Loe raamatut: «The Rifle Rangers», lehekülg 7

Chapter Fourteen

“The Norther.”

We hurried after Don Cosmé towards the ante-sala, both myself and my companions ignorant of this new object of dread.

When we emerged from the stairway the scene that hailed us was one of terrific sublimity. Earth and heaven had undergone a sudden and convulsive change. The face of nature, but a moment since gay with summer smiles, was now hideously distorted. The sky had changed suddenly from its blue and sunny brightness to an aspect dark and portentous.

Along the north-west a vast volume of black vapour rolled up over the Sierra Madre, and rested upon the peaks of the mountains. From this, ragged masses, parting in fantastic forms and groupings, floated off against the concavity of the sky as though the demons of the storm were breaking up from an angry council. Each of these, as it careered across the heavens, seemed bent upon some spiteful purpose.

An isolated fragment hung lowering above the snowy cone of Orizava, like a huge vampire suspended over his sleeping victim.

From the great “parent cloud” that rested upon the Sierra Madre, lightning-bolts shot out and forked hither and thither or sank into the detached masses – the messengers of the storm-king bearing his fiery mandates across the sky.

Away along the horizon of the east moved the yellow pillars of sand, whirled upward by the wind, like vast columnar towers leading to heaven.

The storm had not yet reached the rancho. The leaves lay motionless under a dark and ominous calm; but the wild screams of many birds – the shrieks of the swans, the discordant notes of the frightened pea-fowl, the chattering of parrots as they sought the shelter of the thick olives in terrified flight – all betokened the speedy advent of some fearful convulsion.

The rain in large drops fell upon the broad leaves with a soft, plashing sound; and now and then a quick, short puff came snorting along, and, seizing the feathery frondage of the palms, shook them with a spiteful and ruffian energy.

The long green stripes, after oscillating a moment, would settle down again in graceful and motionless curves.

A low sound like the “sough” of the sea or the distant falling of water came from the north; while at intervals the hoarse bark of the coyoté and the yelling of terrified monkeys could be heard afar off in the woods.

“Tapa la casa! tapa la casa!” (Cover the house!) cried Don Cosmé as soon as he had fairly got his head above ground. “Anda! —anda con los macates!” (Quick with the cords!) With lightning quickness a roll of palmetto mats came down on all sides of the house, completely covering the bamboo walls, and forming a screen impervious to both wind and rain. This was speedily fastened at all corners, and strong stays were carried out and warped around the trunks of trees. In five minutes the change was complete. The cage-looking structure had disappeared, and a house with walls of yellow petaté stood in its place.

“Now, Señores, all is secured,” said Don Cosmé. “Let us return to the drawing-room.”

“I should like to see the first burst of this tornado,” I remarked, not wishing to intrude upon the scene of sorrow we had left.

“So be it, Captain. Stand here under the shelter, then.”

“Hot as thunder!” growled the major, wiping the perspiration from his broad, red cheeks.

“In five minutes, Señor Coronel, you will be chilled. At this point the heated atmosphere is now compressed. Patience! it will soon be scattered.”

“How long will the storm continue?” I asked. “Por Dios! Señor, it is impossible to tell how long the ‘norté’ may rage: sometimes for days; perhaps only for a few hours. This appears to be a ‘huracana’. If so, it will be short, but terrible while it lasts. Carrambo!”

A puff of cold, sharp wind came whistling past like an arrow. Another followed, and another, like the three seas that roll over the stormy ocean. Then, with a loud, rushing sound, the broad, full blast went sweeping – strong, dark, and dusty – bearing upon its mane the screaming and terrified birds, mingled with torn and flouted leaves.

The olives creaked and tossed about. The tall palms bowed and yielded, flinging out their long pinions like streamers. The broad leaves of the plantains flapped and whistled, and, bending gracefully, allowed the fierce blast to pass over.

