness.”
Both were of a clear olive complexion—the tint of the Moriseo-Spaniard—with large imperious eyes, and masses of black hair clustering around their necks. Both were tall, of full form, and shaped as if from the same mould; while in age—so far as appearance went—they might have been twins.
And yet, despite these many points of personal similarity, in the degree of loveliness they were vastly different. She who had been offended by my behaviour was a handsome woman, and only that—a thing of Earth; while her sister had the seeming of some divine creature whose home might be in Heaven!
From that day, each return of twilight’s gentle hour saw me in the Calle del Obispo. The sun was not more certain to set behind the snow-crowned Cordilleras, than I to traverse the street where dwelt Mercedes Villa-Señor.
Her name and condition had been easily ascertained. Any stray passenger encountered in the street could tell, who lived in the grand casa with the frescoed front.
“Don Eusebio Villa-Señor—un rico—with two daughters, muchachas muy lindas!” was the reply of him, to whom I addressed the inquiry.
I was further informed, that Don Eusebio was of Spanish descent, though a Mexican by birth; that in the veins of his daughters flowed only the Andalusian blood—the pure sangre azul. His was one of the familias principales of Puebla.
There was nothing in this knowledge to check my incipient admiration of Don Eusebio’s daughter. Quite the contrary.
As I had predicted, I was soon in the vortex of an impetuous passion; and without ever having spoken to her who inspired it!
There was no chance to hold converse with her. We were permitted no correspondence with the familias principales, beyond the dry formalities which occasionally occurred in official intercourse. But this was confined to the men. The señoritas were closely kept within doors, and as jealously concealed from us as if every house had been a harem.
My admiration was too earnest to be restrained by such trifling obstructions; and I succeeded in obtaining an occasional, though distant, view of her who had so interested me.
My glances—given with all the fervour of a persistent passion—with all its audacity—could scarce be misconstrued.
I had the vanity to think they were not; and that they were returned with looks that meant more than kindness.
I was full of hope and joy. My love affair appeared to be progressing towards a favourable issue; when that change, already recorded, came over the inhabitants of Puebla—causing them to assume towards us the attitude of hostility.
It is scarce necessary to say that the new state of things was not to my individual liking. My twilight saunterings had, of necessity, to be discontinued; and upon rare occasions, when I found a chance of resuming them, I no longer saw aught of Mercedes Villa-Señor!
She, too, had no doubt been terrified into that hermitical retirement—among the señoritas now universal.
Before this terrible time came about, my passion had proceeded too far to be restrained by any ideas of danger. My hopes had grown in proportion; and stimulated by these, I lost no opportunity of stealing out of quarters, and seeking the Calle del Obispo.
I was alike indifferent to danger in the streets, and the standing order to keep out of them. For a stray glance at her to whom I had surrendered my sword-knot, I would have given up my commission; and to obtain the former, almost daily did I risk losing the latter!
It was all to no purpose. Mercedes was no more to be seen.
Uncertainty about her soon became a torture; I could endure it no longer. I resolved to seek some mode of communication.
How fortunate for lovers that their thoughts can be symbolised upon paper! I thought so as I indited a letter, and addressed it to the “Dona Mercedes Villa-Señor.”
How to get it conveyed to her, was a more difficult problem.
There were men servants who came and went through the great gateway of the mansion. Which of them was the one least likely to betray me?
I soon fixed my reflections upon the cochero—a tall fellow in velveteens, whom I had seen taking out the sleek carriage horses. There was enough of the “picaro” in his countenance, to inspire me with confidence that he could be suborned for my purpose.
I determined on making trial of him. If a doubloon should prove sufficient bribe, my letter would be delivered.
In my twilight strolls, often prolonged to a late hour, I had noticed that this domestic sallied forth: as if, having done his day’s duty, he had permission to spend his evenings at the pulqueria. The plan would be to waylay him, on one of his nocturnal sorties; and this was what I determined on doing.
On the night of that same day on which I indited the epistle, the Officer of the Guard chanced to be my particular friend. It was not chance either: since I had chosen the occasion. I had no difficulty, therefore, in giving the countersign; and, wrapped in a cloth cloak—intended less as a protection against the cold than to conceal my uniform—I proceeded onward upon my errand of intrigue.
I was favoured by the complexion of the night. It was dark as coal tar—the sky shrouded with a thick stratum of thunder clouds.
It was not yet late enough for the citizens to have forsaken the streets. There were hundreds of them, strolling to and fro, all natives of the place—most of them men of the lower classes—with a large proportion of “leperos.”
There was not a soldier to be seen—except here and there the solitary sentry, whose presence betokened the entrance to some military cuartel.
The troops were all inside—in obedience to the standing order. There were not even the usual squads of drunken stragglers in uniform. The fear of assault and assassination was stronger than the propensity for “raking”—even among regiments whose rank and file was almost entirely composed of the countrymen of Saint Patrick.
A stranger passing through the place could scarce have suspected that the city was under American occupation. There was but slight sign of such control. The Poblanos appeared to have the place to themselves.
They were gay and noisy—some half intoxicated with pulque, and inclined to be quarrelsome. The leperos, no longer in awe of their own national authorities, were demeaning themselves with a degree of licence allowed by the abnormal character of the times.
In my progress along the pavement I was several times accosted in a coarse bantering mariner; not on account of my American uniform—for my cloak concealed this—but because I wore a cloak! I was taken for a native “aristocrat.”
Better that it was so: since the insults were only verbal, and offered in a spirit of rude badinage. Had my real character been known, they might have been accompanied by personal violence.
I had not gone far before becoming aware of this; and that I had started upon a rash, not to say perilous, enterprise.
It was of that nature, however, that I could not give it up; even had I been threatened with ten times the danger.
I continued on, holding my cloak in such a fashion, that it might not flap open.
By good luck I had taken the precaution to cover my head with a Mexican sombrero, instead of the military cap; and as for the gold stripes on my trowsers, they were but the fashion of the Mexican majo.
A walk of twenty minutes brought me into the Calle del Obispo.
Compared with some of the streets, through which I had been passing, it seemed deserted. Only two or three solitary pedestrians could be seen traversing it, under the dim light of half a dozen oil lamps set at long distances apart.
One of these was in front of the Casa Villa-Señor. More than once it had been my beacon before, and it guided me now.
On the opposite side of the street there was another grand house with a portico. Under the shadow of this I took my stand, to await the coming forth of the cochero.