Then a great cloud came rolling down; a thick vapour seemed to fill the space; and the air felt hot and dark and heavy. A choking, sulphureous smell rendered the breathing difficult, and for a moment day seemed changed to night.

Suddenly the whole atmosphere blazed forth in a sheet of flame, and the trees glistened as though they were on fire. An opaque darkness succeeded. Another flash, and along with it the crashing thunder – the artillery of heaven – deafening all other sounds.

Peal followed peal; the vast cloud was breached and burst by a hundred fiery bolts; and like an avalanche the heavy tropical rain was precipitated to the earth.

It fell in torrents, but the strength of the tempest had been spent on the first onslaught. The dark cloud passed on to the south, and a piercing cold wind swept after it.

“Vamos á bajar, señores!” (Let us descend, gentlemen), said Don Cosmé with a shiver, and he conducted us back to the stairway.

Clayley and the major looked towards me with an expression that said, “Shall we go in?” There were several reasons why our return to the drawing-room was unpleasant to myself and my companions. A scene of domestic affliction is ever painful to a stranger. How much more painful to us, knowing, as we did, that our countrymen – that we– had been the partial agents of this calamity! We hesitated a moment on the threshold.

“Gentlemen, we must return for a moment: we have been the bearers of evil tidings – let us offer such consolation as we may think of. Come!”

Chapter Fifteen.
A Little Fair Weather again

On re-entering the sala the picture of woe was again presented, but in an altered aspect. A change, sudden as the atmospheric one we had just witnessed, had taken place; and the scene of wild weeping was now succeeded by one of resignation and prayer.

On one side was Dona Joaquina, holding in her hands a golden rosary with its crucifix. The girls were kneeling in front of a picture – a portrait of Dolores with the fatal dagger; and the “Lady of Grief” looked not more sorrowful from the canvas than the beautiful devotees that bent before her.

With their heads slightly leaning, their arms crossed upon their swelling bosoms, and their long loose hair trailing upon the carpet, they formed a picture at once painful and prepossessing.

Not wishing to intrude upon this sacred sorrow, we made a motion to retire.

“No, Señores,” said Don Cosmé, interrupting us. “Be seated; let us talk calmly – let us know the worst.”

We then proceeded to inform Don Cosmé of the landing of the American troops and the manner in which our lines were drawn around the city, and pointed out to him the impossibility of anyone passing either in or out.

“There is still a hope, Don Cosmé,” said I, “and that, perhaps, rests with yourself.”

The thought had struck me that a Spaniard of Don Cosmé’s evident rank and wealth might be enabled to procure access to the city by means of his consul, and through the Spanish ship of war that I recollected was lying off San Juan.

“Oh! name it, Captain; name it!” cried he, while at the word “hope” the ladies had rushed forward, and stood clinging around me.

“There is a Spanish ship of war lying under the walls of Vera Cruz.”

“We know it – we know it!” replied Don Cosmé eagerly.

“Ah! you know it, then?”

“Oh, yes!” said Guadalupe. “Don Santiago is on board of her.”

“Don Santiago?” inquired I; “who is he?”

“He is a relation of ours, Captain,” said Don Cosmé; “an officer in the Spanish navy.”

This information pained me, although I scarcely knew why.

“You have a friend, then, aboard the Spanish ship,” said I to the elder of the sisters. “’Tis well; it will be in his power to restore to you your brother.”

A ring of brightening faces was around me while I uttered these cheering words; and Don Cosmé, grasping me by the hand, entreated me to proceed.

“This Spanish ship,” I continued, “is still allowed to keep up a communication with the town. You should proceed aboard at once, and by the assistance of this friend you may bring away your son before the bombardment commences. I see no difficulty; our batteries are not yet formed.”

“I will go this instant!” said Don Cosmé, leaping to his feet, while Dona Joaquina and her daughters ran out to make preparations for his journey.

Hope – sweet hope – was again in the ascendant.

“But how, Señor?” asked Don Cosmé, as soon as they were gone; “how can I pass your lines? Shall I be permitted to reach the ship?”

“It will be necessary for me to accompany you, Don Cosmé,” I replied; “and I regret exceedingly that my duty will not permit me to return with you at once.”

“Oh, Señor!” exclaimed the Spaniard, with a painful expression.

“My business here,” continued I, “is to procure pack-mules for the American army.”

“Mules?”

“Yes. We were crossing for that purpose to a plain on the other side of the woods, where we had observed some animals of that description.”

“’Tis true, Captain; there are a hundred or more; they are mine – take them all!”

“But it is our intention to pay for them, Don Cosmé. The major here has the power to contract with you.”

“As you please, gentlemen; but you will then return this way, and proceed to your camp?”

“As soon as possible,” I replied. “How far distant is this plain?”

“Not more than a league. I would go with you, but – ” Here Don Cosmé hesitated, and, approaching, said in a low tone: “The truth is, Señor Capitan, I should be glad if you could take them without my consent. I have mixed but little in the politics of this country; but Santa Anna is my enemy – he will ask no better motive for despoiling me.”

“I understand you,” said I. “Then, Don Cosmé, we will take your mules by force, and carry yourself a prisoner to the American camp – a Yankee return for your hospitality.”

“It is good,” replied the Spaniard, with a smile.

“Señor Capitan,” continued he, “you are without a sword. Will you favour me by accepting this?”

Don Cosmé held out to me a rapier of Toledo steel, with a golden scabbard richly chased, and bearing on its hilt the eagle and nopal of Mexico.

“It is a family relic, and once belonged to the brave Guadalupe Victoria.”

“Ha! indeed!” I exclaimed, taking the sword; “I shall value it much. Thanks, Señor! thanks! Now, Major, we are ready to proceed.”

“A glass of maraschino, gentlemen?” said Don Cosmé, as a servant appeared with a flask and glasses. “Thank you – yes,” grunted the major; “and while we are drinking it, Señor Don, let me give you a hint. You appear to have plenty of pewter.” Here the major significantly touched a gold sugar-dish, which the servant was carrying upon a tray of chased silver. “Take my word for it, you can’t bury it too soon.”

“It is true, Don Cosmé,” said I, translating to him the major’s advice. “We are not French, but there are robbers who hang on the skirts of every army.”

Don Cosmé promised to follow the hint with alacrity, and we prepared to take our departure from the rancho.

“I will give you a guide, Señor Capitan; you will find my people with the mulada. Please compel them to lasso the cattle for you. You will obtain what you want in the corral. Adios, Señores!”

“Farewell, Don Cosmé!”

“A dios, Capitan! adios! adios!”

I held out my hand to the younger of the girls, who instantly caught it and pressed it to her lips. It was the action of a child. Guadalupe followed the example of her sister, but evidently with a degree of reserve. What, then, should have caused this difference in their manner?

In the next moment we were ascending the stairway.

“Lucky dog!” growled the major. “Take a ducking myself for that.”

“Both beautiful, by Jove!” said Clayley; “but of all the women I ever saw, give me ‘Mary of the Light’!”

Chapter Sixteen.
The Scout continued, with a Variety of Reflections

Love is a rose growing upon a thorny bramble. There is jealousy in the very first blush of a passion. No sooner has a fair face made its impress on the heart than hopes and fears spring up in alternation. Every action, every word, every look is noted and examined with a jealous scrutiny; and the heart of the lover, changing like the chameleon, takes its hues from the latest sentiment that may have dropped from the loved one’s lips. And then the various looks, words, and actions, the favourable with the unfavourable, are recalled, and by a mental process classified and marshalled against each other, and compared and balanced with as much exactitude as the pros and contras of a miser’s bank-book; and in this process we have a new alternation of hopes and fears.

Ah, love! we could write a long history of thy rise and progress; but it is doubtful whether any of our readers would be a jot the wiser for it. Most of them ere this have read that history in their own hearts.

I felt and knew that I was in love. It had come like a thought, as it comes upon all men whose souls are attuned to vibrate under the mystical impressions of the beautiful. And well I knew she was beautiful. I saw its unfailing index in those oval developments – the index, too, of the intellectual; for experience had taught me that intellect takes a shape; and that those peculiarities of form that we admire, without knowing why, are but the material illustrations of the diviner principles of mind.

The eye, too, with its almond outline, and wild, half-Indian, half Arab expression – the dark tracery over the lip, so rarely seen in the lineaments of her sex – even these were attractions. There was something picturesque, something strange, something almost fierce, in her aspect; and yet it was this indefinable something, this very fierceness, that had challenged my love. For I must confess mine is not one of those curious natures that I have read of, whose love is based only upon the goodness of the object. That is not love.

My heart recognised in her the heroine of extremes. One of those natures gifted with all the tenderness that belongs to the angel idea – woman; yet soaring above her sex in the paralysing moments of peril and despair. Her feelings, in relation to her sister’s cruelty to the gold-fish, proved the existence of the former principle; her actions, in attempting my own rescue when battling with the monster, were evidence of the latter. One of those natures that may err from the desperate intensity of one passion, that knows no limit to its self-sacrifice short of destruction and death. One of those beings that may fall – but only once.

“What would I not give – what would I not do – to be the hero of such a heart?”

These were my reflections as I quitted the house.

I had noted every word, every look, every action, that could lend me a hope; and my memory conjured up, and my judgment canvassed, each little circumstance in its turn.

How strange her conduct at bidding adieu! How unlike her sister! Less friendly and sincere; and yet from this very circumstance I drew my happiest omen.

Strange – is it not? My experience has taught me that love and hate for the same object can exist in the same heart, and at the same time. If this be a paradox, I am a child of error.

I believed it then; and her apparent coldness, which would have rendered many another hopeless, produced with me an opposite effect.

Then came the cloud – the thought of Don Santiago – and a painful feeling shot through my heart.

“Don Santiago, a naval officer, young, handsome. Bah! hers is not a heart to be won by a face.”

Such were my reflections and half-uttered expressions as I slowly led my soldiers through the tangled path.

Don Santiago’s age and his appearance were the creations of a jealous fancy. I had bidden adieu to my new acquaintances knowing nothing of Don Santiago beyond the fact that he was an officer on board the Spanish ship of war, and a relation of Don Cosmé.

“Oh, yes! Don Santiago is on board! Ha! there was an evident interest. Her look as she said it; her manner – furies! But he is a relation, a cousin —a cousin – I hate cousins!”

I must have pronounced the last words aloud, as Lincoln, who walked in my rear, stepped hastily up, and asked:

“What did yer say, Cap’n?”

“Oh! nothing, Sergeant,” stammered I, in some confusion.

Notwithstanding my assurance, I overheard Lincoln whisper to his nearest comrade:

“What ther old Harry hes got into the cap?”

He referred to the fact that I had unconsciously hooked myself half a dozen times on the thorny claws of the pita-plant, and my overalls began to exhibit a most tattered condition.

Our route lay through a dense chaparral – now crossing a sandy spur, covered with mezquite and acacia; then sinking into the bed of some silent creek, shaded with old cork-trees, whose gnarled and venerable trunks were laced together by a thousand parasites. Two miles from the rancho we reached the banks of a considerable stream, which we conjectured was a branch of the Jamapa River.

On both sides a fringe of dark forest-trees flung out long branches extending half-way across the stream. The water flowed darkly underneath.

Huge lilies stood out from the banks – their broad, wax-like leaves trailing upon the glassy ripple.

Here and there were pools fringed with drooping willows and belts of green tulé. Other aquatic plants rose from the water to the height of twenty feet; among which we distinguished the beautiful “iris”, with its tall, spear-like stem, ending in a brown cylinder, like the pompon of a grenadier’s cap.

As we approached the banks the pelican, scared from his lonely haunt, rose upon heavy wing, and with a shrill scream flapped away through the dark aisles of the forest. The cayman plunged sullenly into the sedgy water; and the “Sajou” monkey, suspended by his prehensile tail from some overhanging bough, oscillated to and fro, and filled the air with his hideous, half-human cries.

Halting for a moment to refill the canteens, we crossed over and ascended the opposite bank. A hundred paces farther on the guide, who had gone ahead, cried out from an eminence, “Mira la caballada!” (Yonder’s the drove!)

Chapter Seventeen.
One Way of Taming a Bull

Pushing through the jungle, we ascended the eminence. A brilliant picture opened before us. The storm had suddenly lulled, and the tropical sun shone down upon the flowery surface of the earth, bathing its verdure in a flood of yellow light. It was several hours before sunset, but the bright orb had commenced descending towards the snowy cone of Orizava, and his rays had assumed that golden red which characterises the ante-twilight of the tropics. The short-lived storm had swept the heavens, and the blue roof of the world was without a cloud. The dark masses had rolled away over the south-eastern horizon, and were now spending their fury upon the dyewood forests of Honduras and Tabasco.

At our feet lay the prairie, spread before us like a green carpet, and bounded upon the farther side by a dark wall of forest-trees. Several clumps of timber grew like islands on the plain, adding to the picturesque character of the landscape.

Near the centre of the prairie stood a small rancho, surrounded by a high picket fence. This we at once recognised as the “corral” mentioned by Don Cosmé.

At some distance from the inclosure thousands of cattle were browsing upon the grassy level, their spotted flanks and long upright horns showing their descent from the famous race of Spanish bulls. Some of them, straggling from the herd, rambled through the “mottes”, or lay stretched out under the shade of some isolated palm-tree. Ox-bells were tinkling their cheerful but monotonous music. Hundreds of horses and mules mingled with the herd; and we could distinguish a couple of leather-clad vaqueros (herdsmen) galloping from point to point on their swift mustangs.

These, as we appeared upon the ridge, dashed out after a wild bull that had just escaped from the corral.

All five – the vaqueros, the mustangs, and the bull – swept over the prairie like wind, the bull bellowing with rage and terror; while the vaqueros were yelling in his rear, and whirling their long lazos. Their straight black hair floating in the wind – their swarthy, Arab-like faces – their high Spanish hats – their red leather calzoneros, buttoned up the sides – their huge jingling spurs, and the ornamental trappings of their deep saddles – all these, combined with the perfect manège of their dashing steeds, and the wild excitement of the chase in which they were engaged, rendered them objects of picturesque interest; and we halted a moment to witness the result.

The bull came rushing past within fifty paces of where we stood, snorting with rage, and tossing his horns high in the air – his pursuers close upon him. At this moment one of the vaqueros launched his lazo, which, floating gracefully out, settled down over one horn. Seeing this, the vaquero did not turn his horse, but sat facing the bull, and permitted the rope to run out. It was soon carried taut; and, scarcely checking the animal, it slipped along the smooth horn and spun out into the air. The cast was a failure.

The second vaquero now flung his lazo with more success. The heavy loop, skilfully projected, shot out like an arrow, and embraced both horns in its curving noose. With the quickness of thought the vaquero wheeled his horse, buried his spurs deep into his flanks, and, pressing his thighs to the saddle, galloped off in an opposite direction. The bull dashed on as before. In a moment the lariat was stretched. The sudden jerk caused the thong to vibrate like a bowstring, and the bull lay motionless on the grass. The shock almost dragged the mustang upon his flanks.

The bull lay for some time where he had fallen; then, making an effort, he sprang up, and looked around him with a bewildered air. He was not yet conquered. His eye, flashing with rage, rolled around until it fell upon the rope leading from his horns to the saddle; and, suddenly lowering his head, with a furious roar he rushed upon the vaquero.

The latter, who had been expecting this attack, drove the spurs into his mustang, and started in full gallop across the prairie. On followed the bull, sometimes shortening the distance between him and his enemy, while at intervals the lazo, tightening, would almost jerk him upon his head.

After running for a hundred yards or so, the vaquero suddenly wheeled and galloped out at right angles to his former course. Before the bull could turn, himself the rope again tightened with a jerk and flung him upon his side. This time he lay but an instant, and, again springing to his feet, he dashed off in fresh pursuit.

The second vaquero now came up, and, as the bull rushed past, launched his lazo after, and snared him around one of the legs, drawing the noose upon his ankle.

This time the bull was flung completely over, and with such a violent shock that he lay as if dead. One of the vaqueros then rode cautiously up, and, bending over in the saddle, unfastened both of the lariats, and set the animal free.

The bull rose to his feet, and, looking around in the most cowed and pitiful manner, walked quietly off, driven unresistingly towards the corral.

We commenced descending into the place, and the vaqueros, catching a glimpse of our uniforms, simultaneously reined up their mustangs with a sudden jerk. We could see from their gestures that they were frightened at the approach of our party. This was not strange, as the major, mounted upon his great gaunt charger, loomed up against the blue sky like a colossus. The Mexicans, doubtless, had never seen anything in the way of horseflesh bigger than the mustangs they were riding; and this apparition, with the long line of uniformed soldiers descending the hill, was calculated to alarm them severely.

“Them fellers is gwine to put, Cap’n,” said Lincoln, touching his cap respectfully.

“You’re right, Sergeant,” I replied; “and without them we might as well think of catching the wind as one of these mules.”

“If yer’ll just let me draw a bead on the near mustang, I kin kripple him ’ithout hurtin’ the thing thet’s in the saddle.”

“It would be a pity. No, Sergeant,” answered I. “I might stop them by sending forward the guide,” I continued, addressing myself rather than Lincoln; “but no, it will not do; there must be the appearance of force. I have promised. Major, would you have the goodness to ride forward, and prevent those fellows from galloping off?”

“Lord, Captain!” said the major, with a terrified look, “you don’t think I could overtake such Arabs as them? Hercules is slow – slow as a crab!”

Now, this was a lie, and I knew it! for Hercules, the major’s great, raw-boned steed, was as fleet as the wind.

“Then, Major, perhaps you will allow Mr Clayley to make trial of him,” I suggested. “He is light weight. I assure you that, without the assistance of these Mexicans, we shall not be able to catch a single mule.”

The major, seeing that all eyes were fixed upon him, suddenly straightened himself up in his stirrups, and, swelling with courage and importance, declared, “If that was the case, he would go himself.” Then, calling upon “Doc” to follow him, he struck the spurs into Hercules, and rode forward at a gallop.

It proved that this was just the very course to start the vaqueros, as the major had inspired them with more terror than all the rest of our party. They showed evident symptoms of taking to their heels, and I shouted to them at the top of my voice:

“Alto! somos amigos!” (Halt! we are friends).

The words were scarcely out of my mouth when the Mexicans drove the rowels into their mustangs, and galloped off as if for their lives in the direction of the corral.

The major followed at a slashing pace, Doc bringing up the rear; while the basket which the latter carried over his arm began to eject its contents, scattering the commissariat of the major over the prairie. Fortunately, the hospitality of Don Cosmé had already provided a substitute for this loss.

After a run of about half a mile Hercules began to gain rapidly upon the mustangs, whereas Doc was losing distance in an inverse ratio. The Mexicans had got within a couple of hundred yards of the rancho, the major not over a hundred in their rear, when I observed the latter suddenly pull up, and, jerking the long body of Hercules round, commence riding briskly back, all the while looking over his shoulder towards the in closure.

The vaqueros did not halt at the corral, as we expected, but kept across the prairie, and disappeared among the trees on the opposite side.

“What the deuce has got into Blossom?” inquired Clayley; “he was clearly gaining upon them. The old bloat must have burst a blood-vessel.”